George shields his face from the sun, which is absolutely cooking him up. How did muggles live like this? No cooling charms or anything. Dad had informed him that they had a thing called air conditioning which they used indoors, but nothing for the outdoors. Did that mean they had to make their trips directly under the scorching sun, without any reinforcements? It’s insane.
It’s the middle of the summer, and Bill and Charlie had each taken a few days off work to be there for Ginny’s thirteenth birthday. Mum and dad hadn’t been able to afford anything big, but they were able to arrange a tour around a few muggle towns with a tour guide who dad was friends with. He was a wizard who taught foreigners about muggle culture—how funny is that?
“We’re here, everyone!” Dad was saying, and George noticed a restaurant with wooden doors that were painted in a muted green. The entire Weasley brood shuffled around each other to fit through the entrance.
“Now, now, children! One by one!” Mum called from behind the group, not that any of them were listening.
“What d’you reckon muggle food tastes like?” Fred asked at his side.
“Dunno. Remember those sweets professor Burbage used to give out? I hope the rest of muggle food is as good as them.”
Once all the Weasleys were settled at the restaurant’s largest table, each of them grabbed menus and began deciding what to get, though still being mindful of the prices, of course.
“Mum, what d’you think about me and Ginny splitting a steak?” Asked Ron.
“I don’t want no steak, Ron! I told you—I want to get the ribs!”
“Dad, Charlie and I have decided on the chicken breast. We’ll take one piece each—there’s two in the meal.”
“I’d like the pasta, please.”
George was still going through the menu when a head of dark hair caught his eye. Across the restaurant, sitting in the booth in the corner, was a muggle boy around his age. He flipped through the menu as if deciding what to choose, but something told George that he wasn’t new to this place.
Probably the most striking part of his appearance were his eyebrows—they were sharp and defined, but seemed as if they looked that way naturally. The boy furrowed his brows and George watched how his face contorted. He felt unable to look away.
“And you, George? What are you getting?” Asked mum, and George snapped out of his stupor and looked at her, not having heard what she’d said.
“Uh, sorry, what?”
“Food, George. What are you getting?” Said Bill, and George started after having been pulled from his daze.
“Oh, uh, I’ll take whatever Fred’s having.” He answered, and looked around the table to see a bunch of grinning faces look back at him. Bill, Charlie, Fred, and Ginny were all looking at him as if they knew something. Ron wasn’t included, though, as he was often quite oblivious to things. Percy, mum, and dad seemed to be the only ones purposefully minding their own business.
“What?” George asked, which for some reason caused the rest of the table to grin even harder.
“Seems like Georgie’s got a crush.” Said Charlie, causing Fred to laugh.
“George! Really? One trip through muggle Britain and you’re already looking to produce a half-breed!”
“Ginny! You can’t say that!”
“Half-breed? Crush? What’s going on?”
What was going on, indeed.
“What are you lot talking about? I haven’t got a crush on anyone.”
“Oh, come on, Georgie, don’t deny it! Ask the bloke out!” Said Fred.
As George began to protest, and the table erupted into exclamation, the dark-haired muggle boy stood from his chair and headed for the door, pulling a cigarette box out of his pocket. George eyed him, hoping he wouldn't leave entirely.
Ginny was pointing and laughing at him, and the rest of the table was snickering.
Fred looked at him, eyebrow raised, making a head movement indicating that he follow the boy.
To stand up and follow the guy out the restaurant would be utterly embarrassing, but missing out on an opportunity to talk with him would be worse. Damn.
Begrudgingly, George stood from his seat, shuffling out the booth, which caused his siblings to whistle and whoop. He ignored them as best as he could.
He walked towards the door, conjuring a cigarette and a lighter, then exited the restaurant to be met by the blazing sun. The dark-haired boy was standing under the nearest shade, and George decided to use the climate as an excuse to get nearer to him.
He walked towards the boy, who gave him a cursory glance, and stood beside him. He took out the cigarette and put it in his mouth, and started to light it with a lighter. The lighter didn’t produce any fire, although George already knew this would happen—he’d magicked it not to have any lighter fluid in it.
He pretended to look pissed and sent a look to the bloke next to him.
“Could I...?” He asked, implying that he’d like to light his cigarette off of the other boy’s own. The boy nodded, and turned his head toward him, cigarette held between two fingers. George connected their respective cigarettes at the ends, and waited until the fire passed from one end to another.
Once it was done, both boys turned their heads away and took drags of their cigarettes, then exhaling.
“That’s a big family you got over there,” The boy said, causing George to look at him. “How many are you? I couldn’t count.”
“Oh, there’s, uh, seven of us, plus my mum and my dad.” George answered, glad that he’d initiated conversation. “Have you got any siblings?” He asked, hoping to talk to the boy for longer.
“Oh, no. It’s just me, my ma, and my pa. It’s quiet. We live just across.” He says, and indicates a house across the street.
“Quiet, huh? What’s that like?” George jokes, hoping to get a laugh out of the boy.
He does. The boy huffs out a chuckle and takes a drag from his cigarette. This reminds George that he’s pretending to be out here just to smoke, so he takes a drag out of his own.
“It’s nice. Your siblings seem fun, though.” The boy answers, once he’s done exhaling smoke. “Where are you from, by the way? You don’t seem like you’re from around here.”
“Oh, Catchpole. On the outskirts. We own a farm.”
“Hmm.”
George takes another drag, letting a few seconds pass by before he asks the more forward question. Seem natural, he tells himself. He thinks he does an okay job.
“So, what’s your name, then?” He asks, and he thinks he can see the ghost of a smirk tease the boy’s lips before he answers.
“Peter, but you can call me Pete. What’s yours?”
“George,” He answers, and then turns to look at Peter, smiling playfully. “But you can call me anything you want.”
Peter returns his smile, looking away, then huffing smoke.
“I think I’ll call you George. Say, does your farm have a telephone? I’d like you talk to you again sometime, George.”
George presses his lips together at this. He knows what a telephone is, it’s just that he doesn’t actually own one.
“Hmm. Unfortunately, I do not own a telephone, but I can give you my address. You can write to me, that way. Maybe even come over, later on.” He says, smirking at the last.
“Sure, George—keep dreaming.” Peter says, trying to hide a smile, but George sees it, nonetheless.
“The farm’s called The Burrow, it’s a little way west of Ottery St. Catchpole. And your address? I can’t be writing you letters without knowing where to send them.”
“Hutton, 60 Thornton St.” Peter replies, and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, scribbling some numbers on it with a pen. “And this is the number, you know, in case you ever start changing along with the times.”
George takes it with a grin on his face. “Thanks Pete, I’ll be sure to call you from the nearest phone booth.”
Peter surprises him with a laugh. “And where’s that? Five miles west?”
“Just you wait and see, Peter. I’ll be ringing you in no time.” He says, and turns to enter the restaurant again, smile still playing slightly on his face. Peter follows behind him and makes his way to his own table once the door’s been shut.
George sits back at his table with his family and sees that it’s already covered in plates. His siblings and mother grin at him when they see his smile, silently acknowledging his victory.
“Saved you some steak, brother.” Says Fred, grinning proud, and George digs in.
He sends a few glances Peter’s way and catches him staring a few times. The day has been won. Perhaps muggle Britain isn’t so boring, after all.