Chapter Text
The Yule Ball had come and gone with the same whirlwind chaos as it had been announced. Before anyone realised it, the holidays had finished, and the new semester had started.
George was glad that the whole thing had finally passed. The stress of trying to find a date, and of acting in a way that wouldn't lead her on, had been hard enough. But the ball itself was a shitshow. Not only had he tried hard to avoid his date trying to kiss him, but he had also been unable even to enjoy it with his brother—the fucker drifted away with Angelina to God knows where.
That had been enough romantic action for him. He didn’t feel like dating anybody. But, for Fred, who couldn't help but set George up with whoever witch his latest fling happened to be friends with, that couldn't be.
"What about Katie?" Fred asked, lying on the sofa of the common room, his hands behind his head. "She's nice."
"No," George answered.
“Why?” Fred asked.
“Because,” George shot back.
Fred sat up straight and placed his elbows on his thighs, his hand messing with his hair. “And Mabel?” He said, frustrated.
“Negative.” George rolled his eyes.
It had been fifteen minutes since they had entered the common room and ten minutes since Fred started bothering him with dating prospects. He had named every single girl in their class and was growing increasingly frustrated with his twin’s disinterest.
“Someone must be appealing enough to you!” He almost yelled.
“Who’s appealing?” Ron asked Fred, plopping himself beside him.
“Aunt Muriel to you,” the older twin replied with a sneer.
“Fred wants to find Georgie a girlfriend,” Lee replied. He had been quietly opting out of the conversation until now.
“What about your ball date—was it Alicia?” Harry joined the conversation.
“No!” George shook his hands in the air, exasperated.
Fred then looked at his twin, his brows furrowed and his eyes widening as if he had just realised something. “Don’t tell me you—you are a—” he cut himself off before getting closer to George. “Do you like boys?” he whispered.
George opened his eyes like saucers, and his mouth hung open for a second. Before Fred could react, he grabbed a cushion from the sofa and—with all the mighty force years of being a beater had given him—he hit Fred in the face.
“No!” he yelled, his voice enraged at the absurd thought. “Are you mental!?”
“What? It’s a valid concern!” Fred yelled.
Harry, Lee and Ron were sniggering loudly while Fred tried to explain to George that 'being a homosexual wasn’t bad if that was his preference' and that 'he would love him no matter what’ and also ‘I still can present someone to you.' The younger twin could feel his eye twitching.
It wasn’t as though George hadn’t thought about it. He had never had a crush on any woman, nor had he been attracted to anyone enough to ask her out on a date. So obviously, he had questioned whether he liked women or not.
The answer came quickly once an older boy gathered the courage to confess to George, and he, out of curiosity, let him kiss him. It hadn’t felt right. He hadn’t liked the roughness of it.
The other boy’s hands were just as big as his, and he had wanted to touch everything. Lips too dry, perfume much too strong. There had been hardness where he had expected pliant and supple skin.
What followed wasn’t disgust, but a sense of dread that started growing in the pit of his stomach. He felt hot in all the wrong ways, as if a pot of scalding water had suddenly fallen on top of him, killing whatever doubt he had allowed himself to entertain. It had been the most agonising five minutes of his life.
He had ended everything pretty quickly after they separated and hadn’t spoken to anybody about his little sexual discovery adventure. A much too shameful secret he didn’t dare tell—not even to Fred.
“I’m not—gay,” whispered George, his face red and a mixture of bashfulness and anger burning in his eyes.
“Prove it!” Fred shot.
“Yeah, prove it.” Lee pointed at George. “How will we know you’re not lying?”
“Because I say so!” George rolled his eyes.
“Then prove it!” Ron shrugged his shoulders.
“Who the fuck invited you into this conversation?” Snarling, George threw a pillow at his youngest brother.
Ron snorted. Lee grinned like a fucking cat toying with a mouse, and Fred lifted a single brow, unconvinced.
Just like that, the unpleasant heat crawled back up George’s neck, grating against his nerves. “I can pull any girl I want!”
When he looked back at Fred, he saw the way his eyes shone with a wicked idea. He recognised that kind of look; it was the same that he saw every day on his twin when a particularly wicked thought crossed his mind.
He knew Fred like the back of his hand; he wasn’t only his brother and roommate—he was his partner in crime, his soulmate. So many years of wayward acts together had taught George to read Fred perfectly.
And he knew that smirk on his face, the little pull on his left brow and evil twinkle in his eyes could only mean his brother was up to no good.
“Don’t,” George mumbled. “Whatever you’re thinking, just don’t say it.”
Fred pretended he didn’t hear his brother’s little plea. “You can pull any girl you want?” He rubbed his palms together. “How about a bet?”
George blinked at Fred, incredulous. The devious motherfucker had been itching to rope someone into a bet since last week, and he had egged him. A bet meant money, and money meant they would be able to buy more materials to make more Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes products.
What he had never suspected was that he would end up being the subject of the bet.
“No!” he groaned. “I won’t participate in a bet like that!”
But once Fred had made up his mind on a bet—even if it was illogical—there was no way of getting him to back down.
Ron and Lee looked too amused to think of stopping Fred, and Harry was grimacing, apparently realising the same as George but not vocalising it.
“You get a girl," Fred started. “Date her for about…” he squinted his eyes to think of a possible time limit. “Until the start of the next school year.” He finally settled. “If you can get a girl to date you for that long, you win.”
George almost slammed his head against the wall over the logic—or lack thereof—of the bet. Betting he could get a girlfriend for six months only to dump her afterwards proved nothing except that he could be a prick.
“Come on, George! Or do you not like girls?”
The jab proved to be more annoying than he had anticipated.
If George was gay, like Fred kept taunting, then he could just pretend for six months, and Fred wouldn’t even know. But he didn’t even believe that; he just wanted to force George’s hand to accept by being an arsehole.
The whole thing proved he was the only one thinking with a working brain cell. It had no objective other than hurting an innocent, poor girl. It was just Fred trying to get him to date in the most absurd way his fried brain had mustered.
“Did you suffer a concussion when I went to take a pee?” George asked, his brows pulled together, his face completely devoid of that mischief edge he always had. “Or you simply decided to act like a git to piss me off?”
“Are you a chicken?” Fred widened his eyes mockingly before he started doing it.
George’s eye started to pulse when he heard the first sounds of Fred’s chicken imitation. It started slowly, almost timidly. But if there was something his twin didn’t have, it was shame. In a second, his voice had turned loud and chirpy.
“Shut up!” George grabbed a pillow and pushed it towards his twin's face. His face started to turn the brightest shade of pink.
Unrelenting, Fred started screaming. “George is a chicken!” Even if his voice was muffled, he was still pretty loud. “George is a little pus—"
“Okay, okay! Let’s bet!” With an anguished groan, he finally conceded before his brother could finish the sentence.
The yelling stopped, and his twin quickly emerged from the pillow, his face a poem of mischief. “Really?” he said like a little kid who had been allowed to stay after curfew.
“Yes,” he sighed, his brow twitching with restrained anger. “You wanted to make this bet since you started bothering me, don’t you? You’re being an arse.”
Fred schooled his face into a mask of innocence. “Why would you think so low of me?” George’s eyes bore into his brother’s, blue against blue, before Fred lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, yes. I’m being a bit cruel, but you need to fool around a bit!”
The sensible part of George wanted to just roll his eyes and tell his twin that not everybody enjoyed having quick sex in a broom closet with a random girl every week, and that he could chat a girl up, but felt it was absolutely not worth it if he didn’t feel anything towards them. But his mouth kept shut.
“I know you don’t like quick hook-ups, so that’s why you need a girlfriend,” Fred spoke again. “You don’t even know how to flirt!”
“I do know how to, Fred; I’m not clueless.” George lost count of how many times he had rolled his eyes in such a short period of time. “I just don’t…”
“Want to,” Fred finished for him. “Yes, yes. Excuses.”
Lee finally spoke again. “So… the bet?”
“If you can get a girlfriend in the next month, and keep her until the next school year, that is, seven months, you win the bet and get…” Fred started taking the few coins he had in his pocket. He turned towards Ron and nudged him to start looking at his pockets, then at Lee. The three boys placed the coins on the coffee table.
Everybody then turned to Harry, who seemed to be caught off guard by the sudden attention. He squirmed on his loveseat and tried not to look at George’s irritated face when he spoke.
“Err, I can place 15 galleons," he commented, but didn’t reach for his pocket.
“That makes it 31 galleons, 6 sickles and 8 knuts. Does that sound fair to you?” Fred asked after counting everything.
“Yeah, okay,” George muttered, though he didn’t seem so happy at first. The idea of winning so much money was starting to make the bet slightly appealing.
“Okay, if you win, you get the money,” Fred pointed out. “But if you lose,” he smirked. “You will be the sole product tester of our joke shop."
“What?!”
“You heard me, Georgie. The sole product tester. It’s only fair, right? If you don’t get a girl before January ends, you lose.” He started listing. “If you get a girl but she breaks up with you before the start of the next school year, you lose,” he said sing-songingly. “And if she learns it was a bet…”
“You lose,” Lee and Fred said at the same time.
George rolled his eyes so much they almost got stuck. “Fuck you.”
He couldn’t believe he had agreed to this bet. He had been roped into agreeing to do something he was incredibly against, to play with someone’s heart over some money. And the worst part was that he knew he would try to win.
Maybe he was an arsehole after all.
***
The days bled into one another in the blink of an eye. Classes went as normal; the murmur of people in the corridors stayed the same, and somehow Harry was still alive, but George felt the hole in his stomach get bigger and bigger with every day that passed.
He had wasted the better part of the month, procrastinating in finding the girl to fulfil the bet under the excuse of still having time. The truth was that he couldn’t dare to look a girl in the face without the voice in his head telling him he was being a little shit, that none of the girls he had considered deserved to be the prop in some stupid ego contest.
And the time was still ticking. Fred was already gloating that he was going to lose the bet if he couldn’t even find a girl to start the bet. Ron, the motherfucker who didn’t even realise he was in love with his best friend, had started to throw comments at him. And Lee, bless him, had genuinely tried to help him by shoving girls in his direction, literally.
Needless to say, George was desperate. Not only would he lose his pride, but he would also lose his body integrity. Being a tester for their products often meant he was going to be either sick or cursed nearly around the clock.
It wasn’t until the last week of January that he started to feel like he could win the bet.
The day had started horribly, with Fred already declaring himself the winner and saying shit about George’s poor dating skills. George had gritted his teeth and endured the humiliation of failing to prove his twin wrong.
The first class had been Potions, and his brooding had earned him an earful from Snape and fifteen points off for Gryffindor. Then McGonagall had wanted to use him for a demonstration of a spell where he failed spectacularly.
He had practically bolted out of the classroom as McGonagall dismissed them, and in the process, he had run into someone who had the same urgency as him to get away.
“I’m sorry!”
George had grabbed the girl before she could fall, but that didn’t stop him from stepping on her and making her lose balance. She let out a small groan of pain when he removed himself from above her feet.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he helped her steady herself.
But the girl, as soon as she regained her footing, shooed away as fast as a Firebolt. He could only stare at her, perplexed as she ran and ran.
“Don’t worry about her,” another voice said. “She is going to the ladies.”
The perfume that started to fill his lungs was one he knew very well. Flowery with some citrussy afternotes. It was calming and very telling.
When he turned around, he was face-to-face with you. The Hufflepuff prefect.
“Your friend?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said curtly. “Be more careful next time.”
You were a mask of politeness dressed in expensive perfume and sharp eyes. Your mouth was saying it had been an accident, but your eyes were full of accusation. Of course, you weren’t going to tell him off in front of McGonagall like he knew you weren’t afraid of.
George knew that he was a bit of a troublemaker, and yes, he sometimes pulled pranks in class—which he shared the majority of the time with you—but the way you were looking at him made him feel less like Prefect duty and more like something personal. It was the same way his mum looked at him during the summer when she threw away all their WWW products. Disappointment and recrimination.
And he wasn’t a detective, but as soon as he registered the hostility, he wanted to know what he did to earn your hatred. You were always nice to everybody. That was your thing. You always laughed and gave him and Fred speeches of good conduct when you caught them in something. You slapped their wrists, and that was it.
You started walking towards the same place your friend had gone, and he started following.
“Hey, you know I didn’t do it on purpose, right?” he asked, his eyes curious, searching for answers about the sudden change in your demeanour.
“Yes,” you said.
“It wasn’t my intention to hurt your friend.” He repeated.
“I know.” You rolled your eyes.
He grabbed you by the wrist, making you stop right in your tracks. You turned to look at his hand with squinted eyes and he lifted his hands to either side of his head, freeing you.
You turned your eyes up to look at him, contempt written all over your face. “What?”
He stalled for a few seconds, not really knowing what to say. You were upset about something that had to do with him, but they—Fred and he—had never dared to touch not even a single hair of your head for fear of making the one girl who was nice to everybody feel bad.
“Err, did we do something to upset you?” he finally asked.
Fred was sending him confused looks from far away, but he merely shrugged and paid attention to you.
“No,” you mumbled after an uncomfortable beat.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because if looks can kill, I swear I would be dead by now,” he joked.
You didn’t laugh.
George blinked. A wave of anxiety rose from his gut and crashed against his heart, and in a second, he was panicking.
He tried to remember all the instances where he had interacted with you in the past few days, racking his brain to try and find the memory where he (or Fred) had made you upset. But after much searching, he couldn’t find anything.
Last week, during Charms, he had made a silly joke, and you had laughed. He had turned to you, and you chastised him softly to pay attention. That’s it. That was the last interaction he had with you.
“You’re pissed,” he said. Not a question, a statement.
You rolled your eyes. “Oh, really?” Your tone was taunting, scornful.
Slowly, the flow of students coming and going to their classes started to settle down, leaving behind an almost empty hallway. Fred had made him a rude gesture before going away, too.
“What did I do?” he asked with genuine concern.
You stood there, in the middle of the corridor, looking at him like he was a speck of dirt on your perfectly ironed shirt. Arms folded, eyes squinted, and mouth pressed in a tight line.
“Seriously, love, I pissed you off, and I don’t even know why. At least I want to know what I did to deserve your disappointment.” He tilted his head, waiting for your answer.
You huffed before finally conceding. “Ron told Hermione, Hermione told Ginny, and Ginny told me that you made a bet that you could get a girl to date you.” You spat quickly. “For thirty-one galleons.”
George’s brain short-circuited for a total of five seconds before panic hit him right across the face. The sensation of being drenched in scalding water came back in full force, dread slowly settling inside his body.
He gasped and looked at you, ready to start speaking, but you interrupted him. “Do you think it’s funny to play with someone’s heart like that? Breaking a poor lady’s heart for thirty-one sodding galleons?”
He shushed you and quickly covered your mouth with one hand, looking around him to see if someone had heard your words before removing it just as fast. Rapidly, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards a more secluded corner, ushering you two away from the middle of the hallway.
“So it is true!” you gasped, offended. “I had a little hope it was just Ginny exaggerating. How could you?” You wanted to scream at him, but he hovered his hand over your mouth again, so you were forced to whisper.
“It was Fred’s idea!” He tried to defend himself.
“And you couldn’t say no to him for once?” You pulled his hand away from your face. “I’m so disappointed in you both. I thought you were better than that.”
“No! Listen.” He stopped you from trying to get away from there. “I- Fred and Ron were saying a bunch of shit, and- and I got a bit defensive.” He explained. “I didn’t want to do it, but he kept pushing and…”
“And you couldn’t help your wounded ego, didn’t you?” You squinted your eyes. “What did he do? Called you a chicken?” You huffed again once you saw the telltale sign on his face. “Of course you caved after that; a man says, 'Betcha can't,' and suddenly everybody turns into a fricking git.”
“I know, I know.” He grimaced. “I am a prick, I am an arsehole, I know that.” His hand travelled up to mess up his hair. “I haven't – I wasn’t able to ask anybody out because my superego kept telling me how much of a shitty person I would be if I did it.”
“How do you know what the superego is?” You asked.
“How do you know?” He threw back.
“Touché.” You rubbed your face. “So you haven’t asked anybody out?”
He shook his head. “Every time I wanted to, my brain blanked and I couldn’t.”
“Why?” There wasn’t as much fire in your gaze anymore, and it was being slowly replaced by curiosity.
“Because, contrary to what many people think, I don’t like the idea of playing with someone’s feelings.” He threw you a dirty look, and you had the consideration of looking slightly ashamed. “Or mine, for that matter.”
“Why did you do it, then? The bet.” You lifted a brow.
“I don’t know.” George shrugged and lowered his eyes. “I guess I let Fred get inside my mind, and I… well, I also didn’t want to be the sole tester of—” He cut himself off before he could mention WWWs. “Of our pranks,” he finally said. “But now I’m about to lose.”
George lifted his gaze and found you looking at him through squinted eyes, though this time he could see the difference from earlier. Not only were your eyes devoid of any resentment, but you seemed to be deep in thought, even biting your index fingernail.
“If you win, you will gain thirty-one galleons, right?” you asked.
“Yes, but I will have to find someone in the next six days if I want to have a chance to win,” he replied, his hand drifting to the front pocket of his trousers.
You were musing over a thought; he could see it in your eyes. At least you weren’t angry with him anymore; that made him feel slightly relieved. Your disdain for him had been a low blow to his already beaten-up conscience, and he was glad you had at least believed him.
“I can help you win,” you said after a while. “If you split your winnings with me in equal parts,” you added, a spark of something dangerous filling your eyes.
George almost couldn’t breathe. You had been so angry at the mere thought of him using someone to win the bet that the sudden change of heart befuddled him.
“Uhm, okay.” But he didn’t sound so sure. “But how? I told you I can’t bear the fact of using a girl.” He tilted his head.
You chuckled, and he had the urge to run away from you. He knew you were a little devious; he would recognise someone similar to him even without eyes, but it was the first time he had witnessed it firsthand.
“You won’t hurt anybody.” You smirked. “Because I’ll pretend to be your oblivious girlfriend.”