chapter vii just avery & just charlie
***
FROM A YOUNG AGE, AVERY CARMICHAEL HAS BEEN EXPOSED TO THE CONCEPT OF ART. Her father, Oliver Hearst— back when he was in her life — was an artist, specialising in anything from paint to pencil, and his life was dedicated to depicting the real picture that he saw. And he did a ruddy good job of it, from what Avery can see in the rare old paintings they found belonging to the man up in the dusty attic of the Carmichael residence. (Avery, however, never understood why Valerie hadn't thrown those paintings out.)
Oliver Hearst was a dedicated artist of sorts since he learnt what it meant to grip a paintbrush. His father was a wizard while his mother a muggle, and most days she was half-up on a stepladder, connecting mind to paintbrush to canvas with spirit. Oliver often attended the remarkable art shows her mother enrolled herself in in the art galleries in London, where he grew up. His mother's paintings, ranging from abstract to blended canvases of sheer artistic miracles, always inspired Oliver to tell the story — not with words — but with the flow and craft waiting to burst out of the hand, just like his mother did. It was only natural that Oliver, having grown up amongst all this craftmanship and picturesque happenings, would have a firm influence over the artistry dooming the never-ending lands he lived in.
Perhaps it was the reason he had been so drawn to Valerie Carmichael. In their Hogwarts days, something he picked up about the fiery-haired girl in his house — Ravenclaw — was her necessity to pay attention to detail. In everything. For Valerie Carmichael, any small item could be deemed art. From the curvaceous crescent running down glass bottles, to uneven scratchings on a piece of diminished wood. The mere idea of productivity and making something, was enough for it to be considered a craft to the vivid redhead. Perhaps it was this significance she put towards appreciating the nature of any materialising opportunity, towards not deeming any process fallible or barren, that made him fall in love with this truly fierce, composed woman. Any error could have been a masterpiece, in the eyes of Valerie herself.
As for Avery, the art that Valerie Carmichael always claims to have made, (because really, did anyone else but Valerie carry the child with difficulty, pain and endurance within the depths of their womb for nine months?) was always able to strike up a fire of pride in Valerie's eyes. Avery didn't have much time to become acquainted with her father's hobbies, asides from the times she'd been sat spectating to when her dad was painting the walls of their new London apartment, a plush toy rattle in hand, her rocking baby chair underneath her and gazing at her father with innocent adoration as he swiped the paintbrush back and forth along the walls with reminiscent, cascading strokes.
But Avery couldn't remember that. She was no more than three years old the day her father disappeared out of her life. The day if became Valerie, Jeremiah and Avery, in all its permanence.
To remember such picky memories like that would be considered miraculous in a sense. At first, she remembers pestering her mother and brother about the intricate details on what exactly made Oliver leave, or what kind of a person he was. To Jeremiah, was kind of dad was he — since Jeremiah was four at the time, his memories of times with father would have been more materialised. Now, having grown up, Avery has stopped asking these kind of questions. Though she may have been young at the time beforehand, she now thought it cruel and selfish to have brought up such painful memories — especially to Valerie. She realised that she should have been more grateful that she still had a parental figure as loving and supportive and put-together as Valerie. Many people have no parents — Avery realised that she was lucky to have gathered both in one.
And though it's been years since Avery has mourned the absence of a father in her life, (again, she reminds herself that she was fortune to have both in the form of Valerie) there have been fleeting moments where she had just wondered. About this mystery man; about Oliver Hearst. Like, did he snore when he slept? Or, did he like football just like her mother did? Back then, Avery would have given anything to get answers on the man she once called her father. But that was back then.
Avery now realises there's no point in wallowing over what could be in her life, when she already has so much to be taken grateful for. Her mother, her brother; her grandparents, Uncle Douglas, Laurel and now baby Abigail. Oliver Hearst cannot compare in a life he was never present for. That much, Avery has ingrained into her brain. She doesn't know anything about his current life — if he's settled down with someone else, if he still paints, draws, does all the things she knew he once loved.
There's something Avery can vaguely recall, though. About the conundrum that is Oliver Hearst. When playing hide-and-seek one day with her older brother at the vivacious age of eight, seeking solace beneath Jeremiah's dust-ridden bed, where Avery found the absently folded corners of a discoloured image, wedged in between the wooden leg of the bed and the *blue* wall it was flush against. Four people, in the picture. And it was clear to see who the man no longer present in this collective family was; the man holding the baby in his arms so delicately, his wife and son huddled in beside him with a winsome gaze overlooking the baby — one year old at the time.
From what one could gather, Oliver Hearst was a handsome man. In the photo at the time, he would have been around 23, a young age for a father of two, and he still had many of the features young adults held in their books of attractive hallmarks. His fern-coloured irises exhibited the same glint of fresh delirium Avery has seen swirling around her own deep pupils so many times, flickering strikingly like newly fallen leaves in the Autumn. Just like Jeremiah, Oliver's hair wore that same mousy brown colour, only his stuck up on it's near-shaven ends, rather than piling softly around his head like his son's (with similarities to Avery's, too. She may have had that slight rosy twinge to her sunkissed tresses, but the main obstacle preventing Avery's hair from becoming as rouge and vibrant as Valerie's was the hazel tint inherited from Oliver) He had the smile one would have in reconciliation with an old friend — the one where it was easy to see where the stress marks laid from the intensive stretching. Firm, taut muscles protruded from beneath the short sleeves of the thin t-shirt, and a full stubbly beard grizzled the sculpted face of the man, whose smile now bore an unknown recognition to the three surrounding him.
It was for this reason, that Avery applauded photographs for their work. The way in which Oliver Hearst's mouth was so enthusiastically gleaming with a wide beam, the way Valerie looked at the baby just as she would look at her grown daughter now — yet in that photo, one couldn't guess that the man smiling so enthusiastically in lieu of his children would eventually exit their lives, for good. And how in pictures, one moment can be captured in spite of an abundance of discarded ones.
At that age she was over her dad. Over the mystery; over the ifs, buts and maybes that would previously plague her waking nightmares. Over the fact that he was never going to be there for her again. But this picture... Avery kept it. For secret, fleeting, too-good-to-be-true glances. Not because she missed her dad - Avery always told herself, how could I miss someone that was never really there? But you could say, it helped her come to terms with the fact that her father existed. But he just wasn't hers, anymore.
And he didn't matter to her anymore, either. It didn't matter that she could have been Avery Hearst, rather than Avery Carmichael. It didn't matter that she never got the proper impression of her father before he left. It didn't matter that she never knew this man who most would think played a huge part in Avery's life. It didn't matter anymore. Avery has lived an amazing life without him, and she was over him and all the possibilities. She was fine. Her family were fine. They managed it. Avery managed it.
And so, Avery can be found painting in her shared Heads' dorm on a refreshing Saturday afternoon, with not the likeness of her father in mind, but that of her mother. Valerie was a massive enthusiast when it came to decorating and making something over anew. She one time even accidentally 'slipped' a glass of wine against her wall, simply for the excuse of painting it fresh. Her decorative tendencies passed onto her daughter. Throughout her Hogwarts years, Avery and her friends would exhibit their Ravenclaw creativities and enhance the bland walls of their dormitory, painting the free spaces that surrounded them with blossoming flowers, flourished shapes and melodic silhouettes, enriching their living space for that upcoming year.
But of course, Avery can't paint her dorm in Ravenclaw Tower this year. Because, she doesn't stay there anymore.
(That isn't to say she didn't help her four friends in repainting the dorm — the fact the entire dormitory gets repainted each year always gives them the chance to flourish their creative flairs further. But it still didn't feel the same. She didn't stay there anymore. It didn't have the same vibe as it used to.)
Instead of that, she's taken to painting her own dormitory — the Heads' dorm. The bare wall behind the sofa at the back of the room looked so lonely and plain — it was practically asking to get painted. So, she asked Charlie if it were fine and even if he wanted to join in on the painting — to which he answered "yes" and "no", due to the fact that he plainly couldn't control a paintbrush for the life of him. Avery took this for a firm answer — sure, her and Charlie may have been getting closer and she may have begun to trust him better. But it hadn't gotten to the "Nuh-Uh Mister, you are not refusing me" stage yet. But that would take time too. Similarly to how Charlie wasn't pressuring Avery, she wouldn't dare pressure him in return.
It can only be seen as a natural, scheduled event, then, when Avery Carmichael is seen upon a tall step-ladder she requested from the kind house-elf Haily in her service, one foot on the higher step while the other remained at the bottom for balance. In one of her hands, there rested a worn-looking paint palette, old mixtures of dried paint scabbing up beneath newer layers of the cool, gloopy liquid, in dotted arrays of colours such as crimson and mauve and navy and mustard. The paint tubes, which Avery got from Rowan — whose muggleborn roots helped her to acquire so — laid strewn across the floor amidst a collection of finely bought paintbrushes in the velvet casket on top of a crumpled white sheet, scrunching beneath the stiff movements of the stepladder.
Avery sighs softly, leaning forward against the weight of the ladder, the cool press of the metallic bar driving against the bare flesh of her collarbone. She wore a pale blue T-shirt beneath her denim dungarees, of which had attracted a few haywire spots of paint from her affairs. Likewise, her strawberry blonde hair was pulled up into a ponytail, the ends sticking out lightly with some more acquired paint marks dotting the forefront of her hair, some erratic flyaway strands unable to keep their boundaries even when Avery smooths them out with the nudging of her upper arm.
Avery's current decorative progress entailed completed pencilled outlines of her images, with three completed in paint. Four shapes depicting the back wall of the Heads' dormitory. A lion, an eagle, a dragon and a horse. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, along with both Charlie and Avery's patronuses. It was proving as difficult, don't get Avery wrong, but she was pretty happy with her progress. She'd managed to paint the lion, ensuring it was detailed with every shadow and crest and flicker of hair, blending with its near-golden tint of fur, along with the scaly, serpentine characteristics of the dragon. Avery was still yet to complete the eagle, but she'd completed the horse, the grey fur and crevices of its hooves managing to capture the instantaneous effects of its motionless motion.
"Hey," Avery swivels her head around and sees Charlie enter, dropping his jacket around the back of the sofa. Avery sends him a smile. "What are you doing?"
"Painting!" Avery exclaims. "I've been working on it since lunch. Speaking of — what time is it—?"
"Nearly seven. Dinner will have started by now."
"That's fine. I just want to get a small start on this eagle—" As Avery takes a step further up on the ladder, Charlie doesn't fail to pick up the way the ladder shook from Avery's adjusted movements, both feet on the step second from the top. He rushes forward, hands reaching out to the ladder.
"Hold on—!" He says, both of his hands grabbing at the sides of the cold metal, a cautious glance following up to Avery's higher figure from his stance below.
"What's wrong?" Avery asks nonchalantly.
Charlie's eyes wide with incredulity. "What's wrong? You're an absolute liability, that's what's wrong! The ladder was about to fall, bloody hell!"
Avery chuckles, brushing off his concern. "I'm fine, Charlie. Honestly. You don't have to hold onto this ladder."
"Yes — well — I want to." He answers definitively. Charlie looks up at Avery solemnly, his expression opposing to the amused grin on hers as she painted the wall. "Trust me."
With a conceding hum, Avery allows Charlie to hold the ladder steady for her, aware of his pressing stare from below, gazing at her intricate paintbrush movements with inquisitiveness.
"And my friends say I have a death wish," Charlie remarks dryly, looking at Avery's freely loosened paintbrush movements.
"Really?" Avery returns absently, a smirk playing at her lips. "My friends tell me the exact same thing."
"No bloody wonder."
Avery grins from high above.
"Ok — um — you know your friend?" Charlie asks instinctively.
"Which one?"
"The prankster that appears to be teaching my brothers now. With the really wavy hair?"
Avery nods. "Juliet? What about her?"
"Well," Charlie begins, loosening his grips on the ladder slightly, though still keeping a firm hold on it. "Is she seeing someone?"
Avery raises an eyebrow. "Yes... apparently some girl in Hufflepuff. She's not telling us who, though."
"Oh," says Charlie, his mouth dropping open as if he were at a loss for words.
"What is it?" Avery asks, upon detecting Charlie's reaction. She lets her paintbrush drop onto the palette, now more attentive towards her redhaired companion.
"I saw her, earlier... in an alcove..." He releases cautiously, "With Tonks."
Avery's eyes drop wide open. "Tonks?" She questions incredulously, "As in — your friend — the metamorphagus?"
Charlie nods affirmatively, and Avery sinks into her stance at the top of the ladder as she cane to grips with her thoughts. This... made sense, Avery supposes. Juliet was seeing a Hufflepuff... and for Charlie to have stumbled upon the two didn't seem like the biggest conundrum that existed.
"Oh," says Avery.
"Yeah," says Charlie. "Oh."
Part of Avery is amused that Juliet had eventually come to being found out about, and another part of her is wracking her brains for any sort of foreshadowing that could have led to Juliet and Tonks getting together. Because sure, it made sense, but in other means, it didn't?
"And were they—"
"Snogging?" Charlie finishes for her. "Yeah, seemed like it. Of course, I got out of there before they realised I was there because that wouldn't be nearly as embarrassing for them as it would have for me. Like, Godric, two feisty ladies to deal with? Tonks is a handful even with Roy!"
"Yeah..." Avery muses. "Well, I suppose this calls for an interrogative after-dinner conversation."
Avery glances back at the eagle she was painting. "Okay," she smiles. "I'm done for now."
Charlie nods, releasing the hold of the ladder as she descends to the lower steps. All seemed well, until came the moment Charlie had actually let go of the ladder and it seemed to propel backwards with the uneven distribution of weight (for Avery had maybe become slightly reliant on the other boy keeping the ladder balanced), Avery propelling backwards alongside it. The moment was fast. In a moment, the ladder and Avery were falling, and in the next, Charlie rushed forward, captivating Avery's falling figure with his arms. The metallic ladder fell to its side, scraping over the side of Avery's leg and making her legs drop unprecedentedly and in a rushed, unstable manner onto the ground.
Avery finds her breath halting completely at this sudden... contact with Charlie. Her back was pressed against his chest, his hands took a hold of his arms, and her face was so close to his. And something about it felt so... good. His hand on her bare arms felt like the caress of a feather, long-lasting and enrapturing, a reminiscence of a delicate, tender clasp, no matter the urgency. Avery's breath seemed to have been stolen away completely, and Charlie was eliciting short, rapid exhales... It was as if the longer they touched, the more flustered — invigorated — they became. And with this thrill, Avery's head turns to see his face, looking positively startled and shocked, yet still... gentle. Even with his softly tousled ginger tresses sticking up on the ends of Charlie's head, wind-strewn and disheveled. He always had this tender look to his charming appearance and in this sense, he just looked beautiful. And so did she, with her sun-kissed strawberry blonde tresses in an alluringly erratic expanse, hovering spontaneously around her face, and her rosy, delicate lips parted ever so slightly and overwhelmingly.
Avery doesn't know whatever inhabited her to look into the the prepossessing sight in his eyes, but she lowers her gaze to his and lets herself just look, locking their gazes. She hated herself for thinking such cliched thoughts but goodness, his eyes really were like the ocean, cascading in paled blue shades around the opalescent shine of the light, falling meticulously in mimicking waves and crests.
(Avery was so engrossed in the sight that was Charlie Weasley's godsend of a pair of eyes, it didn't even make her flinch at the flickering of paint into her hair, when the paint palette spiralled out of her hand in her attempt to save herself, and Avery now bore speckles of red paint in her strawberry blonde hair.)
And when his eyes locked onto hers, everything around the room stopped revolving. There were no longer the sounds of the majestic grandfather clock ticking, the wind crashing against the windows, the rattle of the ladder. Only silence. The rub of his fingertips against the smooth, baby-like touch of her bare arms made him want to freeze this moment in time, and perhaps, never thaw it again. The connection of her fern eyes, swaying in hypnotic, tree-like movements around a dilated dot of black that seemed to grow larger, engulfing his every thought, feeling, so that everything became stripped back and he realised that all that was there was him and her. Charlie and Avery.
The moment seemed to last an eternity, when their vision locked onto each other's in a way that felt rare to humanity — but when Charlie slowly released her arms as Avery found herself some stable ground, there was a hollow feeling inside of her that relished the feeling of his calloused yet caring hands. That yearned for more. People say that touch is like a language in itself. That the mere spread of a hand, or the nimbleness of a fingertip is enough to divulge an entire memoir, and in a way, this stood as true for Avery. In the few seconds Charlie's hands were on her, she... felt something. Touch is a language, Avery thinks. And she wanted some more time to truly define whatever it was Charlie's touch conveyed. Because there was an arousal of something. And... it happened as soon as they'd touched. In the exact moment.
But though it felt like an eternity, having been sentient in place, gazing into the cacophonous universe held within their eyes, really — it was only a few seconds. As quickly as it had happened, they tore themselves from each other. It was no longer Avery and Charlie but rather, just Avery and just Charlie.
Charlie clears his throat. "You do seem to have a death wish, then," He awkwardly chuckles, tapping his hands against the sides of his legs, an abashed look across his face as he attempts to joke. He needed to do something to rid the air of the tension that imminently grew.
"I — erm — I'm sorry," Avery blurts, calming the increasingly reddening patches scouring her cheeks. "I should've watched where I went, I—"
She doesn't let herself finish as Avery stumbles away hastily and goes to reach for her jumper, of a soft marled grey material, yanking it atop the top half of her dungarees in a swift movement, smoothing the stray flyaways of her head down with her palms. She takes a cautious glance at Charlie — he was still stiffly positioned in the same place as she previously was — he was still in the place they shared a fortuitous moment of intimacy. "Are you coming to dinner?" She asks hastily, pausing in her strides towards the door to allow Charlie to join her.
"Erm — sure, yeah." Charlie jabbers, collecting his previously lain jumper from the sofa, continuing this charade in attempt to ignore the unforeseen strain that remained with the atmosphere and within their minds. "Your hair, though —"
"I'll fix it later. Honest," says Avery with a haste smile. Charlie does nothing more but nod, and the two set out of their shared quarters and into the hallway, leaving behind a dropped ladder, paint palette and an unfinished mural.
Neither of them knew why they felt so... out of place by their sudden tangency, or why it had caused such a turbulence between them — it felt as if that the way Charlie had helped Avery out, he caused a thunderstorm of sorts. The kind where they were both bolts of lightning, the kind where it should have been their plea to avoid each other because god forbid if they clashed and made an eruption. But alas, they did clash. And maybe... there had been an eruption between the two.
And Avery can't seem to stop thinking about this over her dinner. She can't even enjoy the gustatory pleasure that the Hogwarts house elves provided, without being able to get the reminisce of her fiery-haired roommate from out of the depths and crests of her intricately-filled mind. The way he caught her so adeptly yet held it with a touch that was so gentle, it was as if he was cradling a baby. And how she was so sure she felt some sort of electrical impulse spark within her the moment her hand fell on top of his — Avery was by no means aiming to fall but now, she doesn't know if it was a bad thing that she did. And his eyes — she's able to picture it so clearly, the cascade and fall of summertime blue waves swimming around crystalline crevices — they truly were beautiful in its entirety.
And just as a wave rises, the same wave falls, sugar-coating the thoughts riddling Avery's mind and drawing her back to the reality that is her growing-colder plate of food and the bickering of her two quidditch player friends.
"Eric, you absolute dickwad!" Rowan huffs, glaring at the boy sat opposite her with a fiery tinge to her cheeks. "Just because I made you the Keeper for the quidditch team does not mean I fancy you!"
"But — why else would you put me on the team?" says Eric with a provoking smile. He mocks a gasp, "Unless! You think I'm a good player."
"What?" Rowan pants with outrage. "There is no way! I would never think that, you absolute—"
"You can stop denying it, you know I was one of the best–"
"Tell that to the cocky arsehole up in that brain of yours–"
"You know you love that cockiness–"
"Fine!" Rowan yells, slamming her hands onto the table. She'd averted a few heads to their direction in doing so, but none as prominent as the amused faces of their friends surrounding them. "I-think-you're-a-good-player," says Rowan through gritted teeth. "There! I said it! Are you happy now?"
Rather than showing content, Eric smirks further. He cups a hand around his ear, "I didn't quite catch that, Row," says Eric mischievously. "Repeat it? Please?"
"Why — you — Eric Feng!" Rowan says indignantly. "Have you maybe forgotten that I am the quidditch captain? Which means that I control what happens in my team? So, perhaps I might think it correct enough to remove you from the team or, yes!" She exclaims in sudden glee, a revelatory grin across her face. "I can make you run."
Now it was Eric's turn to be outraged. His face falls, his posture straightening up as he holds a hand close to his chest in offence. "You wouldn't dare!"
"Yes, I would! You know, perhaps I might decide to add a few more warmup laps in for you and solely you!"
"Why, how dare you—"
They continue bickering over incessant, unnecessary and petty mutterings, the group around them growing weary of their scene. By this point, everyone who wasn't friends with either had turned back to their own dinner, letting them argue in peace.
"Oh, shut it, both of you!" Julian exclaims, reaching out to throw a piece of bread into Eric's face. "Rowena, you're giving us all a headache here!" Julien leans into his side where Hannah sits, bending down so his taller torso can be in line with Hannah's slightly smaller one. He smirks, before whispering, "Does your stars predict them fighting like that from now on?"
"No," Hannah sighs, before smirking, "But they still think they should get married."
Avery, who'd been sat beside both and heard enough of their quiet conversation, leaning and adding her own hushed whisper of, "Just imagine the kind of kids they'd have!" resulting in snickers from the three unsuspected Ravenclaws.
"Hey, Aves?" Avery perks her head up to meet Benjamin's curious stare, directed up at her hair. Which was still littered with red paint from her little incident earlier on. "Why does your hair look like it murdered someone?"
Avery chuckles at this comparison made by her friend, shaking her head. Her reaction was, albeit, a nervous one, as she'd get again remembered the thing that occurred between her and Charlie.
(But then, why should she be nervous?)
"I was painting the dorm and... the paint palette fell on my head." Avery says with hesitance. She didn't know why she said it so cautiously, when the palette did fall... perhaps it was because she left out the part entailing Charlie, because she knew the type of things her friends would think.
(But then, what should they think?)
"Good going, Aves," Julian sniggers.
"Shut it, Julian." Dominique scolds, then turning to her best friend with an expectant grin. "How does it look, then?"
"What?" Avery blurts. "Oh. Yeah." She shakes her head, removing whatever she was thinking beforehand. Who'd have thought a bit of painting could throw Avery so out of it?
(But then, it wasn't the painting she'd kept thinking of, was it?)
"It looks good. I have the dragon, lion and horse done — but I still need to finish the eagle."
"The dragon and lion — that's for Weasley, right?" Rowan asks, following by a nod from Avery. "You two get on now, don't you? Like the other day at the quidditch trials. You two were talking."
Avery takes a cautious breath, smiling. "Yeah, we do. I guess the problem was never with him, though. But... he helped me see the good side. And so did all of you guys."
Dominique grins. "I don't mean to be that kind of person, but — I did tell you so."
———
WHEN DINNER IS FINISHED FOR AVERY AND HER RAVENCLAW COMPANIONS, she finds herself slowing down in her tracks at the back of the group. She remembers what Charlie said about Juliet — and Tonks — and figures now would be as best a time as any to confront Juliet, in a manner of speaking.
(And along with remembering what Charlie said, she also remembers what happened with Charlie. Most especially, the desperate plea she held within herself that the arrival of tension between them would cease to end. Rowena, why was she even reacting like this?)
"Hey, Juliet—" Avery calls out to her friend, engaged in idle conversation ahead. Juliet turns back, meeting Avery's smile. "Come — walk with me."
Juliet grins, allowing Avery to catch up with her. "Sure."
Juliet Rhodes was, first and foremost, the living epitome of an enigmatic fox. If foxes could ever talk and walk on two legs, it would be Juliet. Ever the prankster, she was possibly one of the most roguish students within the corridors of Hogwarts, and the only thing that stopped her from being sorted into Slytherin was her intellect — a thing she's used to conjure up the cruelest of heists throughout the years. Juliet was really attractive to most, and there was no denying why. Her sparkling brown eyes had this everlasting glint, depicting all things mysterious and mischievous and unknown, sucking in anyone and everyone who dared do venture on into her eyes. The smooth, tan skin she'd adorned so confidently her thin frame gesticulating with an agile energy most would only dream to pull off, and her wavy, tousled hair always falling eloquently over her shoulders as she'd been successful in her latest prank, with curls giving one the impression of the kind of hair riddled with salty sea water, amidst the course sand on a hot day being spent at the beach. Juliet wasn't ravishing — she had the most unusual, lax aura to her person, but she was fit as hell. She was, quite literally and metaphorically, a vixen. Her Patronus was the biggest indicator.
And it had frustrated the boys in their year when Juliet let the year know that she was in fact, bisexual. Oh, the looks on the boys faces when they saw Juliet snog a girl in public, realising that they now faces competition from both girls and the boys around them — little do they know, the disgust she held towards half of them. (Horny little batshits, she said one time, though still able to defend herself for being attracted to them. But fucking fit horny little batshits, at that.) Juliet was envied by most — growing up in a house with four older brothers, two blood-related and two step-brothers, she knew how to get her way in life.
(A Ravenclaw that was smart, hot, and could have Filch groaning in agony on his knees — there's no doubt whatsoever that she was one of the most envied girls of her year.)
"What's up?" Juliet asks, a slight skip within her step as the two venture throughout the stone, glacial corridors, having tracked themselves far from the rest of their friends.
"A little birdie told me..." Avery begins warily, fiddling with the cuticles of her two hands, "That you and Nymphadora Tonks were seen together."
"Oh, yeah?" Juliet replies with a doubtful perk of her eyebrow. "And what exactly did this birdie they saw?"
Avery smirks. "You two. Snogging."
Juliet halts in her steps, her eyes widening. Avery can't help but laugh as she watches Juliet's astounded reaction, folding her arms with an amused expression as she watches Juliet calm herself.
(To have seen Juliet in such a discombobulated state alone was amusing enough, let alone the reason for it.)
"I'm — well — erm — how do you know this birdie is right?" Juliet asks hastily, working quickly to cover up the tracks that was the rising blush in her cheeks.
Avery lets out an incredulous laugh, "Jules, I think your reaction alone was the perfect reason to believe my birdie."
"Okay, fine." Juliet concedes with a hefty sigh. "Me and Tonks are together. Wow. I've never actually... said it out loud." Juliet tears herself away from her self-revelation, looking at Avery, fire dancing within her dark irises. "If you dare tell anyone—"
"I won't!" Avery promises solemnly. "But why—"
"Because it's all so new! I've never had a proper relationship like this and I don't want it to change just because more people know about us and she's really pretty and really amazing and when her hair changes colour whenever she gets embarrassed or annoyed it's so cute and—"
"You should ask her to the ball."
With a sense of immediacy that didn't go unnoticed, Juliet's head snapped back, and she stares at Avery with eyes widened as if she'd suggested the most absurd idea that could exist.
"What?" Juliet says, a disparaging offence to her tone. "You can't be serious—"
"I am." Avery confirms with a subtle nod of the head. As Juliet continues looking at her friend with pure disbelief, Avery explains her reasons for thought: "Honestly, just think. It'd be the perfect time for you two to show everyone that you guys are together and honestly, you two would look adorable. I say there's nothing wrong about it."
"Well, when you put it like that..." Juliet utters, between agreement and standoffish. "I'll think about it. Anyways, who are you going with?"
Avery shrugs her shoulders. "I think I'll just go as myself." She tells her, "I'll be so busy with all the preparations that I won't have time to actually tend and give attention to my date. It's a sweet idea, but I'll have more fun seeing everyone else enjoying the Ball rather than me enjoying my time with someone else."
Juliet scowls. "I think you should get a date! Surely one of the guys would take it up with you? Or perhaps, a girl—"
"Juliet, I'll be fine!" Avery laughs, "Besides, it's not like I won't join in on the fun. I wouldn't dare miss out on the dancing, I'll just... snatch someone's partner. No biggie." She grins mischievously. "Obviously, with permission."
"Why don't you ask Charlie?" asks Juliet.
Avery's eyes widen. At any other time in the present, she would have agreed and attended the Ball with Charlie. Because it made sense. He was Head Boy, she was Head Girl. They both arranged it together — it would make sense that they would accompany each other.
But not right now. Right now, Avery's mind was plagued (or blessed) with the image of his oh-so-captivating eyes and the odd connection she felt when they'd accidentally touched. Or rather, the entire occurrence. Wow, she couldn't escape the images in her head. That's why Avery doesn't agree with the idea in the moment. And the thing is, their encounter had made that walk to dinner so awkward, Avery didn't know if they would remain awkward their entire lives or if things would resume casually.
(Or perhaps Avery is being overdramatic and is overthinking this way too much. It was only a few seconds of unforeseen closeness.)
"Avery?" Juliet says, waving a hand in front of Avery's rigid face. "You in there? Why don't you go with Charlie to the Ball?"
"Yeah, I don't know." Avery answers a tad too briskly. "Maybe. I don't know. Perhaps. Maybe."
Juliet narrows her eyes. "What's... up with you?"
"Nothing!"
"Really?"
"Yes." Avery sighs. "I'm fine. Just... tired. And loaded with prep for the Ball."
"You should get Charlie to help you—"
"Enough about Charlie!" Avery exclaims hotly. "Just because we're kind of friends now doesn't mean we have to do everything together. I—" Avery takes one look at Juliet's bewildered figure, and sighs, letting her head drop downward. "I'm sorry. I'm just... exhausted. And have to finish my mural. And the Ball prep too."
"Suits me," Juliet quips. She puts a comforting hand on Avery's shoulder. "You should rest instead, though. You look exhausted too. The painting and everything else can wait till tomorrow."
"Yeah, you're probably right." Avery agrees tirelessly. They come to face the portrait of Sir Cadogan, galloping restlessly atop his horse.
"Evening, Sir Cadogan." Avery greets the vexatious knight.
"Oh, Rowena!" Juliet gasps. "It's Sir Cadogan!"
"You know Sir Cadogan?" Avery asks disbelievingly.
"Yep. We're old friends. I've beat him in a duel!" Juliet grins cheekily.
"Hmph!" Sir Cadogan grunts gruffly. "On completely erroneous terms!"
"Yeah, yeah." Juliet rolls her eyes. "I beat you fair and square!"
"But how—" Avery begins, only to be cut off by Juliet pressing a finger to her lips, smirking.
"It's a secret. I might teach you, one day."
"Please do," says Avery, chuckling.
"Not now. I'll see you tomorrow, though. Night!" Juliet gives Avery a brief hug, before scampering away, her abundant waves in tow. Avery turns towards the portrait.
"Spintwhistle," says Avery, desperate for Sir Cadogan to let her in without hassle. Not bad, though — he only pesters her to duel him once before calling her cowardly and letting her inside. Just like that.
When she enters through the small dark interlude, the first thing that draws the attention of her fern eyes, yearning for sleep or relaxation, was her roommate, settling two mugs down onto the coffee table, his red hair still as tousled as it was previously. He sees her and smiles, apparently ignoring the previous tension that existed between them. Avery was glad. Though she didn't know if he was just doing this as part of their daily routine of drinking hot chocolates together on the couch, and once they started talking, if the awkwardness would resume.
"I thought you could maybe continue your painting tomorrow?" Charlie suggests, referring to the unkempt work station consisting of the spilt paint, aslant ladder and plastic sheet along with scattered paints and paintbrushes decorating the back of the room, along with Avery's near-complete mural. She hadn't even noticed that yet. Just... Charlie. All she'd seen... was Charlie.
(Merlin, what was happening to her?)
"Yeah," says Avery. She sighs, letting a smile stretch across her face. "That's... that's fine."
"Great," says Charlie, grinning as he took a seat on the sofa, patting the spot beside him.
(Avery releases a relieved sigh. She probably was overreacting, then. Why should things between her and Charlie change? But then, just because it wasn't awkward didn't mean nothing had changed... It was from his touch that Avery discovered something — felt something — new. Different. And she... couldn't get it out of her mind.)
***
okay so for those on like my misc book and who ive been talking to ive hyped this chapter up for ages im sorry if it's like not over up to your expectations😭🤣 idk it excited me but,, things will start to... stir from now on😼😼
also im watching goblet of fire rn and the soundtrack omg i literally adore it ajsjsjsj
i hope you guys enjoyed this!!! i love writing this fic sm omg but YEAH i hope you guys like reading it!!!!!!!! tysm for supporting me🥺💓
also update today incase i won't be able to update since it's Eid tomorrow!! with that being said Eid Mubarak everyone celebrating <3 hope it's a blessed one xxx