Chapter Text
ACT I - DEVIL DOESN'T BARGAIN
Letting Quackity have a say in George’s life has to be the worst decision George will ever make.
George is a very calculated person; he operates on moves and countermoves, planning everything down to a tee until there couldn’t be breathing room for error. He supposes that’s what makes him a Ravenclaw.
His friends poke fun at his cold-cut mindset, but he found comfort in oiled up cogs in his brain and it’s helped him stay sane for the majority of his time at Hogwarts.
Quackity is the complete opposite. He is loud-mouthed, witty and impulsive. George doesn’t know how he’s been sorted into Ravenclaw alongside him. Sure, he has the work ethic and the brains to stay afloat in his studies, but Quackity did not live along the white lines that George survived upon.
So, it was on the Hogwarts Express that Quackity proposed the brilliant idea to push George out of the confines of his own structure. Sixth year was going to be their year, no matter what. The first few years were ‘child’s play’, according to Quackity, and they needed to have one last year of fun before the reality of N.E.W.T’s struck them in seventh year.
Quackity devised a plan built upon dares – or rather, a bucket list – that both of them had to complete before the End-of-Term Feast rolled around. He assured the challenges would never be life-threateningly dangerous, nor would they be something that led to their expulsion. It’d just be a series of events only meant to enhance their Hogwarts experience.
The fool that he was, George agreed.
Albeit, it took him the entire eight-hour train ride to fully commit. The first couple of hours were George catching up on lost sleep, followed by another hour dedicated to keeping his motion sickness at bay. It was embarrassing to admit, but George didn’t necessarily have a fresh start to his morning. Usually, his academic drive for productivity would cross over into other aspects of his life, but he supposes he’s grown soft over the summer.
When he managed to keep a semblance of his stomach from regurgitating, a couple of second years came in to discuss the past summer. George didn't particularly know them, per se... but he did know of them. Their hair colours were memorable enough: two boys, one with brown hair, the other with pink hair that looked like someone spat out a wad of chewing gum upon his head -- who could forget that? Either way, he wasn't particularly close with them but Quackity was, so George couldn’t complain.
George leaned back into his seat, staring out the window as he watched the gray skies loom overhead. He wonders if ignoring their conversation would come off as rude. It’s not like he had much to contribute anyway.
All he’d done was spend time with family by the lakes and play chess. Quackity had pestered him the entire summer through letters to do something worthwhile, sometimes to just meet up for the fun of it, but George rarely had the energy to write back.
Fitting something radical in his tight routine of nothingness was a difficult task. Merlin , his days are miserly enough as it is.
Quackity didn’t understand that kind of mindset, but to George it made complete sense. After the stress of their O.W.L’s, George found comfort in slow normalcy while Quackity bided his time sending photographs of cliff expeditions and Muggle experiences he’d gotten up to across Europe.
George watches the September clouds linger across a muted sky. Fields of grass waved at him as he rode past the same views he’d seen for the past six years. When casual small talk dwindled to quiet indifference, their extra company fled from their compartment to better endeavors. Left again to their own devices, their conversations always circled back to Quackity’s bucket list idea.
It was almost dreadful to let such an opportunity slide, his best friend whined. They needed to make memories, he said.
Still, George remained reluctant and instead laid out a list of rules and boundaries that Quackity unhappily took into consideration.
Honeydukes wheeled their delicacies past their train cart, illuminating a lightbulb atop Quackity’s head. A test run so you know what you’re getting into, he assured.
George could only watch with a furrowed brow as Quackity picked out some cockroach clusters and handed it over, intending to share. The dare was straightforward: eat the cockroach cluster.
Nausea settles into his gut. George holds the cockroach-shaped chocolate in between his index and thumb, scowling as he squished it softly. Rumor has it the candy’s made from real bugs. Of course, George has never eaten one to really know. Honeydukes were an enigma that way. Besides, George didn’t care for bugs. He’d never put one in his mouth, that’s for sure.
Yet, he looks back up at Quackity’s expectant eyes and thins his lips. There’s no harm in humoring his best friend just this once.
He was wrong.
George throws up on the train carpet a minute later.
Turns out, they’re not just made from real cockroaches, but they’re also not fully dead within their chocolate case. Talk about a terrible surprise.
Quackity howled, trying to force out a Scourgify through fits of giggles. George blames it all on his motion sickness and a lack of breakfast. Or maybe it’s the fact he just put a bug in his mouth.
Either way, their test run was a complete bust, and a dull stain of George’s sick sat idly by the door. This should’ve been George’s cue to back out while he still could, but he didn’t.
With how desperate Quackity pleaded for George to keep playing this little game, George found no real reason to ruin his fun. Maybe he’s biased.
His decision isn’t solely rooted in sentiment; he spent the remainder of the train ride pondering on whether it was worth it to play into his silly games. In retrospect, it was completely harmless. Just a few gags here and there to subside the adrenaline junkie inside Quackity that he would definitely deny.
Besides, with how little he’s done over the summer, George can’t help but feel obligated to fulfill some kind of life-enrichment quota.
As night fell and the two Ravenclaws made their way off the train towards the castle, George failed to ignore the ache in his stomach. He’d scheduled himself for the day: get to the Great Hall, eat a hefty dinner, go to the dorms, claim the bed farthest away from Quackity, and get a headstart on textbook readings. He just needed to find a dinner to heft.
Quackity points out a couple of their classmates on their way to the Great Hall, telling stories he’d overheard over the summer. George barely listens, too preoccupied pinpointing his routine to the grittiest detail. He gets distracted momentarily once they settle into the Ravenclaw table, a lively bustle flowing throughout the Great Hall.
The Great Hall always went above and beyond for Start-of-Term Feast, George sighs, staring at candles whimsically floating overhead as stars glittered across the navy blue ceiling.
George’s attention shifts from the ceiling to the spread of delicacies across mahogany, immediately acquainting himself with well-nourishing food he so desperately craved. The Sorting Hat Ceremony goes underway; Quackity takes his time offering little quips and jibes, deliberating a personal challenge to predict each students’ House. He does it every year, but George knows it’s because he adores being right.
Once the first-years were done, they’d sort the temporary transfer students and lead into the announcements.
Quackity does nudge his elbow during that, pointing shamelessly at a new transfer student that had apparently been sorted into Slytherin.
George doesn’t look up, nor does he process anything his best friend says about the entire matter. It was the same every year, so George found no reason to pay attention after a while.
The Sorting Hat Ceremony lost its charm after first year, and George decided he’d have no use acquainting himself with the faces of children he would never speak to. The same went for any student that wasn’t Quackity, or anyone George considered close at this point in time.
He highly doubts anybody novel would collide their paths with his, especially when he prides himself in walking such a clear cut and monotonous one.
The complementaries are the same; it all followed the same structure: a different Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher – which George found odd considering its curse was lifted; a warning not to enter the Forbidden Forest without teacher supervision – which Quackity remarked every year never kept students away; some different fun facts to lighten everyone’s moods, and finally some wisdom to lead the school year.
When given the signal to dig in, George shamelessly pours various stews into small bowls and downs them in one go. At his side, Quackity peers over people’s heads to catch a glimpse of some familiar faces.
George knows who he’s looking for: two transfer students who happened to be their close friends. He knew they didn’t arrive until the second week, as with every other year. He doesn’t know why Quackity still looks.
His best friend lets out a discontent sigh, shoving food into his mouth, munching loudly.
“Being sad is not a good look on you.” George comments absentmindedly.
Quackity gives him the finger, reaching over to grab from the dessert pile. “I’ll always be happier than you, dickhead.”
“I guess you’re right.” George shrugs, eyes drifting to the stock of cream puffs sitting delicately in the middle. “I don’t think we’ve gotten cream puffs before.”
Quackity licks his lips, fingers dusted with powdered sugar. “And we’ll never have them again once I’m through with ‘em.”
George highly doubted that. The pile was enormous – enough to supply the entire Ravenclaw table. Powdered sugar glistens under candlelight, and an idea bubbles up in his head.
Still recovering from his humiliation on the train, George plans his revenge. Surely, these dares went both ways. Quackity suggested one, so George could suggest one too. It’s not like he would take it too far – they’re supposed to be fun and innocent. Not too demeaning, not too pushy. “I have an idea, actually. For your dares.”
Quackity’s eyes widen, but interest lifts his brows. “Go on.”
George explains how they have to scarf down as many cream puffs as they possibly can before the dinner hour is up. It was perfect. George didn’t dislike cream puffs, but surely that much sugar would make even Quackity a little queasy. It would make them even, and therefore able to move onto other challenges with a peace of mind.
It starts off innocently, as all dares usually do.
George and Quackity giggle like children as they empty the tray of cream puffs, eager to devour them all in the next thirty minutes. Neighbouring Ravenclaws egg them on, placing bets on who would win once their table caught wind of their antics. The attention was unaccounted for, George will admit. Peer pressure hounded upon both of their backs, fuelling a kind of haste as Quackity engulfed cream puffs without giving himself a chance to chew.
George didn’t want to divert from their competitive spirits, so he followed suit and stuffed his cheeks full until it threatened to restrict his airflow. The sugar clung to his teeth, and he could feel them rotting as they lingered in his mouth. Saliva slivered across his crevices, and the awareness of it all spelled for disaster. His esophagus retaliates, closing off his throat as the overwhelm of cream puffs clustered in his chest. He couldn’t swallow them in time and-
George throws up for the second time today. A discoloured mess of sugary dough and chewed up sandwiches ooze upon the stone floor. It garners the attention of the entire Hogwarts populace, a collective gasp echoing across the Great Hall with a few retches muddled within.
This bucket list challenge has to be cursed.
George can’t lift his gaze off the floor, too humiliated to face anyone. He can hear Quackity trying to catch his attention: George, are you okay? He can imagine the looks of horror and pity on his fellow Ravenclaws’ faces. He can hear them bickering too: I told you it was a bad idea!
All of the noise dwindles down as George earns himself a humiliating visit to Madame Pomfrey.
He should’ve seen it coming: he had an upset stomach ever since he woke up, and he’d already emptied the contents of his stomach on the train ride here. He shouldn’t have tested his boundaries like that, and he should’ve accounted for the unwanted attention. Embarrassment looms over his head, a vile acid burning at the back of his throat.
He enjoyed his dinner too. Maybe that was his biggest loss of the entire debacle.
When he’s in the infirmary, George mentally facepalms. His entire routine is set back because of this stupid bucket list, and he’s surely ruined everybody’s perception of himself now. He hopes Quackity doesn’t take the bed by the bookshelves, and he wonders if cutting into a good night’s sleep is worth it to check over the upcoming course material. Meanwhile, Madame Pomfrey lectures him on how he’s in sixth year and should know better. In Ravenclaw no less! She tutted. I’d expect this kind of reckless behaviour from a Gryffindor!
He works in his medications and their side-effects to his day’s planner, begging he isn’t too drowsy later on to open up a textbook. A clock hangs idly by the door, ticking so slowly as if it were waiting for someone to die. Everybody must be settling into their dorms by now. George pats down his robes, cursing himself out when he realized he’d left his wand in the Great Hall. He mutters a quick Accio wand under his breath, only to sigh when it doesn’t work.
If he wasn’t bogged down by medication, he’s sure his wand would have flown to him. He curses the hazy fog smothering his mind. George wonders when he’ll be dismissed back to his dormitories. Puking shouldn’t warrant a week-long stay in Madame Pomfrey’s care — at least, he hopes not.
At half past nine, Quackity bursts through the doors spewing apology after apology. It catches him by surprise, the bolstering thud after almost an hour of white noise. Madame Pomfrey shushes them both, reminding Quackity he’s to be dismissed back to bed once the clock struck ten, before dismissing herself to better things. The two nod as Quackity returns to apologizing for a problem that wasn’t his.
George shakes his head, insisting it was his own fault. His first day of sixth year, and he’s somehow made a fool of himself twice. Once in private, and another in public. He hopes it’s stopped there.
Quackity pokes fun at how George couldn’t keep anything down, but his concern for his friend outweighed his need for playful jests. George assures he’s fine, and finds out the sixth years get bunk beds this year. Quackity struck a deal with the others to claim the ones by the closets, and even claimed bottom bunk. George sighed comically to himself, realizing another one of his goals got flushed down the drain. Well, he can’t complain much. The closets aren’t that bad, and neither is the top bunk. The damage is done, and besides, Quackity even got him a present.
Albeit, it’s a… sandwich(?) wrapped in tissue paper, but it’s the thought that counts.
Quackity offers a sheepish smile. “They’ve cleaned up most of your mess back there, but I managed to get some remnants of the pile.”
“Wow, thanks.” George rolls his eyes playfully, unwrapping the sandwich only to be met with its crust flecking off at the sides. The sandwich looked like it’d been squashed with the force of a hippogriff, but again, he isn’t going to criticize Quackity’s kindness.
“Look, George-” Quackity sags his shoulders, dipping his head. “If you don’t want to do this challenge thing anymore, I get it. I mean- you’ve thrown up twice and…” He trails off. George tries not to let his mention of puke affect his chewing.
Seeing his best friend in the infirmary looking absolutely dejected ruined George’s spirits. Quackity had good intentions, and George knew that. Countless times had many tried to push George out of his comfort zone, and countless times has it ended in utter disaster. Even still, today was memorable. In a bad or good way, George doesn’t want to say. The whole point of their bucket list was to make memories, and he’s definitely done just that. If Quackity wanted to make their mark, they’ve already started.
Through bites of a cold sandwich, George cements his decision. “I still want to.”
Quackity lights up. “Seriously?”
“Serious.” George gulps down the last of his sandwich before shrugging. “We’ll both be too busy next year to try it, so let’s just do it now, right?”
Quackity cheers, enacting an awkward dance at his bedside. George begs him to stop, but they’re inadvertently shooed out of the infirmary by Madame Pomfrey as she insists George was quite alright now.
“I do have one condition,” George almost tips over as the infirmary door shuts behind them, “about the bucket list.”
“ Another ?” Quackity whines. George nearly hobbles his way through the corridor; Quackity holds out his arm in case George needed him as a walking cane.
“Come on, I’ve said ‘yes’ already.” George whines. His words bounce off the castle walls, a distinct solitude engulfing them as they head towards Ravenclaw tower. Quackity complies, lending a listening ear. “No more food-related dares.”
It earns him a laugh, lighthearted and contained. “Alright, alright. You’ve humiliated yourself enough.”
“No more humiliating stuff either!” George squawks. One grand gesture at the Great Hall was enough for him.
“Dude, we’ll figure something out.” Quackity chuckles. The two of them take their time climbing the spiral staircase spanning the entire height of Ravenclaw tower.
Faint memories of their third year come back to George like deja vu. They complained every step of the way, irritating a lot of the older students that got caught behind their lethargy. He supposes they got used to the workout as the years went on.
Once they were halfway up the stairs, Quackity broke the silence. “Fine. For our next one, I dare you to sit next to me in all of our shared classes.”
Quite tame, George thinks. “I do that anyways?”
“Okay, dickhead.” Quackity scoffs. “I dare you to find us good seats then, since all you do is complain every year about the ones I choose. Ones that aren’t by the board or by the door.”
George rolls his eyes playfully. What a step down from the earlier dares. “Deal.”
He supposes a step down is better than nothing.
They reach the old wooden door at the top of the tower, the eagle-shaped knocker staring at them expectedly. Right. The password.
“You got this one, chief.” Quackity takes a step back. In all their years here, Quackity has never answered a Ravenclaw riddle. He took an oath in third year that he wasn’t going to do any more extra thinking than he had to, and has relied on George and the other Ravenclaws ever since. It’s almost baffling considering how much time they spend in the common room, but then again, George and Quackity clung to each other like leeches. He supposes Quackity never went up these stairs without extra help.
The knocker greets them accordingly, although when it refers to Quackity, George could sense a bit of resentment. “It’s the first day of classes, and as such, the questions take pity on the innocent-minded.”
Long-winded way of saying they didn’t want to scare off the first years, George scoffs. “What is it?”
The knocker lets out a defeated sigh. “What is a frog’s favourite year?”
George blinks. That’s new. It’s supposed to be easy though. Frogs like to hop around. They ribbit and eat flies. Year of the fly. Jump year? Leap! George answers it with ease. “Leap year.”
“Correct!” The eagle chirps. George didn’t know eagles could chirp. “The first years found it funny, and I hope it brightened your evenings as well. Enjoy your school year!”
George offers an absentminded thanks, pulling Quackity into the common room before the door could shut him out for good. As they trudge up the stairs, George is… gladly underwhelmed.
The Ravenclaw common room is the same as he’d remembered it: a friendly moonshine cascading through graceful arched windows, pouring over the midnight-blue carpet speckled with stars. This shade of blue felt like a warm hug, or a soft river flow that led to everything and nothing all at once.
It’s duly empty, which George does find a bit odd. Then again, it is nearly an hour to midnight and everyone’s just come from an eight-hour train ride. Quackity takes their newfound seclusion as his invitation to start tearing off his robes and dumping them onto the floor. It wasn’t to be crude – George knew that. Quackity always sought out leisure where he could, even if it meant taking off the school uniform the second he wasn’t required to. In earlier years, George would squeal and plead for him not to be so brave in the middle of the common room, but time wore that down. Every other Ravenclaw was too busy settling into their dorms, if not getting a headstart on their sleep.
George excuses himself as descends the stairs to the dormitories. With the dead of night taking hold, he’s sure a couple of their fellow sixth years were knocked out cold. Unlike him and Quackity, some Ravenclaws took their studies to an extreme. It wasn’t a problem either way; George doesn’t particularly mind what environment he studies in.
To his surprise, George finds his trunk propped against the bunk bed ladder. The bunk beds this year were functional – shelves embedded at the head and foot of the bed with accompanied drawers by the sides. Glass windows showcase the night sky spanning from the closets to the door and George is stumped. He didn’t know Quackity reserved a window bunk for him. Something warm bloomed in his chest – a muted gratitude for his best friend’s thoughtfulness.
Maybe he could tolerate his best friend’s snoring for another year.
He gathers his textbooks, and immediately gets to work. He vaguely retreats upstairs to interrogate Quackity on what classes he’d taken, only to find his best friend curled up on the carpet fast asleep. He shakes his head, making the extra effort to go back down and lug up a weighted blanket to drape it over Quackity’s peaceful frame.
Beside Quackity were a couple of his papers, strewn out and abandoned. He could snoop through them and figure out the barest bones of a routine, but George decides against it. They get their schedules tomorrow morning anyways – he can do his heavy lifting then.
After cleaning Quackity’s mess up, George crawls back into his own bed, staying late in the night as he falls into a hyper focused productivity.
This was nice.
Maybe this year won’t be so bad after all.