summary: Neither you nor George expected grief to overpower years of friendship after Fred's death. A hole you or he didn't know how to fill. You just never expected that hole to become the space that seperated you. But years later, an unexpected reunion forces you both to face what you lost, and what you still have.
c/w: characters are aged up over twenty, angst, slow burn, grief, grieving, dealing with loss/death of a friend/family/loved one
a/n: inspired by Who Knows by Daniel Ceasar, and the ending's kinda giving My Stove's on Fire by Robert Lester Folsom 🤭 also there might be some errors! I haven't spell checked yet :c
The last owl George Weasley sent arrived six years ago.
Six years since you'd stopped responding, and six years since you'd last heard from each other.
But somehow, that's how grief worked.
After the war, you'd clung to George tighter than you'd intended to. Spending time at the shop, helping him through his grief, answering his owls quicker than you'd received them, and even paying long visits to The Burrow.
Especially after the funeral.
But the one thing you should've remembered, but ended up forgetting, was to take care of yourself.
You didn't give yourself the time of day to grieve Fred properly. Because maybe you thought you didn't need to. Maybe you were still in denial. Maybe you thought losing your closest friend was just a nightmare you hadn’t woken up from, only waiting to be over. Maybe it was all of those things.
You hadn't realized how you were trying to keep Fred alive through memories. Trying to hold onto whatever he left behind to make you feel like he was still there, still breathing.
And that's why months later, it started hurting. Bad.
Every interaction with George became something you grew hyperaware of.
Like how, at times, you couldn't tell if it was George laughing or if it was Fred.
The times George would randomly say something Fred once had.
That one evening where he handed you one of Fred's old jumpers to sleep in when you spent the winter over at The Burrow.
How your whole chest would jump when George's voice echoed down the hall to call you down for dinner, thinking you heard someone else.
Every single interaction became a reminder that Fred was gone. So much so that George noticed the way you looked at him sometimes—like you were searching his face for someone who wasn't there.
And maybe, that was why, about a year after the war had ended when you noticed yourself pulling away from George.
Which was also around the time he started depending on you emotionally.
He started seeking you out because talking to you felt easier than talking to anybody else.
That he didn't have to, or pretend to be okay around you.
And he made the vulnerable decision to rely on that.
The comfortable silence that settled every time you'd drop by was practically routine.
Most days went along with just the two of you sitting in the back of the what used to be their shop, drinking tea.
Then came the usual work. Payments. Errands. Routines. Business.
And the stories about Fred. Everyone else got uncomfortable when Fred came up. But not you. Not once.
You remembered George once mentioning how Fred insisted to Percy that one of Molly's favorite spoons was "clearly cursed" because it always ended up back in the drawer no matter who washes it or takes it out to use it.
"I'm telling you, Mum's spoon has been bewitched, Percy. I've seen it move."
"That's exactly what it wants you to think!"
And instead of responding with awkward pity, you immediately laughed.
He realized he can still talk about him. And George liked that.
Then came the bad days where grief would hit him out of nowhere. It would happen so suddenly it was practically insulting.
The whole day, he'd be fine. Fine until a customer he and Fred used to banter with would say, “You boys."
Fine until he finds one of Fred's old scribbles somewhere around their home, or until he'd hear a joke he absolutely knew Fred would've gotten a kick out of.
And instead of bottling it all in, he'd go looking for you. Not because he thought you'd magically fix the heaviness he felt. But because he knew you'd understand. Perhaps even take a piece of that weight and carry it with him, so he didn't have to bear it alone.
But then one day came your final tipping point. The owls.
The letters George would send you in between to keep some sort of contact with you. To know if you were still there.
It became painful when you realized just how naturally writing and sending them over to you had become for George.
Never long ones. Rather, short, occasionally funny letters that were written hastily the moment something happened or if he felt a certain way, just to let you know.
"Tried Fred's recipe today. Disaster."
"Lee nearly blew up the shop. Fred would've laughed himself into a puddle of piss."
That was enough to keep your fingers from reaching for the quill anymore. Something as simple as opening and reading those letters had become difficult.
So eventually, his letters went from updates to:
"Did I do something wrong?"
"I'll send over a sweets box to help you lighten up. Write me back?"
"If you need space, that's alright. Just please tell me you're okay."
And that's why the last letter he sent was six years ago.
It would've been easier to reply and pretend everything was fine, but it just didn't feel right anymore. So you never gave him one.
The guilt still ate at you even as you stared at all the old owls George had sent you.
You'd opened up your shop only about twenty minutes earlier, and everything was as normal as it could be. Same routine, same steps, and even the same faces that would come in at times you'd oddly memorized.
But as you were getting into the flow of your usual routine, you suddenly remembered a small chore you'd been reminding yourself to do yet constantly kept putting off.
So while looking for the said item you needed, you stumbled upon a plain, old, dusty box filled to the brim with letters.
When you opened it, a smell reminiscent of newspapers and old wax melts filled your nostrils. The letters were years old, but somehow still looked as though they'd been delivered to you yesterday.
The wax's scent reminded you of The Burrow's wooden foundation. You thought of the outdated yet charming carpets and the tied-up stacks of parchment that crinkled delightfully whenever you moved them aside for space.
Your fingers delicately glided through the sooty papers, noticing how some looked a bit better than the others. Some definitely got the shorter end of the stick after countless seasons spent shoved inside, long before you'd even opened up your shop.
But seeing them after so long made you realize something.
You ignored him, yet you kept the letters.
You still weren't over it. Over Fred. Over the fact that you'd left George when he—when you both needed each other.
A long, dreary sigh escaped your nose as your eyes and fingers moved through every carefully folded letter, some of them a bit more clumsy than the others.
But your moment was cut short when the bell above the shop door rang.
"Be with you in a moment!" you called out, though from the back room, you doubted they'd heard you properly.
"Take your time!" a muffled voice called back from across the hall.
You quickly gathered the mess you'd made while rummaging for that old lamp you weren't even sure you needed anymore and shoved it on the high shelf.
You took George's letters and placed them on a lower shelf, telling yourself you'd come back to them later.
Cursing under your breath, thinking you'd probably lost another customer for making them wait so long, you quickly turned the doorknob and made your way down the narrow hallway back to the front of your shop.
Ducking under the pale mustard-yellow curtain, you prepared yourself for an earful.
"Apologies for the delay, what can I—"
"Hi, do you happen to have—"
You froze, your heart nearly falling out of your arse when you saw the person standing just on the other side of the counter.
Neither of you remembered what you were about to say.
Not because he looked or sounded like Fred.
But because he looked and sounded like George.
And somehow, that would be even worse. Because Fred's impossible. George isn't.
He realized he'd been staring half a second too long, just trying to make sure it was really you. He noticed how you still fiddled with your sleeves when you were nervous, and how much older you looked compared to the version of you he remembered.
Your eyes flicked to his missing ear, and that was all that needed to be said. This was George. Really George.
You couldn't seem to tear your eyes away from his face, so much so that you noticed some scars that hadn't been there before.
And that he was obviously older. Softer. Tired.
It felt like a millennium had passed as you both simply stood and stared at each other like you'd witnessed some magical phenomenon not even Dumbledore himself knew about, until George raised his brows, taking in the shop and breaking the silence.
"So you really own this place?"
"That's usually how having my name on the deed works."
Hearing your voice again after so long made a smile tug at the corner of his lips.
"Look at you. Proper business owner and everything."
You scoffed out a chuckle. "That somehow sounds less like a compliment than you're intending it to be."
"Who said I was complimenting?" he said, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer before he turned on his heel and wandered around your shop.
The silence settled again. Your brain raced with all the different things you wanted to tell him. Could tell him. But you couldn't just act like you didn't spend the last six years leaving his last owl—and the ones before that—unanswered.
While you busied yourself, wracking your mind with what to do, what to say, and how to not mess up this possibly last meeting with George, you never noticed the way he threw discreet glances your way.
Like rather than paint himself a full picture of the way you looked by finding somewhere hidden to watch you peacefully, he found stealing glances and piecing together what had changed about you far more entertaining.
To his relief, he noticed not everything about you had competely changed. Because even after six years had passed, you were still you somehow. Still the girl who'd seen Hogwarts' catastrophes courtesy of him and his twin brother, and survived the aftermath of the war.
From behind the counter, you fidgeted nervously. You played with your fingers and nails, shifting your weight from one foot to another—anything to stop yourself from doing or saying something stupid.
"Still fiddling with her fingers like a naughty kid," he chuckled to himself.
"Why isn't he angry with me?" Because you were right. You did leave at a time when the grief was still young. Not new, but the lingering kind. The worst kind, if you're being honest.
You left at a time when you and George were finally getting the hang of daily life again.
But by this point, George had years to process it. You didn't. You knew you needed to learn to forgive yourself enough to let him back in.
A good ten minutes had passed, filled only by the silence and George's dragonhide shoes against the floor, before he appeared in front of you—carrying an item far too irrelevant for him to be purchasing.
You looked at the little wooden bird that lay nestled in his calloused fingers before returning your gaze to him. His empty ring finger also caught your attention, but you quickly pushed the thought away. You had no right to notice things like that.
"Bit impractical," he admitted.
"You're still buying it then?"
He paused, looking down at the bird and turning it over in his hands before gently placing it on the counter.
You cleared your throat, reaching for the bird and completing his purchase.
"Do you, um...need a bag?"
He let out a silent laugh. "It's the size of my palm. My pocket'll do."
It wasn't awkward, or heavy. Well, maybe just a little awkward—but it mostly just felt...hesitant. Like a quiet battle between who got to say what first and whether anyone would say anything at all.
But George was only looking for any excuse to linger around you for just a bit longer.
He eventually took the tiny bird, slipping it into his coat pocket. But he showed no intention of moving toward the door. You found yourself straightening a stack of receipts that were already perfectly aligned.
"So," you started, "you've taken up a hobby of collecting little wooden birds now?"
A corner of his mouth twitched. "No."
"Looked a bit lonely, don't you think?"
You let out a snort. "Right. And no, I didn't think it looked lonely."
"You wound me. You wound Little Birdy too."
And before you could stop it, a laugh escaped you. And George visibly relaxed at the sound. Just a little.
"Glad to know the years haven't improved your decision-making," you teased.
"That's rich coming from you," he laughed before you both paused.
That was the first genuinely familiar exchange you’d had all afternoon.
It wasn't careful or polite. It wasn't weighed down by all the things left unsaid, either. Just you and George talking like you'd only seen each other yesterday.
"...It was good to see you." He broke the silence with simple words. Words that hit you even harder than if he'd started listing every reason he had to be angry with you.
You looked up, and George wasn't smiling anymore. He looked sincere. Calm, like he'd been waiting years to say it.
"Yeah," you said quietly. "You too."
He stared at you for another good second before heading towards the door. His shoulders were broader now than they used to be.
And right when he was about to leave, he paused.
"Didn't know you owned this place. Genuinely," he confessed, his voice low.
"Most people don't," you replied.
You felt stupidly pleased by the compliment. George rested his hand on the doorknob.
"Maybe I’ll stop by again sometime."
Your pulse did something strange, and then your palms started feeling numb.
"For another wooden bird?" you teased.
"Maybe." His grin reappeared. A small one. A familiar one.
He turned to look at you and shrugged. "Maybe I’ll find something even more useless."
And without saying anything more, he left.
The bell above the door jingled around the shop, and you damn near fell to the ground. You'd been holding your breath this whole time.
You leaned your rear against the table behind you, eyes blinking in shock. Your heart didn't seem to calm down after the realization that came a few moments after George left
You still enjoyed talking to each other.
He came in as a stranger, and somehow, watching him leave felt worse than seeing him again for the first time in years.
The next time George came by was around a week later, on a random Thursday.
Seeing him again had shifted something in you. Though you couldn't really put a finger on what exactly.
That night, you'd found another stack of George's owls tucked in a drawer in your room, tied with a ribbon and practically begging for you to notice them.
And that's what you did. You reread one.
And it did you in entirely.
The next three days, you spent anxiously flitting around your shop, expecting him to pop up like some Hogwarts ghost at any moment. But after the fourth day, you sadly assumed it really was just a one-time visit.
Perhaps he only came to let you know that he never actually hated or resented you for what you did, and then went on his way.
It was just like any other workday. You'd just finished restocking the newest shipment of charmed bookmarks that seemed to be popular amongst the younger students, dusting the shelves, wiping down the windows, and even ended up playing cat and mouse with a few rogue mops and feather-dusters that somehow made more mess than they cleaned.
As you were picking up the last few loose feathers from the floor between the shelves, a shadow loomed over your crouched figure.
"MERLIN!" you yelled, body violently flinching before you turned around and looked up at whoever had decided it was a good idea to creep up on someone with their hands full.
The "rude" person now stood back a few steps back, a small amused grin on his face and a steaming beverage in hand. It was a miracle he hadn't spilled a drop.
"Christ, George," you hissed, your shoulders relaxing. "Maybe ring the bell next time?"
You stood up, and dusted yourself off. Your eyes went to his face, the cup in his hand, before returning back again.
"Right, sorry about that." He extended his arm with the beverage towards you. "Glad to know I'm still welcome."
You glanced at the cup again, before taking it without hesitation.
The pads of your fingers immediately tingled at the heat radiating from the cup.
"Bribing me with a drink? What's this?" you asked, bringing it to your nose and taking a whiff.
"Rosehip. Remembered you liked that. I still can't get behind it, though. Tastes like rubbish."
"It's not poisoned, is it?" you raised an eyebrow at him.
He chuckled, his lips settling into a smirk. "If I wanted to, I wouldn't put it in your tea. Way too obvious."
You slowly brought the rim to your lips before taking a cautious sip. That comforting taste, the bitterness and hint of sweetness coated your tongue.
Your heart couldn't ignore the fact that after all this time, he still remembered how you took your tea.
And you hated how it made you feel knowing that he did.
"Impressive," you said, nodding. "Still got it down."
And he liked the familiarity. Maybe a little more than you wanted him to.
"When you get asked to make tea the same way nearly every day for at least two years, you learn a few things," he remarked, tone laced with sarcasm.
A small smile twitched at your mouth. The quiet that fell between you didn't feel as fragile as it did a week ago anymore.
You walked towards the counter, leaning against it after placing your cup down. George followed, settling himself on the shelf in front of you before shoving a hand into his pocket.
"Busy day?" he asked, raising his brows slightly. His gaze fixed on you.
"No, not really." You took the cup again and brought it to your lips for another sip. "It's fine though, I could use some breathing room. Yesterday was so chaotic I nearly—"
"Flipped the room," George finished your sentence. He remembered that too. The catchphrase that used to leave your mouth whenever even the slightest inconvenience happened back at Hogwarts.
You spent the remainder of the afternoon talking to him. It was there when you learned he also still remembered your favorite sweets. He even laughed at a joke you let slip—one that nobody around you had ever really understood.
You took breaks every time a customer would come in, and even George offered a hand, but ended up giving them change that popped and crackled rather than jingled.
"New product," he said with a shameless wink.
Somewhere between his visits throughout the week, your fourth conversation, and your seventh, talking to George stopped feeling like reopening an old wound.
It started feeling familiar.
Dangerously, stupidly familiar.
It bothered you how normal he seemed about everything.
You expected anger. A confrontation. Years of resentment.
Instead, George just seemed happy you were around again. Alive and standing with him.
Which somehow made you feel even guiltier.
A week later, on a Sunday evening, you and George found yourselves at one of the local tea pubs to wind down after a particularly busy day.
And between your first and second cup, he caught onto you.
"You can stop looking at me like that," he said, twisting his cup around with his index finger.
Your brows knitted together. "Like what?"
George snorted. "Like you're waiting for me to throw something at your head."
Your face grew warm. "I do not."
"You're a terrible liar."
"You're an awful observer," you shot back.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Is that right? How so?" he asked, amused.
George smiled, clearly unconvinced.
"How's the shop doing?" you asked, changing the subject. But you genuinely did want to know.
"Better than I thought it would. Just expanded to Hogsmeade. Figured it'd do well outside Diagon."
"Is Ron still helping around?"
George took a sip of his tea. "Yeah, but he's been a bit tied up with the kids. And Hermione's absolutely pummelled with work, being an advocate for elves and all."
"And you don't have kids?" The question slipped out before you could bite your tongue. You wanted to slam your head against the table then and there.
George paused, blinking once in surprise. You closed your eyes briefly before dropping your gaze to your tea, shaking your head in embarrassment.
"No," he said, eyes reflecting the warm lighting in the tea house. "No kids."
For a moment, it felt familiar again. Almost dangerously so.
You were getting George back, but weren't sure if he'd stay. Sometimes when he looked at you, you wondered if he was afraid of the exact same thing.
It was fascinating how one day, you and George were moving like a pair of run-down mechanical machines whenever you found yourselves in the same space, counting the minutes as time dragged by, and then before you knew it, three months went by just like that.
Eventually, your time together shifted from being about absence to more about reconnecting.
You were at the Hogsmeade branch of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, paying George a visit this time around. The first time you came in after years of avoiding the place like the plague, waves of melancholy hit you harder than a surprise Bludger to the head.
The smell, the sights, the products both old and new that lined the shelves and flew about the shop—it was all too much to take in again.
On a few occassions, you even had to leave the shop just to take a breath.
It was especially difficult when you remembered who used to be anywhere and everywhere you looked every time you came to visit.
The silence of his absence drowned out even their loudest inventions.
But now, walking in felt like it did before his passing. You felt anticipation, excitement, and that pure, uncontainable curiosity return.
Naturally, after six years, however, the feeling could sometimes be a bit strange. It did take you a good two weeks to gather enough courage to stay longer than twenty minutes.
You strolled along the second floor of the shop, a new product catching your eye as you browsed through the undoubtedly overstimulating shelves.
"What's a 'Shrieking Beetlefly'?" you yelled at George, who was sorting through inventory just a floor below you. But when he didn't respond, you made your way downstairs with the product in hand, going to satisfy your curiosity yourself.
As you approached the back area of the shop, his back came into view. The dusty lilac button-up he wore was now crinkled up from all the moving around he'd been doing since you came in.
"George," you called out, inspecting the tin of beetles in your hand.
"Hm?" he mumbled, before turning to face you.
You held the product up, shaking it slightly. "I've never seen these before. What are they?"
"I'd suggest not moving those around so much," he chuckled, picking up something from the box he'd been sorting through. "It's one of our—..." He paused. "My newest creations."
"Shrieks so loud it'll buy you enough time to get away. Just chuck it into someone's shoe or pocket, give it a little tussle, and you're a free man. It's foolproof."
He smiled at you, hoping you hadn't noticed the way he'd absentmindedly referred to himself as a plural. It took him a while to get used to saying "I" rather than "we," and he thought he'd gotten better at it.
But you noticed. And it still hurt.
George caught the change in your expression, and his smile faltered. He hated the way your face fell.
Not because he didn't understand it—but because he did. More than anyone else.
He hated how one tiny word could still bring everything back.
It wasn't that he hated saying "we." It was just that sometimes his mind still reached for Fred like a reflex. Like doing something as natural as breathing.
Six years, and he still couldn't stop himself from stumbling into moments that made everything heavier.
He silently cursed himself, but not for the reason of missing Fred. He'd rather lose his last good ear than apologize for that.
Rather, he cursed himself because he'd spent years learning how to carry loss without having it spill onto anyone else. Yet, for some reason, around you, he kept forgetting how.
"Right," he muttered under his breath. "Still working on that."
"Anyway, look what I found." He held up the thing in his hands. You couldn't really make out what it was.
"And what is that exactly?" you asked, tilting your head to get a better look at it.
"This was one of the older Decoy Detonator prototypes." He glanced down at it. "Merlin, he'd have hated this."
That was the one thing Fred helped design. One of the last things, in fact.
No matter how much you or George would try to achieve some sense of normalcy, Fred always found a way to creep back in. Neither of you were ever prepared for when he did.
George realized he'd made things worse rather than smoothed them over. He chucked the prototype back in the box and braced himself for you to walk out the door.
The familiar knot settled in his stomach. He'd seen this before. The shift in someone's expression, the sudden quiet, and the realization that every time someone looked at him, they saw someone else.
And any second now, you'd make an excuse and leave.
But you didn't. You actually looked at George. Not avoiding his eyes, and not staring at the floor. Just seeing him.
You noticed a lot of other things you'd forgotten after all those years of grief.
Like how George doesn't actually look that much like Fred anymore. Not really.
He was much older. His expressions are different. The way he carried himself had changed. A line that had been practically blurred all those years ago now became so clear.
You're seeing the younger twin for who he really is. How he's not his older twin brother.
He never was, but your grief somehow tied the two together.
He sighed. "I didn't mean to."
"You don't have to apologize for him." You paused before saying what both of you had been afraid to say for a long time.
You saw the way his legs twitched to come closer. The way his nails dug into his palms to contain himself from doing anything that would push you away.
And you weren't any better either.
Your arms ached to embrace him long enough to convince yourselves you were both breathing in the same rhythm. To bury your face in his neck and convince you both that everything was alright now.
But you and George hadn't so much as smiled at each other in the last three months.
He pursed his lips, rubbing his hands together gently. "I, uh, think the last owl I sent got returned."
"...What?" you replied, confused.
"Think the little guy lost his way."
George was trying to spare you the embarrassment. He knew. Or at least suspected. Nobody genuinely sends that many owls and has every single one of them get lost.
And you stood there nearly losing your mind, because no—no owls from him were ever returned. You still had every single letter hidden somewhere.
After his little comment, neither of you knew what to say. So George turned back to the inventory, and you quietly offered to help.
You both stood shoulder-to-shoulder, opening boxes of products that needed to be sorted to either "possibly marketable" or "absolute rubbish."
It was quiet. Comfortable. Only the sounds of rustling and clanging as one of you tossed an invention in whatever box it belonged in echoed throughout the shop.
You huffed through your nose, a small smile on your lips as you held up another ridiculous-looking contraption that sat on the very bottom of your box.
"This was Fred's. One hundred percent, this was his."
George looked up from his own box, shifting his gaze towards from you to the prototype in your hands.
"Yeah," he chuckled, "didn't know what he was thinking when he made that. My creations were clearly the more reliable ones. Never smoked in the first five seconds when we tried 'em out."
And instead of crying, you laughed. He laughed.
Not the quick kind, but a real one. The first long one you'd shared in years.
The day ended with you staying even after closing. George tested a few inventions that piqued your interest, some on you and some with you, set aside your favorite tea during your clean-up, and slowly settled into the rhythm of cracking jokes and trading sarcastic comments again like you did before.
The one thing you failed to catch that evening, however, was the way he'd occasionally stare at you when you weren't looking. Like he was still painting that image of you in his mind, desperate to get you right. To immortalize the version of you in front of him now.
Winter finally arrived in the Wizarding World, and it had been eight months since you and George's reunion.
How quickly time flew when you were with each other.
And the funny thing was, both of you had spent years convincing yourselves you didn't need the other person anymore.
Then one day George was late, and you found yourself checking the door every five minutes. Sometimes you didn't even make it to five.
When you caught yourself in your little act, your mind went blank. You actually wanted to slap yourself silly.
"That's a problem," you muttered to yourself and started arranging some goods in the display shelves to occupy your jittery hands.
Indeed it was a problem. Just two days ago, George wasn't able to come visit to take care of some business back at Diagon Alley. Something terribly interesting had happened just outside your shop, and your thoughts immediately went to how much George would get a kick out of it if he were there with you.
But you didn't think much of it then.
Now, you became aware of just how ridiculous you looked. Peering toward the door every few minutes. Or how your eyes would flick to the bell above the shop to see if it moved. You didn't trust your ears to tell you if he had arrived. You needed to see him to know if he was really there.
"I think I'm unwell," you told yourself as you took an item a customer had lazily left out rather than returned to its rightful place, and tried reaching for the highest shelf where it belonged.
"I don't remember asking for shelves this bloody high on the blueprint," you groaned, straining yourself trying to reach up as you didn't have much balance left to stand on anymore.
Perhaps the task at hand did you some good. It kept your mind off of having to constantly check the door like a lunatic. A thief could come in and fold the whole shop in half and you'd still be dead set on trying to put the merchandise back in its place.
All of a sudden, everything around you dimmed, like someone had lowered the lights. A tall shadow loomed over you and swallowed your whole body. The warmth of their chest pressed against your back as their breath fanned the top of your head.
So even when someone came up behind you, took the object from your hands and placed it back for you with such infuriating ease, you still wouldn't turn around.
And you wouldn't need to.
Because from the smell and breathing alone, you knew exactly who it was.
"George," you acknowledged, the corners of your lips twitching up as you turned your head to look up at him. You were right.
There he stood hovering over you, one arm still raised from when he'd returned the item to the shelf.
Neither of you moved, though you should have stepped away. George should've lowered his arm. One of you should've done something.
You both stayed frozen for a beat too long.
Close enough for your gaze to sweep over his lashes and see the way they framed and curled around his eyes.
To notice the faint freckles painted across his nose.
Close enough to count the lines on his lips if you were foolish enough to look—which, unfortunately, you were.
The details you'd been hell-bent on avoiding all those years ago were suddenly impossible to ignore, clear as day in front of you and etching themselves into your mind.
"You should seriously stop overestimating your height," he chuckled, looking down at you. "Ladders exist, you know."
Your thoughts suddenly lost all coherence. George was definitely saying something. His lips were moving, yet not a single word sailed through your ears. They all seemed to pass right by instead. But you nodded anyway.
A dangerous choice, considering you hadn't understood a thing he'd said.
You'd spent a long time telling yourself George Weasley was simply George Weasley.
But that old friend was currently standing close enough for you to notice the scar by his jaw, which wasn't something you'd catch if it was any other person.
You were beginning to suspect you were not behaving like a normal person right now.
Your thoughts had scattered like frightened pigeons, and something in your head made a noise not unlike a bookshelf collapsing.
Because why was your heart doing that? Why were you noticing the little things? The way he smelled, his freckles, and the warmth of him standing so close?
You became so aware of him that wasn't in a way that painted him as a memory or a reminder anymore—but rather, as himself.
Some time ago this all would've hurt because all you'd see was Fred. The ghost of him at least.
But it was all so different now, and that scared you even more.
You were noticing his voice—how much deeper it was compared to Fred's, the way it vibrated when he said certain things. The way his cupid's bow became more prominent when he smiled. His habits...
God, this wasn't how it was supposed to be.
George blinked, staring at you for a moment. "Alright, nobody's home," he sighed, looking away.
And by some grace of Merlin, you finally came back to reality. You quickly blinked before locking your gaze onto him.
Your brows knitted together as your hand shot up, capturing his nose in a tight pinch between your index finger and thumb.
"Ow!" yelped George, jumping back and making you let go. The sudden movement created a distance between you that felt oddly noticeable. His middle finger soothed over the spot you'd just assaulted.
"What was that about my height?" you asked, practically threatening the poor man. Maybe a little more seriously than you'd intended to. And for some reason, that didn't seem to scare him off. Typical.
He continued rubbing his nose, acting scandalized. "I was merely pointing out that you're not actually tall enough to reach everything."
"And?" You cocked an eyebrow.
"And most shopkeepers don't usually attack their customers. Especially loyal ones."
"You're not a customer." The words left your mouth before you could stop yourself. Before you could even think about whether you should've said anything at all.
Guess overestimating your height isn't the only habit you should be working on. A five-year-old could probably figure out timing better than you.
George paused, his lips parted slightly as he looked at you. You froze as well, noticing the flicker of something strange across his face.
A second passed, then two, before a grin stretched across his face. "Right. Terrifying shopkeeper. My bad."
On another day at the end of the month, you called George over to help you with unpacking some inventory that'd been sitting in the back room for quite some time.
You were too busy to really handle all of it yourself. At least that's what you told him.
"Careful with that one," you warned, passing behind George as you made your way out the dusty space, holding the third of many boxes.
Thankfully, you had closed the shop for the day so you both could sort peacefully.
"Why?" George asked, turning his body to face you with a tiny porcelain figure in hand.
"Because if you drop it, I'm making you pay for it," you replied, placing the box you were carrying down before making your way back over to him.
"Charming. Threatening your customers now?"
"Wow. I come bearing help and this is the treatment I get?"
You scoffed with a small smirk, shaking your head before reaching for another box. George did the same.
Neither of you noticed you were reaching for the same one until your hands met halfway.
Your fingers brushed. Light. Kind. And neither of you pulled back immediately.
The realization came a second later. George cleared his throat, and you suddenly found the floor so completely and utterly fascinating.
"So then this bastard comes in, right? Told me the product was faulty. Faulty, y/n!" George protested, hands dramatically moving around to further emphasize his disbelief.
You sat there across from him in his office at Weasleys' Wheezes, the distance no bigger than a small coffee table with your tea in hand as you listened to whatever mayhem another poor soul had erupted in his shop.
"Not exactly unusual for a joke shop," you remarked, crossing your legs and leaning back against your seat. "But don't you usually test everything before putting it up for sale?"
George slapped his thigh before pointing an accusing finger at you. "That's exactly right. A load of tosh is what he was."
"So how'd you calm him down?" you asked, taking a sip of your drink.
"That's when the fun part happens." He leaned forward, resting against his desk. "You can guess what he did."
You shrugged, frowning as you tried to guess.
"He shook the blasted thing. When it specifically said not to." He clapped his hands together. "Clearly, he didn't read the instructions and blamed it on me! Damn near blew himself into bloody pieces of glitter and frog spit!"
Seeing the way George looked so passionate yet so frustrated as he told his story had you fighting back a smile.
You placed your cup down on the small wooden table in front of you and leaned toward him, intrigued.
"So did it actually blow up?"
"What did he look like, then?"
"A drunk disco ball was what he looked like."
And that did it. You burst into laughter—real laughter—contagious enough for George to quickly follow. Soon, the both of you were just a cackling mess.
All too easy, all too carefree.
“No, he didn't!" you cried, clapping your fingers over your mouth.
"Why would I lie to you?"
He barked out another laugh, tossing his head back. And without thinking (again,) your hand ended up on his arm in the middle of your little fit.
The laughter eventually faded, and neither of you looked at where your hand rested. Neither of you moved it either.
For once, the thought of what had been lost never crossed either of your minds. Just what you still had. What was still there.
Being close to George didn't feel like holding onto a piece of Fred anymore. It just felt like being close to George.
It was a particularly easy day. It was the middle of the week, and people were anywhere but the district your shop was at, apparently.
After waiting out a few more minutes to see if any other customers would come in, and seeing as none ever did, you decided to close up earlier today than you normally did.
The sun was just beginning to set, painting the shops across from you a comforting, warm orange as life quietly passed outside your shop's window. The same one you spent countless hours looking out of.
Before, you and George always stood opposite each other. There was always a shop counter between you. A café table. Some kind of distance.
But then one day, you had found yourselves beside each other instead. Just like now. Looking out the window together like nothing else mattered.
Watching people pass, and talking just for the sake of talking.
At some point, standing shoulder-to-shoulder had become easier than standing across from him.
And you weren't even sure when that happened.
That was how most evenings at your shop ended the last few days.
At first it used to be his usual, "I should get going."
But then he doesn't actually leave.
As the months passed, comfort found its way back before trust ever did. And George had definitely tried a few other lines on you by then.
"I was heading that way anyway."
You stared at him, confused, but not enough to hide the suspicion written all over your face.
"I've been doing it myself long before you strutted back into my life. Thanks for the offer, though."
You patted his cheek as you passed him.
"Strutted?" he echoed, turning his head to follow you.
"I did indeed say that," you said, pulling on the front window's braided satin rope so the curtain could fall over the main large window up front.
"Didn't take myself for a model," he mused, following after you before plucking the key to the shop from your back pocket with practised ease.
"How'd you know it was there?"
It was obviously for safety reasons. Just in case some rogue Puffskeins decided to invade your shop and you needed to lock them in.
But he never answered. Some things were better left unsaid if he wanted to leave your shop without a bruise, or to avoid being hit with whatever was closest to you.
Explaining that he'd memorized more about your habits than he probably should have seemed like a terrible idea.
George had taken the key a couple of minutes ago, and the closed sign had been hanging for forty.
Neither of you had noticed.
He was still there, not even buying anything. Not helping around anymore. He could've at least pretended to be fascinated by a ball of yarn or something.
But he was just there, and neither of you questioned it anymore.
You realized George no longer came to see how your shop was doing. At least, that's what he wanted you to believe.
The winter has now deepened into something completely unpleasant. It was the middle of February, and the air had gone dry and rabid. Your hands weren't any better than two shrivelled pieces of wood.
Going out had become more of a hassle than a necessity, and even visiting George's shop was starting to feel like a challenge in the biting cold. But knowing you, making up for lost time meant much more than a mere winter rash. (Which you'd be regretting later.)
With your gloved hands dug deeply into your coat pocket, you dragged your feet through Diagon Alley's snow-piled pathways while the wind, which felt like knives cutting through skin, whipped at your face.
Your breath flew past you as you tried to level your breathing. You were desperate to get there as quickly as possible. Any later, and you'd die from hypothermia.
"Watch him tell me I'm exaggerating again," you mumbled to yourself, teeth clattering from the cold.
The majority of the shops were open, but the weather outside was bad enough that most witches and wizards preferred to stay indoors—unlike your stubborn self since it was your turn to visit for the week.
As the shop came into view, your feet took on a mind of their own, barrelling you toward the door and straight inside before you could think twice.
You panted, trying to catch your breath as the shop's warmth hit you after closing the entrance. A good minute had passed before you looked up—seeing the shop was also unsurprisingly empty today.
"George?" you called out, slipping off your hat and scarf before tossing it onto a nearby shelf.
Approaching the main counter, a steaming cup with a teaspoon still stirring the drink caught your attention. You picked up the spoon, then the cup and its saucer, before peering at the note that was lodged beneath it.
"Idiot," you chuckled, averting your attention from the note and took a sip of the hot drink.
The liquid slid down smooth and easy, warming you up from the inside out. Goosebumps rose beneath your layers of clothing as the cold finally began to fade.
"He makes a damn good cup, I'll give him that," you said under your breath.
"Was that a compliment I heard?" A familiar voice called from above. Looking up, you saw George leaned over the railing with a grin, gave it a smack, and started making his way down the stairs.
You kept quiet, watching him with a knowing smile as he walked down the steps, one by one, slowly, with a hand shoved down his trouser pocket.
"Hey," He greeted, a slight tilt of his head as he walked toward you. "Thought you wouldn't make it."
You let out a scoff. "Nearly."
Setting the note back down on the counter, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "I was debating whether to leave my home at all. Weather like this doesn't exactly encourage it."
"I can see that," he teased, his eyes skimming over your clothes dotted with melted snow—then to your face, flushed from the cold.
"Don't start," you pleaded, eyebrows scrunching.
"I'm serious. You look half-frozen."
George snorted. "Yeah, that's exactly the kind of logic that gets people killed. You should've kept your bum at home."
You shrugged. “Well, it was worth it to me, though."
"The tea, of course," you quickly added, taking an awkward sip. But deep down, you knew it wasn't that that made you come over.
"Right." He folded his arms. "I thought you were gonna say I was worth trekking through a snowstorm for."
"Don't push it, Weasley."
"There she is." He smiled, almost too gently.
Silence stretched between you for what felt like an eternity. You fiddled with the cup as it slowly cooled in your hands, occasionally taking unnecessary sips just to look like you were unbothered by the quiet.
"You know," George started, breaking it, "I kept thinking you'd answer eventually..."
Hearing that made your heart sink into your stomach. You knew what he was talking about. Either way, you kept quiet, wanting him to say it outright.
He moved beside you, leaning back against the counter before shifting his gaze to you—or rather, the side of your face.
"I thought for a while that, of all the people that came into the shop, one of them might've been you."
Your chest tightened. Not the fact that he didn't cry or yell at you for disappearing all those years ago, but because of the way his disappointment was so subtle. He didn't have to spell it out for you to understand it.
You expected this conversation sooner or later. You spent years imagining what the confrontation would be like—so much so that you'd made a list of what might happen.
George yelling at you was on top of that.
Instead, he just looked...sad.
You didn't know what to do. What to say. How to move. If you should look at him. If you should breathe at all.
The wind had been completely knocked out of your lungs. You realized how much easier you handled guilt than forgiveness—how guilt had always given you an out whenever things became too much.
"Why won't you look at me?"
Your mouth opened, then closed again. You could only sigh and shake your head.
Without breaking his gaze, he took the tea cup from your hands and set it behind him on the counter.
"George, I—..." you said softly, eyes still on your feet.
"You know what hurt the most?" he suddenly asked.
You expected him to talk about Fred. To mention how you'd ghosted him out of nowhere for reasons he still didn't know.
But instead, he shifted, leaning sideways against the counter, his arm resting on it.
And that was when it really hit you. Just how much damage you'd caused.
You quickly looked up at him. What surprised you wasn't that he didn't lash out at you, but how kind his expression still was.
"I don't know what to say." You turned away from him again, wrapping your arms around yourself.
"Have you got my owls, then?" he asked, his voice soft. Curious, rather than anything else.
You paused, your feet shifting slightly. "Every one."
George could only stare at you.
"And you never answered."
You turned, throat tightening. "Because every time I looked at you, talked to you...I didn't know how to separate you from him."
Your voice broke slightly. "And I missed him too much to risk making it worse."
George didn't hesitate before pulling you into his arms, holding you close as you trembled.
"I'm sorry," you mumbled into his chest, tears now beginning to stain his waistcoat.
"I know." He swallowed. "First year, I wrote to you a lot, didn't I? Every week."
He paused. "Then less. Until it was just your birthday."
"I know that," you echoed, fingers curling into his coat. "I read them."
"All of it?" he asked quietly, resting his chin on top of your head.
You nodded. "All of it. I kept them."
George realized with a quiet twist in his chest that he had never being ignored. You had read every word he'd sent. Every scribble. Every mistake left on paper.
"I couldn't throw them away," your voice shook as you spoke.
A weak laugh slipped out of you, the sound muffled where your face was buried against his chest.
"Every time one arrived, I'd tell myself to answer the next day..."
"Mm," he murmured, still holding you.
"Then a week would pass. Then a month." You squeezed your eyes shut. "Then it felt like too much time had passed for me to even answer at all."
George stayed quiet, listening to everything you had to say. It wasn't because he enjoyed seeing you like this. Because he'd finally gotten what he'd been losing sleep over for the last six years.
"You didn't deserve the way I treated you," you sobbed. “I was so caught up with losing Fred that I didn't know how to cope. I thought maybe helping you deal with yours would help me too, but I just—I lost myself in the middle of it."
You felt his arms tighten around you, pulling you in a bit closer.
"You had no control over the fact that you looked like him. But back then, I couldn't see past it. All I saw was Fred."
You loosened your grip from his coat before wrapping your arms around his torso.
"I'm sorry, George," you whispered. "God, I'm so sorry."
"I thought you hated me."
You tilted your head up, your eyes meeting his.
You shook your head. "No."
"Then what?" he asked, his voice low and rough.
"Just looking at you hurt. I never meant to leave you alone."
You buried your face back into his chest.
"I know," he murmured. "Must've been exhausting having to deal with that all by yourself. I just wish you'd told me."
He stood for a moment before letting out a soft laugh, gently swaying you side-to-side.
"Hey," he said with a small grin, squeezing your arms.
You only managed a weak hum.
"If it's any better, I kept your last letter."
You froze. His words taking a second to register.
Looking up from his chest, you saw that he was already watching you.
"The one before you stopped writing. The paper's practically falling apart now."
After all this time, while you had been drowning yourself in guilt, George had been holding onto the last piece of you he had left. Even if it was slowly falling apart.
"George..." you whispered, pulling away from him just enough to look at him properly.
You wiped your eyes, only then noticing the mess you'd made of his tailored suit. A small breath left you.
He snorted, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "I was. For a long time."
His answer startled you, though it wasn't unexpected.
"Then I was worried," he admitted quietly, swallowing. His Adam’s apple bobbed. "Then I just missed you."
A year had officially passed since you and George's reunion. And since that night where the both of you had finally gotten the answers you'd needed to hear for so long, everything has taken a complete turn.
George laughed. Genuinely laughed more—and you'd grown more comfortable around his jokes both old and new, and the silence that sat in between them. Something you had trouble with the first six months since you saw each other again.
Now, you'd made peace. And things are much softer.
There were times when visits naturally had to be put on pause.
You had to work through new stock, deal with other merchants you'd collaborated with, and meet product deadlines, while George had his own business meetings to attend—and whatever shop-related explosions he always swore he wasn't responsible for.
And eighty percent of the time, he was.
Some things never truly changed.
But now, the both of you had finally found some leeway and eventually resorted to drawing lots on who would visit who.
George laid down the concept of charming Puking Pastilles and Exploding Bon Bons to look exactly the same.
First one to throw up had to visit the winner's shop. That was his brilliant proposal.
The idea alone should've been a red flag, especially considering he'd removed the purple ends that usually stopped the puking.
Let's just say it ended quite colorfully. Both in language and bodily fluids.
George had gone sick and emptied the contents of his stomach all over your flat's floor, which amused you for a while, watching him desperately grab onto anything he could find in an attempt to save whatever dignity he had left.
...Until he just kept on spewing.
The scene turned chaotic as you grabbed every basin and bowl you could find, with George hunched over every single one you brought out after the last one had filled to the brim.
You eventually had to shove the purple end down his throat. He wasn't very pleased about it, but it did the job.
Now it was the evening of April ninth, and you and George had just finished closing up your shop.
The two of you were sitting side-by-side on the floor of your little workspace in the back rooms, sorting through old letters you'd sent each other during the holidays back when you were students at Hogwarts.
Every now and then, one or both of you would burst out into hysterics over something ridiculous you'd written.
"Oh, good god, look at this!" you exclaimed, practically shoving the letter with a Polaroid attached to it towards George.
George had taken the photo just two months after he and Fred had left Hogwarts, sending it because you'd mentioned missing visits to The Burrow and wondering how his parents were doing.
He practically choked on his tea, coughing for a few seconds before setting the cup down beside him and taking the photograph from your hands.
"Merlin, I remember this," he gaped at the photo, his grin wider than you'd ever seen it.
"Mum caught Dad trying to take apart the toaster again. Bloody brilliant. You should've seen it."
You tilted your head in confusion. "I never knew your family had a toaster."
"You couldn't have known. Dad insisted we try using one after seeing how Muggles ate their bread 'so deliciously,' while Mum wasn't having it," George explained, flipping the photograph in his hand.
"She tried hiding it any chance she got while Dad wasn't around."
"Ahh." You nodded. "Aaand her solution was assault?"
George shook his head. "No, no. This was after the assault."
His gaze lingered on the moving photo for a moment. The way Molly and Arthur laughed like they had no real care in the world made something in George ache. But the moment passed quickly, and he tilted the photo towards you.
"See?" He pointed at Arthur. "That's the face of a man that's been warned at least two times."
"Couldn't have been exactly two times, right?" you tried to reason, eyes flicking from the Polaroid to George, while already holding in a giggle.
"You're right. Make that five."
His remark made you burst out laughing, your head tipping back as you clapped your hands together.
The smile that settled on your face lit up your features, especially your eyes, which seemed to smile along with you.
Your shoulders still shook as you were catching your breath, little remnants of laughter escaping every now and then.
The way you practically split your sides had George grinning like he never had before. The sound filled the cramped office, and played in his mind almost like the Muggle earbuds you'd once tried explaining to him.
After a few chuckles escaped him, George paused.
He wasn't looking at the photograph anymore.
At first, you didn't notice. It was only when the stillness beside you became too noticeable that you turned.
And there he was, looking at you like he couldn't believe you were real.
"Hm?" He blinked, raising his eyebrows slightly.
"You're staring," you pointed out, feeling your face grow warm.
"Am not." He quickly looked away.
"I was looking at the letter."
"The letter's in my lap."
You scoffed, hitting his arm lightly with the back of your hand. "Amazing recovery."
You turned back to sort through your letters.
As you sifted through the rest, another letter had caught your eye.
Very worn down, with scribbles in colored ink everywhere, and a very, very bad attempt at fancy handwriting.
You remembered this one. He was very clearly trying to impress you back then with his creativity. Much to your dismay.
"Take a gander at this." You turned towards him, holding the letter out. Your eyes flicked from the worn parchment to George's face.
"Yeah, my Easter letter. What about it? Aside from my impeccable taste in colours, of course."
"You signed this with 'Your favorite Weasley.' "
He groaned, his face twisting in embarrassment. "Give me that." He reached for the letter, trying to take it from your hands. But you were quicker, pulling it out of reach.
"Nope," you said, grinning.
"I didn't know what I was doing."
"So you admit you're not all that expert-ey at designing, then?"
" 'Your favorite Weasley'? " you repeated, raising an eyebrow as the letter slipped from your fingers onto the desk behind you.
“An unbearable one at that,” you sneered, only for George to immediately ruffle your hair to distract you. Then, with a quick motion, he reached across the desk behind you, trying to snatch the letter.
Being faster than him, you pulled it away. And knowing him, he kept on, reaching further.
Maybe it was the excitement of having something to tease him about, or the fact that George was too focused on saving himself from further embarrassment, but neither of you noticed just how close you'd gotten.
Closer than intended for people in your position at least.
Close enough for your breaths to mix. Close enough to tell he'd been chewing Peppermint Toads just a few minutes ago. Close enough for him to notice the fmiliar scent of the perfume you wore—the one with subtle hints of cotton and osmanthus flowers.
With your faces just inches apart, silence was the only thing that sat in between the six inches that separated you.
George was looking at you.
Neither of you moved. Not an inch. Not a muscle.
Your chest rose and fell, and his smile faltered just a tiny bit. He noticed you staring. But not for reasons that he might have feared. Hell, even you knew that.
You noticed his missing ear, and the way it stood out more than it did years ago.
The way his smile tilted.
The way he looked at you.
George didn't remind you of Fred. Not anymore.
He noticed how quiet you'd gone, and he couldn't help but chuckle.
Your brows knitted together. "...What's so funny?"
He smiled, shaking his head as he looked down. "Nothing."
"Of course," he responded, low and soft. Lifting his gaze to look at you. "A lie."
And you were back at your little staring contest again.
A small, agonizing second passed before he moved half an inch closer, guiding your hand with the letter still clutched between your fingers down until it rested between the two of you.
You didn't move. Not even when you noticed his eyes flick down to your lips.
Your lips parted just as your heartbeat began to quicken, and for some reason...you didn't want to stop whatever was happening.
Just as George nearly closed whatever little distance was left between you, the sudden chime of the clock made you both jump apart.
George's eyes quickly glanced at the machine with an expression that looked like he'd be secretly cursing it later for interrupting.
"Bit rude of it, don't you think?"
You looked towards the ticking contraption in the corner of your office. "The...clock?"
"Interrupting people in the middle of important business."
You shifted awkwardly against the counter, trying to find a more comfortable position as you suddenly became very aware of what had almost happened.
"What's that mean? Important business."
"Hadn't figured that part out yet." He took his bottom lip in between his teeth and looked away. He definitely had it figured out.
George let out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Good to know I still possessed impeccable timing."
You frowned. "That wasn't your fault."
"No, but blaming a clock feels slightly undignified."
You chuckled lightly. "That's rich, coming from you."
"I have no idea what you mean, but do elaborate."
A sigh left you as you rested an arm on the counter. "You blamed Ron once for eating your leftover tart when you were the one who did and forgot. Your blaming tendencies aren't exactly surprising."
"But it's still kind of interesting, you know."
"Apparently I had exactly until eight o'clock to be brave."
And just like that, he walked away. Far too casually like you weren't just moments away from touching lips.
He left you wondering whether what happened earlier had anything to do with sleep deprivation, or if you'd just hallucinated the whole thing.
That almost-kiss left you feeling more uneasy than happy, or even excited.
But it wasn't because you didn't want George. Quite the opposite, actually.
That scared you more than you'd like to admit—though it probably showed less than you were letting on.
Six years ago, losing Fred nearly destroyed you. What happens if you let yourself love George too?
A week had passed since that "incident."
A week where you and George looked like complete idiots stumbling around each other, pretending nothing had happened. Or at least trying to forget something had happened.
But how could you when every time he handed you tea—every brush of your shoulders—you remembered.
And he wasn't any better.
It was the kind of realization where you'd be doing something, and even just the gust of wind that followed when he passed behind you was enough to have your mind go, "Oh."
You were both stuck in that awful phase where you definitely knew what had happened, weren’t denying it, and now you didn’t know where to put your hands.
Like the day George dropped by your shop and forgot why he came.
You accidentally saying George's name and forgetting what you were talking about.
Could someone please just have mercy and put the both of you out of your misery?
That's a whole week of pretending. Dancing around the thought like the elephant had walked into the room and you were determined not to acknowledge it.
A week of conversations cut short whenever you drifted too close to dangerous territory.
A week of glances that lingered a second too long.
A long evening finally came to an end with you and George closing up your shop. The alley outside was empty, with nothing but the moon, stars, and lamplights as your witnesses.
You were walking side-by-side in silence. George had his hands shoved in his pockets, and the sound of your shoes clicking against the cobbled street filled the cool air until he finally spoke, pulling you out of the quiet.
"We're being ridiculous, I hope you know."
You kept your eyes forward, not wanting to look at him.
"Okay," George snorted. "Then why do you look terrified every time I've walked within three feet of you this week?"
A charged silence settled between the two of you. One that hadn't been there in a while.
You tucked your lips in, lost in thought. But you knew you were going to have to come clean about yourself again for the nth time.
You sighed. "I'm just scared."
George looked at you, slightly surprised. "Of me?"
It was fear of losing him.
Fear that loving him somehow meant letting go of Fred, and you weren't sure the years spent being apart from George prepared you for that.
Silence filled the air again. Your eyes wandered over the cobblestones beneath your feet as you walked, while George trudged beside you, observing you like he'd just unlocked something new.
"Loving me doesn't mean you loved him any less."
Your eyes snapped forward before shifting over to him.
He smiled faintly. "You're allowed to miss him and still be happy."
"I just—" you hesitated, your fingers tangling together out of habit. "I was terrified if I got close to you again, it'd feel like I was replacing him. Like I was forgetting about him."
And George genuinely looked saddened at that.
"Nobody could," he said, head tilted down slightly. He took his hands out of his pockets, letting them fall at his sides.
He understood exactly what you were afraid of.
He took your hand in his. Not dramatically like he might've before. But gently, as if he were asking permission.
You stopped beneath a dim street lamp, his hand still clasping yours.
Silence sat comfortably between you this time as you faced each other. Looking into one another’s eyes like you'd just found the key to some impossible treasure.
Fred's eyes had always been rounder and softer. George's carried something different. They looked tired. Naturally sleepy, in a way that was uniquely his. Perhaps it was the years that separated you that made them look the way they did, but you doubted that.
That's right. They'd always looked that way. And time hadn't changed it. Only your ability to see it.
A long beat passed before George reached up to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face.
The gesture made your breath catch, your eyes fluttering softly at the feeling of his fingertips against your cheek. A warmth bloomed beneath his touch as he looked at you with something gentle and almost wistful.
It was such a small gesture. So stupidly simple, yet your entire body acted as if George had cast a stunning spell on you.
His fingers lingered against your face for a second too long. Neither of you seemed interested in pretending otherwise.
His lips twitched before parting ever so slightly. You'd caught yourself taking glances at his mouth too. And, of course, George noticed.
You saw the way his gaze would drop briefly to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Then back again.
A slight pink painted the tips of his ear, and the sight of it nearly made you laugh.
George Weasley, the same man who talked his way out of detentions, rallied entire crowds, and sold joke products for a living, nervous.
And that thought made something warm unfurl in your chest.
"You're staring," you murmured, your gaze moving from his one of his eyes to the other.
That made his grin return. Slow, crooked, and entirely too dangerous.
"Funny," he said quietly. "Was just about to say the same thing."
Your face grew warmer, and neither of you looked away. Not this time. Not after years of running. Not after years of missing each other.
George's thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles where he still held your hand. His expression softened, and the teasing eased off. And suddenly, he was looking at you in a way that made your own heart forget its own rhythm.
Like he'd finally come home.
"Can I kiss you?" he whispered.
For a moment, you could only look at him.
Six years ago, the thought of being this close him felt impossible. After all, everything just seemed entirely platonic. Just teenagers trying to figure out how life worked while squeezing in some fun.
Now, standing here beneath the quiet of night, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like you were always meant to be here one way or another.
Your eyes met his, and he swore every star in the sky reflected back at him.
George stared at you for a beat, blinking while his chest heaved from how hard your acceptance just hit him.
He was in a daze, replaying the way you looked at him and the way your voice sounded when you said yes. Yet another part of him was convinced this couldn't actually happening, and that he must've finally lost his mind.
Yet there you still were. In front of him, hand in his, and waiting.
Waiting as you watched the way he looked at you like he was trying to memorize you. Memorize this moment.
George's eyes softened, and a tiny smile tugged at his lips when reality finally settled in.
He initiated slowly, and it wasn't because he was unsure. He wanted to be careful.
His other free hand lifted to cup your cheek. His palm rested gently against your warmth, the rest of his fingers settling behind your ear like they belonged there.
He moved closer. Each inch that disappeared gave you every opportunity to change your mind. And when he saw you didn't, he took the next opportunity.
He squeezed your hand tighter, a shaky exhale leaving him as he tilted his face when he got close enough to feel your breath against his skin.
Then, so gently you almost missed it, he pressed his lips against yours.
Soft enough that they barely touched, but enough to make every nerve in your body come alive.
He pulled away slowly, leaving just enough space for you to look at each other again. Both your gazes searched the other's, caught between disbelief and awe. Maybe even in a "holy shit." kind of way.
Not a second was wasted before the stupidest grins took over your faces, wide enough to nearly split your cheeks in half.
Quietly. Almost in disbelief. Like the two of you were still trying to process that you had spent an entire week avoiding something that turned out to feel so easy.
You pursed your lips, gathering up the courage before being the one to lean in again.
George followed, angling his face to fit against yours better before brushing your noses—hesitating for a second as if giving you another chance to push him away.
When he saw you didn't, he closed the distance, letting your lips meet again. His hand raised to cup your jaw, gently tilting your face just enough for him to deepen the kiss.
It didn't feel desperate. It wasn't lust-driven, nor were there passionate fireworks that went off in the sky above you as you kissed.
Rather, a lingering sense of relief you'd never felt before.
Neither of you intended to rush, or escalate it dramatically like they did in those novels you read where one of you would end up in the other's bed by the end of the night.
George shifted, tilting his head the other way as he savoured the feeling of your lips against his before pulling away slowly.
Your forehead rested against his, and neither of you could think of anything to say.
Your heavy breathing and the way your breaths mingled said enough.
George's eyes opened first, and somehow, the two of you were smiling before either of you even realized it.
He let out a tiny, breathless laugh, not because he thought any of what happened was funny.
"Took us long enough," he said, chuckling. "Been wanting to do that for a while."
You snorted at his confession. "Yeah, I... I can say the same."
"Hm." He smiled. "Not as saint-like as I thought you were."
You smacked his arm with the back of your hand. "Like you're any better."
He barked out a laugh, and it was lively enough to drag you along.
After you'd settled down, a pause sat between you. But nothing could have prepared you for what George was planning to do.
You noticed he was looking at you in a way you never thought he could.
His breathing was just beginning to calm down after all the laughing, his cheeks flushed and a lopsided grin painted on his lips.
The dim street lamp and moonlight cast soft shadows across his face and ginger hair, highlighting parts of him you'd never seen before.
You held his gaze, eyes searching his.
Then gently, his hand slid back to the side of your face. And for a moment, he just stood there—admiring your features before leaning in, pressing a long, soft kiss to your cheek.
One that lingered and tingled against your skin rather than teased or pricked, unlike during your Hogwarts years when George apparently decided pinching was a better way to greet you.
And that little gesture told you just how much he had missed you without actually saying it.
When he finally pulled away, he looked lighter than he had in years. He was smiling, and it was the most endearing smile you'd ever seen.
"Y/n," he said softly, taking your hand and lacing his fingers with yours.
"...Don't disappear again."
Your eyes began to sting. Whether it was from the cool evening air or a new wave of tears, you didn't know. But his words stirred something in your chest. Something hopeful.
You shook your head. "I won't."
"Good," he said, his voice barely above a whisper before huffing out a laugh through his nose. "Because I'd quite like to keep you this time."
