Having a ball PV George Henry Finished

There must have been something in the London air that made sunsets absolutely sickening. It had to have been that, and not the circumstances of the summer. Not the worry about losing his closest friend at school. Nor any concern he had about the resentment growing between him and his brother. And especially not the fact that there was a gnawing ball of anxiety in his stomach that had grown from the size of a grape to the size of a cat, and was tearing away at his insides just as nastily. The only thing that soothed it was a cool sip of lemonade.

George shut his eyes and took in a deep breath, letting the pressure in his head dissipate with slow, deliberate exhales. No concern about disappointing his team - or even his entire house as the newest broom racer. A faster, less deliberate exhale came to blow that thought out of his nostrils. His thoughts oscillated at the resonant frequency of a teenage brain, his self-assessment bouncing between perfect and awful. He began counting to ten again and took a deeper breath, but didn't make it to six before he felt a sudden pain on the top of his head along with the rubbery thud of a football bouncing onto the grass in front of him.

His eyes were now open. His cup was on the grass, lemonade spilling out and soaking into the dirt. And into his shorts, as well as the previously white, now yellow fabric of his shirt. He was absolutely soaked in the stuff, and the cool night air taunted him by bringing a chill through his saturated shirt. Sudden-onset rage had flattened any chance to thank the boy for clearing his mind - but it did give him somewhere to direct his anger.

"Look what you've done! I do not have any time to be dealing with more brats," George said. He stood up, his hand finding his wand, drawn reflexively from one of the many pockets of his cargo shorts. He had flipendo'd many a bratty first-year with that length of lumpy cherry wood. But having been taught a lesson about targeting other students with his spells, he directed his anger to the nearest inanimate object. "Diffindo!"

Pop! Wow - he was not expecting that. He looked across the invisible boundary to the younger boy, reading the shock on his face that was souring into righteous indignation. George looked down at himself - wand in hand, popped ball at his feet - and realized that he was, in fact, the bad guy. Wake-up calls did not come clearer than this.

"Hold on- hold on. I'm sorry," George said, trying to get in ahead of any scolding he would receive from the boy three years his junior. Was this just some second-year he had never met before? Was this another Jake situation where someone simply looked three years younger than they were? More questions popped into his mind as he studied the young lad, but no matter was as pressing as restoring his honor. "I'll fix it. Just hold on."

He took to one knee beside the remains of his spilled lemonade to examine the damage. He let out a soft hum and nodded at his handiwork, somehow impressed with his charm work. Another spell. "Reparo," and with a swish of the wand, the cut was sealed. George held up the ball proudly. Well, the disc. It was rendered completely flat by his first spell, and that was not remedied by the second. "Um..."

Finnegan recoiled and withdrew a pace at the boy pulling out a stick and waving it at him. By the time he remembered that the stick was a wand and that he may well be turned into a toad right there and then, it was already too late. A whip-like crack sounded before the ball popped right open and flattened into a sad little heap of leather.

Finnegan's face turned red and hot at the swift injustice that'd been carried out against him and balled his fists at his side. He'd hardly had a chance to apologize or explain. "What'd you do that for!?"

It didn't much matter to him that the smarmy boy was at least a head taller, he strode forward with seething eyes and every intent in the world to reclaim the pathetic little heap of leather. He only halted because the boy said he'd make things right.

Disbelieving, Finnegan crossed his arms over his chest and watched the brown-haired boy, who looked frightfully like one of his cousins, work his magic. "Not much of an improvement, innit?" Finnegan noted with a scowl. He yanked the pancake-like remains out of the older boy's hands and it was only then that he noticed the bright-yellow stain on the boy's shirt. "Oh," he muttered, his features softening a little. "Sorry about that," his shoulders drooped a little as he turned the pancaked ball around in his hands, "I guess we're even."

"You look a lot like my cousin, you know," he said, squinting his eyes at the older boy. It was more than just the hair, it was the mischievous expression, that devilish glint in his eyes, down to seeming a little stretched tall-wise versus broad-wise. "But I'm pretty sure he's not a wizard." He let out a light chuckle at that, "still getting 'round to the idea meself, I thought you were gonna poke with a stick just there."

George offered no resistance to the boy reclaiming his ball turned frisbee. His mouth broke into a cheeky smile as he watched the realization dawn on Finnegan's face. Who was the bad guy now? George, obviously. But by a lesser degree. The social penalty for killing a ball in a fit of passion was very mild compared to premeditated ball murder.

"I would call even more than fair," George said. A deflated ball was a more significant loss than a stained shirt, however. One could still wear a stained shirt, but a flattened football did nobody any good. He glanced down at himself, tucking his chin in to examine the damage. "It's in my house colors, so... nobody will notice, surely."

He pinched the hem of the shirt and stretched it out. The modern, abstract style of the stain would clash with the rest of his wizarding wear, but he was already wearing cargo shorts, so that ship had sailed long ago. Yellow suited him, as much as he loathed to admit it. "You look like you could be my cousin. But none of my cousins have that funny accent, so I'd have to say the resemblance doesn't mean much. Unless maybe we both have a secret wizard ancestor linking us. Wouldn't that be something?"

George grinned. A little bit of banter was enough for him to let his guard down. He did not even notice as he gave away his blood status with another casual statement. "None of my cousins even know I'm a wizard, so how could you know? Bet you haven't told them," he pointed out.

"Oh - I haven't even introduced myself," he said, reaching out with a sticky lemonade hand to offer a shake to the younger lad. "I'm George Henry. Captain of the Hufflepuff Broom Racing team, and- uh... well, that's it, I guess. Do you really not have a pump for that ball or anything? I don't have a football-filling spell or anything."

"You're a Hufflepuff then? What year are you in?" Finnegan knew he still had a lot to learn about the wizarding world, but he'd flicked through the pages off all the books he'd gotten and the description of the four houses had been hard to miss. "I really don't know what house I'll be in, maybe Hufflepuff, maybe Slytherin" He didn't think he had much of a preference either way.

On the topic of cousins and secrecy he shook his head. "I don't think we're allowed to tell anyone. Besides, they'd probably think I'd gone mental," he shrugged. The mention of wizard ancestors was one he'd not really considered in depth before, but it seemed unlikely to him. Then again, maybe it had just been kept a secret, just like he was keeping it a secret now.

He stepped forward, reached out to shake George's hand but decided to grab the older boy's wrist in the end. "I'm Finnegan, Finnegan Conner. I didn't bring a pump and I doubt it'll help all that much..." his voice trailed off into nothingness before he stuffed the remains of the ball and his hands in the pockets of his shorts.

"D'you reckon you could teach me that spell you used? Diffino? Diffno? I been trying some basic ones myself but no luck." Sometimes nothing happened at all, sometimes there were sparks or embers, and one time he'd felt a slight breeze of sorts. Maybe with a little help he could learn to do his first bit of magic and wouldn't have to wait until school started. ""We might want to find a better practice spot though," he added with a hint of a blush, "the things I've tried have been a bit unpredictable like."

"I just graduated out of third year. I'll be on my fourth year in September," George boasted. His eyes darted from the boy's face down to his shoes, trying to get the make of him. He was scrawny squirrel of a boy, which wasn't an insult because George was identical in his first year. Finnegan was more headstrong, though, but still amenable to making peace. Maybe not a Hufflepuff. Definitely not a Slytherin. George pondered a moment before dispensing some distilled wisdom. "Don't be Slytherin. Hope for Gryffindor, settle for Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw is right out."

George shrugged alongside Finnegan on the subject of secrecy. He had never really felt the urge to perform magic around muggles or explain it to them beyond his immediate family. Even then his patience was limited. You can only tell your brother 'no, mops can't fly' so many times over dinner before you just start saying they can. "You're better off. Explaining everything to muggles is a Siphisiphan task."

Such a shame he'd never heard that word aloud before. He looked quite proud to speak it, incorrect or not. He gave Finnegan's hand a good, firm shake, making sure to grip the other boy's wrist in return to leave behind a sugary sticky hand print. "Well - I could try and fill it up with magic, but I might just pop it," he said sheepishly. "There's probably some other stuff to play with around here..."

But the Hufflepuff didn't know where to find it. Childish games and muggle sports were not of interest to him. "Absolutely not," said George, grinning with amusement at the prospect. "Diffindo? You'll cut off your fingers before you even cast your first spell. And then I'll get detention again."

George folded his arms, his wand tucked away under his left armpit. "Is that right?" he asked, lifting one of his expressive eyebrows. "What have you tried, then?"

Fourth year? Finnegan did a double take in silence. It made sense he supposed, George certainly looked the right age, though it was questionable if he acted it. For someone so many years ahead of him, the boy had every right to look down on a little critter of a not-even-first-year or could've simply ignored him entirely, or have made fun of him, or put a curse on him. He'd already seen at least one girl about his own age hopping around the campground with her legs tied together by some invisible force, and chased by laughter.

"Aye, Ravenclaw is out of the question," Finnegan sighed wistfully, remembering all too well how'd he'd only just gotten by in his old muggle school. As if to prove his point, George hit him with a word he'd never heard before but he nodded anyway, thinking it best not to let the Hufflepuff know how much of an idiot he was.

"You been in detention?" his eyes grew wide and his voice cracked halfway through. From what little bits and pieces he'd read of Hogwarts, A History he'd gotten the distinct impression that Hogwarts was not a good place to serve detention at and he regarded George as though the boy was some kind of war hero. One particular illustration of the dark dungeons in the book had set his imagination on fire and if history was any precedent, the punishments could be quite severe. "Did it hurt very much?"

Soon their conversation switched back to the topic of spells. "Maybe not Diffindo then, I don't want to get you into trouble," he said in a solemn voice.

With a motion of his head he indicated for George to follow him to another part of the campgrounds, further out from all the tents, people, laughter, and prying eyes. When they had arrived at the edge of the encampment he pulled out his stubby wand from his left pocket and cast a few glances over his shoulder until he was certain they were alone. Clearing his throat, he raised his wand and-

"Incendio!"

By all accounts it went better than he expected. A large puff of black smoke burst out of the tip of his wand and rushed across the dry grass before dissipating into the air. Finnegan coughed as the wind carried some of the smoke back toward them, then turned on his heel to look at George. "That's the best I've gotten so far..." He sounded both disappointed and a little proud.

"Of course it's out of the question," George said, scrunching up his nose. Was Finnegan upset about that? They had a reputation for intelligence, but from George's experience, they were just a flock of strange birds. Whatever came out of their mouth was either pure, raw wisdom, or absolute nonsense. George had long since stopped putting in the effort to discern between the two.

Finnegan's awe at the fact he had been in detention perplexed George further. It was just detention. He made an occasion of going at least once a year, and had nearly made it through third year without incident before tossing June Selwyn into the lake. Another quick scan from George's eyes passed over Finnegan. He looked aerodynamic.

"Did it hurt?" George asked, pulled from distraction by that bizarre question. Detention had been quite painful, really, but there was no way Finnegan could have known that. Exactly what did he imagine detention entailed? A sparkle of inspiration glimmered in his mind and was promptly seized. George stared off into the middle distance, shell-shocked and traumatized. "Like you wouldn't believe. Look."

George pulled at the collar of his shirt to stretch it out over his shoulder, baring what appeared to be a gnarly, round scar. He gritted his teeth and hissed in pain as he brought his fingers to touch it. "I had to wrangle Irish Clapjaws with no gloves or anything." He shuddered as he summoned the false memory to his mind. Oh, those Irish Clapjaws. Were they real? Maybe. Lots of things were real. Statistically, any lie he told was mostly true. "It wasn't so bad - I'm quite handy with creatures - but one of them got me really good there."

He tapped his bruise and remembered to wince a second later. "No diffindo."

The novice wizard chose possibly the worst practice spell George could think of. "INCENDIO?!" George repeated, raising his wand up toward the young boy's target, ready to extinguish whatever might go up in smoke from the miscast. The Hufflepuff held his eyes open wide, paralyzed as he watched the choked puff of smoke expand over the grass. Finnegan's quiet expression of disappointment brought his mind back to the moment. His indignity possessed him with the soul of his Scottish mother and he let loose a righteous bellow at young Finnegan. "ARE YE AFF YER HEID?! You won't be sorted, surely, you'll be kindling by September! You could have caught yourself on fire! OR ME!"

George looked around, and seeing that the incendio had not been incendiary, he countered with his own cast. "Orchideous!" He enunciated, hoping the unfamiliar incantation would be enough to scare some sense into Finnegan. Wand pointed at the young wizard's head, George felt his breathing slow back to baseline as a bouquet sprung from the tip of his wand, hanging there mere inches from Finnegan's nose. He gave it a shake to bring the scent out onto the younger boy before swinging his wand up and beating him over the head with the bouquet. It was harmless, and the smell was actually quite nice. "You scabby... hmph. Don't cast that!"

Finnegan jumped and hissed like a cat that had its tail stepped on. All the color drained from his face in an instant, replaced by complete and utter shock. Near tripping over his feet, he stumbled backward, his mind and senses dazed short-circuited like he'd plugged his fingers in outlet.

Could've caught on fire? Could've set George on fire? But he hadn't even been aiming at either! Frankly, he'd not been aiming at anything other than the horizon and he thought he would have to be a special kind of horrible wizard for his spell to turn around completely and hit him or the bellowing Hufflepuff instead.

Yet before he could even so much as protest, he was hit again. He barely registered the incantation, the flick of George's wand, and for a split second he feared that George had completely lost it and was about to set him ablaze.

The sweet scent of flowers invaded his nostrils, a flash of colors moved before his face, and finally the slapping of petals and stems against one cheek and then the other. When he had woken up and dressed that morning, nothing could have prepared him for being gently slapped in the face with a summer bouquet. The whole act was so unexpected and off-putting that it took him several seconds to realize what was happening, and several more to formulate a response.

"W-what, stop it! What are you doi-" he sputtered while he feebly attempted to swat the assaulting flowers away from his face. He tried to back off, but when that didn't help there was only one option left to him.

In a flash he ducked below the flowers, stretched out his arms and pincered George's waist between them. With a kick of his feet he launched the entirety of his inconsiderable weight full pelt at the older boy. They hit the ground with an oomphf and Finnegan jumped to sit on top of George, keeping him pinned down (for the time being) with his weight. "What was that for!" he sounded aghast more than anything else.

There just wasn't a reason in the world why anyone, anyone should ever be slowly and repeatedly hit in the face with flowers. It made no human sense whatsoever and Finnegan doubted George could conjure up a reason like he had the flowers.

Hovering over George's extremely punchable face, wand in his left hand, the remains of his football in the other, Finnegan exacted his revenge without the slightest hesitation.

Whack!

There was a use for a flattened ball after all. It made an excellent tool to slap a Hufflepuff in the face with.

He raised his hand again for another strike, but left it in the air as a threat. "Do that again and you'll be wishin' for Irish Clapjaws," he said through gritted teeth.

The contrast could hardly have been any greater. Finnegan's face had regained all its color and his brows had knitted together in a hard frown. Yet his hair, roughed up and made untidy by George's assault, contained rose petals, a butterfly, flower stems, and other bits of foliage. Even more bits of greenery had gotten stuck to his shirt, along with a caterpillar that now started to crawl up the side of his neck.

George blinked in surprise as Finnegan deftly ducked underneath his bouquet bashing. The full force of Finnegan's weight had him knocked over with his ass in the grass just as quickly. Wheezing, the boy laid there, pinned beneath the shockingly heavy weight of this eleven year old. Finn was obviously as dense physically as he was mentally!

"Jesus Christ," George croaked, letting out a sputtered cough as he was suddenly struck by the flat football. It made a very satisfying slap when it hit him, dazing the Hufflepuff. He held his arms up to defend himself as Finnegan wound up for another slap, George pleading for mercy in less-than-charming terms. "Aaaagh, get off of me you little bastard! I'll clap your jaws if you try and incendio something again. And I would be right to!"

Even as he tried to wriggle his way out from the pin, he was laughing. Unfortunately, the force of the slapping followed by the sudden motion of the fall had torn the bouquet away from his wand, the remains of the stems now scattered on the ground around them along with the vibrant petals. "Oh!" he said, freezing when he saw the butterfly nestling in Finnegan's hair. "You've got a butterfly on you. Don't move."

George admired the bug, tentatively reaching out toward it, wanting to capture it to share the sight of it with his new friend. Fortunately, the little bug flew away before he could reach his quarry. "Aw," said George, sighing as the butterfly fluttered along. "It was only a little one. He must have liked the flowers."

Peace time, however, was now past, as the butterfly truce was dissolved by the departure of the diplomatic bug. "Anyway, accio," George said, flicking his wand and lifting his other hand up to catch the football as it was summoned with considerable force from Finnegan's hand to his own. He wound up for a swing, only to go completely over Finn's head, sending the flat ball flying. "Pffff! The look on your face is priceless, Finn."