rowen

earlier, you had been corralled into a compartment by the promise of relative quiet—a familiar oasis amidst the pandemonium alongside your housemates Theodore Nott and Tracey Davis—both of whom had accepted your presence with the sort of resigned grace peculiar to those accustomed to being subtly judged by their peers.

"did anyone else notice," Tracey began as the view outside the train began to blur, leaning forward conspiratorially, "that half of the seventh years smell like something died in a cupboard last year and nobody told them?"

you raised an elegant brow, the corners of your lips twitching upward. "i assume that’s an entirely scientific observation."

"naturally," Tracey replied, tapping her wand against the armrest. "i’ve been keeping notes. one for each nostril. though, i expect we'd be the same in three year's time, walking around half dead in preparation of our N.E.W.T.S." the girl murmured, giving a shudder.

Theodore, meanwhile, had settled cross-legged with a copy of advanced magical theory, muttering what sounded like "first years will never learn… it’s as if someone told them magic is a polite suggestion."

you rolled your eyes, scoffing softly. "the irony is palpable. truly, the inefficiency of magic is something that transcends the years."

Tracey snorted, a a smirk creeping up her lips as she lowered her voice, as if revealing an ancient prophecy. "i think the inefficiency is hereditary. Pucey’s little cousin, right—i saw him trying to charm a teacup into existence last year. it exploded."

you blinked. "exploded?"

"yes. spectacularly. i considered applauding for dramatic effect."

Theodore’s voice, hushed but with just a hint of exasperation, drawled, "do we really need to catalog every minor catastrophe?"

"of course," she replied, leaning back in her seat. "otherwise, how will we preserve the sacred history of mediocrity?"

you were about to reply, when the compartment door slid open with the sort of dramatic shhhk that suggested someone arriving with a purpose—except, the someone was George Weasley, breathless, hair windswept, looking as though he had run the entire length of the train. his eyes scanned the expanse of the compartment with an alertness that felt far too purposeful for someone who wasn’t looking for anything, and he promptly froze the moment his gaze landed on you.

"wrong compartment," he blurted.

Tracey, visibly disgruntled, blinked up at him. "can we help you?"

George visibly scrambled for a semblance of coherent thought. "Fred. he—uh—swore he saw a loose cornish pixie near the lavatories. false alarm. sorry!"

Tracey abruptly coughed, bless her. that had been a terrible excuse. even Theodore paused mid page turn to look up, which was remarkable considering Theodore barely paused for oxygen.

George didn't immediately leave like any normal person would—rather, he hovered in the doorway, leaning one hand against the frame as though he had completed step one of a plan but had forgotten steps two through twenty. his fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against the metal, and his gaze drifted back to you—swift, deliberate, almost as if he were committing you to memory with an earnest intensity wholly unbecoming of a casual passerby.

"blimey, she's even prettier up close"

"I'm making a right fool of myself, aren't I?"

"real smooth, Georgie. your ancestors are writhing in their graves."

Merlin, his thoughts were loud.

you shot Tracey a sidelong glance, tilting your head ever so slightly. objectively, she was lovely—soft features, dark, glossy curls cascading down her back, a presence boys usually tripped over themselves to impress. but, no boy had ever barged into compartment a unannounced for the sole purpose of sneaking a look at her. perhaps, this one was simply a little eccentric. well, who were you to judge? …right. who were you kidding—you were a legilimens. discerning people was practically a professional obligation.

"your… uh—" his hand made a vague motion near his own hair. "it’s nice."

you blinked, momentarily thrown. "yes. i cut it."

"looks good," he replied quickly—too quickly, really—then flushed like he’d betrayed a state secret.

Tracey’s smirk sharpened into something positively serpentine, and you simply arched a brow. "thank you."

George nodded far too forcefully, then promptly cleared his throat. "right. well. enjoy the ride. don’t let Nott blow anything up."

"i do not blow things up," Theodore mumbled without looking up.

George offered a tight, awkward, painfully sincere little grin—then shut the compartment door behind him with a little more force than the situation required.

silence lingered for approximately three seconds. that was before Tracey turned to you, jabbing an accusing finger into your sternum.

"alright. since when do boys look like that when talking to you?"

"since never," you replied, shrugging off your jacket as if the current topic were a very uninteresting matter. "he had clearly been looking for you—or Merlin forbid, Theo. honestly, Trace, keep up."

Tracey was, in fact, far too ahead of her in terms of keeping up. so was Theodore, who lowered his book just enough to regard you with the weary wisdom of a victorian ghost.

"he didn’t come to look at Tracey," he intoned, voice carrying the weary patience of someone explaining mortality to a toddler. "he clearly came to stare at—well. someone else."

you frowned. "Tracey is someone else."

Theodore blinked once, very slowly. "fascinating deduction."

you narrowed your eyes at him. "did I ask for your commentary?"

"I'm just saying," he muttered with a lazy shrug, lifting his book again, "humans rarely ask for the truths they need."

Tracey slumped back into her seat with a hum of agreement, raising her eyebrows and exchanging a wordless look with him—half smirk, half exasperation at your astonishing lack of awareness for a legilimens. neither bothered attempting to correct you again, and you settled in, gazing out of the fogged up window blissfully convinced you had correctly interpreted the situation.

the whistle blew yet again—honestly, who was in charge of this thing, a very enthusiastic banshee?—and by the time you’d arrived at Hogwarts, the sun had begun its slow descent into the horizon, painting the castle in shades of molten gold and dusk. it was a picture of the spectacular beginning of a term: first years—still squealing and tripping over their trunks—were corralled by the usual band of exhausted professors, while the returning students wove between them with delicate grace. you, of course, had immediately located your usual safe route, sidestepping an enthusiastic first year who mistook your jacket for a new species of magical beast.

"oh- sorry miss!" the boy squeaked. miss?

he had promptly scurried away, face scarlet, leaving a rather puzzled you behind.

"if i were less charitable, i’d call this an anthropological study of idiocy."

Tracey snickered from a few steps behind. "oh, come now, y/n, you mean your anthropological study of idiocy!"

"same difference," you replied, shrugging.

Theo simply shook his head, muttering something about humans being fundamentally flawed befre disappearing into the crowd to look for Blaise.

➽───────────────❥

eventually, the professors managed to herd the entirety of the students inside the castle walls, and everyone began filing into the great hall. it was a tempest of color and movement when you arrived; students huddled in clumps according to their houses, robes swinging, hair catching the last rays of the setting sun. the enchanted ceiling above mirrored the darkening sky, the kind of twilight that made even the thickest of fourth-years feel momentarily poetic—or at least, contemplative enough to exhale a sigh at the sight.

the assembly itself was equal parts predictably theatrical and mundane, and once everyone had gathered, Dumbledore—blue robes shimmering in a manner that mirrored the enchanted ceiling—grandly rised from his seat, the air suddenly growing hushed.

"welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts!" Dumbledore began, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles as his voice echoed through the great hall. "i trust you have prepared yourselves adequately for the… adventures that await. do remember: magic is not simply learned from books, although books are undeniably useful for impressing people at dinner parties."

he paused dramatically, letting the weight of his beard—suspiciously shimmering in the enchanted ceiling’s twilight—swing for effect. "now, the moment you have all been anxiously awaiting for: the sorting!" the elderly man bellowed, a twinkle in his eye. "the hat will judge you—not by your charm—but by what it sees in your mind, and occasionally, your secret inclinations toward mischief. do listen carefully, first years; it is both wise and merciful, though occasionally dramatic. and remember: you may be placed in a house that challenges you, frightens you, or simply leaves you perfectly satisfied. now, enjoy yourselves, and try not to panic too much."

as if on cue, the sorting hat, which had now been placed on a large chair by Professor McGonagall, let out a large groan, as if just awoken from a year long slumber. which, to be fair, it had. a few first years jumped, and the latter sat up straighter, a determined glint in their young, highly unsuspecting eyes.

with that, the sorting hat ceremony began—the battered old hat yelling nonsense that alternated between severe and mildly indecipherable, and you exhaled a sigh, resting your chin in your palm as you listened to the great ordeal for the fourth year in a row.

across the hall at the Gryffindor table, the Weasley twins, as predicted, had been up to their usual theatre. George, in particular, had spent an alarming amount of time subtly craning his neck toward your direction whenever you weren’t looking; you would've intercepted their thoughts in an instant, had the Gryffindor table been sightly closer to the Slytherin one. Fred, of course, had noticed—the bloke always did—and had taken the opportunity to relay this knowledge to Lee, who was entirely too young to be privy to such highly classified Weasley spy-level antics.

"Georgie has it bad," Fred had whispered with a barely restrained snicker, elbowing Lee, who looked both scandalized and intrigued.

"who?" Lee had squeaked, tone alarmed.

"that Slytherin girl," Fred had clarified, gesturing to where you sipped from your goblet and rolling his eyes as though the entire affair were entirely predictable, as if knowing George’s romantic predilections was akin to predicting the weather. "Scamander. stunning, terrifying, the whole package. poor sod's been chattering my ear off since the train, it’s... tragic, really."

"shove off, Fred," George hissed, promptly busying himself with tugging the sleeves of his robes over his fidgeting hands. Fred, ever the angel, only smirked, leaning back lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of his twin floundering.

meanwhile, Lee had been watching the whole ordeal with wide-eyed fascination, head tilted like a particularly judgmental owl; after a long pause, he cleared his throat, voice low but laced with curiosity.

"i’d like to touch her hair," he admitted, and turned to Fred with his eyebrows raised "it’s… quite shiny."

George’s jaw tightened, a mix of envy, horror, and some small, inexplicable pride battling for dominance. "oh, brilliant," he muttered under his breath, “now Jordan’s going to start an anthropological study on hair glossiness.”

Fred, naturally, leaned closer to George with a conspiratorial whisper. "oh, go on, Georgie… admit it—you’d like a closer look too."

the boy swore softly, cheeks hot as he whipped around to stare at Fred with a hilariously scandalized expression. "i do not."

"ah," Fred murmured knowingly, that familiar lemur-like grin spreading across his face, "except you do."

the conversation—or rather, the verbal ordeal—continued, each remark volleyed with increasing absurdity: comparisons of sheen, muttered observations about brushing techniques, and the occasional whispered, "don’t look now, but she’s turning this way," followed by frantic glances and the faintest trace of panic. across the hall, you sat adjusting your tie, blissfully unaware of the turmoil you had inadvertently caused—the result of nothing more than a single glance exchanged on the train that very morning

➽───────────────❥

⠀⸺ an : SECOND CHAPTER YAY !!! as abhorrent as this sounds, I spent all day writing and refining this chapter, when in reality, I should've used that time to study for my maths mid-term exam that's in two days (I quite frankly don't have the slightest idea regarding whats on the syllabus, nor do I understand any of its contents. but who needs maths when you've got George weasley? right? right.). anyways, thankyou from the bottommmm of my heart for all the love on chapter one !!! I'm bewildered at the attention it garnered in just a matter of days despite me joining tumblr just now, and I cannot be more grateful. I made the second chapter slightly longer as a token of my gratitude hehehe, truth be told I had originally intended for it to contain more events such as what happened after the feast and the next day and whatnot, but decided to leave things here for now, as the length was getting quite staggering. enough of my rambling now, Rowen singing off lol love you all goodnight

𐙚 ˚ taglist -

@devotedlyteenagemusic

@bedshrooms

the hogwarts express was bustling in the way one would expect on a crisp september morning—when hundreds of magical children surged toward the scarlet train that would ferry them off to what many insisted was the pinnacle of their young lives. frenzied parents oscillated between screeching instructions and sobbing into their frazzled eleven-year-olds’ shoulders, students reunited with triumphant shrieks after the excruciatingly long summer apart, and every once in a while, a trunk would topple sideways, sending jumpers and textbooks flying—the whole sprawling paraphernalia of the genesis of a school year.

amidst the pandemonium stood y/n Scamander, fourth year and legilimens, currently being swallowed whole by your grandfather, Newt Scamander, in an embrace so fervent one might assume you were shipping off to war instead of school.

"write every day!" he bellowed. "every day, letters! do you hear me? letters!"

"grandfather,” you said mildly, tugging your trunk, “i can still hear you if i try."

"no, no, you mustn’t just hear me, you must heed me!" Newt said, flapping a hand as if he were conducting an orchestra of sheer panic.

Tina Scamander stepped in, adjusting the crooked scarf around your shoulders. the elderly woman then scoffed, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder in protest of his theatrics.

"you're squashing the poor girl, let her breathe!" Tina insisted, but even she couldn't help but pull you into an equally taut enfoldment.

"do write to us, dear,” Tina murmured into your hair. “you know how your grandfather gets. and if anything bothers you at school—anything at all—you tell us immediately. no dilly-dallying. just send word, and we’ll be there."

you blinked. you were about to gently remind your sweet grandmother of the technicality that they couldn’t simply materialize inside hogwarts even if you asked, but you were promptly interrupted by the piercing screech of the train whistle cutting through the air.

"i will write,” you said, pressing a quick kiss to each of their cheeks before yanking your trunk toward the train. “i’ll write so much you’ll be sick of my handwriting. promise."

the whistle blew once more, signalling the final call. grabbing your trunk and hurrying up the steps with the grace of a disgruntled puffskein, you stepped in through the doors. truth be told, they were like this every year. your parents had passed amidst the first war—bless their souls—and ever since, you had been under the care of your grandparents. this, of course, meant that they were incredibly protective regarding every single thing you dared to do. it was unwavering, and at times, admirably melodramatic. at least they hadn't cried at the platform this year. small mercies.

shaking your head fondly, you squeezed down the narrow corridor, dragging behind you a trunk bursting at the seams with Newt’s rumpled old jackets—each declared "absolutely essential for the hogwarts cold," despite you knowing he hadn't visited the castle in decades.

you made it a total of five steps before feeling the warmth of a familiar hand on your shoulder. you whipped around, only to be met with... Luna Lovegood! a serene, almost seraphic smile had lit up the girl's face; she hovered joyously, eyes impossibly silver, radishes on her ears bobbing, expression tranquil as if the bedlam were an installation she had personally curated.

"y/n! i knew it had to be you," the younger girl murmured. "you smelled like mischief from afar. and your grandfather's jackets. magical, of course, but faintly smelly. like a nargle who's gone too long without a proper scrubbing."

you blinked, unable to repress the smile already blooming across your lips as you pulled your best friend in for a hug. you admired her strange candor in spite of yourself.

"Luna! i've missed your... peculiar commentary."

"you’ve been gone since may," Luna continued, patting your shoulder gingerly. "that's months. entire moons, really. and your hair is wrong. it's too mundane. something must be done."

you huffed out a laugh at the sheer brevity, unlatching yourself from the girl and lugging your trunk down the corridor. "i’ll try to fix it."

the two of you had been best friends for a number of years now: you had grown close in your second year and Luna’s first, your bond blooming the moment you realized you were the only ones who could see the oh-so-terrifying thestrals. in fact, you had been captivated by Luna from the start; her hair like snow, wide, searching eyes, and the dreamy lilt in her voice that made everything she said sound like a prophecy unveiled—captivating, even.

you were a rather peculiar pair, truth be told. but you had grown complimentary to one another amidst your many endeavours, and due to the fact that you sought catharsis in each other—hence your now close companionship despite being antitheses of one another.

finally, Luna announced she was going to have a word with Ginny regarding her violently purple pygmy puff, Arnold, and merrily skipped off (the girl either skipped or drifted, no in-betweens), leaving you to resume navigating your way through the criminally crowded corridor of the train in a hunt for an empty compartment in an attempt to appear equanimous. on a serious note, why was this train so crowded? were there that many students, or was this simply for dramatic flair, implemented by the writer? said writer shall not disclose the reasoning behind her choices.

further down the corridor—somewhere among Draco’s gang and yet another exploding suitcase—George Fabian Weasley straightened sharply, caught mid-sentence as something drifted into his line of sight. that "something" being you, whom he didn't seem to recognise despite apparently having gone to the same school as you for a few years now. this was not in the usual way of spotting someone, either. this was the kind of awareness of a presence that snapped the world into a brief, highly inconvenient focus.

George attempted to put on a semblance of normalcy. promptly failed. you were walking past now, trunk bumping every cart within a five-foot radius, hair mussed but elegant, dark grey jeans creased just enough to make him question everything he thought he knew about trousers.

"fuck, she's beautiful."

the thought swarmed his head, and the train whistle blew once again, just as your face, by instinct or some gift of supernatural hearing, turned on the pivot of its neck—as if you had deciphered exactly what the boy had just thought.

he felt your gaze pierce through his eyes. "bugger," he thought. however, the corridor bustled once more, and you hastily busied yourself with dragging your trunk towards a semi-empty compartment now comprising Theodore Nott and Tracey Davis.

George blinked. then blinked once more.

"oi," he said, elbowing Fred so abruptly his twin nearly dropped the chocolate frog box he was intently trying to open without the frog launching itself across the carriage. "Fred. Fred. who's that?"

Fred, ever the dearest, didn’t even look up at first. "if this is about stealing my chocolate frog card, you can forget—"

"no, not—look—there." George pointed with a rather deranged look. Fred followed his gaze, and promptly lifted a brow.

"oh," Fred said knowingly—far too knowingly, if you had the slightest idea of what Fred Gideon Weasley was like. “her.”

George stared at him. "her?"

"her," Fred repeated, folding his arms with great, unnecessary significance. "she's in Ron's year maybe, Scamander something."

George peered once again—this time for a much longer duration—as you leaned forward to say something to Tracey, the ever so soft hint of a smile curving your lips.

"right," he muttered weakly. "huh."

Fred took the opportunity to look as well, before turning back to his twin, a slow grin curling across his lemur-like face. "Georgie,” he drawled, “why exactly are you asking?"

George straightened far too quickly, and with frenzied grace. "no reason. simply wondered. intellectual curiosity. y’know. learning and all that pish posh."

Fred snorted, muttering a "sure, mate." but refusing to comment further. George looked away. then, looked back again almost immediately, as if his eyes hadn’t gotten the memo initially.

"…huh," the poor bloke murmured again, before making his way into a compartment with Fred in a moon-struck daze.

➽───────────────❥

⠀⸺ an : it's my first time posting any of my writing omg... let's all pay our thanks to my cousin who's obsessed with marauders poly fics—both reading and writing them—for introducing me to this rabbit hole of an app. I'm planning on writing the whole fic, but most probably won't as I'm gut-wrenchingly lazy and cannot coherently and eloquently articulate my thoughts for the life of me. but, who knows, maybe one day I'll actually have a number of chapters of this silly fic, complete with an ending and all. enough of my rambling now. george weasley's biggest apologist signing out lol ok bye