It's Better If You Do

When George stepped into the backroom the sweet smell of sugar reached his nose and he turned, noticing that Bellamy was stirring a rather small amount of the sticky, molten substance in a pan. She had a cauldron beside her, the lid off to the side. However, it was not accompanied with the sweet smell of a love potion, so George figured it was the sleeping draught she had made the day she arrived.

“Bellamy, dearest,” he started apprehensively, causing the brunette to turn her eyes to him briefly before looking down at the sugar before pulling a jar of a bright purple substance from behind her and adding a few drops of it to her mixture.

“You’re going to ask for something, aren’t you?” She asked before he had time to continue on. George let out a nervous laugh and sat down beside her. Bellamy visibly tensed and shot a hard glance to him from the corners of her eyes before focusing on the now vibrant purple mixture she continued to stir.

“Yes,” George said plainly, which caused Bellamy to scoff and roll her eyes, “I was wondering if you would allow me to borrow D’Artagnan?” The French girl froze at this and turned to him with a very intimidating look on her face. George gave her a shaky grin in return and she cut her eyes even more at him.

“Could you tell me why you’d need to borrow him?” She asked in a voice that clearly said she was trying to control her temper.

“Fred and I don’t have an owl and I need to write our parents about something,” he said quickly, suddenly gaining a very earnest look on his face. She was going to have to believe and trust his words if this were ever going to work out. He didn’t know how he’d make things up to Rose if he couldn’t get the kitten like he wanted to. Bellamy’s expression softened, but only slightly. She tilted her head to the side and stared at him, almost contemplatively, before shaking her head.

“D’Artagnan won’t know where your parents live, even if you tell him,” she said, turning her attention back to the candy mixture in front of her as she added a few drops of liquid from the cauldron beside her, stirred it in, and then extinguished the flame beneath the pan. “He’s smart, but I don’t want to risk the chance of him getting lost.”

“Surely he’d just come back here if he got lost,” George offered and Bellamy let out a sharp sigh as she turned and looked over at him, an angry pink color painting her cheeks.

“I don’t want him going,” she said simply, in a voice that challenged George to argue with her, “and that’s final.” George drew in a breath of air, trying to keep himself from getting angry at how stubborn she was.

“But what if it was something really important? What if our parents just had to know it?” He asked, being just as stubborn as she was. Bellamy’s jaw clenched visibly under her skin as she glared at George, wanting nothing more than to be done with this conversation so she could get on with making lollipops. She only had a limited amount of time before the sugar would harden in the pan and that was a mess she didn’t want to deal with.

“You’d find another owl somewhere or get your own if it were that important,” she said, her voice bordering on flat out yelling at him. George scowled and stood up, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’ll just use him anyway. Owls are supposed to be obedient to whoever has a letter,” he said stubbornly with an air of finality in his voice as he marched toward the stairs to the flat.

“Oh, you go do that, George Weasley!” Bellamy snapped at him, glaring at his back as she placed her clenched fists on her hips. “But don’t come crying to me when D’Artagnan won’t budge!” Her French accent had come through more than he had even heard it and it was a bit difficult to understand a few of her words through it. George shot her a dark look over his back.

“I won’t!” He yelled childishly. Bellamy’s pink-tinged cheeks blotched with red as she continued to glower at his retreating figure.

“Fine!” She shrieked, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Fine!” He replied with an equal amount of fervor and anger before shutting the door behind him with a loud, resounding bang. Bellamy merely gave a stubborn ‘humph’ before turning back to her candy, which had now completely hardened in the time she had spent arguing.

George tore into the flat angrily, causing a sleeping D’Artagnan to give a dissatisfied hoot, ruffle his feathers, and send a perturbed glance to George with his wide, lamp-like orange eyes. He strode over to the desk and sat down in the chair, having it give a few creaks and pops with the sudden weight he threw onto it. Grabbing one of the quills that had been thrown carelessly to the desk, a small pot of ink, and a piece of parchment, he began scribbling a note to his parents about how they intended on visiting Sunday, bringing their two new employees along with them.

D’Artagnan, who was perched on the side of the desk, was watching the top of the pheasant feather quill sway from side-to-side as George wrote. Playfully, he slowly walked himself to a stack of papers to get closer to the quill and began to snap at the top of the feather. George took note of this and glanced up to the bird, swatting the bird away.

“Ruddy bird,” George grumbled and he could have sworn he saw the owl smirk back at him. He began writing once more, the owl snapping yet again at the top of the quill. Trying to ignore the sharp, clicking noises of the bird’s razor-sharp beak, he continued to write until the owl latched it’s beak onto the top of the quill and gave it a sharp tug. The sudden movement made the tip of the quill slip across the parchment, blotting over a few of the words so they became illegible. George let out an irritated growl as he shot a glare to D’Artagnan as he dropped the quill and crumpled up the parchment, tossing it into the waste basket beside the desk. Grabbing another sheet of parchment, he began to write again, trying to angle himself away from the bird.

Yet again, as he wrote the owl snapped at his quill playfully, hooting happily as he did. George had reached his patience with the game the bird was playing and gently swatted at him again. This time, the bird lunged forward and its beak sliced into the side of George’s hand. Letting out a strangled “arrrrggghhh”, he pulled his hand away quickly, slinging blood across the letter he was working on and a few of the other papers on the desk as well.

“YOU IDIOTIC BIRD!” George roared as he clutched his bleeding hand, glaring at the bird. The bird, which did have a playful look before George yelled at it, seemed to comprehend the insult. D’Artagnan glared and flapped its large, feathery wings in an intimidating manner at George, who gave a small, frightened shriek and, in his haste to get away from the bird before it could hurt him again, tipped the chair over backwards and he fell along with it with a loud clatter and a ‘oof’ from George.

Footsteps clacked up the stairs and George quickly scurried to his feet, not wanting to add more to the situation if Bellamy found him spread out on the floor in fear of a bird. The door opened and, just as George expected, Bellamy peered around the room just as George righted the chair, keeping his eyes focused on the menacing bird that was perched on the edge of the desk.

“Your bloody bird bit me,” George growled out through clenched teeth. Bellamy gained a bit of shocked look on her face as D’Artagnan flew over to one of the windowsills guiltily, and looked down at the alley once more.

“Surely, you must have provoked him,” she said in a soft voice, a small taunting smile curling the corners of her lips upward.

“I was just trying to write a letter and he kept snapping at the quill, so I waved him away and he bit me,” George grumbled as his bleeding hand dripped down the back of his hand and onto the floor. Bellamy noticed the rivulets of red and her happy expression dropped in a flash. Her complexion paled and took on a grey-green pallor.

“You’re bleeding,” she breathed in a shaky voice as she pursed her lips a bit, raising a gloved hand over her mouth as if she were going to be sick. George watched her closely as a wave of understand washed over him and a wide smirk curled his lips, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Could you help me clean it up?” He asked, taking a step or two forward towards Bellamy, who turned her head and shielded her eyes with her other hand, keeping her from looking at the cut which he was holding forward in front of him in plain sight. “After all, it was your bird that did it.” She began taking a few small steps backwards, shaking her head slowly.

“N-no,” she stammered weakly, her knees suddenly feeling like they were made of jelly, “you’ve got a free hand. J-just…go in the bathroom and wash it off with warm water and soap, I’ll go get the dittany from the back room.” George’s smirk widened as he continued to take slow, calculated steps towards Bellamy, holding his wound even higher for her to see. She took a glance toward him and winced immediately, taking steps backwards from him.

“C’mon now, Bellamy, your sister tended to my brother, you could at least tend to me,” he said in a taunting voice.

“George Weasley,” she said in a wobbling, low voice, “you take one more step toward me and I will vomit all over you.”

“Aw, it’s just a little blood,” he continued in jest, taking one more step toward her. Bellamy, in turn, took another small step backwards. However, she had been edging closer and closer to the staircase without either of them recognizing it. Bellamy felt the heels of her shoes fall through thin air and soon enough her entire body lurched backwards. George’s eyes widened and his heart leapt into his throat as the falling girl clenched her eyes shut and let out a bloodcurdling scream. He swiftly closed the distance between the two of them and reached out, grasping her petite waist in her hands and pulling her flush against him, setting her back upright and saving her from a nasty fall that probably would have resulted in her breaking a few bones.

Bellamy screamed well after she had been saved, her eyes screwed shut and her hands clenched into fists as she held her arms over her face in protection.

“It’s alright, Bellamy. You’re safe,” he soothed and the girl’s piercing scream died off slowly as she opened her eyes. She stared up at him with wide, doe-eyes, her chest heaving with the suddenly burst of adrenaline through her. He stared down at her, matching her expression as he glanced over her, to make sure he hadn’t hurt her in his successful attempt at saving her from toppling down the stairs.

Soon enough, both Fred and Rose flew into the backroom with frantic looks upon their faces. George’s head snapped in their direction as he quickly let go of Bellamy, his little injury forgotten. Bellamy, however, had a look of fear and realization on her face as she slowly glanced down to the bloody handprints on her crisp, white shirt.

“What happened?” Rose asked briskly, a bit confused as to why her sister would have screamed until she noticed the handprints, having an idea of what went on.

“Everything alright?” Fred asked at the same time, glancing between his brother and Bellamy, who had turned completely a sickly shade of green, from head to toe, stared down at her shirt in horror. George cleared his throat as he stared between Fred and Rose guiltily.

“Well…it all started when I tried to write— ”

“Oh Dieu! There is blood all ov—” was all Bellamy got out before she cupped her hands over her mouth and sprinted to the bathroom on shaking legs, slamming the door shut behind her.