Credendo Vides

There she was singing as she went, he could see her through the crowd, wandering down the street, around the corner, and into the – past the Ale House? Finan huffed, clutching the cross that hung around his neck, fighting the urge to place the smithed pendant in his mouth as he stood wondering what she could be up to. Pulling the dark cloak hood over his head, he slipped through the shadows to find out.

He'd been following her for the better part of the evening, since she'd left her quarters. When they had parted ways earlier, before the sun had set, he'd told her to meet him at the ale house, if her lady would allow it. His Lord, Uhtred, didn't care much what sort of endeavors the Irishman got up to, so long as he was present when his lord needed him. Careful to stay in the shadows, wishing not to be seen, Finan moved like a ghost. They did not refer to him as Finan the Agile for naught.

Chuckling to himself, he slipped past the ale house, not before stealing a glance inside. At their usual spot he took note of Uhtred, Sihtric, and Osferth. Sihtric was too busy with his face glued to his wife's to pay the other two men much attention. Why if Finan had a wife like that, she'd be lucky if he ever let her leave his bed. Peeking in the small window, he heard a group of guardsmen coming, not wanting to be spotted he ducked back into the night and followed her path.

Stalking his prey through the darkness, Finan couldn't help but feel the rush that coursed through his body. Tonight, of all nights, he should know better than to play around. Samhain was the night of mischief, magic, and things beyond a man's wildest imagination. If Finan were to get caught out here by a ghost or an angry spirit, there was no telling what they would do to him. A soft laugh into the dark, he continued to watch, trying to find her in the dimming light as they got further away from the village.

He should have known that she'd try to get one over on him, as he was constantly teasing her. Ah, she took it in great stride. He was Lord Uhtred's right hand man, she would be foolish not to give in to his advances. The way she would twirl her hair and bat her eyes at him, as Finan shamelessly chatted with her day after day, often distracting her from her duties. Since she had arrived in town a little over a fortnight, Finan had been taken with her. Those stunning blue eyes, her hair like coal, and that intoxicating smile. She had been far too gorgeous to be a maid, but what had he known? She was like nothing he'd ever laid eyes upon. As striking as Clíodhna herself.

Around the bend, Finan stopped, the road dark and vanishing before him. If he continued, then he followed straight to the river. It was a wee bit cold for that tonight. Huffing in the dark, he stood looking around. Nothing but the far off sound of an owl, perhaps a Samhain demon coming to grab his soul? Finan laughed nervously. Since being forced out of Ireland, he hadn't given much thought to the night. Superstitious as he was.

Pulling the hideous mask from his face, Finan lowered the cloak, turning to head back to the ale house. Some how he had lost sight of her in pursuit. Kicking at a stone with his boot, he grumbled and scratched his bearded cheek, the mask he'd carved had caused a rather unpleasant feeling. Eh, he'd tuck it away when he returned to his home, use it another time to torment Baby Monk or something, just for the hell of it.

Finan walked back along the road, not another person in sight, no doubt they were all in the ale house celebrating the end of the harvest and the coming of winter. Tomorrow, Lord Uhtred would hold a feast in honour of a plentiful harvest. Finan couldn't wait, there would be music, dancing, ale, and loads of gorgeous women who would no doubt want a man for the cold months.

Darkness giving way to the light of the town, Finan strode into the ale house, a bit confused and a little annoyed that he hadn't found her. She was good, wherever she was hiding. Tomorrow when she went to fetch water for the wash, he could find her then and congratulate her on her hiding skills. Sitting with a heavy thud on the bench next to Uhtred; Finan caught the eye of the red headed bar maid. A single nod and the gorgeous lady was at his side with a cup and a pitcher of ale.

“You look like you needed this.” She teased before placing the pitcher in front of the sulking Irishman.

“Aye, I thank ya.” He gently placed a small coin in her hand and gave a nod.

“You're late, where were you off to?” Osferth looked at his friend across the table, moving ever so slightly not to be caught in the middle of Sihtric and his wife as they all but made another child in front of the entire ale house.

“I was off to find a friend.” Finan lifted the wooden cup, taking a long drink.

Uhtred laughed at the admission. “A friend? We are your only friends, Finan.”

“Bah.” Finan scowled before breaking into a smile. Wiping his hand across his mouth, the foam from the ale trapped in his beard. “You lot are far too hairy and do not possess the correct parts, to be the sort of friend that I was looking for.”

“Ah a woman.” Rolling his eyes, Osferth gave his head a shake. “And did you find one?”

“I did, although she disappeared. Perhaps I will seek her out tomorrow.”

“Perhaps she is hiding because you look like a fool in that mask you carved.” Uhtred teased his friend. Slapping him on the back.

“I happen to know she appreciates my work. She told me so yesterday.” Finan boasted pouring more ale for Osferth. “Do you not remember me speaking to her, when we were watching the young guardsmen?”

“I do not recall a woman.” frowning, Uhtred huffed, pouring his own ale, since Finan had seemed to forget he was there.

“You do not?” Finan found that hard to believe. How could a man, such as Uhtred, not see a woman as gorgeous as that? Describing the very maid who had captured his attention, Finan sat eager for one of his friends to say something. Surely Osferth would remember her. Shaking his head, the warrior monk pursed his lips.

“Have you hit your head, Finan?”

“I have not.” Finan insisted, leaning across the table he smacked Sihtric as hard as he could to gain his attention.

“Ouch!” Sihtric cried, his grip on Ealhswith loosening.

“Ah, you've come up for air.” Finan grunted with a gleam in his eyes. “Sihtric, I need you to tell them about the woman from the river, the one who works for the baker's wife.”

“Do you mean Gudrun?” Sihtric's mismatched eyes focused on the fresh cup of ale before him. As if magic, the ale had refilled.

“No, the younger woman. The woman with the dark hair and rosy cheeks.” Finan insisted, they were clearly trying to torment him.

“The only young woman who works for the Baker's wife is Astrid. She is a child and has light hair.” Taking the cup from her husband, Ealhswith confirmed.

Ignoring Finan and his delusions, Uhtred shrugged and went back to his drinking. Sihtric placed the cup down and whispered something in Ealhswith's ear causing her to giggle, ignoring Finan. Sitting hunched over the table, staring into the fire at the end of the room, Finan lifted his gaze to Osferth who was watching him intently.

“Perhaps you've mistaken her for another?”

“I know what I have saw.” Finan grunted.

“I do not doubt you.” Osferth shrugged and lifted his cup of ale.

Raising his cup of ale, Finan glanced around the room. If she had managed to slip in here, surely he would have spotted her by now. Another cup, followed by another, then another, until he'd lost count Finan stood – barely. Stumbling over his own feet, Uhtred had gone long ago, shortly followed by Sihtric and Ealhswith. No doubt come Yule they would be announcing another child on the way. Osferth sat in the half empty ale house, slumped over the table. Jerking upright when Finan slapped him on the back.

“Time to leave.”

“Uh.” Osferth grunted, pushing himself to his feet. Collecting his satchel and slinging over across his body, he picked up Finan's mask – a rather grotesque piece with large carved eyes, an angry brow and mouth, with an impossibly large nose. Giggling, Osferth took the leather lace placing it over his head.

Following Finan into the dark, he stayed quiet. In the dark of the night, the streets nearly desolate, Finan laid his eyes upon her. Standing in the middle of the square, she wore the same dress that he'd seen her in earlier. Raven hair tied neatly in a braid and her glowing ocean eyes...Finan gulped and felt the forced of the ale he'd consumed returning.

Stumbling backwards, he knocked into someone or rather something. Turning to see the hideous wooden face jeering at him, Finan screamed and lurched to the side, the ale catching up to him as it landed across his boots. Grabbing his cross, he muttered whatever prayers he could think of to deliver him from such evil beings.

“Finan.” the beast with the wild face called his name.

“Leave me be.” Finan cowered, wanting to curl into a ball. “Leave me...” He paused as the beast spoke his name once more.

Lifting the mask, Osferth stared at him blankly. “Are you quite alright?”

“She was there! Did you not...” He pointed to where she'd stood. “Her face turned into...”

“I do not see a woman, Finan.” Osferth confirmed, dropping the mask and helping Finan to his feet. “Perhaps we should get you in to rest. Sleep off some of the ale.”

Rubbing his head, Finan nodded and groaned. “Aye. But I know what I saw.”

“I believe you.” Osferth clapped him on the shoulder. Guiding him across the square to his quarters.

“But...if you did not see her then. Is she? Have I? Am I still alive?”

“You are very much alive. I am very much real. Come now, we shall discuss this another day.” Osferth steering Finan toward his door. “Sleep and tomorrow, the woman and all of this will be but a bad dream.”

“A dream? That's it! It's a...” Finan paused, suddenly unable to speak. In the distance a wailing scream caused his blood to run cold and the warmth drain from his body. “D-did you hear that?” He stammered.

“I hear nothing but a muttering fool.” Osferth answered shoving Finan into his quarters. “Sleep.”

“Sleep.” Finan repeated as he stumbled across the hut, his bed a few inches away he dropped onto the furs, legs dangling over the side as he fell face first into the soft furs and warm body.

Warm body?

Soaked in a cold sweat, Finan shouted and rose straight up as if he were a man shooting up from the grave. His chest heaving and his breath short. Clutching the fur around his naked body, he shivered in the air. A crackling of a fire in the next room caught his attention. The body beside him turned, a hand reaching for his arm. Finan watched in terror as the hand grasped his forearm. Shouting and jumping, he pulled away.

“Finan?” A soft voice spoke his name, floating around the dark room. “Are you okay my love?”

“I-I don't....know?”

“Was it another terror? The boat? Conall?” The voice spoke to him of things he had so rarely spoke of.

“A woman and a disfigured face.” He muttered, clutching the furs between his fingers.

“It's okay. You're safe my love.” Sitting up, she gently rubbed his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to his bare skin. “I am here.”

Glancing over his right shoulder to the woman speaking, Finan's heart began to thump wildly in his chest. There she was, the hair dark as night, the shining ocean blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and...he reached out touching her face with this battle hardened hands. Her skin soft as silk, as she leaned into his touch with a smile. Furs shifting, Finan took in her naked form, as if by some miracle she were in his bed.

“You're not real.”

“What is that?” A sharp smack landed against his chest. Rubbing the spot where her hand had connected, she glared at him. “I do happen to think I am very real. I will have you know that...”

“By god you are real.” Finan began to laugh. Pulling his skin between his thumb and forefinger he muttered under his breath. “I am real. You are real. How?”

“Finan.” Her tone scolding, she glowered at him and crossed her arms over her bare chest. “What have I told you about eating too much boar before going to bed? It will rot your brain.”

“Mo shíorghra, forgive me.” Finan's laugh rang through the hut. “From now on, I will do what my gorgeous wife demands.”

Settled back into the furs, Finan reached his arm out, pulling her body into his. Relaxed and less of a mess than when he'd woke shouting, Finan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The next time he woke, he would be quick to find his bed void of a warm body and nothing but a faded memory left behind.

Mo shíorghra – my eternal love

He was standing in the garden in a navy-blue jacket that clung to his shoulders like memory. His hair—still a riot of that unmistakable Weasley red—glowed brighter than the sun itself. He was laughing at something Charlie had said, tossing his head back. He laughed the way he always had, but it sat different now. Like something had broken beneath it. Something quieter rested behind his eyes.

Time.

It sat on both of you.

And just like that, the years folded in on themselves. Hogwarts corridors. Sneaked kisses behind greenhouses. Midnight swims in the Black Lake. Fred yelling, "Oi, get a room, you two!" as you and George tumbled into the Gryffindor common room hand-in-hand. Ginny’s endless teasing, how she would groan every time George sent an enchanted origami bird fluttering into your textbooks.

You remembered the day they fled Hogwarts. He had told you beforehand, of course. It was a painful night. Tears streaming, whispered "I love you"s, promises about the future you two had planned. You watched, soon after, the way the fireworks bloomed across the Great Hall ceiling, the way your chest cracked open watching him disappear through the clouds of rebellion. You had known. Even then. That something had ended.

You stayed. Finished what you started. Buried your heart in textbooks and late-night patrols, every breath a battle not to sneak out of Hogwarts and into the joke shop to throw your arms around him.

You kept your chin up. You trained. You earned your Auror badge like it meant something. Like it could stitch up the gaping space he left behind.

The letters faded. The visits stopped. And in their place—emptiness. Weeks turned to months turned to years, and you both just… let it happen.

It hadn’t been an ugly ending, just an agonizing one. A slow unraveling. A missed goodbye. No fights. Just silence where laughter used to live. Tear-streaked cheeks and clutched hands and whispered promises you were both too proud—and too young—to keep.

You’d never stopped loving him. That was the worst part. The love had never left. It had only settled somewhere quieter. Heavier. Waiting.

You blinked, and he was still there.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

But he would.

And when he did, the whole bloody world would stop. It may as well have, already.

You didn’t know if it was hope or fear blooming in your chest—only that it was alive again.

-----

The wedding was soft and golden, like everything that had come before it.

The garden behind the Burrow had been transformed—lanterns floating overhead like tiny stars, wildflowers blooming in mason jars along each aisle, chairs arranged in a perfect, charmingly crooked arc. It smelled like rosemary and lemon tart, like old wood and fresh beginnings. Someone had enchanted the breeze to stay warm and gentle. You could almost pretend it was magic itself.

You stood with the other bridesmaids, bouquet tight in your hands, your dress the same shade of blush Ginny had insisted on months ago with a wicked grin—“George will faint when he sees you in this.”

You hadn’t thought she meant it literally. But now, you weren’t so sure.

Because he was there.

Groomsman. Just across the aisle. Tense, freckled hands clasped in front of him, boutonnière slightly crooked, smile tight at the corners like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. And then—

His eyes found yours.

Everything else faded.

He stared at you like it hurt. Like it healed. Like you were everything he'd buried and didn’t dare dig up again until this moment. He looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world built from dreams. Like he'd spent every day since the war pretending not to search for you in every crowded street, every silent room.

And there was something else too—grief tucked behind the edges of his smile. As if the war hadn’t just taken his ear and a piece of Hogwarts, but pieces of all of you. The laughter was still there, but it sat deeper in his chest now. Older. Earned.

And you? You stared right back.

Because how could you not?

That was your George. Still him. Still yours. Except not. Not really.

Fred elbowed him sharply, grinning like a devil, and George blinked—smiling back with something startled and sheepish and boyish in a way that gutted you.

You looked away before you could drown in it.

But you would’ve given anything to drown in it.

You had imagined weddings before. Countless nights holed up in the Gryffindor Dormitory with Ginny, Hermione, and all of the other girls you grew up with. Some nights it was their dream wedding. Other nights it was yours. A beautiful venue, a devilishly handsome court-jester of a ginger across from you at the altar. A sting in your eyes, a warmth in your chest, the vows you had planned out hidden deep in your diary.

It wasn’t just a conversation with your friends. It was late nights and early mornings, the Gryffindor common room fire crackling beneath whispers between you and your lover. Your head would rest on his chest, the two of you staring off as you planned every little detail of your life together. The color scheme of your wedding, the names of your future children, who would be on dinner-duty each night. You were convinced it was fated. Prophesied. Y/N Y/L/N and George Weasley were written in the stars.

Today, though, this ceremony blurred around the edges, dipped in candlelight and vows and Molly’s occasional sniffles. You caught flashes—Harry trying not to cry, Ginny radiant like sunlight incarnate, Arthur clutching a handkerchief in both fists. There were enchanted doves, there was a harpist whose strings shivered like glass, there was magic in the air and it wasn’t all from the spells.

But mostly, there was him.

Watching you.

And you, pretending you didn’t keep looking back.

Your pulse raced, hot beneath your collarbone. Your knees trembled inside your heels.

Because you knew it, deep in your bones. The moment the last toast was made, the first chance he got—he was going to come to you.

And when he did, you wouldn’t run.

You weren’t seventeen anymore.

You were still his. Even if you hadn’t said it out loud in years.

---

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time the reception hit its stride. Candles floated over tables dressed in mismatched linen. Music played low and rich beneath the hum of voices and laughter. Plates clinked. Wine glasses glittered in the fairy light. You danced with Neville, with Luna, with Bill, all with a smile stretched too tight across your face.

Because you could feel him watching.

Every time you turned, George was somewhere near—laughing with Charlie, talking with Lee Jordan, charming someone’s grandmother,  standing in his brother’s personal bubble as he whispered something that made Fred choke on his drink from laughter.

But he hadn’t come to you.

Not yet.

Your skin buzzed like a live wire. Every inch of you attuned to the way he moved, the weight of his gaze when he thought you wouldn’t notice. You were burning with it. Trembling with it.

And then you were gone.

You slipped away from the crowd, quiet as a spell. Past the string lights, past the garden’s edge, past the kitchen window glowing warm with laughter. You found your way to the porch—the one that creaked beneath your heels and smelled like pine and old summers.

You kicked off your shoes. Wrapped your arms around yourself. Breathed.

The door behind you creaked open, then closed.

You didn’t need to turn.

"You always did disappear at parties," he said softly.

You smiled to yourself. "You always did find me."

His footsteps creaked across the boards.

Then he was beside you.

Close enough to touch, but not touching. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through the air. You stared ahead, out at the setting sun. Fireflies began to buzz over the garden, and someone—Hermione, probably—had enchanted the pond to shimmer gold.

"Hi," he said.

You looked at him. Slowly. Let your eyes take him in, like your memory had starved for him.

"Hi," you whispered.

He breathed out a laugh. "Didn’t know if you’d actually come."

"I wouldn’t have missed it for the world."

He tilted his head. "Fred was bouncing off the walls. Told me if I didn’t clean up and act right, I’d regret it when you walked through the door."

You smiled. "He’s usually right."

George went quiet. His gaze dropped to the floorboards, then rose again to meet yours.

"You look beautiful," he said, voice low. "I mean—you always do. But tonight…"

Your chest ached. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?"

"Don’t say things like that unless you mean them."

He stepped forward. Close. Close enough that your arms brushed.

"I’ve meant every word I’ve ever said to you," he murmured.

You couldn’t breathe.

He was looking at you like he did in the greenhouses. In the library when you snuck him in after curfew. On the Astronomy Tower with your tie in his hand and the stars in your eyes.

Like he was falling through every single galaxy to end up in your arms once again.

"I missed you," he said.

You didn’t speak. Just stood there, blinking hard, willing the tears to stay where they were.

George shifted closer, voice unsteady. "I didn’t know how to let go of you. I thought I could pour everything into the shop, into laughing until it didn’t hurt anymore—but you never really left."

Your breath caught. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I kept moving forward, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. But it did. It does."

His eyes searched yours, but he didn’t flinch. "Then let’s stop pretending."

You opened your mouth to respond—but he kissed you instead.

It was not polite. Not soft.

It was filth and fire, all teeth and tongue, years of frustration and longing colliding behind lips that had forgotten how to be gentle. Your back hit the porch rail with a thud as he gripped your hips and ground against you like he could make up for everything in one breathless second.

You moaned into his mouth, clawed at his jacket, dragging him impossibly closer. His hands were under your dress, fists bunching the fabric as he palmed your ass with a growl.

"Come with me," he rasped, biting your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp. "Now."

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

He took your hand and hauled you upstairs like a man starved, the tittering portraits lining the walls hardly audible as your hearts pounded in your ears, barely making it through his bedroom door before he shoved it closed with his foot and pinned you against it. His mouth was on your neck, hot and open and frantic.

"Missed this," he groaned. "Missed you."

You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, yanked his shirt open, buttons pinging off the walls. He didn’t even flinch. Just lifted you, carried you across the room, and dropped you onto the bed like he owned you.

And maybe he did.

You pulled him down with you, mouth on his, legs wrapped tight around his hips. He kissed you like he was trying to brand himself into your bones.

Your dress hit the floor. His trousers followed.

He didn’t wait.

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and dragged your panties off with his teeth, eyes locked on yours. Then he was on you, tongue lapping between your legs, filthy and unrelenting.

You cried out, hips bucking against his face, and he groaned like he was addicted to it. He licked you through it, through your shaking thighs and gasping sobs, until you were trembling and pleading and yanking at his hair.

He rose over you, lips slick, pupils blown wide.

"You taste just as incredible as you used to," he said hoarsely, stroking himself as he crawled back over you. "I’m gonna ruin you."

You grabbed his face, pulled him close, lips clashing. "Please."

And he did.

He slammed into you in one deep, devastating thrust that made your eyes roll back.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. He set a brutal pace, fucking you into his mattress like a man possessed, like every second without you had been agony.

"You’ve always been mine," he growled, hips snapping hard against yours. "Tell me you never stopped."

"Yours," you gasped. "Yours, George, fuck—don’t stop—"

He flipped you onto your stomach, dragged your hips up, and drove into you again from behind, one hand tangled in your hair, the other splayed over your lower back to hold you still.

The sounds—your moans, the slap of skin, the creak of the bed—filled the room, obscene and perfect.

You were gone. Wrecked. Nothing but sensation and him.

He reached around, fingers circling your clit, and you shattered with a scream, clenching around him so tight he cursed loudly, bucked once more, and spilled into you with a groan that sounded like your name and a prayer.

You collapsed into the sheets, limp and breathless. He followed, covering your body with his, panting into your neck.

"Still with me?" he asked, voice wrecked.

You turned your head, kissed the corner of his mouth. "Always."

He chuckled darkly, still catching his breath. "Hope you're not done. I’m not finished with you."

You grinned at him, panting, glowing. “We’ve got a few years to catch up on, you know. Our plans from 6th year said that I was supposed to have a ring and a pregnancy by now,” you tease.

And from the way he was already hardening again against your thigh—you knew he’d make up for lost time. 

He didn’t give you a moment to rest, not until the moon was casting over the backyard, encasing the party still roaring outside in a cool, whispered glow. 

-----

Later, when you finally emerged, flushed and radiant with something more than just exertion, Fred’s eyes caught yours. Ginny’s followed. They didn’t say a word—just exchanged a look, one that spoke of too many shared conversations and the soft satisfaction of being right.

You didn’t let go of George’s hand.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low enough only for you.

“It’ll be ours next.”

You turned to him. "What?"

He didn’t hesitate.

“The wedding. It’ll be us getting married next.”

And this time, you didn’t flinch.

You smiled.

You believed him.

-----