WHO: Emma Dobbs and George Weasley WHEN: Saturday, March 19 WHERE: Falmouth Falcons Stadium WHAT: Falcons vs. Puddlemere; Good times and genuine cuteness RATING: PG (I think George or Emma likely swore once or twice) STATUS: Complete; threaded in gdocs
The game was dragging on and George could only imagine what Wood was thinking up there. Falmouth was dominating Puddlemere in goals, and if they made any more, even catching the snitch wasn’t going to push Puddlemere back over the edge.
George had gone ahead and bought the tickets for the match, worried his sweet-talking Oliver wouldn’t pull through and it would make a liar out of him to Emma. Then Oliver had come through, so George had pawned the ones he bought off on one of his employees. She’d seemed pretty keen on going, and George was happy pleasing other people. George nudged Emma with his elbow, looking down—he’d been amused when he first saw her and realized she really was all that tiny—grinning despite the direction of the match.
“Do you see the snitch? We might need to get up there and catch it for them.”
Emma laughed. “Funny thing, that. Nate -- Summerby, he was Seeker for Hufflepuff when I was wee -- tried to teach me to Seek. Guess he thought I could do it when he was gone, small as I am. But I never could see the snitch. M’always surprised when one of them comes up with it.”
She knew just enough about Quidditch to know what was going on, and besides, there were an awful lot of fit blokes on brooms doing fancy flight work, and it had always been fun to watch. “S’pose you think that’s a shame, yeah? A witch not properly knowing how to play, I mean.”
She’d been having a good time so far. George was funny, and didn’t mind her being blunt as fuck, which she usually was. Emma didn’t relate well to prissy folks who expected her to keep her tongue in check.
George turned his head away a bit, half between the game, half still focused on Emma, eyes going a bit scrunched around the edges. It was his thinking face, and one his Mum had become all too familiar with, and learned was often followed by explosions. “Don’t think I remember him. Name sounds familiar, but I’m piss at names.” He shrugged, and let his eyes go back towards the match.
“But not many people can see the snitch. Now a bludger, that’s the ball for me.” He listened to Emma speak, rather enjoying her company. She didn’t really know him, wasn’t expecting him to act a certain way, and didn’t go all concerned that he didn’t smile or laugh constantly of the time like people expected him to do. She hadn’t mentioned his frilly moment on the journals the other day, and she was blunt as fuck. All in all, it was a good damn day.
“Oh, come on, Wood!” George bellowed, a smirk on his face, as he watched one of the Falcon’s chasers put another quaffle past Puddlemere’s hoops. Balls, it felt good yelling at his old captain that loud. “And no,” he said, quieter, turning back to Emma. “Not a shame... okay, a partial shame, but you watch Quidditch like the best of ‘em, and a proper appreciation’s all that matters,” he said, giving her a wink.
“I’ve a good appreciation for blokes who know how to handle their balls,” she said, straightfaced for just a moment before she grinned. “What’s not to love about watching the game? Except I think I want a pint, but we could do that once they’ve finally finished. If you’re interested in a pint and a bite out, yeah? You’re just here to yell at your friend, aren’t you?”
It amused her, watching George get into the game. She barely remembered the games at Hogwarts from when she was wee, and things were complicated about Quidditch then anyroad. She had some vague idea that he’d played, at least, and she’d heard Wood’s name (who hadn’t?). “So you played beater then? D’you miss it, getting to play for fun?”
“Oooh, do you?” he laughed hard, eyes turning on her in a genuinely pleased way. “Well, lucky you, you’re sitting next to a find handler of balls,” he said, still laughing throughout. “I’m only half here to yell at Wood,” George only paused briefly to turn his head back towards the sky. “Who deserves to be yelled at for all those 5 am practices!” he yelled with a grin.
“And yes, beater. I beat balls all day long in school,” he teased, voice back to regular tone. “Well, Wood would’ve liked it if I had beat balls all day long. He would have liked it if Quidditch had been a mandatory class. He was my Captain,” George clarified, pointing up at Wood at the goals. “I do not miss that locker room. Much.” He didn’t think on it much, to be honest. It made him miss things he couldn’t have.
“But, yeah, getting to play for fun is ace,” he continued, distracting himself from the road his thoughts were on. “If you ever feel the need to straddle a broom, let me know, hmm?” he said with a wink as he looked back over at her.
Emma grinned, nudging him shoulder, to well, sort of shoulder. “I’ll be sure of that, yeah?” It was fun to flirt with George. He was safe, she was pretty sure of that. For all that his dad was a pureblood and a redhead (just like Emma on that last), she was pretty damned sure Arthur Weasley never would’ve touched Marilyn Dobbs. It was sad that she had to go through that whole mental process, but kind of a relief to come up to that end point for once. “Maybe I’ll let you get me up in the air someday.”
She tilted her head, curious. “So if you’re only half here to yell at Wood, what’s the other half?”
“Hmm?” he asked, eyes darting down to her. Her bangs were bright fuscia, which amused him. He’d have to ask her what measures she took to color her hair, and if she’d be interested in testing future hair color items he might make. He still had to start the marketing on the first batch, but they were set to release in the shop sometime in late April. They were ready to go, but it would require being in the shop all day for a while, and he wanted to wait until after his birthday for that.
“Well, half of me’s here to hang out with you, isn’t it... aren’t I?” He wasn’t sure what the proper grammar was, but he also was realizing Emma didn’t likely care. George eyed her for a moment, before lifting up his elbow and resting it on her shoulder. It would have been easier if he were standing, but she was still short enough that he could awkwardly do it now. “And you’re a lovely arm rest,” he teased, putting a bit of his weight on her, but not much. Strong as she claimed she was, he was aiming to have a good time, not squash her.
“Oh.” Emma laughed. “I thought you meant something else. Hanging out’s just what we’re doing, yeah?” She leaned back into him, snorting. “Arm rest, huh? You just watch out where my elbows land on you.” She wiggled her arm, threatening, then promptly wiggled her fingers at his waist, to see if he were ticklish. Not that they ought to be roughhousing in the stands, but she’d never been one to stand on ceremony and all.
George couldn’t help laughing, or jerking away, because yes, he was ticklish, especially there. Armpits, sides, and neck were all the places that made George squirm, and he wiggled as far out of reach as he could without getting into the lap of the bloke on his left.
“Cut it out, wee one!” he said laughingly, reaching his own hands over to grab her wrists and stop the torture.
“Oi, you, let go.” Emma was laughing as she tried to tug her hand free, wriggling in her seat. She felt her elbow knock against something and she turned, expression apologetic. “Oh bloody hell, mate, I’m sorry about that, didn’t mean to knock into you, yeah?” The bloke next to her was glaring daggers, and Emma tried to keep from giggling more as she looked back to George, laughter in her eyes as she kept her lips pressed together. Leaning a little closer, she whispered, “We’re not supposed to entertain ourselves when the game lags a bit, I’m guessing.”
George made a face at Emma, gave the bloke beside her as congenial of a shit eating grin as he could, and then lowered her wrists to her lap. “Alright, alright. Truce until the end of the match. I don’t want to shock the poor man with the tickling gingers.” he said, though, he was a bit more red-blonde these days, and she a bit auburn... but gingers none-the-less.
“Now, back to before, whaddya think I meant? Don’t think I forgot,” he said with a grin, pulling his hands away from her and tucking them into his jacket pockets. It was warming up, but still pretty brisk out these days. He’d be ready for spring when it got here.
“What’d I think you meant about what?” Emma asked, her nose wrinkled in confusion. She kept her hands in her lap for the moment, thinking that by doing that, she might remember not to talk with them and bump the bloke next to her again. “Oh, what else you were doing here? I didn’t know! Thought maybe you had something else in mind, some reason you needed to see the game.” She honestly hadn’t thought of herself as a reason to be doing anything, more that this was fun.
“Nah, I just like going sometimes,” his eyes darting back up to the pitch. “Forgetting everything and putting myself into that moment.” He shrugged and glanced back down at her from the corner of his vision. “It’s nice getting thrilled or bummed by things that really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things, putting feeling into something and then leaving it behind once I go home.” It was relieving to be able to feel genuine excitement or disappointment and know it didn’t directly effect his life. That he could go somewhere that no one knew him or expected anything of him. “Can just be myself, anonymous, down here in the stands and no one gives a damn or needs anything.” He shrugged again, giving her a little smile.
There was something serious that slipped in, seemed like to Emma. She slipped her hand into his pocket, letting her fingers curl in his where it was warm. “Cold hands,” she said, just in case he wondered why, but really, he just seemed to need the contact just then and well, she certainly had it to offer. She leaned forward then, her other arm out, pointing. “Looks like he’s got something in his sights, yeah?”
George was surprised by the feel of her hand in his, if evident by the slight wonder in his eyes as he looked down at her. His fingers curled around hers even before she explained herself. The feeling of her smaller fingers between his was comforting, or maybe reassuring. Either way, he let her keep her hand in his pocket.
He followed her gaze and the line her arm made towards the sky, and sure enough, it seemed Puddlemere’s seeker was making a go for it. The Falcon’s seeker caught on too late, and the game was called, sections of the bleachers jumping to their feet all around them. George jumped up, one fist raised triumphantly in the air and he let out an excited victory cry. He tugged Emma to her feet with their joined hands, raising them, clasped, into the air and doing a small victory dance.
Emma jumped up with him, laughing as she had to leap up, his hand going so much higher than she could reach. She threw her other arm wide, letting out a whoop of delight at Puddlemere’s win, then immediately turned and apologized again to the bloke on her other side. Erring on the side of safety, she nudged herself a step closer to George, to give the bloke a wide birth. “I’m thinking he doesn’t like me much,” she said with a laugh. “Isn’t the first to be irritated, won’t be the last.” She watched everyone cheering, felt the way the stands were just about vibrating underneath them from the feet stamping. “There’s a lot of energy in the win, yeah? Didn’t seem so much like this back at Hogwarts.”
George laughed at her exuberance, but let their hands fall back to their sides so he didn’t feel like he was trying to dangle her in the air. he turned into her to give her more room away from stink-face beside her. “I gave up ever thinking someone wouldn’t find me irritating,” he said. “It’s the mildest of reactions I get anyway.
“Yeah? It’s different up there,” he motioned, looking up and smiling at the victorious Puddlemere players circling the sky. “Got the rush of wind all around you.” George smiled wide, remembering the Quidditch Cup his third year. “Now what, short stack?” he asked, looking back down at her, and squeezing her hand once more before letting go. He liked it, but it was getting past the point of holding on for warmth or victory celebration. He didn’t want to weird her out just cause he liked it.
“Drinks and dinner,” she answered readily. “All this fresh air’s made me hungry. I promise not to get too pissed, so I’ll be able to find my own way home, yeah?” She tucked her hands into her own pockets, actually cold now after losing the warmth of George’s hand. “Thing is, I don’t know the pubs around here, so we’d either have to go back to London, yeah, or you’ll have to choose the place. Or we can pick up take away and beer and eat at my flat, but then you’ll have to fight the dogs off; they do beg for scraps sometimes.”
“I know a place or two, but they’re in London. Dorset’s gonna be full of post-game madness, and we’re already bumping into too many people sober.” He tucked his hands into his own pockets, smiling warmly down at her. “Come on,” he put his hand on the small of her back and started nudging her along the stands. Once they got in the crush, he stood a bit beside her, but to the back, keeping his hand on her waist as he navigated them through the crowd. Standing again, he recognized how much shorter she was than him, and didn’t want to lose her.
Once outside, he moved them to a designated apparition point, and holding onto her waist, popped them back into London, into the alley behind one of the streets he knew better. It was between a hole in the wall and a place the locals kept to themselves, dark wood paneled walls and low ceilings. George had to duck a bit once he walked in the door.
“Abe’s,” he said, giving her the name. “Good food, cheap drinks, friendly bar tender. Pretty much has it all.” It was where George went when he was feeling alright, when he wanted to be social around people who didn’t care for back stories, just offered smiles.
“Want to grab that corner over there? I’ll get some menus from the bar.” He gestured to a lone corner booth away from the door and the bar.
Emma followed along, staying tucked in close to George, even though she was fairly certain she could find him again if she got lost. After all, she blended in, but he was tall and easy to spot, with the hair. She was easy to spot, if a bloke could just see past the sea of taller folks. “Place looks all right, and good plus cheap is always good in my books.” She knew how much was left in her pocket, and it wasn’t all that much, to be honest. But hey, at least she probably didn’t have to worry about getting to pissed and embarrassing herself, right?
She nodded and made her way to the booth he pointed out, shucking her jacket and tossing it in the corner before climbing in after it, tucking herself up against the wall comfortably. It seemed like a space where she could gesture and all she had to worry about hitting was the wall, which was good for oh, everything but her own hands, and that worked for her. And having her feet up on the bench, at least for now, meant she wasn’t kicking under the table (which was never good when you kicked the folks you were hanging out with). It occurred to her that she could sit crosslegged and that might work better, so she shifted a bit and did that, getting comfortable while she waited for George.
“Alright, lady,” George said, sliding in the booth with some ease, though he just barely missed banging his knees against the underside of the table. He always ended up kicking people in the shins under the table. George handed her a menu, and though it was typical pub fare, there were a few unique items like sweet potato, or rosemary and garlic chips, and a few varieties of fish. George kinda liked that—not that he knew the difference between cod and trout, but it felt nicer than just getting run of the mill, unidentifiable fish and chips.
And the beer selection wasn’t bad either. Ciders, lagers, dark and light beer. German, Irish, French—even some random Japanese beers. George always got the same thing, mind, but that’s because he’d discovered that Yuengling, sweet potato chips and trout just bloody worked together. That it came up to less than seven pounds was a plus, too.
George had long ago learned that sometimes, off the wizarding path were hidden treasures like this, and had subsequently started carrying multiple currencies with him. He had a wallet full of galleons, euros, pounds. It was just easier when travelling for work. He wondered if she carried Muggle money with her. George’s eyes darted up to Emma, then back down to his menu. He’d just cover dinner. Didn’t want to embarrass her, and he knew some people got that way sometimes... though Emma did seem pretty laid back about just about everything so far. She didn’t even seem turned off by his lack of ear.
“So, what looks good to you, wee one?” he asked with a smile, closing his menu and looking over at her.
Emma looked through the menu, doing mental calculations of what was in her pocket and what she needed to last her until the next time she got paid. Her tongue peeked out, brow furrowed as she worked through it, and she finally decided. “Dull as dishwater, I am tonight. I’m wanting plain old fish & chips and a properly built Guinness.” She glanced at him, calculating. “They do build a proper Guinness here, yeah? Because if it’s not, might treat myself to a cider, since they’ve got dry ones on the menu. Not in a sweet sort of mood tonight. Those’re what you drink when you’re out dancing and want something light that’s going to get you so thoroughly pissed you won’t know how to think before you’ve had two, yeah?”
“Are you sure you aren’t a bloke in a bird’s body?” he teased, admiring her request for a properly built Guiness. “Of course they do. And as good as that sounds, I’m set on a Yuengling, fish and sweet potato chips—gotta spice it up a bit, hmm?” He listened as she spoke about dancing and ciders, mouth crooked up a little in interest. “I dunno, it takes more than two ciders to get me sufficiently pissed. Then again, you’re half my size.” He grinned, nodding at the waitress when they made eye contact. She walked over and took their orders.
After she left, George leaned back in his seat, regarding that girl across from him. He couldn’t remember the last casual dinner he’d had, other than with close friends or family who’d forced him to stop working, or for business. On any given day, he’d be working, going home, working more or getting fucked up, depending on what the day had prompted. Hell, he’d just spent Tuesday night [teaching that Montgomery girl the fine line of getting obliterated versus functioning/getting fucked out of his mind with that Montgomery girl]* this is getting threaded tomorrow, maybe. Have to talk to Stacey. But, right now, he didn’t have any reason to think about anything other than he was having a good damn time—he was happy and he wasn’t faking it. It was almost bizarre, but he wasn’t complaining. Maybe she had a point the other day on the journals... She’d been right about the soup, at least. It was definitely better than sex...well, the mediocre sex he’d been having lately.
“So how’s the new job? Get a short skirt for that uniform yet?”
“Oh, it takes me more than two to get properly pissed, but if you’re doing it right, you want to down them right quick, and sweet goes down faster than a pint, yeah?” She laughed at his question, reflexively glancing down to make sure yep, still female. “I’m a girl, no fears on that. Just never saw the point in being girly about it. Drove my mum absolutely nutters, it did.”
She relaxed as the waitress left, drawing circles on the table with one fingertip. At George’s question, she had a rueful smile. “Haven’t even heard if they’re taking my application in properly, yet. Garber made faces when I handed it in, and I’m not sure the higher ups want me in the DMLE for good. M’hedging my bets and applying out at the MacFusty reserve as well. Katie Bell’s taking my application in there. But they’ve rejected me before, yeah? So when it all comes down, might end up just stuck right where I’ve already been.”
“She doesn’t drink girly stuff and she gets properly pissed,” George quipped. “You’re sure we aren’t related?” he teased.
“Why wouldn’t they want you at either place? You seem bright and eager to work. In my experience, that usually makes for a great employee... but then again, I’m in an entirely different business than the DMLE or dragons.” George couldn’t see what the problem was, save she had some glaring blemish on her record. “Katie’s a good girl, great at her job. If you’ve got the qualifications and they need the staff, I don’t see why they wouldn’t take you.”
“Pretty sure we’re not related,” Emma mused, probably a lot more seriously than he’d intended. “You’re a pureblood, yeah, but your dad’s not the sort who’d have gone off with m’Mum, or the sort she’d be after, so I’ve already crossed that off the list.” She shrugged, this part of her life so matter-of-fact she didn’t even think how odd it might just sound.
“As for the jobs, I don’t know why they wouldn’t want me, but they didn’t first time around on every single bloody reserve,” Emma grumbled. “I was too small, too wee, too young, too something every bloody time. They didn’t give a shite what I could actually do, or what I knew. They just said no.”
George’s eyebrows raised to his hairline, an intrigued look on his face. “You are going to have to explain that in far more detail, Emma,” he said seriously, but with a smile.
He pursed his lips at the second part though. “Did you molest a dragon or something?” he teased. “Seriously, though, anything that might be on your record that they aren’t liking?” George thought that was weird. This girl seemed rather tame—hell, George had dropped out of school and blown enough things up to make any potential boss cringe, but he was still sure he could get another job if he ever had to... not that it would ever be an option.
“Can’t think what’d be on my record that’d keep me from getting a decent job.” Emma made a face. “I made an O on my NEWTs for Creatures, I’m brill with the information about them and I know my shite. I can keep up training with the Hit Wizards, even the blokes, and m’stronger than I look. M’mum was a bitch, but she’s gone now, and besides, that wouldn’t have much to do with anything.” She glanced across at him. “Explain which?”
“The part where you’re sure my dad’s not the sort to run off with your mum, or the sort she’d be after,” George clarified. He’d have to ask Katie about Emma’s application to MacFusty. It didn’t make sense if she was that good with creatures why the reserves wouldn’t want her. But, he didn’t want her to think he had strings. He just wanted to ask a friend what she knew about it, so he kept mum for now.
“Oh, that.” Emma shrugged, figuring George was just old enough he hadn’t heard. “I’m a bastard, yeah? Mum had an affair and got pregnant by some pureblood bloke. She’d always wanted the big house and the house elves and all, so she must’ve figured that’d be a way to do it. Except it didn’t work out that way, and it was just her and me and an awful lot of takeaway. But anyway, I always figure I ought to know what I can about a bloke’s family, just to figure if we’re likely related or not.” Just in case, not that she ever used the in case part of it.
“Really?” he said with a little disbelieving laugh to his voice. He hadn’t ever heard of it, but his mum, while she could talk about anything, never was one to gossip about people in a cruel way. If his parents had ever heard anything along those lines, they’d certainly never shared it with George or the other children. “I mean, yeah. I guess that prevents awkwardness later on.” George shook his head before shrugging. “And yeah, you’re right about my dad. He’s so in love with my mum it’s a bit sick sometimes.” He smiled and thanked the waitress as she brought round their food.
“Glad to know you’re checking me out just in case, though,” he teased, baldly grinning at her.
Emma flushed, for once not having a snappy comeback at the tip of her tongue. “Didn’t have to do all that much checking; I think everyone’s heard about your mum and dad, yeah?” The Weasleys were purebloods but a love match, not like the sort of purebloods her mum had ever been interested in. “So see, I might be a ginger, but I’m looking around for a different dad. I’m figuring I won’t ever find him. Considering her taste, he might well even be dead already.”
He grinned at her flush. He loved teasing, but especially girls—good teasing that didn’t piss anyone off, but just made people smile and flush. It made him feel like he could still bring humor even if he wasn’t good for much else.
“Nah, wrong shade of ginger, anyway. You’ve got that nice auburn kind. Weasleys are all fire and orange.” He gestured to his own bright, sun-bleached ginger hair. “Beginning to think girls just don’t fancy this mop. They’ve all gone mental, ‘cause it’s clearly the sexiest hair color I’ve ever seen.” He grinned and popped a chip into his mouth.
Emma reached for her drink, taking a slow sip, pleased with it. The perfect counterpoint to what looked to be a bloody brill plate of fish & chips. “Girls just aren’t properly appreciating you, then, because I think it looks brill on you. Can’t imagine you with anything less bright,” she grinned. “Makes you distinctive. Unique.”
George grinned, pleased that she said so. “No fuchsia fringe for me, then?” He motioned to her own frings. “Or maybe a nice sky blue mohawk, perhaps?”
“Oi, are you making fun of my look?” Emma pouted, nudging that self-same fringe back from her face, then smiled to show she was teasing. “I think a bloke looks good with a bit of creativity, but if it’s not what you feel, then it shouldn’t be what you where, yeah? You look good just like you are.”
“So complimentary,” he said with a grin. “What d’you do to get your look, if I can ask? I’m working on a line of products in that market. They come out in May. Working on a line of pet treats, too.” He popped a chip in his mouth before grinning madly. “Got any pets you’d like to be hot pink for a few hours?”
“Transfiguration spell.” Emma wiggled her fingers at her head. “Made sure to learn that one well enough when I was in Hogwarts, because it felt like the right thing. So I can change it every day, yeah?” She blinked, then laughed. “I think Bratling would shred everything I own, starting with the skin on my arms if I did that.”
“Fair enough,” George said with a smirk, assuming Bratling was a critter of sorts, likely a cat. “What I’ve got right now are chew candies that last in increments of ten, five, and two hours—and half hours for the indecisive bunch. But I’ve only managed solid colors. Gotta work on the patterns and highlighting, but great for a Quidditch match where you want to show team spirit, but might not have the stamina to maintain a spell and drink heavily... or for underage wizards who just aren’t that good at it yet.” He smiled as he spoke, genuinely happy when he talked about work.
“What about a comb?” Emma asked, leaning forward curiously. “Something where you can comb in the colour, wherever you want, like I do with the spell. Bet that’d go over brill with the teens especially.”
“Hey,” he said with a grin. “D’you need a job?” he asked, clearly impressed. “That’s a brill idea. You aren’t going to sue me if I start developing something like that are you?” He was already thinking of ways he could get the comb with hair coloring to work. “Do you want to be a tester? You’d get free supplies of what you’d like, or store credit.” He thought she might be interested in Coiff Chews and not mind getting asked to try out aqua hair for an hour.
Emma frowned, confused. “Why would I sue you for trying it out? That’s why I suggested it! And nah, I’m not right for doing that kind of research all the time; creatures are really my specialty.” And violence. Just a little bit. Not really violence but things requiring a bit of stubborn and a lack of fear. “But, yeah, sure, I can test for you, long as it doesn’t make me late for work or sick as a dog, yeah?” She grinned then, because it sounded like fun.
“I dunno. People don’t mind giving ideas until they see I’m making money off it,” he teased. He gave a shrug and took a sip of his beer. “But, I promise I’ll donate some money to local reserves in your honor.”
Emma reached out and touched his hand, squeezing it. “That’d be right brill, George. You’re a good bloke.”
George looked down at her hands, and gave a little grin. Both her hand, and his reaction to it. He turned his hand over, squeezing hers back for a moment. It was strange to be touched by a bird this way, and a physical touch that was entirely different than he’d experienced lately. Only his mum and Ginny seemed to touch him so affectionately anymore—and sometimes the girls.
“Thanks,” he said, surprised at how honestly the words came, even more, the sentiment behind it.