Getaway Car

“ARE YOU DONE? I CAN'T HEAR a thing with all your talking while prefects are waltzing by in the corridor.”

George kneeled to the door and placed his left ear on its wood. And I watched him do whatever it was that he was doing. His nose scrunched, little freckles churning into a hazy constellation as he tapped lightly onto his tucked-in leg.

After a few seconds, he beckoned me to follow him. And grudgingly, I did. We sprinted past dark halls, the faint padding sound of our feet following us. Neither of us had a wand, and I wondered the source of my sudden foolish courageousness bursting through my skin.

Another turn, and we would be at the gates of the library, I suspected. It was tricky to distinguish which corridor was which in the sudden darkness hovering through the castle grounds.

And just as I thought all was well, a faint light began to emerge from the depths of the corridor.

“Fuck,” muttered George, almost as silent as the breeze sweeping the floors, and grabbed me by the waist, slamming us into a far darker hall just as swiftly.

The darkness felt heavy, oppressive, almost ghostly. As I stood there, the absence of light seemed to weigh down on me, making my stomach churn as George tightened his hold on my waist, pulling me closer, our chests touching as very little space was left to breathe, to stand, and I could not help but feel a chill run down my spine.

My heart thumped deafeningly loud in my ears as I watched the prefect walk by us. Then he left, and I let my head fall to George Weasley's chest with a huff. A deep breath, and my thoughts scrambled back as relief washed over me. Then I recognised that I was gripping his sweater as tight as he held my waist.

I pushed him away in the beat of a second, for his touch was a fever, burning my skin and leaving little pickles of red. And I felt the touch of his fingertips gliding through my skin even in the absence of his hold, drinking the iciness of the dark and burning, and burning, and burning.

It was like the feeling of vengeance, so easily acquired but not so easy to shed.

It was not proper for my skin to grieve for the absence of his touch. For I, the presence of George Weasley should be an insult, and to want him — was a death wish. It isn't right, I thought. It isn't right! It isn't right!

He wasn't right.

Then my face burned red - with humiliation and anger. And I was suddenly convinced that the tingling feeling grumbling in my belly was anything but forGeorge. Then, I was glad to be eloped by the drowning absoluteness of the darkness.

“I reckon the coast is — er — clear,” George's voice came out a whisper as he almost desperately waited for a response other than disgust to flicker my face.

But I kept my poise, as I was taught to do so long ago as if I was a child again — as if I was expected to swirl and dance and dance and dance until I perfected my form even if it cost a muscle or a bone again.

To my lack of response, Weasley merely walked off as if he had not been holding to me like I was the last thing in the world — as if his touch had not burned me — as if our breaths were not entangled under a dark hall like we were some forbidden lovers.

Then I followed him, strolling after what little red hair I could catch. And I realised his hair resembled the silly flare of his touch.

”We are here,” whispered George. “There ought to be a torch somewhere inside.” And he was right, quickly grabbing it from the rigid wall.

"You wouldn't happen to have a wand on you, would you?" I asked, knowing the response.

Weasley narrowed his eyes to me. ”This was your brilliant little idea, Black.”

”And I have it all under control, Weasley. Trust me.”

I didn't have it under control. In all truth, I had not been any more lost in my life as I stared at the aisles and aisles of books glaring beneath the fickle fire of the torch.

I forced myself to stand straight against the stiff silence of the night, as a Black should.

George Weasley’s face was tight with emotion, and his neck flushed. ”Blimey, Black, you don't have a bloody idea, do you?”

I was unperturbed. Snape was clever to lend us a detention that would take days, even weeks, to finish without magic. He knew it would drive us mad, so I had to be better than him — cleverer.

”I have an idea, but you won't like it.”

George lifted an eyebrow like he was some haughty prince of a far, foreign land. ”Do humour me.”

I turned to him, brown eyes pouring into mine. ”Wandless magic.”

I did not give him the time to answer. I raised my right arm, feeling a similar tug of energy flow through my veins to my wand flush to my fingertips. I had done this before. That was at the security of your home, whispered a small part of me. But I am still home.

”Accio home spells books!”

First, it was a single, fat book; then there were three, then it was five, and then it was another ten large books, all flying to the same target: my head.

I ducked my head as the books crashed to the wall behind me with a loud thud. Yet I could swear that the jerk of my gut must have been louder.

”Thought you'd know what you were doing, you see,” George complained as he kneeled beside me. ”Are you hurt? Did any of the books hit you?”

His touch was gentle, like I was a porcelain vase to be broken. His hands were rough from quidditch, I found, as he traced his fingers near the curls of my head.

”I lied.” I shrugged. ”Had I told you my half-arsed plan, you would not have let me do it.”

George frowned. ”Had I known your plan was outright bloody murder, then you're right. I wouldn't have let you do it.”

I frowned back at him. Why was he so considerate all so suddenly? Was it because of my outburst at him? ”My plan wasto outsmart Snape — and that's not exactly a plan, is it?”

He chuckled, his voice a rough patch within the eerie silence of the library. ”You're unbelievable, Black.”

”No, I'm just a firm believer that if someone's bad, I can be so much worse.”

”Yeah, figured that much myself,” said George, an unreadable look forming on his face as my frown deepened; why would he look at me like that?

Then George Weasley tugged on my arm, raising us to our height. He stood taller than me, his face clouded with a look I could not decipher. For me, he was an enigma waiting to be solved.

”We should start searching for the, uh —” George tilted his head a little, lips pursed, like a little curious bird. ”— well, whatever it is that we're looking for, I guess.”

WE HAD BEEN LOST WITHIN THE BOOKS when a piercing light sought our way. Angry footsteps thundered within the dark walls of the library, and I found myself jumping back onto my feet, suddenly alert.

”What are you doing here at this hour?” A clear voice, like ice-melted streams, thundered before he appeared. A mop of brown hair emerged through the darkness, and Professor Lupin, with a seriousness I had never seen on him, regarded us, the green of his eyes flickering ever so slightly between the red-headed boy and me.

Weasley suddenly sat straight. He was quick to shut the book on his lap. He prickled with guilt, for he knew as well as I that we were not allowed to be out at this hour.

”It's forbidden to be out after the curfew,” Professor Lupin's voice was almost accusatory, almost as if expecting to catch us doing —

”We didn't realise the time, Professor.” George lied through his teeth. Though it was not believable, for he knew better than anyone that we were still serving our detention with no chance to be out and about at a library.

Professor Lupin's brows shot up. ”You didn't realise the time? Mr Weasley, it's well past midnight. I did not know you two were such an avid lover of home spells books.”

The slightest crease appeared between George's eyes. ”Mum's an avid lover of these books, sir. I s'pouse it's only hereditary that I enjoy them as much as she does.”

It was the sort of innocence Professor Lupin, for once, did not find amusing. His face was expressionless as if he was weighing down his options. Then it hit me; the noise, the light, the time... He thought us to be lovers! For that was why he thundered and judged us like were to be chastised to be alone at such an ungodly hour.

I suddenly cringed, cheeks painted in the slightest shade of pink. Behind my shock, anger rose slow and dull. Who was heto judge us? Who was he to assume I'd ever fancy George Weasley?

”We are searching for a spell that'll clean up the trophy room, Professor,” I spoke, my voice slurring ever so slightly with anger. I was ready to risk it all to kill any rumours with Weasley. ”And, we did not realise the passing of the time! Now, we are truly sorry, sir.”

I knew I looked like an insolent little child. But I could not care any less. I was angry.

George Weasley had always been a slow one. I knew that much. He did not prove my judgement wrong and caught up to reason behind the professor's accusatory tone like he was some sleepy tortoise. But it didn't seem to rub him in the wrong way, not nearly as it had to me.

Oh, how I wanted to slap that impish grin off his face.

”I see,” Professor Remus hummed, his eyes staring away. ”Well, I should give the two of you detention for this, but Snape's detention appears to be more than enough, I gather.”

Professor Lupin turned to Weasley before he left, ”Oh, and McFinnickly's Home Spells Book is a fascinating collection of spells and an excellent read, Mr Weasley. You and your mother will surely enjoy it, I expect.”