girl: obsessed

“Why do they make these shelves so bloody tall?” you grumbled, finally letting your legs rest. You weren’t particularly short—actually, you were on the taller side—but wizarding shops seemed hell-bent on designing displays as if they were catering to giants.

“Well, if you’d let me help like I offered-”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Weasley.” 

“Meaning?”

You gripped his arm tighter and used it as leverage to hop upward, snagging the box with far less grace than you’d have liked. Landing with a huff, you brushed a stray strand of hair out of your face.

“Meaning,” you started as you brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, “that if I need you for this one thing, I’ll eventually need you for other things.”

“Would that be so terrible?” George said as he tilted his head and pouted.

You pretended to think about it for a moment. “Catastrophic.”

He sighed loudly and threw his head backwards, playing the part of a tortured man. “Alright then, explain. Why was that particular Cauldron Cake worth the climb?”

Despite his protests your arm was already intertwined with his and you were both walking to the desk to pay for your hard-earned pastry. 

You glanced at the pastry box in your hand. “Because it was the most out of reach. Which means it’s had the least human interaction.”

George blinked. Then huffed out a laugh, incredulous. “Of course.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” he said, grin tugging at his lips. “Just—of course you would do that.”

You shrugged, defensive but not denying it. “Makes sense. Fewer people pawing at it.”

The two of you reached the counter still mid-conversation, your arm looped easily through his like you’d been walking that way for years. The witch behind the till barely glanced up, already reaching for the Cauldron Cake box as George leaned an elbow on the counter.

“You realize you’ve just admitted you’d rather risk injury than accept help,” George said, eyes glittering.

“I didn’t risk injury,” you shot back, placing the cake down. “At worst, I would’ve fallen on you. Which, if anything, would’ve been your problem.”

“You get this little glint in  your eye whenever you talk about me getting injured, did you know that? ” 

You gave him a flat look, and he broke into a grin. The cashier slid the box closer, tallying the price.

“It’s alright, if injuring me makes you happy, I’ll oblige,” he said as he twirled a strand of your hair rather annoyingly.

“And that’s why you’ll never be my first call for assistance,” you said primly, just as something on the counter caught your eye. A jar of sugar quills, glinting in the light. Without much thought, you plucked one free and laced it next to the Cauldron Cake box.

The cashier raised a brow. “That it, then?”

You nodded, reaching for your pocket. But before you could even pull your wallet halfway out, George was already dropping a few coins onto the counter, smooth as if he’d done it a hundred times.

“Oi—” you started, but he didn’t even look at you, already picking up the bag with his free hand.

“So,” he said, as though you hadn’t spoken, “you want to unpack the whole untouchable thing?”

He slung the bag casually, then slipped his arm through yours again, steering you toward the door.

“Very funny.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued. “Very interesting phrasing you used there.”

You didn’t even realize what he’d done until you stepped out into the cold air and the bell above the door jingled shut behind you. You blinked down at the bag, then back up at him.

“George.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t have to pay for that.”

He glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Consider it compensation.”

“For what?”

“For the grueling work of mountaineering the Cauldron Cake shelf,” he said, deadpan. “Honestly, I’ve never seen someone put so much effort into baked goods.”

“Clearly you don’t know your own brother very well then.”

By the time you’d both made it back to Gryffindor Tower, the sugar quill was already half gone. George had filched it from your bag without asking, holding it between his teeth as he held his arm out in front of him, allowing you to walk through the portrait first. You smacked his arm on the way in, earning a muffled laugh.

The fire was low when you settled into the common room, most students already in their dorms. You chose your usual spot: the corner of the sofa nearest the hearth, legs tucking up easily. Your chocolate cake opened in your lap, your fork already hovering over it as if deciding what part to sink its teeth into first.

George dropped down beside you with a huff, sprawling in the opposite direction so his long legs took up half the space. It was only natural, then, that when you stretched your feet out, they landed on his lap. He didn’t so much as blink. Just adjusted the angle, and pulled a small box of contraptions from his bag—bits of wire, screws, scraps of wood charmed to twitch unnaturally. You weren’t sure what he was making, and you’d long since stopped asking. And by the looks of it, you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You were deeply concentrated in getting to the center of your Cauldron Cake that you didn’t look up when he spoke up.

“Do you think Madam Hooch and Professor Sprout are secretly seeing each other?”

Your hand halted at his question, your fork suspended mid-air as you considered his words.

“Think about it,” he said as he peered through one end of a spring toward you. “She does spend an awful lot of time near the greenhouse.”

“Absolutely not,” you said, resuming your digging into the chocolate center.

“What?” he said, his voice an octave higher than usual. 

“I don’t see it.”

His whole face scrunched up, as if you had just told him blond hair was better than ginger. “What- How can you not-? It’s so obviously there!”

“It’s obvious that Sprout and Trelawney have something going on.”

That got his attention. “Sprout and—Trelawney?” He gaped at you. “Are you mad?”

“Completely logical.” You didn’t look up. “They balance each other out while still complementing each other.”

“They don’t make nearly as much sense as Hooch and Sprout,” he continued.

“Sprout and Trelawney makes more sense than half the couples at this school, George.”

He leaned closer, eyebrows raised, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Admit it. You can’t picture it, can you? Hooch and Sprout, sneaking off after lessons—”

“That’s enough,” you interrupted, shoving your foot against his side to push him back. He caught your ankle without thinking, holding it steady as he laughed.

George was still laughing when the portrait hole creaked open behind you. The sound of muffled giggling carried into the room, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of shoes across the rug.

You lifted your head lazily over the back of the sofa, hair falling into your face until you tucked it behind your ear. Two of your friends stepped in, cheeks flushed from the cold and from whatever secret they were carrying.

“What’s all that about?” you asked, grinning at the pair of them.

Your best friend’s face lit up instantly, unable to hold it in for even a second. “I just got asked to the Yule Ball!” she squealed, and the other dissolved into another fit of laughter.

Your smile widened. “No! Who was it?”

“A Hufflepuff sixth year,” she said proudly, smoothing her hair back like it made a difference.

Her friend jumped in before you could comment. “You should’ve seen her face. I swear she went redder than a Gryffindor banner.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

You bit down on a laugh, swinging your legs off George’s lap so you could twist around properly on the sofa. “That’s adorable. How’d he do it?”

“In the courtyard, after lunch,” she said, already giggling at the memory. “He was so nervous—kept tripping over his words, poor thing. But it was… sweet.” She sighed, dreamy.

George made a gagging sound behind you, deliberately loud enough to draw attention. You smacked his leg without looking.

Your other friend, still grinning, plopped down into an armchair. “Oh! And speaking of the ball—there was a Durmstrang boy asking about you earlier.”

She sat up slightly to pinch your side, making you immediately slap her hand away with a laugh.

“Me?”

She nodded, smug. “He came up to us outside, on the courtyard. We told him you were in Hogsmeade, but that you’d be back later.”

Your brows rose, curiosity piqued. “Did he say what for?”

“Didn’t need to,” your friend said knowingly.

You made a humming sound and plopped back down on the couch, a smile threatening to make its way past your lips.

George scoffed as he rolled a small gear slowly up and down your shin.

“Is there a problem, Georgie?” your friend asked.

“There are several problems in fact,” he said. “The biggest one being that a Durmstrang bloke is not nearly good enough for her.”

You sat up, your eyebrows furrowed, and mouth slightly open. “And how do you know what’s good for me?”

“Because,” he said slowly. “I’ve known you since you knocked your tooth out by tripping on a garden gnome when you were five.”

He made sure to finish his sentence with a pinch to your side, which made you squirm and kick your foot as his face.

Your heel caught his jaw with a satisfying thunk.

“OW—bloody hell!” George yelped, clutching his face. “You broke it! I swear you broke my jaw—”

But he was laughing. Wheezing, even, doubled over with his hand pressed dramatically against his cheek.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed too, reaching forward to tug his hand away so you could see. “Stop being a baby, you’re fine. Serves you right.”

“Fine?” he croaked between fits of laughter. “I’ll be drinking soup through a straw for the rest of my life!”

You shook your head, still grinning as you checked him over. “That’s what you get for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Your friends exchanged a glance over your shoulder, rolling their eyes at the scene unfolding. One of them muttered something under her breath about “unbelievable” before flopping deeper into the armchair.

George finally sat back, rubbing at his jaw with mock injury—then you noticed it. A dark streak smudged across your tights.

You glanced down, horrified. “George. Did you just get grease on me?”

He followed your gaze, saw the black smear, and promptly lost it again, laughing so hard his head tipped back against the sofa.

“You—absolute menace!” You smacked his arm, which only made him laugh harder. 

“Ow stop that”

“I just washed these!”

Your shoes clattered against the stone steps as you flew down the corridor, clutching your bag to your side and cursing under your breath. Divination wasn’t exactly the class you cared to be on time for, but Trelawney had already docked you twice this month, and you weren’t keen on hearing another dramatic monologue about “lateness as a sign of turbulent energies.”

You rounded a corner too quickly and nearly went sprawling when you collided with someone solid. A hand shot out, steadying you firmly by the arm.

You froze.

The contact was brief, grounding, but your whole body tensed instinctively. Your eyes flicked up.

He wasn’t one of your classmates. The boy was older, broad-shouldered, with the sharp cut of a Durmstrang uniform and an accent you could already hear in your head before he spoke.

“Apologies,” he said, pulling his hand back a beat too late, his expression a mixture of composure and something a little… hesitant.

You shook your head quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s fine. My fault, I wasn’t looking—thank you.”

You shifted as though to move past him, but he cleared his throat. That low sound was enough to stall your escape.

“I was… actually looking for you,” he said carefully, his words slow, deliberate.

Your step faltered. “Me?”

And then it clicked.

Your friends. The courtyard. Their smug faces when they told you.

The Durmstrang boy searching for you wasn’t just gossip—it was him.

He reached into his pocket, his posture stiff but oddly formal, and withdrew a single white rose. Its petals looked stark against the grey of the stone walls, almost too delicate for the roughness of his hand.

“I wanted to ask if you would go to the Yule Ball,” he said. Not flashy. Not dripping with practiced charm. Just steady. Direct.

Your lips tugged into a small smile. “That’s… kind of you.”

For a moment you hesitated—half a heartbeat, barely there—before nodding. “Yes. I’d be glad to.”

Something eased in his expression, and he handed you the rose. The bloom brushed against your palm, cool and faintly fragrant, before you slipped it into your bag with care.

“I really do have to go,” you added, still slightly breathless, backing away a step. “Thank you.”

Then you were moving again, faster than before, pulse running quicker for reasons you didn’t bother to pick apart.

By the time you reached the top of the tower stairs, your friends’ words were still echoing faintly in your head, and the rose weighed more than a flower should in your bag.

The door to the Divination classroom stood open, and George was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, an unimpressed look fixed squarely on the stairwell you were climbing. Fred lounged next to him, grinning like he’d been waiting all morning just for this.

“Finally,” George muttered as you rushed up, breath catching in your throat.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, brushing past them with your bag slung tight against your shoulder. “I got caught up.”

Fred tilted his head toward you, eyes flicking down with exaggerated curiosity. “Must’ve been something special, then.” He pointed at your hand, and it was only then you realized you were still clutching the stem of the rose.

You let out a breath that was halfway to a laugh, shaking your head as you brushed past him into the classroom. “Oh—right. I just got asked to the Yule Ball.”

You said it lightly, almost offhand, as you set your things down at a table. The words slipped out like they were casual, but Fred’s eyebrows shot up, and George’s stare followed you all the way across the room.

The table wobbled faintly under your books as you dropped them down, the clink of ink bottles and a quill rolling threateningly close to the edge filling the pause.

Fred was the first to break it, naturally.

“You what?” He let out a laugh, short and sharp, dragging a chair out with his foot and flopping into it. “Already snatched up, are you? Merlin, you work fast.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging parchment from your bag and pretending to be absorbed in straightening it. “Don’t be ridiculous. He asked, I said yes. It wasn’t complicated.”

“Not complicated?” Fred leaned forward on his elbows, clearly relishing the new piece of information. “That’s a rose in your hand, not a timetable.”

You stifled a chuckle, glancing down at the white bloom before setting it carefully atop your bag. “It’s just a flower.”

Fred hummed skeptically, grin not budging. “Sure. Just a flower. And you’re just casually accepting invitations from foreign boys in corridors.”

“Fred,” George said suddenly.

It wasn’t loud—just enough to cut his brother off.

Fred tilted his head at him, eyes sparking with curiosity, but George didn’t look his way. He’d slipped into the chair beside you with less noise than usual, dragging it close enough that the wood scraped softly against the floor.

He didn’t say anything else. Just sat there, hands folded on the table, expression unreadable as his gaze flicked briefly toward the rose and then away again.

Fred smirked, but something in George’s silence kept him from pushing further. He leaned back, muttering something under his breath about “touchy business” before finally digging in his bag for his things.

You pressed your quill into the parchment, trying to focus on the ink pooling at its tip instead of the weight of George’s quiet beside you.

The chatter of the classroom filled in around the three of you, but that silence stayed, lingering just enough to make you aware of it.

The days after that corridor encounter slipped into a rhythm that wasn’t really yours. Normally, you and George had this flow — jokes tossed between classes, wandering the corridors with arms linked, conversations that moved easily without thinking. But now? It was like speaking into fog.

George had gone quieter. Not cold exactly, but clipped. He still showed up beside you, but where you expected a quip, there was silence. Where you waited for his laugh, there was only that unreadable half-smile. And the longer it stretched on, the heavier it sat between you.

By Thursday, you’d snapped.

It had been something small — him brushing past you in the common room without so much as a glance when you’d been saving him a seat.

“Alright, what is it with you lately?” you demanded, shoving your books down on the table harder than you meant to. “You’ve been stomping around like I’ve kicked your bloody broomstick out the window.”

George stopped mid-step. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking, but he didn’t turn fully toward you. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t do that,” you shot back, heat crawling up your throat. “Don’t act like I’m imagining it. You’ve been sulking for days, George. What did I do? Is it about the stupid ball?”

That got him to look at you. And Merlin, you almost wished he hadn’t. His expression was sharp, carved, his brown eyes burning with something you couldn’t read but could feel, like a stone lodged in your chest.

“Forget it,” he said flatly. “If you want to waltz around with your Durmstrang prince, don’t let me stop you.”

It stung, because you hadn’t thought that’s what this was. You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“This is so utterly stupid,” you muttered to yourself as you began to pack up your things.

“What?” he asked sharply. “That I want what’s best for you?”

You turned to him sharply and pointed your finger at him dangerously, “don’t dare pretending this is about me Weasley. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately but don’t pin it on me.”

His mouth opened, but you cut him off before he could say anything.

“This is about you being a coward. If you wanted to take me to the ball, I shouldn’t have been your last option,” you jabbed your finger into his chest angrily.

That did it. His face hardened, and he spun on his heel, storming up toward the boys’ dormitory without a single word more.

“You’re unbelievable, George Weasley!” you screamed after him finally, throat tight.

Tears were falling down your face — hot angry tears.

And just like that, you weren’t really talking anymore.

The night of the Yule Ball arrived, and you felt sick.

Your friends had gathered around you in the dormitory, fussing with your hair, smoothing fabric, fixing details — all of it felt far away. Your stomach was twisted, sour, because the one person you wanted to laugh with, to share nerves with, hadn’t spoken to you properly in days.

When they left in a cluster of perfume and excited chatter, you lingered behind. Sitting on the edge of the bed, chin propped in your palm, staring at the rose that had long since wilted slightly at the edges.

You hated it. You hated that George had gotten into your head like this.

There was a knock at the door. One of your friends popped her head in, smiling brightly. “We’ll see you down there, alright? Don’t take all night.”

You forced a smile, nodding.

When the door clicked shut, you let out a shaky breath.

Alright. Enough.

You slipped your heels on, tugged the straps tight, and rose to your feet. Head high. Chin level. If George wanted to sulk, if he wanted to stew, fine. He could. You wouldn’t hide away because of him.

The corridors hummed with music drifting faintly from the Great Hall. And then the staircase — long, sweeping, glowing with candlelight.

You paused at the top.

And suddenly, the chatter hushed.

Not completely, but enough. Enough that heads turned, enough that the weight of the moment pressed around you.

Fred and George stood at the foot of the stairs. Fred elbowed his brother lightly, some quip on his lips, but it died the moment he looked up at you.

And George — George was silent. Completely still, like the sight of you had knocked the air from him.

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. You gripped the banister lightly and descended, every step deliberate, controlled.

“George. Fred.”

Your voice was steady. Flat, almost. The acknowledgment of two boys who had been constants in your life, but with a distance now that felt like a chasm.

George’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no sound came. Fred shifted beside him, grin returning — though softer, less mocking.

“You look beautiful, love,” he said.

Your gaze softened as you acknowledged him and thanked him, but you were soon interrupted by your date. 

The Durmstrang boy. Handsome, polite, posture sharp in his formal robes. He stepped forward with a small smile, bowing slightly before taking your hand.

His lips brushed your knuckles — a gesture rehearsed, almost courtly.

And then he led you away, into the glow of the Great Hall, music swelling as the doors closed behind you.

“You’re such a prick mate,” Fred said as he patted his twin’s back once before going off to find Angeline.

George still hadn’t spoken.

The Great Hall was unrecognizable. Enchanted icicles dripped down from the ceiling, scattering blue-white light across gowns and robes. The hum of laughter and music wrapped around you as your date led you toward the dance floor, hand still loosely holding yours.

You kept your chin up, expression calm, though your stomach hadn’t settled since you’d descended the stairs.

The first few songs were slower. Your date — Mikhail, you remembered finally, though you hadn’t cared to repeat it in your head much — was perfectly polite. Charming in a way that felt studied. He guided you into the dance with practiced ease, one hand at your waist, the other holding yours at shoulder height.

And it was fine. That was the problem. It was fine.

You let him move you across the floor, but every time his palm pressed too firmly into your side, your muscles tightened. Every time his thumb brushed against your skin, your breath caught for all the wrong reasons. Still, you smiled when you were supposed to. You let the music carry you. You didn’t falter.

But you felt trapped.

It wasn’t until the tempo shifted that something loosened. The orchestra picked up, the strings sharp and wild, and the floor around you filled with movement — skirts spinning, laughter bubbling, shoes thudding against the wood.

Mikhail twirled you once, twice, his smile more genuine now as he urged you into the rhythm. Your hair swung with the motion, the room a blur of light and color. Against your will, a laugh broke from your lips, sharp and bright.

And then another, because it felt good to be twirled, good to let your body move without the weight of thought. The music pulsed through you, and Mikhail’s grip, while still firm, no longer felt suffocating.

By the time you stumbled breathless into another song, a little glass of firewhisky had made its way into your hand, then another. The heat of it slid down your throat, buzzing in your veins, making the lights blur at the edges. The sting of George’s silence dulled — not gone, but muffled, like someone had put a wall between you and the ache.

Mikhail eventually leaned down, breath hot against your ear. “Drink?”

You nodded, too flushed to argue. He pressed a quick kiss against your knuckles before vanishing into the crowd toward the punch table.

And then you were alone.

But it didn’t matter. The music was enough.

You let your eyes slip shut, let your arms float up into the air, wrists loose, body swaying to the beat. Your dress twirled as you spun once in place, and for the first time all week, your smile wasn’t forced. It was wide and reckless, uncontained, spilling across your face as laughter pushed past your lips.

And then you felt it.

Hands. Warm, familiar, sliding around your waist from behind. Not Mikhail’s. Not tentative, not practiced. Solid.

Your eyes snapped open.

George.

He stood in front of you, close enough that the space between you buzzed with tension. His head was tilted, curls falling over his forehead, his eyes fixed on yours in a way that made it hard to breathe.

You should’ve pulled back. Should’ve shoved his hands away. But your body betrayed you — your shoulders softened, your chest loosened, and you let yourself lean, just slightly, into the steadiness of his grip.

Merlin, you hated yourself for it.

“What are you doing?” you managed, but your voice lacked bite.

George’s hold was careful, almost reverent, as if he was afraid to break you. His thumbs brushed the fabric of your dress at your sides, and he swallowed hard before speaking.

“I’ve been a right arse.” His voice was low, ragged against the swell of the music. “The biggest one, probably. I just—” His jaw flexed, his eyes flicking briefly away before locking back onto yours. “I couldn’t stand it. Seeing you with him. Thinking you’d rather be with him than—”

“Than what? Than you?” you cut in, sharper than you’d intended. The firewhisky loosened your tongue, pulled the words raw from your throat. “Because if that’s what this whole week was about, George, you’ve been sulking like a child.”

A muscle ticked in his cheek, but his grip on you didn’t falter. “I know. I know I was.” His lips curved, faint and self-deprecating. “Biggest arse of all.”

That made you laugh — too sudden, too loud. A laugh edged with alcohol and nerves, bubbling up uncontrollably. You clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes narrowing at him.

“Don’t you dare find this funny,” you warned, though the smile on your face betrayed you. “You were—Merlin, George, you were unbearable.”

His shoulders shook with a quiet chuckle he tried to hide, eyes softening as he looked at you. “I know. And I am sorry.”

You wanted to scowl, to shove him back, to remind him you were still furious. But your grin lingered, your body pressed lightly into his, your head swimming with music and drink.

“Not fair,” you muttered, but the words had no teeth. “You know I get happy when I’m drunk.”

George leaned in slightly. “Then I’ll take drunk.”

Mikhail reappeared at your side, two glasses in hand, the rim of each tipped with frost.

Your smile snapped back into place, your hips still shifting with the rhythm as you reached for one. The firewhisky burned cool against your palm, and you tipped it toward him in thanks before drinking half in a single swallow.

George’s hands loosened from your waist the moment you stepped back, and the chill of absence almost startled you.

“Mikhail,” you greeted brightly, your laughter bubbling too easily as you slipped your fingers through his. He blinked down at you, pleasantly surprised at the warmth of it, and grinned.

You tugged him toward the thicker crowd at the center of the floor, where the bodies pressed tighter and the music’s pulse was strongest. But before you disappeared into the crush, you leaned toward George, rising just enough to brush your lips against his cheek.

The kiss was light, but it lingered.

You pulled back just enough to murmur over the music, voice low, the edges slurred but the meaning sharp. “I expect an apology. When I’m sober. When I’m still mad enough to mean it.”

Then you were gone, Mikhail’s hand caught in yours, his laughter spilling as he spun you into the frenzy of the dance floor.

George didn’t follow.

He just stood there, cheek still warm where your lips had been, eyes unreadable, watching as you disappeared into the crowd.

He stayed on the edge of the dance floor longer than he should have. He didn’t move, didn’t really smile, just leaned against a pillar, watching the way you laughed and twirled with Mikhail. The sight wasn’t unbearable — it was almost calming, seeing you so alive — except for the way your body leaned into his, the ease in your movements, the careless tilt of your head when the music surged.

He kept his arms crossed, jaw tight, lips pressed into a line. The hand that wanted to reach out stayed rigid at his side. It wasn’t about jealousy exactly; it was irritation, self-directed mostly. He should’ve been there first. Should’ve asked first. And yet he hadn’t.

Each time Mikhail spun you, George’s chest tightened just slightly, the sharp stab of seeing your hair flick across your shoulders, your smile turning up to catch his eyes before darting away. It wasn’t even a full smile at him — it was your natural, unfiltered grin that made his teeth grind a little in frustration.

He didn’t move when you laughed into Mikhail’s ear, voice bright over the music. He didn’t move when you pressed your hand to the rim of Mikhail’s glass as he brought it to your lips, or when your hips swayed against his. He just watched. Quiet. Controlled.

The crowd thinned as the night wore on. Some couples left the floor, others drifted to the edges for drink or whispered conversation. George stayed, leaning a little more heavily against the pillar, eyes locked on you. He didn’t see the alcohol fogging your expression, didn’t care that Mikhail had that easy, tentative charm — the kind that got anyone’s attention.

And then, finally, the end of the night drew near. Mikhail had his hand at your elbow, guiding you through the crowd toward the exit. Your laughter had quieted to soft chuckles, your hand —much to George’s relief— no longer in his. 

Outside, Mikhail stopped just short of the stairs. He bent slightly and lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a polite, lingering kiss to your knuckles. You tilted your head, smiling softly, nodding a quiet thanks before stepping back.

George didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tight, jaw still clenched. He couldn’t quite place whether it was anger, jealousy, or simply the sting of being sidelined. 

What he knew is that it was lodged deep within him. Like a piece of glass in his lungs. It shifted with each breath. 

The dorm room smelled faintly of damp robes and wood polish. Lee and Fred were lounging near the foot of one of the beds, casually tossing a pair of worn Quidditch gloves back and forth when the door creaked open.

George stepped in, shoulders slumped, tie undone, hair mussed like he’d just rolled out of a gale. His eyes were sharp but heavy, lips pressed into a straight line.

Lee didn’t even spare a moment before blurting out, “You look awful, George.”

Fred leaned back against the headboard, grin already stretching across his face. “Give him a break, Lee,” he said, mock sympathy in his tone. “He just had to watch his girl dance with some other bloke all night.”

“She’s not my girl,” George said flatly as he threw his tie on the floor.

Lee chuckled at that as he threw the glove his way. “Not yet anyway…”

George caught it, scowling. “I’m serious. The night was awful. I’ve just had to watch her dance with some Durmstrang prat who—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, voice thick with something caught between anger and despair. “Bloody hell. You should’ve seen them. Laughing, spinning about, her hand on his shoulder like she’d been waiting for it.”

Fred arched a brow. “And yet… she still ended up dancing with you, didn’t she?”

George ignored that, pacing once before stopping dead at the end of his bed. His hands curled at his sides. “You don’t get it. I’ve been—awful to her. These past few days I’ve been short, impatient, pushing her off without even thinking. And then tonight, she’s smiling. Like nothing’s wrong. Like I haven’t been making a complete mess of everything. And it—Merlin, it drove me mad.”

His words tumbled faster now, spilling out before he could stop himself. “Because while I’ve been a miserable bastard, she’s out there lighting up the room with someone else. A bloody Durmstrang bloke, no less.” His voice cracked into bitterness. “And she let him touch her. She laughed at whatever he said. She looked—happy. Happier than she’s been around me in weeks. And I’m standing there like an idiot, realizing I’ve lost her. To him. Out of all people.”

He finally threw himself back onto his mattress, hands dragging over his face until they clamped down over his eyes. “I’ve completely ruined it. She’s never going to look at me the same way now.”

Silence followed. A heavy, almost ridiculous silence.

Fred and Lee stared at each other from across the room, expressions perfectly blank for half a beat before they both broke into incredulous disbelief.

“You can’t be serious,” Lee muttered, jaw slack.

Fred’s laugh was sharp, disbelieving. “He’s serious.” He jabbed a thumb at George, who lay sprawled dramatically across the bed like some tragic figure. “The git honestly thinks he’s lost her. Because she danced. Once. With someone else.”

Lee shook his head, exasperated. “George, listen to yourself. You two are ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Everyone sees it. Everyone but you. She practically melted into you tonight. ”

George dragged one hand down from his eyes, glaring out from between his fingers. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Fred leaned forward, smirk turning into something sharper. “She’s not lost. She’s not even wandering. She’s orbiting you. Always has been. You’re just too bloody dense to notice.”

Lee folded his arms, nodding. “You really think one night changes that? You think one stiff, awkward dance with some foreigner matters more than the way she looks at you every day? You’re blind, mate.”

George didn’t answer. His chest rose and fell, uneven, frustration still knotted tight inside him. He wanted to argue, but the memory of her melting against him during their own dance hit him like a sucker punch, and the words caught in his throat.

Fred lay back on his elbows, satisfied. “You’ll figure it out eventually, Georgie. Hopefully before she loses patience with you.”

Lee snorted. “Assuming she hasn’t already.”

George threw a pillow at his head. 

Sunlight woke them up the next morning.

George turned his face into the pillow with a groan, but it didn’t do much to dim the brightness cutting across the dorm. Dust motes swam lazily in the air, the kind of soft glow that only came after a night of storm—last night’s storm being the music, drink, and far too much of you in someone else’s arms.

Lee was still snoring in his bed across the room, mouth open, one arm hanging off the side. Fred was rolling out of his sheets, muttering curses about his head. George sat up slower, scrubbing both hands over his face until the scratch of stubble grounded him. He felt like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

Saturday mornings in the castle were usually quiet, but today the corridors carried the slow shuffle of students recovering from the dance. The three of them descended the staircases, moving past clusters of younger years who looked irritatingly well-rested. George’s collar was still half undone, and he hadn’t bothered with his tie.

The hum of the Great Hall reached them before the doors even opened—low conversation, the scrape of cutlery, the occasional clink of goblet on wood. When they stepped inside, George’s eyes went instinctively to the Gryffindor table.

He scanned once, twice—then found you.

You were folded against the bench, head pillowed on your arms, body slumped like all the fight had drained out of you. One wrist dangled limp across the table. You looked wrung out. 

Fred’s hand landed briefly against his back in a quick, wordless pat before he moved past him and slid onto the bench a few seats down. Lee followed. George remained standing a moment longer, fixed in place by the picture of you.

Your friend sat beside you, still eating with far too much energy for the hour. They poked at your limp hand with the edge of a slice of toast. At first you didn’t stir. Then, slowly, you dragged your head up, blinking as though even that small effort cost too much. The smudges beneath your eyes were dark against your skin. Without looking, you took the toast from their hand and bit into it, half-asleep, chewing like it was the most automatic thing in the world.

George’s chest pulled tight.

The hall blurred around him—the chatter, the clatter of knives and forks, Fred already reaching for pumpkin juice. All he saw was the faint slump of your shoulders, the way your hair clung stubbornly to the side of your face, and the traces of someone who had smiled until it hurt, danced until the ground seemed to tilt, and was now left with the aftermath.

You rubbed your temple with the heel of your palm, eyes slipping half-shut again between bites of toast.

He sat down heavily beside Fred, dragging his plate toward him without tasting a thing. His gaze kept pulling back toward you, even when he tried to look away. He hated how easy it was to see the edges of your exhaustion, hated more that he wasn’t the one who had carried you off that dance floor.

He pressed his lips into a line, staring down at his plate like it had answers.

Fred caught him once, smirk playing at his mouth but blessedly quiet this time. Lee raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide the fact he’d noticed where George’s eyes had gone. George ignored both of them.

Across the hall, you were still chewing slowly, your elbow now propped against the table, chin resting in your palm. The sunlight caught against your hair, pale and bright, and George thought—against his will—how unfair it was that even wrung out, you still managed to undo him.

The steam from your mug curled up into your face, warming skin that still felt far too pale. Your head throbbed faintly, a dull reminder of firewhisky mixed with too much music and too many lights. You weren’t in the mood for chatter, and the friend at your side seemed to have caught on, filling the silence with their own story while you just nodded along.

You shifted in your seat, rolling your sore shoulders. The strap of your dress from last night had left a faint line across your skin; Mikhail’s hand, clamped too firmly on your arm during one of the dances, had left something else. You rubbed it absently, trying to ignore the stiffness.

That was when you felt it—eyes on you.

You lifted your head, scanning almost instinctively, and there he was. George, halfway down the table, a plate of untouched eggs in front of him. Tie still loose, hair a mess, eyes locked on you with a sharpness that startled you. 

For a moment, you almost faltered under the weight of it. He didn’t look away when you caught him. Just sat there, lips pressed thin, as if daring you to notice how hollowed-out he looked.

Despite the ache behind your eyes, you felt your mouth curve into the faintest smile—tired, reluctant, but real. The kind of expression meant for no one else in the room but him.

His shoulders twitched, almost like he’d been struck. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he shifted abruptly, looking down at his plate as if the eggs had suddenly demanded all his concentration.

Fred and Lee both saw it, of course. They always did. Fred made a strangled noise into his toast, biting back a laugh, while Lee muttered something under his breath about magnets.

You turned back to your tea, the smile fading into the rim of the cup, but not before George risked one more glance up at you. Just to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.

The castle grounds buzzed with excitement, voices carrying in bursts of anticipation as students poured down toward the Black Lake. Scarves and banners snapped in the winter air, house colors bright against the gray sky. You walked among the throng, tugging your cloak tighter against the cold. Mikhail strolled at your side, his stride unhurried, hands tucked casually behind his back as if the icy breeze didn’t touch him.

He slowed as the lake’s edge came into view, the icy surface rimmed with thick sheets of frost. The noise of the crowd swelled around you, but he turned toward you with a small smile that made you immediately want to shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“It was good to see you again,” he said, his voice low, smooth in that Durmstrang lilt. He took your hand before you could tuck it safely into your pocket, his grip warm against your cold fingers. Then, with practiced ease, he lifted it and brushed his lips across your knuckles.

You forced a polite smile, lips twitching at the corners as you inclined your head in response. “And you,” you managed, tone even. But the moment he let go, every nerve in your hand screamed to be hidden, tucked away where no one could touch it.

As he turned to stride off toward the Durmstrang cluster, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shoulders sagging the instant his back was turned. Your hand curled reflexively, half-hidden in your sleeve, before you shoved it deep into the pocket of your cloak where it belonged.

You didn’t get the chance to savor your small reprieve. An arm suddenly hooked itself around your shoulders, making you jolt forward a step before you registered the familiar weight.

“There she is!” Fred’s voice boomed far too cheerily in your ear. He leaned into you with exaggerated affection, giving you a little shake. “Our very own international heartbreaker.”

Before you could wriggle free, Lee fell in step on your other side, elbow brushing yours. His grin was wide, merciless. “Blimey, you don’t waste any time, do you? Hand-kissing already? That’s practically an engagement where he comes from.”

Heat crept up the back of your neck. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake—” you started, squirming out from under Fred’s arm, ducking forward to hug yourself against the cold and their relentless teasing. “He’s not my—”

“Boyfriend?” Fred finished, dragging the word out with relish. He waggled his eyebrows at Lee, who snorted so hard he nearly tripped on the uneven ground.

“Shut up,” you said, laughter breaking through despite yourself. You gave Fred a shove in the ribs that only made him cackle louder.

Behind the both of them, George trailed silently, hands shoved into his own pockets, face unreadable. He didn’t join in, didn’t so much as smirk. His eyes flicked once to you, then away, his jaw set as he fell into step a pace behind the rest.

Fred looped around to walk backwards in front of you. “Who would’ve thought that all it took for you to find a guy would be a tournament that hasn’t happened in centuries.”

Lee leaned closer, stage whispering loudly enough for anyone within five feet to hear, “Poor George, didn’t even stand a chance.”

That got a laugh from Fred so sharp he nearly doubled over. You groaned, clutching your arms tighter around yourself, the tips of your ears burning. “You two are insufferable,” you said, but your grin betrayed you.

They nudged and teased you all the way down the slope toward the stands, your half-hearted protests only fueling their jokes. George stayed behind, watching the three of you, his silence heavy enough to be felt even through the noise of the crowd.

By the time you reached the wooden benches, your ribs ached from laughing and squirming out of Fred’s reach. You pulled your cloak tighter, hugging yourself against both the cold and the teasing, settling between them with a sigh.

“Durmstrang’s finest,” Fred muttered with mock drama, elbowing Lee. “And she didn’t even save a dance for me.”

You shot him a look, rolling your eyes as you tried to steady your breathing. George slid into the seat at the end of the row, a half-step removed, his expression still carefully neutral. His silence pressed against you more than all of Fred and Lee’s laughter combined.

The stands rattled with the weight of the crowd, their noise rolling over the lake like a storm. From where you sat, tucked between Fred and Lee, the expanse of black water stretched wide and cold, mist curling off its surface. You’d pulled your cloak tighter around yourself, hands buried in the folds as you tried to ignore the way Fred kept leaning over to whisper loud running commentary in your ear.

“Ten galleons says Krum comes back with the whole bloody shipwreck,” he muttered, cupping his hands around his mouth as if that would shield it from anyone but you.

Lee snorted. “Ten galleons says he doesn’t come back at all. Look at that water. Gives me the creeps.”

You didn’t bother replying; your eyes were on Harry. He stood by the champions, smaller than the rest, his shoulders squared but stiff. From this distance you could see the nervous twitch of his hands as he adjusted his robes. Something tugged at you, protective, and you leaned forward in your seat, lips pressed together.

When the whistle blew and the champions plunged into the water, the stands roared. Banners whipped in the air, voices crashing together in support of their favorites. You cupped your hands around your mouth and called Harry’s name until your throat burned, ignoring the sharp bite of the wind on your face.

But George didn’t move. He sat stiffly at the end of the bench, eyes fixed on the lake, jaw clenched tight. If he noticed the way you leaned forward, gripping the edge of the railing until your knuckles ached, he didn’t show it.

The minutes dragged. You shifted, heart hammering as the surface remained empty and still. Around you, chatter swelled — speculation, nervous energy, Fred’s grumbling about how long it was taking. But your focus stayed locked on the lake.

When the first head broke the surface, the stands erupted. You shot to your feet, craning forward, desperate to see who it was. Krum, half-transfigured, clambered onto the bank, dragging Hermione with him. Applause thundered, and you clapped politely, though your stomach knotted.

More figures surfaced — Fleur Delacour, Diggory, Cho Chang. Relief bubbled in the stands, but Harry was nowhere in sight.

Your throat tightened. You shouted his name again, even as Lee muttered under his breath, “Come on, come on…”

And then, at last, Harry burst through, gasping, his arms dragging two bodies with him instead of one. The crowd lost its mind. You clapped so hard your palms stung, calling his name with every ounce of strength you had left. 

By the time the champions were herded off and the crowd began to spill back toward the castle, your voice was hoarse, your body buzzing from the adrenaline of it all. The chatter swirled around you, Fred and Lee already arguing about who had technically “won” the wagers they hadn’t even shaken on.

You slipped free of their noise, hugging yourself against the cold as the tide of students pushed up the slope.

That was when someone fell into step beside you.

You glanced up, and there he was — George. His shoulders hunched against the cold, his hands buried in his pockets. For a moment, you thought he might just keep walking, that he’d melt back into the sea of students without a word. But then he cleared his throat, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

“Can we talk?” His voice was low, almost rough.

You huffed out a short breath, half laugh, half disbelief. “It’s taken you long enough.”

He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t argue. For a stretch of steps, silence stretched between you, broken only by the crunch of boots on frost-hardened ground and the distant swell of voices behind. Then he spoke again.

“I’ve been a prat,” he said, blunt. “An absolute prat.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His jaw was tight, but there was no bravado there, no grin waiting to slip free and make it all a joke. Just George, flat and serious, his voice quieter than you were used to hearing.

“You have,” you agreed, coolly.

He nodded once, your eyes still not meeting.

“And I was cruel to you.”

“You were.”

“And you didn’t deserve that.”

“I didn’t.”

He sighed slowly.

“And I’m so sorry.”

You paused at that. His steps halted alongside yours.

You turned to look at him, expression unreadable.

Your breath fogged in the air as you stopped with him, your arms tightening around yourself. For a long moment, you just looked at him, waiting. He shifted, hands deep in his pockets, his tie askew still from the long day, and for once George Weasley looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

It all swelled up too quickly for you to stop it.

“I was so hurt, George,” you blurted, voice low but sharp, as if saying it too loudly would make it unbearable. “You don’t even know—how much I missed you. How much I hated myself for missing you when you were… when you were acting like that.”

His mouth opened, but you pushed on, the words tumbling out, jagged and raw.

“I even thought about not going to the bloody ball,” you admitted. “I was this close to staying in bed because what was the point? You weren’t talking to me, you were looking straight through me, and I thought—fine. Let him. Let him see I don’t need him.”

The corner of your mouth twisted, half scoff, half wounded laugh. “But I did go. And I drank too much. And I was furious that you waited until then to say anything. You know me, George. You know I can’t stay angry at you when I’ve had too much, especially not you.”

You stopped, breath shuddering out of you, the confusion finally bleeding through. “And I hated it. I hated that I couldn’t even cling to being mad at you, because you smiled at me, or you said one kind word, and I folded. And then I was just… confused. And miserable all over again.”

“I was miserable,” you admitted, quieter now, the fire gone but leaving something raw behind. “And confused. Because I hated you for it. And still, all I wanted was to dance with you. Just you.”

The silence that followed seemed to ring louder than the chatter of the crowd trudging uphill. George stood there, frozen, his expression hollowed out in a way you hadn’t seen before. His eyes—tired, sunken from lack of sleep—finally lifted to meet yours, and for once, he didn’t try to hide in humor or tilt the truth with a grin.

He just looked at you, as if everything you’d said had landed squarely in his chest, and he didn’t know how to breathe around it.

The wind bit across the slope, carrying the laughter of the other students, the distant echo of Fred’s voice somewhere up ahead. But here, between the two of you, it felt unnervingly still.

George’s hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but couldn’t trust himself to do it yet. His voice, when it finally came, was so low you almost missed it.

“I didn’t want you to fold,” he said, almost hoarse. “I wanted you to… to push me back. To tell me off. To make me work for it. But I was too much of a coward to give you the chance.”

“How could I, George?” you asked, your voice breaking slightly. “I couldn’t understand why. And I thought that maybe I just didn’t mean as much to you as you do to me. So when you apologized—”

You sniffed and looked away, you couldn’t face him right now. Not with your soul laid bare like this.

“I was going to take what I could not to lose you completely. I knew even then I deserved more. But I still took it.”

George’s jaw worked, like he was biting down on something sharp. His breath came out hard, pluming in the cold.

“I was a coward, alright? I was jealous and scared and angry. Because you do mean that much to me. You mean so much more than you could imagine. Watching you dance with him was torture.”

“So you thought it was better to ignore me?”

George’s head dropped. He dragged a hand over his face, rough and restless, then shoved it back into his pocket as though afraid of what it might do if left untethered. “I know it’s not fair—”

“No, it’s not,” you cut in, voice sharp now, heat blooming in your chest. “You don’t get to make me feel unwanted just because you were too bloody scared to admit you wanted me.”

You wrapped your coat around you tighter, as if it could shield you from all the anger and despair.

“I was stupid. I know I was—”

“You were more than stupid, George! You were cruel, mean, and plain out bad to me.”

“I know—”

“And I hate you for it—”

“I know—”

“But what I hate most of all is that I keep lying!”

He paused.

“I hate that I still want to be near you.”

George’s eyes flickered to yours, raw and sharp, as if the words had pulled him out of some deep fog he hadn’t realized he was in. The wind tugged at his coat, ruffling his hair, but neither of you moved, frozen in that quiet, sharp-edged space between anger and longing.

Then, without a word, he stepped closer. Your heart thudded in your chest, your arms tightening automatically around yourself—but his hand lifted, tentative, until it rested against the side of your face. His thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone, tracing warmth through the chill.

You froze for a moment, tension coiling through you, then let your hands drift to his arms, gripping the fabric of his coat. It was a grounding motion, almost desperate, as if anchoring yourself to him so the world around you wouldn’t fall apart.

George’s other hand came up to cradle your jaw gently, his fingers tracing the line of your face as though memorizing it, as though holding onto something fragile and irreplaceable. His eyes searched yours, silent, pleading even, and for a second the argument, the hurt, the weeks of distance—they all hung suspended, unresolved but alive.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in. His forehead touched yours for a heartbeat, and you felt the smallest exhale escape him before his lips found yours. The kiss was slow, careful at first, almost testing the waters, giving you space to pull back if you wanted. But when you didn’t, when your hands tightened slightly on his arms, he deepened it, letting the warmth of him press against the cold bite of the night.

Your body relaxed into his hold, despite the flaring anger still simmering beneath your skin. The tension in your shoulders melted, the sharp edges of your frustration softening against the weight of the kiss. His lips moved with quiet assurance, and you tilted your head slightly, closing your eyes as the world narrowed to the press of him, the heat of his hands, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, your forehead rested against his, and your breaths mingled, slow and ragged. George’s hands lingered on your face, thumb stroking your cheek, fingers pressing lightly into the nape of your neck.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he murmured again, almost a whisper, but this time it was softer, unguarded.

He leaned in again and pressed another slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Another by the hollow of your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Another on the tip of your nose.

On your eyelid. Then on the other.

On the center of your forehead.

On your chin.

Again and again he repeated the words like a soft prayer.