#hogwarts dr

The Burrow breathes with winter magic this evening. Outside, frost paints delicate lace patterns across the kitchen windows, and snow falls soft and silent over the rolling hills, while inside, every room glows with candlelight and the deep, golden warmth of the hearth. The air still smells thick with Mrs Weasley’s spiced hot cocoa, buttery mince pies, and the faint, comforting scent of pine from the Christmas tree strung with wonky, hand-me-down baubles and enchanted fairy lights that twinkle like captured stars.

Laughter has rippled through the house all day – Fred and George teasing Ron, Hermione debating house-elves with Ginny, Arthur chattering excitedly about Muggle gadgets – but now the house has settled into a quiet hush. Footsteps have faded, doors have clicked shut, and only the faint pop of burning logs and the distant hoot of an owl break the stillness.

From the moment you arrived at the Burrow for the holidays, you and George have been inseparable. Your hands find each other’s whenever you cross a room; you share secret grins across the dinner table; you lean into his shoulder during long evenings by the fire. But Molly had been gentle, firm, and utterly clear from day one, her hands on her hips and a fond but serious glint in her eye: “No sharing beds, you two. It’s an old family rule, and I won’t bend it – you’ll sleep up in the girls’ room with Ginny and Hermione, where you belong.”

Tonight, though, you couldn’t resist. You slipped away from the warmth of the sitting room ten minutes earlier, padding quietly up the creaking wooden stairs, your socks soft against the cold floorboards, until you reached George’s door. Now you’re curled together in his narrow bed, wrapped in his patchwork quilt that smells so perfectly like him – a mix of broom polish, cinnamon, and that faint, familiar scent of sun-warmed wool.

George’s arms are wound tight around you, holding you as close as he possibly can, one hand resting gently at your waist, the other brushing slow, lazy patterns up and down your arm. Your head rests light against his chest, and you can hear the steady, comforting thud of his heart beneath your ear, a rhythm that feels safer than any spell. The only light comes from a single beeswax candle on his bedside table, casting soft, dancing shadows over the walls plastered with Quidditch posters and scribbled invention sketches.

He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the very top of your head, his lips brushing against your hairline, and sighs softly into the quiet air.

“Feels wrong, y’know,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with warmth, vibrating right through you. “Having to send you away every single night. Just when I want you closest. I like having you right here – where I can reach out and touch you, where I know you’re safe.”

You lift your head from his chest to look at him properly. The candlelight gilds the edges of his red hair, softens the curve of his smile, and highlights the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks – freckles you’ve spent hours tracing with your fingertips. His dark eyes are soft, earnest, glowing with nothing but affection for you.

“Me too,” you whisper, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering at his temple. “It’s such a silly, old rule… but it’s only a few weeks, isn’t it? And every stolen moment like this? It’s worth every second of having to say goodbye at the door.”

You lean in, and he meets you halfway, his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, and deep – full of all the things you don’t need to say out loud: longing, comfort, and the quiet certainty that you belong together. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin, and for a moment, nothing else exists – not the house, not the rules, not the winter cold outside. Just him.

Then, a soft, familiar rap taps against the wood of the door.

It creaks open before either of you can pull apart, and Molly’s warm, gentle voice drifts into the room like a soft blanket: “Sorry to interrupt, dears – just came to remind you it’s getting terribly late, and you need to be heading up to the girls’ room, love.”

She pauses in the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, and when she sees you tangled together in the bed, she doesn’t frown, doesn’t scold. Her expression just melts into something tender and knowing. She notices how George doesn’t flinch, doesn’t scramble to pull away, how his arm stays firmly anchored around your waist, holding you steady, protective and proud. She sees the way you look at him, too – like he’s your whole world.

George offers his mother a sheepish, lopsided grin, his cheeks just a little pink in the candlelight, and he squeezes you even tighter for one long, perfect second.

“I know, Mum,” he says softly, his tone respectful but full of quiet feeling. “Just… savouring the minute, aren’t we? Don’t get many of these quiet ones.”

You nod against his shoulder, resting your cheek back into the crook of his neck, breathing him in for one last moment. “I’m going, Mrs Weasley,” you say gently, lifting your head to meet her gaze. “Just… give us a few more seconds. Please.”

Molly’s face lights up with a soft, fond smile. She nods warmly, stepping back into the hallway and pulling the door almost shut, leaving just a crack to give you complete privacy. “Take all the time you need, loves. I’ll leave the landing lamp lit for you – don’t want you tripping over the stairs in the dark.”

Her footsteps fade softly down the hallway, leaving you alone again.

George leans down then, slow and deliberate, pressing a trail of soft, lingering kisses across your face – one to your forehead, warm and protective; one to the tip of your nose, playful and sweet; and finally, one to your lips, deeper this time, filled with all the quiet longing of the night.

“I’ll be thinking of you every minute until morning,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper, his forehead resting gently against yours. “Dream of me, yeah? I know I’ll be dreaming of you – probably dreaming we’re in a house with no rules at all, where you never have to leave my side.”

You smile, your heart swelling so full it feels like it might burst, and you reach down to lace your fingers through his, squeezing tight. “Always. Every single dream. And I’ll stop at the top of the stairs before I go into our room – I’ll sneak you a wave, just for you.”

He helps you sit up, pulling the quilt around your shoulders to ward off the chill, then swings his legs out of bed to walk you to the door. He brushes down your jumper with gentle hands, tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and holds your gaze like he’s trying to memorise every detail of your face.

At the threshold, he pulls you in for one last, tight hug – burying his face in your neck for a heartbeat – before pressing one last quick, soft kiss to your cheek.

“Go on, then,” he whispers, grinning that bright, beautiful George grin that lights up the whole room. “Before Mum comes back with a broomstick.”

You step out into the cool hallway, but you turn back immediately. He’s standing right there in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching you go, his eyes glowing in the dim light, looking at you like you’re the best thing that ever walked into his life.

You blow him a soft kiss from your fingertips, and he catches it playfully, pressing it to his heart. Then you turn, stepping lightly down the landing, warm all over – because even though you have to sleep apart, you carry his warmth with you, and you know he’s right there, waiting for morning.