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ao3 doesn't have an app because for it to have an app, appstore will have to approve it first. and if, hypothetically, ao3 needs appstore to approve it, it will also have to abide by appstore's pro-censorship stance and start banning dark and taboo fics, which is against its own core principle of being completely against censorship.
ao3 doesn't need an app. it works more than fine without an app. the reason ao3 can allow dark and taboo fics, the reason it can allow the most disgusting and shockingly vile fics, and be completely against censorship is because it doesn't need appstore's approval. it stands on its own as a non-profit organization with functioning site and a team of lawyers protecting its platform, its users, and every single fanwork on its platform.
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george weasley x reader | school project partners | wordcount: 4.5k
masterlist || space between spells story
Professor Flitwick had always had an irritating amount of faith in his students. It was a trait you’d usually appreciated. Usually.
“Your final project will be completed in pairs,” he announced cheerfully from the stack of books he stood on behind his desk, wand waving towards the blackboard as a list of names began writing itself across the surface. “You’ll be expected to demonstrate an original practical application of one of the charms we’ve covered this year, along with twelve inches of theory explaining your modifications and reasoning.”
The room broke out in quiet chatter immediately. You barely paid attention, already searching the board for your name.
Y/L/N — Weasley
Your stomach dropped at the sight of the pairing.
“Which one?” You muttered.
A chair scraped loudly against the floor beside you.
“The handsome one.”
You slowly turned your head.
George Weasley dropped into the empty seat beside yours, stretching his legs out beneath the desk with the sort of grin that usually meant somebody else’s afternoon was about to become considerably worse.
“That was incredibly unhelpful.”
“George.”
“I gathered.”
He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “You wound me.”
“I’m sure you’ll recover.”
George’s grin widened.
You knew George Weasley. Everyone knew George Weasley. You’d shared classes with him for five years now, watched him and Fred turn corridors into war zones, send fireworks through suits of armour, charm furniture to chase first years and somehow talk themselves out of consequences that would’ve had anyone else scrubbing trophies for the remainder of their natural life.
He was funny, you’d give him that. Clever enough to cause trouble without getting himself killed most of the time too. What George Weasley was not, however, was somebody you wanted responsible for a substantial portion of your Charms grade.
Flitwick continued explaining the assignment from the front of the room.
“You’ll have three weeks. I encourage experimentation, but do remember that originality is only useful when accompanied by control.”
His eyes flicked pointedly towards George.
George smiled brightly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Professor.”
Flitwick stared at him.
Fred snorted from two rows back.
You dropped your forehead briefly into your hand.
George looked towards you. “You look worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m planning.”
“Same thing with less sweating.”
You ignored him, pulling a fresh piece of parchment towards you.
“We should meet in the library tonight.”
George blinked. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve only just been assigned it.”
“And?”
“And we have three weeks.”
“Exactly.”
He stared at you for a moment.
“You’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
“The sort that hears ‘three weeks’ and thinks it means ‘panic immediately.’”
You dipped your quill into the ink. “And you’re the sort that hears ‘three weeks’ and remembers the assignment exists in two and a half.”
“See?” George leaned closer. “We already understand each other.”
You gave him a flat look.
He smiled.
This was going to be a nightmare.
George did show up to the library.
Seven minutes late, but you’d expected considerably worse.
He dropped into the chair opposite you, a book tucked beneath one arm and two Chocolate Frogs in his hand.
“Peace offering.”
“For what?”
“Being seven minutes late.”
You glanced towards the clock.
“At least you’re self-aware.”
He slid one of the frogs across the table.
You took it.
“Right.” You turned your parchment around. “I thought we could use the Switching Spell and modify the targeting sequence. It’s straightforward enough that we can make it reliable in three weeks and still demonstrate a meaningful adaptation.”
George stared down at your notes, then up at you.
“That sounds incredibly boring.”
You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“George.”
“You want an Outstanding, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So why are you planning something that screams Acceptable?”
Your eyes opened.
“Excuse me?”
He pulled your parchment towards himself.
“Flitwick said original.”
“It is original.”
“It’s safe.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“No, but they’re very close friends.”
You reached across for your parchment. George pulled it out of reach.
“We could modify a Repelling Charm.”
“For what?”
“Selective recognition.”
George leaned forward now, the joking edge fading slightly as he grabbed a second piece of parchment.
“Standard Repelling Charms push everything away within the boundary, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“So change the boundary.”
“That isn’t exactly easy.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
He started sketching.
You watched him work despite yourself.
“Instead of the charm recognizing movement or proximity, you tie it to intent.”
Your brows pulled together.
“That’s not how Repelling Charms work.”
“I know.”
“Then-”
“That’s why we change it.”
You stared at him as he continued drawing as though he hadn’t just suggested rebuilding the fundamental target mechanism of a charm fifth years were barely expected to modify in the first place.
“If it works, harmless objects pass through. Anything moving with enough force or hostile intent gets pushed back.”
You looked down at his notes.
There were actual notes.
Not doodles.
Not obscene drawings.
Actual magical theory.
“You’ve thought about this before.”
“Fred and I have been trying to make Shield Hats.”
You blinked.
“Shield what?”
“Hats.”
“I heard you.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“Because I was hoping I hadn’t.”
George grinned.
“The point is, Protego’s too complicated for something that needs to work automatically. Repelling Charms are easier, but currently they’d throw your tea across the room every time you wore one.”
“Tragic.”
“Exactly. So we make it selective.”
You looked down at his calculations again, they weren’t complete. Some of them were probably wrong but the theory underneath them wasn’t.
“You know this is significantly above what Flitwick asked for.”
“That sounds like an Outstanding to me.”
“It sounds like an explosion.”
“That also sounds like an Outstanding if it’s impressive enough.”
You stared at him.
George rested his chin in his palm.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you.”
His brows lifted.
“I trust you to make something explode approximately six minutes before we’re supposed to present it.”
“That hurts.”
“You’ll recover.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, then he smiled.
“All right.”
“What?”
“Bet.”
“No.”
“I haven’t told you what it is.”
“Still no.”
George leaned back in his chair.
“If I get us an Outstanding, you go out with me.”
Your quill stopped.
You looked up slowly.
George looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“An Outstanding.”
“An O.”
“You?”
“Me.”
“On this project?”
“That’s generally the one we’re discussing.”
You laughed, you genuinely couldn’t help it.
George’s expression turned offended.
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“You’re serious?”
“Very.”
You looked down at his ridiculous Repelling Charm idea.
Then back at him.
There was absolutely no chance he’d pull this off.
“Fine.”
George straightened.
“Fine?”
“If you get us an Outstanding, I’ll go on a date with you.”
His grin spread immediately.
“You’re going to regret how quickly you agreed to that.”
“I really don’t think I am.”
“We’ll see.”
You smiled sweetly.
“We will.”
You completed your own project four days later.
Not the one with George, a different one. A perfectly functional modification of the Switching Spell that you knew would earn at least an Exceeds Expectations, possibly an Outstanding if Flitwick was feeling generous.
You felt a little guilty about it, not guilty enough to stop.
The plan was simple.
George would inevitably lose interest in the Repelling Charm once it became clear how complicated it was. You’d wait until two or three days before the deadline, produce your completed project and let him put his name on it.
Everybody passed.
Your grade survived.
George never needed to know you’d expected him to fail.
Perfect.
Unfortunately, George continued working.
And worse, he was good at it.
The first week you met three times in the library, once in an empty classroom and twice in the Gryffindor common room after Angelina had let you through.
George was late exactly once more.
After that, he started arriving before you.
He had books.
He had notes.
He’d tested three different variations of the charm with Fred and recorded exactly why each had failed.
The handwriting was atrocious, but the observations weren’t.
“You’re compensating too much here.” You pointed towards one of his calculations.
George leaned over your shoulder.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“It needs the extra force.”
“Not if we anchor it.”
“To what?”
You tapped the parchment.
“The caster.”
“That changes the entire boundary.”
“Yes.”
George went quiet.
You looked over.
He was staring at the equation.
Then he grabbed his quill.
“That might work.”
You watched him scratch out half the page.
“Obviously.”
“Don’t get smug.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You’re practically glowing.”
You smiled.
George looked at you, something about his expression changed for half a second.
Then Fred dropped onto the sofa beside him hard enough to knock his ink over.
“Are you two still doing homework?”
George swore, grabbing the parchment before the ink reached it.
You looked towards Fred.
“Some of us would like to graduate.”
Fred glanced between you.
“George told me you’ve agreed to marry him if he gets an Outstanding.”
Your head snapped towards George.
“I said date.”
“Details.”
George threw a cushion at his brother.
Fred caught it.
“You’re distracting us.”
“I’m saving her.”
“From?”
“Having to spend an evening with you.”
You smiled. “Finally, someone sensible.”
George looked betrayed.
Fred pointed at you. “I like her.”
“Leave.”
“Touchy.”
Fred eventually wandered off towards Lee, taking George’s second Chocolate Frog with him.
You looked back down at the parchment.
“Your brother’s a menace.”
“Yeah.”
There was so much affection in the single word that you glanced towards him.
George was watching Fred across the common room, smiling slightly.
Then he looked back at you.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Anchor the charm to the caster?”
You nodded.
His attention returned immediately to the project.
And for some reason you found yourself smiling too.
By the second week, you stopped checking your backup project.
By the third, you felt guilty every time you remembered it existed.
George had taken your anchor idea and somehow worked it into the charm without compromising the recognition sequence. You’d corrected the instability in his incantation. He’d realized the problem with your wand movement before you did.
It became impossible to tell which parts belonged to whom anymore.
The night before the presentation, you sat cross-legged on the floor of an abandoned classroom while George stood six feet away holding a balled-up piece of parchment.
“You ready?”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
“George-”
He threw it at you.
The parchment sailed straight through the invisible boundary and bounced harmlessly off your shoulder.
You looked down.
Then back at him.
George’s grin grew.
“Again.”
He picked up a wooden practice block.
“George.”
“What?”
“That’s considerably heavier.”
“Trust the process.”
“I don’t trust the process.”
“Trust me.”
You snorted.
He threw it.
The block reached the boundary.
The air around you rippled.
The block shot backwards so violently George barely had time to duck.
It smashed into the wall behind him.
Silence.
You stared.
George slowly lifted his head from behind the desk.
You stood.
“Oh my God.”
He looked towards the dent in the wall.
Then at you.
“Oh my God.”
“It worked.”
“It bloody worked.”
You laughed, grabbing his forearms as he crossed towards you.
“George, it actually worked!”
“I told you!”
“You absolutely did not know it was going to work!”
“I had complete confidence.”
“You hid behind a desk!”
“Precaution.”
You were both still laughing when the door opened.
Filch stood in the corridor.
Mrs Norris stared between the two of you.
Then towards the dent in the stone.
George’s smile disappeared.
“Run.”
You didn’t question him.
Presentation day arrived with a detention hanging over both of you.
You couldn’t bring yourself to care.
Flitwick inspected the charm twice.
Then asked you to demonstrate it again.
A harmless quill passed through.
A thrown book rebounded.
Then Flitwick asked George three questions about the recognition sequence.
George answered all three. Correctly.
You watched him from beside the demonstration space.
He wasn’t joking, wasn’t showing off.
He stood there explaining exactly how the charm separated deliberate force from normal movement, pointing out where you’d anchored the boundary and why the original incantation had required adjustment.
Flitwick was practically vibrating with excitement.
“This is exceptional work.”
George looked towards you.
You tried not to smile and failed miserably.
“Not only have you demonstrated a thorough understanding of the original charm, you’ve successfully adapted its targeting mechanism well beyond the expectations of this assignment.”
Flitwick looked between the two of you.
“Outstanding.”
George’s grin became unbearable.
“And ten points to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw for exceptional collaborative spellwork.”
The class broke into scattered applause.
Fred wolf-whistled from the back.
You wanted to disappear.
George, naturally, bowed.
Flitwick moved on to the next pair.
You began gathering your parchment.
A shadow fell across your desk.
George leaned against it.
“Well?”
You continued packing your bag.
“Well what?”
“Funny. Could’ve sworn somebody promised me something.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Y/L/N.”
You looked up.
His expression was unbearably smug.
You sighed.
“Fine.”
George cupped his ear. “Sorry?”
“I said fine.”
“Fine what?”
Your eyes narrowed.
“If you make me say it again, I’m going to make sure you never reach Hogsmeade alive.”
“So we are going to Hogsmeade?”
You shoved your book into your bag.
“I’ll go on the bloody date.”
George beamed.
“Thought you might.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You usually do.”
“That’s why you like me.”
“I agreed to one date. Don’t rewrite history.”
He stepped aside so you could pass.
“Saturday.”
You stopped.
“Hogsmeade?”
George’s smile turned strange.
“Something like that.”
You should’ve known then.
Saturday came and nearly went without so much as another word from George about the date he’d spent three weeks bragging he was going to win. You’d seen him at breakfast, passed him in the courtyard sometime after lunch and even caught him looking towards you across the Great Hall during dinner. Nothing.
Which was fine.
Completely fine actually.
You hadn’t spent the better part of the morning wondering whether he meant the Three Broomsticks or somewhere else in Hogsmeade, nor had you changed your jumper twice before deciding it was ridiculous to dress for a date he hadn’t even bothered to set a time for.
By eleven that evening you’d decided George Weasley could piss off.
At quarter to midnight an owl came flying through one of the open windows in Ravenclaw Tower, nearly taking out a second year before dropping a folded piece of parchment directly onto the book in your lap.
You stared at it for a moment before unfolding it.
You owe me a date. Midnight. Fourth-floor tapestry. Wear shoes you can run in. — G
You looked towards the clock.
“Oh, you have got to be joking.”
Still, you were already shoving your feet into your shoes.
George was waiting behind the tapestry when you got there, leaning against the stone with both hands tucked into his pockets like asking someone to sneak through the castle after curfew was the most normal date imaginable.
“You came.” His grin widened.
“You said date.”
“This is one.”
“This is a corridor.”
“Good eye.”
You folded your arms, looking around him. “I thought you meant Hogsmeade.”
George’s face twisted. “What, sit in Madam Puddifoot’s and stare longingly into each other’s eyes over tea?”
“I was thinking The Three Broomsticks actually.”
“Still predictable.”
“We’re going to get caught.”
“Only if you’re terrible at this.”
You stared at him. “George, I already have detention because of you.”
“Because of us.”
“No. Because you decided throwing a block of wood at my head was an appropriate way to test a charm.”
“It didn’t hit you.”
“It put a dent in the wall.”
“Which proves the charm worked.”
“And Filch caught us.”
George shrugged. “Small price to pay for academic excellence.”
“My first detention in five years.”
He looked genuinely appalled. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s embarrassing.”
“For you?”
“For you. Five years and not one detention? What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Learning.”
“Could’ve done both.”
You rolled your eyes as he pushed away from the wall. “If I get another one tonight, you’re serving mine too.”
George started down the corridor. “Come on, Y/L/N.”
You followed him, mostly because you were already out of bed at midnight and at this point another detention probably wouldn’t make much difference.
You’d seen George around Hogwarts for five years but you’d never seen him move through it like this. During the day he was impossible to miss, usually accompanied by Fred, both of them laughing loud enough to carry halfway down a corridor. At night he barely made a sound. He knew which stairs creaked, which portraits would wake up and complain if you passed too close and apparently exactly how long Filch usually spent checking the ground floor before moving upstairs.
“You do this often?” You whispered.
George glanced over his shoulder. “Do what?”
“Sneak around the castle in the middle of the night.”
“No.”
You stared at him, brows raised.
“Fine. Sometimes.”
“George.”
“Frequently.”
You shook your head, trying not to laugh as he suddenly caught your wrist and pulled you sideways behind a stone alcove.
“What are you-”
His hand covered your mouth.
You glared at him.
Mrs Norris appeared around the corner.
George’s face was inches from yours now, eyes flicking towards the cat as she slowly made her way along the corridor. You could feel him trying not to laugh before he leaned closer to your ear.
“If she finds us, you distract her.”
You pulled his hand from your mouth. “With what?”
“Your natural charm.”
You nearly shoved him out of the alcove.
Mrs Norris stopped.
Both of you froze.
George’s fingers tightened around your wrist.
The cat stared towards the shadows for another long moment before eventually continuing around the corner.
You waited until she disappeared.
“Natural charm?”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
“You’re an arse.”
“Been told.”
He started walking again, his hand sliding from your wrist into yours without either of you acknowledging it.
You noticed.
George apparently didn’t.
Or pretended not to.
You weren’t sure which was worse.
He finally stopped in front of a painting of a bowl of fruit.
You looked from the painting to him. “You dragged me out of bed to look at fruit?”
“Patience.”
George reached forward and tickled the pear.
You took a step back when the painting swung open.
“No.”
George turned towards you with a grin. “You didn’t know?”
“There’s a door behind the fruit?”
“There’s a kitchen behind the fruit.”
He disappeared through it before you could answer.
You followed and immediately understood why George had looked so pleased with himself.
House-elves filled nearly every corner of the enormous kitchen, some still cleaning from dinner while others began preparing things for the following morning. Several seemed to recognize George immediately, which really shouldn’t have surprised you at this point.
“You’ve been here before.”
“Once or twice.” He shrugged.
One of the elves brought over a tray before George had even asked.
You looked down.
Your favorite pudding from dinner sat in the middle of it.
Your eyes narrowed.
“How did you know I like that?”
George looked towards the tray. “You eat it.”
“That generally is how food works.”
“At dinner.” He clarified, lifting the tray from the elf. “You always take it when they serve it.”
You looked at him.
He shrugged like remembering something that small was completely normal.
It wasn’t.
“Well.” You cleared your throat. “Apparently you have been paying attention.”
“Usually am.”
He turned towards the exit.
“Where are we going now?”
“The date isn’t in the kitchen.”
The Astronomy Tower made a little more sense.
George pushed the door open at the top of the stairs, cold night air hitting you immediately as you stepped outside. Hogwarts grounds stretched below, the moon reflecting along the edge of the lake while the castle sat quiet around you.
George dropped a folded blanket onto the stone.
“You stole a blanket.”
“Borrowed.”
“From where?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“No, then.”
You laughed, sitting down beside him as he placed the tray between you.
For the first few minutes you ate quietly, which was perhaps the strangest part of the evening so far. You’d never known George to leave silence alone for long. Usually if there was space for a joke he filled it before anyone else could.
Tonight he seemed perfectly content just sitting there.
You looked towards him.
“What?” He asked.
“You’re quieter without Fred.”
His eyes moved from you towards the grounds.
“Everyone is.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know.”
You pulled your knees closer towards your chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to you this long without him around.”
“Lucky you.”
A smile pulled at your mouth. “You know what I mean.”
George picked at the edge of the blanket. “Fred likes filling space.”
“You seem pretty fond of it yourself.”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
He shrugged. “Whether I want anyone looking too closely.”
You stared at him for a second.
George reached for another biscuit. “This has become dangerously serious for a date involving stolen pudding.”
You laughed, looking back towards the grounds.
“You know, you’ve impressed me, Weasley.”
“Been trying to tell you.”
“I’m serious.”
“That makes one of us.”
You rolled your eyes. “I always knew you were clever.”
George glanced towards you.
“I just didn’t think you were serious about anything.”
His expression shifted enough that you immediately regretted how it sounded.
“That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“A little.”
George looked back towards the grounds. “People think because Fred and I are laughing we aren’t paying attention.”
You watched him.
“Are you?”
“Usually more than they are.”
There wasn’t any smugness behind it this time.
You thought about the project, the pages of calculations in his awful handwriting, the amount of times he’d caught something you missed. The Shield Hats he’d mentioned like it was nothing more than another ridiculous invention.
“The joke shop.” You said.
George looked back towards you.
“You’re actually going to do it.”
“Course we are.”
“I thought you two just talked about it.”
“We talk about loads of things.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s been the plan for ages.” He shrugged. “Fred and me, our own shop. No Ministry desk. No boss telling us what’s useful and what isn’t.”
You smiled slightly. “You really have thought this through.”
“Try not to sound so shocked.”
“I’m learning new things tonight.”
“Worth the Outstanding already.”
You nudged his leg with yours.
There was something you’d been meaning to tell him since the project had been marked, although admitting it now somehow felt worse than it had three weeks ago.
“I have to tell you something.”
George looked delighted. “You’re madly in love with me.”
“I did the project without you.”
His smile disappeared.
“What?”
“I made another one.”
George stared.
“A whole project?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought you were going to ruin my grade.”
“Y/L/N.”
“I was going to put your name on it!”
His mouth fell open. “Oh, well that makes it loads better.”
“I know how it sounds now.”
“How did it sound when you were doing it?”
“Sensible.”
George stared for another second before suddenly laughing.
You slapped his arm. “Stop!”
“You did an entire second project?”
“I was protecting myself!”
“From me?”
“Yes!”
He fell backwards against the blanket laughing harder.
You crossed your arms. “You’re insufferable.”
“What did you make?”
“Not telling you.”
“Was it boring?”
“It was reliable.”
“So boring.”
“Piss off.”
George eventually pushed himself upright, still grinning. “Which was better?”
You looked at him.
He waited.
You sighed. “Yours.”
“Ours.”
You paused.
Something about the correction softened the annoyance in your chest.
“Ours was better.”
“Much.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m enjoying this far too much.”
You shook your head, trying not to smile.
George was quiet for a second before nudging your leg back with his.
“You impressed me too.”
“With the betrayal?”
“Less impressed by that.”
“Then what?”
He shrugged. “You’re clever.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“No, you know you are.”
You looked towards him.
“Most clever people spend half their time making sure everyone else knows it. You don’t.” His mouth pulled into a small grin. “You mostly spend your time telling me when I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong frequently.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed.
“And you don’t laugh at everything I say.”
“Most of it isn’t funny.”
“Bit harsh.”
“You’ll recover.”
George smiled at that, looking down at the tray between you.
“You make me think.”
That shut you up.
His eyes flicked towards you again. “Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you’re going to make me regret saying something nice.”
You fought the smile forming.
“You like me.”
“Obviously.”
“No, no.” You turned towards him. “You actually like me.”
“I asked you on a date.”
“You made a bet.”
“A very carefully calculated bet.”
“You were really that sure you’d get an Outstanding?”
George looked at you then, grin fading into something smaller.
“I was that sure I wanted to take you out.”
You stared at him.
“That was disgustingly smooth.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“Still taking it.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite look away from him.
George smiled.
“Does the Outstanding get me another one?”
“Another what?”
“Date.”
You pretended to think about it. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you can shut up long enough to kiss me.”
For probably the first time since you’d met him, George Weasley had absolutely nothing to say. Only lasted a second.
Then his hand slid along your jaw and he kissed you.
It was softer than you expected from him, George did nearly everything like he was running headfirst towards it and apparently this was the exception. His thumb brushed your cheek as you leaned closer, the cold of the Astronomy Tower suddenly considerably less noticeable.
When you finally pulled away, he was smiling.
You knew immediately you’d made a mistake.
“Well?”
“Do not.” You fought the grin forming on your lips.
“Outstanding?”
You shoved him hard enough that he nearly tipped sideways.
George laughed, catching himself against the stone.
“You’re ruining it.”
“I got the grade right.”
“You are never letting that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
You shook your head, smiling as he settled beside you again, shoulder pressed against yours beneath the stolen blanket.
You’d spent five years thinking you knew exactly what sort of person George Weasley was.
You hadn’t exactly been wrong.
He was loud. He was irritating. Most of his ideas probably would end in detention and apparently spending time around him meant your clean record was gone for good.
You’d just missed a few things, like the fact he was bloody brilliant when he bothered putting his mind to something, or how closely he paid attention when everyone assumed he wasn’t listening.
The Shop Across The Way || George Weasley x Reader
Two years after the war, you reopen your late parents’ tailor shop across from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, while George is still learning how to run his own shop without Fred. What starts as passing glances and sarcastic remarks slowly turns into late nights, shared grief, and the realization that moving forward doesn’t have to mean leaving the people you lost behind.
george weasley x Reader | post-war | grief, fluff, slow burn | word count: 7.1k
Diagon Alley was starting to look like itself again. Shops were slowly rebuilding and reopening. Lights on, crowds filling the street daily. It was great for the books, hard on the heart. You pulled the shop key from your pocket with a sigh, turning it over in your hand. It was given that you’d end up running the shop, it’d been in the family longer than the generations you’d met, it wasn’t given that you’d be running it at merely twenty-two years of age. You looked to the sky, shaking your head as you turned the key and pushed the door open slowly.
The familiar smell of starch and linen hit you harder than anticipated. A layer of dust lay on top of the cutting table, orders in your father’s handwriting still hung from the cork strip above it. You’d almost forgotten what it looked like these days. The mannequin in the shop window was clothed with your mum’s favorite tape measure, her chalk and pins sat on the small table next to it. Left like she’d come back and pick them up the same as always. The chair sat next to the fitting platform, the one you’d sit in during the summers from school. Spent most of your free time sat there, sketching out dresses. That’s what you wanted to do, dressmaking. Weddings and balls, your parents had promised you the sewing station in the back after completing your N.E.W.T.s. Your hand lazily trailed over the dust on the cutting table, eyes dancing over the incomplete orders. The majority of them would need to be thrown out, the owners wouldn’t be coming to claim their garment bags. The thought of that made your chest tighten.
The silence of the shop was deafening, the normal sounds of your father’s hum to the wireless and your mum’s needles sewing alongside her while she rattled measurements to the scissors cutting the fabric missing. You flicked your wand to the wireless sat on the shelf, the sounds of today’s and yesterday’s biggest wizarding hits slowly filled the shop's silence. Moving forward you pulled the front window drapes open, the light flooding in. Dust sparkled the air around you as you looked out towards the neighboring shops. Just across the way sat the Weasleys’ shop, you smiled seeing two red haired boys- men now, you’d supposed- bickering as they carried stock in. Your chest tightened once more as they came into focus. No, not Fred and George. Not anymore. You’d never seen one without the other before. You frowned, pulling away from the window and twirling your wand in your fingers.
With another flick of your wand, dust peeled from the shelves in thick grey ribbons, disappearing before it reached the floor. A pair of rags set to work on the front windows while the broom swept itself beneath the fitting platform. Cleaning, at least, was easy. The rest was increasingly difficult.
Opening the shop was far worse than closing it. Closing at night meant with the flick of his wand he’d managed to survive another day. Turning the lights on and turning the lock meant his brain could think for just a second, that footsteps would follow down the stairs from the flat. Hadn’t been a set of footsteps besides his own in little over two years, he was dangerously aware of that fact. Things were moving, things were good. Different but good. Sunday Roasts at The Burrow were non-negotiable, Ginny and Harry were set to be married, Ron had announced last Sunday Roast he’d be leaving his Auror position and joining George in the joke shop.
“Oi- shipment’s in!” Ron’s voice pulled him from the front window and his thoughts quickly.
He followed him to the side door, unlocking it and swinging it open. It had been quiet on Diagon Alley for so long that the never ending chatter and crowds seemed almost off putting to him still. Shops were slow to reopen, some stood boarded with a Realty Wizard’s face plastered to the windows. He had closed early the first time he realized what that had meant, no one left to unlock the shop door in the morning. Across the street the windows were open, the sounds of the wireless drifted down the street. Someone had made their way back. He nodded lightly to himself as if to convince himself that meant someone else had survived.
The day was steady, most days were steady now. Customer flow picked up as soon as he unlocked the door for the first time solo, it hadn’t slowed much. He was grateful both for the business and distraction. The clock sat around noon now, Ron stood on the ladder organizing the top displays as Lee ran the till.
“Don’t let Ron do anything stupid while I’m gone.” George said, shrugging on his jacket.
“I heard that, you arse.”
“Now Ronald, that’s no way to speak to your boss that’s headed out to buy your lunch.” George teased, lightly shaking the ladder Ron stood on as he passed him by.
He stepped out the front, turning toward the Leaky Cauldron. Across the street, the old Needle & Knot sign was being rehung. He tilted his head the same way the sign hung currently, little shop hadn’t been open in over two years. Prior to that it seemed to be one of the longest established businesses on their block. A girl stood just under the sign, her wand raised as she tried to level it out.
“Left side’s low.” He muttered, his head still cocked to the side.
“I know.” The girl had replied, wand still raised without so much as sending him a glance.
“Doesn’t look like you know.” He straightened his neck out.
“Afternoon, George.” You rolled your eyes, sending him a small grin.
You looked at him like you knew him from somewhere, your voice playful and familiar. “Have we met?” He looked towards you, confusion painted on his face.
You turned back to the sign, scoffing at him. “Only went to school together for seven years.”
“Right.” He nodded awkwardly, forcing his hands into his pockets as he continued down the street to grab his lunch.
After a string of expletives and threatening to sell the whole shop, the sign now hung straight. You sat on top of the cutting table, hands wrapped around your tea. The sun was starting to creep down past the buildings, casting a warm glow on the cobblestone. It was real now, well sinking in at least. Tomorrow would be the first real day back, your first real day alone. If they were here, your father would be scolding your mum to leave work behind and come home. “Unless the mannequin’s legs start working they’ll still be here in the morning darling”, he’d say. You didn’t have that now, the sounds of the wireless and the lights of neighboring businesses were the only things telling you when it was time to go home for the evening.
His eyes drifted along the now deserted street, the only two lights remaining. He leaned on the counter as Lee balanced the till.
“Who’s running the shop over there now?” He asked, nodding his head across the street.
Lee looked up from the drawer to the window across the street toward the Needle & Knot, “Oh Y/N Y/L/N.”
“Should that mean something to me?” He asked.
“She was in our year.” Lee just stared at him.
“So she mentioned, can’t remember that name for the life of me though.” He replied shrugging.
“Pretty sure she was a Ravenclaw,” Ron added, passing behind them with an armful of overstock.
George frowned across the street. “Still nothing.”
Lee shut the till drawer. “You knew about six people outside Gryffindor.”
“That’s not true.”
“Name three Hufflepuffs.”
George opened his mouth to respond but found himself coming up blank.
Ron snorted at him.
“Oh, piss off.”
“I don’t remember much of her from school to be honest,” Lee said “she lost both her parents in the war, it seems she’s taken over the shop.”
The following morning came much too quickly. You stood behind the counter of Needle & Knot with your hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since stopped steaming, staring at the little wooden sign hanging from the front door.
One turn. That was all it took. Your father had done it every morning for as long as you could remember. Sometimes your mum beat him to it, usually because she'd already been working for an hour by the time he arrived with breakfast tucked beneath his arm. You swallowed.
"Don't be ridiculous." You muttered to yourself, embarrassed.
The shop offered no argument.
With considerably more force than necessary, you flipped the sign.
For nearly five minutes, nothing happened.
You weren't sure whether to feel relieved or insulted.
Then the bell above the door rang, by eleven, you hadn't sat down once. People remembered Needle & Knot. More importantly, they remembered your parents. Mrs Abbott stood at the counter for nearly twenty minutes telling you how your father had altered her son's first set of Hogwarts robes. An older wizard squeezed your hand when he realized who you were and told you your mother had made his wife's wedding robes thirty-seven years ago. There were condolences. Far too many condolences. But there were orders too.
A torn traveling cloak. Three pairs of trousers that needed hemming. A set of Ministry robes with a split seam. A little girl who needed her first Hogwarts robes altered before September.
You could work with orders, orders had measurements. Deadlines. Answers. People were considerably more difficult.
Across the street, George had noticed the rush before lunch. Not intentionally. At least, that was what he told himself when Lee caught him standing beside the front display with his attention nowhere near the Pygmy Puffs he was supposedly rearranging.
"She's busy."
George glanced over his shoulder, "What?"
Lee nodded toward the window.
George followed his gaze as though he hadn't already been looking in exactly that direction. Needle & Knot's door opened again, two women stepping onto the pavement while you remained behind the counter with a measuring tape hanging around your neck.
"Y/L/N, you said?"
Lee sighed, "Yes."
George frowned toward the opposite shop. "Still doesn't ring a bell."
"Maybe you hit your head more often than we realized." Lee snorted.
It took another three days for you to catch him staring. You were outside rearranging a small display of fabric swatches when you looked up and found George standing in the doorway of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, arms crossed loosely over his chest. You raised an eyebrow.
“What?"
"Nothing."
"You've been looking at me for nearly a minute."
"Have not."
"You have."
George pushed himself away from the doorframe and crossed the street, apparently deciding that being caught meant he might as well commit to whatever he'd been doing.
He stopped beside your display, "I'm trying to remember you."
You stared at him, "That's incredibly flattering."
He smiled despite himself, "Give me something."
You folded your arms, "Fifth year. Charms. Professor Flitwick."
"That generally follows from Charms."
Your eyes narrowed, "You and Fred set my homework on fire."
George's expression changed immediately.
"Oh."
"There it is."
He pointed at you.
"Cheering Charms."
Your mouth dropped open, "You do remember."
"Fred knocked the candle over."
"You threw a firework at him."
"It was retaliation."
"It landed on my parchment!"
George's grin widened as the memory rearranged itself properly in his head. A corridor outside Flitwick's classroom. A girl holding twelve inches of blackened parchment between two fingers. Fred bent against the wall laughing. George desperately attempting to put out the final burning corner with his sleeve while you informed both of them, with considerable creativity, exactly where they could shove their joke products.
"You cried."
"I did not."
"You absolutely cried."
"Because it was due that afternoon!"
"Flitwick gave you an extension."
"After making you redo it."
George paused, "Did he?"
"You handed it back with the bottom three inches still singed."
"We were preserving authenticity."
You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head. "Oh, piss off, Weasley."
He laughed, and there it was. Another memory. Not the homework. You.
You'd said almost exactly the same thing then.
He could see it suddenly: your hair half-falling from whatever style you'd attempted that morning, cheeks pink with fury, black ash smeared across one thumb. And after Fred had made some ridiculous apology involving the educational benefits of practical demonstrations, you'd tried desperately not to laugh. You'd failed.
George stared a second too long.
You noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Again?"
"Just remembered you."
You rolled your eyes and returned to the fabric, "Congratulations."
George walked back across the street smiling.
Lee saw him coming.
"Found her in the archives, did you?"
You became part of the street after that. George didn't notice when it happened. There was no particular morning when he decided to look for you. He simply began to know whether Needle & Knot was open from the music drifting through your doorway. He knew deliveries came on Tuesdays because the delivery wizard was useless and always left the fabric crates half on the pavement. He knew you took your tea with far too much sugar because he'd once watched you dump three spoonfuls into the cup while arguing with a supplier. He knew you forgot lunch more often than not. He knew you changed the window display yourself instead of charming it because apparently, according to you, "magic has no bloody sense of composition."
And he knew your light stayed on late. Almost as late as his.
One Thursday evening, George locked the front door of WWW and turned to find the opposite windows still glowing. You were bent over the cutting table, one hand holding fabric in place while three enchanted needles moved around you. He stared for a moment. Then looked at the two cups of tea Lee had abandoned twenty minutes earlier. A minute later, the bell above Needle & Knot's door rang.
You didn't look up, "We're closed."
"Terrible customer service." He muttered teasingly.
“To inform you that normal people occasionally go home.”
You glanced at the clock, then back at him. “You were still working five minutes ago.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve seen the error of my ways.”
“How inspiring.”
He crossed the shop and set one of the mugs beside you. “Thought I’d share my newfound wisdom.”
George leaned against the cutting table, watching your needles dart through a section of dark green fabric.
"You always stay this late?"
"Do you?"
"Asked you first."
You gave him a look, he smiled in return.
Neither answered.
For a while, the only sounds were the wireless playing softly behind the counter and the rhythmic pull of thread through cloth. George discovered he didn't mind the quiet as much when someone else was in it.
Sunday roast at the Burrow had become law. George suspected Molly would have personally dragged each of her children through the Floo if anyone attempted to miss one.
That week, Ginny had wedding magazines scattered across half the kitchen table before pudding arrived. Harry looked mildly terrified.
"You've circled six dresses," Hermione pointed out.
"I like parts of six dresses."
"That's usually how people end up with six dresses," Ron said.
Ginny threw a folded page at his head.
Molly placed a treacle tart in the center of the table.
"You ought to start booking fittings soon, Ginny."
"I know."
Ginny reached for her fork, then seemed to remember something.
"Needle & Knot reopened."
George looked up before he could stop himself.
"The place opposite the shop?"
Ginny stared at him.
"Yes, George. The shop that's been opposite yours for years."
"I know where it is."
"Do you?"
Ron snorted.
George kicked him beneath the table.
Ginny continued, "Y/N's running it now."
"Yeah."
That earned him another look.
"What?"
"You know Y/N?"
"Apparently."
Ron laughed into his drink.
"He forgot her."
"I did not forget her."
"You asked Lee who she was."
"I forgot her name."
"You forgot her entire existence."
"Thank you, Ronald."
Ginny shook her head.
"You seriously don't remember her?"
George stabbed at his tart.
"She reminded me about the Charms homework."
Ginny blinked.
Then her face changed.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"Her Yule Ball dress."
George's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. For one second, nothing. And then, blue. Not just blue. Deep midnight blue. A fitted bodice and a skirt that moved like water as you walked, tiny silver stars stitched along the hem that seemed to brighten and disappear depending on how the light caught them. You coming down the staircase into the Entrance Hall.
Fred elbowing him hard enough to nearly spill his drink.
"That's Y/L/N?"
"Apparently."
George lowered his fork.
"The blue one."
Ginny slapped both hands against the table.
"See!"
Ron looked between them.
"What blue one?"
"Her dress," Ginny said. "She made it herself."
George frowned.
"All of it?"
"Every stitch. She was sixteen."
Molly looked up from cutting the tart.
"Oh! That lovely dark blue gown? With the silver work around the bottom?"
"The stars," George said automatically.
The table went quiet.
Ron slowly turned toward him.
George realized his mistake.
"You remember the stars?"
"Everyone remembers the stars."
"I don't."
"You spent the entire ball sulking over Hermione."
"That is beside the point."
Ginny was grinning now.
"You remember her hem but not her name?"
"I had eyes."
"You stared at her."
"I noticed a dress."
"You noticed her dress."
"Same thing."
Ginny leaned back in her chair.
"I'm asking her."
Harry looked up.
"Asking her what?"
"To make my gown."
Molly's face softened.
"You think she's ready for something that large?"
George looked toward his mother, something about the question bothered him. He thought of you behind the cutting table. Hair thrown up into a tangled mess, wand tucked behind your ear, tongue peaking out of your lips ever so slightly as you fed the fabric into the sewing machine. The shop full before noon. Three needles working at once while you marked fabric by hand. The little book of new orders already beginning to crowd the old ones above the table.
"She made that dress at sixteen," he said, everyone looked at him again. George shrugged. "Reckon she can manage it."
Ginny smiled.
"Exactly."
You nearly dropped your tea when Ginny Weasley walked into Needle & Knot two mornings later.
"Please tell me you need a hem."
Ginny laughed.
"Bit bigger than that."
She placed a folded stack of magazine pages onto the counter.
Your stomach dropped.
"No."
"Very reassuring."
"I didn't mean no. I meant-" You stared at the photographs, wedding gowns.
Ginny smiled.
"I remember your Yule Ball dress."
You looked up.
"You do?"
"I was thirteen. I thought you looked like something out of a storybook."
A laugh escaped you, "I spent most of that night convinced the left sleeve was going to fall off."
"It didn't."
"By sheer force of will."
Ginny pushed the pages closer.
"I want you to make mine."
The shop went very quiet.
For a second, you saw your mum at the cutting table. Your father leaning against the counter. “Your first proper bridal commission,” your mother would have said. Your father would've already been calculating fabric costs.
Your throat tightened.
"I've never made a wedding gown."
"You've made gowns."
"Not one that someone's going to remember for the rest of their life."
Ginny's expression softened.
"I remember yours."
That did it, You looked down at the clippings in front of you before your eyes betrayed you.
Then cleared your throat.
"All right."
Ginny beamed.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, sit down before I change my mind."
The gown took over Needle & Knot. Sketches covered half the back wall. Fabric samples hung from everything. Ginny appeared twice a week, usually accompanied by Molly, Hermione, or occasionally Harry, who was immediately banished whenever anything remotely revealing needed pinning.
George saw them crossing the street often, he pretended not to be interested.
Then Molly arrived at WWW one afternoon carrying a garment bag. George saw her and immediately became suspicious.
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"You've got that face."
"What face?"
"The one that usually ends with me doing something unpleasant."
Molly ignored him, "Your robes for the wedding need fitting."
"They fit."
"They're from Bill's wedding."
"Still got all my limbs."
"George."
"Mum."
"Thursday. Two o'clock."
"Where?"
Molly looked at him like he was particularly slow.
"Needle & Knot."
George paused. Lee, standing behind the counter, looked up immediately. George felt him looking.
"Fine."
Molly smiled.
"Good."
She kissed his cheek and left.
Silence.
George turned.
Lee was grinning.
Thursday arrived irritatingly fast. George found himself crossing the street three minutes early, stopping just short of the door as he considered walking around the block once for good measure. He shook his head at himself, grabbing the handle and pushing the door open instead. The bell chimed above him, you stood bent over a section of ivory fabric with pins held between your lips, barely lifting your head at the sound.
“If that’s you, Weasley, you’re early.”
George stopped just inside the door. “How’d you know?”
You pulled the pins from your mouth, setting them beside you. “Your mother came in yesterday.”
“Ah,” he nodded, shrugging his jacket off. “Thought you had some sort of special gift.”
“I do.” You finally looked up, eyes trailing over him for a moment. “It’s called pattern recognition.”
“Nice to see you too.”
You pointed towards the fitting platform without another word. “Up.”
George stepped onto it, watching as you crossed towards the garment bag Molly had left behind the day prior. You pulled the dark formal robes from inside, holding them out in front of you with a slight grimace.
“These are hideous.”
“Your mother chose them.”
“They’re beautiful.” He corrected himself quickly.
“Thought so.” You held them towards him, nodding towards the screen in the corner.
A few minutes later he stepped back out, tugging at the sleeves as he walked towards you. Your eyes lifted from the parchment in your hand and paused on him for just a second longer than they probably should have. George noticed immediately.
“Problem?”
“No.” You looked back down.
“Looked like a problem.”
“Stand on the platform, George.”
He grinned, doing as he was told. You pulled the measuring tape from around your neck, stepping closer to him. “Arms out.”
He obliged, watching you loop the tape around his chest. “Bit forward, aren’t you?”
“Occupational hazard.” You muttered, pulling the tape tighter before scribbling the measurement down.
You moved it lower around his waist, George looking down towards you with a small smirk. “Steady.”
You didn’t even bother looking up. “I’ve handled more impressive measurements.”
George went silent.
You made another small mark on the parchment before finally glancing towards him. “Something wrong?”
“…No.”
“Good. Turn around.”
He did, mostly because his brain had suddenly decided it had nothing useful left to contribute. You moved behind him, pinching the fabric at his shoulders and marking where you wanted to bring it in. George stared straight ahead, almost able to hear Fred laughing at him from whatever corner of the universe he’d ended up in.
Smooth, Georgie.
“You’re standing crooked.”
“I am not.”
“You are.” Your hand landed between his shoulder blades, pushing him upright lightly. “There.”
George became dangerously aware of your hand against his back. Which was ridiculous really, you’d touched him several times already. It was tailoring. You were fitting his robes. Entirely professional and entirely normal.
Still, when you stepped around him and reached to fold his collar properly, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, something shifted uncomfortably in his chest.
He looked down towards you. Your brows were pinched together in concentration, chalk covered the side of your hand and a stray piece of hair had fallen loose towards your face.
“You’re staring.” You muttered.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I’m checking your work.”
“You wouldn’t know what you were looking at.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
He smiled despite himself, holding still while you fixed the other side of his collar.
By the time you finally allowed him down from the platform, George had decided there was something fundamentally unfair about being made to stand still while a pretty woman put her hands all over him and insulted him.
“Done.” You stepped back.
“That’s it?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I was promised a fitting.”
“And you’ve been fitted.”
“Barely felt a thing.”
You stared blankly at him. “Do you want me to stab you with a pin so you feel you’ve gotten your money’s worth?”
George grinned, disappearing behind the screen to change. “There’s the customer service Needle & Knot is famous for.”
Lee knew before George had managed to get both feet back inside Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
“How was the fitting?” He asked, barely hiding the grin on his face.
“Fine.”
Ron looked up from behind one of the displays. “Your ears are red.”
“They are not.”
“They are too.”
“It’s warm outside.”
Ron looked pointedly towards the front windows, rain streaking down the glass. “It’s raining.”
George shrugged his jacket off with more force than necessary. Lee leaned his elbows against the till, grin widening.
“Good tailor then?”
“Excellent tailor.”
Ron and Lee exchanged a look.
George pointed between the pair of them. “Don’t start.”
Neither said anything.
It was somehow worse.
The evenings slowly became the easiest part of the day. Once both shops had emptied and Diagon Alley grew quiet, one of you inevitably ended up crossing the street. Some nights George sat on your cutting table eating whatever takeaway he’d picked up while you worked around him. Other nights you sat behind the counter with George while he tested products that probably shouldn’t have been tested indoors.
Neither of you ever mentioned why you were both still working hours after everyone else had gone home. You didn’t have to.
One evening George found you stood behind the cutting table staring at the old order slips still pinned along the cork strip. He’d noticed them weeks ago, the dates standing out amongst the newer orders that had slowly started filling the space around them. He hadn’t asked.
“Those from before?” He finally said, stepping up beside you.
You nodded. “Some.”
His eyes moved over the dates. Too old to still be unfinished orders. He understood what that meant before you had to explain it.
“That one was Mrs Fletcher’s.” You pointed towards a yellowed slip near the end. “She came in every Christmas because she insisted nobody in London could hem wool properly except my dad.”
George smiled lightly.
“She was horrible.”
He looked towards you.
“Lovely woman. Horrible customer.” You corrected, lips pulling into a small smile. “Dad adored her.”
Your fingers moved along the strip, stopping over another.
“That one was school robes. Boy going into his sixth year.”
George didn’t ask what happened to him.
You didn’t offer.
There were too many stories like that now.
“I thought about taking them down.” You admitted after a moment.
“But?”
Your fingers caught the edge of one parchment slip, your father’s writing still perfectly visible along the front.
“Feels wrong.”
George looked at them for another moment. There was still a mug upstairs nobody used. Fred’s handwriting covered an old product board in the stockroom because George couldn’t bring himself to clean it off. One of his jackets still hung beside George’s bed untouched. There was still, embarrassingly enough, a pair of Fred’s socks shoved half beneath the dresser where he’d kicked them one night.
George had stepped over them every morning for more than two years.
Not because he believed Fred was coming back for any of it. He knew better than that, moving them just felt too much like doing something Fred was supposed to do himself.
“Then leave them.” He shrugged.
You looked towards him. “Yeah?”
“They’re not hurting anything.”
“No.” You smiled faintly, looking back towards the orders. “Everyone keeps telling me they’d be proud.”
George’s face changed slightly.
You noticed.
“That look tells me you’ve heard it too.” You let out a quiet laugh. “Drives me mad.”
“Yeah.”
“I know they mean well.”
“They always do.”
You rested your palms against the edge of the cutting table. “Mum should be here to tell me Ginny’s gown is all wrong.”
George looked towards you.
“She would’ve loved it.”
“No.” You shook your head, almost laughing. “She would’ve found twelve things wrong with it, redone half my stitching when I went home and then told everyone who walked through the door that I’d made every bit of it myself.”
That made him laugh. The sound pulled one from you too, though yours caught strangely in your throat.
George looked down towards the floor.
“Fred would’ve told everyone the shop had gone to shit without him.”
You snorted. “Has it?”
“Obviously.”
“Good to know.”
“He’d have walked in, insulted every display I’d changed, told Ron he was doing everything wrong and then claimed every successful product since the war had secretly been his idea.”
“Sounds irritating.”
“Massively.”
George was smiling when he said it.
For a few seconds Fred wasn’t the body George remembered on the floor of the Great Hall and your parents weren’t people everyone suddenly got quiet about when they came up in conversation. They were just Fred and your mum and dad. Annoying as ever, apparently.
The smile faded from your face first.
“My dad should be here to be proud of it himself.”
George went still, you hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but once it was there you couldn’t take it back.
“Everyone keeps saying how proud they’d be that I came back and opened the shop.” Your voice dropped quieter. “And I know they would be. I know that. I just-” You looked around Needle & Knot. “I don’t want them to be proud from wherever they are. I want my mum standing over my shoulder telling me I’ve pinned something crooked. I want Dad complaining that I’ve ordered fabric we can’t afford.”
Your eyes found his.
“That’s horrible, isn’t it?”
He leaned back against the cutting table beside you, folding his arms loosely.
“People say the same thing about Fred. That he’d be proud I kept the shop going.”
George stared through the front window towards his own shop.
“I hate it.”
“Why?”
He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
Then he shrugged, though there was nothing casual about his voice.
“Because he should’ve been here to be proud of it himself.”
Your chest tightened.
George rubbed his thumb against the side of his hand.
“Wasn’t supposed to become my shop.”
You looked at him.
“Needle & Knot wasn’t supposed to become mine yet either.”
“No.”
There was something oddly comforting in hearing somebody else say it.
This wasn’t how either of you had been supposed to get here.
You slowly slid down until you were sat against the cupboards beneath the cutting table, legs stretched out in front of you.
George looked down.
“What?”
“My feet hurt.”
“Compelling.”
“You’re welcome to continue looming.”
He rolled his eyes before lowering himself beside you.
The wireless played quietly from the shelf. Your tea sat forgotten somewhere behind you, George’s probably doing the same across the street.
You sat shoulder to shoulder for a while.
“Do you ever feel guilty?” You asked eventually.
George glanced towards you. “For what?”
“When it’s good.”
He knew immediately.
You looked down at your hands.
“When the shop’s full. When I finish something, it’s actually good. When I’m excited about a design they never got to see.” You swallowed. “Sometimes I’ll be happy for half a second and then remember why I’m the one sat behind the counter.”
George nodded slowly.
“All the bloody time.”
You looked over.
“When we have a good day, sometimes I still think I ought to tell him.” His mouth pulled into something close to a smile. “Still turn around sometimes.”
Your eyes stung.
George’s shoulder pressed a little more firmly against yours.
Neither of you bothered trying to make the other feel better, there wasn’t really anything either of you could say that would. Somehow that was nicer than being told it would all be alright anyway.
The orders stayed hanging above your heads.
Fred’s mug stayed upstairs.
Your parents stayed gone.
Nothing had changed really.
Still, sitting there on the floor beside him, it felt slightly less like you were carrying all of it alone.
Ginny’s final fitting came three days before the wedding. Needle & Knot had all but disappeared beneath ivory fabric over the last few weeks, scraps covering the cutting table and sketches still pinned across the back wall. You stood behind Ginny now, staring at her reflection in the mirror as you smoothed the last section of the skirt.
It was everything you’d hoped it would be. Soft ivory gathered at the waist, delicate embroidery twisting down the sleeves and disappearing into the train. Elegant without swallowing her whole. Ginny looked like Ginny, that had been the most important part.
Her eyes started to fill as she looked at herself.
“Oh.”
Your stomach dropped. “Bad oh?”
She turned towards you, shaking her head quickly. “No.”
Molly was already crying from the chair beside the platform, Hermione stood beside her with both hands covering her mouth.
Ginny looked down at the gown again. “It’s perfect.”
You blinked quickly, forcing the sudden burn behind your eyes away. “Good.”
Molly stood from the chair and wrapped her arms around you before you could protest. “You’ve done beautifully.”
That nearly did you in.
Your eyes shut for just a second, picturing your mum beside the platform correcting a loose stitch, your dad muttering about how much fabric you’d managed to use.
“Thank you.” You swallowed, pulling away before you embarrassed yourself entirely.
George came across later that evening for his final fitting. Two small adjustments were all that remained, although he complained dramatically about you stabbing him despite the fact the pin had never so much as touched his skin.
“You’re unbearable.” You muttered.
“Sensitive.”
“There’s a difference.”
He eventually disappeared behind the screen and came back out in his normal clothes, but instead of leaving he lingered beside the counter. You began putting away the chalk and pins, giving him several minutes before finally looking up.
“Have you forgotten how doors work?”
“Going Saturday?”
You paused. “To the wedding?”
“Generally what people do on Saturdays.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “I wasn’t invited, George.”
His expression shifted. “Oh.”
You shrugged, sliding the chalk back into its drawer. “I wasn’t expecting to be.”
He looked towards the ivory scraps still scattered along the table before his eyes came back to you.
“I could invite you.”
Your hand stopped against the drawer. “You could?”
“Yeah.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You made the bloody thing. Seems a shame not to see Ginny swanning about in it.”
You fought a smile. “Swanning about?”
“It’s her wedding. She’ll be unbearable.”
You leaned your hip against the counter. “Are you asking me to Harry Potter’s wedding?”
“Technically it’s Ginny’s wedding too. Bit rude leaving her out.”
“George.”
He looked at you then, the joke falling away just enough for you to catch what sat underneath it.
“I’m asking if you’d like to come.”
Your chest warmed. “As your date?”
George paused, caught slightly off guard by how much more serious it sounded when you said it.
“If you want.”
You raised a brow. “That’s a terrible way to ask.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“Clearly.”
His mouth twitched. “Come with me?”
You let him suffer for another second before smiling. “Yeah. All right.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t make me change my mind, Weasley.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” George smiled properly then, and suddenly you understood why he’d spent seven years at Hogwarts being so impossible to forget.
You made your own dress. You told yourself it wasn’t because you had anything to prove as you stood in front of the mirror Saturday afternoon adjusting the final seam. You’d spent weeks making sure Ginny’s gown was perfect, yours had been pieced together during the quiet hours in between. It wasn’t blue. You couldn’t bring yourself to recreate the Yule Ball dress even if half the Weasley family apparently remembered it better than you did. Instead you chose something softer, fitted around your waist with lace falling along your sleeves. Simple compared to Ginny’s, but yours.
You stepped outside Needle & Knot to find George already waiting along the cobblestone. He looked up towards you, expression freezing for a moment.
You shifted under his stare. “What?”
“That’s new.”
You stared at him. “Excellent observation.”
“No, I mean-” His eyes moved down your dress and back towards your face. “You made that?”
“Yes.”
“For tonight?”
“Unless you’re planning on inviting me to another wedding next week.”
George smiled, eyes lingering another moment. When he spoke again his voice had softened.
“You look lovely.”
Heat climbed into your cheeks. “Thank you.”
He offered you his arm, you took it without thinking twice.
The Burrow looked almost unreal dressed for a wedding. Flowers floated above the garden, lanterns hung between the trees and long tables stretched along the grass beneath ribbons of fabric. You’d spent most of your childhood around formal fittings and wedding parties coming through Needle & Knot but you’d never attended one that felt like this.
Not after everything.
Maybe that was why it felt so significant. Everyone standing in that garden had managed to survive long enough to celebrate something.
When Ginny finally appeared the entire garden went silent. Harry’s face crumpled almost immediately at the sight of her and you couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped you. George looked towards his sister first, then Harry.
Then for some reason he looked at you.
Your eyes had already started to fill. You’d made that. Something that would hang in photographs for decades. Something Ginny might show her children one day. Something made for a future.
George’s hand tightened around yours.
You glanced down, only then realizing at some point you’d started holding it.
Neither of you let go.
It happened later. Not during the ceremony or their first dance, it wasn’t even during one of the speeches. It happened while everyone was being shuffled around the garden for photographs.
“Weasley brothers next!” Someone called from behind the camera.
The silence lasted barely half a second.
George smiled.
He walked forward, stood beside his remaining brothers, made some ridiculous comment that had everyone around them laughing and carried on like nothing had happened.
You watched him do all of it.
Twenty minutes later you found him sitting on the old stone wall behind the orchard, his elbows resting against his knees. You didn’t ask if he was alright. You didn’t think he’d appreciate the question much anyway.
You sat beside him instead.
For a while neither of you said anything. The music from the wedding drifted through the trees, muffled now by the distance. George rubbed his palms together before finally speaking.
“I’m ruining your first Weasley wedding.”
You looked over at him. “Pretty sure you’re allowed to be sad at your sister’s wedding.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “Feels a bit selfish.”
“Why?”
“Everyone’s happy.”
“So are you.”
That made him look at you.
You shrugged lightly. “Doesn’t mean you’re only allowed one thing at a time.”
His eyes fell back towards the grass and you let him sit with it. You didn’t know Fred the way he had. You weren’t going to pretend you understood what it felt like to lose half of yourself, same as George never pretended losing Fred meant he understood exactly what losing your parents felt like.
You understood enough though.
“Though if you cry on those robes after I spent three hours fixing the shoulders, I will kill you.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, real this time. He covered his face with one hand.
“You’re awful.”
“I’ve been told.”
His shoulders shook once, then again. It took you a moment to realize he was laughing and crying at the same time.
So you stayed.
Eventually his hand dropped between the two of you, fingers brushing yours before wrapping around them. You held on.
“People don’t say his name much anymore.” He said quietly.
You knew exactly who he meant. “Fred.”
His fingers tightened around yours. “Yeah.”
“I remember him.”
George looked towards you.
“He was the one laughing when my homework caught fire.”
The smallest smile pulled at his mouth. “That sounds like him.”
“You were trying to put it out.”
“I was the responsible one.”
You scoffed. “Let’s not get carried away.”
George laughed again.
You rested your shoulder lightly against his, feeling him tense for only a second before he settled against you. His head leaned towards yours, just slightly.
Enough.
You didn’t fix George and George didn’t fix you. It wasn’t really how any of it worked.
The old orders remained hanging above the cutting table. Fred’s mug remained upstairs. Some mornings opening the shop still felt impossible and some nights both sets of lights stayed on far later than they should have.
Things changed anyway.
George stopped needing an excuse to show up at Needle & Knot. Half the time you’d glance up from your work and find him sitting on the cutting table without remembering hearing the bell above the door. You started leaving before midnight because more often than not someone was stood in your doorway complaining that he was starving and apparently incapable of eating without you.
He learned when to make you laugh.
You learned when not to.
The front window changed eventually. It took you nearly an entire Sunday, pulling down the old display and replacing it with something that looked less like what your parents had left behind and more like the sketches that had spent years filling the margins of your parchment.
George noticed immediately.
“Changed it.”
You glanced towards him from the doorway. “Do you hate it?”
“No.”
He stood on the cobblestone with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking through the glass for another moment before smiling.
“Looks like someone lives here again.”
Your throat tightened.
You reached for his hand without saying anything, George took it just as easily.
Across the street Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes glowed brightly beneath the evening sky, Needle & Knot’s wireless playing softly behind you. Two shops that had been left behind by people who should’ve had much more time inside them. Two people learning that moving forward didn’t mean they had to leave anyone behind.
George looked down towards you.
“Tea?”
“You buying?”
“Always.”
You smiled. “Then yes.”
He kissed your temple, tugging you gently along the cobblestone with him.
Teach Me How To Not Stare At You || George Weasley x Reader
George Weasley x Reader
the summer before sixth year, the year where you suddenly take up more space in his mind than you had previously.
Word Count : 3.3k
Warnings : Language and Drinking, TeenagerStuff.
Originally, you had planned to spend an evening at the Burrow before heading into Diagon Alley for this year’s supplies.
Somehow, an evening had turned into staying until the start of term.
It wasn’t your first summer at the Burrow. You’d known the twins since first year, spent enough holidays tucked inside the crooked little house that Molly no longer bothered asking whether you were staying for dinner. You knew which stair complained loudest after midnight, which cupboard held the good biscuits, and exactly how far to lean out of the upstairs bathroom window to get a decent view of the orchard.
You’d even babysat Ron and Ginny a few times when they were younger, though Ron became furious whenever you reminded him.
Things were different this year.
Sixteen, freckle faced, and apparently incapable of looking anywhere else, George Weasley had spent most of August staring at you.
He hadn’t meant to really, that was the irritating part.
It wasn’t as though he’d suddenly forgotten what you looked like. George had known your face for five years. He’d watched it turn green over a cauldron after Fred convinced you that adding powdered moonstone to a Pepperup Potion would make it taste like peppermint. He’d seen it covered in soot, pumpkin juice, ink and, on one memorable occasion, half a treacle tart.
He knew you, there was nothing new to see.
“George.”
His eyes snapped away from you.
Fred was sitting across from him at the kitchen table, spoon suspended halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
Fred’s eyes slid pointedly toward the other end of the kitchen.
You were standing beside Molly at the sink with your sleeves shoved up to your elbows, peeling potatoes and arguing with Ginny over whether Oliver Wood was attractive.
Apparently, Ginny thought he was, you thought Ginny needed higher standards.
George had been listening very carefully.
“Nothing,” he said.
Fred snorted into his porridge.
George kicked him underneath the table.
“Ow.”
“Foot slipped.”
“Course it did.”
Across the room, you laughed. George looked your way again, watching as your nose scrunched up at Ginny’s argument.
Fred slowly lowered his spoon.
“Mate.”
“Shut up.”
“I haven't even said anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was.”
George stabbed unnecessarily hard at a piece of sausage.
Fred watched him for another moment before leaning forward.
“You fancy her.”
George nearly inhaled his breakfast.
“I what?”
“You fancy-”
“I heard you.” George cut him off.
“Good.”
“I don’t.”
Fred looked toward you.
George followed his gaze automatically.
Fred looked back at him.
George realised what he'd done.
“Oh, that's embarrassing.”
“Piss off.”
Fred grinned.
This wasn't fancying you.
Fancying someone was different.
Fancying someone was Angelina Johnson walking past after Quidditch practice and Fred forgetting what sentence he'd been saying. Fancying someone was Lee Jordan spending an entire Herbology lesson trying to convince Alicia Spinnet that his hand had accidentally landed on hers four separate times.
This was different.
George couldn't explain it, he just liked looking at you. That wasn't a crime.
Fred sighed dramatically.
“Hopeless.”
George kicked him again.
The problem followed him upstairs.
It followed him into the orchard.
Everywhere you went, George’s eyes seemed to find you.
Sometimes it wasn't even interesting.
You'd be sitting on the rug beside Ginny, sorting through school books.
Helping Molly hang washing.
Falling asleep in an armchair with your mouth slightly open.
By the middle of August, Fred had begun keeping count.
“Seven.”
George didn't bother looking away from where you and Ginny were lying in the grass beneath the apple trees.
“Don't know what you're talking about.”
“That's seven today.”
“Seven what?”
“Times I've caught you staring at her.”
“Get a hobby.”
“This is my hobby.”
George finally looked at his brother, Fred was stretched beside him against the trunk of a tree, hands behind his head and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You know,” Fred continued, “you could just tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“That you've developed some kind of illness.”
George shoved his shoulder.
Fred laughed.
“I don't fancy her.”
“You've said.”
“I don't.”
“Course.”
From somewhere across the orchard came Ginny's shriek as you apparently attempted to shove an apple down the back of her shirt.
George smiled before he could stop himself.
Fred’s grin softened into something worse.
“Oh,” Fred said.
George frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.”
Fred's expression turned innocent.
George knew that expression. It had preceded several explosions and one memorable incident involving Percy’s prefect badge and a charm that made it scream obscenities every time he polished it.
“What?”
Fred shrugged.
“You really like her.”
George opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the annoying thing was that Fred hadn't said fancy that time.
He'd said like, and George couldn't dismiss that nearly as easily.
Of course he liked you, you were his friend.
One of his best, really. You'd been there before Lee. Before Quidditch victories and OWLs and joke products hidden beneath floorboards. You'd met George when he was eleven years old, all elbows and freckles and ambitions that mostly involved seeing how many dungbombs one could fit inside Filch's office before detection.
You'd grown up with him.
There had never been a question of whether you'd be there.
You simply were.
George looked across the orchard again.
You'd abandoned your attack on Ginny and were lying flat on your back now, staring at the sky.
Something tightened unpleasantly in his chest.
“What happens after Hogwarts?” he asked.
Fred turned his head.
“What?”
George regretted it immediately.
“Nothing.”
“No, go on.”
“I just mean,” He shrugged. “Things'll be different.”
“We'll have the shop.”
“Yeah.”
That part George could see clearly.
Him and Fred. A shop. Shelves filled with things they'd invented instead of essays they hadn't written. No teachers telling them what they couldn't test or where they couldn't set something off. That future had always been easy.
But suddenly George pictured the shop without you wandering through the front door whenever you felt like it, and he didn't like it.
Fred watched him, raising a brow.
“You know she'll still exist when we leave school, right?”
“Obviously.”
“You can visit people.”
“I'm aware.”
“There's this brilliant new invention called an owl.”
“Shut up.”
Fred grinned.
He wondered, distantly, when he'd started worrying about missing things that hadn't ended yet.
By half three the next afternoon, Fred had decided stealing the Firewhisky had been a brilliant idea.
After ten minutes, George had decided Fred was an idiot.
And by four, you had all forgotten who'd suggested it in the first place.
“This tastes like furniture polish.”
You were lying on your back beneath one of the apple trees, holding the bottle above your face with a look of deep personal betrayal.
George snorted.
“You drink furniture polish often?”
“Enough to recognise it.”
Fred reached across George and stole the bottle from you.
“Ungrateful.”
“You nicked it.”
“Acquired.”
“From where?”
Fred took a mouthful and immediately coughed into his sleeve.
George grinned.
“Smooth.”
“Shut up.”
You laughed.
George looked at you.
He'd been doing that too much lately.
Looking.
Noticing.
You were wearing an old jumper that had once belonged to Charlie, then Fred, and now seemed to have somehow become yours. One sleeve covered most of your hand. There was grass stuck in your hair.
You looked completely at home, that was the strangest part.
The first time you'd stayed at the Burrow, George had waited for you to say something about it.
Not because there was anything wrong with his home.
There wasn't.
But he knew.
He knew the roof leaned.
He knew most of the furniture had belonged to somebody else first. He knew the plates didn't match and the pipes complained and Ron's dress robes had once belonged to some ancient relative nobody could remember.
He knew because other people noticed.
Some tried not to.
That was worse.
You never had.
You'd walked into the Burrow at twelve years old, asked why there was a ghoul upstairs, and then spent twenty minutes trying to convince Fred and George to introduce you to it.
At thirteen, you'd helped Molly degnome the garden and declared it “more fun than Quidditch,” which was objectively insane.
At fourteen, you'd slept on a camp bed in Ginny's room and complained only because Ginny kicked in her sleep.
Now you were sixteen, drunk in his orchard, wearing his brother's old jumper like you'd been born in it.
George stared, you turned your head towards him.
“There he goes again.”
Fred didn't even look up.
“Eight.”
“Fuck off.”
You grinned.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
“You always say that.”
“Because you're always imagining things.”
“Am I?”
You sat up, slower than usual, and took the bottle from Fred.
George watched you take another cautious sip.
Your face twisted immediately.
“Still horrible.”
“And yet,” George said, “you continue.”
“I'm committed now.”
“To what?”
You considered this.
“Poor decisions.”
Fred raised his hand.
“To poor decisions.”
You clinked the bottle against his palm.
George laughed.
From the house, Molly shouted something none of you could quite make out.
All three of you froze.
Fred lowered his voice.
“Do you think she knows?”
“She always knows,” George said.
You looked mildly horrified.
“Will she kill us?”
“No.”
Fred thought about it.
“Maybe.”
“Fred!” You squealed
“She likes you. You'll survive.”
You looked toward the Burrow.
The late-afternoon sun made the crooked windows shine.
Smoke curled lazily from the chimney.
Somewhere upstairs, the ghoul thumped against a pipe.
You smiled.
“I love it here.”
George looked at you.
You didn't seem to realise you'd said anything important.
Fred was attempting to balance the Firewhisky bottle against his knee.
George said, “What?”
You glanced at him.
“You said you love it here.”
“I do.” You said it like it was obvious.
George waited for the punchline, none came.
“Why?” He questioned.
Now you looked at him like he was stupid.
“Because it's the Burrow.”
“That clears it up.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don't.”
You gestured vaguely toward the house.
“It's loud.”
George laughed.
“Excellent start.”
“Everyone's always in everyone else's business.”
“Getting better.”
“Your mum feeds people until they physically can't move. Your dad brings home rubbish and acts like he's discovered buried treasure. The stairs sound like they're dying. There's something living in the attic.”
“Ghoul.”
“Right. Him.”
You smiled.
“And nobody ever has to ask if they're allowed to be here.”
George stopped smiling.
You picked at the label on the bottle.
“At my house, people visit.”
You looked toward the Burrow again.
“Here, they just sort of become part of it.”
Something strange happened in George's chest.
You took another drink.
“And your mum's going to lose her mind when she finds out we stole this.”
Fred nodded solemnly.
“Beautifully said.”
You shoved him.
George was still looking at you.
Not because of your hair.
Not because of the way the sun caught your face.
Not even because he'd spent most of the summer discovering that apparently his best friend had become unfairly pretty when he wasn't paying attention.
Because you looked at his home, the crooked, noisy, overcrowded, patched-together Burrow, and somehow saw exactly what he saw.
Not what it cost, what it was worth.
“George.”
He blinked.
You were watching him.
“What?”
“You're staring again.”
Fred lifted one finger.
“Nine.”
George threw an apple at him.
Fred ducked and the apple sailed past him into the long grass.
“You nearly killed me.”
“Tragic.”
“Would've ruined Mum's afternoon.”
“Only because she'd have to clean you up.”
You laughed so hard you nearly tipped sideways.
George caught your elbow.
Fred saw that too.
His mouth curled.
You were still leaning slightly into George, either because you'd had too much Firewhisky or because neither of you had noticed.
George noticed.
He noticed everything now.
Fred looked between the two of you.
Then toward the house.
“I think I'm hungry.”
“You ate twenty minutes ago,” George said.
“Growing boy.”
“You're leaving.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Fred stood, brushing grass from his trousers.
“What a strange accusation.”
“Fred.”
“I'll tell Mum you both died.”
“Tell her George killed me first,” you said.
George looked down at you.
“You're taking his side?”
“Always.”
“Cruel.”
Fred gave George a look over your head that was so smug it should've been illegal.
Then he wandered toward the house, whistling.
George watched him go.
“Bastard.”
You laughed.
“He's giving you privacy.”
“I don't need privacy.”
“Right.”
You were smiling at him.
George looked away.
That lasted about three seconds.
“Ten,” you said.
His eyes narrowed.
“You're counting now?”
“Someone has to carry on Fred's legacy.”
“You're both insufferable.”
“You love us.”
George's gaze caught yours.
The answer came so quickly he nearly said it, instead he scoffed.
“Debatable.”
You leaned back against the tree.
George took the Firewhisky from you before you could have another mouthful.
“Oi.”
“You're cut off.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“You're not my dad.”
“Thank Merlin.”
You reached for the bottle.
George held it away.
You climbed half over him trying to get it.
“Give it back.”
“No, you've had enough.”
“You've had more than me.”
“I've got a higher tolerance.”
“You're bigger by about four inches.”
“Exactly.”
“That isn't how alcohol works.”
“Sounds right.”
You grabbed his wrist with both hands.
George tried to keep the bottle out of reach.
You were laughing.
He was laughing.
And then you slipped.
Not far.
Just enough to land against him.
Your face ended up inches from his.
Both of you stopped.
George could smell Firewhisky on your breath.
Could see the tiny crease beside your eye from laughing.
Could feel your hand still around his wrist.
His heart began doing something fucking stupid.
You blinked.
“Still want to tell me you’re not staring?”
Your voice had gone quieter.
George stared.
You smiled slowly.
“Eleven.”
“Shut up.”
But he was smiling too.
The storm came three days later.
It had been threatening all afternoon.
The air hung thick and heavy over the Burrow, turning everyone's shirts sticky and making Ron complain so persistently that Molly eventually chased him from the kitchen with a tea towel.
George and Fred had been testing a new prototype near the edge of the orchard.
You had been enlisted as an unwilling observer.
“If this takes my eyebrows off,” you warned, “I'm telling your mother.”
“You're sixteen,” Fred said. “Bit old for tattling.”
“I'm never too old to tell Molly when you've endangered me.”
George adjusted the small cylinder in his hand.
“You're perfectly safe.”
You stared at him.
“You said that before you turned my hair purple.”
“That was safe.”
“It lasted two weeks.”
“Purple suited you.”
Your eyes narrowed.
George grinned.
Fred groaned.
“Could you two flirt after we determine whether this explodes?”
George's ears went hot.
You threw a handful of grass at Fred.
“We're not flirting.”
“Didn't say you were any good at it.”
The first crack of thunder saved George from having to answer.
You looked up.
The sky above the orchard had turned nearly black.
“That doesn't look good.”
“It'll pass,” Fred said.
A fat drop of rain landed directly on his forehead.
Then another.
Then the sky opened.
You screamed.
Fred swore.
George grabbed the box of prototypes while the three of you bolted toward the Burrow.
The three of you took off toward the house.
Halfway there, you pointed toward Arthur’s little shed.
“There!”
George followed you.
He stumbled inside behind you, soaked through and laughing.
Then turned.
Fred was gone.
George squinted through the rain.
A ginger head was disappearing toward the house.
“Bastard.”
You looked out.
“He left us?”
“Yep.”
“Some brother.”
George knew exactly what Fred was doing.
You leaned against the wall, dripping water onto the floor.
George looked.
You caught him.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve been doing it all summer.”
George froze.
“You noticed?”
You laughed.
“George, everyone noticed.”
That was worse.
“Brilliant.”
“You thought you were subtle?”
Rain hammered against the roof.
You shoved wet hair out of your face.
George watched.
You pointed at him.
“There!”
“What?”
“Again.”
“I was looking at your hair.”
“My hair is attached to my head.”
“Unfortunate.”
You shoved him.
George caught your wrist.
Then neither of you moved.
A normal moment would suddenly stop feeling normal.
Your hand in his.
Your face too close.
You smiling at him.
George forgot what he was about to say.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You always say that.”
“Works sometimes.”
“Not really.”
Another crack of thunder sounded.
You jumped, barely.
George grinned.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Scared?”
“No.”
“You jumped.”
“Reflex.”
“Could protect you.”
“From thunder?”
“I’m very brave.”
“You ran away from a gnome yesterday.”
“It bit me.”
“You screamed.”
“It surprised me.”
“You made Molly look at your ankle.”
“It could’ve been infected.”
You started laughing, George did too.
Then you looked at him.
He was staring again, a lopsided smile on his lips.
This time you didn’t tease him.
“George?”
He let go of your wrist.
“Sorry.”
“You’re weird.”
“I know.”
“Different weird.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
The Burrow was maybe a hundred yards away.
He considered making a run for it.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m wet.”
“You’ve been wet for ten minutes.”
“Could get wetter.”
“We’re inside.”
“You’re argumentative.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“You haven’t asked one.”
You folded your arms.
“Fine. Why do you keep staring at me?”
George looked anywhere else.
The doorway.
The rain.
A shovel, lovely shovel.
“George.”
“I could lie.”
“You’re bad at it.”
“I’m excellent at lying.”
“You once told McGonagall a suit of armour exploded by itself while holding the firework.”
“Circumstantial evidence.”
You smiled at him as he sighed.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s your answer?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know?”
“I mean,I sort of know.”
You waited.
George hated when people waited.
“You’ve gone strange.”
Your mouth fell open.
“I’ve gone strange?”
“Not like that.”
“Great start.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re doing wonderfully.”
“You’ve just always been around.”
“That keeps getting better.”
“No, listen.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“You’ve been there since first year. You’re at school. You come here. You’re at Christmas sometimes. You’re just…”
He gestured at you.
“Here.”
You stared.
“I’m fucking this up.”
“A little.”
George looked down at the floor.
“I don’t think I noticed before.”
“Noticed what?”
“You.”
You went quiet.
“That sounded bad.”
“It did.”
“I know you existed.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I mean I didn’t-Merlin.”
You were smiling now.
Which helped.
A bit.
“You’ve always been you,” George said. “And now you’re still you, except I keep looking at you and thinking things.”
Your eyebrows went up.
“Things?”
“Don’t.”
“What things?”
“Mostly decent ones.”
“Mostly?” You scoffed
“I’m sixteen.”
You burst out laughing.
George grinned.
“There. See? This is why I didn’t want to explain it.”
“You brought it up.”
“You asked.”
“You started staring.”
You stepped closer, George forgot what he was doing again.
“So you fancy me.”
He grimaced.
“Fred said that.”
“Fred knows?”
“Fred knows everything. It’s awful.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Do you?”
George could’ve made a joke.
Usually he would have.
Instead he looked at you.
“Yeah.”
You went quiet, then smiled.
“Bit embarrassing,” he added.
“Terrible for you.”
“Ruined my whole summer.”
“Has it?”
“I’ve got nothing done.”
“You never do anything.”
“Exactly.”
You laughed.
George stared.
Again.
You shook your head.
“There.”
“What?”
“You’re doing it.”
George didn’t bother looking away.
“Can’t help it.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
“Massive problem.”
“Maybe you should learn.”
“Teach me.”
You looked at him.
“How?”
George’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
You kissed him first.
It was quick.
Barely there.
George stood completely still after you pulled back.
“Well?” you asked.
“Well what?”
“You’re staring again.”
“Give me a second.”
You laughed.
George kissed you before you could say anything else.
This time he actually kissed you.
One hand went to your cheek, the other caught your waist.
You made a small surprised sound against his mouth.
George decided immediately that he wanted to hear it again.
When you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours.
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The moment they stepped through the Leaky Cauldron and onto the worn cobblestones of Diagon Alley, Ellie stopped walking. The street buzzed with life. Owls hooted from outside Eeylops Owl Emporium. Cauldrons of every size hung outside Potage's, catching the late summer sunlight.
George watched her turn in a slow circle, trying to take everything in at once.
She looked like a first year again.
He nudged Fred. "Told you."
Fred grinned. "Give her five minutes and she'll have forgotten we're here."
"I can hear you," Ellie called without looking away from the storefronts.
"Can you?" George asked innocently. "Remarkable."
She rolled her eyes.
"Right!" Molly clapped her hands together. "Percy, you'll manage on your own?"
Percy straightened immediately. "Of course."
"Good." She looked around the group. "Ginny, Ellie, you're with me."
"The twins." Her eyes narrowed. "You're also with me."
Fred sighed dramatically. "There goes our morning."
"Ron," Molly continued, "you're with your father."
The little brass bell jingled overhead as Molly ushered the girls through the shop door. "Afternoon, Madam Malkin," Molly called cheerfully.
The squat witch looked up from pinning the hem of a Hogwarts robe. "Molly Weasley! Come in, dear." Her eyes landed on Ellie. "And who might this be?"
"Eleanor Bennett," Molly said proudly. "Madam Pomfrey's new apprentice."
Madam Malkin's eyebrows lifted. "Well now," She smiled warmly. "That's quite an honor."
Ellie felt heat creep into her cheeks. "It's only an apprenticeship."
"There she goes again," Fred muttered from somewhere behind a rack of robes.
"Minimizing it," George finished.
Madam Malkin pointed her tape measure at the twins without even looking."You two can either be quiet or wait outside."
"We've been silenced."
"Oppressed."
"Persecuted."
Molly sighed. "I've considered leaving them here before."
The tape measure floated around Ellie's waist as Madam Malkin disappeared into the back room.
"A healer's apprentice," She murmured to herself. "I think I've just the thing."
She returned carrying robes unlike the standard Hogwarts uniform.The fabric was a soft charcoal instead of black, the sleeves neatly cuffed in deep forest green. Fine silver stitching traced the collar and cuffs, not flashy, simply elegant.
Ellie stared. "Those are for me?"
Madam Malkin smiled. "They've been waiting."
Ellie disappeared behind a changing screen.
A minute later, the curtain rustled. She stepped out tugging lightly on the sleeves nervously.
The room fell unexpectedly quiet. The robes fit perfectly. They didn't make her look older. Or important. They simply fit. Like they'd been made for exactly this version of her.
Ellie looked at herself in the mirror, turning slowly. She reached up almost absentmindedly, smoothing the embroidered cuff beneath her fingertips. A smile spread across her face. Not the polite smile she wore around strangers. The real one.
Fred leaned toward George."She looks like she belongs in the Hospital Wing."
George didn't answer.
Because, she did. For the first time, it didn't feel like Ellie was pretending she could become a healer someday. She already looked like one.
Molly's eyes glistened ever so slightly. "Oh, sweetheart, they’re perfect.”
Ellie turned toward her. "Really?"
"Really."
George finally found his voice. "I reckon Madam Pomfrey's going to have trouble convincing anyone she's only an apprentice."
The afternoon crowd swept around them as Molly checked over her list.
"Right..." She looked up listing their stops, frowning. "Where's Arthur?"
As if she summoned him herself, Arthur appeared through the crowd carrying an armful of parchment. "There you are."
"We've only three stops left."
Arthur smiled. "Ron wanted to meet Harry."
Molly nodded. "That's alright."
She looked toward the girls. "Ginny, come along." Ellie followed, balancing a stack of newly purchased textbooks against her chest.
George glanced over toward Ellie, who was balancing yet another stack of books against her chest.
Fred followed his gaze."How many books d'you reckon she's bought?"
George snorted. "Enough to stock a library."
"She's got a problem."
"Definitely."
As they rounded the corner, George slowed. A little shop sat tucked between Flourish and Blotts and the Apothecary. The Wandering Quill.
Fred walked two more steps before realizing George wasn't beside him. "Oi." He turned. "You coming?"
George nodded toward the shop window. "Hang on."
Arthur looked back over his shoulder. "Something catch your eye?"
George shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Ellie needs a journal."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Does she?"
George nodded toward the girls a little farther down the street.
"She told us in the car about her gran's journals." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Didn't seem right."
Arthur followed his gaze to the leather-bound journals displayed in the window. After a moment, he smiled. "No, it didn't."
George reached into his pocket, his fingers already finding the little pile of Sickles he'd counted twice that morning.
Arthur noticed. "Put those away."
George frowned. "I've got enough."
"I know." Arthur rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "But your mother and I would like her to know she's got people here too."
George looked through the shop window again. Then nodded. "Alright."
Arthur held the door open. "Come on then."
Fred followed them inside, looking between the two of them. "So..." He grinned. "Are we buying her a journal or one of those self-correcting quills? Because she could use one of those when she starts correcting your spelling."
George shoved him through the doorway. "Oh, shut it."
They stepped back onto the bustling street, the journal tucked neatly beneath Arthur's arm, wrapped far more elegantly than anything the three of them could have managed. George would have bought the journal himself. He had already counted the coins in his pocket twice before they even entered the shop, already imagining the look on her face when she opened it.
Fred and George fell behind their father letting him lead the way to lunch.Fred let out a low whistle. "Blimey."
George frowned. "What?"
"Didn't realize you'd gone all soft on me."
He gave George a shove with his shoulder.
"Piss off." George shoved him back. "I just figured she'd need it, is all."
Fred hummed thoughtfully. "Right..." He dragged the word out just enough to be irritating.
"Because you're famously concerned with everyone's organizational needs."
George rolled his eyes. "She's starting an apprenticeship."
"Mhm."
"She's got those journals from her gran."
"Mhm."
"Didn't seem right."
Fred looked at him for a long moment, then he smiled. "You're a good bloke, Georgie."
After lunch, everyone had begun packing their trunks while they waited for the Ministry cars to arrive and take them to King's Cross.
George knocked lightly on the bedroom door Ginny and Ellie were sharing.
"It's open!" Ginny called.
George pushed the door open to find the two girls sprawled across one of the beds, feet kicking lazily in the air as they giggled over the latest issue of Wizarding Weekly. "Gin," George said, jerking his head toward the hallway. "Buzz off for a minute, will you?"
Ginny looked up at him with a scowl. "It's my room, dungbrain."
He rolled his eyes. "Harry's downstairs, and I'll give you a Knut if you go tease Ron in front of his friends."
A wicked grin spread across Ginny's face. "Should I tell them he cried for Mum his first night at Hogwarts and had to sleep with the lights on?" She held out her hand expectantly.
George nodded. "Be sure to include the spider bit."
"Pleasure doing business with you."
George slapped the bronze Knut into her palm. Ginny pocketed it with a grin before skipping out the door.
Ellie giggled as she laid the folded magazine onto the bed.“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Weasley?”
George scratched the back of his neck. “Thought I’d see if you needed a hand packing. Mum’ll have us loading trunks in a minute anyway.”
She smiled at him. “That would actually be wonderful because after stopping at Flourish and Blotts, this trunk no longer closes unless I sit on it.”
George turned toward the trunk. Books were stuffed into every corner of it, looking about as though someone had tried to squeeze Hagrid onto the average bicycle. “Merlin, woman,” he laughed. “Are you going to school or opening a library?”
She snickered as he knelt beside the trunk, shoving books into place with both hands until the lid almost met.
“Oh!” Ellie bent down and picked another book up from the floor. “Forgot one.”
As she reached for the trunk, her hand brushed against a neatly wrapped package tucked beside it. She frowned. “What’s this?”
George felt the heat rush into his face. “Oh, that's for you.”
She looked up. “For me?”
He shrugged, trying far too hard to sound casual. “Figured you shouldn't have to fill your gran's journals with healer notes.”
Ellie carefully peeled back the paper, revealing a pale pink leather-bound journal. Her fingers traced the smooth cover before she slowly opened it, smiling as she thumbed through the crisp, blank pages.
“I figured you'd need one of your own,” George said, suddenly finding the floor incredibly interesting. “For all your healer stuff with Pomfrey and... well...”
He glanced at the journal, then at the pink jumper she was wearing. “The pink just...”He rubbed the back of his neck again. “Never mind.”
Ellie looked down at the journal, then at her jumper.A grin spread across her face so wide her cheeks began to ache.
Before George could think of anything else to say, she launched herself at him. “Oof!” The force knocked them both backwards onto the floor with a loud thud.
“Thank you, George!” she beamed, throwing her arms around him. “You didn't have to do that.”
He laughed, slightly winded. “Well, you looked like you needed it.”
She pulled back, already opening the journal again, carefully turning the first few blank pages as though they were something precious. George lay beside her on the floor, smiling despite himself as he watched the excitement dance across her face.
For a moment, neither of them made any effort to get up.
“The cars are here if you two are ready.”Fred poked his head around the bedroom door before stopping dead. He looked from George, to Ellie, both of them lying flat on the floor. “Huh.” A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn't realize the floor was so comfortable.”
Ellie and George looked at one another before bursting into laughter all over again.
Chapter Five: Burrowing Feelings Like Mice {George Weasley x OC}
Chapter Five: Burrowing Feelings Like Mice
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The drive that stretched toward the Burrow seemed never-ending.
Rolling hills spread out for miles, the countryside painted every shade of green imaginable.
As the Ford Anglia came to a stop, Ellie climbed out slowly.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The Burrow stood before her.
The house looked as though it ought to have collapsed years ago, leaning this way and that as though every new room had simply been added whenever the family found themselves needing one.
It made absolutely no sense. And yet, it stood. As though love itself was holding it together.
A small laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
Laundry hung itself on the washing line.
Garden gnomes darted between overgrown flower beds, occasionally shouting something rude at the chickens wandering underfoot.
Somewhere inside the house came the unmistakable sound of something exploding.
"It's not much." Fred appeared at her left shoulder.
"But it's home." George finished quietly from her right.
For the first time since she'd met them they sounded almost sheepish. As though they expected her to laugh. Or worse, pity them.
Instead, Ellie smiled. "I think it's amazing."
Without thinking, she slipped one arm through Fred's and the other through George's. The twins exchanged a quick glance over her head before leading her toward the crooked little house. Ellie couldn't stop looking around. She'd never seen a house look so much like a home.
She heard a pan clatter in the sink seconds before the front door flew open.
"Oh, dear!"
Molly's arms were already outstretched as she hurried down the front step, wrapping Ellie in a hug before the girl had even managed to say hello. "I am so happy you're here."
Ellie couldn't help but laugh as Molly squeezed her tighter. The smell of fresh bread and lavender clung to her cardigan. Molly finally looked up at the twins. "And you two," She pointed toward the car."Go help your father with those trunks."
Fred sighed dramatically. "We've only just arrived."
"Precisely." Molly smiled sweetly. "So you know exactly where they are."
The twins exchanged a look before muttering under their breath and trudging back across the garden toward Arthur.
Molly turned back to Ellie, resting her hands gently on either side of her arms. "Now, " She smiled warmly. "Let me get a proper look at you." Ellie stood obediently while Molly looked her over as though she hadn't seen her in years instead of just a few months.
"You've grown."
"I don't think I have."
"Oh, I think you have." Molly brushed an imaginary speck of dust from Ellie's shoulder. The softness in her eyes. The effortless warmth with which she fussed over her. It still felt unfamiliar. At home, her own mother loved her. Ellie had never doubted that.She simply didn't love her like this.
"Have you eaten?" Molly asked suddenly.
Ellie blinked. "I had breakfast."
"Oh." Molly waved a dismissive hand. "That hardly counts." She turned back toward the kitchen. "Dinner will be ready soon." Ellie smiled to herself as she followed. "Come along, dear." The words settled warmly in her chest.
The outside of the Burrow was something, but the inside was something else entirely. It almost felt like a museum. Photographs crowded the walls, waving and laughing as children raced from one frame to another. Trinkets of every imaginable kind covered nearly every flat surface. Crocheted blankets were folded high atop mismatched armchairs that looked as though they'd been squeezed into the sitting room wherever there had been space. Around the kitchen table, dining chairs in every shade of wood bore scratches, dents, and years of wear from children who had spent more time standing on them than sitting properly.
Freshly washed dishes sat drying beside the sink.
"Don't mind the mess, dear," Molly said with an apologetic smile, waving the tea towel around the kitchen. "Getting these children to do anything in the summer is like trying to wrangle Cornish pixies."
Ellie looked around in disbelief. "Mrs. Weasley,” She smiled, unable to hide her awe. "Your home is beautiful."
It was, truly. Not because everything matched. Not because it was spotless. But because every corner of it looked lived in. Loved. Filled with stories. She'd never known a place like this before. She hadn't known places like this could exist.
Molly's smile softened. "Oh, it's nothing special," she said with a small shrug. "But it's ours."
Ellie smiled back. She thought it might be the most special place she'd ever seen.
"Do you need any help with supper?" she asked, following Molly toward the stove.
The twins made their way back downstairs after leaving Ellie's trunk in Ginny's room.
They stopped halfway down the staircase.
Ellie stood beside the stove, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, laughing so hard she had to steady herself against the counter while Molly stirred something simmering in a pot.
"Reckon she's telling her an embarrassing story about us?" Fred murmured.
"From when we were little?"
"Oh, most definitely."
George couldn't help smiling.He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Ellie look quite so comfortable. The tightness she'd carried in her shoulders at the Bennetts' house had disappeared. Here, she laughed freely. She moved through the kitchen as though she'd belonged there for years instead of minutes. It suited her.
Molly looked over her shoulder. "Good." She pointed her wooden spoon toward the twins. "Would you boys be dears and call everyone down? Dinner's ready."
Fred looked at George. George looked back at Fred. Without another word, they both took a deep breath.
"DINNER!" Their voices echoed through every floor of the Burrow. A chorus of groans, footsteps, and shouted complaints answered almost immediately.
Molly sighed dramatically. "I suppose that works."
Ellie sat beside Ginny, trying not to snort green beans out her nose.
"Honestly, I don't see why you're all making such a fuss," Percy huffed. "Head Boy is a position of considerable responsibility."
Fred looked up from his plate, waving his fork in Percy's direction. "You mean a position where you get to tell people what they're doing wrong?"
"Which," Percy replied stiffly, "is called leadership."
George nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. Leadership."
"The magical art of standing in corridors looking disappointed."
"Boys," Molly warned.
"What?" Fred asked innocently. "We're proud of him, Mum."
"Absolutely," George agreed. "We're simply trying to understand the lifestyle."
Percy sighed, pushing potatoes around his plate. "Some of us are taking our futures seriously."
"Some of us," Fred said, gesturing between himself and George, "are going to own a joke shop."
"A successful joke shop," George corrected.
Arthur smiled into his tea. "I think it's wonderful that all of you have such different ambitions."
Percy sat a little straighter. "Exactly, Dad."
Arthur took another sip of tea before adding thoughtfully, "Though I do wonder, how many cauldrons one can sell with a hole in them before the Ministry notices."
For half a heartbeat, the table fell silent. Then it erupted. Fred nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. George slapped the table, laughing. Even Percy let out an exasperated sigh that sounded suspiciously close to a chuckle.
Molly swatted Arthur lightly with her tea towel. "Arthur Weasley!"
"I was only asking," he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Ellie laughed until her stomach hurt.
She pushed her chair back from the table, pleasantly full from the food Molly had insisted on piling onto her plate. Outside, the twins disappeared toward the broom shed, eager to squeeze in a game of Quidditch before the last of the evening light faded.
Ellie stood, making her way around the table collecting everyone's empty plates before carrying them to the sink. "Oh, please go outside with those boys and stop fussing over the washing up!" Molly called from the sitting room, where she and Arthur had settled onto the sofa, quietly talking about the drive from the Bennetts'.
"It's nothing, Mrs. Weasley," Ellie replied with a smile. "I'm happy to help." She filled the basin with warm water, adding a generous squirt of soap before rolling up her sleeves once more.
From the kitchen window she could see the twins arguing over who got which broom while Ginny darted between them, trying unsuccessfully to snatch one for herself. Fred finally relented with an exaggerated groan, handing her an older Cleansweep. Ginny grinned triumphantly before racing into the air.
Ellie smiled to herself as she scrubbed the first plate clean.
Within minutes the garden was alive with laughter. George sent a Bludger sailing across the orchard, Ginny chasing after it with determined enthusiasm while Fred circled overhead, shouting advice that was only making things worse.
Arthur chuckled from the sitting room."She's getting quicker."
"She'll have those boys beat soon enough," Molly replied proudly.
Ellie glanced back out the window. Her own home had never sounded like this.Dinner had been quiet. Evenings had been quiet. Everything had been quiet. She wasn't sure she'd ever heard laughter carry through open windows before.
Rinsing the last of the dishes, Ellie set them carefully into the strainer before leaning against the counter, allowing herself a moment of quiet.
"You know Mum's going to adopt you if you keep this up."George's voice behind her made her jump.
The plate clattered loudly against the others in the strainer. She winced. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"Sorry." He didn't sound sorry at all. His hair had grown longer over the summer, damp strands clinging to his forehead from flying. A faint flush still coloured his cheeks.
"I'm just helping out," Ellie said, shrugging.
"That's what everyone says before they get trapped here." He reached over her shoulder to retrieve a glass from the cupboard before filling it from the tap. "They feed you," He took a sip. "make you feel welcome," Another sip. "Next thing you know you've got a Christmas jumper with your initial knitted into it."
Ellie laughed. "I don't think your mum knits jumpers for just anyone."
George raised an eyebrow. "No?" leaning against the counter beside her. “You alright?"
She nodded automatically, twisting the dish towel between her fingers. Her eyes drifted toward the window. "I've never seen anything like this."
George followed her gaze. "What?" He gestured around the kitchen. "This pigpen disguised as a house?"
"A home." The word escaped her more quietly than she'd intended.
George looked at her, his grin softening.
"You've got one of those, haven't you?"
He nodded toward the lane beyond the garden.
"I'm fairly sure we picked you up from it this morning."
Ellie hesitated, then looked back toward the sitting room. Molly's laughter drifted in from the sofa. Arthur was saying something she couldn't quite hear. Outside, Fred and Ginny were arguing loudly over a Bludger while Percy shouted upstairs for Ron to stop touching his things.
George bumped her shoulder gently with his."Well, you've got this one too, you know."
Ellie's throat tightened. She looked around the kitchen once more. At the photographs. The worn table. The scratches in the chairs. The dishes she'd just washed.
Space Between Spells || George Weasley x OC {chapter 4}
Chapter Four: Prisoner of Feelings
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Summer at home with the Bennetts was ordinary.
Nothing ever seemed to happen.
Her parents had a routine, one they had shared for as long as Eleanor could remember. Every morning, her father left for work. Her mother spent the day filling the house with quiet, mindless tasks until he returned home.
Every evening they sat together at the dining room table and ate dinner in practiced silence. They rarely spoke unless something needed saying. A quiet nod over dinner. A murmured agreement between bites. No laughter. No shared smiles. Just routine.
Some nights her father settled into his chair in front of the television after work while her mother appeared in Eleanor's doorway. "Tell your father dinner's in the oven, will you?" She never waited for an answer. She simply turned and disappeared down the hall toward their bedroom.
To Eleanor, this was marriage. This was adulthood, you went to school. You earned good marks. You found someone you liked well enough. You settled into a routine for the rest of your life.
On weekends they sat together, though each kept to themselves. Ellie dove deeper into Gran's journal, her father read the paper from his recliner, and her mother dusted the surfaces they weren't currently occupying.
A loud thud against the sitting room window made Ellie jump. She gasped, hurrying to throw the window open before looking down into the flower bed below.
There, tangled amongst her mother's flowers, was the Weasleys' elderly owl.
"Honestly, you poor thing." She carefully lifted Errol through the window, leaving it open behind her as she carried him into the kitchen. She untied the letter from his leg as gently as she could before setting a small dish of water in front of him. The old owl eagerly buried his beak into it while Ellie stroked the feathers on top of his head.
"You've had a rough journey, haven't you?" Chuckling, she glanced down at the envelope.
ELLIE!
Her name was sprawled across the front in Fred's unmistakably awful handwriting.She couldn't help but smile. Carefully, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the parchment.
Dear Ellie,
Egypt is hotter than dragon pox
-Fred
It’s hotter than Fred’s ego
-George
Bill has been trying to teach us about curse breaking.
It also turns out that Goblins don’t appreciate our jokes nearly as much as we do
Charlie says Hello.
He also says not to worry, he's still got all his limbs
George insists I add that because apparently you’ll ask
-Fred
Bill took us through one of the old tombs yesterday. The healing wards carved into some of the stones were interesting. Thought you might've liked seeing them.
-George
Yours truly,
Fred and George
At the bottom of the parchment was a rather questionable drawing of a mummy that looked suspiciously like their older brother, Percy. Ellie couldn't help but giggle. Somehow, the twins managed to cause trouble even through letters.
Her mother's voice drifted in from the sitting room. "Eleanor, dear, there's another owl here for you."
Ellie carefully folded the letter, slipping it back into its envelope before carrying Errol to the open windowsill. "There you go," she murmured, giving the old owl one last stroke across the top of his head before he took off into the summer sky.
The second owl perched patiently on the garden wall outside.
Ellie recognized it immediately. One of Hogwarts' school owls.
"Ah," she smiled. "Must be my supply list." She accepted the two letters from its leg before rewarding it with a small treat from the tin they kept in the kitchen. The owl gave an appreciative hoot before disappearing into the distance.
Ellie turned the larger envelope over in her hands, her thumb tracing the familiar crimson wax seal. For a moment, she was eleven years old again. Standing in the kitchen with Gran. Staring in disbelief at the first Hogwarts letter she'd ever received. A small smile tugged at her lips as she carefully broke the seal.
Dear Miss Bennett,
It has come to my attention, through both Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, that your conduct during the recent events at Hogwarts was deserving of special recognition. While many students showed courage in the face of uncertainty, few chose to meet fear with service.
Madam Pomfrey has spoken highly of your assistance in the Hospital Wing during the administration of the Restorative Draught. Though your role was modest by necessity, your willingness to learn, your composure under pressure, and your instinct to care for those around you did not go unnoticed. It is for that reason I write to you today.
Ordinarily, positions within the Hospital Wing are offered only to students in their sixth and seventh years, once they have acquired the knowledge necessary to assist safely and independently.
However, exceptions are occasionally warranted.
Beginning this autumn, should you choose to accept, you will be permitted to serve as Madam Pomfrey's Healing Apprentice. Your duties will naturally be limited by your current level of study, but the opportunity to observe, assist, and learn is one I hope you will embrace.
Knowledge may be found in books, Miss Bennett. Compassion cannot.The finest healers possess both. I suspect, in time, you shall as well.
Until then, continue asking questions, continue learning, and above all, never lose your desire to help others. Such qualities are rarer than magic itself.
I look forward to watching your talents grow over the years ahead.
With warmest regards,
Albus Dumbledore Headmaster
Ellie clutched the letter to her chest with a squeal, unable to stop herself from bouncing excitedly on the spot.
"Eleanor Florence." Her mother's voice cut through the room as she lightly swatted her with the feather duster.
"Sorry, Mum!" Ellie laughed, forcing herself to stand still. "I've just had the most wonderful news from Professor Dumbledore." She hurried over, holding the letter out for her parents.
Her father folded his newspaper and took it first, adjusting his glasses as his eyes skimmed over the parchment. "What does this mean?" he asked after a moment.
Ellie's smile somehow grew even wider. "I'll be spending time outside my classes working in the Hospital Wing." She could hardly get the words out fast enough. "Madam Pomfrey is taking me on as her apprentice."
Her mother gently took the letter from her father's hands, reading it through once.
Ellie waited patiently, rocking ever so slightly on the balls of her feet.
Finally, her mother lowered the parchment. "That is..." She searched for the right words. "...quite an accomplishment, dear."
Her father nodded in agreement before unfolding his newspaper once more. "It is." He looked over the top of it. "You'll need to make certain it doesn't interfere with your studies."
"Of course." Ellie answered without hesitation. "I won't let it."
Neither of them said anything more.
She looked between them for a moment before carefully taking the letter back. "I should write back to Dumbledore" She paused, grinning to herself. "and Fred and George."
Her parents nodded absently.
By the time her father had turned the next page of the newspaper, Ellie was already halfway up the stairs, taking two at a time.
My dear twins,
I am so happy to hear of your travels in Egypt! It must be nice to have the whole family together for a bit! Although, do try not to overstay your welcome. I'm not sure Egypt can handle the group of you for much longer!
And do try to stay out of trouble, boys. I don't want to hear that you've gotten yourselves locked in a tomb over there!
I have the greatest news to share! Right after your owl lovingly dented the framing of our home, the school owl showed up carrying what I assumed was simply my supply list for the year.
It wasn't! It was a handwritten letter addressed to me! From Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey! Can you believe it?! They've offered me a place in a special study program in the Hospital Wing! I'll be working under Madam Pomfrey this year!
I am so excited I can barely contain myself. Actually, I can't contain myself. I'm fairly certain Mum is downstairs wondering why I've been squealing like a pig all afternoon.
I can't wait to tell you both all about it on the train!
Until then, try not to miss me too much.
Love,
Ellie
xx
P.S. Your owl is still hopeless. I gave him water before sending him home. You're welcome.
The Weasleys sat around the kitchen table as Molly passed breakfast sausages onto each of their plates. Arthur sat behind the morning paper, absentmindedly nodding along to Percy's latest ramblings.
Arthur seemed to be the only one who listened these days without relentlessly teasing Percy over his Head Boy badge. Oh, what a delight it had been to return home to that bit of news. You'd have thought the twins had uncovered his darkest secret.
Molly jumped as a loud thud echoed through the kitchen. Every head turned just in time to watch Errol slowly slide down the outside of the window.
"Oh dear," Molly sighed. "Is that Errol again?" She wiped her hands on a nearby tea towel.
"I think his flying days are numbered, Mum," Fred replied.
George pushed back from the table and opened the window, rescuing the thoroughly offended owl before untangling the envelope from his leg. "It's from Ellie."
"Eleanor?" Molly smiled. "Lovely. I was wondering when we'd hear from her."
"I'm sure she's just writing to complain about there being no assigned summer reading," Ron muttered through a mouthful of sausage.
"Hermione's probably written her own." Fred snorted.
"Those two are hopeless." George unfolded the letter, his eyes immediately catching a familiar name. "Dumbledore wrote to her?"
Fred leaned over his shoulder. "What?"
George read a little further. "Looks like he offered her an apprenticeship with Madam Pomfrey."
The kitchen fell unusually quiet.
George handed the letter across to his mum. Molly read it quickly before passing it to Arthur, a proud smile spreading across her face. "Oh, Arthur" She squeezed his shoulder. "Isn't that wonderful?"
Arthur adjusted his glasses as he skimmed the parchment. "Well..." He looked up with an approving nod. "That's quite an honour."
"She's always had a fascination with healing, hasn't she?" Molly said softly.
George leaned toward Fred. "She's going to be unbearable."
Fred grinned. "Oh, absolutely."
"'Sorry, I can't help with your prank. I've got patients.'" George struggled to keep a straight face.
"'I'm terribly sorry, but according to page four hundred and twelve—'"
The tea towel Molly threw smacked George squarely in the face. "You two." She shook her head before turning back to the letter.
"Oh!"
She looked up at Arthur. "We'll have to bring her with us to Diagon Alley."
George's head snapped up. "What?"
"Well, of course we are." Molly looked between the twins as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "She'll need proper apprentice robes, won't she? Molly nodded enthusiastically. "I'll write to her this afternoon."
Fred exchanged a glance with George.
Neither of them could hide their smiles.
"Poor Ellie," Fred sighed dramatically.
"Doesn't stand a chance," George agreed. "Mum's already claimed her."
"Since you've both got so much to say you can do the washing up."
Both twins groaned in perfect unison as Molly swept from the kitchen, already muttering to herself about measuring robes and whether Ellie preferred quills with eagle feathers or pheasant.
George watched her disappear into the next room. "Told you."
Fred sighed. "Once Mum starts planning."
George nodded toward the sink. "there's no stopping her."
Fred and George have told us your wonderful news, and I must say how proud we all are of you. What an incredible opportunity! Madam Pomfrey couldn't have chosen a more deserving young witch.
Arthur and I were talking, and we thought it might be much more fun if you joined us at the Burrow for a few days before the start of term.
That way you can come to Diagon Alley with us to buy your school things. There is no reason you should miss out on all the excitement simply because your apprenticeship requires a few extra supplies.
We'll write to your parents to arrange a suitable day, and Arthur, Fred, and George will be delighted to come and collect you.
Mr. Weasley and the twins would be there any minute.
Ellie smiled to herself as she looked at the letter resting on her desk before fastening the final clasp on her school trunk.
A few days at the Burrow before term.
She could hardly believe it.
She'd get to spend a few extra days with her friends before classes began, and truthfully, she needed it. The closer September first crept, the more nervous she became about her apprenticeship.
Fred and George always seemed to have a way of easing those nerves. It was difficult to worry when they were around. Making people laugh was practically their specialty. Gripping the handle of her trunk, she carefully dragged it down the stairs and left it beside the front door.
"Mum?" she called.
No answer.
"Mum!"
A muffled, "I'm in here!" drifted from somewhere deeper in the house.
Ellie followed the sound until she found her mother dusting yet another bookshelf. "They'll be here any minute."
Her mother smiled without looking up. "Stop fussing, Eleanor." She set the duster aside before pulling her daughter into a brief hug. "So eager to run off with your friends."
Ellie laughed. "I am not fussing."
A sharp ring echoed through the house.
Ellie's face lit up. "That'll be them!"
She instinctively started toward the door before her mother caught her hand for just a second.
"Have a lovely time."
"I will."
"Well," her mother smiled softly, releasing her. "Don't keep them waiting."
"There she is!" Fred called as Ellie swung the front door open.
"We'd begun to think you'd decided to spend the rest of summer reading," George added, grinning just as broadly as his twin.
"Well, I certainly considered it." She stuck her tongue out at them before stepping aside. "Come in."
The three Weasleys stepped inside, glancing around as Ellie shut the door behind them.
It was immaculate. Everything sat perfectly in its place. The carpets were covered with protective film. The furniture looked as though no one had ever truly sat on it. There were no family photographs lining the walls. No odd ornaments. No stacks of books left forgotten on side tables. Nothing.
George had spent years complaining that the Burrow was too crowded. Too noisy. Too many people. Too many strange little trinkets balanced on every shelf and windowsill.
He'd sworn more than once it would drive him mad.
Yet standing in the Bennetts' sitting room, he found himself missing every bit of it.
The silence settled over the house like dust.
Arthur stepped forward, offering Mrs. Bennett a warm smile and his hand. "Mrs. Bennett, thank you again for allowing Eleanor to join us."
She accepted it politely. "It's very kind of you to have her."
"You must be terribly proud of her," Arthur said. "Madam Pomfrey doesn't offer opportunities like this lightly."
Mrs. Bennett glanced toward her daughter. "Yes." A small smile touched her face. "Eleanor has always been rather dedicated to her studies."
Arthur looked over at Ellie, his expression full of quiet pride. "She's a remarkable young witch."
Ellie felt warmth spread through her chest.
Mrs. Bennett looked back at Arthur. "Thank you."
Arthur reached down, lifting Ellie's trunk with ease. "Right then." He looked between the twins and Ellie. "Shall we be off?"
Ellie sat beside Arthur in the front seat of the Ford Anglia, watching the quiet streets disappear behind them as they left the Bennetts' house behind.
"So, Ellie," Arthur began, his fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel, "Madam Pomfrey will have you assisting in the Hospital Wing this year?"
"It's not really assisting." Ellie smiled sheepishly. "I'll mostly be observing and helping with preparations—"
"There she goes again," Fred called from the back seat. "Minimizing it."
George chuckled. "You've been doing that all summer."
Ellie rolled her eyes. "I am not."
Arthur smiled. "Well, I think it's wonderful." He glanced at her for a moment before returning his eyes to the road. "You've always had an interest in healing, haven't you?"
"Yes, sir." A blush crept onto her cheeks. "My gran was a nurse." Arthur looked over curiously. "A Muggle healer, of sorts. She worked during the Muggle wars."
His eyebrows shot upward. “Oh! How fascinating." He smiled.
"She must be tremendously proud of you."
The smile slipped from Ellie's face. She looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap.
George noticed before anyone else. He gave the back of Arthur's seat a gentle tap with his foot.
Arthur looked between George and Ellie, realization dawning almost immediately. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear." he hesitated again"I didn't know."
Ellie shook her head. "It's alright. She passed away a few summers ago." For a moment, the only sound inside the car was the gentle hum of the engine. "But,” She smiled softly. "I inherited all of her journals."
Arthur's eyes lit up again. "Really?"
She nodded. "They're full of notes from her years as a nurse." She looked over at him.
"I think you'd really enjoy reading them, Mr. Weasley."
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Me at age 13, exhausted at school after staying up all night to read fanfic: I can’t wait until I’m an adult and I can stay up reading without any consequences!
Me, an adult, exhausted at work after staying up all night reading fanfic: Fuck.
