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“You know how some people are allergic to animals? Do you think some animals can be allergic to us?”
George had been on the verge of sleep, lying with his head in Dream’s lap, lulled into relaxation by the fingers combing gently through his hair. They were sitting in the shade of an old beech tree beside the lake, making the most of the first properly warm day they’d had all year.
“What?” George asked groggily with his eyes still closed, his sleep-addled brain not quite catching up to whatever strange train of thought Dream had decided to pursue today.
“Like, what if you had a cat, and it was allergic to you? It wouldn’t even be able to tell you, it would just live out its life suffering because of you and you wouldn’t even know about it.”
“You think too much,” George mumbled in response, blearily opening his eyes so as to reach up a finger to Dream’s face and give him an affectionate bop on the nose. Except, Dream ducked out of the way, meaning that George missed entirely and instead poked him right in the eye.
Dream gave an immediate yelp of pain, withdrawing his hand from George’s hair to press it over his injured eye — a pointless, ineffective attempt at soothing the pain. George met Dream’s glare with a brief, exaggerated expression of sympathy, before taking a grape from the basket beside them and popping it into his mouth.
“I hope you choke,” Dream grumbled, but when George laughed, Dream couldn’t help but let the scowl fall from his face, the harsh edge of his brows melting into something far softer.
“Want one?” George asked, taking another grape and holding it close to Dream’s lips. Dream opened his mouth, allowing George to place the fruit on his tongue. The angle was slightly awkward, with George still resting his head atop Dream’s thighs, but Dream leaned forward to lessen the strain on George’s wrist.
George smiled at the action, appreciating Dream’s attentiveness more than he could ever put into words.
Over the months that they had spent getting to know each other, George had quickly come to realise that Dream loved openly. That much was obvious to everyone, especially since Dream had managed to persuade George into enacting the cliché of a post-match kiss in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, after Slytherin’s most recent victory against Hufflepuff.
Publicly showcasing his affection was definitely new to George, but he had recently found that he wasn’t as opposed to it as he had originally thought. He was fully aware that this was probably because Dream was the one he was holding hands with in the hallways, Dream who was sneaking over to the Ravenclaw table at mealtimes to spoon feed him dessert, Dream who made sure to set up his telescope beside George’s every astronomy lesson so that they had the opportunity to hold each other under the stars.
Dream loved loudly, George knew that. It was one of his favourite things about his boyfriend, in fact. But, there was something about the silent acts of adoration that he couldn’t help but appreciate just as much. Only Dream would pay such close attention to him so as to notice every possibility of slight discomfort. The twinge of pain in George’s wrist would have only lasted for a fraction of a second even if Dream hadn’t moved to accommodate for it, but he did so anyway. His care enveloped George like an overly large patchwork quilt, made up of thousands of tiny moments, lovingly stitched together into a blanket of reverence that George honestly wouldn’t mind suffocating under.
"What're you thinking about?" Dream asked, his voice gentle and the accompanying touch across George's forehead just as soft.
His fingers pushed back George's hair from where it had blown into his eyes, before letting the tips of them trace down the side of George's face, over his cheek and along the curve of his jaw.
Then, after a moment's pause — in which he brushed his thumb over George's bottom lip — Dream's fingers retraced their path, trailing back upwards over George's skin to resume their prior position, tangled in his hair. At this, George hummed in approval, and let his eyes slip shut as Dream’s fingertips traced swirling patterns over his skull.
"Love you," George mumbled.
“Love you too, even if you’re an idiot that pokes me in the eye and doesn’t answer my questions.”
“Ask me another one.”
Dream paused for a moment, carefully considering his next words. The motion of his hand also stopped, and George pushed his head up into Dream’s stationary palm, like a fluffy-haired cat in dire need of attention — preferably in the form of headpats, kisses and more grapes.
Dream laughed, and resumed stroking through George’s hair. He then leaned forwards and pressed a featherlight kiss to George’s forehead, causing his eyes to flutter shut, only retreating by a few inches before asking, “Do you remember the first time we came to this spot?”
“Dream,” George said indignantly, squinting his eyes open to meet Dream’s gaze, in the hopes of conveying even a fraction of his exasperation, “Do you really think that little of me?”
“Well, I mean, your memory isn’t the best—” Dream started, his tone humorous, but infected with detectable strains of genuine insecurity.
George sat up abruptly, eliciting a short-lived noise of confusion from Dream that was silenced as soon as George was able to turn around and press their lips together.
Reassurance. It was all he could offer. He tied their tongues together, in the hopes that it might come close to showing what he truly wanted — to entwine their souls. Sometimes, Dream seemed to forget how badly George desired to hold both their hearts in the palm of his hand, to lose himself in the synchronised beats until he could feel absolutely nothing else. The only thing George could do was remind him, over and over, again and again, for as long as Dream needed him to.
George’s hands had been cupping Dream’s face for the entirety of their embrace, and he kept them there even after they parted.
“I remember the things that matter,” George whispered, tracing a thumb over Dream’s lower lip as he spoke, and followed the curve of it as it was drawn upwards in a smile, “Of course I remember our first kiss, you idiot, it’s one of the most important memories I have.”
“I knew that you wouldn’t have forgotten,” Dream murmured back, speaking carefully with minimal movement of his lips, to ensure that George wouldn’t remove his finger from them, “It’s just that sometimes everything seems too easy, you know? Like, you’re perfect and somehow I’m dating you, something is just bound to go wrong.”
“I think,” George started slowly, leaning forwards slightly as he spoke and easing them downwards, so that they lay side by side in the grass, “That you need to shut up, stop overthinking, and eat more grapes.”
Dream buried his face in the crook of George’s neck, and he felt Dream smile against his skin before a kiss was placed in the same spot, and a second slightly above it. Then, a brief pause, and a third followed, as though Dream couldn’t resist going back in for more.
“I think you’re perfect too, you know,” George told him, voice so soft that it was a wonder his words weren’t carried away by the wind, no matter how gentle it may have been.
“You can’t,” Dream mumbled, still unrelenting in his quest to kiss every part of George's neck that was available to him.
"But I do. You’re perfect, Dream.”
George felt something wet fall onto his neck, running downwards until it reached his robes and was absorbed into the dark material. It was quickly followed by another, this time accompanied by a sob, muffled by the same fabric that his tears had disappeared into.
George pressed a kiss to the crown of Dream's head, using the hand he had tangled in Dream's hair as leverage to hold him close to his chest.
"You're the most caring person I've ever met," George started, hoping that somehow, through the vibrations of his vocal chords, Dream might be able to taste the genuine honesty that his words were coated in. Perhaps, if Dream decided to rest his head a little lower, to press his ear over the skin of George's chest, he might also hear the love that pulsed through George's body with each beat of the full heart within it.
Dream opened his mouth in protest, but was interrupted before he could say anything at all.
"You're funny, you give the most amazing cuddles, and I suppose you're an alright kisser too."
This elicits a scoff from Dream, and George only smiles wider before continuing.
"You actually have the softest hair of any person on this planet, and I don't know what kind of enchantments you're putting in it, but this is my formal request for you to never stop—"
“Enchantments?” Dream asked, his voice flitting somewhere between amusement and downright betrayal. By this point, his brief fit of tears had ceased, though their shiny tracks still sparkled down his cheeks. George cupped Dream’s face with his hands, gently brushing his thumbs beneath both of Dream’s eyes in a slow sweeping motion, following with a fleeting kiss on each of Dream’s closed eyelids.
“You heard me. I’ve got you all figured out, you can’t hide anything from me,” George said smugly, winding the small curls at the base of Dream’s neck around his fingers, “There’s no way this can be natural, unless you’re secretly part veela or something, that would actually explain a lot.”
“My grandmother was,” Dream said simply, and upon seeing George’s bewildered expression, he added, “A veela.”
George’s hands went still in Dream’s hair, and his eyes roamed over Dream’s features as though he was suddenly seeing him in a whole new light, which — Dream supposed — he technically was.
“And you never told me?” George marvelled.
“It’s not really the type of thing that comes up in conversation—"
When Dream spoke, George could sense the uncertainty in his tone, the worry that his looks may be seen as lesser, now that George knew it wasn’t conventionally ‘natural’ — George was determined to prove to him just how wrong he was. Knowing the truth of his boyfriend’s heritage did nothing to detract from the beauty he held, and held so gracefully at that.
"I don’t think you quite understand, but you just got about four times more perfect.”
"Shut up,” Dream mumbled, avoiding George’s gaze as a rose-quartz blush blossomed on his cheeks, yet still leaning forwards ever so slightly so that their noses bumped together, a tender collision that communicated volumes of unvoiced gratitude.
“Fine, if you insist.” George smiled, then connected their lips in what he intended to be a brief peck — a gracious attempt at saving the innocent eyes of a nearby group of second years, they were still in a public space, after all. Dream, however, didn’t quite seem to have understood the assignment, and chased George’s lips when he made an attempt to pull away.
He tried once more, albeit half-heartedly and unsuccessfully, to pull away, before finally giving up and giving in to the feeling of Dream. Dream’s lips, yes, but equally the length of their bodies pressed together in their entirety, and Dream’s hand cupping his face, the other resting on the small of his back. Everything was warm, gentle and delicate, and George was still unsure how he’d managed to live happily for so many years previously, all without feeling anything remotely as good as this.
They eventually parted, albeit heavy with reluctance, and it only took seconds before George was leaning back in, pressing yet another kiss below Dream’s ear and whispering into it, “Ask me another question.”
This time, Dream's response was immediate.
“What d’you think would happen if, hypothetically , two people that were already in love—” Dream paused, and George nudged his side, urging him to continue, “If two people, who were already in love, drank love potions together?”
“Something makes me feel like this isn’t purely hypothetical.”
“I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about,” Dream said playfully, through a smile that clearly conveyed his dishonesty.
“We could test it, if you wanted to.”
At this, Dream’s eyes widened, in a way that some would interpret as shock, but George knew him well enough to realise this wasn’t the case, not at all. Dream was surprised, yes, but not at George’s response, instead at the fact that his open-ended suggestion had been accepted so quickly, and that George was so easily convinced to try it out. Usually, due to excessive stubbornness, convincing George to do anything new took extended periods of time and a lot of bribery — often in the form of chocolate frogs, kisses, Dream’s hoodies, and one time, a game of Wizard’s chess.
Dream scrambled to his feet, unwilling to let this rare opportunity slip through his fingers, and offered a hand to help George to his feet. George took it without hesitation, though with a raised eyebrow and the corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a knowing grin.
“So, when you said hypothetically, you actually meant right this second?” George asked, as Dream dragged him by the hand across the grounds, towards the castle doors, “I hate to burst your bubble baby, but we don’t even have any love potions.”
“I might have, um, got some prepared in advance,” Dream mumbled, suddenly finding his shoes to be a great point of interest, as the blush he was still sporting began to make a permanent home on his cheeks.
“You planned this?” George asked incredulously, his smug smile growing even wider when Dream took a pair of small glass vials from his pocket, each filled with a pearl-coloured liquid that George immediately recognised as amortentia. He slipped them back into his pocket fairly quickly — love potions were banned substances at Hogwarts after all, and it would be quite a shame for them to be confiscated before they could be put to use — though George's gaze remained fixed on the spot where the bottles had disappeared into Dream's robes.
George barely registered where Dream was leading him, following him blindly until they came to a stop in front of an empty stretch of wall on the seventh floor.
"The room of requirement?"
"I figured it would be the best place to go, so we can make sure it's just us, no interruptions," Dream replied, with a look in his eyes that George had come to recognise as adoration.
There was a small smile on Dream's lips that hadn't left all morning, and it grew even wider as he tugged George towards the invisible door. He looked so happy. His smile was so bright, so big, that it seemed if it grew any wider it would split clean in two, golden joy spilling from it in great excess, a cascade of brilliant smiles and sparkling laughter that seemed to never end, that George never wanted to end.
George would say that in this moment, Dream was happier than he had ever seen him before — but that would make him a liar. He had seen Dream this happy before, on multiple occasions, but every time his memories failed to capture the true vibrancy of the real thing, meaning each time was just as precious as the first.
"You really have been thinking about this," George teased, and Dream only rolled his eyes, the blush from earlier still present on his face, and he began to pace up and down beside the wall, his face twisted in concentration.
Soon after, the door appeared and they both hurried inside, their excitement palpable in the way George tripped over his own feet, and Dream laughed at him as he shut the door behind them, with enough force for it to rattle in its frame.
The last time that they’d visited the room of requirement had been unplanned. Several months ago, they had arranged to meet in the dead of night, planning to sneak out of their respective dormitories and have a peaceful moment together, perhaps to hold hands on the astronomy tower and pretend to look at the stars, when, really, they both couldn’t keep their eyes off each other. Unfortunately, it didn’t end how they had hoped. Upon being caught and chased halfway around the castle by a very angry caretaker, they had been forced to hide together for several hours in a space no larger than a broom cupboard.
They (somehow) managed to escape without punishment, and with the added bonus of a very adrenaline-charged makeout session, George counted the night as a win. They had, however, come to a reluctant agreement that it probably shouldn’t happen again, though every night after that felt just a bit more lonely.
But now, standing in the room of requirement for the second time, it had completely changed. It was spacious, around the size of two master bedrooms, with soft rugs covering most of the wood-panelled floor. There were no windows, the only light in the room coming from a fireplace against the left wall, crackling quietly as it cast a gentle orange glow onto the loveseat and chessboard beside it. There was a queen-sized bed too, headboard against the far wall, perfectly centred, with a bookcase on one side, and a small cat bed on the other. Scattered along the walls were countless paintings and photos, though the images within them were blurry — if George squinted, he could kid himself into thinking they were pictures of them, of himself and the boy currently holding onto his hand like he was going to disappear if he dared to let go.
Maybe he didn’t have to kid himself. Maybe the pictures were really of them, so far undiscovered snapshots of their future together, stretching so many aeons ahead of them that they couldn’t quite see the final destination.
It was perfect, scarily so. Neither of them had ever stepped foot anywhere like this before, yet everything was so unsettlingly familiar, from the bouquet of flowers perched atop the fireplace’s mantlepiece, to the way Dream’s eyes shone in the reflection of the flames.
Perhaps they were always meant to end up here, eventually.
“How do you want to do this?” Dream spoke, his words gentle enough that the tranquillity of the room remained untouched.
“Why are you asking me? This was your idea, I’d be surprised if you didn’t have a detailed schedule and to-do list prepared weeks in advance, you sound like you’ve been thinking about this for ages.”
Dream scoffed, bumping George’s shoulder with his own in playful retaliation, but denied absolutely nothing.
“I mean, I had some ideas…” He trailed off, blushing in the face of George’s triumphant smile.
They were absentmindedly making their way towards the loveseat by the fire as they talked, eventually sitting down so close together that they easily could have fitted another person beside them, despite how small the sofa was in the first place.
The bottles in Dream’s pocket clinked together as he sat down, the quiet sound of glass on glass. It was barely audible, but George whipped his head towards it as though responding to the sound of a gunshot.
“You nervous?”
George didn’t respond — he didn’t need to. Instead, he reached into Dream’s pocket and withdrew the vials from within it, handing one back to Dream before pulling the stopper out of his own.
Almost immediately, he was hit with what could only be described as the scent of ambrosia, something fresh and comforting that wrapped around his conscience like a weighted blanket, bundled up in warmth and the distinct essence of Dream.
From the mesmerised — almost awestruck — look Dream was giving him, George knew that he had just had a similar experience. It was with that, and the confidence boost it provided, that George brought the bottle to his lips, tipping his head back and downing its contents in one.
When Dream didn’t immediately do the same, George tapped his fingers against Dream’s chin, forcing him to look up and tear his eyes away from where they had previously been fixated on the bobbing of George’s Adam’s apple.
Their eyes met, though Dream’s fell shut as he brought his own bottle to his lips.
George didn’t waste a second, knocking the vial to the floor the moment it was empty, not bothering to watch as the bottle rolled away from them, hitting the wall with a quiet clink that fell upon deaf ears.
An owl hooted from somewhere outside, another log fell in the fireplace, and George pressed his forehead against Dream’s. Their breaths fell warm against each other’s lips, close enough to lean forward a few inches and swallow them whole. Something like devotion coursed through their veins, ever present, and only amplified by the amortentia that encased it.
It only took a few moments for the minimal distance between them to feel like too far, in which George tried and failed to move them so that they were laying horizontally on the sofa — it was much too small to fit even a single occupant in that position, let alone both of them. So the obvious solution, in George’s amortentia-clouded eyes, was to forcefully drag both of them to the ground, sending them tumbling to the floor in a mess of tangled limbs.
There was something about being wrapped up in each other’s bodies like this — lying on the floor of a room that could easily have been their own, the blood in their veins laced with liquid obsession — that made everything seem divine.
Dream’s body completely encased George’s, laying on top of him with his slack lips pressed against pale collarbones. Their breathing was slow, deep, and both of their chests rose and fell in accordance with the movement of the other — a natural give and take, a perfect balance.
“Your hair is so soft,” George murmured, unable to resist taking the strands between his fingers yet again.
“You told me that earlier,” Dream whispered back, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to George’s shoulder, where his robes had slipped and left skin exposed.
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
“You’re so stupid.” A pause. “Kiss me?”
George gave him a disdainful look — or rather, as much of a disdainful look as he could muster, whilst wanting to do nothing but hold Dream close enough so that he could crawl inside his skin.
“Please?”
“Only because you asked nicely,” George sighed, barely getting the chance to smile before Dream was slotting their mouths together, already trailing his tongue over George’s bottom lip in a desperate bid to be closer.
It didn’t take long for the majority of their clothes to be shed — skin to skin contact seemed to be one of the only ways to satiate the burning need for closeness that was threatening to devour them both.
Though, despite the typical nature of this kind of intimacy — the kind in which nearly all skin was bared, both bodies too consumed by feverish desire to even consider a moment of separation — there was nothing remotely sexual about it. Neither of them harboured any other intent than continuing this course of mutual worship, and even when they moved to lay together on the bed, they did nothing but trade more lazy kisses and trace their hands over every part of each other that they could reach.
In a way, the amortentia hadn’t changed that much at all. It hadn’t made them love more than they did already, as that was nearly impossible. It had simply made them incapable of feeling anything else, and that alone was enough.
At some point, the fire in the fireplace had burnt itself out, save for the few embers that still glowed feebly. Under the cover of darkness, George’s fingertips traced the outline of Dream’s lips, and Dream’s arms tightened around George’s waist.
When he next spoke, it was in syllables that were dripping with adoration, “When we get married, I want every day to be like this.”
“Drinking love potions and hiding away from the rest of the world?” Dream asked, his voice equally as soft. George’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the lack of light, but he didn’t need to be able to see Dream’s face to know the exact way in which his fond smile curved on his lips.
“As long as it’s with you.”
Dream tilted his head and placed a kiss to George’s cheekbone.
There was no discussion of how it may have been far too early in their lives to be considering such great steps in their relationship — the words ‘you’re it for me, I can’t see myself with anyone else’ had already been spoken, on another night not dissimilar to this one.
“Have you reconsidered that Madam Pudifoot’s date yet?” Dream asked, not expecting any kind of affirmative answer. He asked only to keep George talking, to relish in the sound of his voice for a few moments more, even if the words being spoken weren’t the ones he wanted to hear. But, not for the first time that day, George surprised him.
“Next valentines day?”
Dream barely stopped himself from laughing, a mixture of surprise and satisfaction, safe in the knowledge that George was going to immediately regret that as soon as the amortentia wore off. But, as stubborn as George was, Dream knew that he was a man of his word and would honour this promise — even if it had been made during a love potion induced spout of sappiness.
That night, they fell asleep still entirely wrapped in one another, and on February 14th, they kissed with the taste of a shared cup of coffee on their tongues.