Burning Bridges * {George Weasley}

True About My Taste

And if anyone ever wondered why you did it,

You'd swear they'd never know you sold your soul

to the burning, burning, burning bridges.

- "Burning Bridges" (Jason Mraz)

*

I'm reluctant to start this account with the story of a shitty boyfriend. Shitty boyfriends have too many starring roles in too many stories as it is and I'm not particularly keen to contribute to that.

But when I untangle the thread of everything that happened between me and George Weasley, I continue to arrive at the same starting point. To pretend otherwise would be an outright lie—and if there's one thing that I like less than shitty boyfriends, it's an outright lie. So, I'll start with the truth, no matter how unpleasant I find it.

God. Barely a paragraph into this and it's already a mess.

Okay.

When the Yule Ball rolled around in the winter of my sixth year at Hogwarts, I was about to start a relationship with a new shitty boyfriend, a boy named Devereux from Beauxbatons. It is very important to note that his name is Devereux and not Dev. Do not shorten his name to Dev, even if the reason you are shortening it is because you are really enjoying the way that he is kissing your neck and your brain can't process the formation of additional syllables. He will stop whatever it is he is doing (in this case, kissing your neck) to explain that actually, he prefers to go by Devereux and it's really quite important that you understand all of the factors that led him to this Very Important life decision. You will give him several subtle cues indicating that you would like him to stop talking and resume kissing your neck; he will ignore all of them in favor of delivering his monologue.

Don't misunderstand me—I fully agree that he should have agency over what he is called. I only took issue with the fact that he refused to show the same courtesy to other people. Case in point: I had only ever referred to myself as Bea; and yet, he had only ever called me Beatrice.

When I pointed this out to him, he informed me that he preferred Beatrice because he thought Bea sounded rather common.

This sort of lack of consideration was only one of Devereux's many irritating or objectionable qualities.

At this point, you probably have a reasonable understanding of why Devereux was a shitty boyfriend. You are probably wondering why I said yes when he asked me to the Yule Ball in the first place, as he certainly is not the sort to hide his bad qualities—you will probably be appalled to learn that I continued to date him for two months following the Yule Ball. You are probably wondering what positive qualities persuaded me to overlook so many glaring deficiencies and red flags.

The answer is relatively simple: Devereux had sea green eyes, deep dimples, and dark curly brown hair. He was very good at kissing.

This effectively sums up why Devereux was a shitty boyfriend: the preceding paragraph was the extent of my attraction to him. I knew from the beginning that our relationship would fail. I knew that I would not feel sad about sending him on his way; I knew I would not sigh and think longingly of the time we spent together.

But I also knew that I would feel sad about the fact that I routinely made these stupid, self-destructive choices. I knew that I would feel sad about the wasted time. I knew that I would wonder if our fling was an excuse for some other deep-seated insecurity or inability to be happy.

So I suppose that is why when Fred Weasley began an obvious flirtation with Charlotte, I became a little overinvested in its success.

Well, wait, that's a rather narrow view of the situation. There were other reasons why it was important. Charlotte is my best friend. She is the sort of person who is so sensible so early on in life that you half expect her to be Minister of Magic before the age of twenty. It was no surprise when she made prefect—in fact, I suspect that decision had been made by the end of her first month at Hogwarts—and being Head Girl seemed similarly inevitable. Charlotte's innate sense of responsibility also extended to a rather monkish existence that included no dating or kissing during the school year.