#george weasley

[spamzaccfw]

Another yearn post sweethearts

[summ6rbummer]

george weasley x ravenclaw!reader?! maybe comforting him and sitting with him after he beats malfoy up in ootp? or just fluff? please and thank youuuu

Better luck next time GW x Fem! Ravenclaw! Reader

Malfoy had finally gotten what was coming for him.

After a particularly rough quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Draco had taken it completely to heart. He had brutally insulted Harry, saying his mother was a pig and that the Weasely's house probably reminded him of the smell. Ron, who had previously been holding George back, let go immediately. Everyone knew Draco was a sour bastard, but he was terribly mean with no consequences as well.

So when you heard the yelling from down on the Pitch- as you were walking towards the lake during your free class time, you knew something was wrong.

George had Draco down on the ground, his knees pressed into Draco's chest as he beat him over and over again. Draco's lip was split open, and blood sprayed from his mouth every time George's fist connected with his jaw.

you didn't even want to know what his face looked like without the blood covering it all up.

everything moved in slow motion as you dropped your books and sprinted- deep blue robes billowing in the autumn wind. you pushed past Angelina and Ron, who were yelling at George to get off of him, and past Harry, who was in shock but still trying to pull George off- with little success. it was a blur of green and red as the two were finally pulled apart and George gave him one last shove.

Draco stumbled and wiped the blood from his mouth. before he limped off the field with the help of his team he looked George in the eye. "my father will hear about this. you'll regret that Weasely."

you knew it would be bad. George was panting, knuckles still dripping with blood and a split in his eyebrow where Draco got one good hit in. he watched as the Slytherins walked off the field, hurling hurtful remarks over their shoulders. you could feel the heat radiating off of his body from where you still held onto his arm.

thank god everyone in the stadium cleared out, you thought.

nobody spoke. Fred patted George on the back as he walked past him. he mumbled something about talking to McGonnagal- clearing it all up before Draco could swoop in with his father and twist the story. Slowly but surely, the rest of the team followed behind Fred, each mumbling words of support or pity to George about what had just happened.

as the last little first year, definitely more scared of George now than was necessary, had left, George finally turned to look at you. there was still a twinge of anger in his face, but you could see now that as the adrenaline wore off, George would be in a world of pain.

you slung your arm around his midsection, grimacing at the wince that flew through George’s body when your hand made contact with his ribs. You whispered encouragement as you helped him off the pitch, leading him towards the locker rooms.

once you got him inside and casted a Lock spell on the doors, you helped him to sit down on the floor against the lockers. he had tried to escape your grasp, insisting that he was fine, but you couldn’t take that as an answer. “stop being stubborn George. I’m going to help you. God knows you’re in for a world of trouble once you get out of here so I might as well make it bearable.” he chuckled at your insistence as you conjured medical supplies and started laying them out on the bench in front of him. “Gonna prep me for surgery, doc?”

you rolled your eyes. You couldn’t believe he was making jokes at a time like this. “Well, you’ve got a nasty cut and split knuckles- and I know your wrists are going to start hurting. And while I’m at it- I believe you’ve got a bruised couple ribs. No shock, I’m sure that’s the highest Malfoy can hit you.”

you realized that sounded like a compliment to George’s height. He grinned, of course, and you shook your head as you finished organizing- as a way of telling him ‘don’t even start.’

you took a deep breath, trying to gain your courage, for what you weren’t exactly sure- it’s not like you haven’t been alone with him before. You and George had been friends for a while- after you drunkenly kissed at a party during your fifth year. the next morning you had showed up at his dorm with chocolate frogs and a deck of cards- and you both sort of.. acted like it never happened? You liked being George’s friend. He was supportive to the very end, even if it needed badly for him. And he was funny! You couldn’t count the amount of times he made you laugh even when you were in the depths of despair.

so why did it always feel like you were just pretending?

As you crouched down to get on George’s level and started pressing gauze to the wounds on his hands, your stomach was buzzing. You were worried about what was going to happen, about what Draco would do. He was powerful.

you didn’t realize how hard you were pressing- or that you were muttering to yourself until you felt George’s other hand rest on your forearm. your breath hitched and you looked up to meet his eyes.

“are you alright?” His voice was so soft, and you could hear the anxiety laced through it. “sorry George. I’m just worried about what’s happening after this. I can’t believe you did that..”

he grunted as you resumed wiping the crusted blood away. You had to act like the sound didn’t make you quiver. “Look. God- ow!”

you mumbled an apology and slowed your process. “Maybe I shouldn’t have laid into him so bad. But the Bastard couldn’t keep my family’s name out of his dirty mouth. What did you expect from me?” He seemed to be pleading his case, even though he knew you were on his side.

“George save it for Dumbledore- I know why you did it I just wish he hadn’t made you resort to that.. extent.”

“I like when you use big words.” you scoffed. But when you looked at George, you were caught. He looked so needy, on the floor and practically hopeless. You knew he was in pain, and you intended to give him medicine after you finished dressing his wounds. But for now, you ignored all the twinges of your heart, and cocked an eyebrow at him. “which one of those was a big word for you Georgie?”

“eh they’re all average, but you just speak so elegantly. I’m a right slag and I speak like one too. I always enjoyed that about you.” you giggled at the compliment. you couldn’t entirely tell if he was hitting on you or if he was just joking around like you always did.

as you finished wrapping both of his now clean hands, it sort of dawned on you that cleaning the cuts on his face would require you to get so much closer. Closer to his big Hazel eyes and freckled skin. He smelled amazing, even after an intense surge of adrenaline like that. Broom wax and chocolate. you swallowed it down. Scooted closer. you slotted yourself between his legs, thighs bracketing your own while you reached up to grab his chin. As you brought his face down towards yours, you watched his eyes flick to your lips. For just a second- maybe less.

He hissed when you pressed the antiseptic gauze to his eyebrow. You grimaced and whispered an apology, gently wiping it a few times. Then you reached to your side and grabbed the medical tape you had cut. You laid thin pieces over his eyebrow, pulling the sliced skin back together and wiping away any blood stuck deep in his eyebrow hair.

“almost done. You’re being very patient.” You whispered as you set down the tape. “you’re very good at this.”

you met his eyes and smiled, gently patting his face where you still held it. You could have let go, now that you were going to be cleaning up the nasty cut on his lip, but for some reason you didn’t want to.

George was absolutely basking in the feeling of your soft hand holding his face. He was ecstatic that you had taken it upon yourself to clean him up. He had always admired you. George thought you were the smartest girl he had ever met, and the most caring too. You always went above and beyond for everyone and you never complained. you were a much better person than he was. He thought that’s why he liked you so much.

as the cold cloth touched his lip, they parted. You met his eyes and then quickly looked back down. You tried to look absolutely focused. But his eyes were so deep. You could never look at him for too long or youd start to squirm. He was always looking right through you.

as you finished cleaning him up, you almost felt sad that it was ending so soon. Yes, you hated to see him hurt, but he was just so pretty. George Weasely was pretty. Oh Merlin, save you.

you quickly got up, almost rushing to put away all of your things and conjure them back to your dorm across the castle. You hurriedly told George how to care for his wounds in the next few days, and that you still couldn’t believe he’d do that, yada yada.

just as you were about to Unlock all the doors, George grabbed your arm. He was looking at you again, with so much care and worry.

“you’re sure you’re alright?” “I’m fine Georgie, I’m just glad I could take care of you.”

he let his grip loosen, and as his hand slid down your arm towards your own hand, neither of you made an effort to pull away. “Didn’t you uh.. mention something about me havin’ a bruised rib?”

you hadn’t said that part out loud but it was no shock he was asking. “Well.. it’s definitely possible Georgie.. does it hurt?” “hurts like hell.” He replied, never once looking away from you. His tone made it sound like maybe it didn’t really hurt. Maybe he just wanted you to stay.

You took another deep breath. It really couldn’t get any worse.

“alright. Um.. you’ll have to take.. your uh- your shirt off. Sorry.” You nervously explained to George. He just huffed, entertained. and then you watched in awe as he smoothly pulled his undershirt off- over his head. immediately your eyes connected with the tuft of Orange hair that ran from his belly button all the way down his freckled V- line, and then below his belt. You must have gulped.

George chuckled. And then awkwardly he gestured to his side, inviting you to come closer. you stepped forward, ignoring how the light from the windows had dimmed, leaving just enough for you to barely see the outline of his features in evening light. You ignored how your hands were suddenly shaky as they met with George’s warm skin.

he hissed, recoiling a bit. “What? Does that hurt? I’ve barely touched you.”

“no- Merlin, Doc! Your hands are bloody freezing!” you giggled. “Oops! Sorry..” you said as you continued working your way down his ribs. George’s skin was so soft. He was so strong- slim and lanky, but his arms and chest were wide and defined. You weren’t entirely sure what Beaters did in quidditch, but you knew it’s the reason George was so fit.

George winced when you pressed on the bottom three ribs. You pulled your hands away and he groaned at the lack of pressure on his injury. after a bit more poking and prodding- that was mostly so you could tell your friends you got to touch George Weasely’s skin- you pulled away and nodded to yourself. “What’s the verdict doc?”

“well.. you’ve got at least two bruised ones. If not worse. The surrounding tissue is inflamed so it feels like there are lot more broken bits down there. You’ve got to just take it easy, Weasely.”

“you Ravenclaws are really so smart.” “well thank you Georgie.”

George stepped closer. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do if we hadn’t met all those years ago.” he laughed. “Gods, I still can’t believe that’s how I did it

you quirked an eyebrow. “Did what?” “got your attention, of course. Not that it ended how I’d like wanted it to. “how you wanted it to?”

George sighed, and after he slipped his shirt back over his head, he stepped closer to you. “I liked you all those years ago. But I was such a dunce, I couldn’t even confess to you properly. Had to be drunk- and then didn’t even back it up the next morning.”

you couldn’t believe he was telling you this. You smiled at him. “George I liked you too. How funny is that? And you aren’t a dunce- I think we were both scared or stupid.. or both.” he laughed.

you didn’t still like eachother right? Right?

you patted his arm, you couldn’t stay. The only thing that could make his fate worse was being alone in a locker room with a girl. then you turned, stomach in knots of worry and feelings that were suddenly scooped up and dumped on top of the pile. as the locker room door slammed behind you, George sighed. All his feelings were bubbling up in his throat. He had a perfect opportunity right there to tell you. But he was too scared, once again.

he was so good at expressing his feelings in a violent way, but he didn’t think beating his confession into someone could get the idea across. better luck next time.

I think I’ve been reheating my own nachos for like two weeks now I apologize… anyways. Proofreading is not my strong suit so I hope you enjoy

[spamzaccfw]

ᯓ 𐀔 ˖ 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⋒ ᰔ ⋰

(Requested)

George

I think george would prefer a calm partner, like someone he can really unwind with since his and fred’s business keeps them on their toes constantly

^i feel like he needs an ambivert, someone who can be introverted with him and extroverted when they are with other people

He would appreciate someone that is emotionally intelligent, because he never really focused on understanding or expressing his own emotions due to his big family

^so he likes when his partner understands him easily even though he sometimes might struggle a little to express himself

I don’t know why but i also feel like he likes people who can play the piano, chello or violin (particularly classic instruments), he’s just mesmerized by it

He needs someone with a certain kind of whimsy as well, he loves a unique personality

Fred

I feel like fred tends to be attracted to people with brains

^he loves when his partner is smarter than him, he takes it as a challenge and likes to tease his partner by playing dumb on purpose

I think he also likes someone that is a bit up tight at first, introverted and focused on their studies (a ravenclaw or even a slytherin)

Other than george, i feel like he likes people who can play the electric guitar or base

^especially when it’s mixed with that studious personality, he loves finding out about his partner’s real personality

^he feels special knowing a side of his partner that no one else gets to see

[agreeneyedbrunette]

It’s getting so bad, everytime I read a fanfic of George Weasley I want to combust. I wish he was real and I really wish my future partner is like him or it’s over. I’m almost in tears rn because of a fic I was reading and during one of the many angsty scenes the fucking song Remember my name by Mitski started playing.

Someone save me from this hell

[paisleyisbored]

finally just unlocked the power to tell fred and george apart it’s been years but oh my god I can do it!!!

[spamzaccfw]

𓏲ּ⬩𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰/ 𝐬𝐨 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⊹⭒

(Requested)

He doesn’t get jealous easily, he’s more the protective than the jealous type

^meaning that his jealousy is more a protective jealousy than an angry/pouty one

But when he does get jealous, you can practically sense it, his whole posture changes from easy going jokester to an allert partner

^his eyes and smirk get sharper, he straightens up to his full body height and his movements get more intentional

If you were to be across the room, you can feel his eyes lingering on you

^he would soon get closer though he can’t stay far for long when he’s getting jelly

I also feel like you two do have a little gesture you can do so he knows you’re feeling uncomfortable even if he’s across the room

His jealousy never is never directed at you (he knows you wouldn’t do anything towards being unfaithful) but it directs at the person making advances towards you

When he’s close he’s getting handsy, at first subtly though, like a hand on your shoulder, leg brushing yours (if you’re sitting down) or his arm over the back of your chair/seat

If the person making advances towards you doesn’t get the hint and continues hitting on you his touches will get more obvious, like hands on your waist/hips and wandering into your hair

^even though he isn’t all about pda he *will* place a few kisses on your cheek or forehead to get the message across

He also will fight a dude if he crosses your boundaries in any way, for example touch you/ get too close or catcall you (remember the scene where he beat up draco in the book, it’s basically canon :P)

When you two are alone again he will definitely apologize for being jealous, he feels the need to clarify why he reacted the way he and that you did nothing wrong

[aycecold]

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.

Burnt Down (G.W)

word count: ~8.3k

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?"

Nothing.

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."

"Ah. And what's that?"

"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."

"I'm not hungry."

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?"

"This morning."

"Try again."

"Yesterday."

"Y/N—"

"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."

"Dangerous pastime."

"I know."

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.

"Subtle," she told Fred.

"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.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

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.

"I should probably—"

"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."

"Y/N—"

"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?"

"Trying to."

"How's that working out?"

"Ask me later."

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."

"George—"

But he was already spooning potatoes onto her plate, his expression innocent. "What? I'm helping."

"I didn't ask for help."

"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.

"You're really not."

"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.

It was terrifying.

"You're doing it again," Ginny said, appearing at Y/N's elbow with a stack of plates.

"Doing what?"

"Looking like you're about to bolt."

"I'm not—"

"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."

"I have a 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."

"I don't need—"

"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 what?"

"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.

"I don't dance."

"Liar. I've seen you dance."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I was drunk."

"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."

"Is it working?"

"Possibly."

She took his hand.

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.

"I'm always tense."

"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."

"I should go back."

"Why?"

"Because it's my home."

"It's a shack."

"It's my shack."

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?"

"I'm not afraid."

"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."

"Stop."

"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 what?"

"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.

"George—"

"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.

"Do what?"

"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.

Almost.

"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.

"How can you tell?"

"You get this line right here." He tapped the space between her eyebrows gently. "Shows up every time you're spiraling."

"I'm not 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."

"George—"

"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.

The world became chaos.

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—

Harry.

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 them.

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.

Y/N didn't think.

She ran.

"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.

Then he lunged.

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.

"Y/N!"

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—"

The Burrow was burning.

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.

They ran.

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.

And George—

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."

"It's not that bad."

"You're bleeding through your shirt."

"I've had worse."

"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—"

"The house is on fire."

"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 a promise.

Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

——————————————————————————————————

Y/N woke to pain.

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."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"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."

"Doing what?"

"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."

"Even if it killed you?"

"Yes!"

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—"

"For people you love."

"Yes."

"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."

"That's not—"

"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."

"I don't—"

"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."

"George, stop—"

"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."

"But you're asking now."

"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."

"I'm a mess."

"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 know."

"I don't know how to do this. How to be vulnerable. How to need someone."

"We'll figure it out together."

"What if I mess it up?"

"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."

"Probably."

"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—"

Y/N kissed him.

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—"

"Overdue?"

"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."

"You want this?"

"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?"

"Seemed polite."

"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."

"George—"

"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's different."

"How?"

"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?"

"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."

"Together," Y/N agreed.

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.

One day at a time.

With George beside her.

Together.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[marshallowpuff]

Before We Run Out of Time

Pairing: George Weasley x hufflepuff!reader

Summary: When a quiet girl with a hopeless crush on George Weasley finally finds herself getting closer to him, she starts to wonder if maybe fate has something planned for them. In a world where soulmates bear matching marks and feel each other's pain. But some things are better left unknown.

Warnings: no use of y/n

Cw: angstyyy, soulmate au

Wc: 4k+

Part 1 <- Part 2 -> Part 3(coming soon)

It starts with a dropped book.

You're walking through the corridor on the third floor, arms full of library books because you've never learned to make multiple trips, when one slips from the pile. It hits the stone floor with a loud thud that echoes embarrassingly through the hallway.

You stop, sighing, trying to figure out how to pick it up without dropping the rest. A few students glance your way as they pass, but no one stops. You're used to that. You're about to attempt a very awkward crouch when someone else gets there first.

"Got it," a familiar voice says.

You look up, and your heart stops.

George Weasley is crouching in front of you, picking up your Charms textbook. He straightens, and suddenly he's right there, closer than he's ever been, holding out your book with an easy smile.

"Thanks," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

"No problem." He glances at the stack in your arms. "That's a lot of books. You planning to read them all tonight?"

"I—" You feel heat creeping up your neck. "I just... I like to be prepared."

"Prepared for what, exactly? The entire year's curriculum in one go?"

There's no meanness in his tone. He's teasing, but it's gentle. Friendly. And when you dare to meet his eyes, they're warm and curious.

"Maybe," you say, and you're surprised when it comes out almost playful.

George grins. "Well, in that case, you might want to add this one." He reaches over and taps the spine of a book near the top of your pile.

"Advanced Transfiguration Theory. Really riveting stuff. Put me right to sleep last week."

You can't help it—you smile. A real smile, not the practiced one you've perfected. "I'll keep that in mind."

"George! Come on, we're going to be late!" Fred's voice calls from down the corridor.

George glances back at his brother, then returns his attention to you. For a moment, he just looks at you, and there's something in his expression you can't quite read. Then he smiles again.

"See you around," he says.

----

And then he's gone, jogging to catch up with Fred, leaving you standing in the middle of the corridor with your arms full of books and your heart racing.

It was nothing. Just a small interaction. He was being nice, the way anyone would be. But you replay it in your mind for the rest of the day anyway.

"He talked to you?" Iris asks that evening in the common room, her eyes wide.

"It was nothing," you insist, but you can't stop the small smile on your face. "He just picked up a book I dropped."

"And then he stayed to talk to you."

"For like thirty seconds."

"Thirty seconds more than usual." Iris leans forward, excited. "This is good. This is progress."

"It's not progress. It's just... a thing that happened." You try to sound dismissive, but your heart is still doing that stupid flutter. "It doesn't mean anything."

"It could mean something."

"Iris." You give her a look. "We talked about this. I'm not—"

"I know, I know." She holds up her hands. "I'm not saying you should do anything. I'm just saying... maybe it's okay to enjoy the moment. Even if it doesn't go anywhere."

You want to argue, but you can't. Because the truth is, you are enjoying it. That brief conversation has been playing on repeat in your mind all day, and every time you think about the way George smiled at you, something warm blooms in your chest.

It's dangerous. You know it's dangerous.

But maybe Iris is right. Maybe it's okay to have this one small thing.

-----

The next time you see George, it's in the library.

You're tucked into your usual corner, the one by the window where hardly anyone ever goes. You've been working on your Potions essay for the past hour, and your hand is cramping from writing. You're just considering taking a break when someone drops into the chair across from you.

"Fancy meeting you here."

You look up, startled, and there he is again. George Weasley, grinning at you like you're old friends.

"Hi," you say, your mind going blank.

"Hi yourself." He nods at your parchment. "What are you working on?"

"Potions essay. About Veritaserum."

"Ah, truth serum. Nasty stuff." He leans back in his chair, looking entirely too comfortable. "Fred and I tried to brew some once in third year. Ended up with something that made Snape's hair turn purple for a week. He never did figure out it was us."

You bite back a smile. "That's terrible."

"That's genius," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Absolutely." His eyes are sparkling with mischief. "Terrible is getting caught. Genius is getting away with it."

This time you do smile, and George notices. His grin widens.

"There it is," he says.

"There what is?"

"Your smile. I was starting to think you didn't have one."

The comment catches you off guard. Heat floods your cheeks. "I smile."

"Not usually. At least, not that I've seen." He tilts his head, studying you.

"You're always so serious. Walking around with your nose in a book, looking like you're carrying the weight of the world."

You don't know what to say to that. Because he's right, but he doesn't know why. He doesn't know about the actual weight you're carrying.

"I just... I like to focus on my studies," you say finally.

"Nothing wrong with that. But you know what they say about all work and no play."

"What do they say?"

"Makes you a very dull person." He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. "When's the last time you did something fun? Something that wasn't studying or reading or being responsible?"

You think about it. Really think about it. And you realize you can't remember.

"I don't know," you admit quietly.

Something shifts in George's expression. The teasing fades, replaced by something softer. "That's a shame," he says. "Everyone should have fun. Especially at Hogwarts. This place is magic—literally. We should be enjoying it."

"Some of us have other priorities."

"Like what?"

Like staying alive as long as possible. Like not wasting the time I have left. Like not getting attached to people who will have to grieve for me.

"Like passing my N.E.W.T.s," you say instead.

George makes a face. "Boring. Come on, there has to be something you do for fun."

"I read."

"Besides reading."

You hesitate. "I... I like walking by the lake. Early in the morning, when no one else is around. It's peaceful."

George's expression softens even more. "Yeah? What do you like about it?"

No one's ever asked you that before. No one's ever cared enough to ask. "The quiet," you say slowly. "The way the water looks when the sun's just coming up. The way everything feels... still. Like the whole world is holding its breath."

You stop, suddenly self-conscious. That was too much. Too revealing. But George isn't laughing. He's just watching you with this look on his face that you can't quite interpret.

"That sounds nice," he says quietly. "Peaceful."

"It is."

"Maybe I could join you sometime."

Your heart stops. "What?"

"For a walk. By the lake." He says it casually, like he's not just turned your entire world upside down. "If you want company, I mean. No pressure."

You should say no. You should make up an excuse, put distance between you, protect him from getting close to someone who's dying. But instead, you hear yourself say, "Okay."

George's face lights up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You can't quite believe you're agreeing to this. "Tomorrow morning? Around six?"

"Six in the morning?" He pretends to look horrified. "That's practically the middle of the night."

"You said you wanted to join me."

"I did, didn't I?" He sighs dramatically. "Fine. Six it is. But you owe me a very strong cup of coffee afterward."

"Deal."

He grins at you, and you feel that dangerous warmth spreading through your chest again. This is a mistake. You know it's a mistake. But you can't bring yourself to take it back.

-----

You barely sleep that night.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling of your dormitory, wondering what you've just agreed to. Wondering if you should back out. Wondering if George will even show up, or if this was just a casual comment he'll forget about by morning.

But when you slip out of the castle at dawn, wrapping your cloak tight against the morning chill, he's already there.

He's standing by the edge of the lake, hands in his pockets, looking out at the water. The sun is just starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. He looks different in this light—softer, quieter. Less like the loud prankster everyone knows and more like... just a person.

"You came," you say, surprised.

He turns, and his face breaks into a smile. "Course I came. I said I would, didn't I?"

"I thought maybe you'd forget."

"Forget about this? Not a chance." He falls into step beside you as you start walking along the shore. "Besides, I was curious. Wanted to see what gets you up at this ungodly hour."

You walk in silence for a few minutes. It should be awkward, but somehow it's not. It's... comfortable. Easy.

"You were right," George says eventually. "It is peaceful."

"Told you."

"And the water does look different at this time of day. All pink and gold." He glances at you. "You come here a lot?"

"When I can." You pause. "It helps me think."

"What do you think about?"

Everything. My illness. How much time I have left. How unfair it all is. How much I wish things were different.

"Just... stuff," you say vaguely.

George doesn't push. He just nods, like he understands that some thoughts are too big to share.

You walk the length of the lake together, and George fills the silence with stories. He tells you about the prank shop he and Fred want to open someday. About the time they turned Percy's Head Boy badge into a spider. About growing up in a house full of siblings and never having a moment's peace.

You listen, and you laugh, and for a little while, you forget about everything else. You forget about your illness, about your limited time, about all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

You just... exist. In this moment. With him.

When you finally head back to the castle, the sun is fully up and students are starting to emerge for breakfast.

"Same time tomorrow?" George asks as you reach the entrance. You should say no. You should end this now, before it becomes something more.

"Okay," you say instead. And George smiles like you've just made his day.

-----

It becomes a routine.

Every morning, you meet George by the lake. Sometimes you walk. Sometimes you just sit by the water and talk. He tells you stories, and slowly, carefully, you start telling him things too. Small things. Safe things. About your favorite books, about why you chose Hufflepuff, about the garden your mother keeps at home.

You don't tell him about your illness. You don't tell him that every morning you wake up wondering if this will be the day your body finally gives out. You don't tell him that sometimes, when you're lying in bed at night, you can feel your heart beating wrong, skipping and stuttering in your chest.

Maybe that's why you find yourself telling him something you've never really said out loud.

But you tell him other things. Real things. And he listens like every word matters.

You've always wanted to fly.

Not the kind of flying you're supposed to do in lessons, with a professor watching from the ground and a list of rules to follow. You wanted to know what it felt like to take a broom after dark and disappear into the night, high enough that Hogwarts would look small beneath you. You wanted the cold air against your face and the freedom of going wherever you pleased, even if it was only for a little while.

"I've always wanted to know what it feels like to fly."

George looks at you, surprised.

"Fly?"

You nod, looking down at your hands.

"Not in lessons. Not because I have to. I mean really fly."

You pause, trying to find the right words.

"At night, maybe. When it's quiet and everyone's asleep. Just... going wherever I want for a little while."

George smiles faintly.

"You've never been on a broom?"

You shake your head.

"Never."

"Why?"

You shrug, giving him the easiest answer.

"I've never been allowed."

George looked at you when you mentioned it, waiting for an explanation you weren't going to give him. You simply shrugged and looked away, pretending it wasn't important.

You couldn't tell him that your illness was the reason. You couldn't tell him that every time you'd imagined yourself doing it, there had always been that quiet thought in the back of your mind reminding you that you might not have much time left.

So you let him believe it was nothing. He didn't question you.

George watches you quietly before his smile returns.

"Well, that's easily fixed."

You laugh softly. You shake your head, but you're smiling now.

"Maybe someday."

George grins.

"Definitely someday."

You smile back.

Neither of you knows how much that little promise will come to mean. And for a moment, you let yourself believe him.

You didn't know then that someday would become one of the things you'd wish for most.

-----

The walks by the lake bleed into other moments. George starts sitting with you in the library. He saves you a seat in the classes you share. He waves at you across the Great Hall, and your heart does that stupid flutter every single time.

Iris notices, of course.

"You're spending a lot of time with him," she says one evening, her tone carefully neutral.

"We're just friends," you say, but even you don't believe it anymore.

"Are you?"

You don't answer. Because the truth is, you don't know what you are. Friends doesn't feel like the right word for the way George looks at you sometimes. For the way your hands almost touched yesterday when you were walking, and how you both pulled back at the same time, like you'd been burned.

"Be careful," Iris says softly. "I don't want to see you get hurt."

"I won't," you lie; you're already hurt. You've been hurt since the moment you realized you were falling for him. Since the moment you understood that every smile, every laugh, every shared moment is just another thing you'll have to leave behind.

Three weeks after that first morning by the lake, something shifts. You're in the courtyard, sitting on a bench with a book you're not really reading. George appears out of nowhere and drops down beside you, so close your shoulders almost touch.

"What are you reading?" he asks.

You show him the cover. "Muggle poetry."

"Poetry?" He makes a face. "Isn't that all roses are red, violets are?"

"Not all of it." You flip to a page you've marked. "Listen to this." You turn to the page you'd marked.

"If time would only linger where we stand, I'd ask the morning not to hurry by, I'd hold each little moment in my hands, and never ask the evening why."

George is quiet for a moment, his eyes lingering on the page.

"You like that?"

You nod, closing the book gently.

"Why?"

You shrug, trying to make it seem like it isn't anything. "I don't know. I just think some moments deserve to last a little longer."

He looks at you, like he's trying to understand what you mean. You smile before he can ask.

"And some things are nicer when you don't explain them."

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You're strange."

"Maybe."

You look back down at the poem, letting your thumb rest against the worn edge of the page.

----

George is quiet for a moment. When you look up, he's watching you with an expression that makes your breath catch.

You look back down at the page, suddenly finding it easier to stare at the words than at him.

"There was another one."

"You became a part of me before I could say your name, and by the time I did, I feared it would be too late."

The words linger between you.

You keep your eyes on the page, refusing to look at him. If you did, he might see too much in your expression. He might wonder why those words meant so much to you.

"That's…" He trails off, his eyes lingering on the words. "That's a little heartbreaking, isn't it?"

"It's beautiful," you say softly. "It's about loving someone so much they become a part of you. So much that you carry them with you everywhere, even when they're not there."

"Have you ever felt like that?" George asks. "About someone?"

The question hangs in the air between you. You should deflect. You should change the subject. But you're tired of lying.

"Yes," you whisper.

George's eyes search your face. "Who?"

You can't answer that. You can't tell him it's him, that it's always been him, that you've been carrying him in your heart for years.

"It doesn't matter," you say, looking away. "They don't feel the same way."

"How do you know?"

"Because they don't even see me."

"Then they're an idiot."

The words are so fierce, so immediate, that you look back at him in surprise. George is staring at you with an intensity that makes your heart race.

"Anyone who doesn't see you is an idiot," he says. "Because you're... you're brilliant. And kind. And you notice things other people don't. And when you smile—really smile, not that fake one you do for everyone else—it's like the sun coming out."

You can't breathe. You can't think. All you can do is stare at him while your heart pounds so hard you're sure he must be able to hear it.

"George," you whisper.

"I see you," he says quietly. "I don't know when it started, but I do. I see you."

This is the moment. The moment where everything could change. Where you could tell him the truth—about your feelings, about your illness, about everything.

But you can't. Because if you tell him, if you let him in, you'll just be giving him something else to lose.

"I have to go," you say abruptly, standing up.

"Wait—"

"I'm sorry. I just—I have to go."

You practically run from the courtyard, leaving George sitting there alone. You don't stop until you reach the Hufflepuff common room, and even then you keep going, up to your dormitory, where you finally let yourself fall apart.

George Weasley sees you. And that's the most wonderful, terrible thing that's ever happened.

----

You avoid him for two days.

It's cowardly, and you know it. But you don't know what else to do. Every time you think about that moment in the courtyard, about the way he looked at you, about what he said, your chest aches with a longing so intense it's almost physical.

You want him. You want to be with him, to let yourself have this, to stop being so afraid.

But you're dying. And letting him care about you, letting him get attached, would be the cruelest thing you could do.

You're in the library again, hiding in your corner, when he appears. He doesn't say anything at first. He just sits down across from you and waits.

"I'm sorry," you say finally, not looking up from your book. "For running away."

"Why did you?"

"Because I..." You close your book, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

"Because this is complicated."

"What is?"

"This. Us. Whatever this is."

George leans forward. "It doesn't have to be complicated. I like you. I think you might like me too. That's pretty simple, actually."

Your heart sinks.

For one horrible second, you almost let yourself believe him. You almost let yourself imagine what it would be like to stop hiding, to tell him that you've liked him for far longer than he knows, to finally let yourself have something good without constantly thinking about how little time you have left.

But you know better.

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

Because I'm dying.

Because there are days when you wake up wondering how many more mornings you have left. Because every time you get a little closer to him, you can already picture the day you'll have to leave him behind. Because he deserves years with someone, and all you could ever give him is a handful of months and a goodbye.

You swallow it all.

"You've got it wrong, George."

His smile disappears slowly.

"I don't like you like that."

There. You said it.

The words feel like tearing something out of yourself and handing it to him, knowing he's going to be the one who gets hurt by it.

George stares at you, almost as if he's waiting for you to laugh and tell him you're joking.

You don't.

"I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea," you continue, forcing yourself to sound calm. "I shouldn't have."

He looks down at his hands.

You want to reach for him. You want to take every word back. You want to tell him that he's wrong, that you've liked him for so long that sometimes it scares you how easily he has become part of your thoughts, your days, your plans for a future you know you'll never have.

Instead, you sit there and let the silence grow between you.

"Right," he says eventually.

Just one word.

Somehow, it's worse than if he'd argued with you.

You look at him and see the disappointment he's trying so hard to hide, and for a moment you nearly break.

But you remind yourself why you're doing this.

If he hates you a little, he'll heal faster.

If he thinks you never loved him, he won't spend the rest of his life wondering why you left.

And if he never knows the truth, maybe losing you won't hurt quite as much.

"Friends," you say quietly, because you need to put a name to whatever is left between you.

George gives a small nod.

"Friends."

You smile.

He doesn't.

And when you look away, you let the tears you've been holding back fall silently into your lap, where he can't see them.

-----

Over the next week, something shifts between you and George. You still meet by the lake every morning. You still sit together in the library. But now there's something else there too. Something unspoken but undeniable.

The way he looks at you has changed.

There is still warmth there, but something has been pulled back. He doesn't linger around you as long as he used to, doesn't tease you quite as much, and seems to think twice before saying something that might make you uncomfortable.

He believes you.

And somehow, that hurts more than if he'd been angry.

Because you were the one who told him there was nothing between you, and now he's slowly learning how to treat you like there isn't.

----

The rain had started sometime during the lesson, soft at first against the classroom windows. By the time class ended, it had turned into a heavy downpour, the kind that sent students rushing through the corridors and toward the castle.

You had barely been listening for the last twenty minutes. The ache in your chest had been getting worse all morning, accompanied by the familiar dizziness and weakness that you'd become far too good at hiding. Your hands had started trembling beneath the desk, and you'd kept them tucked into your sleeves so nobody would notice.

The moment the lesson ended, you slipped out before anyone could stop you. You told yourself you only needed some air, that you'd be fine after a few minutes.

You weren't.

The rain soaked through your robes almost immediately, but you barely felt the cold. Your chest tightened with every breath, the pain spreading beneath your ribs until you had to stop walking. You reached for the nearest wall, but your legs gave out before you could steady yourself properly.

You slid down against the stone, breathing unevenly as your head began to pound. Your vision blurred, dark spots appearing at the edges, and your heart seemed to beat painfully against your ribs.

You hated this.

----

You hated how your body could betray you without warning. How you could wake up feeling almost normal and end the day barely able to stand. How every episode reminded you that you were running out of time.

Your hand pressed against your chest.

Once.

Then again.

Not hard enough to truly hurt yourself, but enough that you could feel something beneath your palm besides the illness.

You're already struggling to breathe.

The familiar ache has returned.

It starts beneath your ribs, spreading slowly through your chest until every breath feels too shallow. Your vision blurs at the edges, and you stop walking.

You press a hand against your chest. Not here. Not now.

You try to take another breath, but the pain only worsens.

Your knees give out.

You catch yourself against the stone wall, fingers digging into it as your head begins to pound. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing it to stop, but the pain keeps coming. And then you think of George.

His face. His voice.

The way he'd looked at you after you'd told him you didn't like him. The disappointment in his eyes. Something inside you finally breaks.

You slide down the wall until you're sitting on the cold ground, rain pouring over you.

"I hate you."

The words come out barely above a whisper. You press your fist against your chest.

"I hate you."

You hit it again, harder this time, as though you could somehow beat the feeling out of yourself.

Your hand pressed against your chest.

Once.

Then again.

You struck your chest with the heel of your palm, frustrated tears spilling down your face.

"Come on."

Your voice shook.

"Please."

You hit your chest again, not because you wanted to hurt yourself, but because you were furious at the body that kept failing you.

"Why can't you just stop?"

Your breathing broke into a sob. You pressed both hands against yourself, almost as though you could force the pain to disappear.

"I hate this."

Another hit.

"I hate this."

Your hand fell against your chest again as tears mixed with the rain.

"I hate my body."

The words came out broken. You hated the weakness. The exhaustion. The dizziness that came without warning. The way your hands trembled when you were scared. The way your heart could suddenly hurt so badly that you couldn't think about anything else.

----

Back inside the castle, your friend had noticed you were missing. She'd watched you grow paler throughout the lesson, the colour slowly draining from your face until even your lips looked almost white. When you disappeared without saying anything, she knew something was wrong.

She found you outside several minutes later.

The moment she saw you sitting against the wall, soaked through and trembling, she ran toward you.

"Oh, God."

She dropped beside you and immediately reached for your hands.

"Hey, look at me."

You finally looked at her. Your face was soaked with rain and tears, your skin frighteningly pale and your breathing still uneven. The moment you saw the worry in her eyes, you couldn't keep pretending.

She gently caught your wrists when your hand moved back toward your chest.

"Stop. You're going to hurt yourself."

You finally looked at her, and whatever she saw on your face made her expression crumble.

Your voice cracked, and another wave of tears came. You looked down at yourself as though you couldn't understand why your own body had become something you were afraid of.

"I hate my body."

Your friend pulled you into her arms.

"I know."

"I hate waking up tired. I hate being scared of stairs. I hate wondering if I'm going to make it through the day without something happening."

Your words came faster now, spilling out after years of being kept inside.

You closed your eyes and leaned back against her, exhausted. For once, you didn't try to pretend you were okay. You simply let yourself cry while she held you, the rain pouring around you as you mourned the future your illness was slowly taking away and the boy you loved enough to make him believe you didn't.

----

Meanwhile, George sat through the rest of the lesson without really hearing anything the professor was saying. His parchment remained mostly empty in front of him, his thoughts drifting back to you despite how hard he'd been trying not to think about you.

Ever since you'd told him you didn't like him that way, he'd been forcing himself to keep his distance. He'd stopped lingering after lessons, stopped finding excuses to walk beside you, and tried to convince himself that eventually the disappointment would fade.

It hadn't.

He was staring absently at the parchment when a sudden pain tore through his chest. His breath caught, and his hand immediately went over his heart. For a moment, he thought he'd been hit by a spell, but then the pain faded almost as quickly as it had appeared.

"George?"

He looked up to find Fred watching him from across the desk. George shook his head, trying to brush it off, but before he could say anything, the pain returned. This time it was deeper, spreading beneath his ribs until his fingers tightened around his robes.

"I'm fine."

Fred didn't look convinced.

"You don't look fine."

George didn't answer. He was too busy trying to understand what he was feeling. He'd turned seventeen months ago, old enough for the soulmate bond to fully awaken, and he'd already experienced strange little things that couldn't possibly have been his own. A bruise appearing where he hadn't been hit. A sudden sting in his arm for no reason. But this was different. This wasn't a passing ache.

He lowered his gaze to his trembling hand, his stomach twisting as another wave of pain moved through his chest. There was something almost desperate about it, something that made him feel as though whoever was on the other end of the bond was fighting against their own body.

"That's my soulmate, isn't it?"

Fred's expression changed.

George swallowed, his voice quieter this time.

"I can feel them."

The pain slowly faded, leaving behind a dull ache that refused to disappear. George sat there in silence, wondering who she was and where she could possibly be. He had spent years imagining what meeting his soulmate would be like.

He'd imagined laughter, excitement, maybe even some ridiculous story he'd tell Fred years later. He'd never imagined sitting helplessly in a classroom while she suffered somewhere he couldn't reach.

George rubbed at his chest, waiting for the strange ache to disappear. It lingered for a few seconds before finally fading, leaving him with nothing but an uncomfortable feeling he couldn't quite explain.

He looked down at his parchment and forced himself to pick up his quill again.

"Probably nothing."

Fred glanced at him. "You sure?"

George gave a small shrug, his eyes staying on the page.

"Yeah. She'll be alright."

He didn't know why he said it so confidently. Maybe because he needed to believe it. He didn't know who she was, or where she was, or what had happened to her. For all he knew, she'd already forgotten about the pain.

So George forced a small smile and went back to his work. He didn't know that, somewhere in the castle, she was still crying.

----

You'd been looking paler lately.

At first, it was easy to ignore. A little less colour in your cheeks, a tiredness that lingered beneath your eyes no matter how much you slept. Then, with every passing day, it became harder to hide.

Your friend noticed it before anyone else did.

Your skin seemed almost translucent beneath the sunlight, your lips losing their usual colour. The dark circles beneath your eyes grew deeper, and there were moments when she would catch you staring blankly ahead, as though even keeping your eyes open required more energy than you had.

You kept insisting you were fine.

But you weren't.

And with every passing day, your body seemed to make that harder to pretend.

A/n: okayyy so maybe things are getting a little more painful now 😭

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