Falling For

It was a Saturday night and I was out with George, Angelina, Lee, Fred, and his new girlfriend, Petra. We were all sitting in a small pub, chairs pulled around a tiny table that was meant for two. Filled with Fire Whiskey and salty sweets, we were lolling over the Christmas holidays like new-of-age people generally did. Drinking away our coldness, I mean, like a pack of giggly teenagers who used to meet behind the shed after class to smoke or spit by the magical creatures the groundskeeper kept.

So there we were, like old friends (minus Katie and Alicia, who were a year younger than us) rabbling on about school stories and laughing at how silly it all seemed now. The real world, in essence, was a lot less complicated but harsher on the aura we put out. Sometimes I miss the days where I would wander the halls of my favourite school and wonder about stupid boys and falsify death over an uncompleted homework assignment. Then it just suddenly turned to all work and no fun.

Petra was such a downer, if I remember her correctly. She had toddled into WWW behind her younger sister, who had adopted a Pygmy Puff to the expense of her dear older sibling. Fred and her got talking, as Fred (being a Weasley and all) charmed the pants off of her. It still didn’t make her any less of a killjoy, but she tended to make Fred happy so George and I left it and let it simmer with cautious eyes.

And thus she sat there, strangely masculine fingers entwined with Fred’s limber and thinning own. She was blond haired, blue eyed, strong-jawed and had no sense of sarcasm. This proved to be great entertainment for a while, until we got in trouble of the raging redhead himself. After that, we made fun of her in private. We never set out to be mean or anything, it was just always so odd seeing Fred trying to stably cope without Angelina.

I don’t think either of them moved on actually, even until this day when I manage to catch her eye, I can see it written all over her face. She may have gotten the 'second best', but I'll always know that she was always Fred's girl.

But I suppose love is strange like that.



“I think I need a haircut.” George was cradling me under his arm as I stood content on the side of the road. He was blowing his hair out of his eyes, the longing red locks almost reaching his nose. I didn’t mind his hair that much, but I nodded anyway to appease him. I was a little fuzzy from all the alcohol consumed that night, but I had stopped drinking a far while before everyone else had. I was the designated Knight Bus administrator, still capable of hailing the thing but not even close to aparating everyone home.

“I think I should grow a beard.” Fred mumbled from my left, and I snorted loudly while Petra deadpanned.

“I’ll be forced to shave it off while you sleep.” She mumbled at him and he burst into a grin, taking her into his grasp while she looked rather content in his arms; like a huffy cat snuggled up by a bright fireplace that spat sarcasm and jokes rather than burns and licks.

Wand up in the air, we all waited in limbo for a moment before a large, purple bus cracked in front of us. An old man swung out to greet us, looking at us awkwardly for a second before shrugging.

“Good evening, I’m Miles Mullenbacker and I’ll be at your service tonight.” He grumbled with less enthusiasm than Petra on a good day. I stared up at the balding, spotty old man and skimmed passed him, Fred giving him a couple of galleons in some drunken fit of generosity before sputtering the address.

George squinted as he sat down cross-legged on a bed and I dived to join him, hoping to avoid getting thrown around by the bandy-legged driver that chatted mildly to the shrunken head hanging from the rear-view.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” George started.

“You’re wrong!” Fred piped up from across the bus, his brother glaring at him.

“Shh, Fred, shhh.” Hazy eyed and giggly, George leaned in to bump his forehead with mine. “But seriously,” whispered breaths brushed my faces warily, “didn’t some skinny bastard who never bathed used to work on this bus. Whatsis name?”

“I know who you’re talking about.” I muttered back, leaning on his shoulders with my flat palms. “I know who you’re talking about, George, but I don’t know where he is.”

“No one does.” He whispered and we both broke into raspy, secretive snickers as the bed slammed into a wall. Shrieking with laughter, we clung to the metal ends for dear life as we skimmed around the swerving bus, sometimes colliding with walls and other beds - laughing even harder when we began to question why the beds had wheels in the first place.



Pulling off my coat, I tossed it over to the corner of the room. George was sitting on the bed, pulling off his shoes awkwardly like a child as he watched me. I peeled off my shirt, throwing it at him seductively before laughing at the shades of pink he ran. Petra and Fred were in the kitchen making tea, giggling about something unheard.

I, however, crawled onto the bed and took his face into my hands, feeling him give up on the shoes instantly. I kissed him softly; nibbling his bottom lip while his hands ran down my ribs like a flesh xylophone. I pushed his hair out of his eyes, smiling through the kiss as he unbuttoned his shirt almost assiduously; rearing to go. But as soon as I pushed my way to the soft skin (between his neck and his collarbones) he stopped, pulling me back. Blinking, I felt him kiss me on the nose and smile almost apologetically before sighing.

“Mignon.” He bit his lip almost nervously. “You know how we've been together for almost two years basically.”

“Basically.” I rolled my eyes at him, not wanting to reach into the ‘Dark Days’ as we referred to them.

“Basically.” He smiled. “I know I’m drunk, but I love you.”

“I didn’t think your sobriety could change that.” I grinned at him and he kissed me on the nose again. My eyes softened and I gave him an ‘I’m kidding’ look before pulling him closer. The warmth of his skin pressed against mine made my arms rocket with goose-pimples, shuddering a little at how well my body fit with his. Like a picture perfect puzzle.

“Next year, Christmas eve, Min… I’m going to ask you to marry me.”

My hands went slack and they fell into my lap as he scanned my face slowly, checking for any danger signs that could have erupted.

“But you need to just pretend it’s a surprise.” He beamed, blinking a little too fast for him to even appear sober. “You need to come with me sometime this year and help me find you your ring.”

“Oh George…” I whispered, breathing heavily as his fingers traced my face.

“You don’t have to say anything, Min. I just… You know, I just love spending time with you. I can’t imagine being with anyone else but you. It’s a year to wait, Min, I’ve already talked to Fred about it and he said to go for it. I mean, if we both agree then we must be right.”

I bit my lip and my eyes watered, something brewing in my chest sucking in all of its surroundings; tightening around my heart that beat faster and faster with each word he said. Tears slipped from the edges of my eyes, rolling down flushed cheeks all for the feeling of awe that was leaking out of every one of my pores.

He brushed the tears away with trembling hands (“Oh, sweetheart… Min, please don’t cry. I didn't think I was that bad looking.”) and I buried my face into them, revelling in the rough touch of those fingerprints that belonged solely to him and I and no one else.

“I love you.” I whispered to him so quietly I wasn’t sure he heard it. So again, clearing my throat, I broke through his hands to stare at him with wide eyes and an open, aching heart. “I love you so much. You’re so kind, and funny and full of adventure and so, so handsome.” I scoffed, biting my lip as the tears continued to fall. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

His smile broke shaky and I pulled him into me and kissed him hard, tangling my fingers through his hair and tugging him over me like a gangly, ginger blanket that I adored. He chewed my lip and I unbuckled his belt, my stomach churning with Fire Whiskey and something new; like a fresh beginning, the idea of children and a house to ourselves with no worries and little trouble.

I often wonder to myself what would have happened if Fred didn’t die. I know that he and Angelina would be happy together, somewhere in the world where they could be sarcastic and headstrong; taking on the planet and all its wonders. I know that George and I would have been strong too, maybe staying in the heart of London to raise a little family like we had planned so many years ago… But in the truth of things, the future is not as bright as we once planned.

Today, I look at myself in the mirror and see an ageing woman, tired eyes and cracked lips; the youth now gone leaving a decomposing shell of something once so bright. My husband loves me, and my children still tease none-the-less… but every so often I see him; my first love. And we smile at what we are, realising that we probably wouldn’t have had it any other way.