Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader
Characters: George Weasley, Oliver Wood
Summary: New to the school paper, assigned to Quidditch coverage, you didn’t expect the real game to be off the pitch. George Weasley flirts, teases, and pushes boundaries, while Oliver Wood stakes his claim with every serious, commanding word. You’re the prize, and the tension is almost too hot to handle.
Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Smut / Soft Intimacy / Subtle love triangle tension / Soft Angst / Friendly rivalry
The weather had been warning you since the moment you left the castle.
Wind pulled at your coat, sharp and impatient, and the rain had only just begun—light, almost polite, the kind that promised it wouldn’t stay that way for long. You crossed the grounds anyway, boots sinking slightly into damp grass, heart beating faster with every step toward the Quidditch pitch.
You weren’t entirely sure what you were doing there.
You were new. Everyone knew that. New to the paper, new to the column—sports, of all things. You still weren’t sure how that had happened. You didn’t play. You didn’t fly. But someone had decided you had to start somewhere, and Gryffindor Quidditch seemed as good a place as any.
What if they don’t let me in?
What if training sessions are off-limits?
What if I walk all this way just to be told to leave?
You exhaled slowly, tightening your grip on your notebook.
Stop it, you told yourself. You won’t know unless you try.
You were so focused on rehearsing your introduction that you didn’t see him.
You walked straight into a body—solid, warm, unmovable—and would have lost your balance if hands hadn’t caught you instantly, firm at your arms, steadying you before you could even stumble.
“Easy,” a voice said, close.
His hair was a blaze of red even under the gray drizzle, rain darkening the collar of his jacket. His hands lingered on your arms, slow to release, as if letting go hadn’t even occurred to him yet.
“Are you alright?” His eyes searched your face, calm, insistent, like your answer actually mattered.
You nodded, suddenly aware of every fraction of a second, every inch between you. “Yes… yeah. I’m fine. Sorry—I wasn’t looking.”
Behind him, a lighter voice teased.
A second redhead appeared over his shoulder, identical grin, identical curiosity—but his gaze flicked between the two of you like he was watching something interesting unfold.
The wind, the rain, even the distant shouts from the pitch faded into a muted haze. For a moment, there was only this—standing here, in the open, the quiet electricity between you, hands still brushing yours as they loosened ever so slightly.
“I’m George,” he said, voice soft, offering his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “George Weasley.”
Your name came out almost on instinct as you introduced yourself, fumbling slightly over the details—new to the paper, sports section, first article, hoping watching the training wouldn’t be a problem.
George’s smile deepened, playful yet knowing, a flicker of something unspoken lighting his eyes.
A sharp crack of a broom landing split the moment.
Footsteps approached—fast, purposeful.
“Why aren’t you in the air?” a voice demanded. “How long am I supposed to wait?”
Oliver Wood appeared, rain dripping from his hair, half-irritation on his face… until his eyes found you.
For a heartbeat, he forgot the words he was about to say.
You stepped forward, just enough to break the silence.
“I’m sorry—I don’t mean to interrupt. I just started working for the school paper, sports section,” you said, voice steady, heart racing, “I was hoping to write about Gryffindor. About the team.”
Wood glanced up at the sky, then back at you. “You know it’s going to rain.”
You nodded. “Quidditch doesn’t stop for bad conditions, right?”
His gaze softened, approving, almost impressed.
“Alright,” he said. “You can stay. Just don’t get in the way.”
He turned, calling orders, sending players to their positions, but George lingered.
George finally moved toward his broom, he leaned close, voice low over the wind. “Try not to blink,” he said, almost a whisper, teasing, intimate, like a secret only you were allowed to hear. “You might miss something.”
Then he was gone, lifting off into the grey sky as the rain finally began to fall in earnest.
Training ended the way it had started—loud, sharp, and soaked through.
Rain clung to everything now. Robes, hair, brooms abandoned near the edge of the pitch. Players laughed, complained, shoved at one another as they landed, adrenaline still humming under their skin.
You stayed where you were, notebook pressed to your chest, watching them come down one by one.
You almost told yourself you’d leave it at that.
“Hey,” you said, stepping forward before you could change your mind. “I still have a few questions. If anyone—”
George’s voice cut in first, immediate. His hands brushed the wet hair from his forehead, rain clinging to his lashes. He turned to you with a certainty that made your pulse jump. “Happy to answer all of them,” he added, as if there had never been a question.
Then Oliver’s voice reached you, smooth, firm, commanding without edge. “Actually,” he said, eyes meeting yours with a quiet weight, “I should probably be the one doing this.”
George’s gaze flicked toward him, still smiling, but there was a sharpened edge now—something deliberate, unspoken.
“Pretty sure you don’t speak for the entire team,” George said, eyes back on you, playful, defiant, yet teasing. “Not off the pitch.”
Wood stepped closer, a subtle heat radiating off him even through the rain, close enough that your notebook seemed to shrink between all of you.
“As captain,” he said, eyes locking on yours, steady and certain, “it makes sense that I handle interviews. Especially official ones.”
You opened your mouth to smooth it over.
Instead, you found yourself standing between them.
George raised an eyebrow, smirk teasing, unapologetic. “Unless you want to hear the same rehearsed answer three times.”
Wood didn’t break his gaze. “Unless you want the truth instead of a performance.”
You exhaled slowly, nodding once. “Then I suppose I’ll talk to both of you.”
They just watched each other for a beat too long before turning back to you.
You flipped open your notebook.
“Alright,” you said. “First question.”
You asked about the season. About expectations. About pressure.
George answered first, casual—each word teasing and light, yet precise.
“With style,” he said.
“With instinct.”
“With the ability to adapt when things don’t go according to plan.”
Wood’s corrections came, calm, measured, the weight of responsibility in every word.
“With discipline.”
“With preparation.”
“With knowing your role and sticking to it.”
They disagreed politely. Constantly.
Every answer became two versions of the same truth—George’s loose, confident, edged with humor; Oliver’s precise, measured, rooted in responsibility. When one finished, the other filled the space immediately, as if silence meant losing ground.
You wrote quickly, barely able to keep up.
At one point, George leaned closer, brushing your notebook with a finger, a ghost of warmth, eyes glinting. “Make sure you write that part down,” he said, voice low.
Wood folded his arms. “Or you could write what actually wins matches.”
You looked up from the page.
They were both watching you now.
Not waiting for your next question—waiting for your reaction.
You didn’t give them one.
You just smiled faintly and kept writing.
By the time you closed your notebook, the rain had soaked through the last dry edge of the pitch, and something unspoken had settled between the three of you. Not hostile. Not friendly.
“Well,” Wood said at last, straightening. “If you need anything clarified, let me know.”
George tilted his head, eyes still on you. “Same goes for me.”
Different words.
Same meaning.
You thanked them, already aware that this wasn’t just an interview anymore—and that whatever you were writing, both of them intended to be part of it.
As you turned to leave the pitch, you felt it clearly for the first time.
You had stepped into something that wasn’t neutral.
Oliver’s voice reached you before you made it halfway to the path leading back to the castle.
He was jogging toward you, rain still clinging to him, hair damp, expression more careful now than it had been during training.
“You said you’re writing this tonight,” he said. “After standing out here, you’re going to freeze.”
You shrugged lightly. “Occupational hazard.”
He shook his head once, decisive. “Come have some tea. Somewhere warm. We can go over the article—if you want to make sure it’s accurate.”
You hesitated only a second before nodding. “Alright.”
The Gryffindor common room smelled like firewood and damp wool.
The rain outside beat steadily against the windows now, heavier than before, but inside it was warm—almost too warm—golden light flickering from the fireplace as students talked, laughed, drifted in and out.
You sat on one end of a sofa near the hearth, parchment spread across your knees, a steaming mug cradled between your hands.
Oliver sat close. Closer than necessary.
He leaned in as you reread a paragraph, shoulder brushing yours, attention fully on the text.
“This part,” he said, pointing. His finger grazed your hand as he did. “You might want to clarify what we changed tactically after mid-season.”
You nodded, scribbling a note.
A moment later, it happened again.
Another accidental touch. Brief. Deliberate enough to be noticed, subtle enough to be dismissed.
Oliver spoke quietly, his voice low in the space between you. “You write well,” he said. “You see things people usually miss.”
You looked up at him, surprised.
Before you could respond, the portrait hole burst open.
Laughter. Voices. Wet boots hitting stone.
George’s voice carried first—easy, unmistakable—followed by Fred’s commentary, Harry complaining about the rain, Angelina’s sharp laugh, Katie shaking water from her sleeves.
They filtered in together, energy still buzzing from training.
George saw you almost immediately.
Then he saw where you were sitting.
Who you were sitting with.
The way his gaze lingered on Oliver’s arm resting along the back of the sofa behind you.
He approached slowly, hands in his pockets, rain still clinging to his hair.
“Well,” George said, stopping in front of the sofa, gaze flicking pointedly to Oliver. “Looks like you didn’t waste any time.”
Oliver glanced up, unfazed. “We’re going over the article.”
“Ah,” George drawled. “Of course you are.”
You felt the tension before either of them said anything else.
Without thinking too hard about it, you shifted slightly—just enough to make space beside you.
“Do you want to see?” you asked George, lifting the parchment. “You are part of it.”
Oliver straightened, subtle but immediate.
George’s eyebrows lifted, amused. He dropped onto the sofa beside you without hesitation, close enough that your knees brushed.
“Careful,” he murmured, glancing at the text. “If I start editing too, he might think I’m stealing his job.”
Oliver scoffed. “You wouldn’t know where to begin.”
George smiled—slow, deliberate—and leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing lightly into yours.
“Funny,” he said, eyes on you now, not Oliver. “You seem to understand me just fine.”
Your pen paused mid-word.
You felt it then—how naturally your body angled toward George, how your attention followed him without effort. How Oliver, suddenly, felt like the third presence instead of the center.
George glanced back at the parchment, pretending to read.
“You should keep that line,” he added casually. “The one about instinct. It suits me.”
Oliver cleared his throat. “If you’re done—” he said, controlled.
“Relax, Captain,” he said lightly.
Then George leaned back, standing.
“I’ll let you finish,” he said, eyes lingering on you. “For now.”
As he walked away, you realized two things at once:
Oliver had lost his advantage.
The days that followed slipped into a strange rhythm.
You kept writing.
You kept observing.
And George Weasley kept finding you.
Not loudly. Not obviously.
In corridors between classes, when you were juggling parchment and ink and suddenly there he was, walking backward in front of you, asking if you’d written something devastating about him yet.
On the stairs, where he’d slow his pace to match yours, leaning against the railing like he had nowhere else to be.
In the Great Hall, where you’d feel his eyes before you ever saw him—look up from your notes and find him already watching, mouth curved like he knew something you didn’t.
Sometimes he spoke.
Sometimes he didn’t.
Sometimes it was just a glance held a second too long, a brush of fingers when he passed you your quill back, a murmured “Don’t work too hard” like it meant something else.
You noticed how easily you laughed with him.
How you forgot to watch the time.
And you noticed something else, too.
Oliver Wood hadn’t stopped trying.
He checked in about the article. Asked how it was coming along. Offered tea again—always tea, always warm, always reasonable. His presence was steady, grounding, impossible to dismiss.
You told yourself it was harmless.
You didn’t tell yourself who you looked for first when you entered a room.
The next day wind was sharp again when you reached the pitch.
You stopped short, confusion settling in as you scanned the field. No players. No brooms. No shouting.
George stood a few steps away, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable—but softer than you expected.
“You’re late,” he said gently.
Your stomach dropped. “Late?”
“Snape moved Slytherin’s training up,” George explained. “Apparently ambition doesn’t like waiting.”
You let out a breath, frustration flashing across your face. “I didn’t know.”
“I figured,” he said. Then, after a pause: “You look… disappointed.”
“I needed the notes,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to miss it.”
He studied you a moment longer, then nodded toward the path away from the pitch.
“Somewhere that isn’t freezing,” he said. “I’ll walk you.”
You walked side by side, the grounds stretching quiet around you. Dusk bled into the sky, and the wind tugged at your hair—but with him there, it felt lighter somehow, as if the chill was just a brush against skin.
He fell into step beside you, shoulders almost touching yours. You didn’t move away.
“Careful,” he said suddenly, low, playful. “Don’t let the cold steal all your attention.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “I… wasn’t thinking about the cold.”
He smirked, leaning just slightly closer, enough that you could smell rain and smoke lingering on him. “Good.”
Your arm brushed his as you adjusted your notebook. A spark ran through your chest, subtle, electric, but unmistakable.
He glanced at you, and in that glance, there was something unspoken—a promise, a challenge, a dare.
By the time you reached the castle, the corridors were quiet, torchlight flickering against the stone walls.
“Huh,” you murmured. “We missed dinner.”
He smiled softly, almost slyly. “Worth it.”
Inside the common room, the warmth hit you all at once. You dropped onto a sofa near the hearth, parchment on your knees, quill in hand.
George paused mid-step, watching you with a tilt of his head. “Not going to bed?”
You sighed, leaning your head against the back of the couch. “I should. But I I need to write something.””
“Well,” he said slowly, “I do happen to be an excellent source.”
“Never,” he replied. “But entertaining.”
He straightened suddenly, posture stiff, expression twisted into a bad imitation.
“As a Slytherin Beater,” he drawled, “I believe Gryffindor’s success is entirely accidental and deeply offensive—””
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
“Thank you,” he said proudly. “I worked very hard on it.”
You shook your head, smiling as you scribbled something out. “Alright. We’re not writing about them.”
“Good,” he said. “They don’t deserve the ink.”
The fire crackled softly. The room felt warmer. Smaller.
An idea settled in your chest.
“What if,” you said carefully, “I wrote a profile instead?”
George tilted his head. “Of who?”
“The best Beater on the team,” you said, voice steady. “Personal angle. No tactics. Just… you.”
Something shifted in his expression.
“Only if the questions are fair,” he said.
You smiled. “No promises.”
You wrote his name at the top of the parchment.
“First question,” you said. “Do you actually enjoy it? The pressure?”
George shrugged. “Some days. Other days I pretend I do.”
Somewhere between jokes and notes, the space between you shrank.
Your knees touched fully. His arm brushed yours. A hand lingered near the edge of your parchment, close enough to distract you, close enough to thrill you.
“Do you have someone?” you asked, just barely above a whisper, as if testing.
George tilted his head. “Is that for the readers?”
You looked up, heart stuttering.
“Or for you?” he murmured, leaning slightly, letting the words hover just for you.
The warmth from him pressed against you, subtle, teasing, impossible to ignore.
He shifted, just a hair closer, close enough that the moment stretched, fragile and electric. Every inch closing, inch by inch, until it felt like there was nothing left between you.
You forgot the parchment. The firelight. The world outside the room.
Fred’s voice crashed into the room like a Bludger.
You jumped apart instantly.
George groaned softly, forehead dropping forward for a split second.
“Wood’s looking for you,” Fred added cheerfully. “He’s losing his mind about tomorrow.”
George stood, jaw tight. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
His expression had changed—still heated, still charged—but softer now. Certain.
“This isn’t over,” he said quietly.
Then he turned and followed Fred out.
You stayed where you were.
Heart racing. Fingers still curled around the quill.
On the parchment, the title stared back at you.
George Weasley: More Than a Beater
You didn’t write another word.
Match day. The castle woke up louder than usual.
Doors slammed. Footsteps echoed. Someone was already shouting “Gryffindor!” down the corridor like it was a battle cry instead of a greeting.
You barely made it three steps out of your dorm before you felt it—the electricity in the air, the certainty everyone carried like armor.
They were going to win.
Of course they were.
Scarlet and gold everywhere. Scarves thrown over shoulders, laughter spilling between groups of students as if the match was already over. You caught fragments of conversations as you moved through the hall.
“Hufflepuff doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Wood’s been insufferable all week.”
“We’re taking the Cup this year.”
You smiled despite yourself, fingers tightening around your notebook.
You scanned the crowd instinctively.
George stood near the stairs, already half in his gear, sleeves rolled up, hair a little wild like he hadn’t bothered to tame it this morning. Fred was saying something animated beside him, but George wasn’t listening.
Your steps slowed without you realizing it.
You meant to go to him.
Meant to wish him luck.
Meant to say something—anything that wasn’t unsaid.
You took one step forward.
“Can I steal you for a moment?”
Oliver’s voice came from your right.
He stood close, already dressed for the match, expression focused but softer when he looked at you. Intentional. Grounded. Like he’d planned this.
“It’ll only take a second,” he added.
George was still watching.
You told yourself it was nothing. Just a word. Just timing.
Oliver guided you a few steps away, just far enough that the noise of the common room blurred into background sound. He stopped near the window, rain streaking the glass behind him.
“I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I just—” He exhaled. “This match matters.”
“I know,” you replied quietly.
He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around something small.
“When we lost the Snitch because of the dementors,” he said suddenly, eyes fixed on yours, “I promised myself I’d never leave anything to chance again.”
A thin leather bracelet rested in his palm, worn soft with age. The Gryffindor lion was stamped into the metal clasp, dulled from years of being touched, trusted.
“I’ve worn this every match since,” Oliver continued. “Call it superstition if you want. But it’s never failed me.”
“I want you to have it,” he said.
You looked at the bracelet. Then back at him.
“Just for today,” he interrupted gently. “If you keep it on… it means something. To me.”
You didn’t think about how it might look.
You didn’t think about who might see.
You thought about belief. About pressure. About what it meant to carry someone’s hope.
“Alright,” you said. “I’ll hold onto it.”
Oliver smiled—relieved, sincere—and fastened it around your wrist himself, his fingers lingering just a second too long.
Behind you, the noise shifted.
You felt it before you turned.
George stood a few feet away now.
His gaze was fixed on your wrist.
On the space between you that suddenly felt very visible.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Fred clapped George on the shoulder, saying something about warm-ups, about not being late, about Wood losing his mind if they didn’t move.
George didn’t take his eyes off you.
Something in his expression closed.
He nodded once—to Oliver, not to you—and turned away without a word.
You looked down at the bracelet, suddenly heavier than it had been seconds ago.
The match hadn’t even started.
And already, something had shifted.
You found him near the locker rooms.
The noise of the castle faded there, replaced by the low hum of voices behind closed doors, the clatter of brooms being moved, boots hitting stone.
George stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, staring at nothing.
You hesitated for half a second.
And for the first time since you’d met him, there was no warmth in his eyes.
“What,” he said. Not a question. A statement.
You swallowed. “I wanted to wish you luck.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Right.”
His gaze dropped—to your wrist.
He laughed once, humorless. “Didn’t realize we were doing that now.”
“Collecting souvenirs,” he said coolly. “From captains.”
You frowned. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?” He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Because it looks a lot like that.”
You lifted your chin. “He asked me to hold onto it. For the team.”
“Funny,” he said. “You didn’t ask me.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “It isn’t.”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his composure.
“I thought you were different,” he said. “I thought when you looked at me—when we talked—it meant something.”
“It does,” you said immediately.
“Then why does it feel like I’m watching you choose him?”
You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “I didn’t choose anyone.”
George shook his head slowly. “You don’t get it. You don’t have to say it for it to happen.”
He glanced toward the door, where voices were rising—teammates calling his name.
“I don’t have time for this,” he said, already pulling away. “I’ve got a match to play.”
“And for what it’s worth,” he added, not turning back, “I don’t give interviews today.”
The door shut behind him.
You stood there alone, the echo of his words settling heavy in your chest.
You looked down at your wrist.
The bracelet felt tighter now.
And suddenly, holding onto it didn’t feel like support.
The rain started before the first whistle.
You took your place in the stands, notebook forgotten in your lap.
The roar of Gryffindor thundered around you.
Scarlet and gold banners waved. Someone behind you was already shouting Wood’s name like a prayer.
Your eyes found the pitch.
George mounted his broom, jaw set, shoulders tense. He didn’t look at you.
Oliver barked orders, sharp and precise, voice cutting clean through the rain. He looked confident—focused in the way that made people trust him.
The match exploded into motion.
At first, it was chaos—blurs of colour, brooms slicing through wet air, the thud of Bludgers echoing across the pitch. Rain slicked everything, turning sharp maneuvers into risks.
You saw it immediately—the way he hit faster, more aggressively than usual, timing just a fraction off. One Bludger flew wide. Another clipped a Hufflepuff Chaser.
Oliver shouted corrections.
A signal missed.
A call ignored.
A maneuver mistimed.
You gripped the edge of the bench as a Hufflepuff player slipped past their formation, scoring easily.
Wood’s voice rose, sharp with frustration.
George’s broom jerked in response—too late.
Rain streamed down his face now, plastering hair to his forehead, jaw clenched so tight you could see it from the stands.
You looked down at your wrist.
It felt wrong. Heavy. Like it didn’t belong there.
The match dragged on, tension winding tighter with every near-miss. Gryffindor clawed their way back, point by point, sheer determination keeping them afloat.
A Bludger rocketed toward Oliver’s blind side.
For half a second, everything slowed.
You stood without realizing it.
George swerved hard, slamming the Bludger away just in time. The impact jolted him sideways, rain-slick broom skidding dangerously before he recovered.
Oliver glanced back—really looked at him this time.
They moved better after that. Still tense. Still rough around the edges. But aligned.
As if the game forced them to remember why they trusted each other in the first place.
The Snitch appeared near the stands, gold flashing through the rain.
Seconds stretched unbearably thin.
Then the whistle shrieked.
Cheers tore through the rain, louder than thunder. You barely registered the noise as players landed hard on the pitch, mud splashing, arms thrown around shoulders, laughter breaking free.
Down the steps. Onto the wet grass.
Your boots slipped slightly as you reached the edge of the pitch, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the score.
Oliver reached you first.
Water streamed down his face, eyes bright with relief and triumph.
“We did it,” he said, breathless. “We actually did it.”
He laughed, hands coming to your arms, grounding himself.
“I told you,” he added, glancing at your wrist. “It worked.”
Didn’t get the chance to answer.
A shadow fell across the grass.
George landed a few feet away.
Rain-soaked. Breathing hard. Exhilaration and exhaustion etched into his face.
Fred clapped him on the back, Angelina shouting something about his save, but George barely heard them.
The noise around you dulled.
You couldn’t hear what Oliver was saying anymore.
You stepped back gently, slipping your wrist from Oliver’s grasp.
Without looking at him, you reached up and unclasped the bracelet.
Rain slicked it as it dropped into your palm.
You crossed the space between you and Oliver and pressed it back into his hand.
“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For trusting me.”
Heat radiated from him through the wet fabric, through the rain.
His gaze swept to Oliver, then snapped back to you.
Something shifted in him—something raw, sudden, urgent.
Not tentative. Not gentle.
The world narrowed to the two of you. Rain streaked over skin and fabric, dripping into hair, turning everything around into a blur of light and sound.
His hands found your waist, firm, claiming. Your fingers twined into the collar of his jacket, gripping, steadying, wanting.
Every glance, every hesitation, every unsaid thing between you collided in that instant.
Somewhere a cheer cut through the rain—but it was distant, irrelevant.
You didn’t hear it. You didn’t care.
There was just the press of him, the warmth, the spark of his lips against yours, the unspoken promise hanging in the storm.
A heartbeat stretched, stretched again, as if the rain itself waited with you.
Everything else—Oliver, Fred, Angelina, the pitch, the storm—slid to the edges of existence.
Whatever this had been, whatever lines you’d nearly crossed before, evaporated.
The castle was quieter later.
Not silent—just softened. Like it was recovering from everything the day had thrown at it.
You sat at one of the tables in the common room, parchment spread before you, quill moving slower now, more deliberate. Ink stained your fingers. Your hair was still damp at the ends.
So close you could feel the warmth of him even when he wasn’t touching you—his knee brushing yours, his arm resting along the back of your chair like it had decided this was its place now.
You wrote about the match.
About rain and rhythm.
About tension and trust.
About a team that nearly fractured—and didn’t.
You were finishing the last paragraph when you felt him lean in.
His breath brushed your ear, warm and unhurried.
“You always do that,” he murmured.
“Do what?” you asked quietly, eyes still on the page.
“Get that look,” he said. “Like the rest of the world stops existing when you write.”
His lips brushed just below your ear—not a kiss, not quite. A promise of one.
“You’re good,” he added softly. “You know that, right?”
You swallowed, heart picking up pace. “I’m almost done.”
“Mmm,” he hummed, amusement threading through his voice. “Shame.”
Your fingers tightened around the quill. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, closer now, his mouth at your neck, his words a whisper against your skin, “once you’re finished… I was hoping you might pay attention to something else.”
You laughed under your breath, heat rushing to your face. “George.”
He smiled against you. You could feel it.
“Just saying,” he murmured. “The article can wait five more minutes.”
You leaned back—into him this time—letting your head rest briefly against his shoulder.
“Five,” you said. “That’s all you get.”
He grinned, unmistakably pleased.
You added the final line.
In the end, Gryffindor didn’t win because the rain stopped—
they won because they trusted each other enough to keep flying through it.
George’s hand slid to your waist, firm and certain.
You turned your head toward him.
He kissed you then—slow, unhurried, like there was nowhere else he needed to be.
And for the first time since this had all begun, you knew with absolute certainty—
He wasn’t going anywhere.
