FORTYTWO

George Weasley was already awake when the first break of dawn seeped into the stained-glass windows of the Gryffindor tower. Though his body remained lifeless in his bed, his mind felt as though it had been working all night, an exhaustive revolving of ideas and schemes, like the muggle toy train his father had brought home one Christmas years ago. With fast-turning wheels and a small but mighty motor, it was jinxed never to stop circling their living room floor.

For a week, it had been like this, the wrestling between his pillows and sheets, his mind never fully letting go into the peace of the unconscious darkness, constantly interrupted by an eruption of nerves so overcoming that he considered on a past night that perhaps he had been jinxed just like that toy train.

Surrounded by the floral tapestry of his bedframe curtains, his ceiling provided the only distraction from his thoughts. He watched, just as he had for many mornings now, the light begin to claim his dormitory ceiling, the window forming geometric shapes that danced above his head like a strange landscape painting.

When the scene before him wasn't enough, he reminded himself of the facts that had become the bane of his existence: the middle of June, one week before exams, two weeks before the end of the school year feast, nine days since he had been properly in Eve's presence, six days left before…

At the thought of Eve, a warm sensation washed over George and momentarily soothed his tension, like gaining the comfort of a blanket or taking the first sip of tea. His mind formed an image of her in bed, in a room he had never laid eyes on despite his knowledge of seemingly every inch of the castle they shared together. He imagined her sheets were dappled with yellow hues to match her house colors and maybe her curtains as well. There would be a plant on her bedside table that she diligently cared for, though in his fatigue, George couldn't imagine which type of plant, perhaps something harmless and with a spouting of flowers. And beside the pot would be her sketch pad, ready at all hours of the night to be sanctified by her inspiration. This detail he was sure of.

Was she awake already? George wondered to himself. Was she the first to jump out of bed to greet the day, or did she let a more cheerful dormmate lead morning pleasantries? And what did she wear to bed? A matching sleeping set or a disordered combination of old t-shirts and pajama bottoms? He had never woken up beside Eve, always their late-night rendezvous cut short by badgering dormmates and endless castle curfews, but the thought of it again sent a wave of warmth over him, but this time, it was far more profound and precisely lingered.

The imagined scene drew a memory from him, still fresh and vibrant in his mind, of Eve in this very bed with him almost two weeks prior. It came back to him at all once, the two of them alone together, her laying under him, her long dark hair sprawled around her head like a crown, her hands grazing the cold expanse of his back. George's fingers twitched at the sensation of memory: his hands tracing her curves, defined with strong muscle but with skin soft as silk, her eyes fluttering shut as his hands worked their way down, her mouth breathing a sigh of relief when his hand found where it was wet for him.

George had been with other girls before, but it had never been like that. Never had they looked at him like that or emanated such sounds at the most innocent of his touches. Never had they been Eve. The memories of those past girls remained obscure and lifeless in George's mind now, as if it had happened to another version of him. That version, of course, ceasing to exist the moment he had sunk into her. Another George had been reborn by the morning.

Or maybe, George considered still, the change had occurred in him the moment she laid eyes on him in the greenhouse last year. The moment when she saw him for the first time, when she really saw him when he ceased to be just a boy she went to school with, and instead, a version of someone who could be something more to her.

But that 'more' seemed to be running out, losing grip of George's mind and leaving a scattered mess of anxious what-ifs and worst-case scenarios for him to shift through every night.

Pain.

That's what also came with the thought of Eve now.

And as if materializing his thoughts into reality, a low creak came from the left side of his bedframe, just behind the view of his curtains. A few creaks quickly became the pattering of feet around the room and then a rustling of objects moving across the hard wooden floor.

George knew the sound of his twin brother. After living by his side for 18 years, the music of Fred's existence was seared into George's mind as if it played as a chorus to the music of his own existence. It would not be a morning in George's life without the sound of Fred's morning: the squeak of his bedframe, the slow dragging feet amongst the room, the ripping of delivered parcel mouths, the opening of wooden boxes. Every sound promised a new day of formulating ideas, executing plans, and new toils of resistance for him and his twin to unfold upon the unsuspecting castle below. But what was to become was bigger than anything the twins had done yet.

"Oi, not wanking it, are you?"

Fred's pathetic attempt at a whisper did not come in the least bit of a surprise to George, nor the reveal of half of his twin's face through the edge of his curtain, Fred's expression bright and eager, like a child waking his parents on Christmas day.

George faced his twin with a disheveled look.

"And if I was?"

Taking his question as merely rhetorical, Fred opened George's curtains entirely in one sweeping motion of his hand, allowing the morning light to invade George's vision fully. Blinking, he watched as Fred bent to pick up one of the boxes scattered around their dormitory floor and place it beside George on his bed.

"I've counted 20 spider sky crawlers and 15 canary crackers."

George glanced at the box of fireworks and then back at Fred, confusion forming in his expression.

"We ordered 25 canary-"

"-crackers, yeah, I know. Slimly business Mr. Longfellow has running. At least we have extra screaming spacers from last year."

George nodded thoughtfully, his mind threading a narrow path between prank business and his increasing fragility. Fred studied his brother's face, his mind turning its own thoughts, separate from George but still deeply entwined, like they shared the other half of each other's brains.

"Nervous?" Fred asked, his tone casual, though his eyes taking an expectant stare over George's reply.

"No," George quickly retorted, and with a matching easy tone, his eyes glancing at the box of fireworks again. His face raised into a slight grin.

For a second longer, Fred stood there reading George's expression, studying his twin's matching eyes and slightly upturned mouth. When he finally found a genuine nature in it, he smiled himself and grabbed the box, returning it to another hazardous spot on the floor.

Reserving the same casual tone as before, Fred turned his attention to George again. Fred, the other half of George's brain, spoke again amid the silence.

"You know she'll understand, right?"

George met his brother's eyes, the twins holding a long stare of understanding, their secret language unraveling in the stillness.

Fred's gaze was unwavering, a pleading of hope for his brother to reason with the reality of their plan and the judgment of the girl he knew his brother loved. And George, identical in not only face but unrelenting obstinacy, returned it with an intense uncertainty, a look that said, "I don't believe you, brother."

A loud groan erupted across the room, interrupting the twins' silent staring. There came another loud groan and then a rustling of sheets. The boys turned in the direction Lee Jordan's bed, where their dormmate was wrestling in his quilt like a creature caught in a net. After another moment, his legs untangled and sprang from under his covers, and the boy looked between the twins with tired, half-hooded eyes.

"Lads, please tell me it's Sunday."

"Monday," the twins replied in unison.

Lee's arrival into the conscious world promptly ended any further discussion on George's quiet unraveling, though he felt Fred's lingering glances throughout their morning routine as if, at any second, Fred anticipated his brother to explode like the fireworks now shoved under their beds. A patient longing for detonation.

By the time the boys stumbled down the stairs of the Gryffindor tower, the common room was already buzzing with the traditional commotion of the impending school year. Textbooks and scrolls of parchment littered every space that could be considered usable as a desk, while bodies of restless, blurry-eyed students occupied every flat surface they deemed malleable enough as a seat.

George glanced at the familiar scene before him with the same look he had given every year before: slightly bored and entirely unimpressed.

Final exam times had never been of much interest to George and his twin. The boys had always gotten by on perfectly executed procrastination, held together by a natural talent for magic that often made their more ambitious academic peers glower in jealousy and vague suspicion. But this year was different, as, by the new year, George and his brother had decided to rid themselves of the responsibility of final exams for their final year at Hogwarts, choosing to present their academic achievements in what they deemed a far more valuable imprint on the school.

Beside him, Fred nudged one of the lifeless bodies on the sofas, causing them to stir and dangerously sway a stack of books they had resting on the arm of their chair.

"Oi, Granger, don't you have potions right now?"

At Fred's question, Hermione reanimated back to life in astonishing haste, her eyes widening in disbelief while her arms flailed out beside her, causing the tower of books to topple over and land in disarray on the floor around her.

"Surely I didn't doze off-" Hermione began, checking first her watch before eyeing franticly at the giant grandfather clock across the room.

She looked back down at her wrist and then up again, studying the sight of the room before her. Slowly realizing the early morning hour, she let out a sigh and leaned down, beginning to pick her books back up.

"Amusing," she muttered under her breath.

When George and the other seventh-year boys finally strolled in, the Great Hall was in a similar state to the common room. Various breakfast plates were pushed aside, and students from all houses leaned over books, scribbling on scraps of parchment with one hand while shoveling food into their mouths with the other.

Taking their usual seats in an unmarked middle space at their house table, the boys began filling their plates leisurely, as if blissfully unaware of the academic turmoil filling the morning air.

"Looks to be the start of a lovely day," Fred declared in false cheerfulness to no one in particular, reaching for the toast dish.

Sitting across from him, Angelina Johnson glanced up, ensuring Fred noticed her eye roll before promptly returning to her Herbology textbook.

In what had become a ritual for George when he sat down for meal time, he began to scan the length of the Hufflepuff table across the hall, his eyes searching for the familiar pattern of Eve's dark curls.

When he finally spotted her, the sight alone caused his stomach to pinch into a sharp knot. The anxiety that had greeted him in the early morning hours returned to reclaim his body.

Though her profile was unmistakable to him, Eve's face was slightly obscured by a roll of parchment she held between her hands. Her head moved ever so slightly as she read the lines. After a moment, George watched as she slightly shook her head before lowering the parchment from her gaze, her expression unreadable. Dismay? Concern? Minor judgment?

She handed the scroll to Louis Dawson, who sat across from her, his back only in view to George, but his athletic stature and sandy blonde hair were evident. The pair exchanged words, entirely inaudible to George, but he recognized the usual schoolwork consultation between friends. By the look of consolation growing on Eve's face, George assumed the work being evaluated was Dawson's.

Sat beside Eve, Douglas Dempsie turned his direction to the pair, saying something that caused Eve's expression to rise, her mouth upturning and falling open. She's laughing now, and George is sure he can hear a faint echo of it throughout the room, though the melody only amplifies in his memory.

The muscles in George's chest tighten, his heart stirring uncomfortably, and he turns away to look over the scene of bodies beyond her, blurry and unfamiliar.

George's mind collapses into a memory from the month before.

He and Fred are alone in their dormitory. His brother is sitting on a bed, vials filled with murky blue and green liquid dappled around the sheets. George is pacing the room, stopping ever so often to sigh and scratch his head.

"I don't see what's the big deal in telling her."

It's Fred's turn to sigh. He takes one of the vials in his hands, turning over the glass to watch the water shine under the glow of the afternoon sun. He glances up at George, who has started pacing again.

"I've told you, it isn't a smart move for us. This is something we have to think about, George. This isn't some second-year toilet prank."

"She's kept our secrets before."

Fred rolled his eyes at this retort, though his brother didn't catch it, already turned to face the window behind him.

"This isn't about that," Fred began, dropping the vial he had been holding and watching it land back on his sheets beside the others. "You're talking about this like I don't know Eve. Mate, can you sit down? You're starting to make me nervous."

George crossed the room and sat on his bed, his eyeline at Fred now. He said nothing, though, a slight child-like pout growing on his expression. Fred took notice of this and threatened another eye roll.

"It's not about trust. It's about strategies, which Eve, this time, doesn't need to play a part in. It's not smart, and frankly, at this point, not safe either."

At the mention of Eve's safety, George's hardened expression faulted.

"I know that, but-"

"You want to tell Eve about our plan? Okay, fine. Do it. But you know, the second we leave she's going to be one of the first people Umbridge sends up to that pink office for questioning. People know you two are together, maybe not everyone, but word gets around."

Fred paused for a second, creating a dramatic flair in the otherwise typical brotherly row.

"Word has also been getting around about Umbridge's interrogation techniques… We know Eve can keep a secret but what good is that if Umbridge slips her some veriraserum?"

George's thoughts began to form an image of Eve sitting in Umbridge's office, poised yet starkly alone, a painted pink hand pointing a wand at her and a spiked tea bubbling on the desk before her. His stomach began to turn as Fred continued this ostensibly well-prepared lecture.

"Curfews, and detentions, and getting kicked out off of quidditch, okay. But what's next? Umbridge has dismissed teachers already; students are even easier to get rid of."

All at once, George sat up from his languid position on his bed as if stricken finally with the gravity of his brother's words.

"Eve's muggleborn," he managed to slowly spit out.

Fred let out a deep cackle from his throat that echoed throughout the walls of the room, his exasperation filling the air.

"Oh, so now you've finally started to get it."

George was silent. His anxious feelings remained, but growing now was another feeling, embarrassment maybe. Or worse, plain stupidity. Fred read this all carefully on his brother's face.

"Blimey, and you're supposed to be the voice of reason between the two of us. Things really have gotten grim."

For some reason, George couldn't remember what he said after this. But Fred's words seared into his memory, imprisoning his doubts and fears within his mind with no resolution in sight besides what was already to be the inevitable. He would not tell Eve. He couldn't. No matter how much the guilt and worry tore into him every night. In his head, the words came again: six more days until…

Bell chimes pierced through George's eardrums, momentarily rattling his daydream before he realized the clocktower had just alerted the morning hour. He looked down at his uneaten toast and then, as if compelled by an imperceptible force, towards the direction of the Hufflepuff table.

Eve was already looking at him when he found her in the sprawl of students again, her expression soft but wavering in perplexity. She raised her eyebrow slightly when George finally caught her eye. How long had she been staring at him? What had she seen in his face?

All at once, Eve smiled, her dark eyes squinting ever so slightly and a small dimple forming on the right side of her cheek. George loved that dimple, the way it was singular and absolute in her expression, existing only on her special face and forming only, in his mind, just for him.

The irresistible expression took hold of him, an incantation of magic George knew of only Eve to possess. He smiled back, broad and sincere, though traces of sadness stained the gimmer of his eyes, noticeable only to those most expert in his countenance. The question clung to George's mind as he held her gaze. Would Eve notice?


Author's Note: Only a few chapters left... slowly but surely this story will be finished. I've had quite a few readers ask for a George POV chapter and I ended up finding the idea rather interesting. It's a bit short, but hey, this is Eve's story after all.