Work Text:
George pulled his scarf up over his face as the door to the Leaky Cauldron slammed closed behind him. It was just after seven, but it felt like the middle of the night. London had been a dull, oppressive grey for the past seven days, and according to the Wizarding Wireless, it would continue to be grey and dull for another seven.
The alley didn’t care that it was dull or cold, or that it felt like the middle of the night. The streets were filled with a cheery golden glow, store fronts were strung with garlands and wreaths, with windows full of holiday cheer. George shoved his gloved hands deeper in his coat pocket and stomped up the street. Christmas was in eight days, which was both far too many and not nearly enough. It was expected that he’d go home for the holiday. He ought to want to go home, but the idea of spending more than even a few hours in that house with all those people was enough to make him want to rip his hair out.
It didn’t help that he’d spent the better half of the afternoon trying not to get into a row with his mum, and ultimately failing. George didn’t particularly like shouting, and he certainly didn’t like shouting at his mum, least of all in front of an audience. But she’d started making remarks about him getting a proper job — “Really, Georgie, isn’t it about time you grow up?” — so that’s what happened, and then he got told off by Bill of all people. If anyone ought to know what it was like to have mum up their arse, it was Bill, but he was a dad now, and apparently that changed people.
George hadn’t taken him seriously at first and stared bemused until he’d finished his short, impassioned speech. “You know she means well, now go apologize."
If there was one thing that George was not going to do, it was apologize, and he wasn’t going to take a talking down from his brother either. That was best left to Percy, and he hadn’t bothered to come. But before George could open his mouth and make things worse, Ginny had flown around the corner and had grabbed tight to Bill's arm. “Best hurry,” she’d said, “Mum’s gone off on Victoire's hair again and your Fleur is about to lose it.”
Bill swore loudly and took off towards the dining room, the hall door banging closed behind him.
Ginny bumped George's shoulder. “Did he just try to give you some kind of lecture on being a good son and respectable grown-up?”
George scoffed. “He did — I couldn’t believe the utter shite coming out of his mouth, like he didn’t run off the first chance he got.”
“I swear it's like they scooped his brain out. Or maybe Looney was on to something with the Nargles. If that’s what happens when you have kids, count me out.”
“Don’t let mum hear you say that. She’d explode.”
“Good. Let her, it’d do her good to hear no sometimes,” Ginny said and tipped her head back against the wall. “You know,” she said after a moment, “I could do with a pint about now.”
“We could see if dad's still got that ancient bottle Ogden's in his sock drawer.”
“Nah, that’s foul. I say we make a break for it. Dad’s got a floo in his office, we could go to the Leaky. It'll take them ages to notice, what with mum going off on Fleur like that.”
“Just you and me?”
“It’s every man for himself around here. Ron and Harry are done for; they aren’t getting out of here until well after dinner.”
“Mum's going to have a Kneezle when she figures it out.”
Ginny smirked, sharp and mischievous. “But that’s not our problem, is it?”
When George stepped out of the towering fireplace in the Leaky a few minutes later, it was packed. As was to be expected, so close to the Holidays. He had elbowed his way to the bar and had snagged two stools crammed into a corner. Ginny got waylaid on her way to join him — it was remarkable how she seemed to know everyone in the entire world. Eventually, she slid up next to him and stole a sip of his beer.
“Oy,” he said, slapping at her hands. “Fuck off and get your own.”
“Nah, this is mine now — think of it as the ‘I got you out of mum's house tax.’ Better pay up or I’ll leave you behind next time.”
That wasn’t an idle threat, so George begrudgingly let her have it and while it didn't take long to flag down Tom, the barman, for another round, by the time his drink had turned up, Ginny had long since abandoned him to fuck off with her mates. He hadn’t minded; it was sort of nice sitting at the bar watching all the people, at least for a while.
The later it got, the more people had packed into the bar, and eventually it got to be too much to take. Too loud, and too crowded, and far too warm for comfort. It wasn’t a long walk back to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and once George was out into the street, it didn’t take long to reach the small hill leading up to the shop.
Right as he started up the hill, he came around a narrow corner and crashed into someone going the opposite way. They were obviously in a hurry and stumbled back, tripping over the hem of their long, overly dramatic hooded cloak, and crumpled into an undignified heap on the ground.
This was not the first time George had run into someone going around that corner, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. He sighed and scrubbed his face. He was tempted to make a hasty apology and just fuck off — it wasn’t his fault they weren’t paying attention. But they were still in a sad heap in the middle of the pavement, and George wasn’t enough of an arse to just leave them there.
“Sorry,” he said, and crouched down to offer them a hand. “Are you alright?”
The lump of a person shifted, sniffing loudly, and their hood fell back, revealing a shock of white blond hair. Draco Malfoy batted George's hand away and rubbed at his puffy red eyes. His cheeks were windbitten and tear-streaked, and he sniffed loudly. Nothing about what he was wearing was weather-appropriate, from his thin, flowing button-up, pointed leather boots, and fashion but unseasonal hooded cloak.
“Go away,” he said, sounding utterly pathetic.
“What am I supposed to just leave you here to freeze?” asked George. “That wouldn’t be very nice, would it?”
“What else are you supposed to do with me?” snapped Draco. He crossed his arms across his chest and shuddered. “I’m fine, I just need a minute, and then I’ll be off.” He shifted, sitting back on his bum, his long, long legs stretched out in front of him, winced, and glared up at George. “You don’t have to keep standing there, like I’m some pathetic little child that needs looking after.”
George just raised his eyebrows because, from where he stood, Draco looked very much like a pathetic little child who definitely needed looking after. “Did you roll your ankle in those stupid pointy boots?”
“So what if I did?”
George groaned. He really was going to go out of his way to help ruddy Malfoy of all people.
“That’s it,” he said, reaching for Draco’s hands. “Up you get.”
Draco wasn’t particularly interested in cooperating and tried to bat him away, but after some shuffling, George managed to get him on his feet. At which point he’d hoped that Draco would go back to being an insufferable twat and swan off in his stupid cloak and stupid boots, so George could go home.
But instead, the wanker swayed on his feet, making sad little sounds every time he tried to put any weight on his left foot. Still, he was upright and at least semi-mobile, and George would have considered that good enough and left him there. He was, after all, a fully grown wizard — surely he could get home on a bum ankle.
But before George had the chance to make his escape, the door to the new, overly posh restaurant at the top of the hill opened, and a large enthusiastic group came spilling out into the street. Draco went pale at the sight of them and stumbled so badly he’d have fallen had George not caught his elbow.
“What's up?” he asked, steadying Draco. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Draco flinched and tried to pull away. “Those are my bloody coworkers!’ he hissed, “they can’t see me like this.”
Maybe George was a bit drunk from earlier, or maybe he’d just turned into a sucker in his old age — it was bloody Malfoy of all people, who cared if he had a bit of a limp and was on the verge of tears?
He did, apparently, and instead of doing the sensible thing of walking away, he tugged on Draco’s sleeve. “I’m just up there, yeah? Come in, have a cup of tea and warm up, until they fuck off, and then you can go home.”
To his immense surprise, Draco agreed. Only actually getting him into the flat turned out to be a bit of a project. George’s flat was up a particularly steep set of stairs, and Draco was doing a rather abysmal job at pretending his ankle didn’t hurt. It was a long slow struggle, and by the time they’d nearly reached the top George was entirely out of patience. He hauled Draco up the last few stairs, and finally the two of them stumbled panting into the flat's tiny kitchen.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” George said, gesturing at the rickety kitchen table. “Have a seat there, and I’ll put the kettle on.”
Draco dropped like a sack of leadlined cauldrons onto one of the spindly-legged chairs, and it creaked ominously under the sudden assault. He draped himself over the table, burying his head in his arms, and moaning piteously. “For Salazar's sake - this was not how tonight was supposed to go.”
George rubbed his palms together and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “Get on with it then, give us the goss, how was it supposed to go?”
But Draco didn't get on with it; instead, he glared as though George had just insulted his mother, and that wouldn’t do at all. If he was going to sit at George's table, then he was going to at least share why he was being such a dramatic little prick- it was only fair.
George sighed. “I’ll start then,” he said. “I was round at my parents, and my lovely sister orchestrated an argument between our mum and Bill’s darling wife, so that we could sneak out and have a pint at the Leaky.”
“Didn’t they notice you’d gone?” asked Draco.
“Probably, but we weren’t there, so I haven’t the foggiest, although I suppose come Christmas we’ll probably regret it. That’s mine then, what’s yours?”
The kettle sounded, and he deftly filled two mugs, set them on the table, and sat opposite Draco. “Did you get stood up? Did someone put jelly eels in your soup?”
Draco scoffed and wrapped his hands around his mug. “I did not get stood up!”
For a moment, it looked as though that declaration was all that Malfoy was going to share; how boring!
But after a moment of chewing on his glossy lower lip, he launched into a loud and passionate tirade, regaling George with all the finer details of his date gone wrong — his date was apparently a two-timer, and Draco happened to find out when they were at dinner.
“And do you want to know the worst part?” he said, and he banged his fist on the table. “I let that wanker fuck me! Twice! And I liked it! And then, he’s got the audacity to be upset with me when I tried to leave — he followed me out and everything, even after I’d made it perfectly clear I never wanted to see his stupid chiseled face ever again, and THEN! That wanker shoved me up against the wall — this top is silk! It snags! But when I told him that, he tried to bloody kiss me —”
“He what?!”
“The stupid little arse hole tried to kiss me,” Draco said and sniffed, and then he grinned slow and mean. “So I shrunk his balls to the size of walnuts—”
George leaned back in his wobbly chair and cackled. Once he was able to collect himself, he wiped at his eyes. “That's brilliant, that is,” he said. “Serves him right.”
Draco smiled, looked immensely pleased with himself, and sipped his tea. “It won’t wear off for at least a week.”
“Ah, Malfoy,” said George, “why didn’t I know that you’re funny?”
“Because you’re an idiot. I’ve always been funny. Not that it’s done me much good, no one ever takes me seriously — I’m only good for my money or well…”
“Sounds like you’re seeing the wrong people.”
Draco slapped his palm against his cheek, "Merlin's beard, why didn’t I think of that? How about this, Weaselbee, you find someone who’ll treat me like a real person, and I’ll consider going out with them.”
“Sure,” said George, “that’s easy, I’ll take you out.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’ll be fun. What do you say, Malfoy? Go on a date with me?”
Draco sat dumbfounded, gaping at George like a rather unattractive fish. “Surely you aren't serious?”
George shrugged. “Why not?” He hadn’t really been particularly serious when he’d said it, but really, why not? It might be fun, and if anything, it would make his mum furious, and that was always worth doing.
“Why not?” Draco parroted, “I can’t think of a single reason why you, of all people, would want to go out with me.”
“You’re funny, and you’ve got nice collar bones, and I can promise that I won’t two-time you and then try to kiss you after you find out.”
“I’ll consider it,” said Draco after a moment, and he stood. “I should be off, it’s late.” he paused, and then continued, looking as though it pained him to speak. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll walk you out.”
As it turned out, getting Draco back down the stairs was even more of a project than getting him up them. This time, however, he was far less shy about clinging to George's side, even if his ears burned a bright and shiny crimson.
Once they reached the street, George had expected Draco to rush off, and then they’d probably never speak again, and that would be fine. But he didn’t rush off. He lingered, arms crossed across his chest. “Say that I chose to entertain the idea of this hypothetical date, what would we be doing?”
Caught off guard, George blinked for a moment. He had no idea what they’d be doing.
“I guess, I’d have to think about it,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to take you on a shoddy date, would I?”
“I imagine not,” said Draco stiffly, and he sniffed. “Well, I suppose I could be free next Saturday, if you wanted to make it worth my while.”
Then, as quick as a snake, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to George's cheek, and off he went, limping as quickly down the street as he could manage. George stared, open-mouthed after him. That cheeky little bastard!
“Next Saturday then!” he shouted after him. Perhaps he’d underestimated Malfoy, and now he couldn’t wait to find out how much.