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Gum that's been chewed for too long becomes tough and tasteless. The chewer’s jaw is left sore, so feels my head with the situation at hand. Sudden questions spark like a match on sandpaper but the flame dies before it can flourish because I remember that I’ve already thought up that question and the answer is just as disappointing as before. Joy is temporary. Happiness is a distraction. Stability is a lie. So feels my head.
“Would you please shut up? You’re being unreasonably dramatic over a canceled date.” Harry spins his head around from his desk in a most aggravated manner.
“How the hell do you know I’m being dramatic? I’m only writing in my journal!”
“I can hear your aggressive scribbles”
“Then go back up to your own dorm” you argue
“Well I don’t want to leave you alone when you’re so… erm… distraught”
“How gentlemanly. You’re a true Gryffindor” You make a sarcastic remark, “Although that is very kind, so thank you, but I can handle myself”
“Have it your way then.” He packs armloads of school work, unreliably rickety for a trip up the stairs. He turns to impart one last thing before leaving, “Maybe you should bring him something nice, like a piece of pie or something. If he has any appetite while ill.”
“Where am I to find a piece of pie? Dinner was hours ago.”
“The house elves, stupid.” he rolls his eyes
“That’s so far away”
“Love isn’t easy”
He at last leaves you in the common room, alone, with the wise words of a 15 year old boy ‘love isn’t easy’. What a proverb. They should put that on greeting cards. Nonetheless, he’s right. Georgie might appreciate something sweet. And no one should have to endure head splitting migraines and endless vomit without treats to ease the pain. So, after an arduous journey up and down stairs, sneaking past Filch in Harry’s invisibility cloak, and holding your breath every time a ghost saunters past. You reach the infamous pear portrait and tickle it until it opens, revealing house elves ecstatic to have a visitor. Their overwhelming hospitality smothers your sorrowful mood.
“Miss Student, how’d ya like a hot cuppa tea?” a timid voice inquires.
“Or a biscuit!” A loud one interrupts
“Or a slice of Pecan pie?” one kneading dough looks over her shoulder to ask.
“That, my friend, is exactly why I am here.” An inner que tells you you’ve missed your manners. You save it by saying, “and… of course to see how you lot are fairing!”
Their faces beam up with joy once again. A lot of socializing just for some pie, but it makes them happy.
Knock knock knock at his door.
“C’min” says a hoarse voice.
And there beside a bowl for emergency vomit lies a sickly, pale, George tucked in unkept blankets from head to toe.
“I dun’t wont you to see meh like this”, he carefully whispers as to not upset the mass of mucus lingering in his chest.
“Shh you don’t need to speak darling.” You crouch down to his languid body, “I brought you some pie, but don’t force yourself to eat it, k?”
“Aww.” He hums.
He’s gross, but love exceeds all things, so a forehead kiss is not as repulsive as would seem.
“I’m sorry”, he rolls his head over to look at you, “bout our date.”
“It’s fine, love. I’m sorry you don’t feel good.”
He reaches to hold your hand with all effort he can exert, “I was gonna take you to the show in hogsmeade. The acrobatics people.”
“That would have been nice.”
“And we were gonna go to the frozen yogurt place”
“Aww”
“And go look at the stars, or whatever lovey-dovey stuff you wanted to do.”
“Well don’t tell me cause we can still do all that when you feel better, and I want to still feel surprised by then.”
“Mmkay”
“Are you going to be okay tonight?”
“Mmm”, he answers. That’s not really an answer, but you know the reason he chose to be vague is probably because he wants to keep you in his company.
You sigh and lean over onto the bed from the seat you’ve taken beside his bed and lie your head on his chest while still holding his hand. His heart is beating rhythmically, as expected. His rhythm quickens as you let your torso melt upon him. His stomach makes weird gurgle noises that force you to quietly giggle to yourself.
“Are you going back to your dorm tonight, or are you gonna brave staying with me?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You know what I want you to do.”
“Good, cause that’s what I want to do too.”
“Can I borrow one of your shirts?”
“‘Course”
With that you pull your head off his chest to dig around to find whatever you deem worthy as bed clothes. From a pile on his chair of “not clean enough to be folded; not dirty enough to be washed”, you find an old t-shirt decorated in Gryffindor's colors. Obviously too big for you, otherwise it wouldn’t be comfortable.
Not to be dramatic, but you pull your sweater over your head effortlessly. It grabs strands of your hair and pulls them up only for them to fall back down, wispy and light like a feather. And your body, now silhouetted by dim candle light, reveals smooth skin and curves that could only ever be dreamed of. Still, nothing feels more awkward than undressing in front of someone, so instead of being the graceful entity you thought you were, you pull your shoulders up and in and legs strictly side by side and squeezed together, tense as can be.
“You’re so pretty”
“You’re the most prettiest thing I’ve ever seen”
You take a deep breath and try to relax the muscles you’ve realized were clenched. Turning to George, you smile, and whisper, “thank you, honey”.
Sliding on the t-shirt now, and adjusting it on your frame, you crawl beside him and kiss his cheek.
“I get to fall asleep next to the most beautiful girl in the world”
Gum that's been chewed for too long becomes tough and tasteless. The chewer’s jaw is left sore, so feels my head with the situation at hand. Sudden questions spark like a match on sandpaper but the flame dies before it can flourish because I remember that I’ve already thought up that question and the answer is just as disappointing as before. Joy is temporary. Happiness is a distraction. Stability is a lie. So feels my head.
“Would you please shut up? You’re being unreasonably dramatic over a canceled date.” Harry spins his head around from his desk in a most aggravated manner.
“How the hell do you know I’m being dramatic? I’m only writing in my journal!”
“I can hear your aggressive scribbles”
“Then go back up to your own dorm” you argue
“Well I don’t want to leave you alone when you’re so… erm… distraught”
“How gentlemanly. You’re a true Gryffindor” You make a sarcastic remark, “Although that is very kind, so thank you, but I can handle myself”
“Have it your way then.” He packs armloads of school work, unreliably rickety for a trip up the stairs. He turns to impart one last thing before leaving, “Maybe you should bring him something nice, like a piece of pie or something. If he has any appetite while ill.”
“Where am I to find a piece of pie? Dinner was hours ago.”
“The house elves, stupid.” he rolls his eyes
“That’s so far away”
“Love isn’t easy”
He at last leaves you in the common room, alone, with the wise words of a 15 year old boy ‘love isn’t easy’. What a proverb. They should put that on greeting cards. Nonetheless, he’s right. Georgie might appreciate something sweet. And no one should have to endure head splitting migraines and endless vomit without treats to ease the pain. So, after an arduous journey up and down stairs, sneaking past Filch in Harry’s invisibility cloak, and holding your breath every time a ghost saunters past. You reach the infamous pear portrait and tickle it until it opens, revealing house elves ecstatic to have a visitor. Their overwhelming hospitality smothers your sorrowful mood.
“Miss Student, how’d ya like a hot cuppa tea?” a timid voice inquires.
“Or a biscuit!” A loud one interrupts
“Or a slice of Pecan pie?” one kneading dough looks over her shoulder to ask.
“That, my friend, is exactly why I am here.” An inner que tells you you’ve missed your manners. You save it by saying, “and… of course to see how you lot are fairing!”
Their faces beam up with joy once again. A lot of socializing just for some pie, but it makes them happy.
Knock knock knock at his door.
“C’min” says a hoarse voice.
And there beside a bowl for emergency vomit lies a sickly, pale, George tucked in unkept blankets from head to toe.
“I dun’t wont you to see meh like this”, he carefully whispers as to not upset the mass of mucus lingering in his chest.
“Shh you don’t need to speak darling.” You crouch down to his languid body, “I brought you some pie, but don’t force yourself to eat it, k?”
“Aww.” He hums.
He’s gross, but love exceeds all things, so a forehead kiss is not as repulsive as would seem.
“I’m sorry”, he rolls his head over to look at you, “bout our date.”
“It’s fine, love. I’m sorry you don’t feel good.”
He reaches to hold your hand with all effort he can exert, “I was gonna take you to the show in hogsmeade. The acrobatics people.”
“That would have been nice.”
“And we were gonna go to the frozen yogurt place”
“Aww”
“And go look at the stars, or whatever lovey-dovey stuff you wanted to do.”
“Well don’t tell me cause we can still do all that when you feel better, and I want to still feel surprised by then.”
“Mmkay”
“Are you going to be okay tonight?”
“Mmm”, he answers. That’s not really an answer, but you know the reason he chose to be vague is probably because he wants to keep you in his company.
You sigh and lean over onto the bed from the seat you’ve taken beside his bed and lie your head on his chest while still holding his hand. His heart is beating rhythmically, as expected. His rhythm quickens as you let your torso melt upon him. His stomach makes weird gurgle noises that force you to quietly giggle to yourself.
“Are you going back to your dorm tonight, or are you gonna brave staying with me?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You know what I want you to do.”
“Good, cause that’s what I want to do too.”
“Can I borrow one of your shirts?”
“‘Course”
With that you pull your head off his chest to dig around to find whatever you deem worthy as bed clothes. From a pile on his chair of “not clean enough to be folded; not dirty enough to be washed”, you find an old t-shirt decorated in Gryffindor's colors. Obviously too big for you, otherwise it wouldn’t be comfortable.
Not to be dramatic, but you pull your sweater over your head effortlessly. It grabs strands of your hair and pulls them up only for them to fall back down, wispy and light like a feather. And your body, now silhouetted by dim candle light, reveals smooth skin and curves that could only ever be dreamed of. Still, nothing feels more awkward than undressing in front of someone, so instead of being the graceful entity you thought you were, you pull your shoulders up and in and legs strictly side by side and squeezed together, tense as can be.
“You’re so pretty”
“You’re the most prettiest thing I’ve ever seen”
You take a deep breath and try to relax the muscles you’ve realized were clenched. Turning to George, you smile, and whisper, “thank you, honey”.
Sliding on the t-shirt now, and adjusting it on your frame, you crawl beside him and kiss his cheek.
“I get to fall asleep next to the most beautiful girl in the world”