All's Well That Ends Well PV George Henry Finished

The response to his letter came as a big relief to George. He had had three years now to get his academic performance under control, and was no longer troubled by his studies in the slightest, least of all History of Magic. He could rattle off four feet of essay before he broke a sweat on a good day. Still, one never spent long untroubled at this school.

Constant fretting about boys and friendships took less of a toll on one's health than fear of vampires and werewolves, it would seem. George dropped his spoon into the remains of a bowl of ice cream, looking as plump-cheeked as ever, even though he was not fat. He was certain of that or else he would have skipped the ice cream.

"Hi Finnegan," George said, turning his back to his housemates to get a look at the Gryffindor. The older boy wrinkled his nose as he counted the crumbs on the little lion's sweater. He studied his face for a moment, too, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of the ghastly first-year. George reached out to brush the crumbs away with a napkin, his next words coming from concern. "God, you look terrible. Yes - let's go outside."

He stood up, waving to a few Hufflepuffs at the table who were saying goodbye to him. Nobody came or went without ceremony at the Hufflepuff table. They were always happy to see you and sad to see you go. It was annoying. The older wizard's polished shoes clicked authoritatively on the stone floors as he lead @Finnegan Conner down the corridor. He snickered, quite pleased by Finnegan's story about the pufferfish football.

"David Beckham would be devastated if he knew," George scolded the other boy. The offer of flowers made him scoff, shaking his head as they exited the grand doors of Hogwarts and moved to the courtyard - a mix of shelter provided by the castle and nice, fresh air from the open sky. "I'm alright on flowers, thank you, but that is very charming. Are you feeling alright? You look like a ghoul."

He could not help but do his older brother babysitter act as he moved to a bench and sat down. "Sit down," he said.

The grounds were dotted in golden-orange leaf and there was a smell of rain quenched soils and chestnut in the air. A few more students, specks of black against the fiery autumn colors, walked the meandering paths leading from the castle down to the lake, chatting amongst themselves. While they walked, Finnegan took a deep breath and relaxed for the first time in what felt like days.

I look like a ghoul? He briefly wondered if those were real too but decided not to ask.

Upon George's invitation he sat down on the bench, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and started to talk like he'd been holding it all in for weeks.

"I think all the teachers hate me," he started rather dramatically. "I've never had so much homework before, I have to write an essay on transfiguration, a summary of last week's potions lesson, then two pages for history of magic about goblins- no, gargoyles, and I've yet to practice any of the charms we learned last week." For a school of witchcraft and wizardry, he'd gotten frightfully little practice at any actual spellcasting. The last time he'd waved his wand outside of class he'd made a set of armor fall apart and had fled the crime scene immediately. "There's flying lessons this week though, I'm looking forward to those, I just hope I won't fall asleep in the air," he added with a sigh.

"I've been thinking about trying out for the quidditch team, but I'm not sure I should, I can't imagine ever having enough time to practice. Besides, I don't think they'd pick me, I don't think there's that many first years in Quidditch." It wasn't hard to imagine why. Quidditch was a dangerous sport and the thought of getting hit by a bludger wasn't very appealing. The only way he could think of to survive would to be fast and hard to hit. Being hard to hit was one of the few advantages of being eleven, but being fast all depended on having the right broom.

"Sorry," he blurted. "Sorry if I talk a lot... and for what happened." He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his robes and gazed out onto the lake. It was a beautiful day and he couldn't imagine why swimming in the lake was forbidden. It would be a little cold by now to be sure, but it was a total waste of a perfectly good lake to just sit there and not be utilized. Returning his gaze to George, Finnegan lowered his voice to a near whisper. "I'd rather not talk about it, about what happened, if that's OK." He certainly had no intention of George ever finding out that he'd been so worried about vampires that he'd tried to sleep in the common room.

@George Henry

It took all of George's willpower to not roll his eyes, but he managed to keep his eyes on Finnegan's as he poured out all his complaints. "Maybe it's because you spent last weekend gallivanting instead of studying," he teased, leaning back on the bench. The mention of gargoyles somehow prompted interest from George. The Gargoyle Strike had been one of his favorite lessons, and he remembered it fondly. Somehow he could sense that Finnegan would not share his interest in the topic, however, so he offered some sympathetic commiseration instead. "Transfiguration is rubbish."

George pulled out a little compact from his pocket, keeping it shut on his palm as he listened to Finnegan talk of his Quidditch dreams. He suspected that Finnegan would end up on the team one way or another, when he finally mustered the nerve to try it out. "Sign up and try out. You might get on. If not now, then you will when they lose someone. You've got the look of a chaser. And if you ever get interested in a real sport, you can get into broom racing."

The apology took George completely off guard. He wasn't used to receiving one so easily. Usually he would turn his shoulder away from the younger boy, fold his arms, and wait until Finnegan had begged or bought him enough candy to be forgiven. Perhaps it was just his charm, or the fact they they looked very much alike, but George simply shrugged at the apology. "About what?"

Just like that, the whole episode was forgiven and forgotten. He winked to ensure that Finnegan knew he did remember, then zipped across his lips and mimed throwing away the key. "Hold still, by the way." He turned his compact toward Finnegan and out of nowhere, an enchanted puff zoomed from within it and started to apply powder beneath the first-year's eyes. No warning provided - you were being beautified. "This'll get rid of your eye bags."

A look of suprise and a little flinch was about all the reaction Finnegan gave to the puff hovering about his face. Besides being too exhausted to even try to swat it away, he was quite sure George would persist. The older Hufflepuff had a mild obsession with putting things in or on his face it seemed.

Though it hardly showed on the outside, the young Gryffindor's brain was racing with questions in no particular order. Why did George carry an enchanted powder case around with him? Why did have such a bad taste in hats? What did gallavanting mean? Why did George have the audicty to claim quidditch wasn't a real sport? Worst of all, and very much crossing the line, why had he said transfiguration was rubbish?

"Transfiguration is brilliant, thank you very much, Finnegan answered with his eyes closed while he tried to keep still. "You wouldn't have had to nick a powder box off some girl if you could've just transfigured it away." Having no intention to encourage George's need to beautify him, he said nothing about how he enjoyed the tickling sensation of the smooth, soft brush against his skin. Once the brush was done, he opened his eyes again and cocked his head at George. "Better?"

Grabbing the edge of the stone bench with both hands, Finnegan leaned a little forward, a bemused smile playing at lips. "I'll have you know that my very expressive eyes," they landed firmly on George at that very instant, "don't need powdering to get kisses, all the girls are swooning over me, don't you know?"

A slight exaggeration perhaps. @EmmaLee LeDames's little peck on his cheeks had been exactly that, just a peck, just part of a game, nothing fancy. "There was this girl at camp, EmmaLee, or Emily or something, and we played spin the bottle and she kissed me. I wonder where she is now, I haven't seen her since." he said with a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "Do you fancy any girls?"

@George Henry

"I'm keen on charms," George said softly as he watched the puff do its work. He knew transfiguration was brilliant, but it was too brilliant for him, or at least too boring. He much more enjoyed making teapots levitate rather than turning them into ferrets. One thing he did think was brilliant enough to defend, however, was makeup. Finnegan could not have known about his penchant for stealing makeup from girls in his first year, or else George would not have been so offended that he assumed!

"They don't teach beauty charms to us early enough. I think it's because they don't want us trying to outdo each other. We'd end up charming the teeth out of our mouths," he said. George lifted his compact up and held it open, summoning the puff to zoom back in to be chomped by the compact.

"This is mine, by the way. I didn't steal it off a girl," he added, stowing it safely away in his pocket. Even in the wizarding world, makeup was primarily a product for women, though George's innocence to the gendered nature of the product had shifted to shame and then back to indifference as he went through the years. "All your eyes were expressing with those bags under them were that you needed a nap, Finnegan. I doubt anyone was swooning over it, you looked ghastly."

Picking on people's appearances came naturally to George. Particularly picking on his own, though he kept those thoughts in his head and simply solved his problems with judicious application of concealer.

"Emmalee seemed nice, I met her at sorting," George said, though he still looked vaguely impressed at Finnegan. Clearly, they were good at different kinds of charms work. He couldn't help but smirk at that wistful sigh and the question that followed. He didn't hesitate to correct his little friend. "I fancy boys, Finnegan. So... no, I guess."

If he'd had a drink, he would've spat it out, being without one however, he just lurched forward. All the sleepiness that had accumulated in his mind and limbs (and under his eyes) evaporated in an instant. "What?!"

Just as quickly, he realised that falling off the bench - whether it'd be forward, backwards, or sideways - wasn't the appropriate response at all. Thankfully, he had grasped the edge of the bench a moment before and pulled himself down onto it. "Sorry, I mean-"

What did he mean then? His head was spinning from the reveleation and it really was a good thing they'd sat down or he might have just collapsed into a sad little pile of limbs. "I- I'm just surprised...". One word was all it had taken to turn the chatty, disorganized first-year into a bashful little child, blinking furiously and put at a loss for words.

Turmoil. That seemed like a good word for it.

Questions piled up in his mind, like ants climbing up an anthill, crawling all over each other trying to get to the top first. The flowers, the silly hat, the day out to Hogsmeade, and finally the football George had sent him... it was dizzying to think that none of it had been a coincidence. Inevitably, in that maelstrom of questions, one and only one rose to the top.

"D'you mean- do you mean like," Finnegan started, struggling to put his gaze on George, "do you mean you fancy me?" His voice went up in pitch at the very end before it petered out into a feeble little noise. In a flash he wondered what he would've done if it hadn't been EmmaLee in that circle but George instead. Would it have been weird? Would he have bragged it about it to someone else? It was impossible to say.

Like a fish washed ashore he opened and closed his mouth a few more times, unsure what to say, and even less sure how to get it past the dry lump in his throat. There was no way, just no way that George had had a crush on him all along. The mere thought that another boy could like him in that way had never even crossed his mind before.

"I suppose that explains the flowers," he croaked, "and the trip to Hogsmeade, and the scones, and just hanging out with me even though we're not in the same year-" and the letters, and the ball he finished in his mind (how had George found out he liked Beckham anyway?). He really didn't know if he wanted to run away from George or hug him, perhaps a bit of both. In the end, he remained exactly where he was, his knuckles white-hot from clenching the edge of the stone bench.

Finally he managed to drag his gaze back over to George and gazed directly into the Hufflepuff's pretty, mischievous eyes. "Thanks for telling me. I don't know if I-"

He looked down again, it was a lot easier to stare at his shoes. They were supremely interesting and he really should be looking at them more often.

George let out a quiet sigh of resignation as Finnegan lurched forward. It was time for the reaction. It was never a sure thing, but 80% of the time, the people George informed of his orientation began to monologue about how shocked or proud or flattered they were. There were merciful exceptions. Jack, who had known already. Sam, who had also known already. It seemed many people knew already - but Finnegan's ignorance was apparent in his shock.

He gave the first-year the honor of actually paying attention as he went through all the stages of this revelation. It was pretty adorable - some kids were just sheltered enough to have never met or heard of a gay person, and he was happy to serve as the first example for them. It was healthy to broaden their horizons! He suspected Finnegan would be open-minded enough to not judge him, even if he did have questions. George was ready to play older brother, or professor, about anything that the first-year would be curious about.

"Do you mean you fancy me?"

George shut his eyes and bowed his head, hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. My god. Somehow, he had never encountered this particular reaction to the news. He could feel his fingernails driving into the skin on his nose as his grip threatened to burrow directly into his brain and pluck this whole scene out of his memory. Unfortunately, this did not happen, and he simply remained there, listening to Finnegan. Completely mortified.

He raised his head just in time to meet Finnegan's gaze, his pretty eyes narrowed in an expression of utter contempt. He pushed his tongue out against his cheek, trying to hold in all he wanted to say. With a deep breath, he finally opened his mouth and began to speak.

"Finnegan," he said softly. "I want you to know before we go any further that I won't tell anybody what you have just said."

"Do you have a head full of rocks?" George asked earnestly, with a hint of that fraternal concern. What on earth was there to fancy about Finnegan? He must truly hold himself in high regard to believe that. That EmmaLee girl had no idea what she'd wrought, inflating his confidence so much. "I DO NOT FANCY YOU. I just wanted to spell that out clearly. Merlin's beard, I fancy boys MY AGE."

He shook his head, mouth agape in disbelief. He wanted to make it very much clear that he did not, under any circumstances, fancy Finnegan. Still, it was a bit mean to imply there was no way on earth he could fancy Finnegan... especially since it seemed that the younger boy was... considering it?

"I took you to Hogsmeade because it's awesome, and Muggles haven't got anything like it. And the scones were because you were hungry. And I'm hanging out with you because I like you - not like that," George said, explaining each of the clues that Finnegan had put in place in hindsight. God, it had taken him ten seconds flat to assemble quite the argument for George to defuse. He was good at it. "And you do realize that I beat you with the flowers?"

George paused, staring at Finnegan, recalling something he had said in the Great Hall.

"You said you were going to pick me flowers," he said, his face breaking out into a grin. "Do you fancy me, Finn?"

Who better than George Henry to make him feel like the stupidest, silliest little boy there ever was. Every other word made him shrivel and wince like a plant wilting in a blaze of fire. Stunned into silence, Finnegan could only think that maybe he did really have a head full of rocks, he'd always thought he'd heard something rattle about when he tried to think hard, but now he couldn't think at all.

He dearly wished he could transfigure into a fly or some other insignificant insect and disappear completely, he'd made a right fool out of himself and he could feel himself turning shades of Gryffindor red previously thought impossible. It was as though George had just ripped out his heart, burned it in front of him and blown the ashes in his face.

George drilled into him with beady little eyes, like he was about to pull a Superman and blast him off his seat leaving nothing but a black scorch mark on the stone. Like a fool, Finnegan remained completely immobile, unable to pull himself out of the ravine he'd plunged into.

"But-" he started. Nothing else followed, nothing but the sound of his jaw slamming shut. In his head he'd completely figured it all out but the way George explained it, all of it had just been ordinary fun. In a perfect world he would've let out a sigh of relief, said something nice and they could've just continue to chat like friends. They were friends, right? Or they had been at least.

That was ruined now or as George would've surely put it: You've Completely Blown It. You've absolutely ruined everything. I hate you. You're a tosser.

"-but they were flowers, why-" he protested feebly. As if that made any difference, as if he could somehow persuade George otherwise.

The Hufflepuff had to be one of the greatest wizards who had ever lived as he magically drained all the color that had entered Finnegan's face in an instant, like it had never been there. Just like that, the table was turned on him and he found himself scrambling for a reason why he had mentioned picking flowers for George, other than having been secretly in love the fourth year all along.

But that wasn't true! He'd never even thought of George that way. They'd just been fast friends, bizarely fast to be honest, George had skipped right past the acquiantance stage with that joyous, carefree attitude of his. In the privacy of his mind Finnegan turned resolutely to George and told him that he did not fancy him either. Absolutey not, no fancying whatsoever, no sir. In his mind, he remained perfectly cool and composed. In his mind, the whole thing blew over like bad smell being carried away on the wind.

In reality, he shrugged.

Like his bodily parts had gotten a mind of their own, he shrugged, a quick little bob of the shoulders, so insignificant otherwise but so telling now. He could feel his brain turn to mush and wishing to separate from his body, to escape the dumb little sack of limbs that refused to get up and run away with what precious little dignity he had left.

"Don't know," a voice that could not possibly be his own said. "I mean, NO of course not- I'd never- I- I have to go". With legs feeling like they'd had reinforced concrete poured down them, he stood up and felt like someone else had taken over all motor control. "Homework," he croaked. "I've a lot of it."

What a pathetic little excuse.

George squirmed in discomfort as Finnegan deflated like a slashed football. And who was the slasher if not George Henry? Why could he not control himself? He did everything wrong out of anger and frustration. He always said the wrong thing, jinxed the wrong child, and destroyed the wrong toy. Really, he'd grown into quite the little villain. And now, without the use of a single hex, he had petrified Finnegan Conner.

"Finnegan," George said. He envisioned the perfect words to say to soothe Finn's anxiety, settle him down, and assure them that this would not be any strain on their stunted friendship. George sighed as he wondered what the hell those words were. It was much easier to summon compelling prose onto paper than it was to spew it out of your big stupid boy-fancying mouth.

Maybe he ought to just admit that he did fancy Finnegan. It would make their friendship awkward, but it would do wonders for his confidence. It'd be only supplementary to his kiss with EmmaLee, and maybe George could explain that he would never step in the way of another badger's love life, so it was probably best for Finnegan to chase after EmmaLee.

It was the strangest feeling when Finnegan shrugged in answer to him. It was like his entire face were suddenly made of stone, clenched so hard that he could scarcely open his jaw. Finnegan did not know if he fancied him. Well, that was about accurate. George didn't fancy anyone until lately, and then he very much knew he fancied them. If Finnegan did know, he'd be getting into the game early.

When Finnegan rose from his seat, George was suddenly possessed to act.

"Finnegan," he said sternly. "We will not end another afternoon with you running away from me, please. I can't cope."

Hoping that Finnegan would be persuaded to stay, he decided to ensure it by reaching out to grab him by the hand wrist. Better not to give him any ideas. "Sit back down," he pleaded, both for the sake of the boy's self-esteem and because he did not want to have to write another letter next weekend just for all of this to happen again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You're a very nice boy, you're just, um.... not my type. But you are very sweet. And you look very handsome. With the eye bags covered. Sit please."