A Madness Most Discreet p. 5 | G.W.
feat. George Weasley x Malfoy!reader
summary: Two agonizing years have passed since the Weasley twins left Hogwarts, and George left you behind. But when the Order secures a new informant, George has a hunch as to who it might be, and can't resist finding out the truth, no matter the consequences.
cw: MDNI 18+, hurt/smut, absolute buckets of angst, mentions of abuse, torture, death, and canon-typical violence, the world's shittiest parents, death eaters, abandonment and trauma
an: sorry this took a million years, but hopefully it was worth the wait <3 and also I'm sorry for any emotional damage this may cause.
series navigation | part one | part two | part three | part four | part six | masterlist divider by @roseraris
George’s POV
The Order was gathered in the dining hall at Grimmauld Place, candles burning low, a warm contrast to the frigid moonlight spilling across the paper-strewn table. George sat between his brother and father, tracing the grooves in the ancient wood to avoid reading the headline on the Daily Prophet in front of him. There had to be a dozen different ones scattered around, but of course, this one practically fell into his lap.
Your face was plastered across the front page, offering a wan smile as the cameras flashed around you, squeezed between your father and the Minister of Magic. There was a moment where your eyes connected directly with the photographer, staring down the barrel of the lens, and George had lost his breath. Ten minutes later, and he still hadn’t quite recovered it.
These two years had been kind to you, some of the softness having ebbed from around the edges of your face, the tilt of your mouth more refined. A Malfoy, without question. The article was about your career debut at the Ministry of Magic, having secured an auspicious position under the Minister himself upon graduating from Hogwarts at the top of the class.
Because of course you did. The perfect daughter of the perfect Malfoys.
George often found himself wondering if any of it had been real, or just some delusional fever dream where someone like you wanted someone like him. He could hardly believe that he’d been lucky enough to be the one who held you, kissed you, made you laugh.
And, he thought with a fresh stab of grief, broke your heart.
Two years, and the pain had yet to lessen. He’d long given up hope that his heart would ever mend and resigned himself to a lifetime of agony. After all, he’d brought this on himself. What right did he have to heal? To forgiveness?
Moody shuffled into the room, Remus at his heels, and the murmured conversations ceased.
“Sorry to keep ya’ waiting,” Moody began, dropping into a seat at the end of the table. “Wanted to verify a few things before reporting back.”
“And?” Molly pressed.
“The new informant checks out,” Moody confirmed, and everyone exhaled, sagging slightly into their seats. The Order had been scoping out new informants after the last few were sussed out, and it had been weeks without any luck. Without a trustworthy informant, they were largely flying blind. “And they may be our closest one yet,” Moody continued. “A step removed from the inner circle.”
“And you’re certain we can trust them?” Harry asked.
Moody nodded. “The information checked out, and, frankly, they seem all too eager to share. Their identity must remain a secret, for their security and ours, so they’ll be referred to as Rattlesnake from now on.”
George nearly choked on his drink. Rattlesnake?
Fred cast him a sideways glance. “Alright, mate?”
“Fine, I’m fine.” George waved him off. Fred still looked wary, but turned his attention back to the Auror.
You, an informant? There was no way. It was too reckless, too wild—and exactly the sort of thing you would do. No, no, George was just wishful thinking. He had no reason to believe that you were on their side, or that you’d be willing to put your family, your brother, at risk.
“They have connections with both the inner circle and the Ministry. We’ll have more visibility than with any of the past informants,” Remus added. “This may be the advantage we’ve been waiting for.”
The inner circle and the Ministry? George glanced back at the Daily Prophet. You were looking directly back at him, the corner of your mouth quirking up.
He had to find out.
After the meeting, George waited back while the others filed out, already conspiring about their next steps. “Moody!” He called, catching the Auror’s attention before he walked out. “Can we chat for a second?”
“What is it, Weasley?” Moody gruffed, setting down his bag.
“I was wondering if I could be of any assistance with the new informant, considering I’m grounded for the moment.” He pointed at the mottled scar tissue where his ear used to be.
Moody’s eyes narrowed. “Not sure you’re the type for espionage.”
“That’s fair, but I’m good with people, can make them laugh, let their guard down…” Merlin, he sounded like an idiot.
“Don’t reckon this one laughs much.”
George sighed. “C’mon, Alistair, I can’t just sit around and do nothing while everyone else—”
“Alright, alright, for Merlin's sake. I’ll think about it,” Moody huffed. “And don’t let your mother hear about you wantin’ to do this.”
George gave him a salute and hurried out of the dining room before the grouch changed his mind.
In the privacy of his room, George unfolded the newspaper he’d stuffed into his jacket pocket. You smiled up at him, though it didn’t reach your eyes. There was something hollow in that smile, plastic. You looked…sad. Like your mind was a thousand miles away.
Did you think about him as often as he thought about you? Did you see his face all over Wanted posters, clippings of the Daily Prophet, and feel something? Hatred, maybe.
He hated himself, too.
Sinking onto his bed, springs wailing in protest, he reached beneath his pillow, withdrawing the secret he kept hidden there. The garnet leather was even more worn than when he’d found it, the spine cracked and edges smoothed from the countless times he’d opened it over the years. He’d smuggled it back to his dorm after that night in Hogsmeade, vaguely embarrassed and unable to articulate why he so desperately needed a piece of that memory.
Now, this decrepit copy of Romeo and Juliet was all he had. Or, was all he had of you.
Carefully, he tore around the edges of the newspaper photo, peeling away the letterhead and scrawl, your father’s smug face and the Minister’s hand on your shoulder, leaving just you. His rattlesnake. He tucked it between the pages of the first and second acts, safely nestled in the heart of the story, before tragedy strikes.
Reader’s POV
You lifted the wine glass to your lips, letting the crimson tide kiss your lipstick, but not flow past the stanchion of your teeth. It was bitter and oaky, with notes of cherry that were sour to an unpleasant degree. But if you didn’t drink it, you’d never hear the end of it from your father.
He was busy conversing with a few of his colleagues at the end of the capacious table, but you’d be a fool to assume he wasn’t watching you and Draco with the precision of a raptor. You wondered how he’d react if you jammed the salad fork in your eyeball. Anything to break the constrictive air around the room, hanging like a noose around your shoulders. Not quite ready to string you up, but a warning nonetheless.
Since meeting with Alistair Moody, you’d felt like every eye was on you. From your family, to the Death Eaters, to the busts and portraits that decorated your home, there was no escaping judgment for your sins. You were a spider in a downturned glass, vulnerable, imprisoned in the name of mercy.
Soon, you’d begin to rot.
Over the past two years, your world head steadily crumbled, walls of ivory and silver falling away to reveal the cancer that lurked beneath. The gangrenous filth that had eaten away your family as you knew, or thought you knew, leaving behind these terrible husks, cruel shells wearing the faces of the people you loved. You could barely look at your father without feeling physically ill, feeling betrayed in a way you’ve never felt before. Or, felt only once before. So much of your life had been lies, you hardly believed in the truth anymore.
There was only reality, and the perception of it. Truth is meaningless.
Goodness, however, goodness matters a great deal. And there is none of it to be found within the walls of Malfoy Manor.
“Eat some of your food,” Draco muttered to you, bumping your knee under the table. “Before he—”
“Everything alright, darling?” Your father asked, interrupting his colleague and Draco.
Both you and your mother looked up, but you already knew he was looking directly at you.
“Of course.” You smiled, taking a bite of salad. “Just thinking about some work I need to finish up.”
Your father chuckled. “Thicknesse isn’t working you too hard, is he?” His colleagues tittered along with him. Though, you supposed they were your colleagues now as well, and you took a sip of wine to mask your grimace.
“Doubtful. I’m sure she’s treated like a princess there, too,” one of them joked, and the energy in the room instantly shifted.
“What was that?” Draco asked, tilting his head at the offender.
“Oh, uh—”
“Oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” you chided, resting a hand on Draco’s forearm. But your tone was far from benign, laced with honey and venom. “Surely, no one would be so foolish to insult a Malfoy in their own residence, right?”
“Right,” the man nodded, eyes flicking between you, Draco, and your father. “I meant it in jest, Lucius.”
“See? How clever you are,” you mocked, winking at him.
Draco stifled a laugh behind his hand.
“Quite,” your father hummed. “If you need to work, darling, you may be excused.”
A less-than-subtle dismissal. You were beyond grateful for it.
“Thank you, father. Goodnight, gentleman, mother.” You pushed your chair back and hurried as quickly as you could manage out of the stifling, emerald room. You’d already heard more than enough from the lot of them to give Moody something he could sink his teeth into.
Quickly, before Draco could think to check in on you, you retrieved a black coat from your closet, plain fabric, no silk or velvet tonight, and wrapped it around yourself like a ward. Wand in hand, you slipped back out of your room and out through the servants’ entrance. All of them have already retired for the evening, besides the House Elves, who were too busy toiling away in the kitchen to notice you creeping by.
Night air nipped at your skin, chilled as a blade. The moon itself was tucked behind a quilt of clouds, its light dimmed in slumber. You picked along the garden until you reached an acceptable distance from the house, and took a steadying breath.
Your nerves jangled inside of you, heightened by the oppressive dark, but you needed to concentrate. Apparition was a tricky business, which was why your father refused to teach you. Well, one of the reasons.
You had George to thank for this particular lesson, and that final night in the Room of Requirement.
“Close your eyes and picture exactly where you want to go. Take a deep breath, another—good girl. Now feel every muscle in your body, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, catalogue every inch. Can't have you losing one of those perfect limbs, can we?”
This was one of the only moments you allowed yourself to think of him, as sick as it made you. Most of the time, you kept those memories locked in a vault at the back of your mind, never to be opened or leafed through like a favorite book. You feared that if you let yourself dive too deeply, you'd never come back to the surface.
But now, you let his honeyed voice wash over you, the memory tangible as the cloak over your shoulders, the cold on your skin, and you did exactly as he instructed. Closed your eyes, breathed, scanned your body, counting each finger and toe, breathed again, pictured where you wanted to go, and—
The world split around you, a sickening vortex of color and light, and swallowed you whole. In the span of a heartbeat, it spat you back out into the dark gullet of an alleyway, rain misting down.
You braced a hand on the wall, grounding yourself as the world continued to twist and pulse, until it finally settled into an acceptable shape. You gave yourself a quick once-over, reassuring yourself that you were, in fact, intact. In the glow of the street lantern at the mouth of the alley, you could see the sign of the Leaky Cauldron just ahead of you, and relief rinsed through you.
Cloak pulled tight around your body, the hood covering your hair and obscuring your face, you set off down the soggy London sidewalk, grateful that the rain gave you ample excuse to hurry along. As you went, you sorted through the information you’d been filing away to report this evening: patrol patterns of the Snatchers, a new memorandum on forbidden curses from Thicknesse, an upcoming operation in Diagon Alley—
You rounded the corner, turning into the courtyard he’d selected for the rendezvous, and halted in your tracks. A man was standing there, tucked beneath a small awning in shelter of the rain, but it was almost certainly not the hunched silhouette of the Auror, but someone taller, leaner. The gleam of red hair peaking out from the shadowed hood was the only reason you didn’t stupify them on the spot.
Your blood rushed to your feet, mouth going dry as the rain pelted over you. It couldn’t be. You must have made some sort of sound, a strangeled gasp, perhaps, because the man looked up, and the whole world stopped.
George Weasley stared across the short distance between you, less than ten feet, but he seemed miles away, like you were looking through the lens of dream, or a memory. He looked a bit older, sharper and infuriatingly more handsome with age, but still undoubtedly George. A decade could have passed, three, and you knew you’d recognize him anywhere.
He took a halting step forward, leaving the shelter of the awning. “Rattlesnake?” He asked, an unmistakable note of hope in his voice.
How had he known it was you?
And suddenly, the dream was shattered. This wasn’t a memory or a fantasy. This was right now, with George Weasley, the boy who smashed your heart into a million pieces, abandoned you with the worst people on the planet, now putting you both at risk by intercepting a secret meeting to exchange life-or-death information.
Rage crashed through you like the booming thunder overhead.
You yanked your hood down, too angry to be fussed about the rain. “What the fuck are you doing here?” You snapped, fingers tightening around your wand hidden beneath your cloak.
“Moody had another matter to attend to,” George replied, lowering his hood as well, the rain darkening his copper hair to auburn in an instant. Your stomach twisted at the sight of the mottled scar tissue where his ear used to be, but you schooled your expression. “I asked him to send me in his stead.”
“Why?” It was a foolish question; you both knew why. But, you needed to hear him say it.
“I—” he took another step towards you, “—I had to see if it was really you.” He sounded so sincere, he always had, and it made your anger flare even hotter.
You crossed your arms over your chest. “Well, congratulations. You figured it out.”
“I wanted to apologi—”
You scoffed, turning on your heel and walking away. His footsteps raced up behind you.
“Wait, please don’t—”
You whirled around, digging the tip of your wand into the soft flesh under his chin. “I’m here for one thing, Weasley. And it’s not a fucking social call.”
He held his hands up. “Crucify me then,” he deadpanned. “Merlin knows I deserve it.”
“Spare me your self-depricating shit.” You pushed the tip harder into his skin. “I don’t care.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll do this your way.” He stepped back, giving you some space. “Can we at least get out of the rain?”
You rolled your eyes and gestured to a small gazebo at the center of the courtyard garden. He hurried under the cover, shaking the water from his hair like a wet dog. Both of you settled on opposite sides of the small space, though you weren’t separated by more than the width of a dinner table.
You could barely look at him, the memories becoming too vivid, too painful, in his presence. It had been so easy to pretend that none of it was real, that it didn’t mean anything, when you no longer saw him every day. But now, sitting across from him beneath an orchestra of rain, you felt the stirring of those old feelings in your chest, his hooks digging into you once again.
You couldn’t allow it. Couldn’t let yourself travel down the same road with an inevitable end. There was no happily ever after, not for you and George. There was only more of this: loss, and heartbreak, and pain.
Neither of you spoke for a few minutes, both of you sizing the other up, comparing the ghost of the person in your memories to the living, breathing person across from you. Figuring out how to proceed.
“Why did you decide to do this?” He asked, elbows braced on his knees. You hated how he was looking at you, all tenderness and concern, searching for the parts of yourself you’d choked off and left to wither. He could always see straight through you.
“It was the right thing to do,” you answered.
“It’s dangerous—”
“You forfeited the right to be concerned about me,” you snapped, and mentally kicked yourself. So much for self-control. But his kindness was relentless, wearing down your patience like sandpaper.
“You’re right, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t spent every second of the last two years worrying about you,” he shot back.
You wrestled to keep a semblance of composure, trying to muster an ounce of venom in your voice. He bestowed you with the title of rattlesnake; you’d show him just how correct he was. “I don’t need your concern. I don’t need anything from you.”
Guilt bloomed in his eyes. He’d always worn his emotions on his sleeve, but they wouldn’t sway you now. “I know you don’t. You never did. I just thought—”
“What, that you’d apologize and we could be friends? That I’d swoon with gratitude that you tricked Moody into letting you come see me and fall into your arms? Oh, George, my hero!”
He looked stricken. “No, of course not—”
You pressed on. “We were nothing. We are nothing. And clearly, you can’t handle this.” You pushed to your feet. “I’ll meet with Moody next week—”
He scrambled up, reaching for you. “Fuck, please, can you just wait—”
“Goodbye, Weasley.” You stepped out into the rain again.
“Nothing? That’s really what you think we were?” He shouted after you. “Nothing?!”
You stopped in your tracks, the rain coming down in vicious sheets now. Slowly turned back towards him. “We must have been, because why else would you have done what you did?” Your voice was pure ice, jagged and clear, cleaving through your own heart and reopening those poorly mended wounds.
He closed the distance between you in three long strides, grabbing your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. He was trembling, his hands warm despite the chill. The warmest thing you’d felt in ages. Your mind screamed at you to pull away, slap his hands off of you, hex the bollocks off of him, but your stupid, traitorous body didn’t move a millimeter. “I should have asked if you wanted to come with me. I should have begged—”
“Don’t,” you whispered, the ice beginning to crack under the weight of his words. “Please.”
“I’m so sorry, love.” The words smashed through you, a bludgeon to the chest that rendered you breathless. “I made a terrible mistake, and I’m so, so, sorry.” His thumbs smoothed over your cheeks, collecting the droplets there. You told yourself it was rain, unable to accept that George Weasley made you cry. Again. You’d shed enough tears over him to last a lifetime.
“It’s too late,” you said, voice watery and thin, and you watched his heart break all over again through the dark pools of his eyes.
This time, when you turned and walked away, he let you go.
Countless times, you’d wondered what you’d say to George when, if, you ever saw him again. Had rehearsed an entire library's worth of scenes, gone through every scenario you could imagine. Screaming, ignoring, begging, pleading. But in none of the scenarios did you imagine walking away feeling worse than before. Feeling guilty.
You tried to smother the soft parts of you that wished he hadn’t let you walk away, that regretted how harshly you’d treated him, but you’d always been too willful for your own good. And by midnight, hair dry and fire blazing in your bedroom at Malfoy Manor, you had found your way to your desk, dipping a black-feather quill in a carafe of emerald ink.
George's POV
He hadn’t the strength to apparate home, as if you’d snatched the soul from his body. You’d ripped his heart right out of his chest, and left him to bleed out. Gutted him. And the worst part was, he absolutely deserved it.
But, he’d gotten his answer, he supposed. There was no salvaging the wreckage between you. No rewriting your story, even though when he was standing there, letting you sink your teeth into him and rip him apart, he loved you just as much as he always had. And, on the very long walk back to Grimmauld Place, he determined that he always would, no matter how badly it hurt. There was no purging the venom you’d left behind.
You would poison him always.
Moody had been livid when George returned with nothing to report, but something in his expression must have made the Auror take pity on him, and he was dismissed without much fanfare, left to haunt the halls of the old brownstone. Purposeless and hollowed out.
He’d nearly resigned himself to his fate, prepared to dedicate himself to a life of hermitage, when your first letter arrived the following evening, delivered via a black cat perched on his windowsill.
Heart in his throat, he stared down at the envelope in his hands, mostly blank, save for a single question scrawled in handwriting he’d recognize anywhere. He traced the shapes of the words with his pointer finger, imagining you sitting at your desk at Malfoy Manor, feather quill brushing your cheek as you wrote: “What is it else?”
He opened it up, finding the interior entirely blank. Unblemished as a fresh blanket of snow. He retrieved his wand from his desk. It seemed a long shot, but—
“A Madness Most Discreet,” he murmured, pressing the tip of his wand against the center of the page.
At first, he thought his eyes were deceiving him, but no, words were beginning to bloom on the page in emerald swirls—more of that angular but elegant handwriting. Elation ripped through him, swift and sudden as a summer storm, and nearly choked on the emotions flooding through him as he read.
George,
We are already fighting one war; I’d rather not fight in another. This is bigger than you and me, a fact you’ve been trying to tell me since the beginning. Maybe if I had listened sooner, things would be different. Perhaps things can be different now.
Here is everything I failed to share at our last meeting. Use it to your advantage. Do not hold back.
The rest of the note contained detailed plans and maneuvers you’d gathered from both the Ministry and your father, a goldmine of information, and he loved you so much it was spilling down his cheeks, soaking into the neck of his sweater.
Perhaps, he thought with terrible, feckless hope, things could be different now.
Reader’s POV
Back and forth the letters went, weekly correspondence becoming almost daily. The letters were mostly business, with you providing updates on happenings within the Ministry and Malfoy Manor, and George confirming their receipt and arranging your next meeting with Moody. George hadn’t tried to meet up again, hadn’t even suggested it, and the regret over that night had become a thing with talons, shredding through your mind every time you recalled it.
With every letter, you could feel your heart thawing, those long-buried feelings knocking against the walls of your chest. But you dismissed them outright. They were nothing more than muscle memory, the echoes of a previous life. Things were different now, you were different now. And the war left no room for teenage folly. One misstep, and you’d both pay the price. His family would pay the price. And regardless of how angry you were with him in the aftermath of it all, how angry a part of you still was, you’d never jeopardize his family. You cared for George too much to ever risk hurting him in that way.
So much so, you were jeopardizing your own. Although you were beginning to accept that whatever misfortune should befall them, they deserved and then some.
As the weeks passed, the drums of war grew louder, and things at Malfoy Manor took a turn for the worse. Your father and Draco fought constantly, and not the squabbles of your childhood, but screaming matches that left them hoarse and wild-eyed, and whatever room unfortunate enough to be their backdrop destroyed by wayward hexes. Your mother rarely left her bedroom, and when she did, she was spectral, so haunted and despondent that she was practically see-through.
At all hours, Death Eaters came and went, often dragging kidnapped witches and wizards in their wake. The screaming would go on for hours and hours, rattling the china while you endured another silent dinner, waking you from your stolen scraps of sleep in the dead of night.
There were too many nights to name that George’s letters were the only thing to bring a smile to your face, to melt the edges of the glacier forming in your chest. So, you wrote as frequently as you could manage, desperate for another sip of fresh air before your family dragged you under once again.
You never admitted it to yourself, of course. Justified the frequency of communication with the near constant updates your father and boss unwittingly provided. You simply had to write every day. There was just so much information to share.
Now, you sat beneath that same gazebo, more than a month after that unfortunate reunion, and waited for the cantankerous Auror to appear. It was a clear night, the moon like a spotlight in the sky. You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the cold creeping closer as the minutes ticked by.
It was nearly an hour later than your agreed-upon time, and you were beginning to grow anxious.
Did something happen at the Order? Had he been intercepted? Were they headed this way now?
Something rustled by the entrance to the garden, the hush of robes against legs—too quiet to be the peg-legged Moody. You leapt up, wand whipping outwards and pointing towards the intruder.
“It’s me!” The cloaked figure yelped, yanking down their hood and revealing a spill of copper hair. “I didn’t mean to scare you—”
“George?” You exhaled, lowering your wand and clutching at your chest, your heart galloping away. “Where’s Moody?”
“Something came up,” George said, approaching cautiously, as if you might startle again. “So, he sent me. I would have given you a heads up, but it wasn’t really…” he trailed off, scratching the back of his head. “We don’t have to do this, you can just send a letter if you want.”
You’d never heard George sound so uneasy, so unsure of himself, and it made your heart go gooey, leaking out through the cracks his letters had created.
“No, it’s alright,” you said without thinking. “We can talk here.”
His eyes lit up, like he’d stolen the stars straight out of the sky. “Are you sure? I don’t want to—”
“George,” you cut him off. “Just come sit. Please.”
George sat on the bench across from you, absently spinning the rings on his hands. “So, ah, how have you been?”
“The Minister has lost his mind, just yesterday he was talking about—”
“No,” George interrupted. “How are you?”
You stared at him, trying to piece together the question. “I…”
“I only ask because of your letters, you’ve seemed less angry, more…” he trailed off, lifting his eyes to yours. “Are you alright?”
Like a switch had been flipped in your mind, tears began to burn behind your eyes. You’d spent so much time trying not to feel, you’d lost touch with what the actual feelings were. And, you couldn’t remember the last time someone actually asked you that question. Even Draco had stopped checking in with you weeks ago, drowning in his own ocean.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no.” You shook your head, wiping away the tears that spilled onto your cheeks. “It’s been hard—for everybody,” you quickly added. “Everyone is losing things.”
He nodded, those amber eyes soft and patient, urging you to go on.
“I don’t recognize my own family anymore. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in days besides a House Elf,” you managed a wry chuckle, sniffing back more tears. “But I’m fine, George, really.”
“You know—” he turned his hands, palms open towards you, “—we’re always looking for new recruits at the Order.”
You were already shaking your head before he got the words all the way out. “They’d kill me,” you said so matter-of-factly, it chilled the air around you both.
“We wouldn’t let them,” he replied, matching your conviction.
“We both know it isn’t that simple.”
“Of course it is.”
“George—”
He held his hands up in surrender. “Just, keep it in mind, okay?”
The quiet dragged, broken intermittently by the chirp of crickets and your sniffles.
“I couldn’t put you all in danger like that,” you finally confessed, picking at a thread on your cloak.
“You can't stay there either,” he said, leaning forward, a shadow crossing over his face.
"I don't have a choice."
"You've always had a choice."
"Not anymore." You averted your eyes, not knowing how else to get through to him, and wrenched your sleeve up. Exposing the terrible scar they’d given you. The Dark Mark, its lines marred with scar tissue from your resistance. It hadn’t mattered in the end. Now, you could never escape them.
He slid off the bench, lowering to his knees in front of you. You turned away, unable to bear the agony splashed across his face, so when his fingertips caressed your skin, you flinched away in surprise. But he caught your wrist, holding you firmly in place.
“Don’t hide from me,” he said, voice dipping low. Not with anger, but something close enough that you obeyed without thought.
Delicate as insect wings, he ghosted his fingers over the tattoo, tracing the mottled scars and ink, like he was committing them to memory. An involuntary shiver ran through you, and he withdrew, consternation twisting his face.
“Who did this to you?”
You debated not telling him, but it was pointless. There was only one possible answer. “My father,” you admitted. “But they made him, he didn’t—”
George’s eyes met yours, firelit. “He doesn't deserve your empathy or your forgiveness. I could kill him for doing this to you."
You shook your head, trying to swallow the tide of emotion rising in your throat.
"Listen to me." He caught your chin, tilting your face up. "It doesn’t change anything. It’s just a tattoo. You’re still you, you’re—you’re still my rattlesnake. We can fix this.”
You desperately wanted to believe him. “George, I-I’m sorry,” you whispered, the rest of your walls crumbling now that you’d shown him your greatest shame. “For how I acted the other night. I was cruel and—”
“And I deserved it.” His hand slid to cup your jaw. “I broke your heart, and mine, and there’s no excuse—”
“You did it to protect your family, to protect yourself. I can’t fault you for that—”
“But I promised to protect you.” Your foreheads pressed together, the weight on either of your shoulders too much to bear alone. “And I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you the way I did.”
Your hands found their way into his robes, searching for his warmth, the beat of his heart, beneath the layers. “But I forgive you,” you breathed.
You hadn’t realized it until that moment, but now, you were fairly certain you forgave him the moment he apologized. The rest had been your pride, the walls your family had taught you to put up. But you didn't want to be their stone-cold daughter, you wanted to be the girl that George Weasley loved. You wanted to be yourself again.
He shook his head. “I don’t need you to forgive me. I just—I just want you to be happy. And safe. Wherever you are, wherever you go, who—whoever you’re with.”
I want to be with you! Your heart screamed so loudly you had to bite your lip to stop it from exploding out of you. “I want you to be happy, too,” you confessed instead, catching a tear as it rolled down his cheek.
He turned his head, pressing his mouth against your palm as his eyes fluttered closed. Not a kiss, but the pulse it sent through you felt just as intimate.
The church bell began to ring a block away: midnight.
He took another deep breath before leaning away, sitting back onto the bench across from you. You had to ball your hands into fists to keep from yanking him back.
“T-they’re expecting me back,” he said, voice shaky. “They’ll worry if—”
“I know, I know.” You stood, wiping hastily at your cheeks. “I’ll send a letter as soon as I can.”
He stood with you, stepping close enough that your heart forgot how to beat. He reached up slowly, taking the edges of your hood in his hands.
“I’ll be waiting,” he murmured, leaning in to brush a kiss across your cheekbone, lighting you up like a match-strike. “And don’t forget about that offer,” he whispered against your ear, before lifting your hood up and settling it over your head.
"George—"
He apparated away before you could deny him again, leaving you breathless and burning. A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, and for the first time in months, you didn’t fight it.
George’s POV
A letter never came. Not that night, or the night after, or that week, or the next, and he was practically sick with worry. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. The fear was constant, agonizing. It took all of his restraint not to storm the doors of Malfoy Manor himself.
He feared he overstepped, pushed you too far. But he recognized that look in your eye, that softness you reserved just for him. He'd spent every moment with you searching for it, terrified that he would never see it again. Now, he wondered if he imagined it.
But, more acutely, he feared that you'd been found out. Caught. And you were in trouble, needed him, and he wasn't there. Abandoned you. Again.
He wasn't sure if he'd survive losing you a second time.
And to make matters worse, Ron, Hermione, and Harry have been on the run for weeks, without a single report or check-in, which was extremely unusual for the fastidious Hermione. Shell Cottage, where they’d recently relocated to, was bloated with worry, tense as a held breath, and George felt the pressure down to the marrow. He could barely face his own mother, his own twin, for fear of them sniffing out how deep his agony stretched, like a yawning cavern in his chest.
Every moment, he inched closer to the edge of it, its siren-call growing louder.
But something held him fast, a crimson thread tethered to his pinky, tugging him back when he strayed too close.
He and Fred sat in the parlor, poring over the accounting books for the store as the fire popped and crackled, filling the tenuous silence. Others lingered around the edges of the room, his mother, Ginny, Tonks, and the newlyweds, Bill and Fleur, who were tangled up in the love seat beneath the window, pretending to read while whispering sweetly to one another.
George forced his attention to the tidy rows of numbers, trying to urge the sludge in his brain to move, to think about anything but you, and the future the two of you would never have. There would never be a cottage in the countryside, evenings spent wrapped around one another, cold toes wiggling under thighs, stealing kisses between sonnets.
He was about to give up, throw the damned book into the fire, or at his eldest brother, when there was a commotion outside. A swell of panicked voices.
They all sprang up, grabbing their wands and dashing for the door, the entire household converging on the entryway. Bill made it outside first, with Remus and Ginny on his heels.
“Ron!” Bill barked, as six figures emerged from the fog-kissed treeline.
“It’s us!” Harry and Ron called.
“Oh, thank heavens!” his mother gasped, rushing forward.
“Wait!” Remus warned, catching Molly by the shoulder and drawing his wand.
“What are you—”
“Who is that?” Bill asked, stopping short, wand already raised.
George felt his knees liquefy, his heart stilling in his chest as he fully registered what he was seeing.
Ron, who was supporting a battered-looking Hermione, her arm clutched to her chest.
Harry, carrying Dobby, a bloody rag pressed to the House elf’s side.
Dean, who seemed mostly in one piece.
And you. Hovering just behind them, a ribbon of blood unspooling from your nose.
With half a dozen hostile wands pointed directly at you.
Reader’s POV
You limped behind the group, ears still ringing and stomach in knots from the sudden apparition. If you were honest, you fully expected them to leave you behind. Hermione’s hand in yours had been a complete shock.
Perhaps they should have.
Members of the Order came spilling out onto the lawn, but you could barely make them out through the glow of the house, casting them all in hazy silhouette, your eyes blurring with every frantic thump of your heart. But even from afar, you could see the wands aimed directly at you, magic curling from their tips like smoke off a freshly fired gun.
They could kill you. They could kill you right now.
At least your final act had been something good. You’d gotten those kids out of that godforsaken house. And, if that was the last thing you ever did in your brief, meaningless life, you’d go without a fight.
“Lower your wands!” Someone shouted, cutting through the discord.
George.
You’d barely lifted your head, focused your eyes, before he was on you, wrapped around your body like a human shield. He smelled like cinnamon and wool, black tea and lemon, and your body gave out, crumbling like an old house into his arms.
“George—” you whispered, voice broken and hollow.
“I've got you, rattlesnake,” he murmured into your hair, one arm bracing your body against his chest, the other holding his wand aloft, directed towards the others, his family. “I said lower your wands!” George shouted again, and you heard a grumble of confusion.
“Who is she?”
“I think that's Malfoy’s eldest.”
“She saved us!” Harry cut in, setting the elf gingerly onto his feet.
“They’ll track her here,” someone argued.
“She’s a Malfoy—”
“Well, she can’t go back—”
“Did she actually save you?”
Their voices blended, spinning like a carousel in your head, and you pressed your face harder into George’s shoulder, trying to blot them out. You were with George. You were safe.
“George, what are you doing?” Fred asked, his face stricken.
George tightened his grip around you, his wand never wavering, even as his own twin drew closer. “Lower your wands and back off,” George warned again.
You felt like you might be sick, mouth filling with bitter saliva.
Then, Moody lumbered up to the front of the group.
“What happened?” He asked the others, one eye still trained on you and George.
“We were picked up by Snatchers. They were holding us at Malfoy Manor,” Harry began. A gasp rippled through the group.
“They locked us up. Tortured Hermione,” Ron added, his voice strained with exhaustion and rage.
“She freed us from the dungeon.” Harry pointed towards you. “We wouldn’t have been able to escape without her.”
“Is that true?” Moody asked, turning towards you and George.
You nodded weakly, trying to straighten up, but George held you fast. Unwilling to let you separate even an inch from him. And truthfully, you had no real desire to. All the fight, the stubbornness, had finally relinquished you.
Moody held your gaze for another moment before turning back toward the larger group. “She’s the informant,” he said. Then, blessedly, “Lower your damn wands.”
Begrudingly, the wands all came down, George’s lowering last.
“But that doesn’t explain—” Fred cut himself off, eyes bouncing between you and George. “What is this?”
His family all muttered in agreement. Molly and Arthur wore twin expressions of horror.
You wished the ground would open and swallow you whole. Never in a million years did you think you’d choose to see your father again, but in that moment, you’d choose him in a heartbeat over the wrath of Molly Weasley.
“It’s—” George began, peering down at you. His hand came up to sweep the blood from your upper lip, eyes swimming with concern, with a softness that made your belly flutter, despite the circumstances. “It’s a long story.”
“You can tell us inside,” Remus said. “In private.”
You both nodded, separating a bit, though his hand stayed firmly clasped with yours, and followed the others into the cottage.
“It’ll be alright,” George murmured to you, squeezing your hand. “Let me worry about them. Are you hurt at all?”
You shook your head, pressing tighter to his side as you entered the house. You weren’t hurt, not physically at least, but your heart ached with an intensity that made your legs wobble, your throat close.
George squeezed your hand once more, trying to reassure you.
Apparently, “in private” meant with his entire family, Harry, and Hermione. You and George were sat on a love seat, every other piece of furniture turned to face you. A pretty blonde handed you both cups of tea, and you accepted with a timid smile, clutching the warm ceramic to your chest with one hand, white-knuckling George’s hand in the other.
The room was eclectic, sweet in its rustic, vintage design. A strange backdrop to this hellish conversation you were about to endure.
“I think you’d better start explaining, son,” Arthur began after the silence had stretched uncomfortably thin.
“It started at Hogwarts,” George said, though he was looking past his parents, towards his twin, who was leaning against the fireplace. “We met in the library and just…” he trailed off, turning his gaze back to you.
“None of you knew?” Molly asked, glaring at the rest of her children.
“Of course we didn’t,” Fred spat, and George flinched beside you.
“I wanted to keep it a secret,” you cut in, hoping to spare George the lash. “My father would never have accepted it.”
Fred snorted. “A Weasley's not good enough for his princess—”
Now it was your turn to flinch, and George's teeth ground together so hard you could hear it.
“Enough,” Arthur warned. “And after you left Hogwarts?” He asked, urging George to continue.
“We ended things before Fred and I left,” George answered, an edge of guilt creeping into his voice. “We had no contact after that.”
“Until she became the informant,” Hermione deduced.
George nodded. “I had a hunch it was her, and practically begged Moody to let me go on one of the meet-ups, and…”
“And we kept things professional,” you added hurriedly, glancing down at your joined hands. “Er—”
“You realize how extremely dangerous and stupid that was?” A man with shoulder-length ginger hair asked. An older Weasley son, you guessed, from the familiar, mildly amused smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth.
“We do,” you and George said in unison.
The man’s smile widened, his arm snaking around the waist of the blonde woman beside him. “Such is love,” he hummed, nuzzling her temple and drawing a sugar-coated giggle from her.
Fred shook his head and stalked out of the room, followed by the echo of a door slamming shut from somewhere in the house.
George looked like he’d been punched.
“So, that’s what this is?” Ron asked, indelicate as always. “Love? With a Malfoy?”
”A Malfoy that saved us,” Hermione chided.
“Merlin’s sake—yes,” George huffed. Then, softer, gazing down at you, “I love her. From the first moment I saw her, I was in love.”
Tears flooded your eyes, closing off the top of your throat. At a loss for words, you could only nod, leaning your head onto his shoulder. His lips brushed your temple, comforting you despite the room full of onlookers.
“I’m sorry I kept this from all of you, but…the last thing I ever wanted was to put anyone in danger,” George confessed.
Arthur nodded, offering a sympathetic smile. “We know, son.”
A tear streaked down George’s cheek, his breath hitching, and you placed your other hand over his, squeezing tightly.
At least half of his family still looked confused, but were warming rapidly, and you felt your chest unclench a fraction. Molly still looked mildly disgusted, and Fred had fled, but it was about the best you could hope for.
There was a soft knock on the door.
Remus stood there, looking like he’d just come out of a rough dryer cycle. “We’d like a few words, if you’re finished,” he asked, glancing around the wide array of expressions in the room.
George nodded, the two of you getting to your feet, and Remus led you into a smaller office with Moody and a woman with purple hair that looked oddly familiar.
The woman smiled at you, warm as the morning sun. “My darling, I believe we are cousins.”
You blinked at her, shocked and wary, even as George nudged you forward with a knowing smile.
“My name's Nymphadora Tonks, Andromeda’s daughter,” she said softly, sensing your trepidation.
Your eyes widened, recognition crashing through you. “Aunt Andromeda?”
Nymphadora nodded, getting to her feet and opening her arms to you. “Not all is lost, love. I'm so glad to meet you.”
You rushed into her arms, muffling a cry into her shoulder. You still had family. Maybe you hadn’t been the black sheep after all. Maybe you were exactly how you were meant to be. She rocked you side to side, shushing you until you finally settled, feeling a little less alone than you did a moment before.
Nymphadora eased you back into George's arms, and he sat you both down on a small chaise by the desk.
Over the next two hours, the three of them grilled you on your knowledge of the Death Eaters, the Dark Lord, and the Order of the Phoenix, most of which you had already provided over the last few weeks, but rehashed anyway. Whatever it took to convince them you meant no harm.
George held your hand through the entire thing, catching your tears with his sleeve and helping you find words when you had none. He was steady as rock, and kept you together until finally, the three of them decided you posed no threat and could stay.
Once you were deemed safe, Tonks force-fed you a bowl of stew and thick, crusty bread slathered in golden butter, then sent you and George up to his room with mugs of hot cocoa and fresh clothes, with firm instructions to ‘go straight to sleep’. Many of the others had already retired themselves, besides Bill and Fred, who lingered in the parlor. Bill winked as the two of you passed by, and Fred pretended not to see you at all.
George held back at the bottom of the staircase, gaze lingering on his twin’s back.
“Go on,” you said with a nod in Fred’s direction. You knew George wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing his brother was so upset with him. “I’ll be fine.”
He managed a grateful smile, brushing a kiss across your knuckles. “My room’s on the right at the end of the hall. I’ll be up as soon as I can.”
You nodded, reluctantly parting ways as you trudged up the steps. You were exhausted, heartbroken, but also hopeful, and your head was spinning from your dramatic change of circumstances.
When you collapsed into George's bed, the smell of his skin enveloping you as tenderly as his embrace, you felt something solid and cornered beneath his pillow. Your hand rustled under between the layers of fabric, searching, until your fingers brushed the tattered edge of well-worn pages, encased in a textured leather cover. Somehow, your heart knew exactly what it was.
You cradled the book in your lap, tracing your fingers over the embossed title as tears bloomed anew: Romeo and Juliet. He'd kept it all this time.
How could you have ever thought he didn't love you? Because he loved you and his family in a way that you'd never witnessed, couldn't understand through the emerald lens of your own life. Didn't understand love without control, without rules, without ownership. George loved you and them enough to let you go. To live without you, even if it meant you were safe. He loved in a way that was entirely selfless, and your mind was so twisted, so backwards, that you'd thought he was being selfish instead.
You glanced at the door, hoping he would push through any second, but knowing it would be a while before he and Fred were finished. You owed it to him, to his family, to give them the space to process this however they needed to.
So, you snuggled down into his pillows, hot cocoa pressed against your lips, and cracked open its pages to wait.
George’s POV
He watched you ascend the stairs, shoulders tugged down in exhaustion, but your eyes were brighter than he'd seen them in weeks. Everything in him wanted to bound up the stairs after you, to make up for every second he lost, savor every moment he never thought he'd have again, but his brother needed him, and he wouldn't be able to fully enjoy it knowing his other half was suffering as a result.
“Freddie, can we talk?” George asked, leaning against the doorframe into the parlor, arms loose and hanging at his sides.
Fred scrubbed a hand over his face, smoothed his hair back, and started to shake his head no. But Bill gave him a pointed look, rising from his own chair by the fire, and gestured for George to take his seat.
Bill caught George by the shoulder as they passed by. “He’ll come around,” he murmured, patting George twice before nudging him the rest of the way towards his twin.
Fred scowled, sinking further in his armchair, whiskey glass pressed to his lips.
Heart in his throat, George sat in the opposite chair.
“Look, I know she's a Malfoy, and a Slytherin, but if you just gave her a—”
“You think I give a fuck that she's a Malfoy?” Fred snapped, his head whipping towards George like it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard in his life.
George's eyes widened. “I—uh,”
“She could be a fucking LeStrange for all I care,” he huffed, waving his glass in the air, evidently, more than one deep. “If you love her, then I love her. Well, maybe not love, she is a Malfoy, but—”
“But I lied about it,” George finished for him, knowing that when Fred was hurting, he buried the roots of it under piles of half-coherent, semi-relevant ranting.
Fred sighed, the energy whooshing out of him as quickly as it seized him. “Yeah, you lied about it.”
Silence stretched between them, and George poured himself a few fingers of whiskey just to give his hands something to do.
“I thought that—”
“That I'd hate her? That I wouldn't be happy for you?”
“I didn't want—”
“I wouldn't have told a fucking soul. And you know that.”
George took a long pull of his drink, letting the cinnamon and booze burn away some of his restraint. Fred wasn't going to accept excuses, and George had been holding his tongue for so long, he'd forgotten what the truth tasted like.
“I do,” George admitted. “But I didn't think you'd understand.”
“Understand hiding shit from your best friend? No, I don't—”
“No,” George said. “I didn't think you'd understand loving someone so much it ripped your entire world apart. So much that you'd do anything if it meant keeping them safe.”
Fred fell silent, sullen as he glared into the fire.
“If Umbridge found out—if Lucius found out—”
Fred snorted. “They would have had you tarred and feathered—”
“They would have ruined her life. They would have hurt her.” Something in George's voice must have struck home, and Fred winced, quieting once again.
Finally, after another bloated balloon of silence, Fred met his eyes. “She’s why you were so miserable after leaving Hogwarts? And these last few weeks, when you were suddenly so…you, that was when you started speaking again?”
George nodded.
“I noticed, you know, that first day when she came to Hogwarts. It was written all over your face,” Fred confessed, bracing his elbows on his knees, glass hanging on his fingertips in between. “And for a while after you were so—you were glowing. Walking on fucking air.”
George flushed, turning toward the fire in the hopes Fred wouldn't catch him.
“I think a part of me knew. That you liked her, I mean. And that fight at the Leaky Cauldron…you went straight for her. You didn't give a damn about Ron.”
They both snickered at that, some of the tension between them finally melting away.
“I did care about Ron,” George chuckled. “But she tends to throw herself headlong into danger. I fully expected her to start pounding on Knott herself.”
“Figures. She and I had Care of Magical Creatures together.”
George nearly choked on his drink. “What?”
How had he not known that?
“Yeah, I could tell right away she wasn't like her family. No one bad is that kind to animals.”
George felt his chest warm, heart tripping out of rhythm at the thought.
“She also hexed a Ravenclaw for being mean to Fang.”
“Sounds like her.” George smiled, unable to keep the warmth from seeping into his voice. Truthfully, he didn't really try that hard.
“You really love her?” Fred asked, meeting his eyes again.
“I do,” George answered. “And I'm sitting here with you anyway.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady his galloping heart. “I'm really sorry, Freddie.”
Fred shook his head. “You've got nothing to apologize for. We're good.” He stole George's glass, swallowing the last of it. “Now, go see your girl.”
George grinned, throwing his arms around his brother and nearly taking them both to the floor, before dashing out of the parlor and up the stairs.
Reader's POV
The bed dipped behind you, tugging you gently from the precipice of sleep. Something fire-warm and solid pressed against your back, an arm around your waist drawing you into the cove of heat.
“George?” You mumbled, tilting your head to try and see him.
“Shh, go back to sleep, love,” he soothed, nose tucked into the nook behind your ear.
But you clung to wakefulness now, flipping around in his arms to face him. “How'd it go with Fred?” You asked, noting the pink tinge along his lashes, the scent of fire smoke and whiskey on his skin.
“He's fine, it's all good,” he said, brushing the hair from your cheek. “How are you?” A yawn stole the answer before you could say it, and he smiled. “You can rest, baby. You're safe here.”
You shook your head, nosing into the hollow of his throat. “I'm sorry about everything,” you whispered, lips grazing his skin as you spoke. “I’m sorry for not understanding sooner.”
He shushed you, fingers threading into your tangled hair, and tilting your head back to look at him. “No more apologies. Not to me, not ever,” he said, soothing your scalp with tender scratches. “I know your heart, and it's always been in the right place, despite everything you've gone through.”
You blinked away the tears that surfaced, refusing to let his face be obscured for even a moment, freckle-kissed and unguarded, eyes gooey and sweet as treacle. Your Georgie, the only person to have known and loved you so completely. To have never asked for anything from you but your heart.
You'd give him that and then some.
“George, I—” you breathed, the words catching in your throat, afraid that the weight of them off your shoulders would send you reeling, floating off into space. “I love you.”
His whole body sagged, wilting like a flower on the first of fall, and wrapped his entire being around you. “I love you so much,” he said, lips finding your forehead, your temple, your cheek, hands skimming over your body to bring you closer. “I love you more than any—”
You tilted your head back, catching the tail end of his words on your tongue, and he melted into you. Lips molding to yours like you were a flame, and he a candlestick. Pouring over you, into you, but instead of smothering you, he only stoked your flame higher.
The kiss started slow, a swelling roll of thunder that you felt down to the marrow, quaking through your soul with an intensity that had you clinging to him. Your storm and your shelter. He shifted on top of you, pinning your body beneath him as the kiss heated up. Lips gave way for tongues and teeth, the lingering burn of whiskey on his mouth making your head fuzzy, your blood heat.
“Need you,” you whimpered into his mouth, clawing at the too-thick sweater separating your hands from his skin.
“I know, love,” he panted, blazing an open-mouthed trail of kisses down your throat. “I've got you.”
His sweater was off the next second, quickly followed by the rest of your clothes, and then he was all over you, scalding skin on skin. Too much and somehow not enough. Hearts beating out your chests like they wanted to break free of your rib cages and press together the way your bodies were.
His length notched against your clit, scalding hot and wooden as the headboard he was gripping. Your hips canted upwards, searching for more contact, your body practically weeping for him, and he cursed under his breath, head falling against your shoulder.
“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he whined, his other hand like a vice around your hip as he rocked against you, dragging the root of his shaft through the valley of you. “Missed you so much—”
“Please, Georgie—” God, you sounded so pitiful, high-pitched and desperate, losing your breath with every rolls of his hips against yours, creating a rhythm that had you practically drooling for him.
“Patience, darling,” he cooed, his fingers skimming along your lower belly before dipping between your thighs. “I'm not going anywhere.”
With the finesse of a sculptor, he began to carve slow circles around your clit, applying just enough pressure to have you gasping, trembling as you fought the urge to squirm, to take more than what he offered.
“Have to get you ready, yeah?” He purred, peppering delicate kisses along your neck and collarbones. “You're already doing so well, making a mess of my fingers.” He dipped his middle finger into your clenching heat, drawing a fuller cry from you that he quickly muffled with his lips. “Sh, sh, sh, gotta be quiet f’me.”
You nodded, meeting his amber eyes as he pressed another finger into your entrance, coaxing your muscles to relax with tender pushes and pulls, his hips still rocking against yours to soothe some of his own ache.
“That's my girl,” he praised, stealing another kiss. “That feel good?”
“Yes,” you moaned, careful to keep your volume low despite the mounting pleasure flowing syrupy sweet through your body. “Always feel so good. Miss—fuck—missed you so much.”
“You make it so hard to be patient,” he said, nipping your jaw, his hips moving a little more urgently against yours, his fingers working a bit faster. “Sound so pretty, all breathless and sweet.”
“Then fuck me,” you whined, wrapping your fingers around his length, finding him thrumming and slick.
A heady pulse throbbed through him. “Merlin’s sake—baby, I'm trying to—fuck—you're killing me,” he groaned, burying his face into your neck. His hips stuttered against you, his resolve fraying rapidly.
“Please, baby—I need you so badly.” You moaned in his ear, twisting your fist around his slippery head, and he folded.
He slipped his fingers from your heat, and you wasted no time guiding his cock to your entrance to replace them. Like a wave crashing against the shore, your bodies rolled together, meeting in a ruinous, euphoric collision. Your lips found his, dragging him down into your arms as he rocked against you, the relentless stretch and glorious burn of his cock making your eyes water.
Finally.
He was everywhere, inside and around you, and you cried out in bliss. And he was too far gone himself to stop you.
“I love you—fuck, I love you much.” He dragged his hips back, savoring every flutter and pulse, relishing in the friction as your body tried to hold onto him. “Missed this pussy, she always takes me so well,” he groaned, easing himself back inside and setting a slow, but heavy pace. Long and deliberate drags that had your body squirming and bucking, trembling as the pleasure devoured you.
Your body rose and fell with his, a synchronous flow churning from the deepest parts of you, knowing intuitively what you both needed. A song, a language all your own. Connected mind, body, and soul.
“George,” you keened, nails catching the grooves of muscle along his back. Any words besides his name were beyond you, your brain gone stodgy and dumb from the onslaught.
But, somehow, he knew exactly what you needed, his pace ratcheting up until he was drilling you into the mattress. Every thrust more purposeful and punishing than the last, one hand a vice on your hip, the other tangled in your hair, arcing your body back and exposing your throat.
“Look at you, baby. So fucking pretty.” He leaned down, mouthing at your thundering pulse. “I could eat you alive.” His teeth sank into the muscle connecting your neck to your shoulder, the pain sending a bolt of electric pleasure down your spine—and you shattered.
His mouth crashed against yours, swallowing your cries as he fucked you through it. Pouring gasoline on a forest fire. The pleasure burned away all the stress, all the fear, all the pain, leaving you weightless, glowing like a new star.
“Good fucking girl, come all over that cock—fuck, you're gonna take me with you—” a guttural moan wrenched from his chest, his hips snapping against yours hard enough to make your head kick back as his own release claimed him.
He buried his face into your throat, thrusts softening to drunken rolls as he painted your insides white, ringing out every drop of pleasure as he guided you both through the aftershocks. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He tattooed the words onto your skin with kisses, branding you with affection, and you soaked up every ounce of it while you caught your breath.
“I love you more,” you cooed, petting his sweaty hair from his forehead to peck his nose. “My lionheart.”
The smile that split his face was heartachingly tender, and you couldn't help but steal a taste of it, even as your eyelids began to droop.
“Get some sleep, love,” he murmured, settling down beside you. “I'll be right here when you wake up.”
You hummed, nuzzling into his pillows, before sleep pulled you under, dreamless and deep as the sea.
George's POV
George kept his promise, and when you woke up, blinking and round-eyed as a fawn, he swore he'd died and gone to heaven.
“Morning, my love,” he cooed, kissing the sleepy furrow between your brows.
You wriggled closer, burrowing into his side. “I was so scared this was all a dream,” you mumbled.
“Maybe not a dream, but as close as I've ever been.” He pet your hair, savoring the texture and the way the sunlight changed its hue. Savoring you, soft and open, before he inevitably had to bring you back downstairs and into the real world once again.
Merlin, you were so beautiful like this. He debated whether or not he should wake you up fully or let you rest, but some commotion from down below decided for him.
You jolted upright, muscles coiled and eyes wide. Prepared for a fight.
It turned George's stomach, the way your breath went from languid to panicked in the span of a heartbeat. The guilt he’d managed to shirk returned with a vengeance. Maybe if he had taken you with him initially, he could have spared you the trauma of the last two years in your family's home.
“Hey, hey—it's alright, just my brother's.” He wrapped his arms around your shoulders, guiding you back into his chest. “You're safe, love.”
On cue, Fred and Ron's voices filtered underneath the door, arguing loudly about the last bit of sausage.
“Right—” you took a shuddering breath. “Right.” Your heart was like a jackhammer under his palms.
“No one is going to hurt you. Unless you decide to take the last of the sausage, apparently,” he joked half-heartedly.
You offered him a wobbly smile, but he could still see that glassy, animal fear in your eyes.
Knock knock!
You jumped again, and he cursed under his breath, pressing a mollifying kiss to your temple before sliding out of bed and pulling on a pair of pajama pants.
“Yeah?” He asked, cracking the door open to peer into the hall. Bill was standing there, already dressed and dusted, looking equal parts apologetic and amused.
“I’ve been sent on a wellness check,” Bill began. “And you seem—” his eyes skated over George, undoubtedly disheveled and kiss-stained, then flicked over his shoulder to where you were peeking out from the mess of quilts, “—well.”
George rolled his eyes, not bothering to cover up and fix his hair. “Mum thought she murdered me in my sleep, didn't she?”
Bill gave a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps. But, it's very clear that whatever she did do to you, murder, it was not.”
“Do give our mother a glowing report, then.” George went to shut the door, but Bill caught it with a large hand, pushing it open wider.
“However, I and the Aurors would like a word with the two of you regarding—ah—next steps.”
“Next steps?” You appeared at George's side, wearing his sweater and a pair of leggings Hermione provided the evening before. The sight of you in his clothes, for the first time ever, made his blood simmer, something possessive rearing its head.
Bill nodded. “But first, tea—” he glanced at George again, “—and clothes.”
George swung the door shut.
“Turtlenecks, preferably!” Bill shouted as it slammed in his face.
When you went to pull the sweater off, George stopped you with a hand on your wrist.
“Wear it,” he said, lowering your arms and the sweater back down your body. “Please?”
You quirked an eyebrow, but didn't protest.
After arranging yourselves into an acceptable state, George led you down to the kitchen, threading your trembling fingers with his. His parents and siblings were waiting for you, a hush falling over the room as they stepped into the oven-warmed space.
“Y’know, I think that might be my sweater,” Fred teased with a smug smirk, shattering the tension like a rock through glass, and George wasn't sure if he wanted to punch him or hug him.
You shrugged. “It's mine now.”
And everyone but his mother burst out laughing.
Fleur and Bill offered you both tea and what was left of breakfast, and George watched in awe as you chatted effortlessly with the group. He'd always (affectionately) called you a rattlesnake, but perhaps snake charmer was more apt. You and Fred laughed about hexing that Ravenclaw, and you praised Ginny on her Quidditch skills, and got his father started on typewriters.
While you chatted, George draped an arm over his mother's shoulders, squeezing her into his side. “How you holdin’ up?” He murmured, noting how rigid she was.
“Glad to see you're still in one piece,” she replied, petulant.
He sighed, leaning away to look down at her. “You'd like her if you gave her a chance, mum.”
She rolled her eyes, turning back towards the sink.
George's heart sank. His mother was the most stubborn of them all. He'd give her space to come around, but if she was going to make him choose or treat you badly, she wasn't going to like the outcome.
He returned to your side, as he always would, and dropped a kiss to the crown of your head, interrupting your conversation with Ginny. “Are you ready, love?” He asked. “I think they're waiting for us in the next room.”
You scrunched your nose playfully, and Ginny snickered. “We'll continue this later,” you said to her with a wink, then turned your face up to him. “Ready as I'll ever be.”
Remus, Bill, Moody, and a few others were waiting in the dining room, speaking in hushed voices to one another. The air was decidedly colder in here, dark from the drawn curtains and unlit candles. All of them but Bill avoided George's eye, and he didn't like the uncertainty he saw there.
“No sense in blustering about,” Moody started as soon as your butts hit the chairs. “So, I'll ask this once, Ms. Malfoy—do you ever want to see your family again?”
George opened his mouth to argue, but you beat him to it.
“No,” you said, flat as the table in front of you. “As far as I'm concerned, they are no longer my family.”
Several eyes widened at your candor, and Bill hid a smirk behind his teacup.
Your fingers found George’s under the table, squeezing gently, and his stomach exploded with butterflies. The subtext was clear: we’re family now. And there was nothing on earth George wouldn't do for his family.
If he had a ring worthy of your perfect hand, he would have dropped to his knees right then and there.
“Including Draco?” Remus pressed, a particularly cruel twist of the knife that had George scowling.
“Y-yes,” you said, with notably less conviction, mouth tilting down. “Including Draco.”
“Where exactly is this going?” George asked, failing to mask his mounting irritation. “Because you clearly already have a plan in mind.”
The others turned to Bill, who grimaced. He leaned his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. So very much like their father. “This isn't an easy decision to make, but we feel that it's the only path forward that will ensure everyone’s safety—”
“Bill,” George snapped.
“There’s a potion—George, you and I should be able to make it ourselves without any trouble—that would essentially, well—” he took a steadying breath, “—it would make it appear like she was dead.”
“Absolutely fucking not—”
“For how long?” You interrupted.
“Forty-eight hours,” Bill recited. “No muscle movement, no breathing, no pulse.”
George turned to you, half-frantic. “We can't do this. I know the curse he's talking about—it’s too dangerous—”
What if they lost track of you? What if your family figured it out? Or the potion went wrong? You wouldn't be able to defend yourself, or call for help—
“I trust you,” you said gently, placing a hand on his chest, though it did nothing to quell the storm in his mind. “And they're right, it's the only way to ensure that we'll all be safe. If my father knew I was here, with you—”
“People don't always come back!” He cried, voice rising. “I can't—I won't—”
“I will,” Fred said, appearing in the doorway. “If it's what she wants to do, I’ll help make the potion.”
George jumped up so fast, his chair tipped backwards with a crash. “Like hell you will—”
“Georgie.” You stood up too, grabbing him by the shoulders.
He couldn't breathe, chest rising and falling rapidly, black creeping into the edges of his vision—
“George—look at me.”
“I-I can't lose you,” he grated. “I just got you.”
“I told you before, I won't let any harm come to your family, and me being here—it’s a direct target. If this is the risk I have to take to protect them, protect you, I'm going to do it.”
He shook his head, eyes squeezing shut to stop the tears threatening to spill. It went against everything he swore to himself, swore to you. That he’d never put you in harm's way, never do anything to hurt you-- and now you were asking him to willingly put you into a near-death coma, that could just as easily result in your actual death.
But he also couldn't think of another way forward. As long as you were breathing, your brother and father would never stop searching for you. They'd burn the world to find you.
George knew, because he would do the same thing.
He opened his eyes, finding your beautiful, determined face looking up at him, eyes pleading. You were so brave and had just as much, if not more, courage than any Gryffindor he'd ever known.
Now, it was his turn to be brave.
“Fine, but if anyone is going to kill you—” he caressed your cheek with trembling fingers, “—it's going to be me.”
thanks so much for reading! part 6 coming soon 🫶
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