𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐑 [g. weasley]

chapter nine

CHAPTER NINE

"ARE YOU DONE? I CAN'T HEAR a thing with all your talking while prefects are waltzing by in the corridor."

     George kneeled to the door and placed his left ear on its wood. And I watched him do whatever it was that he was doing. His nose scrunched, little freckles churning into a hazy constellation as he tapped lightly onto his tucked-in leg.

     After a few seconds, he beckoned me to follow him. And grudgingly, I did. We sprinted past dark halls, the faint padding sound of our feet following us. Neither of us had a wand, and I wondered the source of my sudden foolish courageousness bursting through my skin.

     Another turn, and we would be at the gates of the library, I suspected. It was tricky to distinguish which corridor was which in the sudden darkness hovering through the castle grounds.

     And just as I thought all was well, a faint light began to emerge from the depths of the corridor.

     "Fuck," muttered George, almost as silent as the breeze sweeping the floors, and grabbed me by the waist, slamming us into a far darker hall just as swiftly.

     The darkness felt heavy, oppressive, almost ghostly. As I stood there, the absence of light seemed to weigh down on me, making my stomach churn as George tightened his hold on my waist, pulling me closer, our chests touching as very little space was left to breathe, to stand, and I could not help but feel a chill run down my spine.

     My heart thumped deafeningly loud in my ears as I watched the prefect walk by us. Then he left, and I let my head fall to George Weasley's chest with a huff. A deep breath, and my thoughts scrambled back as relief washed over me. Then I recognised that I was gripping his sweater as tight as he held my waist.

     I pushed him away in the beat of a second, for his touch was a fever, burning my skin and leaving little pickles of red. And I felt the touch of his fingertips gliding through my skin even in the absence of his hold, drinking the iciness of the dark and burning, and burning, and burning.

     It was like the feeling of vengeance, so easily acquired but not so easy to shed.

     It was not proper for my skin to grieve for the absence of his touch. For I, the presence of George Weasley should be an insult, and to want him — was a death wish. It isn't right, I thought. It isn't right! It isn't right!

     He wasn't right.

     Then my face burned red - with humiliation and anger. And I was suddenly convinced that the tingling feeling grumbling in my belly was anything but for George. Then, I was glad to be eloped by the drowning absoluteness of the darkness.

     "I reckon the coast is — er — clear," George's voice came out a whisper as he almost desperately waited for a response other than disgust to flicker my face.