pix

The day had been one of the better ones. Business was slow enough that you’d spent half the afternoon talking with George between customers. He’d come in early, lingering longer than usual, leaning against the counter while you wrapped loaves of bread and dusted flour from your apron. He was in a rare mood—less teasing, more storytelling—telling you about his family’s latest chaos with such warmth that you almost forgot how tense the world beyond the little shop had become. It felt normal. Easy.

When closing time came, George was already waiting by the door like he always did these days, hands shoved into his pockets like he wasn’t about to do something so obvious as walk you home again.

“Ready?” he asked, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

You nodded, pulling your jacket tighter as you stepped out into the evening air. The sun was low but still warm, streaking the sky with pale orange and pink. It was the kind of evening that felt like it belonged to late summer—the air soft, the light golden, the shadows stretching longer than they should.

The walk began like all the others. George made small comments about the sunset, about how one of his brothers nearly set the garden on fire last night, about how your apron still had flour on it even though you swore you cleaned it before leaving. But there was a restlessness about him tonight, one you couldn’t quite name. He kept glancing sideways at you like he was turning something over in his head, like the words were there but he hadn’t lined them up yet.

About halfway down the lane, where the road curved near the hedges and the sky spilled the last bits of sunlight through the trees, George slowed his steps. “Y’know,” he began, voice light but not quite as steady as usual, “I was thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” you said before you could help yourself.

He smirked faintly, but it was quick, almost distracted. His hand raked through his already-messy hair as though he was buying himself time. “I was thinking,” he repeated, “maybe I should… I dunno… take you out. Properly.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “Out?”

“Yeah,” George said, looking down at you with that crooked smile that somehow managed to be both confident and nervous at once. “Like… a date.”

The word hung there, simple and certain, but your chest fluttered all the same. He shrugged one shoulder like it wasn’t a big deal, but his eyes gave him away. “Figured it’s about time I stop bothering you at work and actually bother you somewhere nice.”

You tried to hide the way your lips curved, but it didn’t work. “Bother me, huh?”

“Constantly,” George said solemnly, though his grin widened. “I’m very dedicated.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The road was quiet except for the wind in the hedges and the soft scuff of your shoes against the dirt.

Finally, you asked softly, “When?”

George’s shoulders loosened like he’d been waiting for you to say yes. “Tomorrow night?” he offered, voice a little tentative now. “I’ll figure something out. Something good.”

You nodded, heart beating faster than it should. “Alright. Tomorrow night.”

The rest of the walk was the same as always, but not really. George still made you laugh. He still told you some ridiculous story about Fred and a pair of cursed shoes. He still walked you all the way to your door, shoving his hands deep into his pockets like he had every time before. But now, when he smiled at you, it carried something warmer. Something that felt like the start of something else entirely. And when he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” before heading back down the road, you already knew tomorrow wasn’t going to feel like any ordinary day.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The evening began quietly enough.

George had shown up at the shop right before closing, all casual swagger and crooked smiles, holding out his arm like he did this sort of thing all the time. You didn’t miss the way his shirt was just slightly nicer than usual, or how he seemed a little more fidgety than the George who usually leaned across your counter and teased you about working too hard.

The two of you had walked to a small place tucked off the road—a café he’d clearly scouted out beforehand because it wasn’t busy, wasn’t loud, wasn’t anything but warm lights strung over a garden and a few scattered tables. He ordered tea and some sort of pastry you couldn’t pronounce, joking that he had excellent taste, and for the first hour, it almost felt like any other night. Easy laughter, teasing remarks, George’s habit of leaning forward when you spoke like he was storing away every word.

But on the walk back, the air changed.

The road between the shop and your house was usually quiet this late, but tonight, it felt too quiet. The kind of quiet that made the hairs on your arms rise. You heard it before George did—a faint rustle in the hedges lining the lane, the sound sharp against the stillness.

George stopped mid-sentence.

His hand shifted almost imperceptibly toward his coat pocket, fingers curling like he was ready to grab something hidden there. His shoulders tightened, and for the first time since you’d met him, he wasn’t smiling.

You froze.

He didn’t say a word. His eyes scanned the darkness, jaw tight, like someone who’d done this before—like someone who knew what they were waiting for.

Another crackle in the bushes.

George stepped in front of you. The motion was instinctive, protective, and so fast you didn’t process it until you were staring at the back of his jacket instead of the road ahead. His hand hovered at his pocket again, and for the briefest moment, you swore you saw the outline of… something. Not a phone. Not keys. Something heavier.

Your pulse kicked up.

The noise stopped as suddenly as it had started, like whatever it was had moved on. A fox, maybe. A dog. Something small. Harmless. But George didn’t relax until the road was still again.

Only then did he glance back at you, eyes flicking over your face like he was checking you were alright.

“You okay?” His voice was low, steady.

You nodded, though your heart was still hammering.

George gave the hedges one last long look before turning back toward the road. “C’mon,” he muttered, softer now. “We’re almost there.”

He kept walking, but closer this time. Not touching, but you could feel the warmth of him at your side, his arm brushing yours every so often like he didn’t quite want any distance between you.

But your mind wasn’t on the closeness.

It was on the way his hand had hovered at his pocket like he was ready to fight someone you couldn’t even see. The way his whole body had shifted from easy-going to razor sharp in seconds.

You swallowed.

Was that a… weapon? It had to be. A gun, maybe. Something he carried without telling you. Something heavy enough that the thought of it made your stomach twist.

You didn’t ask. Not yet. But the question lodged itself in your chest anyway, tight and uncomfortable.

By the time you reached your door, George was himself again—smiling faintly, saying something about how tomorrow he’d come up with a plan even better than tea and pastries. He didn’t notice how you hesitated before answering, how you managed a nod but not much else.

Because now, you didn’t quite know what to make of him.

The boy who made you laugh until your cheeks ached had just looked ready to kill someone in the hedges.

And as he said goodnight, the question still pressed at you:

Who exactly was George Weasley?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next day felt strange.

You saw George the same way you always did—out by the shop, leaning against the wall like he wasn’t waiting for you even though it was obvious he was. Only today, he didn’t carry the same easy grin, the one that usually made your shoulders relax no matter how tired you were.

And you didn’t feel as steady as you normally did either.

Because you’d been up half the night thinking about the way he’d gone tense on the road. The way he’d stepped in front of you like a shield, like he’d done it before. The way his hand had hovered at his pocket like he was ready to pull out a weapon.

It hadn’t felt like nothing.

It had felt… serious.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

So when George asked if you wanted to walk after your shift again, you almost said no. Almost. But you didn’t. Something in the quiet of his voice made you nod instead.

The first ten minutes were filled with small talk—the weather, the shop, Fred doing something ridiculous at home—but it all felt thinner than usual, like both of you were waiting for something else to drop between you.

Finally, you stopped near the hedges. The same place. The same road. The memory of last night clung to the air.

“George,” you said carefully, “what happened yesterday? On the road?”

He went still.

For a second, you thought he might joke his way out of it. That was what George Weasley always did, wasn’t it? A smile, a laugh, a throwaway line to keep things easy.

But he didn’t.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, staring off at the trees. “It was nothing,” he said finally, too flat to believe.

You frowned. “It didn’t feel like nothing.”

George dragged a hand through his hair. He looked like he wanted to say a hundred things and couldn’t find a single one. “I just… thought I heard something, alright? Wanted to make sure you were safe.”

Safe. The word was heavy.

“Safe from what?” you pressed.

He hesitated. Too long.

“George,” you said again, softer now, “are you carrying a gun or something?”

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide. “What? No! I’d never—” He broke off, frustrated, muttering under his breath before looking back at the road.

“Then what?” you asked, and your voice came out tighter than you meant. “Because you keep acting like… like there’s something I don’t know. Like you’re looking over your shoulder all the time. Like last night—”

“I can’t explain it,” George cut in, sharper than he meant to. Then softer: “Even if I tried, you wouldn’t believe me.”

That made you blink.

Wouldn’t believe him?

George swore under his breath again, pacing a few steps like the words were stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat. He wanted to tell you everything—that there was a war coming, that it was already here, that people like you were in danger whether you knew it or not. He wanted to tell you about magic, about wands, about everything he carried in his pocket and in his head.

But how could he?

You were looking at him like you barely knew him already. Like maybe you weren’t sure you wanted to.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally, arms crossing over your chest.

“Yeah,” George muttered, almost to himself. “Neither do I.”

The silence after that was worse than any argument could’ve been.

Because you didn’t ask again. And George didn’t explain. And the walk back felt longer than it ever had before, like the space between you was stretching with every step.

At your door, George managed a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly.

“Goodnight,” you echoed.

And both of you went inside thinking the same thing:

Maybe you’d ruined it without even knowing how.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The rain came just before closing.

Not a drizzle, but the kind that poured straight down, hard enough to turn the dirt road into thick mud. You were tugging on your jacket when the door banged open and George stumbled in, dripping, hair plastered to his forehead.

“Walk you home?” he asked, breathless like he’d run all the way from the Burrow.

You hesitated. Things had been… strained since the last talk. He still came by every day, still leaned against the counter with his lopsided grin, but there was something he wasn’t saying. Something you didn’t know how to ask anymore.

But it was raining. And it was dark. And the quiet in his voice made you nod.

The road was nearly empty, save for the curtain of rain and the slosh of your shoes through the mud. George stayed close, like he always did now, shoulder brushing yours every so often.

It was almost peaceful. Almost.

Until it wasn’t.

The first noise was faint—like metal scraping on stone.

George froze mid-step.

The second noise was closer. Too close.

“Stay behind me,” he said sharply.

Something in his tone made your chest go cold.

Before you could ask, before you could even breathe properly, a figure stepped out from the trees ahead—hooded, dark, something wrong about the way they moved. Another followed.

Your heart dropped straight to the mud.

They weren’t carrying anything you could see, but the air changed around them, heavy and sharp, like the moments before a storm.

George’s arm shot out in front of you, blocking your path. His other hand went for his pocket.

The same pocket.

And this time, he pulled something out.

Not a gun.

Not a knife.

A thin, dark stick, worn smooth like it had been carried forever.

“Run,” he muttered under his breath.

But you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The hooded figures raised their own sticks, and then the air exploded.

Light—sharp, blinding—shot between them, too fast to follow. It cracked against the ground where you’d been standing seconds ago, sending mud flying.

George swore and pushed you hard toward the ditch. “Go!”

Your legs finally worked, stumbling over roots and wet grass as more light shattered the air, blue and red and green, so bright it seared across your vision.

Magic.

It had to be magic.

What else could it be?

George didn’t leave your side even as he shouted something you didn’t understand and another streak of light knocked one of the hooded figures off their feet. They scrambled up, snarling something in a language that didn’t sound like anything you knew.

The world was rain and mud and chaos and George’s hand gripping your arm tight enough to leave marks as he dragged you down the road.

“Keep running,” he snapped, breath harsh.

You did. You didn’t look back until the trees broke and the lights behind you vanished.

Only then did George slow, chest heaving, water dripping from his hair into his eyes. His hand was still on your arm like he wasn’t sure if you’d bolt if he let go.

“Are you—” He stopped, voice rough. “Did they hurt you?”

You shook your head, heart still slamming.

But your eyes dropped to the thing in his hand. The stick. The one that had sent light cutting through the rain like lightning.

“What is that?” you whispered.

George followed your gaze, then swore under his breath and shoved it back into his coat.

“I can explain,” he said, but it sounded hollow even to him.

Because you were looking at him like he wasn’t the boy who made you laugh at the shop anymore. Like maybe you weren’t sure what he was at all.

And George didn’t know how to fix that.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The rain hadn’t let up by the time George got you to the Burrow.

You didn’t argue when he said it wasn’t safe to go home yet, didn’t say anything at all really, just followed stiffly up the muddy path while he kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected the hooded figures to crawl right out of the trees after you.

The warmth of the Weasley kitchen should have felt comforting, but it didn’t. Not when you were dripping and shaking and George looked like he was ready to fight the air itself.

He shoved his wand onto the table, ran both hands through his hair, and finally met your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, like that could undo the last twenty minutes. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

You stared at the wand. That was what he’d called it on the way here, like the word meant something to you. Like it was normal to have a stick that shot light and knocked people flat.

“Those people,” you said slowly, voice thinner than you wanted, “what were they?”

George’s jaw clenched. He leaned back against the counter like he needed it to stay upright. “They’re called Death Eaters. Bad news. They—look, they’re the reason I’ve been… I didn’t want you anywhere near this.”

“This,” you repeated, because what else could you say?

“This war,” George said finally, the word heavy.

You swallowed hard. “War.”

George nodded, frustrated with himself, with the rain, with the way you were looking at him like you weren’t sure whether to believe any of it.

“I know how it sounds,” he said quickly. “I know. But it’s real. They’ve been going after Muggles—people who don’t have magic—people like you. It’s getting worse.”

You flinched. “Muggles,” you echoed, the word strange on your tongue.

“Non-magic folk,” he explained roughly. “That’s… that’s you. Your world.”

“Your world?”

George froze.

The quiet stretched.

Then you laughed, but it didn’t sound right. “Right. Because you have a whole other world where… what? People shoot lightning out of sticks?”

“Wands,” George said automatically, then swore under his breath because that was definitely not the point right now.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, still wet, still shaking. “And you just… didn’t tell me. All this time?”

George shoved away from the counter, pacing like the words were too much to hold still for. “I wanted to,” he snapped, then softened immediately because the last thing he wanted was to snap at you. “I wanted to tell you everything, but how was I supposed to start? ‘Oh, by the way, magic’s real and there’s a war going on and you’re in danger because some lunatics hate anyone without a wand’? You’d have run the other way.”

“Maybe I should’ve,” you said before you could stop yourself.

George stopped pacing.

The look on his face made your chest twist.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said quietly, shaking your head. “Any of it. I didn’t ask to be part of some war I didn’t even know existed.”

“I know,” George said, and his voice cracked in a way that scared you more than the fight on the road had. “I know, and I’m sorry, but I can’t undo it. And I can’t… I can’t not care about what happens to you.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him—dripping hair, mud on his sleeves, eyes full of things you didn’t have names for—and for the first time since you met him, you didn’t know which way was up anymore.

The silence stretched between you, too heavy, too full.

Finally, you turned away. “I think I need… I need time,” you said, and your voice was barely above the rain.

George didn’t try to stop you when you walked upstairs to one of the guest rooms. He just stood there in the kitchen, dripping and silent, staring at the door long after you were gone.

George stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long time after you disappeared into the guest room.

He could hear the rain against the windows, the creak of the old house settling in the wind. Somewhere upstairs, a door shut softly, and that was the only sound he got from you all night.

The silence felt like punishment.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to think of what he should’ve said—how he could’ve made any of it sound better. Like there was a better way to tell someone their whole life had just tilted sideways. Like there was a way to tell you that wizards and Death Eaters and magic were real and terrifying but also… wonderful.

And that he didn’t want you to hate him for it.

Hours later, when the storm had settled into a low, steady drizzle, George found himself climbing the stairs anyway.

He stopped outside your door, knuckles hovering before he finally knocked.

“Y/N?” His voice was soft, uncertain in a way you weren’t used to from him. “Can I… can I talk to you for a minute?”

There was a pause, then the quiet sound of the door unlocking.

You didn’t say anything when he stepped inside. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of Mrs. Weasley’s old quilts, eyes still red from earlier.

George shoved his hands deep into his pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still. “I know you’re angry,” he said finally. “Or confused. Or both. And I deserve that. I should’ve told you before tonight.”

You didn’t argue.

George shifted his weight like he wanted to pace, then stopped himself. “I just… I don’t want the only thing you’ve seen of my world to be blokes in masks trying to hex you into next week.”

“Hex?” you repeated, voice flat.

“Magic,” George said simply, then hesitated. “Can I show you something? Nothing scary. Just… something good.”

You studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.

George let out a breath like he’d been holding it all day. He pulled his wand from his pocket slowly this time, like he didn’t want to startle you, then gave it a small flick toward the corner of the room.

Light bloomed there, soft and golden, floating like fireflies in the air. Dozens of them.

They drifted lazily toward the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the walls until the whole room looked like it was full of summer stars.

You stared, breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat.

George smiled faintly, watching your expression instead of the lights. “See? Not all of it’s bad.”

You didn’t answer right away. The light reflected in your eyes, softening the lines of your face, making you look almost like you belonged in this strange, magical world already.

Finally, you whispered, “It’s beautiful.”

George swallowed hard, fingers tightening on his wand. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “it is.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The lights floated above you, warm and slow and safe, and the chaos of the night felt far away.

George shifted closer, just enough that his knee brushed yours where you sat on the bed. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he said finally, voice low. “I just… I didn’t know how to keep you safe without telling you everything.”

Something in your chest eased at the way he said it. Like maybe he wasn’t just some boy with secrets. Maybe he was just scared, too.

You looked up at him, at the golden light drifting through the air around him, and for the first time since the fight on the road, the knot in your chest loosened a little.

“George?” you asked softly.

“Yeah?”

“Show me more.”

His grin was small but real this time, relief flooding his face as the stars above you shifted into glowing shapes—birds, flowers, things you didn’t have names for but couldn’t look away from.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next evening, the rain had stopped, leaving the air soft and cool, fragrant with wet grass and earth.

George met you outside the shop, this time with no need for words. The way he smiled at you, crooked and warm, made the knot of tension in your chest ease almost immediately. You returned it, small but genuine, and together you set off down the familiar road—not because you needed to, but because you wanted to.

You walked slowly, side by side, boots crunching against the soft dirt. There was no hurry tonight, no unseen threat in the hedges. George’s hand brushed yours now and then, each touch lighter than the last, testing the waters, and you didn’t pull away. Not once.

When you reached the clearing where he’d set up the picnic before, he paused, rummaging briefly in his coat pocket before producing a small, battered lantern. He set it on the ground and, with a flick of his wand, it glowed a gentle, steady golden.

“Thought we could have a little… starlight picnic,” he said, cheeks warming, “without the rain this time.”

You laughed softly, the sound spilling into the quiet evening. “You really think of everything, don’t you?”

George shrugged, looking bashful. “I just… I wanted tonight to be easy. I wanted it to be just us.”

You sat down on the blanket, side by side this time, close enough that your shoulders touched. George offered you a mug of pumpkin juice, and when you took it, his fingers brushed yours—light, deliberate, comforting.

For a long while, you just sat there, letting the soft light wash over everything. George told you stories about the Burrow, about his brothers’ latest pranks, about the small victories that made even this chaotic world feel bearable. And you told him things too, not about magic, not about Death Eaters, but about your life, your little routines, the way certain smells reminded you of childhood.

Every word, every laugh, every brush of fingers built a bridge over the fear and tension of the last few nights.

At one point, George leaned slightly closer, letting his head tilt toward yours. “I’m glad you trust me,” he said quietly.

You looked at him, the golden light flickering across his freckled face, and realized you did. “I do,” you said softly. “And I trust that you’ll keep me safe.”

His grin was slow, shy even, but it reached his eyes this time. “Good. Because I’m not letting anyone—or anything—change that.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but warmth, quiet laughter, and the gentle hum of the world settling around you.

George reached for your hand then, and you let him hold it, fingers intertwining naturally. There were no sparks, no magic needed—just the simple, unshakable understanding that neither of you would let go.

And in that small clearing, under the glow of the lantern and the first stars appearing above, it felt like everything else could wait.

You didn’t expect the job to be anything more than a summer distraction. The little shop sat along the narrow country road just a few miles from Ottery St. Catchpole. It wasn’t glamorous—selling jams, honey, and freshly baked bread to passing locals—but it was honest work. The air always smelled of flour and fruit preserves, sunlight poured through the windows in soft golden stripes, and the same few customers came by week after week.

Simple. Predictable.

Until the day a very tall, very freckled boy with windswept ginger hair strolled in, leaned against the counter like he owned the place, and smiled at you like he knew something you didn’t.

You blinked. He looked out of place in every possible way—mischief in human form, shoulders broad but posture relaxed, like nothing in the world could ever rattle him.

“Afternoon,” he said, voice warm, smooth. “Got anything that isn’t burned or poisonous?”

You stared for a beat longer than was polite before recovering. “Uh… yeah? All of it’s perfectly safe, thanks.”

The corners of his mouth tugged up, amused. He leaned in slightly, peering at the baskets of scones and loaves like he was choosing treasure.

“Good to know. Last time I ate something my mum baked, we had to call in reinforcements.”

You laughed before you meant to. He grinned wider, like making you laugh had been the goal all along.

You didn’t even get his name before he left with a paper bag full of food and a wink thrown casually over his shoulder.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t expect to see him again.

But three days later, he was back—same easy smile, same casual charm.

“Afternoon,” he greeted again, like it was becoming tradition. “Thought I’d risk my life with another one of your scones.”

“Not mine,” you corrected, handing him the bag. “I just sell them.”

“Tragic,” he said with mock disappointment. “I was going to compliment the baker, too.”

The third time he came, you were already behind the counter, arranging jars of honey when the bell above the door jingled.

“Back again?” you asked before he could speak.

He leaned on the counter, chin propped in one hand. “What can I say? I like dangerous food.”

“Or you just like bothering me,” you said without thinking.

He grinned. “That too.”

You still didn’t have his name. He didn’t ask for yours either, like this was a game you didn’t realize you were playing.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

By the fourth visit, you had questions.

“Do you actually live around here?” you asked as you handed over his usual bag—two scones, one loaf of bread, a jar of jam.

“Sort of,” he said vaguely. “Family’s nearby.”

“You come here a lot for someone who ‘sort of’ lives here.”

He gave a little shrug, eyes bright with mischief. “Maybe I like the company.”

That flustered you more than you wanted to admit.

He finally told you his name on the fifth visit.

“George,” he said easily, like you should’ve already known. “George Weasley.”

“Weasley,” you repeated slowly. “So there’s more of you?”

“Oh, loads. A whole army.”

Over the next few weeks, the rhythm became familiar. He’d show up mid-afternoon, sometimes buying things, sometimes just leaning against the counter, talking. He asked about the shop, about the regular customers, about your favorite food here. He told you wild stories about growing up with too many siblings, about pranks gone wrong, about some school far away you didn’t quite catch the name of.

You learned that George had this way of smiling when he said something particularly outrageous, like he was daring you to believe him.

You also learned he had a laugh that came from deep in his chest, warm and rich, the kind that lingered in your mind long after he left.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It started subtle.

“You should smile more,” he said once, watching you arrange loaves behind the counter.

“I smile plenty,” you protested, taken aback by his statement, anger curbed your cheeks. 

“Not at me, you don’t,” he teased lightly, grin crooked and far too confident, immediately wiping the frown from your face. 

Another time, he leaned across the counter to snag a stray crumb from the tray near your elbow. “If I keep coming back, people are going to think I fancy you,” he said casually, like it didn’t matter at all—but the glint in his eyes said it did.

“Do you?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His grin widened slowly. “Guess you’ll have to keep selling me scones to find out.”

And then he was gone, the bell above the door jingling behind him, leaving you staring after him with your heart beating way too fast.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

At first, you told yourself it didn’t mean anything that George kept coming back.

The shop was small; it wasn’t like you had dozens of customers each day. Of course you noticed him. Of course you noticed how he leaned against the counter like he had all the time in the world, how his smile always carried that flicker of mischief like he was seconds away from laughing at his own private joke.

But after his eighth or ninth visit, it became impossible to pretend you weren’t looking forward to it.

He’d arrive mid-afternoon most days, hair windswept, cheeks pink from the sun, like he’d been outside all day before wandering into your little shop as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sometimes he’d buy something; sometimes he wouldn’t. He always stayed longer than necessary.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” you asked once, half teasing, half curious, as he lounged against the counter while you refilled the biscuit jars.

“Not really,” he said with a shrug that somehow managed to sound like the most charming thing in the world. “This is the highlight of my day.”

The problem was, he said it so casually you couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Somehow, George always got you talking.

He asked about little things—what books you liked, whether you preferred tea or coffee, what your least favorite chore in the shop was.

You told him you hated sweeping because the dust got everywhere.

The next day, he strolled in, picked up the broom leaning by the wall, and started sweeping like he worked there.

“George!” you said, startled.

“What? You said you hated it,” he replied simply, smirking as he expertly maneuvered the broom around the floor. “I’m helping.”

“You don’t even work here,” you pointed out.

“Maybe I should,” he said, grin widening. “Think of all the free scones I could eat.”

You rolled your eyes, but he left the floor spotless before dropping the broom and leaning against the counter like he hadn’t just made your day easier.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

George never flirted the way other boys did.

He didn’t come right out and say things that would leave you flustered. Instead, it was all in the little moments—the way his gaze lingered a second too long, the way his smile curved like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

One day, you were stacking jars on the top shelf, stretching on your tiptoes, when you heard his familiar voice behind you.

“Need a hand, short stuff?”

You jumped, nearly dropping the jar. “I’m fine!” you insisted quickly.

He was grinning when you turned. “Sure you are,” he said, plucking the jar effortlessly from the top shelf and handing it to you. “Don’t worry, I’m here to rescue you from tall shelves and sweeping duties. Full-service hero.”

You tried to scowl, but he winked, and the heat crawled up your neck before you could stop it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Over the next few weeks, you noticed how George’s visits changed.

At first, he came to buy food. Then he came to talk. Now he came just to see you.

He leaned on the counter while you worked, spinning stories about his family, his twin brother, their latest escapades. He had a way of describing things so vividly you could picture them perfectly—the chaos of a house full of siblings, the wildness of the pranks he and Fred pulled, the warmth of family dinners where everyone talked over each other.

You found yourself laughing more than you had in ages.

Sometimes, when the shop was quiet, you caught him watching you. Not in an obvious way—he wasn’t the type to make you uncomfortable. But there was something thoughtful in his gaze, like he was trying to figure you out.

And the flirting? It was subtle, but it was there.

“Careful,” he said one day as you nearly tripped over a box behind the counter. “If you break your neck, who’ll sell me my daily scones?”

You shot him a look. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

He grinned slowly. “Not sure I would, actually.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It happened one late afternoon when the sun was dipping low, staining the sky gold.

The shop was quiet. He was leaning on the counter again, telling you about a prank gone wrong involving fireworks and a broom closet, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke.

And suddenly, it hit you.

This wasn’t just some customer who came in for food. This was George Weasley, with his crooked smile and warm laugh and the way he looked at you like he enjoyed being exactly where he was.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The summer days grew shorter. The shop windows stayed open less often. People spoke in hushed tones sometimes, voices carrying words like attacks and dark times that made the air feel heavier than it had before.

Even out here, away from the heart of everything, you could feel it—like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

George felt it too.

He still came by, still leaned against the counter with his crooked grin and easy laughter, but something had shifted. His eyes flicked toward the door more often. His stories were shorter, quieter, as though his mind was somewhere else even as he talked to you.

One afternoon, when the sun was sinking low and painting the road outside in dusky light, you saw it for the first time—the way his smile faltered when you mentioned walking home.

“You walk back alone?” he asked lightly, but his tone wasn’t casual at all.

“I always have,” you said, shrugging. “It’s not far.”

He nodded slowly, the crease between his brows faint but there. “Yeah. Right.”

But he didn’t leave it alone.

Over the next week, he asked again.

“How do you get home?” “What time do you close up?” “Someone meets you sometimes, right?”

The questions were wrapped in his usual warmth, but there was something behind them now—a quiet edge of worry he wasn’t hiding as well as he thought.

“Why do you keep asking?” you said one evening, wiping the counter clean as he leaned nearby, arms folded.

George hesitated, just for a second. “Just wondering.”

But he didn’t meet your eyes when he said it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

One day, you overheard a customer whispering about families hurt in attacks. You didn’t catch the details, but the words stuck like a stone in your chest.

George came in later, and for the first time since you’d met him, he wasn’t smiling when he walked through the door.

“Hey,” you greeted softly.

“Hey,” he said back, but it was quieter than usual.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t bring it up.

But when you mentioned closing early because you had to walk home before dark, his head lifted sharply.

“I’ll come with you,” he said before you could respond.

It was strange, seeing George outside the shop.

The road home was narrow, lined with trees and tall grass. The sky above was streaked with the last colors of sunset as you walked side by side, the warm evening air carrying the faint smell of smoke from some far-off chimney.

He kept his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed like always, but there was something different about him tonight. He glanced at the shadows between trees more than once.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you said after a while.

“I know,” he replied. Then, quieter, “But I want to.”

That silenced you for a bit.

A few minutes later, he asked softly, “You heard about… the things happening lately?”

You nodded.

George exhaled slowly, kicking at a stone on the road. “It's happening more now. People who can’t fight back.” He paused, then added, “People like you.”

There was a beat of silence before you spoke. “You think I’m in danger?”

“I think,” George said carefully, eyes fixed ahead, “I’d rather not risk it.”

His voice carried a softness you hadn’t heard from him before. It wasn’t the playful teasing you were used to; it was steady, quiet, and real.

You didn’t know what to say.

When you finally reached your door, George didn’t follow you up the steps. He just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He nodded. “I’ll… see you tomorrow?”

The corridors of Hogwarts feel endless by the time you leave Umbridge’s office.

Your legs ache as you climb the stairs, the cursed words carved into your skin burning faintly with every heartbeat. ‘I must not tell lies’ gleams an angry red under the torchlight, like the castle itself is whispering it back at you.

You don’t cry. Haven’t in a long time.

Harry had gotten out earlier tonight. He offered to wait, but you told him you had to stop by the library. It was a lie, but you didn’t want him to see the hollow feeling gnawing away at you. He already carried too much.

You’re so lost in your own head that you nearly jump when a voice breaks the silence.

“Blimey,” someone says, low and familiar. “You look like you’ve just wrestled a Hungarian Horntail. And lost.”

You freeze halfway down the corridor.

Fred Weasley leans against the wall near the corner, arms crossed, watching you. His usual grin—the one that always spells trouble—isn’t quite there tonight.

“Fred?” you ask softly, like you aren’t sure he’s real.

“In the flesh,” he says, but the teasing is faint. His eyes drop to your hand before you can shove it behind your bag.

You see the moment he notices the fresh red letters carved into your skin. The freckles across his nose stand out under the torchlight as his expression shifts. For once, he doesn’t have a joke ready.

“Merlin,” he mutters, jaw tight. “She really…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

“Sure,” he replies dryly, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “Because ‘fine’ is exactly the word I’d use for someone who looks ready to collapse in the middle of the hallway.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, a little stronger this time.

He doesn’t argue. He just steps closer until he’s standing right in front of you.

“Let me see it,” he says.

You hesitate, clutching your bag tighter.

“Relax,” he says quietly, softer now. “I’m not gonna make it worse.”

Something in his tone cuts through the numbness clouding your chest. Slowly, you let him take your hand.

His fingers brush lightly over the edges of the wound, careful not to touch the angry red letters. “You shouldn’t leave it like this,” he says. “C’mon. I’ve got some stuff upstairs for burns. Works better than anything Pomfrey keeps locked away.”

“I can do it myself,” you murmur.

Fred studies your face for a long moment, his expression unreadable but his eyes softer than you expect.

“You could,” he says finally, voice low. “But maybe you don’t have to tonight.”

That’s what undoes you.

You follow him without another word.

The common room is empty when you get there. The fire crackles faintly in the hearth, its light flickering over the armchairs and couches. You drop your bag onto the floor, your shoulders sagging like you’ve been holding yourself up for days.

Fred digs through his own bag until he finds a small tin of salve and a roll of bandages. He sits on the armchair across from you and motions for your hand again.

“Give me your hand,” he says gently.

You hesitate but reach out.

He works carefully, smoothing the salve over the words carved into your skin with feather-light touches. His hands are warm and steady, so unlike the chaos he and George bring to every room they walk into.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says after a while.

You shrug. “It’s been a long year.”

Fred huffs out a short laugh. “That’s one way to put it. Between the Ministry losing its mind, Umbridge ruining everything she touches, Harry making half the castle question reality…” He shakes his head. “Feels like the whole place is one disaster away from falling apart.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “And I feel like I’m just… holding on. Like everything’s moving too fast and I can’t keep up.”

Fred pauses, his thumb brushing near the edge of the wound—careful, always careful.

“You don’t have to keep it all together, you know,” he says softly.

The words catch you off guard. Even Harry doesn’t always see through you like this.

“I don’t really know how to let go,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

Fred looks up at you then, properly meeting your eyes. “Then start small,” he says, voice low but steady. “Start here.”

He finishes wrapping your hand but doesn’t let go right away. His thumb rests lightly over the back of your hand, grounding you, like he’s promising he won’t leave.

You don’t know how long you sit like that before he leans back slightly, studying you again.

“When was the last time you laughed?” he asks suddenly.

The question catches you off guard. “I don’t know,” you admit.

“That’s tragic,” he says, shaking his head like he’s deeply offended. “I’ll have to fix that.”

You almost smile despite yourself. “You can’t fix everything, Fred.”

He grins faintly. “I can try. Might start by nicking Umbridge’s quill and tossing it into the Black Lake.”

The image nearly pulls a laugh out of you. Fred notices and smirks. “There she is,” he says softly. “Knew you still had a smile somewhere.”

You shake your head, but the corners of your mouth betray you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He leans back in his chair, looking at you with something steadier in his eyes. “But I’m not going anywhere. Just so you know.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside you, warm and steady like the firelight flickering across the room.

For the first time in weeks, the weight on your chest feels just a little lighter.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The fire crackles low in the hearth, throwing shadows across the empty common room. It’s late enough that the whole castle has gone quiet; the only sounds are the occasional gust of wind against the windows and the soft scrape of Fred shifting in his chair across from you.

His thumb brushes absentmindedly over the back of it, careful of the bandages he just wrapped. It isn’t anything dramatic — no grand gesture, no sudden comfort — but there’s something about the weight of his hand over yours that makes it hard to breathe properly.

“You’ve been looking like a ghost lately,” he says softly, breaking the silence. “It’s not just Umbridge, is it?”

You hesitate, eyes on the fire instead of him. “It’s everything,” you admit finally. “Feels like every time I think things can’t get worse, they do. Harry’s angry all the time, the Ministry’s calling him a liar, Umbridge is making life miserable for everyone… and I’m just…”

You trail off, because you don’t even have the words for it.

Fred waits, patient, like he’s letting you fill the space in your own time.

“…I’m just tired,” you finish finally.

He exhales slowly. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “I get that.”

You glance up at him, surprised. “You do?”

Fred shrugs, looking at you in a way that makes your stomach twist a little. “It’s not the same. But… I know what it’s like to feel like the whole world’s closing in on you. Like there’s nothing you can do to stop it.” His mouth quirks faintly. “That’s why George and I laugh so much. Makes it harder for the darkness to get in.”

You blink at him, realizing you’ve never heard him talk like this before.

“And what about when you can’t laugh?” you ask softly.

He smiles faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then you find someone who makes it a little easier to breathe. Even if it’s just for a minute.”

The words settle over you like a warm blanket. You aren’t sure if he means you or if he’s just speaking in general, but there’s a flicker in his eyes you can’t quite name.

Fred leans forward suddenly, resting his elbows on his knees, still holding your hand between his. “You’ve been walking around like the castle’s got its claws in you,” he says, tone lighter now. “We can’t have that. Not when I’ve got a reputation for being the charming one.”

Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes you.

“There it is,” Fred says softly, looking a little too pleased. “Knew you still had one in you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile lingers. “You’re really ridiculous.”

He grins, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles. “Yeah, but admit it — I’m good at this.”

“At what?” you ask, arching a brow.

“Making you forget about Umbridge for at least five minutes.”

You hesitate, but he isn’t wrong. The weight in your chest doesn’t feel quite as heavy as it did when you walked in.

“Fine,” you mutter, but your voice is softer than before. “You’re good at it.”

Fred smirks, leaning back again. “Knew it.”

But the air between you shifts after that. The silence stretches—not awkward, but charged, like the space between you has grown smaller even though neither of you has moved.

His hand is still around yours. You haven’t asked him to let go.

Fred notices, because of course he does. His thumb keeps tracing idle patterns against your skin, like he doesn’t want to stop but doesn’t want to push either.

“You look sleepy,” he says finally, quieter now.

“I am,” you admit.

“Then stay here a bit,” he says simply, like it’s obvious. “Let me keep the nightmares off your back for a while.”

You look at him, at the firelight catching in his hair, at the way he isn’t grinning now but watching you with something steadier, softer.

You shouldn't even care, it's not like you were on the team. Then you remembered how much time you've been spending with Oliver, and reasoned that he'd somehow transferred his own obsession into your brain.

You sighed at the thought of the Scottish boy, not ready to deal with the ledge thinking about his laugh and his voice and the warmth he radiated would inevitably leave you teetering on.

This is a Wood free zone! You declare to yourself.

Right in that moment, the door to your dorm slams open.

You almost jump out of your skin, especially when instead of finding one of your suspiciously absent roommates you find Oliver Wood standing in the doorway.

"Oliver?"

He's soaking wet, hair sticking to his forehead and striped quidditch sweater clinging to his muscles with every movement.

"Can I please use your shower?" His eyes are begging, and you watch as he suddenly shivers. "The lockeroom's are broken, and Percy has been in ours for twenty minutes. I'm freezing."

You look at him softly, "of course you can."

His entire body relaxes, and he rushes over to where you're sitting, grabbing your face with dirty hands and placing a dramatic kiss in your hair.

Mwah.

"You're a lifesaver."

He disappears through the door attached to your room wall, and you roll your eyes with a laugh. You hear the water start and try to focus back on your notes, but it proves useless.

You decide to get up, finally closing the window and putting your things back in the trunk, by the time Oliver gets done you'll be going to dinner and then lounging in the common room, you're not going to lie to yourself that you'll get any work done.

You turn at the sound of the door opening, only to be greeted with Oliver coming out of the bathroom, sheepish smile on his face and a pink towel hanging off his hips.

Your brain short circuits at the sight, his hair is damp and starting to curl at the edges that stick to his forehead. He shakes his head like a wet dog, the water trails down his shoulders and glistens on his muscular chest.

"I'm sorry, I totally didn't think far enough ahead.." he stops talking when he finally looks at you, mouth parted in surprise and a telling pink color spreading across your face. "Are you checking me out?"

You start coughing, quickly turning around and hiding your face from Oliver— your friend Oliver who copies your homework and asks you to paint his face before quidditch matches. Not anything else.

"No, sorry. I was just shocked, uh, where are your clothes?"

He tries not to laugh as he talks to the back of your head, where you still refuse to look at him.

"That's what I meant by I didn't think this far ahead. Do you still have my old clothes from last week?"

You nod, rifling through your closet to find the clothes Oliver had left in your room after the last Quidditch match. You two had been celebrating Gryffindors win in the common room when someone spilled firewhiskey on his jumper. Your dorm was closer, so you brought him up and let him keep it in your room. He had let you borrow a pair of his sweats that night as well, when the group had decided to take a spontaneous trip to the Black Lake, something your short party dress was not prepared for.

"Yeah, here." You toss them over to him, finally having to face him and trying to ignore the teasing grin on his face.

"Thanks," he says, disappearing back into the bathroom for a moment before coming out fully clothed.

He flops down on your bed as soon as he does, letting out a contented sigh and closing his eyes as your covers brush softly against him.

"Your bed is so comfy, Lass."

You join him, pushing his arm over to sit down.

"Go ahead and make yourself at home, Wood. You've already used my towel, now my bed?"

He grin, peeking an eye open to look at you. "Such a lovely hostess."

You feel a sudden urge to reach out and touch his hair. Your lips press together in quiet hesitation, but you do it anyway, hoping it doesn't freak him out.

Your hand lightly brushes against his hair, now drier and starting to regain some of its volume. He hums, but doesn't move or say anything.

Your fingers twirl a lock of his hair. When you first became friends he had it cropped close to his head, but as you've grown he's started leaving it a little bit longer. Never enough to block his eyes in the sky, but enough that you can now tuck it just behind his ear.

"You're gonna put me to sleep," he mumbles softly.

"You can take a nap if you'd like. I'll wake you for dinner."

He smiles up at you, soft and sleepy, with a hint of something more.

"Deal."

With that, he reaches out and grabs your hips, pulling you with him up to the top of your bed and laying his head on your lap. Your fingers find their way back to his hair, and he settles into you contentedly.

The library was quiet in that heavy, studious way that made every little sound feel twice as loud. Quills scratched faintly, pages rustled, the occasional cough echoed down the long rows of shelves. You’d been there for nearly an hour, trying to finish your essay, but of course Professor Flitwick had assigned a text that wasn’t in your bag.

With a resigned sigh, you slipped out of your chair and padded into the aisle, your eyes skimming the towering shelves. It took you only a moment to spot the book you needed—its spine worn and faded, tucked neatly among the others. Of course, it was perched far above your head, on a shelf that looked like it had been built for giants.

You tried. Merlin, you tried. Rising onto your tiptoes, stretching your fingers as far as they would go, hopping once or twice for good measure. Your fingertips barely grazed the bottom of the shelf. You blew out an annoyed breath, muttering under your breath about how unfairly tall the world seemed.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed movement. A boy further down the aisle—a Ravenclaw from your year—was already rising from his chair, looking like he was about to swoop in gallantly to assist.

But before he could take more than a step, another presence slid into place at your side.

“Need a hand?”

Fred Weasley was standing there, grin tugging at his lips, hands shoved lazily in his pockets as if he hadn’t just intercepted someone else. He didn’t even wait for you to answer—his arm shot up with infuriating ease, plucking the book from its high shelf like it had never been out of reach.

“Here you go,” he said smoothly, holding it out to you with a little flourish. His eyes flicked, not subtly at all, toward the Ravenclaw boy who now sat back down with a faint scowl.

You raised an eyebrow, taking the book from Fred’s hand. “Were you watching me struggle this whole time?”

“Struggle? No,” he said, his grin broadening. “I’d call it more of a… heroic opportunity. And what kind of gentleman would I be if I just sat by and let someone else take the glory?”

“So you admit you swooped in.”

“Course I did,” Fred replied shamelessly, his voice dipping just enough that your chest fluttered. “Couldn’t have him stealing my thunder, could I?”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth creeping across your face betrayed you. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Anytime,” he said lightly, though the way he lingered at your side made your stomach flip.

You carried the book back to your table, aware of the fact that Fred didn’t return to his own. Instead, he trailed after you and promptly dropped into the seat beside yours, pulling a roll of parchment from his bag.

“Since when do you do homework in the library?” you teased, glancing at him as he dramatically uncapped his ink bottle.

“Since now,” Fred said simply, quill scratching nonsense words onto his parchment. “Can’t a bloke get some peace and quiet?”

“Peace and quiet? With you here?” you muttered, but your lips twitched.

He shot you a look, the corners of his mouth curving. “Oi, I can be quiet. Deadly silent, me.”

That lasted all of three minutes. He kept leaning over to make whispered comments, flicking his quill against your parchment, brushing his knee against yours beneath the table like it was an accident every time. You kept telling yourself it didn’t mean anything—that Fred Weasley probably teased everyone this way—but your heart wouldn’t quite calm down.

An hour passed, and you found yourself heading back toward the shelves for another book. And, of course, it was on the same infernal upper shelves. You glanced around, found no stool in sight, and exhaled through your nose. Turning slowly, you saw Fred at the table, chin in his hand, quill abandoned, watching you with a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fred,” you said softly, amusement tugging at your voice.

“Yes?” he drawled, stretching out in his chair as if he had all the time in the world.

“I need your height.”

His grin widened, wickedly smug. “Do you, now?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “Unless you want me to risk my life by climbing onto a chair.”

Fred tapped his fingers against the tabletop, pretending to think it over. “Hm. Tempting.”

“Fred.”

He stood finally, sauntering over with his usual flair, eyes dancing with mischief. He stopped just in front of you, tilting his head as though considering whether he ought to make you beg for it. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he said, “Fiiiiine. I’ll do it. For you. Just for you.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head as he plucked the book down with absurd ease. He handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours—just barely, but enough to make your stomach swoop.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

“Anytime,” he murmured again, but this time the teasing was gone. His grin was gentler now, his voice lower. His hand lingered in the air like he wasn’t ready to pull it away.

For a moment, the library wasn’t quiet because of its rules—it was quiet because the two of you were caught in something fragile and unspoken. You held the book against your chest, your pulse racing, and he looked at you like he had no idea how to hide the fact that he wanted more.