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'a gallon of luck'
IMAGINE, earlier on in the day you had promised yourself that you'd finish your essay on sleekeazy's hair potion; a task that Professor Snape had set in preparation for the yule ball. Time flowed like cement. it had been approximately 1.5 hours of you sitting, parchment in hand staring out the window. You just couldn't get yourself to write the essay, studying was a long and gruesome task that is easier said than done.
A deep sense of equanimity washed over you as you fixed your gazed at the skyline-sliver lake. although you were only looking through a window, your view was quite pronounced. You could see the light dancing along the curves of the lake, and the life that teemed below.
"Oi," a fruity tone called from besides you, " A sickle for your thoughts?"
"A gallon?" you compromised, shifting your gaze to the angular boy standing to your right.
he sits down next to you. "only if you know who I am."
"Fred."
Fred turns away blushing and the room suddenly grows quiet, all that can be heard is the sweet chirping echoing out of the swallows, and the shuffling of Fred's feet as he turns to face you again.
"I'm George." he smirks with mirth, raising his eyebrows.
"No you're not." you hum.
"Okay fine." He surrenders, "You're right I'm Fred."
"I'm always right."
"Okay so whatcha thinking about then, Miss Right?"
"How hard and boring studying is." you mumble looking down at your lap.
"It seems you're not right here," Fred smiled, looking down at your essay, "It's not a hair removal potion, it just tames the hair!"
You blush a deep wine, scribbling down on your parchment. "Oh, thanks."
"Y'know I think I deserve a favour now."
"And what might that be, Mister Weasley?" You ask.
"Can you be my date to the yule ball?"
A sensation stretches through you're whole body; the feeling is so strange. Its as if you're floating but, your feet are in shackles, forcing your body to abruptly stop midair. The feeling is overwhelming but it has no boundaries, no length, no depth.
Your heart dances in your chest, Fred bites his lips, nervous for your response.
"Of course," you breathe, "But you still owe me a gallon."
