The Interviewer • A George Weasley Fanfic

Make a Wish

MONDAY, JUNE 5th - 2:14 P.M.

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Jane's book was coming along quite well so far for her.

After endless outlining, planning, and likely over-complicated planning, she had already accomplished a rough draft of two beginning chapters, which was incredibly productive. She felt proud of her work so far and was thankful she wasn't all too distracted by her new and exciting London life.

Distractions. No, Jane didn't have many. None at all. Her book was going well, and that was that.

Never mind the fact that she found herself, against her control, staring at her nightstand telephone from her desk where she was supposed to be typing, awaiting a certain call from a certain someone.

Jane felt foolish. She didn't want to feel this way, but she did, and she both hated it yet somehow wasn't wanting it to go away; more specifically, she didn't want the late-night laughs and spontaneous visits to go away.

It was hard for Jane's fingers to resist typing George's name on the paper in front of her due to how often it was floating about her mind.

It was hard for Jane to trust again; herself and- well- men.

That's why she was so reluctant, and not to mention the fact that she came to London for a fresh start, an independent trip, a new beginning for a new project that seemed like it was floating onto the back burner where something else was being pushed into focus. Something else in the tall, disgustingly handsome redhead with an addictive laugh and a crooked smile department.

It had been about two weeks since she arrived in London, and Jane was now sitting at her desk, staring at her typewriter with her cheeks squished into her hands in frustration.

The third chapter didn't have a word written yet; she had her notes out on display for assistance, the bright window in front of her offering encouraging light, the occasional tick of her clock in the room. Nothing was helping her writer's block.

"Come on, think, think, think..." she slapped her forehead repeatedly.

Groaning loudly after a moment, she hung her head back over her chair and stared at the ceiling, close to giving up for the day. She felt unsuccessful having not written anything in twenty-four hours; it was a low for Jane Forrest.

Then the phone rang.

Her head jerked upwards and she scolded herself for it because she knew why it did.

Walking to the nightstand, she listened to the ring with anticipation and soon found her hand coiling around the phone and lifting it to her ear with an inhale.  

"I'm feelin' cooped up, let's go for a walk."

Jane began to smile and the breath held in her lungs was released through her nose quietly before she replied as casually as she could.

"Cooped up?" she said. "At your own work?"

"I don't know, it's stuffy, and crowded, and there's a ton of children in here that I'm going mad, Janey," George replied. "I think a six-year-old actually tried to bite me. Little shit."

Jane laughed. "You want to go for a walk, huh?"

"Yes, please. Please. Anything."

"You can't just leave Fred with the grunt work," Jane told him.

"Trust me, he can handle it," George responded. "Come on, it's a walk, it's good for you."

Jane chewed her bottom lip, glancing back at her desk and the typewriter that was making no progress on her third chapter.