Just a Scratch (George Weasley x F!Reader)
Summary: It’s quidditch season and what better time then to enter a friendly little bet with the one and only Weasley twins.
warnings: exactly one innuendo, cute heart to heart at the end
chapter wc: 4.5k ao3 link | prev | next | masterlist
You wouldn’t consider yourself much different then the average Hogwarts student. Like them, you were quite excited when the time for a quidditch game rolled around. Your reasoning was just a touch different.
You didn’t care much for the sport – no, you didn’t even understand the game one bit. Flying on a thin, magical stick while pounds of iron hurled towards you? Not your idea of fun. Nor was it a skill in your repertoire. The last time you picked up a broom was when flying classes were mandatory.
For you, quidditch games meant practice. Practice to refine your healing skills.
You’d take your chances between Snape awarding Gryffindor house points and a quidditch game going by with a player unscathed. That’s not to say you wished harm amongst any of the players.
You simply…made the most of the opportunities presented to you.
Cho Chang was one such opportunity. The poor girl was quite accident prone, despite being a very capable quidditch player. Sprained wrists, broken ankles, concussions… honestly, if anything, it was thanks to her that you’ve been able to master the bandaging charm so well.
Cho may be your most frequent flyer, but you’ve seen your fair share of the remaining Ravenclaw quidditch team as well. Ever since Davies became captain, you somehow found yourself as the team’s personal medic. Davies still shudders every time you raise your wand – which in all honestly, you find extremely amusing – but he vouched for your skills to the team and you’ve since been their go-to for bloody noses, bludger bruises, friction burns, the sort.
Hypothetically, charms were far more convenient than potions, which took time to brew, required expensive ingredients, and always had to be kept on hand. But if everyone could just episky their problems away, there’d be no need for potions in the first place.
The issue was the difficulty.
Take a broken nose, for example. Episky wouldn’t stop the nose from bleeding, but it would fix the fractured nasal bones and cartilages back into place. A broken nose can be easily visualized. Same with a split lip or small cut.
Magic is all about intent, and if you see it, you can believe it.
It’s far easier healing a visible wound then one beneath the surface. Any competent witch or wizard could do that.
Things get a lot more complicated when it came to internal injuries. Without a thorough understanding of anatomy and physiology, it’s far harder to mend any sort of damage you couldn’t see, else risk worsening an injury.
It’s why healing charms were one of the most difficult forms of magic to master.
And that fact exhilarated you.
A wave of excitement could be felt throughout the Great Hall, chatter amongst students growing increasingly louder each minute that passed. A crowd was beginning to form across the hall around the Gryffindor table – no doubt, quidditch related. Quite on brand for the lions to be causing a ruckus first thing in the morning.
You spot Chang and Samuels, along with the rest of the team dressed in their game attire by the end of the Ravenclaw table. Their glances flicker over to Gryffindor’s side, engaging in quiet discussion while exchanging strategies for the upcoming game. You catch Davies eye and mouth a “good luck”, which he reciprocates with a friendly smile and wave before leading the team out the Great Hall.
Still observing the crowd from afar, you continue eating, ready to stuff the last of your croissant into your mouth before your interrupted by a pair of hands slapping playfully down on your shoulders from behind.
You groan and with a look of annoyance, glimpse over to see the culprit.
Cedric – so called golden boy of Hufflepuff – Diggory smiles down at you.
“Let’s go take a look, shall we?” He urges, with a light pat to your shoulders.
You’ve been friends with Cedric for years now. Long before girls would turn their heads to swoon at him or when his entourage of Hufflepuffs flocked around him. Back in second year, when he was far too clumsy for his own good, scraping his knees or bumping into corners of corridor walls like it was part of some personal agenda. You used to heal his wounds on the regular back then, but with the passage of time, Cedric grew out of that habit and grew into that face of his, charm included.
You weren’t as close now, having drifted apart naturally, hanging out with other crowds. But your friendship still remained.
You eyed around Cedric, his usual parade of friends no-where in sight, oddly enough. He notices and answers before you get the chance to ask.
“Still a bit wary of the Gryffindors. Ever since the last match. Told them they were being dramatic, but they insisted I go scout it out in their stead.” He smiles sheepishly at you, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. You don’t miss the insistent, almost puppy dog look he gives you.
You sigh before reluctantly abandoning your half-eaten breakfast and pushing yourself up from your seat. Cedric grins and you follow closely behind him, weaving through the horde of students as you make your way towards the Gryffindor table.
“Merlin, Harry—that’s a Firebolt, isn’t it? You’ll give us all a run for our Galleons with that one. Not that you weren’t fast enough already.” Cedric remarks.
You frown, “I don’t get it. It looks exactly like the last one.”
Cedric offers you a weak, defeated smile. A look of pity you’re all too familiar with whenever he tried to explain anything quidditch-related to you. He leaves a quick, sad pat to your shoulder before moving closer to Harry’s side to converse about the new broom.
His presence is quickly replaced by a set of red-headed twins on either side.
“You bookworms just don’t seem to appreciate the finer things in life,” Fred – you think – says from your right. Casually leaning his elbow on your shoulder. “It’s not just any broom – it’s the broom.”
“Fastest in the world, even. Same one the pros use, all of Bulgaria’s team got one.” Another voice says from your left. George’s.
“Won’t be any match for you little birdies,” teases Fred.
Smiling, you cross your arms, “We’ll see.”
“Coming to the game?” George asks.
“Naturally. I’ll be there to see my house win, won’t I?”
“Doesn’t seem like you were listening. We’ve got a Firebolt on our side now,” Fred urges.
“I might not understand quidditch, but I’ve heard Ravenclaw’s got a good team this year. I’ll have you know I’ve personally attended to our seeker myself. She’ll be in top form today.”
“How ‘bout a bet then. If you’re up for it.” George challenges, meeting your gaze.
You raise an eyebrow, “What’s in it for me?”
“O.W.L.s are coming up this year.”
“And mum will kill us if we don’t come home with at least a few in our pockets,” Fred quips in.
“If we win, you tutor us.” George explains, almost matter-of-factly.
Your eyes narrow, glaring at him suspiciously. “The Weasley twins willingly opening a textbook! Seems more like a punishment for you, no?”
“Bright minds like ours are best suited for innovation. Bringing smiles and laughter to the masses,” Fred flaunts. “Not bowing down to something so outrageous like standardized testing.”
“In other words, you’re our best bet at passing this year. Top student, knows the material like the back of her hand. We’d be fools not to ask you for help.”
“If you’re still unconvinced, then we’ll add in mandatory Gryffindor house-wear when you watch us win the cup,” Fred coaxes.
“That’s some big talk when you haven’t even won against us yet.” You look between the twins, all easy smiles and laidback loftiness, exuding confidence, as usual. All things considered, it’s not like you had much to lose even if you did lose the bet.
“Just one class then. I have enough on my plate as it is.”
“Deal. Transfiguration. I never did quite get all that theory stuff.” George affirms with a nod. “And if you win.”
“– highly unlikely,” Fred adds.
“We’ll hold off pranking for a week.”
“A week of silence. All the quiet time in the world. Uninterrupted studying. A wet dream for you know-it-alls.”
“What d’you say? Wanna bet?”
George extends a hand towards you first.
He has the same expression as Fred, the usual cheekiness with a hint of mischief. But there’s something different about his gaze.
You take his hand in yours.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Weasley.”
Snow has all but melted into slush, replaced with lush green grass, the budding of tree leaves, and the frequent sightings of brown-tailed squirrels in the courtyard: all signalling the end of winter, the start of spring, and the impending doom of O.W.L.s.
If not for the change in seasons, it’d be obvious that exams were upon you by the progressive darkening of the circles under your eyes, complimented by the increase in the amount of caffeine you’ve ingested this past week alone.
You’ve been entirely too stressed for your own good. Between juggling classes, volunteering at the infirmary, and preparing for O.W.L.s, sometimes you wonder how you even got yourself in this position. But alas, the answer is clear, as you can vividly remember your career advisory meeting just a few weeks ago with Professor Flitwick and that squeaky voice of his.
“I certainly can have it arranged. You are an excellent student and with Madame Pomfrey’s letter of recommendation, I have no doubt they will take you on for the position.” He pushes his circular glasses further up the bridge of his nose before continuing, “However, if we want to expedite the process, you’ll have to get an outstanding in all the required O.W.L.s, which I must say, is not an easy feat.”
Ever since the summer semester stared, you’ve put in double the effort into your studies. Twice the time hunched over a textbook and twice the time spent wasting your life away in the library. Even as a Ravenclaw, the whole “love for wisdom” thing can be a bit much. Especially for classes you didn’t care much for.
You can’t pinpoint when, but somewhere in between, the Weasley twins had snuck into your weekly routine.
It wasn’t anything big. Nor dramatic.
Just the casual nod or hello. The passing playful remark.
The usual tease and banter the Weasley twins exchanged with everyone they interacted with. A friendly acquaintance, by no means unwelcomed.
They’d been the talk of Ravenclaw tower at one point. Sparked a sort of debate on how to tell the two apart. You didn’t participate in the discussion yourself, but you remember overhearing a few of the girls giggling and gossiping about the topic.
Padma Patil, also a twin, argued that despite sharing identical DNA, twins were bound to deviate in appearance as they age due to differences in environment. Exposure to different experiences, like her and her twin, for example.
A girl in your year countered that the twins belonged in the same house and did almost everything together. Their lifestyles are practically identical, living life side by side. Exposed to the same experiences. Any differences that did exist would be minor, at most.
You agreed with what most of the girls were saying. Each side had fair and reasonable arguments. But it didn’t take long for the conversation to stray from logic and into the realm of teenage girlhood, as they bickered over which twin was cuter, who was more of a flirt, and which one had the bigger…
Regardless, you had your own way of distinguishing between the twins. A little mental list of observations you’ve noticed from your interactions thus far.
Freds’ the first to open his mouth, like a fisherman throwing out the hook and bait, while George smooths thing over, reeling their catch back in. Fred’s playful. George is too, but you can tell there’s something different when you’re with George.
Maybe it’s the way his gaze lingers. Or the way his voice softens when he speaks to you. Or maybe its all just your imagination.
But you faintly recall the last quidditch game. The cool February breeze. Your blue and bronze scarf shielding you from the wind. Looking down at the field from the Ravenclaw stands above. Watching as the Gryffindors celebrated their win while applauding both teams for a game well played.
One of the Weasley twins pausing his celebration, turning to search the crowd until his eyes land on you. His smile wide, beaming up excitedly at you and mouthing the words “we won!”
It was hard to tell who it was from such a distance. But you knew it had to be George.
What a reminiscent morning.
Here you were again, morning just before a quidditch match. The last game of the season, the final battle to determine the victor of the inter-house quidditch cup: Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. The Great Hall was far louder then last time, both Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs joining to cheer Gryffindor on, students waiting eagerly in anticipation for the upcoming match.
You reach for the pot of coffee ready to fill your second cup of the day, until you feel a faint twitch in your finger. You could feel it in the air.
A strange sense of déjà vu.
You froze. Something in your gut was telling you that if you didn’t stuff your face with food this very moment, you’d never get the chance to finish the meal in front of you. Staring down at your plate and with great haste, you instantly stuff the last bite of your croissant into your mouth, cheeks puffing out.
Mere seconds later, you feel a presence slip into the previously empty seats on either side of you.
“You haven’t forgotten about our bet now, have you?” Fred says from your right.
You finish chewing, gulping down the rest of your food before speaking.
“We agreed we’d start studying for O.W.L.s together next week, did we not?”
“Yes, but it seems you’ve forgotten the other part of our arrangement.” George answers from your left.
Your eyebrows knit together, confused. You’re about to interject, but Fred beats you to it.
“No need to worry yourself, we always come prepared. Don’t we, George.”
And suddenly you have a twin under each arm as they whisk you away from your beloved breakfast and off towards the Gryffindor table.
It’s far livelier over there, half the house sporting the signature red and gold spirit-wear. Between plates of eggs and sausages, you notice handmade banners, red and gold paint bottles, along with brushes of varying sizes sprawled across the table.
You vaguely recognize a few faces. Like one of the third years who frequents the infirmary with singed eyebrows and burned cheeks. His face was practically smothered in paint. Or the youngest and only sister of the Weasley family, whose hair was being braided by a bushy brunette you’ve seen quite often in the library.
Angelina Johnson and Alica Spinnet, girls in your year who you could put a name to a face, sit with the other team’s chaser, Katie Bell, laughing over a couple of jokes made by Lee Jordon. Their captain, Oliver Wood, looks anything but relaxed. Shoulders tensed, head bowed, elbows stiff on the table with his fingers interlaced in a calculative position. You can tell he’s muttering some sort of quidditch mantra under his breath. Fred seems to notice too.
“Reckon I should give Wood a bit of a pep talk. Don’t want him exploding on us before we even make it to the pitch. I entrust miss tutor here to you, dear brother,” Fred winks in yours and George’s direction before heading off to calm Wood down.
George motions towards the table.
“Seats’ all yours, milady.”
You stifle a laugh, “Well, aren’t you a kind one, sire.”
You take a seat at the table, George joining beside you shortly after. Your eyes drift again to the third year doused in paint.
“I’m not going to look like that when you’re finished with me, am I?”
George follows your gaze. “Can’t make any promises,” he grins. “But you’ll be a proper Gryffindor once I see too it. These hands have crafted works of art, you see. Masterpieces, even.”
You shift your body slightly to face towards George, knees bumping side by side beneath the table.
“Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”
Turning your head to the side, you close your eyes, cheek out to face George’s direction. You feel him take your chin in his hand, keeping your head stable. His touch is light. Gentle. Warm. A contrast from the sensation of cold paint on brush bristles that follows suit.
You peak one of your eyes open.
Close enough that you notice the little things.
Like how his eyes are slightly more downturned than Fred’s. Or how his hair is slightly less messy and doesn’t stick up at the ends. How he’s got that quiet, but steady intensity behind his eyes again. The same look you only seem to catch during moments like these.
You don’t realize that you’re staring.
Or how little the distance is between the two of you.
Until his eyes shift from your cheek to your eyes, catching your gaze.
You can feel a heat beginning to creep up your neck and into your cheeks. Instinctively, you look away first, quick to shut your eyes back close. Had you kept them open just a second longer, you would’ve noticed George was blushing too.
After a couple minutes, he clears his throat. “There – that should do it.” His hand lingers for a fraction of a second before he withdraws it from your chin, passing you a compact mirror laying vacant on the table in place.
A stripe of red and yellow, horizontal lines like a flag painted on one cheek. On the other, a simple doodle of a lion roaring. It’s meant to look intimidating, but it looks cute, if anything. Enough so that an amused snort leaves your nose.
You lower the mirror to see George leaning back, admiring his work with a hand to his chin.
He hums to himself, “Somethings missing still...” He pulls out his wand and wordlessly makes a flicking motion towards your shirt.
Instantly, it changes colours, transfiguring into the signature Gryffindor red. George smiles at you, pleased with his work.
He compliments you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You hope the face paint distracts him from your reddening cheeks.
“Oi – game time,” Fred waves George over from a few seats down, the rest of the Gryffindor quidditch team shuffling out of their seats ready to make their way down to the pitch. You can hear the rest of the hall beginning to holler and applaud the team as they begin to exit.
George raises from his seat. “Cheer for me, yeah?” He gives you one last wink and waves goodbye before running quickly after his brother and the rest of the team.
You sit there watching him leave, left flustered and utterly speechless.
After winning the interhouse cup, you agreed to tutor him and Fred twice a week for a couple of hours a day until the first O.W.L exam took place. Initially, you were just supposed to cover transfiguration, but George didn’t fail to notice that you snuck in a few pointers on charms and herbology here and there.
If you asked George honestly? He just wanted to use this time as an excuse to see you.
He wasn’t completely lying when he said he was struggling with transfiguration. If you asked him to write the exact intricacies of a switching spell, George would just write down some nonsense and call it a day. Far from the definition of a textbook answer. Now if you asked him to perform a switching spell, then he could do it with his eyes closed. He understood perfectly how the spell worked; he just couldn’t be bothered to explain it or put it into writing.
But he didn’t want to waste your time either and he was pleasantly surprised with the way you explained things to him. It made sense, easy to understand. You were a good teacher.
George also knew you were working hard.
He caught you once in the corner of the library.
When he needed a break, some time to stretch his legs, walking between book aisles until he happened to stumble across you.
You were faced away from the window, sleeping soundly atop your arms that were sprawled over an open textbook. George could make out a page of what looked like a Bowtruckle beneath you. The poor thing’s face blurry from the drop of drool escaping from your mouth. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.
He felt around his robes and pulled out a small bag of Honey Shards. He’d grown quite fond of the treat himself and always kept a few on hand. Not wanting Madam Pince to see the snuck in goods, he picked up one of the books from the pile beside you, flipped to a random page in the middle and placed the book downwards, successfully hiding the small bag of almonds just visible enough for you to notice.
His days repeated like that: cramming class material with Fred and Lee in attempt to get above a troll in at least a few of his classes, waiting until the time would come for his study sessions with you.
Sometimes he’d listen to your revisions and let himself be tested by you, other times he’d purposefully distract you with meaningless ideal chatter to give you a chance to relax. You’d scold him for getting off topic, but sometimes you’d indulge him too.
It came to be the day before the transfiguration final. Likely the last chance he’d see you until the next school year.
You told him and Fred to meet you at the second archway, far left corner of the courtyard for some extra practice, attendance optional.
It was a change in scenery from stuffy libraries smelling of old parchment and ink. For such a nice, summer day, outside was surprisingly quiet. The rest of the school hushed away in the walls of the castle while a peace resounded in the courtyard.
Fred, of course, had no qualms to put any more work besides the bare minimum into studying and claimed he’d be ditching practice that day.
George didn’t push. He just shrugged him off and told Fred he’d be back later.
As he walks towards the meeting spot, George spots your figure in the distance, sitting on a bench, back facing the open archway. You looked to be in deep thought. Only once George was a few strides away did you notice his presence and spare him a glance in his direction.
You throw something at him. He catches it out of instinct, glancing down to see a green apple in his hands.
“You really do have fast reflexes… Just for practice. Figured it’d be best to get some in before the transfiguration practical,” he notices a stack of apples on the bench beside you. “No Fred today?”
“Whose to say I’m not Fred.”
You roll your eyes, “I’m to say.” You took another apple from the pile into your hand, using your other hand to point your wand at it. “I could hardly get Fred to open a textbook until yesterday. I doubt he’d be so enthusiastic to show up here so willingly.” You whispered a spell softly under your breath. George watches as the apple transfigures into a small green parakeet chirping in the palm of your hand.
The bird flies from your grasp, landing only a meter or so in front of you.
You hesitate before speaking again, gaze still fixed on the ground.
“… you don’t really need my help, do you.” You seemed to state more then ask.
George moves towards you, careful not to scare the transfigured parakeet away.
“What makes you say that? I’m sure you already know I’m not exactly a stellar student,” He leans against the wall across from you. “But if one of the brightest girls in our year thinks I’m smart, then I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s just – most students on the brink of failing transfiguration usually can’t wordlessly change the colour of a shirt with just the flick of a wrist.”
Geroge shrugs, “bout of luck.”
“Oh please. It’s not like I haven’t noticed. You pick up on stuff. Fast.” You twirled your wand between your fingers before pointing it back at the parakeet. “I’d kill to be as talented as you. Put in half the work to get the same results.” A soft evanesco leaves your lips and the chirping bird vanishes into thin air. You lift your head, looking him in the eye, “You could go far. If you put in the effort, I mean.”
George doesn’t say anything for a moment. He watches you while you search his eyes, his face, waiting for an answer. A silence hangs between the two of you.
He closes the distance, plopping down in the seat next to you. George fiddles with the apple in his hand, not sure whether to voice his thoughts. He starts slowly.
“Fred and I, we’ve been thinking of opening our own joke shop. It’s still up in the air – haven’t even got a name yet, but it just feels… right.”
“Godric knows mum’s gonna have our heads once she finds out, but I can’t imagine any other life. Mindlessly working some job at the ministry. Seems bullock to me. Fred too. I know it seems like wishful thinking. Risky too, might not even work out. But… something tells me it’s worth a shot.”
There’s a pause. He’s scared to look up. Unsure how you’ll react. Nervous that this sudden vulnerability of his might scare you away. That’s why your next words surprise him.
“I believe you.” George finally looks at you. Really looks at you. “If there’s anyone that can make it happen, it’s you.” You’ve got this look in your eyes. It’s resolute. Genuine.
The type of look that makes him feel like he could take on the world.
“Thank you. That – that means a lot.” Georges flushes, the tips of his ears turning red. “You should give yourself more credit too. Your hard work doesn’t go unnoticed.”
You offer him a small smile, “Thanks. It just gets tiring. Always putting in 110 percent. It’s no fault but my own. I’m the one who chose this path, anyway.”
“By the way, why do you want to be a healer?"
There’s a twinge of sadness that crosses your features, but your smile doesn’t fall, just softens.
“I’ll tell you some other time.”
You bring your hands together, the sound of the clap echoing off the walls. “Well, that was a good heart-to-heart, but we’ve got an exam tomorrow and these apples aren’t going to vanish on their own. Ready to get to work, George?”
He answers your question with a smile, “I can’t wait.”
a/n: hello! tysm for the support on the last two chapters! bit of a longer chapter to wrap up the third book. i wasn’t really sure about the whole thing when writing it, but I think I liked how the last scene turned out. lmk what you think! excited to start GoF!
taglist: @hagridshaircare @eliiiiiiieeee (comment to be added or removed!)
