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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.

Chapter Text

Monday arrives with friendly sun rays beaming through George’s window, but it doesn’t wake him up. 

In fact, George wakes up while it’s still dark out and manages to dress himself right before sunrise. The first week of classes were always the least strenuous, but George had a reputation to uphold and professors to appease. 

He’s not a complete outlier – a couple Ravenclaws were missing once he awoke, so he justifies his outlandish morning routine even when the dark circles under his eyes reveal his exhaustion. 

George knows Quackity found his way back to his bed in the four hours that he’d slept from the incessant snoring that sounded underneath his bed. The silence is stagnant, and George could recognize that bellhorn anywhere. Oh well, he shrugs. It just means he’s spared the embarrassment of lugging Quackity’s unconscious body from the common room to their next class.

It was honestly astounding how he and Quackity lived their lives like polar opposites. Both of them decided to take up all eight slots for their N.E.W.T’s, enrolled in majority of the same classes. The only thing they’d differed upon was George’s pursuit in Alchemy because he’d passed with flying colours on all his O.W.L’s. Still, people would think a couple of Ravenclaws taking a full course load would be cold-hearted, detached, flat and monotonously boring. Quackity was nothing like that. Aside from going years without answering a riddle, he puts too much faith in giving himself only thirty seconds to get ready in the morning. It’s a wonder how he survives without George’s guidance.

With breakfast period starting in a few minutes, George pulls Quackity’s blankets away to reveal a man George should not have a social dependence on. He hasn’t changed from last night’s clothes and he looks peaceful… almost too peaceful.

George disrupts that peace by yanking him off the bed.

Quackity falls to the carpet with a distinct thud, the dresser beside them shaking from the impact. His friend sounds out a groan. “What the hell , man?!” 

George crosses his arms. “You wanted good seats, didn’t you?”

“Yeah!” Quackity shoots up, throwing George a sneer. “But that was your problem. Besides, it’s– what, seven in the morning?! You’ve got some serious issues, dude.”

George rolls his eyes. “Just get dressed, idiot.”

He spins on his heel, refusing to stick around for Quackity’s response. Ascending up to the common room, he finds the missing Ravenclaws nose deep in textbooks. Tidied shelves that lined the walls were unruly with consumption, various students scattered across the carpet with assignments that were yet to exist. He supposes he’d done his fair share the night prior. It’s not all complete silence though – a few students are engaged in gossip that George couldn’t care less about. 

Quackity tumbles up the stairs half an hour later, a beanie lazily pulled over his head as unruly strands of hair peeked out the sides. George snorts to himself. Quackity never went anywhere without his beanie and sixth year was not going to change that. It used to be a big problem considering hats weren’t allowed by the Hogwarts dress code. But, with Quackity's refusal to adhere to authority paired with diligent grades and an exceeding academic reputation, that war soon grew stale. Nearing their last couple of years of Hogwarts, professors left them to their own devices, now occupied with fifth years and below to heed down the school rules. 

He doesn’t miss that kind of extra attention, but when they pass by wide-eyed first years, he can’t help but feel a tinge of gloom circling his ribs. It only worsens as he watches a prefect scold a couple third years for being too loud in the hallways. He supposes there’s a kind of innocence in being told off for being chatty. 

He remembers it like a distant memory now, how his and Quackity’s greatest concerns weren’t O.W.L.’s or N.E.W.T’s or future careers, but instead counting down the days to the next Hogsmeade visit. George wonders what it’d be like to go back to that time. 

When he’s pulled from his thoughts, George notices the soft silence accompanying them on their way to the Great Hall. He bites the inside of his cheek, glancing over at his best friend who looked way too out of it. George sighs; he doesn’t particularly mind the lack of conversation. Quackity is definitely still trying to wake himself up for the day, and George doesn’t have much to say. He’s not usually the conversation starter out of the two.

In fact, George isn’t much of a talker in general. He can get up to his own chaos here and there, but fifth year and the weight of O.W.L’s crushed his drive for simple things. He supposes it’s why he’s so grateful for Quackity; as much as George liked to complain, he depended on him more than he’d like to admit.

George sometimes forgets Quackity wasn’t always at Hogwarts for him to do so – at least, not originally. Quackity wasn’t even from Britain at all. He was from Mexico and got admitted into Ilvermorny through an overseas accommodation program. Then, he admitted himself into an exchange program during third year on an Arithmancy and Ancient Runes study focus. George found Arithmancy doable, and Ancient Runes wasn’t particularly bad, but a thirteen-year old should not have found those as interesting as Quackity did. A lot of the Ilvermorny transfers get sorted along the first years no matter what age they are, and since Quackity so happened to be sorted into Ravenclaw and take almost every class George took back then, George became tasked with the dutiful responsibility of giving him a warm welcome.

Quackity was his primary window to the American lifestyle, and it only went on as a couple more Ilvermorny transfers got admitted into Hogwarts and by some miracle, befriended George in the process too.  One was Karl, a giggly Hufflepuff that got admitted in fourth year just because, and Sapnap, a roadhouse Gryffindor that got admitted in fifth year on a Quidditch scholarship. 

Returning exchange students don’t arrive until the second week, but Quackity was an exception because his family moved to England right after third year. Honestly, he doesn’t know what he would do without Quackity there to keep him company for the first week of classes. Maybe he should really start on counting his blessings.

Breakfast awaits them as the two Ravenclaws walk into the Great Hall, and George tries to suppress the embarrassment in his chest. He swore he could sense a couple of eyes on him, but he decided it was just his imagination. Quackity unhelpfully assures him it is not, and he apologizes profusely for pushing George into such a notorious spectacle.

George is careful with each spoonful he devours as their Head of House comes by their table to distribute timetables. George isn’t nervous; Quackity practically bounces where he sits, hoping he’d been paired with good Houses. George doesn’t entirely care what House accompanies them because Quackity always stuck by his side.

The Great Hall roars with indistinguishable chatter as students clamor about their timetables. Quackity is talking with George through the mayhem, but it’s ultimately distracting as he tries to focus on his meal. He doesn’t even realize his timetable tossed over to him until Quackity is shaking him aggressively to check how they lined up. 

George isn’t even allowed a second to inspect his schedule before Quackity lets out a sigh of defeat.

“This sucks.” Quackity points to their Monday schedules. Quackity had an odd lack of morning classes today, whereas George only had a semi-relaxed afternoon. Their only class lined up was Defense Against The Dark Arts in the late afternoon. George frowned. That did suck. 

It’s fine, George reasoned. 

“Oh, dude.” Quackity leans in closer, tapping at the empty space beside their classes. “It doesn’t say what Houses we’re paired with.”

George squints, only to find it to be true. “Huh.”

“You think sixth year is less condensed? Like they just have more than two Houses in each class?”

Looking around the Great Hall, George scoffs. “With how crowded this school’s become? I highly doubt it.”

Still, that uncertainty loomed over their heads. It’s not like pairing with a certain House causes an issue, but there are implications. For example, with Slytherins, George knows to up his game because of their ambition. Without that extra intel to clue into his day, it was just disappointing. George decides that with how many different students he’s acquainted with, there’s really only a rare chance he ever goes without company.

After finishing their breakfast, Quackity lets out an obnoxious yawn. He announces he’s going back to sleep since his Monday didn’t exactly start until after lunch hour, and George bids him a comedic goodnight. With his best friend dozing off beside him, George tries to tune out the Great Hall’s chaos and use the remaining hour of breakfast to his advantage.

Immediately he maps out the rest of his week: how he’s going to structure his free periods and what kind of assignments he’d power through in each hourly increment. Using Quackity’s timetable, he lines up their schedules while envisioning each classroom and the pros and cons of each seat. His mind works overtime: half of it going over his academic routine, and the other half planning out how they were to secure their seats once their time arose.

With only a quarter to his first class, George decides it’s best to set a good impression and be on his way. Quackity still slumbers with his head down, softly snoring as the Great Hall empties around them. He tries to wake his best friend up, but it’s fruitless. He couldn’t disturb Quackity’s sleep twice in one morning. So, he tears out a piece of parchment of his own and leaves a message for when he awoke. George casts an Epoximise for good measure and smacks dab it right on his best friend’s forehead. Quackity knows the counter-spell to take it off… maybe.

His first class of the day was Alchemy. Truth be told, George didn’t know what to expect for this class. It’s rare anyone ever chose this as an elective, so it would make sense only a handful of each House actually enrolled in. 

Plopping himself down by the front, he waits for the students to file in. True to his hypothesis, he finds a mix of lion, snake and badger crests over dark robes. Hogwarts really switched it up for this year. George spots a familiar face in the crowd – namely Ponk, a Hufflepuff George befriended on the first train ride to Hogwarts. They talk when they are able to catch up, but they definitely used to be closer. 

He goes through the motions of talking with someone he kind of knew: Ponk asking if anyone sat here only to be met with a ‘ no, it’s completely fine!’ , then asking what George has been up to over the summer, how it’s been so long, and going essentially nowhere with the conversation until class starts. 

The class follows the same structure too: greeting the professor,  going over the syllabus, what Alchemy entailed for the rest of the school year, and what to do to ensure success for N.E.W.T.’s. George didn’t have high hopes for the first week of school, but he raised his hand when the professor sought class participation and scribbled notes in the margins of his textbooks. 

Once dismissed, Ponk follows George to Arithmancy and it’s a happy coincidence. It’s more relaxed than Alchemy considering they’d been learning it since third year. Ponk is good company through it all; George kind of misses hanging out with him during classes. With Ponk by his side, sixth year was looking to be quite interesting the more he went on.

Unfortunately, Ponk had to toddle onto Astronomy next, meaning George was left to his own devices until his afternoon class with Quackity. The Ravenclaw sighs, watching as Ponk disappears around the corner until he is left by himself in the middle of the hallway. 

His primitive decision is to find Quackity so he wouldn’t be entirely alone until lunch hour, but he’s duly disappointed once he walks into the Great Hall to see the Ravenclaw table barren of his best friend. 

George bites his lip. He knew he mentioned meeting up here before lunch hour in his note, but with Quackity nowhere to be seen… he doesn’t know where he’d run off to. Quackity wouldn’t go to the common room without the password, and George doubts he’d hide out in the library this early in the school year. 

The first week of Hogwarts was always the loneliest, George supposes.

He can just meet up with Quackity at their afternoon class – George would arrive thirty minutes early to secure them seats anyways, so it would be hard to miss him. 

Before settling into his couplet of free periods, George stops by the common room to gather his books for the afternoon. The knocker greets him kindly; their riddle for today was “When I’m a stranger, this does not exist. When I’m known, it’s what makes me. What am I?” 

It takes a couple minutes for George to think it over, but the answer is washy after quite a lot of roundabout thinking. “…A first impression?”

“Exactly!” The knocker is absolutely pleased. “You may be in sixth year, but first impressions go a long way! Always remember that.”

The door swings open, George mumbling quietly. “Good to know.”

The knocker did have some wisdom – George can’t fault that – but the first month of every school year always catered to enlightening the younger years to some universal truth. It can get a bit repetitive at times, but the challenge is invigorating nonetheless.

After gathering all that he needed, George retreats where a Ravenclaw knows best: the library. There isn’t any homework for his morning classes, but still he powers through practice questions and a couple of the upcoming chapters. Once those are done, he decides to chip away at his Defense Against The Dark Arts textbook: that was where the real work started.

George did a bit of research last night and found sixth year focused more on nonverbal spells, and that was daunting enough. He didn’t doubt his magic abilities – no, he could definitely carry out nonverbal spells if he wanted to, but it still required practice and intervention. There is no accomplishment without humility. He couldn’t leave it all up to talent, so he spent the entirety of his afternoon clearing his mind and working on his concentration.

For practice, George used his quill to smear ink across his forearm. With his sleeve rolled up, he tested out a simple Colovaria to change it from black to a vibrant blue. It was an easy spell to work with, even through his colourblindness; the fact he was colourblind only meant he could get quick results based on distinct hues. With verbal instructions, the wet ink blotted into a light blue. Nonverbally though… it definitely took some effort.

George was so consumed with his practice he’d skipped out on lunch hour, but he didn’t care. He could always eat extra servings at dinner hour, and he still had some time before his afternoon class. He had to at least come to class somewhat ahead. 

After an hour and a half of unproductive practice, the ink stained a tawdry blue on his skin. 

George was frustrated. 

Alright, frustrated is an overstatement. He isn’t necessarily angry, but he is definitely disappointed in his unproductivity. Two hours wasn’t enough to master it by any means, but George hoped he’d make some progress on it. 

Besides, it was almost a quarter past two in the afternoon and he needed to head towards his Defense class. George did not want to risk being tardy on his first day or back out on his promise to Quackity –  he wouldn’t allow himself the embarrassment of  two losses in one day.

Hugging his textbooks close to his chest, George lingers on his inadequacy and it grows irritating. He rolls his eyes – his entire schedule is ruined now. He definitely needed to arrange some kind of study session with Quackity before dinner if he was up for it – maybe the ink was the problem, and since it was dried already George couldn’t manipulate it anymore. George fermented in his thoughts the whole walk through in order to give him peace.

As George exits the staircase onto the main floor, he dips his head down grumbling to himself. Maybe he needed to focus on clearing his mind more, or maybe George needed to practice with an easier object – like Quackity’s beanie. It was tangible, and the fabric was easy to work with. Haste fuelled his steps, George determined to reunite with his best friend. 

That desperation backfires as George abruptly collides into someone, his textbooks sprawling to the floor.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” George groans, crouching down to retrieve his dignity. When he eventually comes to, someone’s already grabbed his textbooks for him. He looks up, brows furrowing when it’s– “...Who are you?”

Six years in this school, and he’s never seen this guy before. The stranger is freshly dressed in Slytherin robes with light hair that’s a mix of wavy and curly, and a stare that looks… genuine and lost at the same time. The person outstretches a hand and offers a smile, and George can’t help but notice how his cuffs are rolled up just as neat. “I’m Dream.”

George blinks. If the American accent didn’t throw him off, his name was on a whole other level. “...What kind of name is that?”

The guy – Dream , George supposes – shrugs; his hand still lingers, awaiting George’s acceptance. “It’s not my actual name.”

“I got that.” George rolls his eyes, hoisting himself up as he proceeds to ignore Dream’s handshake. “How have I never seen you before?”

There aren’t a lot of Americans at Hogwarts, especially in sixth year. Merlin , George had an American posse of his own, so it was curious to see how Dream got swept under his radar. It was still the first day, so the only logical explanation would be that Dream was from Ilvermorny. 

“Well,” Dream hands over his textbooks with a warm smile, only to be met with the Ravenclaw’s cold indifference; George blames it on his bad mood, “I’m actually from Ilvermorny, and I’m here for an exchange program.”

Oh. George was proven right. He knew he’d been acquainted with all of Hogwarts exchange students. George doesn’t know if he should be proud or embarrassed. “Exchange for?”

“I was offered a year’s experience for a Potions apprenticeship!” Dream explains, like it’s the most brilliant thing he’s ever partook in. His eyes sparkled with a naivety George detested. “Hogwarts’ Potions curriculum is fascinating, and I’d love to learn the expertise this place has to offer!”

George does not like how punctual this guy is being. He understands exchange students usually are nervous with first impressions, but Dream was doing too much. Nobody talks like that and it’s kind of pissing George off. 

He doesn’t want to rain on Dream’s parade, but his three American friends have already diluted the euphoria of transferring schools. George can only assume Hogwarts is like any other wizarding school except it being a castle in Scotland. He won’t ruin Dream’s spirits so soon though, but he will act like a right prick about it.

“And what year were you in again?” George doesn’t try to hide the snark in his voice.

“Six in this school. Trying to finish up my J.A.R.V.E.Y’s this year.” Dream smiles with too many teeth. He is definitely trying too hard. Besides, George doesn’t even know what a Jarvey is. He guesses they’re the American equivalent to N.E.W.T’s, but he’s adamant not to show any interest in this guy.

“Right.” George proceeds to do another once-over on Dream’s stature, and is duly unimpressed. Maybe he wouldn’t be so unforgiving if his nonverbal spells didn’t sour his mood moments prior, but it was too late. Dream was so easily accessible and Quackity was not around for George to offload in a healthy manner. “You’re finding Hogwarts alright then?”

“More than alright.” Dream nods. “Everybody’s been so nice; it’s awesome.”

“Well,” George offers a faint smile. He is going to be Dream’s first prick, “I do have some advice.”

The Slytherin perks up innocently, and George is so ready to squash that blind innocence. Without a second thought, George clutches his textbooks close to his chest and shoves past Dream’s shoulder with a kind of needless aggression. 

“ Watch where you’re going next time.”

It’s said with bitter venom and George refuses to look back. 

He isn’t proud of his behaviour because, for one, it’s absolutely childish, and two, it’s completely out of line. Sure, he could blame it on his irritability, but he could’ve easily just minded his business. The more George lingered on it, the more he regretted his words. 

George wasn’t a resentful person, and he wasn’t one to start a fight. Dream was an exchange student for Merlin’s sake! The fact he was in sixth year was bad enough because he’d undoubtedly be in some of his classes. Merlin , he was on a Potions apprenticeship! George couldn’t believe his luck. 

The fact he’d housed a group of Ilvermorny runaways only meant Dream would inevitably be recruited by association. He needed to call an emergency meeting and blacklist Dream from ever hanging out with them again. George couldn’t handle his shame if Dream were to see him again. 

Thankfully, Quackity meets him just a few steps from the doors of their Defense class, although with a deep scowl. George falters in his steps.

“You are an actual dick , George.” Quackity scoffs, adjusting his beanie. He slots easily by George’s side, idling by the classroom doors waiting for them to open. “The only reason I skipped out on lunch is because of that stupid glue spell you used!”

George raises a brow. So Quackity didn’t show up to lunch either. “I thought you’d know the counter-spell to that one.”

“I’m not taking Transfiguration this year, prick.” Oh . That is awkward. “You of all people should know I didn’t care for shit in that class.”

George shuffles his feet, unsure what to do. “...Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Quackity exhales, before asking what George had been up to in his absence. He tells Quackity the truth – of how he’d holed up in the library for hours for nothing. He does leave out details of his little altercation on the way here, but it’s not like Quackity needs to know about it. Not yet, at least. He does gain some peace of mind as Quackity agrees to help him practice spells later in the day. He admits it’d do him some good to catch up with nonverbal spells himself.

When half past two strikes, the two Ravenclaws immediately shuffle into the classroom and hoard the seats by the window. George’s reasoning behind it was that the natural light would be motivating after a long day, and it was close enough to the board for prime note-taking. Quackity didn’t argue with that logic; he was just thankful George completed the dare. 

As other students file in, George grows anxious as it becomes apparent they’re sharing the classroom with the majority of the Slytherins today. The fear that Dream might walk in at any moment was enough to set his heart racing. George didn’t like confrontation, nor did he like the consequences of his own actions, but man did he like feeling bad about both.

For his own safety, George rips his gaze away from the door and onto the blackboard. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and it’s not like Defense is a… highly sought after N.E.W.T subject, and… almost half the school takes it, and– Merlin , he’s losing it .

The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was a familiar face, to George’s surprise, and it’s enough to hold his attention for the remainder of the class. His name was Bad – not his official name by any means – and George remembers him. Another American transfer student he’d met in third year, except he graduated right after never to be seen again – well, at least until now.

Bad looked the same as he did three years ago, if not a little more proper. Quackity is not happy to see him. 

Their little quarrel wasn’t anything serious – Bad was a dedicated prefect, and Quackity challenged too many school rules. If anything, all that came out of their childish scuffle was a mediocre nickname shared between two friends.

“Hello class!” Bad greets, skittering towards the blackboard. His high-pitched voice brought them back, his black cloak almost too big for his body. “It’s nice to see some familiar faces again!”

“That makes one of us.” Quackity mutters, using his quill to doodle on the corners of his parchment. 

Bad outlined how the year would turn out, and his expectations for the class no matter how close he was to everyone. After all the complementaries were done and over with, Bad set aside time for some questioning in case students required it, and Quackity’s arm eagerly shot up.

It doesn’t look like Bad is happy to see Quackity either. “Yes, Quackity?”

“Since your job is cursed, will you leave by the end of the year?” It earns a couple of laughs across the room – George himself tries to stifle one of his own. 

“Contrary to popular belief,” Bad leans against the blackboard, crossing his arms, “the Defense Against the Dark Arts position curse was lifted after Voldemort died. Of course – the stigma remained ever since and people didn’t want to leave that up to chance, therefore causing a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy where they believed so much in a jinx, they made it real. This may be my first year teaching, but this subject requires guidance and loyalty and I plan to follow that through for years to come.”

George did not process a single word that came out of his mouth, but Quackity looked annoyed to all Hell. He elbows George’s side to grab his attention, whispering, “If anybody’s getting in the way of our bucket list, it’s that muffin freak.”

He did have a point there. All the other professors would leave sixth and seventh years alone, but Bad loomed overhead like a threat. George pursed his lips together, drumming his fingers against the table. “So, dares regarding Bad are off the table?”

Quackity shifts in his seat; Bad continues to take a couple more questions, reminiscing on his time back in America and the like. He does have a nice presence. “Not necessarily off the table. Our year’s supposed to be fun , George.”

“Fine.” George lowered his head on the table, taking his quill as he waited for the lesson to start. He had revenge planned out for Quackity, but maybe he could use it later in the year. It was only the first day after all.

Their lesson goes underway, and George’s itinerary falls back on track. Although, a part of him still lingers on his disappointment with nonverbal spells to focus on anything else being said. Quackity gets up to his usual, making side comments here and there as they practice a couple of the basics. Bad immediately gets down to business, talking about dark creatures and assigning a four-foot research essay regarding inferi and necromancy by the end of class. To George, it was easy considering he’d read ahead, but Quackity shamelessly complained the entire way to the Great Hall. 

The rest of their day goes by swimmingly, the two Ravenclaws powering through their essays as they wait for dinner hour to come along. Inferi had deep roots in necromancy, and George always found that kind of magic odd. Reviving the dead seemed cruel, let alone reanimating a corpse to do as one said. Taking anyone’s free will, dead or alive, never rubbed George the right way. His essay is done and dusted, with George daring Quackity to finish his essay by the end of dinner hour while he and the other Ravenclaws went above and beyond to distract him from doing so.

It earns him a few laughs as Quackity begs for them to shut up. In the end, he succeeds in the challenge and they all retreat back up to the common room to relax. 

As shared laughter dwindles down, the Ravenclaws disperse into their respective dorms. George’s essays are rolled up in neat ribbons, tucked away into his robe pockets. As he climbs up onto the top bunk, an odd feeling creeps on his shoulders. 

Today was fine. Productive, eventful, worthwhile. It definitely wasn’t mundane, but still – George felt like a weight was digging into his chest. Like breezeblocks were shackled to his ankles, and he was mere seconds away from sinking down to the seabed. 

He tries to shake off the unease. The moonlight shines through the crevice of his windows, accompanied with an equally eerie silence. The sun will always rise tomorrow. 

With the image of constellations embedded into the ceiling, George pulls the blankets a little tighter over his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Tuesday looked to bring good fortune.

George knows this because although he had a full school day without any free periods, Quackity would be by his side through it all. If that wasn’t enough, his first class of the day was Care of Magical Creatures, and George loves animals.

Even as a kid, George had a certain affinity for pets – against his parents’ better judgement. He’d have Herbology later in the afternoon too, and he couldn’t wait to see what kind of plants he’d deal with this year. 

Of course, the first week never dwells on anything too serious – their professor lets them wander around the Forest in search of Knarls. They got into banter of their own, reminiscing on the O.W.L practical exam of observing Knarls in a field of hedgehogs. 

“Honestly, you took so long for yours.” Quackity shrugs; both of them laze about by an oak tree far away from the rest of the class. They weren’t too keen on aggravating some Knarls in their first week. 

“Okay. Overstatement.” George is convinced Quackity only got it under fifteen seconds from pure luck.

“Just admit it, George.” Quackity teases. “You overthink little details and forget what makes the Knarl real.”

“That’s just false!” George crosses his arms, blowing his cheeks. “I do know the difference, it's- it's not a crime to take my time.”

“Yes, it is! This is why you need to start trusting your gut.” Quackity plucks some grass at his side, biting back a yawn. He never did quite have an easy start to his mornings.

“I don’t know…” George’s voice grows meek as he slumps into the bark. The forest was calm, secluded from everywhere else. He didn’t blame his best friend in the slightest. “My brain's always been more logical than my gut.”

Quackity hums in response before dozing off, and George doesn’t dare disturb him. Instead, he takes in his surroundings and listens to the birds chirp off in the distance. Bushes rustle with activity, and George feels safe. 

Care of Magical Creatures ends with sluggish footsteps up to the castle. Quackity is draped around George’s shoulder, half-asleep. George appreciated the downtime so early in the morning, considering next up they’d have almost three hours of Charms back-to-back. They’re quite slow in reaching their next class, but he didn’t entirely mind. They would reach Charms much earlier, but he’s not entirely sure Quackity would appreciate George casting Levicorpus on his half-conscious body. Casting Wingardium Leviosa on their textbooks, and manually transporting them through the corridors was more work than he’d like it to be. Thankfully, the Charms classroom was in a circular lecture hall this term which meant there could be no bad seats.

Arriving to class with just a minute to spare, George settles their textbooks onto an empty table with a sigh of relief. He then helps a disoriented Quackity down the stairs, ignorant of any onlookers interested in their spectacle. 

Professor Flitwick waddles to the center of the hall, greeting the class with a kind smile. George was a favoured student of his, only because he’d excelled in Charms for the past six years at Hogwarts. As the goblin scans the room, he offers every familiar face a gentle wave. Quackity is fully awake when Flitwick stresses the importance of upcoming N.E.W.T’s, and it becomes business as usual. George did manage to read up on Charms the night prior, so when Flitwick asks the class: “What do you think we’ll be learning today?” George raises his hand to answer.

It’s easy participation credit, George thinks, but his arrogance is crushed when Flitwick’s attention is directed elsewhere. 

A voice shoots up, and George’s blood runs cold.

It couldn’t be. 

George cranes his neck as he locates the source of the voice, but he already knows what to expect. It’s the same tousled hair and neat Slytherin robes, sitting prim and proper by the blackboard. George’s jaw plummets to the floor.

Since when did Dream take Charms?! 

It was a stupid question. He knew why. It’s the same reason this lecture hall housed Ravenclaws, Slytherins and Gryffindors under the same roof. Charms are essential for wizard survival – why wouldn’t Dream be in Charms? This has got to be some sick joke.

He wouldn’t necessarily have a problem with Dream being here if he didn’t– oh. Merlin , he had class with Dream for the next three hours . 

George might just throw himself off the Astronomy Tower. 

Fate was a cruel thing — or maybe it’s karma. George shouldn’t have taken his anger out on a stranger, especially one he would see for the next ten months! He could not believe his luck.

Panic surges in his chest, itching in his fingers and calves. A humiliation washed over him – the same kind that followed in the Great Hall after he threw up. George might throw up here too. Quackity sits unaware to George’s peril, and he wants to keep it that way.

Stay calm, he tells himself. His body doesn’t obey.

Now that George is aware of Dream’s presence, he can’t tear his eyes away from him. A frivolous fear festered within him – scared that Dream might see him, hoping he wouldn’t inspect his classmates too closely. George dreaded confrontation. He acts out of line sometimes, but never did the consequences stress him out this much.

It worsens to the point that when the class is eventually dismissed for lunch hour, George cannot recall the past two hours whatsoever. He knows that Flitwick went over the theory of  the Cleaning charm, its uses and whatnot, wand movements, and— it’s all so fuzzy; George was so focused on Dream he didn’t absorb any of it. 

The class isn’t in any particular hurry to get to the Great Hall, but George begs to differ. Once Flitwick gives them the greenlight, he practically yanks Quackity out of his seat and sprints towards the Great Hall. 

Quackity crudely swears him out once they’re seated at the Ravenclaw table, but all George can suffice is: “It’s a long story.”

George avoids staring at the Great Hall entrance, afraid Dream would find out he was a student of this school and seek him out and beat him to death. That boy had a crazy height advantage – his size alone could knock George out ‘till next week, and the Ravenclaw in him was not going to risk a losing battle. 

Quackity fills him in on the  past two hours, and George tries to collect himself. He manages to stomach a few bites in hopes to alleviate any nerves he has. After an exhausting back-and-forth with his inner conscience, George felt brave enough to return to Charms class.

This time, he vows to avoid turning his head. Out of sight, out of mind. 

Thankfully, with only an hour left of class, Flitwick asks suggestions from the class on how to spend the rest of their time. With that opportunity, wheels turn within George’s mind. This is a perfect time slot to carry out a dare, so George does exactly that.

He dares Quackity to suggest something incredulous, something a professor would say ‘No’ to. Of course, George is met with bewilderment and a “I’m not doing that. I’m supposed to be on good terms with this guy.”

“That’s all the more reason to do it!” George reasons, pouting. “Making memories, right?”

Knowing he couldn’t fight him on that, George leans back into his chair, a triumphant smile sitting on his lips.

Quackity raises his hand, grumbling to himself. George tries to bite back a laugh as his best friend clears his throat, asking: “Well, we could practice the Charm. We could, like… throw shit around, maybe a couple of textbooks and like, clean it up. Like a total shitshow.” 

His monotonous delivery was what made the idea sound horrendous, so much so even a few students turned their heads for it. Onlookers waited patiently for Flitwick to call him out on swearing, or berate the absurdity of his request and remove him from the class.

Yet, the real comedy was Flitwick doing the exact opposite.

“Excellent idea!” Flitwick claps, summoning over a piece of parchment and tearing it in half. George is nearly shocked. No professor would have agreed to letting students run amiss for the sake of education. Then again, Quackity and George were prized students so it was plausible Flitwick took some liberties. “Alright, students. Rip up your paper like so, and go at it . The best way to learn is to actually do it!” 

The professor tosses the mess in the air, watching as shreds of paper scatter across the floor. The rip of parchment echoes throughout the lecture hall seconds later as students follow suit. 

“Yes, that’s it!” Flitwick uses his wand to remind everyone of the wand movements; Quackity is too keen on ripping his Defense essay to shreds. “Before you leave though, cast a Papyrus Reparo so your parchments aren’t a complete waste!”

“I’m not casting that shit.” Quackity comments, tossing his shreds onto the floor. “Bad can take my essay as is.”

George lets out a laugh, using spare parchment of his own to practice with. The class erupts into an organized frenzy – students converging into separate bubbles across the lecture theater. Casting the cleaning charm over and over helped regain George’s confidence in his skills, and he even got in some practice with casting it nonverbally – to which Quackity whooped and hollered when George managed to lift a shred of paper by a millimeter. George thinks it was the wind, but Quackity assures it’s his well-established genius. George believes Quackity just this once.

The hour blows over and contentment swells in George’s chest. Being able to mess around with Quackity for some time alleviated the tension in his shoulders, and recaptured his focus on better things. Their fun attitudes carried over to Herbology, getting caught up in mischief of their own as they ignored Professor Longbottom’s regurgitation of this year’s syllabus. 

Unfortunately, when the class is left to explore the various plants in the greenhouse, the two Ravenclaws stumble upon an amateur Venomous Tentacula and get so scared out of their wits that Quackity knocks over a couple of plant pots. A few students laugh, but George knows they aren’t in trouble. The two Ravenclaws swear to stay back a few minutes to clean up their mess – thank Merlin Flitwick just taught them a Cleaning charm – but it also meant they had barely any time to race over to Potions.

George and Quackity sprint out of the greenhouses, their abhorrent athleticism bogging them with fatigue and pulled muscles. Merlin , none of them worked out anymore – this just wasn’t worth it. 

“Give me your stuff!” Quackity strains through heaving breaths, already casting Charms to tear George’s textbooks away from his grip. “Run to Potions and guarantee- fuck , my chest hurts- tell Slughorn not to deduct points for being late.”

“Seriously?” George gawks, but Quackity just shoves him forward. His legs obey, bolting across the castle grounds and up several stairs all because of Quackity’s dedication to House points. His lungs throb with each breath as he stumbles into the classroom. With only a couple of minutes to spare, every student was bustling in their own conversations to notice George’s deathly state.

He uses that ignorance to his advantage, scanning for empty seats. All good candidates were already taken up – ones by the good cauldrons, ones by the blackboard, even ones near the middle. George curses under his breath, still trying to regain his composure. 

Luckily, he spots two empty seats with ample sunlight and he tunnel visions onto it, ignoring the probability that somebody would have reserved it for themselves. It doesn’t matter, because he walks with haste until a dark shadow blocks his path.

George’s throat runs dry as his eyes gloss over green robes, a broad build and an innocent glance from none other than Dream.

Merlin, this couldn’t be happening.

George looks around, finding pods of Slytherins scattered across the classroom. A couple onlookers stare bug-eyed at their interaction, and it scares George enough to retreat his gaze to the one monster he’d been trying to avoid all day.

Dream’s stature towers over him, and George feels outnumbered. 

“Hello, birdie.” Dream smiles, and George doesn’t know whether to focus on his teeth, or his eyes, or even the fact he called him ‘birdie’ . “You wanna talk to me or something?”

“Wh-” The comeback dies on his tongue – his own throat fearful of the Slytherin that stood in his path. “I want to- I’m sitting here.”

“That’s weird.” Dream tilts his head, glancing at the table with… all his stuff on it. He cannot be serious.  “I could’ve sworn I was sitting here already.”

A few Slytherins snicker beside him; George’s heart hammers in his chest. Why does Dream have to be so damned intimidating?! 

George straightens his back, gulping down his pride. This was a battle he did not want to fight. “I’ll- erm… sit somewhere else then.” 

“Ravenclaw backing down so easily?” A nameless Slytherin hisses. 

“Fucking kill yourself, will you?” George crows, before turning his heel and biting the inside of his cheek. This is why he never sidles up with Slytherins – always making prey out of everything. 

“By the way, birdie.” Dream chuckles; George stops. He prays his death comes quickly, “To use your own words against you, you should really watch where you’re going.”

All the fear George once had dissipates into thin air right in that moment. It spoils into a bubbling indignation, popping against the veins of his skin. A couple of the Slytherins chuckle to themselves, beckoning for Dream to return to their conversation.

The humiliation of the encounter is quick to subside, George reluctantly dragging his feet across the floor in search of Quackity – who so happened to find empty seats near the cabinets… far in the back… and secluded from everyone else. Merlin , George is going to kill Dream one day.

Quackity is a pile of sweat, melting over their rickety desk that barely supported the weight of their textbooks. 

George grabs a vial from the cabinets, casting an Aguamenti to pour water into it before offering it over. Quackity chugs it immediately. 

He looks across the room, at Dream smiling with the other Slytherins. He fit in so easily with his Housemates. George finds it repulsive. “I can’t fucking believe this guy”

Quackity holds up the vial for a refill. “Who?”

George summons water for him again, nodding over to where Dream sat. He wonders if he could Aguamenti Dream into drowning from the inside out.

Quackity pinches his brows together. “He looks pretty friendly to me…?”

“Are we looking at the same guy?” George snides. The fact Dream looks so easy-going is vile, especially when he didn’t hold up a single drop of that just minutes ago.  “ Merlin , I hate him. He was clearly mocking me.”

“...Did he say something to you?” 

“It doesn’t matter what he said because we have to sit by the cabinets now! Don’t you see?” George huffs, frustration dripping off his tongue. It’s a scapegoat, leaving Quackity in the dark just to blame Dream for something as superficial as taking their seats.

“Dude, if this is about the bucket list, it shouldn’t be. It’s okay if you miss seats in a couple of classes.” Quackity reassures. “This bucket list thing isn’t that serious.” It would do George well to reveal his Monday misdeed, but George wants to relish being the victim for a little longer.

Dream had no authority to degrade him so publicly. Sure, George may have acted a bit out of line, but did he have to make such a spectacle out of nothing? It’s absurd.

‘Watch where you’re going’. George scoffs. What a joke. Who does Dream think he is?! 

Dream could’ve easily taken the high road and been the better person, but he didn’t. George was willing to let bygones be bygones, but not after that. If Dream didn’t bump into him yesterday, George wouldn’t have gotten so pissy about it; if Dream just let them sit by the window, he wouldn’t have worsened this trivial grudge. 

At the end of the day, Dream didn’t have to be petty. Well, George didn’t know what he expected from a Slytherin. 

Potions flies by – Professor Slughorn having them go over theory for the remainder of class. Resentment clouds George’s vision, and it’s a fever he can’t sweat out. 

Tomorrow needs to be better.

☀

Wednesday might bring George some well-deserved peace. 

It’s quite sad Quackity won’t be with him for the day, but it does mean George has more time to focus on his studies. Yesterday ruined his mood, and today was his time to recoup. Ponk is a friendly face in his Alchemy class, and gives George pointers on the upcoming lesson. Honestly, George liked Alchemy. The room was small, and most of all, quiet. The lesson breezes over and he bids Ponk a temporary farewell as they’re dismissed. He knows they’ll meet again in the afternoon for Arithmancy.

Unfortunately, Transfiguration was scheduled in between lunch and Arithmancy and it brewed up two problems: one was Quackity’s clear aversion to partaking N.E.W.T level Transfiguration, accounting for his absence at George’s side on Wednesdays, but the second issue was that Ravenclaws were grouped up with mostly Slytherins for this class, and that all in itself was self-explanatory.

George takes wobbly steps through the corridor, keeping his head down. Dream couldn’t be in Transfiguration, could he? Maybe the Slytherin took Quackity’s route and found Transfiguration a nuisance. He said he was in a Potions apprenticeship, so obviously Dream was in yesterday’s Potions class, but did it mean he’d be in Transfiguration too?

Unease strung tight on his joints, locked and rigid as he walked into the Transfiguration classroom. His eyes ran wild, scanning every inch of everyone’s face until he was so sure that he wasn’t stuck with Dream for the next hour.

Various Ravenclaws and Slytherins file into the room, unrecognizable to George. With each unfamiliar face, his shoulders loosen just a bit. It gets to a point where the door is slammed shut, and there is no sign of Dream anywhere; relief courses through George’s veins. 

This is the first good news he’s heard all week.

Somebody taps onto his desk, clearing their throat. "Seat taken?"

George looks up, finding a stout girl with pale blond hair, her eyes warm. On her nose sits circular lenses too big for her face, and on her head, unruly spikes the color of pale ale peek out from underneath her obnoxiously large witch hat. What odd fashion. 

"...You can go ahead." The Ravenclaw surmises, shifting his belongings to the side to make way for this stranger. The girl supplies him with a smile, tossing a book bigger than her head onto the desk with a distinct thud. Her robes are oversized, the fabric bunching up as she goes to sit down. George eyes the Slytherin crest across the girl's robes, and he squints. He doesn’t think he’s met her before. 

She's got a relaxed aura around her -- definitely from a prestigious background. Her robes are eccentric at best, velvet with smoky wisps embroidered across her sleeves with an off-white stitching. Without turning her head, the girl asks, "Are you going to tell me your name?"

She doesn’t offer a hand to shake, which George finds odd, if not a little rude. Prestigious people always go for a handshake. George digresses. “I’m George.”

The girl heaves the book open, refusing to turn his way. "Real name or nick name?" 

What kind of question is that? George sneers.

"A perfectly reasonable one." She sighs; oh, whoops. George must've said that out loud. The stranger twists her torso towards him, using a free hand to readjust the robes across her chest. By her neck, a glint of silver catches his eye -- maybe a pendant? Whatever. This girl is so weird. "Lamia Zeena."

"Excuse me?" That sounds like an illness.

"Lamia." The girl repeats, as if that would help get her point across. "My name."

Oh. George blinks at her. "Okay."

Lamia Zeena. What was up with people and their odd names? His mind flashes back to Dream, and his chest twists itself into knots. Merlin, George isn't going to remember that. "...Do you have a nickname?"

The girl -- Lamia, George supposes -- blinks at him, like she'd never been asked that before. "I don't know. Do you want to give me one?"

Yes, Lamia Zeena. So unnecessary to have two names, George thinks. He'd better go for something simple. "Does Lam work?" 

Lamia just scrunches her nose up, and shakes her head. "You should go with Zeena."

"Excuse me?" This girl is a damned wildcard. 

"I don't like Lamia much. You should go with Zeena."

This is such a bizarre conversation. George turns his attention back to the board, muttering out a simple, "Okay."

And that was that. He needed to escape that sooner or later. Merlin, he hopes she isn't going to be a problem later.

A caw sounds from the window, grabbing everyone’s attention. George is almost startled to see Professor Philza in crow-form, even though he knew Phil was a registered Animagus. 

He shifts back to his human form, his green and white striped coat trailing behind him as he floats towards the blackboard. He greets the students, and outlines what he expects from everyone. It’s the same old as all of George’s other classes, but what’s odd is how unnecessarily distracting his new seatmate can be during class.

Philza drones on about the importance of nonverbal spells while Lamia siphons random facts about George’s personality through pointed whispers and monotonous icebreakers. She questions his interests, what he gets up to, what he dreams of, and everything in between only to respond with something equally revealing. George does try to ignore her, but she's persistent and she flips through that big book of hers so loudly and shamelessly that it forces George to pay attention to her. A part of him wants to call her out on it, wondering if Philza would do it first. 

It seems like their conversations fly under the radar as Philza calls for the class to practice a Transfiguration spell of one’s choosing to freshen up on their skillset, but George finds no use for it. Lamia seems to think the same too, her focus back on her book and holding meaningless conversation. 

“Look-” George rolls his eyes, but he tries not to come off as rude. He would use her nickname out of respect, but frankly he couldn't be bothered. It'd be best not to refer to her at all. “I don’t know what you’re up to and you’re good company, but I doubt Phil appreciates you talking through his class.” 

He hopes the ‘and besides, you’re annoying me’ is conveyed with it.

The Slytherin thins her lips disapprovingly, pointing over to where Phil was preoccupied organizing his shelves. "I don't think my father cares what I do in this class."

George blinks.

What.

He stares at Lamia again, at her posture and her attention-hogging witch hat. Right. Prestigious background. Refusal to comply in an academic setting. It makes sense. 

There must be some kind of family resemblance. Maybe the hair? If it's in the eyes, then George can't tell -- not with those glasses. Merlin, this girl was a headcase and George felt his curiosity pique. Not of her, but of the book upon her desk. Not everyone cracked open a book for fun, especially ones unrelated to schoolwork. At least, he thinks it's unacademic. The binding was purely black, its lettering barely legible from where he's sitting. Curiously, George peeks through the corner of his eyes, praying for subtlety as he forces himself into Lamia's space in an inconspicuous lean of his torso. The handwriting looked regal, if not ancient. He tries to pick out a couple words... only for his jaw to run freshly agape at what he reads.

"Hexes?!" George hisses out, trying to keep his voice low. He knew Slytherins had a drawn affinity for all things dark and ominous, but to brandish it off to the world so shamelessly- "What business do you have to be reading up on hexes?!"

Lamia only glances at him briefly, shrugging, before returning her focus to the passage at hand. That did not answer his question.

"I ought to tell on you for that, you know." George crosses his arms, leaning back into his hair. Ugh, he sounds like such a whistleblower. Is this really who he wants to be? In his defense, he only said it to grab her attention. "Getting involved with the dark arts is risky business."

The Slytherin frowns at him, furrowing her brow. "That's not very nice, George. It's vastly misunderstood and-"

"Everyone said the same thing for pixies years ago and they're still pests at the end of the day" George scoffs, surprised at the naturality of the quip on his tongue.

Lamia doubles down, glaring at him with disapproval. "It's not 'evil' magic, you know?" 

"...Sure." George better leave it alone. Other people's business shouldn't be his own. If he wanted to save his reputation, it's best to not be involved with nasty business in the first place.

Dark arts is a morally grey area for him. He knows society deems it bad, and to each their own and all that, but magic was magic to him. If that's what Lamia wanted to spend her time doing, George would simply get out of her way. It's not like George ever cared for dark arts anyway; he's sure he’d cast a few in his younger years, especially when Quackity wanted to get up to trouble here and there.

As class is dismissed, Lamia's words linger in his head: It's not 'evil' magic, you know?

She said it so disapprovingly, so disappointed that it almost made George feel remorseful. She has a point. Magic was magic at the end of the day, and an evil action doesn't necessitate evil intent. A punch could be a means to maim, but it could also be a means of self-defense and-

A lightbulb flickers over his head.

Actually, now that he thinks about it...

With Dream around, hexes don’t sound so bad. 

It certainly wouldn't hurt to have that under his belt, at least. Purely for self-defense, obviously.

Besides, with the boy being in Slytherin, there's no telling what dastardly means he'd brew up in those dungeons as revenge. After that altercation in Potions, he's been marked with a target and a ticking clock.

George seeks Flitwick later that day in an attempt to gain a signed permission slip to enter the Restricted section in the library. With his reputation and professor likability, George is able to garner the goblin’s support by supposing he wanted to expand his palate. Nobody would suspect George to go raiding the dark arts section of the Restricted, anyway.

Now with a permission slip, George accesses the Restricted section with ease and insists he knows what he’s looking for. As he filed through the shelves, a book shimmering a ripe velvet catches his eye. 

Pulling it out, he reads: A Squib’s Guide to Curses & Counter-curses 

George is no squib, but he was a beginner. He tucks the textbook under his arm and heads out of the library. Once back in the common room, he cracks the textbook open, devouring every single sentence regarding hexes it had to offer.

Quackity walks in hours later, whining about how he’d be up in the Astronomy at midnight for a class, only to be cut short as he notices George’s newfound interest. “...Why are you reading about hexes?”

A roommate of theirs – Pebble, George calls him. Don’t ask. – comments. “Sixth year Defense doesn’t cover hexes, does it?”

“It doesn’t.” George offers, refusing to break eye contact with his textbook. 

“Don’t cast it on one of us, yeah?” Their other roommate, named Stone – It’s his last name… but also because he sneaks behind the greenhouses on Fridays and comes back with his eyes shot – walks in right behind Quackity, chuckling. George decides he’ll be the boss of that.

“Actually, George.” Quackity crouches down, tossing George a copy of his timetable. “Could you keep this? I’ve memorized my week already.”

George looks up, frowning. He’s not given a chance to answer as the timetable falls into his lap, his best friend walking back down to the common room. George sighs, shutting his own textbook closed. He files Quackity’s timetable beside his own, but he catches sight of his upcoming classes. He decides it does no harm to go over his week to have a rough idea on what to do for the rest of his year.

Skimming each class and their upcoming lectures, what they entailed and who he’d share them with, George sagged his shoulders. 

He forgets he’s a victim to fate’s cruel game. It was cruel in the sense that the majority of his classes aligned with Dream – it’s like every class he had with Quackity, Dream was there to lurk in the shadows like a snake ready to pounce.

Gripping the paper, George grinds his teeth. He won’t let Dream ruin his year. 

Expectedly, George does it in the worst way possible.

On Thursday, he strains his neck in Potions to avoid glancing at Dream. He finds out Dream’s in Care of Magical Creatures and drags Quackity to the isolated corners of the Forbidden Forest and only walks to his next class until everyone else has evacuated ahead of them. In Charms, he’s nose-deep in textbooks and muttering spells to himself just so he won’t listen to Dream answer Flitwick’s questions. 

It’s absolutely pathetic.

Friday mulls over, and George has made it to his final class of the week. Herbology was downright stressful, with George clumsily ducking his head every time Dream dared to look his way. Quackity doesn’t question his behaviour, though he does raise a brow at it. Either way, all it means for George is him shuffling to his Defence class absolutely drained. 

He doesn’t know if he can take that unnecessary stress anymore. Merlin , if he couldn’t stand it for a week, then he’s afraid for a whole year of it. 

Next week, Karl and Sapnap would be coming in and they’d no doubt find some commonality with Dream’s presence, and George needed to snuff the wick before it set aflame. So, through slumped shoulders and tired eyes, George elbows Quackity as Bad turns his back on the class. “Quackity, what do you think of that guy?” 

“Uh… who?”

George nods over to the back of the room, where Dream sat blissfully unaware with another Slytherin. Merlin , he was an eyesore. “Dream. Guy in Slytherin robes. Blond. Tall. Sitting right by the door.”

Quackity tosses an obvious look over his shoulder. “Oh, him . I haven’t talked to the dude yet, why?”

George bares his teeth, and Quackity already looks unamused.

 George falls into a long-winded confession that tries to downplay his rude behaviour, but it was undoubtedly hard to frame yourself as neutral when you were the definite perpetrator. 

Quackity leans back into his chair, crossing his arms. “You are dumb as hell.”

“I know!” George pleads, clasping his hands together. “But, when Karl and Sapnap are here, we cannot adopt him into our group. I am begging you.”

“You think Karl and Sapnap are going to listen to you?”

Well. He did have a point. Still, George continues. “Please, Quackity. We have to go the whole year staying out of Dream’s way, you understand?”

Quackity doesn’t put up a fight, just a tired sigh. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so loyal to you. You get up to way too much shit.”

“Language!” Bad hisses. When the professor’s back is turned, Quackity puts up an obscene gesture before returning back to his textbook. George submerges himself in his notes, ultimately thankful that was one thing out of the way.

Sixth year is going to be George’s toughest year – not because of his academics, but because he is going to fight this self-induced war all by himself.

Chapter Text

Saturday is spent holed up in the Ravenclaw common room, George too entranced with his studies and fulfilling any impending assignments. He hogged the table by the wall, piling his textbooks high until it threatened to tip over and crush him entirely. He’s given up on hexes since he’d returned to the common room yesterday, now prioritizing his actual education. 

Revenge can wait, he tells himself.

His pile of textbooks wasn’t an uncommon sight to see – in fact, it was a pillar in a sea of columns. With only a week under their belt, the Ravenclaws had undoubtedly made themselves at home. With such a notable reputation, one would predict the common room to remain neat and proper. Yet with disheveled shelves and open textbooks scattered across desks and carpets, their reputation couldn’t be farther to the truth. Even still, there was order to their chaos, and George reveled in it. 

As he’s finishing up Alchemy homework, he picks up muffled shouts from the entrance. Seconds later, the door to the common room swings open, and it grabs George’s attention.

Quackity stands behind Stone, fists shaking at his side and scowling. Stone laughs like a goose as he walks in, and George is about to ask what for – until Quackity begrudgingly enters the common room, sounding out a repugnant squelch under his every step.

Shutting his Alchemy textbook closed, George asks. “What happened there?”

Quackity lifts up his foot. A discoloured slime clings to the sole of his shoes, dripping onto the carpet. It is disgusting. “Some fucking asshole missed and cast a fucking hex on me.”

“Oh, that’s hilarious.” Stone pants, still caught in a fit of laughter. His heavy Scottish accent didn’t help get his words out any clearer.  “Pure gi'ien me the boak.”

“English, please!” Quackity scoffs, tearing off his shoes. “That fucking kid needs to work on his damned aim before I turn his hair into actual cotton candy. That’s the last fucking time I do anything for him.”

George tries to stifle a snort. It is a little funny.

“Stop laughing at me, jackass.” Quackity flips him off, pointing at George’s stack of textbooks piled high on the table. “You were reading up on hexes just yesterday, weren’t you? Find a damned counter-curse to fix my shoes!”

George throws his arms up in surrender, unable to contain his laughter. “Chill. I’ll get on it.”

Filing through his stack, George eventually found the textbook, and subsequently a counter-curse that would rid Quackity from his shoe’s goo. 

Although George does grow curious on the specific hex that kid miscast on Quackity. Through idle questioning, George narrows it down to Colloshoo , a Stickfast Hex. It plastered a green adhesive across the sole of one’s shoes, therefore tripping them if they tried to move forward unknowingly. 

Revenge tempts him. 

The idea of Dream falling flat on his face is charming, if not downright hilarious. He murmurs a quiet apology to his best friend as he shuts the book closed. 

Colloshoo could prove to be quite handy in the future.

☀

Quackity is practically bouncing by George’s bedside once Sunday rolls around.

It’s one of the rare mornings where Quackity finds himself awake before George, and for good reason. Today was the day Karl and Sapnap would finally join them for the rest of the school year. 

The Sunday before the second week acted as Quackity’s Christmas morning.

George is sluggish as he rolls out of bed, planning out his day in hourly intervals. Karl and Sapnap wouldn’t arrive until sunrise by the schoolgate, which meant he could only have time for breakfast and his studies right after. Merlin , he was tired.

Once dressed, the two Ravenclaws trek towards the schoolgate, eagerly awaiting their friends’ late arrivals. With barely any sunlight, the early rise chill seeps into George’s bones. Shivers run goosebumps along his skin, his teeth chattering against the morning silence.

As the sun peeks through the mountaintops, Quackity can pick out a few shadows tottering towards Hogwarts. With sunshine lighting their faces, George can identify them now. Karl with his mop of curls leads the pack, a beaming smile plastered across his face. Sapnap walks beside him, stone-faced as he trudges towards the castle – George knows he’s only grumpy from the cold.

Quackity breaks into a full-on sprint, arms wide open as he charges towards both Karl and Sapnap. They collide into a huddle of hugs and happy exclamations. The three of them refuse to break contact, walking as a combined amalgamation to where George stood.

“Get in here, George!” Sapnap laughs. George rolls his eyes playfully, submitting to their order. Arms envelop him from all sides, warmth encased within their human bubble. 

George smiles to himself. This is nice. 

The rest of their Sunday is spent running through corridors with their belongings, racing between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff common room in good fun. They get pulled aside once by Professor McGonagall, communicating her distaste on their roughhousing. All four of them dip their heads in shame, but it doesn’t stop them from continuing. 

Once they dump their suitcases in their respective bedrooms, they stay in the Gryffindor common room to catch their breath. Quackity debriefs them on his and George’s little challenge, which they immediately opt in for.

They dare each other to break into various rooms without getting caught, and it’s horrendous. They walk casually through corridors, revisiting old classrooms and casting Alohomora on doors they shouldn’t have entered. George feels on edge for some reason; maybe it’s because getting caught in empty classrooms would be terrible on his academic record, but he knows it’s because  he needed to bring up the issue of Dream. 

There was no reason they couldn’t abide by his request – contrary to popular belief, they don’t recruit every Ilvermorny transfer they come across. There’s Punz and Foolish – two Gryffindor whom they weren’t necessarily attached at the hip to, but could still keep a conversation with if the situation calls for it. Surely they could do the same with Dream. 

Again, George doesn’t know what he expects from a Slytherin. Knowing that giant, he’d be so impressionable he’d win the hearts of everyone including Quackity. Even then, George knows the truth. He knows the petty villain that sits under those slimy scales, and George can’t wait until it all sheds away. 

They’re in Ravenclaw room now – courtesy of George answering the riddle for them of course. Sapnap comments on Quackity’s hair, and the respective Ravenclaw threatens to kiss him senseless. It’s a wonder if they ever have a normal conversation. Karl snoops through the common room’s incredulous stack of textbooks, teasing George relentlessly on his academics. Eventually, he picks out his hexes textbook and gasps at an almost comical volume. 

It garners the attention of everyone, and subsequently a dare to cast a hex on one of them. It immediately receives a lot of backlash, mainly from Quackity who was reluctant to experience the past once more. 

They settle by the fireplace in the lounge area, Karl flipping through the pages. Sapnap and Quackity quarrel on who had to cast the hex, while George just watched it all go down. Karl waves his wand around, using mild hexes on random objects to see if he could actually cast them. 

It should rub George the wrong way – how he found no issue dabbling in hexes. The stigma around dark magic remained stagnant after the war, but George never cared for any of it. Magic was magic, he reasoned. Besides, it wasn’t like he was planning to become the next evil overlord. 

Quackity wanted them to make memories. A couple ill-mannered pranks here and there would account to that. 

Eventually, Sapnap wins their debate, but promises not to have Quackity be the recipient of the dare. Karl volunteers, and even has the privilege to choose out a certain hex. George admires their socialism.

Unfortunately, the bucket list curse strikes again.

Ignoring the explicit instruction of the hex, Sapnap backfires a Densaugeo from hot headed impatience. Sapnap’s front teeth grow at a disgusting rate, enough to be a problem, and the trio scramble in escorting the anguished Gryffindor down to someone who can help. George has the right mind to take them to Madame Pomfrey – that is until they’re stopped by a hooded figure blocking the corridor.

Quackity’s loud groan is enough indication on who it was. Bad stands with his arms crossed and a small pout carved into his shadowed skin. George stands in front of Sapnap to hide their mistake – he knew Bad was a big stickler for rules, especially ones regarding dark magic. He can only guess Quackity’s praying Bad doesn’t take away any House points, as superficial as it sounded.

“You guys look to be in a hurry.” Bad’s high pitched voice is heavily doused in skepticism. “Any particular reason?”

Seconds of silence swarm the corridor, each of them antsy to give a good enough alibi. At once, three of them speak in a muddled conjunction of excuses: “Quidditch practice-” “The library-” “Going to Madame Pomfrey-” 

They collectively cringe as their facade drops; George can see an eyebrow shoot up from underneath the professor’s hood.

Bad lets out a disgruntled sigh, waving his wand as a strong wind pushes George aside to reveal Sapnap crouched underneath Karl’s arms, his front teeth protruding out from his upper lip at an absurd length. 

Karl offers a sheepish smile, pointing at Sapnap’s teeth. “We’re twins now, see? Rabbit teeth.” A nervous chuckle is wasted into the silence as Bad only continues to eye them up and down.


Bad is not convinced. “Come with me.” 

The four of them are shamefully brought up to Bad’s Defence classroom, behind the blackboard and into his office. It was dark, save for a few candles that illuminated the cramped space. With four extra bodies, Bad’s closet of an office felt like a suitcase.

“Not even a day in, and you guys have already got yourself into some kind of mess.” Bad exclaims, waving a wand as chairs shuffle across the floorboards. “I can’t imagine how the rest of the year is going to play out.”

“Look, Bad-” Quackity starts, but Bad simply waves his wand with a hurried focus. Immediately, Quackity’s lips are sealed as outraged muffles beg to escape. George and Karl stare at Quackity’s enraged attempts to speak, flailing his arms about as if to signal one of them to cast a counter-charm to let him speak. Unfortunately for him, neither of them want to rub salt in an already tender wound.

“Look, guys.” Bad beckons for them to sit down – all except for Sapnap – “Casting hexes on anyone is uncalled for, let alone breaking school conduct.” Sapnap tries to utter out a response, but emits groans of pain as his front teeth barricaded any kind of coherency to escape. Bad just raises a wand and wordlessly casts its countercurse. “The countercurse takes some time, so until then you guys are kept in this office until curfew.”

The group protests with a collective incredulity; Bad doesn’t take any of it.

“Try anything and you’re guaranteed detention and a failing grade.” Bad pushes his desk to the side with an agonizing screech, clogging up whatever remaining space the office had left. George finds himself frowning, but taking a glance around the room showed neither of them were happy with these turn of events. 

Quackity sits defeatedly on the floor, avoiding Bad’s earlier offer of a chair, crossing his arms with tense shoulders and a bitter scowl etched into his face. Sapnap holds a hand over his mouth, trying to soothe the pain of his teeth returning back to normal. Karl was fiddling with his thumbs, unsure of what to do.

“Anyways, I have somewhere to be.” Bad digs into his cloak pockets and pulls out a deck of cards. It piques Karl’s interest, his eyes lighting up once he realizes it’s Exploding Snap. “Keep yourselves entertained. I’ll be back in a few hours at most.”

As Bad breaches his office door, Quackity miraculously gains his voice back. “Few hours?! You can’t just keep us prisoner!” He sounds thoroughly out of breath.

“It’s a safety precaution that Sapnap recovers well from your hex.” Bad says innocently. He doesn’t allow Quackity a moment to reply before skittering off into the hallways. 

“Oh, I’m going to kill that man.” Quackity shakes his fist comically at the door. George laughs to himself at his friend’s theatrics, only to look back over his shoulder to see Karl sat prettily on the floor setting up a round of Exploding Snap for them to play. Sapnap waits eagerly, helping in any way he can.

The four of them eventually settle into the carpet, as uncomfortable and murky as it was. The cards take a while to set up, especially when Karl chooses to drag it out just to fill time. In the meantime, they fall into mindless conversation – like Karl interrogating George on his sudden interest in dark charms.

“I’m not into dark charms.” George defends. His voice scrapes across the white noise of the cabinet. “Well, not in that way. It’s useful.”

“For what?” Karl tilts his head. “I can’t imagine any situation where you’d willingly use it in a serious sense.”

“Be careful, Karl. Your Hufflepuff is showing.” Quackity yawns, stretching his arms. Sapnap is slouched over, tight-lipped and twirling his wand in circles to pass the time. His front teeth have diminished down to chin-length, so it could only be an hour or  two until it fully reverted to normal length.

Karl paused on setting up the game, too committed to the conversation at hand. “I’m serious! Like, yeah- self defense is important but while I was reading through ‘em all, they were… very targeted. Like, stuff genuinely from a place of hatred.”

George opens his mouth to answer, but is stumped once he’s reminded neither Karl or Sapnap are aware of his ongoing dilemma with Dream. He could try and say-

“It’s because George has beef with this one Slytherin, I’m pretty sure.” Quackity says, completely unwarranted. It’s a baseless accusation at most, but by Merlin did his best friend nail his motives to a tee.

“Seriously?” Sapnap gapes – well, it’s not like he had a choice with teeth that big, but shock smears his features nonetheless. Karl reflects the same sentiment, except with a blunt curiosity. Either way, both of them expected an explanation.

George complies. “It’s not- it’s- okay.” It’s a hassle to rein his thoughts together. “One thing, before I start, okay? You guys are most certainly going to have Slytherins in your class, and I want you guys to promise me not to be friends with a guy named Dream.”

“Oh man.” Quackity rolls his eyes. “Just pass me the cards, Karl.”

“Dream?” Karl questions, unconvinced. “What did he do?”

“For the sake of our loyalty,” Quackity waves his wand to mutter a brief Accio , snatching the deck of cards right from Karl’s palms, “let’s say, hypothetically, he’s a mean guy.”

“It’s not hypothetical, it’s real.” George sneers. “Anyways, please. You have to promise me. He’s just going to ruin everything.”

Sapnap gestures a thumbs-up, agreeing to the Ravenclaw’s plea. Karl just shrugs his shoulders. “Fine by me.”

George breathes out a sigh of relief. 

With that out of the way, Quackity makes quick work to get the game underway. He’s careless and rowdy with how he sets it up, and it can only forewarn an equally messy game.

The cards don’t take too kindly with rough-handling. They act like short fuses and ticking bombs as the lot wrestle to poke their wands across their tapered skins. It’s no surprise that after a few excitable rounds and trigger-happy cards, Karl ends up with singed eyebrows and the rest are cursed with soot-stained cheeks. They decide to take a break to clean up after themselves, and it’s then that Bad peeks his head in momentarily, offering a smile. “So, is Sapnap alright?”

A comedic silence follows as Bad stares at their disaster. Sapnap’s teeth are somewhat back to normal, but it doesn’t ease the fact all four of them look like they came straight out of a coal mine.

Naturally, Bad is obligated to help them before dismissing them back to their dormitories, and George almost pities the new professor. He only had Quackity to deal with as a prefect, but now his problems have doubled  on his return. The bucket list plucks at the back of his mind, reminding him of the death wish he’d so easily taken just a week prior. This year was not going to get easier for any of them.

Karl and Sapnap are the first to leave – Karl adamant on keeping Sapnap company on their way back, leaving only the Ravenclaws in Bad’s presence. It doesn’t last long as Bad dismisses them, but not without calling out a “Don’t forget your necromancy essays are due tomorrow.”

Quackity throws up a middle finger once Bad teeters into the seclusion of his office. “I’ll be fucking hexed before he gets any kind of effort from me.” The two laugh lazily into the night.

To Quackity’s dismay, he comes into class the next day with a perfectly mended essay and Bad is elated to see it not burnt to a crisp. What Quackity doesn’t know is that George fixed up his essay while they were heading to bed yesterday. George says his best friend will thank him one day; Quackity begs to differ.

After gathering all their essays, Bad starts to get into a lecture on school rules, supposedly for any returning exchange students. Neither George nor Quackity pay attention, which acts as the first domino to the worst thing George will ever experience in his life. 

Quackity plays around with his wand, asking George to transfigure his parchment into a paper bird. The two, then, alternatively cast Locomotor to make it slightly hover above their desks and travel from one end to another. A short-lived competition brews up from their little game, the other fighting for control over the bird without calling attention to themselves.

Unfortunately, their fun is duly interrupted as Bad claps his hands together with a little too much force. “Actually, this is perfect.” 

The two Ravenclaws sit a little straighter. 

“As you’ve heard before, the new Hogwarts incentive is now in full effect and I want to set a good example.” A scheming grin sits under Bad’s hood, and it can only mean misfortune. “Now, be patient with me when I say that I will now reorganize your seating plan.”

The class gasps. 

“And I think… I’m going to start with Quackity there by the windows.” The two Ravenclaws stiffen up. “Pack up your stuff - I’ll move you by the door there.” 

Quackity’s jaw drops. He’s about to rebut something entirely inappropriate, but Bad doesn’t give him the chance.

“And you- Green one. Dream, right?” 

George pales. Don’t say it . 

“You can move up here with George!”

George’s stomach plummets. 

You cannot be fucking serious. 

George can only watch as his best friend is ripped away from his side, exiled far across the entire classroom. This is a joke. This is some kind of sick prank and it’s all going to be over. 

George prays for a miracle, but his wish is squashed as Dream’s shadow creeps up to his desk with a soft look in his eyes. George wants to punch it right off. 

“Fancy seeing you here.” Dream smirks, and George wants to Flipendo him out the nearest window. Unfortunately, a murder charge would look quite rough on his school record.

Bad spends the next five minutes of shuffling everybody around; George spends it thinking of ways to die. He could Incendio this desk so Dream could catch on fire, or maybe the desk could disintegrate for George, therefore unable to have a desk anymore and unobligated to sit with Dream. 

Merlin , he cannot believe this is happening. There’s no doubt this entire thing was targeted at Quackity, but if Bad was a better man, he wouldn’t have doomed George to be collateral damage.

“Thank you guys for your cooperation!” Bad gleams. A few students grumble – George included. “I know this sucks, but I have managed to pair someone up from a different House. It would do everyone some good to have a fresher perspective in this class, but of course, I can take accountability for my faults. If any of you have troubles, such as not being able to see the board or hearing me well enough, communicate that with me!”

George would complain in a heartbeat, but saying he hates Dream wouldn’t be a valid excuse for Bad to separate them. George doesn’t get why it had to be Dream of all people. There are countless other Slytherins in this classroom – Merlin , this is just George’s Hell-induced purgatory. 

The rest of class resumes as normal, but a certain disinterest lingers amidst the room. George keeps to himself, leaning away from Dream as to avoid any point of contact. Anger bubbles up within him as if he were a cauldron. Quackity was right. Bad was going to be the one to ruin everything. With one more class separated from each other, their year wasn’t looking too promising. They agreed to make memories, but nothing in the agreement meant they had to be bad ones.

He flips through the textbook, tuning out of the lesson entirely. He’s pissed off with Bad at the moment, and besides, he teaches himself the entire curriculum in the Ravenclaw common room anyway. George can survive without coming to the rest of his classes if he’s being honest. 

“You’re not paying attention either then?” Dream whispers, and it annoyingly pulls George from his own wallowed sulking. George doesn’t dare to face him, afraid he’d be compelled to sock him if he did.

“You’re dense if you think I want to talk to you right now.” George grumbles, aggressively turning the page. 

“Aw, that’s not very nice.” Dream pouts in the corner of George’s eye, and it just aggravates him some more. This Slytherin just didn’t know when to quit. “We’re classmates, birdie. You’re breaking my little heart over here.”

“Boohoo.” George deadpans, trying to tame the bite in his beak. “Stop talking to me.”

“You are definitely a tough one to crack.” Dream chuckles, leaning his head forward so he’s in George’s field of vision. Just the view of his face makes George ball his fists atop his textbook, imprinting crescents into his palms. When their eyes meet, all George throws at him is a stone-faced scowl. “Ouch. Tough crowd. I’ll leave you to it then.”

Thankfully, Dream slinks back to his own chair and is quiet for the remainder of the class and George could almost melt from the relief. It’s official. George hates him. Dream is annoying, insufferable and simply doesn't know how to quit. 

George doesn’t know how he’s going to handle a whole year of this.

When Bad finally dismisses the class, he assigns them a couple essays to be done by next Monday and Quackity emits the loudest groan of them all. George slams his textbook shut as students file out the door, too busy sifting his gaze through an unintelligible crowd. Quackity peeks his head out, mouthing something equally incomprehensible. With only ambiguity as his alibi, his best friend hurriedly exits the room; George hypothesizes it’s an urgent trip to the bathrooms. 

When George looks over to his side, Dream isn’t sitting by him. Instead, he’s by the blackboard with a few of his friends. The bitter resentment festering in his stomach grew rancid at the sound of his laughter ringing through an emptying classroom. Grabbing his things, George shuffles over to the door, but not without taking his eyes off the one man he considered an unbearable stye on his foot.

The Ravenclaw lingers by the doorframe, watching Dream closely. He’s smiling with the other Slytherins, joyous and lighthearted. George doesn’t know why, but he wants Dream to go through the most unimaginably despicable event that leaves him miserable forever. He wants to wipe off that smile and replace it with quivering lips and a venomous taste on his tongue. He doesn’t know why he wants Dream to suffer so bad – maybe it’s because Dream is frustratingly annoying and his presence is enough to rile George up, or maybe it’s because-

George shakes his head. Subtly aiming his wand forward, he tries to remember the contents of his hex textbook. The anger in his heart wouldn’t let him rest until he enacted some kind of rightful vengeance on the Slytherin. 

He settles for a Colloshoo under his breath, hoping it’s enough for his irritation to subside.

Like a criminal, George flees from the scene. Trying not to linger on it too much, he beelines towards the Great Hall in hopes he catches a familiar face. Disappointment sags his shoulders as he fails to find neither Karl, Sapnap nor Quackity sitting in any of their respective tables. George sighs, deciding to idle by the entrance as he figures out the next course of action.

Luckily, he’s not left to his own devices for too long as Quackity scampers into the Great Hall, urgency meddled into his movements. George tilts his head as they approach each other, curious on what the matter was.

“Is it true?!” Quackity starts, trying to catch his breath. George can’t read his expression. His eyes are wide like he couldn’t believe it, but he shows no signs of underlying humour. “Did you hex Dream earlier today?”

Oh. George thought he was being subtle. “...Yeah.”

“Dude!” Quackity claps him on the shoulder. George doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or congratulating him. “Well, nobody knows it’s you for sure so I doubt we’ll get house points taken away.”

“House points?” George raises a brow. “I hex someone and you’re worried about House points?”

It wasn’t too surprising. Quackity swore an oath to secure Ravenclaw’s win every year – it was ambitious, sure, but he never did stop trying. 

“Personally, I wouldn’t go bragging around like that.” Quackity crosses his arms, frowning. “Besides, I’m not going to get up on my high horse and say you shouldn’t hex an innocent man because I feel like that’s common knowledge at this point.”

“Awesome.” George feels like he’s getting lectured by his father. Besides, Dream is anything but innocent. Quackity just doesn’t get it.

“Anyways, I didn’t run here for that.” Quackity looks up, gesturing for George to follow. “I was wondering if you wanted to join me and the boys to watch Quidditch tryouts.”

Gryffindor tryouts weren’t on Monday, George thinks to himself. Besides, he needed to take his textbooks back to the common room. To his dismay, they’re already walking out of the castle before George can respond. He sighs. He supposes he’ll just carry his textbooks around for a little longer.

The September breeze wafts through their robes as they traverse towards the Quidditch pitch. Grass rustled under their feet as they gracelessly descended down a steep hill, Quackity on the lookout for any familiar faces.

Eventually, the Ravenclaws meet up with Karl who waves enthusiastically by one of the stands. As the three climb up to secure a good view, Sapnap’s already planted among the bleachers with his arms crossed. 

George ends up sitting by Sapnap, and Quackity follows. Karl, on the other  hand, goes the extra mile to clamber over seats just to sit on Sapnap’s other side. Once they were all comfortable, George nodded over to the pitch. “Sapnap, you’re not playing?”

“Quidditch tryouts for Gryffindor aren’t until Friday.” Sapnap explains, his eyes refusing to betray the field. 

George thins his lips. Thought so.

“I’m here to cheer on my fellow Hufflepuffs.” Karl cheeses, pumping a fist in the air. George wishes he could have that much House spirit.

Now that he stares at the pitch, he can see a faint yellow scattered across the crowd. He supposes he could’ve deduced the House from distincting their colour, if he didn’t lack that kind of ability.

The tryouts aren’t anything to remember; the four of them get up to mindless conversation as the minutes pass. If anything, George was simply counting down to dinner so he could be one hour closer to finishing up his academic itinerary for today.

“You guys may not know, but George here is a little rebel.” Quackity snickers. George is not ready for what comes next. Of course, it piques their friends’ interests. “He hexed Dream right before we came here.”

It’s enough to pull Sapnap’s gaze away from the pitch, a bewilderment splattered across his face. “Seriously?!”

“Next dare I’m asking George to get himself expelled.” Karl clasps a hand over his mouth, giggling. 

“Okay-” George goes to defend himself. “If you were in my shoes, you’d know that he deserved it.”

“Dude, what hex was it?” Sapnap laughs, leaning back until he rests against the bench behind him. “It probably wasn’t even that bad.”

“Please don’t let it be that fucking gooey shit.” Quackity stands up, stretching his back. When George looked back over to the pitch, the tryouts were in the midst of wrapping up. “It’s the worst evil anyone can wish upon someone.”

The four of them make their way down the stands, walking back to the Great Hall.

“It was Colloshoo .” George admits, unable to suppress the chuckle that escaped out of him. Quackity retches, followed by Karl and Sapnap’s shared laughter. Dinner is swarmed with heartfelt banter, bleeding into the remainder of their night.

As the day comes to an end, George hopes his spell inconveniences Dream more than he’d liked it to.

Chapter Text

His week proceeds to get worse.

George seems to have missed some kind of memo. 

He thinks all will go well considering Sapnap aligned with them for their morning classes, but he’s proven wrong as Professor Grubbly-plank squashes that thought without remorse. Care of Magical Creatures was supposed to be looking up, yet George remains a victim to collateral damage. Grubbly-plank warns the class of a new group project that requires a partner of another House that had to be turned in by the end of the month. Obviously with their group of two Ravenclaws and a Gryffindor, one was doomed to inevitable isolation. Unfortunately for George, Quackity sidled up with Sapnap too quick for them to fight over it.

His bad luck hangs over him throughout his next class, with Charms immediately starting with Professor Flitwick giving everyone a heads-up to partner with someone of another House after lunch hour. It was absolutely absurd – why did every Professor suddenly start promoting inter-House cooperation? There’s no chance Hogwarts only gained a conscience now.

George drags his feet towards the Great Hall, lagging behind Sapnap and Quackity who were too enthusiastic about the weeks ahead. George isn’t mad he’s left out – he doesn’t  care much for friendly relations. What he’s most disgruntled about is the idea of having to share his academic successes with a total stranger. With his friends, it’s different because he knows they can pull their weight, but with someone new- it’s uncharted territory. One thing George isn’t, is a risk-taker. For the past week he’s wondered why he ever agreed to the bucket list in the first place.

The three of them settle by the Hufflepuff table, Karl greeting Sapnap with a side hug. Quackity begs for a hug of his own, but is unsuccessful. They fall into lighthearted banter, but George can’t bring himself to join the fun.

Quackity nudges him slightly, “Come on, man. What’s got you so down?”

George shakes his head, poking absentmindedly at his lunch. 

Sapnap offers a piece of his bread over to Karl, shrugging. “It’s because George can’t be in group projects with us anymore.”

“Ohh,” Karl lifts his head, accepting Sapnap’s offer. He plucks a few chunks from George’s plate as he says, “The new incentive right? I wish Hufflepuffs were paired with you guys- I would’ve been George’s partner.”

“I don’t even get the point of it all.” George bites the inside of his cheek, annoyance decorating his features. “Is it really so necessary to partner up with some stranger? It’s sixth year! I thought we gave up on making friends years ago.”

“Hm…” Sapnap takes George’s plate, scraping half of it onto his own plate. George doesn’t even care to stop him. “Maybe George is salty because he knows he’s unlikable.”

“True!” Quackity muffles through stuffed cheeks. When Sapnap returns his plate over to George, Quackity gathers some wings to place onto George’s dish. He gulps down his food to be sincere: “All jokes aside, George, we can ask Flitwick to allow a group of three. He loves you.”

“George is literally the teacher’s pet.” Karl smiles, scooping out globs of mashed potatoes to help add onto George’s plate. “You’ll be fine!”

“But, I mean-” Sapnap taps his chin as if a diabolical plan brewed behind his eyes. “I am thinking of something…”

“No shit.” Quackity snorts. “What about the group project in CoMC? Grubbly-plank isn’t that lenient.”

“Exactly.” Sapnap points a fork at George, and it’s not enough to prepare him for what comes next. “So, here. I dare you to make a friend that isn’t us.”

George blinks. This… was teetering a very fragile line. “...Okay? I can- I have Ponk for a lot of my classes.”

Karl furrows his brow. “Don’t you already know Ponk?”

“Yeah, he does.” Quackity urges George to take a bite of his lunch. “But you need a solution for Charms and like- every class that we’re in since I can’t be your partner.”

“Fine.” George bites his cheek. He digs his fork into the messy array atop his plate, but is hesitant to eat it all up. “...Lamia, then."

The new name earns a few raised brows from his friends.

"...I met her in Transfiguration.” He explains. Lamia wouldn't be a bad choice, if he really had no one else to choose. She's a little annoying, but George could make it work.

“Lamia is off limits.” Quackity butts in, a little more aggressive than anyone expected. George blinks at him, watching as his best friend went to scratch behind his neck. “...Sorry, I’m already using her for extra credit.”

“Extra credit?!” George hollers. He shakes his head. “Never mind. What even is this dare?”

“Lamia wouldn’t count anyway because you say you know her.” Karl offers.

George throws his hands up. “I don't remember you guys specifying that as a rule.” 

"It would make sense-"

"No, it wouldn't-!" George isn't going down without a fight. "You said to make friends that isn't you guys. That's literally the dare."

Sapnap tuts disapprovingly. “You know what I meant.” 

No, I didn't, George wants to spit out.

“Bottom line is you should make friends with someone you wouldn’t normally talk to.”

“That dwindles the pool quite a bit then, doesn’t it?” George grimaces. This isn’t looking to be fun anymore.

“No, no- listen-” Quackity chews a bit, stalling before suggesting, “Become friends with someone you don’t like.”

A collective sound of agreement resounds within the group. George does not like where this is going. 

“Someone like Dream?” Karl giggles innocently. 

George shoots the Hufflepuff a glare. “No.”

“Someone like Dream!” Sapnap gasps, excitement laced in his tone. George feels an impending doom creep up on his shoulders.  “Okay, I dare you to be friends with Dream.”

George’s jaw drops. “You’re serious?!” The three Americans nod eagerly. “Then, I refuse.”

Sapnap frowns comically. “You can’t say no now! None of us said no to a dare.”

“None of you are smart enough to keep your dignity!”

“None of us are chicken actually.” Quackity rebuts. 

“Am not!” George runs a hand through his hair. His friends were willingly digging his own grave, and he needed to climb out. “Besides, it’s only the second week. We have ten more months of dares – can’t we let this go?”

“You’ve made too many rules about this, George.” Quackity whines, slumping over the table. “It’s literally so easy.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Karl tucks his hands between his armpits, resembling a bird.  He starts to bawk like a chicken, Sapnap joining in as they taunt George to submit into their peer pressure.

“Just shut up!” George yells. The three of them stop, eyes wide as they await for an answer. In their moments of silence, George brainstorms the pros and cons of accepting and denying their offer. 

George couldn’t bear to sit with Dream for one class, but if he was to sit with the Slytherin for the remainder of the year, what difference would it make if they conversed on a more regular basis? Sure, George’s dignity would be in the gutter, and he’d be in a constant state of irritation, but his friends made a good point. It’s not a physically hard task, but Merlin would it drain him emotionally. Dream, the man who was too excitable for his own good; Dream, the Slytherin who riled him up in all the worst ways with only a week’s damage.

He prays a silent plea towards whatever forces sat pretty in the sky, hoping they would shine him some mercy. “ Merlin , I hate you all. Do I have a deadline?”

“End of the month works”  Sapnap shrugs. “It’s just to fulfill the incentive, since the group project is due… like in three weeks?”

Sapnap and Quackity nod in unison. George stares at his own plate, now an irredeemable mush of what was supposed to be his lunch. This must be what it’s like to be at rock bottom.

Karl claps his hands together. “Then, it’s settled! Be friends with Dream by October.”

George groans. 

This year is going to be the end of him.

END OF ACT I

Chapter Text

ACT II - FRUITS OF LABOUR

Befriending Dream isn’t a dare – it’s a damned chore. 

The idea was doomed from the start. George isn’t the willing type to let bygones be bygones, and Dream isn’t the helping type to clear up his attitude. If there’s one thing George despises, it’s a lack of effort. If anything, this was just another thing added onto his plate. George has bit off more than he could chew as is. 

Merlin, how far had he fallen from Grace.

Sapnap and Quackity pester him after that lunch break, nudging the reluctant Ravenclaw down the stairs where his week-long enemy sat idly by the blackboard. Dream faces forward, glancing at the students piling back into the Charms auditorium, and George wants nothing more than to run out the door.

His window of opportunity grows too slim for him to fit through as Professor Flitwick waddles back to the center of the room, urging them to settle in quickly. George, thankfully, is yanked back to his rightful seat by Quackity’s side. Sapnap shakes his head, offering a dramatic pout as he mouths: Coward .

Quackity waves a hand, whispering. “Give him some time.”

George just thanks whatever stars aligned in his favour. Running on borrowed time was always his specialty. 

As Professor Flitwick gives everyone the same lecture he’s required to about the incentive, George can’t help but eye the blond boy that was his one-way ticket to accomplishment. By another miracle, Flitwick promises the students he’ll give students the choice to sort amongst themselves by the end of the month. That man was too nice to his students sometimes. George gladly accepts his kindness, grateful as he goes another class without a single encounter from Dream.

It’s counterproductive, and Sapnap won’t let up on George’s reluctance. Quackity swears he’ll watch over George during Herbology as the three of them get separated in the hallways. George grumbles under his breath, holding his textbooks closer to his chest. The dare looms overhead like a dark cloud.

Every class is a broken record and George uses that extra time to fake his death in the Black Lake. Or at least, plan to. However, Professor Longbottom cuts the tangent short, and instead starts on their supposed final project. George read it over in the syllabus last week: sixth year Herbology students would be tasked to choose a plant, care for it, write an extensive research essay on its properties and personal experience with it. It seemed easy enough, but Professor Longbottom insisted everyone display an elaborate understanding of whatever plant they’re stuck with. 

The class gathers into a huddle as Professor Longbottom directs them to the back of the greenhouse. Along the shelves were rows of aged terracotta pots, filled to the brim with dirt and animated stickers of which plant it housed. A plague of greenery and vines entwined between each plant, some only just sprouting and some well into their growth stage.

“As you can see, we have a wide array of plants to choose from.” Professor Longbottom introduces, waving his hand about as he reads out each individual sticker. He points at spiky leaves, curled petals and abnormally long stems as the class falls into an indistinguishable chatter of their own. As Professor Longbottom nears the last row, his shoulders slump like he’s embarrassed. “I know a portion of you are Ravenclaws, so this could be up your alley. This row here is… well, they’re a challenge.”

George furrows his brow. They’re plants. How hard could they be?

Professor Longbottom picks out one pot with careful hands, tongue sticking out in concentration as he regains his balance. He cradles a… pink? – George thinks it’s pink. It could be a very faint red too – flower whose petals looked seconds away from wilting. “This is a big one. Petulant Peony, as famously known. It’s terribly high-maintenance, and somewhat of a hassle to take care of, but if one of you thinks you can handle it- by all means!”

Crickets hop between the vines as tumbleweeds breeze under students’ robes. An awkward silence settles between the group, neither of them hard headed nor brave enough to take it. George supposes he can understand it. 

This was a N.E.W.T course, meaning the stakes were higher, and there was no use creating hurdles that wouldn’t otherwise be there. Still, it’s demotivating to watch Longbottom’s face skim the room in anticipation. 

He wonders why a Slytherin hadn’t stepped up yet – ambition is supposed to be their entire personality. 

Quackity nudges George’s elbow and the dark cloud over his head thunders. It spells misfortune, and George knows there’s nothing he can do.

“If I dare you to take that pony flower, will you?” Quackity whispers, a muted mischief laced within his vowels. George wonders when he’ll grow bored of all these antics.

“No.” George bites back, keeping a straight face as everyone around him remains in a hushed whisper. “Besides, it’s a peony . Not pony.”

“Look at that.” Quackity snorts. “You know so much about it already.”

 George still doesn’t let up. He’d be a damned fool to take that peony. It’d just be another thing added to his plate. 

His best friend brings a hand up to his chin, humming to himself. “I’ll sweeten the deal. You take the flower, and I tell Sapnap to lay off for the rest of the month. You still have to complete your dare, but I’ll make sure Sapnap won’t be a bitch about it.”

George goes to open his mouth, but reins himself in just as quickly.

Honestly, it was a good trade – mainly because he despised having them light a fire under his pants so unnecessarily, and it all felt so condescending when George couldn’t even bring himself to look at Dream. He knows the Slytherin is lurking somewhere in the crowd – probably behind him, or maybe even the shadows where snakes like to ferment in their predation.

Stop thinking about him. The peony is the current dare. George needs to make up his mind. Quackity pushes, “So will you take it?”

George gives in. He’s embarrassed at how little it took for him to fold. He’s grown soft. “Fine.”

Meekly, George raises a hand and Professor Longbottom immediately lights up. He goes into a long-winded tangent on how he always expects a Ravenclaw to step up, only to highlight that studious stereotype that George wished he didn’t endure.

The pot is heavy in his hands, almost tipping his body weight forward as Professor Longbottom passes it over to him. The rest of the students clamor towards the shelves, a mix of bickering and negotiation between who got what. 

Quackity is joyous as he proudly shows off his yucca plant that only managed to peek three spiked leaves above the dirt. It looked easy, and it looked… alive. 

George frowns. He never got a good look at his peony until now. His flower looked half-dead. Its bulb was too heavy for its stem, and a wet shimmer danced along its edges like tear stains of a person who’d just finished crying. The leaves were shriveled nubs that threatened to flake off at the slightest wind, and even through his colour-blindness George could tell its hues were desaturated by an unreasonable margin. He wasn’t confident a school year was enough to nurse it back to health, but a dare was a dare, and a grade is a grade. 

The rest of the class is left for students to dig through their Herbology textbooks on what information they could find. For George, it meant an intense staring competition between him and a flower until a lightbulb miraculously sparked atop his head. 

Quackity is too busy tending to his soil, trying to cast various nutrifying spells into the dirt. George grows annoyed the more progress Quackity gets with his project. Professor Longbottom swings by to check up on them, reminding them next class to pair up with someone of a different House and the irritation boils under George’s skin. 

How many damned reminders is a wizard going to get about some stupid incentive?

“By the way, Davidson-” Professor Longbottom leans over, trying to catch a glimpse of George’s peony. “If you’d care to take some advice, the peony’s-”

“No!” George shushes him, persisting his death stare towards the flower. “I want to figure it out myself.”

The snip in his tone seemed to sag the flower further, like it took George’s anger too personally. 

“...If you insist.” Professor Longbottom shrugs, walking away to inspect how the other students were coming along.

Class is dismissed shortly after, and George has gotten nowhere. Unproductivity spoiled into a festering discomfort underneath his tie, and it is incredible just how frustration surged through his veins like genuine blood.

“Always the overachiever.” Quackity sighs, tucking his yucca plant back onto the shelf.  “I wish I could dare you to just get some help.”

George sets the pot onto the shelf with too much force. The peony nearly lays flat across the dirt at his aggression, and George groans. “You know, sometimes I wish you could too.”

As the Ravenclaws walk towards Potions, George sits by the cabinets, looking ahead only to find Dream throwing his head back in laughter. How fun it must be to live so unapologetically oblivious. 

George skips dinner that night, too frustrated at everything and anything to keep anything down. He tosses himself into bed, calling it an early night. His anger will subside. 

Tomorrow will be a better day.

☂

When George wakes up, his hopes are crushed as he cements himself back into reality. As he’s walking down with Quackity to grab breakfast, he catches a glimpse of Dream eating quietly at the Slytherin table, preoccupied with a book too small for his palm. George is cruelly reminded it wasn’t all in his head, and that the incentive was real and his friends were evil. 

Embarrassingly enough, George only figured out the ins and outs of the incentive from Lamia's chatter-brain. 

“McGonagall wants to promote collaboration and community across school houses.” Round rimmed glasses sat lazily against the stout blonde's nose, threatening to fall off from the angle Lamia tilted her head at. The Slytherin nods over to Philza, who is still unfathomably her father. Maybe Quackity was onto something with using her for extra credit. “Phil told me McGonagall staged a meeting one day in August. I thought he was off on a business trip, off to the Americas. Maybe someplace sunny like Florida. I think the new exchange student is actually from there. You know the Slytherin one? Lovely guy. Have you met him? His name’s crazy. I thought it was a nickname, and asked for his real one but he insisted on it - Dream, he says. Crazy, right? Like what you do when you sleep.” 

“I know what a dream is.” George bites, slouched forward. He was half-listening to Philza droning on about something interesting, but now he’s just annoyed. George wishes everybody could just shut up about Dream and leave him alone.  “You go off on way too many unnecessary tangents.”

“Well, aren't you a sour lemon...” Lamia recounts, slumping back into her chair. George knows his attitude is unfair, especially when the girl's not done anything except be odd and talkative... Actually, now that he thinks about it, those are definitely grave enough to warrant his distaste. Up by the board, Philza is negotiating the seat plan with students reluctant to part with their friend. “As I was saying,” Lamia continued, “she said something about wizard relations being strained or something so now every professor is desperate to pair up people from different Houses, which I don't exactly get, but..."

That's definitely news. Strained wizard relations? In what sense? His family back in London weren't exactly fans of the Daily Prophet. Actually, never mind. He doesn't want too know.

"At least we don't have that problem, hey?" The girl gestures over to their differing crests, snorting. "Thank Merlin we're in different Houses.”

Thank Merlin indeed. 

Wednesdays might be his only peace just from the fact Ponk and Lamia already keep him company and coincidentally abide by the incentive’s guidelines. 

He finds the incentive so unnecessary, considering he’s friends with basically a counterpart of every House. Maybe except for Slytherin  — well… now that George thinks about it, Lamia's an acquaintance at best. If that.  Merlin , he was supposed to befriend Dream now. Life couldn’t get any worse.

At lunch hour, George drags his feet into the Great Hall with his head hung low. He avoids glancing at the Slytherin table in fear Dream would be conveniently staring back.

Today, their quartet huddles by the edge of the Gryffindor table, with Karl and Sapnap scarfing down their meals. Quackity is busy writing down some Arithmetics equations, and George just sits there. Clearly today bodes no interest for any of them.

So when the conversation is stagnant, George does what he does best. He complains. 

Rather unsurprisingly, he brings up the information he’d siphoned from Lamia and comments on how odd he found it all. 

“You know, you should really pay attention to school announcements.” Quackity says through stuffed cheeks. 

“George never listens.” Karl tuts, holding a sandwich smothered with peanut butter and peas. It’s absolutely vile, but it wasn’t without reason: Sapnap dared him to make a concoction of his own and consume it. It was pretty clear Sapnap meant a potion of some sort because Karl didn’t take Potions, but he decided to take advantage of a loophole instead. “Besides, Dream can’t be all bad. He seems like a nice guy.”

“He’s from Florida.” George grits out. 

A resounding ‘oooh’ hovered across the table. Sapnap snorts to himself, “Yeah. Good luck with that one.”

“You guys are so mean.” George whines, dropping his head into his hands. He hasn’t talked to a Slytherin before – okay, at least not by his own doing. Lamia just yaps on, no matter who listens. George has asked one for a pencil here and there when he’s shared classes with Slytherins, but other than that, he had nothing. – and he didn’t want to start with Dream of all people. 

He’s a transfer student and although George somehow has a knack for befriending those, he’s also a stranger. George doesn’t do well with strangers. The only reason Karl and Sapnap are at this table is because Quackity lured them in with his boisterous personality. George just happens to be there. 

Quackity nudges him rather harshly, pulling the Ravenclaw out of his own thoughts. He whispers, “Look over there!”

In the same way, Dream, too, just so happens to be there. Standing at the Great Hall entrance, looking like he’d forgotten something. 

George immediately looks away. “I thought you said you wouldn’t pressure me on this!” He pinches his brow, keeping his voice down.

Quackity shrugged. “I said I’d ask Sapnap to lay off, not that I’d stop. Loopholes, George. Loopholes.”

The three of them snicker; George rolls his eyes far into his skull. 

As he looks back over to the entrance, Dream is still standing there. 

George does not know how he’s going to approach him. 

☂

George has a rough start to his morning, and it’s out of character. 

He’s horrified as he jolts awake, noticing the sunrays searing through the tower windows. Usually, he arose with the sun, but it seemed like the sun got a headstart on him. George nearly leaps out of bed, scampering from the bathrooms to his dresser. He glances at the star-speckled ceiling, where two marble hands ticked slowly. Merlin, he’d overslept .

This is unbelievable.

He runs on pure autopilot as he throws his robes over his shoulders, and hurriedly fishes out his textbooks for the day. He didn’t have time! He ditches the textbooks, deciding he’ll figure it out at lunch hour. 

George basically clambers up the stairs and bursts through the door. His fellow Ravenclaws stare oddly at his hurry, but he doesn’t have time to explain. He just needs to get to class, and maybe he can ask Ponk for some parchment- or maybe he’s seeing Lamia today? Merlin, he doesn’t know what day it is-

He’s skittering down the Ravenclaw tower steps, fiddling with his tie as he tries to keep himself presentable for his morning class. He doesn’t know what Quackity would do if George lost House points for being late and for looking messy.

His tie is unbelievably difficult today, or maybe it’s because George can’t quite focus on tying it properly as he runs across the halls. Dipping his gaze downwards, he finds his tie knotted up all weird and he groans. This cannot be happening right now.

His pace doesn’t slow as he tries to fix his tie, and his eyes are affixed onto his fingers as he wrestles with the stubborn piece of fabric. 

All of it leads to disaster as he collides directly into another student, which sends him staggering backwards.

George looks up, apology in his throat, only to be soured down as he notices who it is. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Dream looks at him with wide eyes, trying to bite back a smile. George feels embarrassed, aware of how unruly he looked. “Should I say it or should you?”

“Watch where I’m going- yadda yadda.” George does not have time for this. “Move over, Dream. I’m late for class.”

“Really?” Dream tips his head forward, raising a brow.  “And where are you heading?” 

George gulps. He doesn’t know. “...Arithmancy.” 

“That’s weird.” Dream tilts his head, like he’s taking the piss out of him. “I don’t recall having Arithmancy at this hour.” 

“Yeah, because Ravenclaws are with the Hufflepuffs, idiot.” George scoffs, stepping over to the side. He doesn’t even care anymore. George just needs to get to class – get away from Dream.

Before he can get any further, Dream snorts to himself.

George stops. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s Thursday, George.” What? George could’ve sworn– Wait. 

It’s only then his brain properly processes his sense of time. The only reason  he overslept- right . Yesterday, Quackity dragged George to the Ravenclaw tryouts after class for some House pride. Afterwards, Karl invited Sapnap and the Ravenclaws to the Hufflepuff common room, and—  long story short: George was terribly off-schedule for his assignments and unfortunately bled into the late hours to catch up on lost time. Fuck , Dream was right. It is Thursday.

Dream offers a coy smile that would’ve otherwise come off as polite if George didn’t know any better. George wants to punch that sly smirk off his face. “It’s Thursday and we’ve got Potions together.” 

“I know that now, idiot.” George scowls. Slowly, he turns to face him. “I know my own schedule, thanks.”

“Hm, I’m not entirely sure you do.” Dream pouts. “Now, I’ll be heading off to my Thursday class. You are free to join me.” 

Without a second thought, Dream heads the opposite way. George tries to simmer the boil in his blood. Slytherins must find delight in teasing others. There can’t be any other explanation. History frames them in a bad light, and George likes to think the world’s outgrown that mindset, but maybe they were right on some things. Dream is an absolutely insufferable Slytherin. 

It’s a walk of shame that George begrudgingly participates in as he follows Dream close behind, towards the Potions room and not the Alchemy room – or did he say Arithmancy? Whatever. George was wrong either way. He cowers into his shoulders, too annoyed to say anything. Dream had no authority to belittle him like that. George isn’t a stranger to mistakes; he is only human after all. Yet, he couldn’t shake off the humiliation that crawled upon his back. He shouldn’t care about Dream’s opinion on him. 

When they arrive at their Potions class, another wave of disappointment washes over George as he notices his desk to be empty of his best friend. Professor Slughorn advised everybody to pair off and sit wherever they pleased a couple days ago, and George gave Quackity the green light to sidle up with Lamia by the front. 

Quackity turns to face him now, raising a brow as if to ask: Where were you?

George rolls his eyes as if to say: Long story. 

He takes his seat by the cabinets, far from the other students and best of all, far away from Dream. He doesn’t look at Dream for the rest of the class. It’s not like Dream would notice, but George would like to regain a semblance of triumph before his morning started. 

He was not going to let Dream dim his moods so easily.

Chapter Text

When Professor Slughorn leaves the class to practice their brewing, George’s mood only worsens.

It’s almost pathetic how secluded George is from the rest of class. Everyone’s shoulders bump together over a cauldron, wooden chairs angled inwards as it paved the way for cooperation and friendship to stir itself into their concoctions. 

Professor Slughorn even stops by George’s desk in his solace, whispering: “Davidson, if you’d prefer me to assign you a partner, I can gladly do so. I’m sure you aren’t the only student on your own.”

“It’s fine, sir.” George insists, although the empty chair beside him says otherwise. 

Isolation doesn’t scare him as much compared to others, but it does earn him pity from the professors. George despises it all the same. 

Quackity walks towards the cabinets, pretending to grab additional ingredients as he lingers beside George’s desk. He holds open the cabinet doors, but he doesn’t inspect what’s inside. “From what I heard, Dream isn’t paired up with anyone right now.”

That’s somehow even worse than Slughorn’s pity. George scoffs, “I’m getting there.”

“Are you?” Quackity tilts his head, skeptical. “Have you even tried talking to him yet?”

George bares his teeth. “I’ll get there.”

His best friend drops it, closing the cabinet doors. “Always so stubborn. Can I dare you to talk to him before lunch?”

This is so annoying. George doesn’t offer a response, to which Quackity just shrugs before returning to his seat. 

As much as it pained to admit, Quackity was right. Once next week rolled around, it would mark a fortnight until George had to turn in that group project and complete the dare. There’s no merit in starting a project the day it’s due, so George needed to rope Dream in at least a week prior. 

The earlier, the better, yet it was such a daunting task to the point it became demoralizing. 

When dismissed from Potions, George doesn’t stick by Quackity in the hallways – as if to cement his commitment to the dare. Instead, he’s the first to leave, trying to get to Care of Magical Creatures as early as possible to talk some sense into Professor Grubbly-plank. 

Maybe he could convince her to let him work alone. There’s nothing a good negotiation can’t fix, and maybe Professor Grubbly-plank is a merciful witch. She’s a fan favorite among students, so it must be for a reason. 

With strained legs and tight breaths, George tries to regain his composure as he approaches Professor Grubbly-plank. She’s busy talking to another second year, brandishing a polite smile as she clasped her hands together. 

This was it. 

George needs to just ask politely, and suggest he work alone. He can bring up his work ethic, his grades, his terrible luck of partnering with others- well, he’s got quite the tools under his belt. 

This request should go off without a hitch.

“Absolutely not.” 

Professor Grubbly-plank squashes his confidence as if she were stomping on a worm. 

“Davidson, I do admire your courage but the rules are absolute.”

George does not want to take ‘no’ for an answer. “It’s not courage, miss. Time is running out, and nobody’s partnered up with me yet. Surely that means I get a pass? I’m scoring highly either way, partner or no partner.”

“I am well aware of your abilities, Davidson.” Grubbly-plank is equally resistant to give in. “Your grades are distinguishable, but you’ll be docked off marks for class cooperation. As I understand, there are an even number of students, and so an equal distribution within Houses. There fails to be a circumstance where you have to work alone.”

George can’t hide the scowl on his face. This fucking sucks. Everything sucks: the new incentive, the group project– fuck everybody and everything. He takes a deep breath and grimaces. “Thank you for your time, Professor. I look forward to today’s class.”

“I’m sorry, Davidson.” Grubbly-plank doesn’t look as remorseful as she sounds, or maybe George just refuses to acknowledge the pity in her eyes. The last thing he wants is for her to think he’s some kind of loner. “Today, I’m letting you lot roam the forest and write up a report on what you find. I know you love those kinds of days, so I hope that lifts your spirits.”

She’s right – it would ease his disappointment, but it won’t simmer his frustration. George offers her a half-smile, before dragging his feet against the dirt to rest against a tree. He waves his wand about to rearrange his textbooks, floating up in the air as he reorganizes himself so he’s got his parchment and quill ready for the report.

The rest of the students file in, blots of reds, blues and greens that he wouldn’t recognize. George doesn’t look up to see if Quackity and Sapnap join him for today, already thinking of his next course of action. If Grubbly-plank wasn’t going to let up on this incentive, then that means George simply had to bite the bullet and talk to Dream.

It’s absurd. He doesn’t even know what to say to him, especially after their altercation this morning. Dream likes to toy with him every chance he gets, and George is growing tired of it with each passing day. The Ravenclaw can’t believe how bored he can get with only two weeks of someone’s company. 

Professor Grubbly-plank stays true to her word – in more ways than one it seems , George grumbles – and dismisses the class to roam on their own. George gladly flees the scene, slipping past the bushes and through the trees until his classmates’ distinct chatter faded into a comfortable white noise. With only the birds chirping above, and the leaves rustling beneath, George tries to loosen his shoulders.

It’s a feeble attempt, and George knows this little excursion won’t result in anything academically productive, but it’s still nice to be surrounded by nature. After a few minutes of aimless walking, George stumbles upon a tiny pond.

Surrounded by spindly branches and airy bushes, the pond sat peaceful and undisturbed. No signs of visitation scarred the willow bark hanging above the tiny pond. Long grass swayed lightly with the wind, sagging a bit from the cool temperature. The pond ripples softly against itself, littered with algae and intricate lily pads that housed a beautiful array of flowers.

The plants have made this pond their home, and George wonders if they’ll let him intrude for just a while. 

Gently, he lowers himself onto the soft moss. Loose petals scatter underneath his fingers, watching the leaves skid across the pond. The pond was beautiful, and George wonders if he can ever appreciate it enough.

Well, it’s what the report was for. Merlin , he hated this class. It’s so pointless to pair people into groups, because Houses won’t even matter in the real world. Nobody’s going to hire anyone on the scope of their Hogwarts Houses – just their grades. George’s contentment spoils into a vile annoyance, curling his legs up to his chest.

Sometimes he wonders how the world would be if they just thought like him. Creating unnecessary relations all in the name of performative cooperation is pointless. George could not stress it enough.

Sulking overrides his drive to finish his class report, but he nips away at it just to make himself feel better. His handwriting is abrasive against the paper, his anger channeling into each flick of his quill. 

The pond was so peaceful in its isolation, but the new incentive sought to villainize it in a way. 

There’s also the matter with Dream, which George still can’t quite get behind. Dream is tall and intimidating, but he doesn’t act like it at all. He thinks he can get through each class with a goofy smile on his face and an academic optimism that George despised. Being new is one thing, but an overt effort to stand out is a near embarrassment. It’s hard to find Dream alone to even carry out the stupid dare because that Slytherin is always with his blood-sucking Housemates. George isn’t as charming as his other friends, so having an audience for something so incredulous is already demotivating. In fact, even if the chance would arise, George isn’t entirely sure how to rope the Slytherin in; knowing him, he’d make some joke out of it, twist it into an insult for his own pleasure and leave like he’d just won a fight.

George’s class report ends with an almost unintelligible conclusion, the Ravenclaw’s handwriting resembling closer to chicken scratch. When he looks up, he notices he’d dug the soles of his feet so deep into the moss to scrape off a footprint. He must’ve gotten too heated while thinking about things. George mutters a silent apology to the wildlife – sorry that he’d expel such negativity into a place so kind. 

As he rolls up his parchment and tucks it into his many pockets, he helps rearrange the moss to where it once gathered, casting spells he’d learned in Herbology to root it back into the soil. After a few careful minutes, the evidence ceased to exist – George is almost proud of himself.

He continues to clean up after himself, trying to preserve that peace the pond gifted him nearly an hour ago. That is, until a harsh wind blows through his robes like a warning.

A snap of a branch, and George’s peace is disturbed. 

He shoots up, his heart pounding as he panics on where to go. Footsteps sound into the silence, and instinctively George dives behind the willow tree, holding his breath.

Silence follows, occasionally broken by shoes against moss and a frog splashing into the pond. 

His curiosity bests him. It’s a risky decision as he peeks a look over the bark, only to find-

No .

Only to find Dream gazing longingly into the distance. 

George fights the urge to curse the sky. 

Fate was a cruel, cruel thing. 

He might just set this whole forest ablaze.

Before he can get caught up in his own anger, George finds it odd Dream managed to get here. For one, this pond was secluded and George isn’t entirely sure how anyone could get here really. Second, Dream isn’t latched onto another student’s shoulder like he usually is. It’s almost odd to see him all alone, and so quiet . Another oddity was the Slytherin’s blatant silence, when he’s usually so friendly and never not engaged in someone’s conversation. For once, Dream is quiet, like he’s trying to make sense of… something .

George almost sees him as a person.

Blegh, that doesn’t even sound right. 

George fully sticks his head out now, too dead set on getting a better view. Dream has no desire to look George’s way, and it’s all too odd. The Slytherin stuffs his hands in his pockets, a relaxed stature to reflect the relaxed haven he so discovered. 

Maybe the pond had power to instill peace within those who idle within. It’s unusual, especially when all George knows is misunderstanding, argument and hostility with Dream. The calm atmosphere would be perfect, George thinks, to right his wrongs and propose they work together for the class group project.

The Ravenclaw is so sure of his gut feeling that he’s about to take a step out of cover, until his dignity leashes him back to the willow’s bark. He doesn’t know if Dream even has a partner for the project yet. 

Although, George does suppose Dream wouldn’t be by himself if he didn’t have a group partner either. Still, a supposition isn’t enough to compel George to reveal himself. 

George sits in his own ceasefire, letting the minutes pass as he fails to do all else. Dream doesn’t speak up once, and George even wonders if he’s there at all, or if he’s some kind of hallucination George conjured up by thinking too badly on his name. A ticking sound rang in his ears, like his brain was counting down. Fuck, George was running out of time to get out.

A distinct whistle sounded through the forest, signalling Grubbly-plank’s roll call for class dismissal. This was his chance at a clean escape! George gulps down his courage, holding his textbooks class. Carefully, he holds out his wand with a firm grip before peeking over the tree’s edge to aim a Muffliato directly at Dream.

George doesn’t wait to see if the spell works; he just runs.

He sprints back towards where the class cohort met for dismissal, and he doesn’t look back. All he does is hope Dream didn’t hear, and most of all, that the Slytherin doesn’t follow.

Everywhere George went, Dream was not far to follow, and it was infuriating – if not mildly scary. The Slytherin lurks in the shadows, and George doesn’t want to give him the opportunity to strike. As much as he hated to admit it, George felt like prey to a python. Running with jagged breaths through spindly trees felt like he was a mouse scampering through tall grass, seeking refuge far, far away.

Stumbling upon his cohort, he fishes around his pockets to turn in his class report, but he’s antsy as he tosses frantic looks over his shoulders. For all he knows, the Muffliato charm may have lasted mere seconds and Dream was a fly tailing his tracks, or a wolf, or–

Too afraid to idle around any longer, George takes Professor Grubbly-plank’s smile as a vague dismissal and runs . He runs as much as he can, but he doesn’t know exactly what from. The textbooks in his arms swing heavy with each jog of his legs, and his lungs ache with fatigue but George isn’t ready to face Dream – not yet. 

Fuck, this is going to be harder than he thought.

Back at the Great Hall, George is poking at his lunch trying to steady his breathing. He didn’t want to reveal he ran for his life just minutes ago, but with his bed hair and wrinkled robes, it’s not like he was anything presentable to begin with.

“Where were you, dude?” Quackity plops down across the table with Sapnap at his side. “We tried to find you so we could fill out those reports together, but you disappeared.”

“Yeah,” Sapnap tilts his head, shrugging, “Grubbly-plank also said you just ran off. I thought you just needed to pee really bad, but Quackity thought you went to the common room. We wanted to check but he literally couldn’t get in.”

“More like chose not to get in.” George cuts in. “He just didn’t want to solve the riddle.”

“You’re right, I didn’t.” Quackity chuckles. “Which reminds me: can you solve the riddle for me? I need to put these back.” He gestures to his textbooks, and then nods over to George’s own pile. “I can take yours back too.”

George simply shrugs, gladly accepting his offer. “Hit me with it.”

“Everyone has it, and no one can lose it in broad daylight, what is it?” Quackity recites, still clutching his textbooks close to his chest. It’s not a particularly difficult riddle, so George just gives him the answer. 

Sapnap reaches over the table to grab at George’s pile of textbooks, all three working together to make his trip back to the common room seamless. Quackity thanks them graciously, before skittering out of the Great Hall with a hurried haste.

Karl walks in minutes later, inevitably pushing them all into a lighthearted banter. George should feel guilty, considering he couldn’t dedicate his full attention to the conversation. He still needed to think of what to do with Dream, and that encounter by the pond… 

Lunch hour ends with an enraged grumble from George’s stomach, and his lunch untouched. The Slytherin lingers in his mind as Sapnap accompanies him to their afternoon classes, and the Slytherin smothers his vision as George finds it difficult to take his eyes off him. Sandy brown curls block the view of the blackboard’s corner, and George doesn’t know what to do. 

Missing a class’ worth of notes, George decides to skip his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. If Dream had this much power to distract him without being in direct proximity of him, he doesn’t know how worse it could get by sitting next to each other for an hour. 

George is on high alert as he walks the opposite way of his class cohort, heading directly to the Ravenclaw tower. His feet drag with every step, like he needed to feel the ground beneath. Skipping class never scared George, yet he still felt on edge. 

He knows why, and he hates that he knows why. 

He’s afraid a certain green smoke trails behind his robes, ready to summon a monster George couldn’t face. He couldn’t even understand why Dream was so terrifying within his mind, but it didn’t hinder the tense in his shoulders as he walked.

Everywhere he looked, he could feel a presence waiting… watching, but when George tosses a glance over his shoulder, the shadow he feared wasn’t out to get him.

He remains cautious across the spiral staircase, up until the knocker itself. He remembers the riddle from Quackity at lunch, and he approaches the grand entrance with a muted urgency.

Before the knocker can get a word out, George spouts, “Your shadow.”

“…I beg your pardon?” It seems to have caught even the knocker off guard.

“The answer to the riddle.” George bites his lip, antsy. He doesn’t know what for. “It’s your shadow.”

The door to the common room swings open at a sloth’s rate, the knocker sighing. “Eager, are we?”

“Quite the opposite.” George grumbles. 

He needs to figure something out about Dream and fast .

Chapter Text

George caves.

After he retreated to the common room, he stewed with his own thoughts for over half an hour. It’s a terrible circumstance to be in for a guy like him – being alone with his mind – but he’d rather that than another hour by Dream’s side. 

Ugh , if he has any chance of completing that dare, he needs to  change that kind of mindset. 

So, now he ransacks Quackity’s drawers like a famished animal. He needed to rein his thoughts together, and the only way to do so was to write it all down. 

He hardly uses notebooks, coming from a quaint wizard family in London. Rarely did he interact with anything Muggle, but Quackity always talked to George about them. Third year, he introduced George to ballpoint pens which were absolutely groundbreaking, yet also disappointing. 

Pens weren’t strong enough to stain parchment, and notebook paper was too flaky for any kind of wizarding ink. 

Still, George always worked better writing his thoughts down and he’d like it better if he’d do it privately. 

Eventually, he finds a spare notebook hidden under several pieces of gum in the bottom drawer. George does find the placement odd, but he would rather not question it. 

Eagerly, he scampers back to a sturdy desk pushed up against one of the bookshelves, and sweeps a few textbooks off the surface. They fall onto the carpeted floor with a loud thud, but George cracks the notebook open with determination.

The fool that he was, George dips a quill in a deep black ink, only to regret it as he watches the ink bleed through the next several pages.

Merlin, George needs to get his head in the game!

The next few minutes are George filing through the textbooks on the floor in case they had anything about cleaning up ink, but to no luck. Going back to the desk, George lifts the notebook with a careless impatience, watching as the soggy pages fell limp with gravity.

This is all going so wrong.

Unfortunately, Quackity barrels into the dorm room seconds later, appalled at George’s so-called impotence, shrilling, “You’re a fucking dimwit, George! I told you to use my pens on those–!”

His best friend tosses his textbooks onto his bed, letting out a groan as he grabs the notebook from George’s grasp. 

Inspecting it, he gapes. “Jesus, how badly did you mess this up?”

George shrugs, unapologetic. “Just the first few pages. I couldn’t find any of your pens.”

“ George… ” Quackity whines, still clutching the notebook in his hand as he walks over to a nearby bookshelf. He files through each title, but neither of them are confident the solution lies within their pages. “I said you could use my spare notebooks if you ever ran out of parchment; it’s literally the second week. What were you even using it for?”

“To plan out how I’m going to talk to Dream?” George says like it’s obvious.

From the incredulous way Quackity whips his head to face him, it sounds less obvious. “...You fucked up one of my only notebooks from home for… an outline?” His best friend snorts. “You better be fucking best friends with the dude when you’re done with him.”

“That’s only if worse comes to worst.” George mumbles, crossing his arms. Their roommate walks in conveniently, knowledgeable of the one spell that could dispel ink from ‘Muggle paper’ as they called it. George sits patiently at his bed, his legs folded as Quackity returns the notebook, good as new.

“Enjoy the notebook.” Quackity then hands him a large pen, a peculiar device that George still isn’t all too familiar with. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

George mutters a silent thanks, clicking the ink on – or however the pen works – and tries again. He watches as the pen glides smoothly across greyed margins, blue ink staining as it reads ‘Operation: Dream’ on the first page.

The next few hours, George cycles through different ideas and scenarios that could play out in the upcoming weeks. He thinks of tragedies, opportunities, school events, and the mindsets of everybody involved. Quackity’s pen braves George’s hyperactivity, pulling through as he scribbles down every thought his mind bursts with.

His focus is interrupted momentarily when Quackity offers him a granola bar, to which George declines – too loyal to the task at hand. Of course, he’s caught up in all his classes so this can qualify as a hobby. Surely, brainstorming multiple ways to befriend someone is an instance that happens often… 

The notebook somehow becomes his latest obsession.

George leans back onto his pillows, an exhausted ache thrumming against his forehead. His eyelids droop with the dimming sky, and soon enough his roommates retreat back to their respective beds with curtains closed.

His pen doesn’t falter. The notebook continues to house the jotting insanity of his thought processes, like this dare was a game of chess to checkmate. Eventually, he submits defeat to the pull of slumber with the notebook sprawled in his lap and his fingers still curled around the pen.

Quackity pays good mind to wake him up this time. 

“I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.” His best friend reasons, before heading off to the bathrooms. George tries to heave himself off the mattress, tired arms and aching shoulders failing to hoist him up. 

Today was Friday, George tells himself. Merlin, it’s pathetic how he has to manually keep track of time like this. 

Stretching his limbs, he feels the hardback dig into his side as he rolls over. The notebook greets him with a sheepish look, or maybe George is finally going crazy. 

Once the morning grogginess wore off, George was back in business. Throwing on his robes and combing his hair, he looked the same as always. The dark circles under his eyes told too much, but other than that, he looked rather ordinary. 

Fine by him. 

George brings the notebook with him to class, tucking it within his pockets alongside his blasphemously sized-down textbooks. He decides it’s good to have it on hand in case new information arises.  

“You know, you’re treating this more like a detective’s operation than a dare.” Quackity comments, munching on a Pumpkin Pasty. 

“I’m scouting the perimeter.” George shrugs. Maybe they weren’t heading to breakfast today. 

“Now you’re talking like some soldier.” Quackity holds out the remaining half of the pasty. “You want some? I’m gonna head straight to Herbology for my plant.”

George rolls his eyes. He wished he could be rid of his Peony. “Don’t remind me. My plant literally sucks.”

Flicking his wand, the pasty hovers in the air as they walk. George has no intention to eat it, but he decides it’s a good option to have. 

Quackity frowns. “Lighten up, George. It’s not all bad!” 

He lightly nudges George’s elbow. 

“You’re a real book nerd.” Quackity supplies. George knows he’s trying to be helpful. “If you want, we can head to the library after class and raid the plant section. There’s gotta be something somewhere.”

George hums, unconvinced. “Sure.”

Once in Herbology, Quackity splits from George’s side to dig out some fertilizer from the supply cabinets. George, on the other hand, sprawls his Herbology textbook across the mossy table, flipping through the pages. 

While he was getting his peony from the shelves, he noticed the slick of its stem and its damp soil. George squints closely at the leaves, dark freckles bundling near the bud of the flower. He asked if anyone messed with his plant while he was gone, but Professor Longbottom assured it couldn’t have been tampered with. Seemingly from pity, the professor pointed George to a wrinkled leaflet that the Ravenclaw reluctantly accepted.

Upon further reading, George found out the peony is worse than he can imagine. With mistreatment, the peony retaliates. It emits a pale, toxic liquid over time, hoping it would kill off their circumstances. Unfortunately, with prolonged stress, that liquid breeds bacteria and strikes up an eventual but guaranteed death sentence. 

George fights the urge to clamp his textbook shut and hurl it at the glass encompassing the gardens. He somehow got fated with a ticking time bomb of a plant that doesn’t want to be fucking saved. 

No matter what he tries — testing the pH levels, casting enrichment charms on the soil, chipping away at the freckles, drying the stem — the peony refused to cheer up. 

The worst part was that it hasn’t even been a half hour into class yet. George groans. 

Raising the white flag, he fishes the notebook out – his game plan. A vile feeling rises in his throat. He does not want to think of Dream right now, but it’s the only way he can be somewhat productive.

Gulping down his remaining dignity, he stretches his neck over muddled heads, only to find the Slytherin nowhere to be seen. Slouching in his chair, his frown sinks to something childish. He guesses Herbology is not going to be his class.

As class is dismissed, George does linger by the shelves – not because of Dream, but because he didn’t want to enact the finishing blow on his peony by putting it away too harshly. Quackity claps him on the shoulder before skittering out of the greenhouses, claiming to save them a seat by the pasta for lunch.

In the hustle and bustle, George scans his surroundings. Professor Longbottom idles by his desk, filing through Herbology papers he must’ve collected from the class prior. A few Gryffindors snicker like children in the back, casting various enlargement charms on a plant that resembled a blobfish. By the door, Dream stands with his hands behind his back, whistling to himself. George squints at that, subtly digging out his notebook before scribbling his oddity down. The Slytherin looks like he’s waiting for somebody, but nobody comes to his aid. Eventually, his face morphs to a look of resignation, and George wonders what goes on in his head. 

The Slytherin straightens his back before strutting out of the greenhouses, disappearing off into the outside. George chews his lip in thought, slipping the notebook back in his pocket. He truly did wonder what went on in Dream’s mind.

The walk back to the castle is silent, but content. Birds chirp off into the distance as a soft breeze tickles the shortgrass beneath him. The stone walls greet him as he walks under archways and into the Great Hall where his best friends eagerly wave for his attention. 

Karl and Quackity sit by the Ravenclaw table, shoulder to shoulder with a jitter in their shoulders. As George sat down, he was immediately bombarded with their collective excitement over the week’s end. George listens intently, nodding here and there. Although, he would be lying if he didn’t say his eyes didn’t travel to the Slytherin table every few minutes. 

Dream isn’t in his field of vision, but it doesn’t stop George from checking. The sea of green, or a dull grey, George supposes, is uneventful – all their faces meddling into something undecipherable.

That is, until Karl snaps his fingers in front of George’s face. The Ravenclaw frowns. “Wh– hey. What do you want?”

“No spacing out today!” Quackity shakes his head disapprovingly, unable to conceal the smile on his face. 

Karl nods enthusiastically, clapping his hands together. “We’re all watching Sapnap’s Quidditch tryouts in the afternoon, aren’t we?” 

Oh, right . That’s why Sapnap’s not sitting with them today. George shrugs, finishing up what remains on his plate. “I couldn’t miss it if I tried.”

☂ 

“ Stands by the door menacingly. Probably waiting to mug me. ” George jumps, only to find Lamia peering over her shoulder with curious eyes, moon-speckled robes smothering her figure. 

After his friends retreated off to class, George lingered by the tables to wrap a few croissants so Sapnap would have an after-tryouts snack. As he was just about to gather up his textbooks for Transfiguration, he caught sight of Dream again. George almost wants to hex him just from that alone. 

The weird thing was, Dream was idling by the Great Hall’s entrance. Again, he was whistling to himself, but this time, he was twiddling his thumbs. George did not know who he was waiting for, but it had to be something important. Maybe he was planning something diabolical, or waiting for another Slytherin for a conspiracy meeting. 

Two times is enough to arise suspicion, so George had no choice but to document it.

What he didn’t account for was Lamia being so damn nosy about it. He's barely known her for a week, and she already seemed way too interested for someone George would barely give the light of day. The blond blinks at him innocently, still inspecting the other contents of the page. “Who’s that about?”

George shuts the book closed, biting the inside of his cheek. He humours her just this once. “Dream. The new Slytherin.”

It’s odd to talk about Dream so normally. Especially in a context that isn’t cursing his name, or begging his friends to keep away from his path. 

“My… friends dared me to be friends with him by the end of the month,” George explains, before realizing it doesn’t explain why he’s documenting his behaviour in a journal. He sputters to save face, “but he’s terrible, okay? He’s not nice to me at all, so I have to write down all that I know so I can figure out the best approach. It’s not- it’s a strategy.”

“Is it?” Lamia drums her fingers against the table, tilting her head comically as if in deep thought. “I don't think he's that threatening. Nobody who calls themselves 'Dream' thinks they're all that.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” George cuts in. “For all I know, you're probably best friends with him. I know about the Slytherin loyalty bond you guys have. Also, you don’t know how he acts with me.”

“You got me there.” Lamia goes to roll up her sleeves, revealing a platitude of silver jewelry jangling from her wrists. “With that logic, you can't say you know how he is around other Slytherins either. You say he's a pissbucket on legs, but I say he’s kind of quiet, actually. Neither of us can speak over our personal biases.”

So pretentious, George thinks. Still, he humours her. “Oh, yeah? What's next? I suppose he also reads kids literature in a corner and saves cats from trees.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised about the cats thing, but he does read.” Lamia comments off-handedly, fiddling with the charms on her bracelets. When George throws her a glare, she doesn't falter. “You don't have to keep giving me the stink-eye, you know? I have no reason to lie to you, sir. I thought he'd be into the stuff I read, but it's stuff on mythology, I think. Novellas and whatnot – only the classics. Not my kind of literature, but still books. I can never get a good conversation in with him.”

Not my kind of literature. Lamia's dastardly book comes into memory then. Dream? Uninterested in dark arts? George purses his lips. That doesn’t live up to the image he had in his head. Shaking his head, he mutters. “Don't believe you.”

"Merlin, George." Lamia looks up from her bracelets, frowning. "If anything, you sound like the piss-bucket now. I'm trying to be nice here, you know? All you do is shut me down. It's getting annoying now."

That catches George off guard. He wasn't exactly kind to Lamia, but he didn't want to ward off a potential... accomplice. He's already lost his usual pair of helping hands with this new incentive. What exactly did he aim to achieve by burning down another bridge? A tinge of guilt cuts its way into his gut, spoiling his lunch passing through. "...Sorry."

He's not entirely sure he means it yet. Maybe he could once Lamia finally pipes down on her yapping. Merlin, that's not the right attitude to have, is it? 

George watches the way she plays with her jewelry, idle and bored as they all waited for Philza to walk in and commence the class. Her style was peculiar indeed. Maybe understanding an enigma could help him resonate. "Are you dressing up for something?"

He must've said it quieter than he meant to, because Lamia simply looks up at him, confused. "Hm?"

"Your get-up." George points, noting the various star-riddled constellations upon her sleeves. The fact Hogwarts hasn't reprimanded her for vandalizing the school uniform must be some kind of nepotism bonus. "Is it for something special or do you just..."

The 'Do you just dress like that?' goes unsaid, but Lamia doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, she lights up, a distinct sparkle in her eyes as she spills. "Oh! Yes! I'm attending an esbat later today!"

An esbat?! Now that's a word he doesn't hear everyday. He knew witches and wizardfolk still practiced historical rituals, but he didn't think it'd have a follower so... modern. Now that's interesting. "...How often do you attend those?"

"Only happens every full moon." Lamia nods, the moons stitched into her fabric now gaining some newfound significance. "Keeps me busy while I wait for my sabbats!"

Sabbats. George winces at that, his face scrunching up at the word. It didn't sound good. 

"George, it's not a scary thing." Lamia's energy dips, her mood spoiling into something defensive. "It's a magical holiday. Maybe you should pick up a book instead of stalking a Slytherin who's just trying to make it through his year."

Back to the discussion of Dream then. George rolls his eyes, hoping to shut it down. "Sure."

By some miracle, a crow flies in through the window and morphs into their Transfiguration professor, saving George from the conversation. Lamia doesn't let it go. “I mean it, George. Sometimes things aren't as scary as they may seem.”

The Ravenclaw shrugs it off. He wasn't obligated to Lamia's company anyway, he reasoned. No point in wasted effort.

☂ 

George has run through five breathing exercises and thirteen different scenarios in his head before he even arrives at the Defense classroom. He doesn’t know what he’s so scared of, or what he’s anticipating. He guesses that’s the issue. 

When his life’s been built upon structure and expectation, Dream’s wild card nature was unsettling and mind-boggling. Still, George puts on a brave face and marches to his seat by the window.

He keeps his gaze affixed to the blue sky stretching just outside. He doesn’t falter as a shuffle of footsteps flood the room, nor does he even investigate the creak of a chair beside him. Dream sits down, unraveling his stationery out on their desk. Knowing him, he would take up three quarters of the space just to personally annoy George.

Bad greets the class with the same enthusiasm he carries in his shoulders. George makes an effort to stare at the blackboard now, focusing on the scratch of his quill to avoid staring at the shape of Dream’s side profile.

“Avoiding me?” Dream is the first to speak, which is to be expected. George would never willingly start a conversation with him unless he absolutely had to. Unfortunately, as the world would have it, he definitely needed to – and not for the right reasons. 

So, George entertains him. “Of course. Can’t stand you at all.”

He cranes his neck towards Dream, and his eyes start to water from sheer reluctance. George hopes he doesn’t notice. Dream chuckles to himself, doodling at the corners of his parchment. “Really? Is that why you’re following me around?”

What?   George scoffs, trying to play it cool. “You wish.” 

“You’re so desperate for my attention, it’s kinda weird.” Dream clicks his tongue. A knowing grin grows on his cheeks, and George so desperately wants to whack it off. 

“You’re weird for noticing.” The Ravenclaw hopes he doesn’t realize the subtle admittal. “Besides, I have to. You’re a bully. Who knows when’s the next time you’ll strike?”

Dream’s eyes widen, turning to face him. “Oh, is that what you think of me?”

“Yes, if you’re so curious.”

A beat of silence passes through them.

Dream stifles a laugh. “Is that also why you have my name on your notebook?”

“ No !” George slams his notebook shut, refusing to acknowledge how hot his cheeks felt. 

Merlin, he was sloppy. Sapnap would definitely ridicule him for his lack of subtlety. Dream’s a Slytherin, George tries to reason. He’s cunning – it’s in his nature. 

“Lying is very bad, birdie.” Dream shrugs, but his shit-eating grin reveals his blatant enjoyment. “ Operation: Dream? Are you trying to kill me or something?”

George goes pale. Lie . He blurts, “It’s a branch of Legilimency to see into someone’s dreams.” He tries to act out his nastiest sneer. “You’re not the only thing named Dream, you know. Dreams happen to people who sleep or did they not teach you that over there?”

“I do know.” Dream looks at him now, eyebrows raised. George hopes he believes him. At least to some extent. “And they did teach me. I don’t think I’ve heard about that… branch of Legilimency, as you call it-“

“ Because I’m researching it! ” George retaliates. It comes out louder than intended, and it garners the attention of the entire classroom. 

“Five points from Ravenclaw for interrupting the lecture.” Bad tuts, shaking his head. Dream snickers beside him. This is so unfair.

Defeated, George shoves the notebook back into his pocket. He’s not pulling that out in public anymore. Ugh, he’s so embarrassed. Dream looks too relaxed, leaning in his chair with his hands behind his head. 

George bites the inside of his cheek, muttering. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to learn.”

Dream looks over to him, his brows furrowed. He scoffs. “Don’t let me keep you.” 

Annoyance seeps into the line of the Slytherin’s lips. George rolls his eyes. The feeling is very mutual. 

☂ 

True to his word, George finds himself bumping shoulders with half of the sixth year populace in the Quidditch stands on a Friday afternoon.

He scampered out of the Defense classroom with Quackity in tow, eager to claim the best seats in the house. Quackity whined that Karl would have got them anyway, but George didn’t want to take any chances. 

On their way up to the stands, George pats down his pockets, trying to feel for the croissants from earlier. He ticks off a mental checklist when he does, nodding to himself. Quackity practically pulls him up the stairs, pointing over to where Karl presumably sat.

The stands are crowded, and it’s hard to hear anything over the commotion. Yet, their collective attention shifts once the Quaffle is thrown up into the air and a flurry of red– at least, what George knows as red– follows after.

Quackity and Karl holler obscenities as a few third years fly a little too close to the stands. Fourth year beaters smack at Bludgers like their life depends on it above while a couple meek second years barely hover over the short grass below. The tryouts had too much going on, but there was something for everyone in the end. 

Honestly, George did love Quidditch once.

He lived and breathed tournaments as a child; his parents always took him to every Quidditch World Cup. He had posters on his bedroom walls, and he was so eager to fly on his broom in his parents’ backyard. 

He did try out for the Ravenclaw team in second year but he grew bored of it as time bore on. Third year had George juggling Quidditch and his grades on a tightrope, not to mention having to navigate Quackity through Hogwarts on the side. 

Fourth year he’d completely dropped it, and by the summer before fifth year he’d forgotten about it entirely. Chudley Cannons banners were pulled down from his bedroom walls, now replaced with posters of magical theory and wand movements of basic spells. It’s the main reason he refrained from inviting Quackity over to his place during the breaks thereafter. He was too ashamed to reveal how his bedroom represented more of an instructional theater than a place to sleep. 

It’s not until Sapnap transferred over that following year that his prowess got the entire group rooting for the Gryffindor team, no matter how loyal Quackity fought for Ravenclaw’s points.

He doesn’t miss playing the sport. Yet, when Sapnap whizzes through the air on his Firebolt scoring every time he catches the Quaffle, George wonders what it’d be like to be on the team.

 The Gryffindor tryouts were always jam-packed with onlookers, mainly because it was a Friday afternoon and Gryffindor had their star player doing hat tricks for all to see. 

Karl whoops as loud as he can, his yellow-black scarf falling off his shoulders as the September winds flush his cheeks; Quackity claps until his hands run sore, sounding out cheers of his own. 

George crosses his arms, watching several amateur Keepers try to block Sapnap’s throws. Only a few toss it aside by the skin of their teeth, but it’s enough to get them on the team. 

George always wondered why Sapnap was casted as a Chaser, and not a Beater nor Seeker. He had the build for Beater – brawny shoulders and a stiff hold – but he was also gifted with the agility of a Seeker. 

Somehow, he remained a Chaser. 

George did bring it up a couple of times, if not a few. Sapnap always rebutted it with a: “Chasers get the most action.”

He supposed he was right, but he didn’t quite get it. Even when George was on the team, the Ravenclaw always sought out the Seeker role. It required the least effort for the majority of the game, and if there’s one thing about George, it’s that he’ll always appreciate a shortcut.

Well, he guesses it’s why he’s not on the team. 

Sapnap wanted to pursue a Quidditch career after Hogwarts – specifically a spot in the Sweetwater All-Stars all the way in Texas. George knew that. He supposed they would need more Chasers, if more rookies statistically opted for the stronger roles.

George does admire how Sapnap had such a determined vision of his future. It’s something he lacked, and something a part of him wished for.

Once the tryouts are over, the three of them burst into the Quidditch change rooms to congratulate Sapnap on a team well made. George passes him the croissants from lunch, that were undoubtedly stale at that point, but Sapnap pulls him into a tight hug all the same.

 They subsequently get ushered out by the rest of the Gryffindor team, throwing Sapnap out with them. Walking back to the castle, they’re a giggling mess of three students with a Ravenclaw lagging a beat or two behind, too caught up in his own head.

George eyes Sapnap curiously as he throws an arm over Karl’s shoulder, thanking everybody for coming on by. He watches as the red in Karl’s cheeks linger as he gulps down the shake in his voice no doubt from the cold. Quackity hypes them up, boasting on how Sapnap would be the one to bring the Quidditch Cup home this year. 

George bites the inside of his cheek. It doesn’t matter. 

It’s all Sapnap’s choice, and sometimes collective strength brings the game home. George shouldn’t speculate about anyone’s choices but his own. 

People love Sapnap as a Chaser. Quackity and Karl love him as a Chaser. George thinks he should too. 

 His friend would definitely get into the big leagues with that kind of talent. George should be happy for him anyway. It’s what friends do.

Back in the common room, once George catches up on all his schoolwork for the upcoming week, he idles with his own thoughts. 

As adamant as George was to think ahead, his biggest flaw was never thinking far enough.

Staring up into the darkness, George listens to the soft snore of his neighbouring best friend. He wondered if Quackity ever thought of the future like he did – not any major plans like Sapnap and his Quidditch career, but minuscule daily occurrences. Stuff like how conversations were to go, or what the weather was going to be like.

Surely, they’re the same thing. Right?

George turns on his side, curling into himself. 

That night, he dreams of the wind in his hair and a cold broomstick icing his fingers. It almost feels real. Almost.

Chapter Text

Sending letters to his mother brings George a new challenge. 

George slouches against his desk, quill in hand yet ink dripping with nothing to say. 

Two weeks have gone by, and not once has he thought to write her anything. In his first few years at Hogwarts, he would fold lengths of paper just to fit them into an envelope, but now he struggles to write even a simple greeting. 

The only reason he remembered is because Quackity was curled up on the carpet, scrawling a letter to his parents and disappearing off to the school owlery to get it delivered. 

There’s an absence of guilt when George remembers, but what is there to say? 

He could do the usual status update: that he’s already proactive on his lectures and aims for excellency on his exams and assignment.  

Or, he could commit to a bitter confession: that Quackity forced him into a little game of daredevil. 

He could mention his visits to Madame Pomfrey, or the fact he now has to befriend the Slytherin George rubbed the wrong way on the first day. 

Ugh, George groans. None of that would work.

His mother would frown upon the truth, disappointed that he’d agreed to such foolish antics. Still, it must be boring to open your son’s letter to the same old academic monotony.

Disapproval and stagnation hangs over him like a warning.  

George slides the empty letter away, chewing on his lip. 

He can return to this another day. 

Besides, it won’t be too much of a lie if he says his studies kept him away. 

☂

Never mind. George can’t use that excuse either.

With the third week of school starting up, his studies have almost taken a backseat – too preoccupied with the dare that he couldn’t think of anything else.

The dare itself wouldn’t be a problem to even sweat about, until it did.

Nothing is working.

Dream is completely, and irrevocably resistant to all of George’s advances. 

The Slytherin did not entertain the idea of them being friendly, and it’s throwing a wrench into all of George’s plans. 

Monday, George tries to soft launch his business proposition, offering Dream some stationary only to be rebutted with “Thanks, birdie. I’m glad you think I’m unprepared for our class, but I have a quill right here.” 

During each class, George lingers by cabinets and awkwardly clings to the walls just to overhear Dream with his other Slytherins in hopes an opportunity would arise for him to jump into conversation. Dream catches on quite quickly, calling him out rather obnoxiously on his odd behavior.

Humiliated, George avoids him for the rest of the day.

Tuesday, Quackity urges him to try again. Venting in the Ravenclaw common room doesn’t earn him well-deserved pity, just a well-meaning indifference to focus on the matter at hand. 

Dream does not go a single class without hugging the backs of his fellow Slytherins, and it’s absolutely annoying. Lamia had to be lying when she said Dream liked to keep to himself. His den of snakes encircling him like a posse would say otherwise.

Care of Magical Creatures is utterly hopeless, and Charms doesn’t exactly give him an opportunity to walk all the way to the front to make amends. Sapnap and Quackity talk him through it like he was having a panic attack, but George was far from distressed. 

 As the sand dwindled in the hourglass, so did George’s patience. 

“Rumour has it he’s holding out for you.” Quackity waggles his eyebrows menacingly. It’s lunch hour, and George can’t seem to focus on the food in front of him. He needed to get Dream alone. It would minimize the humiliation of actually trying to talk to him. The real issue was to do exactly that.

If Lamia goaded on Dream being such a lone wolf, the evidence needed to show up for it. 

George thins his lips. “And where’d you hear that?”

“Lamia.” Quackity shrugs. That loon! “Very reliable source. She tells me everything; she's like our own personal inside agent.”

“She's a terrible source.” George rolls his eyes, poking at his meatloaf. He watches as the gravy pools into the ceramic dip of the plate. “If anything, Dream’s probably finding this entire thing hilarious only to reject me because he’s already got someone else.”

“Chill,” Sapnap nudges his elbow, “It’s a group project, not a love confession. If he’s waiting, just ask.”

“I’ve tried!” George exasperates, his fork clattering onto the hardwood. “I swear I’ve tried, Sapnap. It’s crazy – he won’t let me! He just makes fun of me like I’m the butt of the joke and—”

“Have you actually asked him ‘Hey, let’s be group partners for the Magical Creatures project’ ?” Quackity mimics an obnoxious English accent before frowning, “‘Cause I don’t think you have.”

Sapnap and Karl agree wordlessly. George grumbles in defeat, shoulders sagging. 

“Fine.” Disgruntled, George jams a piece of meatloaf into his mouth. The taste is equally disappointing. “I’ll ask him on Monday.”

Karl looks up from a History paper he’s currently working on. “Isn’t that cutting it kinda close?” 

Sapnap slaps George’s shoulder, chuckling. “Have some faith in him, Karl. George gets things done.”

“That he does.” Quackity helps himself to another serving, and all George can do is sigh. 

Staring down at his half-eaten meatloaf, he just hopes the pain will be over soon.

☂

George should have restricted himself to a tighter deadline.

Waiting around for Monday curdles his anticipation  into a vile impatience. He can’t focus on his studies, nor can he keep his eyes away from the Slytherin that seemed to pop up in every corner of his day like a tumour. 

He uses his homework to distract himself, but finds his rigorous work ethic more of a curse than a liberty. Finishing them up too early left him with enough free time to fret over nothing, and his friends have noticed.

George snaps at the tiniest of offenses only to mutter an empty apology seconds after. Karl pulled him aside that Friday, just to check in, but George simply shook his head and insisted he was alright. Once he got Dream alone and persuaded him to be his partner, the dreaded dare would be over and done with and he wouldn't have to feel this way ever again.

The ill-fated Monday arrives, and George thinks he might be sick. 

He doesn’t get a wink of sleep, too nervous to even lay down. He mutters Aguamenti under his breath throughout the night, swishing his wand around as he refilled the cup over and over and chugging it down after each incantation. Frequent trips to the toilet aren't as inconvenient as he thinks when he remembers the alternative is spilling his guts onto the midnight blue carpet. 

He recites conversations in his head, preparing for every nasty remark Dream could spout at him. Dream’s never been particularly evil with him, just snarky. Still, it’s better to be safe than sorry. 

This is going to be the day he completes the dare, and all will be well. His friends can finally leave him alone, and they can change the rules and he’ll never have to worry about this again. 

George slips out from the common room at sunrise, deciding he’d rather not garner an audience to his proposal. 

Yuck, he doesn’t want to call it a proposal. It’s a suggestion, a contract – an agreement between two students for the grade. George facepalms. The sleep deprivation is getting to him. 

Exhaustion throbs against George’s skull, but he’s fuelled by raw spite as he descends down Ravenclaw tower. The floor is soft under his feet, and stars blur the corner of his eyes. He rarely pulls all-nighters and it really shows. 

Merlin, his head is killing him. He could pay a visit to Pomfrey at the infirmary, but headaches are definitely overdone.  He wonders if he can read up on some kind of concoction in the library that can keep him awake for the remainder of the day. 

Coffee isn’t good enough for him; he hates the taste. Besides, once the rush wears off, that headache is just gonna return ten times worse. Maybe once he finds the recipe, he can pay a visit to Slughorn and use one of the cauldrons for something quick. 

A lady clad in black greets him at the library entrance, her large hat obstructing her eyes. George simply nods back, beelining towards the potions section. George would never admit this, but he’s a nonce when it comes to Potions. He barely got an Exceeds Expectations to get into the N.E.W.T. program, but that’s a secret he’s willing to take to his grave. 

One would think if someone was struggling in Potions, they’d be well acquainted with the rows upon rows of Potions knowledge in the library corner. Unfortunately, George likes to subvert expectations. 

The Ravenclaw is a chicken running without its head blindly skimming through Potion titles. He tries a randomized algorithm: picking out a fancy looking title and flipping through the pages and hoping for the best. That doesn’t do him any favours, because he cycles through shelf after shelf to no avail.

Something pounds against his skull the more he tries to think, and it’s terrible. At this point, people would give up and get some shut eye, but not George. Instead, he turns the corner and mutters an Accio book with headache remedy and swishes his wand. 

It doesn’t work. Obviously. 

He smacks himself on the forehead, groaning. He might have to make that visit to Madame Pomfrey after all. 

“The early bird comes to get his worm.”

George’s soul leaves his body.

“ Fucking -” The Ravenclaw staggers back into another shelf, his back colliding harshly with the hardwood. Heart pounding, he whips his head to find—

Of course , he would be here. 

“ Dream .” It’s said with such disdain that George is almost embarrassed by it. The Slytherin leans back into a tan armchair, a leg propped up over the other. In his hands is a novella, his fingers blocking the title. Judging from the wear on the spine, the story was definitely ancient. The worst part is, Dream isn’t even looking at him. That doesn’t matter. George remembers the dare; he remembers his purpose. “...Why aren’t you in your common room?”

“Plumbing problem.” Dream doesn’t look up from his novella. In fact, his eyes are so affixed to the page that George even wonders if Dream knows it’s George that he’s talking to. “I would ask you the same thing but knowing you, the answer isn’t gonna come as nicely.”

And there goes the petty remark. George rolls his eyes, diverting his attention back to the shelves. If Dream isn’t going to be a good sport about things, neither will he – at least not yet.

Although, the itch to prove him wrong is debilitating. 

Digging his nails into his palm, George mutters. “Looking to help a migraine.”

That catches Dream’s attention. He perks up almost as if to ask a question. George turns to look at him, fighting to keep a neutral facade. This was progress. He’s one step closer to asking–

“Are you okay?” Dream raises a brow. “You don’t look like you slept. Like, at all.”

“Awesome because I haven’t.” George clips, running a hand through his hair. Maybe the exhaustion is making him snappy. Shit, he needs to speed this up. If he acts out of line even once , his chances are shot. He blubbers, “Look, Dream. I need to talk to you. Are you free today?”

“…I’m free right now.” Dream shuts his book closed. Nausea crawls up George’s throat, the anticipation lurching in his gut. Shit , he didn’t expect him to be so open. It’s too early. He isn’t prepared yet. George doesn’t know what he wants.

“No.” The Ravenclaw gulps. “Too early. Meet me in the library after dinner hour.”

“I’ve got Astronomy Club after dinner.” Dream blinks.

“You do?” George flaps his mouth open like a fish. That means Quackity had Astronomy Club tonight too. He doesn’t know why he thought of that. Focus, George! 

“You’re surprised I have hobbies?” Not when Dream says it like that. George swears he has some personal vendetta. Just because he was a dick once .  Talk about holding a grudge.

“No, idiot.” George sighs, digging crescents into his palm. Astronomy Club is going to be all the way up in that tower, and Merlin , George is exhausted . He doesn’t want to walk up all those stairs more than he has to.  “I’ll meet you in the dungeons then.”  

“No, you won’t.” Dream scoffs. “Astronomy Club goes until midnight, but feel free to camp out. I highly doubt you’ll do all that.”

Does Dream think so low of him? Quackity’s in that club. George knows how late those meetings go. He knows what he’s getting himself into. 

“I will.” George insists, refraining himself from clawing his own eyes out.

☂

Madame Pomfrey doesn’t help with the headache. George is dismissed from the infirmary with a drowsy potion and a note to excuse himself from classes should he take it. As if he would miss classes for something so superficial as a nap.

So, it’s with defeat that he drags his feet into the Great Hall. The boys are gathered at the Hufflepuff table today… all the way up at the front. Today was going to be a long day.

He plops himself down next to Karl, looking like death. On the other side of the table, Sapnap jolts up from the sudden movement, while Quackity dozed on with half-lidded eyes uninterrupted. Karl slaps him on the back, tutting,  “And I thought Quackity was bad.”

“...Hey!” Quackity pipes up, although drowsily. He lays his head down, whining. “I’m not even supposed to be up yet.”

“You’re supposed to watch me fly!” Sapnap pouts, scarfing down a protein shake. George doesn’t know how the elves got that into the castle. Is today the Gryffindor practice?

“Ugh, maybe I should’ve enrolled in your fuckin’ classes.” Quackity groans, hitting his fist against the table in defeat. George inspects the mugs beside them, peering into the dark liquid. 

“What is this?” He inquires.

Karl reaches for another piece of toast. “Coffee.” 

Merlin, give him strength. George is not going to survive today.

☂

He hung on by a measly thread for the remainder of his Monday. Ponk offered him some Enerjuice chews during Alchemy, claiming they were caffeinated enough to set him right for some time. Caffeine in the form of artificial orange flavouring served him satisfaction to last an hour at best. Ponk, bless her heart, gave George the entire packet to set him right for the rest of the day.

During lunch hour, he pays a visit to Slughorn for his Potions expertise, but is duly sidetracked as the professor went on a self-righteous tangent on his connections with various Potions masters. George swears the only reason he’s failing Potions is because of Slughorn, but he digresses.

Before Defense class, he barges into Bad’s office to see if he knows anything to keep himself awake for the rest of the day. The young professor has nothing to give except pity once he catches sight of George’s entire demeanor. The Ravenclaw didn’t think he looked too terrible, but it was enough to be excused to the library with a light reading that ‘would be sure to knock him out’.

That did not rub George the right way. Why did every professor just suggest he get some sleep?! He doesn’t need sleep, he needs energy. He needs, he needs–

“George. Dinner hour’s almost up.” George shoots up, dried saliva clinging to his chin. The lady from earlier, smothered in evening-black fabric offers him a soft smile. “You were passed out for a while.”

“Oh.” Fuck , is his throat parched. His voice is barely a croak, and it’s enough for him to clamp his mouth shut. “‘M not hungry.” He murmurs.

“If you’d like, I could ask an elf to deliver a meal up to your dorm?” Her kindness is admirable, but George’s head is spinning. How long had he slept? Hours, clearly. The last thing he remembers is being dismissed from Defense class, and his head still fucking hurts–! Ugh, and it’s now dinner hour and-

“That’d be nice.” He tries to get out. He stares down at the textbook, finding a dull stain where his drool seeped into the heart of the page. Yikes . Racking through his brain, he flicks his wand to enact an evaporation spell – albeit with a lack of finesse. 

He debates heading up to the common room so early, but he doesn’t want to climb up more stairs than he has to. He has to go into the dungeons for Dream, and Merlin , does he even have a game plan? George has too much to think about. He pushes the textbooks off to the side, asking the librarian for a quill if she could. She gladly obliges; George gets down to business. 

Fishing through his pockets, he pulls out a scroll of parchment paper and flattens it onto the desk. Three hours is spent organizing his thoughts, 

With only three minutes to midnight, George makes his move. His heart is in his throat, and his stomach is on the floor, but he trudges down to Slytherin common room with determination rivaling that of a Gryffindor.

That is, until a murky splash interrupts his thoughts.

As he descends the cobbled stairs, the Ravenclaw is met with ankle-deep water of what could only be remnants of the Black Lake. George gapes in horror as the cold water pools into his shoes. 

He thought Dream was lying about the plumbing problem. 

The ends of his robes are soaked, and soggy fabric clings to his skin. Still, he pushes onward. He really should cast a Waterproof charm or something, but he’s too over everything to even try. If anything, he’s just devastated that his shoes and socks now reek of lake water. 

George isn’t particularly aware of the time once he’s met with the bare stretch of stone wall that should lead down to the common room. He doesn’t need a password – he just needs to wait for Dream. He takes a deep breath. His sigh reverberates through the empty chambers, accompanied by the slosh of lake sewage and water droplets.

“…You waited.” 

George looks up, trying to keep his nausea at bay. Dream stands just a few feet away, his robes floating with the flood. His eyes are round in surprise, and George thinks that’s enough satisfaction to last him a lifetime.

The Ravenclaw crosses his arms. “Tell your Head of House to fix the sewage around here.”

Dream smiles, a momentary flash of his teeth. “Wow, when did you care about me all of a sudden?”

“I didn’t.” George pouts, raising a brow. “It’s inconveniencing me.”

A beat of silence. “You didn’t have to come here, you know?”

George loosens his shoulders. “...I did. I need to talk to you.”

“To complain?” Dream scoffs, shaking his head. “ Wow , the dedication you have to go out of your way—”

“No!” 

His yell echoes across the stone walls, drowning into the flood. 

“It’s not-” George’s voice grows meek, his thoughts dwindling down to cobwebs. “…Why don’t you have a partner yet?”

Odd start, and George knows they’re both thinking it.

Still, he continues. “For COMC, and… Herbology, or Charms or Potions– every class we share?”

“If this is another build up to insulting me, I told you, birdie–”

No, it’s not that! George wants to yell. Dream is getting the wrong idea– oh , George doesn’t know how to segue into this. He clears his throat, scrounging up a semblance of courage buried deep within. 

It unearths bare bones and dumb luck. “As time dwindles to nothing, so do chances with others. In other words, the longer you wait, the less likely you are to find a partner.” 

Dream only pinches his brow further, lips thinning like he was trying to work George out. 

The Ravenclaw continues, “So, considering you’ve got no other choice, and theoretically no better option, it would do you a great service to… pair up with me.”

Silence engulfs their conversation, stagnant and unapologetic. The only thing interrupting their bubble is the soft slosh of water by their ankles.

After what seems like hours, Dream tips his head back in realization. “Are you asking me to be your group partner?”

Is Dream so haughty to ask? George knew the Slytherin was vain, but this was too much. He’s practically begging him to say it, and Merlin , George would rather do anything than to give in. Quackity said he was waiting for him, so it only meant he was alone on purpose. If he’s surrounded by all those people, all that talk of him being a solo project is simply a front – an act. It’s all a ploy to get George to bow at his feet and ask him outright. Oh, he hates how cunning some Slytherins are. Dream must’ve known he wouldn’t have a partner and deemed it enough revenge to make George ask him. Such a clever, clever plan, but so despicable at the same time.

That frustration stews underneath his skin, fuelling the stubbornness in his throat. George won’t give in. “I’m not asking anything. I’m simply stating an observation.”

Dream grows impatient, crossing his arms. “What observation? You’re just saying shit and you expect me–”

“You’re waiting for me, aren’t you?” George spouts, clenching his eyes shut. The best way to battle a mastermind is to unravel his plans. “To ask me to be your partner? For the group projects?”

George almost expects Dream to lash out at him, or maybe the humiliation of being figured out will cause him to falter. Instead, the opposite happens.

Dream laughs .

The Slytherin clutches at his stomach, dragging out a wheeze that reverberates through the chambers. George grows confused. 

“Wow,” Dream tries to compose himself, “when people said you were conceited, they were not kidding.”

What? George staggers back into a wall, a sneer curling on his lips. “It’s why you’re alone, isn’t it? You know I don’t have a partner, so you have to be waiting. You’re an idiot to wait for me to fold, but I’m no idiot to know time is running out and-”

“Birdie.” Dream is not smiling anymore. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but I never gave a shit if you had a partner or not.” 

Any remark George had planned fizzes out on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m flattered you think I revolve around you,” Dream moves forward, and George nearly flinches, “but I don’t think I will pair up with you. Now if you’ll move aside, I am going to sleep.”

The Slytherin snubs George entirely as he meanders around him, his head held high. All George can wonder is: is he stupid?  

Dream is an utter and complete fool to turn him down. Neither of them have partners, and the deadline is a week away. There’s no other option outside of George, and surely they both know that. So, why– 

George frowns. Of course, the only reason he would decline is to uphold his pride. He shouldn’t have expected anything less. Dream built him up only to strike him down. That is his motive. George gets it now.

The Ravenclaw was right about him. About all of it. At first, it was merely strokes of paint dipped in muddled first impressions, but this varnishes it over without a doubt. The snide, the snark; Dream is the villain he always painted him up to be. George lets out a scoff, one with enough frustration to catch anyone’s attention.

Especially Dream’s. “What?” The Slytherin looks over his shoulder. “What is it?”

The battleships are set into motion.

“I thought talking to you would be easier alone, but you’re somehow even worse.” George spits. 

The first cannon is fired, barreling right into the opposing enemy’s hull.

“ You , of all people, want to talk about being alone?” Dream is incredulous, a humoured disbelief streaked across his face. There’s a new kind of thunder coursing through his movements – enough to intimidate the strongest of lions. “Nobody wants to partner with you because you’re insufferable. You’re trying so hard just to even get me to- what ? Get a good grade for some project? Who’s alone now?”

It’s said with such bitter honesty that George isn’t prepared for. Dream doesn’t understand what he’s saying. 

“If you used your head for once, you’d see that I’m trying to see what’s best for both of us!” George exasperates. “You’re surrounded by all those people, yet you’re still alone – just like me. You don’t even know what you’re seeing–”

“You know what I see, George ?” 

The first time Dream says his name, it’s said with hostility and pity that George didn’t plan for. It throws him off guard, his words piercing through the clasp of his robes. 

“You say I don’t know what I see, but I see a boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life that he feels so compelled to take it out on others.”

Dream faces him with a standoffish neutrality that George can’t decipher. 

“I get it, you’re a nice guy when you want to be. Everybody is, but you’re so lost on your own purpose you think pushing yourself ahead will give you even a semblance of it. Well, I’m sorry to say it but you aren’t ever going to be more than you are.”

George doesn’t know what to say, and Dream just keeps hacking away at the lumber of his chest. 

“Not once have you given me a reason to even consider you as a friend. I try so hard to be nice to you, but you act so pissed off with me that it makes it so damn difficult to keep trying.” 

A bullet pierces through his lungs. 

“Now you’ve got some kind of change of heart because of the new incentive. You aren’t as subtle as you like to be, birdie. Have you even looked at yourself? Why don’t you think for a second and wonder why you’re the one scrambling for a partner, while everyone else isn’t?”

His lungs fail him. 

“You can’t just treat me like a charity case – a freebie because you think you’ve got everyone figured out. Life isn’t some game of chess where you can play all the right moves for some kind of advantage. You can’t act like a dick, and pretend a few good deeds are enough to erase that. Whether you like it or not, you’re surrounded by actual people , birdie. If you keep going that way, you’re always going to be behind on that front. That’s never going to change and it’s high time you learn to live with it or change it.” 

“You–” George stammers, “You don’t know a thing about me.”

Dream steps back. “You’re right, I don’t.” 

“Then, why are you saying—”

“I’m not saying anything.” In the midst of their spectacle, the Slytherin common room emerges from the stone wall. Dream shrugs, a wicked triumph ingrained in his movements.  “I’m simply stating an observation.”

George is frozen. He can only watch as the Slytherin places his hand on the knob, tossing a sad look over his shoulder: one of pity, one of defiance.

 “By the way, none of it is meant as an insult. More like friendly advice. Everyone knows you need it.”

As Dream slips into the snake’s den, George is left in the dark, damp halls, unsure of what to think. 

Dream’s words bounce around his head, spoiling into every wrinkle of his brain. He walks back to the Ravenclaw tower in defeat. The portraits don’t even berate him for staying too late, nor do the ghosts. His deep-sunken frown is enough to ward all of them away.

The knocker doesn’t even ask him for a riddle; it simply swings open at the sight of him.

He’s met with an empty common room, books strewn about and lengths of parchment sprawled across desk surfaces. There are no students here, just like the first night. The only thing missing is Quackity, who is undoubtedly passed out on the bottom bunk of their dorm.

In the morning, the room would erupt with life once more. Distinct chatter and a flood of knowledge would bounce across marble walls, and friends would reunite and talk on their day. In the morning, George would do the same, but go to his classes without a partner – without… 

As his eyes dig into the midnight blue carpet, George can’t help but feel like Dream had a point.

Chapter Text

His one shot at the project, and he’s massacred it. 

George almost doesn’t want to go to class today. What use was there? He couldn’t complete a simple dare, and instead cemented his reputation as a somebody with nobody around him. Professors would never excuse Quackity and Sapnap to include him in a group of three – it’s not like they were all different Houses.

Ironically enough, in the school’s attempt at promoting collaboration between Houses, George has never felt more isolated. 

A mug of soup awaited at his bedside once he arrived back at the dorms. George knew he ought to eat some, but the humiliation of prior events ruined his appetite. The mug was lukewarm to the touch as carrot chunks and chicken cubes peeked out from the amber liquid. He took a sip, but was duly disappointed. After setting it back down, he simply tossed himself back onto the mattress.

He slept in his robes that night, too lazy to even change out of his uniform. Maybe it was the all-nighter, or maybe it was Dream. Ugh . George slaps his hands over his eyes. He really doesn’t want to tell his friends about what happened in the dungeons.

George lifts himself up, peeking over his bedside. The mug of soup is missing, and so are his roommates. A glance at the ceiling inferred it was halfway through breakfast hour, and the desire to stay in grew stronger. He’s already so behind schedule. 

Pomfrey’s note burns a hole through his pocket; his gateway to sulk all day. Clumping the blankets close to his chest, he lets out a deep sigh. 

The door creaks open, soft thumps sounding across the carpet. George calls out, his voice wavering, “I’m not going down to breakfast.”

“Oh!” A high-pitched squeak rings out through the silence. Nobody had that voice in these dorms. 

George peers over the edge to find… a house elf? The elf is decked in neat clothing, comfy yet proper. Like if someone dressed a toddler in office clothes. She’s clad in midnight blue fabric – the shade that matches the ceiling. He clears his throat to gain her attention. “…Hello?”

“Oh, young Davidson!” The house elf looks up, offering a polite smile. George blinks at her, unsure of what to say. A part of him didn’t expect her to know his name. 

His family never had connections with any House elves, and it was rare that George ever ran into one in the castle. He knew Hogwarts still had them – how else would the common rooms be kept in shape every day? It was still… jarring to see.

The elf holds her hands behind her back, shifting her weight. “Is young Davidson down with something?”

“Err-” George doesn’t know what the proper etiquette is to ask for her name, “you could say that.” 

“Oh, Taffy wishes young Davidson a speedy recovery.” The elf – Taffy? – says, sincerely. Well – as sincere as she could muster through her shyness. 

“Thanks.” George mutters. He scans the room, then bites his lip nervously. “…Are you here to clean? Like should I leave?”

Taffy’s mouth shapes into a small ‘o’, her eyes blinking slowly. “Oh! No, no. Taffy apologizes. Young Davidson must wonder who Taffy is.” The elf pinches the ends of her vest and proceeds to curtsy. “Taffy is a Ravenclaw house elf.” 

As if the uniform wasn’t enough indication, George thinks.

Taffy then claps her hands together, clearly excited to introduce herself. “Taffy is in charge of the sixth year rooms today, and Taffy read young Davidson’s name in the logbook.” Huh . “Apologies if Taffy surprised young Davidson with Taffy’s presence.”

“It’s okay,” George shrugs weakly. He must look like Hell to poor Taffy. “I guess I’m just not used to seeing elves around here.”

Taffy nods, snapping her fingers. Blankets from neighbouring bunks start to hover about, “Taffy always comes in when young students are down for breakfast, so that must explain why. Taffy is only in to clean up the sixth year beds, so Taffy will be out of young Davidson’s hair in a minute.”

George crosses his legs, drumming his fingers atop his knee. “There’s no rush. I’m not doing anything important.”

He watches the blankets fold into neat squares before being set upon puffed pillows. Taffy looks up at him momentarily, “Young Davidson won’t visit the infirmary?”

“No.”

“Then young Davidson will stay in bed all day?” 

Taffy is a very curious individual. George could tell from the fidget in her hands, itching to learn more. 

He supposes elves don’t talk with students that often. Taffy shakes her head, backtracking, “Taffy apologizes. It’s not Taffy’s business to pry, but Taffy is curious about young Davidson’s plan for the day.”

“I don’t know.” And George means that. He can think for hours on the consequences that await him once he walks out into the common room. That doesn’t erase the fact he still dreads it. “Firstly figure out how to tell my professors I’m not attending, probably.”

He fishes out Pomfrey’s note, flattening it out onto his lap. 

“Pomfrey’s already excused me, but…” He omits the fact her note expired yesterday , “that just means I have to distribute it around, and honestly, I’d rather lose points for an absence than go out there.” If Quackity heard that, he would genuinely kill George without any hesitation. 

With a soft pop, Taffy suddenly appears at George’s side. The Ravenclaw startles, but falls at ease as the elf cranes her neck to inspect the note. Taffy lights up, dancing on her feet like she was treading through hot coals. “Oh, Taffy can do it! Taffy can send the note around for young Davidson!”

“Can you?”

Taffy beams up at him, carefully prying the note from George’s grasp. “Taffy will only take a few minutes. Young Davidson can rest in the meanwhile and not worry.”

George smiles at the elf, gratitude softening his ribs. “...Thank you, Taffy.”

Taffy is giddy as she snaps her fingers, and disappears from his sight. George inspects the dorm again, noticing the cleanliness that upheld each corner of the room.

George falls flat on his back on his mattress, staring into the greyed out constellations of the ceiling. Hopefully he sees Taffy again. Maybe next time he goes to Hogsmeade, George can pick up some taffies and offer it to her as thanks.

For the irony of it.

☂

Quackity shakes George awake from his nap later that day.  

George cranes his neck to face him. His best friend is clutching the ladder, head barely peeking over the top. His hand is still braced around George’s ankle, concern furrowed in his brow. “Jesus, dude. Have you been asleep all day?”

“Down with something.” George murmurs, his voice groggy.

“You’re never sick.” Quackity comments; it almost comes off accusatory. “...You also haven’t told me what happened yesterday.”

George clenches his eyes shut. The lie flows seamlessly through gritted teeth, “Delayed it again.”

Quackity hums, but there’s a disinterest in his tone. Or maybe it’s disappointment. George knows how that feels. “Look, man-” And there it is. “Could I come up there?”

George doesn’t refuse.

A thud sounds out beneath him, no doubt from Quackity’s textbooks tossed onto the floor. A creak on a mattress, and a shuffle of a blanket, and his best friend now lays adjacent to George’s shrimp-like figure. The space is cramped – mainly because it wasn’t built for two sixteen-year-olds to share, but George doesn’t mind.

Quackity is staring at him with a furrowed brow and a pointed glare. George braced himself for the inevitable; his best friend was never subtle when he wanted to enact some kind of interrogation.

“George, I’ve known you since third year.” His best friend starts, and George just sighs. Here it comes. “You can tell me anything, you know?”

I know, George wants to say. He wants nothing more than to tell him everything, but-... the issue was not knowing where to start, or what to tell. George had been avoiding thinking about last night ever since he awoke, but having to talk about it only meant revisiting Dream’s harsh words, and George’s humiliation. 

You , of all people, want to talk about being alone?

George winces.

With the lack of response, the corners of Quackity’s mouth dip into a frown. He tries again, “Is it… is it too much? You never get this worked up over anything, and if it’s… too much, we can call it off. We can ask the profs and shit – I’m sure they’d think of something –”

“Just need more time.” George blurts. His eyes bore into the tangle of Quackity’s tie – too afraid to make eye contact. He hopes his urgency would make his claim convincing. It just needed to be. 

Silence falls between them. Quackity isn’t convinced. “Well, will you at least come to lunch? The guys are wondering where you are.”

Dream’s words shoot through his skull, a mocking taunt: Whether you like it or not, you’re surrounded by actual people , birdie.

He knows, he knows, he knows. George clenches his fists together, an internal war ripping his lungs into ribbons. Quackity went all this way to get him, and George didn’t want him to feel– he didn’t want his friends to feel like he was-

George shakes his head. There’s only so much  damage he can take.

Reluctantly, George lifts himself off the bed with a disgruntled look on his face. Quackity hops down the ladder, a triumphant pep in his step. As they trudge towards the Great Hall, Quackity loops an arm around George’s elbow, offering to stick by his side the whole day. 

“Okay,” Quackity starts, nervous. “I can’t say that the guys will ask about Dream, and I don’t really know if it’s a sore topic for you or if there’s something you’re not telling me–”

“There’s not.” George bites, his voice steady. “It’s not- I mean, it’s fine. Just let them.”

Quackity hums. “Okay.”

For a moment, only the clamor of footsteps across cobbled floors fills their silence.

“But,” His best friend persists, “if you need me to deflect, I’m on the case.”

Karl and Sapnap are stationed by the Gryffindor table today, mainly because their table was always overloaded with sweets the day of Quidditch practice. George doesn’t know how the team is even allowed to claim the pitch for the majority of the week.

Quackity calls out to them, yelling something obscene. Karl is the first to lift his head, waving enthusiastically once he catches sight of them. Sapnap is too busy tossing tangerines into the air and catching them as they fall to look their way.

George dips his head in shame. Maybe he should just lie about yesterday to them too. It’s not like it would benefit them to know anything different.

“Jesus, dude.” Sapnap’s eyes widen as the two Ravenclaws approach. He fumbles the tangerine, cursing at nothing as he ducks underneath the table to swipe it off the floor.

“George! Are you feelin’ alright?” Karl tilts his head, reaching for a beignet from the desserts pile. The sugary stench is hard to ignore. “We kinda hogged these so feel free to help yourself.”

“Is no one gonna mention how George looks like shit?” Sapnap sprouts back up into view, laughing to himself. He taps his wand against the tangerine’s outer layer, unsuccessfully George might add, as it’s only the top stem that peels outward. “Are you sick, dude?”

George shakes his head, timidly slipping himself down onto the table. Karl slides over a silver plate, pouting. George can only stare at his reflection: at how the ends of hair stick out, at the bags under his eyes. He looked miserable.

“Be nice to him, guys.” Quackity adds, before munching on another dessert. “Be glad he’s here at all.”

Karl taps his fingers impatiently against the mahogany surface, like he’s afraid to ruin the mood. “...George, do you wanna… update us on what Dream said?”

“ No .” George blurts, his voice cracking. The three of them blink at his protest, so George backtracks. “I mean, there’s nothing to tell.” Again, he lies. “I didn’t ask.”

Sapnap whines, “ Seriously ? Come on , George. Is it that difficult?” 

George knows Sapnap didn’t mean any harm, but he can’t suppress the sharp sting that throbs in his lungs. The subliminal snark bites at him: Are you that unlikeable? Are you so daft not to do even one thing?

Quackity shoots a pointed glare across the table. “Hey, if George isn’t feeling it, he isn’t feeling it.”

“I’m just saying.” Sapnap shrugs, digging through the fruit basket for his next toy. The tangerine from earlier sits idly in front of him, half-peeled and abandoned. The Gryffindor looks up, nodding over to the Hufflepuff right across from him. “Karl, back me up here.”

“Oh, um-,” Karl bites his lip nervously, a flush in his cheeks. Is he embarrassed to state the obvious? Do all his friends think he’s so inferior? “I mean, you can’t really blame him for asking. George has less than a week left on the dare and he’s not… um-” 

The argument dies on his tongue, too weak to continue. Yet, Sapnap urges forward with a confident nod. “Like no judgement if he can’t do it. There’s always the forfeit.” 

George can’t forfeit. He can’t give up on the dare because of the implications that would fall upon him. What fool would he be to fail at becoming somebody’s friend – let alone a partner for a stupid school project? 

“But, I mean. It’s kinda sad too, if he does.” Sapnap voices it loud and clear enough that nobody else has to. “Dream cannot be that hard to befriend.”

“We can’t be sure, dude.” Quackity tries to stand up for George, and he does try . “Just because he’s alright with us doesn’t mean he’s not alright with George, you know?”

“Well, yeah-” Sapnap snorts, plucking an apple from the basket. “But it’s George .”

A beat of silence engulfs their friend group. George blinks, aghast at his implication. Quackity’s hand twitches, eager to say something. George feels compelled to say something too like he’d been an animal that’s been struck down. His voice is barely a croak as he says, “Why would it… why would it be different that it’s me?”

Karl wants to say something, but a ghostly force holds him back. It’s like everybody on the table knew the conversation was treading a fine line – everybody but Sapnap.

“Come on, George. If we weren’t already friends with you, we would not be friends with you.” Sapnap laughs. 

George doesn’t know why that strikes a chord. “…Is that so?”

“ Sapnap .” Quackity clips through gritted teeth, but it’s too late. The damage has been done.

“What Sapnap’s trying to say is people need to warm up to you, that’s all.” Karl sputters, trying to de-escalate the situation. He tries a nervous chuckle, but it just comes off as artificial.

“No shit. He probably insults us all that time in that inner monologue.” Sapnap throws in, but there’s no punchline. 

George doesn’t find it funny. Was he truly so repulsive? 

Lamia's snarl comes into memory then: If anything, you sound like the piss-bucket now.

Then Dream's.

Why don’t you think for a second and wonder why you’re the one scrambling for a partner, while everyone else isn’t?

George looks around the table, watching his friends closely. Bitterness gnaws at his insides. He stares at their forlorn faces, at Sapnap’s carefree attitude. Shards of glass cut into his muscles and leave him to bleed. 

“You know what? You’re right.” George stands up from his chair, a monotonous venom lingering on his tongue. “I’ve got to catch up on some Alchemy homework. I’ll catch you guys later.”

“Wait, what?” Karl spits out, confused. George turns his back on them. “George, he was–”

“Dude, wait up–!” Quackity calls out, but George just walks faster until he’s out of the Great Hall. His vision blurs, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t know why it hurt so much. Usually their teasing chides never struck through, but now they resonate within him like a gashing wound. 

Quackity’s been his friend for the past three years, but three years isn’t enough to cement the gaping hole in his chest. He does try now and again, but now that George looks back on it, all it does is make him feel like a liability. When he chose to lean on someone for social support, did he ever take a step back to think if it was suffocating – if he was suffocating? Were all his friends tired of him? And all the dares – all those attempts to break out of his shell for the past couple of years – were they because they felt like George needed it?

Everyone knows you need it.

Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up – Dream’s words scrape against the walls of his skull: a bitter reminder, a cruel taunt.

George breaks into a full on sprint now. He runs, but he doesn’t know where to. His legs ache as he’s pushing past crowds of students; he runs and runs until the cobble under his soles bleeds into mud and damp grass.

Maybe George is the problem. He knows he doesn’t try enough to keep it a two-way street, but he didn’t think– he would never have thought–

Maybe Dream was right. 

Maybe Sapnap and Karl had a kernel of truth to their words. The trust that forged over two measly school years fray and unravel; how could George really trust they were just joking? 

Nobody wants to partner with you because you’re insufferable.

All those group projects, all those three way collaborations– why is it George they shut out? It couldn’t have been Quackity, or maybe if Karl was in, then- then— 

Tears rim his eyes. His weakness seeps out of him, ready to explode. George couldn’t allow himself that slip of dignity, not when he had lost enough. 

Dream had stripped George of it all, whittling him down until he was nothing but his insecurities. The lonesome wolf in a pack of hunters. An individual sock on a clothesline, hung out to dry. A freak-show under the spotlight. A laughing stock. 

George wants to do something irresponsible, he wants to rip something to shreds, he wants to tear the world into meaty ribbons, he wants to— 

George takes a deep breath. 

Tipping his head up, a raindrop falls onto his nose.

It doesn’t rain much at Hogwarts. 

When George first attended, he found it odd that the Scottish Highlands rarely found themselves victim to a torrential downpour, especially when it neighboured the Black Lake. George wonders if the sky heard him last night. He wonders if they pitied him and set on clouds so he wouldn’t feel so alone. As he stares at the gloom thundering above, he hopes it was true. 

He stays there for a while, his robes soaking with monsoon. A thunder echoes through the clouds, drowning out the sound of his heart breaking. 

The rain beats against his back like a soothing caress – like it was a friend.

Chapter Text

With less than a week left on his timer, George spoils overnight. 

His little dramatic episode is swept under the rug when he refuses to speak on it further. Sapnap does try to apologize, but George insists it’s water under the bridge. Neither of his friends push it after, but George somehow finds that even worse. If they truly cared, they would make at least somewhat of an extra effort to see if he’s truly alright.

Ugh, he doesn’t know what he’s thinking.

The next morning, Karl is waiting for him at the base of Ravenclaw tower, clutching his textbooks close to his chest. His mop of curls falls over his eyes as he kicks absentmindedly at a loose stone. 

George clears his throat to get his attention, “Hey Karl.”

The Hufflepuff jolts upright, eyes wide. “Oh, hi George!”

George raises a brow. “Why are you here?”

The Ravenclaw was thoroughly ready to spend his morning alone. Quackity was missing as soon as George awoke, but maybe it’s for the best. Knowing him, he probably ran off to the owlery or something. Karl shrugs, “Sapnap’s at Quidditch practice again, and I didn’t really want to wake up that early for him. I know Quackity said he’d miss breakfast, so I thought ‘ why not keep you company?’ ”. 

George’s face softens. “...Oh.”

The Ravenclaw Tower was an inconvenient journey from the Hufflepuff dorms, so for Karl to walk all the way up here… a bubble of appreciation swelled in his chest. The two of them head on to breakfast, deciding to eat at the Ravenclaw table for the morning. Karl goes the extra mile to meander around the table just to sit across from George. In his defense, the Ravenclaw threw open his textbooks enough to hog the empty spaces to his left and right. 

The two help themselves to some minestrone soup and work on their respective assignments. Karl unscrolls some parchment for a last-minute Muggle Studies essay while George flips through his Potions textbook. The Ravenclaw didn’t quite grasp the theory for the more recent potions – he thinks they’re unnecessarily complex for a stupid concoction, besides it’s not like Slughorn’s particularly helpful academically. If George flubbed getting a partner, he needed to at least start reading up enough to compensate for the semester. 

He gets momentarily distracted as Karl waves enthusiastically at someone behind George. Hm , he wonders, did Quackity come to breakfast after all? Following Karl’s line of sight, George is met with not his best friend, but with something far worse.

Dream is standing by the Slytherin table, arms occupied with what looks to be Quidditch equipment. A polite smile spreads on his lips, the Slytherin wobbling as he tries to wave back at the Hufflepuff.

 Although, when his gaze falls downward and clicks into contact with George’s, how quickly his eyes darken is hard to miss. The Slytherin’s smile falters, now replaced with an infuriating neutrality that George wants to choke out of him. He doesn’t have to look at him for too long as Dream makes haste exiting the Great Hall.

Once Dream was out of sight, George awkwardly shifted his gaze back onto his own food, a lack of appetite now curdling in his gut. 

Karl was waving at Dream , and Dream waved back . The cogs turn in the Ravenclaw’s head, twisting and chuffing out smoke. He didn’t know Karl was that friendly with Dream, or that they knew each other at all . Questions spark up only to fizz out in disappointment; how long had this gone on? Did Quackity or Sapnap think the same?

He thinks of the dare. Could it be that they knew him before then? He remembers Quackity’s words from yesterday: just because he’s alright with us doesn’t mean he’s alright with George . Were they all in on it? What if this was all some twisted joke? A test of loyalty that George failed? 

George encircles his spoon around the bowl, his eyes darkening. Curiosity bests him.  “Why’d you do that?” 

Karl blinks, confused. “What do you mean?”

George watches him closely – at the upturn of his brow, at how hard he digs his quill into the parchment. Ink blots at the pointed tip, pooling something dark at the end of his sentences. He looks back up at Karl’s eyes, his stare unforgiving.

“You waved at him.” It comes off accusatory.

“Oh, um-” The quill drags a bit from Karl’s startle. George didn’t think it’d catch him off guard, “he’s in my Muggle Studies class this semester.” 

Karl dips his head like he’s embarrassed. Is it something to be ashamed of? Is there something he’s not telling him? How many more secrets was George unaware of?

“...I’m sorry, I know you said to not associate with him, but I assumed the dare meant–”

“Don’t apologize.” George cuts in, his voice unforgiving. “Just wondering.” 

“Okay.” Silence falls upon them; Karl is nervous to return to his essay, now staring into his food like a child that’s been put in time-out. George scoffs at nothing in particular, returning to his textbook.

Neither of them speak for the rest of breakfast hour. If this was a story, George wishes that whatever terrible plot device he’s going through ends soon.

☂

Well, things aren’t that bad. 

Their tense exchange is swept under the rug, and they move on. They always move on. George still gets a personal escort to Potions, and Karl is still his friend. The Hufflepuff still clings to his side, raving about a new card game he’d heard about from the seventh years, so they were fine. His friends’ business isn’t his own. They were all fine.

Karl hugs him goodbye before skittering off to his own class, and George returns to his lonesome fortitude by the cabinets. He catches sight of Quackity by the front, throwing his head back in laughter at something Lamia said. He didn't think they were that close. He remembers their terse conversation back at Transfiguration and his brief hostility... did Lamia tell Quackity? Did they both think of him so poorly?

George glances over at the empty chair beside him, then again at the blackboard. It’s fine. He can get through this school year by himself. He’s fine . 

Slughorn started off class with a fifteen-minute tangent on how he’d been reading up on a new potion theory one of his past students came up with, which George didn’t really pay attention to. Long story short, today’s two-hour work period was inspired by a poorly-timed paper cut. 

Scribbly chalkdust spelt ‘Murtlap Essence’ without a hint of grace against the textured blackness. A simple healing potion for cuts. George can do that… well, he hopes he can. It didn’t matter what potion they learnt today because he’ll be right terrible at it either way. At least it wasn’t any of the draughts he read up on earlier, because those are a lost cause. 

The class erupts in mindless chatter once Slughorn leaves them to it. As for George, he dives into the recipe and doesn’t betray his gaze once. He actively tries to look productive just in case Dream was looking. That woeful night gave him a point to prove. This way, Dream will think twice before doubting George’s ability to be by himself. He could live without Dream’s partnership, and he sure as hell could live without anyone’s help for that matter.

Quackity and Sapnap cling to his side during Care of Magical Creatures, promising to plead a convincing case to Professor Grubbly-plank. The professor lets them down gently, a pitiful look in her eyes that made George want to set the forest ablaze. The period was for students to explore the forest depths and work on their assignment; obviously, with George having no one, he had no choice but to tag along as Sapnap and Quackity inspected the trees. The pair chose to hunt down a Bowtruckle only because Sapnap heard a myth they were good for lock-picking. Although, if George did recall – bowtruckles weren’t native to Scotland forestry. Whatever. It’s not like it’s his assignment.

Eventually the pair give up, deciding to slump against a trunk near the class-designated muster point. George simply pulls out his Fantastic Beasts textbook, flipping through the pages. If he was going to lose marks on this project, he better start putting in the work to make up for it. He so badly wanted to bring this up to Headmaster McGonagall, just to gain a semblance of justice. It was unfair he had to spend the rest of term, his grades barred by some cheesy incentive. Especially in sixth year when his grades would by far matter the most leading up to his N.E.W.T.’s. 

He sighs. Skimming the page, a discoloured sketch of a hairy cat caught his attention. Kneazles. He did know of them, and definitely saw a few in the menagerie at Diagon Alley, but finding them in his textbook was a nice surprise. He inspects the sketch closely: it looked like a cat, except its ears were larger than its head, its fur resemblant to that of a wolf. If he had to really choose a beast for the assignment, he would definitely choose this one.

“You guys were calling me?” 

George deflates. How many fucking times does he have to– 

He looks up, and Dream towers above him like a redwood tree from the Americas. Yet, the Slytherin’s gaze is not focused on him, but instead to his left – where Sapnap and Quackity look up in gratitude. He’s holding something out for them, a gangly piece of root that wriggled in his palm with a sloth-like thrash. 

Sapnap swipes it from him, smiling greatly. “Thanks dude. We really needed that.”

“No problem.” Dream smiles back . His eyes travel to the side, landing on George and again, that stone-cold demeanor resumes upon his skin. Although, he isn’t staring at George specifically, but at the textbook in his lap. Flustered, George clamps the book shut, blowing out his cheeks. For a second, Dream’s eyebrows rise up before he spins on his heel and returns back to his Slytherin posse. George doesn’t know what that’s about.

Quackity nudges Sapnap’s elbow rather harshly, hissing, “Give me that…!”

His two friends return to their playful banter, like they didn’t just commit treason in front of George’s eyes. With Karl, it was understandable; Karl was friendly with everyone. Sapnap was on thin ice, but Quackity…? After all that talk about standing up for him too. George couldn’t believe it: all his friends had been colluding with enemy lines behind his back.

His perspective of his friends skew to something undesirable, to something traitorous. How much more was he unaware of? That they weren’t telling him? Did they even care? Is George the fool in their little game? 

A sense of betrayal lurked within him. With the recency of Sapnap’s sly comments, and the striking calamity of Dream’s words, George couldn’t ignore it. They were so civil with Dream, but with George, it was different. It’s like they plastered George with a ‘Handle with care’ sticker in the post; they treated him like he was something fragile, like he was a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. 

Did all his friends see him as a liability? Did they create that dare because they wanted to replace George? To ease the blow once they finally cut him off? They were so welcoming to a total stranger – let alone the stranger that’s been George’s curse the entire month. 

He didn’t think his friends would choose sides that easily. Did the past three years mean nothing?

“Didn’t realize we were so friendly with Dream.” George snides, eyes digging into the dirt. In his head, his friends preferred Dream over him and that sucked. 

The pair tense up, their smiles dropping at the jab in his tone. Quackity dips his head down, muttering. “...It’s just wormroot, George.”

“Wormroot helps lure out Bowtruckles.” Sapnap adds like it’ll ease up the tension. It doesn’t.

George decides he needs some peace and quiet. He’s never going to get any work done if he’s distracted by all their noise. He taps his wand on his textbook, muttering a quick incantation. He watches it shrink to the size of a pocketbook before taking a quick breath. “I’ll catch you guys at lunch.”

Neither of his friends protest this time, and George doesn’t know if that’s a good thing. He stuffs the textbook back into his pocket and storms off into the deep green, his rage scorching burn-marks into the mud.

His family would be so ashamed to see their sixteen-year old boy throwing tantrums like a toddler, but they’re not here. Professors would pout and shake their head at his behaviour, but they’re not here. The only absolutes George can count on is the ground he stands on and the air that he breathes. 

It’s foolish to walk off without a sense of direction, but George just needed to get away. Dream’s words barrel through his mind, cutthroat and ruthless. Merlin , he just wishes he could get that Slytherin out of his head! Who does Dream think he is to act like that with his friends? Is it all a ploy to scrape salt into his gashing wound? George wants to lash out; he wants to cast an Unforgivable curse and get thrown into Azkaban, he wants to- he wants-

George drops his head into his hands, a guttural scream escaping out of him. 

It echoes through the emptiness, his anguish rustling through leaves and wispy branches. Birds flock out from neighboring trees, rabbits taking cover under tree trunks. 

Just like the pond, George ruins their peace – just like how Dream has ruined his. The Ravenclaw sinks to his knees, taking a deep breath. Again, he screams out into the wilderness, his voice hoarse. Vocal cords tear into thin strings at each inhale, each yell much visceral than the last. A frustrated cry soon melds into a broken croak, his throat raw.

His lungs work overtime, a burning sensation nestling at the base of his neck. His stomach churns, his eyes stinging with frustration. George had too much rage within him, too much anger – the castle, his friends, everything that was once a safe place is now ruined for him. All of them contaminated by his worst enemy.

He doesn’t stop trying to put out the fire in his soul, his tortured voice now misting into the late September air as breathy gasps. There’s nothing left to reverberate across the forest floor and escape into the murky skies, there’s nothing left to scream for.

George stays there, eyes clenched with only the wind circling through his throat. Hostile gusts now accompany defeated exhales, but George doesn’t stop trying. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop trying.

☂

George comes back to the forest entrance looking run-down and ragged. Tufts of grass cling to the ends of his robes, especially by his knees. Majority of the students have already gone off to lunch, which meant Professor Grubbly-plank was shocked to see him come in looking like Hell. 

She pouts, patting him on the shoulder once before dismissing him off to Madame Pomfrey. 

Once George is back at the castle, he deviates from that entirely. Instead, he beelines to the boy’s lavatory as a last ditch effort to clean himself up for everyone else. He couldn’t go the rest of his day looking like grief, but at the same time, a part of him didn’t feel like he owed anybody his best. If they were going to go behind his back and play dirty, George saw no point in keeping it fair.

His dignity is a stubborn thing in that sense. He could never let him live it down if he willing subjected himself to everyone’s unwarranted pity. So, he casts an Aguamenti to rinse out his throat, doing verbal exercises until his throat regained something presentable. He runs the tap, turning the knob until the water is nearly ice, before splashing it onto his face. 

Being met again with his reflection, the sensible part of him resumes control. 

There has to be a reasonable explanation for why everything’s happened: his friends were only talking to Dream because he had the plant they needed; Karl only waved to be nice. Sapnap jokes around a lot, and Quackity would never go against him like that. 

The Ravenclaw straightens his posture, keeping his head held up high. 

Everything is fine. His friends don’t think highly of Dream; they’re just being civil. That’s all there is to it. 

He walks into the Great Hall with a throb in the back of his throat, trying to gulp down the tremble in his shoulders. He catches sight of his friends by the Ravenclaw table, and his steps falter. Keep walking.  

Sapnap is the first to see him, raising his arm up to direct him over. All of his friends like him. George is just overreacting. They’re all fine.

☂

Lunch is somehow worse. 

George should’ve just bunked in with Madame Pomfrey when he had the chance. He scoops up a glob of curry only to watch it fall back into the bowl. His spoon isn’t metal; Karl dared Sapnap to use it as Transfiguration practice but somehow turned it into sagging plastic that bent at the slightest weight. His prospects for lunch were tarnished. He didn’t feel like getting another spoon, or even turning it back, so he decided to bide his time in listening in to his friends’ conversations for once. 

He should’ve just minded his own business.

George never realized how much his friends talk about Dream. It’s irritating and downright torture. There’s no reason for him to be such a hot topic on their tongues, yet Dream lingers like a bad stink in his nostrils. 

He can already taste the venom crawling up his throat, but he doesn’t have enough inhibitions within him to keep it at bay. So, he bites the inside of his cheek, eyes digging into his curry.  “Didn’t realize you guys were all big fans of Dream. Why are you guys so obsessed with him anyway?”

Sapnap tenses mid-bite. Karl and Quackity immediately clamp their mouths shut, glancing at each other. The Gryffindor gulps nervously, like he was walking a tightrope. “...All I mentioned was my Quidditch practice this morning. Dream was delivering equipment for us because we ran out.“

George thins his lips. “Hm.” 

“...How’s Muggle Studies going, Karl?” Quackity bursts, panicked. He bares his teeth in an awkward smile, elbowing Sapnap rather harshly in the ribs. “Sapnap’s always talking so much about Quidditch we don’t know anything about you!”

Karl jolts up, putting down his fork as he gulps. “You just asked-”

Quackity stares daggers into him and Karl immediately slips into realization. George squints at them. He can get ahead of himself, but he definitely knows how to take a hint. This had to be some secret code they had – like George was a natural disaster, and this was their emergency plan. 

George tunes back out again. He knows where he’s not wanted.

Rolling his eyes, he grabs the bowl of curry and tips his head back as he gulps it down, letting the spice sink into the back of his tongue. His friends resume back to their normal topics, George noticing the ease that settled in their shoulders. 

If there’s one thing about George, it’s that he’ll never be proven wrong. 

All that earlier alibis he construed up on their behalf now crumble within him, a criminal sentence shackling his friends down. They still treat him like he’s a liability – something unpredictable, something to account for. He hated that feeling. He hated how they treated him; he hated what Dream thought of him. 

If all they would think of George is an inconvenience, surely it would do them a favour to get out of their way. Frustration pangs through the Ravenclaw, festering until the end of lunch hour.

Charms class is bearable, but the wriggling feeling in the back of his mind is torturous. The bridges he’d staked down years ago now break away with a simple gust of wind; the ties he wrung up now fray at the knot. Quackity and Sapnap talk amongst themselves, nudging George here and there to join their antics, but he isn’t going to be played the fool more than once. Knowing them, it’d either be a frustrating comment regarding Dream or a childish dare to complete from that bucket list.

Fuck that fucking bucket list. George should’ve never said yes to Quackity on the train, or at the infirmary. It’s only been a month, and his life has already been torn apart for the worst. He could’ve just had one normal year – just one before he threw everything away for seventh year.

After George’s consistent refusal, Quackity and Sapnap kept to themselves. George simply scoffs at their indifference; it’s like they’re not even trying to hide that they dislike him. He crosses his arms. If that’s how they want to play it, then so be it.

George dreaded Defense class. He really did.

With his other classes, it was easy to just turn the other cheek or snub Dream entirely, but he couldn’t do it here. Not when the Slytherin was his table partner for the next hour. George dreads it on the walk to Bad’s classroom door, and he dreads it as he settles himself by the windows. To keep himself from going crazy, he rearranged his textbooks until it formed a distinct wall between their respective sides of the desk. 

He didn’t want to talk to him. He didn’t want to confront him about what happened that night. He doesn’t want to bring up the plumbing problem or his business proposal. He just wants them to sweep it under the rug and pretend Dream didn’t say the nastiest things to his face. He wants to pretend Dream didn’t reveal the true colours of the loyalties he held dear. He wants to forget it all.

A squeak sounds from his side as the Slytherin pulls out a chair, followed by the thud of textbooks and rustle of parchment. George doesn’t betray his gaze from the sky outside, drumming his fingers impatiently against his lap. 

“How are you feeling, birdie?” 

George stills. Dream has some nerve. 

“None of your fucking business.”

Bad is up by the board, trying to wrangle the class’ attention. He gesticulates wildly with his speech, reminding everyone to share their assignments with their seating partner as a preliminary exercise; George doesn’t pay attention to any of it.

Dream scoffs, “I think it is my business when we have to discuss our answers.”

George sneers, simply pulling out his roll of parchment and tossing it over for Dream to read for himself. Dream is stone-faced as he catches it, unamused. 

George literally hates him. He despises him so much. What did he expect? A basket of roses for his hospitality? He can’t shake that night from his mind. Dream’s words still run laps around his head, enough to make him dizzy. What authority did Dream have to say all those things about him? What right did he have to say he was lesser than? 

“You’re fucking awful, you know that?” George hisses, out of nowhere.

Dream looks up expectantly, “How so?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” George spits, a hex itching on his tongue. Dream was too condescending with everything he does. He acts like he didn’t just flip George’s world upside down, he acts like they’re just back to normal, he acts- “Fucking pretentious.”

“Keep on projecting onto me, birdie.” Dream shrugs, going back to their essays. “Not gonna faze me.”

George flares his nostrils. Dream’s a sadist. A freak of nature. There’s no way a man like him exists on Earth.

The Ravenclaw flexes his knuckles in an attempt to ground himself, but his anger boils over until steam blows out of his ears. If Dream’s going to play that way, George has no choice but to stoop to his level.

☂

George ferments in his bitterness, his bones aching with revenge. 

Bad dismisses the class, but George doesn’t budge. He remains in his seat, turning towards the windows. 

He’s not sulking, he’s scheming. 

Several different possibilities bounce around his head: blueprints, war strategies, spybooks – all of it. He tries to recall the book of hexes off sheer memory, clenching his eyes shut, but none of them feel evil enough. None of them feel debilitating enough, none of them would make Dream regret ever crossing his path. 

Quackity taps his shoulder, breaking him out of his trance. “Hey, you wanna watch Quidditch with the boys? I think it’s the Ravenclaw practice today.”

Always with the fucking Quidditch. George does not want to watch Sapnap fly circles for another three hours. He has no plan to indulge in such a mundane task when he has a problem to fix, a Slytherin to torture. He packs up his textbooks, shaking his head. “Need to talk with Bad.” 

“Oh,” The corner of Quackity’s lips lift in a smirk, “what does that fucker need with you?” 

George stills. He intended to sneak to the Restricted section in the library once more for further research, and he thought if he mentioned the professor, it would throw Quackity off his scent. He didn’t think his best friend would actually be up for it. “Um, he says something’s up with me. Says I have to, er–”

The lie tumbles on its way out. George truly does try to recover. 

“I need something from him. You wouldn’t be interested.” He hopes it’s enough.

“Oh, I’ll come." It isn’t. "Strength in numbers.”

George groans internally. He guesses he’s gonna have to go into Bad’s office now. A million conversations run through his head: escape plans, excuses, lies, et cetera, but Quackity has already started walking to the front. Ugh , he’ll figure something out. 

Bad swishes his wand, eyeing a blackboard eraser scrubbing at the surface without a hand to power it. George bites his lip nervously as he follows his best friend close behind, reciting potential dialogue starters in his head. The professor notices the Ravenclaws approaching, and lifts a brow. “How can I help you boys?”

Quackity takes a step back; George gulps. “Err, could I talk to you for a second?”

The professor squints at him, his lips pursed into a line. Deep thought decorates his features before he waves a hand, “Definitely. I have something to say to you myself.” 

That took George by surprise. “...You do?”

Bad nods, eyes shifting over towards Quackity. His face sours with concern. “Why don’t we take this to my office? We ought to have some privacy.”

Quackity sticks out his tongue in protest, but George simply slumps forward. At least he could get some well-needed distance. Maybe once he’s in the office, he can make something up and say he’s in a hurry. Maybe he can even get a permission slip for the library.  

Bad leads George into the back office, into the cramped space they’d been acquainted with since the first week. George walks in first, setting himself down on one of the chairs as he asks, “Bad, I want to make this quick because what I’m here for isn’t that big of a trouble-”  

The professor goes to close the door, “What might that be?” 

Should George reveal his cards? He needs a permission slip, and Flitwick wouldn’t give it  to him twice without raising some suspicion. “I… need a permission slip for the Restricted section.”

Bad stops, hand lifting off the door knob. The door hangs open with only a crack to peep through; George bites his lip nervously as the professor crosses his arms. “Any particular reason?”

“…To get ahead in my classes?” George thought his reputation would precede him, but from how Bad was acting… “It’s a good thing to be aware of.”

“Then I’d assume you’d also be aware we don’t cover hexes this year.” It comes off accusatory. The professor points his lips like he’s debating something, floating towards the desk. “...This is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.” 

George furrows his brow. “What d’you mean?”

“I’ll just say it, George.” Bad sighs, “I am… reluctant to give you that permission slip.”

“...Why?”

“Someone… mentioned you’ve been dabbling in the dark arts.” 

What ?

 “And who might that be?” He sputters a little too quickly. 

It could’ve been anyone. It could have been his roommates; it could have been Karl – especially from how odd he acted about it that one time. Maybe even that devil, Lamia, with all her do-gooder no-judgement dark arts nonsense. 

“I can’t reveal my sources, you know th-”

“Then how are you so sure?” George lashes out like a wounded animal. Casting hexes isn’t enough to warrant an expulsion, but he didn’t want to taint his record with a real detention. “You can’t just accuse me out of nowhere.”

Bad leans against the desk, his tone distant. “You can’t blame me for asking, George. Especially with that incident with Sapnap a couple weeks ago, and now I’m hearing you’re casting them on other students?” 

George bites the inside of his cheek. 

Bad continues. “There’s nothing wrong with practicing dark arts, but actively harming others is never okay. The whole point of this class is to defend against those kinds of attacks, not to cast them.”

If there’s one thing George doesn’t need, it’s a half-assed lecture on spell ethics. It’s patronizing, but George doesn’t focus on that. He’s too busy ripping through names and suspects: Bad’s double agent. 

The only people who could’ve known that happened were his friends. Quackity was the one to inform him he knew, but who else held that secret? He crosses off his three friends, labeling their concurrent disdain for the professor to be enough of an alibi on their end. Then it would leave too many loose ends, too many possibilities, unless– No. Could it be?  

No, Dream couldn’t have known it was him. The million possibilities runs laps around his mind until his lungs run out of breath. George then realizes he’s gone too long without an answer, without a case to advocate for his innocence. 

As a last ditch effort, he blurts: “I’m being framed.”

“Is that so?” Bad doesn’t believe him. “Who’s the culprit then?” 

Improvise…!

“Dream.” George spouts his name like he’s known it all his life, like he’s been waiting to say it for this exact moment. As his heart pounds against his ribs, he commits to the lie. “He’s real trouble, that Slytherin. You need to watch out for him.” 

“He’s a good kid, George.” Bad reasons. George needs to get out of this. He can’t be blamed for this one slip up. “Why would he hex himself?” 

That’s telling all in itself. Who told Dream about George’s hex? There’s too much to account for, and now George has to face the brunt of it. It’s unheard of, it’s unfair- especially after that night in the dungeons, that hex was-

“ Because he deserves it! ” George spits, hot venom dripping off his words. Bad jolts back from the aggression in his tone, arms falling to his side. “If there’s anyone that’s dabbling in dark arts, it’s him. He’s a Slytherin - it runs in his blood.”

“That’s some serious prejudice, you know?”

“It’s not prejudice if it’s the truth.” George bites. He lets the lie spiral out of control, like a wild beast out of its cage. “Dream casted that bucktooth curse on Sapnap. He’s been a right prick to me this past two weeks and it’s like him to pin it on me. He’s the devil for casting that on himself to deflect suspicion.”

They always say the best lies are half-truths. 

Bad is still skeptical, but his guard falls.“...Your tale doesn’t seem very sound.” 

“Take my word or not, Bad.” George doubles down. “That’s what happened.”

Bad bites the inside of his cheek, something mellow laced in his tone. “If it does come to be true, Dream may lose his apprenticeship. You’re aware of that too then?” 

George doesn’t care. “Good riddance, I say.” 

A beat of silence. “...I’ll look into it, Davidson.”

 George lifts a brow, sneering. “Oh, it’s not George anymore?” 

“Just get out of my office.” Bad shakes his head, exhaustion tugging at his shoulders. He nods over to the door, “Looks like Quackity’s waiting for you.” 

George looks over his shoulder to find a sliver of his best friend peeking through the crack of the door. Thank Merlin that’s over. That entire conversation was a waste of time, and ruined his day. He shuts the door behind him as he takes his spot by Quackity’s side.

That office visit was terribly unproductive, and George needed another way to sneak into the Restricted section. Dream needed more punishment than what was already dealt to him. Bad’s investigation wouldn’t exactly go far, considering his accusation was built upon hearsay, so Dream would likely get off scot-free. George couldn’t let that slide. Maybe he can find a way to spike his dinner with a nausea potion, or find a way to make him trip or shred his textbook or-

“George, that was mean.” 

Quackity finally speaks into the empty silence that surrounded him. There’s no hint of lighthearted banter in his tone.

“What are you talking about?” George tries, his voice coming out wobbly.

Quackity stops; George halts with him. “I’m talking about back there. With Bad…!” 

His best friend isn’t smiling, and the mischief that danced behind his eyes is nowhere to be found.

“All I’m saying is you shouldn’t have lied about that,” he finishes.

What is Quackity saying? Would he rather George come clean and then earn himself detention? George can’t help but feel targeted by his notion. “What? It serves him right.” 

“I’m being serious .” The doom in his chest worsens as Quackity doesn’t relent. “Deserved or not – Dream’s still a person. All you’re being is a fucking dick.”

That’s when George loses it. “Dream will get over it. Besides, it’s not like they’ll find the hex in his wand history.”

“And that’s supposed to make it better?” 

George doesn’t think he’s ever seen his best friend so disappointed. 

“Look, dude. I know you’re going through some things, but this is just fucked up.” A chill runs down George’s spine. “He’s on an apprenticeship , dude.”

So what? George wants to shout. So what if he is? What’s so grand about being on an apprenticeship?

“Getting into Hogwarts isn’t easy, you know? You’re risking his academic career all because you feel… what? Wronged? Targeted? It’s not right. Do you realize how selfish that is?”

That cuts slices through George’s lungs, the air bleeding out of him with the blood in his veins.

“Whatever, dude. I just-” Quackity sighs irritably, reining himself in. “I don’t like the way you act sometimes.”

George doesn’t know how to respond to that.

So, he doesn’t.

☂

Quackity goes to Quidditch practice alone. 

Their paths diverged by the school’s front gate, George too afraid to interfere. He removes himself from their sights, keeping himself away from dinner and instead bunking in the library. He avoids the Restricted section that day too, the guilt from Quackity’s words chewing at his insides.

George returns to the dorm right before dinner hour was over, taking refuge under his quilts like it would keep him safe from every regret and malice the world threw at him the past month. He was glad to be on the top bunk, because at least he didn’t have to face the disappointment on Quackity’s face when he would eventually walk in.

He knew Quackity didn’t approve of the hex when he did it, but George always assumed it was victim bias. Besides, everyone was still plagued with the misconception that Dream was an innocent man, when the Slytherin was far from it. Still, he can’t quite shake the words from his skin. 

I don’t like the way you act sometimes.

George stares up into the ceiling, gazing at the glistening constellations that point to the time of night. He knows he can let down a few people in his life, but he thought Quackity was an exception. He could live with Sapnap and Karl, or anyone for that matter, not thinking of him highly because at least he had Quackity.

Again, Dream’s vile words ring across his skull: Nobody wants to partner with you because you’re insufferable.

And again, the naive part of George clings to the hope that it isn’t true.

☂

The next morning would mark the last Friday of the month. The following Monday would mark the end of the month, and therefore the deadline to the incentive. It would mark George’s death day, and it might as well be. Like a willing corpse, George rots in the privacy of the dorms. 

He slumps against his desk, flipping through his Fantastic Beasts textbook. He skipped out on breakfast and classes for the day, deciding there’s no point when he’d burnt all his bridges only a month in. It must be a new record.

Taffy pays him a visit while she’s making her rounds. It’s a nice surprise, and George is just thankful to have at least one person– or elf, he supposes– in his corner. The elf pops out to get him a fresh batch of cookies that the kitchen was willing to give away. 

Her generosity is short-lived as George bites into it, and finds them terribly salty. 

He sighs. He supposes there’s a reason they were so eager to give it away. Disappointment settles to the bottom of his stomach, realizing it’s all he’s ever ingested for the past week. George couldn’t even feel disgusted by the taste because the cookies were just another thing to feel bad about. 

The textbook taunts him with his inadequacy. He still has no clue what to do for the group project, and Dream’s a lost cause. There’s no way there’s anybody else that’s lacking a partner, so he has no choice but to throw in the towel. Professor Grubbly-plank isn’t going to be too pleased with his inactivity – maybe docking off a few House points, but she’d be understanding deep down. Or at least, he hopes she will. 

It’s just one project , George tells himself. It isn’t reassuring.

A glance at the ceiling clock deemed it to be half past dinner hour, which meant George had been holed up here for the entire day. The curtains were drawn, by Taffy’s doing, so George hadn’t the chance to keep track of time. 

Before George is ready to admit defeat, Quackity lugs his textbooks into the dorms. George closes his textbook softly, watching as his best friend sinks down onto his bed, ready to crawl under the covers and never emerge. 

Then, he says, “You can forget about the dare. I’ll tell the guys you backed out.”

George stands up from his desk, “Quackity-”

“ Don’t start.” Quackity forces through gritted teeth. “I won’t tell the guys what you did – just that you changed your mind.” 

George supposes it was inevitable; he had to break the news somehow. His best friend refuses to face him. A beat of silence wastes away between them, lost with the autumn winds that pass through open windows. 

Quackity takes a deep breath, his eyes darkening. “...Don’t stay out too late.”

George frowns. Quackity yanks the blanket over his head. 

Evidently kicked out from his own dorm, George drags his feet across the carpet until he exits out of Ravenclaw Tower. Quackity needed to simmer down enough to fall asleep, and George still needed to figure out a game plan for his death day. 

He roams the halls with a vile taste on his tongue. Without a friend by his side, he was left to think with only a couple of hours ‘til curfew. The castle felt too stuffy, too claustrophobic, so he wandered out into the damp grass. 

Back there, the stone walls encapsulated every terrible thing George has experienced the past month, but outside, none of that would follow him. Ideally, he would like to sulk in the pond again, but some vindication held him back from returning ever since Dream stumbled across it. It’s such a shame, George thinks. 

He kicks mindlessly at a stone, watching it tumble against the dirt. Looking off into the forest, he wonders what it would be like to run off and never emerge. If everybody hated him so much, he should just remove himself from the equation. Maybe he could live with the beasts and find some sort of peace, but he knows he can’t. 

George sighs. He recalls a list in his mind of assignments coming up, figuring out how to kill time. Herbology seemed to rely on the incentive the least, so at least George didn’t have to lose hope there. 

But again, that fucking peony. This entire term is just a neverending hamster wheel of torture.

He walks towards the greenhouse, inhaling the cold wind into his lungs and letting the rustle of grass bounce around his ears. He never enters the greenhouses after hours, but considering Herbology’s his only hope in raising his grades, he’s got to suck it up. 

To his surprise, the greenhouse door is swung slightly open, unlocked . George blinks at that. Did Professor Longbottom forget to lock it? Highly unlikely – that man was married to his job.

Curious, the Ravenclaw walks in, hearing the rustle of dried leaves and the drip of water. Following the sound, he finds nobody but… oh. 

Dream stands by the back wall, focus holding his stance. The rancid aftertaste in George’s throat worsens.

He isn’t as subtle as he liked to be, or maybe he was too drained. The door creaks behind him, announcing his presence. Dream looks up, but he doesn’t show any signs of disinterest once he realizes who it is.

“...How did you get in?” George offers as a greeting, inching closer towards the line of pots. Dream was snipping away at leaves that had wilted too soon. 

“The same way you came in.” Dream shrugs. George bites the inside of his cheek. He wonders if the Slytherin ever clocks out from being a piece of shit. Dream elaborates, “The door. If you really want to know.”

“Thanks.” George rolls his eyes. “No, I mean… why are you tending to the garden so late?”

“Mr. Neville loves my work ethic. He says he’ll grant me extra credit if I plant these violets by tonight, and he’ll sprinkle in a few galleons on the side. A hustle is a hustle.”

George furrows his brow. “Seriously?”

Dream snorts, shaking his head. “Obviously not. I told him I needed ingredients for my Potions apprenticeship so I’m allowed in the greenhouses whenever I want.”

“Oh.” George doesn’t know why he’s disappointed by its mediocrity. “Well, what are you harvesting?”

“God,” Dream dips his head, loosening his grip on the scissors, “I don’t understand why you’re so interested in what I do. You’re on my back every single time I see you – are you trying to mess with me? Trying to know me just to insult me later on?”

“...No.” George doesn’t know why his voice shakes. “I just- I don’t know. I wanted a good conversation.”

“Why?” Dream’s moved onto the next pot, digging into the roots to pluck out dried stems buried underneath. “You have that boyband following you around, don’t you? Trouble in paradise?”

“I…” George fiddles with the hem of his shirt. He’s reminded of Dream’s harsh words. Everyone knows you need it . “You really don’t see the appeal of being friends with me?”

A pregnant pause falls upon the greenhouse, lightly interrupted by the mechanical fans whirring above. 

“Oh.” Dream clears his throat, setting his tools down. He turns to face George, an empathetic look in his eyes. “I told you, birdie. I didn’t mean it like an insult- I-”

George’s lip quivered, unable to keep his emotions at bay. “How?! How could you not mean it as an insult?”

Dream flaps his mouth open, but George doesn’t give him the chance.

“You say that I’m terrible, that I’m unlikeable, that I don’t care for anyone, and you expect it to not hurt. You say that everyone knows I’m fucking awful and I can’t trust anyone’s judgement because they’re all just tolerating me, and you mean it as friendly advice ?!”

If George was a different man, he would never admit weakness in front of the man who caused it. For now, he plays a fool – a desperate, desperate fool who reached his limit that night in the dungeons.

“You’re not that innocent either, Dream.” George wants to shove him into the flesh-eating plants, or smash his head into the ground; he wants to choke on a sob and gag on his own lunch – he wants to, he wants to- “You- you say that I’m mean and a bully and take it out on others, but you took that out on me . You took it out on me and the worst part is-”

Dream’s eyes soften, regret pooling behind his eyes. George thinks that’s even worse. If Dream’s going to ruin his life, he needs to own it– he should own it because-

“You were right, you know? The worst part is you’re absolutely right and I don’t-” He takes a shuddery breath, but it doesn’t get enough oxygen in, “I don’t know anything . I don’t know how to be friends with people. I don’t even know how to be nice to people. I don’t know if anyone even wants to be my friend anymore. I don’t know a single thing about what’s going on.”

Tears don’t fall, but George wishes they would. As if his current low couldn’t get any lower. Dream had no right to see him so vulnerable, so broken. Dream had no right, especially when he was the reason for all of this. If Dream wasn’t such a fucking dick about everything, if Dream had just kept all of that to himself that night, if only-

The Slytherin shifts his weight, fingers drumming against the wooden surface. He dips his head in consolation. “Birdie…”

George wishes he would put that nickname to rest. He wishes Dream would just leave him alone, or disappear, or make him disappear, or create a Time-Turner so none of this would’ve happened, or rewind to the start so George never attended Hogwarts, or back to his mother’s birth to ensure George would never be alive to experience any of this. 

“I don’t really know where to start except-” Dream is awkward as he talks, like he wasn’t expecting to face the consequences of his actions. That makes two of them. “What I meant by it being… friendly advice is like- so what if you’re an insufferable prick?”

George blinks away the tears rimming his eyes. 

“It doesn’t work for everyone, and it doesn’t work for me – that’s what I meant. I’m really-” Dream picks at his fingernails now, ashamed. “Did… what do you mean by me being right?”

George doesn’t owe Dream an explanation, nor did he owe the satisfaction of his misery, but George is a soldier that’s already down. It’s not like he has anything to lose. The bitter confession hurls out of him like a bad lunch; he details everything that Quackity has said, all the little comments Sapnap’s made and the general feeling of seclusion that George couldn’t bear.

Dream chews his lip nervously. “...I’m really sorry to hear that.”

George just stares at his shoes. What difference was being sorry going to make? This was so pointless. The damage had already been done. 

“I’ll manage.” George squeezes out. It still sounded like a lie.

Silence stretches on between them, neither of them sure of what to say. It lasts minutes, maybe hours. George eyes the plants by the shelves, deciding he can just come back another day. The peony will be there in the morning; there’s no use bothering Dream on a night like this. 

The Ravenclaw starts to turn his shoulder before Dream calls out, “Wait–”

“What?” 

“Um,” Dream croaks, his voice weary “-for the group project, I was thinking… maybe we could do something about Kneazles?”

George pulls back, looking up in confusion. “...What?”

Dream dips his head down, embarrassed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of a topic to do. Come on, what kind of partner are you?”

“...Partner?” Maybe it’s the post-vulnerability delusion that can’t process his thoughts properly. “Wait, you don’t have to be- we don’t have to do that group project togeth- I mean, if you’re going to do it out of pity-”

He’s almost embarrassed at how he stumbles over his words. Dream just shakes his head, a polite genuinity crinkling in the corners of his eyes. “George. Look at me.”

George does. It’s the first time he’s heard his name from Dream’s lips without a hint of disdain; it felt foreign yet familiar. 

“I’ll pair up with you. In every class that you would need me for.” 

George’s heart softens. 

“It won’t be out of pity either,” Dream sputters defensively, “it’s… well, I’m kind of in the same boat. Think of it more as solidarity.”

George can live with that. 

Then, he remembers. The main reason why Quackity wouldn’t talk to him- his resentment, his pettiness. All of his misdeeds that defined his misery.

“Wait-” If he’s going to squash this opportunity, he better do it while he’s ahead. “I have- you might change your mind if I tell you.” George stammers, dreading the worst. Dream’s going to hate him. 

“Alright, birdie,” Back to the nickname, it seems. It doesn’t ease George’s nerves, “I promise nothing will make me change my mind. What is it?”

George chews his lip, digging crescents into his palms. Embarrassed, he confesses his bitter truth: how he lied to Bad, disrespecting his name, streaking his credibility just for a selfish, childish feud. The shame is too much to bear. George knew he shouldn’t have stooped so low, especially when Dream was so willing to—

He cuts himself short, wondering if Dream would really hate him now. Dream has every right to change his mind, hex him, shun him, everything. 

But, he doesn’t. 

Instead, the Slytherin tips his head back in laughter like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Seriously?! Oh my god, I can not believe you stooped that low.”

George blinks. “...You’re not- you’re not mad?”

“Mad?!” Dream regains his smile, and George sags with relief. “That’s hilarious, George. Well, they won’t find anything so it won’t be too bad. It’s not like I have any other choice now, do I?”

He had a point there. In their solidarity formed a safety net that George didn't know how desperately he craved.

“Okay-,” George thinks he might faint, “okay.”

They stay in the greenhouse for the remainder of the night, with George insisting to help with whatever plants Dream was getting his hands on. Curfew separates them briefly, the two promising to meet up in the library at sunrise. The sadness that seeped from his legs were now replaced with a content optimism, that at least something good turned up from today – even if only at day’s end.

He lugs up the spiral staircase, tiptoeing past dozing Ravenclaws in the common room, before creeping back into his dorms. Quackity snores under the covers, his presence reminding George of their earlier feud. 

Climbing up to the top bunk, he finds a hot plate of dinner waiting for him by his headboard shelf. The waft of pancakes is inviting, his stomach snarling at its scent. He briefly glances over the railing, at his best friend, and sighs.

He hopes they make up soon.

. . .

The next morning, George throws on baggy shorts and an oversized shirt before gathering his wand and Fantastic Beasts textbook – he didn’t need much else. He heads out while the sky is still dark, his feet dragging along the carpet as he walks out into the common room. 

Pebble and Stone are splayed out like starfish on the floor, their eyes bloodshot and their movements slow. That alone was telling enough of what they’d been up to. Even if it wasn’t, the telling stench emanating from their bodies would be.

“Good morning.” George greets, stepping carefully over their limbs. “Can’t you guys do that somewhere else?”

“It’s too early to be outside.” Pebble whines, shutting his eyes. 

“You should roll with us.” Stone swipes at George’s ankle, but misses. 

“No thanks.” George scoffs, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. “You can wake Quackity up and ask him.”

Stone tuts. “We asked the blummin’ fool but he’s out again.”

George blinks at that. As he was getting ready, he never bothered to glance at the bottom bunk, but now that he thinks about it, he never did hear his best friend’s snoring. George shrugs, “Well, sorry. I’m heading to the library.”

“Bummer, that.” Stone sighs.

“Oi, while you’re out there,” Pebble pipes up, “Kiss and make up already, yeah? He’s been clucking like a mother hen while you were out, wondering if you’ve fallen off the deep end and such.”

George frowns. “...I’ll try.”

Knowing Quackity, he was probably down by the owlery again. George still hasn’t got his letter to his mum written down, which is another thing to worry about, and he would rather they bump into each other authentically than George actively seeking him out. It’s a code to follow.

That didn’t matter right now though. He had to meet up with Dream.

The walk down to the library is a somber one. The castle is always so quiet on Saturday mornings, especially by sunrise. Too many students indulge in the luxury of sleeping in, which invites a rare kind of peace that George could live with forever.

Dream is standing by the library entrance, wearing something comfortable with a beanie pulled over his mop of hair. It reminds him of Quackity, how he adjusts the tufts away from his face. George tries to shake the thought out of his mind.

“Ready to go?” The Slytherin raises his brow. 

George nods over to the textbook under his arm, gesturing a thumbs up. They settle by the windows because Dream made an off-handed comment about watching the sunrise. They have a brief discussion over what textbooks to pick out and how to structure their collaborative essay, but they fall into a productive silence almost immediately after. 

Kneazles were interesting creatures, George finds. Behavioral studies deemed them to be incredibly loyal, and have an innate aversion to those with malicious intent. It’s a wonder why they’re not as domesticated in the pet mainstream, but George knows he’d be too busy to ever care for any kind of animal. Especially with N.E.W.T.‘s next year. 

“You know,” Dream speaks up unexpectedly, “I don’t really know what I meant that night–”

George is somewhat taken aback, eyes wide. 

The Slytherin clears his throat, chuckling awkwardly, “I was just really tired, and you were really pissing me off. I just didn’t want you treating me like shit all the time just to be my group partner, you know? That still doesn’t mean I should have taken it out on you though. I’m really sorry about that, birdie.”

George almost doesn’t process the apology until Dream flashes him a grimace.

“Are you- are we good now?”

“Oh!” George perks up, nodding feverishly. “You’re forgiven. I mean, I thought we already- um, you know-” 

Dream sighs in relief to a comical degree. “Phew, yeah. I don’t know, it was really getting to me. I just-”

“It’s okay, I swear.” George chews on his lip, twiddling his thumbs together. “...Do you forgive me for being mean?”

Outside, the sun peeks its bright rays over the horizon. Dream offers a reassuring smile.

“Without a doubt.”

☂

They cage themselves in the library for the next twenty four hours, only taking breaks to grab a snack from the Great Hall before retreating back to the library. They got a few raised brows as they crunched through almond pies and pecan bars, but their project was their main priority.

One would think this forced proximity would create a perfect opportunity to get them talking, but they both kept to themselves the entire time, briefly speaking up if they found an error or some kind of breakthrough. It works for them, and that’s enough for George. 

Finally, by dinner hour the next day, they get a good enough essay detailing everything they could find on Kneazles and George could almost deflate from relief. He thinks he could melt into the library floor and never emerge. Oh, how everyone would be surprised by his turnaround. 

Dream offers to take the assignment to his dorm for the night just to polish some last minute details. A week ago, George would be skeptical, thinking Dream would sabotage him in his moments of solace, but now he’s just thankful someone’s cooperative enough to do something thoughtful.

Although, their night doesn’t end there. George was going to hide out in the Ravenclaw common room, in one of the dark corners that most Ravenclaws don’t know about, at least until Quackity went to bed to avoid any kind of unnecessary conflict to end their weekend. As hellish as George’s month has been, he still respects his friends’ boundaries. 

He supposes it’s a statement that Karl and Sapnap hadn’t sought him out in the past couple of days, but George doesn’t want to think about that. He can find them another day, hopefully. As they head out of the library, Dream sticks by his side with a clumsy wobble as he walks.

“And why are you following me?” George looks up at him, still aghast at the Slytherin’s apparent height. 

“You’re heading to your common room, right?” Dream flashes a smile, straightening his back. He doesn’t wait for George to answer as he says, “I don’t have anywhere to go myself so I’ll walk you over there.”

Dream always manages to mention how he has nowhere to go, nobody to talk to, like it’s a trophy to brandish. That part of him still doesn’t rub George the right way, but it’s somewhat reassuring. At least he’s not the only one with a disastrous social life. 

“Okay,” George shrugs, keeping his eyes ahead, “by the way, for Potions, we need to come up with something for-”

Dream nods along, falling back into reclusive conversation regarding only their academics. Once they reach the base of Ravenclaw Tower, Dream insists on walking the full length of the spiral staircase only to complain the rest of the way; George rolls his eyes at that.

The eagle knocker is shocked to see the Slytherin by George’s side, “Oh, bringing a friend into the common room?”

“Not a friend.” George corrects, shrugging. “He’s just walking me back.”

“Yeah, just keeping him company.” Dream sounds a bit down, but George assumes it’s from the fatigue of the stairs.

The knocker doesn’t push it any further, about to announce today’s riddle before the door swings open, interrupting all of them. George expects it to be another Ravenclaw who was out for a late night errand, but instead it’s- 

“Quackity.” George utters out, trying to swallow the frog in his throat. 

His best friend squints at him, eyes shifting over to the Slytherin beside him. “...Are you just coming back?”

George flaps his mouth open to answer, but doesn’t know where to start, or how to explain the situation. How does he say that he’d met up with Dream? That he’d completed the dare? That he’s sorry for Friday? That he wishes they would just get over this and be friends again? 

“I was just walking him back.” Dream supplies, scratching the back of his neck. “We just spent the whole day in the library for the Creatures project.” 

Quackity’s eyes widen at that; George winces. A sense of shame curdles within him, but he doesn’t know why. 

“Did the wormroot help at all with the Bowtruckles?” Dream tries. 

Quackity blinks, trying to process the fact that George and Dream were civil enough to spend a weekend in the library without being the reason for each other’s expulsion, let alone friendly enough to finish up a school project. “Yeah- yeah, thanks for that, man.” 

“Are you-” George kicks at nothing, eyes falling to the floor. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah, just the owlery again.” Quackity replies, deepening the moue of his lips. “You still haven’t written a letter home, have you?”

George bares his teeth at that. Had Quackity no shame? He didn’t want Dream to know about that . “Um, no. I just don’t have much to say.”

“You can talk about me…!” Dream pipes up, an effortful attempt at a joke. “I’m something.”

George looks over his shoulder, mustering up a polite smile. “Will do.”

Dream nods, patting at the side of his robes. “I think I better go. The Slytherin dungeons will take me years to get down there, so I’ll see you guys in class!”

Quackity raises a hand, “Yeah, see you man.”

George just musters up another smile, raising his brow. A part of him still doesn’t know how to address Dream in a friendly manner. A beat of silence follows after, with George biting the inside of his cheek.

Before the Slytherin descends back down the stairs, he looks to George, and only George. “Have a great weekend, birdie!”

George thins his lips. He didn’t like being singled out like that, but maybe Dream’s just terribly friendly. It’s something to adjust to. 

When the tap of the Slytherin’s shoes dwindles to silence, Quackity lets out a snort. “He does know it’s Sunday, right? There’s no weekend left.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he thought that through.” George chuckles softly. The two Ravenclaws stand awkwardly, neither of them sure of what to say. So, George decides to bite the bullet for the both of them. “Look, Quackity. I’m really sorry for how I acted on Friday.”

“It’s okay, George-”

“It’s not. I told Dream everything, and I’m going to talk to Bad about it tomorrow, I promise. I was in a very- I just thought everyone was against me this entire month and I just felt betrayed somehow and I thought that you all hated-”

Quackity goes in for a hug, and it knocks the air from George’s lungs. They stand there for a long time, the both of them just relishing in each other’s company. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

George gulps. Slowly, his hands find their way up to Quackity’s back.

“You do a lot of shitty things, George,” Quackity laughs into his shoulder, “and I may not understand it half the time, but you’re still my best friend. I’m here for you no matter what.”

George buries his face into Quackity’s shirt, taking a deep breath. “...Okay.”

Quackity pulls back to meet his gaze. “If you ever feel like that again, don’t be a bitch and take it on someone else. Talk to me, okay? Best friends rely on each other.”

George nods. “I will.” 

“Awesome.” Quackity lets out a sigh of relief, resting his hands on his hips. “So, are you walking with me to the owlery or what?” 

. . . 🖉

Hello Mum,

 

Sorry for not writing. First month of Hogwarts has been really hard to adjust, but I met someone new.

 

I am not entirely sure where to start, but I guess you’ll want the beginning. I went to the infirmary because I ate too much on the first day. We got bunks this year which is cool. Quackity sleeps next to me like always or I guess below me. The top bunk is nice. The sunrise is always my favourite to watch. They don’t compare to the sunrises by the lake though haha.

 

All my essays and assignments have been good but you may have seen that already. Does Hogwarts still send out weekly report cards? I wouldn’t know. 

 

I wish I was at home.

 

I had a little tiff with my friends this past month. I did some awful things, said some awful words and have been feeling awful in general but we made up. Maybe I’ll tell you all about it in detail this Christmas. I wouldn’t want to take up two scrolls of parchment for this letter. 

 

Although, I have been thinking. About everything really. Do you think I’m too young to regret stuff? Seventh year is coming up and I still don’t know what I want once Hogwarts is over. Sapnap wants to be in Quidditch. Karl wants to work in the Muggle department at the Ministry and Quackity still wants to be one of those Obliviators. I might just do something small like that but I don’t know.

 

It’s hard to think anybody would like me enough to hire me later on. People say I’m too much? Is it true? Am I trying too hard? Am I not trying hard enough? I feel like I have to figure this out before it becomes a real problem.

 

 If you have any advice, I would really like it. I miss home. I don’t want to make it a big deal, but I miss you too. School is

 

Tell everyone I’ll be home for Christmas.

 

Your son, George 

 

P.S. The new guy is American. I think you’d find it funny. 

Chapter Text

After that initial feud, Dream becomes more of an afterthought.

Not foe nor friend, but acquaintance. An autumn leaf passing by on a timely gust of wind.

October introduces a tame ceasefire – a promise of cooperation. What they operate on is merely contractual for mutual benefit. 

Professor Grubbly-plank had a proud glint in her eyes once Dream and George walked up to her and handed their collaborative project about Kneazles, while Professor Flitwick was pleasantly surprised to find George sitting by the blackboard in Charms. Other than that, George still kept to himself in Potions and Herbology, but he wouldn’t be afraid to hold a brief conversation with Dream if his academics would call for it.

He would never admit it, but his focus on his education had gone on a steady incline in the week that followed. George supposes it’s because he didn’t have Sapnap or Quackity to distract him anymore, and Dream was surprisingly very responsible with his studies. Potions showed the biggest improvement, considering George somewhat understood the textbooks for the first time when Dream dumbed it down for him.

October symbolized a new beginning; the true start of George’s school year. 

To the rest of the student populace, it symbolized something else. 

Once the hype around Quidditch tryouts died down, the clubs frenzy took hold. September in Hogwarts was usually subdued for everyone to get settled down, but October always changed that. October was probably George’s second favourite month – nothing could top November, his birthday month – and it was only because of-

“Guys, we have to join the chess club!” Sapnap whines, clasping his hands together. He pouts incredulously, marketing his plea to a crowd of two half-awake Ravenclaws and a wide-eyed Hufflepuff that hung onto his every word. 

Clubs were the only entertainment Hogwarts had year-round. Hogsmeade visits were fine, but going out into town to flush galleons down the drain grew old, and as much as Sapnap pumped his fists in the air every morning, watching Quidditch practice soon felt like watching paint dry. 

“I don’t even understand chess.” Quackity groans, resting his head against the table. 

“That’s a you problem.” Sapnap chows down on his breakfast, nudging gently at Karl’s side. “What about you, Karl? Me and George need a third guy…!” 

Karl twiddles with his thumbs directly across from George, the Hufflepuff chewing on his lip. George eyes him closely – why was he so nervous? Karl shakes his head, fumbling over his words. “I– Quackity and I- we’re going to join the music club.”

“Music club?!” Sapnap sprays his food out, Quackity unfortunately the victim to his splash zone. “Sorry, Quackity.” 

“You fucker.” Quackity mutters a cleaning spell under his breath, eyes fluttering closed. George almost expects Karl to make a ‘hardly-know-her’ joke at that, but that familiar mischief is missing in the Hufflepuff’s gaze.

Sapnap huffs, tossing a helpless look over the table. “Come on, George. Help me out here.”

George gulps down whatever food he has in his mouth and tilts his head. “Why the music club?”

“The… uh-” Karl is definitely acting strange. George almost wants to call him out for it, but he knows he’ll throw the whole mood off if he does. Karl just shrugs, his voice dismissive. “Quackity can play a lot of instruments, so I’m just joining him. I don’t really like… chess either.”

“Oh,” Sapnap thinks to himself for a second before deciding, “that’s fine. I can play the violin, so I could probably join–”

“You can’t!” Karl blurts. George nearly drops his fork; a few students look over their shoulders to glance at the commotion. The Hufflepuff clears his throat before letting out a nervous chuckle. “I mean- that’s- it overlaps with a lot of Quidditch practice. You wouldn’t be able to.”

Sapnap pouts, slumping forward. “...Then that means you won’t be able to watch me play either.”

George just watches this unfold, perplexed at why Karl is currently lying to Sapnap. He knows his friends would never miss Sapnap’s Quidditch practices – at least not willingly. Especially Karl. He was the most loyal to Sapnap out of the four of them. It was truly absurd to see. 

“I mean-” Caught up in his fib, Karl desperately tries to untangle himself out of it. “I wouldn’t miss all of your practices. Only a few. It’s different for you. You wouldn’t want to miss out on any, and I know that.”

“I guess you’re right.” Sapnap relents, eyes falling to his empty plate. George downs the last of his breakfast before wiping at the corners of his mouth. “Well, looks like it’s just me and George for chess club.” 

George shrugs. “Less competition for me.”

♙

Later that day, Sapnap and George head over to the first chess club meeting in one of the right wing buildings that George has not stepped foot in since fourth year. George first took a liking to the club in third year, mainly because he liked making seventh years mad over the fact a thirteen year old beat them out in such a simple game. Although, Quackity would always argue that chess was far from simple. 

The club wasn’t as popular before, but a few exchange students revitalized the chess club in fourth year and started hosting live tournaments that students were able to attend. George won the tournament last year; he’s sure his trophy still sits in a glass case in his room, a materialization of his accomplishment. His friends had congratulated him heavily, with Sapnap twice as eager to know how George even managed to do it. 

That’s how the Gryffindor got roped into chess in the first place. Sapnap always had a competitive spirit about him. He’d sent letters over the summer, saying that he’d attended a few chess games and buffed up his skills, which George found applaudable.

Because of their growing popularity, the club rooms upgraded every year. This year, they settled for a lecture hall several steps of stairs above ground. George missed when clubs used to be niche.

“Hey, George.” Sapnap speaks, pulling George out of his own thoughts. His voice echoes across the empty staircase. “Can you be honest with me?”

“Yeah, what?” George utters breathlessly, his lungs fighting for his life.

“Do you know why Karl’s acting weird with me?” Oh.

“I noticed that too.” George comments, hoping it would offer some reassurance. He holds onto the railing to stabilize himself. “Did you have a fight or something?”

“We don’t fight.” That is true. Sapnap gestures to George then himself. “At least, not like how we fight. Karl’s always nice to me.”

“Are you nice to him back?” 

“...I think so? I mean, I hope so.” Sapnap scratches at the back of his neck. George wonders how many more stairs they have left. “I would never want to hurt Karl.”

George tries to think rationally about this. The only times he could act as a bystander to their antics is during meal times, and maybe Quidditch practice. Sifting through each memory, George couldn’t pinpoint a singular moment that would set Karl to be a blubbering mess. If anything, Karl’s always been like that. Still, he knows that’s not the answer Sapnap’s looking for. “You think he’s hiding something?”

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” Sapnap exasperates, throwing his arms up. “I can play the violin. You can play the ukulele, or the electric guitar or-” 

Well, that’s pushing it. 

Sapnap continues, grumbling. “I can’t help but feel like he’s purposefully shutting me out. Does he act weird with you?”

“He…” George doesn’t know how to answer that. Karl is alright with him, he supposes. Maybe George isn’t as observant as he claims to be. He shrugs, “I can’t say. Karl acts differently with me than he does you.” 

“Man.” Sapnap lets out a sigh of defeat, pointing upwards. “Looks like we’ve reached the floor. You know Karl would’ve hated these stairs.”

“...That he would.” Something tells George that Sapnap is taking Karl’s alienation rather well.

As the boys enter the club, familiar faces light up with their presence. “The champion has returned!”

A couple of girls teeter over, hands behind their back. One of them flashes a toothy smile, “Ready to take home the trophy?”

Sapnap elbows George’s side playfully, snickering.  “Not while I’m here.” 

“We’ll believe it when we see it.” A chess moderator speaks up across the room, sitting comfortably behind a desk. George glances around the room, noticing students of different ages in their own pockets of trial tournaments. A girl drags a table over to where Sapnap stood before unfolding a chess board. 

“Why aren’t the pieces moving?!” Sapnap gawks. 

“We don’t use wizard’s chess for preliminary tryouts.” The girl giggles, swishing her wand to spread out the pawns across the board. “Does Sapnap want to go first?”

The Gryffindor tosses a helpless look George’s way, but the Ravenclaw shows no sympathy. He beckons him forward. “All yours.” 

“You suck.” Sapnap grumbles, plopping down onto the seat. George crosses his arms, watching his moves closely. This is definitely going to make or break Sapnap’s potential at this club. 

The chess moderator from earlier somehow stands at George’s side, inspecting the game. “Why so nervous?”

“You guys are staring at me,” Sapnap reasons, his voice wobbly, “it’s freaking me out.”

“And he says he’s going to win tournaments.” George scoffs.

“Shut up!” Sapnap groans, pushing his knight forward. “I swear Karl would be cheering me on right now.” 

Second strike on the board.

“What?” The girl laughed, pushing her pawn forward. “That Hufflepuff you always hang out with?”

“How do you know that?” Sapnap looks up, brows furrowed. 

The girl overtakes one of his pieces, throwing Sapnap for a loop. She shrugs, “You guys are practically inseparable in the halls. Besides, you guys are one of the only Americans at this school.” 

“That is true.” The Gryffindor chews his lip, contemplating his next move. “You guys are too intimidating.” 

“Sorry, Sapnap.” A chess moderator crosses his arms, snickering. “That’s just the atmosphere we go for.”

“I would know.” George puts in, trying to contribute to the conversation. He can’t quite focus on talking when he’s too invested watching his friend make a few terrible moves, a few questionable sacrifices and a lucky few that rebuild his chances of winning back up. The girl’s a strong contender, George will admit, but Sapnap doesn’t go down without a fight. 

Although, in his times of distress, he relied on commentary that solely revolved around Karl. George did not know what that was about. He supposes everyone has a way of coping. 

Eventually, their match comes to a close as Sapnap pumps a fist into the air, conquering the last opposing chess piece. “And that’s how it’s done!” 

It’s a well earned fight on both parts, but Sapnap even more so. A part of George was hoping his friend would win solely because it would give him a reason to stop bringing up Karl every second of the match.

The room erupts into disconnected applause at his triumph, with one of the chess moderators calling George forward for his turn. 

As the Ravenclaw got settled into the game, his body ran on autopilot, but his mind wandered. George couldn’t stop thinking about Karl and Quackity, and their decision to switch tradition this time around. Merlin, he didn’t even know what they would even do in music club. 

He knew they held symphonies, orchestras, talent shows, concerts, events, all of that jazz, but he couldn’t imagine any of his friends on stage like that. 

Maybe Karl’s embarrassed to perform? He probably has stage fright because it’s like he said: he only joined because of Quackity, and George highly doubted Karl spent any of his time buffing up his musical talents. 

George wins his match with ease, Sapnap clapping him on the shoulder in congratulations. If stage fright was the issue, then it wouldn’t be a consistent reasoning. Karl was never the type to shy away from attention. 

The Ravenclaw taps a finger against his chin. George needed to run an experiment.

♙

That is, if Karl didn’t make himself scarce the next day. 

The Hufflepuff briefly sat down with the boys for breakfast before skittering out of the Great Hall with Quackity following closely behind. 

George scoffs. This is just getting absurd now. He glances over at Sapnap, who looked far from happy.

Ugh, George did not like the uncertainty clouding their friend group. A part of him felt obligated to get to the bottom of this – if not for Sapnap’s sake, then for his own curiosity. He bids a quick goodbye, or instead, a promise to fix whatever mess they’re in, before following his friends out of the Hall, trying to keep an inconspicuous distance as to not be seen. 

The Ravenclaw tucks behind pillars and hugs up against stone walls as his friends walk out into the grass, specifically to the owlery. Merlin, he wonders what this big obsession with sending letters is. There can’t be any other reason for Quackity to visit the owlery so often otherwise.

Karl suddenly stops by the owlery entrance, with George hiding himself behind one of the trees. He can’t hear them from here, but he can see the distress on Karl’s face as he throws his hands over his eyes. Quackity goes to soothe him, holding him by his shoulders and gazing up at him. Eventually, Karl wipes at the corner of his eyes, slowly nodding, before the two of them walk into the owlery.

Hm. Very peculiar indeed. 

George walks back to the castle, mainly because he needed to get to class. But he maps out his investigation with all the cards he had. Karl is hiding something, but he doesn’t think it’s malicious at all.

The Ravenclaw sighs. He’ll figure it out another time; he’s got bigger fish to fry. 

. . . 

A new problem has emerged for George, albeit a bit more tame than his previous one. 

Ponk greets him in Alchemy with a soft smile, hunched over the desk as he redips his quill in blue ink. “Had a good weekend?”

The Hufflepuff was a fan of smalltalk, George noticed. It almost felt like Ponk cared about the little details of everyone’s lives, which he supposes is a positive. George shrugs in response, settling himself into his seat. “Yeah, finished up a group project last minute. Thank Merlin for that.”

“Oh, right.” Ponk scribbles some more notes down onto his parchment, “so you managed to find someone to fill the incentive?”

“Yeah, I did.” George nods, glancing around the room. He wondered where the professor was. “Dream finally decided to work with me.”

That grabs Ponk’s attention. “Wait, so it’s true then? You guys spent the whole weekend together?”

 That should have been George’s first warning. Still, the Ravenclaw humoured him. “Err- yeah? We didn’t have any other choice, did we, Ponk?”

Ponk seems hesitant, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I guess.”

George hums to himself, deciding to just brush it off. Ponk still doesn’t leave it alone.

“So, how was he?”

“Hm?”

“How was Dream?” Ponk sounded like he was treading a fine line. Maybe George’s reputation preceded him more than he thought this time around. “I mean, everyone says you don’t like him a fair bit.”

Well, he can’t fault his friend for curiosity. George relents, “It was fine. He was able to walk me back to my common room on Sunday which was nice of him.”

“And nothing happened after?” Ponk blurts. That catches George off-guard. Was something supposed to happen after? The flabbergast must’ve been evident on his face, because Ponk immediately backtracks. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. Glad it all worked out.”

If George had any mind, he would interrogate Ponk any further on what he meant by it all. It could be disguised as innocent, but with how pushy Ponk was about Dream… He shakes his head. Whatever. George has to focus on school. As if on cue, the professor walks in, greeting the class with a faint smile. George takes out the rest of his stationary before muttering a quick “...Thanks.”

Ponk keeps to himself after that, but George doesn’t linger on the conversation. There’s too many oddities emerging around him: whatever’s going on with Karl and Sapnap, and now Ponk… maybe it’s reparations for what he’d put all his friends through over the last month. 

Oh well. What goes around comes around.

Talks of clubs follow him to Transfiguration through Lamia actually, who tries to recruit him for a wizard's club she's trying to start up. George questioned why she even bothered giving him the time of day, considering their newfound indifference, but it only took a solemn sigh and a dip of the witch's head to admit she couldn't find a single person to join. As much as she tried to describe the club as something educational, people's repulsion and George's awareness of her... 'hobbies' didn't bode well for her case. Still, she insisted that it wasn't what he expected and was more on ancient history and cyclical practices regarding the moon.

"Look," she started off, heaving open a dusty old book and pointing to one of the passageways. Moon charts and ancient symbols greeted them both, indecipherable to George's eyes. The odd witch continues, "wizards back in the day relied heavily on the moon because of how much power and influence they offered in the night. Werewolves are taught to have wild magic, untamed and dangerous, but it's only because their existence revolves entirely on the rise and fall of the full moon -- the more presence it overtook in the sky, the stronger everyone's magic becomes."

It was an interesting enough piece of lore; it explained why a lot of them held rituals following the phases of the moon, but all of it still resided under the umbrella of dark and unknown magic. George understands now why Lamia was grasping for straws with recruitment; nobody would consider this club in good enough conscience. But with George's track record... his conscience wasn't as pure of an image as he liked it to be.

Lamia continued her marketing spiel, whispering through her professor father's lecture on the properties of carpentry, to the point where he learnt more about her club during that class than the actual curriculum. She went on about the stigma of dark magic and how all magic done outside of the sun only gained public disapproval due to people's fear of uncertainty. Nobody liked something they couldn't understand, and George could see it even now in modern stigmas regarding blood status and other magical minorities. 

If there's one thing George couldn't refuse, it was knowledge. Knowledge of the world, knowledge of the past, of people and their actions. He always wanted to learn - to know - to have all the facts in one place to view the world as objectively as possible. It's the only thing that made the whole ordeal of Lamia's dastardly club so enticing in the first place. Especially when Lamia mentioned talks of stigma and misguided opinions, a surge of stubbornness pushed George to divert expectations.

Lamia knew exactly how to lure him in, using kernels of cultural impacts and magical tidbits like a mouse to a rat-trap, and she caught him in - hook, line and sinker. George didn't know if he should applaud her or hate her. 

As the class dwindled to its last couple minutes, George casts a Shrinking spell onto his textbooks and pockets them into his robes. He comments, “I’ll check it out... Zeena.”

The nickname is awkward on his tongue, but ever since his conversation with Dream, he'd been trying to make an effort to be on Lamia's good side. Furthering his facade as a piece of shit only acted as a detriment to his reputation after all. 

...And besides, Lamia wasn't as annoying as he thought.

“Yay!” Lamia shrills excitedly, briefly pumping a fist upwards. Her bracelets jangle against her wrists, her obnoxious hat tipping backward. Her odd fashion doesn't put him off anymore, instead melding into a form of respect. She expressed herself unapologetically, and George couldn't fault that. Especially when he adopted that same mindset. As the two walk by the door, the witch asks, “Hey, mind if you walk with me to the admins office? I need to register the club since I’ve finally got a second member.”

“Oh, sure.” George replies. 

It’s lunch hour, and it’s not like he’s got anywhere to be. Except for whatever tension between his friends awaited him at the Great Hall. Merlin knows he’d rather delay that more than anything. 

As they cut through the courtyard, George decides to fill the silence. “How many more people are you planning to invite?”

"Just my brothers, but I doubt they'll be grown enough for it." Lamia sighs; George didn't know she had brothers. The girl then perks up, waggling her eyebrows teasingly. “Why? Got anyone in mind?” 

George points his lips together to actually think about it. 

He could ask his friends, but Sapnap’s already preoccupied with Quidditch and now the chess club, which no doubt he’d try hard for. He doubts he’d spare some time for another extracurricular activity. Then, there’s Karl and Quackity. They had the music club, and they were very reluctant to break away from that commitment. 

So, he supposes he didn’t have anyone off the top of his head. “Not really. All the people I know are already busy.”

“Dream isn’t.” Lamia snickers. 

George straightens his back at that, “What?”

“He’s right across the courtyard.” The witch supplies. George follows his line of sight and finds her to be right. Dream was sitting on a stone bench with a book in hand. The mop of his hair fell over his eyes, his posture slouched over and his robes splayed out under him. “Maybe give him a shout?”

“Merlin, I forgot that guy existed.” George grimaces. He really does try to play nice with her. “You want to ask him ?”

“Well, you might.” Lamia elbows his side, the two of them stopping in their tracks. They linger by one of the stone pillars, right by the entrance to the admins office. A few students bump into them as they meander around, muttering their frustrations under their breath. 

This is just getting awfully suspicious now. George crosses his arms. “And why would I want that?”

“Because you fancy him.”

George gawks. “I do not!”

“Denial is a river in Egypt.”

“Shut up .” George shoves her lightly, scoffing. “Where did you even hear that?”

“Oh, don't play dumb!” Lamia giggled, waving a dismissive hand. “It's okay to like him, you know? It's not the 1900's.”

The Ravenclaw furrows his brow, scowling. “Zeena.”

Lamia's smile falls, now replaced with realization. “...Oh, you actually don't know?”

George should’ve just played along. Lamia goes to scratch behind her neck, baring her teeth in an awkward smile.

Apparently, a new rumour has been circulating across the sixth year populace. Because of how fast Dream and George got over their differences, it’s sparked up a few rumours between their friend groups. That is, if Dream had any friends. 

His Slytherin cronies think they shagged, or fucked , as Sapnap would say. George is more offended that they think he’s that easy than he is that the rumour involved Dream. It’s horrid really. George would never submit himself to that kind of situation, let alone to a total stranger. The rumour’s a hot topic among the Slytherins, which Lamia desperately assured didn’t spread to any of the other Houses, but reflecting back on Ponk’s behaviour back in Alchemy… oh Merlin . 

George doesn’t care much for what everyone thinks. People will always talk – about his food accident on the first day, about him and Dream, about every unordinary thing that happens inside of these castle walls because they’ve got nothing else to talk about. 

So, let them talk, he thinks. They’ll figure out soon enough that nothing will ever happen between him and Dream. 

They’re acquaintances, not friends. 

It’s not like he has much space for another one anyway.

♙

The situation between Karl and Sapnap has not gotten any better. 

Karl and Quackity made themselves unreasonably scarce over the next few days that even George thought it ludicrous. Sure, George hangs out with either one individually, but lunch hour is a desert of nothing but the company of a sulky Gryffindor. 

“Have you hung out with Karl at all?” George asks one time, sipping on his apple juice. Sapnap hasn’t been taking Karl’s inattention well, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. A few of his Gryffindor buddies have come up asking what went wrong – even the Quidditch coach was starting to notice their star player’s been getting sloppy. 

“No.” Sapnap grumbles, poking at his noodles. Glass noodles were always his favourite, but now he won’t even bother taking a bite. “Did I do something wrong? I know I say terrible things without meaning to, but one of you always tells me if I am!”

That is true. So, it can’t be something that Sapnap has said. No matter how many tiffs that happen between their group, nobody ever took sides. It’s a small school – or at least, it’s not like any of them were going anywhere – so if Karl had a problem, it would’ve been resolved by now. 

The Gryffindor drops his head into the table, emitting a deep sigh. “I just wanna know what I did wrong.”

So, even when he had much better things to do, George adopts the burden of taking matters into his own hands.

In the Ravenclaw common room, as George was memorizing last week’s notes by the sofas, Quackity walks in with his tie dishevelled and his beanie scrunched up in his fist. George leans back to greet him, “Music club giving you a hard time?”

In his fatigue, Quackity plops down onto the sofa, before shuffling his head until it rested upon George’s lap. “Always is.”

“What do you even do?” George leans over Quackity’s head at an awkward angle so as to not squish him with his torso. “You guys practicing for something?”

“Karl’s idea.” Quackity yawns, his eyes drooping closed. “Sapnap surprise…”

And his friend drifts off, soft snores escaping through his nose. 

George blinks at that. Well, that was easy. When he took on the burden of mediator, he assumed he would’ve had to stage a ruthless interrogation, but all he needed was a little bit of sleep deprivation.

He drums his fingers against his lap in deep thought. A surprise for Sapnap… but what was the surprise?

The next morning, George makes it his mission to wake up before the break of dawn and head down to the Hufflepuff common room. He couldn’t bother to get dressed or look presentable, but he grabbed his wand, casted Muffliato on his roommates and headed on his way. 

The path to the Hufflepuff burrow was a lengthy one, but luckily he managed to evade any ghosts that would otherwise tear into him for being out of bed. Curfews in the morning hours were always a grey area in Hogwarts; it’s not like they can blame George for taking advantage of that loophole.

Soon enough, the wooden barrels that housed the entrance stared down at him expectantly. Muscle memory taps his wand in the tune of a UK drill song that a Hufflepuff bewitched it with a few years ago. He doesn’t know why nobody’s been bothered to change it, but he supposes it’s comedic to have that in such a prestigious setting.

Karl had a knack for inviting the guys down to the common room, so George naturally memorized the security system, as well as how to navigate the vines and gardens spanning the walls. The common room itself is a ghost town in the morning, considering it’s so close to the kitchens unlike the Slytherins, and not barred by millions of stairs like Gryffindor or Ravenclaw Tower; a lot of Hufflepuffs just grab a bite and head on to class. 

Karl’s dorm was up a couple ladders, with vines tracing the circular door. This could be classified as breaking-and-entering, but it’s not like anyone really cares. George walks in and finds a series of beds lined up against the wall, with plants hanging from the ceiling. Yet, the Hufflepuff he was looking for was sound asleep with his body splayed out like a starfish and his blankets tangled between his legs.

So, like any sane person, George shakes Karl awake like his life depended on it. 

“ Get up. ” The Ravenclaw hisses.

“Wh- where-” Karl jolts awake, as George tuts at him to keep his voice down. “ George ?” The Hufflepuff’s speech is disorganized as he tries to stabilize himself atop his bed. “What are you-?”

“We have to talk.” George points to the door, frowning.

His friend sighs, tossing the blankets off to the side. Neither of the Hufflepuffs stir awake as the two of them exit out into the common room, and sit against the ladder’s railings. Karl rubs at the corner of his eyes, trying to bite back a yawn. “What is it?”

If this was a normal conversation, George would first ask why Karl was so nonchalant to being woken up so early, or why he didn’t think to question that George was down in the common room in the first place. 

This wasn’t a normal conversation though; it was a mission. They always say it’s best to rip off a bandaid. “Tell me why you’re avoiding Sapnap.”

Karl’s eyes widen, his lax demeanour now unravelling into nerves. “…I’m n-”

“ Yes , you are.” George crosses his arms. “You and Quackity have been running off to music club for what? What’s the surprise you’re planning?”

The adrenaline fully wakes his friend up. “How do you know about the surprise?”

“So you are avoiding Sapnap.”

“ No -!” Karl runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks growing red. “It’s not- it’s- I don’t want to say…! That was supposed to stay between me and Quackity!” 

“Well, I’m part of it now.” George brings a hand up to his chin, raising a brow. “Why are you so reluctant to tell me?”

“I’m not-”

“Is it something he said?”

“No, it’s-”

“Is it something he did?” 

“No!” 

His patience is running thin now. “Merlin, what is it then? Sapnap’s been feeling sorry for himself for days now and it doesn’t help when you go the extra effort to boycott every interaction with him.”

“I know but it’s-”

“Do you hate him?” It had to be the only explanation. But why? How could Karl hate-

“I don’t hate him, George-”

“Then, what –”

“Because I like him!” 

Karl’s hands fly over his mouth, his eyes bulging out of his skull in terror. 

George’s jaw slackens in disbelief. … What ?

Karl then brings his hands over his eyes, shaking his head slowly. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I just said it…!”

Karl… likes Sapnap? 

“George, you can’t tell anyone, okay?” Karl steps forward, shakily placing his hands on George’s shoulders. His eyes are round and pleading. Is it that humiliating to like someone? “Please forget I said anything. Please .”

“You…” George wants to agree to his terms, but his mind can’t move on from Karl’s truth bomb. He actually likes Sapnap. “Why do you like him?”

That catches both of them off guard. “What do you mean?” 

If he’s being honest, George doesn’t know how to articulate it. The news that Karl likes Sapnap floored him when he knew it shouldn’t. People have crushes all the time, but he supposes he never experienced any of his friends having crushes on another person before, let alone each other.

Quackity always made comments about girls in their class in third year, but he grew out of it once he got more involved with his academics. Then, Karl and Sapnap never said much because they were always by each other and… 

He files through his memories, through every Quidditch practice and every time Karl clapped a little louder than the others, through every meal hour and how Karl always sidled up by Sapnap’s side when he could.

Maybe George isn’t as smart as he thought he was. 

A pit of doom thrummed at the bottom of his stomach, but he doesn’t know what from. Is it anger? Anger over the fact they didn’t include him on this secret? Is it disappointment? Disappointment that he didn’t notice, or he wasn’t aware of it? 

Tornados of questions swirl around George’s head, but he doesn’t let the winds blow out in boisterous interrogation. Instead, he just remains his neutrality and sighs.  

“Nothing.” He backtracks. “...I won’t tell.”

The whole point of coming down here was to figure out why Karl was avoiding Sapnap, and he did just that. 

Karl still looks flustered as he retreats back to himself, chewing nervously at his lip. “The surprise for Sapnap was for me to… show him some music.”

Odd. “But you don’t play.”

“It’s not a concert.” Karl laughs nervously, like he’s trying to save face, “I’ve been trying to enchant certain songs into a… record player, so he could listen to it in his common room. It’s for a… gift.”

“But it’s not his birthday.” George blinks. If anything, Karl should be preparing for George’s seventeenth that’s coming up after Halloween. Sapnap’s wasn’t until March.

“It’s not for his birthday.”

“Then why?”

“It’s what people with crushes do!” Karl exasperates, somehow even more red in the face than before. “It’s been taking a lot of effort, but I just can’t… talk to Sapnap while it’s not finished.”

George doesn’t get it at all. But considering it’s too early in the morning for this, he decides to pick his battles. “...Okay.”

“So please,” Karl clasps his hands together, jutting his bottom lip in a comical display, “could you keep it to yourself? I swear to God I’ll talk to him sometime, I just- just not now.”

George runs his tongue against the back of his upper teeth in contemplation. There’s too many rebuttals floating at the back of his throat, too many curiosities he wants to fulfil. But, Karl was asking him a favour, and George knew how to keep a secret. “...I already said I would.”

“Thank you so much!” Karl pulls him into a hug, wrapping his torso in a brief squeeze. “I won’t forget this!”

George is counting on it.

♙

Keeping a secret isn’t supposed to feel like pulling teeth, but listening to Sapnap whine on how much he misses talking to Karl makes it exactly that.

George knows he can’t fault his friend. He made a promise to keep Sapnap in the dark, but he still feels obligated to complain about it. The Gryffindor mopes during every lunch hour about how he wishes he would just figure out what’s going on. Chess club is especially worse, because Sapnap always relied on talking about Karl to calm down whatever nerves would shake in his fingers. Now, with the whole situation, it just felt awkward. 

George felt like a double agent from those Muggle movies. Quackity showed him a classic once, where a man held information for both sides, and it was his decision on what to do. It gave him power in a way. Power to out Karl’s feelings, or toy with Sapnap’s emotions. Power to make things go the way he wants them to – but instead he complains about it. He supposes knowledge is truly a man’s greatest burden. 

Although, complaining about the situation is better than actively thinking about it. George still couldn’t believe Karl liked Sapnap, or that he was capable of doing so at all. It’s not to shame Karl’s taste in men, but more of… he didn’t think his friends could do that. 

George is aware that makes him sound extremely sheltered, but again, he supposes he could almost come close to it. Romance wasn’t a thing on his mind as a child, nor was it a priority during school, so for his friend to go out of his way…

Whatever. George made a promise and that was that. Karl can like whoever he likes, and it’s not anyone’s business. Even if the person he likes happens to be Sapnap: the loud, yet sincere Quidditch Chaser that can’t bear to live a day without the Hufflepuff at his side.

George wonders. 

…Could Sapnap reciprocate those feelings?

That thought alone makes George’s stomach gurgle something vile up his throat. Never mind then. It’s already crazy enough that Karl likes him… it would be true insanity for Sapnap to feel the same way. 

What a world that would be.

. . .

Keeping a secret is like playing chess. 

George has made his move, and now he leans back in his chair for Karl to nab his rook, or strike down his bishop, or anything so the game moves forward. Unfortunately, a game is only as riveting as its pace. It was now two weeks into October without a word of progress, and as much as he despised Sapnap’s whining, George has better things to do.

To bide his time, he regains his title in chess club as reigning champion, obliterating half the team during their preliminary tournaments. The club wasn’t going to host any full-fledged chess matches until winter was over, so when he wasn’t participating in meetings, he was holed away in the library focused on his academics.

Quackity joins him sometimes, mumbling over an essay that was due the next day. Karl would tag along too, flipping through his textbooks as he snuck a granola bar in his robe sleeve. Then Sapnap would walk in only to find Quackity and Karl hastily packing up and heading the opposite direction. George would just shake his head and brunt the tidbits of teenage drama that infested his everyday life.

“It is kind of harsh, no?” Ponk would comment during Alchemy. George only revealed to him about his troubles in hopes he’d hear something from Hufflepuff hearsay. That endeavour bore nothing.

“I’ll figure out why they’re doing it and then they’ll stop.” George shrugs.

Ponk clicks his tongue. “You better get on with it quick then. If I were him, it’d be all I would think about.”

Lucky for George, he isn’t Ponk. That is exactly why he invested his time in clubs anyway. Once people get bored, people start to talk and overreact. George doesn’t understand why students here don’t pick up a hobby to bide their time.

Speaking of which, he hasn’t heard much from Lamia about her history club. It’s not like he’s complaining though. George only joined from mere obligation, and again, he’s got other priorities. Although, he can't say he isn't a little bummed; he truly was looking forward to see what it was about. The most he’s heard from the stout witch is snickers and concurrent teasing over the recurring rumour circling his reputation, which refused to subside no matter how indifferent George acted around Dream during class.

Right. 

Dream.

With everything going on, George hasn’t had the chance to fully comprehend their new relationship status. Rumoured or actual.

They’re acquaintanced as acquaintances could get, he supposes. Dream holds a light conversation during class, and helps George when he asks. Most of the time, George just treats him with a respectful neutrality that Dream can’t really twist into anything interesting.

That doesn’t stop the student populace though. 

The rumour hadn’t been much of an issue when it was just Ponk and Lamia. He should’ve known something was off the moment it infiltrated the walls of the Ravenclaw common room. 

George and Quackity were sitting by the sofas, textbooks sprawled on their laps, until Pebble and Stone stumbled in with wonky steps and loopy heads.

“Oi, Davidson.” Pebble hics. His accent always got worse when he was intoxicated. “‘s true then?” 

Stone tumbles down onto the carpet, giggling hysterically. “You and Dream getting along well?”

“Very along.” Pebble tries to support himself against the head of the sofa, but subvertantly knocks his knees against the edge and tips forward before landing directly on top of Stone. “Aye, good save.”

Quackity rolls his eyes. “Don’t mind them, George. They’re just being… them.”

It’s not like George was going to entertain their antics either way. So, he thought nothing of it.

Then, it’s the hallways. While George listens to Quackity talk about nothing at all, he’ll notice some Slytherins staring – sometimes, even his fellow Ravenclaws. Everyone thinks they’re being subtle when they squint at him with suspicion; some smirk as if they knew something he didn’t. They don’t even try to keep their voice down when they do inevitably talk about it.

In Magical Creatures, it’s a mix of “Did you hear? They’re together.”, “Look how close they stand to each other. It’s really no wonder”, “Be careful. You may walk in on them doing… y’know!” 

In Defense class, they whisper “I always thought that Ravenclaw was a prick,” or “It was only a matter of time.”

With those ones, George can manage. They’re just being nosy, and he can excuse that. It does irk him that the students held no ounce of respect as they spoke, but he can reason that too in some outlandish theory. 

He can handle side comments in the library of people assuming Dream was easy  or that George was a sly dog. He could take it, but the issue was… why ? He didn’t quite understand why those comments even existed. 

Couples existed at Hogwarts, and surely a few of them breach the line of decency. Some even care to display their vulgarity in hallways and the Great Hall, where the general public had every reason to call disdain upon them. 

Yet, George and Dream have not publicly engaged in any of those behaviours. Nor have they made anything official in the public eye that would call for such opinionated think pieces. It’s all just speculation. The possibility for a spectacle.

George asks Quackity about it before they go to sleep one night, but Quackity doesn’t give him the answer he’s looking for. “People just love to talk. You don’t have to pay attention to them.”

He would love to. Really, he would love to ignore what everyone said about him. It’s what he’s done before, so there should be no reason for him to do it now. Yet, something brews in the pit of his stomach at the thought of it. Something vile, something ruthless.

A rancid concoction bubbling up at the bottom of his gut, like it was threatening to spill over the bed rail and onto the midnight blue carpet below. 

Potions only solidified his distaste for the rumours. 

A Gryffindor comes up to them, asking for a quill to borrow from Dream. It should’ve been a normal exchange, but the freak just had to say, “Good on you for wrangling that troll. They say a good shag tames the bitch, dunnit?”

George’s face sours.

“…I don’t know what you mean by that.” Dream replies, his face decorated in confusion.

“Don’t need to.” The Gryffindor laughs. He retreats back to his seat by the blackboard, but the damage has already bled through George’s clothes and left an icky residue on the rest of his body. 

They say a good shag tames the bitch.  

He doesn’t know why that clung to his skin. It made him feel awful.  

Their words. How they spoke about him. Every single thing he’s heard in the past week now seep into his skin, the realization melding with his bones. The worst part is how the rest of them didn’t even seem to care. His friends. His acquaintances. Nobody batted an eye to the leeching gossip that sunk its fangs into his arms; to the sly words fall off their tongues like they’re the smartest people in the room, laughing to themselves like they’re full blown comedians. 

It isn’t funny , George wants to cry out. It never was. 

It was vile. Horrible. Disgusting. Every single synonym that could describe the bile rising in his throat. George had to get out; he had to leave and take himself away from the situation. 

“Just-” His voice is barely a squeak, his throat closing up. “Just give me the rest of the notes after.”

Before Dream can protest, George quietly slips out of his chair and heads straight for the door. He doesn’t make a big spectacle of it; the only person that would notice he left was Dream. One of the perks of Dream sitting in the back was it was easy to disappear.

It didn’t matter either way, because George just needed to leave . 

He didn’t know where he would go, or what he was running from, but he knew he just needed to get away. Get away from that Slytherin, get away from the rumours. 

Soon, it was only his footsteps that kept him company in the empty corridors. He didn’t care to check if anyone had followed, unlikely as it may be. His skin crawled with an irritating itch he couldn’t get rid of. The comments from earlier come flooding in, the vulgarity, their putrid attitudes. 

George finally figured it out. He finally knew why it irked him. 

It’s the way they talked about him like he was an object, like a prize to be won. He was only sixteen; he shouldn’t be thinking about getting naked in people’s beds. He had to focus on his studies, because the real world didn’t care about relationships – they cared on your efforts, your work ethic, your— 

George holds his arms to his chest, fingers digging into his own biceps. 

Don’t let it faze you. He mutters to himself. Let them talk. 

But it’s all everyone talks about! He seethes.

He didn’t know what to do. It frustrated him so much that he- that he-

“Birdie, are you okay?” 

George halts. 

He pivots on his heel slowly, his gaze falling to the floor. He knew who it was.

Dream stands before him, and George can tell by the awful shoes peeking from under his robes. That, and the Merlin-forsaken nickname he couldn’t let go of. 

The castle walls are claustrophobic around them, only lit by the crevices overhead. 

“I’m fine.” George bites out. He hopes the wobble in his voice isn’t noticeable. 

“That guy, I told him that it wasn’t a nice thing to say.” Dream supplies, fiddling with his fingers. George still can’t bring himself to look up at him. “Are you…”

If he’s going to ask if he’s okay again- “I said I’m fine.” 

“No, I was-“ Dream gulps, “Are you avoiding me?” 

What ?

“No.” George replies, because it’s the truth. At least, he thinks it is. “Why?”

“You just haven’t talked to me much since… people started talking.” Dream looks at him like he’s already answered his own question. George will admit that he’s been trying to suppress the rumours through distance, but he hasn’t been actively advocating for such a feat to be done overnight. 

“I’ve just been busy.” It’s a half-assed excuse. “I always am.” 

“Yeah, but…” Dream sighs, “I’ve been trying to get them to stop, y’know? The Slytherins, at least. I don’t think they listen to me though.” 

And why would they listen to you? George wants to spit. What authority do you have to think you can undo what they’ve said? 

Instead, the Ravenclaw shakes his head. “You don’t have to. It’ll blow over once they find something else to talk about.” 

“...I just-” Dream dips his head. “Are we okay then?”

George nods, but it’s not an honest one. He forces himself to tilt his head upwards, pointing a cold stare straight into Dream’s eyes. “You can go back to class.”

Dream takes a step forward, but George reflexively takes a step back. It doesn’t go unnoticed. “Do you… want me to get your stuff for you?”

“Have it already.” This is so painfully awkward, and George seriously feels like he may throw up. He just wants to go to the common room and hide out for the rest of the day if he can, maybe even wallow in his own self pity for a couple hours. 

Still, Dream doesn’t quite get the memo. “Are you doing anything after… class is over?” 

“Going to my next class.” George lies. The rumour would follow him no matter where he went, and he wanted anything but.

“I mean, after all your classes are done for the day.”

“Chess club.” Please please please just go back to the classroom.

“Can I join?” 

No, you can’t. “Need to be good to join.” 

“You can bring me as a plus one.” Dream insists, and George winces. 

Maybe it’s his usage of ‘plus one’, and the implications it brought. Plus one suggested intimacy, plus one suggested importance. Dream isn’t important to George, and he needs to clear any evidence that damned him so. 

The worst part: plus one suggested accessory. Something to tag along. A connection. An object. Object object object. 

Retreating into himself, George closes his eyes. His throat feels like it’s about to constrict, or wring itself into knots. Then, he gulps. Not because he’s nervous, but because it would hopefully push down the bile in his throat. 

“Never.” 

And George walks away.

♙

Accepting that oath on the train damned him to a year of torture, and there’s nobody to blame but himself.

George left Dream hanging an hour ago, and has been hiding out in the bathrooms since then. He couldn’t stomach the nausea any longer to make it to the common rooms, and the toilets felt the most suitable to empty the contents of his stomach anyway.

He probably smells of vomit and toilet waste from the next stall over. Students were about to end their day, meaning they were bustling through the halls, and George would rather die than run into anyone in this state. It would do him more harm than good. Knowing his luck, it would fuel the rumours and he would never make it out of this school year alive.

The boys’ lavatory is always empty on the third floor, but it still meant a long way to Ravenclaw Tower. George sighs. 

He wishes he was at home.

. . .

In the second hour of his self-induced isolation, George has the brilliant idea to shrink himself down to the size of a mouse and scurry through the walls to get to the Ravenclaw Tower. He could do it. He’s amazing at Charms and Flitwick was confident in his abilities. 

George whisks out his wand from his robe pockets and aims it at himself. It can’t be that different from shrinking his textbook. 

He tries to remember the wand movements, the cast… 

“ Expelliarmus!” A voice calls out; George’s wand is flung out of his grasp and clatters down onto the moist bathroom floors. Colourful words rest upon his tongue, ready to spew at the culprit that thwarted his plans, until-

“Quackity?” George’s features softened, before his eyes widening. “Oh, Merlin. What are you doing here?”

“My question is what are you doing here?” Quackity scowls, bending over to pick up George’s wand. “You weren’t in class and the professors are getting on my ass about it. I’m not your parent, you know. But I still went to look for you, and-”

“Sorry.” George cuts in, his voice barely a murmur. “I was just… practicing a spell.”

“Dude, with how you were aiming your wand-” Quackity demonstrates a visual component, holding the wand up to his head as if it were a gun before tilting his head to the side, “Looked like you were about to Avada yourself.”

“...I was actually trying to cast Reducio.” 

Quackity scrunches his nose in surprise, “On yourself ?”

George sighs. “Could I get my wand back?”

“Jesus, I don’t know if I should.” Quackity tuts, but hands it over to him anyway. “Are you alright, man? You skip classes, but never that many.”

George dips his head, ashamed. “Just wanted to clear my head.”

“Casting a Reducio isn’t going to do that.” His best friend sighs, holding his hand out for George to take. “Get up. You need to head to the common room anyway.” 

He was right, he supposes. He needed to shower, and just hide away in a place that wasn’t the boys’ lavatory. George is hoisted upwards as he takes Quackity’s hand, muttering a quick thanks. “I’m sorry for disappearing.”

“No worries, dude.” Quackity reassures, resting his hands behind his head. As the two head out into the now busy corridor, his best friend smiles, “I’m just glad I found you in time for the riddle.”

George snorts at that. He supposes he’s good for one thing.  

. . .

Soon enough, George steps out of the shower with messy hair and fluffy pyjamas his mother packed for him on a whim. Pebble and Stone are passed out in their respective bunks, textbooks and notes acting as their blankets; Quackity sits by the desk, engulfed in a textbook reading he had due the next day. 

As George heads over to their bunk bed and searches through the drawers, Quackity perks up. “By the way, George. How interested are you in playing Cupid?” 

“What?” George finally finds a brush, and starts to comb his hair downwards. 

“You are aware that Karl likes Sapnap, right?” 

George freezes momentarily. “Oh.” 

He did know. He knew for a while now, if not a few days. Karl told him in that common room when George asked. Of course Quackity would know. 

“Yeah.” George pushes out, his demeanor now reclusive. “Karl told me.”

“Did he?” Quackity is almost shocked at that. “Whatever, you know now. You are aware that Hogsmeade visit is this weekend then?”

That, George did not know. Merlin , what day was it? Mid-October? There’s no way. How much time had passed since– oh Merlin . He’d been so caught up in everything- 

Still, he feigns neutrality. “What of it?”

“I don’t know about you but Karl is nervous out of his mind.” Quackity explains, and George may know where this is going. “If you’ve got any plans that day, I want you to scrap it.”

Go out of his way to help Karl make a fool of himself? “I’m not doing that.”

“So you do have plans?” Well, no . George did not have plans. He just didn’t want to get roped into whatever crap Quackity had planned for him.

“I mean it, Quackity.” George rolls his eyes. If he sides with Karl, he’s probably going to have to sign an NDA like in those Muggle movies and swear to secrecy. As much as he loves his friends, he isn’t going to ruin Sapnap’s school year all because of a stupid crush. “I’m not doing it.”

“Then, I dare you to help me play cupid.” Quackity crosses his arms, raising his eyebrows like he’d just won a fight. 

George wants to strangle him. 

If he had a time turner, he would go back two months to stop himself from ever agreeing to the bucket list idea for his own good. Unfortunately, they destroyed all those because of the war.

So, that night, George gets roped into scribbling out their friends’ itineraries for the entire mission. Hogsmeade weekend was only a day away, and Quackity refused to waste any time. George still kicked himself for not keeping track of the time, but at least he was aware of it now. Even if it was through the worst ways possible.

They skip out on heading down for dinner, but Pebble wakes up from his nap and promises to bring up a hefty amount for the lot of them. He even gets some for Stone, even when he was still out cold on his top bunk. 

Quackity rummages through his drawers and pulls out a map of Hogsmeade he’d bought as a souvenir in fourth year, and unravels it out onto the carpet. “Alright, so here’s the game plan.” 

Karl wasn’t going to confess to Sapnap, to George’s relief, but he was going to gift him the record player he’d been tinkering with behind the scenes. But, he wasn’t going to do it outright, which George didn’t get. If Karl had a gift, he should just give it. All of the buildup felt unnecessary, and more like stalling.

“Is there anything Sapnap would want from Hogsmeade?” Quackity asks, tapping the end of the pen against his chin. 

Well, there’s two ways that question could go. Students that attended Hogsmeade only ever went for two reasons: for shopping, or for leisure. Some grab a Butterbeer and catch up with friends, while others splurge on the latest fashion trends or the newest Zonko’s product. Sapnap was only a Hogwarts student for a year, but he quickly classified as the latter. 

“Sapnap still loves Quidditch.” George tries, unsure if that would help. “Maybe he’d want to look at equipment?”

“Spintwitches!” Quackity scoffs like it was obvious. “But that’s kinda fucked up their first date is shopping for brooms.”

George got a sour taste at ‘first date’. A part of him still wasn’t fully onboard with all this; he isn’t sure if that part of him ever will. “It’s a day’s outing. It’s not like they’ll spend all their time window shopping.”

“You’re right.” Quackity gestures for George to jot that down. “So, they’ll head to Spintwitches first, then maybe Zonko’s, and Honeydukes for some candy?”

Pebble stands up from his bed to toss the remnants of his plate into the bin. “What’re you lads up to?”

“You know any good spots in Hogsmeade?” George asks, trying to bite back a yawn.

“For?” Pebble kneels down beside them, pointing at a shop adjacent to Honeydukes. “Steeply & Sons sells some ‘mazing tea. If you’re fancying a nice drink.”

“No, pebble-brain.” Quackity shakes his head. “Like hangout spots. For people to fall in love.”

“Three Broomsticks?” George suggests.

“Who the fuck goes to the Three Broomsticks to get down and dirty?” Quackity scowls.

Yuck! “Karl and Sapnap are not going to get down and– we’re sixteen !” George protests.

“I dunno ‘bout tha’, mate.” Pebble shrugs. “Sumuv’em are mad as rabbits ‘round ‘ere.”

That is true, but his friends are not like that. George grimaces. “Have you seen Karl and Sapnap?”

“Fine. They’ll kiss in the corner of Hog’s Head with six feet in between both their crotches and tell us all about it at their wedding, happy?” Quackity scoffs. 

Pebble laughs. “I feel bad for whatever bird George takes to bed one day.” 

George thinks he’s going to be sick. “Are you going to help us or not?” 

Pebble clears his throat, rearranging the map so he could point at it more clearly. “Have you lot tried Madam Puddifoot’s?”

George and Quackity scrunch their brows together. Quackity tries to follow his gaze, squinting. “Where is that?”

“Girl’s typ’a drink shop right ‘ere.” Pebble shrugs, gesturing a path up to it. “Couple’s hotspot, that is. Total nest, flock’d with birds and such. Hearin’ a lotta folks talk ‘bout how it’s got a love spell on it. Rumour it bewitches any two o’ youse that enters the building.”

That sounds like George’s nightmare, and a wizard lawsuit waiting to happen. Love spells, love potions, and anything in between always toyed with a grey area of illegality. 

He makes a mental note to himself to avoid walking into that shop at all costs, but his curiosity does best him. “It is just a rumour, right?”

“‘Fraid so.” Pebble sighs. “Woulda been proper helpful, no?”

“Never say never.” Quackity chuckles, “Let’s give this Puddifoot place a shot.”

♙

George is tasked with possibly the hardest thing he’s ever had to do this week: preparing Sapnap for his Hogsmeade ‘date’ with Karl that the Gryffindor isn’t even aware he’s attending.

If Sapnap was normal, George would whine about it for the sake of it, but Sapnap was not normal. He frowned during breakfast, and only lit up at the sight of George walking to the Gryffindor table. He was a boy fractured by the absence of his closest friend: a lovestruck Hufflepuff who cared too much about his feelings.

It’s all quite brutal, really. George can’t believe he’d been thrown into a soap opera. 

As George sips on his apple juice, he asks, “What are you doing for Hogsmeade tomorrow?”

Sapnap’s cheeks are stuffed full with mashed potato and steak, which is crazy for breakfast. There must be a game today. He downs the goblet at his side before knocking his fist into his chest. “Oh…! I was actually going to see if I could get some stuff for winter. My parents forgot to pack them and the family owl is injured.”

“Oh.” George wasn’t actually expecting an answer. “Sure, I can keep you company for that.”

“Thanks, George.” Sapnap sighs, returning back to his food. “I wish Karl could join us. Will Quackity join us?”

“Well…” By the Great Hall’s entrance, George catches sight of Quackity’s beanie, and Karl’s lanky stature. The Hufflepuff has his head in his hands, fretting over… something. Quackity on the other hand is trying to calm him down, patting him on the shoulders and urging him to approach the Gryffindor table. 

All of this happens behind Sapnap’s back, of course, which is awfully convenient. When Karl takes a deep breath, and starts to shuffle on over, George decides to make himself scarce. 

“Actually, I just realized I’ve forgotten something in the- in-” Karl and Quackity are fast approaching. “Er– I’ll see you at lunch.”

George speed-walks out of the Great Hall, cringing to himself. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Ever since he found out about Karl’s crush, he’s gone clumsy in every interaction regarding it. All this romance talk irked him to no end, and he just felt so uneasy for no reason. 

He knew what came his way once Karl came into Sapnap’s view, and he knew it was something he didn’t want to stick around for.  He did not want to watch Sapnap’s eyes widen as Karl sat beside him, like an angel had graced his presence right there. He did not want to see Karl fumble through his apology, and give a half-arsed explanation on why he’d been actively avoiding him for the past couple of weeks. He did not want to see how Sapnap wouldn’t care about the reasoning because at least they were on talking terms again, and then they would hug because they were so grateful to finally be reunited and then Quackity would bring up Hogsmeade and- aaargh !

George rattles his head violently, slapping his palms against the sides of his skull. A few students threw skeptical stares his way, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck right now. George felt like he was going insane . 

He shouldn’t have agreed to the bucket list, to the dare, to the- George throws loose punches into the air. Oncoming students actively distanced themselves away from him, whispers of ‘that Ravenclaw’s gone off his rocker ’ bouncing off the walls.

Hot air blows through his nostrils as George tries to simmer the frustration in his blood. Maybe once sixth year was over, he’d admit himself into St. Mungo’s to live the rest of his days. For now- for now… for now, he just had to take a deep breath and hope it would all be over soon.

Besides, Friday threw more curveballs than George would ever expect.

Walking into the greenhouse for Herbology became the earth-shattering reminder of his tantrum with Dream yesterday. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Still, George decides to go on with his day as normal. Maybe Dream would forget, because George certainly did; maybe Dream needed the weekend to cool off if it hurt him so much, and therefore keep his distance until then. 

Because it was the day before Hogsmeade weekend, Professor Longbottom scheduled a quick check-in with all the students. If George is being honest, his Peony isn’t doing quite well. He thought he had a breakthrough when it perked up a couple days after Dream and George made up, but coming into the greenhouse, his flower has returned to a wrinkled beige.

He’s sifted through fertilizers in the past weeks from Longbottom’s cabinets, and researched various nutrifying spells. Ancient texts, obscure one-off self-help books – George has tried it all. His efforts refuse to yield consistent results in his plant though. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any help, Davidson?” Professor Longbottom asked during their one-on-one. He had a finger tapping against his chin and eyebrows that furrowed in concern, but George remained stubborn to his aid.

“I’ll be fine, Professor.” The peony was being difficult, and it was notorious for being difficult. With that logic, George is perfectly on track and there’s nothing wrong whatsoever. 

Still, the Herbology professor was reluctant to leave George’s plant to rot. “If you’re heading to the village tomorrow, you could try the Neep.”

The garden shop? George supposes it wouldn’t hurt to try. As much as he hated asking for help, he hated losing out on a good grade even more. With only half an hour left ‘til the bell, George conducts his routine spells on his peony and brainstorms on how he’s going to break away from the ‘cupid’ plan and sneak away to the Neep. 

Ugh. He’s got a busy day tomorrow.

. . .

George just survived a war. 

The war being Sapnap’s unsolicited blathering the entire lunch hour. There were tears, there were howls; George barely made it out alive. 

His hypothesis ran true. Because of Karl’s invitation, Sapnap has been elated as ever. His smile stretches from one corner of his face to the other, his teeth glistening with pieces of broccoli against his canines. 

“Can you believe it, George?!” Sapnap would tip his head back, laughing. “I was worrying for nothing!”

The Ravenclaw is almost appalled at how quick Sapnap swept his mope under a rug. Did his hard-headed attempts at cheering the Gryffindor up at every moment amount to nothing? George clicks his tongue, staring at an empty plate. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Oh, lighten up!” Sapnap is one to talk. “We’re finally back as a group! The four of us in the village! Having the time of our lives.”

“Actually-” Now George has to tread carefully. He can’t shatter Sapnap’s hopes so quickly after they’ve been revived. “Me and Quackity had something for… Herbology. School business.”

Sapnap tilts his head. “What kind?”

“Shopping.” It’s technically not a lie. George is running a double operation here. “Looks like you guys have the day to yourselves.”

At that, Sapnap dips his head. If George squinted, he could see a faint discolouration on Sapnap’s cheeks – like hints of red. Unfortunately, he is colourblind, so he may just be imagining things.

Once that conversation was out of the way, Sapnap continued on how much he had missed Karl and how he was so embarrassed to have been so dramatic over the past couple weeks and– George stopped paying attention five seconds in. 

So, technically not a war, but still an awful experience. George would never wish that upon anyone, that’s for sure.

Except maybe Lamia.

“Did you and Dream break up or something?” Every time George finds something nice about Lamia, she says something new that reminds him why he found her annoying in the first place. He means all this now endearingly, of course. The blond witch pouts, clicking her tongue in disappointment. Transfiguration was never a dull moment with her, George supposes. “Such a shame.”

“Why do you say that?” George gave up on denouncing the rumours in Lamia's presence. Maybe for the worst.

“Dream’s a real sour-goose in the common room now.” Oh. “So snappy. He almost acts like you sometimes.”

Knowing Lamia, that is not a compliment. If Dream felt hurt by George’s notion, then that’s his fault, not George’s. “Weird.” 

“So you two did break up then?” Lamia perked up, eyes wide. 

“ Merlin , no-!” George hisses through his teeth, trying desperately to focus his attention on the blackboard. He doesn’t know why Philza lets this slide. “Focus on the lesson, will you?”

Lamia goes to play with her bracelets, tutting. “Don't be a frog." Frog?! This girl comes up with the oddest names to call people. "Promise you’ll get back together soon? I’ll lose a bet otherwise.”

Not while people keep up that rumour, George thinks. That bet excuse was probably a half-arsed guilt-trip.

Impatiently, he taps his quill against the parchment. Merlin, he’s going to have to sit next to Dream next class. He doesn’t have enough time to come up with an apology or anything to clear the air.

Whatever. George doesn’t exactly like how Bad accused him all those days ago, and he’s all caught up on his assignments. He won’t lose anything by skipping. 

That settles it then: he’ll skip class. It’s not his fault, he’s got other priorities, he’s got to put himself first- 

The Ravenclaw sighs. 

Besides, he also has that forsaken cupid dare to worry about anyway.

♙

As the clock strikes midnight, the air shifts. Maybe it’s the school’s uncontained anticipation of Hogsmeade weekend, or maybe all those sleepless nights making up for skipped classes is getting to George. 

It didn’t matter anyway. A dare was a dare, and George had a job to do.

The night prior, Quackity laid out the itinerary for hours, as well as the general stations the two of them would flank as Karl and Sapnap would make their rounds across the village. Pebble lent the boys his satchel so they could carry things around, and George gladly took the offer. After casting an Extension charm on it, he immediately started to stuff in whatever galleons he tucked away in the bottom of his suitcase, binoculars that Quackity insisted would be helpful, and extra clothes in case of an emergency. 

The two of them could hardly sleep thereafter; although George can’t say his insomnia is from excitement. 

Now, the sun peeks out from the horizon, signalling the start of a new day, and possibly the hardest thing George will ever do to date. 

Waking up at sunrise offered them a couple of advantages: for one, Karl and Sapnap never woke up early on Saturdays, and two, neither did anyone else. That meant they had ample time to get themselves sorted before they left for the village and Operation: Cupid, would be a-go.

The two boys wrestle on who gets first shower, with George casting a mild Knockback Jinx against Quackity who hisses a quick ‘Immobulus Redux !’ before sauntering right on in. George definitely sulks while he waits for Quackity to finish and Finite Incantatum him to his freedom. 

Pebble and Stone, their other half of their dorm room, woke up from their commotion, and neither of them had the mind to free George of his incapacitated prison. Although, he can’t quite blame them. Pebble was still trying to wake himself up, while Stone was too busy… ingesting some gummy worms for breakfast. 

George runs his hands over his eyes. It is too early in the morning for this. 

Once George finally got the bathroom to himself and finished washing up, he walks in to find Quackity in a comically large trench coat that smothered his frame. It was a rich black that blended into the starry carpet, its ends hanging loosely by his ankles. George does not know how he packed that into a suitcase.

As for him, Quackity laid out an equally large hat that aimed to garner attention than evade it, but he supposes it’s the best he could come up with. Both of them were decked in all-black attire, down to the shoes and the sunglasses. 

They looked like they were going to a funeral, if the funeral was actually a fashion show that was funeral-themed meant to ridicule those that walked the runway. Pebble, in a sleep-deprived daze, said that they looked like extras from Muggle spy movies, which… helped? George isn’t sure.

To keep their anonymity, Stone agreed to bring up breakfast for them all, and George is somewhat glad for it. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he had to walk out into the Great Hall looking like this . 

Stone manages to bring up quite a few servings, but George finds it hard to consume anything. It’s the nerves, he reasons. Maybe he’ll just grab something while he’s in the village. 

Clang! A large chime echoes through the dorm. 

“It’s time!” Quackity’s plate clatters onto the desk that he was eating on as he shot up from his seat. 

Pebble yawns, “Calm it, mate. Nobody leaves for another five.”

Stone lightly punches Pebble in the shoulder, “We should start lining up though, no?”

He supposes they were right. George tips his head back, groaning. “Fine.”

Now their day truly starts. George put aside his barely-eaten pancakes on a bedside table and secured the sunglasses atop his nose. As Pebble and Stone led the way down the steps, Quackity and George lagged behind. Soon enough, their little crowd mingled into an onslaught of students chattering in the halls.

Instinctively, George took a step back and waited for Quackity’s cue. While the students filed in at the front gate, George and Quackity would first locate where Karl and Sapnap would be and make it their mission to be out of their sight for as long as possible. From what wingman-ing either of them have carried out, the lovebirds should be right by the planters where Professor Flitwick was rounding up the sixth years and calling for attendance. To remain undercover, George tipped Flitwick off a couple days in advance of their operation, but from their getups, it’s not like they would be hard to miss.

“There!” Quackity points, yanking George downwards. As they duck their heads behind students’ shoulders, George tries to follow his friend’s line of sight and… 

There they are. 

Karl is fiddling with his fingers, his Hufflepuff scarf wrapped around his neck, obstructing his chin slightly. Sapnap has his Gryffindor scarf in his palms, head tilted in confusion. Quackity complains, wishing there was a way he could hear into their conversation, but George doesn’t exactly agree. They’re fine observing from here. 

Professor Flitwick continues laying out the ground rules and proper etiquette for students to uphold themselves in the village, but George can’t exactly take his eyes off the couple. 

The two of them clearly aren’t listening either, with Sapnap groaning in frustration as he gestures wildly at his scarf. He manages to wrap it around his neck, but it knots weirdly by the side. Karl is giggling, and Sapnap is frowning, but he’s not actually annoyed. There’s a smile behind his eyes, like gratitude – thankful that he’s spending time with Karl at all.

Then, Karl unwraps the scarf and decides to lay it delicately around his shoulders, his head dipped down to the same level as Sapnap’s. Karl is nervous by their proximity; the both of them are. George can tell all the way over here, and it’s pitiful to see. 

The Gryffindor’s cheeks were flushed, and for the first time, George isn’t sure it’s from the cold. The way Sapnap’s bones freeze as Karl grazes his fingers against his collar, the light in his eyes as they engage in conversation; it’s horrid, it’s– all of it makes George feel… 

He was right. They’re completely fine observing from here.

Professor Flitwick riles the students to start marching, and soon the two Ravenclaws’ view is muddled with an array of student’s robes. George thins his lips and pulls the brim of his hat over his eyes, hoping it would conceal himself from his own bitterness. 

. . .

Hogsmeade is a quaint village. If George decided to live simple after Hogwarts, he would love to rent a property in the fields that surrounded it. The only downsides would be the clusters of students once a month during the school year, but even that would be bearable in time. 

Still, a part of him did look forward to these field trips. The Hogwarts castle is huge, but it isn’t massive. A third of the corridors are restricted, and even if they weren’t, it’s not like they had anything interesting within them anyway. Even so, six years is enough to make anything feel small. 

The citizens were always so cheery with the students, especially the third years. George went to the village with Ponk once, and he always said their hospitality was a marketing tactic to drain them of their galleons. Still, George  would like to think they mean it.

As Professor Flitwick dismissed the students to be on their way, the Ravenclaws sprinted off.

The chaos of the student populace hindered their sight, with both of them shoving shoulders and weaving through the crowds. Originally, they were going to locate Karl and Sapnap, but not with these many people around. So, they fell towards Plan B.

Plan B entailed them heading directly to Spintwitches in hopes they’d catch the lovebirds early. They clung to brick walls and ducked their heads low as they navigated their way there. Their black attires definitely helped draw less attention to them in the grand scheme of things, no matter how ludicrous George’s hat was.

Soon enough, they find the outline of their friends through the glossy window. Their backs are turned, but their scarves were telling enough – with Sapnap’s scarf perfectly crafted around his neck, and Karl’s scarf slowly coming undone at his back. If George squints, he can see Sapnap’s eyes light up as he points at various brooms, trying on helmets and rambling about Merlin-knows-what in there. 

“We’re not gonna go in?” George asks, outlining the rest of their day in his head. “Maybe we could hear them better.”

Quackity shakes his head. “Pass me the binoculars.”

George digs into his satchel, before passing his friend the obnoxiously large binoculars. “Answer my question.”

Quackity doesn’t skip a beat as he pulls the binoculars over his eyes, his face neutral underneath. “If we go in, people will look at us.” 

He says it with enough incentive to shut the conversation down. 

“Alright,” George sighs. 

He hoped being stealthy would be worth it, or even remotely interesting, but alas. What’s the point of making sure things run smoothly if neither of them could be in on the action? George huffs in disappointment. He supposes he did sign up for it – watching Karl and Sapnap laugh to themselves like there’s nobody around them, and… 

Maybe he shouldn’t have signed up for this at all. 

“Didn’t realize stalking became a new hobby.” 

Merlin! George nearly jumps out of his skin. He whips his head to the side, before trying to fight back his groan at who it is. “We’re in the middle of something, Dream .”

“Oh, Dream’s here?” Quackity goes to face the Slytherin with the binoculars still stuck to his eyes. “Jesus, that’s close. Hey, man.”

“Hey.” Dream doesn’t look happy, but concerned. George doesn’t want to deal with him right now. “Why exactly are you two-”

“No time to explain.” George urges, his voice monotone. “Just go back to what you were doing.”

“Not if you’re committing public indecency.” Dream shrugs. “I’m gonna have to report you guys if you’re stalk-”

“There is no public indecency!” George shrills, “I’m telling you, Slytherin-”

Dream raises a brow at that. “Oh, so ‘Dream’ is too casual for you now?” 

George bites down on his tongue, trying to dampen the fire in his blood. “It’s not that, it’s–”

“Quiet!” Quackity swats at them both, refocusing the binoculars back into the store. “It’s almost time for the debrief.”

Oh, for the love of - George forgot they worked that in. “With Dream here?!” 

“I can keep a secret.” Dream protests.

Quackity drops the binoculars down, rolling his eyes.  “Guys, we are falling behind schedule!”

The three of them skitter off to Flutes & Lutes, an instrument shop by the side of Spintwitches. Quackity felt it adequate considering Karl could make up an excuse regarding the music club and meet with the boys there. 

The debrief was a very necessary break from the torture of standing there and doing nothing, but now George isn’t sure. He can’t believe Dream got roped in!

“How did you even see us?” George scoffs, hoping sulking would be enough to ward the Slytherin away. Today was supposed to just be about Hogsmeade; George promised he’d make up with Dream on Monday. Merlin, he hated how the world worked sometimes.

“You two were standing outside the glass with the craziest outfits I’ve ever seen. How could I not see you guys?” Dream explains, before jabbing a finger directly at George’s hat. “Also you look ridiculous.”

As if Dream is one to talk. The Slytherin wears his black robes with its signature Slytherin crest, but it’s open to reveal the pair of wrinkled jeans and a shirt that looks too tight for his torso underneath. Merlin , he needs to stop staring.

“Thanks, genius.” George knows he should be a little more welcoming, but he was never too good at multitasking.

“Enough, guys.” Quackity cuts in. “Karl’s on his way” 

George peeks over Quackity’s shoulder, and sure enough, Karl is dragging his feet towards them. The Hufflepuff’s head is dipped down, but he’s trying to bite back a queasy smile. “Why does he look like that?”

“Maybe he had fun.” Dream suggests. “Something you need to do more often.”

Oh , the things George wants to say to him. 

Quackity encompasses Karl in a hug as a greeting, patting him on the back. As they pull apart, Quackity laughs. “You’re doing awesome, dude! How are you feeling!?”

The Hufflepuff runs a hand through his hair, his smile spanning from ear to ear. “Oh my god, Q. I feel like I’m about to pass out- I missed talking to him so much!”

“He’s probably bitching that you’re away though.” George snides. 

It’s then that Karl notices that George is there at all. “Oh, George is- um, yeah, I really got to get… back to him.”

“Of course.” Quackity pats him on the shoulder, nodding. “Remember, head into Puddifoot’s at high noon, alright? He’ll be less resistant to the happy hour discounts.”

“Happy hour?” Dream pipes up, garnering attention from the rest of the group. “They don’t actually serve hard drinks.”

“Fucking obviously.” George cuts in.

Karl blinks at their company. “Dream’s a part of this too? Is George-”

Quackity shoves him forward, “Just get back out there!” 

“Alright, alright-!” Karl manages out, stumbling away. “Thank you guys so much for doing this!”

“Good luck…!” George squeezes in.

Dream, too, gets a word in. “Break a leg!” 

“Idiot, isn’t that for stage plays?” 

“I don’t know, birdie. I’m part of this now too, remember?” 

Quackity interrupts them momentarily, “Hey, could you put these back?”

“What? The binoculars?” George blinks, but doesn’t argue. “Sure.”

Dream watches George tucks a pair of binoculars in a satchel ten sizes too small for it, before clearing his throat. “How can you fit all that in your bag?”

“Extension charm. Capacious extremis.” George explains. “Thought you’d heard of it by now.”

Quackity beckons the quarrelling two to follow his lead, “They’re leaving the shop!”

Dream tilts his head, refusing to let the subject go.  “Wait- isn’t that illegal?”

“It’s convenient .” George bares his teeth. He’d only cast a mild Extension charm on his robe pockets just to conveniently carry his several textbooks to class, and the satchel was a one-off. Magic was created to make life easier, and that’s exactly what George did. “Come on, we have to go.”

“Wow, and people say I’m a criminal,” Dream pants. “The whole time- you’re the one who needs to be expelled.”

“ Keep your voice down .”

“Enough flirting, lovebirds.” Quackity snaps his fingers, before gesturing forward. “Eyes on the mission!”

Karl and Sapnap are several feet away, oblivious to the posse on their trail. George grumbles in dissatisfaction. The duo walks past Honeydukes, which is a surprise considering that shop was a main staple for the boys in the past years. Although, George has to admit his relief – especially after what happened on the train; he doesn’t think he could support a candy shop that smothers bugs in chocolates. 

Zonko’s too, was snubbed, even though it caused the most ruckus of all the shops – and George means that literally. A diluted explosion erupts from the front door, with two boys scattering out onto the street. Raucous laughter trails behind them, with curious onlookers taking a step back to avoid being collateral. Then, a stout figure clad in obnoxious colours stumbles down the steps, hacking out like she's smoked ten cigarettes, who looks exactly like-

“Zeena?!” Quackity calls out. George is caught off-guard at the nickname; he didn't think they were that close. As the smoke clears, the store looks to be in perfect condition. Then, what was the explosion from? 

The Slytherin - the one that George can actually tolerate - walks on over to them, beating a fist into her chest. Soot smothers her face as she pleads, “Oh, Merlin! My brothers, they- I need- I hate to be that person but please help me catch them.”

Her brothers are the least of their worries right now. George tries to scan the crowds, and finds that Karl and Sapnap have disappeared. He swats at Quackity’s shoulder, “Karl and Sapnap are getting away!”

“Zeena, I-” Quackity tosses a look over his shoulder, biting his lip. Then, he shoves George forward. “Go after them!”

George’s jaw drops. “ What ? But how will-”

“ I’ll help Zeena; you and Dream find Karl and Sapnap.” Quackity orders, his brow determined.

George doesn’t want to be stuck with Dream-! “But, Quackity-”

Dream tugs at George’s elbow, “Come on, we’ll lose them.”

Since when did Dream care about the fucking - 

Quackity pushes them forward, urging him to go. George has no choice but to get dragged away from his best friend, and into the crowds with the last person he would ever want to spend time with.

“ Let me go! ” George yells, wrestling out of Dream’s grasp. He debates biting at Dream’s arm, but decides against acting like a rabid animal.

Eventually, the Slytherin leads them to a quiet spot against a shop that looked under construction, and finally lets him go. “Alright, fine. So, what next, stalker?”

“I’m not a stalker.” George sneers, crossing his arms. This is the worst possible way their plan could’ve gone. They should’ve just went inside the Spintwitches like he suggested. Being ogled by wary students is better than spending the rest of his Hogsmeade day in Hell. 

They lost Karl and Sapnap. Quackity, who is arguably the brains of this whole operation, is out on a good samaritan excuse. And now, George is stuck with Dream of all people. He doesn’t think his day could’ve gone any worse.

“Instead of sulking, maybe think of where they could’ve gone.” Dream asks, tapping his foot against the cobbled road. 

His eagerness is definitely odd. George can’t let that slide. “Since when do you care?”

Dream looks at him like he’s crazy. “...When you did?”

“And why would you care if I-” George drops his head into his hands, before emitting a wail resemblant of a tantrum. He’s aware of how immature he looks, but he just doesn’t care. He wants to go back home. At least home wouldn’t be so torturous. “Whatever. Just follow my lead.”

George walks off, with his hands in his pockets. The hat is still snug on his head, but he doesn’t have the energy to discard it. Dream tries to keep up. “Do you even know where your friends could be?”

No. George doesn’t have the faintest. He just didn’t want to hear Dream out any longer, and he always did his best thinking on the move. “I said to follow me.”

“You know, birdie,” Oh, what the world would be like if he just quit that nickname, “I’m starting to think that you-“

“That I what?” George snaps, quickening his pace. “Maybe you should stop doing that.”

“What, you want me to stop thinking ?” Dream scoffs, his long legs barely breaking a sweat at George’s new speed. “Can’t say I’m capable of that.”

“You and everyone else, it seems.” George mutters. The world would truly be a better place if everyone just stopped thinking, or rather left the thinking to the smart people; someone like George. 

The two of them barrel through the crowds, earning a few swears thrown their way. George still can’t believe Dream got dragged into all this. His reasoning was so odd too. 

Since when do you care?

…When you did? 

But George never cared. Maybe he does a little bit, but this whole thing is a nuisance to begin with. Is Dream truly so daft? 

George’s hands travel up from his pockets, now cradling his elbows. 

“For your information,” The Ravenclaw curls into himself, his nails digging crescents into the jut of his bone. “ I don’t care where my friends went. This whole thing was Quackity’s idea.”

Dream is silent for a bit, before chuckling to himself. “You know, that makes sense. You don’t seem like the type to meddle with people’s love lives.”

“Great.” George scoffs. As if he knows a damn thing about him. “Do you still care about finding them then?”

Please, just find something else to do, George pleads internally. He swears he’ll fix things up by Monday, and they’ll become normal again. 

“That is tough.” Dream taps a finger against his chin, then shrugs. “But I guess not. Not if you don’t.”

And why would you care what I think? George wants to interrogate. Why are you still following me around?  

Instead, all he manages out is a dismissive shrug, “Great. I’m heading to The Neep.” 

“Oh, I’m planning on heading there too!” How fucking convenient. George just might set himself on fire and alter Dream’s life forever if he keeps this up. 

“Great.” It is not great. George isn’t going to say that out loud though. Actually, if it’ll keep Dream away, he will. “I’m lying, it’s not great. You don’t have to follow me around, you know? This is for my own personal shopping.”

“Your best friend is chasing after two second years and your other two friends are mooching each other’s face off in an alleyway.” Yuck, why did Dream have to phrase it like that? Karl and Sapnap can’t possibly be kissing already. It’s not even noon yet. “Looks like I’m your only choice, birdie.”

“And you don’t think I enjoy being alone?”

“I know you despise it.”

Fuck. George curses himself for being so vulnerable that night. He so desperately wanted to keep bickering, but he knew Dream was a leech whose fangs were embedded deep into his skin. Continuing to shake him off would just be unnecessary energy depletion. “Whatever.”

So, they break away from the Operation and head off to the outskirts of Hogsmeade. This is the part of the village George admired the most. Not the clusters of students infesting the streets, or the butterbeer or the rows and rows of books in Tomes & Scrolls, but the rolling fields outside of it. The winding pathways down a hill and up another, leading to a shack overrun with vines and plants. Hogsmeade’s Neep. 

Dream runs a good streak of keeping quiet, until they’re a couple feet away from the front door. “Hey, birdie. Look at that!”

George entertains him, but not enough to sound interested. “What?”

Between his fingers was a ripe strawberry, which was… a surprise. He never quite saw regular plants growing around the castle – nor did he see any back home. The plants that inhabit the Neep’s crevices all contained magical properties, except for the one thing Dream managed to pick out. How ordinary: to have strawberries in a thicket of bitterweeds and fairymoss. 

Still, George is petty and still refuses to show any kind of interest. “Congrats. You found a snack.” 

As if to humour him, Dream pops it into his mouth, but his face immediately sours. He gulps it with a scrunched nose, and a playful retch afterwards. 

“That was bitter.” He says with a rasp.

“Unfortunate.” George rolls his eyes, going back to the front door. He almost regrets bringing the Slytherin at all. 

Dream snickers. “Maybe you poisoned it with your attitude.” 

Ha ha. George means that sarcastically. “Because I’m bitter?”

“You’re so smart, birdie.” George knows he is. 

Dream walks forward to latch onto the door. George thinks it’s a sabotage until the Slytherin holds it open, and gestures him in. Oh, wow . Being a gentleman doesn’t earn him redemption points though. 

The Slytherin continues, “It’s my favourite quality about you.”

“Is it?” George doesn’t thank him as he walks in. He’s in this plant shop for his peony, not for Dream’s brown-nosing. 

“It is!” Dream smiles, keeping pace. 

The Neep isn’t crowded, but it isn’t empty either. If George thought the garden was overrun, the inside was definitely an upgrade. 

Shelves line the shops in twisting pathways, but don’t rise up tall enough to obstruct the decor of the venue. Vines and flowers hang from the ceilings, swaying softly with what little wind escaped through the slightly ajar window panes. 

Students are scattered sparsely throughout, with some by the register and some clearly window-shopping. George has to admit this shop is a new experience for him, and a welcome surprise. It reminded him so much of the Hufflepuff common room somehow.

Right. Enough dilly-dallying. He’s got a school project to focus on.

As George scans his surroundings, he manages to bump into a couple jars and shelves overhead just from his head alone. Merlin , this fucking hat . At his newfound awareness, his body seems to tip under its weight, but thankfully Dream is behind him to stabilise him back to standing position.

George has had enough now. He can’t believe he forgot about it, nor the fact he wore it all the way up to the Neep and nobody even pointed it out. Either way, he tears it off his head and crumples it back into his satchel. 

George ignores how moist his hair felt, or maybe it’s the greenhouse atmosphere inside of the Neep. Whatever. He wonders if he’ll ever run out of things to complain about.

Moving on. Professor Longbottom said the Neep would be a step in the right direction, but didn’t elaborate on where exactly to look for it. George conspires up possibilities: an experimental nutrifying spell that only the Neep came up with, or magic fertilizer shipped from overseas, or a crutch that could persuade his peony to stop being a pain in his arse.

He spends the next few minutes browsing through the shelves, swiping the dust off their labels as he inspected their magical contents. Yet, their selection remained no different than what Professor Longbottom carried back at the greenhouses. 

There has to be something George is missing.

“No way!” Dream gasps, his excitement echoing through the quiet atmosphere. Even the winding aisles couldn’t keep him away. “I didn’t think they’d have these here!”

George scoffs, turning towards the commotion. The Slytherin stood a couple rows away, clapping his hands ecstatically. The Ravenclaw shuffles towards him, weaving through the few students that managed to get in his way.

There, Dream has managed to snag a small fabric bag with strings tangled around his wrist to put his groceries in. There’s not one product spared from his frenzy, with an array of seeds and pre-packaged plants dumped into the bag. 

George really shouldn’t be asking this, but his curiosity bests him. “What are you buying?”

“Everything!” Dream exclaims, eyes riddled with trepidation. “I’ve got this big potions thing at the end of the year with my apprenticeship because of my J.A.R.V.E.Y.’s and wow, who knew the Neep could give me such a leg up?!”

George still doesn’t understand what a J.A.R.V.E.Y. is. “They don’t have these at the castle?”

“If they did, I wouldn’t be so happy about it. Would I, birdie?” 

Okay, attitude . “...Just asking a question.” 

“Right, I forgot.”  Dream tuts, making his way down the aisle. “You’re shit at Potions.”

How is that even relevant?!

George blinks at him, blasphemous. “Am not! Professor Slughorn is just awful at teaching the fucking recipes. I’ve heard others say those textbooks haven’t been updated in a century!”

“I thought you were smart, birdie.” 

“ I am .” George grumbles. “Sorry, but if there’s an ingredient that helps fix a potion so I can start over, then I would ace that class no problem.”

“There actually is one.” Of fucking course. “They’re b-“

George swipes a finger atop Dream’s lips to silence him. “I’ve heard enough out of you.” 

Dream juts out his bottom lip, which tightens something within George’s chest – as if his heart scrunched up in pure disgust. He hated the feeling of how soft- yuck ! 

If that wasn’t worse enough, Dream flutters his eyes in a sad attempt at puppy eyes. George instantly recoils with a sneer, wiping his fingers at the end of his robes. He’s never touching Dream’s lips again.

Dream furrows his brow, leaning back into the shelves, “Fine. What about that flower you’re always struggling with in class? You came to the Neep for a reason.”

Well, George wasn’t exactly being subtle. Anyone with eyes could tell the peony was unresponsive to his assistance. Besides, Professor Longbottom doesn’t know a thing about what he’s talking about. There’s nothing in the Neep that could aid him in such a tumultuous task. “What’s it to you?”

“If you’re having so much trouble,” Dream points his lips, browsing the selection of herbs on the shelf. “You know you can always talk to me, right?” 

George raises a skeptical brow.  “And why would I do that?” 

“You ask a lot of questions,” Dream goes to rub at his temples, but doesn’t show a hint of annoyance. “I guess that’s how you’re always so smart.”

Being called smart is starting to sound condescending. “Just answer it.”

“Yes, your Highness.” Dream grins, enacting a slight bow. If George chose to humour him, he’d ask for a bow so low that Dream’s forehead becomes one with the floorboards. “They say Potions and Herbology are very closely related.”

Dream plucks a few bay leaves off a nearby plant, strategic and careful. George wonders if that’s even allowed. 

The Slytherin stuffs them into the small fabric bag, before turning back to face the Ravenclaw. “For all it’s worth, I’m more knowledgeable about plants than you could ever be.”

Subtle brag. 

“Then what do you suggest?” George crosses his arms, a defensive tone rising in his voice. “Since you’re so smart?”

Dream shrugs. “You could try a little compassion.” 

Is that a joke? A jab at George’s reluctance to play nice? 

“Right.” George scoffs. “Sure will. You’d love more of that from me, wouldn’t you?”

“I was talking about your plant, birdie.” Dream rolls his eyes. “But any kindness from you is welcome.”

George has had enough. Dream cannot keep making snides at George’s attitude when George has been nothing but civil since he got separated from Quackity. “Is there a particular reason you find me so awful all of a sudden?”

Dream blinks at him, his face coloured in incredulity. “You’re asking me that?” 

Well, he had a point. It was George that severed that rift on Thursday, not Dream. But, he can’t be the only one to blame. George was under a lot of pressure, and the rumours- oh, Merlin, those damned rumours- 

George doubles down. “Yes, I am.”

“Okay.” The thing about Dream is that no matter how provocative George was in his speech – no matter how aggressive nor instigative – he never stooped down to George’s level, and it was downright infuriating how calm he was. “Only if you tell me why you don’t like me anymore.”

What?  

“It’s not-” George blubbers, taken aback. “I don’t dislike you, it’s-”

“You’re avoiding me, birdie. Isn’t that a clear enough indication?” There’s a distant gloom in his eyes, but George doesn’t want to notice it. “You didn’t show up to class, you’re suddenly so hostile to everything I do, and even now, you’re throwing a tantrum because I’m keeping you company.”

“I didn’t ask you to come with me to the Neep-”

“You didn’t have to. Not after what you told me in the greenhouse.” Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. George doesn’t want to be reminded of that, of his vulnerability, of his mistakes. “Do you not want me to be your friend?”

Friend ? They’re not friends. They’re acquaintances. Acquaintances with a transactional relationship for the sole purpose of the school incentive. George’s thoughts run up the walls and through the glass, out into the winding fields and into the Scottish seas. 

Do you not want me to be your friend? No, George wants to answer. Never. Not if it means people will keep talking; not if it means George is subjected to public opinion every second of every day, not when- 

“Can we please talk about something else?” He hates how his voice cracks in the middle; he hates how weak he sounds.

Dream backs off, a tranquil understanding engulfing them both. “...Okay.”

As if it would get him away, George excuses himself to browse through the small section of gardening self-help books. Skimming each blurb would hopefully keep any unwanted thoughts out of his head, and for a few minutes, it did. He didn’t care what Dream did, because he knew he was one thread away from breaking at the seams in front of him.

A silhouette approaches him, his height telling on who it was. “George.”

George looks to his side, taken aback. He almost expected someone other than Dream just from the change in name alone. Still, he doesn’t take it for granted. “Tired of playing golf?” 

“What?” Dream scrunches his face, before relaxing back into realization, “Oh, because of how bird- no, look-”

“I’m looking.” 

“...Hold on.” Dream runs a hand through his hair, before digging through his fabric bag. “Don’t make me regret being sincere.” 

George is about to swat him away and insist he gets to the point, until the Slytherin sheepishly hands him one of his bay leaves. 

With the gift, he mutters, “I just want to say I’m sorry.”

… Why is he apologizing? Hesitantly, he plucks it from Dream’s palm.

“Bay leaves are diluting agents,” Dream explains, his voice louder now, “it- uh… helps dumb down a potion so you can change your mind about-”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dream this nervous. 

“It’ll help you.” Dream finishes. “...In Potions.”

In some universe, George would talk about how backhanded it was, but not this one. The apology was somewhat endearing. “...Thanks.”

Besides, it’s not like now was the time or place to admit he didn’t understand what a diluting agent does exactly. Dream’s broken explanation didn’t do him any favours either. 

George tucks the bay leaf into his satchel, hoping it wouldn’t get crushed by the binoculars within, or even his stupid hat. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. The fact Dream was the first to act as the bigger person was embarrassing, to say the least, and George knew his original plan had crumbled into the dirt.

Screw Monday. George has to even the playing field, “I really do mean it. About the bay leaf- thank you. I was joking about the- but uhh- I guess I want to say I’m sorry too for…”

Avoiding Dream? Treating him like scum? Being awful in general? George didn’t know how to explain himself. He didn’t want to admit that the rumours were getting to him, or how they made him feel-

But Dream deserves an explanation. It’s the least George could do. 

The Ravenclaw opens his eyes, burning his gaze into the back of Dream’s retinas. He tries again. “I am sorry.”

Regaining his confidence, he takes a shuddery breath. He hated apologizing. 

“For ignoring you and making you feel unwelcome. It’s been a very tough couple of weeks and I know it’s not right to take out my frustrations on you when you-”

When you’re the reason they exist in the first place, the sinister part of him grumbles. 

George gulps that back down. “I don’t… dislike you. I was avoiding you, but I don’t necessarily have a good enough excuse to tell you why, and I do want-”

Do you not want me to be your friend?

He visibly winces, baring his teeth. “I mean- I promise to work on my attitude. And I’m sorry again if you felt hurt by my neglect. I, of all people, should know how it feels to… feel left out.”

It’s almost shameful: how the hunted become the hunters. 

“Apology accepted.” Dream smiles, pulling George out of his riddled mind. The Slytherin pats him once on the shoulder, then twice. 

It is definitely an awkward gesture, and neither of them point it out until- 

“I don’t know why I did that, actually.” Fine, Dream is a little funny.

“Me neither.” George snorts, letting out a small chuckle. “Never do that again.”

As he looks up to meet Dream’s gaze, he finds a foreign softness behind his eyes. His mouth flaps open, as if to point something out but instead breaks into his signature lopsided smile. It was nice to be on the receiving end of that smile again, George thinks. “Noted.”

Together, they line up at the register and check out their plants. When George would otherwise walk out of that Neep defeated, is now replaced with triumph in his steps because even though his peony had gone another day being a lost cause, he’d at least fixed another problem in its stead. 

As they travel down the broken path back into the heart of Hogsmeade, he starts to notice how taxing his getup is under the sun. He supposes the absence of his hat makes him greatly aware of the sunbeams shining down on him, even if it was mid-October.

As if Dream could hear him, he comments, “It’s because of the time of day.”

“Is that so?” George tries to even his breathing, rolling up his robe sleeves. He doesn’t sweat, but he can’t deny the physical labour Hogsmeade weekend asked of him.

Dream shrugs, seemingly unbothered. With a build like that, he must be in good shape. “It’s always hottest at high noon.”

George’s blood runs cold. “...What did you say?”

“It’s…” Both their steps waiver, “hottest at… high noon?”

Oh, shit . 

“High noon!” George exclaims. The fucking date! Quackity’s going to know they both ditched on the plan, and- oh, fuck . He doesn’t wait for Dream to catch up to speed before grabbing his wrist and yanking him back up the hill with stumbling steps. He trips over his robes, heaving even as Dream runs alongside him.

They only make it up to Pippin’s Potions, which is barely by the end of the village before George thinks they won’t make it. He’s never been athletic, and soon enough his grip on Dream’s wrist slips away, white flags infiltrating his mobility. 

For all they know, Quackity could be waiting by Madam Puddifoot’s already, concocting a grudge against him for flaking out on the dare. Plus, the crowds for lunch rush are unbearable and there’s no way they’re going to get through them in time and- 

Dream grabs George’s hand, interlocking their fingers; George’s breath gets knocked out of him, before he gets flung off the ground with Dream barrelling through the entire street. He apologizes profusely with every collision, but his determination is unmatched. George tightens his hold of Dream’s hand in fear of getting whisked away at any opportunity, with his free hand clutching his satchel close to his chest.

By a miracle, Dream successfully navigates them to their destination. Instinctively, George snatches his hand out of Dream’s, wiping his sweat on the ends of his robes. That was enough of that.

As George tries to regain his composure, he tries to figure out exactly what he’s getting into. 

Just from first glance, Pebble was not kidding. It was frilly, it was overtly feminine, and it was… pink? And it was crowded . Nameless students hog up the windows and tangle themselves within the curtains, sipping out of teacups and nibbling on pastries. There was no way they could find Karl and Sapnap from out here. 

“How the fuck are we going to get in ?” George hops on his feet impatiently, tapping the heels of his palms at his temples in a mini-tantrum. There was a short line with only maybe two pairs of couples waiting to get in, but even that was an obstacle George desperately wanted to avoid

“Follow me.” Dream nods, going to grab at George’s hand again. Their fingers don’t intertwine this time, and something resemblant of discontentment curdles within George’s chest. They are going to have to talk about boundaries the next time they’re alone. Not even he’s that touchy with Karl.  

Still, he clamps down on his complaints and follows the Slytherin’s lead.

Together, they cut to the front of the line and head through the door. A high-pitched jingle announces their arrival, but is soon drowned out by the distinct chatter of the inhabitants inside. George immediately scans his surroundings for two disheveled scarves that could indicate his friends’ whereabouts, or even Quackity’s trench coat that swallowed his figure. 

His search is immediately disrupted as a cafe worker dressed in garish clothes with frills spanning from their shoulders to their wrists. Gaudy makeup smothers their cheeks in extravagant colours, with overlined lips and outlandish streaks across their eyes.  They couldn’t have been older than a seventh year, but the sneer on their face wrinkled their forehead enough to make them look ancient. “Have you lot got a reservation?” 

Their thick London accent swaddles their speech, and Dream has a hard time following along. Crap, he didn’t ask if Quackity had booked anything. Surely he did for Sapnap to have gotten a seat, right? But he can’t find Karl nor Sapnap in this cafe and- George gulps, attempting to keep a firm tone. “Yes. We have a reservation under…”

“Oh, we needed a reservation?” Dream blinks innocently, eyes wide in confusion. George wants to slap his hand over his mouth to keep him from blowing their cover, until the Slytherin rolls his shoulders backwards, and cranes his neck to the side. “It’s been a long day. Me and my date need a place to sit down.”

George revolted at his use of ‘date’, but braved a smile through it. The cafe worker looks unconvinced, still. “And y’think these otha’ people don’t fancy a place to rest?”

“Well, considering they’re tearing the curtains because they can’t keep their hands to themselves, I wouldn’t say so.” Dream points to the side, and all three follow his line of sight. 

George is appalled at what he sees. There, two seventh-years were lip-locked and shoving each other by the walls and as collateral, tearing the curtains with their aggression. It is fucking disgusting.

“Oh, bugger-!” The cafe worker shrills, “ Depulso !” 

The couple is ripped away from each other, with one slamming their back into the floral-patterned wall and the other flung out of the window. A few gasps of horror echo out from the smash of glass; even a couple screams accompany the distinct thud of the other’s fall. George’s jaw runs agape, unsure of how to process all he has seen. 

“Holy shit!” Dream gasps, his hands over his mouth.

“Just find a seat.” The cafe worker sighs, jogging over to the window to fix up the curtains and the broken glass.

Following instructions, George tugs them to the back where a newly empty booth awaits them. It’s big enough to seat four people, with two on either side. When George slides in, Dream sits right across – like they were both a proper couple. 

Gross , George retched inwardly. At least Dream didn’t sit next to him.

The Slytherin leans back into his seat, still trying to contain himself. “Can you believe that?!”

George raises a brow. “Did you expect that to happen?”

“No!” Dream runs a hand through his hair, staring at the windows. George tosses a look over his shoulder, watching as a few other employees join hands to repair what was left of the window.  “I knew the curtains would be a good distraction, but I didn’t think they’d fucking blast them out of the shop-”

Neither did George; Madam Puddifoot’s was off the fucking chain.

“I will admit though.” George goes to face him, offering a polite smile. Figuring out a way to outsmart the cafe worker instead of brute forcing their way in is… actually kind of admirable. “You do have something in that head of yours.”

Dream’s lips bunch into a soft pout. “Aw, birdie.”

Welp, that just spoiled George’s mood. “That’s the last time you’ll hear out of me, I hope you realize.”

Another scan around the cafe and it soon became clear to them that Quackity still hasn’t returned from his side quest with Lamia. At least now they won’t be in trouble and can pretend they stayed loyal to the plan the whole time.

“What can I get for you lovebirds today?” A different waitress appears out of nowhere, notepad in hand and an airy voice in her throat. In contrast, she’s gnawing gum between her teeth in loud rotations, and it’s terribly distracting.

“Oh, we’re not-” George freezes above his shoulders, his words fumbling over his tongue, or the other way around- 

“We’ll both have earl greys.” Dream cuts in, brandishing a smile. “For the happy hour discount.” 

The waitress barely scratches anything on her notepad, now blowing out a bubble. The gum is a pale blue, as opposed to the pink of their surroundings. It’s gone with a pop, and is replaced with the waitress’ impatience,  “Happy hour’s only for hard drinks, sir.”

Dream frowns, blowing his cheeks out. “Talk about false advertising.”

“That’s all we’re getting.” George manages out, by some miracle. The waitress blows up another one, raising a skeptical brow, as if unconvinced.

 The bubble is again gone with a pop, and the waitress puts a hand on her hip. Her free hand summons a wand seemingly out of nowhere before waving it in circles. Colourful sparks erupt from its tip, before erupting into a mini fireworks show atop their table.  Dream and George watch intently, jaws dropped in awe.

“If it’s love you seek / Puddifoot will make your week.” The waitress now waves her wand in the shape of a heart, “with magic she’ll bestow / down upon this resto / twin souls intertwined fall under love’s gentle wing / only with patience and grit will it truly bring / to what a missing half has lost / so their aches will nay exhaust”

George blinks with furrowed brows. Is it just him or did that sound more like a riddle than a poem? 

“Anyway, to sum it up short.” The waitress sighs, pocketing her wand back into her apron. “You two can believe what you want to believe, but one thing is guaranteed. You’ll walk in and out of those doors with your destiny.”

“Thank you…?” Dream offers an awkward smile.

The waitress seemed to think that was enough, because she scampered off to the next table to enact the same corporate spectacle. 

“What in Merlin’s name was that about?” George scoffs, drumming his fingers against his lap.

“Don’t know.” Dream shrugs, going to stretch his back. “Looks like it’s a contract thing. Like-” His voice goes up an octave in a mock accent, “‘oh! Yes, we cast something on you without your knowledge but you can’t report us because that’s our niche!’ kinda thing.”

“Huh.” He supposes that’s true. “They can’t possibly have bewitched everyone in here though, can they?”

Dream snorts, “Obviously not. The Ministry would’ve shut them down otherwise.”

Thank Merlin for that. If he’s taking the waitress’ words in actuality, he doesn’t want to believe that Dream was his destiny . Maybe he would believe the waitress if he walked in with Quackity, or even Sapnap or Karl, because with them, he can possibly imagine spending the rest of his life with. But Dream ?!

Their supposed algorithm crumbles into only its faults, and it helps ease his nerves a bit. Thank Merlin.

“Are Sapnap and Karl even here? Why are we even sitting at this booth?” George asks, now looking through each individual student. If they couldn’t find Karl or Sapnap even after that stranger got punted out the window, he doesn’t think they’ll ever find them.

Dream snaps his fingers to grab George’s attention. “Hey, I thought you said you didn’t care about them getting together.”

“I don’t .” George bites. He couldn’t care less where his friends run off to. If it was anything like that couple from earlier, he doesn’t want to sit back and be the audience to that nonsense.

“Well, if you still don’t care.” Dream leans in, a stray hand going to cradle George’s cheek. 

What in the everloving- has Dream gone mad? Has the shop actually bewitched him?! 

George is about to shove him away, until Dream jerks his face to the side in a harsh motion to look back by the curtains. 

“Merlin, Dream!” George hisses. Dream wasn’t gentle with it either; the left side of his jaw throbs like it’s been wounded in battle. It felt personal. 

But then, George catches sight of it – of them. 

Karl and Sapnap.

His friends share a single mahogany table by the windows, their figures slightly obstructed by other students in George’s field of vision. The leg of the table curls up in intricate designs, with a glass vase atop it nurturing a quaint rose. Karl’s back is turned from where George is sitting, so all he can really see is Sapnap’s goofy smile, and the way his eyes light up and…

Oh . George immediately frowns.

All he can really see is the way Karl fiddles with his fingers atop the table, and how Sapnap’s free hand goes to reach over and touch it. Just from his face, he can tell he’s saying something reassuring, something to soothe Karl’s nerves under his own touch. 

It’s absolutely revolting, and yet- and yet…

George feels like his ribs are going to cave inwards. 

The patchwork that mended his mood back at the Neep unravelled back into acrimonious threads knotted with antipathy. 

He was right. He found his friends. 

Yet, here they didn’t feel like his friends. 

They were strangers to him; strangers whose sole focus was the wizard in front of them. The window beside them is without a crack, as if it never was disturbed. 

His friends, now changed by the haven that surrounded them. Happy in their own world. Happy with each other.

He still didn’t know why it disgusted him so much – seeing them together. He’s been trying to reconcile with his friends’ romance for a couple weeks now, and he still can’t find the energy to stomach it all. 

Maybe Dream had a point. Maybe he does care, even if only an inkling.

He thought he didn’t care; he believed he didn’t care, or maybe he wished he didn’t. How could he not care when the sight of their infatuation knots up his chest into something indistinguishable?

His thoughts are briefly interrupted as the waitress from earlier clears her throat, clanging their tea cups in front of them. She rid them off her tray without a hint of sophistication, as if the earl grey was the least of her worries, and George felt something sad within her action.

Apathy over another person was a trait George prided himself on, but why… why did it morph into something worse? Hatred? He didn’t think he hated his friends for liking each other; he’d even go as far as to say a miniscule part of him was happy for them. 

Tentative palms go to cradle his teacup, bringing the earl grey up to his lips. Maybe his apathy was well-disguised hyper-empathy. 

Maybe Dream was right, about what he said at the Neep.

You didn’t have to. Not after what you told me in the greenhouse.

George winces at the memory. He supposes he couldn’t parade himself as a lifeless husk when the smallest hint of neglect bruised him to unwarranted vulnerability. Then what could it be?

He tips his head back, letting the scorching liquid scar his throat on its way down.

Maybe he’s afraid Karl and Sapnap would break off and establish a separate identity with just them. Then Quackity’s meddling nature would attract him to their circle so he could keep either of them from flubbing up the relationship, and then George would be all by his lonesome. 

It’s a daft scenario, and highly irrational, but the fear still lingers within him. The fear that all his friends will disappear one day and he won’t know a thing about it. George cringes internally, taking another sip of his tea. 

He dares to take another look over his shoulder, and it’s somehow worse. Their body language is enough to show how their souls are magnets desperately aching to snap together. Karl’s shoulders shake with laughter, and Sapnap still hasn’t wiped that stupid look off his face.

With every passing minute, George feels himself wilt away. Like a peony left on the shelf of the greenhouse, waiting for a revelation that would never come.

The cafe door jingles, and in walks a familiar face that doesn’t bring him the relief he hoped. Quackity, with sunglasses that obstruct the lower part of his face, and a beanie that conceals the upper half of his face, looks around the room. 

Dream raises a hand, beckoning him over, and they watch as Quackity trips over the hem of his trench coat to approach their table. As his best friend finally plops down beside George, he whispers, “Did I miss anything?”

“Nope. Everything’s going to plan.” Dream supplies.

“Awesome!” Quackity smiles, looking to the couple, and then looking back. He stands up to lightly punch at Dream’s bicep over the table, chuckling, “Glad to have you on the team.”

“Happy to be here.” Dream dips his head in gratitude, but George immediately frowns. Dream must’ve sensed his bad attitude because he lets out a whistle, “Someone’s gotta lighten him up.” 

“Oh, is George being…” Quackity‘s words die down, but George knows what he meant, knows what he wanted to say. Is George being George? Does he have that same old bitchy  demeanour? 

“I’m fine.” George bites out, returning his focus on Karl and Sapnap. The waiters must’ve distributed their order while they were talking, because now the couple talk over an individual strawberry cupcake. 

George wonders if it’s the same strawberries from the Neep; he wonders if Hogsmeade functioned like a give-or-take society, where everyone stood as equals arm-in-arm with resources. 

Merlin, he doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Nobody thinks of that. It’s a village, he reasons. Obviously resources would be recycled around shops. 

Sapnap says something indecipherable, supposedly a question. Karl just tilts his head in confusion, but Sapnap just shakes his head, biting back a giggle. Then, he leans over and George feels like his heart might stop. 

What he thought would be a tender kiss between his two friends is instead Sapnap swiping the frosting off Karl’s cheeks. Disappointment and relief wrestle within him, but he doesn’t know what for. 

Seeing his friends like this: so innocent, so pathetic … 

It was insufferable. George scowls at the sight; he doesn’t think he can stomach it-

“Birdie…” Dream‘s voice is barely a whisper, and immediately gets drowned out as Quackity rams his elbow into George’s ribs. 

“Be happy for them, man!” It’s supposed to be playful – harmless, even – but the place of impact aches like a gashing wound. 

George felt something twist inside his ribs, like the knot from earlier was tangling itself into something worse.

“I am.” George replies, his face unfaltering. “…I am.”

It somehow felt like a lie.

Chapter Text

🖉

My George, 

 

Don’t ever apologize for taking your time. I am always so in awe at how hard working you are. 

 

It’s completely normal to regret things, but don’t ever regret being yourself. You are my son, and you are hard working, and you are caring, and you always put your best foot forward. 

 

You’re still young, dear. Don’t let yourself get caught up in all this and enjoy your schooling! I hear Hogsmeade is coming up. Please tell me on how that goes!

 

From, 

Your Very Proud Mother who Misses You Dearly 

 

P.S Please remember to take care of yourself, and that overworking yourself won’t ever be worth it!

 

✦

George gets over it.

In a way.

It’s what he does best after all. 

As soon as he’s back at the castle, he submerges himself into his studies. His academics were always his greatest distractions. 

He didn’t care where his friends went for the rest of the night. After Puddifoot’s, George faked being sick and ended up hiding out in the back of Tomes & Scrolls, stewing in his own misery. He thought buying a modern spellbook would cheer him up, but he couldn’t even enact a simple Accio from the top shelf.

Sometimes he despises how much his feelings can stunt his magic.

So now he’s back in familiar territory, surrounded by his assignments, triple checking syllabi and refining essays only to rewrite them again. 

It’s a vicious cycle, but nothing beats peace from the eye of a hurricane.

His sole company is the dripping wax of candlelight and the silence of a near-empty common room. A few seventh years idle by the bookshelves, mumbling to themselves about terminology they’ve already reviewed for the past hour, while a group of first years sit cross-legged in a circle, debating on what tomorrow’s riddle could be. 

The sun sets sooner with the year’s dropping temperatures, so it’s pitch black when an influx of students return back from Hogsmeade. What used to be comfortable silence is now replaced with moderate clamour and indistinct chatter, but George doesn’t let it ruin his focus. He remains dedicated, trying to drown out their noise with a harsh flip of a page, or a purposeful dip of a quill, no matter how unsuccessful. 

“Back so early, Davidson?!” Pebble’s undeniable accent slurs throughout the commotion, a sharp thud landing on George’s back.

“Did you guys have fun?” George croaks, wincing from the impact. Merlin knows he didn’t.

“Of course, mate!” Stone laughs, looking shit-faced. They must’ve had one too many spiked butter beers. Knowing these two, they probably snuck a few drops of fire whiskey into them. “Glad you’re studying hard. You need to tell me your secret.”

His secret is pure refusal to face his own problems .  

George shrugs, “Maybe I’ll tell you another time. Are you heading downstairs?”

“Aw, is Davie trying to get rid of us?” Stone coos, arm reaching out to pat George on the head.

Pebble immediately swats him away. “Mate, do you think we should tell–”

“Nah, we can tell him tomor-” Stone manages to get out, before his cheeks blow out and his hands fly to cup his mouth. A nameless Ravenclaw stumbles backward into the two, shoving Stone forward to land face first into the desk.

Pebble dives forward to catch him before he suffers any real damage, sobering them both up almost immediately. “Alright, looks like that’s enough of that.”

“Tell me what?” George cuts in. He doesn’t want to wait for tomorrow. His mind would run wild otherwise and keep him up all night. 

“Nothing.” Pebble sighs, clumsy as he holds up Stone’s entire body weight. “Just some bloke asking if we’ve seen you. Said you were making a show of your stomach. Told ‘im you’d be up in Pomfrey’s if so, but he didn’t find that funny.”

Dream. George’s face sours at that. 

They already know Quackity, and if he’s being honest, George doesn’t have faith that Karl and Sapnap would notice he was gone at all. Karl wasn’t even aware George was part of the operation. The only person who would ask would be… 

It would be Dream. 

George doesn’t know if he should feel sad about that.

As if on cue, Quackity comes up behind their two roommates, clapping them both on the shoulders. “Good evening, guys! Didn’t see you around town!”

“Didn’t see you at the Broomsticks!” Pebble snipes back, snickering. “Had fun, I hope?”

“I wish!” Quackity snorts, stepping back to unzip his sweater. “Wearing black all day got me so fucking sweaty.”

“You brought that upon yourself, mate.” Stone is fully passed out now, Pebble sagging under his weight. “Well, me and Stone’ll be off then. See you lot in the morning.”

“See you.” George mumbles, fiddling with his fingers. He didn’t know why he answered; it’s not like they would hear through all the noise.

Pebble and Stone clear away, and it’s then that Quackity fully notices George is there at all. He doesn’t falter, still flailing at his sleeves until his sweater is off his torso. “Oh, didn’t think you’d be up here. Feeling better?”

“Err,” George bares his teeth, twisting his body in a way that obstructs Quackity’s view of his desk, “Yeah, I went to Pomfrey’s and she gave me a Pepper-up.”

It didn’t do much, considering his friend’s gaze was affixed to the clothes sagging into the rug below.

“You know,” Quackity pulls out his wand and casts a spell so his pile of laundry hovers at eye level, “it wouldn’t hurt for you to take a break once in a while.” 

A cluster of Ravenclaws crowd around the steps behind him, eager for bed. As the room simmers down, George’s nerves run high. He doesn’t know why.

Quackity continues, “Your body wouldn’t be shutting down if you actually had fun.”

George blinks. 

…Is it just him or did that feel passive-aggressive? 

“I have fun.” George gulps, keeping eye contact.

Quackity doesn’t like his answer. “I’m just saying it’d be nic er if you hung out with us more often. That’s all.”

George’s jaw falls slightly ajar. Quackity cannot be one to talk. 

“Karl and Sapnap act like two baby deers learning to walk around each other.” His best friend continues, as if that’s a good thing. “You could’ve had fun watching that if you stuck around.”

George begs to differ.

Quackity sighs, like he’s treading a fine line. “All I’m saying is you don’t have to hide out in the library all day, or the common room, I guess.”

He must’ve sniffed him out. George flaps his mouth open to defend himself, to explain that he didn’t disappear on purpose, but-

“This is the first time in weeks the group can finally hang together, you know? That’s huge!” Quackity pushes, like it wasn’t his crude idea to bring their friends together, like it wasn’t his idiotic plan to shut Sapnap out from anything that caused such a childish rift between them all. “We are your friends, you know?”

Quackity phrases it as if it’s George’s fault the group was severed for the past two weeks – as if it’s George’s indifference that’s ruining it now. How are they supposed to be back to normal because a pathetic romance got resolved between them?

Besides, he doesn’t always hide out in the common room; George hangs out with his friends plenty. Most of his week is spent with someone else at his side, whether he wants to or not. It’s his friends that don’t hang out with him .

All of these arguments idle on the tip of his tongue, afraid to spew out. Instead, George grits, “I have fun doing my homework.”

Quackity turns his nose up in disbelief. “If you did, our professors wouldn’t hound me asking where you ran off to.”

You’re not responsible for me, George wants to cut in.

“You wouldn’t be weeks behind on your classes-”

I’m not behind, George wants to prove.

“-and you wouldn’t disappear for hours on end.”

I disappear because the rumours are fucking unbearable, George wants to scream. I disappear because I feel like the world is crashing down on me every time I step out into the halls. I disappear because I feel like you guys hate me, and you guys are leaving me behind. I disappear because- 

Yet, none of it comes out. Instead, George turns back towards the desk. He goes to pick up his quill, refusing to notice how his fingers shook-

“What are you studying for.” It isn’t a question. 

Still, George responds, “A quiz.” 

Both of them knew damn well tests weren’t for another couple weeks.

Quackity clicks his tongue, almost disapprovingly. “...Right.” 

Something unspoken brews between them, and George can tell. Neither of them are being honest with each other.

Somehow during their exchange, the common room has emptied out to nearly nothing. At least there won’t be an audience in case one of them cries into the carpet. George almost anticipates it: a trigger to set either one of them off – mostly him – but it doesn’t happen.

Instead, Quackity breaches the beginning steps down to the dormitories, his pile of laundry floating behind him. It’s an anticlimactic ending to their conversation, if not awkward, but at least- 

“It’s never anything new with you, is it?” 

George looks over his shoulder, and his best friend disappears. 

He didn’t know how to interpret it. Was it a gibe? It couldn’t have been harmless. Not with that attitude.

His tone was so accusatory, so pointed. It’s never anything new with you, is it?

George goes to flip the page on the textbook, or pick up his quill, or do anything– 

Yet, his body refuses to move. His friends last remarks is enough to incapacitate him, enough to bound him to his chair indefinitely. He tried to think from Quackity’s perspective, on why he would think George’s academic drive would be the villain of his narrative. Yet, it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense.

Even as things would change every year, with the introductions of new exchange students, new clubs, new events, his academics always remained a constant in George’s life. Even now, when the rumours hound on his back, when George is drowning in uncertainty over what Karl and Sapnap’s new development meant for him, he still resorts to catching up on schoolwork to distract him.

It’s never anything new with you, is it?

As if George was obligated to respond to his friend’s premature departure, he searches for his voice, buried deep within his chest. Even with his friend’s absence, he couldn’t find the courage to say what was on his mind. 

He takes a last look around the common room, and frowns. He was the last one, as always. 

It’s never anything new with you, is it?

As if it would even matter, he whispers to his own seclusion. “I guess not.”

🖉

Dear Mum, 

 

Hogsmeade was shit.

 

He crumples up the letter and tosses it into the corner of the room.

✦

George never knew when Hogwarts upgraded Hogsmeade day to a Hogsmeade weekend, or when they increased it from twice a year to monthly occurrences. He supposes as the student populace grew over the years, so did the complaints. 

A second day at Hogsmeade is always exciting: it offers a second chance to the activities one may have skipped out on the first day, but after yesterday, George finds it to be a curse. Pebble and Stone climb onto his bunk, shaking him violently to disallow him from sleeping in, but George squeezes his eyes shut and levels his breathing to convince them to leave him alone. 

When those two slammed the door shut, it was Quackity who creaked upon his ladder with a mumble. “...Are you awake?”

George subtly shakes his head, pulling the blankets tighter over his shoulders. After what happened at Puddifoot’s, the Ravenclaw boys were now free from the chains of obligation. Karl and Sapnap would do just fine without their interference.

“...Okay.”

The door creaks closed, now enclosing white noise in his roommates’ stead. 

George is left alone again.

He supposes that’s the way the world wants it. He never quite understood why people stayed with him, or why they talk with him at all. He never understood the reason for connection, but he supposes it’s what separates him from the simple-minded.

George wonders what his days would look like if his life was simple – if he was simple-minded. He supposes he’d go down to the Great Hall without guilt, and be with his friends. He’d get ready for another day at Hogsmeade; he’d eat something to sustain himself. Maybe he’d actually try to be happy for their sickly romance; He wouldn’t worry about what others thought of him, or give them a reason to talk. 

Yet, his life isn’t simple. Instead he’s encased in a fabric cocoon, pretending he isn’t hungry enough to go down to the Great Hall and face his friends. Pretending a stomach bug chains him to his mattress, pretending solitude would simmer the devastation in his chest.

Instead, he’s alone, with only an undesirable fallacy to keep his mind racing.

. . .

George is briefly awoken by the thud of drawers, and he immediately scrambles to peer over the edge.

The fear his dormmates had prematurely returned is soon dissolved once Taffy, the Ravenclaw elf is seen fishing out a sock from underneath Stone’s bed. 

“Taffy.” George greets, his voice a dry croak. Merlin, he needed water.

“Oh!” Taffy startles, bumping her head briefly as she scrambles to an upright position. With one hand rubbing the back of her head, she gazes up with a wince. “Taffy did not mean to wake young Davidson up. Is young Davidson under the weather again?”

“I’m fine.” George murmurs, shuffling back into his blankets. “That looks like it hurts.”

“Young Davidson is not to worry about Taffy.” She shrugs, using her free hand to resume sorting the pens on Quackity’s desk. “Young Davidson should be focusing on getting better!”

“I’m fine .” George bites. 

The elf looks up at him with upturned brows.

Instant regret reels him back. “I didn’t mean to say it like that– I’ll just be out of your way.”

Before George can retreat into his own misery, Taffy Apparates directly on top of his bunk in a split second. It should startle him, but he blames his lack of a reaction to his indolence. 

Taffy dips her head shyly, “Could Taffy ask what ails Young Davidson?”

No , George wants to say, but it almost felt rude to do so. Instead, he averts his gaze.

“Taffy hears things from the other elves, Young Davidson must understand. Young children must not be sick for many days and Taffy is only…” The elf babbles, her voice once loud, now dwindling to a shy murmur. 

George can already read her. It’s the same performative interrogation he’s been subjected to for the past two months. 

She’s worried about him, like everyone else says they are. 

Still, George doesn’t quite believe it. If his friends were truly worried, they wouldn’t brush it off. They wouldn’t treat it as such a miniscule inconvenience when George already feels so awful for making a big deal out of nothing. 

“You can just say it, Taffy.” What the elf has to say won’t be anything he hasn’t heard before.

“Is Young Davidson not having a good time at Hogwarts castle?”

…What?

He must’ve said it out loud, because Taffy repeats her question. “Taffy has heard what people say of Young Davidson, and the other elves say some of the young children have not treated Young Davidson fairly. Is Young Davidson hating Hogwarts?”

George doesn’t know how to answer. 

He expected Taffy to say something his friends have parroted back to him: that he’s too uptight, that he takes things too seriously, that what he’s feeling is an overreaction and he needs to start getting out of the castle and do something worthwhile. 

He didn’t think Taffy would… know about the rumours – especially when everyone else seemed to overlook it. 

Well, except for-

Taffy continues, now avalanching into a ramble, “Taffy is sorry if Taffy is prying. Taffy is the Ravenclaw elf and Taffy hates to see young Ravenclaw children not enjoying Hogwarts. Taffy is just asking because-”

George throws his hands up to calm her down, “It’s okay , Taffy. It’s okay to ask.”

“Is it okay for Young Davidson to answer…?”

George tilts his head. “Answer?”

“Taffy’s question.”

Is Young Davidson hating Hogwarts ?

George doesn’t mind Hogwarts. He’s aware of the routine, he’s aware of the fact it’s a second home with how much time he spends in the castle, he’s aware of it. Yet, he never sat down and thought if…

“...No.” George sounds out, thinking that maybe if it was said out loud, it would sound convincing.

“That’s okay.” Taffy joins her hands together, ducking her head into her shoulders. “Taffy apologizes if that made Young Davidson uncomfortable.”

George realizes he's answered ‘no’ to the wrong question. Taffy had every right to ask him a question that warrants an answer, and George doesn’t want to bar her from that- 

Yet, before he can correct himself, Taffy plops down onto the mattress, crossing her legs. Her body is small enough to sit between the dip of the blankets by George’s feet, and it puts her size into perspective. “It would do Young Davidson some good to get something to eat.”

“Taffy-” George tries again, but the elf brings a finger up to her lips in a shushing motion.

“Young Davidson will never get better if Young Davidson stays in the tower all day.” 

Ugh .

The last thing George wants to do is get out of bed. He thought sixth year would be the year he’d get out and experience all Hogwarts has to offer, but it’s like every waking moment throws a trial  and tribulation his way. 

Instead of a protest, he grunts as his refusal. Taffy doesn’t leave it alone. “But it’s nearly afternoon, you must understand. If Young Davidson is too down, Taffy could bring up a hot lunch? Or fetch a potion from Madame Nurse?”

If Quackity grew bored of George’s excuses, Madam Pomfrey would be no exception. George simply sighs, “I’ll be fine, Taffy. I’ll get something.”

Eventually , he adds silently. 

A minute of silence engulfs them, both of them at a standstill. The first to retreat is Taffy, snapping her fingers to thud back onto the carpeted floor. George would like to think she took his word for it, but she could’ve also decided that their conversation was a losing battle. She wouldn’t be the only one to think so.

 George is kept up again by the shuffling of blankets and the swish of curtains opening. Any attempt at willing himself to sleep runs unsuccessful.

He is left with one final interruption as Taffy clears her throat, her voice distant. “Taffy will be off to the young seventh’s dorms. Taffy hopes Young Davidson keeps himself well.”

And Taffy leaves him be. George doesn’t have to peek over his railing to confirm that much.

Taffy hopes Young Davidson keeps himself well.

What a putrid social construct: sustaining yourself. 

George wonders how anyone can leave their bed when their life is falling apart outside. In this dorm, he was free from the rumours, free from his friends’ judgements, from everything that tormented him in his waking moments. 

If only his mother could see him now. Her shining overachiever now wasting away in his own casket bunked in a tower in the Scottish Highlands. 

George sighs. 

The only thing that pulled him out of bed every day was obligation. Obligation to his academics, obligation to his projects, obligation to his friends. It’s a secret how anyone chooses to wake up to another day with a reason other than.

Although, George supposes obligation is a big enough reason for most. Most people don’t enjoy school, the same way he doesn’t enjoy the general public. They go to classes out of obligation for their future – because they have to. George supposes he’s the same way.

Yet today, he doesn’t feel like he has to anymore. 

His friends are in Hogsmeade, enjoying themselves to no end. They probably don’t spare a single thought on how George is; George doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t care if they don’t spare a thought to even miss him.

Still, what use was there? He’d caught up on a lot of things last night, so he doesn’t have much obligation to pull him out. No dares, no clubs, nothing.

Except…

George levies himself until he’s sitting upright, the mattress creaking with his movements. The only obligation worth leaving his haven would be the challenge whittling away at his patience for the past two months. 

Or rather, the flower that’s been wilting away on a shelf from sheer spite.

He supposes a worn patience is good for something, even if just as an interesting tidbit once he writes a letter for his mother later.

Warily, George climbs down the bunk ladder and slips on his shoes. 

He supposes he owes his peony a nutrifying spell. Just because he has to.

The castle is empty during Hogsmeade weekend, with only the most dedicated of students, or rather the most boring ones, staying behind to sparsely infest the quiet corners of the castles. The outside is even more so, with only the birds and the October winds to whistle through the silence. 

It’s almost peaceful, if not for the faint echo of ache etched into his chest.

The greenhouse is the same as he left it Friday morning, but more serene. As the door shuts behind him, a foolish ache throbs within him. A regret, or disappointment, or perhaps even a wish.

A humiliating hope that a familiar face would be tucked on the far end, where the mechanical fans whirr above, planting onion roots in cracked pots for whatever forsaken reason he conjured up to make himself laugh.

That hope is crushed as George walks over to the shelf, with no one at his side. He didn’t know why he wanted Dream to be there – maybe because he grew accustomed to Dream always showing up where he was unwanted.

Still, George wasn’t- he didn’t hate it when…

George takes a deep breath. He locates his peony, its head drooped with equal misery. As he carefully cups his palms under its clay pot, he almost imagines a funny remark thrown his way. Maybe it’d be about how tight George held his shoulders, or how fragile he treated his plant.

But all it is is imagination, and when George places his peony down onto the table, he notices its stem blotting with dark spots.

There is no Slytherin to lighten his spirits, or to distract him from his failures. There is no Slytherin to keep him angry, to keep him busy from his own squalor. 

George stares at the peony again. 

In a greenhouse bursting with life, his flower is the only one to dip its head down in sorrow. In a culture meant to cultivate its livelihood, its expectations poison it from within. 

George dips his head in defeat, pocketing his wand back into his pyjamas. 

For the first time, he doesn’t blame the peony for being so down.

✦

It’s never anything new with you, is it?

That phrase torments George as he tries to drift off to sleep that night. 

It’s never anything new with you, is it?

It was said with so much disappointment that George couldn’t just sweep it under the rug. After stewing in his thoughts late into the night, George decides that sure, maybe Quackity had a point.

There was nothing wrong with routine, but George has reflected on himself and found a pattern. A pattern of running away when things got too much, a pattern that cut a rift between the friends he wanted to keep close and the personality he wanted to run away from.

Taffy was right: he couldn’t get better if he stayed in the tower all day.

So, George has the amazing idea to do exactly the opposite.

If he’s being honest, this surge of determination was fuelled by the soul-crushing reminder his birthday was less than two weeks away, and he would rather die than spend his birthday in peril. 

All he had to do was brute force the rest of his October, at least until his birthday. All of the awful things he’d experienced so far can be swept under the rug for that long. His mother always knew how to cheer him up. Maybe this time the post will be something interesting, and not a quaint letter asking about what’s new. 

Until then, he has to brave it – whatever nonsense he’s spun himself into. A rainbow can’t exist without a storm, and that’s all this was. A thunderous, horrendous storm that’s been a hailing downpour against his back without remorse.

His first step was to actually get out of the tower, and a reason to do so would be… 

George had to do the unthinkable: show up to his classes. 

It’s a big jump; normally, someone in his situation would’ve started small with going down to breakfast, or even peeking his head out of the stairway’s door, but no. Little progress isn’t worth the applause, especially if it doesn’t tackle the direct problem at hand.

What that problem is, George is still trying to figure out.

His dormmates skipped the complementaries and rushed down to breakfast, and George was almost thankful. He didn’t think he could stomach the guilt of ignoring them for one more day. 

The weekday after Hogsmeade was always hectic, with professors wasting no time to crack down on the students for their assignments, so George knew he’d have the dorm to himself until after classes. That was well enough time to hype himself up for the day, or at least convince himself that what he’s about to do is worth it.

He only had three classes on Monday: two before lunch, one after. Merlin, he doesn’t think he can attend his morning ones. But he had to show up to at least one. If he showed up in the afternoon, it’d only be for one class which is less daunting. 

The only downside was the fact his afternoon class was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Meaning an afternoon with Bad, who George still despises for accusing him of dwelling in dark magic. Meaning an afternoon with Quackity, who sits far away from him, but would still warrant some kind of acknowledgement once class was over. Meaning an afternoon with Dream , who rages a conflict within George strong enough to tear his chest into blood-soaked ribbons.

Defense class is probably the worst class he should’ve used to test the waters, or maybe the best. It is the class he’s ignored the most, and he’s afraid to admit Dream’s been a huge part of it. But he apologized back at the Neep, and if he couldn’t confront his friends about his problems, he could at least be a man of his word. 

Two o’clock strikes and George doesn’t feel real as he takes gingerly steps down Ravenclaw Tower. 

The nerves crawl on his skin like a colony of bugs as he bumps shoulders with students who throw him judgeful glances. George walks across the moving stairways like a convict fresh off a sentence, wary like he’s just been reintroduced to regular living. 

His chest feels hollow as he heads down familiar hallways, and he doesn’t think he’s breathing as he approaches that familiar door frame.

The class is nearly packed as he walks in, with the majority of them immersed in their own conversations. He scans the room, and Quackity remains in his assigned seat, oblivious to George’s entrance. Maybe it’s best not to draw any attention his way. 

Sneakily, he weaves through chairs, ducking his head low to keep a low profile. Approaching his seat, his vision nearly goes white at the sight of Dream.

The Slytherin is hunched over, with his arms crossed atop the table. His chin rests between the dip of where his arms overlap, pointing his lips as if to entertain himself. He looked so engrossed in his own stupidity that it makes this all the more difficult.  

Naturally, George froze. His body always defied him in the worst moments, but he needed to be brave. He could do this.

George tries to suppress the thump of his heart as he drags his feet towards the windows. 

Dream is… 

A friend? 

An acquaintance? 

An idiot? 

The worst thing to happen to him this year? The best? 

His Puddifoot’s-assigned destiny? 

His only choice?

Gulping down the bile in his throat, he slides into his chair. He strictly faces forward, dread curdling in the midst of his chest. 

Just turn your head, he tells himself. Just turn it to face him. Greet him, and then focus on the class. It shouldn’t be that hard.

George does as told, his neck straining as he braces himself for the sight of Dream’s knowing smirk, or his sly demeanour. Instead, he’s greeted with round doe eyes, coloured in surprise, and his lips slightly parted, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Hi, Dream.” Merlin, he sounds like a robot. Instead of recouping, he powers through. It feels like pulling teeth. “How are you today?”

Dream blinks once, then twice. Neither of them speak, and George second-guesses himself on if he even spoke English at all. 

Then, the Slytherin furrows his brow. “Who are you and what have you done with my birdie?”

My? 

“I’m not yours, Dream.” George mumbles, returning his focus back onto his side of the desk. He shuffles beneath his pockets for some parchment, hoping he hadn’t forgotten how to be a student in his solace.

A slam sounds from behind them, Bad calling for the class’ attention at the front. “Good afternoon, class! Did everyone enjoy their first Hogsmeade weekend?”

The professor treats them like kindergarteners sometimes. It doesn’t help when a united ‘ yes! ’ erupts from the class. George bites the inside of his cheek. He must be the only outlier to have spent his weekend in crushing desolation.

“Glad to hear it!” Bad waves his hands around, and a flurry of paper flies out to each individual student. He soon dives back into regular lecturing, walking through the rows to ensure everyone’s received an assignment slip. When he stands in front of George and Dream’s table, his face blanches under his hood. “Oh, look who decided to join us today. Glad to see Hogsmeade weekend gave you the energy to show up!”

George blows out his cheeks in humiliation. Talk about making a scene. 

Thankfully, nobody turned their heads, but he’s unsure if it’s a good thing or not. When Bad finally resumes back to the blackboard, George tosses a look over his shoulder, back at the door. 

Quackity looks at him through furrowed brows and a perturbed stare. So much for George’s plan to keep a low profile. His friend tilts his head in question, but George just thins his lips and shrugs. 

He hopes it’s enough to say: I’ll explain later.

Merlin, that’s another thing to add to the list. George faces forward again, trying to listen to the lesson at hand. 

“For the record, nobody you or I know ever calls you ‘birdie’.” Dream whispers, returning back to their prior conversation, “so, that means I trademarked it.”

“Mm.” George nods, dissociating to the sound of Bad droning about banshees. 

“Wow.” Dream scoffs. “Maybe you actually aren’t the real George.”

“What?” George blinks, turning to face him. It turns out to be a mistake. Has Dream’s stare always been that intense? 

“Where’s the snobby remarks? The witty gibes?” Dream pouts, waggling his finger at George’s face. “Your infamous scowl?” 

“Not feeling it today.” George explains, exhaustion evident in his tone. He tries to keep his voice down to avoid any heckling from Bad’s end.

Dream drops his tone to one of concern. “...Really?”

George nods.

It’s almost considerate, how Dream relaxes his face and just shrugs. He crosses his arms again, tucking his head to its former position before he murmurs, “Let me know when you change your mind.”

George nods again. 

He’ll try harder tomorrow.

✦

Next step is actually showing up to dinner, or the Great Hall in general. It’s his biggest offence from yesterday, considering it’s the first time his friend group was truly reunited. 

Karl and Sapnap were on good terms, and Quackity brought them together. George should be happy for them, and he should show up. It’s what friends do.

After Bad dismisses them for the day, Quackity wastes no time to sprint towards George’s desk. George goes to greet him, but it comes out a blubbering mess as he clumsily places his textbooks back into his pockets. 

Without any warning, Quackity loops an arm around George’s elbow and yanks him up from his chair, sending the boy stumbling upwards. He drags them outside without a second thought and a determined pace. 

Once outside, Quackity looks at him with a confounded exasperation. “Dude?! You actually left the dorm?!”

George doesn’t know if it’s congratulatory or accusatory. He bares his teeth awkwardly in response, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

An apology was always going to be the first thing out of his mouth, but it’s not for the right situation. Still, Quackity just smiles at him. “You don’t have to tell me anything, dude. Just happy to see you taking my advice!”

George doesn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.

As if they were on the same page, Quackity beelines down to the Great Hall with George in tow. Dinner wouldn’t start for another couple of hours, but Quackity vocally expressed his disapproval on George’s return to the common room so soon. 

George tries to ignore how his heart hammers in his chest, how truly unprepared he was to actually face his friends. Yet, they always say the best way to teach a baby to swim is to throw them into the deep end.

By convenience, their two other friends sit by the Hufflepuff table, engaged in a game of chess. Blissfully unaware -- exactly like they’d been in Puddifoot’s.

As they approach, George feels his heart sink down to his stomach in dread, wondering if any of them would question his disappearance yesterday, wondering if they would even care.

Instead, he gets none of that. Sapnap and Karl greet him with a kind neutrality, their focus barely straying from the game at hand. It’s not outlandish fanfare, but he supposes his gesture wouldn’t have called for it. 

Nobody praises him for the bare minimum. 

George’s stomach rumbles at the sight of a barren table before him. He hates to admit he was actually looking forward to dinner tonight, considering it’d be the first time he’d actually sit down to eat some in days. All he’d nibbled on were Taffy’s hospitality and Pebble’s leftover gummy worms that he left out by the window sill one night. Neither of those could be as fulfilling as a hearty dinner.

Unfortunately, George had time to kill. So, he watches his friends battle each other out through harmless strategy. He likes to think it’s a better distraction than his assignments. At least Quackity wouldn’t berate him for liking chess.

Inspecting closely, there were more black pieces by Karl’s elbow than there were on the chess board. Sapnap makes lousy plays and throws his king piece into vulnerability at every turn. George recoils slightly. There is no way a Gryffindor – Sapnap , no less – is letting himself lose . 

George tries to shake off the disgust, or is it confusion- whatever. He looks over to his side, at the best friend that thought dragging George’s behind down to the Great Hall would be the cure to all their problems.

Quackity is preoccupied with an essay, scribbling away with a quill in hand. It’s ironic, really, how it’s only a problem when George does it, but he isn’t going to point that out. He’s here to mend a fraying rope, not tear it to something irreparable. 

A brief cheer erupts from George’s side as Karl claims the checkmate; Sapnap doesn’t look bummed in the slightest. That familiar pit in his stomach returned, the one from Puddifoot’s. He remembers again why he left in the first place.

George couldn’t run this time. Quackity made sure of that, and the last thing George wants to do is let his friends down. 

So, he refocuses on Quackity’s beanie, how his shoulders slump with his posture, how his handwriting carves jagged edges to each letters, and how he suddenly tilts his head up at their other two friends and smiles, “Have you guys heard the rumours?”

George stills. 

Could his reputation have breached his bubble? George thought he would be safe with his friends, away from the talk. He thought his best friend of all people would have the decency to not bring them up.

“No.” George says coldly, trying to suppress the bark in his tone. 

“What rumours?” Karl blinks, clueless. Please don’t let this be how they find out, George pleads, crossing his fingers underneath the table. 

“Oh, you boys are gonna love this.” Quackity snickers, rolling up his sleeves. He is enjoying this way too much and all for the wrong reasons. Entertainment from the violation of George’s dignity isn’t something to be proud of. 

“It’s probably not interesting.” George blurts, hoping it would be enough to deflect it. 

Yet, Quackity doesn’t budge. “It is! I swear it is.”

Sapnap groans, “Will you just spit it the fuck out? I’m trying to start a new game up with Karl.”

“Jesus. Okay, Romeo.” Quackity laughs. George winces at that. “Don’t let me keep you from blue-balling.”

Gross. Sapnap didn’t even mean it in that context. 

Luckily, Quackity keeps his word, returning back to his essay. Karl and Sapnap start up another pointless game for the sake of subtle coquetry. 

George lets out a sigh of relief. That was a close call. 

Back with nothing to do, George decides he’s barred from what his heart desires. In a situation like this, he’d always let his friends do the talking and he’d chip away in the background with some academic project of his. With nowhere to run, and no one to listen to like a Muggle podcast, he stares at the ceiling.

Speckles of white dust glisten above, floating candles hovering back and forth. When George stared long enough, he noticed their path ran counter-clockwise. In the end, everything always had a pattern, everything had its predictability and its routine. 

George sighs. He doesn’t get why that’s such a bad thing in Quackity’s eyes. 

Somehow two hours have passed and the Hufflepuff table is riddled with food galore. Karl and Sapnap’s chess board is gone and packed away, and Quackity’s essay is scrolled up into his pockets, their earlier activities now replaced with them stuffing their faces with what they could. George stares down at his empty plate, blinking. He couldn’t have watched the ceiling for that long, could he?

Merlin , George really is losing it. 

Dinner isn’t the exciting release George has been waiting for all weekend, his friends at a standstill with their words. He swears they were more talkative when he was doing schoolwork in front of them, or maybe he’s misremembering things. Still, the separation he jailed himself for is nothing but an outburst swept under the rug. His friends didn’t even care to see the difference.

In seconds, the group is parting ways by the Great Hall’s entrance. Quackity has his arm looped around George’s elbow, bidding a goodnight to the two others parallel across. Karl and Sapnap are not as close, but anyone can see they want to be. Sapnap’s itching to bump shoulders with Karl from how hesitant his foot placement was beneath him; the Hufflepuff on the other hand is reserved, his hands behind his back like a prisoner – like he was punishing himself. 

Good , George thinks. If at least one of them sees the error of their ways, the sooner this nonsense can be over and done with. 

As Karl and Sapnap turn their backs and disappear around the corner, Quackity deflates at George’s side. “Man, busy day today.”

George takes that as his cue to start walking. And to continue the conversation. “How so?”

“Been double teaming these two since breakfast. You should’ve seen me!” Quackity laughs, but it’s diluted from exhaustion. He sags all his body weight upon George’s torso, like the facade had been a weight he so desperately had to let go of. That… was new.

“Sorry I wasn’t there.” George pushes out. A part of him was still seeking that validation to his misery, the recognition that his guilt was for nought. His friends had to have noticed that he was trying. They had to. 

“Nah,” His best friend waves a stray hand dismissively, “I’m just grateful you’re able to show your face after centuries.”

There’s a reason he can’t show his face, George wants to point out. A part of him still hated how dismissive his friends were about the whole thing, and George is one strand away from doubting his own headspace. 

“And I’m…” George continues, surprised he even had more to say. “I’m sorry for acting out at lunch.”

Where did that come from? 

Quackity stops in his tracks at that, equally surprised. “...What do you mean?”

George’s mouth goes on its own. “About the rumours. I was snappy about it and I didn’t want to come off as rude and...”

Quackity blinks up at him, still confused. “...I didn’t think you were mean. I just didn’t think you’d be mad about it.”

How ? How could George not be mad about it? These rumours have warped the school’s perception of him and Dream, and they won’t stop until they find something new to whisper about. George can’t stand for something so ruinous, so destructive. 

“What did you think they were?” Quackity asks innocently. 

George takes a shuddering breath.

“I just… thought you were talking about what everyone was saying about-” His words get caught in his throat, afraid. “About me and Dream.”

A beat of silence. 

“Those are still going?”

A gulp.

“…Yes?” 

“Weird.” Quackity shrugs, and George is almost disappointed. Is that all his best friend had to say?

He’s ashamed to admit he expected a little more, maybe a pat on the shoulder for reassurance, or a passive dismissal that it’ll all die down. The rumours are supposed to be evil and big and catastrophic and Quackity is- 

“No, dude. I was definitely talking about something else. People are saying something’s going to happen in December but-” Quackity doesn’t even seem to notice. “Meh, whatever. I’ll bring it up with the boys when we’re all together.”

George doesn’t want to bring it up again. He wishes everyone would just keep their mouth shut and mind their business. 

Merlin , he needs to get away. 

George has been wanting to disappear all day and he just wishes he didn’t have to be dragged out here only to be made a fool of, only to be undermined- If Quackity couldn’t even remember the rumours were still going, if Karl and Sapnap were still so clueless-

“Actually-” George blurts out, a little too loudly. “I… need to snag a couple snacks for- from the Great Hall.”

It’s not his usual script of lies, so it should work. George thinks he might Bombarda his own skull if it won’t.

Instead of the usual interrogation, Quackity looks at him with a soft smile and a relieved glance in his eyes. Something sad pangs within his ribs, like remorse.

“Be back before curfew.” His friend chuckles, landing a soft punch against his arm. “You know the drill.”

George doesn’t have anything to say to that. Not when the thing that incapacitated him the whole weekend meant nothing to anyone else. “Sure thing.”

If his own best friend didn’t pay attention to them… was he not supposed to either? 

George doesn’t know anymore.

✦

When the world felt too claustrophobic, the library welcomed him with open arms and dim candlelight.

The friendly librarian who George still can’t grasp the name of greets him with a soft smile. She still dresses like she’s going to a witch’s coven meeting from a Shakespeare play, but he supposes that’s part of the appeal. 

George doesn’t even know why he’s here. He just knew no matter what war raged on out there, the library would keep him away from it, and Merlin knows he needs a break. 

He wanders through the aisles, side stepping for the few Ravenclaw and Slytherins roaming past him. Flipping pages and the crackle of a fireplace is his only atmosphere as he browses through the titles. 

Somehow, he’s made it to the self-help book section, which is absurd if it’s not of academic need. Scholarly works are on the opposite side of the library, and he doesn’t even think anyone takes these out. 

Fiction always went like hotcakes, the waitlist stretching from the desk to the floor for some works. Not that George would know. He doesn’t exactly find time for fiction, or make-believe, but if his friends ever dared him to do one for the bucket list, he wouldn’t be opposed to it.

Merlin, that bucket list. 

It’s only until the end of term, George reassures himself. Then, this whole nightmare will be over. His friend group will go back to normal and the reality of N.E.W.T.’s will strike him down enough to numb all human feeling, like the world intended. 

He doesn’t even understand why he had to be alone at the library. 

Without a friend to cling to his back, chatting his ear off, he truly becomes one with the silence. For someone who prided himself in his alone time, he… never liked to be…

Anyway, that’s enough of that. George still has time to kill. It’s best if he just waste more time loitering by the self help books. 

Who knows – maybe he’ll actually find something worthwhile. 

As his fingers trail across the works, his interest dwindles down to boredom. He switches to the other side, and it’s other side and its other side and its- 

As he rounds the corner, a person’s side profile  comes into view, and George thinks he may deflate.

The boy’s pressed his left shoulder into the shelves; and most of his face is turned away from this angle, but George can recognize him anywhere.

He can recognize the  lock of curls tucked under a striped cat beanie, the clumsy slant of his posture, the focus riddled in his eyes when he was too engrossed in a book; George doesn’t even know if he should be ashamed of it.

All of that is washed away by the relief that bleeds through him, a wave grievous enough to ease his chest to a calming rhythm. 

The Ravenclaw steps forward so he’s in the Slytherin’s field of vision, then he waves briefly. “Hi, Dream.”

The Slytherin perks up, still with that same lopsided smile. “Oh, birdie!” 

Immediately, George’s mood shifts into playful annoyance. He really ought to say something about that nickname.

Dream shuts the book he was reading closed, tucking it back into the shelf. “Have you changed your mind?”

George furrows his brow. “About?”

Dream turns to face him again, raising his brows as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “About feeling it? Back in Bad’s class?”

“Oh… right.” Considering he initiated a conversation with Dream in the first place, he supposes he has. “...Maybe.” 

It’s not like George is telling Dream that though.

The Slytherin shakes his head, tutting to himself. He turns back to the shelves, picking out a book before opening it directly in the middle. He definitely is trying to look busy, but George doesn’t point it out. 

“So,” Dream asks, feigning nonchalance. “Care to explain what went up with you today? Or the weekend?”

Does Dream deserve an explanation? George supposes he does. He promised he’d try harder. “Felt down.”

“Because?”

“Because-” George doesn’t know how to phrase it. He feels like his friends don’t care about him. He feels like he’s overreacting. He feels like he’s left behind. He feels like  his friends are- “I don’t know. Seeing people happy makes me sick.”

Dream snorts at that. “You’re funny.”

George didn’t mean it as a joke. He supposes his cold delivery didn’t do him any favours. Still, if comedy gives him an excuse to avoid picking at the real problem, George will gladly lean into it. “That’s new. Hearing something nice from you.”

“Oh, boohoo.” Dream scoffs, failing to suppress a smile. “I say nice things about you all the time. You’re smart, remember? Thought that’d be memorable enough.”

“What?” George crosses his arms, “One compliment from the Neep? Wow , what a record.”

“Fine.” Dream shuts the book closed and holds it close to his chest. “I can start saying nice things to you if you want me to.”

“I don’t.” George really doesn’t. It’s just odd if he does, with their dynamic. 

Dream makes a motion of his free arm, blowing his cheeks in mock disappointment. “Darn. I was so eager to do it too.”

“ Okay ,” George rolls his eyes playfully, swiping at the book in Dream’s hand to inspect it, “what are you even in the library for anyway?”

Before he can get a good look at the cover, Dream immediately clasps his hands over the title. “You can’t look!”

“You weren’t even reading it!” George protests, his cheeks pulling up into a competitive smile; the two of them wrestle with the book like a game of Tug of War.

“You don’t know that!” Dream yanks it over to his side, but George digs his fingernails into the binding. He wasn’t going down without a fight.

Then, Dream relaxes, now possessing a pointed look in his eyes. His voice simmers down to something reasonable as he says,  “Okay, fine. Don’t look at the cover, but you can look at the first page.”

George scrunches up in confusion, “What kind of rules are those? What’s so embarrassing about-”

“Birdie.” Dream grits out, and George is afraid he’s actually being serious. “Do as I say.”

George is scared now. He gulps, watching as Dream masterfully obstructs the letterings of the cover, leaving only enough room that George had no choice but to flip it open. 

It can’t be that embarrassing, he reasons. It’s a book for crying out loud. They weren’t in the Restricted section so-

In loopy black handwriting, the first page reads: 

The seven different ways to befriend a hostile bird.

George must’ve been making a face because Dream immediately howls with laughter, throwing his head back in unadulterated glee and it’s so-

“What the-?!” George tries to ignore how hot his cheeks felt. “Dream, that’s not-!”

Dream doesn’t care to contain himself, palm flying over his lips to stifle the sound. It isn’t that funny, so why is he acting like it’s the-

“You’re in a library! Have some decorum for fuck’s-” George hisses, gripping the book with both hands and slamming it into Dream’s shoulder. “You’re going to get us in trouble!”

“It’s alright, George.” Dream barely gets out, wiping at the corner of his eye. “She won’t hear us anyway.”

Before George can protest, Dream places a finger upon George’s lips and winks. With his free hand, he waves and the library around them suddenly sounds more… busy. Like a distinct ringing of white noise had been lifted from them.

“...You casted Muffliato.” Of course he did. George hates to admit even Dream isn’t that stupid.

“That’s not the only thing I casted.” The Slytherin taps the book, bringing George’s attention downward.

Sure enough, its first page is replaced with: 

How to contain a water leak in a wizard’s home.

Oh. 

It takes a couple seconds to realise it’s a joke. 

“Charming.” George isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a well-earned laugh; it wasn’t even funny. He relaxes his features into feigned nonchalance, pouting his lips slightly. “Still having that plumbing problem?”

“Oh, I hate it, birdie.” Dream tuts, resting his hands on his hips. “I swear everyone at this school hates Slytherins. We live in the basement by the Black Lake, and we don’t get an ounce of sympathy.”

For good reason, George wants to say. “You can’t just complain to your Head of House, or… McGonagall?”

“That woman scares me.” Fair enough. “And I don’t actually… know who my Head of House is.”

That’s… absurd . 

Dream bares his teeth in an awkward smile; George cannot compute how that’s possible. Everyone knows who their Head of House. “...How the fuck do you not know who you-” 

“Language, birdie.”

George scowls, crossing his arms. That’s the last time he tries to tell him something. 

“You look dreadful,” Dream continues, leaning forward. “You really don’t like it when I call you ‘birdie’ , do you?”

Well spotted. George scrunches his nose, deepening his frown. “I hate it, actually.” 

“Shame.” Dream blows his cheeks out in mock pity, “because..”

The Slytherin goes silent, like a retention tactic. George falls victim to it. “Because what?”

The Slytherin breaks out into a giggle. An actual giggle. His eyes close shut, his frown cracking into a wide grin, as he snickers to himself. “Nothing, it’s just you’re not very subtle about it. Kind of ruins it for me, you know?”

“Consider it working.” It’s not a distaste George wants to hide, anyway.

“Come on, birdie.” Dream lets out a childish whine, his body reverberating in exasperated hops. “It’s special! Our thing! Without it, our relationship means nothing!”

Relationship?  

The rumours bullet through the Ravenclaw’s skull in rapid succession: They’re together, you know? Dating. Shagging. Wild as rabbits. Fucking like mad. Thank Merlin someone’s chained him down.

“We don’t have a relationship.” George clips, averting his gaze downward. He tries to gulp the sour burn at the back of his throat.

“I know we don’t,” From here, George can see Dream cross his arms and tap his foot in offbeat succession. Although, he doesn’t think it’s from impatience, “but I’m the only one who calls you ‘birdie’, so you can’t make me stop.”

He wishes he could. “I can.”

“You can’t fight with copyright laws.”

“ Yes , I can.”

“Come on , birdie.” Dream rests his hands against George’s shoulders, pulling his attention upwards. His tone of voice wasn’t one of amusement anymore, but concealed desperation. His eyebrows are furrowed in concern, and his face looks aged about two decades with worry. 

George doesn’t… understand. 

“You like it.” Dream’s mouth says, but his eyes say different. George stares into the Slytherin’s eyes, trying to decode the smoke signals swirling behind his irises. “I know you do.”

Work with me here, he seems to plead. Joke around. It’s what we do.

George takes a look around, at the dusty shelves and the bewitched self-help books that line them. He glances at the Slytherin in front of him, at the optimism in his throat and the concern in his gaze.

He supposes he was right.

This is what they do. They’re in the library and this is what they do. He can’t let his moods be diminished by the aches of otherworldly pains. The library is safe. Their relationship is-

“I think you’ve just deluded yourself into thinking so.” George scoffs, refusing to notice how his voice wavered in the middle. This is what they do, he tells himself. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Bickering with Dream is a breath of fresh air, because it isn’t real. There isn’t any real relationship at stake. They can just… argue for the sake of it. 

Maybe Dream is good for one thing after all.

“You want to talk about being delusional?” Dream laughs now, and it manages to reach his eyes this time. “How about we talk about September and how you were so convinced that I dropped clues and played hard-to-get because you thought I wanted to be your-”

“Enough!” George surges forward, clamping his palms over Dream’s mouth. The sudden motion is enough to topple them over, Dream gripping tightly onto George’s shoulders as he drags him down with his sinking ship.

The two of them laugh loudly now, at how ridiculous this all was. 

“ Please , I thought we agreed to forget about that.” As George tries to catch his breath, he loosens his clasp on Dream’s lips, his hands now travelling down to rest against his… shoulders. 

His body freezes, the debilitating awareness that he was on top of Dream’s chest now hollowing out within him. His eyes slowly trail the length of one shoulder to the next, at the proximity of their collarbones and their… noses only inches away from each other. 

Neither of them move, or maybe time has just stopped altogether.

Then, Dream murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “You have a nice smile, birdie.”

George recoils, his face falling. “…I wasn’t smiling.” 

Now would be a good time to get off the Slytherin, he tells himself, yet his body doesn’t obey. 

“Your secret is safe with me.” Dream winks. It churns something foul in the midst of George’s ribs, and it should be enough to shove him off, or leave-

“Boys, I do have to-” The boys’ attention is dragged to the end of the bookshelf, where the librarian peeks her head. Once she sees the state they’re in, she clutches at her chest in a minute fright, “oh, good heavens. Right. As I was saying, curfew is in a few minutes and it’d be in your best interest if you…” 

Her voice trails off,  clearly flustered at the suggestive position her students were in. George scrambles to his feet at that, too afraid at the assumptions she was clearly formulating behind her bewilderment.  

“We’re leaving.” George blurts, a little too loud for his body, before pivoting on his heel and marching out. He doesn’t wait for Dream to follow, nor would he be able to; he can’t even process the last couple of minutes.

A series of thumps mixed into his heartbeat announce the Slytherin jogging up behind him, slowing to match the Ravenclaw’s determined pace. “Birdie, why are you in such a hurry?”

“ Ugh .” George drops his head into his hands, the humiliation roaming under his sleeves, nipping at his skin. “I can’t believe it’s fucking happened again.”

“What’s happened?” The two of them breach the library entrance, weaving through the remaining stacks of textbooks obstructing their way. 

“Did you see the way she looked at us?!” George hisses, his footsteps hammering into the carpet below. He whips his head to the side, scowling. “Merlin, I need to stop hanging out with you.”

As the two head to the door, Dream walks a little faster to hold it wide open, “I don’t think she thinks we’re fucking because you fell on me.”

Flashes of their incident infiltrate George’s mind, the pressure of the rise and fall of Dream’s chest under him, at how close they were and how- 

“With everything going around, she’s probably got an idea in her head.” George scoffs, crossing his arms. He tries to ignore how harsh the crescents are embedded into his elbows – even through the fabric. 

“I guess so.” They’re walking through the halls now, but George isn’t sure where to. Both of them seem to be following each other’s lead. “I mean, is it so bad?”

Is that even a question?

 “ Yes .” George bites, a little too harshly. Merlin , he hopes Dream doesn’t get offended by it. He doesn’t have the energy to explain himself.

“Alright.” Dream backs off, his voice quiet. Oh, this can’t be happening. 

“Don’t act all pissy on me now, Dream.” George tries to force a polite tone, but venomous frustration clings to his tongue in a vile aftertaste.

Dream throws his hands up in defense, his lips breaking out into an awkward smile. “I swear I’m not!”

“Then, act like it!” George exasperates, curling his fists at his side. “You know it bothers me!”

“I know it does! I probably know it more than anyone!” Dream yells, but immediately retracts. “Sorry for yelling.”

With how empty the hallways are, only the ghosts would be disrupted by the echoes of their conversation. “Don’t worry about it.”

They round a corner, into a hallway that looks exactly the same as the one before. George really does wonder where they’re walking to – maybe then he can find a way to shake Dream off his tail and cry into a storage closet until sunrise.

Then, “If you want to distance yourself, you can.” 

George slows to a stop, looking up to the Slytherin at this side. “...What?”

Dream shrugs, maintaining a tone of concern. “If it’s really bothering you, we can just stop… talking. I can talk to the professors; they love me, and-” He breaks off into a ramble now, but a well-intentioned one, “people will stop talking if they don’t see us talking, and I won’t even- I won’t talk about it either.”

That’s… “…You’re okay with it?”

“If it’s what you want.”

If it’s what you want. George curls into himself, his gaze falling to his shoes. The fact that Dream was even offering in the first place- and he didn’t even stop to think about the repercussions of that arrangement. No more group projects, no more sly remarks during class, no more easy conversations, no more… Dream. 

As much as George complained about his existence, he doesn’t think he could- he doesn’t know if Dream would- 

If it’s what you want. He thinks back to the Neep, to his sacred promise to keep trying; he thinks back to the library, to the safety in their dynamic. If Dream were to step away, then what would become of all of that? Of the smoke signals and the silent pleas – of the haven that George sought when his friends would rain on his parade.

He looks back up, at the boy, at Dream , who awaits his answer.

“…I don’t want to.” And George probably means it more than he ever has before. 

“Then we won’t.” Dream offers up a soft smile.

The rest of their walk is engulfed in silence, but it’s not the bad kind. Silence in George’s friend group always felt like a landmine, when noise was always their normal. With Dream, it was content, it was natural.

In some kind of happenstance, they’ve made it right to the Ravenclaw tower. George doesn’t know how; he was following Dream’s lead, but with how aimless they walked their path, it couldn’t have been purposeful.

Still, Dream holds an arm out to gesture him in. It’s kind, the way he looks at him like he’d do anything George would ask. Before George can start his ascent, the Slytherin clears his throat. One final message.

“For the record,” Dream tilts his head to the side, mischief ingrained with his smile. “I was playing hard to get. With the whole ‘asking me to be your partner’ thing. You totally figured me out that night, birdie.”

“ Oh, you sick fucking-,” George scrunches his nose up, ready to swing his fist wildly, “you need to shut the fuck up!”

✦

Chess club is cancelled.

Well, for the time being. 

A notice was sent to all members during breakfast hour informing all meetings have been terminated for the rest of the month. Sapnap is rightfully disappointed with it, whining that all his practice with Karl has gone to waste. George isn’t that surprised, considering the moderators still needed to prepare for tournament season, but that does throw a wrench in his plans for the remainder of his October. 

Merlin, it’s like everything was happening in November: his quizzes, the chess club tournaments, Quidditch seasons, his birthday?! 

Well, he can’t complain. It’ll keep him busy for a month, but that’s the future, and he needs to focus on now. 

Now, he didn’t have any clubs to keep his mind occupied in the afternoons, and he would rather pluck out his eyes if he attended another one of Sapnap’s Quidditch practices. There’s only so many times he can watch the Gryffindors fly in circles as if they weren’t going to win the House Cup in the end anyway. Quackity would berate him on his lack of House spirit, but George can’t help but have other priorities.

So, that afternoon when Quackity asks George to tag along, he respectfully declines. Then, his best friend frowns like he’s going to ask a question not worth answering, and it is. “You can’t hide out in the library, you know? You’re all caught up.”

‘Caught up’ is a social construct formulated by students who couldn’t think ahead. There’s always something to work on, but George knows that’s not what Quackity wants to hear. “I know that. I’ll find something else.”

He doesn’t know what else he could do around here, but he genuinely can’t stand another week’s worth of Quidditch drills and accidental head injuries. 

Quackity doesn’t argue with him – mostly because Karl has already skittered off far into the distance, eager to see Sapnap again as if they don’t spend the majority of their days together now anyway. “See you at dinner..!”

George waves a hand, refusing to reflect the same sentiment. There’s no use in wording out empty promises. 

Although, he does feel a heavy obligation to uphold his oath of ‘doing something else’. If he’s being honest, the library gets old and George really does need to find something to keep him distracted until his birthday. 

Like a curious first year, he explores the castle. 

In his mind, he thought he’d find other clubs hiding out in specific rooms or auditoriums and he’d be able to pop in for a quick session, but he ended up with exhausted legs and a diminished confidence in his navigational skills. He supposes walking to the same three locations everyday really ruins his sense of direction. 

He also didn’t remember just how many stairs he needed to use to get around. Ravenclaw Tower had a lot, but he only really had to climb them twice a day. Walking a succession of stairs in a row is just overkill.

On the bright side, he did fulfill his quota of ‘doing something new’, so that’s a plus.

In his fatigue, he took a rest stop in the courtyard by the benches. Not on the benches, but by it. On the stone floor. By the rose bushes with vines that crawled within the crevices. The benches are actually only an arm’s reach away from him, but he really didn’t have much energy to make it that far unfortunately.

So, on the ground, he catches his breath, bunching his knees to his chest. Sapnap once told him that going on the ground to catch your breath is worse than standing up, but he doesn’t care for that right now. He needs to sit down.

“George!” A chirpy accent calls out from across the courtyard. Their volume grows louder with distance – which makes sense because that’s how sound waves worked. “I finally figured out a place for that club I was telling you about!”

Lamia . Right. Makes sense. No matter how disoriented he is from his physical exertion, at least George can still associate names to a voice. “Awesome.”

“Oh, what in Merlin's crockpot...” The witch retracts, possessing a tone of concern. “Why are you on the floor?”

“Long story.” George is sure his words are slurring together now. Merlin, snap out of it ! He rubs the corners of his eyes and cranes his neck upwards. Lamia looks awful. “You look like shit.”

In George’s defense, she really does. Her usual witch hat is discarded, revealing unkempt and frizzy spikes that were once tame. She doesn't carry her usual jewelry about her, dark circles hanging under her eyes like she hadn’t slept in days. 

“Look in a mirror.” Lamia rolls her eyes playfully, stepping over to sit on the bench, where a student ought to normally sit. “But I just wanna say I am so sorry for holding you up on this. I’ve been having an awful time; I can’t recruit anyone , and it’s a miracle I even found a second person to drop the forms but-”

George tunes out of it. It’s just another ramble, and he’s gotten used to those. 

“My father's been on my arse about my brothers, telling me to make sure they don't get expelled and I tell you George, they really are past that line of no return.”

Honestly, when George was thinking of side quests to accomplish, Lamia's witch club didn’t come to mind. Although, he can’t fault it for being so timely. 

“It's a whole load of bollocks!" Lamia exasperates. "I’m still a student and he’s the adult, but all he told me was ‘I’ve got essays!’. What a mothball!”

Lamia's Philza impression is horrendously inaccurate. The professor does not sound like a Southern cowboy from America. Still, George humours her. “Did he actually say that?”

“Yes!” Lamia throws her hands out in frustration, “Seriously, what's the point of my father being a professor if he makes me do all the dirty work anyway!”

At least she's self-aware. “...Sure.” 

“You do know you can sit on this bench right?” Lamia sidetracks, patting at the empty space beside her. “I can move over if you don’t want to sit on this side.”

Tempting. Unfortunately, George’s lethargy triumphs his need for comfort. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” Lamia shrugs, readjusting the collar of her robes. They're so... plain today. That whole ordeal with her brothers must've really put her at wits end.

“Are your brothers that bad?” George asks. 

Lamia lets out a scoff of incredulity, “Oh, definitely. They are- they're a handful.”

George doesn’t even have to prompt her to explain. 

“You saw what happened at Hogsmeade. Total wasp's mob. Right disaster! It’s kept me busy ever since. Send your friend Quackity my best wishes; he really did try his best, but we were not having it that day, and those boys would just not let up! I swear I can't recruit them for my club because they're just going to make a frogpot out of it!"

Ehh, fair. If Lamia advocated for dark magic's prejudice, two boys causing trouble in its name would put a damper on her efforts.

“They camped out in Pippin’s Potions threatening to blow up the shop!” Lamia throws her hands up in exasperation. “It gave everyone a proper scare at around… high noon, was it? Horrible. Thank flub the owner cut off his personal Floo network; there's no telling what the boys would've done with that. They're not even supposed to be at Hogsmeade, you know? Literal second-years!”

“...I did wonder that.” George comments. If Lamia's going to rant, she might as well do it to a talking recipient. 

“Anyway, that’s why I’ve been kind of side lining our club, but it’s all a go now!”

Is she done?  “Awesome.”

“I’m gonna call it…” Lamia drags her palms outwards in the motion of a deformed rainbow. “‘ Lamia’s Orderly Sabbatical & Educational Research!’ .”

George counts out the syllables in his head, raising a challenging brow. "I don't think you thought that name through."

Lamia scrunches her face in return. "Yes, I did! It encapsulates the vibe of the club!"

"Zeena. What do the letters spell out?"

George can almost see her put two and two together. Lamia’s Orderly Sabbatical & Educational Research -- L.O.S.E.R. Lamia's face falls in disappointment, her leg bouncing with impatience. “You're awful! Did you hear what I said about nobody wanting to join?”

"Not my idea to name it the Loser club." George scoffs.

"Oh, come on!" Lamia shifts to a more desperate tone. “I can't change it now! I already submitted the forms!"

This girl really cannot catch a break.

"No takers? At all?!" The witch is grasping at straws, clutching at the bench rails and peering over the side. "Last chance to invite them. Please, George. It’s bloody embarrassing to only have a club of just us two!”

Okay, fine. George does feel a little guilty when she says it like that.

It’s pathetic, is what it is. Asking people to join and being met with nothing. Still, she should've expected this. Any sane person would recognize the dark undertones of her practice, and immediately turn away. Although, George is surprised. He'd think Slytherins would be all up for that kind of thing, but he supposes nobody cared for its appeal after the war.

Besides, it’s three weeks into October and everyone’s already settled into clubs of their choosing by now. Their pool of recruitment has dwindled down to the dirty scraps of the student populace – which raises the question of personal criteria and standards to who to invite.

Lamia's criteria was more simple: ‘invite someone you can have fun with! ’, but he supposes he couldn’t be picky nowadays with how incredibly unpopular his club had become.

Now, George still has standards. He always does. If he invited anyone, they had to not have anything else going on, and they also had to be academically inclined. All of George’s friends miss out on one of the criterias, whether he wants to admit it or not. 

Karl, Sapnap and Quackity are self-explanatory. Ponk is definitely busy; she’s been keeping to herself in Alchemy these days, and George would rather not risk it. Lamia's already part of the club, and-

Hm.

Someone who’s academically inclined, and doesn’t have anything going on. Check. Someone who George could… potentially have fun with. Check. 

George chews on his bottom lip.

“...There is one.”

✦

Dream looks at him with a face of disinterest, disbelief and disillusionment and every adjective with a dis- prefix, hanging down the gape of his jaw. “...History.”

George nods.

There never is a good time to market the club Lamia's setting up, but the three hour period of Charms is ample time to pop the question. Some would even say it’s excessive, but George would refute that by reasoning the surplus is reserved for persuasion in case of denial.

Dream still doesn’t quite process it. “You’re asking me if I’m interested in learning about... ancient witch practices.”

It’s not a question, but George still provides him an explanation –  of Lamia's dedication and her insistence to cultivate such an original craft for a club and pay homage to a diverse culture entrenched in wizard society and her idea to name it after-

“You want me to join a club whose acronym stands for Loser.” It still isn’t a question. Man, George is really losing Dream here; he hasn't even had the chance to allude to Lamia's interest in dark arts yet.

“You know Lamia, don't you?” George relents. It’s the only card he has. If even that. “She's really passionate about it, and I mean really passionate, okay? And it’s humiliating that she can’t find another person, and I want- I mean you’re the only-”

It sounds more humiliating out loud.

Dream raises a brow. “So I’m leftover pickings?” 

“No!” George straightens his posture, alarmed. Merlin, it’s the opposite! “I don’t think she asked you yet and I want-“

The Ravenclaw clamps down on his tongue. Want what? 

“Enough flattery, birdie.” Dream chuckles, waving a dismissive hand. “Just because you’re so nice about it, I’ll join.”

George doesn’t believe it. “…Really?”

Dream flutters his eyelashes at him, pouting dramatically. “I wouldn’t lie to you, birdie.” 

Somehow, George doubts that. He isn’t going to complain though. “Awesome.”

. . .

Lamia is rightfully ecstatic.

They break the good news to her in Herbology right after, and her jaw nearly falls off its hinges into the sunflower planter she'd been sowing. Her excitement is almost contagious, really. As odd as she was, George couldn't help but find her energy endearing to some degree.

She leaps over to clasp both palms over one of Dream’s hands, shaking it vigorously, babbles out her gratitude and a monologue that she must’ve ripped off from some theatre production that George couldn’t name. 

“Well, that settles it then!” Lamia holds up a fist for either of them to bump, her smile threatening to crack her face in two, “I’m happy to announce the first session of my Educational Research club takes place in Philza’s classroom on the east wing!”

Dream beams at her. “Great!” 

Turns out, it’s not Philza’s actual classroom. It’s an extension tucked away behind the professor’s desk that could only be unlocked by closing all the curtains so the lack of light would reveal the one sided mirror that led into the next room. 

One would think a father would allow his only daughter a proper room for her niche club, but he supposes individual privilege has its extent. 

The room itself is claustrophobic, with only three chairs arranged in a triangle. George would say circle, but three chairs could never make a well rounded edge; one always ruins it with its unexpected jagged end. 

It doesn’t look like a club meeting, but a group therapy ring. George starts to doubt exactly how much research versus practice this club would entail. 

Lamia, as chipper as ever, gestures the boys over to take a seat. Only the shuffle of their soles echoes across the hollow chamber, followed by the squeaks of Dream dragging his chair across the wooden floor. George rearranges his robes so they don’t bunch underneath him, letting them flow off the edges of his seat, and Lamia drops her books down with a loud ‘thud!’. Their bindings are all chipped and worn, the leather black and their titles unintelligible. Oh, Merlin, this better not be as bad as George thinks it is.

“So,” Dream is the first to speak, chair screeching underneath him as he scooches forward, “what exactly do we do here?”

George lifts his head up. “Are you not in any clubs?” 

“This is my first one!” Dream beams at the Ravenclaw, before returning his focus to Lamia. “Do we just go over those books or…?”

At that, Lamia claps her hands together like she couldn’t contain herself. Her usual silver bracelets jangle around her wrists; looks like she's back to her usual getup. "I'm so glad you asked, Dreamboy."

Dreamboy? George recoils at the nickname. 

Lamia tilts her head curiously, her witch hat threatening to fall off with the motion. "What exactly did George tell you about this club?"

Oh, whoops. Is Lamia going to reveal the dark undertones so early? He supposes so, considering she was never one to teeter around such a subject. Dream shrugs. "Something about ancient wizard history? I don't take History of Magic... would that have helped?"

"Well--!" Lamia grimaces, debating on how she should approach this. Her hands wave around indecisively as spins around to face away from them. She mutters something indecipherable under her breath, and the two boys watch as a blackboard scooches in through the door and places itself against the wall she faced. With it, she turns back around and musters up a soft smile. "Not exactly. This kind of... history is mostly unheard of."

For good reason, George wants to snide.

Dream still doesn't get the hint as he asks, "Is it because it's not as important or?"

"How familiar are you with dark magic and the occult, Dream?"

George doesn't miss the way the room spoils at the word 'dark magic', or the way he flinches at Lamia's blatant admittance. Dream glances at him briefly, pursing his lips before returning his focus on Lamia. "...Not that familiar. I take Defense, and see people casting hexes in the halls. Had one cast on me too actually."

Yikes. George forgot about that. Bad's threat of repercussion clung to his shoulders, making him acutely aware of how this club threw him in dangerous waters as it is. 

"Oh," Lamia frowns, and she genuinely does look remorseful, "It sounds like you've only had negative experiences with dark magic."

"It's in the name, isn't it?" George finds himself saying. "You can't fault dark magic for being dark and harmful."

"That's the kind of misinformation that made me want to start this club, you toad." Lamia rolls her eyes, walking over to her pile of books. She leans down to grab at a worn piece of text, pulling out a thin folded square that was tucked in between the pages. She then smooths out the crinkles, sprawling it down onto the floor until it’s revealed to be a calendar, or rather a sort of... moon chart, the size of a carpet.

The witch invites the two of them to crouch down onto the floor, to make it a little easier. To sit and to see. George declines it firmly.

“Oh, just have a seat, George.” Lamia coos, almost sarcastically. His snide remarks must've gotten under her skin. “Or is that above you too?”

George snorts. He's not sorry. “It definitely is.” 

“The floor’s not that bad.” Dream shrugs, descending down from his chair until he sat cross-legged and attentive. George doesn't follow his example, stubborn as he crosses his arms and leans back into his chair to cement his decision. It’s not the floor that’s the problem, it’s the principle – whatever that may be. Either way, he’s supplied a chair and he’s not giving it up for an aching arsehole. "What's the chart for?"

Maybe Dream was a good addition after all. At least he engages with Lamia's nonsense enough for the both of them.

Lamia throws one more scowl in George's direction - unsure what that's about, George thinks - before glancing back down at the chart. On dark blue paper and white ink, the chart outlined twelve months in a year with the phases of the moon for each month. For eight of the months, the ink glowed in the dim lighting, highlighted and secluded. "Dark magic only got its name because most of its practices took under the cover of night, following the cycles of the moon to harness its energy and empower the magic already existing in our veins."

The witch pulls out her wand, tapping it against the paper. Dark smoke channels from the map, swirling into a black cloud that hung in between the three of them. Then, the scene changes, and the cloud depicts a full moon and the night sky - like a window out into the world. 

"Dark magic wasn't always used for malicious intent." Lamia continues, her voice steady. "Magic is an essential part of a witch or wizard's livelihood, and back then, there were no wands or any kind of sophistication. Just pure unbridled raw magic existing out in the open, and nobody knew what to do with it."

George supposes that makes sense. If the theory of evolution existed for wizards too, neither of them spawned in with robes and wands.

"And what they found out was that the moon was the key to harnessing power. Something with the moonlight enabling the magic in our blood, and they found that the positions of the moon throughout the year equated to some certain degree of power. So, the eight cyclical sabbats were born." The witch points to the highlighted dates, waving her wand until the cloud depicted images of witch gatherings and bonfires. "Each sabbat represented a change in nature, and therefore a change in magic energies out in the world."

George sneaks a glance to his side, watching Dream's wide-eyed trance as he hangs onto every word Lamia says. His chest hollows out, noticing the divide that separated the two Slytherins away from him. Alone on his wooden island, here from obligation and a favour to an acquaintance, furthering his distance from his remarks. If he was willing to try before, surely he shouldn't stop now?

"You mentioned an esbat." George tries, his voice weary. The two Slytherins watch him carefully, the witch blinking in surprise. "...How is that different from a sabbat?"

It seems to remedy Lamia's spirits, because the colour resumes on her face as she beams into a full-blown ramble on how sabbats were meant to symbolize the changing of seasons, based off solstices and equinoxes and other weatherly changes and traditions, while esbats were something to abide their time in between, channeling through the moon and singing and... community. 

Their meeting was briefly interrupted by a knock on the door, and Philza peeping his head through with a wicker basket of bread loaves and berries. George waves a brief 'hello', but the professor is in and out of the room before anyone can register it and Lamia simply keeps trucking along, placing a loaf of bread in Dream and George's hands as she explains. "Take it as a little sabbat treat. The last cyclical day was Mabon, or the Autumn Equinox, and it's more emphasized on the celebration of harvest, hence the bread. I want us to do a practice ritual to show you exactly how it's done."

"We're gonna perform a sabbat ritual?" George reels, clutching the loaf to his chest. 

"Just a practice, froglegs." What is up with all the frog insults? "You're gonna have to sit on the carpet for this, you know?"

George rolls his eyes, but descends down onto the moon chart carpet and watches as Lamia giddily places the wicker basket in between the three of them, waving her wand as wax candles and asking the boys to place their loaves back into the basket, placing it against the berries, apples, branches and honeycomb that radiated oak wood and autumn leaves. It felt intriguing, having food be the center of such a ritual. 

"Alright, I am begging you to not be weird about this," Lamia laments, holding out her hands, "but we all need to hold hands for this."

George blinks at that. His mouth moves on its own accord, "No."

From the corner of his eye, George can see Dream glance at him briefly, his brows upturned. The Ravenclaw refuses to stare back, instead focusing on the scowl Lamia threatened him with. "You are such a piss-bucket, George. Just hold out your palms then if you're going to be difficult. We won't touch you."

George reluctantly complies, his palms facing the ceiling. Dream and Lamia conjoin hands as the stout witch tilts her head upwards, humming. From her throat, a raspy song escapes - something foreign, an ancient language most likely. She breaks contact for only a moment, grabbing at an apple to tap her wand against it, cutting it in half to reveal the seeds within.

"The apple is meant to represent the pentagram," she explains, before taking a bite out of it. She hands it over to George, nudging him to follow suit. An apple was always meant to be cursed in myth - a fruit of knowledge, a fruit of darkness... what Hell would he doom his soul to once he followed Lamia into hellfire? A tentative hand curls around the half-bitten apple, before George crunched his teeth into it. He felt the juice pool onto his teeth, its sweetness curling around his tongue. With one final gulp, he welcomes damnation, Lamia smiling saccharine and sweetly at his initiation. Dream is the next to take a bite, but George doesn't take his eyes off the carpet, watching the way the white ink reflects in the dim lighting.

Lamia continues her song, and George tries to follow her lead, closing his eyes and letting her song flow in through his ears, thrumming in his chest. She took frequent breaks, talking through each lyric and background of ritual customs, enlightening the two boys into a world cast in wrongful shadows. The more she talked and sang, the more George started to realize how... culturally rich, and community-based half of dark magic was built upon. Even then, if all these rituals were so harmless, then it didn't explain how-

"That's all good, Lammy, but I don't know how it gets a bad rep." Dream braves the comment George has been teetering on for the entire meeting.

"It's a bit self-explanatory, no?" Lamia shrugs. "With power comes control, and people either fear it or thrive upon it. Nobody likes somebody they can't control, let alone someone who uses that control to warp the world to their will."

Something stirs in George's chest; he was well-acquainted with the idea of misjudgement of character. If dark magic was riddled by its bad reputation, how hypocritical would he be to feed into that narrow-minded thinking?

"Anyway," Lamia claps her hands upon her lap, her jewelry jangling with it, "that concludes our first meeting! Did you guys learn something today?"

"I did." George supplies, nibbling on the still warm piece of bread from the wicker basket; Lamia insisted the boys take some food for themselves. These kinds of rituals seemed so harmless, seemingly a means of gathering people together and harnessing energies instead of sacrificial blood rites and heinous diabolism. He almost feels bad for being so uninformed.

“Thank you both for being here.” Lamia bows her head, gathering up the rest of her things; she sounds like he’s about to cry. “It really is a passion project of mine."

“Thank you for inviting me.” Dream mirrors her gesture, but tilts his entire torso forward in a curtsy. “Can’t wait for the next one!”

"I might host another one for Samhain, but I may be too busy with actually celebrating it." Lamia laughs. The two of them nod. George probably should've paid more attention to when Samhain would be, but it's not like Lamia wouldn't tell him beforehand anyway.

The obligatory goodbyes are well under way and soon Dream and George are dismissed to whatever else they had going on for the rest of the day. For George, it was the library, and for Dream, it wasn’t any of George’s concern. 

They walk parallel to each other, with only inches between their shoulders; George makes no effort to broaden that gap, and neither does Dream. Respectable silence resumes between them, and George thinks it’ll last the whole way downstairs until Dream says, “Fun club. Never realized ancient wizardry could be so interesting.”

“You’re welcome.” George mutters, keeping his eyes forward. “You must've been a little curious, considering you agreed to joining.”

“Oh, birdie.” Dream snickers. “Didn't you hear? I'm not a history buff. You and I both know that club was appealing for only one reason.”

“And what is that?”

Dream dips his head, his volume minimizing to something shy. “I thought to myself: if this club has you in it, then it can’t be that bad.” 

George lets himself smile at that. “You are such an idiot.”

✦

The peony is improving.

George almost wants to fall to his knees in gratitude, praising whatever higher powers of nature that took pity upon him. It’s not even a small improvement either, but genuine progress.

Scarred stem tissue is repaired with a glossy chlorophyll seam in the ghosts of its crevices. Faded petals now run vibrant. Sure, its leaves are still shrivelled by the ends, and a couple of the petals are blotted with discoloured gaps, but his peony was healing . 

Oh, Merlin ! George can’t believe that things are looking up after all.

“You look happy.” A sultry voice pipes up behind him, smooth as the scales of a snake’s back. 

“Hi, Dream.” George doesn’t turn to face him, still awed by the fact his peony wasn’t a lost cause after all. He doesn’t know how it happened. “Astute observation.”

“I can see why.” Dream meanders around the table until he’s sitting directly across. The stool creaks under his weight, and his legs clunk against the floor from his height. He leans forward, hands cradling the pot to inspect it closer. “Wow! What did you put in this thing?”

“Compassion.” George snides, a callback to the Neep. 

“Ha ha.” Dream says with a straight face.

George shakes his head, pulling his peony back to his side of the table. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t know how it happened. A miracle, probably.”

“Well, I’m glad that happened to you.” The Slytherin smiles, soft yet… earnest. He can tell from how his teeth peek through the small sliver between his lips. He only smiles like that when he means it.

Not that George would know. 

Dream should really return back to his plant. Does he even have one? It seems like all he does in Herbology is stand around and be a nuisance to anyone who’ll let him. “Do you even have a plant, Dream?”

“Of course I do.” Dream scoffs, leaning back to rest his hands behind his head. He’s also sitting on a barstool, which makes leaning back completely impractical. By some disrespect to nature’s rules, he makes it work. “It’s a suavoserpiente .”

George raises a brow. “...Can’t you say its commoner’s name?” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dream digs into his robes for his wand, before muttering a quick Accio suavoserpiente once he finds it. A bright blue pot flies into his palm in the blink of an eye. Then, he slides it across the table for George to look at it closely.

Its leaves are spiky, but couldn’t be longer than a finger from the dirt. Darker streaks of green meander across its leaves, resemblant of a… snake. 

It’s a snake plant. 

George scowls. Of course, it would be. What’s worse is it's doing way better than George’s peony ever could. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” Dream pouts. “They’re as needy as your peony there.” 

George raises a brow as if to challenge him, “I doubt it.” 

“It’s true!”

“Sure,” George moulds his expression into a mock smile, squinting his eyes, “and I’m sure your plant was also on the verge of dying for the past two months. Mine is going back on life support once it decides to die again in a few days.”

“Everyone has bad days.” Dream shrugs. Okay, now that’s condescending.  “You wanna how I overcome them?”

No. “By annoying people who want nothing to do with you?”

“Oh, come on,” Dream juts out his lip in a mock pout, deepening his frown into something comical, “You agreed to be nice to me.”

George supposes he did. “Fine, how do you overcome them?”

Dream whispers something before wildly gesturing his wand at his snake plant. A putrid smoke the colour of decay start to fizz out of its leaves, browning the yellow highlights of its outer edges. 

The smell is nauseating, but the cloud of smoke dissolves into the air, as if it never existed. Dream points at his snake plant, at how its leaves shapeshift into snakes that nip at whatever remnants lingered in its crevices. 

Wow. A snake plant that turned into actual… snakes when threatened. George wonders how truly fitting it is now.

To complete the punch line of the joke, Dream leans back into the barstool, resting his hands behind his head. There is still no back support for him to be leaning that far back as he says, “I don’t let that shit faze me.”

Was that it? That’s the joke? “...That wasn’t as suave as you think it was.” 

Dream’s jaw drops slightly. “Yes, it is!” 

“Sure.” George remains a neutral face, “What spell is that?”

“Not a spell.” Dream swats at the air now, his other hand pinching his nostrils together. So much for ‘not letting shit faze him’. “Dungbomb.”

George isn’t going to humour him by asking how he did it. Dream must’ve shrunk it down and diluted its effects so it wouldn’t be so disastrous. “That’s gross.”

“You think that’s gross?” Dream smiles, mischief gleaming in his eyes. He places his hands flat on the table before leaning forward with a squinted gaze. “I doubt anything can come close to that Colloshoo hex you did to me.” 

George freezes, his heart caught in his throat. 

Who told him?! Surely, Quackity wouldn’t have. Oh, Merlin. He thinks back to Lamia's club, at the way he glanced at George when asked about his experience with hexes. Warmth blooms across his cheeks. 

His fingers remain stationary atop the table, his throat gulping as he tries to collect himself. Merlin, George seriously forgot he did that. Oh-! Merlin’s beard, how is George going to-

Act cool. He didn’t do it. Simple enough. Just say he didn’t do it. Bad is ruining his reputation and George did no such thing. 

“Wh-what makes you think it was me?” 

His stutter gives him away. Stupid, stupid, stupid –!

“Come on,” Dream chuckles, tilting his head as if to taunt him, “you weren’t exactly being subtle. You should work on casting that nonverbally.”

It’s one thing to rightfully hold him accountable for that, but to comment on his spellcasting abilities?! Besides, George is working on it. It’s… complicated, and he didn’t even think he was being that loud— it was so long ago that he’s not even sure.

“And I take it you’re an expert on those now?” The Ravenclaw scoffs, rolling his eyes. He needs to take the heat off him and now .

Dream perks up immediately, cheesing a smile. “Yes, actually! If you’d like me to demonstrate.”

Oh, here we go. 

George eyes him skeptically. He didn’t have time for this, but he humours the Slytherin again as purposeful torture to himself. Through half-lidded eyes, George mutters.  “Surprise me.”

Dream is giddy as he holds out his wand, proper and firm with a determined look in his eyes. 

“Hold out your hand.” He orders, and George follows. 

A tentative hand reaches across the table, pale in contrast to the dark oak of the table’s surface. His palm faces towards the ceiling, his fingers curled slightly inward in case he needed to punch the Slytherin in the face as a last resort. 

Then, he waits.

Dream clenches his eyes shut, blowing out his cheeks like he’s about to take the biggest shit in existence and it’s embarrassing to look at. His wand shakes ever so slightly in his grasp, and George is almost afraid of what he’s trying to cast. 

Even more afraid at the fact it might work. 

That is, until Dream brings a hand over his mouth before whispering, “ Orchideus !” 

George looks down. A green vine weaves through his fingers, growing into a daisy that sat daintily in his grasp. 

He tries to fight the scarlet that flushes his cheeks. 

“You’re a dick,” He doesn’t let go of the flower, “and a fraud. I knew you were bluffing.”

“You had to have believed me a little bit.” Dream chuckles. One of his Slytherin friends beckons him to the other side of the greenhouse, pulling his attention away from the conversation briefly. When he looks back, he’s already off his stool. “Well, I’ll see you later, birdie. No casting any hexes on me from now on, deal?”

“Fuck off.” George sticks out his tongue, watching the Slytherin break out into a lopsided smile.

The Ravenclaw watches him slither away, meshing back into a small group of dark green robes by the cupboards. He eyes Dream’s side profile, watching how his expression hardens back to professionalism, like a mask.

“That… was fucking weird.” 

George nearly jumps out of his skin, only to find Quackity directly standing beside him, or rather behind his shoulder. “Quackity! Oh, you fucking-”

In his friend’s hands is a sack of dirt, that he can barely support the weight of; his face barely peeks over the top of it. 

George shakes it off, murmuring, “I swear to you I’ll hex you next.”

“If it means you’ll flirt with me like that after?” Quackity clicks his tongue, “Count me out.”

“Excuse me?! We were not flirting-“

“You should've seen the tension between them during my club. Suffocating, I tell you.” Lamia comes up behind them both, shaking a bag of sunflower seeds like maracas. “They always say honesty is the best policy.”

“What?!” George exasperates, jaw agape. “I’m always honest.”

That’s a lie, but for the sake of argument, he pretends it isn’t. 

“Sure, bro.” Quackity scoffs, tossing the sack of dirt upwards until it’s readjusted back onto his torso. 

“He’s just being Dream.” George concedes, twirling the daisy between his fingers. “That’s all it’ll ever be.”

“Denial is a river in Egypt.” Lamia shrugs, leading Quackity off to their respective corner of the greenhouse. She really does like that phrase, doesn’t she?

Ugh , George sighs. He stretches his arms out across the table, dropping his full body weight until his chin collides down into the hardwood in defeat. Dream is truly going to be his worst problem this year.

He hopes he doesn’t come back next year. George doesn’t think he could take one more year of his association.

Curious, his eyes drift to the daisy, or rather the vines that interlocked themselves across his fingers. There was a gentle mastery in how it sat prim and proper in his palm, like George’s hand is its clay pot. 

It’s a daisy. George wonders why it’s a daisy. He’s not well-versed in flower language; are daisies common in peace offerings? For friendships? That’s the only two occasions he thought to be suitable. 

That is, if it was meant to be a gift at all. 

A gift from a man he used to wish death upon, from a man who jokes too much and tries to smile with all his teeth, a man who George…

He closes his eyes.

Lamia and Quackity don’t have a fucking clue.

🖉

Dearest Mum, 

 

Hogsmeade’s weekend was fine. Nothing to report, so don’t ask.

 

I’ve been so busy trying to juggle everything. Thank you for the kind words. It seems like you’re one of the only two people to say some to me these days. Haha. (This is where you laugh.)

 

Question. Is it normal to dread a good thing?

 

Sorry the letter’s so short. Miss you and the rest. 

 

Can’t wait for my birthday,

George

 

P.S If someone gives me a daisy and says I have to work on my spell casting, is that flirting? Trying to prove a point.

 

✦

“Halloween is coming up.” 

George snaps back to reality – or rather, Defense class, which is undeniably worse – and tries to ground himself back into it. He’s at his desk, by the window, one hand gripping a quill and his other one idling parallel to it; Bad is at the front, droning on about a spell that could emit an aura that draws someone to a certain place, which is uninteresting and somehow legal; at his side is Dream, keeping his eyes forward and sparking a conversation when he knows he shouldn’t.

“Is it?” This is George stalling. He’s still trying to remember what Dream said, and he is not going to ask him to repeat himself.

“Yup.” Dream says, with a loud pop at the end of the syllable. “Two days to be exact.”

What’s in two days? George blinks to himself, trying to envision a calendar in his head, pinpointing the exact day and- Merlin, what is in two days? His birthday’s in three, so it can’t be that. George doesn’t even think Dream knows about his birthday. Then– 

Oh. October thirty-first. The holiday that precedes his birthday. What a catastrophe.

“What of it?” To George, Halloween was never a big deal. He knew Muggles had their own traditions of dressing up however they wanted and parading it around, begging for candy from strangers. His family never participated in such grandiosity when his birthday always took precedence.

“Are you gonna dress up?” 

“No.” George shuts it down immediately. “Wizards don’t do that.”

“Buzzkill.” Dream says in a sing-song voice; he keeps his volume low enough to deflect suspicion from Bad. George supposes it’s a new adaptation. “I’m sure your friends would though.”

George sours at that. “That’s none of my concern if they do.”

“You really don’t celebrate Halloween?!” A hint of flabbergast is traced in the Slytherin’s tone. It can’t be that blasphemous.

“No.” George sighs. “Besides, I have plenty of celebration the day after.”

Dream is silent for the next few seconds, like he’s pondering. Then, “You celebrate All Saint’s Day?”

Seriously? “Are you daft? It’s my birthday.”

“Your birthday’s the day after Halloween?!” Dream twists his torso to face him, exasperating.

“Why do you sound mad?”

“Because, birdie ,” Dream takes a deep breath – a wishful attempt at regaining his composure. “You didn’t give me enough time to get you anything.”

“Wasn’t expecting anything from you.” His birthday was always a private affair between his friends. It’s not as gauche as his family parties back home, and he would like to keep it that way.

“Well, you should.” Dream slumps into his chair, defeated. “And you’re not going to dress up? We should at least dress up in something matching. Something birthday themed too. Maybe you can be a cake and I can be the candle, or you can be the party popper and I can-”

“I will not be dressing up, Dream.” George cuts in, trying to keep his voice low.

“Come on .” Dream throws his head back in a whine. “You can’t be that boring!”

Boring is his entire brand. George doubts Dream knows him at all sometimes. “...You better believe it.” 

Knowing his friends, he’s probably going to be dared to join them anyway.

✦

And he was right.

Karl, Quackity, and Sapnap corner him during dinner hour and join their hands together and beg, plead, and whine until George gives in to their demands. Sapnap even threatens to drop to his knees and cause a scene, and George knows it’s not a bluff.

“Alright, alright!” George throws his hands up in surrender. “Have you guys even got a plan ready?”

“Damn right we do!” Quackity reaches into his robes and pulls out a couple photographs that could’ve only been ripped out from a Muggle magazine. 

Karl beckons them all to sit down, Sapnap swiping at Quackity’s hands. The Gryffindor shoves one photograph right in front of George’s eyes, shaking it excitedly. “You should be a frog!”

A frog?! George strains his head back to get a good look at the picture; Lamia must've bribed them or something. “That’s so random.” 

In Sapnap’s hand is a horrid rendition of what a frog should look like on someone; something a child would wear if their parents didn’t know what they were doing. “Think of the bucket list, dude.” 

“Can’t argue with the bucket list.” Quackity echoes, calling for everyone to join Karl in eating. George wishes he could pull one over his friends some time. If the whole point is to throw George to the lions of society, then they were surely doing just that. He just wishes it could’ve been something less humiliating.

As dinner went underway, his friends fell into a thorough discussion of who was going to get what, and the different prospects Sapnap could have. The three of them got into a small bicker over what theme they were going for so George wouldn’t stand out from them all, but George kept to himself for most of it. 

Being a frog shouldn’t be so mad in the end. It’s symbolic in a way. Jumping into his birthday once midnight struck. Or maybe it’s just him trying to justify looking awful the eve of his birthday.

In the end, the three of them refused to come to an agreement but at least George had something to look forward to. Karl promised he’d conjure something up in time for Halloween, and they would all meet up for the Feast and go candy hunting or something. George really couldn’t focus after that. 

As much as he despised it, he supposes he has an obligation to. Every one of his friends had a background in ‘traditional’ Halloween events, with Karl being Muggleborn and Quackity being Half. Even Sapnap, born Pure and raised like a Half couldn’t stand with George in solidarity. George was the sole outlier, but oh well. It gives him an excuse to celebrate his birthday a night early.

That night, in a brief detour to the owlery with Quackity, George gets a letter from his mother. 

Her letter doesn’t answer the question in his previous letter, and only acknowledges his afterthought with:

That is for you to judge, dear. 

George doesn’t know how to judge it; that’s why he bloody asked in the first place. 

Still, he scribbles a response, updating on his friends’ new Halloween plan and deciding, in his head, that if he should ask for advice regarding Dream, he’s going to have to ask someone more local. 

He runs his hands over his eyes, letting out a resigned sigh. 

Only a couple days until his birthday.

George can hold on for two more days, can’t he?

✦

Green is not George’s colour.

It would help if he could even see it, but it just isn’t doing it for him. 

Either that, or it’s the fact he’s wearing a frog hat that Karl somehow had in his suitcase already. It’s bulky, and its paint is scratched and marked up by the sides. Its mouth is where George’s face peeks out, a long strip of red fabric dangling from his chin to act as the frog’s tongue. The top half of the frog’s head sits comfortably on his hair, black bulges resemblant of enlarged tapioca pearls sit right above his ears; as he stares into the mirror, it all looks…

It’s not flattering. That’s for sure.

For his clothes, he wears a regular green shirt and dark green trousers that he hopes isn’t red, because he doesn’t have any other clothes that scream ‘Frog!’. 

It’s nearly dinner hour and the dorm room is dim, with only a Lumos to help glance at himself in the mirror. Pebble and Stone insisted on keeping it dark for ambience; George predicts they’re setting up a scare for when everyone comes back later tonight, but he doesn’t get scared, so he should be fine.

Quackity slams the door open, orange light pouring in from the stairs. “Are you ready? The guys are waiting for us downstairs.”

George nods at him, almost surprised his friend has nothing to say about his costume. “Have they figured out what to wear?”

Quackity doesn’t look dressed up. At all. 

He still has his beanie, and he dresses in regular dorm clothes like he’s ready for bed. There has to be something up his sleeve. His friend shrugs, waving a hand to beckon George out. “We can figure it out once you’re down there.”

“Well, alright then.” Walking up the stairs with his giant frog head made it feel like a walk of shame, but all of that gets slapped out of him with the pure… chaos that bursts to life as he enters the common room.

Crowds of first years clog the entrance taking Polaroid pictures, a couple sixth years helping paint some second years’ faces by the bookshelves. An assortment of candy spills over the ends of buckets with poorly applied pumpkin decals, the desks once supports of people’s homeworks now placeholder hat racks for obscure props. 

George doesn’t think he’s ever felt more claustrophobic.

By some miracle, Quackity leads them both to the eagle’s gate, the hectic atmosphere now shut behind a wooden door. “Man, I can’t believe the rush! I love how everyone’s getting into the spirit of it all!”

George lets out a hum of agreement, but it’s not an honest one. He’s grateful that their descent down the tower is a serene one. It’s possibly the only guarantee of quiet he has sometimes.

Karl and Sapnap wait by the foot of the stairs, leaning against the stone walls with half-lidded eyes. The Gryffindor picks at his fingers, while the Hufflepuff is adjusting the rolls of his pants that looked like… tights? Is Karl really wearing tights? What exactly is their costume supposed to be?

Quackity pumps a fist into the air, hollering out, “Let’s fucking go! We are all set for Halloween!”

Instinctively, George keeps behind Quackity’s shoulder like a kid behind his mother’s legs. He still wasn’t confident on how his frog costume was going to be received. The common room was different; everyone was too distracted to even say anything.

The four of them walk in a line, pressing shoulders with an offbeat march beneath their legs. George is at the end, peering over at the rest of his friends and their obscurity, who look like they’ve got nothing going on, “What are you guys supposed to be?”

Sapnap, who is on the opposite end, peeks his head out and shrugs, “You’ll see when we get there.”

Oh, George wishes all the mystery would wash away already. He’s growing tired of surprises. 

Thankfully, Karl offers his own version of reassurance. “You look amazing, George. The frog really suits you!”

“Thanks.” George grumbles. It’s probably going to be his only compliment of the night. It’s best to not take it for granted.

Hogwarts always decorated itself for events, and Halloween is definitely no different. Over the years, most of the decorations have become localized as more Muggleborns brought theirs from home and decided to leave it once they graduated. So, all the fake spiderwebs spanning the corners of the ceiling, the ripped gossamer and plastic ghouls clinging to stone bricks are all courtesy to them.

Students out of their robes bustle against them, giggling and popping candycorns into their mouth like it’s the best night of their lives. Some sport wings, horns, tails and fake blood down their chin, while some just dawdle in house clothes and rubber slippers, only there for the sake of it. 

The entrance to the Great Hall is a stampede, with the four of them clasping hands together just to weave through the cluster of bodies hugging the doorway. George couldn’t even see through all the commotion, more worried over if his costume would get ravished by the crowds.

George gasps for air as they all come out of it alive, with no fatalities and only a faint wrinkle across all of their shirts. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many students so excited for Halloween before.

As he looks up to gaze at the Great Hall, his jaw nearly drops at what he sees. Pumpkins line the dining tables, floating candles ablaze with a fiery orange that even he could pick out. Professors sit at the High Table, keeping a watchful eye as students started to get seated, with a couple of elves helping to wrench out a few unfortunate souls caught up in the trap that was the entrance.

Ahead, Sapnap is pumping a fist in the air and Quackity is shaking Karl by the shoulders and hopping excitedly. George offers up a soft smile at it all, at their enthusiasm for a holiday so inane. 

Then, Karl lifts a finger up to point at George, but not really. Instead, more… behind him. The Hufflepuff brings a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle, with Sapnap trying to follow his gaze. 

As if it wasn’t obvious enough, Quackity snorts, “Look behind you, dude.” 

It can’t be bad. Surely, it can’t. 

George clenches his teeth in a grimace, and pivots his heel. 

Dream is standing there.

In a prince outfit.

Dream is dressed as a prince. And he’s giving him a curtsy.

George blinks in astonishment, mouth agape as he ganders at the tight fabric around Dream’s shoulders. The silk frills out at his chest in a comical fashion, with gold cufflinks at his wrists that must’ve cost a fortune. His eyes travelled upwards at Dream’s hair, tucked under a frog beanie. The Ravenclaw glances at his own costume, and frowns. 

Karl claps his hands together enthusiastically: “See guys! Princess and the Frog!”

The Ravenclaw’s morale is crushed . 

That couldn’t have been accidental. His friends set them up. George doesn’t know if he should be furious or mortified. 

The worst part isn’t the fact they’re matching, but the fact that he looks like rubbish compared to the royalty draped over the Slytherin’s figure. Dull yellow robes next to royal velvet is downright laughable. There was no competition.

“Dream.” George finds himself saying, his voice bubbling up from depths he was unaware of. Deflect with a joke , he orders his tongue.  “Where’s your… skirt?”

“They’re a pain, birdie.” Dream steps forward, seamlessly going along with it. He juts a leg out, gesturing toward it.  “I wore it but I nearly tripped down the stairs with them.”

“What? Where is it now?” Karl calls out from behind, as if he was able to get a glance from where he stood.

“Back in the common room.” Dream shrugs. He keeps his hands behind his back, smiling cheekily. Oh, he must be complicit in all this too.  “Decided to just conjure up something fancy enough.”

Dream doesn’t even take Transfiguration, George thinks to himself. Those pants accentuated the length of his legs too well for him to not to. Merlin , George needs to stop staring. 

“We need to commemorate this!” Someone shoves George forward so he’s stumbling into Dream, his frog head colliding into the Slytherin’s frills. 

Before George can hiss out a word, Dream is already swooping an arm around him to pull him into his side. “What the f-”

Looking up, Karl is holding a Polaroid camera to his face, Sapnap and Quackity leaning eagerly onto the Hufflepuff’s back. A white flash blinds him momentarily, his friends giggling as Karl shakes the picture out. 

George wrenches himself out of Dream’s grasp, scoffing. He can’t let anything risk ruining this costume. “Do not boss me around!”

Dream pouts down at him, raising a brow. “But when it’s Lamia, it’s okay?”

“What?” George does not know what he’s talking about. “When did–”

“Didn’t think Lamia got so much privilege to be assertive over you.” Oh my Merlin , he’s talking about what happened behind Philza’s office.

“...Are you jealous or something?” George sneers, tilting his head comically backwards just for a glimpse of eye contact. He doesn't have time for this.

“Well,” Dream leans in, cocky and in a voice two decibels deeper than George is used to, “I am your prince.”

Something dies inside him.

Maybe it’s his heart, or maybe George has just shat himself. “I- err, you- you’re not m-”

“You wanna finish that?” Stop. Dream needs to stop with that deep sultry voice right now or else George is going to start running away in terror.

The Ravenclaw doesn’t even think he can. He’s completely lost for words, like a bird wrung dry of song. The Slytherin’s face is just too close now, and this frog hat is so fucking humid and is George sweating? George thinks he’s sweating, but everywhere. He should tell him to stop because he’s feeling awfully intimidated, and Merlin, where are his friends because-

Then, Dream leans back, his coy demeanour replaced with a goofy smile – as if it were a demon that possessed him, and left him just as quick. “I’m just kidding. At least I’m convincing right?”

“...What?”

“As a conniving prince!” Dream brings a hand up to his chin, furrowing his brow and pointing his lips forward like he’s mimicking the models on those Muggle magazines. 

George blinks once, then twice. “...Yeah.”

Their conversation is briefly interrupted by the tap of his shoulder; George turns around to face... the two second-years that crashed their train car before the school year started. Two boys, one with hair of bubblegum and the other the colour of chocolate, stare up at him, holding up enamel pins of bonfires and pumpkins. 

Quackity shoves past them to greet the two boys, "Woah! What are you freaks doing here?!"

"Hey!" The one with pink hair - George ought to call him Gum - whines, scowling. "We're here on Samhain business."

Samhain? George eyes the two boys closely, noticing the crinkle in their nose as they frown, and how it reminded him of Lamia's infamous scowl back in Philza's office. No way - these couldn't be. George blinks. "You're Lamia's brothers?"

The boy with brown hair - what's something that goes with Gum? Mint? Whatever - smiles, revealing mismatched teeth and a split lip. "Great! We don't have to get acquainted!"

"Shoo along!" Gum hisses, baring his teeth at Quackity. "We're not here for you. Quack off!"

"Original." George remarks, watching as his best friend sulks off back into the commotion of the Great Hall. Dream hasn't uttered a single word during that interaction, but he remains by George's side, failing to hide his smirk as the two boys hold out the enamel pins again.

"Lame-sy is heading off to Hogsmeade to participate in the Samhain bonfire," Mint explains, stepping forward to clip a pumpkin pin onto the frill of Dream's shirt; Gum does the same, but clips a bonfire pin into the thread of his shirt's breastpocket. "She wanted to send her best wishes and hopes you will enjoy your first ever sabbat, even if you won't attend any of the rituals."

...Huh. George glances down at the pin, inspecting it closely, noticing the way its glossy exterior reflected off the Great Hall's candlelight. As odd as Lamia was, she certainly was thoughtful.

"Tell Lamia thank you." Dream nods. George reflects the same sentiment. The two boys immediately bid themselves off, like a job well done, leaving Dream and George to their own miserly... awkward... devices. What an odd interaction.

They should just get on with the feast, George thinks. He doesn’t know how much more he can take. He tosses a look over his shoulder, frowning at the sight. His friends don’t let up just yet, too preoccupied snapping pictures of quite literally everything they could. It got to a point where strangers would ask to take their pictures, and pay them with sickles and knuts to distribute them afterwards.

With nothing to do, George decides to just bite the bullet and start a conversation with him. It's the least he could do. “So, did my friends put you up to it?”

Dream hums to himself, side-stepping to stand right by George’s side. “I put myself up to it.”

That is not what George wants to hear. “How else would you know I’d be a frog?” 

“I didn’t, birdie.” Dream blinks at him innocently. “You said it yourself: wizards don’t dress up.”

“It’s a genuine question, idiot.” George scoffs, crossing his arms. He’s trying his damned best to keep his fraying patience mended together. “You can tell me if they did. You won’t be in trouble.”

“Your friends ,” Dream stresses through a smile, “didn’t make me do anything. Karl mentioned you’d all go as something stupid, so I decided to join along.”

Stupid is an understatement. It's awful, and he isn't even sure his friends have even dressed up at all. It's almost unfair, how they can parade George around like a jester smothered in oil and feathers, while they stand in the least on-theme costume of all time. Yet George has to remind himself that being bitter isn't the focus, and is instead the conversation he started of his own accord.

George is monotonous as he continues, “And you just so happened to be the prince to my frog?” 

“Last minute decision.” That is bullshit. “I was originally going to be a pirate.”

“Fine.” George rolls his eyes. If Dream’s just going to lie, there’s no point in furthering the conversation. George lies a lot, but only when it's necessary. Here Dream is just fibbing for the fun of it, and George doesn't stand for it. As a bitter afterthought, the Ravenclaw mutters, “Clothes transfiguration isn’t even covered until seventh year.”

Silence falls between them, lost in between the erupts of cheer in front of them. By the High Table, Headmaster McGonagall clinks her goblet with a spoon, calling for everyone’s attention. George shifts his weight restlessly, wondering how long he had left of the night in this forsaken costume.

The usual song and dance of celebratory speeches and lighthearted quips of everyone’s excitement is bestowed upon them, and George almost zones out of it, waiting until everyone’s dismissed to ravage their pickings for the rest of the night. Then, Karl is leaping for him, and Sapnap is shaking him by the shoulders. The room has erupted into a new type of commotion, one that’s vicious, blaring and a purely elated frenzy. 

His friends are yelling at him, smiles spread from cheek to cheek; George can barely make out the words they’re saying, so he resorts to reading Quackity’s lips as he throws an arm around Karl’s shoulder. “We get to go trick-or-treating in Hogsmeade!”

What?! Where did they hear that? George wants to ask, but his throat closes up in shock. 

“Please, George!” Karl whines, throwing his head back. “You have to come with! Free candy!”

“Just imagine how much candy Honeyduke’s is giving out!” Sapnap chimes in, shaking him aggressively for good measure. 

“...Can I join?” A meek voice sounds from beside him, and George has to groan.

Dream must have other friends. He has Lamia, doesn't he? He shouldn’t latch onto George’s back like a leech at every opportunity. It’s growing pathetic.

Yet, he knows if he declines, he’s going to look awful, and it’s not like George wants to decline either. Maybe the worst part is that he knows he truly does want Dream to be a semblance of a friend, and he can’t bear to do anything different.

George doesn’t even answer his friends’ original question when he sighs, “ ... Dream can come.” 

Sapnap rattles him like a maraca, Karl tugging at his side in a gratuitous side-hug. Quackity is clapping Dream at the back, welcoming him into the group and just like that, their quartet gains a new member.

With the feast under way, George can’t find it in himself to eat. It’s physically impossible with his frog head anyway. The rest of his friends are an entirely different story, restless as they tear into pumpkin pies and apple bread. Dream is sitting at George’s side, scarfing down alfredo, while the other three sit on the other side, laughing to themselves about some vampire gummies that Karl stuck up his teeth.

“Are you okay?” Dream asks, sheepishly. They must’ve gone almost half an hour without a single word. “With me being here?”

Merlin, does George really have to admit it? “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“True.” Dream takes a sharp breath in, glancing at both of their plates. “Are you not hungry?”

“Tomorrow’s my birthday,” George reasons, drumming his fingers against the table, “I’m saving it for the cake.”

“Right.” Dream clicks his tongue, then he tips his head back in acknowledgement. “Right! Your birthday!” His face lights up immediately, candlelight reflecting off the bridge of his nose. “I’ll bet you didn’t think I got you a present.”

George raises a brow. “I didn’t expect you to.”

“Good. Because I didn’t.” Dream winks, going to take a swig of his pumpkin juice. 

What the fuck. Talk about misdirection. 

An ominous wind sounds across the Hall, whistling out a hollow note before bursting into a chirped trumpet and it can only signify one thing. 

“Guys, it’s time!” Quackity yells, shooting up from his seat, and the entire Great Hall falls into an organized frenzy. George isn’t given time to process anything before Sapnap leaps over the table like he’s a stunt double from Mission Impossible, and yanks him and Dream by the elbows. It’s a terrible idea, with George’s frog head conking Sapnap square into his skull on impact; the Gryffindor yells out a putrid swear, Quackity calling out something obscene as he comes to the rescue. 

“Stop being so reckless, Sapnap.” Karl tuts disapprovingly as he approaches them. He digs into his pockets, sticking out his tongue in concentration. “Oh, and here are your guys’ pillowcases.” 

The Hufflepuff pulls out a string of fabric from his pockets like a commercial magician, before handing them out to each individual. George doesn't even know how he got them so quick. He's then graced with a pale blue one, but he’s not sure what for. “Why do we need these?”

“How else are we going to hold our candy?” The Hufflepuff blinks at him incredulously.

“Forgive him, he’s never done this before.” Dream adds in, and it’s just odd. It’s not anything to do with what he’s said, but more so the fact Dream is there at all. George supposes he’s so used to his bubble that an extra voice is just something to get used to. It’s hard enough to grasp Dream now exists in the same space as his other friends.

“Don’t worry, dude.” Quackity weaves through their bodies, clapping George on his back on his way through. “Just follow our lead.”

As if George was going to do anything different. The Great Hall is now set into motion; prefects, head boys and head girls, and elves sort the students into pockets before leading them all out into the courtyard in a timely manner. 

Sapnap breaks away from the two to join Karl’s side, and Dream is left to cling by George’s like it was his only purpose for the night. If George were a different man, he would have a problem with it, maybe even moan about it and tell him to piss off behind Sapnap or something, but to his utmost dismay, he is not. Instead he welcomes it, maybe even lets empathy rule his judgement.

Orange tinted stone walls shift into evening bathed shrubbery as they make their way past the castle grounds. The faint glow of the prefects’ lanterns light their way as they cut through the courtyard and down the hill into the entrance of Hogsmeade.

Gasps of awe run through the crowd, paired with clustered giggling and indecipherable chatter. One would think that because of how recent Hogsmeade weekend was, this old village wouldn’t warrant such wonder, but even George can’t fault them for doing so.

Hogsmeade under moonlight is a completely new identity as opposed to the afternoon sun. It’s bearable without the hustle of shops crowding the streets – although, now with the onslaught of students coming in for candy, it’s almost ruined – with pumpkins lining the streets, jagged smiles and crooked eyes carved into their skin, and single candles melting atop windowsills, lighting their path.

Music is playing too, which George didn’t hear last time. Quackity always told him a symphony of songbirds and harps were enchanted into each doorstep, and George almost wishes he could hear it now. Instead what plays is a low flute, whistling with thrums of a cello for an atmospheric Halloween-y vibe that Karl would applaud.

Then, it hits him. Sharp pain like fresh cuts in the tunnel of his lungs, stinging like open wounds. It’s the same as last month when he ran out into the rain, when he let Dream’s words sink too deep. Deep enough to be engraved. Only, this time, it’s not a feeling. It’s a revelation. A revelation of how easy it is to disappear. 

His friends stand a foot away, but they're giggling to themselves, enamoured by the makeshift Halloweentown that surrounded them. It's times like these that George always felt like the outlier, the third wheel in the back of a caravan when a caravan's already got too many wheels. If he wasn't being included into their inner circle, then there was no use for him to join along at all.

Bumping shoulders with faceless strangers, clothed in obscurity and indifference, George had no incentive to stay. All he wanted was to stay in his room, twiddling his thumbs until midnight struck. Then he’d run down to the owlery, or maybe ask to Floo back home for the weekend, or even just a few hours. All he wanted was to go back home.

His thoughts get the better of him, spiralling into something destructive. He could do it. He could just leave. 

He looks around again, cementing his decision. If he can’t go home, then he’ll go far away. As far away as he possibly can. 

So as his friends race off to Honeyduke’s at the sound of a cannon, George simply walks away. 

It’s not like anyone would notice. With all the commotion, the selfish craze to hoard every single piece of candy acts as a tunnel vision. On a night like this, he isn’t George. He’s just a ghost floating through town – a simple nobody without ties to anything or anyone. Maybe it’s all he’s destined for.

“Honestly, I need a breath of fresh air myself.”

George jumps out of his skin, whipping his head around to face the voice. Of-fucking-course. “Merlin, you need to stop being so obsessed with me.”

Dream is following him, Merlin knows why; there are way better things to do tonight than follow George around as he mopes. “But a gentleman could never leave you alone on a night like this.”

“Try me.” 

Dream jogs forward until he’s standing right in front of George’s path, and it's effective enough to stop him in his tracks. It ruins George's entire night. If it could even get any more ruined. “Ah-ah. Not a good attitude, birdie.”

“Attitude for what?” George spits. 

“It’s…” The words fall short, Dream’s tone resorting to something meek. “Well, you’re a frog and frogs are supposed to…” 

He points loosely at the costume, and George immediately sours. The frog isn’t even his idea. None of this was his idea. His friends wanted to dress up, not him. It was his friends who’ve thrust him into the spotlight only to be ridiculed, and he still doesn’t know why. 

There’s a lot of things he doesn’t understand about his friends and it frustrates him to no end, like a foil around their thinking he couldn’t penetrate. Like a hidden agenda, or a two-faced facade. George knew exactly why this night was a bust.

What attitude is George supposed to have? Grateful, that he’s the butt of the joke? Pleased, to even be included? Why should George beg for footnotes in the story of his friends’ lives? If the only trace of inclusion is through a stupid fucking frog costume, why is George tolerating this? 

“ Fine .” The Ravenclaw grits out, venom seething through the gaps of his teeth. Best to be rid of it then.

He bends forward slightly, then yanks hard at the frog head. It doesn’t budge, his sweat acting as an adhesive and it’s somehow worse than having to wear it. He doesn't give up, each tug harder than the last, and oh my fucking Merlin, why won't the frog head come off?! Anger burns through his veins like a raging fire, grinding his teeth together. 

“Merlin, get this off!” Desperation spills out of him like an oil tank on the ocean, stagnant and so utterly helpless . Like he’s grasping for a rope on the edge of a cliff, and the cord is cutting through the calluses on his palms. He balls two fists and starts hammering onto the eyes, hoping brute force would be his escape. Again, it doesn’t work. 

“Here,” Dream’s voice is soft, his caress gentle as he rests his hands atop George’s, “let me try.”

George huffs, hot steam fuming out of his nose. “Go right ahead.”

In the hollow cave of the frog’s makeshift mouth, all George hears is a scratch of Velcro, the unclasping of a buckle, and a murmur of a spell and the frog head is lifted off his head as if it weren’t glued to his hair. The cold air invades his once warm humidity, his hair sticky as it clings to the nape of his neck.

“Now you’re a real boy.” Dream comments, snickering to himself. 

George doesn't have time for jokes. "What do you mean?”

“Princess and the Frog?" Oh. "You’re not a frog anymore, like at the end of the story.”

“Yeah," This is getting absurd. George is not a damsel in distress to be saved. He's just a kid who's fucking tired of getting caught up in situations that only harm him in the long run, "because I was struggling to-”

“Would you rather I kissed you?”

What.

"No." George spouts immediately. His heart is hammering against his chest, uneven and jittery. Dream needs to stop saying things that catch George off guard.

Dream hums, unconvinced. He taps the frog head with his index finger, pouting slightly.

Right. George glances down.  The frog head almost looks normal in Dream’s grasp, but could also be amounted to his build. The Slytherin inspects it closely, with George mirroring his action. He never realized the consequence of his childish destruction. 

“I was lying earlier.” Dream says, before wielding his wand atop the dented skull. 

“...About what?” 

“About getting you a present.” 

Oh. George shakes his head, “I told you I didn’t expect-” 

Dream taps his wand against the frog head, watching it shrink down until it could be held between the palm of his hand. What was a helmet is now a cup of the same shade, but a little bigger than something one would normally drink out of; a little clay frog pot. “Something to plant the daisy from earlier.”

“But you…” George is lost for words. He accepts the gift, holding it close to notice the individual grooves and thumbprints. The attention to detail is unbelievable: the tapioca eyes poking out the sides, a long red stripe down its chin, splotches of lime green splattered across for texture. He can’t compute the probability of Dream being good at spells, or good at anything -- lest of all being good at cheering him up. 

As if he could hear him, the Slytherin leans forward. “I think you need to start having a little more faith in me, birdie.”

The wind is knocked out of him, and for the first time, George agrees with him. 

The streetlamp forms a halo atop the frog beanie, highlighting the lopsided nature of how it sits atop his curls. George can't help but stare, at the piercing gaze he meets him with, at the wrinkle atop his nose, and the faint hint of stubble growing across his jaw. Dressed like this, like a prince, didn't feel like a costume -- it felt like a state of being. Dream should dress like this all the time, if Hogwarts ever decided to retire the uniform policy. Dream could have this castle if he wanted, considering with how much he could do. 

George watches closely, at how Dream's lips part slightly, his eyes glancing down only to glance back up again. Then, the Slytherin breaks out into a wide smile. “Happy birthday, George.”

His name brings him down to reality, George scrunching up in confusion. “My birthday isn’t for another-”

The grand town bell chimes for midnight, and George clamps down on his tongue. Dream just offers him a knowing smile, waving a hand forward. “We should start heading back.”

George wants to question how he got the timing right, wants to compliment him, wants to stay in this little pocket they've constructed for themselves. The town bell signifies the demise of the haven George latched onto; a reminder that the real world didn't let them have this, and George himself could never let himself have it.

As he bumps into his friends, he finds them to be dragging around…sacks(?) – someone must’ve transfigured their pillowcases to potato sacks – stuffed with pasties, taffies, jelly beans, gummies and the like. George expects the usual interrogation, but his friends are too preoccupied to even care. He supposes he should be thankful for small blessings. They pull him into a hug when they see him, talking about their adventures and the different cookie recipes Sapnap tried to nab from Pippin’s Potions. Quackity loops an arm around George’s elbow, and Karl leans into his side, asking if he’s excited for tomorrow. 

In another world, George would breathe a sigh of relief, thankful he finally got what he wanted. Yet, he finds his eyes drifting off to the side, to a prince in the shadows, lurking behind Sapnap's shoulder. Dream is quiet on their way back, but George supposes they’ve talked enough. A part of him wants to reach out, to thank him, to simply just… talk.

Yet the distance between them, even if only just a couple feet is now oceans apart. Passing ships running parallel, never to collide. George chews on his bottom lip, glancing back down at his palms. 

In his hand rests the clay pot, cracked at the edges and deformed at the sides. Dents where the frog’s eyes sit curve to the dip of his thumbs, and its blank stare calls for him – like a wish, or a promise.

George tries not to think about it.

✦

The birthday aftermath is probably better than the actual party, in George’s opinion. 

Sure, it’s fun to get surprised at the common room, be congratulated by multitudes of strangers for surviving another year around the sun, and get treated like he’s the only one that matters. Yet, when only crumbs are left on the birthday cake platter and all the guests file out at three in the morning, the serenity that follows is unmatched. 

George excuses himself to the owlery, saying he'd wanted to check for any scheduled deliveries his family could've made. It was his original reason, but now, it's because he hoped to catch Dream on his way down the tower. 

The Slytherin did attend his party, but George got pulled in different directions to help Taffy with distributing the cake, to open presents, to play party games, to dance, to set off party poppers and confetti into the carpet, and he just couldn't get a moment to himself to seek Dream out. He isn't even sure if Dream left at the same time as the others, but he must have. George doesn't think he's the type to leave a party early. 


His search is fruitless, without a single frog beanie or silk frills in sight. George is almost disappointed. He hopes he sees him in class at least.

As expected, the owlery has birthday cards and animated photos from his family sending him their best wishes. It makes him smile, but it always does. At least then he'll have something to talk about in the morning.

Back at the dorm, Pebble is sitting on his bunk, rearranging his sheets until they're satisfactory enough for him to fall asleep. "There you are, lad. Big bloke came in just now, left something for you. I tol' 'im to leave it on your desk."

"Thanks." George tosses his birthday cards on top of it; he'll get to it when he wakes up. George doesn’t bother to change, immediately climbing up into his bunk before plopping down onto his mattress. 

“Did you have a good Halloween?” Quackity calls from below, the door creaking closed behind him.

“You mean, my pre-birthday party?” George jokes, his voice diminishing into something shy, “...Yeah.”

“Good!” Even from up here, he can hear his best friend toss his clothes onto the chair. “Me and the boys were plotting for a week while you were at the library. You made it way too easy for us to hide it.”

“You’re welcome.” George stares up into the ceiling, at the glittering stars and the magical clock. A creak of a mattress echoes below him, and a question pops into his head. “Why a frog? For my costume.”

“Oh.” Quackity hits his foot against the bed railing, muttering out a swear before settling into bed. “It’s actually pretty topical. Sapnap took this spiritual mythology book because of Divination, and I nabbed it for some light reading. Total bullshit by the way. I do not know how Divination is still taught here, but that’s beside the point. Frogs represent transformation, and well, with the bucket list and everything… it all fit .”

Huh.

“And also it’d be pretty fucking hilarious to see you in a frog costume.” Quackity chuckles.

“That’s nice.” George comments. He supposes he should give his friends a little more credit. 

I think you need to start having a little more faith in me, birdie.

George winces. “Can I be honest?”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you sure?” George asks. 

A beat of silence follows, before Quackity just snorts. “...I’m sure you can be honest, yes.”

“No!” Oh, that’s not even funny. “I mean, the frog transformation thing. I don’t necessarily get it, like have I really changed?”

“Trust me, you’ve definitely changed.” Quackity laughs, his voice quiet. “I think you’ve changed more in these past two months than you ever have in the last three years.”

George isn’t sure he has.

“It’s a good thing, George. Celebrate it.” His best friend insists. A shuffle of blankets echoes from under him. “It means the bucket list is working.”

“ Mates -” Stone drawls from his bunk, “Talking’s for the morning.”

“Sorry, Stone.” Quackity calls out. “Have a good night, George. Happy birthday.”

“Goodnight, Quackity.” George murmurs, tossing to the side. On his bedside nook rests the daisy that Dream gave him, and all the events of today come flooding back. The sultry voice, the frog clay pot, everything. Right. George tries to remember where he placed what Dream gave him today.

The frog pot is left on his desk, kept in the drawers for safekeeping once the party got around. George should really plant the daisy in before he forgets. He swipes at the daisy, heaving himself off the mattress before exhaustion throws him back down again. Fuck, it's been such a long day.

George looks back at the flower, thinking back to Quackity’s comment about the bucket list. Most of his change is thanks to Dream, whether he wants to admit it or not. This flower was a signifier of their relationship, in bloom and pure. Oh, Quackity would kill him if he knew he was thinking like this.

Before he goes to sleep, George twirls the daisy between his fingertips.

It is getting damn hard not to let Dream win.

✦

The first morning of being seventeen has a strange air to it.

George wakes up in crumpled sheets, still dressed in green attire from last night. The dorm room is suffocatingly silent, like a charm had been cast. 

No Quackity’s snoring, no rumpling of Pebble’s sheets, no murmur of Stone’s sleep-talking… it was odd. Maybe his hearing had started to go already with age. 

Slowly, he levies himself off the mattress, rubbing at his eyes. 

He glances at the ceiling and finds it’s only five in the morning, and that was even more odd. George wakes up early, but never that early. Besides, with everyone’s birthday wishes last night, they couldn’t have gone to bed until after three. 

Two hours is not enough to compel his body clock up. 

Still, he doesn’t question it and decides to climb down from his bunk. There’s no use in waking up only to fall asleep again. The front of his skull throbs in protest, but he’s on the floor now. Maybe he will go back to sleep later. Merlin, it’s only Friday. If it was a weekend, he could very well sleep in, but the option to call in sick remains available..

No. He needs to get his head in the game. What exactly is he doing up so early? It’s his birthday for crying out loud. There can’t possibly be-

George turns around, and his gaze falls onto a piece of parchment that almost… glistened in the dim morning light. It sits atop his desk, and he could tell its edges were crinkled from where he’s standing. 

It’s all just odd. He can’t find any other word to describe it. 

He doesn’t think that parchment was there before either, or maybe it was, and he felt… drawn to it somehow. Maybe it’s the lighting, or maybe it’s his sheer curiosity.

George approaches it with tentative footsteps and cautious fingers carefully picking it up to unravel it. 

What’s inside is complete gibberish. 

Yet, the ink wobbles like it’s been bewitched. George goes to swipe his wand from his bed before returning back to the middle of the room. There was only one way to find out.

“Revelio…!” George whispers, tapping the wand upon the parchment. The ink lifts from the surface, muddled letters now dancing across the page until they bleed back into their rightful places. 

What was a jumble of scribbles now reads: 

Meet me by the dock of the Black Lake. Need to ask you something and I need you to not laugh when I ask. Don’t bring anything; just yourself and maybe an open mind.

 

– Dream

…Okay?

The dock of the Black Lake is an odd choice for meeting grounds. The lake is freezing this time of year and nobody ever has a reason to go there. Ever. 

Besides, a question that requires an open mind? That could be anything. Having an open mind is a big ask in general. It’s his birthday. There is no room for introspection and philosophical debate. Unless Dream means another kind of open mind? 

Ugh . George runs his hands over his eyes, blowing his lips out in frustration. 

Better to rip off the band-aid, right? 

Without waking the rest of his dorm mates, he skillfully slips on a jumper and his shoes and heads on his way. He would have some mind to wear some trousers over his pants, but nobody’s awake at this hour, and even if they were, George is too tired to even feel embarrassed. 

As soon as he steps out into the courtyard, the November chill is distinct and cutting against his exposed legs. 

Nature was starting to frost over, and soon enough, wispy trees would soon fall victim to mounds of snow weighing down its branches. George almost dreads it.

Not a very optimistic thought for his birthday, he thinks. At least he’ll have things to keep him busy throughout the day.

As he breaches the hill, he can see the silhouette of Dream’s figure down by the foot of it. His back is turned, and he’s gazing into the lake. Whatever he has to talk about better be wrapped up quickly.

George tries not to stumble down the hill, gulping the unease in his throat. If this was a confrontation, George would not be able to stomach it. He thought he was alright company the past couple of weeks, unless a sly comment slipped past his radar? He doesn’t know how many times he can keep making up for his rude behaviour.

To grab his attention, George yells out. “It’s five in the morning. You shouldn’t even be up.”

The Slytherin looks over his shoulder, his lips breaking out into a big smile. “Well, you are.”

“...I am.” Dream leads them both onto the dock; George doesn’t know why he follows. “How did you even know I would be up by now?”

“How do you think?”

What does Dream mean by that? George blinks at him in confusion. He supposes it is odd that they’re both up at awful times, but the fact Dream knew meant that this had to be purposeful so that means- oh, Merlin- of course.

George blames the two hours of sleep.

“I cast a Silencing Charm before I left your dorm… to write the note.” Dream explains, knowing damn well George just figured it out seconds prior. “I guess it’s still active. It’ll wear off after… I don’t know.”

“Did you intentionally wake me up too?” George really shouldn’t ask. Not when he already knows.

“...I may have read something.” 

Wow. George can’t even be mad about it. That delves into the realm of advanced magic that even he can’t wrap his head around. “I’m impressed.”

“Do you mean that in a sarcastic way?” Dream slips his hands into his pockets, tilting his head.

“No.” George says, softly. “It’s impressive magic. Are you gifted or something?”

The Ravenclaw tries his hardest to sound genuine, because he is. The fact that Dream could cast a charm that would wake him up, draw him over to the note, and then a Silencing charm on top of all of it is incredible. George can’t even cast a Patronus. 

“No, not gifted.” Dream shakes his head, trying to bite back a smile. It’s like he’s never accepted a compliment before. “Just really knowledgeable about my stuff.”

It’s almost irritating how often Dream proves George wrong.

 The Ravenclaw rests his hands on his hips, shifting his weight in anticipation. “So, are you going to tell me why you went through all that effort?”

The wind brushes past his elbows, piercing through his jumper. From how Dream is asking, it couldn’t be a confrontation. It must be good news, or maybe Dream is just really dedicated to being petty. 

“I’m running on two hours of sleep so my patience is running very thin.” George scoffs, crossing his arms; resorting to nonchalance is a mechanism of sorts. 

The wind whistles past dying branches, and Dream doesn’t move. Shit. Was that too nonchalant? 

“You changed your mind about being friends or something?” George tries again. Jokes lighten up the mood, right? 

The Black Lake runs idly under the deck, and Dream smiles to himself. “Something like that.”

What ? 

Dream looks up at him, his face unreadable.

George doesn’t know what to expect.

The Slytherin takes a deep breath in.

“I want us to be more than friends.”

END OF ACT II