Busy was the word of the year. Or at least the summer. And now that the summer had, technically, gone away, it was leaving the very busy looking autumn to start knocking on the apartment door.

Maybe later, though. Waker had gone off to grab something at the store, allowing George some down time from all the crazy cleaning and unpacking she was forcing on him. Didn’t it look clean enough when they moved in? And surely they could empty out boxes and trunks later. Or whenever his mum came to visit (which had been every day so far).

George lounged out on the sofa. He expected Waker to be gone for a while, at the very least, and figured it could give him time to work on the book he’d been hiding. It had very few pictures, which made his life harder. Still... It was full of information he supposed he had to get up to date on.

It was slow work, but not all of it was boring. In fact, he had just started to get into a juicy part (about the baby developing in ‘trimesters’) when a familiar jingle of keys could be heard. It took a moment longer than usual for George to realize what that meant. Book snapped shut as he scrambled and rolled off the sofa, shoving it under a cushion before frantically pushing magazines aside. Surely he had-yes!

Out of breath when she finally made her appearance, he opened up the magazine, taking a big breath while staring down at the sultry grin of a redheaded Harpy player. “Hey!” His voice was high pitched and words short and crisp. George almost had his breath back. “Did you need... any help?” Body stretched over the sofa as he tried to look as natural as possible.

Waker unlocked the door with her new keys, feeling a sense of importance that would make Rowena Ravenclaw roll her eyes a proud founding spirit. It was a momentous adult occasion, unlocking the door to one’s very own home. (Slash apartment hastily leased by one’s very own boyfriend.) She’d done it several times already, and each time sent a similar feeling racing through her. But it didn’t stop her from trying to appear casual about it. They each had a copy of the key, and Waker’s sat in her purse beside her Ministry I.D. (another token of adulthood!).

Waker stepped into the flat, small smile on her face. She blinked.

What was not so adult... Well, George on the couch, ginger goalkeep folded over his lap for starters. She looked over her shoulder into the empty hall (it was a habit from years of minding curfew, abiding strict librarians, and hunting rule-breakers). Luckily, no nosy neighbors had made their appearances. Yet. Waker set down the bags stuffed in her arms, closed the door softly, and turned back to George, hand on her hip. She pursed her lips a little. Her cheeks looked a bit comical in their seriousness. But there was a hint of amusement in her face. She thought she hid it well.

“Do I need help... helping you discover your affinity for gingers?” She dropped her hand and smiled just barely. Turning her back to him, she shrugged out of her light overcloak and hung it neatly on one of the coat pegs near the wall. She moved toward him and sank into the opposite end of the couch, staring casually at (but somehow evaluating) George.

She supposed it was an adult thing. He was reading. Or maybe a George thing. (Reading?) She was glad he was concentrating on something, at least. He needed to take his mind off of his first game tomorrow. It was making him fidgety, and Waker in turn felt strange because usually she was the anxious one. He deserved a bit of a break. They both did. But if the flat wasn’t in order soon, she was going to have dreams of disorganized drawers and evil-breeding cardboard boxes.

It weren’t as if his interest in the Harpies was a new thing. “What a devoted fan.” Even with his own contract... Her eyes didn’t leave his for a long moment. “You look out of breath,” she noted, half-frowning. She was worried... and suspicious. Did she want to know? But... “There are healthy ways to reduce your nerves, George. Not that that’s not healthy!” She started to motion and stopped herself. She leaned a bit into the couch, adjusting her posture. She was not looking forward to the infamous back pain which apparently came with fun little accidents; she would already look out of place in the Ministry without also sacrificing her posture. “I love to see you reading,” she tried. There was humor in her voice. She’d love to see him reading something about (or by) blonde Ravenclaw alumni, too.

“I dropped the check off with the landlord and got a few other things done.” They had so much to do. Even so... “And I brought you something.” She raised her wand, levitating two of the bags she’d brought in. She preferred not to live on a diet of take away, least of all because balancing cravings and nutrition now that she was no longer ill and knew what why was harder than it looked. A few of the bags had groceries for breakfast and snacks. But tonight... well, Waker wanted him to sleep well. And who didn’t love greasy food now and then? She leaned over and placed one hand almost cheekily atop his magazine, sliding it away and taking his arm. She climbed to her feet and pulled him, too. The food was unpacking itself, plates and utensils were joining the party. A glass of water and a beer came floating from the kitchen. “I know it’s not a proper date in your own flat, but it is very exclusive.” Because it was his own flat. She’d wanted to cook for him, but it wouldn’t have been a surprise.

George’s cheeks flushed at the look on Waker’s face, but he grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “They’re right behind my like for brunettes.” Smirking, he watched her as she took her cloak off, admiring the blonde he much preferred. Raising an eyebrow and shifting his feet a little to allow her room, he tried not to move himself too much over the book he had hidden under him. It was just barely noticeable through the cushion (aside from the fact that he knew it was there, of course).

Fingertips drummed on the glossy pages covering his lap as he considered other potential comebacks he could have used. It was too late now. At least he wasn’t playing the Harpies! Yet, anyway. He quickly licked his lips before glancing down. “There are a lot of pictures.” Perhaps not the best thing to say. He laughed at himself before looking back up at her. ‘Devoted’ was one way to put it, ‘being male’ was another.

Blinking at her assessment, he shook his head and attempted to hold his breath to show that he wasn’t. “Nope.” A shift on the couch wasn’t suspicious at all. Eyebrows came down at her insinuation, until he realized what she meant, and then he started to laugh at her half motion. “I wasn’t having a wank, Waker.” Amused, he settled into the arm of the sofa, gently pushing her leg with his socked foot. Fingers came up in the air as he quoted her. “‘Reading’.”

He listened, though he really tuned in when she mentioned having gotten him something. Eyebrows rose as he sat up a little, watching the bags she levitated. George knew he smelled something delicious! Her hand gave him pause as he quickly looked at her-was that an offer? Which did he take first? The pull was enough to get him on his feet, feigning a groan as he did.

“Proper enough.” A more-than-friendly pat on her backside was elicited before he moved to a chair. An appreciative groan escaped him this time, patting his stomach. “You’re so good to me.” Kissing her quickly, he sat down and pushed her chair out with his foot, all ready plopping the napkin into his lap.

A few moments later and he had dished out some of the curry to both of their plates, leaning over and gently rubbing her stomach. “Little George crying out for some spicy chicken?” The hand fell down to her knee, squeezing it with a grin before picking up his fork. “Smells delicious.” Anything to keep his mind off of the game tomorrow.

She noted the blush in his cheeks. It wasn’t everyday that she got to see it. She felt a little triumphant. Even if this was the part where he confessed to be enamored of gingers... Waker rose  a brow slowly, a face of mild and insincere surprise. However they both knew he was joking, and his smirk presented the ultimate challenge not to cave. She saved her graces (and her face!), managing to join him on the couch before she returned the smile. “How is that working for you?”

“There are a lot of pictures.”

Pictures. Of course. Waker looked as if she could have shrugged. “Intellectual ones, I hope.”

They both knew better.

Her face became little moodier as he demonstrated, oh-so-smartly, that he could breathe just fine. Even so, now that they were falling back into the pattern of George-and-Waker, it was a relief to be able to talk like they used to... to let him tease her, to joke about George’s nine lives, and... his penchant for breathing?

His admission. (Or lack of, which was very clever.) She didn’t blush, only looked toward the window for a quick moment. Soon enough, autumn would have its way, and the pretty trees would start to go bald. She loved the autumn, though... though the implications of the quickly moving months were different now. She was no longer waiting for adulthood.

She looked back at George, and was suddenly rather hungry, too. She was glad she hadn’t waited to cook something (or enlist his help). They would be able to trudge through the rest of the cleaning, unpacking, and organizing on fuller stomachs. And it would distract George. From his reading.

As she waved her wand, setting the table, and pulled him to his feet, her lips became a purse that was only one expression away from a smirk. The hand found her, as a Keeper’s hands were bound to do, even when one had a rather good handle on one’s own wand, and Waker opened her mouth, closed it again, and rolled her eyes. She was not entirely scandalized.

She caved to smile at his next admission-- much less blunt around the edges than... other thing. But her hands went to her hips as he pushed the chair out with his foot. “And you’re such a gentleman.” She sank into the chair, still smiling, and waited for him to fill two plates before she took up a fork. She was going for a bite of rice when he stretched over. Her eyes traced his hand down to her stomach, which was still fairly small, and looked like it always had beneath her clothes (which were becoming increasingly more camouflaging, more carefully chosen than even Waker’s usual wardrobe, which was saying something.)

“Little George or Georgina--” She wasn’t giving that one up just yet-- “Is perfectly well-behaved right now.” And would certainly be in several months, when it stopped leeching off her body and started... well, leeching off her body. She frowned a little, but concealed it with a bite of rice and some curry. “Really, I don’t know how you can know it’s already a boy, George. There’s a fifty percent chance.” Minus all the genetic technicalities, which, when it came down to it, had more to do with the paternal line than Waker’s. Maybe that was why George was so confident. A regular biologist.

Her eyes went back to the window (Waker was carefully considering window treatments in their budget. It was best to get them done fast, no one wanted creepy onlookers, but they had to be nice, too), but got distracted by the couch where George had been laying a few minutes ago. She noticed the unmistakeable cover and shape of a book poking out from behind the pillow. “Was that in the wrong box?” She asked, setting her fork down for a moment. She had been sure she’d labeled and packed all of the boxes with the skill of an obsessive compulsive Filofaxer.

She took up her wand again and summoned it, “Accio book!.”

It wasn’t hers.

She glanced over the cover, frown turning to curiosity, and opened to the title page. She took a pensive bite of curry while she looked it over. A baby book. Or, rather, a book for prospective parents. A parenting book. After swallowing, she looked up at George. She felt a grin despite the awkwardness that was bound to ensue. “Is this your ginger?” She felt... proud.

George shrugged in response to her question. The hierarchy of female hair colors, for the arrogant Keeper, was blonde, brunette, redhead. If it was natural (or looked natural), it worked for him. Eyebrows rose and he hesitated in retaliation. “I don’t want to disappoint you.” If by intellect she meant one was wearing a pair of glasses... then they had the goals covered.

Otherwise... there was food growing cold.

“I try to be.” He grinned and watched her sit down, all ready settling into his chair. Focused on her stomach, George licked his lips and let out a breath of a laugh. It was going to be a boy. He could feel it. Well, not technically, per say. It was a gut feeling! “Not with me. One hundred and ten percent chance-no, certainty, of a true English gentleman. Look at his dad!” George was cocky. That was nothing new and it was more likely the world would change rotation than George would calm down on his exaggerations. Even if he wasn’t right, he’d find a way to try and be correct.

For Waker’s one bite, George had two. He was in the process of shoveling another bite into his eager mouth (it tasted so good, after all) when she distracted him. “Huh?” Glancing to where she was looking, his eyes widened as he realized he hadn’t quite tucked it far enough under the sofa cushion. “N-” He inhaled and swallowed at the same time, coughing and sputtering as he tried to talk. A hand reached out for her, attempting to get her attention back to him, not thinking about her wand!

“No! It’s... it wasn’t.” Where was his wand? Reaching a little late for it, he considered swiping the book from her hands. Wincing as his outstretched hand fell back silently to the table, George tightened his jaw and rested an elbow on the table edge.

Any usual sarcastic comments were gone from his head. He rubbed the back of his head as he raised an eyebrow, trying to not look at her face. George couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him at her quick wit, though he did roll his eyes over it. “I don’t even know where that came from...” His voice didn’t hold the same conviction it would if he really had no clue. “Just thought it’d... help.” After the plethora of questions that George had attacked his mum with, she’d set out to make him his own expert.

They may have been opposite in many ways, but they meshed together somehow. The pieces fit, and there were parts of them that were remarkably alike. Mainly, their humor... if not their temperaments. Waker made a suspicious face that said what her lips could not, but, really, she knew he preferred her to any other girl, her hair and all. It made her a little jumpy to know that, even now... but jumpy in a good way.

A true English gentleman. The very same sort with whom Waker fit. She smiled to challenge him, but her clever grin became more sincere, her cheeks widening. She wouldn’t mind a boy, per say, particularly not one who was like George-- who was sweet, and true, and brave-- but as much as she didn’t really care what sex the baby was, she couldn’t help rising to the challenge, teasing him back, reminding him that they were on an equal playing field. Girls were wonderful, obviously. And maybe she was a little overwhelmed at the idea of living with two Georges, one who was small enough to fit in her pocket, nearly. “And if it is a girl?” she asked, not relenting. Would he be disappointed? She waited for a response, as if she had asked him a practice question for an exam, with only multiple choice answers. Straight out of a textbook.

She overwhelmed about parenthood, period. Babies. Waker had not spent a great deal of time around children, despite her parents’ professions. She had been an only child, and a precocious, adult-like one at that; even the first years at Hogwarts had made her weary from the time she as thirteen or fourteen. A child who couldn’t walk, talk, feed itself, or keep time... She swallowed a bit of rice a little too hard, and barely stopped herself from coughing.

They didn’t get very far into dinner before a new dish presented itself. Namely, the parenting book that had somehow found its way behind their couch cushions. It was more real than the imaginary textbook from which she quizzed him about baby genders. For once, Waker was not bothered that things hadn’t been put back in their proper places. But it begged the question: where else did George have hiding places in their small flat?

He was caught off guard, she knew. To see George fumble and not catch it was remarkable. And yet, Waker was not like to let him get away with things. She was competitive, and even athletic (this was mostly limited to jogging and defensive magic, tasks of individual endurance or one-on-one competition; team sports were somewhat lost on her), even if she was not a quidditch player. Moreover, she was a witch who wanted an organized bookshelf.

She noted his hand out of the corner of her eye, but knew him well enough to know that once she had the book, it was safe in her grasp. She did not look up, but turned pages softly, scanning each with care. So this is what he’d been doing on his break... “Why are you hiding it?” She asked,  brown eyes looking toward him finally, tilting her head. He tried to deny it even, to suggest he had no knowledge of its origins, but Waker waited patiently (with Ravenclaw diligence) for an answer, giving him time.

But when he admitted, indirectly, that it was his, it only served to solidify the truth of their situation. She set her fork down and smoothed over the pages with her now-free hand. “It will help,” she said softly. There was no amusement in her voice now, no teasing smile. “We’ll need to be prepared as possible.” Not that those were new words. Waker had been repeating them since their decision, so often that they might have lost their effect for some... only, for Waker, they had become a sort of drill. She knew George was doing everything he could possibly do to make the words as a reality. Including reading things that weren’t assigned. In his spare time.

“I think it’s good luck for the game tomorrow,” she announced, picking up her fork again. “Your mind needs a break from thinking about...” What were those things called? She wracked her brain for facts she’d picked up from Quidditch Through the Ages and seven years of commentary in the Hogwarts stands. “The Starfish and Stick.” She was pleased with herself she remembered the name of it, though she really had no idea what it was used for, other than it was something impressive the Keeper did, and George was a brilliant Keeper. She wondered if this was how he felt discussing baby books, completely out of his element. (To be fair, she did, too.)

“So what have you learned about fetal development?” She asked, raising a brow as her eyes came up from the page she’d chosen at random. It had a timeline with descriptions of the fetus at various stages, and a sizable block of text going into more detail. If she sounded too much like she was quizzing him, like they were back in the library, she was sorry; she couldn’t help it!

A breath was inhaled and held at her question. He let it out in a noise and shrugged, staring back at her long enough to make himself uncomfortable, glancing down at his food with a half smirk. “I’ll just have to put it back.” As if he could just return it to a store, ask for a refund, get the better boy model. Like the next edition of Firebolts. Then again, George was sure he would’ve been traded in a long time ago if his mum could’ve done that.


He hadn’t thought too far into the idea of it being anything but a boy. All he thought that meant was that it must surely be a boy. Or... forming into one. He gave the right chromohome, or Chomesome or... the Y. The one with a boy part and not legs spread out like an X. He knew how to pay attention (a little).

“We’ll make sure to get a gift receipt.”

Where Waker was overwhelmed with the needs of a baby, George was feeling overwhelmed with things the baby wasn’t going to care about. Like how to hold them, or how hard you could tug on their little outfits, or what to do if you have a dirty nappy. He grew up with enough cousins that kids of all ages didn’t bother him. It was the responsibilities he was being forced to examine that terrified him.

After staring at the nappy diagram in the book for a few minutes, earlier, he’d decided they needed to come with instructions on the outside. His mum had told a rather embarrassingly funny story of why you should never let a baby boy practice their aim.

Now, however, everything was out on the table. He watched her flip through the book as he tapped his fingers on the table. George was being patient enough. He felt like it was his calendar. As if she were reading his personal thoughts for the day. Her question caused his mouth to go slack momentarily, involuntarily shrugging defensively and attempting to find a good reason to keep things like that hidden.

No one needed to realize how serious George was trying to take this. Plus, George was used to hiding his choice ‘reading’ material. It just so happened his mum wasn’t going to stumble upon this one while cleaning his room.

Fork turned noodles around and around each spike as he listened to her, watching her fingers touching the book. He had this claustrophobic feeling that he’d never be away from studying.

Then again, he could use all the good luck he could get. Raising an eyebrow as she seemed to grasp for something, George waited patiently.

“The Starfish and Stick.”

His laugh was sudden and unexpected, especially with the conversation where it had been. “You should see my Double Eight Loop.” Eyebrows waggled suggestively before he rolled his eyes and chuckled, scooping another spoonful into his mouth.

“So what have you learned about fetal development?”

His bite didn’t taste as tasty as it did the moment he put it in his mouth. George made a face before exaggerating his chewing. Glancing momentarily to her face and then down to the book (and quickly BACK TO HER FACE), George swallowed hurriedly and leaned back in his chair. This was no longer going to be a simple dinner. “Hm... Well, I know that that is in regards to the baby.”

Giving her a cheeky, half-hearted grin, George pushed his chair back a bit, the front legs coming up off the ground as he balanced himself precariously. He was preoccupied, after all. “Um...” Fingers interlaced behind his head as he glanced up at the ceiling. “I skipped around a bit... but I did read about what makes a girl a girl and a boy a boy.” Not that he was completely sure he believed it, one hundred percent anyway.

“I started-” He cleared his throat and focused once more on her, bringing the chair crashing down on to all four legs. “To, uh, read about the first tri... tri-thing.”

He stared... she stared... they stared. Finally, George looked away, with a smile that was very George, and offered the cheekiest of answers. Which also happened to be a wrong answer. He could hide behind humor all he liked, but Waker was not amused if this was how he really felt. A hand dropped to her stomach and she continued to stare at him, lips pursing a little. She looked away and back to George, clearly a little agitated. “I’m a girl,” she reminded him. Woman, she reminded herself. She was a woman now. But why did she still feel so young? And why couldn’t she decided whether she wanted to go back to Hogwarts or skip all of the blundering in-between parts and end up a full-fledged adult? She had a plan. (And now it had a few major revision notes.)

As she flipped through the book, she concentrated her energy on that. And idly (albeit carefully and politely) picking up her fork at intervals. The mood seemed to lighten when Waker entered her own arena of uncertainty- quidditch.

“You should see my Double Eight Loop.”

“Why isn’t it called a Sixteen Loop?” She responded smartly, looking up from the page with a raised eyebrow. They could both save face with clever quips; it was part what had got them into so much lovely trouble. But George laughing at Waker’s lack of quidditch knowledge had a much-welcome, if sometimes unconscious familiarity to it (even if he could still make her flustered).

It was her turn to smile again. His expression. She liked playing the role of hopeful-- or (innocently!) pressing--teacher when it came to George-- maybe a little too well. She waited with seemingly eternal patience.

In regards to the baby. Good job, George. Waker lifted her brows lightly. She waited for him to go on.

If his chair-balancing game was something that riled her love of rules and order and inside-the-lines, or made her anxious, she was too accustomed to this sort of lucky devil behavior with him to let it derail her from her poking and prodding of his days spent reading baby books incognito. This was far too fascinating.

She held back a wince when his chair crashed down, to the effect that there was the tiniest of twitches in her beneath her eyes, above her cheeks. “Trimester.” They would have to work on that. Flash cards? George was hands on. But even thinking about the word made Waker realize how fast this was moving. There was an imaginary grumble in her stomach, and it wasn’t hunger, but nerves (which were not-so-imaginary-- rather unfortunate for a girl who could usually easily write off the absurd). “Maybe you should re-read the bit about boys and girls,” she offered casually. She lifted her fork and took a well-deserved bite.

“I’m a girl.”

“I know...” Frowning a little, George raised an eyebrow and watched her a moment. She wasn’t taking him completely serious, was she? Sure, he wanted a boy. He was a boy. He didn’t understand girls. Well, in most ways. Surely she wasn’t getting bent out of shape because he was poking fun? George stuffed his mouth instead of continue his banter; it seemed safer, some how.

When she questioned age-old Keeper plays, George paused in thought, frowning as he did. “Because... it’s... it’s a figure eight through the loops, but you have to go through three, so it’s two eights. I wouldn’t even... know how to make a figure sixteen.” He supposed he could zoom down from point A to B, and then loop through the first loop in an arch through the third and backtrack to end through the second one... but it wouldn’t necessarily do much but look nice.

Maybe she was on to something, though. He’d have to give it a try, next time he had some free time at practice.

“Trimester.”

“Right! I was coming to that... one.” How fair was it that they expected him to learn all about this stuff before the baby got there? He had had seven eight years at Hogwarts to learn enough to pass by! Wincing at her ‘homework assignment,’ George leaned back in his chair. “I think I understand enough about that.” Eyebrows waggled at her before he glanced over her again. There was something very gratifying about being on their own. No parents around to suddenly pop in. No professors or fellow students. No pesky wild animals to sniff about.

It was their space. Reaching over, he took the book from her and opened it up to a random page. His other hand patted his lap, and he grinned at her knowingly. “I’ll start reading if you take a different seat.”

Waker waited patiently for a moment, staring, blinking languidly, as if willing George to connect the dots. If he knew she was a girl (and, well, obviously he did, but he seemed to need a reminder when it came to this particular conversation), he had to know why not wanting a girl was offensive.

Waker could make jokes, too, of course. She had been half-teasing when she brought up Sixteen Loops, but another half of her had failed in that sports-are-an-eternal-mystery way to think about it in terms of, say, figure eights in ice-skating. A double eight could easily, and with a dash too much logic (did such a thing exist?) be called a sixteen. Still, she had little trouble envisioning it (thanks to years of charts and graphs in elective subjects and muggle ones alike). “Maybe you should try during your next practice session. If you perfect it, you’ll throw off your competition...” Practice made perfect. Not that flying in the pattern of a number sixteen was likely to block any goals. Waker Nolan, author of future Quidditch manuals.

She had to smile at his insistence that he was on the verge of remembering trimester. Even his cheekier answer about boys and girls was somehow humorous. Waker nevertheless got rid of her smile for a moment, and stared, calm, collected, seemingly indifferent, and falsely ignorant of his invitation. She looked at him as if to say specify the seat. Despite the fact that he was patting his own lap.

“Read first,” she said after a moment, grinning again. “And eat your vegetables.” She raised her own brows, mimicking him a playful, reproachful Waker-y way rather than directly mirroring his waggling ones. With a slight tilt of her cheek, she took up her fork again and took another bite.

Perhaps a common fault among relationships was an unwillingness to back down. That stubborn quality did not escape either recent Hogwarts graduate at the table, but it was currently an unspoken understanding. A quiet undertone to the situation at hand. George could not fully explain why he wanted a boy over a girl. And Waker couldn’t seem to explain that that bothered her. Or they hadn’t gotten to that point in it yet.

Regardless, George took it as a small victory when she didn’t press the point. He knew she was a girl. Duh.

Laughing softly, George finally nodded his head, conceding the point about double eight versus sixteen. “I’ll have to encourage the playbook holder to try it out.” He really wanted to pull the broom out and try a couple rounds himself, before he took it to ‘work.’ If it turned out to be stupid, he didn’t want it to be in front of all the veteran players (or Klint. especially Klint). “I can see them now: stunned by whatever I’m doing, enough that we can steal the Quaffle back!”

He may have exaggerated it with his hands, fists of triumph in the air.

Luckily he put the fists away while entertaining her for a change in venue. Currently, her choice of seating was archaic. If she wanted something new and hip, well... he had two hips. And he wasn’t lying.

“Read first.”

Eyebrows rose as his mouth opened in to a small ‘oh’ of surprise. George let out a chuckle as his eyes narrowed, eyeing her more critically. “My vegetables?!” He tried to think about shaped vegetables, attempting to come up with a witty comeback. “Practice what you preach. You should take a taste of the cucumber.” Laughing because he couldn’t keep a straight face after that, he pushed his chair out a little more, space available for her to come over.

“I can’t see the words anyway. I need someone to tutor me.” Was this how they’d gotten into their situation in the first place? To please her, at least a little, he took a bite of food, still eyeing her (and somehow only dropping a little bit of broccoli in the process).

“That should make the papers,” Waker noted, smirking a little as she took a bite of broccoli. And, for some reason, people always seemed a little more enthusiastic about reading the sports section than they did when it came to finding out whatever the Wizengamot had decided about this case or that law. She supposed to depended upon which Knight Bus or diner or queue to get into the Ministry someone happened upon, though. Suddenly, she was trying very hard not to magic her notebook and start double-checking the reminders she’d written to herself before leaving work on Friday.

Waker stared, that look of mild oh? on her face. It was not so scandalized as some might suspect, and perhaps a little more of a reaction than others might expect. For George’s antics, it was perfect. “I don’t think cucumber is in season right now,” she said, thoughtfully, after a moment. Her tone was very much as a matter of fact.

He laughed and Waker carried on eating her dinner, as if George wasn’t patting his lap, beckoning her forth to his George throne, or whatever he thought it was.

She paused, fork midway to her mouth, and tilted her head just a little, shooting him a look with keen brown eyes. If it was tutoring he wanted... She didn’t move, but waited for him to take a bite of the greenest bit of his meal. “Maybe we should get you reading glasses.” She set her fork down carefully, taking her sweet time, and stood up-- again taking her time while she smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt and touched her hair. She took two brief steps and loomed over him for a moment, looking down like an expectant teacher (slash awkward, Bambi-ish girlfriend for whom sitting on laps at mealtimes, even in their own flat, was still a little foreign.) Nevertheless, she sat, as requested (only because she wanted to, thanks very much), and pulled the book toward them, again pausing to tuck not-particularly-disturbed hair back into place. She reached for the top corner of a page, but stopped, turning her cheek toward George, eying him in her peripheral. “If you try that chair balancing thing, I will hex you.”

“Yes, add it to the collection my mum is… collecting.” Sometimes George was a poor thesaurus. There were also those times that a sentence went so well together he wanted to pat himself on the back. Clearly he was not doing that at the moment: he was hungry, though, so he’d blame it on that.

Over the years, he had had short clippings hidden away in local wizarding papers; helping with the local Quidditch kids league, or assisting his mum at one of her charities. Graduating and taking on the Cannons Keeper position had escalated the clutter of papers around his mum’s desk at home. There were even a couple of photos mixed in there. Knowing her, she would probably do something with all of it as well.

Talks of cucumbers, or cucumber-like things, was more of an area that George could parry back with an arsenal of innuendos and suggestive wording. “You’d be surprised how well it keeps. Want to try?” Eyebrows waggled suggestively before he smirked and put his fingers behind his head. Unless Waker was suddenly an expert gardener (though George couldn’t say he was either, even with his growing of gillyweed at school). And then she should have to plant the seed-wait, no, that was the wrong analogy. That was all ready done. She would have to fertilize-nope. George had that one covered. Perhaps gardening wasn’t a good place to go.

“Uh, no.” Reading glasses? Those were what his parents kept in every room and in every pocket but the one they were patting down. The things on the end of their noses while they held the Daily Prophet out at arm’s length. George didn’t need reading glasses. He needed to be read to.

Eyebrows rose as she did, shifting however slightly to better accommodate her. His hands rested on the seat of his chair while eyes roamed over her carefully. Grinning when she sat down, as if he was some lecture chair, George set his fork back down.

“If you try that chair balancing thing, I will hex you.”

Threats from Miss Nolan? Surprise filtered over his face before laughing and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her onto his lap more, centering her over him. His face buried into her hair, kissing her neck, growling a little before pulling back. “Yes Professor.” Hands moved down to her waist and fiddled with the end of her shirt. A tug here and a tug there. They moved farther down over the material of the skirt, skimming to the edge before fingers hooked over the ends. “Trimesters then, go on.” And while she read, George moved his fingers, testing his limits at the dinner table. What could he say, he liked finger food.

Waker smiled. She had peaked (or perused) the collection George's mother kept (and not infrequently added to) when she had been spending a lot of time at George's parents house earlier in the summer.

Her gaze became more oh youish, however, when he continued with his cucumber story. He would. Waker looked unimpressed. "No, thank you, I'm perfectly happy with what's already on my plate." She needn't add she had her own cucumber... not when George had decided to take up phallic imagery and symbolism in his spare time; perhaps she ought to suggest he write an English thesis in his spare time. For fun.

She ignored the implication in his voice, as familiar as her own cool expressions toward his cucumber comments. Waker liked books; George liked jokes designed to make people blush. Her acceptance of a new seat seemed to say: well, if you don't need glasses to read, you're out of excuses.

Her eyelids fluttered for a moment at the kisses, familiar and thrilling, while she shifted to get comfortable. She supposed there was an upside to giving in...

Professor... She wondered, fleetingly, if she would make a good professor-- though the whole presence of children thing was still in the way-- before she remembered her (slightly reworked) five year plan and her (not particularly) cushy new Ministry entry-level position.

She began to read on trimesters, pausing here and there to elaborate or summarize or bring up a point that would inevitably go on the checklist in her mind. Waker was in the stages of over-researching things like vitamins, healthcare, and what to buy in advance. Their respective bank accounts, when pooled, were still not roomy; she was already obsessive about the shopping she did for the pair of them. "I wasn’t joking, you know. You should eat your vegetables,” she said, looking up from the book, staring at the wall. She caught George in her peripheral. “What I eat goes to the baby... so if you wanted, we could start cooking together more often, preparing for when--” She. He. It. “Preparing for the future.” Or, in Waker’s case, the now. She might have made that leap from I-need-this to so-you-should-do-it-too without much elaboration, but... surely George would get it. Surely. It was harder to concentrate on one of her usual areas of expertise (debate), to frame her careful argument of less take away, more steamed veggies and lean protein when George's hands were pushing their luck, greeting Waker amiably. But she wasn’t saying anything his mother probably hadn’t said for years-- and he ate everything she gave him without argument. “It's very--” She sighed. Not discontentedly. “Important for an athlete, too. To eat well.” Her hands came softly over his, holding them where they were for a moment, trapping them from going any further, and yet, not bothering to move them. She pressed into the backs of them for a moment, closing her eyes, and then, opening them. “Your turn to read for a bit.” She reached back over one shoulder, fingers groping blindly for George, the side of his cheek, his neck. “Come very close to the page, if you need to,” she added, before he could tell her he couldn’t see or needed help. For a Keeper whose eyes worked perfectly on a pitch, he sure did have an aversion to reading. Or maybe that was only when Waker was in the room. “You’ve been reading this in secret. I know you don’t need that much help.”

She shifted a bit to the side of his lap, despite the fact that he had helped to find a comfortable spot in the middle. Turning so that her legs were hanging over the side of his, she laced arms around his neck.

“You always think you are, and then you get surprised when you try something new.” Smirking at her, his fork pushed a couple of things aside before picking up another bite, chewing it slowly as he considered his vegetable tactic. “You should have a bigger appetite now, anyway...” His voice trailed off before swallowing the entirety of his food.

On her new seat, George wasn’t going to discourage her shifting on his lap. By all means, she was welcome to continue to shift this way and that, and if she had to do an entire circle, a few times, well. As long as she was comfortable.

He listened to her, attentive in both his fingers and his comprehension. At certain intervals, he mumbled parts she had said, reverberating them back to her to make sure she knew he was listening. Her reading voice and normal conversational voice were two separate things, and he pulled his attention back to her for a moment before smirking and rolling his eyes.

When she said baby, his heart skipped a beat and he felt sick. George attempted a pleased face, coming out with something uplifted and tortured. “Cooking, right. Ok.” How wasn’t this good for the baby? There was protein (in more ways than one, if he could convince her), vegetables, and some delicious spices. And so he continued to try and distract her, fingers moving in their light grazing, reconquering areas he’d mapped over many times before.

Fingers paused in their peaceful war along her thighs and raised an eyebrow. “Do I not eat well?” Was she saying he was letting himself go? She tried to make it better, hands moving to distract him; his turn to read? Making a face, he suddenly wasn’t sure about this reading exercise. “I’ve read a little.”

Settling into his chair, he sighed and glanced at the book, allowing the words to clear and make sense. His hand had to move away from their journey over the thighs to keep the book spread open (he would have much preferred it the other way around).

Then George took the initiative. The book was set in her lap, and arms scooped her up, using his thighs to support them both as he lifted them off of the chair. He walked back towards the sofa, not listening to the noises she may have been making, finally settling on the coach with her still on his lap. There, that was comfortable. Moving this way and that until he was curled up around her, he started to read, slowly, elbow under them and hand holding up his head as he focused. “This is where the healer said you are, right?”

It wasn’t as far along as George felt it was.