hello hello, i am aurelia, or relia for short :) i am 23 years old & residing in new zealand!
i am an avid fic reader/writer, have been since i was like 10 years old, and had unrestricted internet access – a recipe for disaster, but old wattpad i mourn u like a lover i lost in a war.
i am currently writing for:
☘︎ ݁˖ tolkien (lotr/hobbit; thorin focused)
☘︎ ݁˖ harry potter (predominantly the weasley twins)
more fandoms will be added to the list overtime, of course!
if you’d like to be moots, or want to chat, feel free to drop by and leave an ask!
Summary: When George insists that driving a muggle car "can't be that different" from a magical one, you decide to put his confidence to the test during his summer visit to your home. What follows is a chaotic afternoon of stalled engines, endangered rose bushes, and the discovery that your boyfriend—while brilliant at magic—is absolutely hopeless with muggle machinery. But watching him try (and fail) at everything from driving to operating the washing machine only makes you love him more.
Warnings: Mild language (British swearing), reckless driving (in a driveway), destruction of property (rose bushes), excessive fluff, George Weasley being charmingly incompetent
CW: None - this is pure fluff and humor! Light kissing/romance, but nothing beyond PG-13. Some secondhand embarrassment if you're sensitive to characters failing adorably at tasks.
Word Count: Just below 3k
The summer sun beat down on the quiet suburban street as you stood in your parents' driveway, hands on your hips, trying very hard not to laugh.
"Right then," George said confidently, circling your mum's ancient Ford Fiesta like it was a Hungarian Horntail he was about to tame. "How hard can this possibly be? Four wheels, an engine, some pedals. I've seen you lot do it. Even Percy could probably manage, and he gets winded climbing stairs."
"George," you warned, though you were already grinning. "Remember what we talked about at Hogwarts? About how muggle cars are different from magical ones?"
"And remember what I said?" He turned to you with that trademark Weasley smirk, the one that had made you fall for him in the first place. "I said, and I quote, 'Can't be that different, love. S'all just transportation, isn't it?'"
You'd been dating George Weasley for nearly a year now, and in that time, you'd learned that there were two types of situations: ones where George's confidence was endearing, and ones where it was about to become hilariously problematic. This was shaping up to be the latter.
"Okay," you sighed, opening the driver's side door. "Get in. But you're starting in the driveway. We're not going anywhere near actual roads until you prove you won't kill us both."
"Your faith in me is truly touching," George said, dropping a kiss on your forehead as he squeezed past you and folded his lanky frame into the driver's seat. "Has anyone ever told you that you look absolutely radiant when you're being a worrier?"
"Has anyone ever told you that flattery won't save you from a crash?"
"Worth a shot."
You walked around to the passenger side, already second-guessing this decision. Your parents were away for the weekend—visiting your aunt in Manchester—which had seemed like the perfect opportunity for George to visit. Your mum had been suspicious about your "friend from school" until you'd shown her a photo of George making a ridiculous face with a garden gnome. Somehow, that had won her over.
Sliding into the passenger seat, you turned to find George examining the interior with the intense focus he usually reserved for developing new Skiving Snackboxes.
"This is the steering wheel," he said, gripping it with both hands.
"Correct."
"These are... also related to steering?" He wiggled the gear stick.
"That's the gear shift, and please don't 'wiggle' it."
"Noted." He looked down at his feet. "And these are the pedals you mentioned. Three of them. That seems excessive, doesn't it? Magical cars just sort of... go."
"Yes, well, muggle cars require a bit more participation. The one on the right is the accelerator—that makes you go faster. The middle one is the brake—"
"Makes you stop, yeah, I've got that."
"And the left one is the clutch, which you need to press when you're changing gears."
"Bloody hell." He ran a hand through his red hair, making it stick up at odd angles. "And I have to change between them while also steering and watching where I'm going?"
"Now you're getting it," you said cheerfully.
"You lot do this every day? Muggles?"
"Some of us even do it while drinking coffee and listening to the radio."
George turned to you with something approaching awe. "You're all mental. Brilliant, but mental." He leaned over and kissed you properly this time, soft and sweet. "Especially you."
"Flirting will not get you out of this lesson."
"Are you sure? Because I've got loads more where that came from." He waggled his eyebrows. "You look lovely today, by the way. Is that a new shirt? Really brings out your—"
"George Weasley, start this car right now or I'm writing to Fred about how scared you are of a Ford Fiesta."
That did it. Nothing motivated George quite like the threat of Fred's teasing.
"Right!" He sat up straighter, hands repositioning on the wheel. "I'm ready. What first?"
"First, put on your seatbelt."
"My what?"
You reached over and pulled the strap across his chest, trying to ignore how aware you were of the warmth of him, the faint smell of cinnamon and fireworks that always seemed to cling to his clothes. His hand caught yours as you clicked the belt into place.
"Thanks, love," he said softly, and there was something in his eyes that made your heart skip.
"You're welcome," you managed. "Now, foot on the clutch—that's the left pedal."
George pressed it down.
"Good. Now turn the key in the ignition."
The engine sputtered to life, and George jumped slightly. "Blimey, it's loud!"
"It's a twenty-year-old car, George. Now, keep your foot on the clutch and move the gear stick into first gear." You pointed to the diagram on the knob. "That's up and to the left."
George stuck his tongue out slightly in concentration—something you'd noticed he did when working on particularly tricky inventions—and moved the gear stick. The car made a horrible grinding noise.
"Is it supposed to sound like that?"
"No, you need to—here." You put your hand over his on the gear stick. "Gentle. Like this."
"I'm always gentle," he protested, but let you guide him. The gear stick slid into place with a satisfying click.
"Okay, now slowly—and I mean slowly—lift your foot off the clutch while pressing down gently on the accelerator."
"The accelerator is...?"
"Right pedal."
"Right pedal, got it."
George lifted his foot. The car lurched forward like a startled hippogriff, then immediately stalled with a pathetic cough.
"Ah," George said into the sudden silence. "That wasn't supposed to happen, was it?"
You bit your lip to keep from laughing. "It's okay, it happens to everyone at first. You just lifted the clutch too fast. Let's try again."
Fifteen minutes and seven stalls later, George had managed to move the car approximately three meters down the driveway.
"This is humiliating," he announced, though he was grinning. "I've flown a car to Hogwarts, you know. An actual flying car. Through a magical barrier. At night."
"Yes, but that car was enchanted. This one requires actual skill."
"Are you saying I don't have skill?" He turned to you with mock offense. "I'll have you know I'm very skilled. Ask anyone. Fred says I'm the skilled twin."
"Fred says that about himself."
"Well, one of us is right."
You laughed, and George's expression softened. "I love that sound, you know," he said quietly. "Your laugh. It's better than magic."
Your cheeks warmed. "You can't just say things like that and expect me to focus on teaching you to drive."
"Can't I?" He leaned closer, and you could see the mischief dancing in his eyes. "What if I told you that you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen? That spending this week with you, in your world, meeting your parents, eating your mum's casserole—"
"You said you liked the casserole!"
"I loved the casserole, even though I'm seventy percent sure it was seventy percent potatoes. What I'm saying is—" He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "This has been the best week of my life. Even if I'm rubbish at muggle driving."
Your heart felt too big for your chest. "George..."
"Yeah?"
"You've moved us into the rosebushes."
"What?"
Sure enough, the car had been slowly rolling forward during his speech and was now gently nudging your mum's prized roses.
"Bollocks!" George slammed his foot on what he thought was the brake but was actually the accelerator. The car lurched forward, branches scraping the windscreen.
"Other pedal!" you shrieked.
George's foot found the brake, and you both jerked forward against your seatbelts.
In the silence that followed, a single rose petal drifted down onto the hood.
"Your mum's going to kill me," George said.
"Probably," you agreed.
He turned to look at you, hair even more disheveled than usual, a leaf somehow stuck to his shoulder, his expression somewhere between apologetic and terrified.
You burst out laughing.
"This isn't funny!" he protested, but he was laughing too. "I've just murdered your mum's garden! She's going to ban me from the house! I'll never get to eat mysterious casseroles again!"
"We can fix it before she gets back," you gasped between giggles. "We'll just... replant them or something."
"Replant them? Do I look like I know anything about muggle gardening? I barely know about magical gardening, and those plants literally tell you what they need!"
You wiped tears from your eyes. "Okay, okay. New plan. Back up very slowly, and we'll assess the damage."
"Right. Slowly. I can do slowly." George reached for the gear stick, then paused. "Which one is reverse again?"
"Bottom right."
"Bottom right, got it." He moved the gear stick, and the grinding noise returned.
"George, clutch!"
"Right, sorry!" He pressed the clutch, found reverse, and began to lift his foot.
"Remember, slowly—"
The car shot backward like a rocket, straight across the driveway.
"BRAKE!" you yelled.
George's foot slammed down, and the car stopped inches from your dad's shed.
You both sat in stunned silence for a moment.
"I think," George said carefully, "that I may have been wrong about the whole 'can't be that different' thing."
"You think?"
He turned off the engine and let his head fall back against the seat. "How do muggles do this every day? This is exhausting! My feet are doing three different things, my hands are doing two different things, and my brain is supposed to remember all these rules. It's like trying to juggle Fanged Frisbees while reciting the Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood backward."
You couldn't help but smile at his dramatics. "It gets easier with practice."
"Does it, though? Or do you just get used to the constant fear?"
"Both, probably."
George turned his head to look at you without lifting it from the seat. His hair was a mess, there was a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead from concentration, and he looked absolutely exhausted.
He was also completely, utterly adorable.
"Stop looking at me like that," he said, but he was smiling.
"Like what?"
"Like you think I'm cute when I fail."
"I think you're cute all the time," you admitted. "The failing just adds character."
"Character. Right." He sat up and unbuckled his seatbelt. "Come on, then. Show me how it's really done. And maybe I can learn something by watching instead of, you know, destroying property."
You switched seats, and George watched intently as you smoothly started the car, reversed out of the rosebush area (with only minimal damage, thankfully), and drove in a perfect circle around the driveway.
"Show off," he muttered, but he was grinning.
You pulled back up to the starting position and turned off the engine. "See? Not so hard."
"You make it look easy. There's a difference." He leaned over and kissed your cheek. "My brilliant, talented, muggle-born girlfriend who can operate complex machinery without magic."
"And don't you forget it."
"Never." He paused. "So, be honest. On a scale of one to 'Ron trying to use a telephone,' how bad was I?"
You pretended to consider. "Solid eight."
"Eight! That's not too bad—"
"Out of five."
"You're mean."
"You destroyed my mum's roses!"
"They'll grow back! Probably! Don't plants do that?"
You laughed and took his hand. "Come on. Let's go inside and I'll teach you how to use the washing machine instead."
George's eyes widened. "The what now?"
"Magical people wash clothes by hand, right? Or with spells?"
"Mostly Mum does it with magic, yeah."
"Well, muggles have a machine that—"
"A machine that washes clothes? You're having me on."
"I'm absolutely not."
"What's next, you're going to tell me there's a machine that washes dishes too?"
You bit your lip.
"No," George said.
"We have one," you admitted.
"Bloody hell. You lot really will make a machine for anything, won't you?"
"Says the wizard who enchants toffees to make people's tongues grow."
"That's completely different! That's useful!"
You tugged him toward the house, still laughing. "Come on. Maybe machinery will be easier for you than the car."
It wasn't.
Twenty minutes later, you'd explained the washing machine three times, and George had somehow managed to put dish soap in it instead of laundry detergent.
"They were both next to the sink!" he protested as bubbles began to seep from the machine's door.
"George!"
"I'm sorry! They looked the same!" He grabbed a towel and tried to mop up the bubbles, which only seemed to make more appear. "How is it making MORE bubbles? Where are they coming from?"
You couldn't even be mad. He looked so genuinely bewildered, standing in your laundry room surrounded by expanding foam, that all you could do was laugh until your sides hurt.
"I'm a disaster," George declared, sitting down on the floor amid the bubbles. "A complete disaster at muggle things. You should probably find yourself a nice muggle boyfriend who knows how to drive and wash clothes."
You sat down next to him, not caring about the bubbles. "And miss all this entertainment? Not a chance."
He looked at you, bubbles in his hair, detergent on his shirt, and broke into that crooked smile you loved. "You're weird, you know that?"
"You're one to talk, Weasley."
"Fair point." He pulled you closer, and you rested your head on his shoulder. "Thanks for being patient with me. I know I'm rubbish at all this."
"You're not rubbish," you said softly. "You're just learning. And anyway, I was rubbish at magic stuff when I first got to Hogwarts. You should've seen me try to use Floo powder for the first time."
"Yeah?"
"Ended up in three wrong fireplaces and covered in soot. Fred and Hermione had to come find me."
George laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Wish I'd seen that."
"Wish I'd seen you try to drive before I agreed to teach you. Would've prepared myself better."
"Oi!"
You tilted your head up to kiss him, soft and sweet, tasting like laughter and summer and home.
"Tell you what," you said when you pulled back. "How about we fix this bubble situation, rescue my mum's roses with some creative replanting, and then I'll make us dinner. Something simple that requires no machinery."
"Can I help?"
"With dinner? Sure."
"Will there be sharp knives involved?"
"Probably."
"Maybe I'll just watch then. Supervise. Provide moral support and witty commentary."
You stood and pulled him up with you. "That sounds perfect, actually."
As George helped you clean up the bubble disaster (mostly by using magic when he thought you weren't looking), you felt that warm, settled feeling you always got around him. Yes, he was terrible at muggle things. Yes, your mum's garden was going to need some emergency work. Yes, you'd probably have to ban him from the car for the foreseeable future.
But he was here, in your world, trying his best and making you laugh and looking at you like you hung the moon.
Later that evening, after you'd managed to salvage most of the roses (with a tiny bit of Reparo that George swore he'd deny if anyone asked), and after you'd made pasta while George sat on the counter providing "supervision" that mostly consisted of stealing bites of tomato and making you laugh, you found yourselves on the couch.
The telly was on—some mindless game show that you were half-heartedly explaining to George—but mostly you were just curled up together, his arm around your shoulders, your legs tucked under you.
"Hey," George said suddenly.
"Hmm?"
"Thanks for this week. Really. I know having me here is probably stressful, what with all the explaining muggle things and making sure I don't accidentally break anything—"
"You did break the toaster."
"That was an accident! How was I supposed to know you couldn't use magic on it?"
You laughed softly. "George, having you here has been wonderful. Even the chaotic parts. Especially the chaotic parts."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Next summer, you should come stay at the Burrow. Fair's fair. And I can watch you try to de-gnome the garden. Fred and I have a betting pool on whether you'll actually pick them up or just scream."
"I've done it before!"
"Have you though?"
"Once! Partially!"
"This is going to be brilliant."
You elbowed him gently, and he caught your hand, threading his fingers through yours.
"I love you, you know," he said quietly, and your heart stopped. You'd been together for almost a year, but he'd never said those words before. Neither had you, though you'd felt them for months.
You sat up to look at him properly. His expression was soft, vulnerable in a way George rarely allowed himself to be.
"Even though I'm rubbish at driving and washing machines and toasters?" he added with a small smile.
"Especially because of that," you whispered. "I love you too, George Weasley. Even though you're a disaster in the muggle world."
"A loveable disaster?"
"The most loveable disaster."
He kissed you then, deep and sweet and full of promise. When you finally broke apart, he was grinning.
"So," he said. "Want to try teaching me to drive again tomorrow?"
"Absolutely not."
"Smart woman. That's why I love you."
And as you settled back against him, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you thought about magic. Not the wand-waving kind that George knew so well, but the everyday magic of finding someone who made you laugh, who tried even when things were hard, who looked at your ordinary muggle world and found it extraordinary simply because you were in it.
That was the best kind of magic of all.
A/N: If you enjoyed this fic, please let me know! I love hearing which parts made you smile. Likes, reblogs, comments all welcome <33
Summary: The sequel to Behind the Velvet Curtain. Because one confession doesn't magically fix six years of misunderstandings.
Pairing: Fred Weasely X y/n
Warning: Angst, emotional conflict, hurt/comfort, slow-burn reconciliation, arguments, jealousy, brief physical violence, minor injuries, Hospital Wing scenes, mentions of alcohol, and lots of feelings.
A/N : Heres Part 2! let me know your thoughts. I
Word Count : 12k
Heres Part 1
The common room was empty when you got there.
The fire had burned down to embers. The chairs were pushed back from their usual positions, evidence of the pre-Ball chaos that had filled the room hours earlier. Someone had left a pair of dress shoes under the table—polished black, probably Lee's, abandoned in a hurry. Someone else had forgotten a half-empty glass of pumpkin juice on the windowsill, the liquid gone still and flat. A single hairpin glinted on the rug near the hearth. The room smelled like candle wax and perfume and the faint, fading ghost of a hundred bodies pressed together in excitement.
The Ball was over. The night was done. And you were still standing.
George was sitting in one of the armchairs near the fire.
He was still in his dress robes. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck like he'd been tugging at it for hours. His hair was a mess—not the artful mess of someone who'd styled it that way, but the exhausted mess of someone who'd been running his hands through it over and over. His elbows were on his knees, and he was staring at the dying embers like they might contain answers to questions he hadn't asked yet.
He didn't hear you come in. Or maybe he did, and he was giving you space to decide whether you wanted to be seen.
When he finally looked up and saw your face, he stood immediately. No hesitation. No pause. Just movement—swift and certain, the way George always moved when someone he loved was hurting.
"Y/N." He crossed the room in three strides. The firelight caught his face as he moved, illuminating the worry lines around his eyes, the tight set of his jaw. "What happened? Are you okay?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The tears you'd been holding back since you pushed through the velvet curtain—since you'd walked away from Fred, since you'd walked through the dark corridors alone with your hand pressed against your mouth—finally spilled over.
You were still drunk. That was part of it. The firewhiskey was still humming in your veins, loosening your tongue, stripping away every filter you had left. You swayed on your feet, and George caught you before you could fall, his hands gripping your shoulders.
"I kissed him," you choked out. The words were muffled against his chest. "I kissed him and then we screamed at each other."
George's arms wrapped around you, solid and warm. One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair. The other pressed flat against your spine, anchoring you to something steady.
"What did he say?"
Everything. Nothing. The words tumbled out of you in fragments, broken and disjointed—the way the fight had been, the way everything had been for the past two weeks.
"That he loves me. That he's loved me since fourth year. That he asked Angelina because she was safe and I wasn't. That he told you to ask me to the Ball because he was too much of a coward to do it himself." Your voice cracked. "And then we started fighting. He blamed me for never telling him. He said I hid behind being the good friend. He said I never asked for what I wanted and then got angry when people didn't give it to me."
George's hand stilled on your back. Just for a second. Then it resumed its slow, steady rhythm.
"What else?" His voice was carefully controlled—the voice of someone holding back something powerful.
"That he was jealous of you. So fucking jealous. He said he wanted to punch you every time you touched me. He said he's been watching us for weeks—watching me sit with you at meals, watching me laugh at your jokes, watching me lean on you instead of him." You pulled back, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. It didn't help. Nothing helped. "I told him he was selfish. I told him he didn't get to be jealous. I told him you'd been a better friend to me in two weeks than he'd been in six years."
"Good," George said quietly.
"He said I was right. He said you were better than him. He said I deserved someone like you instead of him. He said—" You laughed, a hollow, broken sound. "He said maybe I should have fallen for you instead. That it would have been easier for everyone."
George didn't say anything. But you felt his jaw tighten against your hair. His hand on your back pressed a little firmer, a little more deliberate.
"I told him I didn't choose who I loved. I told him I met him first. I told him he stole my toast on the first day of classes and made me laugh when I was scared and homesick, and I never stood a chance after that." Your voice cracked. "I love him, George. I've always loved him. And he finally loves me back, and it's not a fairy tale. It's not romantic. It's just two drunk people screaming at each other behind a curtain while the rest of the world goes on without them."
George guided you toward the armchair and sat you down. He knelt in front of you, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes searching your face. The firelight flickered across his features, illuminating the faint dusting of freckles across his nose, the slight furrow between his brows, the tired lines around his eyes that hadn't been there a month ago.
"You're still drunk," he said.
"I know."
"How much firewhiskey did you have?"
"I lost count. The bottle's still there. Behind the curtain. I dropped it when I kissed him."
"Okay." He squeezed your knees once—a brief, grounding pressure—and then stood up. "Stay here. I'm getting you water."
He walked over to the table by the window, where someone had left a pitcher of water and a stack of clean glasses. You watched him move—steady and deliberate, the way he always moved. No wasted motion. No hesitation. He poured the water, brought it back, pressed the glass into your hands. His fingers brushed yours, warm and solid.
"Drink," he said.
You drank. The water was cool and clean, cutting through the firewhiskey haze. You drained the whole glass, and George took it from you, setting it aside on the small table beside the armchair.
"Better?" he asked.
"A little."
"Good." He dropped into the chair across from you. The fire popped. Outside the window, the sky was still dark, but there was something at the edge of it—the faintest hint of grey. Dawn wasn't far off. "You don't have to figure it out tonight. You don't have to figure it out tomorrow. You're allowed to be angry and heartbroken and confused. You're allowed to take time."
"But what if I take too much time? What if he gives up on me?"
"If he gives up, then he doesn't deserve you."
"And if he doesn't give up?"
George's expression flickered—something you couldn't quite read. Something that was there and gone before you could catch it. "Then maybe he's worth a second chance. But that's up to you. Not me. Not him. You."
You stared at him. The firelight was catching his face, highlighting the shadows under his eyes, the tired lines around his mouth. He looked exhausted—not just from tonight, but from something deeper. Something that had been wearing on him for a long time.
"You look exhausted," you said.
"I am exhausted."
"Have you slept at all tonight?"
"No."
"George—"
"I couldn't." He shrugged, like it was nothing. "I kept thinking about you. About both of you. I saw him follow you out of the Ball, and I knew—I knew something was going to happen. I just didn't know what."
"You could have come after us."
"It wasn't my place. Whatever happened between you two—it needed to happen without an audience." He paused. "Was it bad? The fight?"
"It was awful. We said horrible things. He blamed me. I blamed him. We just—went in circles, kissing and screaming, kissing and screaming. It was like we couldn't stop hurting each other."
"Sometimes that's what needs to happen first. Before the good stuff can start."
"Is that from experience?"
"No. It's from watching you two be idiots for six years." He stood up and held out his hand. "Come on."
"What are you doing?"
"Distracting you." He wiggled his fingers. "Dance with me."
You stared at him. "George. It's four in the morning."
"And? The common room's empty. The fire's still going. There's no music, but I'm willing to hum if necessary. Badly. Very badly."
"You're insane."
"Probably. Is that a yes?"
You took his hand.
His palm was warm. His fingers closed around yours, gentle but secure, and he pulled you to your feet. The room swayed dangerously—the firewhiskey and the exhaustion and the crying all catching up with you at once—and you stumbled into him, your free hand bracing against his chest.
"Easy," he said. "I've got you."
"Everything's spinning."
"That's the firewhiskey."
"Are you sure? Maybe the room is actually spinning. Maybe there's a charm on it. A spinning-room charm. Fred and I were working on one of those last year—"
"There's no spinning-room charm."
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm sober." His hand settled on your waist—light, careful, giving you plenty of room to pull away if you wanted to. His other hand held yours, and he started to sway, slow and gentle. "Just follow me. I'll keep you upright."
"You're very confident about that."
"I'm very confident about most things."
"That's a lie. You're not confident about Potions."
"Nobody's confident about Potions. Snape makes sure of it."
You laughed. It surprised you—the way laughter could still exist inside all this pain, the way it bubbled up from somewhere you'd thought was broken. George's mouth quirked up at the corner, pleased with himself.
"See?" he said. "Distraction. I'm very good at this."
"You're very good at being an idiot."
"It's a family trait."
He started to hum—something slow and tuneless that might have been a waltz or might have been completely made up. It was off-key and wandering, full of wrong notes and uncertain pauses. His hand was warm on your waist, steady and sure. His other hand held yours like it was something precious.
You leaned into him, your head dropping to his shoulder, and let yourself be led.
"There's no music," you mumbled against his robes. The fabric was soft from wear, and it smelled like smoke from the fire and something else—something clean and familiar. Soap, maybe. Or just George.
"I'm providing the music."
"That's not music. That's noise."
"I'm wounded. Deeply wounded. I have an excellent singing voice."
"You sound like a dying cat."
"A dying cat with rhythm." He spun you once—clumsily, carefully, his hand firm on your waist—and when you came back to him, you were closer than before. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Close enough to feel his breath on your cheek. "See? Rhythm."
"Absolutely no rhythm whatsoever."
"I'm trying my best."
"I know." You squeezed his hand. "That's what makes it good."
Something flickered in his expression—something raw and quick, gone before you could name it. But his smile didn't waver. His hands didn't shake. He just kept swaying, humming his tuneless waltz, leading you in slow, aimless circles around the empty common room.
The fire crackled. The snow fell against the windows, silent and white. Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten—just barely, just the faintest wash of grey at the edge of the mountains.
Your eyelids were getting heavy. The firewhiskey was pulling you under, the warmth of his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his humming. You stumbled again, and he caught you, his arm wrapping more firmly around your waist.
"Okay," he said. "I think you're done dancing."
"I'm fine."
"You're falling asleep on your feet."
"I'm not. My eyes are just resting."
George laughed—a real laugh, soft and surprised, the kind of laugh you didn't hear from him often enough. "Come on. Let's get you to the couch before you collapse and I have to explain to McGonagall why you're sleeping on the floor."
"I don't want to go to bed. I want to stay here."
"You can't stay here. You'll wake up with a crick in your neck, and McGonagall will find you in the morning and give you detention for being out of bounds."
"McGonagall likes me."
"McGonagall tolerates you. There's a difference."
You grumbled, but you let him guide you toward the couch. The worn velvet cushions rose up to meet you, and you collapsed onto them, the world tilting sideways. George was there, easing you down, his hand behind your head to keep it from hitting the armrest.
"I'm sorry," you mumbled, your eyes already closing. "For being a mess. For making you deal with this."
"You're not making me deal with anything. I'm here because I want to be."
"Is Fred okay? He's still there. Behind the curtain. Someone should go find him."
"Someone will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You felt him pull a blanket over you—where had he found a blanket?—and tuck it around your shoulders. You felt his hand brush the hair back from your forehead, feather-light, barely there. A touch so gentle it could have been imagined.
"I'm glad you're here," you mumbled, barely conscious now. "Don't know what I'd do without you."
He didn't answer. But you felt him sit down in the armchair beside the couch, felt his presence settle into the space beside you, steady and constant. And the last thing you were aware of, before sleep pulled you under completely, was the sound of his humming—that same tuneless waltz, soft and low, watching over you until dawn.
You woke up in your bed.
The sun was bright through the window—too bright, midday-bright, the kind of bright that meant you'd slept through breakfast and most of the morning. Your head was pounding. Your mouth tasted like firewhiskey and regret. Your dress robes were gone, replaced by your pajamas, and you had no memory of changing.
There was a glass of water on your nightstand. A vial of Hangover Potion beside it, the liquid inside shimmering faintly. And a note, written in familiar, messy handwriting, propped against the vial.
Took care of the robes. Don't worry, I closed my eyes. Just kidding, Hermione took care of them. Drink the potion. I'll save you a seat at lunch.
— G
You stared at the note for a long moment. At the water. At the potion. At the careful, steady handwriting of someone who'd carried you to bed and tucked you in and left without asking for anything in return.
You drank the potion. The pounding in your head subsided to a dull ache. You got dressed slowly, your limbs heavy and uncooperative. And when you walked down to the Great Hall, your legs still unsteady, George was there—same spot, same steady presence—and he pushed the butter dish toward your hand before you even asked.
"Rough night?" he asked.
"You could say that."
"You're alive. That's what matters."
You looked down the table. Fred was there, hunched over an untouched plate at the far end, his hair a disaster, his tie crooked. He looked up. Your eyes met across the rows of students, across the floating candles and the clattering plates. For a moment—just a moment—the noise of the Great Hall faded away.
Then you looked back at George. "Not yet. I'm not ready."
"Okay."
"Will you—" You stopped. Didn't know what you were asking.
"I'm not going anywhere," George said. "I told you. I'm just making sure you survive."
You reached across the table and squeezed his hand—once, quick. He squeezed back. And somewhere at the other end of the Gryffindor table, Fred Weasley watched his brother hold the hand of the girl he loved, and he didn't look away.
Weeks passed.
January bled into February. The snow kept falling—thick and silent, blanketing the grounds in white, piling up on the windowsills and turning the castle into something out of a frost-covered dream. The lake froze over completely. The Forbidden Forest stood dark and still against the pale sky. Students trudged between classes with their collars turned up and their breath pluming white in the cold air.
You moved through it all like a ghost. Attending classes. Eating meals. Speaking when spoken to. Surviving.
You didn't speak to Fred. You didn't look at him. You sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table and kept your eyes fixed on your plate, even when you felt his gaze on you like a physical weight. You left rooms when he entered them—quietly, without drama, just slipping out the side door or finding a reason to be somewhere else. You walked different routes to class. You studied in different corners of the library.
He kept his distance. He didn't try to approach you. Didn't try to apologize. Didn't write you letters or corner you in corridors. He just stayed away—watching you from across rooms with eyes that were tired and sad and full of something that looked a lot like grief.
You should have been relieved. Instead, you felt hollow.
The quill he'd given you was still in your bag. The ridiculous one with the color-shifting feathers and the sparks that had nothing to do with your mood. You never used it. You never threw it away either. Some nights, when you couldn't sleep, you'd take it out and hold it in your hands and wonder what would have happened if you'd never kissed him. If you'd just stayed in the corner with George. If you'd let the night end without ever knowing what his mouth tasted like.
You never found an answer.
George stayed by your side through all of it. He walked you to class in the mornings, falling into step beside you without comment, matching your pace. He sat with you at meals, filling the silence with easy conversation about nothing in particular—Quidditch standings, the latest gossip from the Slytherin table, which professors were giving too much homework. He made dry comments that almost made you laugh. He waited outside the library when you studied late, not to rush you, just to walk you back to the common room.
He never pushed. Never demanded. Never made you feel like a burden. He was just there—steady and constant, the way he'd always been.
But you noticed things now. Things you hadn't noticed before.
The way he looked at you when you weren't looking. The way his hand hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before touching your shoulder. The way he left the room when Fred walked in, not out of anger, but out of something else. Something that looked almost like pain.
You didn't know what to make of it. You were too tired to figure it out. So you filed it away, tucked it into the back of your mind, and told yourself it was nothing.
It wasn't nothing. But you weren't ready to face that yet.
The news came from Katie Bell, on a grey Tuesday in late February.
You were walking back from the library, your arms full of books—Transfiguration texts, mostly, heavy enough to make your shoulders ache. Katie fell into step beside you, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her scarf wound tight around her neck.
"Did you hear what happened?" she asked.
"Hear what?"
"About Fred. He got into a fight. A real one—not just hexes. He punched someone. In the corridor outside the Transfiguration classroom. McGonagall had to pull him off. Apparently the other bloke had a broken nose and two black eyes before Fred was done with him."
You stopped walking. Your books felt suddenly heavier. "Who was he fighting?"
"Some Ravenclaw. I don't know his name. Malcolm something. He's in the year above us." Katie's voice dropped, taking on that particular tone people used when they were about to say something uncomfortable. "Apparently he was saying things about you. Nasty things. About the Ball. About what happened. About you and Fred. About you and George."
Your heart was pounding. "What kind of things?"
"Just—rumors. You know how people talk. He was saying you'd been sneaking around with both of them. That you were playing them against each other. That the whole thing at the Ball was some kind of—I don't know, performance. Fred heard him in the corridor and just lost it. Went completely mental. McGonagall had to use a Binding Charm to pull him off."
"Is Fred okay?"
"His knuckles are a mess. Pomfrey had to regrow two of them. But he's fine. He's been walking around with bandaged hands for three days. You didn't know?"
You stared at her. The corridor was cold. Your books were heavy. Somewhere above you, a ghost was laughing—a high, thin sound that echoed off the stone walls.
"No," you said. Your voice came out strange, hollow. "I didn't know."
"Strange. I thought he would have told you. Or George. George was there—he helped pull Fred off before McGonagall got there."
"George was there?"
"He's the one who told me about it. I assumed he'd told you too."
"No. George didn't mention it."
Katie looked at you curiously. Then her expression softened into something like understanding. "Well. Fred's been speaking for you, apparently. Even if you didn't know it."
She squeezed your arm—a brief, sympathetic gesture—and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the corridor with your books clutched to your chest and something cracking open inside you.
You found George in the common room that evening.
He was in his usual armchair by the fire, the one he'd claimed years ago and never relinquished. A book was open on his lap—some worn paperback about Quidditch tactics—but he wasn't reading it. He was staring at the flames, his expression distant, his hands resting motionless on the pages.
You sat down across from him. "You didn't tell me."
He didn't pretend not to know what you meant. "I didn't know if you'd want to hear it."
"Of course I'd want to hear it. He got into a fight for me. He broke someone's nose for me."
"He got into a fight because someone was saying things that no one should say about anyone. You weren't the only reason." George's voice was quiet but steady. "But yes. It was mostly about you."
"What were they saying? Katie told me, but I want to hear it from you."
George was silent for a moment. The fire popped. A log shifted, sending up a shower of orange sparks. "They were saying you'd been sneaking around with both of us. That you were playing us against each other. That the whole thing at the Ball was some kind of game to you." He paused. "They were saying things about that night. About us. About the dance."
"The dance? In the common room? No one was there."
"Someone must have come down. A prefect, maybe. Someone who saw us through the door." George's jaw tightened. "It doesn't matter. The point is, Fred heard it, and Fred lost it. He didn't even use his wand. He just—hit him. Over and over. I had to physically drag him off."
"Katie said you were there."
"I was coming back from the library. I heard the shouting."
"And you helped pull him off?"
"Someone had to. He was going to kill the guy."
You stared at him. His face was open, steady, unreadable. But his hands—his hands were gripping his book too tightly, the knuckles going white.
"And the part about you and me?" you asked. "The dance. Was that—did they make it sound worse than it was?"
George held your gaze. "We danced in the common room because you were drunk and heartbroken and I was trying to keep you from falling apart. That's all it was. You know that. I know that."
"But people think it was something else."
"People think what they want to think." His voice was calm, but there was something underneath it—something tired, something sad. "They've been thinking things about the three of us for years. This isn't new."
"I didn't know."
"Because I didn't want you to know. You had enough to deal with."
You looked at him. At his tired eyes. At his steady hands. At the way he was holding himself so carefully, like someone carrying something fragile.
"You should talk to him," George said. "Fred. Not to forgive him. Just—he defended you. He didn't have to. He did it anyway. That matters."
"Does it?"
"I think so. But I'm not the one who gets to decide."
You didn't talk to Fred that night. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
You thought about it. You replayed Katie's words over and over—he's been speaking for you, apparently, even if you didn't know it—and you tried to reconcile the boy who'd screamed at you behind a curtain with the boy who'd broken someone's nose for spreading rumors about you.
They were the same boy. That was the problem. They'd always been the same boy.
On the third day, you found him by accident. You were heading to the library, and he was coming the other way—the same corridor, the same flickering torches, the same cold stone underfoot. You both stopped at the same moment, like you'd choreographed it.
His left hand was still bandaged. You could see the white of the wrappings peeking out from his sleeve, stark against his skin. His jaw was bruised—faint yellow marks fading into his skin, the remnants of a fight he hadn't started but had definitely finished.
He looked exhausted. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. He looked like he'd been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure.
"I heard what you did," you said.
He didn't pretend not to know what you meant. "Who told you?"
"Katie. Three days ago. Then I asked George."
"Katie talks too much. And George—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I asked him not to tell you."
"Why?"
"Because I wasn't doing it for credit. I wasn't doing it so you'd feel grateful, or guilty, or like you owed me something. I wasn't doing it so you'd forgive me." He swallowed hard. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "He was saying things about you. About what happened at the Ball. About what I did to you. He was laughing about it. He was laughing about the worst night of your life, and he was making it sound like you were—like you were some kind of—"
He stopped. Pressed his eyes with his unbandaged hand.
"I couldn't let him," he said. "I couldn't stand there and listen to someone tear you down because of something I did. I know I hurt you. I know I said things I can't take back. I know I blamed you for my own fear and made you feel like you were the problem. I know all of that. And I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm not asking for anything. But I wasn't going to let someone else hurt you because of my mistakes. Not while I'm still breathing."
You stared at him. His eyes were red-rimmed. His hands were shaking. He looked like a wreck—the same wreck he'd been on the night of the Ball, but different somehow. More honest. Less defensive.
"Thank you," you said.
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. I'm doing it anyway."
He nodded. Shoved his bandaged hands into his pockets. "I should go. I'm supposed to be staying away from you."
"Fred."
He stopped.
"I'm not ready yet. To forgive you. I don't know when I will be."
"I know."
"But this—what you did—it matters. It matters to me."
Something flickered in his eyes. Hope, maybe. Or relief. Or something in between. "Okay."
"Okay."
He walked away. You watched him go—his shoulders hunched against the cold, his bandaged hands shoved deep in his pockets, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. And the wall you'd built around your heart—the wall that had been solid and impenetrable for weeks—developed its first crack.
The crack widened in March.
It was a Quidditch practice. You were in the stands because George had asked you to come, and you'd run out of excuses to say no.
"Just for an hour," he'd said, leaning against the doorframe of the library. "You need fresh air. You've been in here for three days straight."
"The library has air."
"The library has dust and Madam Pince's glare. That's not the same thing."
"I like Madam Pince's glare. It's motivating."
"It's terrifying. Come watch practice. I'll buy you a butterbeer after."
"You don't have to bribe me."
"I'm not bribing you. I'm incentivizing you. There's a difference."
You'd rolled your eyes, but you'd closed your books and followed him out to the Quidditch pitch. The sky was grey and heavy, threatening rain. The wind was sharp and cold, cutting through your cloak. You sat in the stands, wrapped in your warmest scarf, watching the players zoom back and forth across the grey March sky.
George was solid at Keeper. He wasn't as flashy as some of the other players—he didn't do dramatic dives or gravity-defying saves—but he was steady. Reliable. He blocked three shots in a row, and you cheered loud enough to embarrass yourself.
Fred was in the stands too. You'd noticed him the moment you arrived—sitting a few rows above you, keeping his distance, not looking at you. He'd been doing that for weeks now. Staying close enough to watch, far enough not to intrude. You'd gotten used to it. You'd almost started to find it comforting, the knowledge that he was there, that he was still watching over you even when you couldn't bear to look at him.
You weren't paying attention to the game. You were thinking about Fred. You were always thinking about Fred.
So you didn't see the Bludger until it was too late.
It came out of nowhere—a black blur against the grey sky, struck by a Beater who'd miscalculated the angle. It should have gone toward the pitch. It didn't. It veered sharply left, straight toward the stands.
Straight toward you.
You didn't have time to move. You heard someone scream—it might have been you—and then the Bludger hit your shoulder with a sickening crack. The impact knocked you backward, off the bench, tumbling down the wooden stands. Your body bounced against the planks. Pain exploded through your shoulder, your ribs, your head. The world spun. Voices shouted—distant, muffled, like you were hearing them underwater.
And then Fred was there.
He was kneeling beside you, his face pale, his hands hovering over your shoulder like he was afraid to touch you. His mouth was moving, but you couldn't hear the words. There was a roaring in your ears.
"Stay with me." His voice cut through the noise, sharp and desperate. "Stay with me, Y/N. Don't close your eyes. Look at me. Just look at me."
"Fred—" Your voice came out weak, thready.
"I'm here. I'm right here. Someone get Pomfrey—George, go get Pomfrey—"
George's voice, somewhere above you: "I'm going. Keep her awake. Don't let her close her eyes."
And then George was gone, and Fred was still there, his hand finding yours, his fingers cold and trembling.
"You're going to be okay," he said. "You're going to be okay. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. Just keep looking at me. Don't stop looking at me."
"Your hands are cold."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry—"
"Not your fault. Bludger."
"Doesn't matter. You're hurt. You're hurt, and I—" His voice cracked. "I can't lose you. I know I already lost you. I know I ruined everything. But I can't lose you like this. Not like this."
You wanted to say something. You wanted to tell him you didn't hate him. You wanted to tell him you'd been watching him try for weeks, and it was working, and you were starting to remember why you'd fallen in love with him in the first place. But the world was going fuzzy at the edges, and the pain was fading into something distant and dull, and your eyes were so heavy.
"Don't close your eyes," Fred said. His voice was shaking. His whole body was shaking. "Please. Please don't close your eyes."
"Fred."
"Yeah?"
"You stayed."
"Of course I stayed."
The world went dark.
You woke up in the Hospital Wing.
The light was grey and pale through the high arched windows—late afternoon, maybe, or early evening. It was hard to tell. Time moved strangely in the Hospital Wing. Your shoulder was bandaged, the wrappings cool and slightly damp, probably soaked in some kind of healing potion. Your ribs ached with every breath, a deep, persistent throb. Your head was pounding—a dull, rhythmic pain that pulsed behind your eyes.
And Fred was asleep in the chair beside your bed.
He looked terrible. His hair was a disaster—matted and tangled, like he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His clothes were rumpled, the same clothes he'd been wearing at the Quidditch pitch. His bandaged hand—the one he'd injured punching that Ravenclaw—was wrapped around yours, loose and warm. He was slumped forward, his head resting on the edge of your mattress, his breathing slow and even.
You didn't wake him. You just lay there, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his hand in yours. He looked younger in sleep. Softer. The tension that had been carved into his face for weeks was gone, replaced by something almost peaceful.
The door opened. George came in, two cups of tea in his hands. He stopped when he saw you were awake.
"Hey," he said quietly. He crossed the room and set one of the cups on your nightstand, within easy reach. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a Bludger."
"That's accurate. Pomfrey said you'll be fine. Cracked ribs, concussion, bruised shoulder. You're lucky—if it had hit you in the head instead of the shoulder, you'd be in St. Mungo's right now."
"How long was I out?"
"About six hours." George glanced at Fred, still asleep on your mattress, still holding your hand. "He hasn't left. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't sleep until about an hour ago, when he finally passed out from exhaustion. Pomfrey tried to make him leave three times. He refused."
"He stayed."
"Of course he stayed. He's been sitting there since they brought you in. Wouldn't even let Pomfrey look at his hand until she threatened to sedate him." George's mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close. "He's stubborn. Always has been."
You looked at Fred. At his bandaged hand, still wrapped around yours. At the dark circles under his eyes, so deep they looked like bruises. At the way his brow was furrowed, even in sleep, like he was still worried about you.
"He's been trying," you said.
"He's been trying for weeks. Since the night of the Ball. In his own stupid, self-destructive way." George sat down in the chair on the other side of your bed. "The fight with the Ravenclaw. The way he's been watching you from a distance. The way he's been giving you space even though it's killing him. He's been trying."
"Is it enough?"
George met your eyes. His expression was tired—so tired—but steady. "That's not for me to decide. But I think you already know the answer."
"George—"
"I'm going to go." He stood up, picking up his tea. "Give you two some space. But I'll be back later. With more tea. And probably some of those biscuits you like from the kitchen."
"You don't have to—"
"I know. I'm doing it anyway." He paused at the door, his hand on the frame. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else. But then he just nodded—once, brief—and was gone.
You turned back to Fred. He was still asleep, still holding your hand. You didn't wake him. You just lay there, feeling the warmth of his fingers wrapped around yours, and let yourself hope.
He woke up an hour later.
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. Then he saw you looking at him, and he sat up so fast he nearly fell out of his chair.
"You're awake. Fuck. You're awake." He was scrambling to his knees beside your bed, his hands hovering over you like he didn't know where to touch. "Are you okay? Do you need water? Should I get Pomfrey? Your shoulder—how's your shoulder? And your head—you hit your head pretty hard—"
"Fred." Your voice was weak but steady. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You got hit by a Bludger. You fell ten feet. You cracked your ribs and bruised your shoulder and got a concussion." His voice was shaking. "I saw you fall. I was too far away. I couldn't get to you fast enough. You were just lying there, and there was blood on your face, and I thought—"
"But you're here now."
"I'll always be here. Even when you don't want me to be. Even when you hate me. Even when you can't stand to look at me. I'll always be here."
You looked at him. His red-rimmed eyes. His shaking hands. His desperate, aching hope. He looked like a wreck. He looked like how you'd felt for weeks.
"I don't hate you," you said. "I never hated you. I was angry, and I was hurt, and I couldn't look at you without remembering what you said. But I never hated you."
"I know. I mean—I didn't know. But I hoped."
"And then you punched someone for me."
"He deserved it."
"You stayed in the Hospital Wing all night."
"Of course I stayed."
"You've been trying. For weeks. Even when I wouldn't look at you. Even when I wouldn't talk to you."
"I told you I'd wait as long as it took."
You reached out—carefully, mindful of your bandaged shoulder—and took his hand. His bandaged hand. He stared down at it like he couldn't believe it was real.
"I'm not ready to forgive you," you said. "Not yet. But I'm closer than I was."
His breath caught. "Really?"
"Really. You've been trying. I've been watching. And it matters. It all matters."
A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away. "I'll keep trying. However long it takes. I'll spend the rest of my life trying if that's what you need."
"I know." You squeezed his hand. "I'm starting to believe you."
Spring came slowly that year.
The snow melted in patches, revealing the dead grass underneath—brown and flattened, but alive. The lake thawed, the ice cracking and shifting with sounds like distant thunder. The grounds turned green in fits and starts, daffodils pushing up through the mud, the trees budding with pale green leaves. The days grew longer, the sun lingering past dinner, and the castle seemed to exhale, shaking off the long winter.
And you found yourself, almost without noticing, letting Fred back into your life.
It started small. So small you almost missed it.
He brought you tea in the library one evening—the way you liked it, milk and no sugar, in the same chipped blue mug you always used. He set it on your table without a word, next to your stack of Transfiguration books, and then walked away before you could react. You stared at the steam rising from the mug for a long moment. Then you drank it.
The next time, you said thank you. He smiled—a small, tentative thing, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to anymore.
He started walking you to class. Not every day. Not at first. But sometimes, when you were leaving the common room in the morning, he'd be there—leaning against the wall by the portrait hole, his hands in his pockets, like he'd just happened to be passing by. He'd fall into step beside you, keeping a careful distance between your shoulders. He didn't try to hold your hand. He didn't try to fill the silence with jokes or apologies. He just walked with you, matching your pace, present and steady.
The first few times, you didn't speak. You just walked in silence through the corridors, past the chattering portraits and the floating candles, past other students who stared and whispered because they'd heard the rumors and weren't sure what to make of this—Fred and Y/N, walking together again, not quite friends, not quite anything.
After a week, you started talking. Small things. Class. Homework. The weather. The way Snape had been even more unbearable than usual. The way Professor Flitwick had fallen off his stack of books during Charms and had to be rescued by a first-year. Fred told you about the latest Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product he and George were developing—something involving Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and a lot of explosions. You told him about your Potions essay and how you were fairly certain Snape was grading you harder than everyone else just out of spite.
It was stilted at first. Awkward. Both of you were too aware of everything that had happened, everything that was still unresolved between you. But it was something. It was a start.
One morning, when you reached the Transfiguration classroom, Fred stopped at the door.
"Thank you," he said. "For letting me walk with you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do. You didn't have to let me. You could have told me to fuck off."
"I thought about it."
"I know." His mouth quirked—almost a smile. "I'm glad you didn't."
"Don't push your luck, Weasley."
"I never do."
"You literally always do."
"True." The almost-smile widened into something real, something that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your heart do that stupid flip-flop it had been doing since you were eleven years old. "See you at dinner?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe's better than no."
He walked away before you could respond. You stood in the doorway of the Transfiguration classroom, watching him disappear down the corridor, and realized you were smiling.
The first time you laughed at one of his jokes—really laughed, not the polite, distant laugh you'd been using for weeks—he stopped mid-sentence and stared at you like you'd given him a gift.
"What?" you asked.
"Nothing. I just—" He shook his head, a strange expression on his face. "I missed that sound."
"Don't get sappy on me."
"Too late. I'm extremely sappy. It's a side effect of being in love with you."
"Fred."
"Y/N."
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. He grinned back, that crooked grin you'd known since you were eleven years old, and for a moment—just a moment—everything felt almost normal. Almost like before.
But it wasn't before. It would never be before. And maybe that was okay. Maybe this new thing, this fragile, tentative thing you were building together, was better. More honest. More deliberate.
You were choosing each other now. Not out of habit. Not out of years of unspoken feelings. But consciously. Carefully. Day by day.
George watched all of this from across the common room. From across the breakfast table. From the other end of the corridor.
He was quieter than he used to be. The sharp, dry humor that had always been his trademark was still there, but muted now. Subdued. He smiled less. He laughed less. He left meals early—always with an excuse, always delivered with that same steady, unreadable expression. Got homework. Forgot my book in the library. Lee wants to go over Quidditch formations. Plausible. Reasonable. Lies.
He was pulling away. Slowly. Carefully. So no one would notice.
You noticed.
"Are you okay?" you asked him one evening. You were in the library, the two of you, surrounded by books and parchment and the particular hush that only existed after dark. The lamps on the tables cast pools of warm yellow light. Outside the window, the sky was deep purple, fading to black.
"I'm fine." He didn't look up from his Charms essay. "Just tired."
"You've been tired for weeks. You've been pulling away. You leave meals early. You don't come to the common room anymore. You—"
"I'm giving you space." His voice was quiet, controlled. "You and Fred. You're rebuilding. You don't need me hovering."
"You're not hovering. You've never been hovering."
"I've always been in the middle." He almost smiled. Almost. "It's okay. I'm used to it. I've been the buffer between you two since we were eleven years old. This isn't new."
"George—"
"I'm fine. Really. Go." He nodded toward the door. "Fred's waiting for you in the common room. He's been pacing for twenty minutes trying to work up the courage to ask you to walk to Hogsmeade with him this weekend."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I know him. I know everything about him. I know the way he runs his hand through his hair when he's nervous, and the way he checks his watch every thirty seconds when he's waiting for something, and the way he's been staring at the portrait hole for the last hour hoping you'll walk through it." George picked up his quill. "Go easy on him. He's trying."
He turned back to his essay, the conversation clearly over. You sat there for a moment, watching him—the tense line of his shoulders, the careful way he was holding his quill. Then you gathered your books and left.
The Hogsmeade trip was a Saturday in late March. The weather was unseasonably warm, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. Students spilled out of the castle in a steady stream, their voices carrying on the breeze, their spirits high with the promise of butterbeer and Honeydukes chocolate and a few hours of freedom.
Fred met you at the entrance to the courtyard. He was wearing the scarf you'd bought him in fourth year—the slightly crooked one, blue and bronze, because you'd misremembered the Ravenclaw colors and he'd never bothered to correct you. He'd worn it every winter since.
"You kept it," you said.
"Of course I kept it. You gave it to me."
"It's the wrong colors. I didn't know what I was doing."
"I know. That's why I love it."
You walked to Hogsmeade together. He didn't try to hold your hand, but his shoulder brushed yours as you walked. He pointed out things along the path—the Shrieking Shack, the Whomping Willow, the spot where he and George had once set off a Dungbomb cascade that made three Slytherins faint. You listened. You laughed. You let yourself enjoy it.
At the Three Broomsticks, he bought you a butterbeer. You sat in a corner booth, away from the crowd, and talked for hours. About nothing. About everything. About the months you'd spent apart, the things you'd been too angry to say, the things you'd been too scared to admit.
"I wrote you letters," he said, halfway through his second butterbeer. "Dozens of them. Every night. I never sent any of them."
"Why not?"
"Because they weren't good enough. The words were never right. I'd write something, and it would sound like an excuse, or a defense, or—" He shook his head. "I didn't want to make excuses. I wanted to apologize. But I didn't know how."
"Apologizing isn't about the words. It's about what you do after."
"I know. That's why I've been trying to show you instead."
You looked at him across the table. His eyes were steady. His hands were wrapped around his butterbeer, still and calm.
"You have been," you said. "Showing me. For weeks."
"Is it working?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe's better than no."
You smiled. He smiled back. And somewhere in the warm, noisy bustle of the Three Broomsticks, something shifted between you. Something that felt almost like forgiveness.
Late night. The common room. Everyone else was asleep.
George was staring at the fire. He did that a lot now—sat alone in the dark, watching the embers burn down to nothing. The room was different at night. Quieter. The shadows deeper. The furniture seemed larger, more imposing. It was the only time he felt like he could breathe properly, without the weight of other people's expectations pressing down on his chest.
He looked exhausted. Not the ordinary tiredness of a late night studying, but something deeper—a bone-deep weariness that had settled into the lines of his face and the slope of his shoulders. He'd lost weight in the months since the Ball. He'd stopped finishing meals. He'd stopped sleeping through the night. His hands, always so steady, had developed a faint tremor that he hid by shoving them in his pockets.
Fred found him there.
He'd been looking for George all evening. He'd checked the library, the Quidditch pitch, the kitchen where they sometimes raided snacks after hours. Finally, he'd come back to the common room—and there was George, in his usual armchair, staring at the dying fire.
Fred dropped into the chair across from him. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled. Outside, the spring rain was falling—a soft, persistent drizzle that blurred the windows.
"She's letting me back in," Fred said finally. "Slowly. I walked her to Hogsmeade last weekend. We got butterbeers. She let me sit next to her for two hours."
"I know."
"She smiled at me. A real smile. Not the polite one she's been using for months. The real one. The one where her nose crinkles."
"I know."
"We talked about the letters. The ones I wrote and never sent. She said apologizing isn't about the words—it's about what you do after."
"She's right."
"I know she's right. She's always right." Fred paused. "She asked about you. At the Three Broomsticks. She said you've been pulling away, and she doesn't know why."
George didn't answer. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair.
"She's worried about you," Fred continued. "And honestly? So am I. You've been pulling away for months. You barely talk to me anymore. You barely talk to her. You leave the room when we're both in it. You're disappearing, George. Right in front of us."
"I'm not disappearing."
"Then what are you doing?"
"I'm giving you space. You and Y/N. You're rebuilding. You don't need me in the way."
"You've never been in the way."
George didn't answer. The fire popped. A log shifted, sending up a shower of orange sparks.
Fred leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "I know you, George. I've known you my whole life. Longer than that—I've known you since before we were born. I know the way you tap your fingers when you're nervous. I know the way you go quiet when you're upset instead of shouting. I know the way you've been looking at her when you think no one's watching."
George's shoulders locked. His hands clenched against his thighs. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do."
"Fred—"
"Are you in love with her?"
The question hung in the air, stark and undeniable. George's expression didn't change—not in any way most people would notice. But Fred wasn't most people. Fred had known George his entire life, had shared a womb with him, had spent every day of eighteen years learning the language of his brother's silences. He saw the way George's shoulders went rigid. The way his hands—always so steady, always so reliable—clenched against his thighs, knuckles going white. The way his breathing hitched, just once, a tiny fracture in his careful control.
"No," George said.
"George—"
"I said no."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying." But his voice cracked on the word. Just barely. Just enough that Fred heard it.
"Look at me." Fred's voice dropped, softer now. "Look at me and tell me you're not in love with her."
George met his eyes. Held them. The firelight flickered across his face, illuminating the faint freckles across his nose, the shadows under his eyes, the tight set of his jaw.
"I'm not in love with her."
His voice was steady. Perfectly, carefully steady. His gaze was steady too—held Fred's eyes without flinching, without looking away. But his eyes themselves—his eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted and so fucking sad. His eyes were the eyes of someone who'd been grieving for years. Silently. Privately. Without ever letting anyone see.
And Fred saw.
"George," Fred whispered.
"Drop it."
"George—"
"I said drop it." George's voice was still controlled, still steady, but his hands—his hands were shaking. He shoved them under his thighs to hide the tremor, but Fred had already seen. "There's nothing to talk about. She's in love with you. She's always been in love with you. And you're finally getting your shit together. That's all that matters."
"That's not all that matters."
"It is. It's the only thing that matters." George stood up abruptly. "I'm going to bed."
"George—"
"I'm fine. I'm just tired. I've been tired for months. I need to sleep." He was already walking toward the stairs, his shoulders hunched, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Make her happy. That's all I want. That's all I've ever wanted. Just make her happy."
"George."
George stopped at the bottom of the staircase. He didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry," Fred said. "For not seeing it sooner."
George's shoulders tensed. His hands, still in his pockets, curled into fists. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do."
A long pause. The fire crackled. Outside, the rain kept falling.
"Just make her happy," George said again. His voice was barely a whisper now. "Don't hurt her again. Don't make me watch her fall apart again. I can't do that again."
"You won't have to. I swear."
George nodded—once, a short, sharp jerk of his head. And then he walked up the stairs and disappeared into the darkness.
Fred sat alone in the common room, staring at the dying fire. His brother hadn't admitted it. His brother would never admit it. But Fred knew. He'd always known, maybe—he'd just been too blind to see it.
His brother was in love with the same girl he loved. His brother had been carrying this alone, in silence, for years. His brother had stepped aside—not because he didn't love her, but because he loved her enough to want her happiness more than his own.
And Fred had almost thrown that away.
He sat there until the fire died completely, and the room was dark, and the rain kept falling against the windows. And then he went upstairs, and he lay in his bed, and he stared at the ceiling, and he made a promise to himself.
He would be better. He would be the person George believed he could be. He would earn what his brother had given up.
Even if it took the rest of his life.
Late April. The castle was warm with spring. Flowers bloomed in the window boxes. Students lounged on the lawns between classes, their books spread out on the grass, their laughter carrying on the breeze. The end of the year was approaching, and with it, the promise of summer—long days, warm nights, a reprieve from the cold and the dark and the weight of everything that had happened.
You and Fred had been dancing around each other for weeks. Ever since the Hospital Wing. Ever since he'd held your hand and promised to wait as long as it took. Something had shifted between you. He'd been patient—god, he'd been patient. He'd brought you tea and walked you to class and sat beside you at meals without demanding anything in return. He'd made you laugh. He'd made you feel seen. He'd made you remember why you'd fallen in love with him in the first place.
But you hadn't kissed him again. Not since that night. Not since the fight behind the curtain.
You'd thought about it. More times than you could count. You'd thought about it when he looked at you across the Great Hall, his eyes soft and hopeful. You'd thought about it when his hand brushed yours reaching for the same book in the library. You'd thought about it when he said your name—just your name, nothing else—and your heart did that stupid flip-flop it had been doing since you were eleven years old.
But you hadn't kissed him. You weren't ready. You didn't know if you'd ever be ready.
And then, one evening in late April, you found yourself standing in front of the velvet curtain again.
You didn't know why you'd come. The evening had been ordinary—dinner in the Great Hall, homework in the library, a walk through the grounds to clear your head. But your feet had carried you here, to this dark corridor, to this forgotten alcove, to this velvet curtain that still hung heavy and dark, unchanged since the night of the Ball.
You pushed through it.
The storage room was exactly as you remembered. Small. Dark. Dusty. The shattered bottle was gone—the house-elves must have cleaned it—but everything else was the same. The stone walls. The cold air. The memory of his mouth on yours, angry and desperate and nothing like you'd imagined.
The memory of his voice blaming you. The memory of his jealousy. The memory of the way you'd kissed him and pushed him away and kissed him again. The memory of walking out and not looking back.
You stood in the center of the room, your arms wrapped around yourself, and tried to figure out what you were doing here.
The curtain rustled behind you.
"I thought you might be here."
You turned. Fred was standing in the entrance, one hand still holding the curtain aside. The torchlight from the corridor cast his face in shadow, but you could see his eyes—blue and steady and so full of hope it made your chest ache.
"George told you," you said.
"He mentioned you'd gone for a walk. I took a guess." He hesitated, his hand still on the curtain. "Do you want me to leave?"
You looked at him. His hands were shoved in his pockets. His shoulders were slightly hunched—not the defensive hunch of the night of the Ball, but something softer. Something almost nervous. He looked like he was bracing for rejection but willing to accept it if it came.
"No," you said. "Don't leave."
He exhaled—a shaky, relieved breath—and let the curtain fall closed behind him. "Okay."
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The darkness pressed in around you, the same darkness that had swallowed you both on the night of the Ball. But this time, there was no alcohol. No rage. No jealousy. Just the two of you, sober and exhausted and finally, finally ready to be honest.
"I've been thinking," you said. "About what happened here. About what you said in the Hospital Wing. About the last few months. About everything."
"Y/N—"
"Let me finish." Your voice was steady, steadier than you felt. "You hurt me. You hurt me more than anyone has ever hurt me. You blamed me for your own fear. You made me feel like I was the problem. You took the bravest thing I've ever done—telling you I loved you—and you threw it back in my face."
Fred's face crumpled. "I know. I know, and I'm—"
"But then you stayed." You stepped closer. "In the Hospital Wing. You stayed all night. You didn't move. You didn't eat. You didn't sleep. You just sat there, holding my hand, waiting for me to wake up."
"Of course I stayed."
"And then you kept staying. For months. You brought me tea. You walked me to class. You made me laugh when I'd forgotten how. You punched someone for me and didn't even tell me. You didn't push. You didn't demand. You didn't try to make me forgive you before I was ready. You just... waited."
"I told you I'd wait as long as it took."
"I know." You stepped closer. Close enough to touch him. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. "And that's when I knew. You're not the same person who said those things behind this curtain. You're not the drunk, scared, jealous boy who blamed me for his own fear. You're the boy who stayed. The boy who came back. The boy who's been in love with me since fourth year and was too terrified to say it."
"I'm still terrified," he whispered.
"I know. So am I."
"Then what do we do?"
"We stop being terrified. Together." You reached up and touched his face. His skin was warm. His stubble was rough against your palm. He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, a shaky breath escaping his lips. "I can't see you this hurt anymore, Fred. I can't watch you suffer. I can't keep pretending I don't love you when it's the truest thing about me."
"I don't deserve—"
"I don't care what you think you deserve." Your voice was fierce now. "I love you. I've loved you since the first time you stole my toast and made me laugh when I was scared and homesick. I've loved you through every prank, every Quidditch match, every disaster. I've loved you through the worst night of my life. And I'm tired of pretending I don't."
"Y/N—"
"Ask me," you said. "Ask me what you wanted to ask me the night of the Ball. Before you got scared. Before you asked Angelina instead."
Fred stared at you. His eyes were wet. His hands were shaking at his sides. He looked like he was standing on the edge of something enormous, something terrifying, something he'd been running from his whole life.
"Will you be with me?" His voice cracked. "Not as friends. Not as something we're both too scared to name. Will you be mine? Really, truly mine?"
"Yes."
The word hung in the air between you, bright and fragile and real.
"Yes," you said again. "I'll be yours. I've always been yours."
He kissed you.
It wasn't like the first time—desperate and angry and soaked in firewhiskey, all teeth and blame and two weeks of misery pouring out at once. It was soft. Careful. His hands cupped your face like you were something precious, something he was afraid of breaking. His lips moved against yours like he was asking a question and waiting for the answer, patient and reverent and so full of love it made your knees weak.
You answered.
When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was warm on your face. His hands were still trembling, cupping your jaw like he couldn't bear to let go.
"I love you," he said. "I love you, and I'm sorry it took me so long. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I blamed you. I'm sorry for every stupid, scared, jealous thing I said. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you'll let me."
"You don't have to spend the rest of your life." You covered his hands with your own. "Just—stay. Be here. Don't push me away again. Don't run when it gets hard."
"I won't. I promise."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He kissed your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. "I'm done running. I'm done hiding. I'm done being scared of the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Fred Weasley, that was almost romantic."
"Almost? I'm offended. That was extremely romantic. I've been practicing."
"Practicing?"
"In the mirror. For weeks. George caught me once and didn't stop laughing for an hour."
You laughed—a real laugh, full and bright and surprised. Fred's face lit up like you'd given him a gift.
"There it is," he said. "I've missed that sound."
"Don't get sappy on me."
"Too late. I'm extremely sappy. It's a side effect of being in love with you."
"Fred."
"Y/N."
You kissed him again. Slower this time. Deeper. The darkness wrapped around you, the velvet curtain hanging motionless behind you. And somewhere in the quiet of that forgotten storage room, with the dust and the shadows and the ghost of the worst night of your life, something new began.
Not perfect. Not fixed. But real.
And for now, that was enough.
Breakfast. The Great Hall. The same enchanted ceiling—today a pale, cloudless blue, reflecting the spring sky outside. The same floating candles, drifting in their lazy orbits. The same toast rack refilling itself with a faint pop.
You were sitting next to Fred. His hand was resting on your knee under the table, hidden from view, a secret only the two of you shared. His thumb traced idle circles on your leg through the fabric of your robes.
It had been three weeks since the second curtain. Three weeks of learning each other again—the good days and the hard days, the laughter and the lingering hurt. Fred still looked at you sometimes with guilt shadowing his eyes. You still flinched when his voice got too sharp. But you were learning. Both of you.
"Toast redistribution," Fred said, snatching a piece from your plate.
"You absolute menace."
"It's a social service. I'm preventing toast waste."
"There's no toast waste. I was going to eat that."
"You were taking too long. I got hungry."
"You're always hungry."
"It's a medical condition."
"It's not a medical condition. It's greed."
"Same thing, basically."
You stole a piece of toast from his plate in retaliation. He stared at you, mock-offended, his hand pressed to his chest like you'd wounded him.
"Did you just—"
"Toast redistribution. It's a social service."
"I've created a monster."
"You've created nothing. I've always been like this."
"I know." His voice softened. "That's why I love you."
Across the table, George was buttering a piece of toast with methodical precision.
He'd been quiet this morning—quieter than usual. He'd arrived late to breakfast, his hair still damp from the shower, his tie slightly crooked. He'd smiled when he saw the two of you sitting together, but the smile hadn't quite reached his eyes.
"You're quiet this morning," you said to him.
"Just tired." He didn't look up from his toast. "Didn't sleep well."
"Anything you want to talk about?"
"No." He paused. Then, softer: "Nothing to talk about."
Fred's hand tightened on your knee. You glanced at him, but he was looking at George, his expression unreadable. There was something passing between them—something you couldn't quite catch. A conversation without words.
George pushed the butter dish toward your hand. He did it without thinking—the same gesture he'd been making for years. The same gesture he'd made at every meal since you were eleven years old.
"George," Fred said. "I don't say it enough. How grateful I am. For everything. For taking care of her when I couldn't."
George's hand paused on his toast. "You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I'm going to."
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Something passed between them—unspoken, deep.
"You're my brother," George said. "I'll always be there. For both of you."
"I know." Fred's voice was quiet. "I know."
George nodded once. Then he stood up, gathering his bag. "I've got to go. Forgot my Charms book in the dormitory. See you both later."
"George—" you started.
But he was already walking away. His shoulders were slightly hunched. His hands were in his pockets. He moved through the crowd of students like someone who'd learned how to be invisible.
"Is he okay?" you asked.
Fred was quiet for a moment. His eyes were still fixed on the doors where George had disappeared. "He will be. Eventually."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he's going through something. Something he's not ready to talk about." Fred turned back to his breakfast. "We just have to be there for him. The way he's always been there for us."
George walked through the corridors without seeing them.
His feet carried him past the Great Hall, past the staircases, past the portraits who called out greetings he didn't hear. He walked until the noise of the castle faded behind him, until the corridors grew quiet and empty, until he found himself in a forgotten alcove on the seventh floor—a narrow space between two suits of armor, hidden from view, where no one ever came.
He leaned against the cold stone wall. Pressed his hands against his face.
And then, finally, alone in the dark where no one could see, George Weasley let himself cry.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud. It was the quiet, exhausted weeping of someone who'd been holding himself together for years and had finally run out of strength. His shoulders shook. His breath came in ragged gasps. He pressed his fist against his mouth to muffle the sound.
He'd been in love with her for years. He'd never said it. He'd never let himself say it. And now she was with Fred—his brother, his twin, the person he loved most in the world—and they were happy, and that was good. That was what he'd wanted.
But it still hurt.
It hurt more than he'd ever let himself admit.
He stayed there for a long time—until the tears stopped, until his breathing steadied, until he could trust his voice again. Then he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, straightened his tie, and walked back toward the common room.
He was still here. Still showing up. Still pushing the butter dish toward her hand.
oh my god — can i just say how absolutely fucking speechless i am. i read part one while i was at work, and i was like “holy shit part two is gonna knock my socks off” AND GUESS WHAT? IT ABSOLUTELY DID. oh my days. the yearning, the pining, the tension. i read this beautifully written two-part fic with my jaw DROPPED. so so so good. loved every second of it. BUT AGHHH my poor baby george :( hes an absolute angel i love him…
hai queen may i request a thorin x fem warrior reader where she saves him/the company or smth and he gets a crush on her bc of that ok tysm I hope u sleep well 🫡🫶
ooh i could be down to write smth like this !! i will add it to my list nonnie <3
i just wanna say it’s love held with dirty hands was PHENOMENAL. i found how you wrote thorin so well done and not too sappy but too serious, just chefs kiss. potential for a part two????
GAHH THANK U NONNIE i am sooo happy u liked it TT i was second guessing myself the entire time like “would thorin say dat.. idk.” SO hearing such a compliment soothes my worry (〃ω〃)
and as for part two… #PERCHANCE!!! maybe reverse the roles … heh heh heh
hey girl do you write for any other hobbit characters besides thorin? ty and have a good day ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
HELLAUWW i am predominantly thorin focused cuz i am #Obsessed with him HOWEVER!!!…. i am willing to dip my toesies in the vast pool that is lotr/hobbit characters .
so if u wud like to request for a diff character pls feel free to go ahead and do so! i will do my best ٩( ᐛ )و !
it's love, held with dirty hands | thorin oakenshield.
𑣲⋆synopsis: in the quiet of the night, thorin finds you hiding away from the world. he thinks he'd much rather see you smile, instead.
⤹ requested by anon!
𑣲⋆pairing: thorin oakenshield/reader
𑣲⋆wc: 1,110
𑣲⋆tags: hurt/comfort, pining, thorin is a yearner but he is nonchalant ab it,,, kinda
𑣲⋆ author's note: i was listening to "phantom" by ryan beatty and heard the particular line "it's love, held with dirty hands" – i loved it so much and thought it was fitting for the title... pls give it a listen! it's a beautiful song <3 also sorry if thorin is lowk ooc... gulp. i hope u enjoy and as always, likes + reblogs + comments r appreciated :) beautiful lace divider credits go to cursed-carmine
Thorin was attuned to your emotions. More than he cared to admit.
He couldn't help it. Truthfully, he couldn't tell when it had begun, when he had started watching you so intently that he had memorised familiar tells of your body. His observations of you left him with mental notes he repeated over and over when the nights got quiet, thoughts of you, warm and gentle, mingling with the cold fire of vengeance and loss. Then, he found ways to linger a moment longer than necessary. Holding out his hand for you to take when traversing rough, unsteady terrain, the feel of your softer, much smaller hands resting upon his roughened ones often sent jolts of lightning that lit every nerve within his body. Hovering around you when it was time for a brief rest, insisting that you sit, before you topple over from exhaustion. He thinks he hides it well. He also thinks it's a bit selfish of him, really, to be so demanding of your attention despite having no explanation for why.
(Dwalin and Balin have shared knowing looks, because they know. Thorin glares at them, because of course, they know. Meddling Dwarves.)
Further, in his surveillance of you, he discovered that he could assess your mood from the differing lilt in your tone, even when you were masking it to avoid worrying the others. He found that respectable about you, he supposes. You would much rather keep it to yourself rather than burden others.
Yet Thorin found himself wishing you wouldn't hide such a thing from him.
The moon had reached its peak when he awoke, feeling something amiss, as if his soul stirred restlessly within him because there was something wrong. Instinctively, his gaze fell to where your sleeping frame should be lying – only to find that it was missing. He sat up, far too quickly for a dwarf who claims to be indifferent to the affairs of his Company, his heart racing against his chest. Had something happened to you? His eyes scanned the perimeter, cerulean eyes sweeping over the sleeping dwarves and Hobbit that lay littered around their camp, paying the snoring bunch no mind. He rose to his feet with careful, deliberate movements, searching for you with worry that churned within his stomach.
He found you sitting against a great tree, the grand timber serving as a wall to hide yourself from… well, he was not sure. You appeared smaller, somehow. Knees pressed against your chest with your head bowed low, arms wrapped around your legs as if you were protecting yourself from an unknown threat. He felt heavyhearted at the sight. Hesitating for a moment before deciding he would much rather see your face rather than have you hide it from him, he knelt beside you, slowly, as if he were weathering a storm he had not prepared for. He saw you shift, lifting your head slightly to look at him.
You looked forlorn. Your usual disposition, smiling, hopeful, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a doleful expression lay where your usual mirth should be, your brightness dampened by whatever acursed thing has taken root in your heart and mind, and Thorin found himself bereft of the air in his lungs. A moment of silence hung between you before he cleared his throat.
"You are troubled." He stated with such simplicity that it might have made you laugh if you were in a better mood. You nodded, unfurling yourself from your protective position.
"I have a lot on my mind," you admitted softly, a smile on your lips forming, but Thorin knew. Knew that your smile was to placate him, to reassure him that you were fine. A bad habit of yours.
Thorin knew better.
Thorin knew you.
He did not need to pry. He knew that there were days when inexplicable sadness plagued the minds of even the strongest warriors – it was a heavy burden one he knew all too well. And it was a burden he desperately wished he could relieve you of. With zero hesitation and boldness that may have dumbfounded the Company had they been awake to witness such tenderness, Thorin draped an arm around your shoulders and drew you closer, your side pressed against his. The action left you speechless, and for a moment, you believed yourself to be hallucinating in a moment of overwhelming sorrow. But he was warm – remarkably so. Like a hearth fire that never ceased to burn, he exuded a comforting heat that blanketed you, and you couldn't help but lean further into him, sighing with contentment that fueled the protectiveness Thorin carried around you.
"I do not know what ails you," he began softly, his thumb stroking your shoulder with gentleness you never thought he'd possess. "But if it is any consolation, [Name], you have the shoulder of a King to lean on." Now that made you laugh, a light, airy sound that left your lips before you could stop it, endeared by his sincerity, and Thorin found himself wishing to bottle the noise forever and keep it to himself where no Man, Dwarf, Elf or meddling Wizards could steal it from him.
It was a selfish thought.
But Thorin had always been selfish when it came to you.
Another brief moment of silence, before you spoke. "Thank you, Thorin." A breath, an exhale of relief. "Truly."
Thorin hummed, a low, gravelly sound, ignoring the burn on his cheeks (he prays to Mahal that the darkness of the night would not let it show) as he squeezed your shoulder ever so slightly.
"Would you… like to talk about it?" He inquired softly, and you thought for a moment before shaking your head, nuzzling closer against him.
"Not tonight," you murmured in response. Thorin nodded. "I'd like for you to keep holding me, however." You add, and Thorin was far too happy to oblige, despite his exterior showing indifference.
"Then I shall hold you until you grow sick of my company." The dwarf vowed, feigning solemnity despite the twinkle in his eyes betraying his tone, and you giggle, resting your head upon his shoulder as you selfishly steal his warmth.
"An unlikely outcome." You smile as you feel his hold on you tighten.
The moon and stars continued to shine above, bearing witness to the shared vulnerability between the King Under the Mountain and the individual who had breached the dense fortress of his heart. Thorin knows he's selfish. But tonight, he found out another thing about you: that peace looked right on you, and that he would do anything to keep that smile from leaving your face.
Hi! Please could you write some thorin x reader hurt comfort? I’ve been going through quite a rough time recently and there’s not nearly enough Thorin hurt comfort fics. I wanna read something where it’s like the quiet moments when the company is asleep and the burdens of the day don’t matter and he can just hold the reader and tell them things will be alright but there’s not really much of that out there. Sorry this is a pretty long request, you don’t have to follow what i’ve said, i will read anything and enjoy any creative freedom you want to give it if you accept this request lol
hi nonnie! yes i would love to fulfil this request for u !!
and i'm very sorry to hear tht u are going thru a rough time :( i hope that the following days for u are kinder and gentler with u, and that u are able to find ur footing amidst troubling times. i hope all is well on ur end, and tht this fic brings u some comfort <3
seriously side eyeing those ai generated images of the weasley twins i’m seeing on pinterest … actually just side eyeing ai generated images in GENERAL . so freaking #Gross.
Years into happy marriage, you and Thorin have built a life full of love and companionship. Despite the prosperity of Erebor, one thing remains absent: an heir. As Thorin grows older, concern among his advisors turns into pressure, some even suggesting the king take a concubine to secure the succession of his lineage.
The first whispers reached you long before anyone was brave enough to say them in your presence. You heard them in the pauses that lingered too long when you entered a room and saw them through the sympathetic smiles from older dwarves who thought themselves subtle.
No heir.
No future.
As though the entirety of Erebor rested upon your shoulders. You had been married to Thorin for eleven years. Eleven years of laughter and arguments. Eleven years of his hand finding yours beneath council tables. Eleven years of kisses stolen between meetings and whispered promises in the dark.
Eleven years, and no child. And people were beginning to talk.
"The line of Durin must continue."
The words rang through the council chamber. You sat beside Thorin, fingers clasped tightly together beneath the table.
Lord Frár, old and sharp-eyed, spoke carefully. “Your Majesty grows older. The kingdom prospers. Yet, there is no heir."
Thorin's jaw tightened. “I am aware."
"We merely speak for the kingdom."
You noticed as Balin shifted uncomfortably beside Dwalin.
The Lord's voice echoed through the hall. "The people are concerned."
"And?" Thorin asked flatly.
Another advisor cleared his throat. "There are… alternatives."
You froze.
Thorin slowly looked up. “What alternatives?"
The silence that filled the air was heavy. As you glanced around the room, it was blatantly obvious that several of the advisors could not look you in the eye.
"A concubine, your Grace."
The room became deathly still. You felt all the blood drain from your face. You watched as Dwalin nearly choked on his ale. Beside him, Balin closed his eyes, his expression tightening with barely contained anger. He had loved you like a daughter for years. The suggestion struck like a blade between the ribs.
Lord Frár continued, mistaking the silence for encouragement. “It is common enough among kings. No insult need be intended toward Her Majesty, but—"
The table shook as Thorin slammed both hands against it. “No." One word. Thunderous. Absolute.
The advisor blinked. “Your Majesty—"
"I said no." His voice had gone deadly. “I have one wife."
"My king—"
"I have one wife," he repeated. "And I shall not dishonor her because gossip has made old dwarves nervous."
"My intentions are only—"
"You insult your queen in my presence and expect gratitude?"
The advisor wilted as Thorin stood, tall and terrifying. Thorin's blue eyes burned as he stared at him "If there is no heir after me, then Fíli shall inherit. If not him, then Kíli. The line shall continue. This discussion ends now." He looked around the room. "Should I hear mention of concubines again, whoever speaks it will find themselves removed from my council."
No one dared to interject.
"Meeting adjourned."
__________
You hadn't spoken during the entire walk back to your chambers and Thorin noticed. "My heart?"
You continued staring out the window. “I should have expected it."
His brows knit together. “Expected what?"
You huffed out a sigh in defeat. "They're right."
Thorin looked offended. “No, they are not."
"They are." Your voice was barely above a whispered. You swallowed hard, the truth clawing at your throat. “You deserve an heir."
"I deserve you."
"Thorin—"
He crossed the room and knelt before you. A king, on his knees, just to look into your eyes. “You." His hand cupped your cheek. “I waited so long before Mahal finally blessed me with you. I fought dragons and orcs and madness itself. Do you truly think I'd throw all that away for a babe in a cradle?"
Tears stung your eyes. “But—"
"No." He kissed your forehead. “No." Then your nose."No." And finally your lips. “No."
You laughed through tears.
He rested his forehead against yours. “You are my wife. My One. There is no replacement."
But whispers, once started, were difficult things to kill.
Months later, Lady Sol, daughter of an influential lord from the Iron Hills, arrived with her family. She was beautiful. Young, perhaps thirty years your junior. Golden-haired, elegant, and entirely too interested in your husband. You noticed it immediately, and apparently, so did everyone else. She laughed too brightly at his jokes. Stood far too closely. Touched his arm whenever she could.
And Thorin—
Was oblivious.
Completely, utterly oblivious.
"She's practically hanging off you," you muttered one evening.
Thorin looked up from his paperwork. “Who?"
"Lady Sol.”
He blinked. “Who?"
You stared. “The blonde one."
"Ah." He returned to his papers. “What of her?"
"What of—" You threw up your hands. “Never mind."
It became impossible to ignore when one evening, during supper, Lady Sol smiled sweetly. “Your Majesty has never considered taking another wife?"
The room went silent.
Bofur nearly inhaled his drink. Fíli looked horrified.
Kíli actually muttered, "Oh no."
Thorin paused halfway through cutting his meat. “No."
She smiled. “Surely a king may—"
"No."
"But an heir—"
"No."
She laughed lightly. “A younger wife could—"
His knife hit the table so loudly that it caused everyone to jump. Thorin was thoroughly annoyed. “My lady." His voice was icy. “I already possess the greatest treasure in all Middle-earth." He reached for your hand. “And she sits beside me."
Lady Sol’s smile faltered. “But—"
"There is no but." His eyes hardened. “I married for love." He squeezed your fingers. “And I shall remain married for love."
Still, rumors spread.
A younger bride. Second wife. New queen.
You tried not to listen.
You really did.
Until one afternoon you overheard two servants speaking.
"If His Majesty remarried—"
"The line would be secured."
"The poor queen—"
You fled before they saw you. And somehow, despite saying nothing, Thorin knew. He found you on the balcony, wrapped in blankets. He sat beside you quietly. "Who said it?"
You wiped your eyes. "No one."
"Who." His voice softened. "My heart."
And that gentle voice nearly broke you. "What if they're right?" you whispered.
His face crumpled, not from anger, but pain. Actual pain.
"What if I've failed you?"
His eyes widened. "Failed me?"
"I can't—"
He grabbed your hands. "No."
"Thorin—"
"No." He sounded desperate now. "Do not ever say that."
"But—"
"No." His voice broke. "Have I failed you because I have gray in my beard? Because my knees ache? Because I cannot swing Orcrist as I once did?"
"Of course not."
"Then why should you be measured by your womb?"
Tears spilled freely. "You wanted children."
"Aye." His voice softened.
"I wanted children with you." He kissed your knuckles. "If Mahal grants us one, I shall rejoice." Another kiss. "If not…" His forehead touched yours. "I still wake beside the woman I love." His eyes shone. "I still hear your laughter." His thumb wiped your tears. "I still steal kisses in corridors and listen to you read beside the fire." He smiled softly. "And every night, I thank Mahal that you chose me."
You were crying openly now. "And if there is never a child?"
Thorin smirked. "Then poor Fíli shall inherit."
You laughed despite yourself. "He'll complain."
"Aye."
"Kíli will encourage him."
"Indeed."
"And your nephews will spoil the entire kingdom."
"Without question."
You laughed harder.
And Thorin smiled. He smiled that smile, the one reserved only for you.
Then he took your hand and pressed it over his heart. "Listen carefully, amrâlimê." His voice was quiet. "I am old."
You snorted. "Ancient."
He glared. "Unreasonably handsome, however."
You laughed again.
"But I am old," he continued. "And after everything I've lost, everything I nearly lost…" His eyes became unbearably tender. "I have no wish for another wife. No wish for a concubine. No wish for anything, but you." He kissed your palm. "You are my queen, my home, and my peace."
You buried your face against his shoulder and Thorin wrapped both arms around you, holding you tightly, as though all the gold beneath the mountain was worth less than the woman in his embrace.
And as it turns out, all the worry and whispers had been for naught, for before the year was through, much to the delight of Erebor and the insufferably smug King, the Mountain's beloved queen found herself expecting.
