It had been weeks since he’s switched from the walker to the crutches, and then ditched the crutches in favor of stubbornly walking around on his own. Waker had been a little chastising, but was so relieved to see him healing, that after an eye-roll, she had encouraged his swift attempt at recovery. Soon, it seemed that he was even getting into a routine, lifting, pushups, using Amelia as a little weight; Waker had come home with arms full of groceries to see such scenes. If George seemed to be home a bit more than usual lately, she was glad that he was spending so much time with the baby— and swallowed any prickly feelings about certain friends or cousins overstaying their welcome. Anything to keep him busy and social was good, she thought.

Of late, he had even started jogging with her, and Waker knew from that and from what the doctors said that it was now up to George to get back on the broom.

If she was a little surprised that he hadn’t leapt at the chance, she hadn’t prodded him. Waker was not the biggest broomophile in the world. But by the end of May, she had started to worry a little. It was becoming obvious, by now, that something was holding him back, that his usual George boldness was tempered by something unspoken.

She couldn’t blame him: he had fallen out of the sky, broken ribs, almost killed himself. Waker wouldn’t want to set foot near a quidditch pitch again if it had been her— and she was already insisting in helmets for their any broom-riding ventures for their three-month-old.

But she knew, deep down, that the healthier course of action was for him to get back up and try again. She knew that even if it wasn’t a path she would ever choose for herself, George loved quidditch, he belonged in the sky, and he wasn’t going to get back to himself, not one hundred percent, without a little prodding from someone.

It was for that reason that Waker had trusted Amelia to Grace and had coaxed George out of the flat for the night. She swallowed her anxiety, put on a brave (nervous) smile, and reminded him with a little too much enthusiasm that she had promised to hop on a broom when he was healed— which he was.

She had looked ridiculous even pulling the broom out of the closet near the door. Unlike the wood of her wand, which was a natural fit, it felt weird in grasp, made her look more anxious. It was George who was supposed to be holding it, throwing it over his shoulder like he was born that way. That picture of him in her mind was her goal for the evening.

That, and a little bit of fun without the baby.

If Waker felt a little guilty about that, she knew it was important for both of them. And she knew that she didn’t want Amelia anywhere near the quidditch pitch.

With the contents of picnic basket and blanket now sprawled several meters out of their way on the lit-up pitch in the huge, empty Cannons stadium, Waker stood with George, the broom hovering suspiciously under her hand as she awkwardly tried to straddle it. Waker had passed broom riding lessons in her first year out of sheer terror of failing, which had somehow outweighed the terror of flying. It wasn’t that she wasn’t athletic, she just liked the control that the ground gave her.

“Like this?” She asked, still trying to mount it with both feet planted firmly on the ground. She felt absurd, and was glad she had thought to change her skirt for a pair of cotton shorts before their date. She gave him an encouraging, hopeful look, hoping that if he was hesitant about getting back on the broom, she could persuade him in other ways. “It can’t be harder than getting back on—” Other brooms. She paused mid-sentence and gave him a look, then smiled again, more warmly. “Sit with me,” she added. By which she meant stand with me, because she wasn’t ready, just yet, to let her feet off the ground. Even if she was encouraging George to do just that. “So we’re not a two-person revolving door of hospital patients.”

It had been the hardest thing he had done, to sit and let himself heal. George had felt driven a little mad by it. Being confined to the apartment had lost its charm by the end of the first day. Using the walker to get around their tiny apartment had been ridiculous. He did, however, get time to work with magic; he was not the most proficient wizard, but after a couple days of making the couch his go-to-spot, accio whatever he wanted had started to get better. His aim was improving.

By the third day, he had ‘accio beer’ down to an almost science.

When he was finally allowed crutches, George pushed himself to the limit. He ditched two for one and then finally ditched that one in a closet, forcing himself to hobble around on mended bones and a patched up lung. He had started walking the stroller while Waker jogged, building up to the point that he could start jogging with her again, and began reintroducing body weight exercises into his daily routine.

Anything to get himself back on track. Even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt. Then at least he felt like he was doing something. The visits from family and friends were appreciated. He took the time off work to focus on his little family that he’d helped make. George invested time with Waker, playing word games that he always lost, listening to radio shows, helping with cooking and some chores around the house. He also spent a ridiculous amount of time with Amelia, offering to let Waker get out and about more because he could stay in and rest with their infant.

The tiny bit of fear and panic that nestled in him seemed to grow each time someone asked him when he was getting back out on the pitch. His response felt hollow - “Soon enough” was not anyone’s idea of a solid answer.

He knew it was bad if Waker was encouraging a broom ride to get him back on it. Not that he realized it was that exactly, not at first. When it came up first, George tried to tell her it was ok. They didn’t need to that day, because there was so much to do. Then he tried to find an excuse that involved her schedule. Finally he had tried to use his injury, asking her if she thought his lungs were really ready for that sort of altitude change?

George should have known better than trying to use logic against his Type A girlfriend. Even if he thought it was hot, the way she handled his broom like she had no idea how to grasp it. Partly because she didn’t.

He had pulled on an old sweatshirt from Hogwarts, finding nothing short of saying no to be sufficient to stop her. George had carried the prepared picnic basket, groaning as he realized where she wanted to go. Once they were set up on the pitch, however, some part of George felt more at home. It caused an unfamiliar lump in his throat as he glanced around, finally focusing on Waker. His hands rested on his hips as he watched.

And he did laugh when she tried to straddle it. George couldn’t help it. He shook her head more at her overall image than her question. His laughter did cut out when she started her next sentence, eyebrow cocking in question as his head tilted.

Her next request, however, had his mouth going dry. Finally he cleared his throat and grinned, motioning to the picnic. “Why not eat first. You packed a delicious looking meal...” He put his hand out and gestured to her without stepping towards her. “Come on over before someone recruits you for the Harpies.” George grinned and rubbed the back of his head with his free hand.

Waker loved him in that sweatshirt. She was proud that he was a canon, and had bought a few things in orange to accompany the things she owned in red, but something about see him in his Hogwarts gear made her nostalgic. She remembered when she had worn red for him. Straddling the broom seemed more daunting, somehow, even if this wasn’t her first time.

She was getting a laugh out of him, which made her happy, even if the logical, must-achieve part of her brain was a little annoyed. She wanted to learn, not look like a fool. But did she really want to learn? She wondered, for a moment, why she hadn’t persuaded George to give up the broom for a desk job, but then remembered that his lack flying was exactly what had propelled her here. It was part of him, and she loved all of him.

She knitted her brows a little at his amusement, but there was a smile underneath. Concerning other activities they had learned again (or picked up right where they’d left off… just a little slower, at first). She felt a little proud that she had caught him off guard.

But it didn’t seem like enough to sway him. Her face formed a sigh as George suggested they eat first. Waker slumped a little with the broom in hand. “We already snacked a little. It’s best not to fly on a full stomach.” Not immediately. A good breakfast was always smart before a big game, though, which Waker hardly ever needed to remind him. “Please, I’ve already got it up. That’s more than you’ve ever seen.” She pouted a little, as if to ask Aren’t you interested?

Then she tried a new tactic, stood a little taller. If he was going to make fun of her, he should give her advice and a hands-on lesson. “Come on, since you’re so good at it… Or do you want me to do it by myself?” It was almost a threat. She looked slowly from George, to the broom, up toward the goal post at the other end of the field. “I don’t need the Harpies,” she reasoned, taking the plunge and trying to sit down. Only it didn’t happen as coolly as Waker had meant it to. It was like sitting on nothing, sort of, and then it was there. She fumbled a bit, her legs shaking, still touching the ground as she forced the broom to sink a little. She frowned at it, then covered the frown with pursed lips as she stared at the handle, waiting for George to join her before she would look at him. And hopefully before her face went white.

She’d caught the excuse he was going to use even before he could use it. George’s eyes narrowed briefly as his nostrils flared, a breath huffing out before he recovered, smirking as if this wasn’t a big deal. “You do have it up.” Eyebrows waggled at her before he pushed his hair back a little, messing it up as he tried not to go places with her words.

He had enough on his mind without adding this back in. She had seen him fall! Why did she want him back on? “I think I’ve seen you get a broom up before.” He gave her a look of knowing before laughing again, trying to come off funny instead of scared. He pushed his hands into the pocket of the hoodie, watching her carefully as she held the broom.

Eyes rolled as she attempted to be more forceful. “I’m not good at it.” Now he was just being stubborn and a baby, and he realized that. He was decent at it, anyway; he’d just taken his eye off everyone in the air, and he shouldn’t have done that. Not that he had eyes enough to go around, sometimes, but then he only had himself to blame when he lost his hold on the broom.

Remembering it made the hair stick up on the back of his neck. A shiver ran down his spine and he recovered, straightening himself out a little. His body tensed as she sat down on it, hands coming out suddenly, as if he could help her if she started to teeter. “J-Just... just come on...” His voice was quiet and forced. He stepped slowly towards her, a hand resting on the broom above hers. “We can get on it later, love.”

As George joked with her, Waker tried to keep him on that path. The combination of stubborn independence and innuendo was usually a smart one. But then she had never before had to factor in a fall from the sky. If George had survived several other risky ventures before, this was markedly different.

“But you’ve never seen me ride one so far up before,” she corrected. Not that she wasn’t still down on the ground. But they were getting there. Waker always finished her lessons. “You are good at it. You got recruited right out of Hogwarts, George. I was still fetching coffee for people when you were signed…” Sometimes. If they asked while she was on her lunch break.

If her attempt to get into the proper stance was a little bumpy, and if her hold on the broom was one of someone brimming with anxiety, fingers changing colors, she resumed her determined pouty frown and keen gaze toward the open stretch in front of them (after a quick glance at George).

But then he was there, and Waker felt her heart speed up a little, even as relief flooded her. With his hand there, she wasn’t likely to accidentally send herself rocketing to the sky. Not that a broom would do the job for her. His old practice broom from Hogwarts seemed smart in the same way wands were: it knew when its rider wasn’t sitting right. Her limbs loosened a little and she looked at him again, this time more properly.

She realized, watching him, that George was going to have excuse after they ate, too, if she let him get that far. Maybe the best push she could give was one that he would usually be giving.

“I don’t like to procrastinate,” she said, and there was suddenly something bold in her eyes. With every little bit of learned Gryffindor behavior she could manage, she settled her feet determinedly back into the ground, even  while she continued to sit in more or less the right stance. And then she pushed off.

She managed to hold on, but nothing else seemed to go right: shooting straight ahead, and then stopping abruptly, like a teenager learning to drive, she let out a shriek against her will, started again without meaning to, stalled, and then got another foot before she came to a teetering stop that was definitely not inside the lines. Hair flew into her face— something the ever-logical Waker didn’t even think about as she dressed for the occasion. And her face itself… surely George didn’t look that nervous. She froze, too afraid to turn her head back to find him, lest she accidentally kick forward and head straight for the hoop.

His jaw set as he tightened it; he had actually never seen her on a wooden broom before. Part of him was pleased while the rest was feeling unexpected fear. He had a lot of things going on in his head, this didn’t need to add to it. His hand patted his trouser pockets, hands slipping into them as his left jiggled change and his right felt the material. Once he was put at ease with what was in there, he pulled his hands out and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to respond verbally.

George watched her carefully, eyeing her form as he considered how he’d tell her to fix it. It was like helping Little Quidditch players with their mini-brooms, that only went a few feet off the ground and had a speed of slow. It was hard to teach the kids how to coordinate both the broom and then the game, but usually after a few days of playing around on the brooms, they started to get it.

They didn’t have days, here. They had limited time in one evening. He groaned and pouted at her. “Waker...” Though George knew she didn’t like to put things off, he really didn’t expect her to just... do it. Even with that look in her eyes. Even with the grip on the broom. George did not expect her to just... go for it.

He jumped back as she shot off, eyes widening as his hands came up to grab the back of his head. Oh no. She was going to hurt herself. They were really going to end up back in the hospital and it was going to be - George took off running after her. “Waker!” Stupid, stupid smart girl.

As he caught up to her, his side burned and he gulped in air, hands coming to rest on the broom a little more forcefully. “You have to loosen your grip-” He took a deep breath and calmed himself down. “Set it down...” He swallowed and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll... I’ll walk you through it.” Once her feet hit the ground, George nearly stumbled from relief. Instead, however, he grumbled as he swung himself over the broom, one foot sitting into the foot rest while the other helped keep the balance.

“You can’t grip the broom so tight.” One hand snaked around her waist and pulled her against him while the other held the broom lightly in front of her. “Otherwise you’ll crash it straight into the ground.” He took a breath and relaxed. “Rest your foot on top of mine and let the other just dangle. I’ll get us off the ground.” He kissed her shoulder. “I’ll go slow.”

Her name being shouted behind her was a small consolation, but Waker was too preoccupied to gauge just how far away he sounded. Anywhere but right in front of her was too far: she felt like she’d handed over control of herself to a rouge stick of wood.

She tried to control her breathing, but it was a fruitless exercise until George arrived. Waker’s face seemed panicked and insistent at once. His hand hit the broom and she seemed to jerk up, somehow, even as relief once again spread through her body; it reached down to her hands, which began to loosen, just a little at first. “Whoever invented these without helmets...”

Her face relaxed and breathing became a little more normal as George touched her shoulder.

Finally, she smiled. It was a small smile, still mingled with a little nervousness, but there something pleased in it, too. “I didn’t fall off.” Yes, he should walk her through it. Goal met.

Her own feet on the ground helped her relax more, but it was George swinging on behind her that gave her the confidence to sit up straight again. She looked down at his hands, then at her own, following his instruction perfectly. Her foot went into place. If she was apprehensive about letting the other one hang, she knew that he wasn’t going to let go of her. If George was afraid, he was also loyal.

She tried to eye him as he kissed her, but then her eyes darted forward again, intent on doing it right. Safely. They were hovering much more consistently than she had on her own. “See, you can’t lie to me. I know you’re good at this.” And then: “Don’t forget you said slow."

It was much smoother this time, no jerking stops or sudden accelerations. Waker’s face looked markedly less horrified as she leaned slightly into George, feeling some of the panic ebb— or at least not build. “I— We’re doing it,” she said softly, almost disbelieving as she watched the grass bend gently as they swept over it.

Waker’s opinion of flying with helmets was obviously not as strong as her actually wearing one. George decided to file that away for later use against her helmet ridiculousness; it was bound to come up again, eventually, probably sooner than later. And when it did... he’d be ready. Right now, however, he was not going to point it out to her. He was going to calm both of them down by taking over.

A nervous bit of laughter escaped him and he shook his head. “No... no you didn’t.” He just needed to swallow his heart back down from his throat.

From his spot behind her, George could make all the faces he wanted, and she’d be none-the-wiser. He rolled his eyes first, and then looked around, eyes darting as he decided on the best plan of action. His palms were a little sweaty and his heart was beating furiously against his chest; maybe his mouth was dry because he hadn’t gotten to eat yet. He clenched his jaw before taking a slow, calming breath.

Everything is ok. His free foot pushed them off gently before settling back into the hold. He moved them slowly forward, a steady hold on the broom turning them in a very wide arch, finally seeing the rest of the pitch as he got them back on track. George let them hover just off the ground, his feet pressing very lightly and comfortably into the foot holds, sitting back enough to feel comfortable.

He smiled softly and held her close, his arm around her waist loosening just a little. “You just have to relax, babe.” George stopped their forward movement, hovering as he moved his hand to hers, pressing it into the wood with his over it. “Nice and gentle, then. When you’re ready to stop, just pull back a little and tell yourself you’re stopping.” George stayed there to help her, watching her from behind as he waited.

As they made the careful arch around the pitch, Waker’s face continued to relax. It was almost jarring, how calm it seemed— she didn’t trust it, exactly, but she trusted George. His hold on her was a reminder that she wasn’t in free fall. Even if flying was about letting go, about trusting instincts over text books, George was proving to be a cautious, Waker-approved teacher.

She was still a little rigid, but not as bad as she had been after she’d attempted to try it on her own. It took her a moment, but she took his words seriously, taking a deep breath and rounding her shoulders back before breathing out into a slightly more relaxed pose. (Even so, she pressed into him a little more, for reassurance.) Her hand, too, relaxed, and she found that George was right: it helped. A small smile spread on her face, despite the healthy nervousness.

“You’re a good teacher,” she told him, eyes moving from the stretch of green, down to their hands, and back up, apparently keenly aware of their careful path. “I might be out of a job soon.” Not that George hadn’t taught her plenty in their relationship. If Waker traditionally adopted the tutor role, George was very good at introducing her to other things. "Are you ready to stop?” She asked, but she took his words seriously: it was part of the lesson.

Doing as instructed, she was surprised again at the smoothness of the stop. But then she wasn’t, given George’s position behind her. Waker liked to think she had something to do with it.

She had to admit to herself that the magic of it was logical, even if flying was a seemingly lawless thing. There was plenty about it that still felt foreign, and probably always would, but it was nearly so daunting with George to show her the ropes. Or the handle.

As they hovered there above the grass, now simply idling in place, their legs still hanging, Waker turned to look back at him, thinking it safe now. Especially since he was still holding her. Her smile was much bigger now. “Or maybe you’ll be out of a job?” She hazarded cheekily. She didn’t plan on quitting her career any time soon.

“I don’t know why they have to make it so horrifying in first year. It’s not so bad.” Her way of letting him win a little. But if George thought this was the end of the lesson, Waker had other ideas. Now that they were here, and she had made it past the first test, she wanted to be able to say that she had done it properly. It felt right, somehow. And she thought he needed it. Anyway, the panic had mostly disappeared. “What’s my next challenge?” She asked, as if she had a quill and paper in hand. She looked at him seriously, a girl intent on a good grade. Her hand under his seemed to tighten a little on the handle, but not too much. She remembered his instruction.

It was kind of nice to share this with her, even if he didn’t want to be on the broom. How the tables had turned. Especially as she cuddled back against him. The easy going pace just off the ground also helped; he had been more overzealous while holding Amelia in the apartment. Not that Waker knew of that, or had to ever find out about it.

He chuckled and relaxed a little. “I am just good at a couple of things. Riding a broom feels as natural as walking. Felt as...” George stopped talking as he frowned a little. He supposed that people with great balance still tripped over their own two feet sometimes. His ego had just been too big for that. George also didn’t feel like he could safely answer her; yes was almost spit off his tongue, but he swallowed it down and gave a half shrug against her back.

George met her gaze when she turned around, shifting just slightly to accommodate her a little easier, sitting up straighter as his hand rested on his thigh. He gave her a smirk. “From beginner flier to Cannon Keeper, in one night time session. I could see it.” He nearly rolled his eyes.

“They threw a lot of information in that first year. It’s funny that that’s what you thought was terrifying.” He sighed and shook his head; ever the Ravenclaw, he supposed. Which was how he liked her. George chewed on his lip and looked her over, his mouth opening and the start of a sentence slipping out. “So how about-” And then she cut him off.

Eyes narrowed and he glanced away from her for a moment, looking around the empty pitch. “How many cherries you can fit in your mouth?” George grinned and gently prodded her side. “You could just get us back to the blanket and we can call it a good start.”

As he corrected himself, Waker frowned. (Unaware that George, too, was frowning.) “One fall doesn’t turn you into a bad flier, George. If you've read the history of quidditch…” Which Waker had, even if sometimes the tactics and culture of the game evaded her. She could at least tell him when they’d started using Snitches. “Did you forget about Harry Potter?” Even if his wife was now the quidditch player in the family, he had been prolific at Hogwarts, and no one had labeled him a bad flier after his fall.

His non-answer served as an answer. If she thought she’d broken any barriers, it seemed as if George still had anxiety. Which Waker couldn’t exactly blame him for… keeping her own in check was hard.

Joking around had always seemed the easiest way to say things without saying them too bluntly. Or making room for more serious conversations. Or simply avoiding ever having to say those things. She grinned back. “I’m going to need new gloves. I don’t know where yours have been.”

Her smile turned a bit. “It was. They didn’t care if you’d never been around a broom, and the grading was completely illogical.” Not entirely. Waker knew the practical portion was always important. “If I hadn’t scraped by, it would have been my only remedial class, ever.”

As George looked for excuses to get them off the broom, Waker looked for footholds. “Cherries sound like a dangerous thing to eat on a broom. Actually, you shouldn’t eat and fly at all.” She gave him a look. “And I’m not showing you until after this lesson is over. That can be extra credit.”

Not moving from the broom, Waker waited for him to resume their lesson, her hand moving purposefully under his as she turned back around. “Show me your skills, George Carter, and maybe you’ll get dessert.”

He had learned about Quidditch and some of its history, why did he have to read it? He let out a sigh and shifted just slightly. “Harry Potter? Who’s that?” Had any kid who grew up around magic at all not heard of the Boy Who Lived, and then later Defeated He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named? Even as a little kid, he heard all the hush whispers amongst family members.

Even if the kid had been good at Quidditch at Hogwarts, George would be the first to point out that the big leagues were a lot different than a bunch of teenage brats on a broom. And on the list of teams, the Cannons weren’t very high. Loyal fan base? Yes. To an unbelievable level. Winning streak worth talking about? Not so much.

“Probably scratching my quaffles.” He stuck his tongue out teasingly, even if it wasn’t far off. Sometimes it was hard work being a Keeper, and he had to wear a fair amount of pads as it was; sweat was natural, even on those cold, rainy days.

“How is that different than learning to use a wand? You hadn’t done that before...” George recalled that being particularly daunting, trying to get the incantations correct to follow through on a spell. Add in all the ridiculous essays, and he just wished there had been a flying class all seven years. At least then he could have excelled at something without having to try, like Waker did with all her academic classes.

After the lesson. Had they not finished it? She’d learned to not jerk them to a sudden stop, and she hadn’t pitched them off the broom yet. Still... the promise of dessert was enough to peak his interest, even with the anxiety that gnawed at his gut.

“How about you take us off the grass, then.” George felt his hand start to shake, and he pulled it back, resting it on his knee as his feet pushed into the footholds. His breathing had picked up just a hitch; an adrenaline rush usually hit him after he did a few loops, not when he was pushing off the ground for a simple run around the stadium.

Waker’s searing, unamused expressions served as an eye-roll.

If he didn’t want to respond in kind when she was trying to be a good girlfriend...

She knew, though, that it was because he really needed more of a push. More encouragement. She swallowed any (friendly) arguments that sprang to mind and instead focused on that.

She made a less sour, more disgusted face at his quaffle comment, scrunching up her nose as her brows knitted down. “The amount of soap your locker room must go through. Or should go through.” Not that there wasn’t a time and place when Waker liked him sweaty and half-stripped. “My hand’s smaller anyway,” she explained, holding up her palm for inspection. “At least it still fits the broom.”

She seemed a bit ruffled and sat up more as he tried to suggest, through his question, that it wasn’t different from a wand. It was! Even Waker wasn’t doing the best job at giving examples. “Performing magic and flying are not the same at all. One requires concentration and a very specific technique and one requires…” She frowned a little. “Quaffles.”

Which George had and just needed a little prodding right now.

As he agreed to the lesson, she settled in, smiling despite her nerves. “Ok,” she said, taking a breath and resuming overly-good posture. “Ok,” she repeated, as if to encourage herself. She put one of her feet into place near his and used the other to tentatively push. It worked, even if it was a little slow. As they moved just a bit higher and began to float forward, Waker gave the broom a tilt back, bringing them up. It was similarly slow, with the Ravenclaw having learned her lesson about brash movements.

Soon, they were several feet higher than they had been, and cruising at a decent pace. Waker’s heart beat a little heavier with each half foot. “Are we going too fast?” She asked somewhat foolishly. She couldn’t turn around to look. “How are you, professor?” She added, employing the word purposely, and then remembering: “Coach.” Even if her tone was playful, it was also probing. She wanted him to be alright. She needed him to be alright, too.

She moved her hand to the right, bringing them into a very careful turn as they approached the hoops. Or began to. In reality, they had plenty of room to spare, but Waker thought they were better safe than sorry. She managed to breathe out a not-too-panicky laugh. “It only took me until after graduation!”

“You don’t like me all smelly and sweaty?” How would George have ever have guessed... He smirked anyway, trying to swallow his nerves as he focused on other things. Like Waker, in front of him, nestled between his legs. “Of course your hand fits the broom. You have cute hands.” He kissed her shoulder and smiled.

An eyebrow cocked. “Maybe that’s why I learned it quicker.” Little George did not concentrate well at all. Especially in comparison to the George he was now. Even then, he had little patience when it came to learning something new. There were times he felt bad for his parents. At the same time, though, he hadn’t been the worst child in the world. He’d behaved for the most part when he had to, and other than wanting to take everything apart and figure it out on his own, he wasn’t too...

Well. Perhaps that wasn’t a good point to make. He had been a rather rambunctious and terrible child, in some regards. Scratch that.

He let her settle into the broom, casually sitting behind as she moved them up into the air, little by little. The speed was fine; anything faster and he might’ve needed a break. “No, you’re doing great.” Eyebrows rose at her new nickname for him, laughing softly as he tried to relax his shoulders. Even if he might have appeared calm, underneath his exterior was tumultuous waves of anxiety. “I’m ok.” His voice was small.

The arm that was loose around her waist gently squeezed her back. He smiled and glanced around the pitch. “In its own way, this is better than Hogwarts by a long shot.” His free hand came up and took a slow breath, rubbing his eyes as he tried to calm his nerves. Finally he let it drop and move around to wrap over hers, helping to hold the broom. He pulled it back just slightly and they started moving up again, a little faster but still at a nice and gentle pace. “I never get to show you where I work.”

Once they made it to the bottom hoop, he stopped their ascent, letting them hover as he relaxed back. His arm came from around her and shifted him just slightly as he dug into his pocket. Finally he produced it, holding it in front of her as he leaned in near her ear. “W-would... you marry me?” She hadn’t been very excited about him popping the love question first. He wasn’t sure what she would say to this.

His stomach flopped as he tried to calm his breathing. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken them up further...

Waker did like him sweaty and smelly, or at least one of those things, and admitted as much. With a look… and maybe a murmur. She leaned back into his kiss, pressing her shoulder up a little, hitting his forehead with a soft sweep of blonde hair. She caught a good glimpse of him as she turned and smiled. She always liked looking at his his lips. Loved what they could do.

“It doesn’t explain why I’m quicker,” she reasoned cheekily. Even if George was very quick at some things. Like this. “Maybe I just have to find my quaffles."

With George’s encouragement, Waker was doing the next best thing.

As they rose steadily, with the witch at the helm, she was becoming more and more confident in her ability to fly— at least with him behind her. She also thought, though she couldn’t see his face and and was waiting for an answer, that George somehow felt a little easier. The laugh and compliment were both encouraging, for different reasons. If she still heard some anxiety in his voice, the fact that they were here was good news for both of them.

How many people could say that their post-injury date night involved private flying lessons from a professional keeper at an empty stadium? Waker smiled more at the thought. For the first time that night, she focused a little less on the exactness of her grip and a little more on the brilliant view. The higher they flew, the more of the city and the stars she could see. “I don’t know why I didn’t let you convince me to do this sooner,” she admitted. Even if technically, she done the convincing that evening.

It was breath-taking and magical, their little bit of the world from a vantage point that muggles didn’t even know was possible. As George took over a little more, Waker felt more comfortable looking around (even if there was a tiny jump of her heart, at their speed).

As they came to a nice, level stop near the hoop, Waker leaned back into him gently. “It’s perfect,” she confessed, her own voice small, too, but in the sort of pleasant hush of someone taking in a panorama after climbing a mountain. “I can’t believe how many people exist.” It was a stupid comment. She knew it on a logical level, she knew the population of the world— and of England, and of their county. But seeing all of the lights spanning over the land made her feel tiny… and a part of something.

She felt him shift, and assumed it was because he was feeling more comfortable, like she. Waker was still staring at the dark landscape, the reach of the sky, when he leaned forward. She saw it, the thing in his hand, but it was his words that registered first. Her lips parted, but no words came out. The feeling that rushed over her was the feeling she’d had when she’d realized she loved him. She took in a sharp breath, remembering to breathe.

Waker’s hand was shaking as she brought it up to his. Her fingers hovered over his palm, and she didn’t trust herself for a moment.

It was beautiful, prettier than any of the stars in the sky. She knew the color immediately. Her face crumpled into an emotional smile, threatening to break. Amelia’s birth stone.

“Yes,” she said, desperate to get the word out. Her head whipped to the side, and she tried to catch all of him. “George, yes, of course.” Tears were already spilling over her cheeks, and her hand came down over his, finally, feeling the perfect tiny angles of the jewel and the silver.

She felt dizzy and graceless as she ignored her screaming instincts to keep both hands on the broom and lifted a hand to bring up to the back of his head. She pulled him closer and pressed down into him, so that the back of her head was settled into his chest. She couldn't reach him for a proper kiss, not without quite possibly sending them both plummeting, but she managed to brush her lips under his chin and jaw at a close, clumsy angle that somewhat seemed to suit Waker Nolan on a broom. The world seemed upside down, or at least sideways as she tried to get closer. Somehow, it was more perfect from this angle than a few moments ago.

She breathed out sobs even as she smiled, wet tears making themselves known on his arms. She hadn't paused to wonder how much of his nervousness was about this: he had taken her entirely for surprise. “It’s more perfect than the sky,” she got out, in a desperate whisper, having already memorized the ring that was still pressed safely between their two palms. She kissed him again and pulled back a little, nuzzling her head against him so that hair stuck against whatever bit of him was behind her. Waker didn’t care about her hair this time. She lifted her hand, finally, looking down, grinning massively. “I love it. I love you.” And then, small and soft: “Will you marry me, too?”