#george weasley

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The Shop Across The Way || George Weasley x Reader

Two years after the war, you reopen your late parents’ tailor shop across from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, while George is still learning how to run his own shop without Fred. What starts as passing glances and sarcastic remarks slowly turns into late nights, shared grief, and the realization that moving forward doesn’t have to mean leaving the people you lost behind.

george weasley x Reader | post-war | grief, fluff, slow burn | word count: 7.1k

Diagon Alley was starting to look like itself again. Shops were slowly rebuilding and reopening. Lights on, crowds filling the street daily. It was great for the books, hard on the heart. You pulled the shop key from your pocket with a sigh, turning it over in your hand. It was given that you’d end up running the shop, it’d been in the family longer than the generations you’d met, it wasn’t given that you’d be running it at merely twenty-two years of age. You looked to the sky, shaking your head as you turned the key and pushed the door open slowly. 

The familiar smell of starch and linen hit you harder than anticipated. A layer of dust lay on top of the cutting table, orders in your father’s handwriting still hung from the cork strip above it. You’d almost forgotten what it looked like these days. The mannequin in the shop window was clothed with your mum’s favorite tape measure, her chalk and pins sat on the small table next to it. Left like she’d come back and pick them up the same as always. The chair sat next to the fitting platform, the one you’d sit in during the summers from school. Spent most of your free time sat there, sketching out dresses. That’s what you wanted to do, dressmaking. Weddings and balls, your parents had promised you the sewing station in the back after completing your N.E.W.T.s. Your hand lazily trailed over the dust on the cutting table, eyes dancing over the incomplete orders. The majority of them would need to be thrown out, the owners wouldn’t be coming to claim their garment bags. The thought of that made your chest tighten. 

The silence of the shop was deafening, the normal sounds of your father’s hum to the wireless and your mum’s needles sewing alongside her while she rattled measurements to the scissors cutting the fabric missing. You flicked your wand to the wireless sat on the shelf, the sounds of today’s and yesterday’s biggest wizarding hits slowly filled the shop's silence. Moving forward you pulled the front window drapes open, the light flooding in. Dust sparkled the air around you as you looked out towards the neighboring shops. Just across the way sat the Weasleys’ shop, you smiled seeing two red haired boys- men now, you’d supposed- bickering as they carried stock in. Your chest tightened once more as they came into focus. No, not Fred and George. Not anymore. You’d never seen one without the other before. You frowned, pulling away from the window and twirling your wand in your fingers.

With another flick of your wand, dust peeled from the shelves in thick grey ribbons, disappearing before it reached the floor. A pair of rags set to work on the front windows while the broom swept itself beneath the fitting platform. Cleaning, at least, was easy. The rest was increasingly difficult. 

Opening the shop was far worse than closing it. Closing at night meant with the flick of his wand he’d managed to survive another day. Turning the lights on and turning the lock meant his brain could think for just a second, that footsteps would follow down the stairs from the flat. Hadn’t been a set of footsteps besides his own in little over two years, he was dangerously aware of that fact. Things were moving, things were good. Different but good. Sunday Roasts at The Burrow were non-negotiable, Ginny and Harry were set to be married, Ron had announced last Sunday Roast he’d be leaving his Auror position and joining George in the joke shop.  

“Oi- shipment’s in!” Ron’s voice pulled him from the front window and his thoughts quickly.

He followed him to the side door, unlocking it and swinging it open. It had been quiet on Diagon Alley for so long that the never ending chatter and crowds seemed almost off putting to him still. Shops were slow to reopen, some stood boarded with a Realty Wizard’s face plastered to the windows. He had closed early the first time he realized what that had meant, no one left to unlock the shop door in the morning. Across the street the windows were open, the sounds of the wireless drifted down the street. Someone had made their way back. He nodded lightly to himself as if to convince himself that meant someone else had survived. 

The day was steady, most days were steady now. Customer flow picked up as soon as he unlocked the door for the first time solo, it hadn’t slowed much. He was grateful both for the business and distraction. The clock sat around noon now, Ron stood on the ladder organizing the top displays as Lee ran the till. 

“Don’t let Ron do anything stupid while I’m gone.” George said, shrugging on his jacket. 

“I heard that, you arse.” 

“Now Ronald, that’s no way to speak to your boss that’s headed out to buy your lunch.” George teased, lightly shaking the ladder Ron stood on as he passed him by. 

He stepped out the front, turning toward the Leaky Cauldron. Across the street, the old Needle & Knot sign was being rehung. He tilted his head the same way the sign hung currently, little shop hadn’t been open in over two years. Prior to that it seemed to be one of the longest established businesses on their block. A girl stood just under the sign, her wand raised as she tried to level it out. 

“Left side’s low.” He muttered, his head still cocked to the side. 

“I know.” The girl had replied, wand still raised without so much as sending him a glance. 

“Doesn’t look like you know.” He straightened his neck out. 

“Afternoon, George.” You rolled your eyes, sending him a small grin. 

You looked at him like you knew him from somewhere, your voice playful and familiar. “Have we met?” He looked towards you, confusion painted on his face.

You turned back to the sign, scoffing at him. “Only went to school together for seven years.” 

“Right.” He nodded awkwardly, forcing his hands into his pockets as he continued down the street to grab his lunch. 

After a string of expletives and threatening to sell the whole shop, the sign now hung straight. You sat on top of the cutting table, hands wrapped around your tea. The sun was starting to creep down past the buildings, casting a warm glow on the cobblestone. It was real now, well sinking in at least. Tomorrow would be the first real day back, your first real day alone. If they were here, your father would be scolding your mum to leave work behind and come home. “Unless the mannequin’s legs start working they’ll still be here in the morning darling”, he’d say. You didn’t have that now, the sounds of the wireless and the lights of neighboring businesses were the only things telling you when it was time to go home for the evening.

His eyes drifted along the now deserted street, the only two lights remaining. He leaned on the counter as Lee balanced the till. 

“Who’s running the shop over there now?” He asked, nodding his head across the street. 

Lee looked up from the drawer to the window across the street toward the Needle & Knot, “Oh Y/N Y/L/N.” 

“Should that mean something to me?” He asked. 

“She was in our year.” Lee just stared at him. 

“So she mentioned, can’t remember that name for the life of me though.” He replied shrugging.

“Pretty sure she was a Ravenclaw,” Ron added, passing behind them with an armful of overstock.

George frowned across the street. “Still nothing.”

Lee shut the till drawer. “You knew about six people outside Gryffindor.”

“That’s not true.”

“Name three Hufflepuffs.”

George opened his mouth to respond but found himself coming up blank.

Ron snorted at him.

“Oh, piss off.”

“I don’t remember much of her from school to be honest,” Lee said “she lost both her parents in the war, it seems she’s taken over the shop.”

The following morning came much too quickly. You stood behind the counter of Needle & Knot with your hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since stopped steaming, staring at the little wooden sign hanging from the front door.

One turn. That was all it took. Your father had done it every morning for as long as you could remember. Sometimes your mum beat him to it, usually because she'd already been working for an hour by the time he arrived with breakfast tucked beneath his arm. You swallowed.

"Don't be ridiculous." You muttered to yourself, embarrassed.

The shop offered no argument.

With considerably more force than necessary, you flipped the sign.

For nearly five minutes, nothing happened.

You weren't sure whether to feel relieved or insulted.

Then the bell above the door rang, by eleven, you hadn't sat down once. People remembered Needle & Knot. More importantly, they remembered your parents. Mrs Abbott stood at the counter for nearly twenty minutes telling you how your father had altered her son's first set of Hogwarts robes. An older wizard squeezed your hand when he realized who you were and told you your mother had made his wife's wedding robes thirty-seven years ago. There were condolences. Far too many condolences. But there were orders too.

A torn traveling cloak. Three pairs of trousers that needed hemming. A set of Ministry robes with a split seam. A little girl who needed her first Hogwarts robes altered before September.

You could work with orders, orders had measurements. Deadlines. Answers. People were considerably more difficult.

Across the street, George had noticed the rush before lunch. Not intentionally. At least, that was what he told himself when Lee caught him standing beside the front display with his attention nowhere near the Pygmy Puffs he was supposedly rearranging.

"She's busy."

George glanced over his shoulder, "What?"

Lee nodded toward the window.

George followed his gaze as though he hadn't already been looking in exactly that direction. Needle & Knot's door opened again, two women stepping onto the pavement while you remained behind the counter with a measuring tape hanging around your neck.

"Y/L/N, you said?"

Lee sighed, "Yes." 

George frowned toward the opposite shop. "Still doesn't ring a bell."

"Maybe you hit your head more often than we realized." Lee snorted.

It took another three days for you to catch him staring. You were outside rearranging a small display of fabric swatches when you looked up and found George standing in the doorway of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, arms crossed loosely over his chest. You raised an eyebrow.

“What?"

"Nothing."

"You've been looking at me for nearly a minute."

"Have not."

"You have."

George pushed himself away from the doorframe and crossed the street, apparently deciding that being caught meant he might as well commit to whatever he'd been doing.

He stopped beside your display, "I'm trying to remember you."

You stared at him, "That's incredibly flattering."

He smiled despite himself, "Give me something."

You folded your arms, "Fifth year. Charms. Professor Flitwick."

"That generally follows from Charms."

Your eyes narrowed, "You and Fred set my homework on fire."

George's expression changed immediately.

"Oh."

"There it is."

He pointed at you.

"Cheering Charms."

Your mouth dropped open, "You do remember."

"Fred knocked the candle over."

"You threw a firework at him."

"It was retaliation."

"It landed on my parchment!"

George's grin widened as the memory rearranged itself properly in his head. A corridor outside Flitwick's classroom. A girl holding twelve inches of blackened parchment between two fingers. Fred bent against the wall laughing. George desperately attempting to put out the final burning corner with his sleeve while you informed both of them, with considerable creativity, exactly where they could shove their joke products.

"You cried."

"I did not."

"You absolutely cried."

"Because it was due that afternoon!"

"Flitwick gave you an extension."

"After making you redo it."

George paused, "Did he?"

"You handed it back with the bottom three inches still singed."

"We were preserving authenticity."

You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head. "Oh, piss off, Weasley."

He laughed, and there it was. Another memory. Not the homework. You.

You'd said almost exactly the same thing then.

He could see it suddenly: your hair half-falling from whatever style you'd attempted that morning, cheeks pink with fury, black ash smeared across one thumb. And after Fred had made some ridiculous apology involving the educational benefits of practical demonstrations, you'd tried desperately not to laugh. You'd failed.

George stared a second too long.

You noticed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Again?"

"Just remembered you."

You rolled your eyes and returned to the fabric, "Congratulations."

George walked back across the street smiling.

Lee saw him coming.

"Found her in the archives, did you?"

You became part of the street after that. George didn't notice when it happened. There was no particular morning when he decided to look for you. He simply began to know whether Needle & Knot was open from the music drifting through your doorway. He knew deliveries came on Tuesdays because the delivery wizard was useless and always left the fabric crates half on the pavement. He knew you took your tea with far too much sugar because he'd once watched you dump three spoonfuls into the cup while arguing with a supplier. He knew you forgot lunch more often than not. He knew you changed the window display yourself instead of charming it because apparently, according to you, "magic has no bloody sense of composition."

And he knew your light stayed on late. Almost as late as his.

One Thursday evening, George locked the front door of WWW and turned to find the opposite windows still glowing. You were bent over the cutting table, one hand holding fabric in place while three enchanted needles moved around you. He stared for a moment. Then looked at the two cups of tea Lee had abandoned twenty minutes earlier. A minute later, the bell above Needle & Knot's door rang.

You didn't look up, "We're closed."

"Terrible customer service." He muttered teasingly. 

“To inform you that normal people occasionally go home.”

You glanced at the clock, then back at him. “You were still working five minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

“How inspiring.”

He crossed the shop and set one of the mugs beside you. “Thought I’d share my newfound wisdom.” 

George leaned against the cutting table, watching your needles dart through a section of dark green fabric.

"You always stay this late?"

"Do you?"

"Asked you first."

You gave him a look, he smiled in return.

Neither answered.

For a while, the only sounds were the wireless playing softly behind the counter and the rhythmic pull of thread through cloth. George discovered he didn't mind the quiet as much when someone else was in it.

Sunday roast at the Burrow had become law. George suspected Molly would have personally dragged each of her children through the Floo if anyone attempted to miss one.

That week, Ginny had wedding magazines scattered across half the kitchen table before pudding arrived. Harry looked mildly terrified.

"You've circled six dresses," Hermione pointed out.

"I like parts of six dresses."

"That's usually how people end up with six dresses," Ron said.

Ginny threw a folded page at his head.

Molly placed a treacle tart in the center of the table.

"You ought to start booking fittings soon, Ginny."

"I know."

Ginny reached for her fork, then seemed to remember something.

"Needle & Knot reopened."

George looked up before he could stop himself.

"The place opposite the shop?"

Ginny stared at him.

"Yes, George. The shop that's been opposite yours for years."

"I know where it is."

"Do you?"

Ron snorted.

George kicked him beneath the table.

Ginny continued, "Y/N's running it now."

"Yeah."

That earned him another look.

"What?"

"You know Y/N?"

"Apparently."

Ron laughed into his drink.

"He forgot her."

"I did not forget her."

"You asked Lee who she was."

"I forgot her name."

"You forgot her entire existence."

"Thank you, Ronald."

Ginny shook her head.

"You seriously don't remember her?"

George stabbed at his tart.

"She reminded me about the Charms homework."

Ginny blinked.

Then her face changed.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"Her Yule Ball dress."

George's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. For one second, nothing. And then, blue. Not just blue. Deep midnight blue. A fitted bodice and a skirt that moved like water as you walked, tiny silver stars stitched along the hem that seemed to brighten and disappear depending on how the light caught them. You coming down the staircase into the Entrance Hall.

Fred elbowing him hard enough to nearly spill his drink.

"That's Y/L/N?"

"Apparently."

George lowered his fork.

"The blue one."

Ginny slapped both hands against the table.

"See!"

Ron looked between them.

"What blue one?"

"Her dress," Ginny said. "She made it herself."

George frowned.

"All of it?"

"Every stitch. She was sixteen."

Molly looked up from cutting the tart.

"Oh! That lovely dark blue gown? With the silver work around the bottom?"

"The stars," George said automatically.

The table went quiet.

Ron slowly turned toward him.

George realized his mistake.

"You remember the stars?"

"Everyone remembers the stars."

"I don't."

"You spent the entire ball sulking over Hermione."

"That is beside the point."

Ginny was grinning now.

"You remember her hem but not her name?"

"I had eyes."

"You stared at her."

"I noticed a dress."

"You noticed her dress."

"Same thing."

Ginny leaned back in her chair.

"I'm asking her."

Harry looked up.

"Asking her what?"

"To make my gown."

Molly's face softened.

"You think she's ready for something that large?"

George looked toward his mother, something about the question bothered him. He thought of you behind the cutting table. Hair thrown up into a tangled mess, wand tucked behind your ear, tongue peaking out of your lips ever so slightly as you fed the fabric into the sewing machine. The shop full before noon. Three needles working at once while you marked fabric by hand. The little book of new orders already beginning to crowd the old ones above the table.

"She made that dress at sixteen," he said, everyone looked at him again. George shrugged. "Reckon she can manage it."

Ginny smiled.

"Exactly."

You nearly dropped your tea when Ginny Weasley walked into Needle & Knot two mornings later.

"Please tell me you need a hem."

Ginny laughed.

"Bit bigger than that."

She placed a folded stack of magazine pages onto the counter.

Your stomach dropped.

"No."

"Very reassuring."

"I didn't mean no. I meant-" You stared at the photographs, wedding gowns.

Ginny smiled.

"I remember your Yule Ball dress."

You looked up.

"You do?"

"I was thirteen. I thought you looked like something out of a storybook."

A laugh escaped you, "I spent most of that night convinced the left sleeve was going to fall off."

"It didn't."

"By sheer force of will."

Ginny pushed the pages closer.

"I want you to make mine."

The shop went very quiet.

For a second, you saw your mum at the cutting table. Your father leaning against the counter. “Your first proper bridal commission,” your mother would have said. Your father would've already been calculating fabric costs.

Your throat tightened.

"I've never made a wedding gown."

"You've made gowns."

"Not one that someone's going to remember for the rest of their life."

Ginny's expression softened.

"I remember yours."

That did it, You looked down at the clippings in front of you before your eyes betrayed you.

Then cleared your throat.

"All right."

Ginny beamed.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, sit down before I change my mind."

The gown took over Needle & Knot. Sketches covered half the back wall. Fabric samples hung from everything. Ginny appeared twice a week, usually accompanied by Molly, Hermione, or occasionally Harry, who was immediately banished whenever anything remotely revealing needed pinning.

George saw them crossing the street often, he pretended not to be interested.

Then Molly arrived at WWW one afternoon carrying a garment bag. George saw her and immediately became suspicious.

"No."

"I haven't said anything."

"You've got that face."

"What face?"

"The one that usually ends with me doing something unpleasant."

Molly ignored him, "Your robes for the wedding need fitting."

"They fit."

"They're from Bill's wedding."

"Still got all my limbs."

"George."

"Mum."

"Thursday. Two o'clock."

"Where?"

Molly looked at him like he was particularly slow.

"Needle & Knot."

George paused. Lee, standing behind the counter, looked up immediately. George felt him looking.

"Fine."

Molly smiled.

"Good."

She kissed his cheek and left.

Silence.

George turned.

Lee was grinning.

Thursday arrived irritatingly fast. George found himself crossing the street three minutes early, stopping just short of the door as he considered walking around the block once for good measure. He shook his head at himself, grabbing the handle and pushing the door open instead. The bell chimed above him, you stood bent over a section of ivory fabric with pins held between your lips, barely lifting your head at the sound.

“If that’s you, Weasley, you’re early.”

George stopped just inside the door. “How’d you know?”

You pulled the pins from your mouth, setting them beside you. “Your mother came in yesterday.”

“Ah,” he nodded, shrugging his jacket off. “Thought you had some sort of special gift.”

“I do.” You finally looked up, eyes trailing over him for a moment. “It’s called pattern recognition.”

“Nice to see you too.”

You pointed towards the fitting platform without another word. “Up.”

George stepped onto it, watching as you crossed towards the garment bag Molly had left behind the day prior. You pulled the dark formal robes from inside, holding them out in front of you with a slight grimace.

“These are hideous.”

“Your mother chose them.”

“They’re beautiful.” He corrected himself quickly.

“Thought so.” You held them towards him, nodding towards the screen in the corner.

A few minutes later he stepped back out, tugging at the sleeves as he walked towards you. Your eyes lifted from the parchment in your hand and paused on him for just a second longer than they probably should have. George noticed immediately.

“Problem?”

“No.” You looked back down.

“Looked like a problem.”

“Stand on the platform, George.”

He grinned, doing as he was told. You pulled the measuring tape from around your neck, stepping closer to him. “Arms out.”

He obliged, watching you loop the tape around his chest. “Bit forward, aren’t you?”

“Occupational hazard.” You muttered, pulling the tape tighter before scribbling the measurement down.

You moved it lower around his waist, George looking down towards you with a small smirk. “Steady.”

You didn’t even bother looking up. “I’ve handled more impressive measurements.”

George went silent.

You made another small mark on the parchment before finally glancing towards him. “Something wrong?”

“…No.”

“Good. Turn around.”

He did, mostly because his brain had suddenly decided it had nothing useful left to contribute. You moved behind him, pinching the fabric at his shoulders and marking where you wanted to bring it in. George stared straight ahead, almost able to hear Fred laughing at him from whatever corner of the universe he’d ended up in.

Smooth, Georgie.

“You’re standing crooked.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” Your hand landed between his shoulder blades, pushing him upright lightly. “There.”

George became dangerously aware of your hand against his back. Which was ridiculous really, you’d touched him several times already. It was tailoring. You were fitting his robes. Entirely professional and entirely normal.

Still, when you stepped around him and reached to fold his collar properly, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, something shifted uncomfortably in his chest.

He looked down towards you. Your brows were pinched together in concentration, chalk covered the side of your hand and a stray piece of hair had fallen loose towards your face.

“You’re staring.” You muttered.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe I’m checking your work.”

“You wouldn’t know what you were looking at.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

He smiled despite himself, holding still while you fixed the other side of his collar.

By the time you finally allowed him down from the platform, George had decided there was something fundamentally unfair about being made to stand still while a pretty woman put her hands all over him and insulted him.

“Done.” You stepped back.

“That’s it?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I was promised a fitting.”

“And you’ve been fitted.”

“Barely felt a thing.”

You stared blankly at him. “Do you want me to stab you with a pin so you feel you’ve gotten your money’s worth?”

George grinned, disappearing behind the screen to change. “There’s the customer service Needle & Knot is famous for.”

Lee knew before George had managed to get both feet back inside Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

“How was the fitting?” He asked, barely hiding the grin on his face.

“Fine.”

Ron looked up from behind one of the displays. “Your ears are red.”

“They are not.”

“They are too.”

“It’s warm outside.”

Ron looked pointedly towards the front windows, rain streaking down the glass. “It’s raining.”

George shrugged his jacket off with more force than necessary. Lee leaned his elbows against the till, grin widening.

“Good tailor then?”

“Excellent tailor.”

Ron and Lee exchanged a look.

George pointed between the pair of them. “Don’t start.”

Neither said anything.

It was somehow worse.

The evenings slowly became the easiest part of the day. Once both shops had emptied and Diagon Alley grew quiet, one of you inevitably ended up crossing the street. Some nights George sat on your cutting table eating whatever takeaway he’d picked up while you worked around him. Other nights you sat behind the counter with George while he tested products that probably shouldn’t have been tested indoors.

Neither of you ever mentioned why you were both still working hours after everyone else had gone home. You didn’t have to.

One evening George found you stood behind the cutting table staring at the old order slips still pinned along the cork strip. He’d noticed them weeks ago, the dates standing out amongst the newer orders that had slowly started filling the space around them. He hadn’t asked.

“Those from before?” He finally said, stepping up beside you.

You nodded. “Some.”

His eyes moved over the dates. Too old to still be unfinished orders. He understood what that meant before you had to explain it.

“That one was Mrs Fletcher’s.” You pointed towards a yellowed slip near the end. “She came in every Christmas because she insisted nobody in London could hem wool properly except my dad.”

George smiled lightly.

“She was horrible.”

He looked towards you.

“Lovely woman. Horrible customer.” You corrected, lips pulling into a small smile. “Dad adored her.”

Your fingers moved along the strip, stopping over another.

“That one was school robes. Boy going into his sixth year.”

George didn’t ask what happened to him.

You didn’t offer.

There were too many stories like that now.

“I thought about taking them down.” You admitted after a moment.

“But?”

Your fingers caught the edge of one parchment slip, your father’s writing still perfectly visible along the front.

“Feels wrong.”

George looked at them for another moment. There was still a mug upstairs nobody used. Fred’s handwriting covered an old product board in the stockroom because George couldn’t bring himself to clean it off. One of his jackets still hung beside George’s bed untouched. There was still, embarrassingly enough, a pair of Fred’s socks shoved half beneath the dresser where he’d kicked them one night.

George had stepped over them every morning for more than two years.

Not because he believed Fred was coming back for any of it. He knew better than that, moving them just felt too much like doing something Fred was supposed to do himself.

“Then leave them.” He shrugged.

You looked towards him. “Yeah?”

“They’re not hurting anything.”

“No.” You smiled faintly, looking back towards the orders. “Everyone keeps telling me they’d be proud.”

George’s face changed slightly.

You noticed.

“That look tells me you’ve heard it too.” You let out a quiet laugh. “Drives me mad.”

“Yeah.”

“I know they mean well.”

“They always do.”

You rested your palms against the edge of the cutting table. “Mum should be here to tell me Ginny’s gown is all wrong.”

George looked towards you. 

“She would’ve loved it.”

“No.” You shook your head, almost laughing. “She would’ve found twelve things wrong with it, redone half my stitching when I went home and then told everyone who walked through the door that I’d made every bit of it myself.”

That made him laugh. The sound pulled one from you too, though yours caught strangely in your throat.

George looked down towards the floor.

“Fred would’ve told everyone the shop had gone to shit without him.”

You snorted. “Has it?”

“Obviously.”

“Good to know.”

“He’d have walked in, insulted every display I’d changed, told Ron he was doing everything wrong and then claimed every successful product since the war had secretly been his idea.”

“Sounds irritating.”

“Massively.”

George was smiling when he said it.

For a few seconds Fred wasn’t the body George remembered on the floor of the Great Hall and your parents weren’t people everyone suddenly got quiet about when they came up in conversation. They were just Fred and your mum and dad. Annoying as ever, apparently. 

The smile faded from your face first.

“My dad should be here to be proud of it himself.”

George went still, you hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but once it was there you couldn’t take it back.

“Everyone keeps saying how proud they’d be that I came back and opened the shop.” Your voice dropped quieter. “And I know they would be. I know that. I just-” You looked around Needle & Knot. “I don’t want them to be proud from wherever they are. I want my mum standing over my shoulder telling me I’ve pinned something crooked. I want Dad complaining that I’ve ordered fabric we can’t afford.”

Your eyes found his.

“That’s horrible, isn’t it?”

He leaned back against the cutting table beside you, folding his arms loosely.

“People say the same thing about Fred. That he’d be proud I kept the shop going.”

George stared through the front window towards his own shop.

“I hate it.”

“Why?”

He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.

Then he shrugged, though there was nothing casual about his voice.

“Because he should’ve been here to be proud of it himself.”

Your chest tightened.

George rubbed his thumb against the side of his hand.

“Wasn’t supposed to become my shop.”

You looked at him.

“Needle & Knot wasn’t supposed to become mine yet either.”

“No.”

There was something oddly comforting in hearing somebody else say it.

This wasn’t how either of you had been supposed to get here.

You slowly slid down until you were sat against the cupboards beneath the cutting table, legs stretched out in front of you.

George looked down.

“What?”

“My feet hurt.”

“Compelling.”

“You’re welcome to continue looming.”

He rolled his eyes before lowering himself beside you.

The wireless played quietly from the shelf. Your tea sat forgotten somewhere behind you, George’s probably doing the same across the street.

You sat shoulder to shoulder for a while.

“Do you ever feel guilty?” You asked eventually.

George glanced towards you. “For what?”

“When it’s good.”

He knew immediately.

You looked down at your hands.

“When the shop’s full. When I finish something, it’s actually good. When I’m excited about a design they never got to see.” You swallowed. “Sometimes I’ll be happy for half a second and then remember why I’m the one sat behind the counter.”

George nodded slowly.

“All the bloody time.”

You looked over.

“When we have a good day, sometimes I still think I ought to tell him.” His mouth pulled into something close to a smile. “Still turn around sometimes.”

Your eyes stung.

George’s shoulder pressed a little more firmly against yours.

Neither of you bothered trying to make the other feel better, there wasn’t really anything either of you could say that would. Somehow that was nicer than being told it would all be alright anyway. 

The orders stayed hanging above your heads.

Fred’s mug stayed upstairs.

Your parents stayed gone.

Nothing had changed really.

Still, sitting there on the floor beside him, it felt slightly less like you were carrying all of it alone.

Ginny’s final fitting came three days before the wedding. Needle & Knot had all but disappeared beneath ivory fabric over the last few weeks, scraps covering the cutting table and sketches still pinned across the back wall. You stood behind Ginny now, staring at her reflection in the mirror as you smoothed the last section of the skirt.

It was everything you’d hoped it would be. Soft ivory gathered at the waist, delicate embroidery twisting down the sleeves and disappearing into the train. Elegant without swallowing her whole. Ginny looked like Ginny, that had been the most important part.

Her eyes started to fill as she looked at herself.

“Oh.”

Your stomach dropped. “Bad oh?”

She turned towards you, shaking her head quickly. “No.”

Molly was already crying from the chair beside the platform, Hermione stood beside her with both hands covering her mouth.

Ginny looked down at the gown again. “It’s perfect.”

You blinked quickly, forcing the sudden burn behind your eyes away. “Good.”

Molly stood from the chair and wrapped her arms around you before you could protest. “You’ve done beautifully.”

That nearly did you in.

Your eyes shut for just a second, picturing your mum beside the platform correcting a loose stitch, your dad muttering about how much fabric you’d managed to use.

“Thank you.” You swallowed, pulling away before you embarrassed yourself entirely.

George came across later that evening for his final fitting. Two small adjustments were all that remained, although he complained dramatically about you stabbing him despite the fact the pin had never so much as touched his skin.

“You’re unbearable.” You muttered.

“Sensitive.”

“There’s a difference.”

He eventually disappeared behind the screen and came back out in his normal clothes, but instead of leaving he lingered beside the counter. You began putting away the chalk and pins, giving him several minutes before finally looking up.

“Have you forgotten how doors work?”

“Going Saturday?”

You paused. “To the wedding?”

“Generally what people do on Saturdays.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I wasn’t invited, George.”

His expression shifted. “Oh.”

You shrugged, sliding the chalk back into its drawer. “I wasn’t expecting to be.”

He looked towards the ivory scraps still scattered along the table before his eyes came back to you.

“I could invite you.”

Your hand stopped against the drawer. “You could?”

“Yeah.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You made the bloody thing. Seems a shame not to see Ginny swanning about in it.”

You fought a smile. “Swanning about?”

“It’s her wedding. She’ll be unbearable.”

You leaned your hip against the counter. “Are you asking me to Harry Potter’s wedding?”

“Technically it’s Ginny’s wedding too. Bit rude leaving her out.”

“George.”

He looked at you then, the joke falling away just enough for you to catch what sat underneath it.

“I’m asking if you’d like to come.”

Your chest warmed. “As your date?”

George paused, caught slightly off guard by how much more serious it sounded when you said it.

“If you want.”

You raised a brow. “That’s a terrible way to ask.”

“I’m out of practice.”

“Clearly.”

His mouth twitched. “Come with me?”

You let him suffer for another second before smiling. “Yeah. All right.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t make me change my mind, Weasley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” George smiled properly then, and suddenly you understood why he’d spent seven years at Hogwarts being so impossible to forget.

You made your own dress. You told yourself it wasn’t because you had anything to prove as you stood in front of the mirror Saturday afternoon adjusting the final seam. You’d spent weeks making sure Ginny’s gown was perfect, yours had been pieced together during the quiet hours in between. It wasn’t blue. You couldn’t bring yourself to recreate the Yule Ball dress even if half the Weasley family apparently remembered it better than you did. Instead you chose something softer, fitted around your waist with lace falling along your sleeves. Simple compared to Ginny’s, but yours.

You stepped outside Needle & Knot to find George already waiting along the cobblestone. He looked up towards you, expression freezing for a moment.

You shifted under his stare. “What?”

“That’s new.”

You stared at him. “Excellent observation.”

“No, I mean-” His eyes moved down your dress and back towards your face. “You made that?”

“Yes.”

“For tonight?”

“Unless you’re planning on inviting me to another wedding next week.”

George smiled, eyes lingering another moment. When he spoke again his voice had softened.

“You look lovely.”

Heat climbed into your cheeks. “Thank you.”

He offered you his arm, you took it without thinking twice.

The Burrow looked almost unreal dressed for a wedding. Flowers floated above the garden, lanterns hung between the trees and long tables stretched along the grass beneath ribbons of fabric. You’d spent most of your childhood around formal fittings and wedding parties coming through Needle & Knot but you’d never attended one that felt like this.

Not after everything.

Maybe that was why it felt so significant. Everyone standing in that garden had managed to survive long enough to celebrate something.

When Ginny finally appeared the entire garden went silent. Harry’s face crumpled almost immediately at the sight of her and you couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped you. George looked towards his sister first, then Harry.

Then for some reason he looked at you.

Your eyes had already started to fill. You’d made that. Something that would hang in photographs for decades. Something Ginny might show her children one day. Something made for a future.

George’s hand tightened around yours.

You glanced down, only then realizing at some point you’d started holding it.

Neither of you let go.

It happened later. Not during the ceremony or their first dance, it wasn’t even during one of the speeches. It happened while everyone was being shuffled around the garden for photographs.

“Weasley brothers next!” Someone called from behind the camera.

The silence lasted barely half a second.

George smiled.

He walked forward, stood beside his remaining brothers, made some ridiculous comment that had everyone around them laughing and carried on like nothing had happened.

You watched him do all of it.

Twenty minutes later you found him sitting on the old stone wall behind the orchard, his elbows resting against his knees. You didn’t ask if he was alright. You didn’t think he’d appreciate the question much anyway.

You sat beside him instead.

For a while neither of you said anything. The music from the wedding drifted through the trees, muffled now by the distance. George rubbed his palms together before finally speaking.

“I’m ruining your first Weasley wedding.”

You looked over at him. “Pretty sure you’re allowed to be sad at your sister’s wedding.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “Feels a bit selfish.”

“Why?”

“Everyone’s happy.”

“So are you.”

That made him look at you.

You shrugged lightly. “Doesn’t mean you’re only allowed one thing at a time.”

His eyes fell back towards the grass and you let him sit with it. You didn’t know Fred the way he had. You weren’t going to pretend you understood what it felt like to lose half of yourself, same as George never pretended losing Fred meant he understood exactly what losing your parents felt like.

You understood enough though.

“Though if you cry on those robes after I spent three hours fixing the shoulders, I will kill you.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, real this time. He covered his face with one hand.

“You’re awful.”

“I’ve been told.”

His shoulders shook once, then again. It took you a moment to realize he was laughing and crying at the same time.

So you stayed.

Eventually his hand dropped between the two of you, fingers brushing yours before wrapping around them. You held on.

“People don’t say his name much anymore.” He said quietly.

You knew exactly who he meant. “Fred.”

His fingers tightened around yours. “Yeah.”

“I remember him.”

George looked towards you.

“He was the one laughing when my homework caught fire.”

The smallest smile pulled at his mouth. “That sounds like him.”

“You were trying to put it out.”

“I was the responsible one.”

You scoffed. “Let’s not get carried away.”

George laughed again.

You rested your shoulder lightly against his, feeling him tense for only a second before he settled against you. His head leaned towards yours, just slightly.

Enough.

You didn’t fix George and George didn’t fix you. It wasn’t really how any of it worked.

The old orders remained hanging above the cutting table. Fred’s mug remained upstairs. Some mornings opening the shop still felt impossible and some nights both sets of lights stayed on far later than they should have.

Things changed anyway.

George stopped needing an excuse to show up at Needle & Knot. Half the time you’d glance up from your work and find him sitting on the cutting table without remembering hearing the bell above the door. You started leaving before midnight because more often than not someone was stood in your doorway complaining that he was starving and apparently incapable of eating without you.

He learned when to make you laugh.

You learned when not to.

The front window changed eventually. It took you nearly an entire Sunday, pulling down the old display and replacing it with something that looked less like what your parents had left behind and more like the sketches that had spent years filling the margins of your parchment.

George noticed immediately.

“Changed it.”

You glanced towards him from the doorway. “Do you hate it?”

“No.”

He stood on the cobblestone with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking through the glass for another moment before smiling.

“Looks like someone lives here again.”

Your throat tightened.

You reached for his hand without saying anything, George took it just as easily.

Across the street Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes glowed brightly beneath the evening sky, Needle & Knot’s wireless playing softly behind you. Two shops that had been left behind by people who should’ve had much more time inside them. Two people learning that moving forward didn’t mean they had to leave anyone behind.

George looked down towards you.

“Tea?”

“You buying?”

“Always.”

You smiled. “Then yes.”

He kissed your temple, tugging you gently along the cobblestone with him.

The lights could wait until morning.

For once, so could the work.

[locallostgirl]

YAYY i posted a new tiktok!! i’ve been exploring my post-war alive elora au a bit and i think this song from next to normal really fits george and elora after fred’s death!!

(go follow @elorasnape_ on tiktok…..)

[howgreens]

i wanna take up all your time | george weasley x reader

summary: You ask George to be your (fake) boyfriend so your family will get off your back. He says yes, even though he's not pretending.

warnings: george centric, fluff, mutual (but george doesn't know it), fake dating, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, real world au

note: long-ish bc apparently i'm incapable of getting to the point.

ps. thank u to everyone who's been reading and commenting, u mean the world to me <3 lmk if u wanna be tagged on the next part !

pss. can u guess what the twins do in this fic's universe? (not a joke shop!) big reveal coming in the next part (:<

part 1, part 2, part 3

∗

George has never felt this way before.

He's never been shy around women, never thought twice about a text, a look, a date. It might sound cocky—but maybe he is sort of proud of it, of the way he's always been lucky with women. Most of all, of knowing how to treat them.

With you, it's different.

He blames your arrangement—what a God-awful way to describe this thing he's gotten himself into. But he knows, deep down, that feeling both miserable and exhilarated, like he's standing on the edge of a cliff, is more about him wanting to do something reckless and, just as desperately, trying not to ruin it.

He stares at his phone like he wants it to dial your number on its own. He's saved you as ‘Y/N L/N’, no emojis, lest you somehow snoop around and, through sheer deduction, figure out all the embarrassing things he wants to do with you. Your contact photo beams at him; he took it himself, on a day when you asked him to go try a new Thai restaurant together. Why are the simplest things so hard, he wonders.

With a defeated sigh, George presses the green button.

You pick up on the second ring.

“Hi, handsome.”

George Weasley is very glad you can’t see him through the phone, a very uncool grin almost splitting his face in two.

“Hello, gorgeous.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Can’t a man just casually ring his fake girlfriend to ask about her day?”

“He can,” you muse. George can hear a grin identical to his in your voice. “Although there’s not much to tell. We did just see each other a few hours ago.”

“We did? Feels like forever.” He prays to God his theatrics come across as just that.

You laugh on the other end. There’s the sound of metallic clatter, like you’re in your kitchen moving pots and pans around.

“What are you doing?”

“Meal prep,” you say, “I have to go to the office tomorrow. I always forget how depressing Sundays can get.”

“We’ll have to do something about that,” he says. Then, more confident than he actually feels, “Can’t have my girl feeling sad on a weekend.”

George is used to getting away with things like this. He’s been calling you all sorts of pet names for years. It used to throw you off; he remembers the bewildered look on your face the first time he called you princess. You’re used to it now, have even told him you know there’s nothing behind it except his usual playfulness.

He’s not sure that’s still the case.

“You know, I feel like you’re taking this awfully seriously.” Your tone is mocking but not unkind. “One would think a business owner would have much busier weekends.”

“What can I say? I have a strong work ethic.”

“Oh, so this is business.”

“It can be if you want it to.”

"I don't", you reply swiftly, "I don't like working on Sundays."

"Neither do I," says George. He feels something tighten in his stomach, like a rubber band pulled taut. He decides it’s now or never. "Let me take you out. On a date."

There's a silence on your end of the line, long enough for George to freak out and consider hanging up.

“Okay,” your voice is soft, almost breathless. “What kind of date?”

“A fun one. Wear something comfortable. Pick you up in an hour?” George says this all in one breath, fast enough that he doesn’t have time to second-guess himself.

“An hour?” You sound taken aback and he likes that.

“Would you prefer two?”

“No. An hour is fine.”

“Good.”

∗

The thing about being a fake boyfriend is that George starts noticing things. Not only that, but he's also bothered by them. Things he would've previously deemed unimportant, ridiculous even. Case in point: the way his hair refuses to cooperate.

He's spent the better part of the past half hour staring at the mirror, finding new things to feel self-conscious about. Not only is his hair not cooperating, but also—has his nose always looked like that?

"I'd make fun of you if I genuinely didn't feel sorry for you right now," says Fred from where he leans against the bathroom doorframe.

He's been kind enough to let George know that his outfit is fine, thank you very much, but seems to be at his wit's end over George's sudden vanity.

George decides it's time to give up and accept himself as he is. He pats Fred on the shoulder as he squeezes past him and heads for the door.

"Go get her, tiger."

∗

"You weren't lying!"

The roar of the rollercoaster and the screams of its passengers make it so that you have to practically scream into George's ear.

"About what?" he screams back.

"The fun!"

Your smile makes George swoon.

He'd refused to let you know where he was taking you when he picked you up, and you'd spent the short car ride trying to guess.

"The museum," had been your first guess.

"I said fun," he'd replied.

"You're a fiend, museums are fun."

"To whom?"

"People of culture, obviously."

"Right, so niether of us."

You'd laughed so loudly you'd gotten shy about it. He'd thought he wanted to make you laugh like that as often as he could.

George hadn't been able to keep the location of your date secret for very long because a ferris wheel had come very evidently into view before he'd reached your destination.

"Oh my God! Are you taking me to the fair?"

"No."

"We're literally pulling into the parking lot."

"We're just running some errands," he'd said, trying mightily to fight the smile that was making its way across his face.

George had let you drag him wherever you'd wanted to go, which turned out to be every single attraction, including the ones for children.

He finds himself in line beside you for an intimidating rollercoaster, a shaky wooden structure that threatens collapse. It's by far the attraction with the longest line, but also the one you're most excited about. George has never been able to say no to you.

"I didn't know you were such a fan of rollercoasters," he says, half teasing.

"Are you kidding? Greatest human invention, right after drainage."

"What else don't I know about you?" he asks, suffling along a few spaces as the line moves forward.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say, your grin wolfish. "Tell me something about you for a change."

George figures he can't say I think I'm in love with you umprompted, so he settles for something else. "Remember that party when we first met?"

"Mm. At Mary's house?" You furrow your brow and he nods. "It's been so long. What about it?"

"Remember how it ended?"

"Yeah, someone broke the sink. Mary was furious, poor thing." You lift an eyebrow and consider him for a moment. He fixates on a beauty mark under your eye.

"That was me. Well, us." He clarifies, "Fred and I."

"Unsurprising. Tell me something else."

"W-what?" The line moves forward another inch and he stares at you in disbelief. You seem rather pleased with yourself.

"I knew that. You offered to pay for it afterwards."

"How d'you know that?"

"Mary's my friend. She told me some redheaded jerk– her words, not mine— had offered to pay for it." Your smile is so self-satisfied George wants to kiss it off your face. "Figured t'was you 'cause you have this weird sense of justice that none of your brothers have."

"Pshaw," he says, waving a hand in the air, "Don't flatter me."

"I'm not trying to!"

The roar of the coaster's metallic wheels interrupts your conversation. George glances at the tracks ahead, the line advancing faster than he'd like it to. Your hand brushes his against the railing and he feels his fingers burn where you touched him. He thinks he makes a sound.

You cock your head and look at him, eyes squinting.

"It's rude to stare," he says.

"Is this fear I'm sensing?" You bite your lip, bearly able to keep your grin at bay. "George, are you afraid of roller coasters?"

George Weasley is not afraid of roller coasters.

"I just rode, like, twelve with you!"

"Then why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're about to be sick."

Suddenly, you're at the front of the line, and some teenager in uniform is ushering you toward your seats. You choose the ones at the front, but turn to George and lean in, whispering like you're conspiring. A sudden whiff of your perfume hits his face.

"We can skip this one if you want to," you say. "I won't make fun of you." He knows by the softness in your tone that you mean it.

George is only slightly anxious. The creaks and groans of the wooden structure make it seem like it's about to plummet to the ground at any second, but the tremors reverberating through it are nothing compared to what his heart is doing.

"I'm not scared," he says. "Just—overwhelmed, maybe."

"You don't have to prove anything to me."

George would much rather have you think he's afraid of roller coasters than find out what your presence does to him.

"I'm not," he says quickly. "Proving anything, I mean."

So the ride starts, and it's not half bad. You grab George's hand and lift both your arms in the air, your happy laugh almost lost beneath the clatter of the machine. He feels like he left his stomach at the start of the ride, unsure of what exactly is to blame. The cold air nips at his face, the sky and the lights of faraway buildings blurring into one continuous motion.

Then it ends, almost as suddenly as it started, and you climb out of the coaster so fast he has to look around for you.

George finds you bent over a trash can.

"Y/N! What happened? Are you okay?" He brushes your hair away from your face, confused and panicked, before putting two and two together.

Oh.

You retch weakly and he almost laughs. Not cruelly, just disbelieving.

"You're awful," you say, still hunched over. "You're mean and awful."

He does laugh this time, rubbing absent-minded circles over your back. Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, George realizes he wants to take care of you.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He says it and means it, although there’s a smile that never leaves his face. “Let me get you some water. Wait here.”

He leaves you for a total of thirty seconds and comes back with a plastic water bottle and some napkins, only to find you sitting on the ground, hugging your knees.

You accept the water wordlessly.

“Stop looking at me,” you say meekly, all your bite from before gone. "You're enjoying this."

“Sorry,” he says. “You’re very pretty. Can’t help myself.”

You snort and immediately regret it.

“Oh, God, I’m serious. Stop harrassing me.”

George lets you do your thing, turns around without ever leaving your side. He meant it, is the thing. You are very pretty, even now.

He knows this is going to be a problem.

You shuffle around and George turns to help you onto your feet. You look like yourself again, albeit a bit pale. He has to resist the urge to touch your face.

“Better?” he asks.

“Physically? Yes.” You let out a small laugh and press your face briefly against his shoulder. George fears he might pass out. “Emotionally? I don’t think I’ll recover. This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I’ve had worse dates,” he says, and it’s true, although mainly because they weren’t with you.

“Pshaw,” you echo him, a lopsided smile curving the edges of your mouth.

The sky is that purple-blue color that comes right before night. There’s a light breeze and the smell of popcorn, cotton candy, and hot chocolate. Fairy lights and neon signs twinkle all around. You slip your right arm through George’s left and start walking.

“I can’t believe I ruined this,” you say, shaking your head. “It was going so well.”

George looks at you. You look down at your feet. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I threw up on you.”

“Not on me. Just—in my general direction.”

The pink glow of the neon lights from a nearby shooting gallery makes you look almost angelic when you turn your face up towards him. “George Weasley, you’re a liar.”

George likes the way you say his name, no real heat underneath. He chuckles, hyperaware of the place where your hand meets his arm.

“You do have to admit it’s a fun anecdote. And it works.”

“Works for what?”

“Your family?” He clears his throat. “Like, if they ask about us on Sunday?”

You blink at him. “What would they even ask? Our top five most humiliating moments?”

George laughs loudly. “Top five? I can list at least ten of yours.”

You nudge his shoulder and throw him an unconvincing annoyed look. “It’s a family dinner, George, not an immigration interview.”

“Need I remind you,” he says, amused, “that you’re the one who wants to be convincing?”

That makes you go quiet. George feels like he’s on a tightrope, never quite sure which way to lean. He gently unhooks your arm from his, and you start to protest before he places his arm over your shoulders. You press the side of your face into him, so natural a movement that George doubts you’re aware of it. He starts guiding you towards the car, the soft glow of the street lamps lighting the way.

“So,” he asks, “how am I gonna convince them that I’m mad about you if I can’t get the story of our first date right?”

“They won’t ask,” you say into his shoulder.

“Think of it as method acting.”

“Okay.” You indulge him. “How long have we been dating for?”

George doesn’t notice when you reach the car. He finds himself standing in front of you, the toes of your sneakers almost touching his. Your closeness makes him dizzy.

He tries to remember the first time he thought of you as more than a friend. It’s embarrassing, really, how far back he can go without finding a definitive answer. You’ve always been there, an insistent presence in his chest.

“Six months ago,” he settles for something that doesn’t feel too incriminating. “But we were keeping it secret because you wanted to go slow.”

Your laugh is equal parts surprised and sweet. The cold evening breeze makes you shiver a little. George hurries to open the car door for you.

“Me?”

“Obviously.”

George would never want to take things slow with you.

∗

taglist: @jerried, @magicdragonnamedpuff, @gigi136, @cherryribbonss, @eggsnham41, @zbrufiador, @vallerina041989

[belladxxnna]

“I disagree.”

“Do you really, George?”

He had been pushing her buttons all morning, taking more delight in playing devil’s advocate than usual. As a matter of fact, that blasted finger of his hovered over a button right now, tracing its edge like it were a lover, and not the last barrier between Hermione and her wand.

“Absolutely. The bloke’s full of horseshit.”

The sigh that left her was nothing short of scornful, drawing a string of chuckles out of George. His fingers wrapped around hers, tracing circles on the back of her hand.

“Sorry – I really missed you.”

“Mhm.”

[aycecold]

With Complaints Attached

word count: ~3k

pairing: George Weasley x reader

warnings: magical mishaps, minor property damage, accidental injury, food-related transformation (so basically non)

A/N: Hope you enjoy this little bit of chaos and correspondence. 🧡

Not proofread and edited on phone so please forgive shitty errors.

You filed the first complaint on a Tuesday.

The wall between your bookshop and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had been vibrating since eight that morning. Not a subtle hum, either—the kind that rattled the ladder against the shelves and walked first editions closer and closer to the edge. At two in the afternoon, a signed copy of Hogwarts: A History finally gave up and pitched itself into your cup of Earl Grey.

You watched the tea soak into the pages. Then you pulled out a sheet of your good parchment and wrote:

To the owners of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes,

The shared wall has been vibrating since 8:00 AM. My books are falling. My father is wearing dragon-handling earmuffs indoors. Please stop whatever it is you're doing.

—The Management, The Gilded Spine

You walked the six steps to their door and shoved it through the letter slot. You didn't knock. Face-to-face confrontation made your stomach hurt. Paper was easier. Paper didn't talk back.

The next morning, a paper aeroplane shot through your letter slot, looped around the chandelier twice, and hit you in the forehead. The parchment was orange—obnoxious orange—and the handwriting was a disaster. Ink splatters. Words crossed out. Letters slanting in every direction.

Dear Management,

Shit, sorry. Testing Self-Swinging Snitches and one got stuck in the wall. Fred tried to blast it out, which was stupid. The Snitch is free, the wall is patched, and we've put up a Muffliato that should hold.

Enclosed is a Decadent Detonator. Chocolate that explodes in your mouth. The explosion is caramel and entirely pleasant. Mostly.

—George Weasley (the handsome twin)

P.S. Your handwriting is very neat. It's a bit intimidating, honestly.

You ate the chocolate. It burst on your tongue—caramel, something sharp like cinnamon. You hated that you didn't hate it.

You put his letter in a drawer under the till and told yourself that was the end of it.

It wasn't.

The second complaint was about screaming yo-yos. They'd come through a vent you didn't know existed and spent a Saturday afternoon in the Biography section. One of them latched onto Magical Me by Gilderoy Lockhart and wouldn't let go. Three days later it was still there, shrieking whenever someone walked past.

His response came in a box that vibrated:

Neighbour,

The yo-yos are supposed to scream. That's the product. The vent thing is a flaw we're working on. The one on the Lockhart book is called Gerald now—Fred named him. I can try to remove him but my extraction success rate is about fifty percent. The other fifty percent I make things worse. Sometimes much worse. I'm telling you this upfront so you can make an informed decision.

Enclosed: a Self-Heating Mug. Keeps tea hot for six hours. Don't let it read your tea leaves—it gets weirdly personal. Last week it told Fred he was making poor life choices, which was accurate but still felt like an overstep.

—George Weasley (still the handsome one)

P.S. Your handwriting got bigger in this one. You were angrier. I noticed.

You started writing Complaint #3 before you'd even finished reading.

The complaints became a rhythm.

Something next door would go wrong—an explosion, a flood, a cloud of pink smoke that seeped through the floorboards. You'd sit down at your desk, pull out your parchment, and write. Your handwriting would be tight and controlled at first, then get bigger as your irritation mounted. You'd owl it over. And within a day, sometimes within hours, George Weasley would send something back.

Never just a letter. A paper dragon that coughed sparks. An envelope that unfolded into a tiny waving man. A box that giggled when you opened it.

And always the orange parchment. The terrible handwriting. The postscripts.

Complaint #3: Fireworks set your awning on fire. He sent Burn Salve and a note: In my defense, they were supposed to go up, not sideways. Your grandmother had excellent taste in awnings.

Complaint #4: A Portable Swamp oozed under the door and ate three copies of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6. He sent replacements plus a tiny potted plant that bit your finger. The note said: Venomous Tentacula seedling. Water sparingly and don't make prolonged eye contact. You named it Agatha. It bit three customers and your father twice.

Complaint #5: The Canary Cream incident. You ate one from the sample basket near the door—clearly labeled DO NOT EAT UNLESS YOU WANT TO BECOME A CANARY, as he would point out later—and spent three hours fully feathered. You were so angry you wrote fucking in the complaint letter. The word sat in the middle of your neat handwriting like a stain.

His response:

Dear Temporarily Feathered Neighbour,

The basket was labeled. I feel like this is partially on you. But I am sorry you were feathered. Three hours is a long time to have a beak. Enclosed is a salve for residual skin irritation. Fred uses it as moisturizer, which tells you it's good.

Also: you swore in this one. In your elegant handwriting. I didn't know you had that in you.

—George

P.S. I heard you talking to Gerald through the wall. You asked him if he was having an existential crisis. I laughed so hard I dropped a cauldron.

You wanted to strangle him. Instead you wrote Complaint #6 with a quill that was shaking.

The quill was one he'd sent you. Eagle feather, self-inking, charmed to correct spelling. You'd kept it because it was a good quill.

That's what you told yourself.

Somewhere around Complaint #7, things shifted.

You wrote it at midnight, half a bottle of wine deep, about the Wailing Wafers that had been keening for hours. It came out less professional than usual.

George,

It's midnight and the wafers are still going. I've tried silencing charms, earmuffs, and cotton in my ears. Nothing works. I haven't slept properly in two days. This morning a customer asked where the history section was and I pointed at the door.

I don't entirely hate it. That's the worst part. I don't know what that says about me.

—Y/N

P.S. That's my name. You've been asking. Don't be weird about it.

You owled it before you could sober up and regret it. The regret hit about thirty seconds later.

His response was under the door by morning. No paper aeroplane. Just a flat envelope.

Y/N,

The wafers are pulled. We don't know why they get sad after dark. Fred thinks it's a curse. I think they're just like that.

I'm sorry you cried. That's not what any of this is supposed to be. If we're making your life genuinely worse, tell me. We'll figure out permanent soundproofing. We'll keep regular testing hours. Whatever you need.

—George

P.S. You used my quill to write this. I can tell because the spelling's perfect. I'm not making a thing of it. I'm just saying.

You didn't take the day off. You put his letter in the drawer with the others, arranged chronologically.

For legal purposes, you told yourself.

It wasn't for legal purposes.

Complaint #8 was about Decadent Detonators that overheated and melted through the floorboards above your Rare Books section. He sent cleaning supplies and a note: New rule: nothing explosive stored on the east wall. Fred's annoyed because it's farther from the loo.

Complaint #9 was about an indoor rainstorm—Weather in a Bottle, cracked. Your ceiling dripped for an hour. He sent a Self-Wicking Towel and a note: If it starts singing, wring it out twice. If that doesn't work, owl me and I'll come hit it with a hammer, which is what I usually do.

By Complaint #10, you'd stopped pretending these were formal complaints at all.

George,

There's a purple puddle seeping under the door. It smells like burnt sugar and ozone. Gerald is vibrating. Not his usual anxious vibrating—aggressive vibrating. Like he's preparing for battle. Should I be concerned?

—Y/N

His response came folded into a paper dragon that smelled like smoke:

Y/N,

Don't touch the puddle. Concentrated Chaos in liquid form. Fred dropped a vial. We're containing it. (We are not containing it. We're throwing powdered silver at it and hoping.)

Gerald vibrating is normal. He does that when he's excited. It's his love language.

Question, and you don't have to answer: If I actually fixed the wall—properly, permanent charms, the works—would you still write?

I'm asking because I realized I've been putting off the repairs. Not because I don't care about your books. Because your letters are the best part of my day and have been for months. And I don't want them to stop.

—George

P.S. The puddle is now silver and humming. Progress, maybe.

The letter sat on your counter for an hour. You dealt with customers, restocked the Potions shelf, watered Agatha—she snapped at your thumb.

Would you still write? If the noise stopped and the wall went quiet—would you still find reasons to send letters next door?

The answer was in your drawer. Ten pieces of orange parchment. A quill you used every day because it was the best quill you'd ever owned. A mug that told you your tea choices were "solid, if predictable." A biting plant. A yo-yo named Gerald who had become a local attraction.

You weren't writing complaint letters anymore. You hadn't been for a while.

You wrote back:

George,

The puddle ate through the floorboards. There's a hole. I can see into your basement. Fred waved at me. He's wearing a beekeeper's veil. Should I be worried about the puddle or the bees?

To answer your question: I don't know. Would you still write to me if I didn't have anything to complain about?

—Y/N

The response came through the hole in the floorboards on a piece of string. Crumpled. Smudged with purple.

Y/N,

The veil is because the puddle spat at him. We're sixty percent sure it's not sentient.

I would write to you if you sent me a blank sheet of parchment. I would write to you if you owled me a description of your lunch. I am writing to you because I want to hear you write back. The wall's been an excuse for a while now.

—George

P.S. Your handwriting is different now from when you started. Smaller. You don't press as hard. I noticed.

You sat at the counter, the crumpled letter in your hands, and felt something shift in your chest.

You didn't write back that day. You didn't know what to say.

But you put the letter in the drawer with the others, and you noticed that you were smiling.

The Wailing Wafers were back.

You'd been sitting at your desk for ten minutes with a blank sheet of parchment in front of you, the quill—his quill, eagle feather, self-inking, the one he'd sent after Complaint #4—resting in your fingers. The wailing was coming through the wall in layered, mournful harmonies. They'd been "fixed" apparently. The fix had made them worse. They sounded like a choir of tiny ghosts who'd just been informed of their own deaths and were processing it vocally.

You looked at the blank parchment. You looked at the quill. You thought about writing another letter—Complaint #11, formal structure, proper salutation, a detailed account of how the noise was affecting your ability to think and work and exist as a functional human being.

Then you put the quill down, stood up, and walked out of your shop.

The door to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was bright purple and covered in stickers. You'd never actually walked through it before. You'd shoved letters through the slot, you'd glared at it from your window, you'd fantasized about setting it on fire during the Canary Cream incident—but you'd never opened it.

You opened it.

The shop was chaos in the way that only a Weasley establishment could be chaos. Something was burning in the corner—contained, probably, but the smoke was green. A display of Puking Pastilles was vomiting onto the floor in a sad, rhythmic pattern. Fred was up on a ladder trying to pry a yo-yo off the ceiling with a broom handle while a single remaining customer watched with the blank expression of someone who had given up on understanding the world.

And George was behind the counter. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. A streak of purple across his forehead. Wand clamped between his teeth. His hands buried in the mechanical guts of a machine that was sparking and keening and occasionally letting out puffs of lavender smoke.

He didn't see you at first. You stood in the doorway and watched him work—the quick, focused movement of his fingers, the way he muttered something around the wand in his mouth that was definitely a swear word.

Then he looked up.

He saw you.

The wand dropped out of his mouth. It clattered on the counter.

"Y/N," he said. His actual voice. Not ink on parchment. Not a paper dragon. His voice, in the air, saying your name.

"George," you said.

The wafers hit a particularly tragic chord and fell silent. The whole shop seemed to pause—Fred lowering his broom, the pastilles mid-heave, even the green fire dimming.

"What are you doing here?" George asked. He was staring at you like you were an apparition. "You never—you always write."

"I'm filing my eleventh complaint," you said. "Just verbally. The wafers are wailing again. You said you fixed them. They're not fixed. They're worse. They're harmonizing now. It sounds like a funeral for insects."

From the ladder, Fred let out a snort. "Well, golly. How's George gonna file that one? Doesn't exactly fit in the drawer, does it?"

George ignored him. His eyes hadn't left your face. "You've never come in here before. Ten complaints. Ten letters. You never once walked through the door."

"I didn't feel like writing today."

The silence stretched. Fred climbed down from his ladder with exaggerated quiet, shooed the remaining customer toward the exit with a muttered "closing early, family thing, sorry," and retreated toward the back room. He caught your eye as he passed and mouthed something that looked like finally before disappearing through the STAFF ONLY door.

Then it was just you and George. The smoldering corner. The exhausted pastilles. The sparking wafer machine.

"Well," you said, because you didn't know what else to say. You'd delivered your complaint. You'd said his name. That was what you came for. "That's all. So."

You turned to leave.

"Wait."

His voice stopped you just as your hand reached the door. You turned back. He'd come out from behind the counter. His hands were fidgeting at his sides, and there was something on his face—not the manic grin from his letters, not the defensive humor. Something more uncertain.

"Since you're here," he said. "I have a formal complaint I'd like communicated too."

You frowned. "What have I done that could possibly require a complaint?"

"If I'd known you always had the option to walk in here, I would've opted for this as your medium of complaint. Instead of letters."

It took a second to parse. When you did, something flickered in your chest—warm, unexpected. You smiled. "Ah. Well. Sincere apologies. I'll come in to complain from now on."

"That's a decent way of settling a complaint," George said. He'd relaxed slightly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, though his hands were still fidgeting. "I always give a gift when I settle one. It's policy."

"Unofficial policy."

"Very strictly followed anyway." He tilted his head. "So what would you want? As a gift."

You could have asked for a book. You knew he collected old potions texts—he'd mentioned it in one of his letters, something about a first edition of Magical Drafts and Potions he'd been hunting for years. You had a copy from the 1940s in the back room, good condition, leather binding. You could offer that. Or you could ask for something absurd, keep the game going—another biting plant, a hat that did something inconvenient in public.

But the way he was looking at you stopped the joke in your throat.

"What would you want?" you asked instead. "If I were settling a complaint with you. What gift?"

"Me?" He seemed caught off guard. "I'm the one filing the complaint."

"And I'm asking what would settle it."

George was quiet for a moment. The sparking machine behind him fizzed and popped. The green fire in the corner finally went out with a soft whump.

"A date," he said.

The word landed between you. No paper dragon. No postscript. Just him, in his singed apron, with a purple smudge on his forehead, asking.

"A date," you repeated.

"Yeah. There's a Muggle place in Soho. Italian. It's quiet—actually quiet, not our kind of quiet where something's about to explode. Candles. Decent wine. No free products." He paused. "That's what I'd want."

You looked at him. The nervous hope he wasn't trying to hide. The way his hands had finally gone still.

"Alright," you said.

"Alright?"

"Settle the complaint. One dinner. But if anything catches fire—"

"I'll bring a fire extinguisher."

"That's not a joke."

"It's a little bit of a joke."

You didn't answer, but you were smiling, and you didn't try to hide it. George saw it. His face broke into something brighter—not his performance grin, just genuine, surprised delight.

From the back room, Fred's voice rang out: "DID THAT WORK? GEORGE, DID THAT ACTUALLY WORK?"

George closed his eyes. "I'm going to kill him."

"No you're not," you said, pulling the door open.

"No," he agreed. "But I'm going to think about it very hard."

You walked back into your shop. Your father was behind the till, the dragon earmuffs still clamped over his ears. He looked at you, looked at your face, and said nothing. He just smiled faintly and went back to his inventory list.

Gerald the yo-yo gave a soft, questioning little shriek from the Biography section.

"Don't start," you told him.

But you were still smiling.

[ezolenta]

My poly ship moodboards

George Weasley

Harry Potter

Theodore Nott

[hollypress]

Daylight | G.W.

Harry Potter Fanfiction (Work in Progress) George Weasley x Original Character Currently Published: Prologue and 6 Chapters (17k words) Available on both AO3 and Wattpad.

Lissy Black has spent her whole life being someone’s daughter—never quite her own person, always Sirius Black's shadow first. Raised by the Tonks family after her mother's death and her father's imprisonment, she has built a life at Hogwarts out of the people who chose her: Angelina, Alicia, Lee, and an infuriatingly charming set of twins who never once made her feel like a headline. But the wizarding world doesn’t let go of names like Black easily. And when dusk arrives, daylight doesn’t last long.

CHAPTER 6 IS AVAILABLE NOW! 💌