10 July

So far his summer had been the best ever. And today? It just got a lot better.

He’d graduated (finally), got back with Waker (hell yeah!), went to Spain with her, started at Quidditch Camp, and the extended sleepover had turned into Waker at his house almost all the time!

George was still having his laundry done, his room kept clean, and meals made by his wonderful mum. He had to see Phillip now and again, but it helped that Waker was there now. And he was putting his room to the test. He couldn’t understand why kids were so eager to move out. He had it all!

He had just spent the past few hours in a meeting with the Cannons newest buyers; George had a team. It wasn’t the best team out there, but there was potential. And it was always better to have a team than not, he supposed. With his Quidditch jersey in hand, he’d apparated home as fast as his wand would let him: it was time to celebrate!

“Waker!” He went running through the house, feet pounding on the stairs as he took them two at a time, finally making it outside of his room (only slightly out of breath). Pushing in, he was nearly bouncing on his heels, looking around for her. Surely she’d be home by now...

But she wasn’t. He frowned and sat down on the edge of the bed, glancing at his jersey and opening it to stare at the name and number. His mum was off doing charity work, his dad and brother were working, and Waker... well, she was probably working as well.

So what else could he do but head back down to the kitchen and start his own celebration, tugging the jersey over his head. With a cold butterbeer in hand, he started to leaf through the paper on the kitchen counter. Maybe something to eat as well... Glancing at the clock, he let out a sigh and waited impatiently for someone to come around to hear his awesome news.

The satisfaction of stepping into the street, where muggle commuters rushed around her like a stream to shops and buses and cafes and the underground (from where she had just emerged) made Waker smile a little. Before she realized what she was doing, and promptly wiped it from her face, adopting the usual blase I’m an adult expression she’d tried so hard to project since at least her first train ride to fourth year at Hogwarts.

The summer light promised late city nights, a long weekend, and an opportune moment to be young.

Waker Disapparated and appeared on the familiar pathway in the front garden of the Carter’s home. She took a few brisk steps and then used George’s key, which she’d more or less claimed as her own (temporarily!) as it seemed more courteous than Flooing or Apparating straight inside at odd hours. She poked her head inside, and heard a faint bristling from the kitchen. She let herself in and leaned gingerly against the door to close it again; George’s parents home was calm, clean, and smelled lovely-- a quiet escape from rush hour in London. Her eyes adjusted to the light and she headed for the kitchen, where her gaze was immediately drawn to the word CARTER printed upon...

Waker let out a noise, or perhaps took too sharp a breath. She nearly dropped her things before remembering her graces. “Did you-- is that?” She devoured the jersey, keen brown eyes moving up and down in a flash before landing back on him. She shifted everything to one arm and moved forward to slip the other around his neck, everything dropping smoothly (or not so smoothly) onto the counter as she (perhaps a little clumsily, overwhelmed) caught his lips with a smiling kiss. “Congratulations,” she murmured, feeling the static rush of adrenaline. It were as if she were cheering him on for the first time, wearing Gryffindor colors for her new Keeper boyfriend. Only this time, they were adults, and George had made a professional team-- a world-famous team-- and they were very nearly living together, or might as well have been with all the summer nights they spent in each other’s company. “I’m so proud of you.”

Forehead pressed gently to his, she smiled again, and stole one more kiss before pulling away. “I was going to... try to start dinner for your mum...” She’d started to feel guilty-- or a little paranoid-- about spending so much time around their house, though George’s parents had always been lovely. “But maybe we should do it for you.”

She untangled her arm and began to straighten her things on the counter. “Do they know yet?” She asked, tilting her head, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear, and catching his eye. Her stomach grumbled, or jumped, or both. Nerves and hunger and whatever little bug she’d picked up working in the deep underground of the Ministry of Magic. She was still adjusting to the fact that all of this was real, she actually had her foot in the door, and now George did, too. More than that, even. He had his whole broom in.

The stats and scores of Quidditch games blurred as he stared at the page in its entirety, versus focusing on one area in particular. Numbers often combined with others--he could focus if he wanted to and get most of what he wanted out of it. He just wasn’t as enthused at the moment as other friends of his would be (-cough- Grace -cough-). Which, now that he thought about it, he should let her know!

The sound behind him made him spin a bit and leaned against the counter, sudden boredness slipping out of him with a grin. Nodding at her unfinished questions, he looked down at his jersey and then struck a pose against the counter, attempting to look too-cool. His arm moved around her waist, pressing back into her lips. “Thanks.” He couldn’t wipe the grin away, now.

It was why he’d put the jersey on, after all. George was looking for someone to give him a pat on the back. Laughing, he kissed her again. “Thank you.” Did she even know the team he had on?

Allowing her to pull away for the moment, he took another gulp of the warmer beer. “Oh?” An eyebrow rose--Waker knew how to cook? Smirking at that, he moved up behind her, his arms snaking around her and holding her against him “You continue to amaze me.” Kissing her shoulder, his lips moved to her neck, brushing aside her hair as best he could.

Leaning over for his beer, he took a sip of it over her shoulder, then offered it to her. “Are you feeling better today then?” Tickling her stomach a little, George leaned into her and started to snoop through her grocery bags. “And what are you planning on making?” If there was some apprehension from his mum in regards to his almost-live-in-girlfriend, George had yet to make the connection.

“Tell me about it. What was the meeting like? What did the contract say?” Perhaps that wasn't the most exciting question, but it was a very Waker one to ask. “Do you start training immediately?” There was excitement in her voice, sincere curiosity. He'd been training all summer; he'd worked hard for this. To train with the team as their official Keeper was a huge. Waker couldn't imagine it. And then there would be the actual games.

Waker scrunched her shoulder, turning toward George to fend off the (wonderful, distracting) slight tickling sensation of kisses to that region. But it was the actual tickling which, well, tickled. She jumped a little, and eyed him suspiciously. “No. Yes,” she changed her mind. “But I think it’s...” A right of passage? “Standard. The Department of Mysteries is testing my conscience.” She was only half-joking. “Anyone who doesn’t get nervous enough to get sick must be bad news-- but what if it means I’m not cut out for it?” Her expression let up and she looked at him more earnestly for a second.

“Anyway,” she added, taking a deep breath. Happy thoughts. “We’re celebrating your success tonight.”

As for what that entailed...

“Well, I know what your mum planned to make.” Didn’t George? He’d been there when she mentioned it. “I bought a few things for her, and I was going to wait until she got home to help her.” Waker was skilled at a great number of practical things, but cooking was not her best... subject. It was like Potions (which was a strength), but it entailed more whim and experimentation (which often as not were disastrous for the girl who so loved textbooks). “But...” Her eyes roamed the kitchen and landed on George again. She grabbed his hands to keep them in sight. “If I start it now, it should still be alright. We should let her relax and celebrate with you. How often does her son join a professional quidditch team?” Waker couldn’t help smiling again, going a little giddy. She’d never burned down a kitchen. If it weren’t for George’s good news, she’d badger him into helping her. It was probably time he learned to cook, too.

“Do you know where she keeps that recipe?” she asked suddenly, wandering away to glance about the kitchen more properly. She’d found the grocery list, but if the recipe was in his mum’s head...

She looked back at George, there in his jersey all attractive and George-ish. “Can I order one of those?” She asked, smiling again. She opened a drawer and glanced up at him between digging around. “The first one,” she clarified. The first copy. Official copy, of course. “Do I get a discount?” Did that make her a... oh, goodness. WAG. Wouldn’t Kitty Li love that? She quickly buried the thought. She went back to where he was standing and brushed against him lightly, grabbing a spice from the bag of groceries. She could at least start one the easy part, if she couldn’t find a recipe. “And a signature?” She added playfully, opening the little bottle. “You know, if you make me stand in line...” She began to warn, but trailed off; the spice hit her like a crack of thunder. She blanched and set it down, turning away with a scrunched nose.

For a moment, his face was that of an unsuspecting child. What did the contract say? Was he supposed to read it thoroughly? Luckily she asked a stream of questions, so he jumped on the easiest one. “Yes, pretty quickly. Monday, I think.” Or maybe not Monday... well, it would happen sooner than later. Grinning at that, feeling more confident that he could answer one of her questions, his worry slipped away.

“I’ll have to find different paint now, though.” Motioning to his jersey, he smirked. George couldn’t wait for his first game (for the most part). He expected to wow the wizarding world by planting the opposing team on their face. A boy can dream...

He gave her as innocent a look as he could--he hadn’t really tickled her. Just attempted. Frowning, however, he shook his head. Why she always second guessed herself, he’d never understand. “Head Girl not cut out for the Department of Mysteries? Hardly.” Grinning, he kissed her lips quickly, pulling back to watch her face. “If anything, you’re probably too qualified for the position. Who even knows what they really do there.”

Celebrating his success. He could live with that.

A slightly baffled look crossed his face--she knew what was on the menu for tonight? When had that come up? What had he been doing? If he’d all ready been eating, it was more than likely in one ear, out the other. “That was nice of you...” He glanced once again into the bags, attempting to piece together what it might be.

Distracted as he was, George let her hold on to his hands. His head swung back fairly quickly at the thought of he starting it now, without his mum. Biting his lower lip, a shrug answered an unasked question. “She’s usually pretty territorial in the kitchen.” And by that, his experience was usually dashing in for a finger in the baking jar to find out what was on the menu, and being chased out with a flying spoon and flapping kitchen towels.

His face screwed up for a moment. “There is a recipe tin over there...” Motioning to the spot on the counter, he leaned against it, watching her hips swing. “What recipe are you looking for?” His eyes found their way back up to hers when she turned around. Nodding at her question, he smirked. “Maybe. Everyone’s going to be asking for a discount.” He could tease her.

Turning after her, fingers moving over what he wanted on the menu, he laughed softly. “Now your just stroking my ego.” Raising an eyebrow at her start of a threat, he started to respond. “What are you going to-” Concern etched across his face and he stood up again, glancing at what she smelled. Garlic wasn’t usually that strong... Sniffing at it, he shrugged--maybe she tried to inhale it. Rubbing her back, a smile started to slip back on. “Why don’t we leave the cooking to my mum. We can even watch her make it.” Arms moved back around her waist, pulling her back against him. His hand gently moved in slow circles around her stomach.

“Let’s go see how my jersey looks on you.”

But would everyone get a discount? She wondered, innocently enough.

"Your mum isn't your personal elf, George," she pointed out, but then remembered tonight was about him. She also realized he was right-- it was probably best to avoid taking over his mother's territory. She bit her lip, melting into a smile. Her stomach tensed a little as touch, but then calmed. With George, there was always a sense of right, of comfort and protection. She sighed in thanks (and agreement). Turning in his arms, she laced hers around his neck and rested a cheek on his shoulder. "Oh, I'll look brilliant," she promised, adopting some of his confidence. "Until I get sick all over it."

No, no. It was over. She was sure. Ministry jitters.

But with the promise of new paint, professional jerseys, and a calm kitchen, Waker enjoyed the evening (though she felt a little apprehensive about staying for dinner, and a lot of apprehensive after deciding to eat.) It wasn't as if Mrs. Carter wasn't an excellent cook, but Waker's Ministry bug had decided to return, and it took its vengeance early the next morning, before either Waker or George had to be awake. What a wonderful way to ring in the celebration of her boyfriend's highly enviable career.


Perhaps she would go see her parents, she thought, sitting up in front of the toilet, giving her hair a tug to make sure it hadn't joined her face in the party. She wiped the back of her palm over her lips and cheek, wincing at the germ-iness. Even if they were her germs. Her parents would give her their usual parenty-doctory advice, which Waker might have known by heart, but some part of her wanted that comfort-- to be babied for a day before she through herself back into adulthood.

But what if what she had was a Wizarding virus? What if her parents, for all their experience, couldn't help? This had started at the Ministry. Was it dangerous to ask her parents? Should she go to St. Mungo's? But for all her obsessive habits, Waker wasn't so afraid about being ill (usually). She was annoyed by it. But this was getting beyond annoying.

Her stomach grumbled and she hardly had time to brace herself before she was leaning over again.

His mum had always just made the meals. Was it his fault that she had made herself into his personal elf? Or that he had never questioned it? There were many reasons he liked living at home. Was it so bad that was one?

“You won’t. You’re not allowed.” Even talking about getting sick on the jersey seemed sacrilege. He ate well, had too much fun, a little too much beer, and made it to bed somehow... He loved celebrating. His mum was excited, but had seemed a little withdrawn. How was George to know that she was dealing with her youngest son figuring himself out? Becoming an adult?

His dad made jokes about George finding his own place. His mum told his dad to keep his opinions to himself. And more drinking had ensued.

George did not expect such an awakening. Movement in the bed caused George to stir, turning toward where Waker should have been. He laid on his stomach, a groan escaping him softly into the pillow, as his arm moved, fingers reaching blindly for her.

When she wasn’t there, he finally opened his eyes. Arms pushed himself up and his elbows dug into the mattress as he glanced around. Hearing it made him cringe slightly, but he clumsily pushed himself up to the side of the bed. The heel of his palm dug into his eyes as he tried to rub himself awake.

Stumbling towards the bathroom, he slipped a pair of pajama trousers on, somehow making it into the bathroom. “Mm... love...” The sympathy was in his voice as he bent down to kiss the top of her head, vision still somewhat blurry as he picked up a washcloth and dampened it for her. After offering it, he leaned against the wall, his legs stretched out, foot gently pushing at her.

“Worried about work?”

Worried about work. Yes, that was it.

On a Saturday.

Waker was grateful for the washcloth, and for George. She clutched the cloth gingerly upon the tile, and smiled weakly. “I think that’s it,” she told him. And by that she meant I think that’s all all of it. “I’m sorry to do this in your house...” Her eyes shot to the door and she wondered if she’d woken his family.

Slowly, she climbed to her feet, placed the washcloth on the counter near the basin, and reached for the toothbrush she’d left in George’s bathroom-- it was one of the few things she kept at his place, given her obsessive penchant for hygiene, and George’s for snogging.

“I’ll be alright. I feel better now...” She looked to him, as if to let him know it was alright, and could go now-- back to bed, or down to breakfast, or out to train. If she worried him, she would only worry herself. She might as well get a head start on her errands. Perhaps if she could get an extra file or two done over the weekend, the department head would be impressed enough to give her a larger project.


Waker breathed out, staring at her reflection. Shoulders rounded, fingers tucked a piece of hair, and lids settled and brow became determined-- all her usual methods of maintaining her grace in times of... chaos.

It were as if someone had told her she had failed every N.E.W.T.

She didn’t believe in luck (not for herself), but maybe George’s had rubbed off on her.

Lucky number...

Six.

Her eyes flittered down to the stick, back up to the mirror, and down again.

It was hard to maintain her a professional nonchalance now, a casual grace, a blasé poise. Maybe she should go find a seventh. Harry Potter had to take care of seven Horcruxes before he could defeat the Dark Lord. She would be putting that History of Magic N.E.W.T. to good use.

Collecting them all, the sticks, she gave herself one last, searching look in the mirror. Shifting everything to one arm, she hurried out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

She ran straight into George. She let out a little wail and winced, her arms attempting to do two things at once, and failing at both. Sticks went flying in every direction. Her mouth opened and she blinked, standing still as anyone could stand without being jinxed.

He laughed suddenly at her apology. “Don’t be. You can’t help it if you get sick... I’m surprised I didn’t, after all the celebrating.” Though he wasn’t all that comfortable, he didn’t fancy standing back up yet. Resting his head against the cool wall, he gave her a grin. “Good.” It wasn’t that late in the day. Not yet. He pushed himself back up and waited. Maybe she would go back to bed with him.

George’s mischievous grin didn’t last as long as he would’ve liked. Who would’ve thought Waker would take it in her head to stay up? Well, maybe George should’ve. Regardless, it was up for the day. He started off with a refreshing shower, a trip to breakfast, and then thought to send and owl to Grace.

He couldn’t fathom what she was going through, but he could extend a hello, and see if she wanted to hang out. George was sure he’d get some extra Cannon tickets anyway, and who better to send one to than the Cannons biggest fan?

Waker had been fairly busy as well. At least, she seemed to be in and out of the house a lot. After the six time, he thought maybe he should try and convince her to have lunch. Leaving his broom and polishing oil behind, George held on to the rag and started to wipe his hands off, following up the stairs. He glanced into the bedroom--not there. Then he noticed the bathroom door was shut. As he started for it, about to speak, she came rushing out.

Stumbling back a couple of steps, George was shocked. Automatically, he bent over and started to pick up what fell. “You all right?” He gave her a half grin, finally looking up at her. “I was going to see if you wanted lu...nch...” Something about the way she looked... Like she’d seen Nearly Headless Nick finally take his head off.

His grin slipped a little. “What’s wrong?” Standing back up, he offered her the sticks. “Some Department of Mysteries coursework?” He waved them back and forth a moment with as lighthearted a chuckle as he could.

Waker continued to blink (in now possibly rapid succession).

The humiliation of George picking up and looking at the very thing she had no idea how to discuss with him, and the incredulity of his not comprehending were clearly written in her face.

Department of Mysteries coursework?

"George... These aren't for work." There was understanding in her eyes, as if she could will it into his, but her hands were weary about taking back the little sticks. They were the result of it. Finally, she did, cupping them all in one arm, and holding up one which showed a little symbol, clear as day and easier than any Rune or Arithmancy problem. "I was going to go buy a seventh," she added, looking from the sign to George, and back again. A blush crept into her cheeks.

"But the statistical probability of all of them being wrong..." She knitted her brows as if pouring over a particularly pesky exam practice question. Worry was there, too, and her previously pink cheeks looked a little exasperated now, round and babyish despite the situation.

George saw the look she gave him. Glancing back at the sticks, he frowned. Not for work. He stared at the strip as she held it up, What did the plus have to do with anything? Scratching the back of his head, he let out a forced chuckle. He was missing something: that much was obvious.

“A seventh...” Hands rested on his hips as he tried to figure out what it could be. One of the screens had a jumping... something on it-he couldn’t tell what it was from his current angle. They seemed to be a mix of different... sticks.

Statistical probability. That was a big term to use on George. Laughing, he shrugged a little and glanced back up to her face. “So they’re right? You didn’t fail?” Whatever it was she had taken, obviously a plus was a positive thing. It just made sense. He hated feeling stupid.

Maybe he should have paid more attention to girls. Maybe he should have invested more concern into the tests they used. “So, what exactly...” Taking one back, the one with the screen going nuts, George looked down at it. “Didn’t you fail?”

He was laughing. Waker eyes widened-- at least in her mind’s eyes-- and she opened her mouth, before closing it again, trying to keep her breath steady.

She was sure, for a moment, that it was dawning on him. A seventh. Yes. She would give him a moment. He would say it, so she didn’t have to it.

All the words in the Oxford English Dictionary-- or the Wizarding equivalent-- and he had chosen to describe the ‘test’ in terms of failure. Waker might have winced, if this weren’t the only test on Earth she’d wished desperately to fail. A giant T (not a plus) would have been her heart’s desire, clear as day in the Mirror of Erised if someone had decided to set it in the middle of George’s childhood home.

Unfortunately for both of them, she had passed. They had passed. “Not... fail,” she echoed. Only she meant, you can’t fail it. “It’s not a pass, it’s a positive.” Only they had failed, in a way. A huge way. As their parents  and every job-offering, career-making, responsible adult in their lives was sure to let them know sooner rather than later. She placed a hand to her head and shook it, moaning a little. She would have laughed, like he had, but it would have sounded as if she were crying. And what was more, she felt like crying. Instead, she considered his request. Exactly. He wanted to know exactly. For a moment, Waker almost felt relieved. She was a girl who dealt in exacts, a girl for whom unknowns were something one studied and brought into the world of exact. “They’re pregnancy tests.” Six of them. All six were positive. She looked at the symbols, which were taunting her now, but somehow they were easier to look at than George’s face. George who loved her, and whose she adored. She loved him, too, which was part of what made it so hard. Maybe if she didn’t look, and no one knew the truth, it would go away. Finally, she met his eyes. “I’m pregnant,” she added for clarification, the first blunt thing she could manage, even if her voice was soft, low, a whisper. She was telling herself as much as she was telling George. The words were out, and they couldn’t be taken back now.

He was having a sick feeling starting to form in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t adding up. Clearly what this was wasn’t so simple to brush off. It meant something. Part of him didn’t want to find out what, but the other part.. it pushed forward. Not a pass...

The jumping screen, with the excitable plus... He didn’t want to guess on this. His stomach twisted in foreboding. Maybe George was catching the bug Waker had. Then maybe he’d have to take a-wait, did she just say... “What?” His head shot up as things started to click. Pregnancy tests. Six of them.

He stared at her as he felt his body go cold, like he’d jumped out of bed in January. The only movement he did was to lick his lips.

“I’m pregnant.”

His legs felt like jelly, but he couldn’t look away from Waker. From her eyes. Waiting for her to crack a smile and tell him she was just joshing him. Taking the piss. Having a good laugh. At first, he tried to crack a smile, but it quickly evaporated when she didn’t return it. Breathing suddenly picked up, and what he had started to suspect in the moments before her confession had suddenly become a reality.

“But...” He was grasping at straws. “But...” A hand moved up to his head, holding on to it while he rocked on one foot and then the other. “But-” His other hand, holding the stick, brought it up to his eyes, staring at it. Then he realized what it was for, and suddenly dropped it, taking a momentary step back. She had peed on that!

Wait, no, not the proper reaction. Fighting it, he closed his eyes and took as deep a breath as he could manage. Then he looked at her, slight fear etched in his face. His mum was going to skin him alive.

“Should I take one? Maybe we should go get a seventh. I mean, really, who trusts a stick?” He laughed nervously, shaking his head. No, six times was probably enough. “Wait, so...” Was it appropriate to ask if it was his? Deciding against it, he took a step forward. “Uh, how long?”

Waker could tell it was beginning to dawn on him. And then she came out and said it.

“But... But...But-”

The stick that had been in his hand hit the floor, and she winced, watching him back away. She couldn’t blame him for his reaction, but it still sent a jolt of hurt through her. George was the braver of the two, the one who did things on a whim, invented solutions on the spot as problems arose (or sometimes after the fact), and almost always came out smiling that wonderful smile. But he wasn’t smiling now. He looked afraid.

Did he not believe her? Her lips parted, and she tried to think of something to say, tried to will herself to say anything.

He spared her, though. At last, he said something that wasn’t a floundering protest, and Waker felt a little more rooted to the spot.

“Should I take one? Maybe we should go get a seventh. I mean, really, who trusts a stick?”

Her face crumpled a little, and if she’d been capable of smiling, the weird, semi-relieved, semi-on-the-verge-of-having-a-melt-down frown might have been a smile. Her eyes became wet. She lifted a hand to her face, splaying fingers, shaking a little. What were they going to do? George could mistrust all the sticks he liked--Waker was inclined to do the same. But it didn’t change what she knew. It didn’t change that she’d been sick for a while now, that she’d missed an important event on the calendar by more than a mere few days. It was no longer a fluke.

“Wait, so... Uh, how long?”

He was closer again. It was both a relief and something which made her want to instinctively tense up, just like telling him. These sorts of situations always made her want to run. Not that she’d ever been in this particular situation. Not even close. “I don’t know,” she admitted, shaking her head as if to say does it matter? It did. “A few weeks...” It was her best guess.

She dropped her hand, looking at him for a moment, and then moved past him to his room, beckoning him silently. She stopped by the window, holding herself for a moment before dropping her arms. Her back was to him.

“I’m so stupid. How could I be so stupid? Why didn’t I make us stop? I should have used something. You should have used something.” She was crying now, the afternoon sun a bleary source overtaking the sky as she stared at it through tears, blinked wetly. “We’re too young. We shouldn’t be doing this at all.” She waved an arm nowhere in particular, gesturing, perhaps, to everything at once. To his room, to herself, to George, to the pair of them, to their extended sleepovers, and the Saturday afternoon. “I should be working on... work,” she sobbed. She wasn’t used to sobbing, to having meltdowns in front of other people. It was very intimate, but it seemed to have happened quite a lot around George. Maybe that’s what it meant, to be in love.

She turned and showed the true extent of her worry for a moment. It was a strange, almost calm thing. A sobering moment that was nevertheless the height of chaos underneath. She slid down the wall, feeling she could no longer stand. More tears came. Her arms flailed, as if in demonstration, as if she were having a conversation with an invisible audience down on the floor. “My parents... do you know what their faces will look like? Do you know how many unplanned pregnancies they’ve seen?” She didn’t want to tell them. She couldn’t. They would hate her. Or they wouldn’t. It would be worse than that. They wouldn’t hate her at all, but they would be more disappointed in her than they’d been in anyone or anything in their entire existence. “I’m their only daughter and I’ve ruined everything before my life has even properly started. Greyfriar and Snark... they must be kicking themselves now. What a stupid choice for Head Girl. I don’t even have a paid position in the Ministry.” She looked up at him. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Shaking, she drew her knees up to her chest, crossed her arms over them and placed her head there, her face burying itself. “We should have been more careful. We should be more careful.”

It was a few moments before she could raise her head again. She was beginning to have more control over her tears. She gathered her breath, even straightened her shoulders, and somehow, by some strange force of nature, managed a to bring her countenance to Waker-ish practicality.

“We have... choices. I can... fix it. But, George, this can't-- we can't.” What could she say? They couldn't have any more ‘sleepovers?’ They couldn't be unplanned? They had to do it on a schedule? Well, a simple prescription would change that. But Waker thought they both had to do a little more.

The point was, there was an escape. And once it hit her, it brought about a weird calm. A plan. There was a plan. She could make it. But she was the only one who could undo it, this thing that had happened. It had to be a choice she made, something she committed to. And she didn’t know, deep down, if she could do it, if she was brave enough.

A few weeks?! Mouth dropped and eyes widened. She had been pregnant for a few weeks?! It was weird realizing she was... pregnant... And he’d been-no, they had-what if he’d hurt it?

He had definitely picked up her Ministry bug. His stomach rolled uncertainly as he tried to stay standing. He followed because he had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. Realizing as he pushed the door to that he didn’t know where his parents were, he felt jumpy and like he was on the verge of being caught red handed doing something he shouldn’t.

Waker’s voice made him jump, spinning towards her and standing up straight. They hadn’t been home. Focusing on the one sided conversation, George licked his lips and tried to decide what he wanted to do with his arms, first crossing them over his chest and then sticking his hands deep into his trouser pockets.

Eyebrows came together at her statement. He had... used a method he thought was pretty tried and true. “You weren’t stupid...” His voice was soft, especially with her crying. He felt powerless. Stepping towards her, he winced. Too young went by the wayside when you started to do adult activities, no matter how true it might be.

He moved to hold her, cringing at her sobs. Suddenly she was facing him, though, and he stopped advancing, his hand falling by his side. Horror slipped across his face at the thought of her parents. What about his?! Neither needed to ever know. He could keep the kid hidden forever... “N-No... How many?” George was in no state to hear a rhetorical question!

“You didn’t ruin everything...” His voice continued to stay soft, disagreeing with her negative comments. George started to kneel down in front of her, pausing as she looked at him. He felt responsible (even if he really was, partially). Finally his knees found the floor and he was in front of her, one hand fiddling with his hair while the other moved out to touch her, caressing her leg.

What was careful to a young adult who felt their whole life was stretched out before them? Like they could conquer the world, if they wanted to get out of bed before noon to do that. He blindly agreed with her, his own vision blurring. George didn’t want to lose it himself. He could keep it in.

She brought his attention back to the current situation, of the floor and her being there, and the red around her eyes, blotching her cheeks, the tears that had started to dry. When she mentioned fixing it, however, his face became very focused, eyes drawing together as his lips pursed. “We can’t?”

What was she thinking of, exactly? If he was catching her drift, he didn’t like it. “I am willing-no, I am going to be there, here, for you, for... for this. We will do this.” And suddenly both hands touched her legs, moved down her thighs to her waist, leaning over however slightly. “Just... tell me what to do.” His face hovered near hers, eyes searching for clues.