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CHAPTER EIGHT

-: the beginnings :-

── IN WHICH HE VISITS THE ATTIC

. . .


George followed Rhea up the rickety staircase within the tall building, which had the Apothecary on the bottom floor (a stock basement below it which Rhea told him was particularly scary), Mrs Bixby's office and living quarters on the second, and the final staircase - which was very steep and thin and was a hazard to anyone who was sober and fully awake - lead up to Rhea's attic rooms. 

Which lead to the Weasley boy constantly holding out an arm in case the eldest Lovegood daughter fell back or stumbled, both happening on several occasions. Which was then followed by George's hand settling at the small of back, his free hand pressed against the wall and steadying himself. 

But finally, they reached the small area outside of her front door, the old wood of it painted over in a dark blue. George's gaze flickered over a star-speckled doormate, a plant hanging from the corner and what looked to be pair of singed trousers - which were all but a pile of ash. 

"Washing incident." Rhea explained quietly, as she searched through her pockets and pulled out an old, slightly rusty key. She unlocked her door with ease, a flick of her wand illuminating the apartment.

George didn't think he could ever have imagined anything else to be her home. It was so Lovegood-like, from the abundance of plants to the bursts of colour, the clutter and stacks of books. And then there was the same cat from earlier that day curled up on the end of her bed and-

"Is that a model dragon?" George's eyebrow furrowed as he ignored every other part of the girl's home, eyes focusing on a small green creature sleeping beside the bed. 

"Hm?" Rhea asked, as if this was just a casual question, slipping off her shoes by the rack and slinging her coat over the back of a chair. "Oh yes.. Fleur gave it to me after the first task of the Tournament. Common Welsh Green, very friendly." She hummed, filling the kettle with water and setting it to boil on the stove. "Tea?"

"If you're making it." George moved towards the bed, crouching in front of the bed and peering at the dragon. "You say it's friendly?"

"Clover - her name's Clover." Rhea had a watering can in her hand - a silvery-metal thing with a spout that jabbed George in the side as she crouched beside him, her spare hand reaching out and a finger running over the dragon's spine, it chuntering in her sleep and rolling it onto her back. 

Beside Clover, Clemency's eyes flickered open and meowed at the sight of the two teens staring back at her. This woke Clover, who was instantly shooting up into the air and breathing out a small huff of fire before settling on George's shoulder. 

"See, very friendly." Rhea grinned as she twisted back over to the kitchen, watering plants as she went and pulling the kettle off of the heat before it woke the entire neighborhood up. "Would you prefer everyday tea or it to be infused with Gurdyroots? It's the last of the Christmas batch, but I don't mind if you would prefer it."

George had no idea what Gurdyroots were, instead opting for the first choice, taking the chance to look around the attic as she made it. It was inherently Lovegood-esque, from what lined the shelves, to the number of blankets and knitted items around. George's head brushed the roof and he very almost hit his head on the beam across the length of the roof as he stood by the bookshelf, peering at the spines of the many books.

The sound of a cupboard door opening and closing had George twisting over to look to where Rhea was stood, the girl not actually having moved from her position but things dancing across the air towards her told him that her magic tended to help her out with things, drowsiness completely forgotten.

The Weasley boy jumped out of his skin as a flash of green shot off of his shoulder, before realising it was Clover flying over to twist around the floating jars of honey, unknown green flakes, as well as one that resembled the spices his mother cooked with a another of dired fruit that matched the ones that hung from Rhea's necklace.

Deciding it was far too risky for him to keep wandering around her home with incredibly low ceilings, George sat down on the sofa, plush velvet crushing under him and being practically ambushed by decorative pillows. Clemency settled on his lap after a moment of consideration.

"Here." Rhea held out a cup as she settled on the couch beside him. Taking the mug, George peered at it's content, slightly relieved to see it looking exceptionally normal. He took a sip, only for his eyes to widen and look towards the girl.

"How did you know?" He asked, Rhea staring back at him as she took a sip of her own drink - a dark purple colour that made him wonder exactly what the green flakes were for and a dried dirigible plum floating in the top. The Lovegood girl tilted her head, confused. "How did you know how I take my tea?"

George had been expecting some plainer form of the drink, the one that anyone would give a guest if their preferences weren't known. But Rhea had gotten it perfectly. "Two sugars, splash of milk and some cinnamon." The girl recieted, counting it off on her fingers. "Intuition. Although I'm not sure why you would have sugar with it and not honey - that was for mine.. but it makes sense."

He could only stare at her as she took another sip of her beetroot-coloured drink, nose crinkling at the bitter initial taste. "Bloody hell you're good at guessing." He commented, sitting back in his seat and drinking some more. 

It might have been slightly weird if it had been anyone else - but anything from a member of the Lovegood household was questionable and most certainly not done under malicious intentions. Really, it was incredible that she could figure that out. 

It wasn't just that which was incredible. Every part of her seemed so strange and amazing, everything she did fit her personality and what she wore and the interior of her tiny apartment was undeniably the effect of Rhea Lovegood. 

George had begun to hope that he and Fred would take her on as an employee when it came to it. 


𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗲, george weasleyWhere stories live. Discover now