obvious thread title | outfit minus the tie

Waker couldn't remember being so nervous in her life. She hadn't felt like this during the practical portion of her O.W.L.s, nor when she'd first donned her badge. She hadn't felt like this the first time George had flirted with her in the Trophy Room, nearly causing a human-sized chalice to crash to the floor. She had spent hours getting ready, but only after she'd spent twice as long reading and re-reading his letter. It had come so quickly; it was short, to the point, and very... well, George. She'd relished the little bit of his handwriting, the easy way he said what was on his mind, and could hardly believe he'd written back at all, let alone so cordially.

But she should have believed it. He was still the same person, even if she'd stolen his heart. Maybe... just maybe, she hoped... he was healing.

But did that mean for Waker?

When she'd finally settled on what to wear, it took her two tries to Apparate to Birmingham. She hadn't slept much the night before, but it didn't show in her face; she was too anxious to think about sleeping. The energy in her veins was nearly static.

"I just want him to be happy," she whispered to herself, knowing that it wasn't all she wanted. She opened her eyes, having squeezed them shut for the fraction of the second when her body left the earth and reappeared somewhere else... somewhere busier, somewhere where a boy like George could get into all sorts of fun trouble. She had to smile.

Having decided it was best not to pop in right in front of his house, where his parents might be waiting in the window with their wands in hand, Waker instead appeared at the end of the familiar street; winter had disappeared, and the snow had become a constant rain, which had washed away the cold and replaced it with pretty front gardens and young children on toy brooms. The tidy wizarding neighborhood was full of curious glances and tips-of-hats toward the lanky girl in white. Waker nodded in return, doubling her pace before remembering she was heading to a possible execution.

But George would be there.

When she reached the house, where she'd last spent time burrowing herself away with books in front of the fire or stealing minutes behind a charmed lock in George's room before Trent came thrashing in, she felt her stomach drop and her heart dance. She frisked fingers through her hair, willing it to be perfect, and stepped toward the door with rounded shoulders, knowing that it wasn't. It was flat, and probably full of guilt, just like her face. If George's mum knew what she'd done to her son...

She trembled as she reached for the knocker. "Just friends," she whispered to herself. "You want to give him your friendship."

George attempted to keep himself busy. After the letter he’d gotten, his reply had been rewritten a handful of times before he finally sent her the finished product. And even that, he wanted to pull back after letting the owl go; he might have attempted to wrestle it.

Regardless, he’d taken it upon himself to head back to his parents house that Tuesday, early morning. They weren’t home, lucky for him, and he spent the first couple hours sipping cereal and running around the house in his boxers. After that became dull, and he’d slipped over a few things (socks should have warnings on them to not wear on polished floors), he’d gotten a shower.

The knock was echoing throughout the empty entrance way, the only noise were his feet quickly padding down the stairs. Running his fingers through his hair and tugging on his shirt, he hoped he looked hot enough to melt ice cream.

Then he opened the door. “Hey—” His eyes took in her outfit and he suddenly felt under dressed. Raising an eyebrow, he tried to slow his beating heart down, tried to keep himself from leaning forward for a kiss, which he did by holding the doorknob tightly in his hand. “Hey.” Stepping past her, he closed the door and motioned to the walkway. He needed to keep a little distance and wide open spaces around them.

George couldn’t think with all the things that were running through his head. “This place has the best fish and chips around.” He slowed down and waited for her, trying to look everywhere but at her and not succeeding. He even still had some black paint stuck to his skin, a lasting reminder of how hard it was to scrub off. Picking at it, he frowned and let out a soft laugh. “Magpies…”

Finally he shook his head and glanced back at her. “How’s your break been, then?”

The door opened and Waker blinked. Twice.

“Hey— Hey.”

And George greeted her. Twice. Looking quite... George. Her eyes grazed over him before she caught herself, and like a humorous mirror image, she had to mentally pinch herself to stop from touching him in greeting. George Carter had been one of those rare people Waker had made physical contact with on a regular basis, and now she had to remind herself why it was so dangerous and inappropriate. She had to unlearn it. Which was much harder than it sounded, especially when he looked like he did, with a fresh, starched white shirt peaking out from under his plaid, fitted to his skin, his muscles...

"Hey," she replied at last, and then blushed at how silly they both sounded. Would it be this awkward for all the day and ever after?

Before she knew what was happening, George had stepped out of the house and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Waker to catch up. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and doubled her pace like a fawn gaining use of its legs for the first time.

“This place has the best fish and chips around.”

"I'm looking forward to it. You've always had good taste," she began, and then decided it sounded a little odd. She hurriedly attempted to mend her leading words. "In food."

Waker followed his attention to the bits of skin with paint on them, tilting her head, blinking again. She remembered the last time she'd seen George covered in paint... remembered how it had gotten all over him. Emphasis on how. She bit her lip, then smiled nervously, trying very hard not to look so fake. Once, she'd been good at hiding inside herself. With George, it was a little more challenging. But she managed. It was a matter of finding a mask. "Oh," she stalled. "Did you-- did you go to the game? I heard it was crowded..." No, she hadn't. "Who did you go with?" It just sort of popped out. Who painted your hard-to-reach places? "It must have been nice to sit in the stands instead of having to catch all those quaffles. Not that you're not good at it! You're brilliant, really, but--"

“How’s your break been, then?”

"Boring," she admitted as they found the street corner. She looked around at the charming, Spring-y neighborhood. It was less sparse than her own; her parents had chosen a house on the edge of town, where they could manage a clinic nearby. "I've been in the library most of the weekend. Er, the muggle one in town. You know... I thought maybe I could find some supplemental texts for a Potions project, but so far no luck. Definitely no Quidditch games or chip shops." She frowned apologetically, her face noting how pathetic it sounded before she regained her dignity. "What about you? Besides the Magpies match, I mean." She hadn't even known who they'd played against, but she did recall George knowing one or more of them personally. Of course he would. He was that sort of person. She recalled a certain... glove, of the Keeper persuasion. Any new mementos? She bit her tongue, remembering that she'd been the one to ask him to come out for the day. She couldn't show she was jealous, or he might catch on!

It was good he kept moving. If he didn’t, he had to face her and look at her and let things surface that he’d been trying to keep down deep. He had unanswered questions, unresolved anger, and a walled up heart. Figuratively, obviously. The longer he stayed near her, the more he’d have to acknowledge all of that.

A sudden chuckle escaped him. “I have good taste in a lot of things.” Glancing over his shoulder, he eyed her a moment. He wouldn’t deny she was a foxy Ravenclaw; in fact, he might be the first to admit it. And she was still working the innocent study girl look, judging her outfit. It fit her, though. That innocence… Maybe it was George’s fault. Maybe he’d pushed her into things that didn’t fit her, and she… rebelled. Or acted on the guiding he’d offered.

“But especially in food, definitely.” He might have to stuff his mouth to the point of choking to keep himself from voicing things he didn’t want to.

Attempting to get some leftover paint off afforded Waker the inattention she needed to control her facial features. When he finally glanced back up at her, eyes darting to her face and back to his arm, he nodded. “Grace.” It’d been a good match too. Grinning at that, he continued the walk, if only at a slower pace, rubbing at his arm before finally letting his hands fall, one sticking into his trousers. George merely shrugged—he enjoyed the live game, sure, and he listened to many matches via the wireless, but there was something special about actually playing the game.

He stole another glance at her. Licking his lips, George wondered if by ‘boring’ she meant she’d been staying with… whoever she had been seeing. Her confession of the library made him laugh. It was very Waker-esque. “You would work on coursework while on holiday.” At least that was something that had stayed a constant. He hadn’t cracked a book or picked up a quill since the last class was let out. Well, maybe a quill… he had had to write a letter back, after all.

A shoulder rose in a shrug before his hand dug a little deeper, his wand pressing against his body. His eyes took in the area around them, motioning to a nearby street, stepping a little closer as they started down it. “There was just some celebrating when the weekend started. At least in the Gryffindor common room.” The match had been eventful, and he didn’t have many more plans for the free time. “I was thinking of bothering that first year about her gills. Haven’t had a decent dip in a while, either.”

He left it unspoken that it could have been a lot more eventful of a break if they weren’t … whatever they were. The secret knowledge of it hurt enough. “Didn’t want to stay at the castle for it?” He stepped out of the way of another pedestrian, guiding them towards the chip shop.

Waker didn't know whether it was smarter to avoid his gaze or match it. If George looked her way one too many times while they walked, she pretended not to notice. And if her own eyes wandered up and down his body, his jawline, the back of his neck a little too closely, she... blamed it on the glare of the sun. "I completely forgot my sunglasses," she announced awkwardly, raising her fingers to her pumpkinish forehead like a visor, and using this as an excuse to stare again. She hadn't. They were in her purse.

“I have good taste in a lot of things.”

It was true, and yet... best not to dwell.

Waker simply nodded in understanding, though she wasn't too sure she understood. He couldn't have meant her, not after what had happened. If she didn't remind herself sooner rather than later that she had not cause to be suspicious, spiteful, or jealous, she might have even braved a comment about his particularly good taste in looking doubly attractive after their breakup. Surely it wasn't George's intention, surely he hadn't planned it!

When had she become so shallow?! Was it before or after the quarter-life-crisis mistake with Vasily? That potentially decades-altering event... Waker wondered if she hadn't subconsciously sabotaged herself so as to be forced into sticking with her original Five Year Plan. Which included no time for the male specimen. But if she hadn't so royally ruined everything, where would she and George stand after graduation? It wouldn't be all that different from what she had planned... it wasn't as if they were old enough to... make serious decisions about cohabitation.

All of this dwelling on the impossible future made Waker blush.

She was glad to have something else to talk about, even if it were George's friends. She would almost have rather heard that Trent had been the one to paint him. She liked Grace plenty, but that didn't stop the pang of jealousy in her chest. It made it worse. Grace was good for George-- she was a good influence. Waker had been that once... "Oh. That's nice." Her voice sounded flat, but it was all she could come up with. "Have... have you two been spending a lot of time together?" She hoped the implication in her intonation didn't give her away. She looked down at the pavement, seemed starstruck by her shoes. "I haven't talked to her lately. Or you. Well, I mean, obviously--"

“You would work on coursework while on holiday.”

"There's not much else to do but coursework," she confessed. She hadn't had a chance to see Theta, who was undoutedly with her large family. Edmund seemed to prefer alone time since his own breakup, and Waker did not want to encourage any rumors. Leon... was away being Leon. Waker had felt stifled in the castle. "It's nice to spend time with my parents," she added. "I left early over winter break," --To stay with the boy walking beside her-- "And they're usually busy when I'm home, but this week has been slow for all of us. I think I needed to... get away from Scotland for a bit." That wasn't the half of it.

She tried not to picture too accurately a celebration of Gryffindor proportions. She was relieved not to have been around to fill the quota of Jealous Ex... or to have to dock points from the rebellious lions. She crossed her arms more tightly over her chest as George stepped nearer, for something to hold on to. She was certain he wouldn't be impressed if her knees turned to jelly in the middle of the walk.

"It's a genetic anomaly-- how on earth did a witch or wizard ever mate with a Merperson? I'm all for enter-species relations, but the breathe oxygen and use gills!" Waker was baffled. And, admittedly, a little excited. She'd had this discussion at least a dozen times with her roommates, and had contemplated approaching the girl or writing a research paper on her-- but it seemed a little... rude. She was a just a little girl, after all, not someone's lab rat. And something about little girls was even scarier than teenage girls, or Merpeople when they sensed an intruder in their habitat. George's interest seemed genuine, though. Innocent in a completely George way. She had to smile. She felt sort of dorky, getting worked up over the biological curiosities of it. If she'd told her parents, both doctors, Easter would prove a much more talkative time of the year than it had ever been. "You should ask for swimming lessons," she chided. "The universe knows you need to learn how to swim with your clothes on."

It had just sort of... popped out.

George frowned slightly and glanced towards Waker, glancing over her face as if realizing she wasn’t wearing sunglasses. He hadn’t really thought about it… Finally he glanced around, thinking to offer to go back for them before realizing they wouldn’t be at his place anyway. “Right. Me too.” Squinting, he eyed her one more time before focusing on the area in front of him, making sure to not stumble over anything obvious.

Whereas Waker was concerning herself with a far off future that wasn’t there for them, George thought about the one that he could have had during the week off. But he did have a good time with his mates, and the match had been exciting (and gave him a few things to talk about, with others more interested with the sport).  Her reaction to Grace’s name, however, wasn’t completely lost on George.

“We get on well enough.” They were in classes together, the same house, on the same Quidditch team with practice… They spent enough time together. Did she want to know if it was more than usual since the messy breakup, though? George seriously doubted she wanted details, or wanted them as much as he wanted them of her and the mystery guy in Hogsmeade. Though with that thought, he wouldn’t have minded knowing at least a name.

There was that unresolved anger starting to boil under the surface. Glancing towards her, he watched her as she watched her toes. “Yes, obviously.” What did she expect him to say? It had been a very odd few months, some that he wish had never happened, but now that they had he had to keep on moving. There wasn’t time to get swept away with it (again).

And then she talked about her parents. Pursing his lips slightly, George focused on the area in front of him again. The Nolan’s… George supposed they were her parents, so she had to like them. He wouldn’t run home to spend time with his parents, though. Even if he liked them well enough. “The air is a bit thicker up there.” A small smile came to his lips, thin as it was.

George couldn’t keep up with the mixed signals he was noticing from Waker. He stepped closer, she closed off more. They were having an awkward conversation, but they were going for fish and chips at her request. Perhaps not the fish and chips part, that was just something to help distract him. It was too bad he couldn’t partake more in her discussion about Merpeople. Part of him really wanted to be that genuinely curious, that geeked-out. It was just one of those things they differed on. Get him talking about Quidditch, though, and he was liable to get just as excited.

“Yeah, bloody brilliant.” If he could breathe oxygen and use gills… why his dad didn’t mate with a Merperson was beyond him. Or his mum. Either way. He loved his parents, but to be able to breathe underwater and fly on a broom!

It sounded like a dream he’d had.

His face showed how dumbstruck he was by her comment, and though his feet stopped moving for a moment, he quickly made up for it as he started to laugh. It felt good to laugh so close to Waker and not feel like he was doing it to be heard. His body relaxed a little bit more and his hand didn’t dig quite so deep into his trouser pocket. “That would be a good excuse too.” Smirking, he gave her a side glance before shaking his head. “But then what will the fifth year girls have to stare at?” Shaking his head, George continued to walk them to their destination.

And as if his brain switched on, he gave her a look of sincerity. “How’s your Herbology plot growing?” The original seventh year assignment had kept him busy when he made time, and he figured he had to try out his attempt at growing gillyweed sooner than later. He might have bitten off more than he could chew with that choice.

His answers were brief, and left Waker wanting more; yet, George did not seem as uncomfortable as Waker felt, but rather seemed to answer honestly and naturally as her inquiries surfaced. Or perhaps he was just a very good actor. Waker was sometimes... in the right setting... but this, an emotional hailstorm, was not one of them. She left the unanswered questions about Grace for another day, a rainier one, and trudged on to less sensitive-- or dangerous-- topics.

Like weather and merpeople.

Riveting.

"Thicker... that's one word for it." Also full of rumors, tickly spring blossoms, and Slytherin ambition. These were things Waker could hardly share with her parents, despite the universal phenomenon that was the Teen Age. Everyone in her world had gone to secondary school at some point, and they'd all faced the trials and tribulations of walking through whispery corridors, magic or no. But somehow it never seemed quite as traumatic as when it happened to one personally.

"If you were part merperson, do you think you'd still have gone to Hogwarts?" She tilted her head. George was all but a permanent resident of the water. If he weren't on his broom so often, he might be lost to the lake for good. She tried to imagine getting through classes with a tendency toward raw fish and frequent water breaks. Would it only improve a Gryffindor's spirit, or break it? She bit back a blush, realizing she was getting ahead of herself again, thinking of the pint-sized Hufflepuff as a genetic anomaly and not a little girl. She'd have to work on it. Even if the same reasoning was exactly why she'd never ventured to talk to the child. That, and Waker was dismal with small children.

A breathy laugh escaped her nose and she couldn't help rolling her eyes-- and basking in the familiarity of it. This felt more like them. "I don't know." She frowned soberly. "They might have to settle on some poor sap from Ravenclaw."

Herbology plot...

By the time Waker finished rambling on about the specifics of her N.E.W.T. project, they'd come to the place famed for intriguing George Carter's taste buds. Waker craned like a doe, pausing to peek through the window-- or attempt to-- before reaching for the door.

One thing he missed about talking with Waker was the way she posed thinking questions. He didn’t feel like it was an assignment when she asked a question. Biting his lower lip in concentration, George gave it thought, considering possibilities from different angles. Or the ones he could see. “I guess if I displayed magic before eleven, then they’d want me to, right?” Scratching the back of his head, he focused on the area in front of them for a moment before grinning.

How cool would that have been? To have grown up partly underwater… George was a bit jealous of the young girl at Hogwarts. “How bloody brilliant though. Wonder what their houses look like under there.” He hadn’t really gone exploring near that area of the lake. George always thought it’d be like solicitation in a way.  Intruding on their privacy, which seemed even more than for those on the surface. You had to get through kelp and water to get to their place of residency.

Would he still be George, though? Would he have his same personality traits? Same desire to bite off more than he could chew, play his way through Hogwarts, or goof around with his mates? Would he even be a Gryffindor? That thought alone made him a little quieter than usual. He’d always be a Gryffindor.

Mention of poor sap made his face screw up. “Klint.” It came out like a Vomit flavored Bertie Bott. “I’ll just have to keep my shirt off.” As the weather got warmer, George preferred to wear less and less. Except when playing Quidditch (painful lessons with quaffles and uncovered skin/vital spots). Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure if the Ravenclaw knew how to swim. Maybe he could use a good toss in the lake. A toss for a tosser? It made him grin.

At least she kept them entertained by talking about her plot. And he interjected now and again with things he found with his. George didn’t like to really ‘geek out’ with anyone over work he was doing (partially because it was usually sub-par and partially because he thought that was a level of dork that he couldn’t get down to), but Waker was different. She always had been… Besides, he really liked the work he’d put into his Herbology plot. Even with the whole Bombay gone deal, he was still trudging forward. He’d worked so hard…

When she reached for the door, George jumped forward, stepping up behind her to grab on to the handle first. “After you.” It gave him the opportunity to be close to her. She still smelled the same way… not that he was going to melt at the scent or anything. Just another twist in the metaphorical knife in his chest.

Once in, he ordered for them. Two orders of fish and chips and a couple of drinks. And in true George fashion, if she couldn’t finish hers, he would be chivalrous and help her out. While they waited, he finally turned back to her, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “I think I’ll be able to test out the gillyweed by June.”

“I guess if I displayed magic before eleven, then they’d want me to, right?”

Waker thought on this for a moment, pursing her lips to one side. “I don’t know. Merpeople can be very... territorial.” From what she’d read, anyway. Perhaps they were perfectly lovely. If you weren’t invading their homes or trouncing over their gardens of seaweed and barnacles. Waker was not surprised those who lived in the lake did not phase George; he was brave, and also lucky. They might have scarred men with their weapons, bruised them with their tails, but he’d always seemed to surface without a scratch, muscles as taut as ever in the sun...

That was, perhaps, not the wisest train of thought.

“Wonder what their houses look like under there.”

“You mean you haven’t tried to find out?” She teased, her apprehensive mouth relaxing into a smile.

“Oh, come off it. I didn’t mention Edmund...” She knew he was a touchy subject; the pair got on like chocolate and lemonade. “Clearly I was talking about myself.” Yes, yes. The stud of Ravenclaw, with all the broom balance in the world. Not really. She looked down at her gangly legs-- they had grown before the rest of her, and Waker had only just caught up-- and back ahead of them again, side-eyeing George with some unspoken comment.

She slipped inside ahead of them, welcoming the cool air that hit her forehead and cheeks and shoulders. She nodded her thanks, and turned back to look at him before having a proper glance around the place. It was casual, comfortable, authentic, the sort of place where George was undoubtedly in his element. Waker suddenly felt herself lock up, arms crossing. It was like a first date.

She slipped into the barstool and was grateful for the drink that quickly came her way. Sipping pensively at her straw while she listened to George, she wondered if she had the tiniest bit to do with his seeming excitement over Herbology. Probably not. Probably it was a very selfish thought. And he was talking about gillyweed. “I hear it’s hard to swallow,” she announced, the words coming out gracefully, nonchalantly before she could blink back the meaning. “I mean-- chewy.” She bit down on her straw and took a rather long sip of the drink. Her words, which usually came easy and with enough wit to keep a conversation going, if it wasn’t about anything too personal, seemed to trip over a root in the ground of her mind’s eyes. George had that effect, leaving her short of breath and (intentionally or not) inducing her to say things that brought color to her light olive cheeks. “Not as pleasant as... other... types... of weed. At first. Not that I would know,” she finished. Besides, one didn’t eat that... "I'm excited for you," she promised. She was also mildly terrified my might poison himself and never resurface, but Waker had to trust in the luck she'd just been thinking about. "So, about these chips?" She seemed to hum with forced innocence, waiting for him to elaborate on the properties of fried potatoes.

Glancing sideways at her, George threw her statement back at her. “They’re territorial.” Well, kind of—he condensed it a bit. It was the same idea, though… he explored the lake but kept a lookout for areas he wasn’t really supposed to be in. He didn’t even know if he wasn’t allowed in the lake. He’d never really listened during lectures of rules… and Hogwarts had quite a few of them. Smirking, he shrugged. “Plus, the lake’s bloody massive.”

And a finger came up, face showing her that maybe the intelligent Head Girl was wrong. “You said ‘poor sap from Ravenclaw. In so many words, you did.” And then he gave her a genuine grin. Making fun of Edmund was easy. But even George knew she hadn’t meant herself. Or assumed he did. Rolling his eyes, George eyed her a moment longer before glancing to the cobblestones ahead of them. “You going to go around shirtless?” Blinking at the words that fell out of his mouth, George glanced down, opened his mouth, closed it, glanced to her, and merely gave her a sheepish grin. Oops.

Gillyweed, coursework… he never thought he’d use it as a means of proper communication. A real interaction with someone outside of a classroom. It made him feel really old all of a sudden. Like this was something his brother or dad might do. He wasn’t the biggest fan of the feeling. Talking of swallowing, however, made him laugh. It was a good, genuine laugh too. Something that spoke more about how he interpreted her statement than words might, along with a familiar smug look directed at her.

George had always enjoyed the simple way Waker could trip over herself. It was adorable. And it made the invisible not-really-there knife in his belly twist a little more. Love was overrated. He had to keep reminding himself that. “Yeah. I’ll have to take swallowing lessons.” Or was it masticating he had to emulate? He left the unspoken question about whom she might recommend. He really didn’t need that out there.

He raised an eyebrow at her before he realized what she was talking about. “Oh!” A breath of a laugh escaped him. “They’re delicious. They cook the two in the same area, I think, so the chips taste like the batter. Which is really the best part.” Taking a gulp of his drink, the foam was left on his upper lip for a moment too long before he finally wiped it off with a laugh. “Should ask for it as Batter with a side of fish and chips.” Patting his stomach to get the point across, George shifted on the stool.

Since he wasn’t the best with skipping around a sore subject, he finally scratched the side of his head and frowned a little. “So. What’s with lunch anyway?” They brought over the order, and George picked up a piping hot chip (in retrospect, he should have waited, since it burned his tongue and made him take another gulp of his drink).

Territorial mermaids and shirtless Ravenclaws were the least of Waker's worries, but it felt good to talk about things that had little to do with N.E.W.T. results. Or, perhaps, everything to do with N.E.W.T. results. Knowing about merfolk would certainly help one's odds on the history exam, not to mention George's Herbology project. Before Waker had messed everything up, shirtless Ravenclaws might have been incentive, too.

He caught her in her own attempt to explain herself. Waker bit back color, pouted, and crossed her arms.

“You going to go around shirtless?”

The tinge to her cheeks was visible now; she couldn't control it this time. It bloomed stupidly in the sunlight. (And was just as noticeable inside the eatery, where the talents of one's throat came to the forefront.)

“Yeah. I’ll have to take swallowing lessons.”

"Or just consult your GP," she offered, saving face and sipping from her straw more gracefully this time. She might have tossed out a name or two, one certainly not recognized by the medical community, but known to George Carter, but it was a sour thing to do, even for Waker. She had no right, not anymore. She couldn't tease him with names of past exes or famed flirts, not when she'd been the one to... do what she'd done.

The food came as quickly as if it had been cooked by house-elves. The smell was seductive, but Waker let George have a go at it first. The steam was still rising from the chips, and she swore she heard the crackle of batter still frying in the basket. She flinched, but also smiled nervously-- almost knowingly-- when he burned himself. Her hand was halfway to his lips when she retracted it awkwardly to her lap and considered the question.

“So. What’s with lunch anyway?”

Waker put those swallowing lessons to good use. Her lips parted but no words came out. She reached for a chip, blew on it carefully to cool it, and took a ginger bite. "I've missed you," she confessed, deciding to be honest. Still, her words were careful. Her brown eyes roamed slowly over his blue ones, even now sizing up her options. Flight or fight. Or truce? What did she really expect to come of this? She knew she couldn't ask his forgiveness, knew she couldn't share a daydream in which they found their way back to his empty, limbs tangled, all forgotten. She didn't want that, either. It would have been the easy way out. It would have been fake, heated, a complete disaster. She'd caused too many of those lately. "I've missed--" Us. "This." She gestured with her half-nibbled chip, and smiled somewhat stupidly, obviously embarrassed at her own honesty and lack of eloquence. A chip shop was hardly the easiest place for it. "I don't want you to think I'm trying to... to make you forget." Her voice went small for a moment. She swallowed hard again, and plowed through. "I don't deserve an apology, and I have no right to ask for one. I hurt you, I know that. But I--" Careful. Careful now. "I can't not be around you if you'll let me. I don't want to be who I was before I met you."

The hand in her lap fidgeted, and for a moment it seemed as if she might try to touch him again. Instead she held it out timidly, the universal sign of peace, of greeting. A handshake was not a fresh start, but it felt it made her shiver all the same.

The look on his face should have told her volumes. What in Merlin’s name was his ‘GP’? Scratching the back of his head, he wondered if this was some higher intelligence sort of joking that he just wasn’t privy to. “Gryffindor… P… Parents?” Then his face screwed up even more. There was no way on this green earth that he was going to ask his parents about swallowing. He lost all enjoyment in the joking for that moment. Yuk.

George saw her hand, saw that moment where she reconsidered. At the time, he was too focused on the hot burning chip in his fingertips, and then in his mouth, but he still acknowledged it out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t sure what to think of it, other than she knew him well enough—it was like watching a speeding broom with a terrified flier on board. You couldn’t help but wince when they crashed.

He was opening a bag of Bertie Botts when he asked why she asked him out for lunch. He just didn’t expect ‘I’ve missed you’ to be the first thing out of her mouth.

It hurt more than he would have expected. That emptiness in the pit of his stomach clenched and opened—he had to look away. Down was easiest, to his hands in his lap (how they had suddenly got there, he wasn’t sure). Suddenly it was as if that chip he’d eaten was lodged in his throat. He did wince, however slightly; he didn’t have any details, and he wasn’t sure if he preferred that or not. She had been with another guy… thinking about the things they’d done, and even thinking they’d done… well, he didn’t want lunch right then.

Blinking at the sudden movement on her side, George finally glanced up, attempting to guard his expression. Staring at her hand, George licked his lips and finally met her gaze. “It does hurt.” It took a lot to lift his hand to hers. Truth was, even though it hurt, he didn’t want to be without her. So he took the plunge and took her hand, biting back a wince as if her touch might burn. When it didn’t, and all he felt was her soft hand…

After a few moments of holding it, he finally let go and grabbed a chip to distract himself, once again burning his mouth in his hurry to stuff it. He wanted to confess his feelings (how stupid), hold her hand (weakness), and yell and kick things (childish). Instead, he shifted in his seat and took a gulp of his drink. “All right.” Staring at the food mournfully, he finally focused on her face again, frowning slightly. “So what, friends?” It sounded like a curse, so he tried to swallow the venom and do it again. “Are you—” He cleared his throat and shifted slightly. “Are you still with him?”

“Gryffindor… P… Parents?”

Waker blinked. “General... practitioner...”

But it was one of the reasons she loved George, and if perhaps she’d been away too long to realize he mightn’t know the muggle turn of phrase, it only made her miss him more. It made her heart hurt, knowing that they’d never quite recover that dynamic in which she corrected him and he kissed her for it. But the lighter part-- George’s sheer, inventive innocence-- made her smile.

“It does hurt.”

She looked away for a moment, down and to the left, and then back to him, composing her face. She wanted him to know that she hated hurting him, but she also wanted to be brave. In this case, the bravery won. She wouldn’t back down on bringing it up, couldn’t. She had to apologize, and to understand that it wasn’t as simple as George excepting it and moving on.

When their hands touched, she let out a breath, tried not to look too pleased or too terrified, and waited for him to relinquish his before she dared withdraw her own. A weight lifted for Waker, even as one seemed to sink somewhere in George. She didn’t know though, could only assume they were nearing the same page.

That dreaded middle land of former-couples-turned-friends.

Perhaps now wasn’t the time to feel relief.

“All right [...] So what, friends?”

George frowned, Waker opened her mouth and closed it again, like a girl whose words had been misconstrued by a stranger on the bus.

Friends. Yes. Wasn’t that exactly what she was asking him to be?

“Friends,” she echoed, her voice small but sure, nearly breaking.

“Are you— Are you still with him?”

She reached for her glass, hoping to quell the dust in her throat. As soon as the words hit her, made sense, she lost sight of the task. “What?” Her fingers became slippery and useless, and Waker fumbled for the glass, keeping it from falling to the floor between them and shattering by grasping it ridiculously with both hands. She cradled it in her lap, her lips parted and eyes wide again. “No! George, no, I wouldn’t. That was a mistake. Vasily--” She paled suddenly, drained of all color. She looked down at the glass, and then back up at George. She carefully placed it on the counter again beside the barely-touched fish and chips. “He and I haven’t seen each other or spoken since... it happened. I told him it couldn’t happen again. I wouldn’t do that to you--” But hadn’t she? “I knew it was a mistake when I made it, and I’ve never... I’ve never regretted anything more than I regret that.”

Vasily had been attractive and seductive, a rebel, not unlike George in many broad aspects, but that was where the comparisons ended. In detail, they were wholly different people. “He’s not... I’m not... I’m not the sort of girl he would date, anyway.” It wasn’t a wise thing to say, perhaps. George didn’t need this extra bit of fact, nor did Waker want to give it. But she’d given him no reason to trust her, and so perhaps he could seek solace in knowing the other boy wasn’t interested. Not that George was, either, at this point. She knew his lingering looks, his surface desire, his abandoned touches. But there was a difference between old habit and truly wanting someone.

“Oh… right.” The look on his face (confused frown, pursed lips pushed to the side) spoke volumes. He didn’t understand, but at least she hadn’t meant parents. General practitioners… OH! Then he grinned, feeling rather chuffed. He got it. Not amateurs but not professional swallowers. So maybe… Eleanor would have a clue. If anything, his grin only grew a little bigger. It made sense to him, anyway. Laney had too much experience… and Waker—well, he couldn’t exactly think about her in that way right then cause he had to focus on his meal.

And his drink.

And swallowing on his own. Without choking or being unable to get up at any moment he might want to. His eyes quickly found their way to hers, locking. Until he thought that was a bit weird. So then he tried to relax, bouncing his shoulders and rolling them before slumping against the back of his chair. George made himself comfortable and tried to send that message out.

Considering the situation, George wondered why he’d brought her to his favorite chip shop. From then on he’d think of her while he was scarfing down a delicious ordered fish. There were worse things, he supposed. Friends… He definitely hadn’t expected that. Not last week, not months ago. It was usually all or nothing. Even Laney was one or the other. Either he had her, or he didn’t. And he never had. They’d had just fun time, again and again. Growing up was harder than it used to be.

There wasn’t anyone he could really ask about how to deal with a real relationship. Or the dissolving of said reality.

He may have looked away while asking her about him, but George’s eyes couldn’t stay away for long. He flinched, as if his sudden jump of an arm would stop a dropped mug anyway… Luckily he was able to draw his arm back without too much effort, watching her face and raising an eyebrow.

Vaseline? No. Vasily. It was a name. He sat up straighter; George repeated his name in his head, slowly, memorizing the way he thought it would flow out of his mouth, what muscles his tongue might make to form each letter. As she glanced away, George was able to mouth it to himself, trying it out for size. In retaliation, he picked up his own drink, taking a big sip before setting it back down. He sat up straighter. Stared down into his drink for a moment. Tried not to feel the sting of her words.

Such a failed attempt at that. Still… Making a face, he glanced to the ceiling for a moment to compose himself, finally staring at her, attempting to keep a flat affect. Not his sort of girl. Meaning… what? If she were, she’d be all over that? Fingers ran through his hair as he contemplated her statement. What did she expect him to say to that? ‘That sucks, mate’? So instead he picked up his glass once more and took a longer gulp. With it nearly gone, George set it down and let a very small smile come to his lips.

“I cheated on Ellie. A few times.” Clasping his hands together, he rested them on the counter. Staring at them a moment, he shook his head and let out a soft laugh. “It’s not the same. But it’s still pretty bad.” And with that, he lifted his glass with one hand, the basket with the other, sliding off the bar stool and heading for a wall near the windows. She would follow, or stay at the counter—George was just done with talking so close to the staff serving his meal.

He only liked gossip if he was spreading it around. Or if it made him sound better than he was. “So what does he do?” George could try and act nonchalant about it. Maybe he could get enough information to go say ‘hello.’

The humorous enlightenment made Waker smile, which was more than she could say about the next turn in the conversation.

And the slipped name had been the broken dam. It all came out in a rambling rush that would make any debate or speech coach sick. She looked at him, but tried not to see his reactions-- even if she craved them, wanted to analyze them, to assess the damage and change direction. She was not good at fixing things, not these sorts of things. She could check grammar and facts and dates in an essay, but fixing what she’d had with another human being was overwhelming as it was impossible. George was not an inanimate object; he breathed, he thought, he felt, and she wasn’t even sure anymore if she knew what he was thinking or feeling. Besides hurt. Her doing.

Right now, though, she knew he was still breathing, and that counted for something.

She frowned at his reaction. There were no words, and she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or suddenly afraid. Silence greeted her as he contemplated the ceiling and his glass and everything else.

“I cheated on Ellie. A few times. It’s not the same. But it’s still pretty bad.”

Waker opened her mouth, closed it when she realized the true impact of his words, and said: “Oh.” What else could she say? She had no right to be angry, sad, curious, suspicious. And yet. “Did you tell her?”

For a wild moment, she thought he was leaving her, as he had on the stair at Hogwarts. She couldn’t blame him, not really. Her cheeks flushed redder than they ever had, her heart jumped in protest, and back down in defeat, and she was sure he was taking his chips and heading straight for the-- table.

He put his drink and food down and it was only then that Waker realized he meant for her to follow... or he wasn’t disinviting her, anyway. She hoped. She scurried after him, but was careful to grab the glass gingerly this time. Now that Vasily’s name was out, she wasn’t sure she would make the same mistake of nearly dropping it. There was an adrenaline in her head and body, something she wondered if George felt after-- or, rather, during-- a match. She’d been a regular jogger, but this was not the same. It were as if part of her, however bad things became, could keep talking now that she’d started, now that she’d shared his name.

She placed her things on the table and sat down across from him.

“So what does he do?”

“He...” She felt a laugh stick in her throat. “He’s a barkeep. He graduated from Durmstrang and came to Hogsmeade. He has relatives--” At the school? “Around.”

It the was most unlikely encounter, she knew. Especially now that she’d said it aloud.

“I only meant you have nothing to worry--” Was he worried? A small, selfish part wanted him to, as much as the rest of her knew it would mean trouble. “I wouldn’t have gone back to him even if I were his type, George,” she continued, filling in the gaps. Maybe he didn’t want to hear it-- it was pretty clear now she’d ruined his lunch-- but she needed to make that much known. The idea had backfired, the thought of providing solace with Vasily’s choices where she couldn’t with her own. “He’s not you.”