WHO: Andrew Kirke & Charlotte Montgomery. WHEN: 16 May 1998. WHERE: Charlotte’s treehouse. SUMMARY: An overly long adventure involving painting a treehouse and talking about life. WARNINGS: Long and cute. One last Andlotte novel for good measure.
In a week with too many funerals and too much grieving, it was nice to take some time out. Even if time out had come with cryptic instructions. Bring paint. Paint? Andrew wasn’t even sure exactly what that had meant. But he’d grabbed a half-full tin of paint from the shed at home, and with that in one hand and a small package slung under his arm he headed off to convince one of the people in the Kirke house to help him get to Charlotte’s.
The unlucky “volunteer” was Andrew’s dad, who grabbed his arm and muttered under his breath before apparating them both close to the road where Charlotte lived.
Bidding him a quick goodbye before he disappeared again, Andrew looked up at the sky briefly before heading towards where he suspected Charlotte would be. It was a clear day, and he headed towards the infamous treehouse. If he’d had a treehouse he’d have probably been practically moved in by now too.
At the base of the tree he stopped. Head up, still holding onto his paint and the package, he shouted up at the structure above him.
“Hey! Charlotte! I brought you paint and presents!”
It was nothing fancy, this treehouse. Out of all the Montgomery family members, Charlotte was the only one who frequently still visited it. Because of the neglect, it wasn’t as pretty as it had once been. There were cracks in the wood, boards that made squeaky sounds when stepped on, and the damned curtains would not stay hung up in front of either set of windows. But, well, it was still the greatest gift she had ever been given. You could see her childhood etched on the walls -- names, quotes, little drawings, memories. “Dad won’t let me have dessert” was always the first one that caught her eye, perhaps because, at the tender age of six, she had wasted a whole blue crayon on the angry message right when you first enter the main room, on a board that was darker than the rest of the wall.
Not that there were many rooms. In fact, there were two rooms, separated by a blanket. The “main room” was filled with cushions, books, plants, beverage containers, art supplies, and the jumper she had just shrugged off. The second room was not a room, but a corner, where her sleeping bag and pillow was hidden, tucked just under the second set of windows, where the moonlight caught her face as she slept. She just liked the privacy of the blanket hanging from the ceiling.
Charlotte nearly dropped the plant she was holding at the sound of Andrew’s voice. It didn’t matter that she instantly recognized it -- it was still a disturbance in the quiet. Quickly putting the plant down -- and tossing a ragged purple blanket over it -- Charlotte popped the door open and walked down onto the little landing.
“Oi, boyfriend!” she shouted down, waving her hand. “Climb on up! Promise the stairs are sturdy. Even for your hefty arse.”
He put the tin of paint on the ground but kept the package, climbing up the steps carefully to not drop it or fall off himself. Using his arms as well as his feet to climb, he scrambled up across the threshold of the door. He dropped the package in front of himself and straightened himself up before picking it up again.
“I don’t know why I come here for such rudeness,” he told her, the smile about his eyes betraying his true feelings. “Especially when we all know that you love my hefty arse, as you call it.”
He looked around the room, head ducked low thanks to the ceiling, and smiled. It was another part of Charlotte’s life that she’d invited him into, and it felt good to finally see it. His eyes caught the scrawl of writing across the walls, the oddly-placed blanket over something, another blanket dividing the space into two. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he told her.
“I don’t know, I heard the stairs creaking your entire way up here. You’d be required to replace them if they had all popped off.” Charlotte was smiling as she did her best hostess impression, grabbing the ends of her shockingly bright yellow dress and curtsying in his direction. “I hate to admit that most of the angsty writing on the walls belongs to me. Especially the ones done in blue crayon and involving food in some way.” She traced over the angry dessert writing with the tips of her fingers before moving over to the one next to it, which said “I am too old for this place, why am I here again?” from Phillip, followed by “because you love me!” from Charlotte.
“This is the window,” she pointed out rather obviously, skipping over to the window and pointing at it. “And this is my cactus. And this is my rosebush. And this is my book.” She kicked the heavy black textbook with her bare toe. “And this is a photograph of me and Addy. Here’s Phillip. Here’s Benji. Here’s all of us the first night we spent up here. Addy is the one crying, naturally.” The final picture she pointed to was the one of the (then four) Montgomery children all bundled up in blankets as they ate hot dogs. Benji was all of one years old yet Addy was the one in tears. “This is where I sleep sometimes. And another window.” Charlotte pulled the blanket that was hanging from the ceiling to the side to show him the sleeping bag and window. The wall here was covered in lights that were charmed with magic. All she had to do was touch the lowest bulb and they’d all go on. Getting down to her knees, Charlotte searched for the lowest bulb and did just that -- she poked it. The entire string of lights lit up.
“What do you think?”
Andrew took a moment to breathe it all in, the soft lighting and the oddly charming writing. He paused by the picture, the cactus, even the rosebush. And he smiled, a soft expression. “It’s nice,” he told her. “It’s very you-” he hesitated, reading some of the writing, chuckling softly. “-all very you.”
His eyes lingered on the sleeping bag, already starting to worry about the idea of how much time she’d spent here. The last few days had been almost the longest time they’d spent apart since they’d started dating, and already he felt a slight pang of guilt for not being there for her. But he had been invited here, and that was something important. “You spend a lot of time here?” Andrew asked, picking up the package from where he’d placed it on the floor. He offered it to her, reaching out for her arm. “It’s nice.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. Fixing the place up keeps me occupied. Dad was hovering over my arm too much, it was getting annoying.” Charlotte nodded down at the angry coloured flesh that lined her left arm. It didn’t hurt in the slightest, but there was still discoloured skin from the fire. She kind of liked the way it looked. It gave her character. And at least if it never properly faded away she would have something that made her distinctly different from Addy. “And the weather still hasn’t cooperated properly from me to sleep outside. It was raining last night. You should hear the rain on this roof. It sounds like -- “ Her voice faded slightly as she shrugged. She wanted to say it sounded like the chaos of Hogwarts crumbling around her, but. “It just sounds neat, I guess.”
Charlotte moved to snuggle into him for a second, taking the package in her hands and looking at it as she nuzzled against his chest. “What’s this?”
His arm curled around her instinctively and he pressed his lips to the top of her head in the slightest of kisses. “Present,” he told her. Well, the infamous birthday cardigan that he’d wrapped around a small box made of driftwood from the beach. He’d put a photo of the two of them in the box, with room for more. Even when they’d been apart he’d been unable to resist thinking up some kind of surprise. “And the cardigan. It kept me company all week, and it’s losing the smell of you,” he ducked his head slightly as he admitted it.
“I didn’t know I had a smell,” she teased lightly, poking him in the ribs with her free hand. When she got to the cardigan, a huge grin came over her face and all she could do was shake her head. “I know you hate this thing but you literally look so incredibly handsome in it, it makes me sick.” She gently untangled the material, feeling something heavier hiding underneath it. She draped the cardigan over her arm as she held the box in her palm. “Did you make this box yourself?” she asked excitedly, as though the thought of arts and crafts with Andrew Kirke was her secret favourite thing. She rolled her thumb over the wood, outlining the box, and in doing so discovering that it was an actual, you know, box, with a lid. The lid moved slightly and, curiously, she removed the rest of it. A picture of their smiling faces greeted her, and as much as she tried to bite her lip, a loud ”Awwwwwwww!” slipped out.
“Merlin, we are so ugly together.”
“Speak for yourself,” he responded smartly, “You just told me that I’m incredibly handsome.”
Andrew poked his head around the room-dividing blanket again before looking at the pile of cushions close to his feet. He sank down into them, ready to sit comfortably. “I did make it, actually. I got help, though,” he shrugged his shoulders. One of the market craft stalls, and then a little magic to clean up the edges of it. “I just was thinking of you. I wanted to bring you something, a little bit more decoration for your treehouse.” He smiled, patting a cushion beside him.
“You’re only handsome when you’re wearing the cardigan. The rest of the time you’re pretty awful to look at.”
Charlotte watched him as he plopped down onto the cushions, and her insides did a happy little tango back and forth. She had been wanting him to come here and see this place for so long and now that he was actually here she wasn’t sure she could properly contain her excitement. Instead of sitting next to him -- because, well, that was boring -- she sat in front of him in between his legs, so her back was against his chest. It was the exact same way they had been sitting together on the beach. “It’s quite lovely. I’m going to keep it here so we can add more to it as time goes on.” She ran her thumbs over it, pleased by the cool, smooth texture of wood and how strangely calming it was. “How are you doing?”
He wrapped his arms around her as she sat in front of him, kissed her neck gently and then placed his chin on her shoulder. He breathed slowly, in and then out, keeping hold of that calm feeling that was washing over him. Life felt easier already with someone to share it. “I’m okay,” his response was short, not quite sure how many words he needed. “I’ve missed you.” The words didn’t quite feel adequate for the way he’d been feeling, and he closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again. Usually he was so talented at rambling, saying word after word when he never really intended to do so. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. I’ve missed you.” She echoed his words and closed her eyes as well, leaning back into his gentle kisses and lifting the box to place it against her chest, close to her heart. It was the little things that moved her, and something as silly as a handmade box that could hold all the photographed memories they were going to make in their future was something that very easily did it for her. She clutched his arm with her free hand and dipped her head back again, hoping for another kiss. “It’s hard to believe it’s -- over? Sometimes I’m not sure if it actually is over, though. I don’t know. We’ve grown to expect the worst.”
His hand lingered over her left arm, fingers delicately touching and caressing the burnt skin before they moved down to her hand on his other arm. He linked and then unlinked their fingers, over and over. “Yeah,” he agreed with her. “And just feeling like the world hasn’t ended, and we have a chance to just-” a little sigh escaped his lips. “Just breathe. You know?” And breathe he did, deeply.
“Have you been back to St. Mungo’s?” she asked, bringing their hands up to her mouth so she could kiss his wrist. “Dad was telling me about some of the nasty things he’s seen. Some of the worst of his career. They had him working on floors he hadn’t worked on since training.” She shivered, shrinking back into his chest as though afraid he was going to fall away from her if she didn’t stick close enough. “I haven’t been back to see Colin. Not yet. Dad checks on him every so often, though. Things are still the same.”
Andrew shook his head, slowly, sadly. “I’ve just been at home.” It felt bad to admit, but he hadn’t wanted to face St. Mungo’s just yet. Maybe when he’d feel more prepared for the place, but he’d reasoned that no one could have felt prepared for what had happened. He was supposed to have wanted to work there one day, but that dream felt so very distant now. Maybe it wasn’t the right dream for him, as he’d been recognising that fact slowly all year. He could still be a Healer without having to work there, and that dream felt better. It felt more suitable. It felt freer, less constrained. A year at Hogwarts like the one they’d just had could make anyone crave freedom.
He kissed her shoulder, her neck, and started to talk again. It was becoming easier with each word. “How about you? Any company other than these cushions?” A pause. “I’m sorry about your arm.” His voice held sympathy for more than injuries, but those were words that he couldn’t quite find. Not yet.
Charlotte could sense that his mood had changed, and she didn’t even have to ask what was on his mind, nor did she have to question his reasons for not returning to St. Mungo’s. Perhaps because they were the same reasons she cradled in her own mind, the reasoning she did with herself. Her friends would be home soon. She wanted to remember them that way, free and at home, not sick and in an uncomfortable bed permanently stinking of potions. That smell was distinct enough whenever her father dragged himself into the house at some ungodly hour of the night. She slept in her treehouse so she wouldn’t have to note just what time he actually got home, whether or not he was late because someone had just passed away and he had a lot of paperwork to fill out because of it. She wanted to stay out here where she didn’t have to answer the unanswerable questions in her mind.
Her body seemed to melt into his, all the built-up tension vanishing from the core of ber being into his, a body willing to take the burden of another’s tight knots and trembling limbs. “I’ve chosen to stay by myself for the time being. I like it up here.” Her eyes opened again and she looked down at the arm he was referencing. He had to know that it didn’t hurt. She didn’t flinch when he touched it. “Don’t apologize for something that wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.
He bit back an apology for his apology, realising the word ‘sorry’ for how ridiculous it was. “I like it up here too,” he agreed with her. “It’s one of the most Charlotte places in the world, I think. Thanks for letting me up here,” he smiled into her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her hair. So much of the room was Charlotte, younger Charlotte’s writing and older Charlotte’s rosebush and current Charlotte’s presence. The bright colours, the haphazard blankets and cushions and the soft lights. Could there be anywhere else that was as Charlotte? Andrew loosened his grip around her waist and started to gently massage her right shoulder with his hand, literally trying to relieve some more tension for her.
“I told you it would have been a lovely place to hide,” she smiled, letting out a sound that was half-sigh, half something else, definitely encouraging him to keep working on her shoulder. She hadn’t been touched since going into hiding, save for the awkward hug Phillip tried to give her when he dropped off her newest plant friend for the treehouse, which was currently that weird shape behind hidden under the blanket by the window. Anyone who knew Phillip wouldn’t be surprised to discover what kind of plant that was, but Andrew was too innocent and precious for this world and for this plant. “But I suppose the bathroom issue might have gotten frustrating after a while. You could’ve just whipped it out the window and gone. I’d have to find a bucket or something. I know you’re my boyfriend and all, but would you still love me if we started having to use the loo in a bucket?” A new smile crept over her face as she sighed again, wiggling up to encourage him to squeeze more firmly. “But I’m not sorry I stayed, if you’re worried about that.”
Andrew pressed his thumb into the back of her shoulder blade, picking up on her signal as she moved closer to him. He was already quite good at reading her. He continued to massage her shoulder, his own smile matching the one he couldn’t see on her face. “That’s what I think I’d call too close,” he advised her. “I like what we have now. Let’s not ruin it by watching each other pee.”
Another kiss to her neck, and he relinquished his other hand so that he could set that to work on her other shoulder. Both thumbs dug into her shoulders, fingers squeezing and releasing in turn. “I was a bit,” he admitted. “Worried, I mean.”
Now that her hands were free, she reached up and pulled her frizzy, messy, annoying, thick, very annoying, long, incredibly annoying hair up and out of the way so Andrew could have free reign to her back and neck. He had initiated a back massage so he was going to have to fully commit.
“I wish we had managed to stay together. You were the reason I had stayed in the first place. But being with Jack at first was okay, and then with Ritchie and Colin, even if they both -- somehow, they both -- I don’t -- I mean, I don’t know. They were both gone and I was alone. All I can do is thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t attacked again. I wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now if I had been.” Charlotte shivered rather visibly, chewing on her bottom lip. “But I’m okay.”
Andrew’s hands obligingly set to work on her back, feeling rather than seeing when she shivered. “But you are sitting with me here,” he reminded her quietly. “And that's the best thing in the world right now.” He stared at her back, at the patch of her neck above that shockingly yellow dress that she'd moved her hair from, and then pressed that spot of exposed skin with one of his thumbs.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he instructed her, applying more pressure to her back.
“The harder, the better,” she said, without realizing what she’d said until it was already out there. She laughed, quietly, a genuine laugh that ripped out from deep in her lungs. It felt good to have something to actually laugh about again. “You know what I mean.” Her eyes were fluttering open and closed, and as the treehouse fell silent, she listened to the sounds of his breath and to the birds outside tweeting their happy little songs to each other. There was life all around them. The birds. The plants and flowers she had in here. The beating of his heart right behind her. The skin cells that worked overtime just to help their wounds heal. It was everything. Life was everything.
“I’m going to live a good life,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
Andrew’s smirk had barely faded when Charlotte spoke again, so quietly, and all thoughts of innuendo were forgotten. He lowered his hands and then gently pulled her closer, hands on her hips to manoeuvre her gingerly so she was facing him. “You are,” he agreed.
Charlotte would have protested that this massage was being cut short if she wasn’t suddenly in her favourite position in the whole world. She brought her arms up to wrap around his neck. One hand tangled in his hair as her head lowered and she kissed him, gingerly, knowing that, for once, they had all the time in the world to savour it. He tasted like her Andrew.
“What about you, Andrew Kirke?” She was whispering again against his lips. “Are you going to live a good life?”
“What do you predict for me?” Andrew asked her, looking up into her eyes.
“Well. Lots of this.” She kissed him again and pressed her hips deeper into him. They fit like a puzzle. She didn’t care that she was wearing a dress. “But oh so much more. Memories for my new box. Travels. Faces of every colour. Tongues of every language. Birds we’ve never seen before. The sky halfway across the world. Putting your heart and soul into your dreams. Making your dreams come true because, for whatever reason, we were the lucky ones who didn’t have our dreams dashed prematurely. Happiness. With me. As long as I can make you happy forever.”
Andrew listened, realising that talk of the future didn't have the kind of desperate escapism it had held for them in recent months. It wasn't the frantic imaginings of a better world that seemed impossible. It was no longer the stuff of wild, rambling dreams. And while the dreams hadn't changed, the significance of them had.
They seemed possible now. Possible, tangible enough that they could reach out and grab them by the handful.
“I'd like that,” he told her in a whisper.
“Does knowing that we might actually get to see the world make it better for you? Do you still want to be a traveling Healer? Has that dream changed at all?” Charlotte tilted her head back so she could look at him, and reached up to play with his hair, pulling it back into a ponytail and tugging it softly. She didn’t have a band to clasp it with, so she merely held it with her hands so she could see the entire expanse of his face.
“The last few days made me realise just how right that dream is,”Andrew told her. “I don't want to ever feel like I'm bound to any building. Any four walls. Except,” he glanced around them, “these walls might be okay.” Andrew ended the statement on a joke, playfully squeezing his handhold on her hips.
“Don’t lie. I know you hate it. You wish you could leave. You regret ever coming over.” She let go of his hair so it waved against his face in a way that made her heart flutter and a sigh give her away. She rolled her eyes and smiled, bouncing slightly on his lap. “It’s going to be brilliant. You’re going to be brilliant. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.” She leaned back, knowing his eyes were on her, and pulled her hair to one side of her neck and itched her shoulder. “You have good taste in women, though.” She crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out, attempting her silliest face.
“I don't believe in regrets any more,” he told her, raising his eyebrows slightly at the face she pulled. “Although I'm starting to, looking at that awful face. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to pull faces? The wind’ll change and it'll stay that way,” he teased her, reaching for one of her hands and linking their fingers again.
“You’d still love me unconditionally,” she responded, letting him link their hands togther and giving his fingers a tight squeeze. “Even if you had to wake up to this face every morning.” Charlotte let a silence fall over them, but a comfortable one. A gust of wind was blowing the curtains around, a gentle reminder that the weather was still not ready to cooperate. “Five years from this very moment. Where are you and what are you doing?”
Andrew closed his eyes for a moment, trying to visualise it. “Somewhere that's ours,” he told her. “Hidden amongst stacks of books as I'm trying to work for my final exams. I tried to make you breakfast but you told me I'd burn the place down,” Andrew smirked. Eyes still closed, he listened to the sounds around them for a short while. There were birds and wind and even her soft breathing close to him. He opened his eyes. “How about you?”
“Probably back with that handsome Felipe. I never did quite get him out of my mind.” Charlotte smiled and placed both of her hands on his cheeks, enjoying how he almost looking calm sitting here with his eyes closed. When his eyes opened back up, she held her smile and gnawed on her bottom lip. “I see myself completely in one piece in five years,” she said slowly knowing that alone would be the biggest, bestest, most positive thing that could ever happen to her.
His thumb brushed over the knuckles of her hand that he held as their grip loosened and he smiled at her as she pressed her palms against his cheeks. “That sounds good to me,” Andrew told her. Strangely hesitant, he watched her as he fell silent. He recalled the first night they'd kissed, when worry and emotion had caused his hesitation then. Any hesitation now was just because they had time to take. His dark eyes held her gaze, then flickered to look down before returning to focus on her again.
Charlotte’s eyes, nearly as dark, watched intently as he seemed to hesitate, how she could tell there was something else he wanted to say but he was leaving it at that. She let go of one of his cheeks so they could hold hands again, and she leaned in and nudged his nose with her nose. “What’s the matter? You have that look on your face you always get when you’re studying really hard and you can’t seem to remember what I just said but you’re too polite to try and ask me to repeat what I just said.”
“Nothing’s the matter,” Andrew’s response was measured. “I just feel, I don't know -- peaceful? Happy? Happy in a sort of lower-key sense, like there's just a calm inside of me. And I don't have to fight it, and it's not everything I am, it's just there. I'm not used to not worrying, perhaps. I'm not used to taking time and just enjoying being.”
He ducked his head, bashful at yet another ramble. “I'm not making any sense, am I?”
“Nothing has ever made so little sense,” Charlotte teased, but she was smiling, smiling a bigger smile than she had smiled in a long time. And it felt good to have that stretch of skin, that lightheadedness ebb away a lot of the tension that had hunkered down and refused to leave from her body despite the brief massage she had received. “Do you want me to give you something to worry about? Because there has to be something out there for me to come up with.” She pondered, bringing her free hand to itch her chin. “Worry about all the drunk men who are going to be groping my arse when I get a bartending job.”
He smiled as she smiled, his face unconsciously echoing hers. “They're going to have to keep away,” he told her, that smile betraying his serious tone. His free hand reached around to said arse, giving it a swift, gentle, playful pinch.
“What happened to the Andrew Kirke who turned fifty shades of pink whenever I bent over in front of him??” Charlotte gasped, trying to cover a laugh while attempting to sound properly scandalized at the same time. It came out as more of a half-choke, with a tiny giggle at the end and her hand going up to cover her mouth as though beyond stunned that he had just pinched her. “But if it earns me more tips...yes? Yes. We have school to pay for. It’s not cheap.”
“Did you prefer him?” Andrew asked her, his own laughter softly evident in his voice. His hand moved back to said arse, grabbing it gently and pulling her closer onto his lap again. He leaned in, kissing her quickly and then another smaller peck of his lips on hers. Then her nose. Greedy for her attention, he held her close so that there was hardly an inch between their bodies. “Shy Andrew? Did you?”
“Well, he was pretty charming. There was something about that wide-eyed kid in a sweets shop that was incredibly endearing. But this” -- she wrapped her legs around his waist and crossed them at the ankle tightly -- “is pretty satisfactory, too.” She nipped at his neck, then kissed along his jawline. “You’re getting hairs!” She said it such enthusiasm that she had to whip her head back and investigate said hairs on his jaw.
It was enough to inspire that more bashful side of him, and he unlinked their hands to rub at his jawline. “That's what tends to happen, Charlotte,” he rolled his eyes at her, still playful. “Why, do you like it?” A genuine question, eyebrows raised in silent judgement of whatever answer she gave.
“Ummmmmm. Yes, yes I do.” Charlotte looked at the little black hairs and wondered if A, they had always been there and he’d just been shaving them off or B, if the war had turned him into a burly manly man and his body had decided to sprout hair for added proof of his manliness. “Preeeeeeeetty sexy.” She kissed his jawline again once, twice, three times, pressing her pelvis harder into him for good measure. “Charlotte approved.”
“If this is the reaction I get from a couple of days with no shaving, will a week drive you wild?” Andrew couldn't help laughing, both arms now curled around her to hold her close. “What's the two week patchy beard attempt going to do?” He tilted his head to one side, then the other, as though trying to deduce her potential reactions just by looking at her. He wanted to read her that well, know her feelings. She wasn't such a mystery as a constant discovery, and finding out new things that she was into was always a delight.
Charlotte held his gaze, unafraid to look away. She was never one to back down to a challenge, and though she may have looked rather innocent, the insides of her zig-zaggy mind were devilish. She leaned in, placing her lips against his ear and whispered, in very graphic detail, about how if said beardy look was achieved, and did not resemble Santa Claus in any such way, her dress would already be off. And something about her mouth. And something about his hands. She was grinning when she pulled her head back. “Soooooo too bad it’s just that sparse thing right now.”
If Charlotte wasn't one to back down to a challenge, Andrew wasn't about to admit defeat. He squirmed a little, a fraction of a movement as he felt suddenly uncomfortable from where she sat on top of him, but he was made of sterner stuff. “I'll see how it goes,” he replied cooly, before pinching her arse again as a distraction.
She didn’t know if it was wrong to be flirting with her boyfriend after...everything. They had survived by flirting all through Hogwarts. It had kept her sane. And, as they both readily admitted, it had been a distraction. While she had known there was a connection there, a tiny miniscule part of her couldn’t help but worry that the two of them out in the real world wouldn’t have the same attraction to each other. If this was a brave new world, were things going to change? “I’m still attracted to you,” she said finally, as though saying so would somehow confirm to herself that he still found her attractive, too.
He nodded slowly, realising what she meant. They probably hadn't anticipated moving their relationship to outside Hogwarts so quickly. Easter had helped, of course, spending time together that didn't seem stolen or rushed. But Easter had come to an end all too quickly, and soon enough they'd been back at school.
“I'm still attracted to you,” he echoed her words. “Very much. Maybe even more so, because I'm sharing this -- this feeling of freedom. With you,” he watched her closely. “Heart and soul, Charlotte,” he told her. They had a connection that he could only see strengthening.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said softly, bringing her arms around his back and letting her fingers slip under the back of his shirt so she could softly stroke the skin there. She rested her cheek on his shoulder for a moment, breathing contently, content to be breathing, living freely, freely living. They hadn’t been this intimate in weeks. She wanted to permanently attach her limbs to him and just follow him along wherever he went. Lifting her head back up, she cupped his cheek, holding his head, and kissed him, solidly, deeply, tongue and all.
It didn't hold the sadness or longing of some of their kisses at school, nor the sense that they were on borrowed time which had marked their week together at Easter. He lingered in the kiss, arms around her, eyes closed. In truth, he wasn't sure that he wanted it to end. Even when their lips parted he barely moved, feeling her warm breath whisper-soft along his jawbone.
“Come back with me?” he asked the question quietly, a murmur against her lips. “I missed you so much. I feel like I left part of me behind with you and I can't be apart for that long again.”
The fact that she was kissing him in her treehouse, of all places, was electrifying. She’d had dreams about doing so, wanting to get him away from everyone else up in the sky, away from where feet and gravity kept their toes in the grass. She was very well tempted to tell him to hightail it over to her sleeping bag and put that mouth to an even better use, but patience was a virtue she was slowly working to master. She craved these moments with him just as much as she craved those other ones.
“I don’t want you to spend so much time with me that you start to forget who you are,” she whispered, eyes closed as her head lulled forehead and they kissed again, delicately. “You need to be free, too.”
His nod was slow, sad, but resigned to the truth in her words. “I suppose there's time. I'm not used to having time to spare,” he admitted to her. It was nice to just be there, not to give in to the urge that he felt to fool around right there in her treehouse. Maybe there were some things that should be kept sacred. Being invited into her sanctuary was special, and he couldn't ignore that fact.
“Thank you for letting me come up here,” he told her, soft and sincere.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she said slowly, almost sadly. “I just worry. You know I do. About you running out of things to talk about with me.” She reached for his hands and brought them back around her body so he was clutching her arse again. Because, you know. That felt good and all and clearly that’s where his hands should be. She started peppering kisses up and down his jawline -- hairy jawline! -- and didn’t stop to make any comments about what she found there this time. She brought her hands down to his hips and clung to them, nails into the fabric of his trousers, and breathed against his lips. “Although that childhood bed of yours…”
A pause for another kiss.
“You can come up here any time you’d like.”
“Charlotte!” Andrew practically whined her name into her mouth. “I brought you paint and how am I supposed to get anything done now you're saying all that,” barely a complaint, considering how much he relished her attention and teasing, but he knew he'd get little painting done if it went on for any longer.
“All I said was ‘childhood bed’”, she remarked, wide-eyed and innocent. “You’re the one who hears ‘childhood bed’ and thinks inappropriate thoughts.” Now she was smiling and kissing him again, maybe, kind of, possibly, potentially, rocking on his lap a little bit. “But by all means, go get the paint. This place needs a good painting. A good, hard, wet painting.”
Andrew grimaced. “Nope,” he insisted, “it's going to have a cold, dull, sexless painting.” Not caring that his words hadn't made a lick of sense, he leaned forwards and kissed her, a little more assertively than usual. His arms around her tucked under her arse and lifted her up, breaking the kiss with a slight bark of “Off!” as he hoisted her carefully off his lap.
“You know, right now would be a very good time to break up with you,” she whined, crossing her arms over her chest so tightly it made her ribcage hurt. She let out a sound akin to that of an angry cat and twirled on her heel. “Fine, Mr Kirke. Deny me. I don't care. Not one bit. And go get the paint, you tosser. I need to change.” Being as dramatic as possible, she reached around her back, arms looking even longer and more gangly than usual, and unzipped her dress. She let it fall to her ankles casually, as though ready to hop in the shower. ALONE, considering Andrew Kirke was her boyfriend, and stared over her shoulder at him. She shrugged and walked over to a backpack in the corner, digging for sweatpants and an old top.
He couldn't help smiling as he moved towards the doorway of the treehouse, opening it and standing out on the little landing. He fished his wand from the back pocket of his jeans and summoned the tin of paint and brushes that he'd brought with him, easier than going back down to get them. All while Charlotte was huffing and puffing and changing, and he stole a glance back at her before closing the little door again and facing her properly.
“That's a good idea,” he told her, “Wouldn't want to mess your nice dress.” And, like a well-trained and polite boyfriend, he bent down to pick the dress up and hand it to her.
“Thank you soooooo much. You are sooooo helpful.” Now that the dress was in her hands, she pondered for a second. Instead of pulling new clothes out of the bag, she simply tucked the dress in and dropped the backpack into the corner. Snatching a brush in her hand, she walked, lower knickers only, to the wall opposite him and traced a few practice strokes of her paintbrush. She was half wondering if he was looking at her and half actually wondering if this was going to be more work than anticipated.
Laughter in his eyes, Andrew struggled to keep a straight face as Charlotte continued her huffy ways. He wasn't sure what her endgame was, but determined to best her at whatever this was. “Won't you get cold?” He asked her, loosening the lid of the paint tin and picking up his own brush. “You could wear the cardigan!”
“Oh, you'd love that! Then it would get covered in paint and ruined forever! Nice try, buddy.” She stuck her tongue out at him as she turned around to walk over to the open can of paint. She reached down and dipped her finger in it, then, in wobbly handwriting wrote “Andrew’s ex-girlfriend” on her stomach. Then she dipped her brush as any normal person would and started to slap it onto the wall, a bit violently. “I am perfectly toasty.”
He watched, quietly amused, and then strode over to her to close the gap between them. Instead of heading for the paint, he reached an arm out to her. His hand closed gently on her elbow, his eyes pleading. Having those large, dark eyes could be an advantage sometimes. “Just this wall?” Andrew asked, not looking at a wall at all and instead fixed on her.
“All the walls,” she murmured, trying not to get lost in the blink blink blink of his unfairly long eyelashes. “Can you handle that?” She licked her bottom lip and tried not to shiver because -- yes she was cold - and held his gaze.
“Course I can,” he replied smoothly, releasing his grip on her arm. Keeping his eyes on her, he picked up one of the pens from the stack of art supplies. Finally breaking that eye contact, he picked his spot carefully. Right under the line about not being allowed dessert, he wrote Andrew loves Charlotte in his careful handwriting. He stood back, admiring it quickly. He just wanted to leave his own mark before they covered over the whole lot.
She watched, transfixed, and listened as her heart loudly declared it was tired of all this mushy bullshit and was going to leave her body at the nearest opportunity. She felt her eyes dampen slightly, but not to the point of crying, and she bent to dip her finger back in the paint. She crossed a giant X over the word ‘ex’ on her stomach. “Just this wall, then,” she whispered, distracting herself from an onslaught of emotions by slapping the wall again with an overly wet brush.
He dropped the pen, and started to concentrate on the wall and the work he was supposed to be doing. His own brushstrokes were more deliberate, less haphazard, but it was impossible to deal with the paint without making some kind of mess. And after a few brushstrokes he flicked a few drops of paint at Charlotte’s ankles, completely on purpose.
Charlotte jumped as though she had just been flicked with scalding water. She growled but said nothing, gritting her teeth and stroking up and stroking down, making semi-nice lines on the wall. It wasn't until she had finished a nice square that she sought her revenge, revenge in the form of flicking her brush directly into his hair, which was still long and flying free.
Andrew pretended for a moment as if he hadn't noticed the blob of paint in his hair, even though he'd felt it land. He moved a little closer to her, looking her paint-covered form up and down.
“Here, you missed a spot,” he said, leaning over her and pretending to reach the wall. Instead he turned at the last moment, dabbing her nose with his paintbrush.
“Andrew!” Her voice was loud and surprised and amused and literally all she could do was stare open-mouth at him. She could feel the paint tickling her nose. “You are in so much trouble.” She reached her hand down into the paint, acting as though she was going to smear it into his face, but lowering her hand quickly down between his legs and grabbing -- well. Whatever she had to grab to make a nice handprint in a very suspicious location on his trousers. Her touch did not linger. “Good luck explaining that to people.”
Andrew’s yelped in indignation and there was a clatter as he dropped his own brush on the floor. Whatever retaliation he'd expected hadn't involved paint on the crotch of his jeans. Acting on instinct, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close. Paint or no paint, he kissed her deeply, breathless and exhilarated. “You're awful,” he told her, releasing his grip slightly.
She fell into the kiss immediately, her brain and her heart and her body more carefree than it had been in months, like the way a normal teenager should be. Silly and happy and sassy. She sighed into his lips softly, tongue teasing his tongue for a second before it ended. “You were asking for it,” she murmured sarcastically, biting his little dimple chin. “What do you say. We both win?”
“We both win,” Andrew agreed happily. “But mostly because you're a terrible loser.” His arms wrapped around her still, resting on the small of her back, he gazed down into her eyes.
“You don't care. You love me.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed his chest. “I'll come home with you, if you want. I don't know if I am ready to start missing you all over again.”
Andrew was hesitant to agree. “We can try taking things slow on that front,” he offered, “I mean. We have all the time in the world. Just until funerals have happened, and we can establish some kind of routine.” Until their friends were all out of the woods. Until the daily upheaval at the Ministry was a distant memory. “You know you can stay forever if you like,” he hastened to add, “My family love you. But we need to establish who we are outside of Hogwarts.” It had just happened a lot sooner than expected. “And how we're going to build our future.”
His expression was one of hope, imagining that shared future already. “We have time.” He ducked his head, kissing her paint-flecked forehead.
A slightly nervous expression came over her face, but she did her best to duck her head low and back onto his chest. She agreed with wanting Andrew to be free from her presence constantly hovering around him, but space between two hearts would constantly make her nervous. Her ex had done a good job of ensuring that, of taking a cattle iron and burning that uneasiness inside her for each future relationship she entered. And, like he was thinking, they weren't used to being apart as a couple. This week or so was the longest yet. Which was probably her own fault, as she'd spent all but one day with him over the Easter hols.
“I know,” she murmured, shivering slightly and pulling away so she could finally bend down and pull that old t-shirt that was two sizes too big out of her backpack. It was supposed to be covered in paint, not her. But oh well. She slipped it on and pulled her hair out of the collar and to one side, trying to pat the frizz down as she chewed on her lip. “It gives us time to plan another proper date, too. After everything is over.”
He watched her as she moved, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between them and make wild promises about how they could just never leave the treehouse. “I just-” he hesitated on the words, shaking his head. “This is important to me, you're so important to me. And the idea of screwing it up or you getting sick of me or us not knowing our own selves, it's just-” Andrew reached out an arm to her, as though he were willing her to join him in another embrace as he tried to reach for words too. “I'm not going to lose you,” he insisted quietly.
The look on his face right then and there reminded her of when he was a first year. He looked like a little boy and not the man he had grown into. His face was innocent and pure, nervous and honest, sweet and anxious. “Andrew, I know. Pretending that we need to be together every second of the day is a wild fantasy that I've traveled into many times. But I know we can't. You know we can't. If this is going to be forever, then yeah. We need to -- find out how this works outside of school. It's like we’re adults but yet we’re not. We’re balancing on the precipice of something lovely here.” She stepped over to him and allowed herself to be held again. “We just need to promise to be honest with each other should things happen to change.”
He leaned into the embrace, dropping another kiss on her forehead and gently touching the edges of that large t-shirt. “That sounds fair,” he agreed, unwilling to imagine a scenario where things could change but happy to agree to honesty.
“Besides,” he broke his silence, voice strangely husky through emotion. “You liked our first date so much that I'm going to need time to plan out the second.”
“You know I don't need anything fancy,” she said, now wrapping her arms around his neck and using his height to hoist her up a little bit, so she was standing on her tiptoes and closer to his face. “As long as it’s with you, it'll be perfect.” She kissed him again and brought her hands up his chest, scratching at his pecs, trying not to get too carried away. Again. But as she intensified the kiss she felt her wobbly legs grow even wobblier.
“One kiss from you does wonders,” she murmured, holding on to him for balance. “Reckon we should finish, then? Unless you're keen on finishing that massage from earlier.”
“You're both easy and difficult to please,” he told her. “You don't like films or any of that boring conventional stuff, but then I don't either. You like being outdoors too much considering the weather in this country is usually awful, and you like flowers but would prefer to just see them growing.” Andrew smiled, still keeping that close embrace. “Nothing too fancy, but enough space that you can get lost in your thoughts and still enjoy company.” He shook his head, as though she were impossible to deal with. “You like it when I'm decisive, but you like to remember when I was too shy to talk to you.” He linked their fingers again, pulling her hand up to his lips to kiss it. He loved every contradiction and complexity, anxiety falling away as he held her gaze again.
Charlotte felt her cheeks redden, slightly, not a full blush, but something close to one, as he continued to list off things about her. If she didn’t know he was talking about her or know herself well she’d think this person he was talking about was completely mad. “I have no idea why you like spending time with this person you’re describing,” she answered, shaking her head and blinking. “You also forgot the part about how this person gets cold easy yet still walks around without a shirt on just to try and get a rise out of her boyfriend and then huffs when she learns that he has better self control than she does. Oh, and you also forgot to mention that she’s really bossy sometimes.”
“I hadn't forgotten,” he told her smartly, noting the slight flush in her cheeks. “Or how I catch you staring at me, smiling like a cat who's got all the cream. Or how you're impatient, like when you got mad at me for struggling with unhooking your bra and you told me to just rip it already,” Andrew smirked, remembering that incident all too well. “Or when you invent men just to see if I get jealous or upset at the thought of them.” He leaned forwards, brushing his nose against hers. “But bossy most of all, except the times I've managed to get you lost for words.”
“So,” he breathed the word, waiting for her to make a move.
“I only stare at you because sometimes I can’t believe how many branches you hit as you fell out of the ugly tree,” she tried, sounding quiet and less mean than she had intended. In fact, she sounded more breathless and infatuated than anything. “And, for the record, it would’ve been hot if you had ripped it, okay. I wasn’t impatient. I was just. Eager.” She lifted her head as his nose nudged her, like a cat would. “You do get jealous. You don’t want anyone else touching me like you do.” Now her voice was a whisper, and she was grabbing his hands and bringing them back around to her arse, much like their day had started. She felt sticky with paint and frizzy from the wind and flushed from his voice, but she was wide-eyed and alive.
“So I think maybe we should...paint some more.” Her arms moved up his chest again, under his shirt, and her nails clawed at his pecs.
Andrew wondered briefly if ‘paint some more’ was some kind of euphemism. They hadn't managed much of the wall, despite it being small as far as walls went. He sighed deeply. “We should probably finish it off, just that wall. Since we started,” sometimes he was too sensible. Too logical. The idea of abandoning the mess of paint in favour of something that hadn't been explicitly on their agenda for the day. “Then we can get you cleaned up? Give me a tour?” He tugged gently at her shirt, meeting her eyes. “See your room?”
“Inner Andrew The Finnisher is feeling antsy,” she smiled, still holding his eyes and resisting the urge to let them roll all the way back into her head. It wasn’t as though the treehouse walls were going to be going anywhere any time soon, and no one was going to venture up there and see the mess they had left behind. But she’d humour him, because he was Andrew and he was her favourite person.
“And what if I don’t want you to see my room?” she pondered quietly, teasingly, letting her hands fall lower on his tummy so she could rest them there, as though a sign that she was stopping from touching him anywhere else. “A girl’s bedroom is very private, you know.”
“Some of us don't like leaving things unfinished,” he insisted. “I like to complete things. Leave no stone unturned, or wall unpainted. I guess.” He shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“I would've thought your treehouse would be more private. But didn't my bedroom count as private? You were happy enough to be in there.” Andrew frowned slightly, a mocking pout about his expression.
“I’m not sure I was happy to be in there,” Charlotte said casually, “but feel free to correct me if my memory is going.” She leaned up and kissed his chin. His dimple. His stupid little dimple. She kissed it again, and then again. And then one more time. “But fine. Let’s get on with it, then. Get the paint brushes.” She looked at him, doe-eyed.
He smiled softly through the kisses, all four of them, his heart hammering in his chest and something at him screaming out to just tell her again how he felt. How every time she looked at him he felt as though he was completely powerless. How he wanted to do anything for her. But he just smiled, and went to pass her one of the paint brushes. He dipped his own into the tin of paint and started work on another patch, trying to merge it seamlessly with the bit he'd done earlier.
One brush stroke, another long one, and Andrew could even be heard whistling tunelessly through his teeth. Andrew Kirke, a boy with no musical inclinations whatsoever, was so happy that he was whistling. Another long brush stroke down the wall.
Charlotte tried to focus on the painting, on the reason she had asked Andrew if he wanted to come over in the first place (or at least one of the reasons, but painting was always soothing and they could all use a hobby that was calming and soothing right now). She liked that this wall was now going to have its own personality. Its own colour. It was going to stand out from the other walls that were bare, but not boring. Just decorated in a different way, with her handwriting and pictures.
“This wall is a bit like my soul. It gets painted over, but it still stays true to itself.” She liked that the paint wasn’t super thick, that it didn’t take away all the markings of the tree that had died to provide the boards for this treehouse. “It’s sturdy. It was pretty, on its own, but it’s even prettier when it has something to lay its body over it. It feels comfortable then. Naked under this body of paint.” Charlotte was mostly talking to herself as she trailed off, finishing up the square she had been working on before and starting a new one.
Andrew’s whistling faded away as he started to listen to her rambling words, his brush starting to meander down the wall as opposed to the precise work he'd been doing before. He smiled as he listened to her words, just enjoying the peaceful tone of her voice. “Mhmm?” Andrew asked softly, prompting her to continue if she saw fit.
“Sorry. I was just rambling. Don’t even listen to me. Sometimes I start talking and forget what I was even talking about.” Charlotte smiled at the wall as she filled in a gap she had missed the first few strokes. “I didn’t mean for you to stop whistling. Do carry on it, was very catchy.”
“Your rambling is better than me being tuneless,” he told her. “I like what you have to say,” he glanced over at her, seeing that smile, and then smiled himself. He looked back to the wall. “Why just one wall?” Andrew asked her suddenly.
“I like them all being different. They have different personalities. And I don't know if I have it in my heart to get rid of all the things we wrote on the other wall. Maybe because there is some stuff on there that Benji wrote, too.” Charlotte sighed softly and willed herself to not turn around and roll her fingers over his messy handwritten “Benjamin was here” for what would probably be the one hundredth time in her life. “Is that stupid?”
Andrew shook his head. “It's not stupid at all,” he assured her, glancing at the wall with all the writing. “There's a lot of all of you there.” A slight shiver coursed through his spine, silencing him briefly. Paintbrush in hand, he wondered if maybe it was just being surrounded by four childhoods in that one room. One of them had been so tragically short, the others perhaps grown up too soon. “It's nice to keep it.”
“Yeah. I'm glad you wanted to come up here. It was nice to share it with someone other than myself. I think a lot when I'm alone up here.” Charlotte finished the set of long lines she was making and put her brush back down into the bucket. She wiped her hands on her shirt and reached for her wand, quietly whispering a spell at the spilled drops down on the floor a moment later. Her mess disappeared, as well as the few blotches that had plopped off Andrew’s brush. “Do you want me to make us lunch?”
Brought back to reality by the sound of her voice, he turned his head to look at her. “I don't mind,” Andrew replied, not having really thought about lunch or eating at all. “Is it okay if I hang around for a bit? Your parents won't mind me lurking around your home, right?”
“My parents aren’t home,” she responded, trying to pretend she was an organized person by pulling a blanket off a set of books that she was using as a protective cover, “but I don’t think they would care.” Charlotte stared at the newly painted wall and wondered if it needed some stars and moons and maybe the planets added to it. Maybe once everything was dry she would get some of those glow in the dark things people stuck to the walls in the bedrooms and use a little bit of magic to make them last longer or shine brighter.
“It’s up to you. I don’t care either way.”
Andrew followed her gaze to look at the wall too, smiling softly. “Looks nice,” he said, somewhat proud of it. “It'll look nicer still when you make it your own.” He didn't believe for a moment that it'd stay without any Charlotte-like flourishes for long.
“Now,” he said, putting the paintbrush down and turning his full attention to her. “How about that tour?” He reached a hand out to her, still with that warm smile about his face.
“How about one more kiss first? Just as your way of saying goodbye to my treehouse. Actually, I feel like it should be a rule that you have to kiss upon entering and upon leaving.” Charlotte wrapped her arms around his middle and looked up at him expectantly.
“I'll meet your one and raise you by another,” Andrew told her, and before she could respond he hoisted her up. Holding her around her waist so she could scrape the low treehouse ceiling with outstretched arms if she wanted, and that she could kiss him at a height above his own. He almost didn't want to leave the treehouse, but he was going to make those last moments count if he could.
For a second, Charlotte worried he was going to drop her. She let out a squeak and reached up to grasp against the roof, her fingernails doing little more than scraping against the wood. Realizing that would do little good, she reached down and clutched his face, as though holding on for dear life. “Leave it to you to do it so extravagantly,” she murmured, leaning her head down and placing her lips directly on his. She sighed into the kiss, never letting it deepen to her liking, teasing a bit, before letting them pull back just slightly so she could speak. “I love you, Andrew Kirke.”
Holding her tightly, Andrew stole that second kiss the moment the words were out of her mouth. Shorter, sweeter perhaps, and then a third as he gently released his grip on her and guided her back to the floor. “I love you too,” he told her, sliding his hands down her arms and catching both of her hands in his.