Could you write a George Weasley x fem best friend? She’s just like Sirius black, defied her parents, moved out and rebels constantly. She has tattoos, piercings but still keeps her blonde malfoy hair and grey eyes. George loves her with everything. She was staying with the weasleys when the fire at the burrow happened.
pairing: George Weasley x reader (malfoy)
warnings: Graphic violence, angst, hurt/comfort, blood and injuries, emotional distress, self-destructive tendencies, implied trauma, crying, open ending with a happy resolution
A/N: This is my first request and I'm honestly so excited to finally share it with you all! It took me a while to get right because I wanted to do justice to these characters and their journey, but I'm really happy with how it turned out. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a like and reblogging—it would mean the absolute world to me. I have so many more ideas I want to explore, and knowing people are reading and enjoying what I write is the best motivation to keep going. Not proofread and editted on phone so please forgive shitty errors.
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The first sign that something was wrong with Y/N Malfoy was that she'd been sitting in the same chair for nearly forty minutes without insulting anyone.
Fred noticed first. He'd been watching her from across the Burrow's cluttered sitting room, tracking the way her grey eyes had gone distant and unfocused, the way her fingers kept worrying at the sleeve of her jumper. George's jumper, technically, though she'd stolen it so many months ago that even Molly had stopped trying to return it to its rightful owner.
"Oi," Fred said, lobbing a wadded-up piece of parchment at her head. It bounced off her temple. She didn't even blink. "George, your girl's broken."
"She's not my girl," George said automatically, which was the same thing he'd been saying for two years now, and which had stopped convincing anyone approximately eighteen months ago. He looked up from the product specifications he and Fred had been reviewing, frowning when he saw Y/N's blank expression. "Y/N?"
George set down his quill and crossed the room, dodging around Hermione, who was curled up in an armchair reading a book that looked thick enough to stop a curse. Ron and Harry were playing wizard's chess nearby, their game punctuated by Ron's increasingly creative threats against Harry's remaining pieces. Ginny had disappeared upstairs an hour ago. Molly was in the kitchen, humming along to the wireless as she prepared what she kept insisting would be a "light supper," which meant enough food to feed half of Ottery St. Catchpole.
"Y/N," George said again, quieter this time. He crouched beside her chair, tilting his head to catch her gaze. "Where'd you go?"
She blinked, the blankness receding slowly, like fog burning off a lake. When she focused on his face, something in her expression shifted. Softened. Just for him. "Sorry. What?"
"You've been staring at the wall for the better part of an hour. Thought maybe you'd finally snapped."
"I snapped ages ago. This is just what comes after."
"Acceptance. Resignation. A slow descent into madness."
"Right." George's mouth twitched. "And does this descent into madness require intervention, or should we just let it run its course?"
"Depends. What kind of intervention are we talking about?"
"Fred suggested hitting you with things until you responded. I was thinking something more along the lines of forcing you to eat some of Mum's cooking."
George's eyes narrowed slightly. It was a small tell, one most people would have missed, but Y/N had spent enough time learning the geography of George Weasley's face to recognize when he'd caught her in a lie. "When did you last eat?"
"I'm fine, George." She pulled her legs up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees in a way that made her look younger than seventeen. Smaller. "I've just been... thinking."
They looked at each other for a moment, one of those long, searching looks that happened sometimes between them. The kind where George seemed to be reading something written in a language only he understood, cataloging details that Y/N hadn't meant to show. The tightness around her mouth. The shadows under her eyes. The way her shoulders had hunched inward, like she was trying to take up less space in the world.
"Come on," he said finally, standing and offering his hand. "You're eating something before Mum stages a full intervention. You know how she gets."
Y/N let him pull her to her feet, her hand warm in his. She didn't let go immediately. Neither did he. It was Fred who cleared his throat loudly from across the room, waggling his eyebrows in a way that made Y/N roll her eyes and finally drop George's hand.
"Subtlety's for people who aren't watching their brother pine like a lovesick—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll test our new Fever Fudge on you while you sleep," George said pleasantly.
The kitchen was warm and chaotic in the way that Weasley spaces always were. Every surface was covered with something: dishes, ingredients, half-finished Christmas decorations, a precariously stacked pile of letters, three separate wireless sets that were all somehow tuned to different stations. The air smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg, roasting meat and fresh bread, the particular alchemy of Molly Weasley's cooking that always made Y/N's chest ache with something she refused to name.
"Y/N, dear!" Molly looked up from the pot she was stirring, her face brightening. "I was just about to call everyone for supper. You'll stay, won't you?"
It wasn't really a question. Molly had been fighting a quiet war for Y/N's well-being since the day she'd learned that Lucius Malfoy's daughter had run away and was living alone in a shack that had more holes than walls. Y/N had been resisting just as quietly, too proud and too stubborn and too afraid of needing something she could lose.
"She'll stay," George said, pulling out a chair at the table and looking at Y/N with an expression that was half challenge, half plea. "Won't you?"
Y/N wanted to argue. Wanted to make some excuse about needing to get back, about not wanting to impose, about being fine on her own. But George was looking at her like that, and Molly was already setting an extra place at the table, and the alternative was going back to her shack where the heating barely worked and she'd run out of tea two days ago and couldn't afford more until—
"Yeah," she heard herself say. "Okay."
Molly's smile could have lit the whole house. "Wonderful! George, be a dear and call everyone in, would you?"
Supper at the Burrow was controlled chaos. Arthur had come home from the Ministry looking exhausted but determined to be cheerful, asking Harry about Muggle technology with the kind of genuine enthusiasm that never failed to make Harry smile. Ron and Hermione were bickering about something in low voices, which seemed to be their primary mode of communication lately. Ginny was telling a story about Quidditch practice that involved a rogue Bludger and nearly made Fred choke on his pumpkin juice. Remus and Tonks had arrived just as everyone was sitting down, Tonks tripping over absolutely nothing on her way to the table and laughing about it.
Y/N found herself wedged between George and Harry, which felt both completely natural and slightly dangerous. George had a way of commanding space without seeming to try, his presence warm and solid beside her, his arm occasionally brushing hers as he reached for dishes. She was hyperaware of it in a way she hated, hyperaware of him in a way she'd been trying not to think about for months.
"You alright?" Harry asked quietly, leaning toward her while Ron was distracted arguing with Ginny about acceptable Quidditch tactics.
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"Because you get this look sometimes. Like you're waiting for something bad to happen."
Y/N turned to study Harry's face. He looked older than he had a year ago. They all did. The war was doing that, aging them in ways that had nothing to do with time. "Takes one to know one, Potter."
"Probably." Harry's mouth quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile. "But I've got an excuse. Chosen One and all that."
"Screw the Chosen One thing."
"I'm serious. You're not a prophecy with legs, Harry. You're a person. You're allowed to just... exist sometimes. Without the weight of the entire wizarding world on your shoulders."
"That's not really how it works."
"Isn't it?" Y/N leaned back in her chair, her eyes on his face. "Here's what I think. I think you've been told you're special for so long that you've forgotten you're also just sixteen. You've been through more trauma than most people experience in a lifetime. You're allowed to be tired. You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to sit in a warm house with people who love you and just breathe for a while."
Harry was quiet for a moment, his green eyes searching her face. "Is that what you're doing? Just breathing?"
"How's that working out?"
George's hand landed on her lower back then, warm through the thin fabric of the stolen jumper. It was such a casual touch, the kind of thing that happened a hundred times between them without either of them thinking about it. "You want more potatoes?" he asked, already reaching for the bowl.
"I haven't finished what's on my plate."
"You've been pushing the same three carrots around for ten minutes. That's not eating, that's art."
"Maybe I'm creating a masterpiece."
"Maybe you're being stubborn about accepting food because you've got some kind of complex about people taking care of you."
Y/N turned to glare at him. "I don't have a complex."
"You absolutely have a complex."
But he was already spooning potatoes onto her plate, his expression innocent. "What? I'm helping."
"You never do. It's one of your most annoying qualities."
"I have many annoying qualities. You'll have to be more specific."
"The one where you'd rather starve than admit you need something," George said, his voice still light but his eyes serious. "That one specifically."
They stared at each other across the small space between them, the conversation happening underneath the conversation. Y/N felt something hot and uncomfortable rising in her chest. It might have been anger. It might have been something worse.
"I'm fine," she said quietly.
"And you're really overstepping."
"Am I?" George's hand was still on her back, warm and steady and impossible to ignore. "Because from where I'm sitting, I'm watching my best friend slowly disappear and pretending I don't notice. Which one of us do you think is actually fine with that?"
Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but Molly chose that moment to stand up and start clearing plates, and the moment fractured. George's hand fell away. Y/N forced herself to breathe normally, to ignore the way her heart was racing, to focus on anything except the feeling of absence where his touch had been.
"Y/N, dear, would you mind helping with the washing up?" Molly asked.
It was a test. It was always a test with Molly. She was trying to make Y/N feel useful, included, like part of the family instead of a charity case. Y/N knew this. She also knew that refusing would hurt Molly's feelings, and she'd rather walk barefoot through broken glass than hurt Molly Weasley.
"Sure," she said, standing and gathering plates before anyone could see how much the simple request meant to her.
The kitchen fell into a comfortable rhythm after that. Molly washed, Y/N dried, and somehow half the family ended up crowded into the space, talking and laughing and stealing leftover rolls from the counter. Fred and George were demonstrating a new product to Arthur, something that made bubbles sing when they popped. Hermione was asking Molly questions about the proper technique for removing stubborn stains, as if this was information she desperately needed for her next exam. Ron was just eating, because Ron was always eating.
Y/N felt herself relaxing despite everything. This was why she kept coming back, even when her pride screamed at her to stay away. The Weasleys had this way of making space feel alive, making chaos feel like home. She'd never had that at the Manor. Everything there had been cold and controlled and conditional. Love was something you earned through proper behavior and blood purity and adherence to tradition.
Here, love was just... given. Freely. Without expectation.
"You're doing it again," Ginny said, appearing at Y/N's elbow with a stack of plates.
"Looking like you're about to bolt."
"You get this look. Like you're memorizing everything so you can replay it later when you're alone." Ginny set the plates down, her expression knowing. "Mum's already made up the spare room for you, by the way. In case you were planning to make excuses about going home."
"You have a shack with holes in the roof that you're too stubborn to let anyone fix." Ginny's voice was matter-of-fact, not unkind. "There's a difference."
"Yeah, yeah. You don't need help, you don't need charity, you don't need anyone. We've heard the speech." Ginny picked up a dish towel and started drying a plate with more force than strictly necessary. "You know what I think? I think you're scared."
Y/N went very still. "Of what?"
"Of this. Of having something real that you could lose. It's easier to keep everyone at arm's length, isn't it? Easier to live in a shack and refuse help and pretend you don't need any of us. Because if you don't need us, it won't hurt when something happens."
"Nothing's going to happen."
"You don't know that." Ginny's voice was quiet now, serious in a way that made her seem older than fifteen. "None of us know that. There's a war coming. People are going to get hurt. People are going to die. And you standing in the cold pretending you're fine won't change any of it."
Y/N's hands had gone still on the plate she was drying. She could feel the weight of what Ginny wasn't saying, the truth underneath the words. You're going to lose people. We all are. The only question is whether you let yourself love them first.
"I'm not good at this," Y/N said finally.
"At... belonging. At accepting things. At believing it won't all disappear."
"I know." Ginny bumped her shoulder gently. "But you're here anyway. That counts for something."
Before Y/N could respond, the wireless in the corner suddenly crackled to life with a cheerful voice announcing the next song. Fred whooped and grabbed Hermione's hand, pulling her into an impromptu dance that she protested for approximately three seconds before laughing and giving in. Ron looked mortified. Arthur was tapping his foot. Molly was smiling in that soft way she had, the one that said she was filing this moment away in her memory alongside every other precious thing.
George appeared beside Y/N again, because he always appeared beside Y/N, like there was some magnetic force that kept pulling them into each other's orbit.
"Dance with me," he said.
"Liar. I've seen you dance."
"You were tipsy at best. Come on." He held out his hand, his eyes bright with mischief and something softer underneath. "One dance. Then you can go back to brooding in the corner."
Y/N looked at his hand. At his face. At the kitchen full of people she'd somehow accidentally let herself love. "This is emotional manipulation."
George pulled her into the small clear space near the table, one hand settling on her waist, the other still holding hers. They moved together easily, naturally, the way people did when they'd spent years learning each other's rhythms. Y/N could feel the warmth of him, the solidness, the way he smelled like smoke and cinnamon and something uniquely George.
"You're tense," he murmured.
"Fair point." His thumb traced a small circle on her waist, absent and devastating. "You know you can stay, right? Mum really did make up the spare room. Clean sheets and everything."
George was quiet for a moment, just looking at her with those warm brown eyes that saw too much. "What are you so afraid of?"
"You're terrified." His voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse. "Of needing people. Of letting them in. Of having something you could lose."
"You've been talking to Ginny."
"I've been watching you." His hand tightened slightly on her waist. "I've been watching you run yourself into the ground trying to prove you don't need anyone. Living in that shack, skipping meals, working yourself to exhaustion. And I've been watching you pretend it's freedom when really it's just another kind of prison."
Y/N's throat had gone tight. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? You left the Manor because you didn't want to be controlled by your family. But you're still letting them control you, Y/N. You're still living in reaction to them. Refusing help because they taught you to see it as weakness. Keeping people at a distance because they taught you love was conditional. Treating your own life like it doesn't matter because they taught you it only mattered if you were useful."
"You think I don't see it? You think I haven't noticed that you value yourself at exactly nothing?" George's voice had gone rough with something that might have been anger or might have been fear or might have been both. "You throw yourself at every fight like you're expendable. Like losing you wouldn't—" He cut himself off, jaw tight.
"Wouldn't destroy people," he said quietly. "Wouldn't destroy me."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Y/N's heart was hammering so hard she thought he must be able to feel it. They'd stopped dancing, she realized. They were just standing there, swaying slightly, staring at each other while Fred and Hermione spun past them laughing.
"I know," he said. "I know you don't want to hear it. I know it makes you uncomfortable when people care about you. But that's too damn bad, because I do care. We all do. And watching you slowly kill yourself trying to prove you're fine is—" His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "I can't do it anymore, Y/N. I can't watch you disappear."
She should step back. Should make a joke. Should do something to break the intensity of this moment before it became something neither of them could take back. But his hand was warm on her face and his eyes were so earnest and she was so tired of running.
"I don't know how to do this," she whispered.
"Be someone people want to keep."
George's expression did something complicated. "You already are. You've always been. You just have to let yourself believe it."
Before Y/N could respond—before she could process what was happening or what it meant or what she was supposed to do with the feeling rising in her chest—Tonks stumbled over someone's foot and crashed into the counter with a yelp, shattering the moment entirely.
"I'm fine!" she announced cheerfully, even as Remus helped her up with the long-suffering expression of someone who'd done this many times before. "Just testing the structural integrity of Molly's kitchen. Very solid. Top marks."
The laughter that followed was warm and genuine, and Y/N used it as an excuse to step out of George's arms. His hand fell away slowly, reluctantly, and when she met his eyes she saw something there that made her chest ache.
Later, she promised herself. She'd think about this later. When she could breathe properly again.
The evening stretched on in that comfortable, chaotic way that Weasley gatherings always did. Someone produced a deck of cards and a complicated game ensued that seemed to change rules every five minutes. Harry beat Ron at wizard's chess and looked so pleased with himself that Y/N had to hide her smile. Hermione curled up in an armchair with her book, occasionally reading passages aloud that no one had asked for but everyone listened to anyway. Arthur fell asleep in his chair, snoring softly.
Y/N found herself on the sofa, tucked between George and the armrest, with a blanket that someone had thrown over her legs. She was warm. She was full. She was surrounded by people who made her feel less alone. It was almost enough to make her forget about the shack waiting for her, about the war creeping closer every day, about the fact that everything good in her life felt temporary.
"You're thinking too loud," George murmured beside her. Everyone else was engaged in the card game or their own conversations. No one was paying attention to them.
"You get this line right here." He tapped the space between her eyebrows gently. "Shows up every time you're spiraling."
"You're absolutely spiraling." His hand found hers under the blanket, threading their fingers together in a way that felt both completely natural and terrifyingly significant. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
Everything, Y/N wanted to say. You. This. The way you look at me like I'm something worth keeping. The way I'm falling for you and don't know how to stop. The way I'm terrified that letting myself have this will mean losing it.
"Just tired," she said instead.
George's thumb traced patterns on the back of her hand, slow and absent and devastating. "You're staying tonight."
"Not a request. Mum will be devastated if you leave, and I'm not dealing with devastated Mum on Christmas Eve."
"It's not Christmas Eve yet."
"Close enough." He squeezed her hand. "Stay. Please."
There was something in the way he said it that made it impossible to refuse. Something vulnerable underneath the casual tone, like he needed her to stay for reasons that had nothing to do with Molly's feelings.
"Okay," Y/N heard herself say. "I'll stay."
His smile was small and private, meant just for her. "Good."
They sat like that for a while, hands linked under the blanket, watching the chaos unfold around them. Y/N let herself sink into the warmth of it, let herself stop fighting for just a moment. Let herself imagine that this could be her life. That she could belong here. That the boy beside her, with his gentle hands and knowing eyes, could be hers.
It was a dangerous fantasy.
But for tonight, she let herself have it.
—————————————————————————————————
The attack came at midnight.
Later, Y/N would remember the moments before with perfect clarity. The way Molly had been banking the fire, humming softly. The way Arthur had woken from his nap looking content and peaceful. The way Fred and George had been arguing about something in low voices, their heads bent together. The way Harry had been staring into the dying flames with that distant look he got sometimes, the one that said he was somewhere else entirely.
The way George's hand had still been in hers.
The explosion shattered the windows first.
Glass rained inward in a glittering shower as the front of the Burrow simply... exploded. Y/N was moving before thought could catch up, rolling off the sofa and dragging George with her as debris rained down where they'd been sitting. Her wand was in her hand instantly—she'd learned to sleep with it after leaving the Manor, had learned that safety was an illusion and preparedness was survival.
"Death Eaters!" someone screamed.
Spells lit the darkness like lightning, red and green and purple, crashing against the Burrow's walls with sounds like breaking bones. Y/N could see figures outside, masked and robed, circling the house like wolves. She fired a Stunner through the broken window and watched it miss. Fired again. Someone screamed.
"Get down!" Arthur was shouting, pushing Molly toward the kitchen. "Everyone down!"
But no one was listening. This was a family of fighters, of people who'd spent years preparing for this exact moment. Fred and George were back to back, firing hexes with the kind of synchronization that only twins had. Hermione was covering Harry, her movements precise and efficient. Ron was shouting something incomprehensible, his ears red with rage or fear or both. Ginny had disappeared upstairs—to get something, Y/N hoped, not because she'd been cut off.
Remus and Tonks had their wands out, moving toward the door with the practiced ease of experienced fighters. "Fenrir's out there," Remus said, his voice tight. "I can smell him."
"Bellatrix too," Tonks added, her hair flashing red with anger. "I'd recognize that cackle anywhere."
Y/N's blood went cold. Bellatrix. Her aunt. The woman who'd tortured and killed with a smile on her face, who'd looked at Y/N at family gatherings like she was something interesting to dissect. And Greyback. The werewolf who'd taken pleasure in creating more of his kind, in destroying innocence.
Fire bloomed suddenly on the far wall, orange and hungry. It spread faster than it should have, faster than any natural fire. Someone had used Fiendfyre or something close to it. The Burrow, held together with magic and love and determination, began to burn.
"We need to get out!" Molly was crying, trying to gather everyone together, trying to do the impossible task of protecting her entire family at once.
Y/N fired another Stunner, watched it hit a Death Eater square in the chest. They went down hard. Good. She moved toward the broken window, looking for targets, looking for threats, looking for—
He was by the back door, his face pale, his scar standing out livid against his skin. And he was staring out into the darkness with an expression Y/N recognized. The Chosen One look. The I-have-to-do-this look. The expression that said he was about to do something phenomenally stupid and self-sacrificing.
She watched as he slipped through the door.
Going after Bellatrix and Greyback alone, because that's what Harry did. Because he'd spent his whole life being told he was the only one who mattered, the only one who could make a difference, and he'd internalized it so completely that he couldn't help but throw himself at every threat like his life was worth less than everyone else's.
"HARRY!" she screamed, sprinting for the door. "HARRY, WAIT!"
Behind her, she heard George shout her name. It wasn't his normal voice. It was raw and desperate and terrified, a sound she'd never heard from him before. But she couldn't stop. Harry was out there in the dark with two of the most dangerous Death Eaters alive, and she couldn't—wouldn't—let him face that alone.
The reed fields swallowed her immediately. They were taller than she'd expected, silver in the moonlight, whispering as she crashed through them. She could hear Harry ahead, could hear Bellatrix's high, cold laugh cutting through the night.
"Little Harry Potter," Bellatrix was crooning. "So brave. So stupid. Did you really think you could catch me?"
Y/N pushed herself faster, her lungs burning. A spell flew past her head, close enough that she felt the heat of it. She spun, firing back on instinct. The flash of light illuminated Greyback's face for a moment—yellow eyes, too many teeth, a smile that promised pain.
"Well, well," he growled. "What have we here? A little Malfoy, all alone in the dark."
"Not a Malfoy," Y/N spat. "Not anymore."
She fired a Stunner. He dodged. Fired again. This one caught his shoulder and he snarled, dropping to all fours in a way that was distinctly inhuman. Y/N's stomach turned. She'd heard the stories about Greyback. About what he did to his victims.
She fired everything she had. Stunners, hexes, jinxes, every defensive spell she'd learned in her years of preparing to survive on her own. Some of them hit. Most of them missed. Greyback was fast, impossibly fast, moving through the reeds like smoke.
Y/N threw herself sideways, felt claws rake across her shoulder and down her arm. Pain bloomed, hot and sharp and overwhelming. She hit the ground hard, rolled, came up firing. "Incendio!" Fire erupted between them, bright and terrible. Greyback howled, falling back.
Harry appeared from the reeds, his face streaked with dirt, his glasses askew. Behind him, Y/N could see spell-light, could hear the sounds of fighting. Remus and Tonks. They'd followed.
"Where's Bellatrix?" Y/N gasped, pressing her hand to her bleeding shoulder.
"Disapparated. We need to—"
Greyback burst through the flames.
They fought back to back, the way they'd practiced in secret during those long afternoons when Harry was learning Occlumency and Y/N was teaching him every dirty trick she'd learned from watching her family. Stunners and hexes and shields, coordinated and desperate. But Greyback was relentless, and Y/N's shoulder was screaming, and she could feel blood soaking through her sleeve.
Then Remus was there, his wand blazing, Tonks beside him with her hair flashing through colors like a warning beacon. The four of them together were enough. Greyback seemed to realize it too. He snarled something that might have been a curse or might have been a threat, then turned and fled into the darkness.
For a moment, nobody moved. They just stood there, breathing hard, bleeding, alive.
"We need to get back," Remus said finally. His voice was steady but his hands were shaking. "The Burrow—"
Y/N could see it through the reeds, orange flames reaching toward the sky, smoke billowing in black clouds. Her chest constricted. Molly. Arthur. Fred and George and Ron and Hermione and Ginny. Everyone she loved was in there.
The scene at the Burrow was controlled chaos. The Death Eaters had fled, but the damage was done. Half the structure was engulfed in flames. Molly and Arthur were fighting it with water spells, but it was spreading too fast. Fred was helping people grab essentials from the parts of the house that weren't burning yet. Hermione was coordinating evacuation efforts with the same efficiency she brought to everything.
George was standing in the middle of it all, his face streaked with soot, his eyes wild and desperate as they scanned the darkness. Looking for her. She realized with a start that he'd been looking for her this whole time, that he hadn't been helping with the fire or the evacuation because he'd been trying to find her.
When he saw her emerge from the reeds, the expression that crossed his face was so intense it stole her breath. Relief and rage and something that looked suspiciously like terror, all mixed together in a way that made him look like a stranger.
He moved before she could process it, closing the distance between them in long strides that spoke of barely controlled panic. "You—" His voice cracked. "You stupid, reckless—"
Then she was in his arms, and he was crushing her against his chest with bruising force. She could feel him shaking. George Weasley, who faced everything with a joke and a smile, was actually shaking.
"I'm okay," Y/N managed, though her shoulder was screaming and her legs felt like water. "George, I'm—"
He pulled back just enough to look at her, and that's when he saw the blood. His eyes went wide, his face pale. "You're hurt."
"You're bleeding through your shirt."
"That's not—" He cut himself off, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jumping. His hands moved to her shoulders, gentle despite the fury in his eyes, and she flinched when he touched the wounded one. His expression did something complicated. "We need to get you inside. Mum can—"
"Part of the house is on fire. The rest is—" He stopped, looking at the Burrow like he was seeing it for the first time. At the flames eating at the walls, at the smoke billowing into the sky, at the home he'd grown up in being destroyed in front of him. "Merlin."
"I'm sorry," Y/N whispered, not sure what she was apologizing for. For running after Harry. For getting hurt. For making him scared. For existing in a way that made him vulnerable.
"Don't," George said roughly. He was looking at her again now, his brown eyes bright with something that might have been tears or might have been rage or might have been both. "Don't you dare apologize for—"
But then her knees buckled, the adrenaline finally draining away and leaving nothing but exhaustion and pain. George caught her before she hit the ground, gathering her against his chest like she weighed nothing.
"I've got you," he murmured, and she could hear the fear underneath the words. "I've got you. You're okay. You're going to be okay."
The world was going grey at the edges, darkness creeping in despite her attempts to fight it. The last thing she heard before unconsciousness claimed her was George's voice, cracked and desperate, whispering her name like a prayer.
Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
——————————————————————————————————
It was sharp and immediate, radiating from her shoulder down her arm in waves that made her breath catch. She tried to move and immediately regretted it, a sound escaping her throat that was half gasp, half whimper.
"Don't." The voice was quiet, rough with exhaustion. "You'll tear the bandages."
She forced her eyes open. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the bedside table. One of the Burrow's bedrooms, though she couldn't tell which one. The walls were slightly scorched on one side, but otherwise intact. Someone had cleaned her up and changed her clothes—she was wearing a soft shirt that definitely wasn't hers and smelled like smoke and something else. Something familiar.
George sat in a chair beside the bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped between them. He looked exhausted. His face was still streaked with soot, his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. And he was staring at her with an expression she couldn't read.
"How long?" she asked. Her voice came out rough, scraped raw.
"Three hours. Mum cleaned the wounds. Said you were lucky it wasn't worse." His jaw was tight. "Lucky."
Y/N tried to push herself up and managed to get about halfway before George moved, his hands gentle but firm as he helped her into a sitting position against the pillows. He didn't let go immediately. His hands lingered on her arms, careful of her wounded shoulder, like he needed to confirm she was real and solid and here.
"Everyone else?" she asked.
"Fine. Mostly. Few injuries, nothing serious. The house is..." He trailed off, his expression going distant. "Part of it's gone. But Mum and Dad are already talking about rebuilding. Fred's making jokes about starting fresh. It's very Weasley of us. Disaster strikes and we just... carry on."
"For running off. For making you worry. For—"
"Don't." George's voice was quiet but there was steel underneath it. "Don't apologize for going after Harry. I know why you did it."
They looked at each other for a moment, the dim lamplight casting shadows across George's face. Y/N could see something working behind his eyes, something that had been building for hours and was finally reaching critical mass.
"What were you thinking?" he asked finally.
"Harry was running straight into—"
"I know what Harry was running into. I'm asking what you were thinking when you decided to follow him." George's voice was still controlled, still measured, but there was an edge to it now. Something sharp and dangerous. "What was going through your head when you saw my brother—and yes, he is my brother, blood or not—running into the dark after Bellatrix bloody Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback, and you decided the appropriate response was to run after him alone."
"I wasn't going to let him face that by himself."
"So you decided to face it together. Two teenagers against two of the most dangerous Death Eaters alive." George stood up, started pacing. "Brilliant plan. Really well thought out."
"There wasn't time for thinking. There was only time for—"
"For what? For throwing yourself at another fight like your life means nothing?" He spun to face her, and the expression on his face made her breath catch. "Do you have any idea what it was like? Watching you run into those reeds? Fighting through Death Eaters and trying to get to you and not being able to—"
He cut himself off, running his hands through his hair in a gesture of pure frustration. "Fred had to hold me back. Actually had to physically restrain me because I was going to run after you and get myself killed and he knew it. And then the minutes just... kept passing. And I couldn't see you. Couldn't hear you. Couldn't do anything except stand there and imagine—"
His voice broke on the last word. He turned away, his shoulders tight, his hands clenched into fists.
Y/N felt something cold settle in her stomach. "George—"
"Those were the worst minutes of my life," he said quietly. "Standing there. Not knowing if you were alive. Not knowing if you were hurt or captured or... worse. And all I could think was that the last thing I said to you was asking you to stay for my mum's sake. Not for mine. Not because I needed you here. I let you think it was about everyone else when really it was just—"
He stopped. Took a breath. Turned back to face her.
"You can't keep doing this, Y/N."
"This. This thing where you throw yourself at every danger like you're expendable. Like losing you wouldn't destroy people. Like it wouldn't destroy me."
Y/N's chest felt tight. "I was protecting Harry."
"Harry is the Chosen One. He's got a prophecy and a destiny and a dozen people whose entire job is keeping him alive. You're just—" George stopped, seemed to catch himself. "You're just you. And you're not expendable. You don't get to treat yourself like you are."
"He's my brother," Y/N said, her own temper flaring now. "In every way that matters, Harry is my brother. And I wasn't going to let him run into that darkness alone. I couldn't."
The word hung in the air between them, brutal in its honesty. George stared at her, something shifting in his expression. Moving from anger toward something else. Something that looked like devastation.
"You mean that," he said softly. "You actually mean that. You'd die for him without a second thought."
"I'd die for any of you," Y/N said. "For Harry, for your family, for—"
"But not for yourself." George moved closer to the bed, his eyes locked on hers. "You'd never fight that hard just for yourself. Would you? Because you still don't think you're worth it. You still think the only value you have is what you can do for other people."
"Isn't it?" He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that she could see the pain in his eyes. "You ran away from the Manor because you couldn't be who they wanted you to be. And I love you for that. I love that you chose your principles over everything. But you're still living like you have to earn the right to exist. Still punishing yourself for being born a Malfoy. Still treating your own life like it's worth less than everyone else's."
"You live in a shack with holes in the roof rather than accept help. You skip meals because you'd rather spend your money on other things. You throw yourself at every fight without considering that losing you might break the people who love you. And tonight you ran into the darkness after Bellatrix Lestrange without hesitation because Harry needed you." His voice cracked. "What about what I need?"
Y/N went very still. "George—"
"No. No, I'm—I've been quiet about this for two years. I've watched you slowly kill yourself trying to prove you're fine and I've kept my mouth shut because I knew pushing would make you run. But I can't do it anymore, Y/N. I can't watch you treat yourself like you're disposable when you're—when you're everything."
The word landed between them like a stone.
"I'm not everything," Y/N said quietly. "I'm just... a Malfoy who chose differently."
"You're not just anything." George's hand came up to cup her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "You're brave and brilliant and fierce and you make me laugh when I want to scream and you see people—really see them—in a way most people never learn. You chose light when darkness would have been easier. You chose kindness when cruelty was expected. You chose love when you'd never been taught how."
"You're my best friend. You're the person I want to tell everything to. You're the first person I think about when I wake up and the last person I think about before I sleep. You make everything better just by existing in it. And watching you run into those reeds tonight, watching you disappear into the darkness, knowing I might lose you—"
His voice broke completely. He pressed his forehead against hers, his breath shaky. "I can't lose you. I can't. And I know that's not fair. I know you didn't ask for this. But I've been in love with you for so long that I don't remember what it felt like before, and the thought of a world without you in it makes me want to—"
He stopped. Pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
Y/N couldn't breathe. The room felt too small, the air too thin. "You're in love with me?"
"So much it terrifies me," George whispered. "So much that watching you value yourself at nothing physically hurts. So much that every time you put yourself in danger I want to scream. So much that those minutes tonight when I couldn't find you felt like dying."
Y/N's eyes were burning. "You've never said anything."
"Because you weren't ready to hear it. Because I knew if I told you, you'd run. You'd convince yourself you weren't worth it or that I was confused or that this was just friendship and nothing more. And I'd rather have you in my life as my best friend than lose you entirely by asking for more."
"Because I almost lost you anyway." His hand was still on her face, warm and solid and real. "Because watching you almost die made me realize that staying quiet wasn't protecting either of us. It was just making us both miserable."
"I don't know how to do this," Y/N whispered. "How to be someone people keep. How to believe I'm worth keeping."
"Then let me show you." George's voice was rough with emotion. "Let me prove it. Every day. For however long it takes. Let me love you the way you deserve to be loved—like you're precious and irreplaceable and worth fighting for. Because you are. You're all of those things and more."
A tear slipped down Y/N's cheek before she could stop it. "What if I break? What if I'm too damaged to—"
"Then we'll put you back together." George caught the tear with his thumb, his eyes unbearably gentle. "I'm not asking for perfect, Y/N. I'm just asking for real. For honest. For you, exactly as you are right now."
"You're my mess." He smiled, soft and crooked and devastating. "If you want to be."
Y/N looked at him. Really looked at him. At this boy who'd somehow become her best friend, her anchor, her home. Who'd spent two years loving her quietly, patiently, waiting for her to be ready. Who'd stood in the chaos of a burning house screaming her name with terror in his voice because the thought of losing her was unbearable.
She thought about the shack she'd been living in, about the walls she'd built around herself, about all the ways she'd convinced herself she didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve him. Didn't deserve love that came without conditions or expectations or the constant fear of loss.
And then she thought about what Ginny had said. The only question is whether you let yourself love them first.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"I don't know how to do this. How to be vulnerable. How to need someone."
"We'll figure it out together."
"Then we'll fix it." George leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers again. "I'm not going anywhere, Y/N. No matter how hard you try to push me away. No matter how many times you convince yourself you're not worth it. I'm staying. For as long as you'll let me. Longer, probably."
Y/N closed her eyes, feeling more tears slip free. "You're an idiot."
"You could do so much better than a runaway Malfoy with commitment issues and a death wish."
"Absolutely not." His thumb traced her cheek again, catching another tear. "There is no better. There's just you."
She opened her eyes to find him watching her with an expression so tender it made her chest ache. "George—"
"You don't have to say it back," he said quickly. "I'm not asking for that. I just needed you to know. Needed you to understand why watching you run into danger feels like dying. Why I can't just stand by and watch you destroy yourself. Why—"
It was messy and imperfect and tasted like tears and blood and smoke. Her wounded shoulder screamed in protest but she didn't care. She just needed him to stop talking, needed to show him what she couldn't quite put into words yet, needed to prove that she was here and alive and choosing this. Choosing him.
George made a sound against her mouth, something between a gasp and a sob, and kissed her back with a desperation that spoke of two years of waiting. His hands came up to frame her face, gentle despite the intensity, like she was something precious he was afraid of breaking.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, George rested his forehead against hers. "That was—"
"I was going to say perfect, but overdue works too." He smiled, and it was watery but genuine. "Does this mean—"
"It means I'm terrified and I don't know what I'm doing and I'm probably going to mess this up spectacularly," Y/N said. "But it also means I'm tired of running. Tired of pretending I don't need you. Tired of treating this—" she gestured between them, "—like it's something I have to protect myself from instead of something I want."
"I want you." The words came out rough, unpracticed, but true. "I have for a while. I just didn't know how to let myself have it."
George's smile was brilliant despite the exhaustion and fear and lingering terror in his eyes. "Can I kiss you again?"
"You're asking permission now? After two years of pining?"
"George Weasley, concerned with propriety. The world really is ending."
He kissed her again, slower this time, sweeter. Like they had all the time in the world instead of being in the middle of a war with half the Burrow burned down around them. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft.
"For the record," he murmured, "the next time someone you love runs into danger, you're not going alone."
"Not negotiable. If you're going to have a death wish, I'm going to be right there with you. That's how this works now."
"That's a terrible plan."
"It's the only plan I've got." He tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, his touch unbearably gentle. "You're stuck with me now, Malfoy. Hope you're ready for that."
Y/N felt something warm unfurl in her chest, something that felt suspiciously like hope. "I don't deserve you."
"Incorrect. But I'm going to spend every day proving it until you believe me."
"That could take a while."
"Good thing I'm patient."
"You're the least patient person I know. You and Fred once nearly burned down Diagon Alley because you couldn't wait for a potion to finish brewing."
"That was product development. This is you. I'd wait forever for you."
Y/N's throat went tight. She reached up to touch his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. "I love you," she whispered, testing the words. They felt strange in her mouth, unfamiliar and terrifying and right. "I don't know how to do it properly. Don't know how to be someone's... anything. But I love you. I think I have for a while."
George's eyes went bright. "Yeah?"
He kissed her again, soft and slow and sweet, like a promise. "We'll figure out the rest," he murmured against her mouth. "Together."
Outside, she could hear the sounds of the Burrow slowly coming back to life. Voices calling to each other. Molly organizing cleanup efforts. Fred making jokes that were probably inappropriate given the circumstances. The Weasley family, resilient and chaotic and impossible to break.
Her family now. Not by blood, but by choice.
And George—wonderful, patient, impossible George—was looking at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking for years.
Maybe she was still broken. Maybe she still had walls to tear down and fears to face and a lifetime of damage to undo. But for the first time since leaving Malfoy Manor, Y/N thought maybe—just maybe—she could learn to believe she was worth keeping.
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