witchbiitches.
she watches him, carefully, as if she doesn’t quite trust him. she has no reason not to, but she knows that feeling is probably fairly mutual. she shared a year with ron, lorded it over ginny, but george is familiar to her, too - not just for being one of those or because of the tragedy of him being the one half left standing, but quite specifically because she remembers his quidditch ban. she knows how he got it, and thinking back is enough to put a bad taste in her mouth. “i don’t traipse,” comes curt response, though she can never just leave it there. always present is that part of her that strives for widespread recognition of her successes, that has to say yes, and also- and make everyone, most especially the imagined lesser, aware of how far she’s managed to come. “i’m part of the team that advises the minister, these days,” sometimes, at least, but pansy doesn’t see the need to clarify. she’s worked her way up fairly well, as it is. “and you? are you still overseeing that joke shop on diagon alley?”
sized up, sussed out. george, his family, has known airs of disdain & distrust. he knows what it is to be watched, calculated. once, he had a resistance like fire for these moments: a boy with a gryffindor tie around his head, roaring boisterous through the common room. now, at twenty six: there’s an unshifting quality to him, jaw set & dogged: nothing to hide, no tricks played. “sick,” he offers, "nice to see you’ve made your time at hogwarts useful.” george clears his throat, humour sudden and bleeding into quirked mouth. “i am overseeing weasley’s wizard wheezes, yeah.” & here it his, fewer and far between, but a punchline nonetheless: “guess we both sell jokes for a living.”














