The Friends

                                    

                                          
"Restless year, it was another restless year." - Restless Year by Ezra Furman
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It was a good day outside for a run; George always ran when he needed to think. 
There was much to think about. To him, at least. To many of his friends at school, the first day of the semester was nothing less than opportunity for a welcome-back Gryffindor party or a joke about how old the Professors have gotten in three months. 
But this was different. In a week, he'd be starting his last semester at Hogwarts. This was very, very different. 
He wiped his forehead as he pushed up another hill, forcing himself to reach the peak without break. He usually did that. He liked the feeling afterward; the breeze at the top, the burn in his legs that would tell him he accomplished something. 
Two N.E.W.T classes were awaiting him at Hogwarts. Graduating with good grades so his parents wouldn't jump down his throat (he didn't need any Howlers from his mother for his last year). A crew of friends who would slap his back on the train and ask who his next target would be and if he was aiming for blondes, redheads, or brunettes. All in a week. 
He huffed, keeping his eyes fixated at the peak of the hill. His sneakers pounded against the grass. 
The guys always teased him about his commitment to keeping fit. It was true- he was a pretty tall young man with broad shoulders and a fairly tough set of muscles, but it mostly wasn't for appearance. He could care less if it caught the eye of some girl. If he was being honest, he'd prefer a bit less attention in that category- it would give him an excuse to de-prioritize girlfriends to get his friends off his back. 
He just liked the feeling. He loved Quidditch, and he always wanted to be ready for any drill. Ready to win. He liked working out with his brother, and he liked feeling accomplished afterward, and it quieted his mind for a bit. He could focus on one thing.
Lee called him an animal. He'd always tease him when George would scarf down dinner right after a workout. 
"I swear to god, even the bread rolls go to your arms," he'd say. 
As he neared the top of the hill, hoping to spot his house from across the valley where he'd been running that summer, his mind reluctantly wandered to what else would be coming in a week. Aka, awkwardly avoiding his string of exes. 
Well, only a few. Most weren't so bad. He just felt bad. But the past couple ended a bit rough.
He was never enough for them. Too distracted. Too immature. Too restrained. Too confusing- he never said what he really thought. They could tell. He felt bad. He felt... weird. 
Caroline was the last one. Things ended pretty bad. She shouted at him because she thought he was cheating, just because he hadn't reached out to her in a while. Well, and because she pointed out how the few times they had sex, he'd never initiate. She thought his priorities lied elsewhere. She couldn't fathom that as a pretty girl. 
That part was true- but only half of it. 
He reached the top of the grassy hill, bending down to take a few breaths. Resting his arms atop his head, he looked out onto the fields peppered in summer flowers and squinted his eyes under the August sun- the house was just visible, towering over the tall grass with open windows all over the floors. 
It was time to go back. Everyone was likely awake now- he had gone out early for his run. 
By the time he got back, the first floor was a bit busier. He pushed through the door, sweating and breathless, only to be immediately greeted by his mother pushing a glass of water into his hand.