MASTERLIST
Marriege Arranged
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12

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MASTERLIST
Marriege Arranged
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
Always Second Choice
Pairing: George Weasley x hufflepuff!reader
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 (coming soon)
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!
Comment to be tagged on the next part!
Taglist: : @gabriellewood, @svnn132, @lulzs-world06, @vainful-vanity, @maybeisthemoon, @lilyyyyy08, @394pitterpatterpotter394, @animereadersstuff, @haru-reto, @circekinnie, @annis0k
Spelling mistakes? I guarantee neither of us saw those at 3:00 AM Monday Morning.
Meeting you was a nice accident
Pairing: George Weasley x hufflepuff!reader
Summary: When you accidentally cast a drunk spell on George and feel terrible about it, so, he asks you for a favor.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst, fake dating
Wc: 3k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
The Yule Ball was beautiful. There were lights everywhere, and the Great Hall had been transformed into something out of a dream. The music was soft, and couples were dancing, and you tried very hard not to watch George with Angelina.
You'd come alone, of course. There was no Ravenclaw. There was just you, standing against a wall, nursing a cup of punch and pretending you were having a good time.
George and Angelina danced together. Looking like they’re having the best time of their life.After dancing and spending their time in the ball, he disappeared.
You saw him leave the Great Hall, and your stomach twisted. You waited a few minutes, and then you excused yourself. You told yourself it was just to get some air. That it had nothing to do with wanting to find him.
You went out into the hallway, and it was quiet. Empty. The music from the Great Hall was muffled, a distant sound that felt like it belonged to another world.
That was when you heard the footsteps behind you.
Your heart jumped into your throat. It was late. The hallway was empty. Someone was following you, and they were getting closer.
You spun around without thinking.
It was George.
But you'd already made a decision. Your knee was already coming up.
You caught him right where it hurt, and he made a sound that was half groan, half yelp. Your hand flew to your mouth, horrified.
"I'm so sorry," you gasped. "I thought you were someone creepy. I thought you were following me and I panicked and I'm so sorry."
But before you could say anything else, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into a dark corner. Somewhere between the wall and a suit of armor. Somewhere hidden from the rest of the world.
"George, what are you doing? Aren't you supposed to be at the dance with Angelina?" The words tumbled out of you in a rush. "How was the dance? Did you have a good time? I'm sure she had fun. I'm glad she finally noticed you. That's what you wanted, right? That's what this was all about."
He didn't answer. He was breathing hard, and you could feel his hand trembling on your wrist.
"George?"
"Stop," he said. His voice was rough.
"Stop what?"
"Stop pretending that you don't know. Stop pretending that you don't feel this. Stop pretending that you have a date and that you don't care about me and that any of this is okay."
Your breath caught. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the fact that you're in love with me," he said, and his voice was shaking with frustration. "And I'm in love with you. And we've been wasting months pretending that we're not because you're too scared and I was too stupid to just tell you the truth."
"George, don't," you whispered.
"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth? Don't feel this? I can't do either of those things anymore. I can't pretend that I want Angelina when I'm only thinking about you. I can't hold her hand when I want to hold yours. I can't be at that dance when I should be with you."
"You have to go back," you said, but your voice wasn't firm. It was breaking.
"No," he said. "I don't."
And then he kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It was frustrated and desperate and full of all the things he'd been holding back for months. It tasted like honesty and heartbreak and everything you'd been wanting and pushing away at the same time.
You kissed him back for exactly three seconds, and then you realized what you were doing.
You pushed him away. Hard.
"Stop," you said. "Stop. You can't do this. You came here with Angelina. You asked her to this dance."
"I didn't want to," he said. "You told me to."
"Because I thought it was what you wanted. Because I thought it would make you happy."
"You make me happy," he said. "You're the only thing that's made me happy in months."
"George, you're confused. You're just upset because the fake dating worked and Angelina was suddenly interested and now you realize that maybe you actually like her and you're just panicking about the feeling."
"That's not what this is," he said. "You know that's not what this is."
But you couldn't let yourself believe him. You couldn't let yourself think that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way about you. Because if you let yourself believe that, you'd have to believe that you'd been the cause of all this pain. That you'd pushed him away for no reason. That you'd broken both your hearts for something that didn't need to be broken.
"I have to go," you said.
"Wait, just wait," he reached for you.
"No," you said, and you moved away from him. Back into the hallway. Back toward the sound of music and dancing and the rest of the world that suddenly felt very far away.
You heard him call your name, but you didn't stop. You kept walking until you found a bathroom, and then you locked yourself in a stall and cried until your makeup ran and your dress was wrinkled and you felt completely empty inside.
You didn't go back to the Great Hall. You went back to your dormitory and you lay in bed and you stared at the ceiling and you waited for morning to come.
When it did, you were numb. Completely numb.
You were in the common room, reading a book you weren't really reading, when George appeared with Angelina.
Your stomach dropped.
You were in the common room, reading a book you weren't really reading, when George appeared with Angelina.
Your stomach dropped.
"I need to talk to you," she said to George. Not mean. Just matter of fact.
George looked confused. "About what?"
"Honestly, it was never really going to work, was it?" Angelina glanced between George and you. "Because you don't have feelings for me. You never did. You've been in love with her the whole time, and I think we both know it."
George opened his mouth to protest, but Angelina held up a hand.
"It's okay," she continued. "I get it. I'm not angry. But I'm not going to pretend to be in a relationship with someone when their heart belongs to someone else. That's not fair to any of us." She looked directly at you, then back at George. "You should go after what you actually want. Stop wasting time."
Before George could say anything, Angelina walked away.
He stood in the common room, looking lost and confused. And then he caught your eye, and he said something you can’t work out.
That night, you were in your dormitory when you heard the first boom.
Then another. And another.
Your friends rushed to the window. "Someone's setting off fireworks," one of them said. "In the middle of the castle? Who would do that?"
You grabbed your cloak and you snuck out, following the sound of the explosions.
They were coming from the courtyard. Beautiful, loud bursts of colours lit up the night sky. Reds and golds and silvers that painted patterns across the darkness.
And right in the middle of it all was George.
The moment he saw you, and his face lit up brighter than any of the fireworks.
"Hi," he called out over the noise. "I know this is crazy. I know I'm probably going to get detention for this. But I needed to do something that you couldn't ignore or run away from."
The words were said quietly, casually. But you understood. That was your inside joke. The one you'd created together months ago when George had accidentally set off firecrackers in the library and blamed it on a portrait.
You walked toward him slowly, like you were in a dream.
"I like you," he said. "Not the fake dating kind of like. The real kind. The kind where I think about you all the time and I want to spend the rest of my life annoying you and making you laugh. The kind where my heart stops when you walk in a room and the kind that makes me want to do stupid things like set off fireworks in the middle of the castle."
"George," you whispered.
"I'm not done," he said. "I'm also saying that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I'm sorry for making you feel like you had to push me away. I'm sorry for being stupid enough to ask Angelina when I should have been asking you all along."
Another burst of fireworks lit up the sky. Purple and blue and silver.
"So," he said, stepping closer to you. "Will you actually date me? Not fake. Not for favors or to make someone else jealous. Just because you want to."
You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say it so badly that your throat hurt.
But you also wanted to protect yourself. You wanted to make sure this was real. That he was serious. That this wasn't some moment of panic or confusion that he'd regret tomorrow.
"Why should I believe you?" you asked quietly.
"Because I'm about to get in big trouble for this," he said, and he smiled. "And I wouldn't do that for someone I didn't really love. Look, it even has your name there so that everyone knows that it was for you."
The word hung in the air between you. Love.
"I love you," he said again, clearly and without hesitation. "I've been loving you for months. And I know you love me too, even if you're scared to say it."
You were crying. You didn't even realize it until you felt the tears on your cheeks.
"I do," you admitted. "I love you. I've loved you since I cast that stupid spell and you asked me to fake date you and I've been loving you every second since then."
He pulled you against him and kissed you, and this time you didn't push him away. This time you kissed him back like your life depended on it. Like you'd been waiting for this your whole life.
The fireworks continued to burst overhead, painting the sky in colors that seemed to match exactly how you felt. Bright. Hopeful. Alive.
And when the castle guards finally arrived, looking furious, George took your hand and ran.
He got detention for a month. He spent his evenings in the Headmaster's office, helping clean out old files and dealing with detention essays. It was annoying and boring and he complained about it constantly.
But he never seemed to regret it.
Because every evening, you'd wait for his detention to end, and you'd spend the night together. Actually together. Not fake dating. Not pretending. Just two people who loved each other, finally admitting it out loud.
It took a long time to recover from the heartbreak. Even after you were together, there were moments where you'd remember all the time you'd wasted. All the pain you'd caused yourselves by being scared.
But George would take your hand in those moments and remind you that you were here now. That you were together. That sometimes the most important things in life require a little chaos and fireworks and getting detention.
And eventually, you believed him.
Taglist: @gabriellewood, @joewaimo, @i8akitkattt, @nanamisandkakashiswife, @lulzs-world06, @svnn132, @s4rangh0e, @omgwhencanileavesmh, @maybeisthemoon, @zephinirr, @sh1ga-to3s, @yaintpaint, @iris2244, @ropickle, @n31ly, @bumblebeebutter
A/n: that was the end :(….but there would be a new draco x reader series coming soonnn so stay tuned!!
Comment to be tagged in my new draco malfoy series 🫶🫶🫶
Meeting you was a nice accident
Pairing: George Weasley x hufflepuff!reader
Summary: When you accidentally cast a drunk spell on George and feel terrible about it, so, he asks you for a favor.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst, fake dating
Wc: 2k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 (coming soon)
The castle filled with decorations and Christmas music, strung from every corner and draped across every doorway. The scent of cinnamon and pine hung in the air, and everywhere you looked, there were twinkling lights and garland and all the trappings of holiday cheer. The Great Hall was transformed into something out of a fairy tale, with ice sculptures and enchanted snow that fell from the ceiling without melting.
Everyone was talking about the Yule Ball. Who they were going with. What they were wearing. All the excitement and anticipation that came with a big dance. The whole castle seemed to buzz with the energy of it. Girls clustered in groups, whispering about their dates and their dresses. It was impossible to escape the topic, no matter where you went or what you were doing.
George didn't ask Angelina.
Days passed. Then a week. And he still hadn't asked her. You watched him walk past her in the hallways like she was invisible. You watched him sit far away from her in the Great Hall, surrounded by his friends and their laughter, refusing to even glance in her direction. You watched him ignore the way Angelina kept glancing at him in that hopeful way, like she was waiting for something that wasn't coming.
It made your chest tight in a way that confused you. You wanted him to ask her. You'd told yourself a hundred times that you wanted him to ask her. So why did watching him ignore her make you feel like you were dying inside?
You found him in an empty classroom one afternoon. It had become your place, over these past months. Your sanctuary. A dusty old room on the fourth floor that nobody used anymore, with desks pushed to the sides and windows that looked out over the grounds. The spot where you could be alone together without anyone watching or wondering or asking questions.
"You should ask her," you said, sitting down at one of the desks. Your voice sounded smaller than you meant it to, almost defeated. "Angelina. You said you liked her. The whole point of us fake dating was to make her notice you."
He was sitting on top of a desk, swinging his legs slightly, with a book open in his lap that he wasn't really reading. You could tell by the way his eyes weren't moving across the page. When you spoke, he went very still.
"Ask who?" he said, not looking up from the book.
"Angelina," you said. "You know who I'm talking about."
He finally looked at you, and his expression was hard to read. Something flickered across his face—disappointment, maybe. Or resignation. Like he'd been expecting you to say this but had been hoping you wouldn't. "Maybe I changed my mind," he said quietly.
"Don't," you said, and your voice came out sharper than you intended. The sharpness was a defense mechanism. If you sounded angry instead of heartbroken, maybe he wouldn't realize just how much this was costing you. Maybe he wouldn't see through the cracks in your facade. "Don't change your mind. Just ask her. Please."
"Why do you care?" he asked, and there was something in his voice that made you want to scream. He sounded hurt. Like your words had actually wounded him. Like you'd just stabbed him in the chest. "Why are you so desperate to push me toward Angelina?"
You couldn't answer that. You couldn't tell him that you cared too much. That you were in love with him in a way that made your hands shake when you thought about it. That every moment with him was slowly destroying you because you knew he didn't feel the same way. That you were pushing him toward someone else because it was the only way to protect yourself from complete and utter annihilation.
"Because I do," you said finally, looking away from him. You couldn't meet his eyes. If you did, you were afraid he'd see the truth written all over your face. "Because I care. Please, George. Just ask her."
He stared at you for a long moment, and something in his eyes shifted. Like he was searching for something. Like he was trying to read between the lines of what you were saying and find the truth underneath. Like he could sense that you were lying but couldn't figure out why.
"Why are you pushing me away?" he asked instead. "Something changed a few weeks ago. You were different. We were different. And now it's like you can't stand to be near me."
"That's not true," you said, but it came out as a whisper.
"It is true," he said, his voice getting louder. "You won't look at me. You won't sit with me anymore. You barely talk to me. And now you're begging me to ask someone else out. So either you tell me what's really going on, or I'm going to assume that I did something wrong."
"You didn't do anything wrong," you said quickly.
"Then what is it?" he asked. "Just tell me. Please."
You wanted to. God, you wanted to tell him everything. You wanted to tell him that you loved him. You wanted to tell him that fake dating him had turned into real dating in your heart, and that you couldn't handle it anymore. You wanted to tell him that watching him try to court Angelina was killing you slowly.
But you couldn't. Because if you did, and he didn't feel the same way, you'd lose him completely. Right now, at least he was still in your life. At least you still got to see him, even if it was from a distance. At least you still got to exist in the same spaces as him.
"Okay," he said finally, when you didn't answer. "I will."
You felt your heart break right then, even before he did it. It was like watching yourself get hit by a spell in slow motion—you could see it coming, but you couldn't do anything to stop it.
It took him two more days to actually ask her. You were sitting in the common room on a Tuesday afternoon, pretending to read while actually watching the door, when George came through it. He looked nervous. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture you'd learned to love and hate in equal measure—and he walked across the room to where Angelina was sitting with a group of friends.
You watched from across the room as he approached her. Your stomach twisted as you watched him say something that made her smile. You watched her eyes light up. You watched her nod, and you watched her say something back that made George nod too, although his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. And then it was done. He had a date to the Yule Ball. He was going with Angelina Johnson, who was beautiful and confident and everything you weren't.
Your vision blurred, and you realized with horror that you were crying. Right there in the common room, with dozens of people around you. You quickly stood up and excused yourself, murmuring something about needing to use the bathroom.
You didn't go to the bathroom. Instead, you made your way to your dormitory, your heart pounding in your ears. Your roommate wasn't there, so you had the whole room to yourself. You locked the door behind you and threw yourself onto your bed, burying your face in your pillow.
And then you cried. You cried in a way that you'd never cried before. Not delicate tears. Not quiet sobs. You cried like your heart was being torn out of your chest, like your lungs were collapsing, like the world was ending. You cried for all the moments you wouldn't have with him. For all the ways you'd fallen in love with him that he would never know about. For the choice you'd made to push him away.
It took you a long time to stop.
When you came back to the common room the next day, George tried to talk to you. He looked uncomfortable, like he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing or saying. Like he was walking through a minefield and trying not to step on anything explosive.
"Hey," he said, sitting down next to you on the sofa. He was careful to leave space between you, like he was afraid you'd flinch away if he got too close. "I asked Angelina."
"I know," you said, not looking at him. You were afraid that if you met his eyes, you'd fall apart all over again. You were terrified that he'd see right through you, that he'd somehow figure out the truth. "I saw."
"I didn't want to," he said, and there was frustration in his voice now. It was the frustration of someone who didn't understand what was happening. "But you asked me to. You practically begged me to. So I did it. I did exactly what you wanted, and I still don't understand why you're so upset."
You still weren't looking at him. You were staring at your hands instead, picking at a thread on the hem of your robes. The thread kept unraveling, and you couldn't stop pulling at it.
"That's good," you said, forcing the words out even though they tasted like ash. Like poison. Like death. "That's what you wanted."
"No," he said, and his voice was sharp now. Sharp and hurt and confused. "It's not what I wanted. It's what you wanted. You wanted me to ask her, so I asked her. And now you're acting like I've done something wrong, when really I'm just doing exactly what you told me to do."
"George—"
"I don't understand what's happening," he continued, cutting you off. "I don't understand what changed. A few weeks ago, you were happy. We were happy. We'd laugh together. We'd spend time together. And now you're barely even looking at me, and you're pushing me away, and you told me to ask Angelina, and I don't know what I did wrong."
You couldn't tell him the truth. You couldn't tell him that you'd fallen in love with him. You couldn't tell him that the fake dating had become real for you, and that watching him fall in love with someone else was the most painful thing you'd ever experienced. You couldn't tell him that you were trying to push him away because it was the only way you knew how to survive this.
So instead, you lied.
"I already have a date," you said suddenly, cutting off his words before he could say anything else. The lie came out of your mouth fully formed, like you'd been planning it all along. Like you'd rehearsed it a hundred times in your head. "I met someone. I'm going with him."
It was a complete and total lie. A fabrication. A complete invention. There was no one. There was nobody waiting to take you to the ball. But you needed him to stop looking at you like that. Like he was confused. Like he wanted to fix something that you'd already decided was broken beyond repair.
His face went very still. Like someone had cast a freezing charm on him. His eyes widened slightly, and his hands clenched into fists on his lap. "Who?" he asked, and his voice was very quiet. Dangerously quiet.
"Someone from Ravenclaw," you made up, the lie coming surprisingly easily. "You don't know him. His name is Marcus. Marcus Blackwell. He's in seventh year."
George was quiet for a moment. You could see his jaw clench. You could see his hands tighten into fists. You could see the moment something inside him shut down, like a door closing. "Okay," he said finally. "Well. That's good."
But he didn't look okay. He looked like you'd just cast the drunk spell on him all over again, and this time there was no Madam Pomfrey to fix it. He looked broken in a way that you'd broken him. He looked like you'd destroyed something in him that couldn't be repaired.
"George, I—"
"No, it's fine," he said, standing up. "You're happy. That's what matters. I hope you have a good time at the ball with Marcus."
He walked away before you could say anything else, and you watched him go, feeling like you'd just made the biggest mistake of your life.
After that conversation, something shifted between you. It was like a door had closed. George stopped trying to get you alone. He stopped appearing in the library with butterbeer and that hopeful smile on his face. He stopped waiting for you after class, his shoulder leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world to wait for you. He stopped trying to hold your hand in the corridors or find reasons to sit next to you at meals or make excuses to talk to you.
He went back to being just George Weasley from school. The nice one. The funny one. The one who made people laugh and seemed to light up any room he was in. But he was no longer yours. And you had no one to blame but yourself.
You watched him interact with his friends like normal. You watched him laugh at jokes and play wizard's chess and exist in the castle like he always had. But there was something different about him now. Something dimmed. Like a light had gone out inside of him, and he was just going through the motions of being alive without actually living.
You spent the days leading up to the Yule Ball in a state of numbness. You helped your friends get ready, pinning up their hair and listening to their excited chatter about their dates and what they were wearing. You smiled at the right moments and said the right things, but it all felt hollow. Like you were watching yourself from outside your own body.
You helped Emma pick out her shoes. You listened to another roommate practice her dancing. You participated in all the excitement and anticipation, but you felt nothing. You were a ghost moving through the castle, present in body but absent in every way that mattered.
On the day of the ball, you got ready slowly. You took a bath and washed your hair, letting the warm water cascade down your back. You dried your hair carefully, and then you began to curl it. Each curl took time and attention, and you focused on that instead of thinking about George.
You curled your hair down, letting the waves fall around your shoulders. You found the small pearls that your mother had given you years ago, and you carefully wove them into your curls, creating a delicate design that caught the light when you moved.
You put on your dress, the blue and black lace dress that your friend had helped you pick out weeks ago. It was beautiful in a way that made you want to cry. The top was tied around your neck, leaving your shoulders and back bare. The lace was intricate and detailed, with patterns that seemed to shift when you moved. The blue was dark and rich, and the black lace created a contrast that made the dress seem to shimmer.
You looked at yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the person looking back at you. You looked beautiful. You looked like someone who was going to have a magical night at the Yule Ball. You looked like someone who was happy.
It was all a lie.
You painted a smile on your face and pretended that your heart wasn't shattered into pieces. You pretended that you weren't about to watch George dance with someone else all night. You pretended that you were okay with the choice you'd made.
And when the night of the ball arrived, you told yourself that you'd done the right thing. That you'd let him go. That this was how it was supposed to be. That sometimes love meant sacrificing what you wanted for someone else's happiness.
You had no idea that you were about to be completely wrong about everything.
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