Author: Silvia Kundera
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Summary: Ron looks and decides to leap. George tells tales of swimming pools.
She says, "This is where we get off," and he remembers a story.
George, at the foot of his bed, snuck in past lights out and curled around a lump of cushions. George swore there were cement lakes, and he'd seen one, glistening thick and gray-tinged, and Ron could dream of it. Sturdy, flat-bottomed lakes, not like the oceans in Ron's head, that crashed and broke as if they were his mother's voice. Ron hadn't been sleeping, and George could help.
The story goes: he'd snuck too far out from Hogsmeade, past the Shrieking Shack and down through the thistle patch, walking over acres of ten centimeter grass, cut in squares. The houses there were Muggle houses, with their precise windows and weather fretting doors, hiding stone-lined lakes behind them. The water smelled of shoddy, half conjured spells, sharp in his nose, but it was nice to touch and cold to tip toes in. George curled his fingers over the side and thought about swimming.
He sat until orange dipped into the sky, and rocked at the edge, and meant to, really. And he would do it, if he could do it all again, if he had the time.
Wet shocks lapped at his palms, and George wondered if, when it wasn't stones and earth, a lake would be so different. It could be just like sliding off the dock outside Howler's Point; it could be like sliding home.
"Tell me," George said," how you dream it."
"Ron," she says, "This is our stop," and steam billows out from the front of the train as feet kick and scramble. Boxes jingle and rattle, and he says her name.
"Ron," she says, like they can say each other's names a thousand times, and it won't change anything.
"Call me something else, why don't you?" he replies, and bends his head to kiss her, hands settling upon her shoulders and a thin flush settling upon his face.