George had been surprised at how easy it had been to fall into the Tuesday evening routine. Leave the shop early, shower and change, present himself in Aunt Muriel's Floo at precisely half-six for drinks and the tempting smell of whatever the elf had managed for dinner. He didn't bother with wine because her cellar was better than anything he'd come up with anyway. Or afters, because the elf always had something sinful ready.
So he brought a flower. Or a sweet. Something to make her smile, or laugh. Or something like the last gift he'd carried, but more often, a token. Like tonight, a carnation in an oddly deep shade of purple. Of course he'd thought of her when he'd seen it.
He'd dressed carefully; a neat blue shirt, black jeans, gray boots. The flower and a bag of fudge flies.
George stepped through the Floo, oddly nervous about tonight. Other nights they'd fallen into a routine, and even though they'd agreed long ago that evenings together didn't have to go any particular way, he wondered if she'd understand.
Oh, hell. He was sure she would. But still. Anxious.
She wasn't in the sitting room, but he could hear her voice from the direction of the kitchen, and smiled. "Auntie?" George stepped into the kitchen and offered her the flower. "I hope you're not telling him that chocolate's not good for me or anything..."