late morning

Fingers ran over scars that felt like they happened a lifetime ago. How much one can age in a year… George felt beaten… conquered. Worn out. What he didn’t give to studying and doing coursework he gave to friends and Quidditch practices. Anything to keep himself busy. Messing his hair up, he rolled his eyes at himself and smirked before kicking his foot out in the chilly lake, sending ripples away from his troublesome toes.

Fresh gillyweed was stuffed in a jar next to him. George should have researched it more… maybe it needed time to ferment. Or… air out. Maybe it wasn’t just pull and chew. With his not-as-wet leg pulled up to his chin, he rested on the dock, glancing occasionally at his project. Bombay had set a rough expectation, and George had (pardon the pun) bitten off more than he could chew. But he’d gone on with it, even after the professor had left. If only to prove to himself that he could do it.

It didn’t feel right to test his Herbology project out on himself without Waker there. An expected stab shot through his stomach. Even with the ‘just friends’ hanging overhead, he couldn’t shake off their history. Couldn’t let go of the fact that she had been his. Once again his fingers found their way to his head, tracing over scars absentmindedly as he stared out over the lake.

Now or never, right? Grinning suddenly, that stupid glint came to his eyes. What was the worst that could happen? Sadly, he had a few ideas… and the potion’s professor, as beautiful and haunting as she was, hadn’t helped his reservations. George had a point to prove, however. Picking up the jar, he unscrewed the top, making a face at the plant. It was squishy under his fingers… Juicy, almost. Glancing down, he checked himself once more—wand was strapped to him, trunks snug, and his towel was resting, waiting, on the dock.

“Better do it before I talk myself out of it…” Like he’d done the past week and a half. Though he hadn’t done as much reading as he probably should have (not by half), what he had read hadn’t been the most uplifting. Basically, one shouldn’t mess with something they weren’t sure about.

Popping the gillyweed in his mouth, George made a face and slid himself into the cold water, choking it down as he started to shiver. The warming charm was all ready fading away. He should have brought someone out here; good thinking, now that he’d all ready swallowed the gillyweed. Or choked it down... and continued to choke. The taste was terrible.

Outfit.

For once, Murphy wasn't hopping around the grounds for the sake of snapping pictures. It was a nice day, but she felt like just taking a walk instead of her usual routine. Just to change it up a bit. She had taken enough pictures of the grounds, anyhow. Though she did always find something interesting when she didn't have her camera. Usually a particularly gruesome spiderweb or an interesting shadow. Murphy sure was enthralling. But even if she photographed rather mundane things, the pictures themselves tended to come out eerie. Murphy was a good photographer. She knew what she was doing. If anyone disagreed it was just because they were too frightened to understand what was going on in her pictures. Artists.

But nothing was really catching her interest today. She rolled up the sleeves of her shirt and hummed one of those silly tunes she overheard from Vulpes' headphones. She hated thinking back on him. It was nerve wrecking. He was much too friendly. Much too open and nice and understanding. She wanted to vomit all over him. But she couldn't because she liked all that about him. It was hard to explain and Murphy would never understand it herself. Boys were disgusting beings. She had nothing against them until they made a move on her.

That's when Murphy's nastiness came out. She hated to stay mad at people, so she got over Vulpes' sweet talk rather fast. And she regretted the things she said. But she wasn't about to find him and apologize, either. She hardly knew the boy.

And speaking of boys... Murphy's eyes landed on the figure of one on the docks. About to go swimming, obviously. Murphy could tell that figure anywhere, as weird as that sounded. Carter had a recognizable build. Short and muscular. She mainly recognized it from Quidditch games. Girls always talked about how impressive he was, how handsome and whatever he was. It was annoying. Utterly annoying. Murphy didn't get the hype, but she never spoke to him so she never judged. She had to learn a personality before she knew if she disliked a boy. Even if she was deadset on pretending to hate all of them.

Even though most of her close friends were boys... Murphy never claimed to be completely logically. She was smart, but her view on people was permanently skewed by sex and violence. Then again, if Murphy recalled correctly, George Carter wasn't so different with all the rumors spreading around about his ex. At least, she believed they were exes. It'd be heartbreaking if they were still dating when Waker's face was slandered across the school. Murphy knew nothing about them, of course. But she knew how shitty relationships were.

And then he jumped. Murphy hardly felt awkward for staring from afar. She had a staring problem, after all. She liked to watch people. She leaned her shoulder against a tree and watched for him to come back him. A couple of minutes passed. He still wasn't up... Another minute...

She found herself speeding down the dock, boots pounding almost as loud as her heart. She couldn't believe it. Why hadn't he come up yet? The water was freezing... He'd have no air... He didn't seem like the type to just off himself like that. Of course she'd forget her camera today. She always found something interesting when she didn't have her camera. In this case, a dead body. She fell to her hands and knees, staring over the ledge with wide eyes. A portion of her wished he was dead for the sake of her art. But the rest of her wanted him to come back up. Why wasn't he coming back up?

Long fingers skimmed the top of the water, rippling it ever so lightly.

"Carter?" She called down, "... George...? Are you alive?"

Murphy would never willingly strip her clothes off for a boy (not again, at least.) But if he didn't answer her soon... She would have no hesitation to jump down and save him. She knew he'd hate her for ruining his suicide attempt. Or, he'd be grateful that she unraveled his ankles from the kelp below... In which case, she started to unbutton her shirt. Thankfully she remembered a bra today.

The lake was finally getting warmer, at least in Heliotrope's index of temperatures. Being somewhat cold-blooded, hot and cold were relative terms. She didn't necessarily feel heat, or lack thereof, it was her energy level that changed to maintain life at whatever temp. The warming summer waters of the Black Lake allowed for quick, sporadic movements.

Today, after a visit with the colony of merpeople, she swam over by the docks nearby the boathouse. She liked to run her hands along the freshwater barnacles, mussels, and lichens that clung to the ancient wood. With the sun able to penetrate the shallows, the docks cast wavering shadows fish liked to hide in. Heliotrope unravelled her length of Kelp Whip, ready to snag a wayward fish.

Then she heard the splash, or rather sensed it. Someone jumped in, an older boy surrounded by a cascade of bubbles. Heliotrope was usually far out or too deep for most of the areas the other students swam at, being strictly air breathers. But this was a boy she had seen often, a strong swimmer.

"Hello," Heliotrope said, remembering her greetings, voice slipping into mermish. The was no reply. She swam closer. He looked to be...struggling with something. The boy grasping at his neck, shaking violently. "Hello" Heliotrope tried again. There was a familiar scent in the water.

Above them was the warbled, disrupted voice of someone splashing the surface up by the dock. "Carter?... George...? Are you alive?"

Heliotrope swam up, the end of her Kelp Whip falling over the (Carter George's?) figure. Her head broke the surface. "Do you know this boy?"

outfit

It was the weekend, and Waker did not want to retreat back into the castle; the stone walls, the wide corridors, and the vaulted ceilings of the library had always provided the comforts of structured life and dependable familiarity (even when the staircases moved unexpectedly), but the summer was on the horizon, teasing everyone; even Waker Nolan was not immune. She could bring her books along....

It was a melancholy thing, a promising summer so abruptly ruined before it had even begun. As sweet as the air and warmth were, she knew she would not share them with the person whom, a year ago, she’d walked with hand in hand across the same grounds. She had no one to blame but herself, that was the blunt truth, but it still hurt. It had been ages since she’d touched George, not counting their decisive handshake in the chip shop. Mostly, though, she missed hearing him talk and knowing that he knew he was making her heart beat faster. The last time had been before the weather had changed, and she found herself staring waspishly at every couple who happened by the lake.

Speaking of people getting cozy at the lake...


Waker’s eyes went wide with indignation. Even from a distance she could see what was happening: some girl was pulling off her shirt, apparently in the mood for skinny dipping. No doubt there was a boy down there in the water, luring her with promises of fish to nibble her toes and the many-appendaged squid brush against her. It had worked on her, once, too, equal parts fear and excitement, and a teenage boy with wandering hands under the inky surface of the Hogwarts lake.

Her legs carried her quickly toward the water’s edge, and a face materialized on the body of the girl who had been pulling off her clothes. Tomboyish, but in a soft, lovely way, with a shock of blue hair. She had seen her around before, and mostly remembered her because of the hair.

“That will be enough--” She began, raising her wand and using her Head Girl voice. Sure, she'd done a few things in public that would raise eyebrows, but now was not the time to bring those up. She was a bitter single girl Head Girl. But then she caught sight of the second girl already in the water, and the boy she’d been so sure she would find. The First Year LeJean was looming over the too-familiar, Quidditch-cut figure of George.

Waker felt her heart drop, even as something rose in her throat. This was no rendezvous. Her eyes darted around the lakeside in a wild moment of panicked desperation, and she saw what she’d missed while her eyes had been focused on the disrobing girl’s half-visible chest. George’s things were abandoned in a pile.

She grabbed the jar with the gillyweed and raised her fingers to her forehead, as if the evidence pained her. "Did you see him take it?" She demanded. "How much did he swallow?" Setting it down again, she made no effort to trip out of her blouse and skirt, as the level-headed, blue-haired girl she’d just chastised had the wisdom to do. She did not wait for replies.

Waker took a running leap and landed in the water, swimming a ways to George and wiping water and hair from her eyes. Her wand in one hand, she used both to flip him over and push him down forcibly, as if drowning him. Her hands became tangled in the younger girl's whip, but she did not pay it any mind. The Squid itself could have come up, and Waker would have batted it tentacles away.

George was an idiot. He’d decided so, as he struggled to breathe under water! Who does that?! Someone desperate to do what they’re used to, obviously. He was reminded of a younger George, for a brief moment, when he nearly drowned trying to win a dare posed by older (and equally as immature) students. That was a rite of passage. This was just stupid.

He didn’t even know if there was anything that would reverse what he had done! And, as he’d all ready thought about, he’d forgotten to tell someone what he was doing.

He heard splashing above, which he tried to claw his way up towards. But then he’d tried to take too deep a breath, and the water in his lungs was quickly forcing him a different way. If he had just stuck to what he usually did in the lake, he would’ve been back on the surface in no time, giving Urquhart a hard time for undressing for him. This wasn’t like usual, however. This was a honest to goodness struggle for survival, whether it was breathing with his lungs or… however fish do it, that the gillyweed was supposed to replicate.

The fight had gone out of him, but suddenly he was able to relax. He was… doing something. His fingers moved to his neck, to the odd sensation. Well that was completely—What in Merlin’s Underpants? He felt himself being pulled up to the surface. He was too weak to stop, though he suddenly felt… apprehension. He just finished struggling, was he about to do it again?

He tried to tilt his head away from the surface, but up his body floated. As he came to the surface, his mouth opened, but he felt a burning sensation on his neck. Hands clawed and he kicked a bit, still weakened from his near drowning in the water. Now… now he was drowning on air.

There was splashing and a shadow as familiar (though he didn’t know it right then) hands grasped him. He felt himself pushed under, and his struggle became less and less until he relaxed. Webbed fingers moved up and held on to the hand grasping him, shaking his head as he tried to reorient himself. Squeezing the hands holding him, he finally felt his heart start to slow down. That was close. Glancing up through the surface, he tried to see the girl through the ripples.

Wait…

He couldn’t just pop back up to get a closer look. A repeat of how he felt previously didn’t appeal to him. So instead he turned his body, hand moving out to grasp her leg as he did so—a way to steady himself. It was good that he was under the water—she couldn’t see his expression as easily. Shock, disbelief, a wonder if he had all ready drowned and was dreaming, it all floated through his head. Subconsciously he ran his webbed thumb against her leg, unsure how he felt about all of this.

Was he just going to wait, though? How long might the gillyweed last? Wiggling his toes (both enjoying and feeling grossed out at the feeling), he wondered what all he could do with the gillyweed.

And then he realized he hadn’t let go of her leg, and he pulled his hands back. Instead, he relaxed back on the bottom of the shoreline, enjoying the fact that the water up his nose wasn’t bothering him like usual. Fingers clasped together behind his head, and he settled in amongst the dirt and weeds. The view wasn’t half bad, either. Especially if the gentle lapping against the shore kept moving Waker’s skirt like it was.

Sorry to post out of order! I've been away for a bit and wanted to keep this moving. I hope everyone is okay with it. If not, let me know! Please feel free to post whenever you want. : )

---

“George, you’d better have grown this right,” she half-cried in her moment’s lunacy.

But the longer she held him under water, the less he resisted. His body calmed, and for a few breaths (above surface), Waker did not know whether to be relieved or terrified. She pulled her hands away carefully, as if she were more afraid of what he might not do without her there to restrain him. When a cold, slick digit tickled her skin, gooseflesh bloomed under the drifting, floating skirt, visible thanks to the topsy-turvy laws of gravity that operated under water.

Strange as it was, it still felt like George. She knew that thumb. Usually it was warm; his hands were agile from years of sparring goals, they skilled, sweet but strong, very boyish, very George.

These were not his hands, but they were.

Still, despite the strangeness, there was familiarity, relief, even a private little joy-- joy that George was alright, even thriving, where a moment ago he’d been choking-- but moreover, joy that he was touching her, that she was the anchor in this inky water, the anchor to which he thought to fasten himself.

But that was silly. The water was clear enough this shallow, this close to shore, on such a fine day, and certainly clear enough for an excellent swimmer who had swallowed gillyweed. And when George came to his senses, he let go. He saw her and he let go. Or maybe he couldn’t tell it was her. (He could, couldn’t he? Waker knew gillyweed’s effect was strictly physiological when grown properly and administered responsibly. If George did not know it was her leg, it was because he had forgotten, or wanted to forget.)

Standing there, watching the surface of the lake smooth itself back into fluid, gentle tide, Waker felt lost. She felt lost, relieved, on the verge of something she couldn’t prevent. Whether it was good, bad, or catastrophic, she could not say. She looked over her shoulder at the first year, and beyond to Murphy, blinking, and back again to the surface of the water where now only the phantom of George could be seen.

Her fingertips glided over the water’s surface, as if they could break it, or part it. Sinking suddenly, she submerged her face just below the surface, bubbles rising all around as she adjusted to holding her breath. Brown eyes opened wide and she looked in the direction where she sensed George.

From an outside observer, it would have been interesting to note the opposite ways both reacted to George’s hand pulling away. George thought it was what Waker would have wanted, and she seemed to think it was because he figured out it was her. The uncertainty wrapped up in hidden feelings and past mistakes made for questionable reactions on both parts.

Still, from his vantage point, he could watch without her knowing anything. He could admire the shape of her legs, the way she moved in the water, the lake induced tease of a show that he wanted desperately to move out of the way. Yeah, George could experiment with the gillyweed later. Right then, he was comfortable. If only she’d worn a shorter skirt… Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and it wasn’t like he could have given his opinion on her outfit for the day.

George had forgotten to tell her about what he was doing, after all. Part of him had been worried whoever he would tell would attempt to talk him out of it. All the commotion he’d made by leaving everyone out, however, seemed a bit more… selfish than anything.

Not that he was complaining about Waker being within a hand grasp.

Watching the water ripple, an eyebrow rose, and the weird gill breathing that he was doing let out an unexpected chuckle of air. Until her face suddenly appeared. Blinking and moving his hands away from one another rather quickly, he sat up a little. Grinning, he acted without thinking (which he was, sadly, known for).

Gillyweed allowed him to move around a lot easier in the water than he expected. On his knees in the mud, he pressed himself forward. George hovered—he watched her face a moment, considering what to do next. And next thing he knew, he was kissing her.

He pulled back and allowed her to gulp air, but hands moved to her hips, down her legs, holding on suddenly. His head was swimming (haha) and he couldn’t quite think straight. George wanted more. He’d always wanted more. Licking his lips quickly, he considered how fair this was to Waker. Sod it. When she came back under, he pressed once more against her lips. He’d missed this. He’d thought about it (and a lot more) too much. Webbed fingers grasped and pulled her against him, realizing after the fact she might not be as balanced as he was in the water.

Once again, he forced himself away, grinning to himself. He wasn’t sure how much time he had left… but wasn't that the whole point of his experiment? Pushing away from the bank of the lake, he turned backwards in the water, still amazed he didn’t get water up his nose that threatened to choke him to death, and swam deeper. She could do the waiting this time. 

Heliotrope bobbed off to the side as an elder girl splashed towards the hunched boy. There was much dissension about something. The boy needed to breathe but was he an air breather or a water breather? The girl held him down, forcing him to swallow something. Helio dipped for a better look. At once there was a transformation with the boy, gills along his neck, webbed digits. He looked very much like Heliotrope.

Once Carter George got better, he seemed to be looking at parts of the girl that saved him. His gills flapped and he pulled her down for a...what was that, a kiss? His webbed hands moved up and down her as she was dragged below the surface. Once. Twice.

Heliotrope stared. Was this how I was spawned?, she thought, thinking of how her mother Danielle must have swam and mated with Kulgor. This was different, being an artificially amphibious student with another of the opposite gender.

The boy left the kiss and swam off. Heliotrope was tempted to follow and inquire but a familiar scent was in the air. The elder girl was screaming about it earlier. A jar? Heliotrope swam back to the dock. The jar was open and the smell was intoxicating, the bundle that looked like aquatic rat tails.

Gillyweed.

Heliotrope pulled out a bunch and ran it through her fingers. Gillyweed. The magic of the plant was enough for her to cause even the slightest changes by smell or touch alone. Her hair turned green, darker than the algae it hosted, dark green like kelp with purple undertones. Hair like a Selkie.

This was different than Herbology class, wasn't it? Professor Blair kept the students from eating the plants. But this was an open jar, the boy had eaten some. Heliotrope could not resist.

She brought the Gillyweed to her lips and swallowed.

The water was a screen, a transparent layer heavy upon her eyes, which made it hard to see far or clearly, but not impossible to see what was in front of her. The sun filtered through in columns, and to the immediate right of one came George. He was upon her before she really knew it was him... and yet, there was nothing else it could be, gils and inky water, or no.

The kiss was more panic-inducing than a swarm of sharks. Waker’s heart must have jumped above surface, sure as any spooked or impatient fish hoping to catch the light of day. But her arms, when they regained the ability to move, wrapped themselves around the cold, slightly scaley skin that belonged to George, down here under the lake. And she had never felt so warm.

Perhaps a half-second late, she fell into (floated into? what was the terminology for underwater contact? did it count above ground?) George’s kiss. Famished for his comfort, his deftness, the familiarity that only he could impress, she kissed him back. Her arms tightened around his shoulders and neck, her hands pressed gently beneath his hair. Her eyes-- which she had shut in the overwhelming moment of contact-- fluttered open for an unworried moment, just enough for Waker to see the sunlight reaching them here in the stasis of the gentle waves. It was better than any oxygen; she didn’t even realize she was holding her breath. Until she did.

George had the mind to let her up, and she pushed at the surface with her hands, letting out the very last of what was left in her lungs, and taking in a desperate breath. It stung and it calmed and it frenzied. It washed over her, like the air, and gave her goosebumps as surely as the water had. She was confused, thrilled, dizzy. Worried, protesting, and impatient. She wanted answers; she wanted none. She wanted to demand he stop, explain himself... she wanted to demand he kiss her again. She wanted to slap him, hug him, kiss him beneath the water forever.

Merpeople didn’t have such a bad life.

George’s hands on her were the only thing that stayed the same-- albeit, they were traveling downward, and it was only a matter of moments before she was under water again, gladly, excitedly, resolutely meeting him. There was only a moment’s irresolution. If it was immense, this feeling, if it was terrifying-- she went with it, replacing the inner trembling with more kisses. Her lips were parted in the water, as if still attempting to regain breath. She found his chest, the heels of her palms pressing into it, and then his neck again... stopping him, keeping him still, inviting him closer. Her eyes stung, but not from the lake water. She was crying.

She could hardly believed he’d kissed her at all, let alone met her for a round two. She broke the surface again, breath heavily, and plunged back under to find he had disappeared completely. She waited a moment, blinking in shallows above the reeds, watching for any sign, looking in the direction where she thought the ghost might have disappeared. But Waker didn’t have gils, or iron lungs, or even aqua ones. She resurfaced again. She didn’t know whether to laugh or furrow her brows, to pout over having been kissed so heatedly and ditched so quickly, or to bite her lip and hope with the naive sappiness of a schoolgirl that he might swim back to her, grab her legs, frighten her half to Azkaban, and kiss her again. She floated there for several moments before slowly, hazily making her way to shore.

She’d drifted past the place where she’d leapt into the water, and so she climbed out near an old oak, her eyes finding the pair of students she’d left. From this distance, they appeared to have been spectators-- they had clearly seen most of it-- but they were now otherwise occupying themselves (she assumed.) Waker squinted. She looked away. Shivering, she raised her wand and whispered a drying spell. Her eyes were still bleary, and the occasional tear still brimmed beneath her lashes; much good the spell did when it just kept coming. When her clothes were more or less dry, she put down her wand and used the sides of her hands to swipe at her eyes. Her breathing had returned to normal, at least. She scanned the water’s surface, waiting for George to appear. She mightn’t have known it was real at all if she weren’t so cold. She kicked a bit of seaweed off her foot.

George was confused and excited wrapped into a ball of energy. It was different, kissing Waker under the lake. Merlin, it was different kissing her at all, at least the last few months. She drove him insane, but somehow she had her hold on his heart him. He couldn’t figure out why it had been so salty the last kiss, but he decided dwelling on it wasn’t that big of a priority. Like her lips. Time alone under the water, with all its quietness, could be filled with loud thoughts that made you crazy.

The thoughts today weren’t as acidic as other times. They weren’t as hateful and angry. They were questioning his sanity. He argued with himself about what he was doing. What if she hurt him again? Well, wasn’t that what relationships did? What if she cheated on him again? That one was dead center, but he tried to work around it. He would just make himself the best candidate. What if he couldn’t forgive her?

That made him pause in his exploration (and by that, he was swimming aimlessly, absentmindedly admiring the beauty of the underbelly of the lake). But some part of him all ready had. Talking with Ellie via owl had helped. Quinn’s odd rejection had as well. Together, he realized he would kick himself for at least not trying. Plus, Waker had said she wanted to be friends...

After a short while in the lake, the effects started to wear out quicker than expected. In fact, he thought he was going to get more use out of it than he did. Then again, it had been fresh and grown with not-so-expert hands. Who knew what all that meant-not George.

As the gills gave out just below the surface, he clawed the last few yards until he broke above it, drawing in deep breaths, filling his lungs. George had a ways to swim back, though, as he turned in a slow circle. Getting his wits about him, he started for the shore, one stroke after another.

He saw what looked like Waker off to the side, a shadow of what he had seen before. Focusing on the dock, he decided to get his stuff before curious students thought to mess with him.

Wouldn’t you know it, he was too late. When he reached his things and saw more Gillyweed missing, he let out a loud “HEY!” Turning on the spot, his eyes narrowed. She had gills! No, wait, she usually had gills... So then the gillyweed shouldn’t hurt her. Still, he wasn’t happy about her taking his stuff without permission. “You need to mind your own things and stay out of mine unless you ask.” Fingers jabbed at her in accusation. He pulled himself out of the lake with his arms on the dock, gathering all his things together and pulling it into his wet chest.

“Who knows what it could do to you! At least I'm an adult!” In age, at least. And with that, he turned and stormed away, getting a few feet from the dock before he remembered where Waker was. Huffing a little less, he started for her, trying to smooth out his forehead. The first year might have irritated him, but he was still intrigued by her. Screwing the top back on with a few free fingers, he finally focused on Waker.

And he had to walk towards her. His step slowed and he licked his lips, suddenly feeling underdressed (and a little chilly). Setting the jar down, he started to pull his trousers on, his legs having dried off a bit on the trip over. “Hey...” Giving her a small smile, he stepped forward and leaned in towards her, kissing her cheek. “Thanks.” Motioning to the lake, he felt his cheeks turn a bit red.

He wasn’t about to apologize for kissing her. She had come back for more herself. Still... “That fish year-first year took some of my gillyweed.” He frowned a bit and picked up his shirt, quickly pushing his hands through the sleeves and pulling it up and over his head. Messing his wet hair up, water drops shooting off in different directions, he finally focused on her.

Why should George feel shy? Hands rested on his hips before he stepped forward, closing the space. “I’ve missed-” kissing you, touching you, being so close to you “-that.”

As the bulge of Gillyweed went down her throat there was an exclamation. “HEY!” It was Carter George. "You need to mind your own things and stay out of mine unless you ask.” He climbed onto the dock and sealed the jar containing dregs of Gillyweed.

“Who knows what it could do to you! At least I'm an adult!”

Heliotrope opened her mouth to say she had consumed concentrated Gillyweed twice before but English was failing her. It must be from her lungs decreasing in capacity. Carter George walked away.

She sunk into the water where the transformation would be more comfortable. It was an odd feeling, the moving of organs and stretching of skin. Nerve endings fried in such a way that it wasn't pain, necessarily, rather the tickling of muscles growing or disappearing out of existence. It was a hard process to describe. Was one of her legs shrinking up to the pelvis while the other grew thicker as the bones rearranged? Or were her legs fusing together, skin an muscle joining as her toes stretched into something else. Minute changes occurred along her senses. The cold water seemed to be at perfect temperature. Heliotrope's skin grayed, looking oily. Her gills were wider, rows of open slits that dispelled the oxygen stripped water. If there was a submerged mirror or a reflective rock, Heliotrope would see her hair again, so dark green it cross the spectrum to purple, and jaundiced eyes. The yellow was not from disease, rather a strengthening of certain genetics.

When she reached the lake bottom the transformation was complete. Her body was sore like that after a warmup stretch, an ache to tease out once movement began again. She flexed her arms, her digits. Everything was in working order. Her lycra swimsuit seemed to have survived although something different stuck out the bottom.

Namely a fin. A tail-fin of tiny, silvery scales.

Heliotrope flexed this too. Different from the use of her legs while swimming. Familiar. She contorted about in the water then shot off along the deep. She swam faster than she usually did and even without Gillyweed if the students were in a massive swimming race it was obvious who would win. The magic of the Gillyweed pulsing through her veins brought tremendous energy. Even if the duration was short, she would not be leaving the Black Lake at this time. There were other minute changes, her body's buoyancy adjusting seamlessly to changes of pressure so she could dive and surface without strain.

There were things the merpeople did only possible because of their physiology, their powerful tails. Techniques Heliotrope didn't have the time for but there was one. She entered a tight helix, gathering speed, the dirt of the lakebed rising in clouds behind her. Then she pointed her body up to the light fracturing along the surface. Racing. Accelerating. Speed. Lift.

Heliotrope burst through the surface, rising into the air. Her arc had a apex of five feet, a wave of water trailing her. Then she turned into a dive from this short flight, headfirst. The last thing to see was a tail-fin waving goodbye to those the dwelled on land and sky.

She’d started to sit down, but climbed to her feet again when George approached her. Rubbing her hands up and down her arms, she glanced him over. He was gill-less, shirtless, drying in the sun... the same George she’d always known.

“Hi.” She returned the greeting awkwardly, as if she were reading the epilogue or appendix of what had just happened, analyzing it, dreading the consequences. Would this make their ‘friendship’ awkward? Did he want it to be more than that? Or was it simply a one-off thing, some sort of underwater experiment that didn’t exist about the surface? Maybe George wanted what every male his age wanted, a bit of harmless snogging.

But it wasn’t so harmless. Waker’s eyes had mostly dried, but they were still a bit red, a bit puffy; luckily she had her babyish cheeks and keen gaze, and a bit of an olive kiss to her skin now that summer was idling in, and it wasn’t so discernible. (That was what she would tell herself, without access to a mirror.) Anyone might have thought it was the lake water. But George was George. He’d seen her cry before.

His cheeks were red, but she said nothing. He leaned in to kiss her cheek, and so she dropped one arm, pressed a palm against his. For a moment, her eyes felt heavy, and not with tears or fret for the future, but with the weight and warmth of George offering the simplest and sweetest of kisses.

“Thanks.”

“You, too,” she said automatically. It wasn’t the most socially graceful of responses, but it was better than fumbling for words.

“That fish year-first year took some of my gillyweed.”

Her eyes shot to the dock again, glad for the moment’s disruption, but the first year had disappeared. “George, did she eat it?!” She asked, looking back to him. There was a sure footing in having something to worry about when it wasn’t the lips and hands and wet skin of an ex. “Maybe I should go find a professor or the Healer.” She remembered her own Head Girl badge, the one she’d been ready to flash at Urquhart. “It’s protocol.”

But...

Waker frowned confusedly, apparently thinking quick behind her concerned brows. “I suppose it will only make her own traits more pronounced. Gillyweed only has one purpose, really, and when it’s grown right...” Which clearly it was. “I...”

And then something huge-- for a fish-- came flying out of the water; Waker’s brown eyes went wide, having never seen such a thing in her near-seven years (seven years?! at the castle). There was a little girl’s mane of hair, and there an obviously human torso. Heliotrope LeJean hit the water again. And Waker Nolan laughed. She looked at George, and she laughed. It wasn’t particularly loud or uncontrolled, but it seemed as if they were sharing something.

She could feel a few drops of water from his hair as tugged on his shirt. Her gaze lingered on his abdomen before the cotton fell over it, obscuring the warm tummy muscles any idiot with eyes would love. They’d been all hers, once, too, or maybe it was silly to think so... but. He was close now.

“I’ve missed- that.”

She could feel a sting behind her eyes again, and she closed the space between them a little more to distract herself (and because George, even if he wasn’t completely dry, was warm.) "Me, too," she said, echoing him again. She lifted her wand, giving it a little tip of acknowledgement. “You’re wet. Aren’t you cold?” Hadn’t she just established he wasn’t (from the outside)? But with this pretense-- or lack of pretense-- she placed her hands against his shirt, wand clutched in one, opposite palm mirroring the flat of his abdomen, and pressed her face into his neck, the part the sun had dried. It’s like he’d asked her to dance, there, on the lake shore, without any music. She breathed him, content to be quiet for a few moments, even if she was also exhilaratingly aware that she would have to say something, that both of them were over-thinking it.

Being here made her want to be the other Waker again, the one who wasn’t so easily reduced to pathetic displays of emotion. The one who could control things. Just for a little while. “Let’s just...”

She could do this, she could be his friend... the one he kissed without expectation. Without consequence. She’d put herself here. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” Her palmed pressed more firmly, but gently, into his stomach. She wasn’t pushing him away. It was an invitation. She looked down at their near-tangle of feet, and was loathe to pull back, to break the warmth. But she did. Her eyes searched George’s, but she decided, before he could answer, that she would make this decision. She tugged his hand and pulled him away toward where the ground grew dryer, where trees grew denser.

(link will go here - CONTINUED.)