The icy chill between them had lasted for weeks. Eleanor behaved as though George were nothing more than a ghost who happened to share her desk—if he was lucky. In Potions, her gaze swept over him like frost over a windowpane, and during every lesson they had together, she seemed to consider him beneath her attention, her silence colder than the dungeons they sat in.
Still, there were some small consolations—chief among them being the look of thinly-veiled horror on Professor Snape's face when he realised he would be lumbered with yet another Weasley for two more years.
"A miracle," Snape said darkly, narrowing his eyes at George. "A Weasley who isn't utterly incompetent. Pair up with Miss Seymour, Weasley."
George had barely sat down beside her when Eleanor turned and fixed him with a glare sharp enough to hex him on the spot. She then proceeded to ignore him so completely, he could almost convince himself he'd imagined her entirely.
"I've prepared some potions," Snape drawled, waving a hand at a collection of cauldrons set on the front desk, "that even you lot ought to be able to recognise—if only from the stains you've left behind over the years. Gather round."
The class shuffled forward as Snape gestured to a cauldron containing a liquid that looked suspiciously like tap water.
"Who can tell me what this is?" he sneered.
Eleanor's hand went up like an arrow.
"Yes, Miss Eleanor?"
"Veritaserum, Professor. It's colourless, odourless and forces the drinker to tell the truth."
Snape gave a slow, grudging nod. "Correct. Five points to Slytherin."
He moved on to a muddy, sludgy potion that looked as though it had been scooped out of the lake on a bad day.
"Mister Davies?"
"Polyjuice Potion," replied the Ravenclaw boy promptly. "Temporarily transforms the drinker into someone else."
Another reluctant nod. "Indeed. Five points to Ravenclaw."
The next cauldron shimmered faintly, like morning dew catching the sun. As the students edged closer, George caught a whiff of something strange and oddly personal—freshly polished broomsticks, toasted crumpets, and something that smelled a bit like Eleanor's hair when it had been drying in the sun last summer.
He hesitated, then raised his hand.
"Mister Weasley," said Snape, sounding as though the words might give him indigestion.
"Amortentia, sir."
Snape's expression twisted. "Yes. The most powerful love potion known to wizardkind. And among the most dangerous. In large doses, it can halt the heart."
They reached the last cauldron, a bubbling concoction that sparkled like liquid sunlight. Cedric Diggory stepped forward, brow furrowed in concentration.
"Mister Diggory?"
"Felix Felicis, sir. Liquid Luck."
Snape gave the faintest flicker of approval. "Correct. Five points to Hufflepuff. One of the most difficult potions to brew. A single misstep, and the results are useless—if not explosive."
He clapped his hands sharply.
"But before any of you begin dreaming of luck or love, let's see how you fare with the Draught of Living Death. Instructions are on the board. You'll be working individually. Try not to kill yourselves."
The class scattered to their stations like startled pigeons. Eleanor lit the fire beneath her cauldron with a flick of her wand and headed off to the ingredients cupboard without so much as a glance at George.
George took a steadying breath. He needed to focus. He was determined to do well, not just to prove himself to Snape—but also to her, though he'd never admit that out loud.
He double-checked each line of the instructions on the blackboard, fetched his ingredients with meticulous care, and only then began preparing his potion. At his side, Eleanor was already chopping valerian root with smooth, practiced movements.
George glanced at her, his pride a bitter weight in his chest. He wanted to say something, make her laugh, get her to look at him without that awful blankness—but he was still too angry, and far too proud.
It had only been a joke, hadn't it? The Sorting Hat prank on the first-year Hufflepuff. He'd meant no harm. But her words echoed in his mind like the rattle of a ghost in a draughty corridor.
You're supposed to be different.
He shook himself and focused on crushing the Sopophorous bean. He needed a silver dagger. Eleanor's gleamed on the edge of the desk.
"May I borrow your knife?" he asked, low and cautious.
Without so much as a word, she slid it across to him. Their fingers brushed—just for a moment—and Eleanor snatched her hand back as if scalded. Colour rose in her cheeks, and she bent over her cauldron with ferocious intensity.
George added the juice and stirred, counting precisely.
Seven times anti-clockwise. One time clockwise. Pause. Again. Don't muck it up.
His potion lightened to a satisfying shade of periwinkle. It matched Eleanor's—nearly. Hers was smoother, but his was respectable.
"Stop!" Snape's voice cracked across the dungeon like a whip. "Bottles. Now. Label them. Don't make me regret giving you glassware."
Eleanor moved with silent speed, filling a crystal bottle and placing it on Snape's desk with elegant efficiency. As she turned back, her eyes locked with George's.
There was a flicker—surprise? Anger? Something more?
But then she bit her lip, dropped her gaze, and strode out of the room with her bag slung over her shoulder like a shield.
George stared after her, the ache in his chest growing heavier with every step she took away from him.
Potions lessons were becoming intolerable. In other classes, he could half-ignore her. But standing next to her for two hours a week was agony. His heart was in a permanent state of distraction, and no one—not even Fred—seemed to notice.
"Merlin's pants, George," Fred said one evening, when George had nearly incinerated a letter to Ludo Bagman out of sheer frustration. "What's the matter with you?"
George didn't answer. He rolled over in bed, scowling at the shadows on the ceiling.
"I'm just hacked off about Bagman," he muttered. "That was our savings. The shop…"
Fred groaned. "Mate, it was your idea too. If that toad had paid up, we'd be opening shops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade by now."
"We'll sort it in the morning," George said, thumping his pillow.
The next morning dawned bright and bristling with excitement—the arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students was imminent. The Great Hall had been transformed into a riot of colour. Towering silk banners representing each house fluttered from the rafters. Red and gold lions, blue and bronze eagles, yellow and black badgers, and green and silver snakes glimmered like stained glass in the sunlight.
Behind the staff table, a massive banner displayed the Hogwarts crest: lion, eagle, badger, and snake encircling a bold, burnished letter H.
Fred and George dropped into their seats at the Gryffindor table.
"Bagman's due in tonight," said Fred, slicing into a sausage. "We'll just shove our letter into his hand if we have to. He's got to acknowledge it sometime."
George nodded grimly. "Yeah. We may be minors, but we're not daft. He can't keep avoiding us. It may be worthless, but we can try."
"Who's avoiding you?" asked a voice, and Ron dropped into the seat beside them with Harry and Hermione in tow.
"If only you were," Fred muttered.
Ron ignored him. "What's worthless?"
"That our nosy little brother is still breathing," George muttered.
Luckily, Harry changed the subject to the upcoming Tournament. George, half-listening, let his eyes wander to the Slytherin table. There she was—Eleanor, reading a novel propped against a teapot. Her head tilted just so, her hair cascading in dark waves.
Muggle literature again, probably. He remembered those summer conversations vividly.
George sighed and tuned back in as Harry asked a question.
"I asked McGonagall how the champions are picked," George said. "She told me to shut up and turn my raccoon into a footstool."
They chatted idly until Hermione launched into her usual campaign for house elf liberation.
"Have you ever even been in the kitchens?" George interrupted, exasperated.
"No, of course not—" she huffed.
"Well, we have," he said. "Loads of times. The house elves love it. They think they've got the best jobs in the world—"
Hermione tried to counter, but was drowned out by the whooshing arrival of the morning post.
As Harry, Ron and Hermione opened their letter, Fred leaned in.
"Sort yourself out, mate," he said quietly. "Tournament's coming. We need our heads straight if we're going to figure out how to cheat the age line."
George said nothing. His eyes had wandered again.
Eleanor was laughing at something Pucey had said. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and for a fleeting moment, George could almost smell jasmine and ink.
"Yeah, okay," he murmured.
Fred left to draft up a letter for Bagman. George slipped out the opposite way, following Eleanor.
He had no idea what he was going to say—but he knew he had to saysomething.
She led him all the way to the seventh floor. Her pace slowed before the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. George quickened his stride.
She spun around like a viper, her wand pressed against his throat.
"Weasel," she hissed. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to stalk dangerous Slytherins? Or do you sleep through Moody's lectures?"
George raised his hands in mock surrender. "And good morning to you, Your Grace."
She didn't smile. "What do you want, Gryffindork?"
"Ouch. That hurts."
"Answer the question."
He took a deep breath.
"I want to apologise. For the first-year thing. It was stupid, and cruel. I shouldn't have done it. And I definitely shouldn't have let Fred egg me on. I'm sorry."
Eleanor studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp and unreadable. George found himself caught in them—deep cedar brown, framed by lashes that could slice through armour.
"Apology accepted," she said finally, her voice cool but not cold. Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip, and then—just briefly—she smiled.
"Friends?" George offered his hand.
Eleanor raised a brow. "Can a Gryffindor really be friends with a Slytherin?"
She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving George blinking after her in the corridor, hand still outstretched.
He watched her go, his heart somewhere up near his throat.
"Well," he muttered. "At least she didn't curse my bits off."