Chapter 2: Love Language

Flashback to First Year

One. Two. Three. Four.

Tears spill from Eleanor's eyes faster than she can wipe them away, and her hands clench into the fabric of her robes. She sits in the chair outside of the Hogwarts infirmary with Professor Flitwick by her side, counting the same series of numbers and over, her breaths leaving her body in the slowed succession she's calmed herself enough to do.

One. Two. Three. Four.

The poor Ravenclaw Head of House had tried to calm her distress.. "Ben will be right as rain in no time at all," Flitwick says to her for the second time in that quiet tone of his, patting her on the shoulder comfortingly. "Madam Pomfrey's a very skilled medi-witch. This is far from the first time a student has gotten hurt in Flying Class, don't you worry. Accidents of this nature happen more frequently than we care to admit."

Eleanor looks away, face screwed in anger. She swipes at her cheeks clumsily. "It wasn't an accident, I've told you," she replies, her voice tight with emotion. "It was on purpose. I swear it."

"Miss Vance, we've discussed this. That is a very serious accusation," he chides. He's been the Head of House for Ravenclaw for decades, and he knows his students well. He knows Eleanor and children like her, he knows that her shrewd, skeptical nature is the exact sort of culmination of traits that has placed her under his care in the first place. And because of this, and because of the girl's sensitivity to "accidents" after the tragic loss of her father, he knows that it's perfectly normal that Eleanor is looking for someone to blame. Or two individuals, in this case.

But he also knows that first years on brooms are unpredictable and incident-prone, and he's never known a student in their year to commit such a heinous act intentionally. Their Flying Class is a course of forty-five eleven-year olds, and every one of the reports gathered after the incident has maintained the same account of events.

Not one student has given any indication that George nor Fred Weasley were responsible. Ben's twin sister is the only child who believes this to be the case. If one student out of forty-five relays a different narrative than the rest, Flitwick believes it's safe to say that perhaps there's some margin for error on Eleanor's part.

"I'm not a liar," she promises vehemently. "I'd never lie about Ben."

"I believe you," Professor Flitwick assures. He does believe her. He believes that Eleanor believes this story to be true, and he believes that there's a distinct possibility that emotions are clouding her judgment. Memories are fickle things, intangible and subject to persuasion, and he knows that the Weasley twins have a reputation of pranking their peers.

But this does not reject the fact that Eleanor is the only person pointing fingers. Fred and George maintain their innocence, and Benjamin's injury seems to have left him with a big, empty blank regarding what's happened.

"But I believe the most important thing we should concern ourselves with is your brother's wellbeing," Flitwick gently explains. "One day, you may even look back on this and laugh."

Eleanor knows she will never think of this day with any amount of fondness. If she is ever forced to remember the day's events sometime in the future, she knows she will feel nothing but vindication, because she knows this will undoubtedly happen again. Boys like Fred and George rarely stir trouble once and only once- some other poor fool at this institution will be subjected to their malevolence, and she will look back on her brother's "accident" as proof that as always, she'd been right all along.

Responsibility for what happened to Ben may not be handed today, or any day soon after. But she takes comfort in the fact that she knows what really happened, even if nobody else seems to care.

Eleanor's disdain for Fred and George might've just begun, but she knows it's far from over.

Present Day

George would not regard himself a particularly intelligent person. He's smart, or at least, he knows a lot about the few things he chooses to invest one-hundred-and-ten percent of his energy into. School is certainly not one of those things.

It's something of a Weasley characteristic, to obsess over something specific that always seems to lack practicality. He can't remember a time when his father wasn't fanatical about Muggle life, with their strange technologies and out-of-the-box artifacts. Charlie has his dragons. And Percy, much to their misfortunate, has his obnoxious adherence to rule-following and perfectionism.

He and Fred are obsessed with toeing the line of danger. George likes to believe that this stems from the fact that most people in the world are risk-takers- and it just so happens that very few of them have an identical counterpart egging them on, and this is why most people reject any possibility of trouble. He and his twin have been, and always will be, in the minority of people willing to take on such risk. Upon birth, they were fortunate enough to be gifted with an identical presence willing to tag along for the ride.

When there's two of you, life is double the fun, Fred often says. Pranks, jokes, doing anything for a laugh- George takes risks because he knows Fred is right by his side, laughing along, and Fred takes risks for that same reason.

George is a Weasley, and so in the same vein as the other Weasley's, he's a naturally obsessive person down to his very core. And in the way that all obsessions always are and seem to be, he doesn't necessarily decide what catches his attention. His fixations come to him out-of-the-blue and fall right into his lap, and from the moment he finds it, he spends each and every day thinking about his obsessions until he's practically understood them on a molecular level.

Eleanor Vance just so happens to be one of these…fixations.

If asked, George would reject any accusation of being obsessed with her. Being obsessed with an actual person was very different from being obsessed with other things, like fire-breathing lizards and Muggle things called "telly-visions." It's far more complicated to admit to an infatuation that involves a girl, and though he's hardly subtle about it, George really believes that Eleanor Vance belongs in some other subcategory that words fail to describe because even when otherwise occupied, she is at the forefront of his mind.

Like all Weasley obsessions, his preoccupation with the Ravenclaw is impractical- they have absolutely nothing in common besides being a twin and having a younger brother. Sometimes, he thinks that's where all of this stemmed from in the first place; being a twin was something only comprehensible to other twins, being one half to a whole. And George had never even met a girl-twin before his time at Hogwarts. Regardless, that hardly explains how Eleanor Vance plagued his thoughts for years on end.

Eleanor is not some random thing he came across, but a human being, and therefore George has made great strides to maintain a healthy distance from anything relating or pertaining to her. It was a lesson learned- he'd made the mistake of trying to catch her attention in their First Year, and because the world enjoys offering him deserved karmic justice in the most inconvenient of times, he is now fifteen years old and still paying the price of error of an eleven-year-old version of himself.

He thinks part of the reason he's still so preoccupied with her to this day is based solely in her unrelenting hatred for him and his brother. It's almost endearing, how strongly she dislikes him. George had never been hated before he'd met her, and truthfully, it's sort of exciting.

When he'd divulged this thought to Fred the year before, his twin had laughed for an entire minute and called him a masochist. George is still pretty unclear as to what that means for him, but he decides he doesn't really care. His preoccupation with Eleanor is impractical, but her hatred for him is equally unreasonable- time doesn't heal all wounds, he's learned, but he thinks there's a distinct possibility that eventually, he'll squeeze a laugh out of her.

George likes trouble. Eleanor Vance is inarguably the opposite, but he likes the idea that he's in trouble with her.

"You're so painfully obvious," Fred chuckles as they walk away from the Vance family in the courtyard, punching his brother in the arm roughly. "See you soon, Eleanor! Stay out of trouble!" he repeats George's words from earlier in a dumb, mocking tone.

George scrunches his entire face in embarrassment, feeling the back of his neck prickle at the memory. "Oh shut it, Fred, I was trying to be polite."

"You're the furthest thing from polite."

"Says you. I can be polite when I want to be!"

Lee lets out a loud laugh. "Oh, and you want," he tells him conspiratorially. "You want so badly."

Angelina is only a few feet away from them as they near her, and though she's only heard snippets of the conversation, she hears enough to put the pieces together for herself. "Oh Merlin, please don't tell me you were bothering that poor girl," she demands more than she asks, because she already knows exactly who they're discussing. "Boys are so stupid. You're all stupid, frankly, I can't believe how many times we've talked about this and you still hardly take a hint."

George tilts his head back in exasperation. "Come off it! It was a very brief 'hello.'"

"You don't know how to do give a 'brief hello.' You can hardly interact with a person of the female variety without making a complete fool of yourself."

"He's not a fool," Fred assures him, giving Angelina the stink-eye. "Well, maybe a fool in love, but that doesn't count."

"I am not in love with her," George argues weakly. Despite the waiver in his voice, he's stating the truth. He doesn't love Eleanor, because you can't really love someone you don't know. He doesn't know anything about her beyond what he knows of her, and those are hardly the same thing.

He's just preoccupied with her. And even if it's a four-year-long preoccupation, that's all it is.

"You need to seriously find someone else to stalk," Angelina chastises with a shake of her head. "This act is getting old."

George flounders for a moment, sputtering and throwing his arms in the air spastically. "I'm… I'm not stalking anyone! She just happened to be there!"

"Mhmm. Obviously."

"Yes, obviously! How was I supposed to know she'd be skipping class at the same time?! She's a Ravenclaw, for Godric's sake, I didn't even think her sort could do that sort of thing without having a full- blown seizure at the very idea of it."

"You're getting terribly defensive, Weasley."

"I'm not defensive!"

Angelina cocks her hip to the side and raises a single eyebrow high on her forehead, folding her arms across her chest. "Don't snap at me," she tells him sharply, any humor in the situation deflating from her expression at his tone. "You want to act like a prat, be my guest. But you won't pull that off with me, and you most certainly won't get anywhere with that girl if you keep acting like a Neanderthal."

George's cheeks redden at the admonishment- Angelina was the last person anyone should wish to cross, and he certainly felt embarrassed as he realized how loud he'd been speaking. Angie was a lot of things, most of them good, but she was the type of person who'd hex a close friend without a second thought. She refused to take shit from anyone, least of all one of the Weasley's.

"I'm sorry," he admits shamefully. "I got all riled up for nothing. I shouldn't have."

"Well, it's not all for nothing, George," Fred says comfortingly. "But look, you're fit! We're fit. Quidditch all-stars, hilarious, extraordinarily handsome-"

"And that's the exact sort of egoism someone like Vance would hate," Angelina interrupts, cutting him off entirely. "How did both of you manage to grow up with a mother like yours and a baby sister, and somehow learn nothing about women at all?"

Fred laughs like her question is the funniest thing he's ever heard, and he shakes his head confusedly. "Our Mum's not a woman," he explains obviously. "She's our Mum. And Ginny's not a woman either, she's eleven!"

"She's twelve."

"That's what I said!"

"Okay, fine," Angelina shrugs. "You spend time with me and Alicia, don't you? Have you learned anything about how to talk to a girl? George, you don't speak to us the same way you speak to Fred or Lee or whoever else, do you?"

Cringing, Fred frowns at her. "What does being a girl have anything to do with this? The problem George has is that he likes Eleanor, and she clearly does not reciprocate the feeling."

"Because pulling pigtails on the pitch stops being cute when you're fifteen, you prick," Angelina explains as she turns to him. "Eleanor doesn't like your nonsense. Or at least, I assume so, anyway, since it's not as though you've ever spoken to her, George."

"I don't talk to her because she doesn't like me."

"And she'll never like you because you don't even try to talk to her. All you've done since you practically tried to murder her brother is get on her nerves."

George furrows his eyebrows together, perplexed with this information. "I didn't try to kill her brother. All the reports state that Fred and I are perfectly innocent…in that situation. But, what, you're saying I should try and talk to her out of nowhere?"

Angelina sighs loudly, and shakes her head to herself. "I'm saying, if you ever want her to hold a civil conversation with Eleanor, the least you could do is act like a gentleman."

Act like a gentleman. What does that even mean? His mother has begged him and Fred to act like grown-ups for years, but it's not as though he can go to the library and find a book on how to behave like one. Not that he'd even be interested in a book, or going to a library in general.

"Okay…" George replies uncomfortably, bringing a palm to the back of his neck as he tries to rub away some of the heat collecting at his nape. "So how do I do that?"

Angelina seems pleased that his defensive posturing has weakened into something more submissive, more willing to listen to her advice. "Well, since you've had eyes on her for three whole years, you must know her love language, yes?"

"Love language?! What the bloody hell is that?"

"What sorts of things does she respond positively to?"

As far as George was aware, Eleanor Vance wasn't really the sort of person to respond positively to almost anything. Her face was constantly screwed up in concentration or concern- or irritation, if her eyes were on him.

"I don't know. I mean, she likes her family."

"Okay, so maybe she likes quality time with the ones she loves. Does she like gifts? Acts of service? Words of affirmation?"

"Where the fuck are you pulling this stuff from?" Fred interjects incredulously. "Everybody likes presents! And compliments!"

"That is fundamentally untrue, Fred, and if you were aware of that, you and your brother would probably be further along with the female population!" Angelina snaps at him, voice high and thin with frustration. "George, maybe try doing something nice for Vance…see how she reacts. Offer her some help with something if she's struggling."

"She's a Ravenclaw. She doesn't struggle with anything."

"That's definitely untrue."

"What if she reacts badly? What if she gets mad at me?"

"Well then you'll figure it out!" she says with a gnash of her teeth. She picks up the satchel reclining against her calf, and she throws it over her shoulder with another sharp look thrown Fred's way. "Godric, boys are completely and utterly helpless!"

As Angelina stalks away, steam practically coming out of her ears, George brings his thumb to his lips and bites on his nail in thought.

Do something nice for her, he thinks to herself. Seems easy enough.

Doing something nice for Eleanor Vance is, decidedly, not as easy as he thought.

"You what?" Angelina blurts out as George explains what he'd done in Charms Class, feeling even more admonished than he had the day before in the midst of their discussion.

Lee and Fred both think the situation is one big, fat laugh as they sit at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall for dinner. They had both given him the most mirth-filled expressions of disappointment George had ever been on the receiving end of, and he was beginning to think maybe there was more to Angelina calling him a fool than he thought.

"It was a nice thing, I thought," George explains feebly. "She fell asleep! She's probably never failed an assignment in her life. I get Trolls all the time, it was the least I could do."

"Oh, Merlin, George," Angelina whines, stuffing her face into her hands and throwing her napkin into her lap. "Are you ill?"

"…No?"

"Then what the bloody hell is wrong with you?!"

It wasn't one of George's finest moments, but it could've gone worse. He didn't really mind that his own grade would suffer if it meant Eleanor would budge even slightly in her negative opinion of him. "You told me to do something nice for her! I did exactly that!"

"That wasn't nice," Alicia chimes in next to Angelina. "That was completely irresponsible."

Angelina nods in agreement and takes a sip of her pumpkin juice. "Really, George. She probably thinks you're a total idiot."

"She thought that before."

"And you certainly didn't help yourself now, did you?"

George has never been more confused. He'd done precisely what Angelina had advised him to do. He's confident that if Eleanor had been the one to turn in an assignment on his behalf, he'd probably get down on one knee.

"I don't think it's as bad as you're all making it seem," Fred tries, giving Angelina and Alicia a careful look. "At least it's caught her attention, right? Isn't that the first part of getting her to like him?"

"I don't want her to like me," he grumbles, knowing it's a lie even as the words leave his mouth. "I just want her to not-hate me."

"Well, insulting her intelligence by turning in your work as her own, and then completely ignoring her refusal, probably isn't doing you any favors," Alicia explains. "She's a Ravenclaw, right? When have you ever known a Ravenclaw that enjoys someone doing their work for them?"

"But I didn't! Or at least, that's not how it was!"

"Maybe not, but it's a very bold act. She has no reason to trust you, and more than likely, thinks you're up to something nefarious."

"If someone I didn't like did that for me, I'd ask some very serious questions," Alicia says.

"But…but…" George breathes out heavily. "You told me. You told me to do something nice. How is this not nice?!"

"You need to take it one step at a time, George!" Angelina replies with exhaustion dripping from every word. "When I said something nice, I meant normal things. Catching the door for her if she's running late to class. Lending her your inkwell if she doesn't have it on hand. That sort of thing."

George thinks it might've been nice for Angelina to elaborate a little more before he'd decided to take a failed grade in his endless pursuit for Eleanor's attention. Regardless, he realizes perhaps his actions really didn't come across as innocuous as he'd meant them to be. She hadn't seemed very enthused by his assistance- had she been angry that he he'd given his assignment to her? Offended?

Before he tries to think back in an attempt to remember anything poignant she'd said to him, he feels a sharp jeer right under his ribs. "They're looking at you," Fred whispers to him under his breath.

Looking around, George scrunches his nose. "Who's looking at me?"

"The Vance's. Look at the Ravenclaw table. They're staring right at you."

And they are. Eleanor's eyes meet his from two tables away. Even from across the room, he'd recognize even the merest of glimpses of her- dark, short hair brushing right above her shoulders, bright blue eyes peaking through a curtain of bangs falling right over her eyelashes. Her twin brother, Ben, and the younger one…Alfie, he recalls, the only blonde one of the three… are turned in their seats as they gaze over in his direction.

He didn't think much of it before, but he realizes as he looks at them that despite the obvious differences among the Vance siblings, there are glaring similarities. They all share the same gaunt, sunken faces that make them look perpetually troubled, perhaps even sickly among the rest of their peers. It's almost funny to George, how different his own family looks in comparison- the Weasley's, who all adorn vibrant red hair, freckle-smeared faces, and stocky builds, while the Vance's appear to be in desperate need of sunlight, a hearty meal, and a good laugh.

"Poor dears," his Mum had whispered to herself their First Year, catching sight of Mrs. Vance with her children on the Hogwarts platform. "You both are to be kind to those children, do you understand? They haven't got a father anymore, and the last thing poor Emmeline needs to worry about is trouble- makers harassing her family. If you can't be kind, then stay far away."

George often thinks of his mother's words when he sees Eleanor, wonders how different things might've been had he taken heed to her warning. He'll never know now, he supposes.

"What do you think they're talking about?" he asks Fred. "Charms Class?"

"Dunno. Maybe they're saying good things! Maybe they're talking about what a, er, nice thing you did for Eleanor today."

Tentatively, George lifts a hand and offers a friendly wave. The Ravenclaw girl's expression doesn't change- no smile, no indication that she's appreciative of his random act of kindness, nothing at all. Ben's face narrows, and with a single blink, their stare-off breaks as the Vance's decide to look elsewhere.

"Okay…maybe not so-good things," Fred finishes lamely. "Sorry, mate."

It feels sort of like defeat, knowing that his attempt at diffusing the tension between himself and Eleanor doesn't seem to have amounted to much. But George is far from a sad sap- he can be patient when he truly puts his mind to it, and he refuses to give up after a single try.

"Angie, what was that stuff you were on about yesterday? The language-thing?"

Angelina's fork speared with a few roasted carrots stills in its place, and she looks up at him.

"Love languages, you mean?"

"Yeah. Hypothetically, what were they, again?"

Alicia muffles a snicker in the collar of her robes until Angelina gives her a light smack on her knee, and she clears her throat. "There's technically five of them, but there's only four you need to know about."

He nods his head. "Okay. Tell me everything you've got."

Later that evening, George strays away from his brother and his friends in search of the one place at Hogwarts he admittedly spends the least amount of time in. He wanders the corridors of the first floor of the castle in search of a pair of large, wooden doors with heavy gold knobs, wringing his hands by his sides as he feels an indiscernible chill in the air.

It's not that George hates the library, per se. He's isn't much of a reader, to say the least, and he finds that almost everything he needs to know can be learned by simply asking, or even from a little sleuthing around. He just hasn't found himself frequenting the place for a variety of factors, the eerie quiet of the library being one of them.

It's nearly seven o'clock, and he knows the library closes at eight o'clock with few exceptions. He has a very short window of time to do what he's come here for, and even less time to make the impression he hopes to leave.

George doesn't ever go to the library, but he knows Eleanor Vance frequents this blasted place more than any other room in Hogwarts. He has only the faintest idea of what she does here in the evenings after dinner- more than likely, cramming as much knowledge into that head of hers as she can manage. For that reason, he thinks she and Hermione Granger would most definitely get along.

After a quick turn down a narrow hallway, he sees the set of doors he's been looking for since he left the Great Hall, and he opens them as quietly as he can manage. The old oak creaks under his hands as though even the door knows he's an unwelcome presence, and he immediately shoots an apologetic grimace at a frowning Madam Pince.

Walking inside, the librarian raises a finger to her lips with a scowl- she undoubtedly knows who he is if her glare is any indication, and she probably suspects he's come around to instigate or blow something up.

He hardly blames her. Hell, if George saw himself walking in here, he'd think the same thing.

His eyes scan over rows of tables, squinting in the dim lighting as he tries to survey groups of students for the one person he's looking for. But to his dismay, he doesn't see Eleanor anywhere at all. There's dozens of blue-and-gold clad boys and girls, but she isn't among any of them.

George turns his head to look at the large grandfather clock closest to Madam Pince's desk and sees that time is passing by much more quickly than he'd hoped. It's a quarter after seven, and his window of opportunity is shrinking by the minute.

The librarian catches his head swiveling around confusedly, and she gives him a skeptical glance. He realizes at this point, nothing he does under her watchful eye will make him any less suspicious, so he inhales sharply and decides that perhaps the philosophy he's subscribed to all these years may actually work in his favor.

Everything he needs to know can be learned simply by asking.

"Madam Pince," he greets hopefully, offering her another apologetic smile as her eyes widen and she shushes him again. "Madam Pince," he tries again in a whisper.

"Yes, Mr. Weasley?"

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his robes, George precariously rocks on his heels. Merlin, it's much harder to ask a question in an attempt to avoid suspicion when the question itself is… suspicious. "Can I ask you a question regarding another student?"

Her eyes narrow until her lids are reduced to slits. "That depends," she answers warily. "Which student, and why?"

George clears his throat, and he leans closer to the woman's ear. "I was hoping you might know the whereabouts of Eleanor Vance. She's a Fifth Year-"

"-Ravenclaw, I know," she interrupts him. "What business is it of yours?"

"Well… you see Madam Pince, she's my tutor for Charms Class. She, er, told me she'd be meeting me in the library, but I'm afraid she didn't tell me exactly where she'd be," he lies, hoping the woman believes him despite the slight falter in his voice.

The librarian tilts her head to the side and frowns. "We don't hold tutoring in the library."

"…Pardon?"

"Tutoring is to be held in classrooms after hours, Mr. Weasley. A library is a place of silence and solitude, not for conversation."

"Oh," he blurts out, wracking his brain for an excuse. "That actually makes sense, now that you say it. You see, it's not exactly a formal tutoring session, you know? It was a… spur of moment decision. I just need to ask her a quick question about our class."

"There will be no talking in this library."

"I'll write it down on a piece of paper, Madam Pince."

Madam Pince looks him up and down a single time, and a whistling breath leaves her nose as she tries to assess the truthfulness of his words. "Look in the Muggle Studies section," she tells him blandly, poking a finger at the bridge of her glasses. "Remember. No. Talking."

"Thank you," he replies gratefully, his eyes wandering around the library once again. "…Could you tell me where that is, exactly?"

The woman's patience is wearing thin, and her nostrils flare as she watches him smile innocently back at her. "Look for the aisle with the letters Mu. Now, pleasant evening, Mr. Weasley."

It's a clear dismissal if there ever was one, but George has exactly the information he needs to hunt around the library for a specific black-haired Ravenclaw. Quietly but quickly, he turns in and out of aisles as he reads the signs overhead.

Ha-Is. It-J. Ka-Ls. And finally, Lt-Mu.

He tiptoes as surreptitiously as his squeaky uniform shoes will allow, and ducks behind the outward-facing panel of a wooden bookcase. Craning his neck over his shoulder, he sees a girl with dark hair and two long legs stretched out across the aisle. Her head is buried in a tiny notepad, and though he can't make out her face, he sees a blue-and-gold striped tie.

Instead of spearheading towards the Muggle Studies section, he creeps into the aisle right behind it and pretends to casually rifle through books. His hands silently work at pushing old, dusty books to the side to create a gap just wide enough for him to peak through, and at the sound of a screeching chair nearby, he quickly grabs the first book he sees and thumbs it open to a random page.

He waits a few baited breaths before he looks between the gap again, and upon the air going quiet once more, George looks over into the Muggle Studies section. From his viewpoint, he's able to tell right away that alas, he has found Eleanor. A book filled with strange drawings sits on her lap as pieces of balled-up paper lay discarded by her satchel, and her hand is scribbling away at the small journal in her palm.

George knows loads about Muggle things, he thinks. He doesn't recognize anything in the book in front of her, unable to discern a title or even a subject. All he can see are large, complicated diagrams of and Eleanor's Muggle pen flicking back and forth on a crowded page.

Her eyes dart around too-small text, and he watches as the very tip of her tongue sticks out between the corner of her lips in concentration. Overall, the sight before him isn't very fascinating, but yet, it is.

He knows Eleanor's expression well. He's seen her look just as focused in classes they've shared over the years, and he takes a moment to let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in relief that at the very least, she doesn't notice him. His exhale leaves his mouth louder than he'd anticipated.

Two eyes filled with alarm meet his own through the gap George has made in the bookshelf. They squint at him and for a second, he thinks it's impossible. He hasn't been caught. He's barely just arrived, for Godric's sake!

Eleanor sets her notepad down slowly, and she carefully moves until she's no longer sitting in a reclined position but on her knees. "Hello?" she whispers, her nose wrinkling as she moves closer to the opposite section.

George swallows roughly- truthfully, he hadn't thought this far ahead; hadn't thought about the possibility of being caught in the act. He'd never been before, and though he'd never admit it, this was far from the first time he'd followed Eleanor. But then again, he'd given himself much greater distance in his previous bouts of skulking around.

Suddenly, Eleanor's eyes light up and her arm stretches through the gap in the bookshelf before George can so much as take a step backward. Her hand reaches for his Gryffindor tie and pulls him so closely his chin smashes into a wooden riser, and she fists it tightly around her wrist so he cannot escape.

"Weasley," she says quietly between her teeth, her large, solemn eyes the only thing George can see with his cheek pressed against a row of books. "Are you…are you watching me?!"

"Shh," he manages, letting out a nervous laugh. "No talking in the library."

"Weasley."

The grasp on his tie tightens, and his collar is starting to painfully dig into the back of his neck. "Not following you," he fibs. "Merlin, you've got a strong grip, don't you?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Reading."

"Really."

"Yeah," he replies quickly, holding the book he'd held open in his hand up for her to see. "See? Just reading."

Eleanor glances at the book, and in seconds, the clutch on his tie loosens until it's merely laying in the palm of her hand. She lets out a humored snort, and she gives him a wide-eyed double-take of complete disbelief.

"What?" he asks her, confused at the change of mood. His own gaze wanders to the book he's holding to her face, and his jaw drops so quickly at its title, it's a wonder it didn't fall to the floor. Ladies, Witches, and Female Genitalia: The Wonderful World of Vaginal Health.

"I….I, erm," George stutters ferociously, his clasp on the book weakening as embarrassment floods through his body. He blows out a noisy whistle under his breath- how terribly can a single person manage to muck things up? "It really isn't what you think."

"You're staring at me through a bookshelf whilst holding a book about vaginas," Eleanor tells him quietly. "I don't even know if I have any thoughts about that."

"Maybe I really care about… about the… health and wellness of my female peers…?"

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, maybe!"

"And you're particularly interested in their vaginas?"

George's face is sweltering with heat, but he nods vehemently anyway. "Obviously," he whispers. "I… I care deeply about…va-…va-,"

"Vaginas."

"…Yes. Those."

Eleanor blinks and for a second, he thinks he sees the faintest tilt to the corner of her lips, but it quickly morphs into a grimace. "And you're watching me?"

"…No."

"You are, aren't you?" she demands. "Weasley, what the hell are you doing?"

His mind flurries with thoughts of how to possibly salvage the situation, desperate for anything that might distract her from thinking he's a creep. Because he's not.

He's just… interested.

"I -just-wanted-to-see-what-you-were-reading," he rushes out in one big heap of verbal vomit, holding his hands up submissively. "That's all. Swear it."

Eleanor doesn't appear amused by this, but she leans back until she's given him a few feet of space. "Why?" she whispers loudly. "Why do you care?"

"You're in the Muggle Studies section," he notes. "I was…curious."

"About Muggles, or about me?"

He gulps. "I just… didn't know you were interested in Muggles. That's a rather random interest, isn't it?" She gives him an indecipherable look, but her mouth thins. "Excuse me?" she asks him warningly.

George shakes his head as if he can dismiss his own words. "It's just that… I mean, you're smart. Really smart. Surely Muggle stuff must bore you, doesn't it?"

As the question tumbles out of his mouth, he knows instantly that he's made a mistake. The Ravenclaw looks completely bewildered by his observation, but more than anything, she's offended. She edges closer to the gap between the bookshelf again, not making a mad-grab for his tie but rather staring him straight in the face with a disgusted expression.

"Not that it's any of your business," she seethes dangerously. "But my father was a Muggle, and my mother's Muggle-Born. So to answer you, no, it does not bore me. Something you couldn't possibly understand, being a Pureblood and all."

George doesn't really know how to reply, or even apologize. He feels himself burrowing himself into an impossible position, and the current matter of the book he's holding really hasn't helped his case. He chooses to say nothing at all.

"You need to leave me alone."

"Listen, Eleanor, it really isn't-"

"-I'm serious," she interrupts, her voice holding little room for argument as if she's come to some nefarious conclusion regarding George's recent behavior. "I don't know what you're doing or why you're trying to get my attention, but you need to stop. Do you understand me?"

"Eleanor-"

"Leave. Me. Alone."

"Excuse me," says a high-pitched voice from behind George, forcing both he and Eleanor to flinch in surprise. Madam Pince grabs the back of his robes and pulls him away from the bookshelf, and glances between him and Eleanor with disappointment.

"Mr. Weasley… Miss Vance."

"Madam Pince," Eleanor starts, her voice low. "I-"

"What did I tell you, Mr. Weasley, upon entering the library?" she demands, her eyes sharp with distaste. "I believe I told you, no talking in the library. And you, Miss Vance. Frankly, I expect a lot more from you."

Eleanor's face freezes fearfully, and she shakes her head in the hopes of pleading her way out of trouble, knowing the inevitable is coming.

"Detention. Both of you. Tomorrow at six o'clock sharp. Do not be late, and do not even try to sway me. If I hear you speak again, you can look forward to two days of punishment, not just one."

Madam Pince releases her fingers from the collar of his robes and takes a step backward, shaking her head at both of them, and walks away.

George straightens out his disheveled clothing and runs a hand through his hair, and he gives another glance through the gap in the bookshelf. His mouth opens to apologize, but he immediately thinks better of it after being handed detention. He looks at Eleanor, and his mouth abruptly closes.

Eleanor does not only look shocked, but further, she looks betrayed. Her eyes look oddly watery and her face is bright red, a rare sight on her usually pale face, but she refuses to meet his stare.

She leans over and takes her book, shoving it back in its slot hurriedly as she crams her notes into her satchel. Her movements are awkward and unsure, and she bites at her lower lip as she moves as quickly as possible.

George watches her and decides to come around to the other aisle, his face slackened with apologies he isn't sure how to convey while also feeling the need to reassure her that detention isn't really as bad as it seems. He and Fred have spent countless hours being held after class with nearly every professor they've ever had- he barely thinks of it as punishment anymore, so much as a huge waste of time.

But Eleanor moves around him as he holds up his hands to stop her, shrugging past his outstretched arms and tucking her head closely into her chest.

"Eleanor…Eleanor, wait just a minute, will you?" he begs with a whisper, turning around so he's speaking to the back of her head.

He staggers in his step when she turns around wildly to face him, though she still looks anywhere else but at his face. "Is this what you wanted?" she asks bewilderedly. "Is this what you're trying to do? Get me in trouble?"

"No."

She laughs bitterly to herself, not believing anything he has to say. "Well, you have, haven't you? So you can leave me alone, now."

George's eyes widen. "I told you, it really isn't how it looks-"

But before he can finish his sentence, she's gone.

Well, that went downright horrendously, he thinks to himself. He'd tried two of the four instruments Angela had supplied him with from that stupid love-language stuff to no avail whatsoever. An act of service, failed. Words of affirmation, failed again. In the matter of two days alone.

We've got detention together, at least, George realizes. Perhaps quality time will do the trick.