During a late-night study session, Oliver knocks over your bag and sees your portfolio. He finds dozens of sketches of him not just playing Quidditch, but sleeping in the common room, laughing, and looking stressed. It’s the first time he realizes how much you’ve actually been looking at him.
The portrait hole swung open with its familiar heavy groan, and suddenly the quiet morning air of the common room was charged with a different kind of electricity. There he was. Oliver Wood didn’t just enter a room – he claimed it. He looked as perfect as ever, his Quidditch robes slightly rumpled and his hair wind-swept from what I assumed was a sunrise flight. When he caught my eye, he flashed that perfect, lopsided smile – the one that always seemed to make my heart do a dangerous somersault behind my ribs.
I didn't realize I was staring, my charcoal pencil frozen mid-air over my sketchbook, until he was standing directly in front of me. His broad shoulders blocked out the warm glow of the fireplace.
"What? Do I have something on my face?" he asked, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. He leaned down slightly, squinting at me, snapping me completely out of my trance.
"Uhh, y-yes," I stammered, my face heating up instantly. I scrambled for a lie, desperate to justify why I had been gawking at him like he was a masterpiece in the Louvre. "Wait, let me get it... come here."
I gestured for him to lean closer, my heart hammering against my chest like a trapped Snitch. I reached out, my thumb grazing the bridge of his nose where there was absolutely nothing but tan skin and a few faint freckles. I lingered for just a second too long, feeling the warmth of his skin, before pulling back. "There. It’s gone now."
Oliver chuckled, a low, vibrating sound that made my toes curl. He didn't seem to notice my shaking hands. Instead, he swept into a mock-theatrical bow, sweeping his arm out and offering his hand to me jokingly.
"In that case, shall we attend breakfast together, my lady?" he asked, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I’m famished, and I need someone to help me calculate wind resistance for the match on Saturday."
The "my lady" was a joke, a bit of banter he used to keep things light, but as I reached out and gladly took his hand, the contact felt anything but casual. His palm was calloused and firm, gripping mine with a strength that made me feel grounded and dizzy all at once.
"I’d love to," I answered, forcing a surge of confidence into my voice as I carefully packed away my things. I slipped my portfolio deep into my bag, zipping it securely – guarding it like a vault, hiding the dozens of quiet secrets I’d drawn inside.
The Great Hall was already bustling, the ceiling a vast, perfect copy of the bright blue sky outside. We sat side by side at the Gryffindor table, Oliver piling toast and eggs onto his plate while he talked tactics, his hands moving enthusiastically as he described potential plays. I barely tasted my food; I was too busy listening to the cadence of his voice, watching the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about the pitch, the way he pushed his sleeves up to his elbows.
Just as the plates began to empty and students started drifting off to classes, Oliver turned to me, resting his elbows on the table, his expression shifting from energetic to something softer, more earnest.
"Say," he began, tapping his fingers lightly against the wood. "I’ve been going over the match plan in my head all morning, but there are a few angles I want to map out properly – quiet, without everyone else chattering around. Would you mind coming back down to the common room with me later? Tonight, maybe? A late-night study session? You’re always so good at seeing things I miss."
My heart gave a happy little leap. "I’d really like that, Oliver."
His smile widened, bright and genuine. "Brilliant. It’s a date – I mean, an arrangement. Let’s say eleven o’clock? By the fire?"
"Eleven o’clock," I promised.
The castle had long since settled into silence when we met again. The common room was warm and dim, lit only by the dying embers of the hearth and a few floating candles. It was peaceful, just the crackle of the logs and the soft rustle of parchment as we spread out our notes and diagrams on the low table between us.
Oliver was in his element, leaning forward, pen hovering over a sketch of the pitch, explaining angles and speeds with absolute focus. Hours seemed to melt away. We argued gently over strategy, laughed when we realized we’d been staring at the same page for twenty minutes, and shared the last of the butterbeer I’d smuggled down. Eventually, Oliver stretched his arms above his head, yawning, the tension leaving his shoulders, and began to gather his things to shift position.
"Right, let me just –"
He moved to stand, shifting his weight, and his sturdy boot caught the strap of my bag where it rested against the leg of the sofa. Before I could react, the whole bag tipped sideways, sliding off the edge and spilling its contents across the rug with a soft, chaotic rustle.
"Merlin – sorry! I’m so sorry," Oliver said immediately, his voice laced with concern. He crouched down on his knees right beside me, reaching out to gather the mess before I could even blink.
But then he froze. His hands stilled as the portfolio fell open beneath his gaze. He stared, transfixed, turning a page slowly, then another – seeing not just action shots of him flying, but the quiet, intimate moments: him asleep in the armchair, laughing freely, brow furrowed in deep concentration. Dozens of drawings, all of him. His eyes went wide, completely stunned, his usual quick words vanishing entirely.
My face burned hot with embarrassment. I scrambled forward instantly, hands moving fast to snatch up the papers, snapping the portfolio shut and shoving everything back into my bag, zipping it tight as if to lock the secret away forever. I couldn’t even look him in the eye, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs.
The silence stretched for a long, charged moment. Oliver stayed exactly where he was, still on his knees, looking at me with a mixture of utter shock and something softer dawning in his dark eyes. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly as if trying to process what he’d just seen.
Then, he spoke – his voice quieter than usual, but steady and sincere.
"Hey..." he began, leaning forward just a little, his gaze searching mine carefully. "Would you... maybe like to go to Hogsmeade with me? Like as a date? An actual date?"
My breath caught, all the panic melting away into something warm and bright. I lifted my chin, meeting his eyes, and gave him a soft, sure smile.
"I would quite like that, Oliver."
Thought Oliver could do with some love since he barely has any fics
At the Burrow, winter magic fills the air but you and George face one rule: no sharing beds. Tucked in his arms for one last quiet moment, Molly’s gentle reminder turns your nightly goodbye into something tender and unforgettable. A sweet tale of stolen time, young love, and home.
The Burrow breathes with winter magic this evening. Outside, frost paints delicate lace patterns across the kitchen windows, and snow falls soft and silent over the rolling hills, while inside, every room glows with candlelight and the deep, golden warmth of the hearth. The air still smells thick with Mrs Weasley’s spiced hot cocoa, buttery mince pies, and the faint, comforting scent of pine from the Christmas tree strung with wonky, hand-me-down baubles and enchanted fairy lights that twinkle like captured stars.
Laughter has rippled through the house all day – Fred and George teasing Ron, Hermione debating house-elves with Ginny, Arthur chattering excitedly about Muggle gadgets – but now the house has settled into a quiet hush. Footsteps have faded, doors have clicked shut, and only the faint pop of burning logs and the distant hoot of an owl break the stillness.
From the moment you arrived at the Burrow for the holidays, you and George have been inseparable. Your hands find each other’s whenever you cross a room; you share secret grins across the dinner table; you lean into his shoulder during long evenings by the fire. But Molly had been gentle, firm, and utterly clear from day one, her hands on her hips and a fond but serious glint in her eye: “No sharing beds, you two. It’s an old family rule, and I won’t bend it – you’ll sleep up in the girls’ room with Ginny and Hermione, where you belong.”
Tonight, though, you couldn’t resist. You slipped away from the warmth of the sitting room ten minutes earlier, padding quietly up the creaking wooden stairs, your socks soft against the cold floorboards, until you reached George’s door. Now you’re curled together in his narrow bed, wrapped in his patchwork quilt that smells so perfectly like him – a mix of broom polish, cinnamon, and that faint, familiar scent of sun-warmed wool.
George’s arms are wound tight around you, holding you as close as he possibly can, one hand resting gently at your waist, the other brushing slow, lazy patterns up and down your arm. Your head rests light against his chest, and you can hear the steady, comforting thud of his heart beneath your ear, a rhythm that feels safer than any spell. The only light comes from a single beeswax candle on his bedside table, casting soft, dancing shadows over the walls plastered with Quidditch posters and scribbled invention sketches.
He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the very top of your head, his lips brushing against your hairline, and sighs softly into the quiet air.
“Feels wrong, y’know,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with warmth, vibrating right through you. “Having to send you away every single night. Just when I want you closest. I like having you right here – where I can reach out and touch you, where I know you’re safe.”
You lift your head from his chest to look at him properly. The candlelight gilds the edges of his red hair, softens the curve of his smile, and highlights the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks – freckles you’ve spent hours tracing with your fingertips. His dark eyes are soft, earnest, glowing with nothing but affection for you.
“Me too,” you whisper, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering at his temple. “It’s such a silly, old rule… but it’s only a few weeks, isn’t it? And every stolen moment like this? It’s worth every second of having to say goodbye at the door.”
You lean in, and he meets you halfway, his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, and deep – full of all the things you don’t need to say out loud: longing, comfort, and the quiet certainty that you belong together. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin, and for a moment, nothing else exists – not the house, not the rules, not the winter cold outside. Just him.
Then, a soft, familiar rap taps against the wood of the door.
It creaks open before either of you can pull apart, and Molly’s warm, gentle voice drifts into the room like a soft blanket: “Sorry to interrupt, dears – just came to remind you it’s getting terribly late, and you need to be heading up to the girls’ room, love.”
She pauses in the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, and when she sees you tangled together in the bed, she doesn’t frown, doesn’t scold. Her expression just melts into something tender and knowing. She notices how George doesn’t flinch, doesn’t scramble to pull away, how his arm stays firmly anchored around your waist, holding you steady, protective and proud. She sees the way you look at him, too – like he’s your whole world.
George offers his mother a sheepish, lopsided grin, his cheeks just a little pink in the candlelight, and he squeezes you even tighter for one long, perfect second.
“I know, Mum,” he says softly, his tone respectful but full of quiet feeling. “Just… savouring the minute, aren’t we? Don’t get many of these quiet ones.”
You nod against his shoulder, resting your cheek back into the crook of his neck, breathing him in for one last moment. “I’m going, Mrs Weasley,” you say gently, lifting your head to meet her gaze. “Just… give us a few more seconds. Please.”
Molly’s face lights up with a soft, fond smile. She nods warmly, stepping back into the hallway and pulling the door almost shut, leaving just a crack to give you complete privacy. “Take all the time you need, loves. I’ll leave the landing lamp lit for you – don’t want you tripping over the stairs in the dark.”
Her footsteps fade softly down the hallway, leaving you alone again.
George leans down then, slow and deliberate, pressing a trail of soft, lingering kisses across your face – one to your forehead, warm and protective; one to the tip of your nose, playful and sweet; and finally, one to your lips, deeper this time, filled with all the quiet longing of the night.
“I’ll be thinking of you every minute until morning,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper, his forehead resting gently against yours. “Dream of me, yeah? I know I’ll be dreaming of you – probably dreaming we’re in a house with no rules at all, where you never have to leave my side.”
You smile, your heart swelling so full it feels like it might burst, and you reach down to lace your fingers through his, squeezing tight. “Always. Every single dream. And I’ll stop at the top of the stairs before I go into our room – I’ll sneak you a wave, just for you.”
He helps you sit up, pulling the quilt around your shoulders to ward off the chill, then swings his legs out of bed to walk you to the door. He brushes down your jumper with gentle hands, tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and holds your gaze like he’s trying to memorise every detail of your face.
At the threshold, he pulls you in for one last, tight hug – burying his face in your neck for a heartbeat – before pressing one last quick, soft kiss to your cheek.
“Go on, then,” he whispers, grinning that bright, beautiful George grin that lights up the whole room. “Before Mum comes back with a broomstick.”
You step out into the cool hallway, but you turn back immediately. He’s standing right there in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching you go, his eyes glowing in the dim light, looking at you like you’re the best thing that ever walked into his life.
You blow him a soft kiss from your fingertips, and he catches it playfully, pressing it to his heart. Then you turn, stepping lightly down the landing, warm all over – because even though you have to sleep apart, you carry his warmth with you, and you know he’s right there, waiting for morning.
It’s been a while.. anyways what do you guys think
You are a Prefect—diligent, rule-following, and determined to keep your house points high. George Weasley, conversely, is your primary headache. The plot begins in your sixth year when you catch George out of bed after hours. Instead of running, he convinces you to help him hide because he’s accidentally stumbled upon a secret Filch has been keeping that could get anyone in the corridor in trouble.
Part 1
The sensation of George’s lips against mine was like a lightning bolt, shattering the rigid discipline I’d spent years constructing. For a heartbeat, I was lost in the taste of sugarplums and the heat of him, my fingers curling instinctively into the wool of his sweater. I felt the vibration of a satisfied hum in his chest, and for a second, I forgot about Filch, the potions, and the badge pinned to my chest.
Then, the logic, the cold, clinical voice of the Prefect screamed me back to life.
I pulled away abruptly, my breath coming in ragged hitches. The silence of the common room felt heavy, almost suffocating, as I smoothed my hair with trembling hands.
"We... we can’t," I stammered, my face burning as I reached for the obsidian vial, using it as a physical shield between us. "The potion, George. The Venenum Tenebris. We have to... I have to identify the catalyst. That is why we are here. For the investigation."
George stayed where he was, his eyes dark as they searched mine. The ghost of a smirk still played on his lips, though it looked a little strained, a little hurt. "Right. The catalyst. Very important. Don't let me stop the wheels of justice, Medi."
The tension was a physical weight, thick and awkward. Every time our fingers brushed as I reached for my notes, a spark of electricity shot up my arm, making me jump. I kept my head down, my face glowing red in the firelight, focusing on the parchment until the ink blurred. He didn't leave; he just sat there, watching me, the silence between us loud with everything we weren't saying. I couldn't even look at him. I just spent the next hour muttering about boiling points and ingredient ratios until the sun began to peek over the horizon, at which point I practically sprinted to my dormitory.
For the next week, I became a ghost.
I took the long routes to classes, skipped breakfast to avoid the Gryffindor table, and buried myself in the library until Madame Pince literally blew out the candles. I told myself I was being diligent, but every time I saw a flash of red hair in a corridor, my heart did a frantic somersault and I ducked behind the nearest statue. I couldn't face the way he’d looked at me, or the way I’d felt when he did. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his lips, and it terrified me how much I wanted to feel them again.
I was finishing a late-night patrol near the Charms corridor when a hand shot out from a darkened doorway and tugged me into an empty classroom. I had my wand out in a second, a 'Stupefy' on the tip of my tongue, but the moonlight revealed a very familiar, very frustrated face.
"Avoiding me, Medi? That’s low, even for a Prefect," George said, his back against the closed door. He looked tired, his hair messier than usual.
"I haven't been avoiding you," I lied, my voice cracking. "I've been... researching. I've narrowed down the ingredients. I’ve been busy."
"Lie to Filch, don't lie to me," he stepped closer, his presence filling the small room and making the air feel thin. "You ran. The second things got real, you bolted. Was it that bad? Kissing me?"
"It wasn't bad!" I blurted out, then immediately wished the floor would swallow me. Desperate to change the subject, I shoved my notes toward him. "I think... I think I know what the final stabilizer is. If you want to finish this and stop Filch, come to the Potions lab tomorrow. I have special permission from Snape to use the equipment for 'advanced studies.' Only because I'm a Prefect."
He stared at me for a long time, the tension between us stretching like a bowstring. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Fine. Tomorrow. But stop running, Medi. It’s exhausting for both of us."
The session in the lab the next day was agonizing. We worked in a silence that felt like glass fragile and sharp. I set up the brass scales, and he prepared the filters. As we leaned over the bubbling cauldron to check the vapor color, our shoulders touched. I froze, my skin tingling. George didn't move away, but he didn't lean in either.
The steam cleared, revealing a brilliant, shimmering silver.
"The signature," I whispered, leaning in closer to the light. "It’s powdered lethifold skin. Only one person in the castle has been requesting that through official channels for 'research' recently."
"Professor Vector’s assistant," George finished, his voice hushed and serious.
The triumph of the moment washed over us. I turned to him, my face glowing with excitement, the awkwardness momentarily forgotten. "We did it, George! We actually found the source—"
I stopped. He was already looking at me, his face inches from mine. The air in the lab grew hot, smelling of herbs and ozone. His gaze dropped to my mouth, and I felt myself leaning in, my eyes fluttering shut, craving the warmth from a week ago. I wanted him to bridge the gap. But just as I felt the ghost of his breath on my lips, George abruptly pulled back. He cleared his throat, looking away at a jar of pickled newts.
"We should... we should go to Dumbledore," he said, his voice unusually flat and distant. "You probably want this over with. Back to your regular schedule and all. I wouldn't want to keep you from your duties."
A pang of rejection hit me harder than any hex. He thought I didn't want him. He thought I was just using the investigation to tolerate him. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come.
We went to Dumbledore that night. The fallout was spectacular. Dumbledore and the Ministry officials moved within the hour. Filch was caught red-handed behind the tapestry with a fresh crate of Venenum Tenebris, and the assistant was arrested in the Great Hall. By the next morning, Hogwarts was crawling with reporters, and the most persistent was Rita Skeeter.
She cornered George and me near the fountain, her Quick-Quotes Quill hovering eagerly over a scroll of parchment.
"Such a scandalous duo!" Rita purred, her eyes glinting behind her jeweled spectacles. "The star-pupil Prefect and the school’s most notorious rebel, working hand-in-hand in the dark. It’s simply poetic. Tell me... how long have you two been dating?"
"Oh, us? No, we aren't—" I started, my face turning a deep shade of scarlet.
"No need to be modest, dear," Rita interrupted, her quill scratching at a frantic pace. "The way you look at him, the secret midnight meetings... it’s clear as crystal. A classic tale of the 'The Prefect and the Troublemaker.' Was it the danger of the illegal potions that finally ignited the flame? Or did your hearts find each other over a shared detention?"
"It was a matter of school safety—" I tried again, but I was drowned out.
George, ever the showman, leaned into the frame with a wicked wink. "Let’s just say we find each other’s company very... stimulating, Rita. We do our best work under the moonlight, wouldn't you say, Medi?"
Two days later, the Daily Prophet arrived. The headline was massive: "THE PREFECT AND THE TROUBLEMAKER: DARK POTIONS AND DEEP PASSIONS." There was a large moving photo of us standing close together, George’s arm brushed against mine, and the article was filled with Rita's wild assumptions about our "clandestine romance" and how we’d been "dating in secret for months."
The Great Hall erupted. Ron choked on his juice, Fred was howling with laughter and pointing at us, and every eye in the room, Gryffindor and Slytherin alike—was fixed on me. "Are you two going to announce the engagement at the Yule Ball?" Fred teased loudly. I felt like I was going to spontaneously combust. I didn't even look at George; I just grabbed my bag and fled the hall.
That night, I was patrolling the corridors, my mind a whirlwind of embarrassment. Every time I passed a group of students, I heard them whispering "The Prefect and the Troublemaker" and giggling.
"Bit of a scandal, isn't it?"
I spun around. George was leaning against a stone pillar in a quiet, shadowy part of the castle near the Astronomy Tower.
"The whole school thinks we're... they think the paper is right, George," I said, looking at my shoes. "I’m sorry. I’ll write a letter to the editor. I’ll tell them it was all professional. I’ll fix it so people don't think you're tied down to a 'boring badge' like me."
He walked toward me, his boots echoing on the stone. He didn't stop until he was directly in my space, forcing me to look up at him. "And how do you feel about it, Medi?" he asked, his voice low and serious, devoid of any teasing. "Forget the paper. Forget Fred’s jokes. How do you feel about the idea of us?"
I bit my lip, the silence stretching between us. I couldn't find the right words to explain the chaos in my chest. I just stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. George took a breath, looking almost nervous for the first time in his life. "Right. Well. Silence is an answer, I suppose. I'll leave you to your rounds."
He started to turn away, his shoulders slumped.
"Wait!" I grabbed his sleeve. He stopped, looking back at me. I took a deep breath. "I guess... I wouldn't mind people thinking we are dating," I whispered, my voice finally steady. "But maybe if we are going to do all this sneaking around... we may as well make it real."
A slow, radiant grin spread across George’s face. He reached out, cupping my face with both hands, his thumbs grazing my cheekbones. He leaned down and kissed me—not the hesitant peck from before, but a kiss full of passion and relief.
I kissed him back, finally letting go of the rules. It was longer this time, more loving, a silent promise between us. When he finally broke the kiss for air, he whispered against my lips.
You are a Prefect—diligent, rule-following, and determined to keep your house points high. George Weasley, conversely, is your primary headache. The plot begins in your sixth year when you catch George out of bed after hours. Instead of running, he convinces you to help him hide because he’s accidentally stumbled upon a secret Filch has been keeping that could get anyone in the corridor in trouble.
Part 2
The moonlight filtered through the high arched windows, catching the copper glint of his hair and casting long, jagged shadows across his face. George stood pressed against a cold suit of armor, his large frame suddenly still, looking uncharacteristically small under my gaze. For the first time, the mischievous spark in his eyes had been replaced by a flicker of genuine panic. He looked trapped, his breath hitching as he realized I wasn't just another student I was the one person who could hand him over to McGonagall or, worse, straight into Filch’s waiting clutches.
“What exactly were you doing skulking around Filch’s office this late, Weasley?” My voice was steady, cutting through the silence of the corridor with practiced authority. But as I looked up at him, the firm line of my brow softened. A flicker of confusion must have betrayed me, because my mind couldn't bridge the gap between George’s usual chaos and the shadowy entrance to the caretaker’s den.
“I—I had a detention,” he stammered, the words tumbling out too fast to be true. He let out a shaky breath, his eyes darting toward the floor as if searching for a script. “Yes, that’s it. A late-night detention with Filch. Terrible timing, really.” He sounded less like he was trying to convince me and more like he was desperately trying to convince himself.
“Really?” I arched a single eyebrow, my voice dripping with a dry, sharp sarcasm. “And why, pray tell, wasn't I informed? You’d think the only Prefect on duty would be notified of a midnight detention. Unless, of course, the rules of Hogwarts changed in the last five minutes without anyone telling me.
George lets out a short, surprised huff of a laugh, the sound echoing softly against the stone walls. The familiar mask of the prankster begins to slide back into place, though his eyes still hold that newfound glimmer of respect. He leans his shoulder against the suit of armor, the metal clinking slightly, and gives you a look that is equal parts sheepish and admiring.
"Ah, well, you see," he says, his voice regaining that velvety, teasing lilt. "The Board of Governors is notoriously slow with the paperwork regarding 'Unsanctioned Life-Saving Measures by Ginger Troublemakers.' It’s a real bureaucratic nightmare, honestly."
He takes a step closer, invading your personal space just enough to make the air feel a bit warmer. "And here I was, thinking you’d be impressed by my initiative. Most people just run for a teacher, but you? You stepped into the line of fire with a levitation charm that would make Flitwick weep with joy."
He looks down at your Prefect badge, then back up at your face, his grin turning a bit more wicked.
"So, what’s the verdict, oh Fearless Leader? Am I heading to the dungeons for 'Unlicensed Potion Swapping,' or are we going to pretend we aren't standing in a dark corridor like a pair of terrified first years on a dare?"
"‘Terrified’? Please. Don’t flatter yourself, Weasley I’ve seen Flop-Grobian slugs with more intimidating presence than you," I spat, my voice dropping to a cold, clinical edge. "And where is Fred, anyway? I don't think I've ever seen you out of your twin's shadow before."
"And how exactly did you know I was George?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, curious hum. He stepped closer, staring directly into my eyes as if searching for a secret. "Have you been spying on us? Or do you just watch me a little too closely? Because even our own mother can't tell us apart... yet here you are, certain as a Seer."
"Get to bed, Weasley. I wouldn’t want Filch to dock any more points from Gryffindor we all know he’s looking for any excuse to favor Slytherin," I snapped, my voice a fraction too high to be truly indifferent. Without waiting for his inevitable retort, I turned on my heel and hurried off into the darkness, my face burning at how easily he’d seen through me. But unfortunately I’d have to speak to him tomorrow to find out why he was out.
The next morning, the Great Hall was a chaos of clattering silver and owls swooping overhead. I spotted him immediately, sitting between Fred and Ron, laughing as he piled extra bacon onto his plate. I took a steadying breath, straightened my robes, and adjusted my Prefect badge until it caught the light.
I walked up behind him, stopping just close enough to be imposing. "A word, Weasley," I said, my voice now perfectly level, though my heart gave a traitorous thump against my ribs.
George didn't look startled. In fact, he took a slow, deliberate bite of toast before turning around with a lazy, lopsided grin. "Good morning to you too, Prefect," he said, his eyes dancing with the memory of the night before. "Sleep well? You seemed in a bit of a rush to get to bed."
"My sleep schedule is not your concern. Your presence on the third floor last night, however, is. Walk with me."
I stood my ground, expecting another teasing remark or a loud "Hurry up, I don't have all day!" to humiliate me in front of the Gryffindor table. Instead, to my utter surprise, George actually stood. He tossed his napkin onto his plate and gave Fred a quick, unreadable look before turning back to me.
"Lead the way then, Prefect," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing some of its playful edge.
I didn't give him the satisfaction of a second glance. I turned and led him out of the Great Hall, my robes snapping behind me as we stepped into the relative quiet of the stone corridor. The sounds of breakfast faded into a dull hum behind the heavy oak doors. I stopped near a high arched window, the morning light catching the dust motes in the air, and spun around to face him. I crossed my arms, trying to regain the authority I’d dropped in the dark the night before.
"Now," I started, my voice steady this time. "You’re going to tell me exactly what you were doing on the third floor last night. And don't give me any rubbish about getting a midnight snack the kitchens are in the opposite direction."
George leaned back against the cool stone wall, shoving his hands into his pockets. He watched me for a long beat, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"And what if I was just making sure you got back to the common room safely?" he asked, tilting his head. "You looked a bit... preoccupied. Almost like you were looking for someone."
I scoffed, refusing to let his teasing derail me. "Don't flatter yourself, George. I wasn't looking for anyone. I was doing my rounds, which is more than I can say for you." I stepped closer, lowering my voice so no passing students could overhear. "Start talking. Why were you on the third floor?"
George’s playful expression finally flickered and died. He looked toward the Great Hall doors to ensure they were truly alone, then leaned in, his voice a low, urgent hiss.
"I wasn't just wandering, and I wasn't looking for a snack," he said, the mischievous glint replaced by something uncharacteristically serious. "I was watching Filch. I’ve been tracking him for weeks."
I blinked, taken aback. "Filch? Why on earth would you be spying on the caretaker?"
"Because our 'dear' Mr. Filch has a side hustle," George whispered, a grim smile touching his lips. "He’s been meeting people from Hogsmeade in the dead of night. He’s selling illegal potions the kind that the Ministry banned years ago. Third floor, behind the tapestry of Gunhilda of Gorgon... that's where he keeps the stash before the hand-off."
The blood drained from my face. Filch, the man who lived to catch students breaking the smallest rules, was running an illegal trade under our noses. It was a scandal that could rock the school, but it also meant George had been putting himself in serious danger to gather evidence.
"George, if he catches you..." I started, my Prefect instincts warring with a sudden, sharp spike of fear for him.
"He won't," George interrupted, his gaze locking onto mine. The teasing was gone, replaced by a challenge. "But now you know. So, what’s it going to be, Prefect? Are you going to report me for being out of bed, or are you going to help me catch a criminal?"
I stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. My mind raced through the school rules, the legal implications, and the sheer irony of Filch being the one breaking the law. But more than that, I looked at George really looked at him and realized that for once, he wasn't joking.
I let out a long, frustrated breath, my shoulders dropping just an inch as I made my decision.
"If I go to McGonagall now, it’s your word against his, and we both know who she’ll believe if there’s no evidence," I muttered, more to myself than to him. I looked up, meeting his gaze with renewed intensity. "Fine. I won't report you. But I’m not letting you handle this alone, either. You’re reckless, George, and you’ll get yourself expelled or worse if you trip one of Filch’s own traps."
George’s eyebrows shot up, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his face. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Prefect? A midnight rendezvous?"
"I am suggesting an official investigation into a breach of school safety," I corrected sharply, though I felt that familiar heat rising in my neck again. "Tonight. Eleven o'clock. Meet me behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy. And George?"
He paused, looking back at me with a playful tilt of his head. "Yeah?"
"If you're late, or if this turns out to be one of your elaborate pranks," I said, my voice dropping to a warning whisper, "I will personally see to it that you’re scrubbing cauldrons until you graduate. Clear?"
He gave a mock-solemn salute, his eyes sparkling. "Crystal clear. See you in the dark."
He turned and sauntered back into the Great Hall, leaving me standing in the corridor, heart hammering. I had just agreed to break a dozen school rules with the biggest troublemaker at Hogwarts.
The rest of the day was a blur of distracted lectures and scribbled notes that had nothing to do with Transfiguration. If I was going to do this if I was truly going to break the rules I spent my life enforcing I wasn't going to do it unprepared.
As the sun began to dip behind the Forbidden Forest, I slipped into the Library. Madame Pince was busy shooing a group of third-years away from the herbology section, giving me the perfect window. I didn't head for the standard shelves. Instead, I moved toward the heavy iron gate of the Restricted Section, my Prefect badge pinned conspicuously to my chest as a shield against suspicion.
With a practiced flick of my wand and a whispered "Alohamosa," the lock clicked. The air back here was different thick with the scent of old parchment and something faintly metallic. I scanned the spines until I found it: Moste Potente Potions.
I didn't need to brew anything; I needed to know what Filch was selling. If these were illegal draughts, they’d have specific magical signatures. I quickly flipped through the pages, my eyes landing on a chapter about Shimmering Shadow-Paste and Liquid Despair potions that were highly regulated by the Ministry for their use in dark charms.
I pulled a small, blank piece of parchment from my pocket and performed a quick Copying Charm, the text bleeding onto my page in a perfect replica of the detection spells required to identify them.
"Find what you’re looking for?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin, slamming the book shut. I turned to find George leaning against the end of the shelf, his red hair almost glowing in the dim light. He’d followed me.
"George! You nearly gave me a heart attack," I hissed, shoving the copied parchment into my robes. "I told you eleven o'clock. Behind the statue."
He stepped closer, his eyes flicking to the Restricted book I was still clutching. A slow, impressed smile spread across his face. "Borrowing from the forbidden shelves? I didn't know you had it in you, Prefect. I think I’m starting to like this side of you."
I felt my face heat up for the hundredth time that day. "It's for the investigation. Now go, before Pince sees us together and assumes the worst."
"Oh, I think the 'worst' is exactly what we're planning for tonight," he whispered, his voice dangerously close to my ear. He gave me a wink and vanished back into the main library before I could even think of a retort.
I stood there for a moment, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had the spells. I had the plan. Now, all I had to do was survive a night in the shadows with George Weasley without losing my mind or my badge.
Back in my dormitory, I spent the final hour before the meeting focusing on the one thing I could control: my composure. I meticulously straightened my uniform, ensuring every button was fastened and my Prefect badge was polished to a mirror shine. I pulled my hair back into a tight, neat style, leaving not a single strand out of place. If I was going to be a rule-breaker tonight, I would at least look like the authority figure I was supposed to be. It was my armor.
I checked my pocket one last time—the copied parchment from the Restricted Section was tucked safely away. I took a deep breath, watching my reflection in the glass. My eyes looked wider than usual, betraying the adrenaline coursing through me, but my expression was a mask of cold determination.
At five minutes to eleven, I slipped out of the common room. The castle was a labyrinth of long shadows and moonlight, the silence broken only by the occasional groan of the shifting staircases. I moved with the silent efficiency of someone who knew the patrol routes by heart.
As I rounded the corner to the statue of Gregory the Smarmy, I saw a tall, lean figure detached from the shadows. George was leaning against the statue's plinth, twirling a small wooden crate opener between his fingers. He looked far too relaxed for someone about to bust a smuggling ring.
He straightened up as I approached, his eyes raking over my perfectly neat appearance. He let out a low, soft whistle.
"Stunning," he murmured, his usual smirk softening into something more genuine. "You look like you’re heading to a Ministry hearing rather than a midnight stakeout. Don't you ever relax, even when you're committing a crime?"
"This isn't a crime, George, it's a sanctioned investigation," I replied, though the 'stunning' comment made my pulse skip. I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a businesslike whisper. "I have the detection spells. If Filch has the potions behind the tapestry, I can identify them in seconds. After that, we take the evidence to the Headmaster."
"Right. Evidence first, glory later," George agreed, his expression turning serious as he checked the corridor behind me. "The coast is clear. Filch just finished his sweep of the second floor. If we move now, we’ll have ten minutes before he circles back to the third."
He held out a hand toward the dark corridor ahead. "After you, partner."
The metallic clink-clink of glass vials echoed sharply against the stone. My heart leapt into my throat. Without thinking, I grabbed the front of George’s robes and hauled him backward into a narrow, shadowed alcove behind a suit of armor.
It was a tight fit. The space was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. I was pressed firmly against the cold stone wall, and George was forced to lean in close to avoid being seen, his chest nearly brushing mine. The scent of gunpowder and toasted cinnamon—the distinct smell of the Weasley twins' workshop—swirled around me, making it hard to focus on the danger just feet away.
"Shh," I breathed, my hand still gripping his robes as I pressed a finger to my lips.
George didn't pull away. Instead, he braced one hand against the wall beside my head to steady himself, his eyes locking onto mine in the darkness. For a second, the mystery of Filch’s potions felt miles away, replaced by the sheer intensity of being this close to him.
Then, a flickering light appeared on the corridor floor.
Filch shuffled into view, his hunched silhouette elongated by the guttering lantern in his hand. Mrs. Norris prowled at his heels, her lamp-like eyes scanning the shadows. Filch reached the tapestry of Gunhilda of Gorgon and paused, glancing nervously over his shoulder—right toward our alcove. I held my breath, my heart drumming so loudly I was certain the cat would hear it.
He reached behind the tapestry and pulled out a small wooden crate. He fumbled with a key, the metallic clinking becoming louder as he checked the contents.
"Nearly time, my beauty," Filch wheezed to the cat, his voice trembling with a mix of greed and fear. "One more hand-off, and we’ll have enough to get out of this dung-heap of a school."
Beside me, I felt George’s frame stiffen. His jaw tightened, and the playful glint I was so used to seeing was completely gone. He looked at me, a silent question in his eyes: Do we move now, or wait for the buyer?
The silence in the alcove was suffocating, thick with the tension of the secret we were sharing and the dangerous proximity of our bodies. I could feel the heat radiating from George, his steady breath fluttering the stray hairs near my temple. Every time I tried to focus on Filch, my mind betrayed me, centering instead on the way George’s hand was still braced against the wall, effectively pinning me in.
We watched through the gap in the visor of the suit of armor as Filch finally shoved the crate back behind the tapestry. With a final, paranoid look around, he shuffled off toward the North Tower, the light of his lantern fading until the corridor was plunged back into a silvery, moonlit gloom.
I didn't move immediately. I couldn't. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, and George hadn't stepped back.
"He’s gone," I whispered, my voice sounding breathy and far less composed than I intended.
"I know," George replied. His voice was a low vibration I felt more than heard. He didn't move to the tapestry. Instead, he leaned in just a fraction of an inch closer, his eyes dropping to my lips before snapping back to mine. "You're shaking, Prefect. Is it the danger, or is it me?"
"It’s the cold," I lied, my voice trembling. I reached up, intended to push him away so we could get to work, but my hand landed flat against his chest. I could feel his heart—racing just as fast as my own. The realization sent a jolt of electricity through me. "We have a job to do, Weasley. Don't get distracted."
George let out a soft, dry chuckle, his thumb grazing the stone just an inch from my ear. "Right. The 'sanctioned investigation.' You're a terrifying woman when you’re focused."
He finally stepped back, the sudden rush of cool air between us feeling like a loss. He offered a hand to help me out of the narrow space, his fingers lingering against mine a second too long as I stepped out.
I smoothed my robes, desperately trying to regain my "Prefect" mask, though my face was surely glowing red. "The tapestry," I commanded, my voice regaining its edge. "Open it."
George pulled back the heavy fabric, revealing the small wooden crate. I knelt beside it, pulling the Restricted Section parchment from my pocket. My hands were still a little shaky as I pointed my wand at the vials inside.
"If these are what I think they are..." I started, but as the first vial began to glow a sickly, pulsing violet under my detection spell, the reality hit me. "George, this isn't just illegal trade. This is Venenum Tenebris. It’s a base for some of the darkest draughts known to the Ministry. Filch isn't just a smuggler; he’s a supplier for something much worse."
George knelt beside me, the humor completely gone from his face. He looked at the glowing vial, then back at me. "If we take this to the Ministry, Filch is done. But he’s not doing this alone. A Squib can't brew this."
"Which means someone inside the castle is helping him," I finished, the horror of the situation settling in.
I looked at George, and for the first time, I didn't see the class clown or the rule-breaker. I saw a partner. "We can't go to the Headmaster yet. We don't know who the brewer is. If we tell Dumbledore, the brewer will go to ground."
George reached out, gently tilting my chin up so I had to look at him. "So, what you're saying is... the Prefect wants to keep breaking the rules with me?"
"Take one," I whispered, my voice tight with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. "I need to analyze the residue. If I can trace the magical signature of the brewer, we won’t just have the middleman—we’ll have the source."
George didn't hesitate. He swiped a small, corked vial filled with a thick, obsidian-like liquid and tucked it deep into his pocket. He pulled the tapestry back into place, erasing any sign that we’d been there.
"Back to the tower, then," he murmured. "And stay close. If Filch or that cat doubles back, I'm not letting you take the fall for this."
The walk back to the Gryffindor common room was a tense, silent blur. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a scream. When we finally reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, I gave the password with a shaky voice, and we tumbled into the warmth of the common room.
The fire had died down to a low, orange glow, casting long, flickering shadows across the empty scarlet armchairs. The room was deserted, the silence heavy and intimate. I moved toward a table in the corner, but George caught my arm, pulling me toward the shadows of the window nook.
"I think we've had enough 'official' light for one night," he said, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register again.
I sat on the plush bench, the vial of Venenum Tenebris sitting between us on the mahogany table like a ticking bomb. I pulled out my notes, trying to focus on the brewing components, but I could feel George’s gaze on me. He wasn't looking at the potion. He was looking at me, his head tilted, a strange, thoughtful expression on his face.
"You know," he started, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. "I always thought you were just... another badge. Someone who enjoyed the power of telling people what to do. Someone who hated everything I stood for."
I looked up from my parchment, my heart doing that traitorous skip again. "I don't hate you, George. I hate that you make my job impossible."
"Do I?" He reached out, his fingers trailing lightly over the edge of my notes, stopping just short of my hand. "Because tonight, you were the best partner in crime a bloke could ask for. You're brilliant, you're brave, and you look far more beautiful with your hair a bit messy than you ever did with it perfect."
I went to snap at him, to tell him he was being inappropriate or that we had a scandal to solve, but the words died in my throat. The "enemy" I had spent years scolding and docking points from was sitting inches away, looking at me as if I were the most interesting thing in the castle not the illegal potion, not the secret, just me.
"We're supposed to be analyzing this," I managed to say, though it sounded more like a plea than a command.
"In a minute," George whispered. He moved his hand, finally covering mine. His skin was warm, his grip firm and grounding. "Tell me the truth. Did you really hate me all those times you gave me detention? Or was that just the only way you knew how to get my attention?"
I let out a shaky breath, the heat of his palm seeping into mine. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the distant crackle of the common room fire and the frantic drumming of my own heart.
"You were a nightmare, George," I murmured, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes were dancing with that familiar, mischievous glint, but there was a new intensity behind them that made my throat go dry. "Truly. You disrupted every lesson, set off dungbombs in the corridors, and made my life as a prefect a living hell."
George grinned, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles over my knuckles. "And yet, you always knew exactly where to find me. Funny, that."
"I had to find you. It was my job."
"Was it?" He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, rough hum that vibrated in the small space between us. "Because Lee told me you used to smile whenever you turned your back to walk away. Just a little one. Right before you’d go find some quiet corner to write out my name on a slip of parchment."
I tried to look indignant, to find some witty retort about his ego, but the words died in my throat. The truth was written in the way I wasn't pulling my hand away.
"Maybe I just liked the way you looked when you were trying to talk your way out of trouble," I confessed, my voice barely a whisper. "You were always so... vibrant. It was hard to look anywhere else."
George’s grin softened into something real, something vulnerable. He reached up with his free hand, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering on my cheek.
"Good," he breathed, his face inches from mine. "Because I’ve spent seven years trying to get you to look at me. I'd hate to think all those hours of scrubbing cauldrons went to waste."
He didn't wait for a response this time. He tilted his head, closing the final inch of distance, and pressed his lips to mine. It wasn't the teasing, fleeting contact I’d expected—it was firm, warm, and tasted faintly of Sugarplums and mischief, finally grounding me in the way only a Weasley could.
This is my first fanfic so idk if it’s good or not please leave suggestions in the comments x
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