@colouredbyd /// DALIA OH MY GOD. my love, my light. the way you write will always make me strive to be a better writer and it is my civic duty to recommend your fics to the entire world. if you want to read some marauders content that makes you want to stare at your wall and weep, look no futher, you found THE BLOG. every one of her fics makes me emotional. the way she writes angst is actually physically painful for me in the best of ways.
@luveline /// jade my love, you will always always always (always) be one of my fav fic writers of all time. the way you write character interactions and just in general always takes my breath away in the best of ways. If you are at all interested in stranger things, the maurauders, top gun, or criminal minds i am BEGGING YOU to go read something, anything of jade's <<<333
@yasministration /// absolutly IN LOVE with their harry potter fics. ESPECIALLY the harry potter x reader AU with alive!jily. the way they write harry is so book!harry. it is just how i pictured him if he was raised by the marauders :'( if you are looking for something wholesome this is definitely the place to go.
@itsreallynotriri /// one of my fav concepts is the idea of harry being raised in the wizarding world (see above). this author really brings that to life with their series of regulus and potter!reader raising harry. i will always have a soft spot for regulus black, and this author only reaffirmed that for me <3
@honeypiehotchner /// I have been OBSESSED!!!!!!! (!!!!) with their aaron hotchner series the gambit. I will always love a story about reader's past catching up to them. I will also always love an emotionally constipated aaron hotchner. cross those two things with an enemies to lovers slow burn and you get this series !!!! score !!!!
@ddejavvu /// this is one of THE blogs for me. every time i develop a new hyperfixation i can almost guarantee that mei as written a fic for them, and i can also guarentee that it is going to HIT. maurauders? yes. marvel? yes. star wars? yes. stranger things? yes. the list goes on and on. they have something for everybody. if you're going to do one thing today, make it reading a mei fic.
@megalony /// i am absolutely obsessed with megan's evan buckley. always have been, always will be. add in eddie diaz? YES PLEASE. whenever i see that she posted it absolutely makes my day and nothing made me happier than when i saw she started writing for ELLIOT STABLER!!! HELLO??? the best omg.
fics...
james potter
divination pt 2 /// @ticifics
settle down /// @reysdriver
sanctuary at the potter's /// @mischievousmoony
love letters /// @amiableness
remus lupin
the way i see you /// @g1rld1ary
loving is easy /// @dismalflo
while we're both here /// @crescenthistory
poly!marauders
good luck babe /// singmyaubade
remus betrays sirius for a cuddle and a nap /// @luvindrr
slow burn! slytherin reader! series /// @whimsymoonpages
aaron hotchner
yes ma'am /// @divadepreshawn
hotchelle /// @goorgeousz
nameless, faceless /// @ssa-aaron-hotchnerr
first name basis /// @littleslaywrites
it's a date date /// @spencerreidsreads
spencer reid
mirrorball /// @pathologicalreid
the fear of falling apart /// @ ^^^
buried alive /// @ ^^^
rafe cameron
don't worry baby, i'll handle him /// @salem-s
temporary truce /// @ ^^^
almost lost you /// @girly-girlk
evan buckley
sleepy sidekicks /// @eddiazx
cats out of the bag /// @starrvsn
steve harrington
blind date /// @c4tluver02
ain't it fun? /// @maroon-cardigan
come home /// @stevie-petey
hard to love /// @jxstsxgx
haven /// @solarswonderland
steve rogers
kissing booth /// @crazyunsexycool
unnamed angst /// @thezombieprostitute
bucky barnes
no such thing /// @sanguineterrain
let me love you /// @deliciousangelfestival
💌love letter from elle... this is something i've been wanting to do since the conception of this account. while i reblog every fic i read, i wanted to spread the love and share some of my favs. pls let me know if any fics are broken and pls give these writers all the appreciation and flowers that the deserve. if you were tagged here and reading this: MWAH MWAH I LOVE YOU PLEASE NEVER STOP WRITING 🤍💐✨
the first time either one of reader or aaron makes baked goods for the other as a pick-me-up!
a welcome distraction
CRYING so sweet 🥲 cw; fem!reader, newly established relationship, food descriptions, pure fluff <3
The longer Aaron stared at the file, the more the words seemed to blur together. He’s been at it for hours now, and at this point, the furrow between his brows was beginning to feel permanent. Honestly, the sudden soft knock at the door was a welcome distraction.
He expected it to be someone on the team - tedious annual reviews had kept people cycling through his office all day. Penelope, for example, had been in and out more times than he could count. He was pleasantly surprised to see you instead.
"Oh, hi sweetheart," he greeted as his posture straightened, his eyes softening almost instantly.
A smile slowly spread across your face as you walked over to meet him. "Hi, I hope this isn't a bad time."
"Not at all." He didn’t hesitate to push away from his desk, the chair quietly scraping against the floor as he stood. One hand naturally found your hip, gently pulling you closer while the other settled against your side. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips.
"This is a nice surprise," he admitted quietly, still standing close. "What brings you here?"
"I brought you some brownies."
You reached into your tote and pulled out a Tupperware. Inside sat a few brownies, still warm, dusted with powdered sugar.
"I had to sneak them past your team," you explained as you handed the container over, laughing softly. "Which, by the way, way harder than I expected."
"That sounds about right," he chuckled softly. You had only met them twice before, but you knew enough to know that the second anything sweet entered the room, they would have absolutely hounded you. Then again, they barely needed an excuse to crowd around you whenever you visited.
His laugh, however, faded a little faster than he would have liked. After hours of paperwork, meetings, and people pulling him in every direction, the exhaustion was beginning to catch up with him. He could already feel the familiar pull of tension settling across his forehead.
You noticed, reaching out to cup his face. A faint blush appeared on your own cheeks, still getting used to where your comfort with public affection began and ended. "I could tell you were having a rough morning by the way you were texting. I thought that maybe this would help."
Now that he thought about it, he had been a little short earlier. It hadn't been intentional; a little less affectionate, less of the effortless back and forth he usually found himself falling into with you, more rushed. At the time, he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.
His expression softened into something almost boyish for a moment, exhaustion still lingering behind his eyes but no longer quite as heavy. "Thank you. You didn't need to do that."
"I know." Your lips lifted sweetly at the ends. "I wanted to." You perched up on your toes, pressing another quick kiss to his lips before stepping back slightly. "Anyways, I don't want to keep you-"
"No please, stay." He insisted, his free hand grabbing yours before you had the chance to move. "I could use a break."
You eyed the paperwork piled on his desk, your gaze shooting over to the bullpen as well. "Are you sure? I don't want to be a distraction, or if anyone needs you..."
Maybe it was the warmth of your hand in his. Maybe it was finally having something other than paperwork sitting in front of him. Or maybe, it was simply you.
Whatever it was, the thought of letting you walk back out the door suddenly sounded terrible.
Still holding your hand, he guided you around the desk before lowering himself back into his chair. And with a gentle tug, he pulled you onto his lap, a small giggle escaping you. The movement felt practiced. Familiar. A weight lifted from his shoulders, some of the tension he’d been carrying all day easing for what felt like the first time in hours.
One arm settled naturally around your waist, leaving you with no choice but to remain close. Not that you minded. "Share a brownie with me."
"Is that an order, Hotch?" You raised your eyebrows playfully, though absolutely no persuasion was needed. They then narrowed, "you know, the longer I'm here, the more suspicious it is. Someone's going to come in and be a brownie thief."
His thumb absentmindedly brushed against your side, something warm and fond settling in his expression as he looked at you. "If that’s the case, they’ll have to get through me first."
summary: adopting a retired police dog from the local station seemed like a good idea. late night cuddles on the couch, early morning barks to start the day, and long runs in the park are now a normal part of bradley's routine. but what happens when his furry friend takes off one morning, leash slipping through his hand, and instead barreling towards someone new?
warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, semi-public sex (not really but kinda), dry humping (i'm a freak), hand job, fingering, reader is shorter/smaller than bradley (he looks down at reader and picks reader up), strangers to lovers (guys don't fall for the cute guy with a dog ruse unless it's bradley), no use of y/n
word count: 11.1k
a/n: been a fiend for bradley ever since watching topgun again in theaters. that mustache does things to me... also this a very bradley centered fic! loved exploring him as a character in this! enjoy! :)
masterlist
Bradley doesn't know what stopped him on his way off base. Usually, he's barreling towards the exit, can't wait to get home and start his weekend, even if that means reruns of old sitcoms and quiet nights on his back patio alone. Maybe it was the bright pink of the poster, contrasting against the dark navy blue, kaki tan, and army green of the base. Or maybe it was the fact that the piece of paper was dead center on the communal bulletin board. But, ultimately, Bradley's pace slows as he gets closer to the board and catches sight of a picture of a group of German shepherds, all lined up in perfect order, but still somehow looking so happy.
Adopt me! Come by the Coronado Police Station this weekend to meet your new best friend!
Bradley pauses as he reads over the text, taking in the place, date, and time. Tomorrow morning, a fifteen-minute drive from his small two-bedroom house. He doesn't know why, but he reaches into his back pocket to take out his phone, snapping a quick picture. Bradley looks over his shoulder, seeing if anyone has caught him in the act. And just as quickly as he had stopped, he was off again.
The drive home should feel like any other; wind in his hair, aviators over his eyes blocking the rays of the setting sun, and soft classic rock from the radio. But Bradley couldn't help but feel like something was missing.
Phoenix went on and on today about how her family is visiting her for the weekend, saying how excited she is to see her parents again. Bradley smiled at her, genuinely happy at the news.
Bob had talked about staying in with his girlfriend this weekend, saying they were going to try out a new recipe of banana bread they saw on the Food Network earlier this week. Bradley had hummed, telling Bob to save him a slice and to bring it in on Monday.
Jake had even told Bradley about the long run he was going on with a few of the newest TOPGUN class recruits, saying he was going to put them through hell this weekend. Bradley just laughed and grimaced at this, thankful his time in the program hadn't been led by someone as ruthless as one of his best friends.
But as the keys hit the small dish on his counter, Bradley couldn't help but tune into the creaks and groans of his house. Nothing else, just the small and quiet sounds. Even as he cooked dinner that night, the boiling of the pasta seemed drowned out by the stillness of the kitchen, of everything that surrounded Bradley. The episode he had seen at least three times now seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Bradley only heard his breathing and the occasional dripping of the faucet.
The hot summer nights were grueling. Not only due to the heat of his sticky skin against the now warm sheet, but also because Bradley could hear every little bug from the window above his bed. Cicadas seemed to chirp, grasshoppers seemed to sing, and if he listened closely, he could even sometimes hear the buzzing of the fireflies. Too quiet, but so loud. Loudness from the wrong sounds, the ones nobody noticed. Loudness from the beating of his heart from underneath his skin. Loudness of the crinkling sheets beneath his grasp. Loudness from the unsteady breath that escaped his lips.
Reaching for his phone, Bradley looked at the most recent picture in his camera roll. Swiping out and clicking the clock icon, he set an alarm for 8 AM sharp.
જ⁀➴
Bradley pulls into the parking lot and takes in the sight around him. Cars are already packed in the lot, despite it only being 5 minutes since the adoption event started. Minivans and SUVs are taking up most of the spots; his Bronco seems out of place among the other cars. The California sun is barely starting to warm up the air, but Bradley knows in an hour he'll be thankful for the loose Hawaiian shirt he wears.
Off to the right side of the building, he can hear children laughing and dogs barking. Tucking his keys in his back pocket, he makes his way towards the noise.
Like he suspected, families are standing around chatting with volunteers in bright pink shirts, the same pink on the poster from the base. Kids are wide-eyed and fascinated with all of the dogs they see. It's not just German shepherds, but smaller dogs too, and all types of breeds. He wonders why his poster only had the proud-looking line-up when there were so many other options.
But like a man on a mission, Bradley peers over the crowd of people and spots K-9 in big black letters near the middle of the scene. Sending small smiles and tapping his left hand anxiously on the side of his thigh, Bradley weaves through the crowd. Taking in the well-behaved group of dogs before him, he settles down a bit. There's only one volunteer over in this area, a woman with her back turned away from him. It only settles him more, giving him the space to really look over the animals. Some of the dogs are panting, as if being out on the grass has somehow exhausted them. Others are playing with each other, rolling around, and showing their bellies. But one dog sits near the woman, curled in on itself, head tucked into her side.
Without meaning to, Bradley watches this dog, missing the way the woman looks at him fondly.
"He's just a little shy, but I promise he's a good boy," your voice snaps him out of his trance.
Bradley doesn't think he's ever thought so hard about what to say next. You have a soft look on your face, eyes darting back and forth between him and the dog that sits so close to you. The morning light is peeking out from beneath the tree branches, golden rays dancing across your skin. Bradley is glad he doesn't have his sunglasses on right now.
"What's his name?" Bradley walks closer to you, and you turn your body towards him. The dog next to you perks up a bit at the movement.
You smile a little before saying it, "Ducky." Seeing the way his brows raise, you laugh a bit. "He's just a bit of an odd pup out, thought the name suited him."
Bradley couldn't help but feel like it was fate. Ducky and Rooster. It was almost laughable.
"You said he's shy," Bradley led on, looking up to you as he sat on his haunches next to the dog.
"Yeah," you hummed. "Definitely my sensitive boy out of the group. These guys are retiring K-9, but Ducky has a bit of a soft side, wasn't trained properly as a puppy." Your voice seemed to waver a bit at the end of your sentence.
Bradley watched as your throat bobbed before you spoke again. He could tell where this conversation was going, but didn't want to interrupt. The look in your eyes was fiercely protective.
"He was abused by his first owner. So he has some PTSD tendencies. Hyper vigilant, can get really avoidant and shy, whines a lot when he's feeling anxious," you tell Bradley, petting the dog softly.
But nothing in your expression tells him that you don't care for this dog, that you think he's broken because of all of these things. It makes his heart beat a little quicker.
"But Ducky's a good boy. You just have to put some work in to see that." As you say his name again, Ducky peeks out from where he's hiding in your side. You smile a bit at this, ruffling his ears. "You wanna say hi to the sweet man?" you ask in a soft voice, like you're talking just to the dog, like Bradley's not right next to you, hearing every word.
He holds his hand out slowly, knowing not to move too fast. "Hey, Ducky. I'm Bradley." As soon as he says it, he feels a bit silly. But the way your smile deepens makes him continue. "Looking for a home, buddy? I got a nice backyard."
"Oh, he'll love that. Runs around like a bunny when he's all riled up," you told him with a smile on your face, now looking only at Bradley.
Bradley smiles at that, only imagining the life this dog could bring to his quiet house.
Finally, Ducky nudges his outstretched hand, sniffing it first, then licking it softly. He hears you gasp lightly at the action, nothing big though, trying not to disrupt the moment.
"He never does that," you offer. Bradley can see your head shaking slowly as Ducky continues to push into the man in front of you.
Bradley feels his heartbeat steady. It's quiet around him. Even with the squealings of the children around him and the barking of the other dogs, Bradley only hears the little laps of Ducky's tongue against the skin on his hand. But this quiet is something he can get used to, something that grounds him.
"It's a 150 dollar adoption fee, right?" Bradley asks, not tearing his eyes away from the dog in front of him. Ducky's big brown eyes seem to bore into his soul, making him ask the question before even thinking about what he's saying.
You bite your lip before speaking, trying to hide the big grin on your face, even though you know Bradley can't see it. "Um, no fee for him. I already took care of it."
Your words confuse Bradley. He looks over to you for an answer but sees clearly why you had paid the fee yourself.
Quickly, a hand comes up to your cheek as you wipe the stray tear away from your face. "I just didn't want anything to deter someone from taking him home." Bradley's heart clenches at this as you offer him a smile and you fan your eyes.
"Well, what do you say, Ducky? Wanna come home with me?" Bradley finds himself talking to the dog again, not feeling as silly this time around.
જ⁀➴
Bradley looks at the large, fluffy cream colored dog bed lying next to his and the brown wicker box overflowing with colorful chew toys with a small smile. Ducky had been a little hesitant to leave your side at first when he realized what was happening, but with some whispered assurance and a kiss on the tip of his wet nose from you, he jumped into Bradley's Bronco, settling in the passenger seat.
Ducky had whined when Bradley peeled out of the parking lot. The man had glanced over at Ducky as he stuck his head out of the window and looked in your direction. His eyes found your figure in the mirror, blue denim, and a sweet pink-colored top catching his eye. He saw the way you brought one hand up to your heart, and as the other wiped at your cheeks. You loved this dog, every bit of your being told him that.
Bradley couldn't help but feel bad as the dog's whines continued throughout shopping for essentials, the drive home, and the arrival at his house.
Ducky had opted to lie in Bradley's brown leather chair as soon as they got into the house, and he decided to take it as a good sign. But as the day continued, Ducky had barely left the spot, and small cries were coming every few minutes.
Opening up the sliding glass door to his backyard, Bradley called Ducky over, beckoning him to come out and play. But the swings of the bright blue and purple rope and the energetic movements from Bradley weren't doing anything to move Ducky from his spot.
Even when making dinner, Ducky had barely budged from his spot on the recliner. With the wafting scent of the food on the stovetop, Bradley was sure that Ducky would appear by his side sooner rather than later. But nothing came of it, even with the temptation of a seared ribeye with Ducky's name on it.
He had tried speaking softly like he had seen you do earlier that day, but Bradley didn't want to push the poor dog more than it seemed like he already did. Instead, he turned on the television and sat in the company of the shy dog.
It wasn't until Bradley was tucked under his sheets that he heard the faint noise of shuffling paws on his hardwood floors. Ducky sat next to the side of the bed, noticeably avoiding lying on the dog bed next to him. Bradley laughed quietly at this, furrowing his brows a bit.
He wasn't quite sure what to do, to be honest. Growing up, he never had dogs or cats or anything of that sort in the house. He figured it was hard enough being a single mother of a toddler; the added stress of an animal just wasn't feasible in his situation.
Sure, his friends growing up had dogs. He recalled throwing around a tennis ball with one of his friends and their black lab in their backyard almost every day during the summer before 7th grade. But Bradley had never lived with a dog. Never had to deal with big brown eyes looking at him as he lay underneath the sheets.
"You okay, buddy?" he asked in the otherwise quiet room.
To this, Ducky started whining.
"Oh, come on. I thought we got over that a few hours ago," Bradley groans, rolling up to sit in his bed now.
Bradley was man enough to admit it was hard to drag Ducky away from you during the adoption this morning. Ducky's whines as you gave him a few last pets and spoke gently to him, did tug on Bradley's heartstrings. Bradley was sure the dog next to him couldn't stop thinking about your kind eyes and sweet disposition; he certainly couldn't.
Bradley's hands were rougher than yours. He felt the softness as you handed the leash to him this morning. You had explained to him a routine that Ducky usually had with the unit, your hands animated as you looked between the pair in front of you with a smile. Occasionally, one would come down to rub the top of his head. Ducky was probably missing that, missing you.
On top of that, when Bradley smiled at the dog next to him, he couldn't help but think of how goofy he looked compared to you. Your smiles were gentle, drawing him and Ducky in from a few feet away. He could tell you had that kind of magnetism, that kind of energy that just took hold of people and didn't let go. Bradley struggled to think of what the dog in front of him thought as he shot him another small smile.
And Bradley couldn't let go of the way you switched from talking to him to Ducky. How you had described Bradley with a soft tone and warm look in your eyes. You didn't even know him. How did you settle on "sweet man" from what Bradley was giving you this morning? It was a little too mind-boggling to think about for too long.
Shaking away the memories of this morning, Bradley was brought back to the dog that sat at his side. With a small sigh, he pointed to the bed next to him. "That's your bed, Ducky. It's time to go to sleep."
This only got him louder whines.
Bradley sighed and shook his head. He felt clueless.
"Do you want to come up here?" he tried, patting the comforter near his feet.
Within seconds, Ducky was jumping onto the bed and taking claim to the opposite side of the bed.
"Unbelievable. I try to get you to listen all day, and this is what you respond to," Bradley laughed as he looked at Ducky with a smile, not able to get mad at the dog as he cuddled up similarly to this morning with you.
The whines had stopped now, replaced with steady breathing and a small huff. The buzzing of the bugs outside his window that seemed so loud yesterday was now quiet. Bradley was only keying in on the ups and downs of Ducky's chest, something more grounding than he realized.
"Alright, Ducky. Time for bed," Bradley spoke again to the dog, stroking the fur on his back gently. Lying his head back down on his pillow and continuing his movements, Bradley was asleep within minutes. Soft snores from both him and Ducky fill the house with a comfortable, peaceful energy.
જ⁀➴
It was a bit daunting at first. That first week with Ducky was definitely a learning curve. Trying to adjust his routine to best suit the dog's needs hadn't been quick or easy.
The first morning, Bradley woke up to licks on his face and playful growling. At first, Bradley thought Ducky wanted attention, some pets, and cuddles. But as soon as he sat up in bed, Ducky was bolting to the front door.
Sitting in front of the door with the green leash in his mouth, Ducky whined as Bradley slowly made his way down the hallway.
Still adorned in his slippers and ratty college football shorts, Bradley closed the front door and took off with Ducky as the sun rose in the distance. After a few minutes of tugging Bradley down the block, Ducky broke out into a trot, urging Bradley to keep up with him.
That's how Bradley ended up running barefoot in his neighborhood at 5 in the morning, slippers in one hand and leash in the other. He had passed Mrs. Greene, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Nguyen on their morning aerobic walk with a small nod and smile. The older ladies had laughed at the scene, something Bradley couldn't help but join in on.
An hour later, they ended up back at Bradley's house. This time, Ducky barked happily as he opened the sliding glass door out to his backyard, running circles in the yard much like you had said he would. Bradley found himself watching with a disbelieving smile on his face, wishing he could somehow tell you that you were right.
A few weeks later, Bradley runs shirtless, tennis shoes on his feet now, with Ducky on an early May morning. The sun is just starting to peak out from the greenery lining the trail they take every morning. Bradley's grateful for the cool morning air as sweat wicks at his lower back and hairline. A combination of the morning dew and perspiration rolls down the muscles of Bradley's body as he jogs.
Suddenly, Ducky pauses once they reach the familiar park. Bradley looks down at his dog and then up to see what he could possibly be stopping for.
Seeing nothing but the group of older women with small hand weights and crows in the trees, Bradley bends down to Ducky's level. "What's up, buddy? What do you see?"
But as soon as Bradley settles down next to the dog, Ducky's leash is slipping through his fingers. He reaches out to grab onto anything, his dog, his collar, his leash, but ends up grasping at the air instead. Ducky is taking off in a sprint before him.
Rising to his feet and going after him. Bradley swears under his breath and calls out loudly, "Ducky!"
He finds himself weaving through the playground, wood chips kicking up in his wake. But his eyes widen as Ducky zeroes in on a group of women at the edge of the park.
He sees them all stretched down in downward dog as Ducky gets closer and closer. Again, Bradley calls out, "Ducky!"
At this, he sees a few heads turn towards the sound of his voice. But only one woman looks in the direction of the blur of fur coming straight for her. A yelp is heard as Ducky barrels into her, knocking her from her place on the mat. Gasps are heard from the surrounding women, and Bradley's chest heaves as he sprints to catch up to his dog and pull him off the stranger.
But as he gets closer, his heart calms at the sound of laughter. Ducky is lying on top of this poor woman, but at least he's not attacking or barking or anything of that sort. No, he's just licking and nuzzling into the figure on the ground.
"I am so sorry. I don't," Bradley gets out quickly, stuttering a bit as he looks around at the group with an apologetic smile. "He never runs away like that, I'm sorry. Ducky, get over here!"
But the dog stays put, and the laughter doesn't stop. But finally, Ducky is pushed up from the figure on the ground, and Bradley's heart races once more when he sees your face peeking out from behind the ball of fur.
"Oh, it's you." He doesn't know why he says it, but it comes from him like a breath of relief.
You laugh at this, not even taking in the way Bradley scolds himself at the odd behavior.
"And it's you and Ducky!" Your attention is on the dog in front of you, petting him and smiling brightly, only glancing up at Bradley once before returning to the panting dog rather than the panting man.
Bradley kneels down next to you, sweat still rolling down his skin. He doesn't catch the way your cheeks flush as you take in his build. Muscles are a mix of the perfect summer tan and red rosy dusting, no doubt from the sprint he took off on to get here. His arms strain as they go behind him, veins jumping out from his skin. From this position, his tight stomach is also on full display, ridges and divots begging for your attention.
What you don't realize is that Bradley is doing the exact same thing to you, drinking you in fully. You're in flow yoga pants, calves peeking out from the wide-legged flare of the pants. And your top half is barely hidden, only wearing a sports bra, pretty and pink like the top he had seen you in a month ago. The straps dig into your shoulders, and Bradley takes in the swell of your breasts as he follows the scoop of the top.
A bark from Ducky snaps you both back into reality. Some of the women around you laugh.
"You guys seem to be doing well," you spoke softly, voice just as sweet as Bradley remembered.
"Mm, yeah. We've got our routine now, he's been great," Bradley tells you, reaching to pet his dog.
You watch the action fondly, seeing the way Ducky leans into his touch now. The moment is sweet and completely yours, at least that's what it feels like as you and Bradley make eye contact and share small smiles. But a voice clearing is heard as you and Bradley remember where you are.
You turn to a young woman next to you, speaking quicker than Bradley has ever heard before from you. "I'm gonna go with them, I'll be back soon." She nodded at you with a gleaming look in her eye that Bradley didn't quite understand. But you turned quickly towards him, grabbing Ducky's leash and apologizing to the other women around you.
As soon as you had walked away from the group, they resumed their positions, some of them craning their necks to watch the scene a few feet away from them unfold.
"I'm so sorry about that, again," Bradley told you, grimace on his face as you handed him the leash.
But you just shook your head and smiled. "No, no. It was nice seeing you guys again. I was wondering how he was doing with you," you told him. Bradley hoped you didn't catch the way he swallowed hard at your words. Leaning down a bit, your hand came down to Ducky's face. "But you like the sweet man, huh? I knew you would."
Bradley's cheeks flush at the repetition of your description of him, yet again.
The sun paints everything a nice golden color, pinks in the sky still dancing a bit in the distance. But Bradley can't peel his eyes away from you, and it seems like you are having the same problem.
"I should probably get back." Your head is pointing in the direction of the class, now moving through another pose.
"Yes, yeah. Sorry," he doesn't know why he apologizes, but the smile on your face doesn't make him think about it for long.
"Well, bye, Ducky. And bye..." you lead off, looking for him to pick up the end of your sentence.
"Bradley," he says, hoping you say it back to him.
"Bye, Bradley," you tell him, turning away from the pair, but not before sending them one last glance over your shoulder. And Bradley doesn't realize how long he stands there and hangs onto your words, only focusing on the way his name sounded coming out of your mouth. It had never sounded better, sounded sweeter from you.
Begrudgingly, he turns, ushering Ducky to follow him.
"I know, Ducky. Come on," he says, starting off in a slow jog as his dog turns back and begins to follow him. But as the day continues, Ducky's whining starts up again, and Bradley can't help but think of you.
જ⁀➴
Pool balls clack up against each other as Bradley misses yet another wide-open shot.
"Jesus, Rooster," Jake laughs loudly. "Missing your dog so much you can't even focus on one little game of pool?"
It was partly true. It was Bradley's first night out since getting Ducky; he had been opting to spend the nights and weekends at home with the dog rather than out drinking with the squad.
But before Bradley could defend himself, mouth already opening to fire back, Bob had cut in, "No, he's definitely distracted because of the girl."
Bob sipped his soda innocently as the group of pilots turned in his direction with peaked interest.
Looking at Bradley, Bob grimaced; he was always a little loose-lipped after his 3rd soda of the night. "Shoot. Sorry, Bradley."
This set off a chain of questions from the group as Bradley's head hung low, hand coming up to the back of his neck to rub harshly at the skin.
Bradley had confessed his feelings to the WSO earlier this week, not being able to get the image of you out of his brain the entire weekend after Ducky had run you down in the park. He just had to tell someone, and Bob seemed like the logical choice. Smart, level-headed, in a stable relationship. But the words from the WSO only sent him into a spiral as he had finished describing you.
"Sounds like your perfect woman."
Bob's voice seemed to be on repeat the entire week. And God, he was right. You were perfect. More importantly, Bradley felt like he was going through withdrawal. Every time he looked at Ducky, he thought of you. He reasoned that getting out of the house and spending some time with his friends would be good for him.
Evidently, his secret being outed wasn't what he had in mind for tonight.
"Idiots, shut it!" Phoenix's voice rang out above the others. The group was now silent, all looking to the woman. "What girl?" she asked hesitantly.
With a sigh, Bradley's shoulders slumped. "The woman who I got Ducky from. I ran into her again last week, doing yoga at the park on one of our morning runs. And I don't know," he says, face twisting, not even sure why he's volunteering this information to his friends. "I just... I can't stop thinking about her."
The group is silent, understanding and hearing the sincerity in Bradley's voice.
Jake lets out a whistle at this. "Let's get you another drink, lover-boy." And at this, the group seems to hum in agreement.
The blonde clamps a hand down on his shoulder, guiding him to the bar.
"And you don't have her number?" Jake asks as they weave through the crowds of people.
"No, man. I mean, I don't even know her name. The adoption paperwork happened quicker than I expected, and I was just standing there like a dumbass the second time," Bradley grumbles, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
"Yikes. Any chance she's gonna do yoga again this week?" Jake asked as they sat at two open seats.
"I looked, it said the yoga happens the first Saturday of every month. So, I just have to wait," Bradley explained, feeling a little embarrassed at the admission.
"A month?! Good luck, my friend. You've gone crazy after only a week," Jake laughed. Bradley rolled his eyes at this and groaned, knowing Jake's words held some truth to them.
"Hello, gentlemen. I've got a drink here for you, Lieutenant Bradshaw," Penny's voice makes Bradley's head snap up. Her hand is pointing in across the bar, and when he follows it, he can't help but swear.
"Holy shit," Bradley laughs, turning to Jake with a smile and wide eyes.
"Holy shit, that's her?" Jake asked, looking at you and your friend at the opposite side of the bar, taking in the way she poked your sides and laughed.
"That's her," he spoke breathlessly. Penny grinned at the scene unfolding in front of her.
"Go, dumbass. Go!" Jake pushed him off the barstool, both hands guiding him in your direction.
Bradley recognized the girl sitting next to you, the same one at the yoga class the other day; she was probably your best friend if he was guessing. The way you smiled at her, cheeks flushing as she spoke, and sent you a wink made Bradley giddy. She grabbed her purse and hopped off the stool, gesturing for him to come take her spot before squeezing your hand and leaving.
"Hey," he says, sitting next to you, disbelief on his features.
"Hey, you," you tease back. "Are you in the Navy?"
Bradley takes in the way your eyes narrow at him, like you're trying to put pieces together. He nods and smiles, "I am, TOPGUN graduate."
"So you saw the poster I put up? For the K-9 unit?" You were smiling brightly now, like you had guessed correctly.
"I did. The pink's what got me." Bradley's eyes met yours. This conversation seemed different than all the other you had in the past. Before, you were calm and collected, but here you were excitable and giggly.
"I totally thought you were a firefighter," you spoke honestly. "I put the K-9 posters up at the base, the fire station, and places like this," your finger wagged as you spoke, gesturing to the bar.
"Disappointed?" he asked, a teasing smile on his face.
You held your hands up in faux surrender. "No! Not at all. Impressed actually."
He grinned at this, settling into the conversation more and more. "And what do you do? Not a police officer, right?"
"No, vet actually. I just work pro bono with the police department, specifically for the K-9 unit. Those guys are hard workers, and usually get roughed up after big jobs," you told him with a small smile.
Bradley put together some pieces of his own. How you knew so much about Ducky, why you had gotten so close to him. You had probably gotten to see the pup at his lowest.
Bradley nodded, "Now I'm impressed." You smiled wider at this, laughing at his words.
For the first time since sitting with you, Bradley fully took you in. Your denim shorts that rode up just a bit and your white tank top, the V-neck framing your collarbones and chest perfectly. Your cheeks had a slight blush to them; he couldn't tell whether it was from him or from the fruity drink you seemed to be working on.
Again, you did the same thing. This time, though, Bradley was in a tight white T-shirt and jeans that seemed to strain against his thick biceps and thighs. His hair wasn't as windswept as it had been that day in the park; now it was pushed back slightly, a single curl coming down on the left side of his face.
The squad watched as the two of you talked, Jake practically skipping back to the group to tell them the good news. Every time they glanced over, you and Bradley had gotten closer and closer, fully leaning into each other.
You both sported matching smiles and flushed cheeks the entire night, despite letting both of your drinks sit and become lukewarm. The alcohol couldn't be to blame for the way you were acting.
They saw how Bradley's eyes softened as they met yours. How his shoulders relaxed after each laughing fit. How he opened himself completely in front of you.
You had talked about everything. It seemed to flow so easily out of Bradley, even the hard things. When you asked about his family, you must have noticed the way his face dropped slightly, instantly placing a supportive hand on his thigh. He had told you about his family, the squad, about Maverick. It was nice. You asked questions, not the kind that he had an automatic response for, but ones that made him think.
"Who on the squad is most like a sibling to you?"
"What dish instantly brings you back to childhood?"
And his favorite, "What's your favorite story about your dad?"
He asked you about school, and you indulged him in crazy stories from your early days in the profession. How you had worked out on a farm in Wyoming one summer and helped with the births of calves. It had been a lot more physically exhausting than you would've imagined. How you had studied in Australia for an exchange year, learning all about marine wildlife and how to care for them. The way your eyes lit up when you told him about a baby turtle hatching you had witnessed had him giddy.
You had told him about all the adventures you had gone on and all the ones you wanted to do in the future. Swimming in Baja, Mexico, with the Whale Sharks was at the top of your bucket list, and while Bradley was a bit scared of deep waters like that, he had to admit it didn't sound as scary if you were going to be by his side.
In exchange, he told you a few things about his time in the academy. The risks he had to take on missions, the close calls that happened more often than he would like. He saw the pain this job caused his mom, and he didn't want you to go into this without knowing the risks. But the way you bit your lip and told him that you thought what he was doing was so brave made his heart race and a wide grin break out on his face. You had hit his shoulder lightly at this, saying you were serious, but Bradley just smiled wider.
"Is there anything else I can grab you two tonight?" Penny asked, wiping down a glass as she looked at the pair, effectively popping their bubble.
"Oh gosh, I'm sorry. We stayed way too late," you spoke, digging into your wallet to pull out some bills to give the kind woman.
"Sorry, Penny," Bradley chuckled, handing her a handful of cash before you could even finish fumbling with you wallet. Your eyes met him, mouth about to open to argue, but he just offered you a hand as he hopped off the barstool.
"Goodnight, you two," she called as you both walked out with sheepish smiles.
You hadn't dropped Bradley's hand as you led him through the parking lot to your car. He relished in the warmth and softness; the feeling was vaguely familiar as he recalled the earlier touches from when you had first met.
"This is me," you told him, as moonlight danced across your features. Bradley couldn't help but run his eyes over your face, thinking to himself how beautiful you looked.
"Can I get your number?" he asked brazenly, a tad louder than he needed to. You giggled at this but nodded regardless, hands reaching for his phone as he stared at you.
Despite the cold breeze that came from the ocean just a few meters away from you both, Bradley felt a deep warmth spread in his chest. He opened your car door, closing it softly as you waved through the window. And once you backed out of your spot, Bradley found himself smiling all over again at the paw print stickers on your back window.
જ⁀➴
3 months later...
You and Bradley sprawled out on his couch as the movie finished up in front of you, Ducky sitting by your feet. Lying on Bradley's chest, you couldn't help but listen to his heartbeat beneath you.
These past few months with Bradley had been nothing short of perfect. He had texted you the morning after you had sat at the Hard Deck for hours, asking if you were free for dinner that same night. You remember laughing at his eagerness to yourself, but agreeing nonetheless.
He appeared at your door at 6:30 PM sharp, taking you out to a nice dinner on a beach patio. You teased him about not bringing Ducky, saying you thought they were a package deal, but you quickly paused the teasing after seeing how nervous he was by the way his cheeks flushed brightly.
He asked you about your career out here, only really talking about school last night with you. He said he wanted to learn more about you now. It was more thoughtful than you had expected.
Halfway through the dinner, you moved your chair over to Bradley's side of the table, something that caught a glare from the hostess. But you had to, as you scrolled through pictures and pictures of animals on your phone. You told him each of their names and all the little quirks they had, told him about the family you had worked with, and how much each of these animals meant to people. You hadn't noticed, but he smiled the entire time, not really looking at your phone but instead at the way you lit up when you spoke about the animal you've worked with.
When the date wrapped up, you told him that you'll just have to see his dog another time, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before you closed the door to your apartment. He hadn't seen you peek through the curtains, but you saw the way he pumped his fists like a dork while walking to his car. You couldn't help but fall even harder for the man.
Two days after your first date, Bradley had asked you to meet him in a little coffee shop near your apartment. He had apologized countlessly for the timing, seeing as he had requested 6 AM as the time, saying it was okay if you wanted to wait for the weekend, but his training schedule was just a little hectic at the moment. But you insisted it was okay, saying you had your own share of early mornings too and that you wanted to see him.
As he walked you to your car after a quick coffee and pastry, you smiled at him. Leaning against your car, you tugged him down by the collar of the familiar plain white tee he wore, pulling him in for a kiss. Bradley's hands found purchase on your hips, fingers giddy against your scrubs.
It was the fifth date, and both of you opted for a night in, where he promised to cook for you. It had also been the first time you had been in his apartment, Ducky clinging to your side the entire night.
Bradley had asked you to be his girlfriend before dinner was even finished, too distracted by the way you sat on the countertop to focus on the food simmering around him. You laughed as he flushed from the question and the sound of the smoke alarm going off, but ultimately said yes with a smile as he leaned down, caging you against his firm chest and the cabinets, to capture your lips in a deep kiss before waving a towel in front of the alarm. You couldn't help but laugh as you moved to open the sliding glass door to let the smoke out of the little house and to get some fresh air for yourself, too, after feeling how Bradley's hands rested on your thighs.
Recently, though, you had been having your fair share of sleepovers with the tall aviator. The first time he had slept over, you had shared one too many glasses of wine over sushi takeout from your favorite place downtown. After glancing at the clock and the empty bottle between you, you asked quietly if he wanted to spend the night.
Bradley hadn't ever seen you so shy before, but he figured the rosiness of your cheeks definitely matched his own and said nothing. Instead, he nodded, kissing your forehead sweetly as you further pushed into his hold.
He remembers feeling your soft face up against his bare chest as you dozed off, not being afraid to lean into his side once you had settled under the covers. The smell of your shampoo and lotion was strong, wafting off of you after your shower. Bradley lay there for a few minutes. Not daring to close his eyes, he instead wanted to take you in as you slept on top of him. The combination of your sweet smell and soft skin had the man reeling.
Now you lie on the couch at his apartment, and Bradley sees your eyes blinking away sleep as you curl up to his side. With a kiss pressed to your hair, your eyes widened as Bradley ushered you to the bedroom. Big hands coming up to your sides to support you, strong chest pushed against your back to guide you.
It was the first time you had slept over at his. But after grabbing a quick shower, inspecting all of the hair and body care products he had available, you took your place in bed. Bradley's sheets were softer than yours, and you wondered why it had taken so long to sleep over at his.
But before you were about to call out and ask him, the answer came jumping onto the bed next to you, taking Bradley's spot. You laughed softly as Ducky turned on his back, urging you to rub his tummy.
Getting out of the bathroom, with nothing but a tight towel around his waist, Bradley groaned. You giggled at this, but Bradley shook his head you and Ducky all cuddled up already.
Walking into the small closet on the other side of the room, your eyes tracked Bradley. The way the small towel around his hips was working to show off his deep V-line had you squirming in your spot on the bed. You watched his back muscles push and pull as he rolled his neck and stretched a bit while walking. Maybe you could offer to work out the knots; it'd be a win-win situation for you and your boyfriend.
As he emerged from the closet in nothing but a pair of boxers, you urged yourself to calm down. It wasn't like it was your first time seeing him in this state; you did have sleepovers at your apartment quite often. But it was the first time that you could actually do something about it.
There had been countless times when you and Bradley had been pretty handsy, but all of them seemed to be interrupted. Whether it was an emergency call from the clinic or an alert on Bradley's phone that Ducky had knocked over another vase in the house, something always tore you away in those moments.
You had felt Bradley's frustration, seen it firsthand. The way his jaw ticked each time, and his hands got all grabby before either of you had to leave. You didn't blame him, often finding yourself rubbing your thighs together after your time together was interrupted. Maybe even having a wandering hand shoot down your panties if he was the one who had to go.
But tonight you might have him all to yourself, whether that means deep kisses or holding each other tightly and finding sleep. That was until Ducky refused to move.
"Come on, Ducky, off the bed tonight," Bradley told the dog, standing over him.
"You let him sleep on the bed regularly?" you asked with a playful look on your face. Bradley caught your tone quickly, sending you a lighthearted eye roll.
"Yes, because I love my dog," he spoke, ruffling Ducky's ears.
"But what's the big bed for then?" you questioned again, smile growing bigger with every second.
Bradley wanted to lean over and kiss it off your face. But with the big dog in his way, he just shrugged. "He didn't like it."
You giggled at this, Ducky turning to you at the sound. "Gosh, he's a big softy, huh?" you told Ducky in a sweet tone, something that made Bradley suck his teeth and grin.
But with Ducky's attention elsewhere, Bradley was able to shift the dog to the end of the bed. Getting under the covers, Bradley reached for you automatically. Instead of feeling the cotton of your pajama pants that you usually wear, he instead felt your warm skin.
Seemingly watching the confusion spread across his face, you offered an explanation, "Your sheets are nice. And it's a little hot out."
If nice sheets and 90-degree weather were what it took to get you in the little lacy pink underwear your wore now, Bradley would buy a set in every color and run his heating system even on hot nights like tonight.
But instead, he just hummed, fingers tracing over the lacy trimming of your panties.
On top of this, you wore one of his old Navy shirts. Not expecting to sleep over, you had limited options available. Bradley had never been more thankful.
"Let's go to bed, pretty girl," Bradley told you as he saw the way your eyes started to blink closed again. You nodded sweetly at this and settled under the covers as he turned off the lamp on his nightstand.
Settling under the covers, Bradley's big hands found your stomach, pulling your back into his chest. From this position, sure, his hands could roam all over you, and he could touch anything that begged for his attention. But what stopped him in his tracks was the smell of his body wash on your skin.
It made logical sense. You had showered before getting in bed while he washed up the dishes and straightened the living room, but it didn't hit him until this very moment that you were fully his. The woman he had pined over for a month, not even knowing your name, only remembering your kind eyes and soft touch. Now, you were in his bed, falling asleep next to him in his shirt after washing yourself with his body wash.
What did he do to deserve you? You who cared for animals so much that you made a career out of it. You who held his hand and kissed away his tears when he finally told you about what happened to his father. You, who at every chance were unapologetically yourself, either dancing in the kitchen while making dinner or sobbing your eyes out while watching Marley & Me for the hundredth time.
He loved you. Bradley realized in that moment that he loved you. More than he had ever loved anyone like this before.
At the thought, his hands had squeezed your waist tightly, and you stirred next to him.
"Baby, are you okay?" you asked, voice laced with sleep.
Letting his grip on you loosen, he was quick to come down and kiss your neck in an apology. "Sorry, just thinking about you. Didn't mean to wake you up."
You hum, shifting against him slightly. Your neck is now on full display, and Bradley just couldn't help himself.
Feeling his warm mouth work against your sensitive neck made you squirm against him. Bradley's mouth was relentless, biting and licking underneath your jaw and down the side of your throat. Your breath hitched as he moved a spot near your pulse point, chest rising and falling dramatically.
Bradley's hands wrapped around your stomach once more, but this time, one of his hands snaked underneath your shirt. "Can I touch you like this?" his voice was deep, breath hot against your ear.
"Yes, please," you whispered.
Suddenly, his mouth was back on your throat, and your hips pushed back further into his now hard length. His hand came up to grab your tits. They were in the perfect position for Bradley, who was able to pinch and roll your nipples in between his big fingers.
"Oh gosh, Bradley," you huffed, eyes fully rolled back into your skull as his hand worked against your puffy nipples and he ground his length into your ass.
"Yeah, baby, feels good?" he asked in a cocky coo, watching the way you bit down on your bottom lip and nodded up and down at his words.
Your mouth opened, not quite knowing exactly if you could speak with the way his touch seemed to intensify in mere seconds. But still, you tried, aching for him now, "Touch me, please. Down-"
A loud bark had you jumping out of your skin. Ducky growled at Bradley, starting to shield you protectively.
You laughed at his dog's actions, and Bradley looked at you in disbelief.
"Ducky, down! Off the bed!" Bradley's voice was loud, but it carried no real weight to scare the dog. Ducky instead settled down in between you two, almost pushing Bradley off the bed.
You laughed again.
"This is unbelievable," Bradley scoffed as he threw the covers off his body and got out of bed. From here, you could see the way his length strained under his boxers.
But it wasn't long before Bradley was over at your side of the bed and scooping you up into his arms.
"What are you doing?" you asked, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
"Trying to give my girl what she wants. This time uninterrupted," Bradley huffed, sending a glare at Ducky on the bed as he carried you outside the bedroom.
But when Bradley closed the door, Ducky only started scratching and barking even louder. You looked at him with a small smile, pressing a kiss to his temple to calm him.
"I've got an idea," he spoke, something dancing in his eyes. "Go open the door to the patio."
"Bradley, no! You can't leave him out there!" you chastised with a small frown on your face.
He hummed, head falling into your shoulder. But just as quick as it fell, it came back up again.
"Okay, you go outside then. Wait for me," he told you, planting a searing kiss on your lips that made you forget any questions you had. Bradley placed you down softly and watched as you padded over to the back patio, underwear now clinging to your skin in a way that almost looked uncomfortable.
But as soon as he heard the click of the sliding glass door shutting. He opened the bedroom door and let Ducky inspect the living room.
"I don't know where she is, buddy," he told the dog, shoulders shrugging, really trying to sell the bit. Ducky sighed and made his way back into the bedroom after a few sniffs and laps around the couch.
After seeing him settle back into the bed and toss and turn for a few minutes, Bradley crept out the back door, swiping the big, soft blanket you liked so much, on his way.
"What'd you do?" you asked the man as he came up to you and draped the blanket around your shoulders.
"He's sleeping. Do you really think so poorly of me?" he teased, hands once again coming to your waist.
"I never said anything," you shot back, failing to hide the small smile on your face.
Bradley walked backwards until he reached the little love seat on his back patio, pulling you down so you were sitting on his lap. You smiled at the eager look on Bradley's face, giggling to yourself.
"Hi," he said, leaning in to press his lips against yours.
"Hi," you teased back, meeting his lips halfway.
Bradley's mouth moved in a delicate, yet passionate way. His hands were planted firmly on your hips; you could feel his thumbs pressing into your skin as the kisses turned more intense. You gasped as Bradley dragged your core across his hard length, cotton rubbing together to create a dizzying friction.
Taking advantage of your open mouth, Bradley pushed his tongue into your mouth, licking into it with urgency. The noise that came out of your throat at his movements was quiet, but Bradley heard it nonetheless. Groaning into your mouth, Bradley moved your hips once more, going a bit crazy at the feeling of your heat against him.
"Come on, baby. Show me how much you need me, huh?" he broke the kiss to speak, eyes searching yours. But all he saw was the gloss already over them as you nodded quickly and threw your arms over his shoulders.
Bradley kissed down your neck as your hips started to move back and forth against his length. Your pace was slow, but he heard the hitches of your breath and decided not to push you just yet. His hands instead crawled up underneath your shirts and began to toy with your nipples again. At this, you captured your bottom lip between your teeth and nuzzled your head into the crook of Bradley's neck.
"So sensitive for me. Doing so good. You like it when I touch you like this?" he asked, nudging your head out from its hiding place.
With another nod of your head, Bradley grabbed your chin, quickly swiping your bottom lip out of its hold.
"Wanna hear you, please, baby," he begged, kissing your face sweetly. It was the exact opposite of how his other hand moved under your shirt, twisting and rubbing your pebbled nipples like they were his own special toys.
"Feels so good, Bradley," you said breathlessly. At the sound of his name falling from your lips, Bradley's hips jumped to meet the steady rhythm of yours. You yelped as he did so, but he was quick to capture your lips in another deep kiss, keeping his hips pressing harshly into your heat through the cotton of both your underwear.
"You're driving me crazy," he confessed, hand coming up to the hem of the old Navy shirt you were wearing. Looking to you for permission, you nodded wordlessly and felt the shirt being taken off your body.
Bradley threw the shirt across the patio and drove straight into your chest, taking one of your nipples between his lips. He lapped and sucked, feeling your hips roll with more urgency across his length at his ministrations.
"So beautiful, baby," he spoke in a low tone before switching to your other breast. One hand snaked around to hold onto your lower back, helping you with the drag. The other pinched at your now wet nipple softly.
"Bradley," you warned, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the combined feeling of his mouth, hands, and hips. The new pressure from the hand on your back was now pushing your hips in the perfect position, feeling his tip make contact with your clit through the cotton.
The man watched as you became consumed with pleasure, lip wobbling as your hips moved back and forth. He felt your fingernails dig into his shoulder blades, surely leaving marks.
His mouth popped off your nipple and made its way up to your open mouth, licking into it once again.
"Gonna come for me, baby? It's okay, I wanna feel you come. I'm right here," he spoke softly to you, watching your brows furrow and face twist.
The words and the intense look in Bradley's eyes made the tension in your tummy snap, hips moving fast to chase your high. You tried collapsing into your boyfriend, but with a firm hand that stayed on your jaw, you were forced upright, looking straight at Bradley as you came on his lap.
Your bare chest heaved as you came down from your high, pressing into Bradley's warm figure. His hand traveled from your lower back up to your hair, stroking it sweetly while placing soft kisses on your hairline.
"Can I feel you?" Bradley asked, fingers now toying with the lace on your underwear again.
"Yeah, but I wanna feel you too," you told him with a small smile on your face, bringing your fingers down to the waistband of his boxers. He chuckled at your actions, but still brought you into a sweet kiss.
Your hands pushed down his waistband and grasped his length in your hands. He was heavy in your hold, twitching as you rubbed a finger down the side of his member, tracing a prominent vein.
"So big," you whispered, more so to yourself, but the way Bradley's fingers moved to push into the front of your underwear made you think he must have heard you, too.
You felt one hand plant firmly on your waist while the other cupped your heat softly. His middle finger circled your entrance, rubbing little circles and spreading the wetness around, something that had you squirming in his hold. Bradley's thumb rubbed similar circles on your clit as you hunched over into his hold.
Your hands worked to rub at his tip, one hand coming up to your mouth to collect some spit, making the movements more fluid. Bradley shuddered as you found a steady pace, feeling your fingers continuously working over his sensitive head.
A finger pressed into your entrance, stretching you in an unfamiliar way. You whined into Bradley's neck at the feeling, tensing up for a moment. But he was quick to keep rubbing little circles against your nub, relaxing your muscles.
The finger pumped in and out of you at the same pace as your hand. Bradley's lips find your neck once more, now breathing heavier and lapping at more of your skin. As you ground down on him further, he moved to push another finger inside your wet entrance.
"Jesus, baby. Feel so fucking good around my fingers. Can't wait to have you on my dick," he groaned, feeling you clench and squeeze around his fingers. You moaned at his words, pushing further into him to rub your breasts against the hard muscles of his chest. Your nipples rubbed harshly against him as you moved your hand more quickly to keep up with the rhythm of his fingers.
"Need you, please, Bradley. Now," you gasped, feeling your stomach wind up again. He nodded at your words, pulling his fingers from your entrance and instead picking you up off his hips, pushing you up against the wood railing of the patio.
"This okay, baby? You okay with me taking you like this?" Bradley asked, referring to your back meeting his chest, taking you from behind. Your stomach jumped at his words as you braced your hands against the railing.
"Yes, please, Bradley." The words were barely off the tip of your tongue when you felt Bradley tug down your underwear, leaving you completely bare in the warm summer breeze. He quickly did the same with his own underwear, fully allowing his member to spring free and rub on your ass.
One of his large hands came to wrap around your hips while the other guided his cock into your entrance. Feeling your breathing pick up, Bradley placed sweet kisses on your neck before whispering, "Breathe for me, baby. I got you."
Taking a deep breath, you exhaled as Bradley pushed into you. It was only his tip at first, but the way you pushed your hips back at the feeling of him drove his hips further, pushing in fully.
Gasping at the stretch, your head lay back on Bradley's broad chest as he snuck his other hand around to toy with your tits. Your nipples were still sensitive from his actions earlier, so this only caused you to push further into his hold.
"Can I move? Are you okay? Need to hear you, talk to me, baby," Bradley told you, kissing the top of your head softly.
"Feels really good, please, Bradley. Need you to move," you complied, as he nodded, pressing his hips into you before drawing out and pushing in again.
You whine as he sets a steady pace. His hands roam all over your body, trying to grab onto every part of you. Your tits, your thighs, your throat. You feel your eyes cross once his thumb lands on your clit once more, squirming and crying out in a nonsensical plea.
Bradley watches as you start to fall apart on him. His hips are moving to piston his hard length into your warm heat, finding it hard not to fully bend you over the railing and have his way with you. Instead, setting a pace that had you crying out every few seconds, mouth open, and eyes closing at his deep movements.
The crude sounds of his hips meeting your ass were filthy and the loudest thing in contrast to the otherwise quiet night. The extra squelching sounds surely come from the previous orgasm you had. Bradley wondered what you tasted like, but he'd have to save it for next time.
"So good, feels so good. My pretty girl," Bradley groaned, head dropping to kiss along your exposed jaw line, hand pushing your tummy to arch you even further into his hold.
You moaned in response, feeling him deeper, feeling more pressure. "For you, only you, Bradley," you told him, head turning to capture his lips in a kiss.
Bradley felt a surge of energy at your words. His thumb worked in tighter circles against your clit, the kind that had you shaking earlier on the loveseat.
"Yeah? This is my pussy, baby? Gonna let me fill you up?" he asked, spit mixing with yours as he bit harshly on your bottom lip.
"Mhm, please. All yours," you cried out as his other hand came to hold across your hips, helping him push you to the edge by bending your frame even more than it already was. Your back arched away from Bradley as your hips and head pushed back to meet his solid body.
"Fuck, baby. Can't say shit like that," he scolded, but his hips kept pounding into you.
Bradley's filthy mouth was somewhat shocking to you. The only other time he had cursed around you was when he had stubbed his toes on the corner of your bed 3 weeks ago. So his words sent a chill down your spine despite the heat of the summer air.
Bradley's thumb stayed in its spot, working your clit and making you twitch and begin to thrash in his hold. But his other arm thrown around your hips made sure that you still felt his deep thrusts.
"Bradley," you breathed out, head tilting back to look at the man. Sweat dripped from his hairline, but he still moved to swoop down and catch you in a searing kiss.
"I got you, I got you. Come for me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my dick." His words pushed you over the edge as he licked into your mouth once more after speaking. The constant rub from his thumb and deep thrusts had you shaking as you worked through your high with him.
Seeing the way your body tensed, your tits bouncing with every movement, and your thighs shaking, had Bradley releasing in you with a low groan. His hips canted into you, slowing down slightly with each thrust, only moving to help you both work through your respective highs.
He had neglected to turn on any porch lights to not alert any neighbors or even Ducky, but the way the moonlight streamed through the trees and painted your features was something Bradley wished he could remember forever. Your lips were still parted, taking labored breaths. Your eyes were glossy, like you were trying to focus and come back into your body. Your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of rosy pink than he had ever seen on you before.
You were beautiful.
Bradley leaned down to kiss your cheek, and he felt you smile against his lips.
"Feeling okay, that wasn't too much, pretty baby?" he asked, genuine concern making his brows furrow.
You moved a thumb up to smooth the creases, kissing him softly on the nose with a small giggle. "Felt really good, Bradley. Gonna need some help walking, for sure though."
He chuckled at this, kissing your lips this time, deep and slow.
"I can help with that," he told you as he pulled out, both of you wincing at the loss. He quickly picked you up bridal style and carried you into the house, only letting your feet touch the ground as he set you down on the edge of the guest room bathtub.
Bradley moved to start the water, running his fingers under it to make sure it wasn't too warm or too cold before plugging the tub.
His big hands came down to frame your face, fingers a little wet, but you leaned into his touch regardless. "Gonna go grab our stuff outside and start a pot of tea and come back, okay?" he asked, searching your eyes. You smiled at him, and he leaned down once more to capture your soft lips between his own, the brush of his mustache making you giggle into the kiss.
"I love you, Bradley," you told him, lip now pulled between your teeth as you looked sheepishly at him.
But the man smiled wider than you had ever seen as he began to pepper kisses all over your face and head. You giggled at this, hands coming up to hold his which still framed your face.
"I love you so much," he told you, coming down to peck your lips once more, but the sound of the whine made you and Bradley turn towards the entrance of the bathroom.
Ducky huffed, lying on the cool hardwood, making you and Bradley laugh.
"We love you too, Ducky," the man teased, sending you a wink as you bit back a grin at the sight in front of you.
✧.* : G.W x Reader
✎ : For someone who hates being touched, you sure let George get close.
𖦹 :2.4k
A/N: I LOVED THIS REQUESTTTTTTT
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
★ request: @raiweasley
ϟ taglist ϟ : @falsedivide @procookie2007 @damagedbreign @promisingflowerz-13 @littlemadamred
You’re not fond of touch.
Not in a dramatic, trauma-drenched kind of way, though everyone always seems to assume it’s something like that. It isn’t. It’s just… not your thing. Hugging, leaning, linking arms; most people take it for granted, that casual sort of affection friends seem to throw around like candy.
But you’ve never liked how it makes your skin prickle, like something was being asked of you that you didn’t sign up for. Even handshakes made you grit your teeth through the discomfort.
It’s not something you announce, not some bold statement you tack onto a badge or shout across the common room. It’s more subtle than that. A quiet recoil. A flinch so small only the most observant people ever notice. You’ve never been one for grand declarations. You just don’t reach out.
And you hope others get the hint.
Your friends learned quickly enough. First years, bright-eyed and eager, had reached for your hands during group walks to class or tugged you into hugs after a good grade. But you always stiffened, or laughed awkwardly and peeled away. That kind of discomfort sticks. So they stopped.
Now, a few years in, your group has settled into a rhythm that mostly works. They greet you with wide smiles instead of side-hugs, affection held in eye contact and words instead of open arms. No one touches your hair, no one throws themselves across your lap, no one grabs your hand under the table during hard moments.
You’re grateful for that.
Sometimes you think it bothers them, even if they’d never say so. Parvati once looked at you for a long time after hugging Lavender, her expression a mixture of fondness and uncertainty, like she wanted to reach for you but thought better of it. You’d smiled to let her know it was okay. She didn’t need to be sorry.
It wasn’t personal.
It just… is.
You love your friends. Deeply, in fact. You remember every birthday. You leave notes when someone’s had a bad day. You brew tea exactly how each of them likes it when exam season hits. You show up.
But you do it quietly. Hands in your pockets. Smiles that stretch wide, but never too close.
You keep your body to yourself.
And for the most part, no one questions it anymore.
There’s always some first-year or overenthusiastic Hufflepuff trying to break the invisible rule, but you manage. You dodge, you redirect, you smile just enough to let them know it isn’t personal. Most of the time, people get it.
Most of the time, it’s fine.
You like your space.
You like that your bed is yours alone, that when you sit at the corner table in the library, no one leans over your shoulder to read along. You like that when your friends sit beside you on the couch in the common room, they never press too close.
The unspoken boundary is as much yours as it is theirs.
You feel safest like this—untouched, unbothered.
You’ve made peace with it.
And for years, there’s never been a reason to question it.
Not until him.
But you don’t know that yet.
For now, everything still fits where it should. The people you care about are close enough, but not too close. And no one touches you unless absolutely necessary.
That’s the rule.
And you’ve never broken it.
Not even once.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
It starts slowly.
So slowly, in fact, you don’t even notice.
It begins with laughter. Not yours, though yours always follow -- it starts with his. Loud, bright, effortless. Like he finds everything a bit ridiculous and a bit wonderful all at once. You hear it down the hall before you see him sometimes. George Weasley has never been subtle.
You wouldn’t call yourselves close. Not at first.
He’s in your classes, but he’s more known for his dramatic exits than his presence during lectures. He’s the kind of person who charms a textbook to scream if anyone opens it, just to break the tension during revision week.
He’s… chaotic.
You’re not.
And yet somehow, somewhere between second year and now, he’s become a part of your world.
It probably started when you helped him with an essay in the library. He asked what oxblood was in the context of potion ingredients and you ended up explaining four different cauldron reactions. He grinned the whole time, pencil tapping against his lip, completely oblivious to how the librarian kept shushing you both.
You thought that was the end of it. But then he started sitting next to you in Transfiguration. Then he started meeting you outside the Great Hall and walking with you to class, half the time forgetting which direction he was supposed to go in the first place.
You assumed it was coincidence. Friendly proximity. George is a people person; he collects connections like chocolate frog cards.
Still, he’s never like that with everyone.
You noticed the difference in how he talks to others versus how he talks to you. With them, it’s quick jokes and a wink as he passes. With you, it’s conversations. Real ones. Questions about what you’re reading, your take on magical theory, even what kind of pastries your mum makes during the holidays.
You find yourself looking forward to seeing him.
You still keep your distance, of course. Even when you laugh at his jokes, you stay firmly planted on your own side of the bench. You don’t lean. You don’t bump shoulders. You don’t ruffle hair or playfully shove.
That’s still the rule.
But George seems to brush against it more than anyone else.
There’s a moment during Charms where he leans over your notes to copy a line and his arm rests against yours for a fraction of a second too long. You don’t move. You barely even register it. Not in the usual way, not with the instinctive urge to pull away.
Then there’s the time you’re both at the edge of the Quidditch pitch, watching Fred and Angelina practicing passes. You’re sitting on the grass, legs crossed, and George flops down beside you with a thud, his knee knocking into yours.
You expect to stiffen. Instead, you keep talking.
And when he throws his head back and laughs so hard he leans into your shoulder, you… don’t mind.
That part doesn’t make sense.
You start to notice it more and more—the little ways your body doesn’t react.
How when your friends reach for you, you still flinch or side-step, still avoid the press of contact like it burns. But when George leans close to show you something, or claps a hand on your back in triumph, or bumps your elbow during dinner—you let it happen.
You don’t shrink. You don’t freeze.
You stay.
You haven’t said anything. You’re not even sure what there is to say. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe it’s just something about the way he exists—loud but gentle, unpredictable but safe—that makes your rules bend.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But maybe it’s not.
You haven’t figured it out yet.
But someone else is about to.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
It starts with comments. Little ones. Offhand, tossed over shoulders, usually half-joking.
“Weasley’s got a shadow,” someone mutters as you pass by in the corridor, not realizing you’re just behind them.
“Didn’t think you were the cuddly type,” another says when George flops beside you in the common room and nudges your foot with his own—something simple, something playful—and you don’t move away.
You brush the comments off. Because you’re not. You’re not the cuddly type. And George isn’t really touching you. Not like that. Not in the way that counts.
Besides, it’s not like anyone knows what it means.
They don’t know how you used to flinch away from hugs at age eleven, how you’d dodge out of arm’s reach like it was second nature. They didn’t see the way your skin crawled when someone’s hand hovered too long on your shoulder, even in comfort.
They don’t know that George’s hand brushing yours during Potions doesn’t make your stomach twist in anxiety, just… twist.
So you ignore them. Or try to.
But the teasing doesn’t stop.
“Didn’t think anyone was allowed in your personal space,” Seamus teases one night as George leans over your shoulder, pretending to inspect your chessboard. You don’t respond—because George is so close that you can feel the warmth of him behind your ear, and you’re too busy pretending it doesn’t make your heart skip.
Dean snorts and adds, “Mate, you’re practically an exception to the Constitution.”
George just shrugs, light and careless. “Guess I’m charming.” He grins. You laugh. Everyone else rolls their eyes.
But later, you catch the way Hermione looks at you across the table—curious, cautious, not unkind. She tilts her head like she’s re-evaluating something, like a puzzle piece finally clicked into place.
You don’t know what to say, so you look back at your book. You’re good at pretending nothing’s changed.
Until Fred notices.
And Fred’s not subtle.
It happens one evening in the common room, the sky outside dark and thick with clouds, the kind of weather that keeps everyone inside and restless. You’re curled into the far corner of the couch, a book open on your lap, your legs tucked under you.
George sits down next to you without a word, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His knee bumps into yours, and you don’t flinch. You don’t even think about it anymore. He stretches one arm across the back of the couch, half behind you.
You feel it. You always feel it. But you never mind.
Fred strolls past with a handful of snacks, pauses mid-step, and backpedals.
“Well, well,” he says, arching a brow.
You glance up. “What?”
He nods to the space between you and George; what little space there is. “That’s awfully cozy for someone who hexed Lee Jordan last year for touching their shoulder.”
You feel your ears burn. “It was a tap. And I’d asked him not to—”
Fred raises both hands in surrender. “Hey, no judgment here.” Then he turns to George and smirks. “Didn’t know you were the chosen one, mate.”
George blinks. “What are you on about?”
Fred leans forward slightly, grin widening. “You’re the only one she lets near her, and you haven’t noticed?”
George opens his mouth, then closes it again.
You can feel the shift.
The weight of the words lingers longer than Fred’s teasing tone allows. George goes quiet, and for the first time in weeks, you feel a sliver of discomfort. Not because he’s touching you—but because he might stop.
Fred moves on, mercifully distracted by Ginny launching a pillow at Ron’s head. The room erupts into laughter again, and the moment seems to pass.
But George doesn’t pull away.
And you don’t, either.
——⭑⋆⋆⋆⭑——
George doesn’t pull away.
Not after Fred’s teasing. Not after the looks. Not even after you go a little quieter than usual the next day, unsure if things have changed too much to go back.
Instead—
George leans in.
Not literally. Not at first. He’s smarter than that, even if he doesn’t always act like it. He knows enough about people—about you—to sense that if he rushes this, he’ll break whatever invisible thing you’ve been building between you.
So he doesn’t rush.
He simply lets things happen more.
He sits a little closer on the couch, like it’s nothing. He drops into step beside you on your way to class without announcing himself first. During meals, his shoulder brushes yours a little more often. And you’re keenly aware—too aware—that you never mind.
You’re not sure when you stopped minding.
One evening, you’re tucked away in your usual spot by the fireplace. It’s late. Most students have gone up to bed. You’re working on an essay you don’t care much about, quill tapping rhythmically against your parchment.
George appears without a word and plops down next to you, sprawling like he owns the entire sofa. His thigh bumps yours. He doesn’t move it.
You glance at him. He meets your eyes and raises a brow.
“What?” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Sure didn’t look like nothing,” he says, leaning over slightly to peek at your parchment. His shoulder brushes yours. You don’t move.
He smells like wood smoke and something faintly citrusy. It’s oddly comforting.
“You’re hovering,” you mutter, eyes flicking back to your essay.
“I’m helping,” he says. “Silently. Like a supportive academic presence.”
You snort, but the sound comes out quieter than intended. Your cheeks feel warm.
A few moments pass. You’re trying to focus on the essay again when you feel it—his fingers brush the back of your hand. Not on purpose, not obviously, just a light, tentative touch. Testing the water.
You glance down. He doesn’t move.
Your stomach flips. But not in fear. Not in discomfort.
He notices that you don’t pull away.
That’s when he leans in—this time, for real.
Not in a dramatic, sweeping way. But gently. Purposefully. He shifts a little closer, his voice quieter when he speaks again.
“You know,” he says, almost teasing, “you don’t let people do this.”
Your breath catches.
You don’t respond right away. You’re not sure how.
He tilts his head toward you, face close enough that you can see the curve of his smile—not wide, not cocky, just… soft.
“You always flinch,” he says. “Except when it’s me.”
It’s not accusatory. It’s not even a question. It’s just… wonder.
You look down at where his hand is resting, barely an inch from yours. He could reach out. He doesn’t. He’s waiting.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re the one who moves.
You shift your fingers ever so slightly -- until they brush his. Not grabbing, not grasping. Just touching. Just there.
You feel the breath he lets out.
Neither of you says anything after that.
You go back to your essay eventually. He doesn’t stop leaning close.
And for the first time, you think:
Maybe the rule was never about touch.
Maybe it was about who made it feel safe.
And somehow, without ever asking for permission, George Weasley became your safe place.
George doesn’t initially clock that Fred is talking to him, he’s much too preoccupied to notice until his brother’s elbow is nestled sharply in his ribs and causing him to jump, rounding on Fred with a glare.
“What?”
Fred nods to the girl across the room that, until Fred’s interruption, George has been playing some sort of staring game with. George’s cheeks warm instantly upon the realisation that Fred has caught him staring.
“(Y/L/N).” Fred explains, “Don’t do that to yourself.”
George drops his eyes to his parchment with a newfound interest in the unfinished essay they came to the library to finish, before he’d gotten lost in his own thoughts on the girl sitting a few desks in front of him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” George mumbles unconvincingly., “I was just… in thought.”
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst, slowburn
Wc: 7k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (finale)
Hannah had been planning this for longer than she admitted.
You could tell by how calm she was. While the rest of the dormitory was loud and chaotic — someone's dress had the wrong buttons, someone else had lost an earring between the floorboards, a third person was making a sound you could not legally describe as anything other than a wail. Hannah moved around you with the focused quiet of a person who had already thought about everything and was now simply executing the plan.
"Sit still," she said.
"I am sitting still."
"You keep pressing your hands together."
"That's just what my hands do."
"That's the nervous thing. Stop it."
"I'm not nervous." A pause. "I'm a little nervous."
"You're going to be fine." She separated another section of your hair, her fingers quick and certain. "More than fine. Trust me."
The dress was already on.
Dark purple underneath, so deep it was almost the colour of a night sky just before full dark. Over the top of it, black lace, delicate and intricate, the kind that looked like it had grown there rather than been added, like something that had always been part of the fabric and was only now becoming visible. The neckline connected behind your neck in a halter — two pieces of lace-covered fabric coming from the front and tying at the back of your neck — leaving your back completely bare from the nape of your neck to the base of your spine. The first time you had seen your own back in the mirror you had stood there for a full minute. It was graceful in a way you hadn't known you were capable of being. The dark purple gloves ran up past your wrists, smooth and fitted, and the whole thing together was more than you were used to being. More than you usually let yourself wear.
---
Hannah had been doing your hair for forty minutes.
Braids, pulled up and twisted, gathered into a loose bun at the back of your head that looked effortless in the way that only things with real effort behind them looked effortless. Curls came free at the sides, soft and deliberate, falling just past your jaw and framing your face in a way that made everything look softer. More open. Like you.
"Okay," Hannah said. She stepped back. Looked at you for a long moment with an expression that was trying to stay objective and not managing it. "Look."
You looked in the mirror.
And something happened in your chest that was very quiet and very significant.
The girl in the mirror had your face. Your eyes, your nose, the mouth you had never known what to do with. But she was wearing all of it differently. Like someone had taken every piece of you and arranged it with intention, with care, with the specific attention of someone who had been looking at you for a long time and knew what you looked like when you were all the way yourself.
The dark colours made your skin glow. The bare back was elegant. The curls were soft and real. The gloves were quietly dramatic in the way that made everything else make sense. You looked like you — not the version that stood slightly to the left, not the version that made herself small and useful and easy to look past.
The real version.
The one that was hidden underneath.
Your eyes went a little bright. Just slightly. You blinked it back.
"Hannah," you said, quietly.
"I know," she said. Her voice had gone soft too. She squeezed your shoulders from behind, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "That's you. That's just you. I didn't add anything that wasn't already there." She smiled — warm and genuine and something close to proud. "He's going to take one look at you and completely fall apart."
"Don't—"
"He is," she said. "And it's going to be the best thing you've ever seen. Come on."
---
George was mid-sentence when it happened.
He was standing at the top of the staircase with Fred and Lee Jordan, one hand in his pocket, saying something about Fred's terrible plan for the evening, completely relaxed, completely himself — easy the way he was always easy, like the world was a place that generally went along with whatever he wanted from it.
He had dressed carefully, though he would never have admitted that.
The black dress robes had been pressed. His hair had been attempted, which for George meant it looked slightly better than usual before gradually returning to its natural state over the course of an evening. And the tie — dark purple, exactly dark purple, the specific shade Hannah had described to him in a note that he had read three times to make sure he had it right. He had stood in front of the mirror in the Gryffindor dormitory for longer than he was ever going to tell anyone and checked the tie three times and then checked his reflection once more in a way that was not something George Weasley generally did and meant something specific.
Fred had watched the whole thing without saying a word.
Now they were at the top of the staircase and George was talking about something and the entrance hall was full of people, and the evening was about to start.
"Hey," Fred said.
"What," George said.
"Turn around."
"In a second, I'm in the middle of telling—"
"George." Something in Fred's voice. Not the joking tone. Not the theatrical one. Something quieter and more urgent. "Turn around right now."
George turned around.
---
And the world stopped.
Not slowed. Not paused. Stopped. Like someone had reached into the machinery of everything and pulled out the piece that made time work.
You were at the top of the staircase.
Coming down slowly. One hand trailing the railing. The dark purple dress moving with you, the black lace catching the candlelight from below and finding the deep colour underneath it, so that with every step you looked like something that existed slightly outside of ordinary things. Your hair was up — soft and slightly undone, curls falling free at the sides of your face, the bun at the back of your head loose and perfect and entirely, devastatingly you. The gloves. The bare back. The halter neckline connecting behind your neck in a way that made the whole line of you — shoulders, spine, the way you held yourself — into something that made it genuinely difficult to think in complete sentences.
George's heart did something it had never done before.
Not the fast nervous kind. Not the anxious kind. Something enormous and quiet and completely certain, like a clock finding its correct time after being wrong for years. Like something saying yes, that one, it has always been that one, how did you ever look anywhere else.
Every other person in the entrance hall blurred.
Not figuratively. Genuinely. The people in his peripheral vision became shapes, became noise, became background, became nothing. There was only the staircase and you coming down it and the candlelight finding you like it knew where to look.
He forgot what he had been saying.
He forgot Fred was standing beside him.
He forgot, for approximately three full seconds, how to form words in any language.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
You reached the bottom step.
You looked up.
Your eyes found his immediately, the way they always found each other, that specific pull that had existed between you for months and that neither of you had had a name for until recently. You looked at him and something in your expression shifted — a small careful thing, a trying not to show too much.
"Hi."
Just that. One word. Your voice.
And George opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Tried again.
"Hi," he managed, and it came out lower than he intended, rougher around the edges, like his voice had been sitting somewhere far away and had needed a moment to come back to where the rest of him was.
From beside him, Fred's voice, "Man." Loud. Clear. Addressed to the general universe. "You are so down bad."
George didn't look at Fred.
He didn't look at anything except you.
"Damn right I am," he mumbled to himself.
"Wait, what did you just say"
The small group around them went very still for a second.
Lee Jordan made a sound. Someone laughed. Fred covered his face with one hand and made a noise that suggested this was simultaneously the worst and best thing he had ever witnessed.
---
You went pink from your collarbone to your hairline.
The kind of pink that was visible even in candlelight. The kind that came from something landing somewhere you hadn't entirely fortified yet. You looked at the floor and then at the ceiling and then at his tie — the exactly-matching purple tie, which you were noticing properly for the first time.
"We matched."
"Hannah told me the colour," he said. Still looking at you. Still not looking anywhere else.
"She mentioned," you said. You looked at Hannah, who was standing slightly behind you with the expression of a woman who had pulled off the plan of her life and was very aware of it. "Of course she did."
"Are you annoyed?" George said.
You looked back at him. At the green robes and the matching tie and the face that was completely open and unashamed and looking at you like you were the reason he had bothered with any of it. "No," you admitted.
"Good." He held out his arm.
You looked at it. At him. At everything that had led to this exact moment. And then you put your hand in the crook of his elbow and he smiled — the real one, wide and warm and slightly overwhelmed — and you walked in together.
And the Great Hall opened up like something from inside a dream you had never let yourself finish.
---
The Great Hall was extraordinary.
The enchanted ceiling had shifted into deep winter — dark blue, stars close and bright, the kind that looked like you could reach up and move them. Floating candles drifted in warm gold clusters, their light landing differently on everything, making the stone walls look like something that had been built for exactly this evening. The enchanted snow fell between the candles — fine and slow and shimmering, catching the light as it drifted, filling the air with something that made the whole room feel like it existed just slightly outside of ordinary time. The music came from a stage at the far end, live and warm, filling the hall without crowding it.
You stood in the entrance and looked at all of it and felt the evening settle around you like something you had been waiting for without knowing you were waiting.
"Wow," you said softly.
"Yeah," George said beside you. He was looking at the hall too, but you caught him glancing at you while you took it in, watching your face rather than the room. "It's really something."
"It's really something," you agreed. You turned to look at him and caught him already looking. "Stop doing that."
"Doing what," he said, not even pretending.
"Looking at me."
"The hall is nice," he said. "You're better."
You made a sound. Not words. Just a sound. A slightly overwhelmed sound that you immediately tried to convert into a normal breath and did not fully succeed at.
His hand found yours. Easy and warm and completely natural, fingers wrapping around yours like they had been doing it for years, and you looked down at your joined hands and then up at the beautiful hall and thought — quietly, privately, in the part of yourself you were only recently learning to listen to — that this was what it felt like to be chosen. Not felt sorry for. Not used. Not stood slightly to the left of. Actually chosen. Actually here.
You held his hand back.
And walked in.
For a while it was everything you had quietly hoped it might be and more.
---
You found Hannah near the drinks table and stayed together for a while, laughing about nothing in particular, the kind of laughing that happened when you were happy enough that ordinary things became funny. The hall moved around you, beautiful and warm, and you let yourself be in it.
"You're actually enjoying yourself," Hannah said, like she was witnessing a rare natural phenomenon.
"Don't make it weird," you said.
"I'm just noting it for the record." She beamed at you. "You look happy. You look genuinely, properly happy and I want it documented."
"Hannah—"
"I'm going to remember this night forever," she announced.
"You're so dramatic."
George appeared at your shoulder with butterbeers, handing you one first before Hannah, and settled in beside you with the ease of someone who had decided this was where he lived now and the world could adjust.
"Fred is attempting to dance," he said.
"Surely he can—"
"He cannot," George said. "He really genuinely cannot. It's one of the most interesting things I've ever watched. I recommend it as a spectacle."
You laughed. He turned his head to look at you when you did. He always did that — turned toward you when you laughed like the sound was something worth orienting himself toward.
"What," you said, catching him.
"Nothing," he said.
"You're staring again."
"I'm looking," he said. "There's a difference." He tilted his head slightly. "You have this thing when you laugh. Your whole face does it. Not just your mouth." He said it simply. Like an observation. Like it was just a fact he had collected and was reporting accurately.
Your face went warm. You looked at your butterbeer. "That's a very strange thing to say."
"Is it weird?"
"It's a little weird."
He smiled. Slow and warm. And then he held out his hand. "Dance with me."
"I don't really—"
"It's just moving," he said. "That's all. I promise."
"You always say that like it's simple."
"Because it is simple." He kept his hand out. Patient. Waiting. "Come on."
You took his hand.
---
He led you to the floor and turned and one hand settled at your waist — steady and warm and sure, his palm against the fabric of the dress just at the curve of your side — and you put your hand on his shoulder and he started moving and you moved with him and it was easy. Genuinely easy. The kind of easy that came from him being confident enough to make it feel that way.
"See," he said.
"Hmm," you said.
"Just moving."
"I can hear the smugness."
"I'm not smug."
"You absolutely are."
"I'm a little smug," he agreed. "Just a reasonable amount." His hand shifted slightly at your waist, not moving, just — settling. More present. "Is it annoying?"
"Good annoying," you admitted.
Something in his eyes went warm. "Good annoying," he repeated, quiet, like he was keeping it somewhere.
You looked at his shoulder because looking at his face directly right now felt like looking at something too bright. You were aware of his hand at your waist and the warmth of it through the fabric and the way he moved, easy and unhurried, and the music wrapping around you both and the enchanted snow falling through the candlelight above.
---
"You look—" you stopped.
"Finish that sentence," he said immediately, grinning from ear to ear.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You absolutely were. You started a sentence."
"I stopped the sentence."
"The sentence was started," he said. "I heard the beginning of it. You look—" he prompted, tilting his head, the corner of his mouth going up.
You looked at him. At the green robes and the matching tie and the jaw and the eyes that were on you with that look, the full warm certain look that had been doing things to your internal organs for months. You thought about the astronomy tower. The runes. The four nights. The six attempts. You thought about him saying you're worth four nights like it was the simplest thing in the world.
"Disgustingly handsome," you said. Flat. Like you were reporting a mildly irritating fact. "Objectively. It's a problem."
George blinked.
For approximately one second he looked genuinely surprised. Like he had been expecting a deflection and you had not deflected and his system needed a moment to catch up.
Then his whole face went. The controlled expression, the waiting-to-see-what-you'd-do expression, all of it — gone. Replaced by something that was warm and pleased and slightly undone in a way that looked good on him, looked very good on him, which was the problem you had just identified out loud.
"Yeah?" he said. Low.
"Don't make it a whole thing," you said, looking away.
"I'm not making it anything," he said. But his hand tightened slightly at your waist. Just slightly. A small involuntary thing. You felt it and kept your eyes firmly on his shoulder.
"You're making it a thing," you said.
"I'm just dancing," he said. "Very normally. Very calm." His thumb moved once against your side. "Disgustingly handsome, she says."
"I will take it back."
"You can't take it back."
"Watch me—"
"It's already mine," he said. "I'm keeping it." He sounded insufferably pleased about it.
"You're pretty when you're annoyed," he said.
"Stop—"
"I said it once before and I meant it then and I mean it now," he said, completely unbothered. "It's just true. You get this look—"
"George."
"—where your chin goes up slightly and your eyes do the thing—"
"What thing—"
"The sharp thing," he said. "Like you're about to say something that will be ten words or less and will end the conversation." His eyes were bright. "I think about it more than is probably reasonable."
You stared at him.
Your face was so warm. The enchanted snow was drifting above you and the music was slow and the candles drifted and George Weasley was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him and saying things about the way your eyes looked when you were annoyed like it was just a normal sentence to say to a person.
"You're unbelievable," you said.
"You're beautiful," he said back. Simple. Immediate. Like it had been waiting just behind his teeth and your sentence had opened the door for it. "The whole night. Since the stairs. I've been looking at you and thinking about how—" he paused. Something worked through his expression. More honest than even he usually allowed. "How did anyone ever look anywhere else. That's what I keep thinking. How did anyone ever look anywhere else when you were in the room."
The music kept playing.
But you just stood looking at him.
---
George went to find Fred when the song changed, pressing a kiss to your temple so casually, so easily, like it was just the thing he did when he stepped away from you — warm and brief and leaving a specific point of heat on your skin that stayed after he was gone.
You stood at the edge of the dance floor for a moment with your fingers pressed lightly to your temple and your face doing something you were very glad no one was looking at.
Hannah appeared at your elbow. "Your face," she said.
"The kiss on the temple," she said, in the voice of someone who had witnessed a sacred event. "He did it so casually. He's so sweet with you"
"Okay," you said firmly. "We're going to get drinks and you're going to stop talking about me and George."
"I just want to—"
"Drinks," you said. "Now."
You went to the drinks table.
You picked up a goblet of something cold.
And turned around.
And Cecily was there.
She was beautiful the way she was always beautiful. Red dress, perfect hair, the specific precision of someone who had prepared for this. She was looking at you with an expression you recognised — not the public warm one, not the performed one. The one underneath it. The one she only showed when she had decided something needed to be handled.
"You look different," she said.
"Thank you," you said.
"I didn't mean it as a compliment." Her eyes moved over you slowly, taking inventory. "You're trying very hard tonight."
"I'm wearing a dress," you said.
"You're wearing his colours." She nodded at the purple of your dress, at George's matching tie visible across the hall. "Very deliberate."
"It was Hannah's idea."
"Mm." The smile was light. "You know this won't last, right? George gets interested in things and then he moves on. That's just who he is." She said it so gently. So kindly. The particular cruelty of a sharp thing wrapped in concern. "I'm not trying to be horrible. I just don't want you to embarrass yourself."
The old tightening arrived. Right on schedule.
"He spent all that time being interested in me first," she continued, "and then the setups happened and suddenly he was talking to you instead and honestly—" a perfectly placed pause "—I think he felt sorry for you. You know. The quiet friend thing. He's kind. He was being kind."
You said nothing. You were watching her face. The way she said it. The absolute certainty in it, like she had decided this was true and the deciding had made it so.
"The tower thing was sweet," she said. "Really. But that's George. Grand gestures. It doesn't mean what you think it means." She tilted her head. "You've always been a bit—" a pause, aimed precisely "—you know how you get when you start believing things."
You looked at her for a long moment.
---
At the red dress and the perfect hair and the girl you had stood behind for six years. At the face that was arranging itself into something caring while saying something that wasn't.
"What is wrong with you," you said.
Quiet. Clear. Just the question. Right at her.
Cecily blinked. "I'm just—"
"No." You took one step toward her. People nearby had noticed. You didn't care. "I want to actually know. What is wrong with you." Your voice stayed even. Completely level. "You know exactly what you're doing. You've always known. Every time." The words came without effort, without dramatics. Just true. "Six years of small things. Six years of being the pretty one while I was the useful one. Six years of knowing exactly where to aim." You looked at her. "And you stand here tonight, in this hall, when things are actually good, when something is actually mine, and you do this."
Her jaw was set.
"I helped you," you said. "For months. I wanted good things for you even when it cost me something I actually wanted. And you told me you didn't need me. That you would have figured it out anyway." The memory of it was still sharp. "You said that."
"I was upset—"
"You were honest." You breathed. "I don't know what I ever did to make you treat me like I don't matter. I genuinely don't know. But you have the most unkind heart I've ever known and I'm done trying to understand it."
She said something.
You were already turning. Moving through the people who had gone quiet around you, through the warm golden impossible hall, toward the door.
The doors closed behind you softly.
Like the castle hadn't noticed anything had broken.
---
The cold outside was immediate and complete.
And then the rain.
It was falling hard across the courtyard, heavy and committed, coming off the stone in sheets, silver under the amber glow of the castle windows, turning the whole outside world into something blurred and soft and loud. Thunder rolled somewhere low and distant, the sound of it moving through the ground.
You found the stone archway and stopped there.
Half in. Half out. The rain fell past your hand when you held it toward it. You were mostly dry. Mostly cold. You stood and watched the rain hit the courtyard stones and let your chest do what it needed to do in the private dark.
She always wins.
The thought settled in the way it always settled. Finding its shape. Sitting down. Making itself at home in the space between your ribs.
You pressed it back.
You knew it wasn't true. You knew that in the part of you that had been growing louder lately, the part that had looked in the mirror tonight and recognised itself. But knowing something and feeling something were two different rooms and right now you were standing in the second one and the walls were close.
---
The music from inside was a faint pulse through stone. The dance was starting. The one you had been—
Footsteps.
Fast. Uneven. Not careful. The kind of footsteps that came from someone who had stopped caring about how they looked and started caring only about where they were going.
They stopped.
Right behind you.
A breath. Caught. Someone who had been moving fast and had just stopped.
"Hey."
His voice was different. Quiet. Low. Feeling for something carefully, like he wasn't sure what the ground was like here and was stepping onto it slowly.
"What happened."
You kept your eyes on the rain.
"Nothing," you said.
Automatic. Worn smooth. The words that had kept you functional for years.
A silence. Then George exhaled — a sound that was almost a laugh and wasn't quite, something fond and frustrated and relieved all pressed together in one breath.
"You're under a storm arch," he said quietly. "In the middle of a Yule Ball you walked out of." A beat. "That's not nothing."
The rain kept falling.
"I was finding for you"
"Maybe I didn't want to be found," you said.
It came out tired. Not at him. Just — tired. The specific tiredness of someone who has been holding something in place for a long time.
George went still behind you.
Then he stepped closer. The warmth of him changed the air. Still not touching. Just — there. Present. Choosing to be in this with you.
"I figured," he said.
The rain.
"But I didn't really like that idea."
So simple. So plain. Said the way he said everything that mattered — without decoration, without performance. Just the truth of it, offered straight.
"I looked everywhere," he said. "Hannah didn't know where you'd gone. Fred went the wrong direction entirely. I went through four corridors." His voice dropped slightly. "I'll always find you. No matter what."
Something in your chest shifted. Moved. The warm ache of it moving through you like the feeling after crying, except you hadn't cried yet.
You didn't answer.
"Look at me," he said. Soft. Just a request. Waiting.
"No, my makeup is ruined"
“Then let it be ruined,” he whispered. “I’d rather see you crying than pretending you’re okay for everyone else.”
His hand stayed gentle against your face.
“You don’t have to hide from me.”
You hesitated.
Turned.
He was right there. Closer than you expected. His hair was damp, falling forward, darker with the rain he had been running through to get here. His dress robes had rain spots across the shoulders. His face — god, his face — was doing the thing. The completely open thing. Every layer of George Weasley pulled back and just him underneath it, looking at you with his eyes full of something he had stopped trying to hide.
He was slightly out of breath.
He had actually run.
"She said something," he said.
"She always says something," you said.
"What did she say."
You looked at the rain behind him. "She said you felt sorry for me. That it was kindness. That I shouldn't get too attached." You swallowed. "That you always move on."
George looked at you for a long moment. Something moved through his jaw.
"You know that's not true," he said.
"I know." Your voice came out quieter than you meant. "I know it isn't. And she said it anyway and it landed anyway and I hate—" it caught slightly "—I hate that she can still just get in. After everything."
"Come here," he said.
You looked at him.
"Come here," he said again. Softer.
You went.
---
His arms came around you and he pulled you in properly, one hand at your back and one at the back of your head, and you pressed your face against his shoulder and felt him exhale slowly above you like he'd been holding that breath since he'd started looking for you.
"She was wrong," he said. Low. Into your hair. "She has been wrong about you for years. And she knows it. That's why she keeps saying it." His arms tightened slightly. "People who are sure of something don't need to keep saying it out loud."
You breathed. In. Out. His shoulder was warm and solid and smelled like the green robes and something underneath that was just him.
"The dance already started," you said, after a while.
He was quiet for a second.
"I don't care about the dance," he said. "I just want to be here. With you."
You pulled back to look at him. He looked back. Rain behind him. Castle light blurring in the wet. His face right here, present and certain and looking at you like you were the whole point of the evening he had just left without hesitating.
---
Something shifted in his expression. The careful tender look changing into the other one. The lit up one. The one that came right before something unexpected.
He stood back. Held out his hand.
"Come on," he said.
You looked at his hand. At the rain. At his face. "Come on where. George it's pouring—"
"I know."
"My outfit—"
"Still beautiful."
"My hair—"
"Still perfect." He wiggled his fingers. The grin was starting. "Come on."
You got reminded of your parents.
---
You took his hand.
He pulled you out into the rain.
Cold hit everywhere at once — your shoulders, your hair, your bare back through the fabric — and you gasped, half-laughing, already protesting, and George turned back to you with rain running down his face and his hair completely flat and wrecked and a grin so wide and so real and so entirely, completely him that your heart just — gave up trying to defend itself. Completely. All at once.
He reached out.
Tapped your shoulder.
"Tag," he said. "You're it."
You stared at him.
The rain poured down between you.
"You're not serious," you said.
He raised his eyebrows. Took one deliberate step back.
And ran.
Something cracked open in your chest. Clean and complete and sudden. Not the sad kind. Not the tightening kind. The other kind — the kind where something heavy falls away all at once and your lungs fill all the way and your feet move before your brain catches up.
"Oh it's on," you said, and ran after him.
The courtyard opened up around you both. Wide and dark and slick with rain, the castle windows blurring on all sides into warm amber smears, the stone gleaming dark under your feet. You ran in your ball gown and your soaking gloves with your braids coming completely undone and your lace dress getting darker and heavier with the wet and you were laughing — genuinely, helplessly, the kind of laughing that came from somewhere below language, somewhere that didn't care about dresses or balls or things people had said inside.
George was fast. But he kept slowing. Glancing back with that grin every few seconds. Letting you almost have him. Close enough to hear him laughing too, the real laugh, the full one, the one that had been in your chest like a warm memory since the first time you had heard it in a library months ago.
You pushed harder. Reached—
Almost—
Your foot hit a slick patch of stone and went out completely.
You dropped fast, no time, eyes squeezing shut, bracing—
It never came.
Hands. Both of them. One solid at your waist and one catching your arm, pulling you upright before the ground got anywhere close. You opened your eyes.
George had you.
He had moved so fast and was right there — your waist in his hands, you standing and intact and close. So close. Closer than the catching required now that you were stable. Close enough to see the rain on his lashes. Close enough to see every detail of his face in the dark. The slight part of his lips. The way his chest was moving a little fast.
His hands didn't let go.
"Don't worry," he said.
Low. Just for you. The words landing somewhere specific in your chest.
"I'm here."
Everything else went quiet.
The rain was loud. But everything else — the castle, the ball, the music, all of it — went very far away. There was just the courtyard and the rain and his hands at your waist and his face right here and the way you were both very still and very close and neither of you moving.
Your hands had found his jacket.
Both of them. Fists in the wet green fabric, holding on, knuckles just touching his chest.
He looked at you.
The full look. The one with nothing behind it and everything in front. The one that had been building since a library and a book held upside down and eleven words counted carefully. His eyes moved over your face slowly like he was memorising it. Like he wanted to know exactly what this looked like so he could keep it.
And then his eyes dropped.
To your mouth.
Just for a second. Just long enough to be undeniable. And came back up. Met yours.
You had seen him do it. He knew you had seen him. And neither of you looked away.
The air between you was very small. Very charged. Like standing too close to something that was about to happen and choosing to stay anyway.
His thumb moved.
Against your waist. Slightly. That same small movement from every almost-moment before this one — the staircase, the Quidditch stands, the tower — except now there was no Cecily between you and no redirect and no practiced smile to arrange and no drawer to put things in.
---
You were so close.
His jaw was right there. The scar near his eyebrow. The rain on his face. The way he was looking at you like he had run four corridors and crossed a rainy courtyard and would do it again tomorrow without question.
You smirked.
You couldn't help it. Something about the perfection of it — the rain, the ball gown, the two of you soaked and breathless and right here — was so completely, specifically yours that the smirk came up before you could manage it.
You leaned in just slightly.
"Tag," you whispered. "You're it."
George stared at you.
For one second he looked completely betrayed. Like he could not believe you were doing this to him right now, in this moment, when he was standing here with his hands on your waist and his heart doing something significant.
Then the breath left him in a sound that was half laugh half something else entirely. He shook his head slowly. The expression on his face was so full it was almost unbearable to look at directly — fond and exasperated and helplessly, completely gone.
“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured.
But he was smiling. The full one. The real one. The best one.
---
He let go of your waist and gave you a headstart before he came running after you.
You shrieked — a real shriek, the kind that bounced off wet courtyard stone and rang up into the dark — and ran after him and the whole courtyard opened back up and it was just this. Just running and rain and the both of you laughing too hard to be fast about it. At some point you both slowed because the rain surged heavier and you couldn't see and couldn't breathe through the laughing anyway.
George stopped running.
Turned back.
And caught your hand from where it was swinging as you slowed — just caught it, easy and natural — and pulled you in.
And spun you.
One full turn. Your wet dress flying out in a dark arc. Your hair completely free now, loose and wild around your face. The rain hitting you full on when he spun you and you tipped your head back and let it, the way your mother must have, in a street somewhere years ago, with a boy who had stopped walking and held out his hand.
He spun you again.
And you smiled.
Not the practiced one. Not the small careful useful one you had been giving the world for years. The real one. Wide and open and coming from somewhere so deep it had no edges. The kind of smile that didn't know how to be anything other than completely itself.
He pulled you back from the spin and you came in close, the momentum of it bringing you together, and his hand was still holding yours and the rain was falling and you were face to face and close and neither of you were laughing anymore.
He was looking at you.
All the way. Every part of it.
"Doesn't this remind you of something," he said. Very quiet. Just noticing. Just following what he could see moving across your face.
You looked at him. At the rain on his face and his wrecked hair and his eyes that were simply, completely on you.
"Yes," you said. "Yes, it does."
He looked at you for a moment. The soft certain look. "I'm glad," he said quietly. "I hoped it would."
Something moved through your chest. Warm and permanent.
"I guess mission success then," he said.
You laughed. Small and real. "Mission success," you said. And without deciding to, without thinking about it, you stepped in and put your arm around his neck.
Slowly. Like you were checking whether this was real. Like you were making sure it would hold.
It held.
His hand settled at your waist and pulled you gently closer and the rain fell around you both and the courtyard was empty and dark and the castle glowed in every direction and none of it mattered except this. The specific this of his hand at your waist and your arm around his neck and the rain and the stars somewhere above the clouds and the whole long arc of everything that had started with a book held upside down in a library.
His thumb moved against your waist.
Slow. Careful. Like he was paying attention to it.
---
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
He swallowed.
"Can I kiss you," he said.
So quiet. So careful. Even now. After everything — the astronomy tower, the runes, four corridors, the rain — still asking. Still making sure. Like you were something worth being careful with and he intended to keep being careful with you.
You looked at him for one long moment.
At everything he was.
And you nodded.
He didn't rush.
He never rushed anything.
He closed the small space between you slowly, one hand moving up to rest against your jaw, warm and gentle and certain, and he kissed you.
Soft.
Warm.
Like coming in from somewhere cold. Like the lights in the tower that had taken six attempts and finally held. Like the runes in the stone that were permanent now and would be there long after both of you were gone.
Like something that had always been true and was only now being said.
You kissed him back and felt the rain on your shoulders and his hand warm against your face and the solid present certain realness of him and thought — in the small quiet part of yourself that was still capable of thoughts — that this was it. The feeling your mother had been describing all those years at the kitchen table with rain on the window.
Just this.
A rainy courtyard. A ruined dress. A boy who had counted your words and come back four nights and run through four corridors and pulled you into the rain because your mother's story deserved to happen again.
When you pulled back you were both breathless and his forehead came down to yours immediately, like gravity, like of course, and the rain was still falling and the world was very quiet and he was right here.
"Hi," he said. So soft.
"Hi," you said back.
His arms came around you properly. Both of them. Warm and solid. You pressed your face against the side of his neck and he rested his chin on top of your head and the rain fell and the castle glowed and the ball went on behind thick stone walls without either of you.
You had never been less bothered about anything.
---
"We should go back in," you said, after a while. Not moving.
"Probably," he said. Not moving.
"Hannah is going to completely lose it."
"Fred is going to be insufferable about this forever."
"You say that like it's a problem."
"It's not a problem," he agreed. "It's worth it." He pulled back just enough to look at you. At your soaked hair and ruined gloves and your face which was doing the smile, the real full one, in the rain at midnight. "You're worth it," he said. Simple. Plainly. "Just so you know."
Your throat did the tight warm thing.
You shook your head. He took your hand. And you walked back toward the castle through the rain together, not rushing, not minding the wet or the cold or the state of either of you, the music getting louder as you got closer, the castle lights getting warmer.
And then—quick, light—he pressed a kiss to your lips.
You froze.
"Hey!" you snapped immediately, eyes wide.
"What was that for?"
He pulled back slowly, completely unbothered, like he hadn’t just done something criminal. A small smile tugged at his mouth.
"You look so cute when you're blushing"
"What, no I'm not—stop looking at me," you said,
"You can't just—do that whenever you want!"
He raised a brow. "Can't I?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it again because you had no actual argument that didn’t sound like you were lying.
He leaned back slightly, clearly enjoying this way too much, then said, "You say that like you don’t secretly want me to keep doing it."
Your breath caught. And for once, you didn't have a quick answer.
Maybe that was actually how you wanted it to be.
A/n: I guess that's the end...It was so fun writing this story, if you want to be tagged on my next George Weasley rivals to lovers series, comment!!
Check out the spoiler for my next george weasley series!
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst, slowburn
Wc: 8k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (finale)
It came up the way small things always did — sideways, in the middle of something else, when your guard was completely down.
Wednesday. The library. Your table. George across from you like always, both of you with work spread out between you, the kind of comfortable quiet that had slowly become its own thing.
Hannah had brought up the ball at breakfast and somehow the conversation had followed you here without you noticing, the way certain things did.
"I probably won't go," you said.
You weren't even looking at him. You were writing a sentence. Casual. Like you were talking about the weather.
George's quill stopped moving.
"Why not," he said.
You shrugged one shoulder. "Nobody's asking me."
You were joking.
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind. The kind with something in it. Heavy and specific and pressing against the inside of the quiet like it needed somewhere to go.
You kept writing. You didn't look up. You had said it like it was nothing because to you it was nothing — just a plain fact, the kind you had been collecting your whole life and filing away without much feeling.
George said nothing.
You finished your sentence and looked up.
He was looking at you. His face had gone through something and come out the other side into an expression that was very careful and very still. The moment your eyes met he smoothed it out.
"Right," he said. And looked back at his work.
"Right," you agreed, and looked back at yours.
But the quiet was different after that. Fuller. Like something had been dropped into it and was still sinking.
What you didn't know was what happened after George left the library that evening.
He walked fast. Not to the common room. Up.
He had been planning this for twelve days. Twelve days since he had sat across from you in the library and listened to you say nobody's asking me like it was a perfectly acceptable thing for the universe to be doing and decided that he was done waiting for the right moment because the right moment was not going to appear on its own. He was going to have to make it.
He went to the Astronomy Tower.
He had found it three weeks ago — the tower, the windows, the high cold space of it — and thought, this. This was the right place. Not the Great Hall, not some corner of the grounds. Here. Where you could see everything. Where it was quiet in the way that only very high places were quiet.
He had started small. A few floating lights the first night, just to see how they looked. They were too white. Too harsh. He tried again. Warmer this time, gold and amber, softer. Better. He wrote it down in the small notebook he kept for Charms experiments and came back the next night and tried to make them drift properly, slow and easy, not just float in place like lights in a corridor but actually move, like they belonged there.
That took three more nights.
The candles were harder. He kept getting the stabilising charm slightly wrong and they'd gutter out after twenty minutes. He worked through his Charms notes and tried six different variations and the fifth one was almost right and the sixth one held.
He wrote that down too.
The runes took longest. He had seen them in a library book — stabilising runes, for light spells, the kind that settled into stone and lasted and the book made them look simple. They were not simple. He etched the first attempt faintly into the ledge near the window and they shimmered for about four seconds and went dark. He tried again. Closer. He tried again. Better. He tried a fourth time, slower, more careful, going over each line twice, and they shimmered and held and when he moved slightly they caught the light differently and he stood there in the cold tower alone at half past midnight and felt something settle in his chest.
Fred knew.
Fred always knew. George came in late every night for two weeks and Fred said nothing, which for Fred was the most significant thing he had ever done in his life.
Except once.
"You know," Fred said, on night eleven, not looking up from his Charms essay, "most people just ask."
"I know," George said.
"You've been building a whole room."
"I know."
"For a girl who doesn't think anyone's going to ask her."
George didn't say anything.
"Right," Fred said, and went back to his essay.
---
By day twelve George had the lights right and the candles holding and the runes settled in the stone and a Butterbeer kept warm by a preservation charm he had looked up specifically and a pile of cushions he had gathered from various places around the castle over the course of a week and a blanket from the Gryffindor common room that he was hoping nobody would notice was missing.
He was going to ask her today.
In the courtyard. After her afternoon class. Simple and direct and plain, because he had been not plain about this for long enough.
He saw you from across the courtyard. You were sitting on the edge of the fountain with your bag at your feet and a book open in your lap and your hair was doing the thing it did in the wind and you hadn't noticed him yet and you looked so completely like yourself that something in his chest went warm and decided and certain all at once.
He started walking.
He got halfway across the courtyard before someone else stepped into his line of sight.
A boy. Ravenclaw. George knew him vaguely — Potions, two rows over, decent enough bloke. He walked straight to you with his hands in his pockets and said something and you looked up from your book with that small surprised look you had when something caught you off guard, the one where your eyes went wide for just a second before you caught yourself.
George stopped walking.
He watched.
The boy said something else and you closed your book and looked at your hands and then looked back up and your mouth moved and you nodded. Soft. Small.
Yes.
The boy smiled. Said something. You smiled back, a little uncertain, the polite smile you used when you weren't sure what you were agreeing to but were trying to be gracious about it.
George stood in the middle of the courtyard with both hands in his pockets and his jaw tight and watched the whole thing happen from fifteen feet away.
Then he turned around.
Quietly. No drama. He just turned and walked back the way he came.
Fred was at the top of the courtyard steps when George came back through.
He had seen it from the window. He had seen George start across the courtyard and then stop and then stand very still for ten full seconds and then turn around and come back, and he had come downstairs without really deciding to, drawn by some twin instinct that told him this was not a moment to leave unattended.
"George—"
George didn't stop walking.
"I guess I was too late."
"Wait, how do you know she agreed?"
"Doesn't matter."
"George." Fred grabbed his arm and George stopped. Didn't turn around. Just stopped. His shoulders were set in the particular way they got when he was holding something in very carefully. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." His voice was even. Flat and practiced. "She said yes to someone else. That's — it's fine. It's her choice. I'm fine."
Fred looked at the back of his head. Then past him, through the window, at you still sitting by the fountain, book back open, completely unaware of any of this.
"George," Fred said quietly. "She doesn't know you were going to ask."
"Doesn't matter."
"It does—"
"Fred." He finally turned around. His face was doing the thing where it was very controlled and very tired and both of those things were visible if you knew where to look, which Fred did. "Leave it."
---
Fred left it.
But he looked out the window at you one more time before he followed George up the stairs, and something on his face went quiet and sad in a way that was very unlike Fred and very unlike anything to do with jokes.
"Oh gosh," Fred said, to nobody, very softly.
---
Two days passed.
You noticed George was quieter. Not unkind — never unkind, just a degree more careful. Like he was keeping something very deliberately contained and the effort of it made him slightly more still than usual.
You assumed Quidditch. End of season pressure. You didn't ask because you had no right to ask and that was something you had accepted a long time ago.
You were sad in your own quiet way.
Not the dramatic kind. Just the low steady kind that lived in the background of days, the kind that you had gotten so good at carrying that most people couldn't even see it. You had expected something. After the library, after nobody's asking me landing in the space between you and George going completely still — you had let yourself expect something.
Nothing came.
You packed it away the way you always packed things away. Neatly. In the drawer. Lid closed.
---
When the Ravenclaw boy had asked you in the courtyard you had said you'd think about it because that was the truth. You went back to the dormitory and sat on your bed and thought about it.
You sent him a note saying that you were not attending the ball.
---
"You should be more excited," she told you.
"I'm excited."
"You look like you're doing homework in your head."
"I'm thinking."
"About what."
"Nothing." You looked at the dress hanging on the back of your wardrobe door. Purple, like Hannah had said, soft and simple and nothing like the things Cecily used to wear, which was fine. You were nothing like Cecily. That was just a fact. "Do I actually want to go to this thing."
"Yes," Hannah said. "You do."
"I don't feel like—"
"You do," she said again, firmer.
"You always say that."
"I'm always right." She tilted her head. "Have you talked to George today?"
Something moved in your chest. "No."
"He seemed—"
"Hannah."
"I'm just saying he seemed—"
"Can we not," you said, quietly. And she heard the quiet in it and stopped.
"Okay," she said, and squeezed your hand once. "Go get some air. You look like you need it."
You went.
---
The courtyard bench was cold and empty and perfect.
You sat down and pulled your cardigan tight and tipped your head back and looked at the sky which was dark and very clear and full of stars and you breathed and let your thoughts go wherever they wanted, which tonight was not a good idea but you were doing it anyway because sometimes you ran out of places to put things.
You thought about the library chair across from you and how it had felt empty before he started sitting in it and how you had gotten so used to him being there that the days he wasn't felt like something missing from a sentence.
You thought about rain on a Quidditch pitch and a shared cloak and breathing the same cold air.
You thought about a staircase and his hand on your waist and I'm going to do something stupid and then the nose boop and you standing alone trying to remember what legs were for.
You thought about how you had packed all of that away very neatly into the drawer and now the drawer wouldn't close properly anymore and things kept slipping out at the worst moments.
Footsteps.
You didn't look up. "Hi George."
He sat down beside you. Not across. Right beside, close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours, and for a moment neither of you said anything and the sky was very big above you.
"Cold out," he said.
"Yeah."
"You should have a coat."
"I have a cardigan."
"A cardigan is not a coat."
"It's coat-adjacent."
"It's—" he looked at your cardigan "—a very optimistic choice for November."
"I run warm."
"You're shivering."
"I'm not shivering."
"You just shivered."
"That was a breath."
"A breath that looked exactly like a shiver." He was quiet for a second. Then without saying anything he shrugged off his outer jacket and held it out.
You looked at it. "George—"
"Take it."
"You'll be cold."
"I run warm," he said, completely straight-faced.
You took the jacket. You put it on. It was warm and heavy and too big across the shoulders and smelled like him and you sat there in it and looked at the sky and tried to be normal.
"Excited for the ball in 3 days?" you said.
"Not really." He looked at the courtyard in front of you. "You?"
"Not really," you said honestly.
That sat between you for a moment. Two people who were not excited about the ball, the night before the ball, sitting on a cold bench in the dark.
"Big night though," he said.
"Yeah."
"Dress robes and everything."
"Apparently."
"You'll look—" he stopped himself. Cleared his throat. "It'll be good."
You glanced at him sideways. He was looking somewhere to the left of the fountain, jaw slightly set, doing the thing where he was holding something in very carefully.
---
And then it just came out of him.
Not planned. Not smooth. Just — out, the way things came out of George when he stopped managing them.
"He's a lucky guy," he said. Quietly. To the courtyard. "Whoever's going with you."
You went very still.
"What," you were confused.
You looked at him with hope in your eyes.
"Were you going to ask me," you said.
He turned to look at you.
You looked back. Steady. Plain. Asking the thing you had never asked before because you had spent so long not asking things.
George laughed. But it was the sad kind. The kind that came out when something was too close to funny and too close to painful at the same time and you couldn't quite separate them. He looked back at the courtyard.
"Doesn't matter now, does it," he said.
"George."
"You're going with someone else. It's fine." He said the word fine in the same way you had been saying it for years and something about hearing it in his voice made you want to reach over and shake him slightly. "I'm happy for you."
"You don't sound happy."
"I'm very happy."
"You sound like someone describing a root canal."
"I sound completely—"
"George." You turned to face him properly. He looked at you. "I'm not going with him."
He blinked. "What."
"The boy in the courtyard. I said I'd think about it." You watched his face. "I didn't actually say yes."
He stared at you.
"You—" he started.
"I sent him a note later saying I wasn't going." You tilted your head slightly. "You idiot."
George's face did something absolutely extraordinary.
It went through six different things in about four seconds — confusion, then understanding, then something that was very close to disbelief, and then relief. Not small relief. The full kind. The kind that came from two days of carrying something heavy and being told you could put it down.
He ran both hands through his hair. Completely messed it up. Let out a long slow breath to the sky like he had been saving it.
"Oh thank Merlin," he said. Out loud. To nobody. To the whole dark courtyard and the stars above it. "Oh thank actual Merlin."
"Were you genuinely worried about—"
"I watched him ask you," George said. "From across the courtyard. I was literally halfway to you when he got there first and I just—" he made a gesture that meant he had simply stopped existing for a moment "—stood there."
You stared at him. "You were coming to ask me."
"Yes."
"That day."
"Yes."
"You watched him ask me and you just turned around."
"What was I supposed to do, interrupt—"
"Yes!" You made a small exasperated sound. "Yes, George, that is exactly what you were supposed to do."
"You had already said—"
"I said I'd think about it!"
"It looked like yes!"
"It was polite nodding!"
"How was I supposed to know the difference between—"
"You could have asked!" You threw your hands up. "You could have walked over and said anything and I would have—" you stopped. You had almost said something. You pulled it back.
George was looking at you. Reading your face the way he always read your face, carefully, like there was something in it worth understanding.
"You would have what," he said, quiet.
You looked at the courtyard. "Nothing."
"Hey." He waited until you looked at him. "You would have what."
A beat.
"I would have said yes," you said. Very small. "To you."
The courtyard was very quiet.
George looked at you for one long moment. And then he pointed at you — one finger, very direct, the gesture of a person who had just made a decision and was committing to it completely.
"Tonight," he said. "Astronomy Tower. Ten o'clock."
"What—"
"Come at ten. Don't be late." He was already standing. Already moving. He picked up his jacket from where it had fallen off your shoulders when you'd thrown your hands up. "Wear something warm this time."
"George, what are you talking about—"
"Ten o'clock." He pointed again, backing away. "Don't be late."
"You can't just say that and walk away—"
"Ten o'clock!" he called, already rounding the corner.
And he was gone.
---
You sat on the bench in the cold courtyard completely alone.
No jacket now. Genuinely cold. Completely bewildered.
"What," you said, to the fountain.
The fountain did not respond.
You went at ten o'clock.
Of course you went. You told yourself on every step of the staircase that you were just curious. That you were going because he'd been weird about it and you wanted to know what this was. That you were absolutely not going because something in your chest had been doing a specific warm terrifying thing since he said ten o'clock on those stairs and pointed at you like you were the answer to a question he had been asking for months.
You told yourself a lot of things on that staircase.
None of them were very convincing.
You pushed the door open.
And stopped.
The first thing you noticed was the light.
Not the usual cold dark of the Astronomy Tower, not the harsh white of corridor torches. Something warm. Gold and amber, soft and slow, little clusters of light floating near the high arched windows like they had been placed there carefully, like someone had thought about exactly how bright to make them and decided just enough. They drifted. Slowly. Moving through the cold air of the tower like they had nowhere to be and all night to get there.
You stood in the doorway and looked at them for a moment.
Then you noticed the candles. Scattered across the stone ledges, across the floor, tucked into corners. Some of them flickered unevenly, their light a little uncertain, like they had been charmed and recharmed until they finally agreed to stay lit. You could see it if you looked closely — the faint shimmer in the air around them, the trace of spells layered on top of each other, the particular quality of light that came from a charm that had been attempted many times before it worked.
Near the biggest window there was a pile of cushions. Mismatched — a gold one, a blue one, something that was definitely from the Gryffindor common room — stacked next to a blanket that was slightly too small for a full-sized person but clearly meant for sharing. A Butterbeer sat on the stone ledge beside them, still warm. You could feel the heat of it from where you were standing.
And on the ledge itself, just beside the window, there were runes.
Tiny, faint, almost invisible if you weren't standing exactly where you were. They shimmered slightly when you moved, catching the floating light differently depending on your angle. Light stabilising runes. The kind that took time to get right. The kind that, once set properly, lasted.
The kind that took multiple attempts to settle into stone.
You looked at the whole room. At the uneven candles and the layered spells and the mismatched cushions gathered from different places and the Butterbeer kept warm by a charm that had been looked up specifically. At the runes that had been etched and re-etched until they held.
This had not been made tonight.
You understood that suddenly and completely. This had been made over many nights. After classes. After Quidditch. After everyone else was asleep. Someone had come here alone with a wand and a plan and kept coming back, kept trying, kept getting things wrong and correcting them and trying again until it was right.
Until it felt like somewhere worth bringing someone.
Your throat went tight.
George was standing by the window.
He hadn't heard you come in yet. He was looking out at the sky, hands in the pockets of his dark green dress robes — deep forest green, well fitted, the kind that made him look less like someone who caused general chaos in the castle on a daily basis and more like someone who could stop a whole room by walking into it. His hair was messier than usual in the way that meant he had been running his hands through it for the last hour. His jaw was slightly set. He was doing the thing where he was very still on the outside because something on the inside was moving too fast.
---
He looked, honestly, incredibly handsome.
You had known that for a while. You had been refusing to look at it directly for a while. Standing in the warm gold light of this room he had built you were finding it very difficult to refuse.
He turned.
And when he saw you his whole face changed. All the tension in it went out at once, just — released, like he'd been holding a breath for two days and had finally been told he could put it down. The set jaw softened. The careful stillness became something open and warm and so quietly relieved that it made your chest ache.
"You came," he said.
"You told me ten o'clock."
"I know I did." He took a few steps toward you. "I wasn't sure you'd—" he stopped. Looked at you properly. "You came."
"You already said that."
"I know." He didn't look sorry about it. "I'm saying it again."
You looked around the room. At the lights that drifted. At the candles that flickered slightly unevenly. At the runes in the stone. "George," you said quietly. "How long have you been working on this."
He looked at the room like he was seeing it through your eyes for a moment. "A while," he said.
"The candles look like you redid them a few times."
"Six times," he said. "The stabilising charm kept going wrong."
"And the runes—"
"Four nights." He said it plainly. No performance. "I kept etching them wrong. Too deep or wrong spacing. Took me until the fourth try to get them to hold."
You looked at him. "Four nights. Of just — coming here. Alone."
"Well." He paused. "Fred knew. He didn't come, but he knew." A small smile. "He told me I was being excessive."
"You were being excessive."
"Maybe." He tilted his head. "Did it work?"
You looked at the floating lights and the warm glow and the runes shimmering faintly in the stone and the mismatched cushions and the Butterbeer kept warm just for you.
"Yeah," you said. Very quietly. "It worked."
He nodded, like he'd needed to hear that and now he had it. He walked to the cushions and sat down and looked at you expectantly, patting the space beside him.
You sat.
Close, the way you always ended up close to him now, shoulders almost touching, the warm tower air settling around you both.
"So," you said.
"So," he said.
"You built a whole room."
"I built a whole room."
"To ask me to a ball."
"To ask you—" he paused. "Well. To say some things first. And then ask you to a ball."
You looked at him. "What things."
---
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at his hands for a moment. And then he looked up at you and the thing on his face was so honest it was almost uncomfortable to see. No joke. No deflection. Just George, looking at you like you were the most important thing in this room that he had spent two weeks building.
"The first time I actually saw you," he said, "properly — not just knew you existed, actually saw you — you were in the library with your book upside down. Just sitting there with this look on your face like your brain was somewhere else entirely and your body had just stayed behind in the chair." He almost smiled. "And I thought, who is that. Like genuinely. Who is that person and why have I never noticed them before."
"I was paying attention." He said it differently. "There's a difference." He was quiet for a second. "After that I couldn't stop noticing you. Everywhere. I'd walk into a room and find you before I found anyone else and I didn't even realise I was doing it until one day I walked into the Great Hall and my eyes went straight to you before I'd even properly looked around." He shook his head a little. "And I thought — oh. That's just what I do now. That's just the thing my eyes do."
Your hands were very still in your lap.
"And I know you spent all this time convinced you were the background," he said. "That Cecily was the one people looked at and you were just — there. Nearby. Useful." Something moved through his face. "I tried to tell you that wasn't it. For me. That it was never that. But you were so completely sure you didn't count that you literally grabbed my tie and pushed me toward her with your own hands." He looked at you. "Do you remember that."
"I remember that," you said quietly.
"You had your hand in my tie and you looked at me and said please." He held your gaze. "And I turned around and walked away from you. Because you asked me to. Because I thought—" he exhaled "—I thought if I was patient enough you'd figure it out eventually. That you'd see what I could already see. I was wrong about that. Some things you have to say out loud."
The candles flickered softly around you.
"The moment I saw you properly," he said, "I couldn't take it away again. I tried. For about a week I tried to just — not think about it. Not go to the library on Wednesdays. Not find you at meals. And I lasted about four days before I sat down across from you and thought, yeah, no, I can't do that." He laughed, quiet. "I don't want to do that."
"That sounds ridiculous," you said, and your voice came out strange. Thick in a way you were trying to manage.
"It sounds exactly right to me." He said it simply. "Every time I tried to talk myself out of it you'd say something — something sharp, or funny, or you'd look at something a certain way — and I'd think, yeah. Still you. Just keeps being you."
---
You looked at your hands.
"George," you said.
"I know you think you're the background and was never seen," he said. "I know you've thought that for a long time. And I know nothing I say is going to completely fix that because you've believed it for years." He leaned forward slightly. "But I need you to know that from where I'm standing, you are the only person in any room I actually want to talk to. The only one I look for first. The only one I built a whole room in a tower at midnight for because I wanted one moment to feel like someone had thought about you first."
Your eyes were burning.
You were absolutely not going to cry.
"You redid the light charms four times," you said, because you needed to say something that wasn't the thing you actually wanted to say.
"Six," he corrected. "The lights were six. The runes were four."
"George—"
"You're worth six attempts at a light charm," he said. Completely straight. No jokes. Just the plain truth of it sitting between you like something that had always existed and was only now being said out loud. "You're worth more than that. I just ran out of things to redo."
Something cracked open in your chest. Quietly. Like a window being unlocked.
---
You had spent so long believing a very specific story about yourself. The background girl. The useful one. The one who gave things and didn't get to want things back. The one who handed people to Cecily with both hands and then stood slightly to the left and smiled about it.
And here was George Weasley sitting in a tower he had spent two weeks building in the dark, looking at you like you were the reason he had bothered with any of it, telling you the story was wrong.
Not gently. Not with soft words designed to make you feel better. Just — plainly. The way he said everything. Like it was simply true and he didn't understand why it needed to be argued about.
"You could have just asked me normally," you said. Your voice came out wobbly and you hated it. "In the corridor. Like a normal person."
"I know," he said. "But you would have said it's fine and redirected me to Cecily and I would have lost the thread of it again." He joked as he looked at you steadily. "I needed somewhere that was only for this. So you couldn't redirect. So you'd actually have to sit in it."
"I hate that that makes sense," you said.
"I know."
"I hate that you know me that well."
"No you don't."
You looked at him. He looked back.
"No," you agreed, very quietly. "I don't."
---
The floating lights drifted slowly above you. The candles held. The runes in the stone shimmered faintly at the edge of your vision.
"Come to the ball with me," he said. "Tomorrow. Properly. As my—" he paused, and something on his face went slightly uncertain for the first time all evening, which was almost funny, that he had built a whole room and said all of that and the word was the thing that made him hesitate. "As my date."
You looked at him for a long moment.
At the green robes and the messy hair and the candles that had taken six attempts. At the runes he had re-etched four times alone at midnight because he wanted to get it right. At his face, which was trying very hard to be patient and not entirely succeeding, something hopeful and unguarded sitting just underneath the surface of it.
You thought about the library chair across from you. About a scarf landing on your head. About rain on empty Quidditch stands. About a staircase and a thumb moving slightly against your waist and two words said so quietly they were almost just for you.
You thought about all the times you had packed things away in the drawer and all the times the drawer had refused to stay closed.
You stopped packing.
"Yes," you said.
Just that. Just yes.
George's face did the thing. The full thing. The smile that was not the controlled library one or the performative Great Hall one but the real one, the unmanaged one, the one that made him look completely undone in the best possible way, wide and warm and so happy it was almost embarrassing to look at directly.
"Good," he said. And then, because he could not help himself, because he was George and this was simply who he was even in important moments, he reached over and booped your nose.
You made a noise that was not dignified. "I cannot believe you just—"
"Butterbeer?" He was already picking it up and holding it out, completely unbothered, grinning to himself like he had won something.
"You are so—"
"Here." He put the Butterbeer in your hands. Still warm. "I kept it warm specifically."
You looked at the Butterbeer. At him. At the whole warm gold room he had built in two weeks of late nights and wrong attempts and trying again.
"Thank you," you said. And you meant more than the Butterbeer and you think he knew it.
"Any time," he said. And he meant more than the Butterbeer too.
You sat beside him in the tower with the lights drifting slowly overhead and the candles holding and the stars enormous through the wide arched windows, and you drank the Butterbeer he had kept warm for you and said nothing for a long while and it was the best kind of nothing — the full kind, the kind that didn't need anything added to it.
At some point your shoulder settled against his.
He didn't move away.
Neither did you.
You stayed there until the castle started going properly dark and quiet below you and even then neither of you were in any particular hurry to leave.
"George," you said eventually.
"Hm."
"The runes in the stone."
"What about them."
"They're going to be there forever now."
He looked at them. At the faint shimmer of light stabilising runes etched into the Astronomy Tower stone, done four times until they held, permanent now, part of the building.
"Yeah," he said. Like that was completely fine with him. Like he had planned it that way.
You looked at them too.
---
You were looking past him.
At the room behind him. At the lights that drifted unevenly in places, the charm not quite perfectly settled. At the candles that flickered with the quality of something that had been recast too many times, still learning how to stay. At the runes in the stone that were slightly uneven in their spacing because the first three attempts were still faintly visible underneath the fourth, like layers of trying pressed into the wall.
This had not come easily.
You were looking at every place it had gone wrong. Every night he must have stood in this cold tower alone and gotten something wrong and come back the next night anyway. Every failed attempt that was still visible if you looked closely enough. Every small evidence of someone who had decided you were worth the effort of getting it right even when it wasn't working.
Something in your throat closed up.
"I kept getting things wrong," he said, and he had noticed you looking. He glanced back at the room briefly. "The lights kept being too harsh. The candles kept going out. The runes—" he exhaled through his nose "—the runes I had to do four times. Three times I came up here and etched them into the stone and stood back and they just went dark." He paused. "And I'd have to start over."
"Why didn't you just stop," you said.
It came out quietly. Like a genuine question. Like you actually needed to understand.
He looked at you.
"Because you spend every single day doing things for other people," he said, "and acting like you don't need anything back. Like you're fine. Like standing in the background is just how it is and there's nothing wrong with it." His voice stayed even but there was something underneath it. Something with feeling in it. "And I wanted one thing — just one thing — to feel like it was made for you. Like someone thought about you first before they thought about anything else."
Your eyes were burning.
You pressed your lips together. Looked at the runes in the stone. Looked at the candles. Looked anywhere that wasn't his face because his face was going to finish you completely.
"You came here alone," you said. "Every night."
"Yeah."
"In the cold."
"It's not that cold."
"George." Your voice broke slightly on his name. Just slightly. You caught it. "It's December. It's freezing up here."
"I had my jacket."
"You gave me your jacket on the bench earlier."
"I had a different jacket."
You laughed. It came out wet and shaky and surprised, the kind of laugh that happened when you were very close to crying and something caught you off guard and you didn't know what to do with your face anymore. You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth.
"Don't cry," he said softly.
"I'm not crying."
"You're very close to crying."
"I'm not—" your voice did something embarrassing. You stopped. Took a breath. "You spent two weeks in a freezing cold tower alone because you wanted one thing to feel like it was made for me."
"Yes," he said simply.
"That's—" you looked at him finally. You couldn't help it. You looked at him and his face was so open and so sincere and so completely without performance or strategy or any of the usual armour that people wore, and behind him the lights drifted softly and the candles held and the runes he had etched four times shimmered faintly in the stone and it was all just — there. All of it. Undeniable.
Something came loose in your chest.
Something that had been locked in place for a very long time.
"Nobody's ever—" you started. Stopped. Your throat was too tight.
"I know," he said, very quietly.
"I didn't think anyone would ever—"
"I know." He said it the same way. Like he had always known and had been waiting for you to catch up. "That's why I built the room."
You looked at him for a long moment with your eyes full of something you were desperately trying to hold back and your hands in your lap holding very still and the whole warm gold tower around you feeling like something out of a dream you had never quite let yourself have.
"That's the stupidest most wonderful thing anyone has ever done," you said.
The corner of his mouth moved. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "It really is."
He looked at you with that look. The one you had no name for. The one that made you feel like the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"Don't cry," he said again, softer.
"I'm not crying," you said, and a tear fell down your face which completely undermined the point.
He reached over.
Very gently, with just his thumb, he wiped it away.
He didn't make anything of it. Didn't say anything. Just did it quietly and put his hand back in his lap and looked at you like you were something he had been waiting a long time to look at properly.
You breathed.
In and out.
And the room held the both of you in its warm gold light and said nothing else and didn't need to.
---
You pushed open the dormitory door at nearly midnight.
The room was mostly dark. The other girls were asleep. Just one lamp still on, over by Hannah's bed, and Hannah herself sitting up against her headboard with a book in her lap looking at you the moment you walked in.
"Where have you been," she said. "I was about to go looking for—"
She stopped.
She looked at your face.
And went very still.
You took your shoes off. Put your bag down. Sat on your bed. All the normal things in the normal order. You were doing completely fine.
Except you were smiling.
Not a small polite smile. Not the practiced one. The real kind, the unmanaged kind, the kind that kept coming back every time you tried to let your face do something else, rising up again like it had nowhere else to go and had decided your face was where it lived now.
You pressed your lips together.
It didn't help.
Hannah put her book down very slowly. "Why are you smiling like that."
"Like what," you said, to your lap.
"Like you just did something illegal and you think it was worth it."
"I'm not—" the smile came back. You pressed your hand over your mouth. It made absolutely no difference.
"What happened," Hannah said. She was sitting up straighter now. Both feet on the floor. The specific posture of someone who understood that what they were about to hear required their full attention.
"Nothing," you said.
"That is not a nothing face."
"It's just—" you started. Stopped. You looked at the ceiling. You looked at your hands. You looked at the yellow and black of your dormitory curtains which were very normal and very grounding and did not help at all.
"He made something," you said.
Hannah blinked. "Sorry?"
"George." You said it to your hands. "He — he made this whole thing. Like not just asked. He actually made something."
"Made what," Hannah said slowly.
And then it just came out.
All of it.
The Astronomy Tower and the door and the lights that were too warm and too soft and drifted like they had nowhere to be. The candles that flickered unevenly because he had recast them six times and some of them were still figuring out how to stay lit. The mismatched cushions he had gathered from different places over days. The Butterbeer that was still warm because he had looked up a preservation charm specifically. The runes in the stone — the tiny faint ones, barely visible, that shimmered when you moved — that he had etched four times alone at midnight until they finally held.
"He kept coming back," you said, and your voice had gone slightly wobbly somewhere in the middle of all of that and you hadn't fixed it yet. "Every night. After classes. After Quidditch. When everyone else was asleep. He just — kept coming back and fixing things and trying again and—"
You stopped.
You were shaking your head.
Not sadly. In the way you shook your head when something was so beyond what you had prepared yourself for that your whole system needed a moment to catch up.
"The runes are permanent," you said. "He etched them into the actual stone. They're going to be there forever. In the Astronomy Tower. Because he wanted the lights to be right."
Hannah was leaning forward.
Very slowly. Like she was approaching something that might startle.
"And then he said—" you pressed your hand to your mouth again. The smile was completely out of control now. Your eyes were also doing something which was a whole separate problem. "He said you're worth four nights like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it wasn't even something worth making a big deal about. Just — of course. Four nights. Obviously. What else would you do."
"Stop," Hannah said.
"And then he asked me to the ball and I said yes and then he booped my nose."
"He WHAT—"
"And handed me the Butterbeer and acted like absolutely none of it had just happened—"
Hannah stared at you.
"I need a moment," she said.
"Join the club," you said, still staring at the ceiling.
Silence.
The lamp flickered softly between your beds. Somewhere outside the castle an owl called once and went quiet. You lay there with your heart doing something it had apparently decided to do all night and your face smiling in a way you had fully given up trying to stop.
"Wait," Hannah said.
"What."
"You're going with him."
"Yes."
"To the Yule Ball."
"Yes."
"As his — like properly. As his—"
"Yes, Hannah."
She stared at you for a very long moment.
"Oh my god," she said.
"I know."
"Oh my god."
"Hannah—"
"He built you a room." She said it slowly, like she was trying to fit the sentence into the shape of the world and it kept being slightly too big. "He came back every night and fixed things until they worked and then he sat you down in it and told you that you were the first choice." She pressed both hands to her face. "He said that. Out loud. To your actual face."
Hannah made a sound into her hands that was not words.
"Are you okay," you said.
"Am I—" she lowered her hands. Her eyes were wide. "Am I okay. You come in here at midnight with that face and tell me George Weasley spent two weeks building you a room and asked you properly and you want to know if I'M okay?"
"Valid question—"
"I'm not okay," Hannah said. "I am the least okay I have ever been. I have been watching this happen for months and I told you, I said something good is going to happen, and I did not know it was going to be THIS—"
"You're going to wake everyone up—"
"Good!" She grabbed her pillow and held it to her chest. "They should be awake for this. This is important. This is an event."
"Hannah," you said, laughing now, properly, the real kind that came from somewhere you had stopped guarding. "Please."
"Fine." She hugged the pillow. Took a breath. Let it out. "Fine. Okay. I'm calm." She was not calm. Her eyes were still doing something. "You're going with him."
"I'm going with him," you said.
She looked at you.
You looked at her.
"How do you feel," she said, quieter now.
---
You thought about the tower. About warm gold lights and runes in stone and a Butterbeer kept warm and a thumb wiping a tear away so gently you almost hadn't felt it. About George's face when you walked in, the relief of it, the way it had changed completely the moment he saw you had come.
You thought about you're the first choice said so plainly. Like it was simply true. Like it had always been true and he was only just now saying it out loud.
"Terrified," you said honestly.
"Obviously," Hannah said.
"And—" you looked at the ceiling. The smile came back. You let it. "Really, really good."
Hannah smiled. Not her usual bright one. Something softer. Something that was just for this moment, just for you, just for the fact that you were lying on your bed at midnight smiling in a way you couldn't stop at someone who had spent two weeks building you a room because he wanted one thing to feel like you were thought of first.
"Good," she said.
She turned off the lamp.
The room went dark and quiet and you lay there in the dark for a long time, not sleeping, just feeling the shape of something new sitting in your chest where the old familiar weight used to be.
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst, slowburn
Wc:
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9(Finale)
The Yule Ball was all anyone could talk about and you were so tired of it.
At breakfast. At dinner. In every corridor between every class. Who was going with who, what colour their dress robes were, who hadn't been asked yet, who had asked the wrong person and now it was awkward for everyone. The entire castle had lost its mind and showed absolutely no signs of finding it again anytime soon.
You ate your toast and said nothing and waited for it to be over.
"You should want to go," Hannah said, watching you from across the table.
"I don't not want to go," you said.
"That's not the same thing."
"It's close enough."
"It is not close enough." She pointed at you with her spoon. "You are going to go, you are going to exist in a room with nice decorations and music, and something good is going to happen to you."
"That's a lot to promise from a school dance."
"I'm an optimist." She put her spoon down. "We're going to Hogsmeade tonight. Butterbeer. You and me. No arguments."
"I have an essay—"
"The essay will be there tomorrow."
"It's due—"
"Tomorrow," she said firmly. "Which is not tonight. We're going."
You looked at her. She looked back. Her face was completely immovable in the way it got when she had already decided something and was simply waiting for you to catch up.
"Fine," you said.
She smiled. "Wear something warm."
The Three Broomsticks was warm and crowded and smelled like butterbeer and firewood and the general coziness of a winter evening when you were inside and it was cold outside. You liked it more than you usually admitted. You found a table near the window and pulled your sleeves over your hands and looked at the frost on the glass while Hannah went to get drinks.
She came back with two butterbeers and a boy.
You looked at her.
"This is Thomas," she said, completely unbothered. "He's lovely. Ravenclaw. I met him in Herbology."
"Hannah—"
"Hi," Thomas said, smiling at you. It was a nice smile. Genuinely nice, not the practised kind. He had dark hair and he sat down across from you and looked at you like you were the person he'd come to see, which was disorienting.
"Hi," you said carefully.
"She talks more than this normally," Hannah said, sitting down. "She's just getting started."
"I'm started," you said. "Hello. I'm here. This is my face."
Thomas laughed. "I've seen you in the library a lot," he said. "Always in the same corner."
"I like that corner."
"It's a good corner." He leaned forward slightly, easy and open. "What are you usually working on?"
And he actually listened when you answered. That was the thing about Thomas — he was nice in a way that was effortless and genuine and slightly confusing because you weren't used to it from people you'd just met. He asked follow up questions. He laughed at the right moments. When the noise in the pub got louder he leaned in closer to hear you better and it was considerate rather than forward and you were doing your best to be a normal person about it.
You were managing about sixty percent normal.
"You two look cute together," Hannah said, with the satisfaction of someone watching a plan work.
"We've known each other for twelve minutes," you said.
"Connections happen fast."
"Hannah, we literally—"
"Drink your butterbeer," she said sweetly.
Thomas said something about his Quidditch team, leaning back in his chair, comfortable in the way people were when they liked talking about something. You nodded along and made the appropriate sounds. He was genuinely interesting. You were doing fine. You were having a perfectly normal time and it was going to be fine.
Then the door opened and cold air swept in and two sets of footsteps came through and you didn't even have to look to know.
Something in your chest just — knew.
Fred spotted you first.
He stopped just inside the door with snow on his shoulders and took in the whole scene in about two seconds — you at the table, Thomas leaning toward you, Hannah looking pleased with herself — and turned to the person beside him.
"Uh oh," Fred said.
George was already looking.
His face did something very fast that Fred caught all of and George caught none of because he was too busy looking at Thomas leaning toward you and you laughing at something Thomas said and the warm glow of the pub making everything look cosy and soft.
"He's being nice to her," George said. Very flat.
"Yes," Fred said. "That tends to happen when boys like girls."
"He remembered what drink she wanted."
"George."
"He pulled her chair out."
"George."
"That's the thing I—" he stopped. His jaw did the tight thing.
"Oh this," Fred said, mostly to himself, "is going to be a disaster." He patted George on the shoulder. "Come on then. Let's get a table."
He steered them directly to the one behind yours.
George sat down and looked at the back of your head and said nothing and Fred watched his brother's face with the expression of a man who had front row seats to something extremely good.
You felt the exact moment he sat down behind you.
You didn't look. You kept your eyes on Thomas and your hands around your butterbeer and your expression completely normal and you were doing so well.
Then a hand reached over your shoulder and picked up your butterbeer and took a long sip and put it back.
You turned around very slowly.
George was looking at the ceiling. Whistling quietly. The picture of total innocence.
"Did you just drink my butterbeer," you said.
"Hm?" He looked down like he'd only just noticed you. "Oh. Hey. Didn't see you there."
"You're sitting directly behind me."
"Small world." His eyes moved to Thomas. Something in them was perfectly friendly and completely cold at the same time, which should not have been possible but George managed it. "Who's this."
"Thomas," Thomas said. "Ravenclaw."
"George. Gryffindor." A pause. "Better house."
"George," you said.
"What? I'm being friendly." He smiled at Thomas. It was a smile that said nothing friendly whatsoever. "Don't mind if we join, do you?"
He was already moving his chair around before Thomas could answer. Fred followed slowly with his butterbeer and the expression of a man settling in for the best evening of his life.
Thomas scooted over politely.
George sat down next to you. Closer than Thomas had been. Close enough that his shoulder was almost touching yours and you could feel the cold still coming off his jacket from outside.
You stared at the table.
Your face was doing things.
What happened next was twenty minutes of the most exhausting thing you had ever sat through.
Every single time Thomas said something to you, George said something funnier. Not obviously, not loudly — just enough, slipping it in at exactly the right moment, the way he did when he wasn't even trying and it still landed perfectly. Every time Thomas leaned in George leaned in from the other side and said something quietly in your ear and you laughed before you could stop yourself and hated yourself a little for it.
---
He stole your butterbeer two more times.
Just reached over and picked it up and drank it and put it back like it was completely normal and each time did it right when Thomas was mid-sentence.
Thomas was still being very nice about everything. You felt genuinely bad for him.
Hannah had stopped pretending to be part of the conversation. She was just watching George with slowly widening eyes like she was putting together a puzzle she hadn't known she was doing.
Fred was having the time of his life. He had his chin in his hand and the look of someone watching a very good match and taking mental notes.
"You're cold," Thomas said at one point, noticing you tucking your hands into your sleeves. He started unwinding his scarf. "Here, take—"
Something landed on your head.
Soft and warm and slightly too big. You reached up and peeled it off.
A Gryffindor scarf. Burgundy and gold and very clearly George's because it smelled like him and you were not going to acknowledge that you knew that.
George was looking at the wall across the room. His jaw was tight. "You looked cold," he said, to no one in particular. Very casual. Very normal. Absolutely not looking at you or Thomas or Thomas's half-unwound scarf.
Thomas froze mid-gesture with his own scarf still in his hands.
Fred made a noise into his butterbeer that he tried to turn into a cough and completely failed.
Hannah's mouth fell open. Just slightly. She looked at George. She looked at you. She looked at the scarf on your lap. Something moved across her face like a wave — slow at first and then all at once — and her eyes went very wide and she pressed her lips together and looked at the ceiling.
Oh my god, her face said, to absolutely no one.
OH. MY. GOD.
You put the scarf on because you were in fact cold and the alternative was making it into a whole thing and you were not doing that. It was warm and soft and it sat around your neck like it was supposed to be there which was a thought you immediately evicted from your brain.
"Thanks," you said, to your butterbeer.
"Mhm," George said, still looking at the wall.
Fred pointed at George from across the table and mouthed something at Hannah. Hannah pressed her hand over her mouth. Both of them were shaking slightly.
You were going to pretend none of this was happening.
---
Thomas left first. He was gracious about it, said he had an early morning, shook your hand very politely and said it was nice to meet you and he meant it, you could tell, and you felt genuinely terrible about the whole evening on his behalf.
The moment he was out the door Fred turned to George and said "that was unhinged behaviour."
"I was being friendly," George said.
"You threw a scarf at her head."
"She was cold."
"He was literally in the process of—"
"She's wearing mine," George said, and looked at you, and there was something in his eyes that was so plain and so unashamed about it that your stomach flipped completely over.
You looked at Hannah.
Hannah stood up very suddenly. "I just remembered I have to — yes. Somewhere. I have to be somewhere." She grabbed her bag. "Bye. Both of you. Good luck. Mainly to you." She pointed at you. "Good luck specifically to you."
"Hannah—"
But she was already pulling Fred up by his sleeve and Fred went willingly, shooting George one last look over his shoulder that said something you didn't catch.
And then it was just you and George and an empty table and two and a half stolen butterbeers.
"You were so weird tonight," you said.
"I was completely normal."
"You stole my drink three times."
"I was thirsty."
"You had your own drink, George. It was right there. I watched you not touch it."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at the table.
"I'm going back," you said, and stood up and wrapped your coat around you and walked out before anything else could happen.
---
He followed you.
Obviously he followed you.
The night outside was cold and quiet and snow was just starting to fall, light and slow, the first proper snow of the season drifting down through the dark. It landed on the cobblestones and on your coat and in your hair and under different circumstances it would have been lovely.
You walked a little faster.
"Hey—" he started.
"Don't," you said.
"I just want to—"
"George." You stopped and turned around and he almost walked into you. He was close, closer than you'd clocked, and the snow was falling between you and his breath made small clouds in the cold air. "What was that. In there. What was any of that."
"I was just—"
"You threw your scarf at my head."
"You were cold—"
"He was literally in the middle of giving me his—"
"You're wearing mine," he said, simply.
You looked down. You were still wearing it. His scarf. Burgundy and gold and warm around your neck.
---
You looked back up.
He was watching you with an expression that was too honest and too open and you didn't know what to do with it so you turned around and kept walking.
"You're acting weird and I don't know why and it's confusing and I don't like being confused," you said, mostly to the path in front of you. "I never know what you want and then you do things like tonight and it makes everything—" you gestured vaguely at the air "—loud. In my head. And I don't like it."
"I know," he said, quietly, behind you. "I'm sorry."
"Are you actually sorry."
A pause. "Not entirely."
You made a noise. He made a sound that was almost a laugh. You reached the castle entrance and pushed through the doors and started up the staircase and you were almost at the top, almost safe, almost at the corridor that led to the barrel and your dormitory and your bed where you could lie face down and process all of this in peace—
The staircase moved.
It lurched sideways without any warning, the way they always did, groaning and swinging into a new position, and your foot was already mid-step and there was nothing to hold onto and you went sideways fast—
An arm caught you.
Around your waist. Solid and immediate and sure, his other hand shooting out to grab the banister behind you, and he had you, both of you pressed against the railing while the staircase finished its business and settled.
Your hands had grabbed his jumper.
Both of them. Fists in the dark wool of it, holding on.
Everything went still.
He didn't let go.
You were very close. Closer than the catching required now that the staircase had stopped moving. His arm was still around your waist and your hands were still in his jumper and you could feel him breathing, slow and careful, like he was being deliberate about it.
You looked up.
That was the mistake.
Because George was already looking at you. Not the teasing look. Not the warm amused one. Something completely different. Something so open and unguarded that it made your breath go short because you recognised it — you had seen it before, in libraries and corridors and on rainy Quidditch stands — but up close, this close, with his arm around you and your hands in his jumper and the staircase quiet around you, it was a completely different thing to see.
His thumb moved.
Just slightly. Against your waist. Like he'd done it without thinking and then thought about it and didn't stop.
The staircase creaked softly.
"You know," you said, because you needed to say something before you stopped being able to say anything at all, "normal people just say excuse me on a staircase."
The corner of his mouth moved. Barely. "Didn't feel very normal just then."
"No," you said. "It didn't."
His eyes dropped. Just for a second. To your mouth. And came back up and you saw him do it and he saw you see him and neither of you looked away.
The air between you was very small.
Your hands were still in his jumper. You hadn't let go. You didn't know when you were going to let go.
"You keep looking at me like that," he said, so quiet it was almost just for him, "and I'm going to do something stupid."
Your heart was so loud. "Like what," you said. Barely above a whisper.
He looked at you.
The whole look. The full one. Nothing held back.
And then he booped your nose.
One finger. Right on the tip of it. Gentle and quick and so completely unexpected that your brain just — stopped. Buffering. Nothing. Empty.
He let go of your waist.
Stepped back.
Straightened his jumper very calmly like none of that had just happened and turned and walked up the rest of the staircase.
He paused at the top step. Didn't look back.
"Goodnight," he said.
And he was gone. Footsteps fading. Round the corner. Gone.
You stood on the staircase.
Alone.
Your hands were still slightly raised where they'd been in his jumper. Your nose tingled. The scarf that smelled like him was still warm around your neck and the staircase was completely empty and the castle was quiet and you stood there for a very long time trying to remember what legs were for.
The next morning Hannah took one look at you across the breakfast table and put her cup down.
"You're glowing," she said.
"I'm not glowing."
"You look like a person who has been personally visited by something wonderful."
"That's not — I'm just awake."
"You're doing the face."
"I don't have a face."
"The one where you're thinking very hard about something you're pretending not to think about." She leaned forward. "What happened after I left."
"Nothing."
"You're wearing his scarf."
You looked down. You were wearing his scarf. You had put it on this morning without thinking. You pulled it slightly higher up your neck.
"It's cold," you said.
"It's a castle."
"Castles are cold."
"That is his scarf."
"Hannah."
"His scarf. That he threw at your head. That you are now wearing voluntarily at breakfast."
You looked at your toast. Your face was warm. Your face was extremely warm for someone sitting in a cold castle. "Nothing happened," you said. "Something almost happened. And then he booped my nose and left."
Hannah stared at you. "He what."
"Booped my nose. And walked away."
"He booped—"
"And walked away," you repeated. "Just left me standing there."
Hannah sat back in her chair and looked at the ceiling for a long moment. "That is the most George Weasley thing I have ever heard in my life," she said.
"It was very annoying."
"You're smiling though."
"I'm not smiling."
"You are a little bit."
You pressed your lips together. "I'm not smiling about it."
"Okay," Hannah said, smiling enough for both of you.
---
After breakfast you walked the long corridor toward the library, Hannah beside you, and the Yule Ball chaos was already back in full force because it never really stopped. A group of girls near the notice board, someone's squeal echoing off the stone, two third years walking past holding hands with the particular glow of people who had just sorted something out.
You watched them pass.
Something tugged at you. Small and quiet and a little embarrassing.
You wanted that.
Not the performance of it. Not the being chosen in front of people. Just the simple plain fact of someone looking at you and deciding yes, you, specifically you, and meaning it.
You looked away before you could think about it too long.
"I wonder," Hannah said, very casually, examining her nails, "when George is going to ask you to the ball."
You walked into the wall.
Just your shoulder. You recovered quickly. "What," you said.
"The ball. I'm just wondering when he's going to ask you." She looked perfectly innocent. "Academically. Out of curiosity."
"He's not going to ask me."
"He threw his scarf at you."
"That doesn't mean—"
"He stole your drink three times."
"He was just being—"
"He booped your nose on a staircase and nearly had a heart attack about a Ravenclaw boy talking to you."
"Hannah." You stopped walking and turned to look at her. "Stop. Please."
She looked back at you. Warm and patient and slightly unbearable. "I'm just saying what everyone can see."
"What do you mean everyone—"
"Oh," said Hannah, looking past your shoulder.
You turned.
George was coming down the corridor with Fred, both of them easy and unhurried, George saying something that made Fred roll his eyes. He hadn't seen you yet. His hands were in his pockets. He had his usual look — the relaxed, I own every room I walk into look and the morning light coming through the corridor windows caught the side of his face and you stood there like a complete idiot just looking at him.
You looked back at the wall. Very interesting wall. Lovely stonework.
Then Cecily appeared.
From the side corridor, like she had been waiting, which she probably had. She walked straight into George's path and put her hand on his arm and smiled up at him with her full-effort smile and said something, head tilted, hair perfect, every part of her doing the thing it was very good at doing.
You watched.
You weren't going to watch. You were watching.
You went very quiet without meaning to. The thing in your chest did the thing it did — the familiar settling, the closing off, the putting away — and you looked at the corridor ahead and told yourself this was fine. This was normal. This was—
George looked up.
Past Cecily's tilted head and her hand on his arm and her prettiness, which was very present and very intentional, his eyes went straight down the corridor.
And found you.
---
Immediately. Like he had known exactly where to look. Like you were the first thing he checked for when he walked into any space and this corridor was no different.
Cecily was still talking.
He looked at you for one second. One. And something in his face shifted — the relaxed look changing into something more direct, more decided — and then he said something brief to Cecily, barely two words, and walked.
Toward you.
Not gradually. Not after a polite delay. Just — turned and came.
Cecily stood in the corridor with her hand still half-raised and her mouth slightly open and the specific expression of someone who had just had something walk away from them and couldn't quite believe it.
Fred passed her on his way after George. "Sorry about that," he said, in a voice that was absolutely not sorry. He glanced back at her once and then forward again and when he caught your eye he pointed at George's back and gave you a look that said do you see this. are you seeing this right now.
George stopped in front of you.
Just — stopped. Right there. Looked at you like the corridor and the people in it and Cecily behind him and everything else were background noise and you were the only thing worth facing.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi," you said. Your voice came out normal. You were very proud of your voice.
"Library?"
"I was going to—"
"Come on." He tilted his head down the corridor. Easy. Natural. Like of course you were going together, like this was just the obvious next thing.
And he fell into step beside you, close, his arm occasionally brushing yours as you walked, and he talked to you the way he always talked to you — like what you said was the most interesting thing in the corridor, like he had been waiting all morning to hear it. He asked about your essay. He remembered which one you'd been working on. He said something about History of Magic that was so wrong you couldn't help correcting him and he grinned when you did, that grin, the one that meant he had done it on purpose just to hear you talk.
---
Hannah walked on your other side with her hands in her pockets and a smile she was visibly trying to contain.
Fred walked just behind, quiet for once, which was deeply suspicious.
And when you turned the corner into the library corridor you heard Fred say it, low and easy, to himself or to no one or maybe to the castle itself:
"About time."
You kept walking.
George's arm brushed yours again.
Behind you, in the corridor you had just left, Cecily stood where she had been standing and watched you all disappear around the corner.
You didn't see her face.
You weren't looking back anymore.
A/n: kind of a filler part but i promise next will be better..This part is quite long cause i got carried away lol
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst, slowburn
Wc:4k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9(Finale)
Hannah Abbott found you on a Thursday.
Not in a dramatic way. Just — sat down next to you in the library, put her books on the table, and said "I heard what happened with Cecily and I just want you to know I think you were well within your rights" like it was a perfectly normal opening to a conversation.
You looked at her. "We've never actually talked."
"I know." She opened her Herbology textbook. "I've wanted to. You always seemed like someone worth talking to." She paused. "Also you're always in the library and I'm always in the library so it seemed like it was meant to be."
You looked back at your notes. Then back at her. "Hannah Abbott."
"That's me."
"You're the one who cried in Herbology second year when the Mandrake screamed."
"I did," she said, completely unbothered. "In my defence it was very loud and I was eleven."
Something that had been tight in your chest for days loosened, just slightly. "Fair."
"I also cried at the Sorting because I was scared I'd be the wrong house."
"Same."
"And I cried when—"
"Are you going to list these indefinitely."
"I cry a normal amount," Hannah said firmly. "The point is I'm not scary and neither are you despite what the rumours currently say and I thought we could be friends."
You looked at her for a moment. She looked back. Open and calm and not performing anything at all.
"You're funny," you said.
"I know," she agreed, and went back to her textbook.
It was, somehow, that simple.
Hannah was easy in a way you hadn't expected. Not Cecily's kind of easy, not the warm consuming kind that pulled everything toward her — just genuinely, quietly easy. She didn't need you to perform. She didn't fill every silence. She said what she meant and meant what she said and when something was funny, she laughed at it.
"You're allowed to just exist, you know," she told you one afternoon, very casually, over a shared plate of toast in the Great Hall. "Like. Not be useful. Just exist in a space and take up room."
You looked at your toast. "That's terrifying."
"I know. Do it anyway."
You were beginning to really like Hannah Abbott.
---
George stopped being a thing that appeared out of nowhere. He became a thing that was just — there. Constantly. Consistently. Like he had made a quiet decision about where he was going to be and the answer was wherever you were.
Library. He sat across from you. Not asking, not explaining. Just pulling out the chair and opening a book like this was simply where he sat now.
Great Hall. He dropped into the seat beside you with his plate and said "what are we talking about" to whoever was there like he'd been part of the conversation from the beginning.
Common room study sessions Hannah had started dragging you to. He would appear, find you, and fold himself into the nearest available chair with the calm certainty of a person who had decided that gravity worked differently for him and it pointed in your direction.
There was no sheepishness. No explanation. Just George, beside you, acting like of course he was beside you, where else would he be.
And you were losing your mind about it in the quietest possible way.
Because you had gotten used to the appearing. You had not gotten used to the staying.
---
Fred was worse. He started treating you like his own sister. You would be annoyed but grateful that he was there for you.
He started stealing your books.
He'd pick one up off your table, flip through it with mild interest, walk away with it, and then George would return it twenty minutes later with the expression of someone who had been sent on an errand he hadn't agreed to.
"He took your Charms book," George said, dropping it in front of you.
"Can you help me get it back please?"
"He does it on purpose."
"I know."
"He knows I'll bring it back."
"I know that too," you said, and looked back at your notes, and did not look at the way George was looking at you because it was eleven in the morning and you were not equipped for it.
Fred also started inviting you to things. Fred announced, "we're going to the kitchens after dinner, you're coming" and then looking at you expectantly until you put your things away and went. He sat beside you at meals when George was late, then looked up the moment George walked in and said "your girl's here, sit down" loudly enough for the surrounding four tables to hear.
"I'm not his—" you started, every time.
"Mhm," Fred said, every time, and went back to his food.
---
Someone in Potions made a comment once, something about the fight, the sort of thing people said when they wanted to seem brave without being fully committed to it and Fred went cold so fast it was almost impressive.
"Sorry?" Fred said, in a voice that had no warmth in it at all.
The boy blinked. "I just meant—"
"Don't," Fred said pleasantly, "be mean to my future sister in law."
The table went absolutely silent.
You choked on your pumpkin juice.
George put his face in his hands.
"Future—" you wheezed.
"What," Fred said, and patted you on the back while you coughed. "I'm just saying. Don't be mean to her."
"Fred—" George started.
"What. I'm being nice." He picked up his fork. "She's lovely. You're welcome."
You spent the rest of Potions staring at your cauldron with your face a colour that complemented your Hufflepuff robes very poorly.
---
You had had a bad morning. Not dramatically bad, just the accumulating kind — the kind where everything was slightly wrong in ways too small to complain about, and by the time you reached the library you were carrying the combined weight of a dropped breakfast, a slow class, and a Potions correction that had been unnecessarily pointed.
You sat down at your table and opened your Transfiguration essay and found a mistake on the first page that you had somehow missed in three previous reads and made a sound under your breath, grumbling to yourself.
George looked up from across the table.
"Bad day?" he said.
"No."
"You're glaring at your essay."
"I'm reading it."
"With that face?"
"What face. This is my normal face."
"Your normal face doesn't look like you're planning something's funeral."
"I made a mistake," you said, "on the first page, which I have now read four times, which means I read it wrong four times, which means I am apparently incapable of—" you gestured at the essay "—basic reading comprehension, which is literally the one thing I thought I was reliably good at—"
"Hey—"
"And Slughorn corrected me in front of the whole class this morning like I hadn't been getting top marks in Potions since third year, and I dropped my toast at breakfast butter side down, and it's raining, and my quill is splitting, and I know none of this is actually a big deal but it is collectively a very annoying amount of small bad things for one Wednesday—"
You stopped.
You realised you had been talking for approximately thirty uninterrupted seconds which was roughly twenty-five seconds longer than you normally talked.
You pushed your hair out of your face and looked back at the essay. "Sorry. Never mind."
Silence.
Then George said, very quietly, like it had just come out of him without fully going through any checking process first, "You're pretty when you're angry."
The library went very still.
You looked up.
He was already looking like a man who had just heard himself say something and was now doing a full internal audit of every decision that had led to this moment. His ears were slightly pink. He opened his mouth. Closed it.
"I meant—" he started.
"What," you said.
"I just—"
"You just what."
"It came out—"
"Yeah right."
He pressed his lips together. His ears were definitely pink. "I don't have a recovery for that," he admitted.
From the table two rows over, there was a loud crash.
You both looked.
Fred was on the floor. His chair was on its side. He was pointing at George with an expression of absolute deranged joy.
"I knew it," he said, from the floor, at full library-inappropriate volume.
"Fred—"
"I physically heard it with my ears." He made no move to get up. "Madam Pince is going to have to throw me out because I am not leaving this library on my own."
"Get up," George said, through his teeth.
"I can't. My legs have stopped working from shock." Fred beamed at you from the floor. "He said you were pretty. In case you missed it."
"I didn't miss it," you said.
"Good. Just checking." He finally sat up. "This is the best Wednesday I've ever had."
You looked back at your essay. Your face was completely, irreversibly, devastatingly warm. You picked up your splitting quill and wrote a word. It was the wrong word. You scratched it out.
George cleared his throat and looked at his book.
Neither of you said anything for a very long time.
Neither of you stopped almost smiling either.
---
The library at night was your favourite version of it.
Quieter. Emptier. The torches lower. The kind of quiet that felt chosen rather than imposed. You had a late essay and Hannah had gone to bed and you were alone at your table with cold tea and a candle burning down and the particular focused peace of late work.
You heard the door.
You didn't look up. You already knew the footsteps.
George dropped into the chair across from you with the weight of someone who had been running for two hours and then walked up several staircases. His hair was still damp from the showers. His robes were loose. He had his bag but he didn't open it — just put it on the table and leaned back in the chair and exhaled like the chair itself was a reward.
"Practice?" you said.
"Two hours," he said, to the ceiling. "Fred kept messing up the same play."
"That sounds like Fred."
"It is very Fred." He rolled his neck. "What are you writing."
"History of Magic essay."
"Due when."
"Tomorrow."
"Fun."
"Incredibly."
He pulled a textbook out of his bag, opened it to somewhere in the middle, and you both settled into the quiet of it. Pages turning. Your quill moving. The candle between you going lower.
After maybe twenty minutes you reached for your cold tea without looking and knocked your ink bottle and grabbed it and when you looked back up George's head was on your shoulder.
You went completely still.
His eyes were closed. His breathing was slow and even. He had not planned this — you could tell, the way his head had just tilted sideways and found your shoulder and stayed.
He was asleep.
George Weasley had fallen asleep on your shoulder in the library at ten thirty at night and you were sitting there with your quill in your hand and your essay half finished and absolutely no idea what to do with your face.
You looked at the door.
Fred was standing in the doorway.
He had clearly come to collect George. He had clearly not expected this. His eyes went from George's sleeping face to your completely overwhelmed expression and back, and something happened on his face that was soft and private and nothing like his usual expression at all.
He took one step back.
Then another.
He pointed at you, very slowly. Then at George. Then he pressed both hands to his chest.
Then he backed out of the library entirely without making a sound and let the door close behind him.
You looked at the door.
You looked at George's hair, which was just close enough that you could see it in your peripheral vision.
You picked up your quill and went back to your essay and said nothing about any of it and felt something warm and terrifying settle quietly in your chest and decided, just for tonight, not to name it.
---
Quidditch season arrived with the particular chaos that always accompanied it — the castle getting louder, Fred and George disappearing into practice schedules that consumed entire afternoons, the grounds filling with the sound of brooms and shouting that carried all the way up to the library windows.
You barely saw George for two weeks.
It should have been a relief. It was not a relief. It was just — quieter than you had gotten used to, and you were annoyed at yourself for noticing.
Hannah noticed you acting different. She said nothing, which was one of her better qualities.
---
You were on the grounds one night — late, past curfew technically, but the cold air had been calling and the dormitory had felt too small — lying on the grass near the courtyard and looking up at the sky the way you sometimes did when you needed your thoughts to have more room than a ceiling allowed.
Footsteps.
You didn't move. "Hi George."
A pause. "I need to make my footsteps less recognisable."
"Probably." You kept looking at the sky. "How was practice."
"Long." He dropped down onto the grass beside you. Not sitting — lying down, on his back, in the damp grass, in his Quidditch robes, without any apparent concern for any of this. "Fred threw a Bludger at the wrong goal for twenty minutes because he was 'seeing how it felt from the other perspective.'"
"That does sound like Fred."
"It is unfortunately always Fred." He was quiet for a moment, both of you looking at the same sky. "You've been in the library a lot."
"I'm always in the library."
"I know. I notice when I'm not there." A pause. "Do you notice."
You said nothing for a moment. The sky was very dark and very clear. "Maybe," you said.
"Maybe," he repeated.
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it anything." But you could hear the smile in it. The quiet pleased one. You stared very hard at a particular star.
"Big game soon," he said.
"I heard."
"Gryffindor versus Slytherin."
"Terrifying."
"Are you coming."
You turned your head slightly to look at him. He was already looking at you. That was, you were finding, a recurring problem. He was always already looking at you.
"I don't really do Quidditch," you said.
"You don't have to like Quidditch to come to a game."
"What else would I do at a Quidditch game."
"Watch," he said. "Specifically watch me."
You felt your face do something. You turned back to the sky. "That's a very confident thing to say."
"I'm a very confident person."
"You want me to come to a Quidditch game to watch you specifically."
"Yes."
"That's—" you searched for the word "—a lot."
"It's just a game."
"It's never just anything with you."
He was quiet for a second. "No," he said. "It's not."
The grass was cold beneath you. The castle glowed behind the treeline. You lay there in the dark next to George Weasley and the stars were very clear and you thought, distantly, that this was probably not a thing the background girl was supposed to have. This specific thing. The warm weight of being wanted in a way that had nothing to do with being useful.
"Maybe," you said finally.
From your right, a small sound. Low and warm. Half a laugh.
"I'll take maybe," he said.
---
Hannah cornered you the next morning about the Yule Ball, which had been announced at breakfast with the kind of excitement that made the Great Hall approximately three times louder than it needed to be.
"We're going," Hannah said, before you had finished reading the announcement notice.
"I don't think I—"
"We're going." She put her hand flat on the table. "Together. As friends. I am not going alone and you are not not going at all and we are both going to exist in the same room as fancy decorations and that is the entire plan."
"I don't really do—"
"Events? I know. We're doing this one." She looked at you with the patient, immovable expression you had come to recognise as her version of final. "I will help you get ready. I will stand next to you the entire time. I will leave when you want to leave and I will not make you talk to anyone you don't want to talk to."
"Hannah—"
"Come on," she said simply. "You should show up to things. At least sometimes."
You looked at your breakfast. You thought about the grass last night and maybe and the way he'd said I'll take maybe like it was something worth keeping.
"Fine," you said.
Hannah smiled. "I'm thinking purple for you."
"I haven't agreed to purple."
"Purple," she said firmly, and went back to her eggs.
---
The Quidditch game completely slipped your mind.
In your defence, you had an essay due that day, and Hannah had kept you up late the night before going through dress robes, and you had forgotten to set a reminder, and when you woke up on Saturday morning you looked at the ceiling for five full minutes before it occurred to you what day it was.
By the time you got to the pitch, sprinting across the grounds with your scarf half on and your hair undone, the game was already in its second half.
You found a spot at the end of the Gryffindor stands, slightly breathless, and looked up.
And you watched.
You had not expected to actually watch. You had expected to stand there feeling vaguely guilty about being late and go back inside when it was over. But George was up there doing something on a broom that was honestly— quite something. Fast and easy and completely without fear, throwing himself into movements that should have been alarming but somehow weren't, like the air was where he was supposed to be.
You watched the whole second half with your chin tipped up and your scarf half-wrapped and you did not look at anything else.
---
Gryffindor won. The stands exploded. You clapped alongside everyone else and felt something warm in your chest that was not entirely about the game.
Down on the pitch, George landed and Fred threw an arm around his neck and there was the usual post-victory chaos of team members and noise and people spilling from the stands. You turned to go — you'd come, that was the point, you could leave now—
You heard your name.
George had spotted you. From the pitch, through the crowd, he had somehow found you immediately, and the look on his face when he did — the way it changed, something lighting up in it that had nothing to do with the game he'd just won — made you stand very still.
He broke away from the team and came toward you and you watched him come and did not move.
"You came," he said, stopping in front of you. He was still in his Quidditch robes. His hair was wind-wrecked. He was slightly out of breath from landing and then immediately jogging over here.
"I said maybe," you said.
"You said maybe," he agreed. "And you came."
"Don't make it—"
"Weird, I know." He was smiling. The full one. Not the quiet contained one he used in libraries — the real one, wide and warm and completely unguarded. "You're here."
"I'm here," you confirmed.
He looked at you for a moment with that smile. With the wind and the noise and the celebrating team behind him. And something in your chest did something it had been doing for weeks that you had been declining to acknowledge, and this time you let it do it, just a little, just enough to feel the shape of it.
"We're going to the common room," he said. "The whole team. Fred will make it insufferable." He tilted his head. "Come with me."
"George—"
"Come," he said again, quieter. "Please."
The please. Always the please.
"Okay," you said.
---
You slipped away from the common room celebration after an hour — it was loud and warm and full of people, which was too much of everything at once and found yourself back at the pitch.
The stands were empty. Everyone had gone in. The sky had gone the colour of a bruise at the edges, that specific shade between afternoon and evening that made everything look like a painting that hadn't quite dried.
You sat at the end of the top row where you had watched the game, and it was quiet, and it was cold, and it was exactly what you needed.
You heard footsteps on the stairs.
"Fred said you disappeared," George said, appearing at the top of the steps.
"I wanted quiet."
"Right." He looked at the empty pitch for a moment. Then he came and sat beside you.
Close. Close in the way he had been close on the grass, without explanation, without making it a question. Just — close. Your thighs almost touching through your robes. The warmth of him a thing you could feel even through the cold air.
You looked at the pitch. He looked at the pitch. Neither of you said anything and it was comfortable in the particular way that only happened with people you had stopped performing for.
Then it started raining.
Lightly at first. Just a mist, the kind that crept in rather than fell. You pulled your scarf up. The mist became something more definite, small cold drops pattering against the wood of the stands.
George reached up and unclipped his outer cloak.
And then, without looking at you, without asking, without making it anything other than the most natural movement in the world, he pulled it over both of you.
You went very still.
It was warm under the cloak. Immediately, unreasonably warm, the kind that came from another person being close enough that you were sharing air and heat and the specific frequency of their breathing. The rain came down on the fabric above you and made a soft sound and the stands were dark and everything outside the cloak felt very far away.
You could feel him breathe.
You were going to lose your entire mind under this cloak on these empty Quidditch stands in the rain and there was nothing to be done about it.
"George," you said.
"Hm."
"What are you doing."
"It's raining."
"I noticed."
"You'd get wet."
"We're both under your cloak."
"Yes."
"That's—" you searched for the word. Found several. Used none of them.
---
The rain got heavier.
You pulled the cloak tighter. George adjusted without comment and you sat in the warm of it listening to the rain hit the stands.
"My mum used to tell me this story," you said. "Her and my dad, walking home. Not even properly together yet. It started raining out of nowhere and she was annoyed — she'd just done her hair."
George listened.
"My dad just stopped walking. Right in the middle of the street. Stood there with his arms out and held his hand to her." You smiled at the dark pitch. "She almost didn't take it. But she did. And he spun her around right there until she forgot she was annoyed and couldn't stop laughing."
"She knew then," George said.
"She knew then." You looked at your hands. "She told me that story every time it rained when I was little. Said that's what you look for. Someone who pulls you into the rain just to make you laugh."
He tilted his head toward you slightly. Just slightly. Enough that if you turned your head your faces would be very close.
You didn't turn your head.
But you didn't move away either.
"I'm glad you came," he said. Low, just above the sound of rain.
"Me too," you said.
Very small. Barely there.
But there.
Under the cloak, in the rain, on the empty Quidditch stands, something shifted between you like a page turning. Not a whole chapter. Not yet. Just a page.
But it was turning.
And this time you let it.
A/n: this fic is sponsored by delusion and lack of sleep
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst, slowburn
Wc:4k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 , Part 8, Part 9(Finale)
You had known for a while that Cecily was not always a good friend.
Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way that was easy to point at. It was smaller than that — the kind of thing you only noticed if you were paying very close attention, which you were, because paying close attention was the only thing you were actually good at.
It was the way she introduced you. This is my friend, never your name first. The way she borrowed your notes and forgot to say thank you and then complained when her grade was lower than yours. The way she said things like you're so lucky you don't care what people think and must be nice to be the smart one in that light breezy voice that meant she wasn't really listening to herself.
The way, when something good happened to her, she told you immediately, fully, in exhaustive detail.
The way, when something was hard for you, she listened for about two minutes and then found a way to bring it back to herself.
You had catalogued all of it quietly over six years and filed it under this is just how she is and kept going. Because she was also warm and she was also funny and she was also your best friend and people were complicated and you had decided a long time ago that you were not the kind of person who got to be difficult about things.
You were the quiet one. The patient one. The one who absorbed things and kept smiling and kept showing up.
That worked fine until it didn't.
It was a Tuesday. You had had a bad day in the particular invisible way that bad days happened to you — nothing dramatic, nothing anyone else would notice, just a low steady wrongness that had been sitting on your chest since morning. A failed quiz. A headache that wouldn't leave. The library chair still empty.
You came back to the dormitory wanting quiet.
Cecily was on her bed, glowing, ready to talk.
"He walked past me in the corridor today," she said, the moment you came through the door. "And he smiled. Like the specific smile, you know the one—"
"Mhm," you said.
You sat on your bed. You took your shoes off. You opened your bag to get your Potions textbook.
"And then at dinner he sat kind of near me, not right next to me but near, and Fred said something and we both laughed at the same time and our eyes met and—"
"Mhm."
"I think something's happening. Like actually happening. Don't you think something's happening?"
"Sure," you said.
"He looked at me three times at breakfast. I counted."
You opened your textbook. "Okay."
"And he remembered what I said last week about the Hogsmeade thing, so he must have been thinking about it—"
The headache pulsed. Your knuckles whitened slightly on the spine of the book.
"Can you just—" you stopped.
Cecily paused. "What."
You breathed. You were going to leave it. You were going to say nothing, the way you always said nothing, the way you had spent six years saying nothing and absorbing things and keeping the smile in place.
"Can you just stop talking about him for one second," you said.
It came out quiet. But it came out.
Cecily blinked. Then she laughed — not a mean laugh, a surprised one, the kind that assumed it was funny. "Oh my god. Just say you're jealous."
Something shifted in your chest.
Not cracked. Not broke. Just — shifted. Like something that had been held at an angle for a very long time finally dropped to level.
"Jealous," you repeated.
"It's okay if you are. I'd be jealous of me too." She said it easily. Warmly, even. Like it was a compliment she was offering you. "You've always been a bit—"
"A bit what," you said.
She paused. Something in your voice had caught her. "I just mean—"
"A bit what, Cecily."
Silence.
You stood up from your bed. You were not loud about it. You were not shaking. You were very calm in the way that things are very calm right before they're not.
"Six years," you said. "Six years I have helped you. With every essay, every boy, every plan, every outfit, every time you needed someone to do the background work so you could walk in looking perfect and get the thing. Six years I've stood slightly behind you and been the useful one and smiled about it." Your voice was completely level. "I rearranged my entire schedule for this. I made a list. I headbutted a table. I spent weeks engineering things for you and watching them not work the way I planned and doing it anyway because you sat on my bed and said please."
Cecily had gone very still.
"And you're going to sit there," you said, "and tell me to just say I'm jealous. Like that's all this is. Like the last six years of me being your background is just—" your voice almost broke on it, almost, you pulled it back "—jealousy."
"I didn't mean—"
"And for the record," you said, "I know you're prettier than me. I have always known that. You have never let me forget it and I have never once made you feel bad about it because I'm not that person. But I am so tired." Your hands were at your sides. Still. "I am so tired of being the one who gives things and doesn't get to want anything back."
The dormitory was very quiet.
Cecily looked at you for a long moment. And then something happened in her face that you had seen before, rarely, in the moments when she felt cornered — something that was not her best self, something that went for the throat.
"You want to know something," she said, her voice going flat and cold in a way it almost never did. "I wasn't actually that bothered about you helping me. You just — you were there, and you were good at the planning stuff, so." A small shrug. "I would have figured it out without you eventually."
You stared at her.
"And George and I are dating now," she said, lifting her chin. "He asked me properly. So the plan worked. You should be happy."
There was a roaring in your ears.
"You're welcome," you said, very quietly.
"I—"
You didn't hear the rest of it.
Something white and complete moved through you and your hand moved faster than your brain and the sound of it — palm meeting cheek — was very loud in the small dormitory and Cecily's head snapped to the side and for one full second neither of you moved.
Then she came at you.
And the quiet girl who stood in the background and smiled about things grabbed her by the collar and the next two minutes were something you would not be able to explain coherently later because there was no coherence in it, just years and years of things finally having somewhere to go.
The door burst open. Someone had heard.
Cedric Diggory got there first, face alarmed, long arms wrapping around you from behind and pulling. "Hey — hey—"
You were stronger than he'd expected. He stumbled.
Marcus Flint came through the door right behind him and grabbed your wrists — too hard, his grip crushing — and between the two of them they managed to pull you back and hold you there while another girl dealt with Cecily on the other side of the room.
"Let go," you said, flat.
"Are you going to—"
"Let go."
Cedric loosened his grip first. Marcus took a second longer, jaw set, looking at you like he was reassessing something. You straightened your cardigan. Your hands were shaking now. Your right knuckles were dark red where they'd connected with something during the struggle.
Across the room Cecily had her hand pressed to her face. She was not crying. She was looking at you like she had never seen you before.
Maybe she hadn't.
Professor McGonagall arrived three minutes later.
It was the first detention of your life.
---
Fred saw you on the way to the detention classroom.
He didn't say anything. He was leaning against the wall near the staircase and he saw you coming and he went very still and something moved across his face that was not his usual expression at all. Not the amused one. Not the theatrical one.
Just quiet, and sad, and like he had been expecting this and not wanted to be right about it.
You walked past him without stopping.
---
The detention room was empty except for you and the pile of tarnished goblets Professor Sprout had left with a note about polishing. You sat down. You picked up a cloth. You put it down.
You stared at the wall for an hour.
When it was over you didn't move. The other students filed out from their own detentions in the corridor outside, noise and footsteps fading, and you stayed in the chair with your arms folded on the table and your head dropped forward and you looked at the dark wood grain of the desk and felt completely hollow.
You heard footsteps.
"Go away Fred," you said, without looking up.
The footsteps didn't stop. They came all the way to your table. You heard the chair across from you scrape back.
And then two legs folded into your line of sight, and they were not Fred's.
You went very still.
Slowly, like it was costing you something, you lifted your head.
George Weasley sat across from you in the empty detention room with his elbows on the table and his eyes on your face and an expression that was so careful and so quiet that it made your chest hurt in a completely new way.
You stared at him.
"Go away," you said.
"No."
"George."
"No." He said it simply. Not a challenge. Just a fact. He wasn't going anywhere and he wanted you to know that before anything else happened.
You looked at the table. Your knuckles were bruised and dark on your right hand, your left wrist had a ring of red from where Marcus had grabbed you, and you had been staring at both of them for the last hour without really seeing them.
"I'm fine," you said.
"I didn't ask."
"I know you were going to."
"I wasn't, actually." He leaned forward slightly. "I was going to sit here until you looked at me properly."
You didn't look at him.
A silence stretched between you. Long and full of things.
"She told me," you said finally, to the table. "Cecily. She told me you two were dating."
Something shifted in the quality of the silence.
"Did she," George said. Very quiet.
"She said you asked her properly." You kept your voice even. Practiced. "So. I guess the plan worked after all." A small hollow sound that was supposed to be a laugh. "Mission success."
"Look at me," he said.
"I'd rather not."
"Please."
The please got you. It always got you, you had no defences against it, and you looked up.
George was watching you with an expression that was past careful now. Something rawer than that. Something that looked almost like it hurt him.
"I'm not dating Cecily," he said.
The air went out of the room.
"She said—"
"I know what she said." His jaw tightened slightly. "I didn't ask her out. I didn't say anything that was an asking out. We talked in Hogsmeade, I was friendly, I walked back toward the castle and she—" he stopped. Breathed. "She took something small and made it into something it wasn't."
You looked at him. "Why would she—"
"Because she could see something was happening," he said, steady, "and she wanted to close the door on it before it did."
You understood what he meant. You understood it immediately, in the part of you that had always understood things faster than was comfortable. Your eyes went back to the table.
"That doesn't—" you started.
"You believed it," he said. And for the first time there was something in his voice that wasn't just quiet. Something with an edge underneath it, not anger, but close to it. Close to frustrated. "Just like that. She said it and you believed it completely."
"Why wouldn't I—"
"Because—" he stopped. He pressed his mouth together. When he spoke again his voice was measured, he exhaled through his nose.
You said nothing.
"That's not how it works," he said. Low and direct. "Not for me. Not with you."
Your eyes were burning. You absolutely refused.
"George—"
"I'm not saying everything right now," he said quickly. "I know this isn't — I know tonight isn't the night for all of it. But I need you to know that I wasn't dating Cecily. It was never Cecily." He held your gaze. "Okay?"
You swallowed. "Okay," you said. Very small. You were kind of confused, but you brushed it off, too tired to deal with anything right now.
He held your gaze for one more second. Then his eyes dropped.
To your hand.
To your knuckles, dark and swollen on the table between you.
His expression changed.
Slowly, carefully, like he was moving around something that might startle, he reached across the table. His fingers wrapped around yours — gently, nothing like Marcus's grip, so gentle you barely felt the pressure and he turned your hand over and looked at it.
You watched him look at it.
He didn't say anything. He just looked, his thumb hovering just above the bruising without quite touching it, and his face was doing something so unguarded that you had to look away.
"I'm fine," you said.
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it."
"Your knuckles are bruised and your wrist—" he turned it slightly, saw the red marks from Marcus's fingers, and something went through his jaw. "Did someone grab you."
"They were pulling me back. It's fine."
"It's not—"
You pulled your hand back. Not because it hurt. Because the gentleness of his grip was doing something to you that you could not afford right now, not in an empty classroom after the worst evening of your Hogwarts career, not with your eyes already burning and your chest already open in ways you had not agreed to.
"Don't," you said.
He let you pull back. But he didn't move away. He stayed exactly where he was, elbows on the table, close enough that you could see the details of his face in the low light of the classroom.
"Okay," he said quietly.
The room was very still.
"Go back to your common room," you said. "It's late."
"Come with me."
"George."
"Not to Gryffindor." He almost smiled. Almost. "I'll walk you. That's all."
You looked at him for a long moment. At the careful steadiness of him. At the way he was sitting with you in an empty detention classroom at nearly ten at night because he had decided to, because nobody had made him, because that was apparently just a thing he did.
"Fine," you said.
---
You walked back in the quiet way. No plans. No redirects. No Cecily between you like a wall you'd built yourself.
Just you, and him, and the castle going dark around you.
At the barrel corridor he stopped.
"For what it's worth," he said, very quietly, not looking at you, looking at the wall, "I think what you did tonight—"
"Don't say it was brave," you said.
"I was going to say it was a long time coming."
You looked at the barrels. Your hand still ached. Your chest still ached. Everything ached in one way or another and you were too tired to sort out which part was which.
"Goodnight George," you said.
"Goodnight."
You went inside.
---
You sat on the edge of your empty dormitory, Cecily was somewhere else, with someone else, and for the first time in six years the room being empty felt like breathing and you looked at your bruised hand and thought about the way his grip had felt.
Like you were something worth being careful with.
You hadn't known what to do with it.
You still didn't.
But for the first time in a very long time, lying in the dark in the quiet of a room that was only yours tonight, you let yourself feel it without putting it away.
Just for a moment.
Just that.
The days after were strange.
You went back to your old system — head down, early to class, first out the door — except now it wasn't comfortable the way it used to be. It felt like hiding, which it was, and you had never had to admit that to yourself before.
---
You avoided the Great Hall at peak hours. You took longer routes to class. You sat with other Hufflepuffs you barely knew and stared at your food and told yourself this was temporary, just until things settled, just until the feeling of everything being exposed and raw and too close to the surface went away.
George was everywhere.
Not in the appearing out of nowhere way from before. In the way where you felt him notice you across a room before you'd even looked up. Where you'd turn a corner and catch the tail end of him already looking. Where you'd leave a classroom fast and hear Fred say something behind you and hear George not respond, just silence, just watching you go.
Fred told you about it on Thursday, appearing at your small corner table in the library with a look on his face like a man delivering news he had not signed up for.
---
"He set his Charms notes on fire yesterday," Fred said.
"Sorry?"
"You walked past the classroom window. He was watching you walk past and he did the wrong wand motion and his notes went up." Fred folded his hands on the table. "He's also been zoning out in every lesson, went to the wrong classroom twice, and this morning put salt in his tea instead of sugar and didn't notice for four sips."
You stared at him.
"I'm telling you this," Fred said, "because I am losing my mind living with him and I think you should know the level of damage you're doing by avoiding him."
"I'm not avoiding him."
Fred gave you a look so flat it could have been used as a table. "You left Herbology through the wrong door yesterday. It doesn't even lead anywhere, it opens into a broom cupboard."
You said nothing.
"He's not going to push you," Fred said, quieter now. "You probably know that. He's just—" he exhaled "—he's not great right now. And I say that as someone who finds the whole thing genuinely funny and is still somehow not finding it funny anymore."
You looked at your notes. You thought about empty detention classrooms and bruised knuckles and it was never Cecily said low and direct across a table.
"I don't know what to do with him, Fred," you said quietly.
"You don't have to do anything with him yet," Fred said. "Just — stop leaving through broom cupboards. That's all I'm asking."
---
You sat with your notes and your hands and the ache that had not gone away in four days and tried to figure out how to stop hiding from something when you weren't even sure what it was you were hiding from.
It was a Monday. Potions. You had made it through forty minutes without incident which was frankly impressive given the state of your hands — still slightly bruised, still shaking a little on bad mornings, still not entirely reliable in the way hands were supposed to be.
You were chopping dittany. The motion was fine. You were fine. You had your head down and your focus on the board and you were managing perfectly until George walked past your bench on the way to the supply cupboard and your eyes went to him without permission and your hand slipped.
The knife was shallow and fast and you hissed through your teeth and pulled your hand back and pressed your fingers together and thought, not again, please, not in front of everyone—
A hand closed around your wrist.
---
Not grabbing. Not Marcus's crushing grip. Just — closed, firmly, immediately, like reflex, like instinct, like he hadn't thought about it he'd just moved.
George turned your hand toward him.
The cut was small. A thin line across the pad of your palm, already beading red. Not serious. You knew it wasn't serious.
But he was looking at it like it was serious. Like it was something that required his full undivided attention, the same attention he gave to things he found genuinely important.
The table had gone quiet. You could feel people looking.
"It's fine," you said, under your breath. "It's nothing, let go—"
He reached into his robe pocket with his free hand. Pulled out a cloth — just a regular cloth, soft, slightly worn, the kind you carried for potion spills — and pressed it gently to your palm.
And then, with his thumb, so carefully that you felt it more than you saw it, he pressed the cloth against the cut and held it there.
You tried to pull back.
"Hold still," he said.
Quiet. Not a request. Not an order. Just two words, low and close, and they landed somewhere in the centre of your chest and pinned you completely in place.
You held still.
The whole table was watching. You could feel it. Professor Slughorn had paused somewhere behind you. Nobody was chopping anything.
George was not looking at any of them. He was looking at your hand, his thumb moving in the smallest careful press against the cloth, and his face was so close to yours that you could see the details of it, the concentration in his brow, the way his jaw was set with the particular focus of someone doing something that mattered to them.
Your heart was so loud you were certain he could hear it.
"George," you said. Very quietly.
"It needs a minute," he said, not looking up.
"People are—"
"I know."
"You should—"
"I know." He looked up then. And you were close enough that it was just his face and yours and nothing else, and his eyes were on you with that look, the unhurried certain one, and there was nothing behind it that he was trying to hide. "I know," he said again, softer. "Hold still."
You held still.
The cut was small. It had probably stopped bleeding already. Neither of you mentioned that.
He lifted the cloth slowly. Looked at the cut. Looked at you.
"Better," he said.
You nodded. You looked at your palm. You didn't trust your voice to produce words in any reliable order.
He let go of your wrist. Slowly. His fingers uncurled one at a time and you felt each one and you looked at the workbench and reminded yourself how to breathe.
Behind you, Professor Slughorn cleared his throat.
"Right then," he said, in the voice of a man who had seen many things in forty years of teaching. "Back to your places, everyone."
The table unfroze. Chopping resumed. Someone two benches down let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
You stared at your cutting board.
George picked up his knife and went back to his bench, and you did not look at him for the rest of the lesson. He did not say anything else; the cloth was still in your hand, slightly warm, and you did not put it down.
Maybe there was something between you two.
A/n: heyyyy posted late again cause of sch...sryyy
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst
Wc:3k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 , Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (Finale)
It worked.
That was the thing you kept reminding yourself. The plan worked. George started paying more attention to Cecily actually paying attention, turning toward her in conversations, asking her questions, laughing at the right moments and Cecily was radiant with it in the way she was radiant with everything, fully and completely and without any awareness of the space she was taking up.
You just hadn't expected it to feel like this.
It started small. George at breakfast, sitting closer to Cecily than before. George in the corridor asking if she'd done the Charms reading. Small things. Normal things. The exact things you had been engineering for weeks and failing at, now happening on their own.
Cecily noticed immediately. Of course she did.
She floated back to the dormitory that first evening with her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright and said "he asked me about Hogsmeade" in a voice that was trying very hard not to be a shriek.
"That's great," you said, from behind your textbook.
"He just — asked. Casually. Like it was nothing."
"That's great, Cec."
"You were right." She dropped onto your bed and hugged you from the side, warm and genuine and completely unbothered by the fact that you had gone slightly stiff. "You're always right. I should have listened to you from the beginning."
You smiled at your textbook. "I told you."
"You told me." She sighed happily. "He's so—"
"Great," you said. "He's great."
She didn't notice the way you said it.
She had already started talking about what she was going to wear.
The uneasy feeling came on slowly, the way bad weather comes — not all at once, just a gradual heaviness that you kept telling yourself was something else. Tiredness, maybe. A long week. Nothing worth naming.
You named it anyway, in the quiet of your own head, alone in the library on a Wednesday that George didn't come to anymore.
Jealous.
You were jealous of your best friend and it was the most shameful feeling you had ever had and you pressed it down so hard it should have disappeared and it didn't.
Because here was the thing about Cecily — the thing you had always known and always quietly lived with — she didn't just like George now. She consumed him. Every conversation in the dormitory was about George. Every meal was about whether she'd see George. She stopped asking about your essays, stopped noticing when you were quiet, stopped doing the thing where she'd drag you into her warmth even when you didn't ask for it.
She had other friends. She had always had other friends, a wide easy orbit of people who loved being near her, and she moved back into that orbit now with George as the new fixed point and you as — what you had always been.
Useful. Past tense.
She didn't need you to help anymore. She had what she wanted.
And you sat in the library on Wednesday afternoons with the chair across from you empty and told yourself this was fine. This was right. This was exactly what you had worked for.
The touching was the part that was hardest to watch.
Cecily had always been tactile — easy with hugs, quick to touch an arm, comfortable in ways you never were — but with George it became something deliberate. A hand on his arm when she laughed. Leaning into his shoulder to look at something. Standing just slightly too close in corridors in a way that required him to notice her physically.
George bore it all with the same easy friendliness he had for everyone. He didn't pull away. He didn't encourage it either, you noticed, in the part of yourself you were trying very hard to shut up. But he didn't pull away.
You watched from across rooms and across tables and from slightly behind the way you always watched things, and you smiled when Cecily looked at you, and you said the right things, and you were very very good at all of it.
At night you lay in your bed and stared at the ceiling and felt the shape of something in your chest that had no comfortable name.
It wasn't just jealousy. Jealousy was wanting what someone else had.
This was something older. The specific grief of someone who had spent so long believing they didn't deserve a thing that they had handed it directly to someone else with both hands and then had to stand there and watch.
You had done this.
You had built every step of it.
You turned over and faced the wall and went to sleep.
Cecily came back from their first proper outing — not a date, she insisted, just Hogsmeade, just the two of them, just casual — with a smile that took up her whole face.
"It was so good," she said, dropping onto her bed, shoes still on. "He's funny, like actually funny in person, not just—"
"I know," you said.
"We talked for two hours. Just talked. I didn't even notice the time."
"That's really good, Cec."
"He walked me back to the entrance." She pressed both hands to her face. "He said he had a good time."
"Good," you said. "That's good."
She rolled over to look at you. "Are you okay? You look tired."
"I'm fine. Long day."
"You should sleep." She was already turning back over, already back inside the warmth of her own happiness. "Thank you by the way. For all of it. The plans and the pushing and everything. You're the best."
"Don't mention it," you said.
And you meant that.
Please. Don't mention it.
You lay there for a long time after her breathing evened out, staring at the curtains of your four poster, listening to the quiet of the dormitory. The other girls were asleep. Everything was still.
Your chest was not still.
It was doing the thing where it pressed against your ribs from the inside, a dull persistent ache that had been building for weeks and had finally run out of room to be politely ignored. You breathed through it. You were good at breathing through things.
Tonight it wasn't enough.
You got up. Put on your shoes. Wrapped your cardigan around you and slipped out of the dormitory without making a sound.
The grounds at night were cold and dark and completely empty, which was exactly what you needed.
You had snuck out without a destination. Just out. Just away from the dormitory and Cecily's sleeping face and the warmth of a happiness you had made for someone else with your own two hands.
You ended up near the edge of the courtyard where the old oak trees lined the path toward the lake. You stood there for a while doing nothing, just breathing the cold air, letting it settle the thing in your chest a little.
It didn't settle.
You thought about George asking Cecily about Hogsmeade. Casually. Like it was nothing. The exact thing you had been pushing him toward for weeks and somehow when it actually happened it felt like the floor had dropped out of something.
You thought about the library chair across from you. Empty now on Wednesdays. He had stopped coming and you hadn't said anything because what would you say. Come back. Come sit across from me. Stop paying attention to my best friend the way I told you to.
You thought about you should stop talking about yourself like that said quietly into a corridor like it had been sitting in him.
You thought about none of it meaning anything.
About how you had decided, a long time ago, that you were the background. That you were the helper. That the story always ended with Cecily getting the thing and you standing slightly to the left smiling about it. That was just how it worked. That was just how you worked.
You drew your foot back and kicked the tree.
Hard.
It hurt. Your toes screamed. You didn't care.
"Stupid," you muttered, to the tree, to yourself, to the whole situation. "This is so stupid. This is fine. This is what you wanted. You wanted this."
You kicked it again.
"She's your best friend. She's happy. That's the whole point. That was always the point. You don't get to—" another kick, smaller this time because your foot genuinely hurt "—you don't get to feel like this. You don't get to."
You leaned your forehead against the bark of the tree.
"You handed it to her," you said, very quietly, to no one. "You built every single step. You don't get to be sad about it."
The grounds were silent.
And then, from somewhere behind you, a quiet sound.
A small laugh. Low and immediately swallowed, like someone had tried to hold it in and failed.
You spun around.
George Weasley was standing at the edge of the courtyard path, hands in his pockets, looking at you with an expression that was trying to be neutral and not quite getting there. Like he had been there for longer than you'd want him to have been. Like he had heard things.
Like he had heard everything.
Your face went so hot so fast it was almost impressive given how cold the air was. You straightened up from the tree. You opened your mouth.
"How long," you said.
"Long enough," he said, carefully. The almost-laugh was gone now. His voice was quiet. His eyes were on your face in that way they had — that steady, unhurried way that made you feel like the only thing in the world he was paying attention to.
You turned back to the tree. "This didn't happen."
"Okay."
"You didn't see anything."
"Okay."
"I was just—" you gestured vaguely at the tree "—the bark was bothering me."
"The bark," he repeated.
"It was in my way."
"Right." He took a few steps closer. Not all the way. Just enough that you could hear him clearly, that you couldn't pretend he was far away. "Are you okay."
"Fine."
"You just kicked a tree three times and told it you didn't get to feel things."
The back of your eyes went hot. You absolutely refused to acknowledge that. "I was venting."
"To a tree."
"Trees are non-judgmental."
"I'm not judging you either."
"You laughed."
"I—" a pause "—that was involuntary. I'm sorry." He wasn't sorry. You could hear it. But it wasn't the cruel kind of not sorry, it was the kind where something had caught him off guard and he hadn't been able to help it. "Why are you out here."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Why."
You said nothing. The cold air moved between you. The grounds were completely quiet except for the distant sound of the lake.
"Why are you out here," you said instead.
"Couldn't sleep either," he said.
You glanced at him then, sideways, just briefly. He was looking at the tree like it had also offended him somehow. His jaw was set in a way you had seen before — the tight careful way he looked when he was holding something in.
"How was Hogsmeade," you said.
The words came out before you could stop them. Flat and quiet and a little bit terrible.
George looked at you.
"Fine," he said.
"Just fine."
"Just fine." He held your gaze. "She's great. Cecily. She's easy to be around."
"I know," you said. "I've known her for six years."
"Yeah." He looked at the ground. "She talked about you a lot, actually."
That surprised you. "What?"
"The whole time. Things you'd said. Things you'd helped her with. How you'd been planning the whole—" he gestured "—all of it. For her." He paused. "She said you were the best friend she'd ever had."
Something cracked very quietly somewhere in your chest.
"That's—" your voice came out smaller than you wanted "—that's good."
"Is it."
"She means it. When she says things like that she means it."
"I know she does." George took another step closer and you didn't move away and you didn't move toward him and the space between you felt charged in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. "She spent two hours talking about you," he said quietly. "Her best friend who's so quiet but so smart and so good at everything and so—" he stopped. Something worked through his expression. "I couldn't tell her."
"Tell her what."
He looked at you. The full direct look. The one you could never figure out what to do with.
"That I spent the whole time wishing it was you sitting across from me instead."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing you had ever heard.
Your heart was doing something genuinely alarming. You looked at the tree. You looked at the ground. You looked at anywhere that wasn't his face.
"George—"
"I know," he said. "I know what you're going to say."
"She's my best friend."
"I know."
"She really likes you."
"I know that too." His voice was even. Tired in the specific way of someone who had been patient for a long time. "None of that changes what I just said."
You pressed your lips together. Your eyes were doing something you were furious about. You turned your face slightly away and blinked hard and got yourself back under control.
"You should go back inside," you said. "It's cold."
"So should you."
"I will in a minute."
"I'll wait."
"George."
"I'll wait," he said again, simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You stood beside the tree you had kicked three times and said nothing. He stood a few feet away with his hands in his pockets and said nothing either. The lake was dark in the distance. The castle lit the sky behind you in a warm gold that didn't quite reach where you were standing.
You breathed.
You didn't get to feel this. You had told yourself that. You had been very clear about it.
But he had wished it was you sitting across from him.
He had said it out loud, in the dark, to you and the tree and the empty grounds. Not because you'd asked. Not because you'd engineered it. Just because it was true and he had decided you should know.
You didn't know what to do with it.
You didn't know what to do with any of it.
"I'm going back inside," you said finally.
"Okay," he said, and fell into step beside you without being asked, the way he always did, the way you had stopped being surprised by.
You walked back to the castle in silence. At the entrance he held the door and you went through and the warmth of the corridor wrapped around you and you stopped and turned to look at him properly for the first time since the courtyard.
He looked back. Steady. Unhurried.
Waiting.
"Goodnight George," you said.
Something moved through his face. Not disappointment exactly. More like someone folding something carefully and putting it away for later.
"Goodnight," he said.
You walked back to the Hufflepuff basement. You knocked the correct barrel on the first try for once. You went inside and sat on the edge of your bed and listened to Cecily breathing softly in the dark and felt the shape of the evening settle over you like something heavy and true.
He had wished it was you.
And you had said goodnight.
Because Cecily was asleep three feet away with a smile still on her face from a day she didn't know she hadn't really had.
And you were her best friend.
And you didn't get to feel this.
You lay back and closed your eyes and for a very long time, in the dark and the quiet, you almost believed it.
---
Cecily laughed loudly enough that several people turned to look. She didn’t care. She never cared.
George liked that about her.
He really did.
“You know who would’ve loved it?” Cecily asked.
George looked down at his plate.
“She would’ve pretended not to,” Cecily continued happily. “But later she’d imitate McGonagall’s face and nearly kill me.”
George couldn’t help smiling again.
Across the table, Fred noticed immediately.
Oh no.
Fred’s eyes flicked between George and Cecily once.
Then past Cecily entirely.
Toward you sitting farther down the Hufflepuff table.
George looked away too late.
Fred’s expression changed instantly into something dangerously knowing.
George kicked him under the table.
Fred looked delighted.
“You alright there, Georgie?” Fred asked innocently.
“Perfect,” George said flatly.
“Mhm.” Fred took a bite of toast. “Interesting choice of person to stare at while on a date.”
George nearly choked.
Cecily blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” George said quickly.
Fred smiled playfully.
Across the hall, you were helping a first year open a jammed ink bottle, completely unaware.
George looked away before he could get caught again.
The guilt sat sharp and awful beneath his ribs the entire night.
Because Cecily kept smiling at him like this was becoming something real.
And George kept trying — honestly trying to make it real back.
But every time he laughed, every time he turned instinctively looking for someone else’s reaction, every time your name entered a conversation and his entire attention sharpened without permission—
he understood the truth a little more.
Not Cecily.
Never Cecily.
And somehow that realization only made him feel crueler.
---
At first, Cecily only acted different around the edges.
More impatient.
More easily irritated.
Like everything you did lately somehow annoyed her without her fully understanding why.
You tried not to take it personally.
But Cecily had never been good at hiding her feelings. Everything she thought passed across her face immediately — joy, annoyance, jealousy, boredom. She lived openly inside every emotion she had.
And lately, she’d started looking at you like you were inconveniencing her.
It happened most when George was around.
One afternoon in the courtyard, you arrived carrying three books against your chest just as Cecily burst into laughter beside George.
“There she is,” George said automatically when he spotted you.
The smile that crossed his face was quick.
Instinctive.
Cecily noticed immediately.
“Oh good,” she sighed dramatically. “Now maybe she’ll actually speak.”
You blinked. “What?”
“She’s been acting miserable for like two weeks,” Cecily told George casually, as if you weren’t standing there. “Honestly, I’m exhausted.”
Your stomach twisted.
George frowned slightly. “Cec.”
“What?” Cecily laughed. “I’m serious. She just sits there staring into space all day lately.”
You shifted the books higher in your arms.
“Sorry,” you murmured.
And somehow that only seemed to irritate her more.
“See? That!” Cecily threw her hands up. “You do that weird sad little voice like someone just kicked a puppy.”
George’s expression changed immediately.
Sharp around the edges now.
“She said sorry.”
Cecily looked at him, surprised.
Then at you.
Something ugly flickered across her face before disappearing again.
“Right,” she said lightly. “Forget it.”
But she didn’t.
After that, she started making little comments constantly.
“Oh my god, can you stop apologizing for five minutes?”
“You know people can’t read your mind when you go all quiet like that.”
“Honestly sometimes talking to you is like pulling teeth.”
They weren’t cruel enough to sound cruel in front of other people.
That was the problem.
Because every time you looked hurt, Cecily would immediately act confused.
“What? I’m joking.”
Like you were too sensitive for noticing.
George started noticing too.
That made everything worse.
At dinner one evening, you reached for the pumpkin juice at the exact same time Cecily did.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” Cecily sighed, letting go dramatically. “Can you stop hovering around me?”
Your hand froze.
“I wasn’t—”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted quickly. “You don’t mean to. Forget it.”
But people nearby had already gone quiet.
George stared at Cecily.
“Bit harsh,” he said flatly.
Cecily immediately got defensive.
“Oh my god, are you serious? She knows I’m kidding.”
You nodded too quickly.
“It’s fine.”
Your heart was actually burning right now; you were on your last straw.
A/n: posted later than usual...sry guysss, wrote little more
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst
Wc:2k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9(Finale)
The bruise faded after four days.
You had decided, somewhere between day two and day three of pressing a cold cloth to your forehead, that you were done. Done with the plans, done with the problems, done with putting yourself in the path of someone who made your brain stop working at inconvenient moments.
You were going to tell Cecily it wasn't working. That she should just talk to him herself, directly, like a normal person. That you were done being the mechanism.
You had the whole speech prepared.
Then Cecily sat on the edge of your bed with her chin in her hands and said "please" in the small voice she only used when she actually meant it, and the speech dissolved.
"I just need one more push," she said. "Just one. He's so hard to read and I don't know if he's interested and you're so good at this stuff, you notice things, you always know—"
"Cecily—"
"Please." She looked at you with her big eyes and her genuine hope and you thought about how long you'd known her. First year. The vinegar barrel. Every bad day in between. "You're my best friend. You're the only one who actually helps."
You looked at the ceiling.
"Fine," you said.
She squealed and hugged you and you patted her back and stared at the ceiling and thought about the way George had said stop in the corridor like he was tired of a sentence, and the way your heart had done something very stupid about it, and you put both of those things away in the drawer you kept locked and decided firmly that your own feelings were not relevant here.
They had never been relevant.
Cecily needed you. That was what mattered.
You got out your notebook and wrote Operation Cecily at the top of a new page.
---
The plan, on paper, was perfectly reasonable.
You had made a list. An actual list, written small and neat in the back of your Potions notebook where nobody would find it, titled Operation Cecily in handwriting you'd immediately tried to make less embarrassing. Three stages. Clear objectives. Very little room for error.
Stage one: manufactured proximity. Meals near the Gryffindor table, study sessions in shared spaces, accidental corridor run-ins timed with Cecily conveniently nearby. Simple. Clean. Deniable.
Stage two: highlight Cecily's best qualities at every opportunity. Her laugh, her warmth, her very complete and total prettiness. Make George see what was already obvious to everyone else.
Stage three: step back and let nature take its course.
It was a good plan.
It started falling apart almost immediately.
---
Fred noticed a pattern before you'd even reached stage two.
He appeared at your library table on a Wednesday with a piece of parchment and a look of deep scholarly interest, sat down across from you without asking, and slid the parchment across.
On it he had written, in descending order:
The Matchmaking Plans of the Hufflepuff Girl, Ranked.
1. The library ambush (Week One) — Ambitious. Showed promise. Grade: Tragic.
2. The Herbology seating — Not your fault, technically. But you leaned into it. Grade: Embarrassing.
3. The Great Hall migration (ongoing) — She sits near us and stares at her food while Cecily chats up the wrong twin. Grade: Catastrophic.
You read it. "The wrong twin," you said.
"Cecily's been talking to me," Fred said pleasantly. "Not George. For three meals running. She laughs at all my jokes, which frankly is good taste but probably not helping your agenda."
You looked down the table. Cecily was indeed talking to Fred, touching his arm when she laughed, her face bright and beautiful and aimed in entirely the wrong direction.
He took your quill, added a fourth entry;
4. Whatever she tries next — God help her. Grade: Pending. He slid the parchment back. "Lee Jordan has a bet running, by the way."
You stared at him. "A bet on what."
"On how long before George stops being polite about all this." He stood, tucking the chair in. "The odds are before the end of the month. I personally said sooner." He straightened his robes. "Don't tell George I said any of this."
"Why not."
"Because he'd be annoyed that I find it funny." He smiled. "I find it very funny."
He left. You sat with the ranked list and felt, for the first time, genuinely stupid about the whole thing.
---
The study session was supposed to be clean and simple. Your table, Saturday morning, George and Cecily and you, proximity doing the work.
George arrived early. Of course he did. He sat across from you and for a few minutes it was just the two of you and the quiet scratch of quills and you keeping your eyes very carefully on your parchment.
"You don't have to keep doing this," he said, without looking up.
"Doing what."
"The setups." He turned a page. "I know what you're doing."
"I'm studying."
"You scheduled this and then told Cecily." He said it plainly. No accusation. "I know because Fred told me. Fred tells me everything eventually." A pause. "You don't have to keep doing it."
Your quill stopped moving. "She likes you."
"I know she does."
"So why—"
"Because liking someone isn't—" He stopped. Chose different words. "It doesn't work like that."
You looked at your parchment. The silence sat between you, careful and heavy.
"She's good," you said. "She's really good. If you just gave her a proper chance—"
"You're doing it again," he said softly.
You pressed your lips together. You knew what you were doing. You just couldn't stop.
Cecily arrived perfectly on time, green top, warm smile, and George smiled back and was perfectly kind and said all the right things, and you watched his face the whole time. The way his expression stayed pleasant but level. The way he answered her questions without leaning in. The way, ten minutes into the session, he asked you something about Transfiguration almost involuntarily, like he couldn't help it, like you were a gravity he kept falling toward without meaning to.
You answered. You always answered. And when you looked up his eyes were already on you and they had that look — the warm, certain, unhurried one and you looked back down at your parchment and felt the butterflies you weren't supposed to feel do something violent in your stomach.
Cecily's smile stayed perfectly in place the whole time.
---
George started sabotaging things somewhere around week three, though you didn't realise that was what he was doing at first.
The first sign was the accidental meeting you'd engineered in the corridor by the Charms classroom — Cecily coming from the left, George from the right, you having done the timing carefully. George arrived early, found you waiting alone, and stopped.
"What are you doing," he said.
"Nothing. I'm just standing here."
"You're standing here very specifically."
"I like this corridor."
"You hate this corridor. You said the torches flicker and it gives you a headache."
You had said that. Three weeks ago.
"I've changed my mind about the corridor," you said.
George looked at you for a moment. Then he said, "Let's go this way instead," and started walking down the left branch — the one Cecily was coming from — and you said "no, wait—" and grabbed the first thing you could reach, which was his tie, and pulled.
He stopped.
You had not planned to do that. Your hand was wrapped in the fabric of his Gryffindor tie, which meant you were close, suddenly, closer than you'd been since the Herbology bench, and he had turned back to look at you and the look on his face was not the usual amused one.
It was something quieter.
Something that made it very hard to remember what you had been trying to do.
"She's coming from that direction," you said. Quiet. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. "Just — wait. Please."
He looked at your hand on his tie. Then at your face. Something worked through his expression that you couldn't follow.
"Okay," he said, very softly.
You let go. Stepped back. Looked at the wall.
Cecily came around the corner thirty seconds later and her face lit up when she saw George and he was perfectly warm and perfectly friendly and said all the right things, and you stood slightly behind them both and watched it happen the way you always watched things happen and told yourself this was right. This was the point.
Later, Fred told you George had walked the long way to every class for a week to avoid the corridors you'd been timing.
"He's not making it easy for you," Fred said, not without sympathy.
"He's just busy," you said.
Fred looked at you like you were the saddest person he'd ever met.
---
George came back to the common room later than usual.
Fred was already there, feet up on the table, eating the last of a bag of Bertie Bott's with the relaxed energy of someone who had been waiting for exactly this.
"How was the walk," Fred said, not looking up.
"Fine."
"Just fine."
"Just fine." George dropped into the armchair across from him and stared at the fire.
Fred ate a bean. Made a face. "Earwax." He put the bag down. "She redirected you to Cecily the whole way back didn't she."
"Three times," George said. "She mentioned Cecily three times in a ten minute walk."
"Classic." Fred folded his arms. "So. Cecily."
"What about her."
"She likes you."
"I know."
"She's pretty."
"I know."
"She's funny, warm, very easy to be around—"
"Fred."
"I'm just listing the facts." He shrugged. "Her friend has been working very hard for weeks to get you two in the same room. Multiple plans. Significant personal sacrifice. She headbutted a table over it."
"That wasn't—"
"It was related." Fred looked at him. "So why not just — try it. With Cecily. She's right there, she's keen, it would make everyone happy."
George was quiet for a moment. "Everyone."
"Her friend especially. That's clearly what she wants."
"I know what she wants." George's voice was even. "She wants me to like Cecily so she can go back to being invisible. So she can stand in the background and be useful and not have to think about the fact that someone might actually—" He stopped.
Fred watched him.
"She's decided she doesn't count," George said quietly. "That's the whole thing. She's so convinced that Cecily is the one people choose that she can't even — she won't even let herself consider anything else. So every time I'm near her she hands me straight to Cecily because that's the only version of this she believes in."
Fred was quiet for a moment. "And Cecily."
"Cecily's great," George said simply. "She's perfectly lovely. And I feel nothing."
"Nothing."
"Nothing." He turned his ring over on his finger. "I've tried, Fred. I've sat next to her, I've talked to her, I've given it a genuine chance because I thought maybe it would just — happen. Maybe it would make things simpler." He exhaled. "It doesn't happen. It's not her."
Fred looked at the ceiling. "This is deeply inconvenient."
"I'm aware."
"So what are you going to do."
"Probably give Cecily a last shot..Maybe I would change my mind about everything."
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst
Wc:3k-4k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9(Finale)
It started feeling strange around the third time.
The first time George sat across from you in the library you thought coincidence. The second time, maybe he just liked that corner. By the third time you were sitting there genuinely wondering if you had somehow done something to deserve this, because you were a person people walked past. You were furniture. You were background.
And yet there he was. Again. Pulling out the chair like he'd booked it.
You looked up.
He looked back. "Hey."
"Why," you said.
He blinked. "Sorry?"
"Why are you here. Again. There are forty other seats."
"I like this one."
You stared at him. He stared back, completely unbothered. You looked back at your essay because you had no idea what to do with a person who said things like that with a straight face.
For ten minutes you said nothing. You were going to be normal about this. You were going to write your essay and he was going to sit there and it was going to be completely fine.
"Do you actually like Potions," he said, "or just good at it."
You didn't look up. "Like it."
"Why."
"It's fun."
"Meaning."
You put your quill down. "Meaning if you follow the steps and pay attention it works. It doesn't randomly decide to do something unexpected. It's reliable."
"Unlike people," he said.
You pointed at him. "I did not say that."
"I did." He tilted his head. "Am I wrong?"
"I'm not having this conversation."
"That's basically a yes."
"It's a no comment."
"From you that's the same thing." He was smiling. You could see it without looking directly at him and it was extremely irritating. "What else do you like."
"What?"
"Besides Potions."
You frowned at your parchment. Nobody asked you that. Not really. "Reading."
"Obviously."
"What does that mean, obviously."
"You're here every day."
"I could be here for other reasons."
"Are you."
"No," you said. "But theoretically."
He laughed. Quiet and warm. You cleared your throat.
"Cecily likes reading too actually," you said. "She reads a lot. You two would probably have loads to talk about."
A beat.
"Does she," George said.
"Yes. She's very — well-read. Interesting. Lots of opinions."
"Right." He flipped a page. "You bring her up a lot."
"She's my best friend."
"Every time I ask about you, you give me Cecily."
Your face went warm. "I'm just saying she's great."
"I'm sure she is." He said it like that was a perfectly fine thing to hear and also completely beside the point. "What do you like to read."
You paused. He hadn't moved on to Cecily. He'd just — stepped around her and come straight back to you. You weren't sure what to do with that.
"History," you said finally. "Real history. Not the textbook kind."
"What's the difference."
"Textbook history is just dates. Real history is about why people did things. What they were thinking. What they got wrong." You stopped. That was more words than you usually said in a sitting. "Anyway."
George was looking at you with an expression you didn't know what to do with. Not pity. Not surprise. Something more like — interest. Actual interest. The kind that made you want to slide under the table a little.
"Anyway," he agreed, and went back to his book.
But he was still smiling.
---
Wednesday. Fred came too, which made things louder but slightly easier to manage because Fred talked enough that you didn't have to.
"She speaks," Fred announced, pointing at you. "George told me. I didn't believe it."
"I speak," you said.
"In complete sentences?"
"When something is worth saying."
"George said you told him his questions were bad."
You looked at George. "I said I wasn't having the conversation."
"Same thing," George said.
"It is not the same—"
"What's the difference," Fred said.
"One is rude and one is a boundary."
Fred stared at you. Then he looked at George. "She said it with a completely straight face."
"She always does," George said.
"I'm right here," you said.
"We know," they both said at the same time.
Fred pointed at George. "You were right. She's—"
"Don't," George said.
"I was just going to say—"
"Fred."
Fred closed his mouth. You looked between them. "What."
"Nothing," George said, and looked at his textbook.
You narrowed your eyes. Neither of them elaborated. You decided this was a thread you were not going to pull on.
Then the library doors opened and Cecily walked in.
She spotted your table, clocked George, and did the hair thing. The casual-but-not-casual hair thing you had seen approximately fifty times in your life. She arranged her face into a pleasant surprise expression and walked over.
"Oh," she said. "Hi. Didn't know you'd all be here."
You had written her a note with the exact table number.
"Hey," George said easily. "Cecily, right?"
Her smile went up immediately. "You remembered."
"Course." He gestured to the seat beside him. "Sit down."
And she did, smoothly, like she'd been planning exactly that. Which she had. You looked at your essay.
"Fred," Fred said, to no one in particular.
"Hi Fred," Cecily said, already not looking at him, already turned toward George. "I love that jumper. Is it handmade?"
"Mum makes them. Every year, no exceptions."
"That's so lovely." She touched the sleeve briefly. Then she looked across the table at you with a smile that was perfectly warm. "You didn't tell me they'd be here."
"Didn't know," you said, which was technically true in the sense that you hadn't known Fred would be there.
"She never tells me anything," Cecily said to George, light and easy, like it was a charming little fact about you. "She's so quiet. You probably can't even get a word out of her, right?"
You kept your eyes on your essay.
"Actually she talks plenty," George said.
Cecily blinked. Just slightly. "Really."
"When she has something to say." A pause. "Which is more than you'd think."
Fred was looking very carefully at a point on the ceiling.
Cecily laughed — bright, easy, the kind that filled a room — and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I know, she's so smart. She's always been the smart one." She reached over and squeezed your arm. "I always tell her that. I'd be failing half my classes without her."
There it was. The compliment that was also a category. Smart. Helpful. Useful. Yours.
You smiled. "That's not true."
"It completely is." She looked back at George. "I basically can't function without her, she's so good at everything. I'm just the pretty one, she's the capable one." A little laugh. Self-deprecating in the way that wasn't really self-deprecating at all.
Under the table your knee bounced once and stopped.
George looked at you. Not at Cecily. At you, and it was brief but it was direct and there was something in it you couldn't name and didn't want to.
You looked at your essay. You wrote a sentence that made no grammatical sense and left it there.
They all left eventually. Fred first, then George, and Cecily walked out with him, laughing at something he said, her hand brushing his arm on the way through the door.
You stayed at the table for a few extra minutes.
Good, you told yourself. That's good. That's exactly what was supposed to happen.
You scratched out the sentence that made no sense.
The debrief happened that evening in the dormitory. Cecily came in glowing, dropped onto her bed, and stared at the ceiling like she was in a film.
"He's so funny," she said. "Like in person, up close, it's almost aggressive how funny he is."
"Good," you said from behind your textbook.
"And he's tall. I forgot how tall he was."
"Mhm."
"Did you see how he just — he's so comfortable, like he's never awkward about anything." She rolled onto her side. "I think it went well. Don't you think it went well?"
"Yes," you said.
You turned a page. "You should talk to him more. One-on-one. Without me and Fred there."
"Obviously." She stretched out luxuriously. "I'm going to ask him about Hogsmeade. Casually." She paused. "What should I wear when I ask him."
"Cecily it's a hallway conversation."
"Presentation matters." She looked over at you. "You wouldn't understand, you don't really think about that stuff."
You looked at her over the top of your textbook.
She said it so easily. Not mean. Just — true, in her world. You didn't think about that stuff. That was simply a given, the same way it was a given that she was the pretty one and you were the capable one and everyone had their lane.
"Wear the green," you said, and went back to reading.
"The green," she repeated, considering it. "You think?"
"Yes."
"Okay." She nodded, satisfied. "See, this is why I keep you around."
You smiled at your textbook. Small and practiced and exactly the right size.
---
The Herbology class was not your fault.
Mixed houses, third year onwards, which meant Gryffindors in your greenhouse on Thursdays, which meant George two rows behind you and you very carefully not turning around. You had your notes. You had your plant. You had a whole system for getting through this lesson without incident.
Then Professor Sprout put the partner list on the board and your name was next to his and the system collapsed entirely.
He moved to your bench without making it a thing, which you appreciated and also resented. He just sat down and got to work beside you like it was natural. Like you did this all the time. You handed each other things without talking much and it was fine. Easy in a way that felt dangerous.
"You're good at this," he said at some point, watching you pack the soil in correctly.
"It's just paying attention."
"Most people don't bother."
You didn't say anything to that. You kept your eyes on the plant.
The trouble started when he reached across you for the soil bag on your left. He wasn't thinking about it, you could tell — it was just the nearest thing and he needed it but he was close, suddenly, and he smelled like something warm and outside and your brain made the executive decision to stop functioning for approximately four seconds.
He pulled back.
You came back to yourself.
Your quill had rolled to the edge of the bench. You leaned down to get it.
The corner of the table introduced itself to your forehead with tremendous efficiency.
The sound it made was not small. The two students at the next bench turned around. You sat back up with your hand pressed above your eyebrow, eyes watering slightly, and the words coming out of your mouth were extremely quiet and extremely unladylike.
"Hey—" George was already turned toward you, hand half-raised. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," you said.
"You just—"
"I know what I just did."
He reached over and very gently moved your hand away from your forehead to look, and you let him because your brain had not yet resumed normal operations. His fingers were careful. Just the tips of them, tilting your head slightly toward the light coming through the greenhouse glass.
"You're going to bruise," he said.
"Great."
"Properly. It's already going a bit—"
"George."
"Right. Sorry." He let go. His hand dropped but he didn't look away for a second. "Were you distracted?"
The heat that climbed your face had nothing to do with the injury.
"By the plant," you said. "I was looking at the plant."
He was quiet. You could feel him deciding not to say something. "Okay," he said finally, and went back to the Puffapod, and you could see the corner of his mouth from where you were sitting and you hated it.
From two benches back, Fred's voice,"Did she just—"
"Leave it," George said, not even turning around.
You were going to have to live with this for the rest of your life.
---
That was the moment you decided, walking out of the greenhouse with a bruise forming above your eyebrow and your dignity somewhere on the greenhouse floor, that you needed to be more careful.
Not avoid him exactly. That would be noticeable, and noticeably strange, and Cecily would ask questions you didn't want to answer.
Just careful. More deliberate about redirecting. More consistent about remembering what you were actually doing here and why.
He had noticed Cecily first. You had facilitated that. That was the whole point.
You were the background. That was your role and you were good at it and it was fine.
---
He caught up with you before you'd made it to the castle steps.
"Hospital wing," he said.
"It's a bruise."
"A big one."
"I've had worse." You walked a little faster. He kept pace without any effort and you resented his legs deeply. "I'll get ice from the kitchens. They're right next to the Hufflepuff common room."
"The barrel one?" he said. "By the kitchens?"
You glanced at him, surprised. "You know about it?"
"Fred tried to find it once on a dare. Got doused." He paused. "Twice."
Despite everything, something almost like a smile crossed your face. "First year. Me too."
"You're kidding."
"I was nervous. I miscounted."
He looked at you with something soft in his expression and you looked away quickly because you couldn't afford that right now.
"Cecily could probably show you where it is," you said. "The common room. She'd — she'd like that actually, showing you around."
George slowed slightly. Not stopping.
"You're doing it again," he said, quiet.
"I'm just saying she—"
"I know what you're saying." He wasn't teasing now. His voice had gone a little more careful. "You do it every time."
You didn't say anything. There was nothing to say that wasn't too honest.
You were at the steps. You stopped and turned to face him properly, which was a mistake because he was looking at you with that direct, unhurried attention that made you feel seen in a way you genuinely did not know what to do with.
"Stop," he said. Not harsh. Just tired of the sentence.
You closed your mouth.
He looked at your forehead for a moment. The bruise. Then back at your eyes.
"Go get your ice," he said.
You nodded. You went up the steps. You didn't look back because you already knew he was watching and knowing that was already more than you could handle.
In the dormitory that night you lay on your bed with a cold cloth pressed to your forehead and thought about the way he'd said stop like he was tired, like he'd been listening to something for a while that he didn't quite believe and you pressed the cloth harder against the bruise and let the cold of it bring you back to something sensible.
He was just curious about you. That was all it was. You were quiet and strange and he was the kind of person who noticed things other people didn't, so he'd noticed you, and it would pass. It would pass once Cecily turned the full warmth of her attention on him properly. It always worked that way. Everyone always chose Cecily in the end.
You knew that.
You pressed the cloth a little harder.
You knew that.
A/n: wrote these instantly after seeing how much everyone like the first part! not proofread!
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst
Wc:3k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (finale)
Everyone noticed Cecily first.
Always. Without fail. You had accepted this the same way you accepted that the staircases moved and the food appeared at dinner. Its just one of those things that was true and not worth questioning.
Cecily was your best friend and she was, by every measurable standard, beautiful. Not in a complicated way. In a very simple, immediately obvious way that made boys forget what they were saying mid-sentence.
And you were, you.
Quiet. Careful. The kind of person who stood slightly behind Cecily in every conversation without meaning to. The kind of person who got through five years at Hogwarts by being easy to overlook. You didn't mind being looked at so much as you had no idea what to do with it when it happened, so you made sure it happened as rarely as possible.
It was a good system.
It was working fine.
And then Cecily had to go and develop feelings for George Weasley.
---
"He smiled at me," Cecily announced, dropping into the seat beside you at breakfast, immediately stealing your toast.
"In Transfiguration. George Weasley smiled at me."
"He smiles at everyone," you said. "It's sort of his whole thing."
"Not like this." She pressed her hand to her cheek. "This was different. This was a specific smile."
"You're describing a smile like it has subcategories."
"It does." She turned to look at you very seriously. "There's the polite smile, the jokey smile, the — "
"Cecily."
"— and then there's the one where they're actually looking at you, like really looking, and it's — " She fanned herself. "It was that one."
You glanced across the Great Hall. George was at the Gryffindor table arguing with Fred about something, gesturing widely, nearly knocking over a goblet of pumpkin juice. He caught it without even looking. Just reached out and steadied it mid-sentence.
You looked back at your porridge.
"So talk to him," you said.
"I can't just talk to him." She looked at you like you'd suggested she walk into the Black Lake. "He's — you know what he's like. He'd say something funny and I'd laugh too hard and it would be embarrassing and I'd have to transfer schools."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being realistic."
"Those aren't the same thing."
She slumped against you. "Help me. Please. You're so good at this stuff, you're calm, you don't get flustered, nothing rattles you."
You thought about how your brain went completely offline whenever anyone addressed you directly and how you had once walked into a door because a prefect said good morning to you.
"Sure," you said. "I'll help."
The plan was simple. Clean. Required zero conversation on your part.
You knew George and Fred camped out at the back corner of the library every Wednesday afternoon to work on their joke products. You knew this because you were in the library every Wednesday too — had been since second year — because it was the one place people left you alone.
You told Cecily to come return a book at half past three. Told her exactly which aisle to walk through. Told her to wear the blue top.
Then you sat down with your Potions notes and minded your business.
---
You were doing brilliantly at minding your business until someone sat down across from you and said, "You planned that, didn't you."
You grabbed your inkwell before it tipped. Your heart had relocated to your throat.
Fred Weasley was sitting across from you, chin in his hands, looking deeply entertained.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you said.
"The aisle your friend just walked through leads to exactly one place, and that place is our table." He picked up your quill. Examined it. Put it back. "Clever plan."
You gulped, you're heart racing.
"I suggested she return a book. That's all."
"Uh huh." He did not look convinced. He looked the opposite of convinced. "You know, we've been in the same year for five years."
"I know."
"Never spoken."
"I noticed."
"You're very — " he tilted his head " — compact. Conversation-wise."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't entirely a compliment."
"I know."
Fred laughed, surprised, like he hadn't expected that. He stood up, tucking the chair back in.
You sat very still. Then you turned back to your Potions notes and read the same sentence eight times.
---
Friday. The corridor outside Charms.
You had your head down, bag pulled close, moving fast because the Friday crowd made your skin feel wrong. You had a system — stay left, watch the gaps, don't make eye contact, be home free.
The system failed when someone fell into step beside you and just stayed there.
You looked up.
George Weasley. Hands in his pockets, walking like he had nowhere to be and all day to get there.
Your brain did something it did not have permission to do.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," you said, and immediately looked back at the floor.
"I'm George."
"I know who you are."
"Right." He sounded like that amused him. "You're in my Transfiguration class."
"Yes."
"You never talk in class."
"I talk when I have something to say."
"McGonagall called on you Tuesday. You answered in eleven words and then went completely silent again." A pause. "I counted."
You looked at him. "You counted my words."
"Fred talks too much," he said simply. "I started counting as a coping mechanism. Now I just do it."
You had no idea what to do with that information. You looked back at the corridor. The fork was coming up ahead — left for you, and then this conversation would be physically impossible to continue and you could go back to existing in peace.
"You were in the library on Wednesday," he said.
"I'm always there on Wednesdays."
"I know. You had your Potions book open." A beat. "Upside down."
The heat hit your face so fast it was almost impressive. "I was thinking."
"With the book upside down."
"It's a method."
"Is it a Potions method specifically or a general thinking method?"
"It's a — " You stopped. He was smiling. Not laughing at you, just — smiling, like he found you genuinely interesting, which was somehow worse. "Can you not."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing something."
He laughed — low and quiet, not Fred's big boom, something warmer and more contained and it landed right in the center of your chest and stayed there, which was absolutely not allowed.
You were at the fork. Left. Go left. Go left right now.
"You should talk to Cecily," you said. The words came out faster than you planned. "My friend. You know her — dark hair, always laughing? She's really fun, like actually fun, not just polite fun."
George blinked. "Okay —"
"She's your type," you continued, because apparently you had committed to this and there was no stopping now. "Like I genuinely think she's your type. She's funny, she laughs at everything, she'd actually keep up with you —"
"My type," he repeated slowly.
"Yes. And she loves Quidditch, she knows all the teams, you could talk about that for hours. And she's kind. Really kind. And she bakes, I don't know if that's relevant but she makes these incredible — anyway. The point is." You adjusted your bag strap. It did not need adjusting. "You should talk to her. Like, properly talk to her. I think you'd really like her."
George stared at you for a second.
"Did you just pitch your friend to me," he said, "like a business proposal."
"I was being helpful."
He pressed his lips together like he was physically trying not to smile and failing completely. "Right," he said. "Cecily. Got it."
"Right. So. You should — yeah." You pointed vaguely to the left. "I have to go."
"You're not late," he said. "We just got out of the same class."
"I have things. Other things."
"Things," he repeated slowly, like he was testing the word.
"Important things. Goodbye."
You turned left so fast you nearly walked into the wall. You recovered. You did not look back. You kept walking with your chin up and your face absolutely on fire and your heart making a lot of noise about something that was none of its business.
Behind you, George watched you go.
He was still smiling.
A/n: i just thought of the storyline an instantly wrote it cause ive been missing my pookie :3
Hii, I hope you’re having great day/night. I just wanted to say that I absolutely love your Aaron writing, especially Aaron Hotchner x single mom!reader. I read your requesting rules and I hope that this qualifies (I’m really sorry if it doesn’t), but I’ve been thinking about this concept for a while so I thought I’d give it a try. I absolutely adored how reader’s child always adored Hotchner but this time I was thinking what about reader’s daughter (around 4 or 5) who actually feels intimidated by Hotch (because you know this ‘scary bossman persona’) or maybe reader’s daughter that is not the biggest fan of Hotch and is possibly very sassy with him and is protective of her mum but reader and Hotch have this slightly flirty or like the very beginning of their relationship with a possibly fluffy/happy ending if that’s possible.
You really do feel bad knocking on Hotch's office door at 7:30 in the morning, for both your sleepy daughter and your formidable boss. He's a kind man, you know that with all of your heart, but to your tiny four-year old, he's tall, mean, and scary.
"Come in," Hotch calls, his voice muffled through the door. At the sound, your daughter curls tighter into your embrace, whining pitifully through the blanket that she's wrapped around her head.
"I know, Olivia," You hum, trying to soothe her nerves, "Just for a minute. You can sit on the couch, that's all."
She squirms in your hold while you open the door, smiling hesitantly when Hotch looks up from his paperwork to find you cradling your groggy daughter.
"She's got a cold, and the sitter cancelled," You lament, "And- uh, I need to use the bathroom."
You're constantly surprised at how strongly Aaron cares for children, because someone with his scowl doesn't seem the type. But his eyes flash with worry, and he leans back from his desk in his chair, "Do you think she'll let me hold her?"
Olivia writhes in your hold, a firm no.
"It's okay," You hum, kissing her head though it helps little, "It's okay, baby, I'm gonna put you on the couch, okay? Get cozy with your blanket," You hum, laying her on the cushions before she has the chance to curl her fingers into your blouse and never let go, "And just try to sleep, I'll be back in just a few minutes, okay?"
She moans something that sounds an awful lot like 'not okay!' but you can't afford to listen, not when your bladder is making its contents uncomfortably known.
"Okay, I'll- I'll be right back," You promise Hotch, straightening your clothes that were wrinkled by your clingy daughter, "I'm sorry about this, I'll make sure she's at home tomorrow."
"Don't worry about it," Hotch urges, "Go, I'll make sure she's okay."
"Thanks," You grin, exhaustion seeping over your features after the long, nearly sleepless night you'd had. You duck out of Hotch's office with no further delay, rushing over to the elevator bay and the bathrooms on the other side of it.
"Olivia," Hotch hums after a moment of silence where the little girl tries burrowing between his couch cushions to escape his presence, "Did your mommy give you medicine already?"
She's scared, but she's still polite.
"Yes," She calls, from inside of her blanket cocoon, but there's no further response.
"Alright," Aaron hums quietly, fingers fiddling awkwardly with his pen, "Do you want anything to eat or drink?"
"No."
'Okay. Just... let me know if you need anything, okay?" He calls, any foolish hope he'd had of connecting with the little girl seeping out of his chest when she doesn't answer.
--
Thirteen minutes. It takes you thirteen minutes to get through the line outside of the restroom, who knew this place would be so packed early in the morning? It takes you longer still to actually use the bathroom, and you're teetering on twenty minutes when you jog back up the stairs of Hotch's office to collect your sullen kid.
You don't bother knocking, too rushed to get inside and apologize for sticking Hotch with your sick, terrified toddler for almost half an hour, and to apologize to Olivia for abandoning her with the big scary man who tells you what to do all day.
But Hotch isn't displeased with your rather impolite and abrupt entrance, staying silent as he peers over the blanket hood that Olivia has fashioned for herself. She's held against his chest, her clammy face tucked against his tie. His arms hold her tight and close, and he bounces her ever-so-slightly up and down as he soothes her whiny cries.
"Your mommy's here," He hums, craning his neck down to peer at her, and you're still partially frozen in shock at seeing Olivia cradled up in the arms of the man she runs from at dinner parties, "Would you like to see her?"
Olivia's responsive whine is less-than-clear, neither a yes nor a no. But you advance anyways, eyes surely showcasing your surprise at Hotch's sudden success with your daughter. Upon closer inspection, her tiny hand is gripping his tie tightly, the way that she holds the collar of your shirt when she doesn't want you to let her go. She's all bundled up and sniffling against his chest, surely feeling the symptoms of her cold that the medicine didn't cover.
"My poor baby," You lament, leaning down to kiss her forehead. It puts your face tantalizingly close to Hotch's own, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't feeling some butterflies through your stomach at the sight of him bouncing your baby girl in his arms, "Will you come with me? We can go sit at mommy's desk, and you can go to sleep."
This time, you understand her response.
"No!" She whines, desperately burrowing further into Hotch's warm embrace, "I'm- tired!" She sobs, voice raw from crying, "I want to stay!"
Before you can figure out how to bargain her out of Aaron's arms and into your own he shushes her, leaning down to kiss her feverish temple like she's his own. The sight flips your stomach even further, and you're very glad Aaron can't read your mind at the moment.
"It's okay. You can stay here if you really want to. Are you sure?" He squeezes her to prompt a response, but the only one she gives is nodding her head and pressing her face into his tie.
"Hotch, I'm sorry-" You start, but he smiles kindly, warmly up at you.
"It's alright. I can keep her in here for a bit, if you want to get started for the day."
"But you've got work to do. And you might get sick," Your shoulders slump, because even though you're thrilled that Olivia has finally seemed to get over her Hotchnerphobia, you don't want to push your luck after being fifteen minutes late to retrieve your daughter that isn't supposed to be here in the first place.
"Easy paperwork," Hotch waves it off, smiling as Olivia readjusts her grip on his tie, "Just signatures, really. I've got time. Plus, if I'm gonna get sick, it'll probably be from Jack. He brings home germs from school all the time."
"That's their special talent," You muse, stroking a hand over Olivia's wispy hair, "If you're sure..."
"I'm sure, Y/N," Aaron nods, continuing to bounce her lightly in his arms with a fond grin while her eyes remain loosely shut, "I finally got her to like me - I'm not sure I'd be able to put her down if she did want to go with you."
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10
Word count: 1k
Pairning: Aaron Hotchner x Agent!reader
Summary: After a difficult case leads Y/n and Hotch to share a hotel room, an unexpected moment of intimacy unfolds when they wake up with Y/n nestled in Hotch's arms
A few weeks had passed since the soccer game, and the dynamic between you and Hotch remained mostly the same—professional, with those brief moments of warmth that neither of you ever dared to fully acknowledge. You told yourself that was for the best. There was no way you could risk letting your feelings grow, no matter how much you caught yourself thinking about him, especially when you were both working so closely on cases.
And then, this case came.
It was a hard one. The kind that weighed heavy on everyone’s shoulders. A series of brutal murders in a small town that had been tearing apart families, and the emotional toll had already left the team weary. By the time you all arrived at the hotel, exhausted from the day, you just wanted to collapse and sleep off the weight of it all.
But there was a hitch—the hotel was short on rooms. A large convention was in town, and when you all arrived to check-in, it became painfully obvious that there weren’t enough rooms for everyone to have their own.
Rossi, in his usual charming manner, secured his own room before anyone else could even blink, leaving the rest of you to share. JJ and Emily paired off immediately, as did Reid and Morgan, leaving you and Hotch to share the last room.
The tension was palpable as the two of you made your way down the hall to the room. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust each other—you were professionals, after all—but there was something undeniably awkward about the situation. You could feel Hotch’s presence next to you, the unspoken tension growing as you both remained silent.
When you opened the door and stepped inside, your heart dropped. One bed. Of course, there was only one bed.
Hotch stood next to you, his eyes scanning the room with the same calm, controlled expression he always wore, but you noticed the subtle shift in his posture. He was tense. As were you.
“Well,” you started, trying to lighten the mood, “this could be worse, right?”
He glanced at you, his lips pressing into a thin line before he nodded. “We’ll manage.”
You both called your kids, as usual. Hotch checked in with Jack, and you had your nightly conversation with Ava. It helped ease some of the awkwardness, grounding you both in the reality that you were parents, just trying to make it through the night like any other.
But when bedtime came, Hotch didn’t even hesitate. Grabbing one of the blankets and a pillow, he moved toward the floor, spreading it out at the foot of the bed.
You stared at him, frowning. “Hotch, what are you doing?”
He looked up at you, his face still perfectly composed, though there was a hint of discomfort in his eyes. “I’ll sleep here. I don’t want to make this… uncomfortable for you.”
You let out an exasperated sigh, crossing your arms as you stared down at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” he said simply, starting to settle down as if this were perfectly normal.
You took a step closer, shaking your head. “We’re both adults, Aaron. We can share the bed. You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”
His eyes flicked up to yours, and for the first time that evening, you saw the hesitation in them. There was something else there too—something he wasn’t saying. But whatever it was, he nodded slowly, standing up again.
“If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure,” you replied, moving toward the bed and pulling back the covers. “Trust me, it’s fine.”
He hesitated for another moment before finally relenting, slipping under the covers on his side of the bed. You settled in on the other side, keeping a respectful distance between you. The tension in the air was thick, but you forced yourself to relax, closing your eyes and focusing on the soft sounds of the night outside.
The silence stretched between you both, the only sound the occasional shuffle as you adjusted on your respective sides of the bed. Eventually, exhaustion overtook you, and you drifted off, lulled by the warmth of the blankets and the steady rhythm of Hotch’s breathing beside you.
When you woke up, it took you a moment to realize what had happened.
You were no longer on your side of the bed. Instead, you were nestled against Hotch’s chest, his arm draped protectively around you, your body curled up in his embrace. His warmth enveloped you, and for a moment, you didn’t want to move. It was… comforting. Safe.
But then the reality of the situation hit you, and you froze.
You were the little spoon. In Aaron Hotchner’s arms.
Before you could react, you felt him stir behind you. His body shifted, and his arm tensed around you as he woke up, clearly realizing the same thing at the same time.
“Y/n,” his voice was rough from sleep, low and gravelly in your ear. “I—”
You quickly pulled away, rolling onto your back and putting some distance between the two of you. Your heart raced, but you forced a nervous laugh, trying to brush off the awkwardness of the moment.
“I, uh… guess we got a little too comfortable,” you said, your voice lighter than you felt.
Hotch sat up slightly, rubbing a hand over his face, clearly trying to compose himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you cut him off, waving a hand. “Really. We were both asleep. These things happen.”
But the truth was, your heart was still pounding. The feel of his arms around you had been… nice. Too nice. And from the look on his face, it seemed like he wasn’t entirely unaffected either.
For a moment, you both sat there in silence, the weight of what had just happened hanging between you. Then, Hotch cleared his throat, standing up and running a hand through his hair, as if he was trying to shake off the tension.
“I’ll, uh… go grab some coffee,” he said, clearly needing an excuse to leave the room for a minute.
You nodded, watching him as he made a hasty exit. Once the door closed behind him, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, leaning back against the pillows as your mind raced.
What just happened?
And why, despite the awkwardness, did part of you wish it hadn’t ended so quickly?
The afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Jack’s soccer game came to an end. The kids were all gathered around Hotch and Rossi, who were offering encouragement and pats on the back. Ava was still nestled in your lap, her little body warm against yours, but her energy had returned. She squirmed to get down, eager to join the excitement now that the bigger kids were done playing.
“Mommy, can I play with Jack now?” she asked, her voice full of excitement.
You smiled, smoothing her pigtails. “Of course, sweetheart.”
Jack bounded over, grinning from ear to ear. “Ava, come on! I’ll show you how to kick the ball!”
Hotch glanced over at you, his eyes lingering once again. You caught the way his gaze swept over your bare legs, the hem of your dress fluttering slightly in the warm breeze. He looked away quickly, clearing his throat and trying to refocus on gathering the kids, but it wasn’t lost on you.
You stood up, brushing some grass off your dress and feeling the heat creep up your neck. There was no denying the tension that had been building over the past few months. You’d both grown more comfortable with each other, but there was still an unspoken line neither of you had crossed. Still, you couldn’t help but admire how good he looked—strong, steady, and in control, even with a field full of kids vying for his attention.
Rossi caught you watching Hotch again and let out a soft chuckle. “You know, if you keep looking at him like that, someone’s going to notice. Not that I’d blame you.”
You shot him a look, trying to play it off, but the amusement in his eyes told you he wasn’t fooled. “Rossi…”
“Hey, just saying,” he replied, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “You two would make quite the pair. Not to mention, Ava seems to have taken a real liking to him.”
You shook your head, laughing lightly. “He’s my boss. That’s not happening.”
“Uh-huh. Sure,” Rossi teased. “Just don’t wait too long. A man like that? He doesn’t stay single for long, especially with all those soccer moms circling.”
Your eyes darted to the sidelines, where a few of the moms had gathered, chatting among themselves and clearly keeping an eye on Hotch. They weren’t exactly being subtle, and the idea of them vying for his attention made your chest tighten. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, not exactly. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there was more between you and Hotch than either of you wanted to admit.
Meanwhile, Ava and Jack had started playing, kicking the ball around as Hotch watched from a distance, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked relaxed, almost content, and you found yourself drawn to that calm confidence. He was good with the kids, patient and encouraging, and it was hard not to admire that about him.
As the kids ran around, giggling and chasing the ball, Hotch wandered over to you, standing a little closer than usual. “Jack really likes Ava,” he said, his voice low and warm. “He’s been talking about her since the last time you brought her into the office.”
You smiled, glancing over at the two of them. “Ava talks about him too. She’s always wanted a big brother.”
Hotch’s eyes softened as he looked down at you, and for a moment, you felt like there was something unspoken between the two of you. Something that had been growing, quietly and steadily, even if neither of you had acknowledged it outright.
“I’m glad they get along,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s good for Jack to have someone like Ava.”
The way he said it, the warmth in his tone, sent a flutter through your chest. You tried to ignore the way your heart raced when he stood so close, but it was hard—especially when he looked at you like that, with a hint of something more behind his eyes.
And then there was his presence. The way he stood, tall and imposing, yet so gentle with the kids. You could see why the soccer moms had their eyes on him. He was the kind of man who commanded respect and attention without even trying, and that was dangerous—because it was exactly what you found so attractive about him.
You tore your gaze away from him, focusing back on the kids. “Ava’s having the time of her life. I think she’s more excited about playing with Jack than the actual game.”
Hotch chuckled softly, the sound deep and rich. “Jack has that effect on people.”
From the sidelines, Rossi sauntered over, grinning broadly. “Well, well, well. Looks like the kids are already best friends. Give it a few years, and we’ll be planning a wedding,” he joked, winking at you.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Rossi, they’re just kids.”
“Hey, it starts somewhere,” he teased. Then he leaned closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “And between you and me, Hotch could do a lot worse than someone like you. Just saying.”
Before you could respond, he patted you on the back and wandered off, leaving you flustered and glancing at Hotch, who had clearly overheard. He shot Rossi a look—one that was somewhere between amused and exasperated—but didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned back to you.
“Rossi has a tendency to… overstep,” he said, his voice a little strained.
You nodded, your pulse quickening. “Yeah, he does. But he means well.”
Hotch nodded, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. You could feel the tension between you, thick and palpable, but before either of you could say anything more, Ava ran up, pulling on your hand.
“Mommy, can we stay a little longer? I wanna keep playing with Jack.”
You looked down at her bright, eager face, then glanced at Hotch. “I don’t see why not,” he said, his tone softer now, as if he was letting something else slip through his usual reserve.
As the kids ran off again, you and Hotch stood there, watching them in comfortable silence. The late afternoon sun bathed the field in a golden glow, and for a moment, it felt like everything else faded away—the office, the stress, even the lingering tension. It was just the two of you, watching your kids play together, and something about it felt… right.
But still, you reminded yourself, he was your boss. You couldn’t let yourself get caught up in this. No matter how tempting it was.
