george weasley fingering the shit out of you ( 18+ mdni ) (requested by anon)
your mind was blissfully empty. drool was slipping from your mouth as moan after moan escaped your lips. the reason? george weasley had you face down, ass up as his fingers pumped in and out of you.
you words were beginning to slur. "ngh — s'good, s'fucking good."
"yeah?" asked george, his voice dripping with pride. "i know it is."
george only had one finger inside you, but one was was enough. long and thick, he was curving it perfectly to hit the right spot, over and over. you tried to rock your hips back, but a slap to your ass made you reconsider. george soothed the red skin down, chuckling. "i'm in charge, darlin', don't forget it."
"need mo — more!" you gasp out, head tilting back to look at him.
"more?" he echoed. "greedy girl. already dripping down my whole hand."
george might've been teasing you, but he was also never one to deny your pleasure. which is why a minute later, you felt his thumb press onto your clit as another finger breached your entrance.
you let out a strangled groan. "please, please, please, yes! thank you — fuucckkk — thank you, georgie."
george shoved your head back down, muffling your voice and keeping a firm hand there. "keep it down, will you? don't wanna wake someone up. can't have everyone knowing you love getting fingered like a slut."
you nodded, feeling a little pathetic by how wet you are. george's fingers move faster and faster, filling the room with an obscene squelching sound. your thighs were beginning to tremble, threatening to give out, but george's voice snaps like a warning: "don't you dare. i've been doing all the work anyway, all you have to do is sit there and take it."
you nearly wail as his fingers slip out of you, flipping you over. your eyes meet his chocolate ones, and they darken even more as he takes in your state. tears are rolling down your cheeks, panting in small puffs. he leans down and places a soft kiss to your temple. "you're a bloody vision, sweetheart. lookin' all fucked out and i haven't even given you my cock yet."
you pouted up at him. "needa cum, georgie, please, fill me up again!"
he looked over your body almost scientifically as he pulled a pillow under your hips, elevating them. "gotta do something about your damn mouth, though... keep you quiet."
you bit your lip as you took his other hand to your mouth and sucked on his fingers. he seemed satisfied as he pushed them deeper into your mouth. "that'll do it. suck them like it's my cock. fuckin' cockwhore. maybe next time fred can keep your mouth busy."
you spread your legs wider, showing him how your entrance clenched, and his eyes darkened. without any warning, he plunged his fingers back inside. three long, veiny fingers were splitting you open. every thrust of them was hitting just the right spot, causing your vision to whiten and eyes to flutter closed.
"mhm, don't stop!" you said, voice warbled around his fingers. spit was escaping from the corner of your mouth, dripping down your tits as you tweaked and pinched your nippes.
"can feel your pussy squeezing me sooo tight." said george triumphantly. "gonna cum? go ahead, soak my fingers."
that was all you needed as your body writhed around the bed, waves and waves of pleasure rolling over you. you could feel electricity tingling to your fingertips, toes curling. george's assault never stopped, his fingers moving faster and bordering on overstimulation.
it was only when you finally collapsed, tired, did george pull out his fingers, licking each one theatrically while his eyes were raking over your body. he was nowhere near finished with you.
When Fred notices you’ve taken a liking to his brother, he formulates a plan to wingman you.
CW: Gryffindor reader (sorry)/ fluff/ slow-burn for the length?
WC: 6k / MASTERLIST
While all of your friends had moved on from their childhood crushes and found true, meaningful connections with their peers, you stayed fixated on George Weasley. Romance hadn't been something you really fed much, but you still fell asleep with fantasies of what it might be like to hold his hand.
How silly.
The older you grew, the more it seemed the girls in your year favoured Fred over George. You couldn't see why. With the same appearance, the difference lay within their words. Why anyone would ever want the loud, boisterous one seemed to escape from your mind. Even though the loud, boisterous one was your friend.
"You're holding it wrong," Fred jeered as he made an exaggerated show of your throw, letting the Quaffle nearly slip through his arms before catching it at the last second.
"I am not!" you shot back, swerving close enough to swat at his arm. "You're just rubbish at catching." In the late afternoon, you and Fred took up the Quidditch pitch, tossing a quaffle back and forth hardheartedly, floating just a few feet off the ground on your respective brooms.
Fred clutched his chest in mock horror. "Rubbish? Excuse you, I'm the best Chaser Gryffindor's ever seen."
You snorted. "That's a bold claim coming from a Beater."
"Some people are multi-talented!"
"And you're not one of them."
"What?!" Fred was taken aback in faux shock, steering his broom in a wide, offended circle. "I'll have you know, I take great offence to that. Please enlighten me about my job. What could I possibly be doing so wrong?"
"You're like three inches from the ground," You gesture to the small gap between him and the grass, his feet nearly grazing it.
"You don't even-" he started to fire back, but then his gaze flicked over your shoulder. His grin widened. "Well, well, well..."
Your broom wobbled slightly as you followed his look and saw George striding onto the pitch, bat slung casually over his shoulder. Just like that, every clever retort dried up in your throat.
Fred noticed immediately. Your silence was deafening compared to the snark you'd been throwing at him seconds ago. He smirked, tossing the Quaffle lazily from his hands into yours.
"Blimey," Fred said loudly, eyes flicking between the two of them, "She hasn't gotten off my back in an hour and all of a sudden she's got nothing to say." You glare at him, "What? Silencing charm got your tongue?"
You grip the Quaffle tighter, wishing the earth would swallow you whole. George only quirks a brow, gives Fred a bemused shake of the head, and stoops to grab the broom he'd left lying in the grass.
"Forgot whatever this is," he says simply, flashing you both a quick grin before heading back toward the castle.
You can still feel the ghost of his smile long after he's gone.
And Fred-smirking, insufferable Fred-nudges his broom closer. "So," he drawls, "Was it the devastating good looks? It's the Weasley charm. Don't worry, I'll put in a good word. Brotherly discount."
Your face burns hotter. Without thinking, you hurl the Quaffle straight at his head. It smacks him with a very satisfying thunk. His broom wobbles, then tips- and with a yell of protest, Fred tumbles right off, crashing into the grass below.
Hovering above, you can't stop the grin tugging at your mouth. "Best Chaser Gryffindor's ever seen, was it?" you call down sweetly.
"Worst friend Hogwarts has ever seen," His hand instinctively reaches for the point of impact. "And I was only going an act of kindness."
"Act of kindness," You dismount your broom, holding it in your hand, staring down at Fred on the ground.
"And if you like him so much, why don't you ever actually talk to him? He's not going to bite- well, unless you ask nicely."
Your face flares with heat. "Fred!"
He cackles, utterly delighted. "So you admit it, then?"
"I don't like him, I barely even know him, and he's a replica of you. Wouldn't want to snog you ever in my life."
"Well, now I know you're just lying," He rises to his feet. "Seriously, it's not the secret you think it is."
"What isn't?" You furrow your brows once more, acting clueless as ever.
"You think he's got the best broom-handling in the family."
"I've never said that!"
"Oh, but you thought it."
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. "Fred—"
He leans closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Come on. Just admit it. You like him. You've liked him for ages. I'm not that dense, contrary to popular belief."
Your chest tightens. The words are there, pressing against your tongue, but saying them feels like getting waterboarded. You shake your head stubbornly. "No."
Fred narrows his eyes, mock-serious now. "Then I suppose I'll just tell Georgie how red you went when he smiled at you earlier—"
"Fine!" The word rips out of you before you can stop it. "Fine, alright? I like him."
"Knew it. Absolutely knew it."
You bury your face in your hands, groaning. "You're unbearable."
"Unbearably brilliant," Fred corrects, sitting back up. "Now that I've got confirmation, operation Wingman is officially underway."
"I don't need you to wingman me."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because I'm funny, and charismatic, oh- and I have a perfect rack."
"Define perfect." A smirk forms on his face.
"Oh, sod off."
"I'm only joking, that's no secret."
"Are you flirting with me?"
"Consider it practice," he shrugs.
"For what?"
Fred only winks. "For why you're about to owe me for the rest of your life, love."
"I hate you to death."
"I love you to life."
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The fire crackles low in the Gryffindor common room, and most students have already tucked away upstairs. You've claimed a corner table, parchment spread out in front of you, quill scratching against the page as you try to wrestle your assignment into submission.
For once, there's peace.
Until Fred drops into the chair across from you with a grin like the. deviil incarnate.
"Studying? How dreadfully boring," he says, reaching across to flip your parchment upside down. "Godric, your writing is so messy, I can barely read it."
You snatch the parchment back, glaring. "I should sew your mouth shut."
"Empty threats," Fred says cheerfully, lounging back in the chair like he owns it. "Transfiguration, not my strong suit, however," His gaze darts over your shoulder, and before you can react, his voice lifts. "Oi, George! Come here a second!"
Your stomach plummets. "Fred-
But George is already crossing the room, brow furrowed curiously. He's got ink smudges on his fingers, sleeves rolled up, he'd just come from working on something in their dorm.
"What's this about?" George asks, looking between the two of you.
Fred doesn't miss a beat. "She's stuck on her assignment. Thought my dashing brother might lend a hand." He winks at you so blatantly that you want the floor to swallow you whole.
Your quill freezes in your hand. "I didn't-
But George is already leaning down to glance at your parchment, polite and easy in a way that makes your chest ache. "What's the subject?" he asks.
George pulls up a chair next to you, close enough that you can smell him. It's like bubblegum, firewood, and gunpowder. The scent cradles you kindly, and you could almost swear your pulse was loud enough for Fred to hear across the table.
"So-" George squints at your messy scrawl. "Transfiguration theory?"
You nod stiffly, wishing your face didn't feel so hot. "McGonagall's given us an essay on the limits of Switching Spells. I can't make it sound right."
George hums, absently chewing on the end of your spare quill as his eyes scan the page. His brow furrows slightly in concentration, and you catch yourself staring at the way his hair falls into his eyes until Fred clears his throat loudly, clearly amused.
"Don't drool on her parchment, Georgie," Fred teases.
George doesn't even look up. "Don't be an arse." He's grown accustomed to this taunting. Then, pointing at one of your sentences, he leans closer to you. "Here-you've written that the spell only works if the objects are the same size, but that's not true. Remember McGonagall's example with the teacup and the tortoise? It's more about mass than dimensions."
You blink. "Oh. Right. I forgot about that."
"Easy mistake," George says kindly, sliding the parchment back to you. "Here, write it like this-'Switching Spells are limited by relative mass and complexity of structure.' That sounds fancy, and she'll like that."
You nod, scribbling it down. His thoughts make sense in a way your words didn't.
"Stunning, the most riveting conversation I've had the misfortune of hearing," Fred groans dramatically.
"No one's making you stay, y'know," Georgee glances up at him.
"Gosh, I wouldn't miss this for the world," His eyes shift between you and his brother. "Keep looking at him like that and he might think you actually enjoy his company."
George shakes his head, a slight smile on his face. "Ignore him, he lives to get under your skin."
"Trust, I'm aware."
"Uh- do you want me to go over the rest of it?"
You look across the ink-soaked parchment, then make to him, "If you don't mind."
"Not at all," George settles in properly, elbow resting on the table as he talks you through each paragraph, pointing out where you can tighten an argument or slip in another example. He's patient, explaining things in a way that makes your confusion melt into clarity, and every now and then, he throws in a joke that has you laughing despite your nerves.
There was a tranquillity with him that was unfounded with Fred. While George seemed to be a still lake, Fred was a cannonball disrupting the surface.
And you know that you will never look at bubblegum the same. That the soft scent mingled with gunpowder would guide you kindly to a gentle sleep where you imagine you lay your head upon love instead of an old feather pillow.
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The Gryffindor locker room buzzes with noise, players lacing boots, strapping on pads, and tugging on maroon jumpers. You're perched on a bench near the door, allowed to linger thanks to Fred, who insisted you'd bring them a lucky win if you came to wish them well.
You are a great deal colder than the team, arms crossed and trying to keep yourself warm. Fred insisted you wear the shirt he got you last Christmas for good luck; you were his charm.
Fred's already half-dressed, hair sticking up wildly as he yanks his jumper over his head. He throws a mischievous glance your way, then sidles up to George with a grin.
"Oi, Georgie," Fred says loudly enough for the whole room to hear, "you've got your spare, yeah?"
George frowns, pulling his broom from the rack. "Of course. Why?"
Fred jabs a thumb toward you. "Because she can't sit in the stands without proper support, can she? And my jumper's dirty- spilled pumpkin juice on it last night. She'll just have to wear yours."
"No, George. I'm fine in-
But he barrels right on, ignoring your protest. "It's only fair. You're the tidier twin. Your clothes don't reek like mine."
George blinks, caught off guard, his eyes flicking to you. For a heartbeat, you're certain he'll refuse, but then, without a word, he digs into his kit bag and pulls out a neatly folded spare jumper, still smelling faintly of fresh air and broom polish.
He tosses it your way. "Here. Better than freezing up there."
You catch it clumsily, the soft wool scratching against your hands, your heart hammering far too fast. "I don't want to ruin it-"
"It's for support," Fred interrupts, beaming. "You'll look brilliant in it. Practically family colours."
George shakes his head, but there's a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth. "Just don't spill anything on it."
"Well, what do you think she's doing up there?" Fred furrows his eyebrows at his brother, "She's cheering us on, not pounding malt whiskey."
"Alright, enough out of you," He swats at his brother. The two of them sissy slapping one another. You took this as your opportunity to sneak up the stands and away from them.
"Looking good!" Lee Jordan's voice booms over the magically amplified commentary. He's already on about Gryffindor's chances, teasing Slytherin mercilessly, but you catch him glancing your way in the commentator's stand and winking.
You groan and pull the sleeves over your hands.
The players burst onto the pitch, broomsticks cutting sharp arcs through the air. The crowd erupts. Fred and George fly side by side, bats gleaming, the picture of chaotic unity. You stand with the others, cheering until your throat burns.
Fred, ever the showman, swoops lower on his broom as he circles the stands. He makes a great exaggerated gesture toward you and then deliberately elbows George, nodding in your direction.
George turns his head mid-flight, his eyes sweeping the crowd until they land on you. For a second, with the sun blazing across his hair and the wind whipping his grin into something effortless and alive, you're certain your knees might give out.
He lifts his bat in a quick salute. It's small, almost casual, but it's enough to send a surge of heat rushing through you.
Fred whoops loudly, twisting his broom into a dramatic spin, clearly milking the moment. The Gryffindor section goes wild.
The game kicks off fast. Quaffle soaring through the air, Chasers weaving like fire across the sky. The Bludgers whistle dangerously, but Fred and George are relentless, twin hammers batting them away with perfect synchronicity. You can't tear your eyes from them from George as he dives low, narrowly missing a Bludger, his movements sharp and fearless.
Every time he sends one rocketing away, the crowd roars, and you cheer with them, voice hoarse, sleeves flapping as you pump your fists in the air.
When Gryffindor scores, Fred circles back near the stands again, shouting up at you, "Lucky charm's working! Don't take it off!"
Your face burns hotter than the scarlet jumper you're clad in.
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The team's victory had pulled you all back into the common room, loud with the sounds of celebration. You are pressed into a cushy armchair by Fred, who insists this is the seat of honour, and you have earned it by being the lucky charm. Neither of these is true, but due to Fred's smugness, you don't argue.
Fred leans against one arm of the chair, a butterbeer in hand. "Don't move, you're our rabbit foot. Without you in that jumper, George would've flown straight into a goalpost."
"I thought it was the shirt you gave me last Christmas that was lucky?"
"Hmm, I dunno, that doesn't quite sound right."
"You're the worst liar I've ever met. Does that sound right?"
He shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows like he's truly confused. "No, that's not it either."
But Fred only grins wider. And just when you're about to swat him, he glances up. "Oh, look, Georgie! Over here. Thought you might want your jumper back before she claims squatter's rights."
George, fresh from the center of the crowd with hair still windswept from the match, heads over with that easy smile of his. He rakes a hand through his hair, cheeks still flushed from the cold air outside. "Not sure I want it back if it's working," he says, nodding at the jumper. His eyes flick to you, and for a heartbeat, you're certain he's teasing just you, not the whole room.
Fred sits up straighter, smirking like he's orchestrating the whole thing (because he is). "Oh, listen to him. Smooth as treacle. Don't let him fool you, he's been flying in circles to get your attention since warm-up."
George shoots him a look before turning back to you. "You're comfortable in it, yeah?"
You nod quickly. "Yeah. It's warm."
His smile softens, and he scratches the back of his neck. "Good. Then it's yours until our last game. For luck."
"I guess I have to now," You shrug. "Wouldn't want to ruin this great flying streak of yours."
"Oh, yeah?" His words are almost challenging "You think it's keeping me from crashing?"
"I know it is."
"Then don't you dare take it off," George grins.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
You should've known that it wouldn't just be you and Fred going to Hogsmeade when he was being cryptically vague about the details.
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You should've known that it wouldn't just be you and Fred going to Hogsmeade when he was being cryptically vague about the details. With the first snowfall of the season, he insisted you accompany him on a trip to Hogsmeade.
George's hair looked brighter than usual against the snowy ground. He was wearing hand-knitted mittens and a scarf looped carelessly around his neck, no doubt made by Molly. Fred made up for most of the conversation between the three of you, babbling about odds andd ends within his life as well as yours.
The three of you crunch across the snowy path, your breath puffing out in clouds, the conversation remained light and teasing- mostly Fred's antics keeping things buoyant. But when the path narrows and George ends up walking close enough that your arm brushes his coat sleeve, you're suddenly very aware of every step you take.
Then, halfway down the lane, Fred smacks his forehead dramatically. "Blast! Forgot something back in the dorms. You two keep going, I'll catch up!"
"What did you forget?" You turn as his figure paces away from you.
"Something!" He calls back, "Go find us a table in the Three Broomsticks before they're all taken up!"
"Something," George mutters like he's pondering it thoroughly. "Blimey, that sounds important."
"Seems serious," You suck a breath through your teeth, looking up to George, who seemed to tower over you. "I sure hope he's all right doing something." You felt as though you were getting acclimated to George. After dipping your toes into the water, you were almost ready to dive right in.
"I hope he's not," George smiles. "Subtle he is."
"Maybe he thought I would make for better company."
"Well, I know you make for better company, it's no secret."
"Glad we're on the same page." The wind nips at your bare face, forcing you to pull your scarf tighter, nuzzling your face into it.
"I hope you're wearing my jumper under that coat." Just like Fred, his strides are so long that you struggle to keep up.
"I've got some bad news."
"Great," He exasperates. "You've just lost us the cup."
"That's all you. I've seen you knock Fred clean off his broom."
"That was an accident, a one-off."
You tilt your head, eyeing him, "Was it?"
"Accusing me of attempted murder?"
"Wouldn't put it past you," You smile, "You have that look about you."
"What look? Please elaborate in detail." George is lapping up every inch of this conversation.
"The look of... something," You snort, quickening your steps to keep pace with him.
"Something!?" He looks at you incredulously, "How you wound me." And how you wanted to do so much worse with him. "Here I was, thinking I had you utterly bewitched."
Your grin betrays you, warmth curling at the edges of your chest despite the cold wind. "Utterly annoyed, maybe. You might be more grating than Fred." Neither of you believes this statement; your lilt is much too soft for it to ring true.
"Admit it," he presses, leaning a little closer as his long strides pull him half a step ahead, forcing you to brush against his arm to stay even. "You'd be bored out of your mind without me."
You laugh under your breath, pulling your scarf higher against the chill. "You've got an awfully high opinion of yourself."
You open your mouth to fire back, but before you can, a voice cuts across the snowy lane.
"George!"
Both your heads turn. Down the path, a Ravenclaw girl is waving cheerfully, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, a knit hat pulled low over her hair. She calls his name again, her smile wide as she hurries toward the two of you.
The warmth you'd been riding falters, and suddenly the bite of the wind feels sharper. You remember, with a sinking heaviness, that George doesn't just belong to the little bubble of teasing you two slip into. Others call for him, too. Others smile like that at him. Others want his attention.
George raises a hand in greeting, grin easy and bright, before glancing sidelong at you. "Friend of yours?" you manage, voice light but thinner than before.
"Er- no, just someone in my year," he says, scratching at the back of his neck, almost sheepish. "But-" His words cut off as the girl approaches, her smile only widening.
You tug your scarf tighter, nuzzling into the wool, and try to force your own grin. But it doesn't reach your eyes. The banter, the teasing, the way it felt like maybe you were the only one who had his focus, it slips away, scattered with the snow underfoot.
And you're reminded, a little painfully, that you aren't the only one who wants George Weasley to look their way.
She smiles at you; it's a perfectly straight smile. "Hi, I'm Anya."
"Hello," You smile just slightly to be polite. It doesn't seem that she cares to be polite much further, as you are quickly cut out of the conversation. Anya slowly squeezes you off the beaten path, taking your spot as you fall behind the pair.
George will turn around, casting you a sorry expression and asking your opinion on a topic you are unwelcome in. You drag further and further behind until you finally reach Hogsmeade and split from the two.
Your feet brought you to the Three Broomsticks where you plop yourself into the corner, waiting for Fred where you told him you would be.
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Professor Flitwick's squeaky voice drones over the classroom, lecturing on the finer points of Switching Spells. Your quill scratches steadily across your parchment, trying to keep up. For once, you're actually managing to focus- until a wad of crumpled parchment bounces off your elbow.
You look sideways. Fred Weasley is grinning at you from two seats over, wand spinning idly between his fingers like he hasn't a care in the world. He mouths something.
‘Boring, isn't it?’
You wave Fred off, trying to signal that it was time for you to focus up on your work; there wasn't time to entertain his antics. But a moment later, another scrap sails your way- this one smacks you in the cheek.
"Quit it," you hiss, glancing toward the front of the room. Flitwick is busy scribbling on the board, blissfully unaware.
Fred only smirks. "Lighten up, love."
"Sod off, seriously. You can't live with me when you're struggling to find a job after failing every class."
"Who says I'm failing?" Fred nudges his brother, "I've got my brother and my best friend to cheat off of. I'm better off copying you though. Georgie's been ripping off these two, and he’s been bombing all semester," he nods towards two Slytherin girls in front of them. He's joking clearly, but the dark-haired girl shoots him the dirtiest look you've ever laid eyes on.
Before either of you can respond, a sharp, cold voice interrupts. "Professor Flitwick?"
The class quiets immediately. You glance up and see Adeline, the dark-haired girl stationed in front of the twins. Her hand is perfectly straight.
"Yes, Miss. Bellcure?" He narrows his eyes in on her.
"George is cheating off of me," She says. There's a familiar groan of irritation from several other students in class. "He just said so."
Her friend nods in confirmation, "He did."
"Godric, how old are you?" You mutter, wrinkling your nose.
"Excuse me?" Adeline turns her attention to you, her face is contorted in disgust like she can't believe the sentence you've just saiid.
"I said How old are you? Like, how many years ago were you born? When did you come out of your mother's minge?" You pick up the same condescending tone she had when reporting to the teacher, though yours is not tolerated so kindly.
"Miss! Such mockery will not be tolerated!" Professor Flitwick's tiny frame stiffens, wand raised slightly.
"Professor, I—"
"No excuses!" Flitwick squeaks, voice quivering with indignation. "You should think before you speak in the future. I don't make the rules."
"Yes, you do!" You exasperate. It seemed you had finally hit your boiling point and no longer could you hold composure. You were gripping the desk with white knuckles. "You literally make the rules!"
"And do you wish to break them again?"
Your mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. You hadn't expected this level of escalation. George groans audibly, hand hanging in his hands.
Fred, of course, is practically vibrating with suppressed laughter from the back of the room. He hadn't planned this, but it still fell perfectly into place. He brought a hand to cover his mouth to hide his twitching lips. You and George stare at him angrily, knowing he had just escaped the detention you were now subjected to.
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The dungeon air is dank and musty, the flickering torches casting long shadows across the stone walls. Filch looks more exhausted than usual, eyes half-lidded, muttering to himself as he sets up two buckets filled with murky, soapy water. Your wand has been confiscated, along with George's, leaving you both armed only with rough, wooden scrubbing sponges.
"Buckets here. Sponges there. And don't even think about moving faster than I say," Filch growls, already settling into a creaky chair at the end of the corridor. "Start scrubbing."
You and George obliged, playing a silent game of lulling filch into sleep. The corridor echoes with the squelch of sponge against stone and the occasional splash as you both jab at each other playfully, turning punishment into a tournament of sorts. A few times, your hands brush in the buckets, and you both pause for a second too long, the warmth of the water and proximity making your pulse quicken.
Filch snores lightly in his chair, oblivious to the subtle war of glances, nudges, and barely-contained laughter happening right under his nose.
You scrub at the cold, grimy stone, the sponge squeaking under your pressure. The soapy water drips down your hands and onto the floor, pooling around your ankles. George is methodical beside you, his long arms making quick work of the corridor, but you can't focus.
"I can't believe it," you mutter, mostly to yourself but loud enough for George to hear. "My aunt and cousins are coming to stay for Christmas. It's going to be miserable."
George glances at you, one brow raised, sponge paused mid-stroke. "Miserable how? Are they the type to rearrange the furniture or just eat all the pudding?"
You huff, wiping suds from your sleeve. "Both. And talk non-stop. My aunt? She's a big drinker, she's gonna get drunk and take her wig off, then I've got to pretend her bald, stringy head doesn't scare the giblets out of me."
This gets a laugh out of George; he dips his head, shaking it. "Drunk and full of pudding- you'd hate to spend a Christmas with me."
"You and my aunt might just get along."
George leans a little closer as he scrubs, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You think she'll let me wear her wig?"
You stop for a moment, sponge hovering in the water, and glance sideways at him. "Is that your subtle way of saying you'd like to come with me?"
"Oh, I wasn't trying to be subtle."
"Might as well ask for her hand in marriage,"
"I've gotta marry into the family somehow," He winks at you. It's teasing, joking, clearly. Still it sneaks under your skin, and you must bite to remain composed.
"I think my uncle's on the market," You pause like you're thinking it over. "He's got a gold tooth and blood pressure medication."
"Decisions, decisions..." He mutters.
You're scrubbing the same stubborn streak of grime for what feels like the hundredth time when George lets out a loud sigh, leaning on his sponge.
"You know," he says casually, as if he's talking about the weather, "if you really hate the idea of being stuck with your aunt and cousins for Christmas... you could always come home with me instead."
You freeze mid-scrub, eyes narrowing at him. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, it's warm, there's plenty of food, and I'm pretty sure Fred would've invited you anyway, so technically you'd just be... taking my offer over his."
"What's your angle?"
"None at all. This is from the pure kindness of my heart."
"You have no kindness in your heart," You quirk a brow.
"Seriously?" He mocks offend, "I'm a saint, giving you a ticket away from hell, all inclusive. None of us wear wigs, may I add."
"I've gotta maul that one over."
The last of the soapy water drips from your gloves as you slump against the stone wall, catching your breath after another round of scrubbing. George leans beside you, towel in hand, shaking some of the water from his hair. For a moment, the usual spark of teasing in his eyes softens.
"Hey... about earlier," he says quietly, voice unusually low. "I'm sorry about Anya, honest. I should've said something. You know, it felt..." He trails off, running a hand through his damp hair.
You shrug, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. "It's fine," you say lightly, letting the words sound casual even though you notice the sincerity in his tone. "Really. You can't control who bumps into us."
George hesitates, then lets out a soft sigh. "Still, I was perfectly happy when it was just us."
"It's fine, I don't care." You jab your sponge a little too hard against the stone floor, and a sudden splash of soapy water arcs up straight onto George's chest.
"Oi! My eye!" he cries, clutching his face dramatically, stumbling back a step.
You freeze, horror flooding through you. "Oh my Merlin! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"
His excruciation turns into joy, a smile wide across his face, "I knew you cared."
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The first thing that hits you as you step off the small, crooked porch is the smell; a warm, homey mix of roasting chestnuts, cinnamon, and something unmistakably like Molly Weasley's perfume. The Burrow stretches before you, lopsided and charming, a towering jumble of wooden stories patched together with mismatched bricks and leaning windows that somehow seem to smile at you. Smoke curls from the crooked chimney, blending with the crisp winter air, and the faint sound of a kettle whistling floats from somewhere deep inside.
Before you can take it all in, the door swings open with a gust of warmth and laughter.
"Happy holidays!" Molly's voice wraps around you like a soft, comforting blanket. She swoops forward, pulling you into a hug so tight you feel like you're part of the house itself. "It's so good to see you! We've missed you!"
You had only been to the burrow one other time, the summer following your second year, Fred insisted you visit for the last week of summer so you could go shopping together and scheme before the semester began.
You breathe in her scent, letting the warmth of the kitchen and the Burrow sink into your bones. "Thank you for having me," you murmur, feeling the tension of the past weeks melt slightly in the coziness.
"Fred, help her with her trunks!" Molly instructs, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Immediately, Fred bounds forward, lanky and full of energy, his hands already on the straps of your travel bag. But before he can fully lift it, a familiar voice cuts in.
"I think I've got this," George says, stepping beside him, his hand on the other side of the trunk.
You pause, eyes wide as the twins begin a subtle tug-of-war over your luggage. "You two-"
"Oh, don't mind us," Fred says with a grin, his grip firm. "We're just helping."
George rolls his eyes dramatically, tugging just enough to make Fred stumble slightly. "Helping? You call this helping?"
"Of course! Someone has to make sure the bags don't float off on their own," Fred retorts, smirking at the harmless bickering that always seems to follow him and his twin. "She's my friend."
"I invited her," George retorts.
You let out a soft laugh, the sound mingling with the warm smells of the kitchen—baking pies cooling on the windowsill, a fire crackling in the hearth, and the faint chime of silver spoons clinking in mugs of mulled cider.
George lets go with a small grunt, Fred still holding firm. "Fine, fine, we'll work together," George mutters, giving Fred a side-eye that is half annoyance, half amusement.
"You two are impossible," you say fondly, shaking your head.
Fred beams. "Welcome to the Burrow! You'll get used to it or at least, you'll get used to us."
“I was promised no drunk aunties.”
Molly claps her hands, her eyes twinkling. "Come in, come in! Tea's hot, and there's plenty of cake for everyone. Christmas isn't Christmas without a little chaos."
The three of you step inside, the warmth wrapping around you like a magical cloak, the house creaking and settling around your feet. You glance back at the snow-dusted exterior, but already, you feel right at home.
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The Burrow is quiet tonight, the usual cozy chaos stilled under a blanket of snow. The glow from the kitchen hearth spills through the crooked windows, painting golden patterns on the walls. You're just beginning to drift off, warm and drowsy, when a sharp, gleeful voice cuts through the quiet.
"Wake up!" Fred whispers into the room you had been sharing with Ginny who is still sound asleep, sprawled out upon her bed.
You groan, tugging the blankets tighter, but the sound of George shuffling in the hall beside you rouses you fully. "What?" he mutters, his voice thick with sleep.
"Come on!" Fred's distant voice echoes down the creaking stairs.
Reluctantly, you follow George, padding down the uneven steps with the faint smell of roasting chestnuts and cinnamon drifting in from the kitchen. "This is getting creepy."
"We must be haunted by the ghost of his ego," George's voice iis deeper than usual, groggy and rough from sleep. "You sleep okay?"
"I think I've got allergies, I've been up all night sneezing like- I dunno. Someone who sneezes a lot." You rub some sleep away from your eyes. Fred's voice ceased entirely, leaving you and George to stumble around in the dark searching for him.
"That's no good." George frowns. He stops beside you under the doorway, narrowing his eyes at a swinging plant hanging overhead.
There, above the worn, sagging doorway that leads to the kitchen, hangs a sprig of mistletoe, swaying gently as if teasing you.
George freezes next to you, eyes flicking from the mistletoe to your face, cheeks colouring in the warm firelight. "Fred." you whisper, voice barely audible.
He swallows, a soft smirk tugging at his lips. "Bollocks, I guess we don't have any other choice."
The warmth from the hearth, the soft glow of Christmas lights strung haphazardly along the beams, the scent of pine and fresh-baked treats- it all seems to shrink the room until it's just the two of you.
Without another word, he leans in. Your hands brush, hesitating for just a heartbeat, then slide together naturally. The world narrows to the two of you, the mistletoe swaying gently above, but somehow it feels entirely unimportant.
The kiss starts softly, shyly, then deepens with all the tension, teasing, and playful banter that's been building for weeks. His hand finding the small of your back and pulling you flush against him.
When you pull back, breathless, George grins at you, cheeks pink. "Merry Christmas," he murmurs, voice low.
You laugh softly, brushing a stray hair from your face. "Merry Christmas, George."
Summary: He was supposed to be just your friend. The funny one. The one who never took anything seriously.
Until you started sitting too close to Cedric Diggory.
Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Jealousy Spiral / Friends to Lovers / Cedric Diggory as an Unintentional Rival / Sibling Chaos & Teasing
It started the way most bad decisions usually do.
With laughter.
With noise.
With Fred and George Weasley in the middle of it. And with you, right there beside them like you had always belonged there.
You weren’t the quiet type.
Never had been.
If anything, you were worse.
Loud when you shouldn’t be. Smiling when you were supposed to be serious. Saying things that made professors sigh and classmates laugh in the same breath.
Somehow, you had ended up orbiting the Weasley twins like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Fred liked to call it “a shared lack of survival instincts.”
George called it “friendship.”
And you just called it home.
You sat with them at meals when you could, snuck out with them when you shouldn’t, and got dragged into half of their ideas whether you agreed or not.
Which, most of the time, you did.
Right now, the three of you were sprawled somewhere just outside the corridor near the courtyard, half-hidden from professors and fully hidden from responsibility.
Fred was mid-story, hands moving as he spoke. George was laughing already, like he knew how it ended. And you were leaning back against the stone wall, trying not to choke on your own laughter.
“You did what to Ron’s wand?” you asked, breathless.
Fred looked far too pleased with himself. “I didn’t do anything,” he said innocently.
George snorted. “That’s the problem. He didn’t do anything. That’s when it’s worst.”
You shook your head, wiping your eyes. “You’re both going to be the reason Hogwarts burns down one day.”
Fred tilted his head at you. “And you’ll be right next to us cheering it on.”
You opened your mouth but didn’t get to answer, because footsteps cut through the moment.
Sharp.
Familiar enough to make all three of you pause at the same time.
You didn’t even have to turn around to know.
Professor McGonagall.
“Miss L/N,” McGonagall said crisply.
Not angry.
Worse.
Controlled.
You stood up slowly. “Professor.”
Her eyes moved between you and the twins. Then she spoke: “I’ve been informed that your academic performance this term is… concerning.”
Fred let out a quiet, almost invisible sound beside you—something between amusement and “oh this is going to be good.”
You shot him a warning look.
McGonagall continued. “If your grades do not improve, you will not pass this year.”
Silence.
Even Fred stopped smirking.
You swallowed.
“I’ll… fix it,” you said quickly.
“I hope so,” McGonagall replied. “Because repeating a year would be… embarrassing, for someone of your capability.”
That hit a little harder than you expected.
Then she added: “I will be arranging mandatory tutoring sessions for you. Mr Diggory has agreed to assist you.”
Fred blinked.
George’s eyebrows lifted.
You, on the other hand “…Cedric Diggory?” you repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
There was a pause where your brain tried to compute it.
Cedric Diggory.
Perfect grades.
Perfect posture.
Perfect smile.
Perfect everything you were not.
You exhaled.
“…Right.”
McGonagall gave you a look. “You will begin tomorrow.”
And just like that, she turned and walked away.
Leaving silence behind her.
Fred was the first to break it. “Well,” he said lightly, but his tone had shifted. “That’s your downfall sorted.”
“Shut up,” you groaned.
George didn’t laugh immediately, which was unusual. When you looked at him, he was watching you. Not teasing, not joking.
Just watching.
Then he smiled.
“Maybe he’s not that bad,” George said.
Fred looked at him like he’d grown a second head.
You blinked. “You’re joking.”
George shrugged. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”
Fred scoffed. “She won’t survive ten minutes of Diggory’s voice.”
You threw a pebble at him.
It missed.
Unfortunately.
Fred caught it anyway, grinning again like nothing had changed.
But something had.
Even if none of you said it out loud yet.
The first study session was a disaster. You were late on purpose. Not very late—just enough to make a point.
Cedric Diggory was already sitting at one of the long library tables when you arrived, books neatly stacked beside him, parchment organized in perfectly straight lines.
You stopped at the end of the table and stared.
“I just want it officially written down somewhere that McGonagall is ruining my life.” You dropped into the chair across from him dramatically.
Cedric slid a book toward you. “Open to page seventy-two.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “No greeting?”
“I said hello when you walked in.”
“That barely counted.”
Cedric leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you for a second. “You talk a lot when you don’t want to do something.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And you sound exactly like someone who color-codes his notes.”
“I do color-code my notes.”
“Of course you do.”
Somehow, impossibly, that made him laugh quietly and annoyingly it suited him.
You decided immediately that this was unacceptable.
The next hour was painful. Not because Cedric was mean.
That would’ve been easier.
No, Cedric was patient.
Calm.
Infuriatingly calm.
Every time you tried to derail the lesson, he just looked at you steadily until you eventually answered the question anyway.
By the time the session ended, your brain hurt.
“You survived,” Cedric observed as you packed your bag dramatically.
“Barely.”
“You answered everything correctly by the end.”
You froze slightly. “…I did?”
Cedric nodded once. “You’re not bad at this.”
The words hit strangely, because most professors sounded frustrated when they spoke to you.
Cedric just sounded certain like he hadn’t doubted it.
You looked away first. “That’s suspiciously encouraging.”
“I’m trying a new strategy.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Manipulation?”
A small smile appeared again. “Positive reinforcement.”
“Disgusting.”
Cedric laughed quietly under his breath as he stood.
And for some reason—
you smiled back.
The common room was loud when you returned later that evening.
Fred and George were exactly where you expected them to be: occupying far too much space on one sofa while Lee Jordan sat nearby looking like he was seconds away from regretting knowing either of them.
Fred noticed you first. “Well?” he asked immediately. “Did Diggory bore you to death?”
George looked up from where he’d been absentmindedly spinning a quill between his fingers.
You dropped onto the armchair across from them with a dramatic sigh.
“He organizes his notes by color.”
Fred made a horrified face.
George snorted softly.
“And he says things like ‘focus’ with a straight face.”
“That poor man,” Fred muttered. “He has no idea what he’s dealing with.”
You grinned slightly, but George noticed something before Fred did. The way your mouth twitched when you talked about Cedric.
The fact that you were still talking about him.
“You’re smiling,” George said suddenly.
You blinked. “No I’m not.”
“You are,” he replied calmly.
Fred pointed immediately. “Oh, she is.”
“I am not.”
“You fancy the prefect,” Fred gasped dramatically.
You threw a cushion at him.
He caught it easily.
“Shut up.”
George was still watching you though.
Quieter than Fred now.
More observant.
“What’s he actually like?” George asked.
You opened your mouth automatically with another insult ready but paused.
Cedric’s quiet laugh flashed unexpectedly through your head.
The way he’d looked at you across the table and said: You’re not bad at this.
Your stomach did something strange.
“…Annoying,” you answered finally.
Fred grinned. “There she is.”
But George noticed the hesitation.
And for the first time something small and unfamiliar twisted unpleasantly in his chest.
Over the next two weeks, something deeply irritating started happening. You stopped trying to skip the study sessions.
At first, Fred thought it was a joke. Then he thought maybe McGonagall had threatened you with public humiliation.
George just watched.
And noticed things.
Small things.
The way you fixed your hair before going to the library now. The fact that you actually brought the right books. The way you came back complaining about Cedric while smiling at absolutely nothing.
It was suspicious.
Very suspicious.
“You’re spending an unnatural amount of time with Diggory,” Fred announced one evening from upside down on the common room sofa.
You looked up from your parchment. “You spend an unnatural amount of time upside down.”
“That’s different.”
“It’s really not.”
George sat nearby pretending to read while listening to every word.
Fred pointed at you accusingly. “You laughed at something he said earlier.”
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“But you laughed.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Merlin, are you jealous?”
Fred looked scandalized. “Of Cedric Diggory? Absolutely not. He irons his shirts.”
“He probably irons his socks too,” Lee added.
George stayed quiet.
Because unlike Fred, George wasn’t joking anymore, and that was becoming a problem.
The next study session was somehow worse.
“You’re distracted again,” Cedric said calmly from across the table.
“I’m literally reading.”
“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for three minutes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds made up.”
Cedric leaned forward slightly, resting one arm on the table. “You know, you’re very different when your friends aren’t around.”
You blinked. “…Excuse me?”
“You act louder around the twins.”
“That’s because they’re loud.”
Cedric’s mouth twitched. His attention entirely on you in a way that made your stomach feel strange lately.
You looked down quickly.
“I still think you’re annoying.”
“I think,” Cedric said calmly, “you just like arguing with me.”
You opened your mouth immediately then stopped.
Cedric noticed the silence instantly.
And smiled.
George was already in the common room when you came in.
Alone.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
Fred was usually there too. Half causing trouble, half laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. But tonight it was just George, sitting on the sofa near the fire with a book open on his knee.
He looked up the moment you stepped in.
“You’re late,” he said.
It sounded like a joke.
It wasn’t.
“I had study sessions.”
“I noticed.”
That made you pause.
“Diggory again?” he said lightly, closing the book with one hand.
You sighed and dropped into the sofa across from him.
“I’ve got something for you.”
You squinted. “That sounds suspiciously like trouble.”
“It’s not. It’s Transfiguration.”
You stared at it.
“What is this?”
“Notes.”
That made you laugh once. “You don’t have notes.”
George raised an eyebrow. “I do now.”
You opened the first page and stopped laughing immediately, because it wasn’t just notes.
It was structured. Diagrams. Color-coded arrows. Tiny corrections in the margins. Underlined key spells. Even little sarcastic comments scribbled next to difficult sections like:
‘this part is evil, good luck’
and
‘McGonagall will absolutely ask this just to ruin your day’
You looked up slowly.
“…You did this?”
George shrugged. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“This is—” You flipped another page. “This is actually good.”
“I know.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Since when are you secretly good at Transfiguration?”
“Since you started spending all your time in the library,” he said lightly.
The room shifted.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just… quieter.
You looked at him properly now.
“George…”
He cut you off immediately, too fast. “It’s nothing. Just figured you needed help if you’re trying to avoid repeating a year.”
You frowned. “That’s not why I’m—”
“You’re always with him lately.”
Cedric.
The name wasn’t said out loud, but it didn’t need to be.
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
George leaned slightly closer, tapping one of the pages. “I went through your syllabus. Twice. Some of this stuff is actually useful if you don’t want to die in McGonagall’s exam.”
“You read it twice?” you asked quietly.
He shrugged again, but this time it wasn’t convincing.
There were faint ink stains on his fingers.
Like he’d been writing for hours.
Like he’d actually sat there and worked.
For you.
Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then softer, almost careless again:
“But I did it anyway.”
You looked down at the notes again.
Then at him.
Really looked.
The jokes were still there. The grin was still there. But underneath it—something quieter. Focused. Slightly tense, like he was waiting for your reaction more than he wanted to admit.
“You highlighted half of it,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“With different colours.”
“Helps with memory.”
“That is the most responsible thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
George snorted. “Don’t get used to it.”
You smiled.
And that was the problem.
Because George noticed that too.
His eyes softened just slightly.
“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re actually listening to me for once.”
“I always listen to you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “Not like this.”
Something shifted again.
He reached out—slowly this time—and turned one of your pages so it faced you properly. His fingers brushed the edge of yours.
Didn’t move away.
Didn’t pretend it was accidental.
Just stayed there.
Close.
“Start here,” he said. “If you can master that section, McGonagall won’t have anything to complain about.”
You nodded faintly, but you weren’t reading anymore.
Not properly.
Because George was too close.
His shoulder leaned in slightly as he pointed something out.
“Here,” he added, tapping a line. “This is where everyone messes up.”
“I don’t think I mess up everything,” you muttered.
A small smile.
“You do when you panic.”
“I don’t panic.”
“You absolutely panic.”
You turned your head to argue—and found him already looking at you.
Not joking now.
Not teasing.
Just watching.
The air between you changed again.
Slower.
He stopped talking.
You stopped pretending you were reading.
“George…” you said, quieter this time.
He didn’t answer immediately.
His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your mouth.
Then back up.
And something in his expression tightened like he’d made a decision he wasn’t fully ready for.
“You’ve been gone a lot lately,” he said.
“You know I’ve been studying.”
“With him.”
The words weren’t sharp.
But they landed like something heavier than anger.
You opened your mouth—
Nothing came out.
George exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep himself steady.
Then he leaned back slightly, forcing space between you again, but not enough to erase what just happened.
“I don’t like it,” he admitted.
That made you freeze.
Because George didn’t say things like that.
Not seriously.
Not like this.
“…You don’t like Cedric or?” you asked carefully.
George huffed a short laugh. “No. I don’t like that you’ve started looking at everything like it’s somewhere else you need to be.”
Your throat went tight.
Then, almost like he regretted how honest that sounded, he reached for the notes again.
“Anyway,” he added quickly, “I could do this better than him.”
And this time there was no joke at all.
“For you.”
Your breath caught slightly.
That was the moment the distance between you stopped being safe.
He was close now.
Close enough that if you moved even slightly—
Your knees brushed his.
He leaned in just a fraction more.
His gaze flicked to your lips again—this time slower.
Intentional.
And for a second, it felt like everything had narrowed down to this one moment.
His hand slid to your cheek.
Warm.
Real.
And then he kissed you.
It was George in every possible way—soft at first, unsure for half a second like he still couldn’t believe you were there… and then something in him finally let go.
The kiss deepened.
Slow.
Careful.
Like he was afraid of ruining it if he moved too fast.
Your hand lifted without thinking, grabbing lightly at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer like you finally made a decision you’d been avoiding for too long.
George made a quiet sound against your mouth—something between relief and disbelief—and leaned in.
Like he’d been waiting for this without admitting it even to himself.
The world narrowed.
Fire crackling somewhere behind you.
Paper forgotten.
Everything else gone.
Just him.
Just warmth.
Just—
The door slammed open.
“—YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT LEE JUST—”
You both moved apart too fast.
Too obvious.
Fred froze in the doorway.
Looked at both of you.
Slow smile forming.
“…Oh,” he said.
Long pause.
Then brighter:
“Oh, this is bad.”
George leaned back in his chair immediately. “We were studying.”
Fred nodded slowly. “Sure.”
You grabbed the first random book on the table. “Transfiguration.”
Fred raised an eyebrow.
Then grinned wider.
“I leave you alone for ONE evening,” he said, delighted, “and you start… bonding academically.”
George sighed.
You stared at the ceiling.
Fred walked further in, shaking his head.
“This is going to be so entertaining.”
And George, under his breath, only for you to hear:
A/N: This one is such a sweet request and I was planning on making it longer but I kind of decided to cut it short, think it turned out cuter that way!! Anyways, thank you to this sweetheart for requesting!! Smooches <3
Warning(s): Fluff, George angst if you squint, Gryffindors being stereotypical to Slytherins, Reader is an absolute sweetheart and George is struggling.
Word count: 3.1k
Dividers by @strangergraphics!! ,
Hogwarts was filled with the usual hum of students scampering off to their morning classes—the chatter and easy breeze of the school at 9 am. George was in no hurry whatsoever, leaning against the wall outside the great hall with Fred. It was the usual easy conversation, mindlessly flowing between the twins.
“Oh. Eugh.” Fred groaned, looking down the now emptier hall. At first, George thought he was talking about Draco and his little posse of bullies cornering two Gryffindor first-year girls. It wasn’t surprising. Fred usually ignored it because it was never surprising.
“Bloody prefects think they’re so perfect.” Fred continued, making George’s attention snap to the figure walking up the hallway. You. Uniform so perfect it looked like it was taken straight off a mannequin, Hair proper, prefect badge sharp and glimmering on your robes.
Neither of the boys thought you’d do anything about the bullying. No Slytherin prefect ever did, not when it came to Draco and his little boyband. “Exhausting, isn’t it? The same people with them. Why do they even bother making Slytherin’s prefect?” George mumbled back to his brother.
But when you grabbed the back of Draco’s robes and yanked, both of them looked like they’d been electrocuted.
“Malfoy! Merlin’s sake, really?! This again? Do I need to write to your mother about your severe lack of manners?” You hissed, glaring down at the startled boy. The rest of his group stilled, looking at eachother in pure bewilderment; no one really stopped them. Usually, they’d be disregarded by everyone because Draco was a Malfoy.
Draco gaped, “Hey– You can’t– Don’t touch me!” He hissed, cheeks flushing red in humiliation. The two Gryffindor girls stood there like deer in headlights, unsure of whether to run or stay. “Draconis Lucius Malfoy, I will go straight to Snape and write to your mother representing Slytherin House as head of the house—”
“Okay!” He huffed, completely red with humiliation now, his friends staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “What—whatever.” He sputtered, pulling away and storming off. George and Fred looked gobsmacked. No one stood up to Malfoy—barely any teachers either. It was clear the boy wasn’t used to it either, with the way he practically tripped over his own tail rushing out.
You leaned closer to the two girls, who immediately rushed over to cling to your robes and bury their faces in your belly. You smiled, heart fluttering in pure adoration, placing your hands on their hair. “You two okay? He’s all bark, I promise.” You mumbled, coaxing the girls into telling you their names.
George was practically choking on air, Fred still like he’d been turned to stone. It was a majorly confusing encounter. “It’s unnatural.” He breathed, making Fred nod quickly. “This may be a moment in Slytherin history. They’re learning compassion.” The other mumbled back, crossing his arms. “Probably some stupid ploy to get people’s guards down.”
George nodded, but his mind was slowly drifting away to the way you took each girl’s hands in your own, guiding them to their, letting them chat your ear off. It was odd—unusual for a Slytherin to be so.. nice. He didn’t really pay attention to Slytherins at all, really, but actually seeing one be nice felt like catching your brother having sex; it was seeing something he didn’t want to see cause it changed the way you thought about them.
“What’s the point of being a prefect if you don’t give me the password for the special bathroom?!” Gilderoy scoffed, scowling. He sat on the floor of your dorm as you cut his long hair into the boyish hairstyle he wanted.
“For the last time, no. I’m not going to risk my position cause you want to take a bubblebath, Roy.” You grumbled, grabbing your wand to dispose of the scattered hair strands on your floor—gesturing for him to check out his new hairstyle. He grinned wider as he checked himself out, mumbling something about fake friends.
You sighed, getting up and nudging him on the back. “C’mon. Get dressed. I’ll go find Cedric to borrow a pair of his pants, leave your skirt on my bed.” You grumbled, slipping on your slippers. It was really early in the morning, all prefects were meant to get up early to give night round reports to the heads of their houses.
The massive common room was cold and silent, the only sound was the distant rush of the black lake above the ceilings of the dungeons. The air got crisper upon leaving the dungeons and entering the main hallway network of the school, the newfound warmth highly welcome in the early morning. You kept walking till you hit the Hufflepuff kitchens, awkwardly standing infront of the entrance to the common room before knocking on the wooden door. “Diggory?” You called out, shoving your hands in your pockets as you waited for the guy who, barely five seconds later, swung open the door and shoved the pants in your hands. “Yeah, yeah, here–one sec. I have a situation with these two bloody fourth years–”
The door slammed in your face, you rolled your eyes.
The walk back to the dungeons was more peaceful, quieter. You took the long route; you had the time anyway. You decided to report to Snape early, moving to his office—there’s a chance he wouldn’t be there, but that just meant you could quickly jot down a written report and not have to go through the trouble of actually talking to the man.
You passed his potions closet before stilling at a shuffle inside. You frowned. Turned.
“Professor Snape?” You said softly, the shuffling ceased completely.
Okay. Not Snape.
You frowned, reaching for the handle. “If this is a student, I’d recommend exiting the closet before I start deducting points in the hundreds.”
An empty threat, you’d never really do that. You didn’t like getting people in trouble for small stuff like curfews or restricted areas; they were harmless offences. It wasn’t worth the trouble, put it was a good threat to whatever third or fourth year you thought snuck in there on a dare.
So when a tall, ginger bloke slipped out with the most sheepish grin on his face, wearing striped pyjamas, stood infront of you, you stilled for a second. Frowned. Tilted your head.
“George.” You said plainly, surprising him.
“How come not Fred, hm?” He huffed, making you shrug. “Your nose. A bit crooked. Longer.”
He huffed, rolling his eyes, slipped a small jar into his pocket. “Well, go ahead. Strip me of my points.” He muttered dryly, already expecting her to remove a ridiculous amount of points from his house. All Slytherin prefects did—almost like they had a personal vendetta against the Gryffidnors. This snake is no different.
“I’ll give you a warning; if I catch you again, it’s fifty points off.” You sighed, narrowing your eyes at the boy. “Please return to Gryffindor Tower.”
George stilled, frowning down at her, before grinning. He got away scott-free?
“And give me what you just put in your pocket.”
Okay, that’s unfair.
“It’s–it’s guy stuff.”
“It’s Leech juice.”
“No it’s Fluxweed.”
“So you did take something.”
Fuck.
You grinned, hands on your hips now. “C’mon, Weasley, hand it over now. I won’t make a big deal of this.” You mused, and George deflated, his guard slowly lowering at your easy demeanour. “Yeah, whatever..”
You took the jar from him, stepping into Snape’s ingredient closet to put the Fluxweed back before stepping out. “Steal when no one will find you.” You teased, making him scoff and cross his arms. “No one was supposed to! It’s bloody five and a half in the morning, prefects aren’t to wake until six!”
“Memorizing the schedule’s dedication. There was an update. We have to wake an hour early now because they’ll be imposing morning rounds.” You said softly, smiling up at him. It was clear he didn’t expect it, frowning at you in return, squirmy.
“Okay. I–I– Stop. Okay.” He muttered, looking away and scratching the back of his neck. You grinned wider, leaning forward. “You okay, Weasley? Your ears are going red.”
He scowled, looking away before scoffing. “Oh, you wish, don’t you? Find it fun? Making me uneasy?”
“Uneasy? I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re– You smiled!”
“My smile unsettled you? That’s just offensive, my smile’s lovely!”
“Oh, how humble, o mighty prefect.”
“Oh, nice one, are we not talking about how nice I was to not take away points even though I caught you stealing?!”
George huffed, pouted and leaned closer. “Borrowing! I’d replace it. I’m not evil, am I? Not like you and your unsettling smile.” You rolled your eyes, frowning. “Oh, is it? Is my smile unsettling? Scary? Spooky?”
You flashed him another smile purely out of spite, and he sputtered, covering his eyes. “God, it’s like staring at Medusa! You’ll turn me to stone, you gargoyle!”
“Gar–Gargoyle?!” You huffed, eyes wide as you swatted his shoulder. “I am a lady!”
He stuck out his tongue, swatting you back. “Stony, lumpy gargoyle–” You gasped again, smacking him harder. “Well– Well, you’re a troll! A big, bad troll! Stupid, lousy troll!”
He gave you a light, playful push, a smile growing on his lips. “A troll, now? Not very prefect-like, is it? Insulting a student? I should report that y’know.” He mused, making you snicker softly, tilting your head up at him. “Oh, try me, ginger.”
He lazily saluted before turning away and throwing up a hand as if to bid you adieu.
“Yeah, yeah. Bye, snakey.”
You could only giggle in response, waving despite the fact that he couldn’t see. “Bye, ginger!”
You didn’t think much about the interaction; you’re used to being nice to people, easily talking to people.
George, on the other hand, collapsed as soon as he turned the corner and practically began choking on his own spit as his face grew more and more red. It was all so unexpected. He was caught so off guard—that wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with you. He couldn’t let you make him like this, all flustered and unsteady. Slytherins were untrustworthy snakes. Sneaky, tricky, lying snakes.
He trudged his way back to his tower before dropping himself on Fred to tell him everything. His twin offered no solace, just groaned and reinforced his worst worries: snakes aren’t to be trusted, she’s playing with you, she’s evil, don’t fall for it.
George knew, he knew. But it felt too natural with you—he didn’t even realise you and him were borderline flirting till he walked away. So easy. Why was it easy? He wasn’t the suave one. Girls rushed to Fred more than they rushed to him. Of course, everyone usually felt the twins were interchangeable, and thus, it was the reason neither of them really dated. In fear of their girlfriend having a thing for their twin brother.
He refused to let himself get hurt, agreeing with Fred before slipping back into bed to sleep until class really started.
Willing himself not to think of you.
Today has been a busy day. You weren’t mad about it, though.
You’d put all your effort upon becoming a prefect to become a safe person for everyone, older or younger. It worked a little bit too well.
Every free minute you had was taken from you. Fifth years rushing to you after procrastinating a potions assignment, fourth years asking for help in charms, third years asking about rumours and gossip, second year boys asking you to end arguments and second year girls running to you in hysterics when they get their periods, first years running to you in tears after feeling homesick.
It was fulfilling; you took pride in it. Always helping people, always being constant.
People noticed; you shocked everyone. It was so un-Slytherin of you, to help more than what was required of you as a prefect. More than what was required of even the Head girl or boy.
George found it absolutely devastating—because just seeing you exist and act in a way that was seemingly normal made you plague his every thought. He couldn’t get you out of his head, his thoughts, his very being. He avoided you like the plague, but he still watched you from afar. It was like torturing himself, driving himself crazy.
It didn’t help that the entirety of Gryffindor House has an immense distaste for you; all the older kids brushed you off, regarding you as some Slytherin who finally learnt how to pretend to be likeable. George could only smile and mindlessly agree to a point. Then it became word vomit. A headache. Something he didn’t agree with to the point of physical recoil.
It didn’t help when you kept finding ways to bump into him. It wasn’t even intentional; you were just always everywhere. You were bound to spot him. Sweetheart that you were, you always tried to strike up a conversation as well. Always tried to talk to him.
Meanwhile, he’d be backing away like a feral animal with its leg caught in a trap. Not because he was worried people were right—but because they might be wrong. But they won’t accept that. George is smart enough to see through these things, to see stereotypes run deeper. They won;t accept that you’re a good person, not because they have proof otherwise, but because you’re a Slytherin. To them, it’s proof enough.
He didn’t want to go through the effort of having to hopelessly defend his totally not hopeless crush on you to everyone. It didn’t seem worth it, doing that over a girl he barely even knew. It begged the question: why did you enamour him so?
Maybe it was because you knew who he was from your very first interaction. Maybe it was because you didn’t bring up his twin whenever you two spoke—you spoke to him. Treated him like he’s his own person and not just someone’s twin. It seemed odd, feeling like the add-on twin, but he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t malice towards his brother; it was silent insecurity he refused to acknowledge. There were subtle differences in the twins that people subconsciously accepted. Fred was the name on everyone’s tongues. George was called Fred much more than Fred was called George.
Maybe that’s why he liked you. You didn’t mistake him for Fred, nor did you try to bring up Fred in any way. Not like you were actively avoiding it, but more so that you didn’t see the point in bringing up his brother when talking to him. It was something he hadn’t come across often. Someone who spoke to him. Not the twin part of him, but the individual part.
The way it made him feel lingered, affected him enough that your face was the first he searched for in every room.
So now, as he watched you crouch down and embrace some first-year Hufflepuff crying about missing his poodle back at home, his heart ached. Not for the boy, though it should, but because you felt like a dream he refused to let come true. Because that complicated things.
He lingered at the end of the hall, watched your seraphic form wipe the child’s tears and assured him his poodle could indeed read the letters he sent home, before taking him by the hand and walking him to his common room. He shuddered when you disappeared from view, slumped against the wall and dragged a hand down his face.
He was screwed, he knew it. You plagued his mind like no other, and even after relentlessly watching you for days and maybe even weeks to try and prove his housemates right, that you were evil. That this was just some mask—he couldn’t. It was simply who you were. It drew him in effortlessly.
Maybe it was the definitive understanding that everyone was wrong about you that helped him grow a backbone, or maybe the thoughts of you have finally bled from his mind to his physical actions. You were sitting at the edge of the black lake, under a sweater and the dim, moody glow of the late evening. It was Saturday, one of the only days you really got to spend on your own. You savoured it.
His feet had brought him here, mainly on their own. Of course, he knew this was your Saturday spot to hang out; he’d seen you whenever he and Lee wandered about on their own. He approached you like he would a frightened animal, slowly—hesitant.
You heard him before you saw him, turning your head before your lips curved into an easy, warm smile. “Ginger! Hi! Didn’t think you were the type to come out here.” You said with a soft tinge in your face, making his stomach flutter. He smiled, he couldn’t help but. “Hey, snakey. Mind if I sit?”
You quickly scooched to the side on your picnic basket, letting the taller boy move to your side, knees bumping into each other. You kept looking at him with that same sunshine-y grin, it nearly made him nauseous.
You didn’t talk, didn’t try and start a conversation. Mainly because it seemed like you were trying to let him soak in the peace around you, let him feel it, enter his bones. He let it, heard the swoosh of the wind and the rush of air around them, let it ground him. Calm his erratically racing heart.
“So,” he finally began, voice breaking embarrassingly on the word. “You—You have a boyfriend?”
You blinked at him, not expecting that question out of everything. “Uhm, no.” You murmured, making him nod his head quickly. You studied his face, looking intently enough to see the furrow of his brows and the slight downturn of his lips.
“Would you.. Like to go to Hogsmeade with me some time—any time.” He said hastily, but you caught it anyway. The smile that grew on your lips was immediate; you leaned forward to get a better look at his face. “Are you.. Asking me on a date, George?”
He couldn’t look at you—couldn’t respond, currently in a life-or-death staring contest with the picnic blanket. His ears were completely red, and his cheeks were flushed. His hands gripped the blanket beneath him. You found it hopelessly endearing.
Easily, you leaned over and placed a hand over his clenched one, and gave him a smile when he shot his head up in surprise. “When can we go out on that date, then?” You said softly, eliciting a small smile from him now. He scoffed, shaking his head.
This was probably a bad idea—his housemates, his own brother, his siblings and his friends. They’d all have something to say; bitter things. Defending you’d be exhausting repetition; he’d be so judged throughout it all.
But right now? Looking at that impossibly soft look on your face that never really seemed to quite leave? He couldn’t care less if people stared. All he could think about is that damn date, and there’s no way he’s giving up a chance to have you for himself.
Can I request a fic where George gets knocked out in quidditch practice and reader aka his girlfriend runs to check on him he's all confused and dizzy and flirts with her? Like those memes "hey girl you got a boyfriend?" "You are my boyfriend" "hEelL yeAH"
Dazed and Devoted - George Weasley
summary: George gets knocked out during Quidditch practice. When he wakes up, confused and concussed, he flirts with his girlfriend like he’s never met her before. And honestly? It’s kind of adorable.
warnings: none!
Word Count: 1.5k
Fred and George were showing off, as usual, turning every drill into a competition. You were perched in the stands, legs swinging off the edge as you watched George zip around the pitch like he hadn’t a care in the world. You’d told him earlier to please not die today, and he had given you a wink and said, “No promises, love.”
Typical.
Oliver was barking out orders below while Katie and Alicia ran plays overhead, but your eyes stayed on George. He always looked so alive on a broom, golden in the sunlight, wind-tossed hair everywhere, laughing like there was nothing else in the world to worry about.
And then—just like that—it changed.
One moment he was banking left to avoid a Bludger, and the next—
WHAM.
Bludger to the head. Clean hit.
You heard the thud before you saw it. George spun midair like a ragdoll, his broom zigzagging before he tumbled off and hit the grass with a dull, sickening sound.
“GEORGE!” you screamed, dropping your notes and sprinting from the stands before Madam Hooch could even react.
By the time you reached him, he was flat on his back, eyes half-lidded, a crooked smile on his face like he had just had the best dream of his life. He blinked up at you slowly.
“Hi,” he said, voice drowsy and slurred. “Are you an angel?”
“George—Merlin, George, are you alright?” you asked, dropping to your knees beside him, brushing back his hair to check for blood. “Fred! Someone get Madam Pomfrey!”
He blinked again. “Whoa. You’re really pretty.”
You froze, eyes narrowing. “Okay, yeah. He’s definitely concussed.”
George propped himself up slightly on his elbows and squinted at you, like he was seeing you for the first time. “Hey… hey, uh, do you have a boyfriend?”
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
He grinned goofily. “Because if not, I’m available. Just saying.”
You bit back a laugh. “George, I am your girlfriend.”
His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “No way. For real?”
“For real.”
He pumped a lazy fist into the air. “Hell yeah.”
Fred, who had just run over, nearly tripped over himself laughing. “He’s either dying or just scored the best news of his life.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Both, apparently.”
George reached up and gently patted your face, missing your cheek and hitting your chin instead. “You’re so soft. Have I told you you’re soft?”
“You’ve told me lots of things, love. Most of them nonsense.”
“Bet I said them real smooth though.”
Fred muttered, “He flirts better concussed than I do fully functioning,” earning a glare from you.
Madam Pomfrey finally arrived, puffing and muttering under her breath. “Step back, step back, what did he do this time—bloody Weasley twins—”
“He caught a Bludger with his skull,” you said flatly.
“Coolest catch I’ve ever done,” George mumbled.
You brushed his hair back again gently, watching as Pomfrey waved her wand over his head and began muttering incantations. “You’re going to be okay. Just… try not to flirt with anyone else on the way to the Hospital Wing.”
George’s eyes fluttered closed briefly, then opened again, still dazed. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Got the prettiest girl right here.”
“Sweet-talker,” you said quietly, cheeks warm.
He smiled at you, soft and crooked. “Still can’t believe you’re my girlfriend. That’s like, winning the Triwizard Tournament but without the dragons.”
Fred piped up. “You do realize you’re gonna have to live this all down when you’re healed, yeah?”
George didn’t miss a beat. “Worth it.”
Pomfrey sighed. “Someone help me levitate this lovestruck idiot to the Wing before he starts serenading her.”
You stood up, still grinning as George kept his eyes locked on you, even while floating in mid-air. He reached out lazily, fingers wiggling in your direction. “I love you, random pretty girl.”
You leaned close and kissed his forehead. “Still your girlfriend, dork.”
He beamed, all bruised and dizzy and delighted. “Hell yeah.”
Summary: After a whole summer away, you see your best friend George and... he's different.
Warnings: Childhood friends to lovers, the reader literally drools for George, George is obvious till the end, fluff, jealousy,cursing, George being a git while Fred plays an important role! If you're a minor, do not interact with this post! I had to change their ages for the story (I know they should be younger!).
English isn't my first language, so please be kind! I do not own Harry Potter's characters. This is pure imagination! Do not copy my works, please! Enjoy!
⋆˚ ✿ Based on Sabrina Carpenter's song! I'm publishing the 1st part of this story because I want to write a longer fanfic!
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5
You've always been part of the Weasley's family.
Like Arthur, your father worked for the Ministry of Magic in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. They were both fascinated by Muggles and their ability to live their lives without magic. Molly and your mother, on the other hand, met when they were two teenagers at Hogwarts, sharing the same dorm as well.
When you were born, six years after the birth of your older brother, you have basically grown up with the twins.
The three of you have been, unluckily, separated when the sorting hat chose your house - Hufflepuff, like your grandmother.
But still, you were inseparable. Always spending the holidays together, from Christmas to summer break.
This summer, however, Arthur won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw, and they flew to Egypt to see Bill.
That's why you and your family decided to visit your grandparents in Ireland (even though it was really strange to spend their first summer break away from the Burrow).
For a month, you received letters and pictures from mostly everyone. Seeing their happy faces and their wide smiles made you happy, too.
You sent letters to them as well. Writing long and heartfelt letters, knowing damn well that Fred wouldn't even read them, while George would keep them inside the small box you two made when you were kids.
It's an old cardboard box - one that you and George made when you were around 6 years old. Every time you gifted each other something, you carefully put it inside of it. Now they were both sixteen, and the box was literally heavy.
You and George have always had a special connection. Despite Molly and your mother acting like you two were going to marry one day, you've never thought about him that way.
Merlin, you've basically seen him naked when he was 10! How could you even be in love with George of all people?
Or at least, that's what you believed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When September came, you were already rushing towards the King's Cross Station, walking inside the Platform 9¾.
"Dear, stop running! You won't see anything if you run!" your mother warned you, concerned.
"Don't worry, mum!" you giggled, finally stopping on your tracks as soon you saw two red-haired boys.
"George! Fred!" you yelled, running towards them with a huge smile plastered on your face.
"My little butterfly!" George wrapped his strong arms around your waist, lifting you up and spinning you around.
"My little butterfly? Really? Will you still call her that way in ten years?" Fred groaned, rolling his eyes at how cheeky you two were.
"She'll always be his butterfly," Molly chuckled, shaking her head in fondness. "Some things never change!"
But oh, they were about to change.
"You have long hair now! You both have long hair," you gasped, looking at both George and Fred.
"Yeah, guess we wanted to look more mature," Fred murmured, while George grinned shyly.
"You - you look mature, very mature," you whispered, blushing.
"Oh, my two young men!" Molly chuckled, smacking their cheeks affectionately, earning a groan from both of them.
"Hurry up, or you'll lose the train!" Arthur urged them to go away. "Molly, leave the kids"
After you bidded farewell to your families, George, Fred, and you stepped inside one of the train compartments of the Hogwarts Express.
A lady from Honeydukes Express, with a trolley full of sweets, knocked on your compartment... and despite having a sweet tooth, you couldn't fully concentrate.
You were shamelessly staring at George.
When did you get hot? All the sudden I could look you up and down all day.
You shook your head, trying to push those thoughts away. Since when did you drool over George? The same guy who spat a bogey flavoured bean right on your favourite skirt years ago?
That's not possible... right?
"Oi, do you want a bean?" Fred tapped your shoulder, handing you the small package of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. "Be careful, you may find another terrible bean"
"Ew, no thanks."
George chuckled, putting a bean inside his mouth smoothly without breaking eye contact.
"Scared you'll eat a vomit flavoured one again?"
You rolled your eyes, throwing a piece of paper in his face.
"I do not want to eat those things anymore. I lost count on how many terrible tastes I've found"
Fred hummed, nodding in approval.
"You're right. But what's life without a bit of risks?" but as soon as he put one between his lips, he threw it away. "EARWAX"
Both you and George made a face of disgust, eyeing the exact same sweet.
"Chocolate frog!" you said in unison, launching towards the small package that was lying quietly on top of the empty seat.
"I said that first!" you replied, trying to snatch the Chocolate Frog from his hands.
"I looked at it first!" George spoke back, licking your hand, causing you to gasp in horror.
"You're acting like two kids who have never seen or eat a Chocolate Frog. George, get out and buy another one"
George huffed and stood up, walking towards the lady with the trolley.
"Excuse me, can I have a chocolate frog, please?"
"You can have mine," a squeaky voice reached his ear. "I bought one for my friend, but she doesn't want it"
The girl smiled widely at him, blushing and batting her last at him.
"Uhm... thanks." George murmured, accepting the chocolate frog with a small nod.
"I'm Lydia, by the way," the girl giggled, waving at him excitedly.
Once George walked back inside the compartment, he sat down next to you.
"I got it for free," he wiggled his eyebrows, grinning. "A girl gave it to me"
Fred snorted, high-fiving him.
"Good job, mate! Was she pretty?"
"Wait, slow down. A girl gave you a chocolate frog without any reasons?" You murmured, furrowing your eyebrows.
"Why do you sound so surprised? I'm irresistible. No one can resist this face." he winked at you, biting down the head of the chocolate frog. "I got Dumbledore once again!"
You ate the chocolate slowly, almost... absently. Your mind was already working, connecting dots and making absurd scenarios.
"But yeah," he shrugged his shoulders. "She's cute... with blonde hair and green eyes, absolutely pretty"
Fred groaned, telling him how 'lucky' he was, while you were biting that damn chocolate frog roughly now.
"Oi, you're destroying that poor frog," George murmured, smiling innocently.
As if he hadn't done anything. As if your heart wasn't beating faster at the thought of another girl flirting with him.
"Who's she?" You didn't want your voice to sound so strained, yet it came out as a choked murmur. "I mean... she's apparently pretty and all"
Fred studied your face, contemplating. As if he was already understanding something that even you couldn't fully understand.
"Her name's Lydia. She's a Ravenclaw." George stretched his arms, locking eyes with you. "But I don't want to talk about her... I missed you"
Your gaze softened, a fond smile formed on your lips. "I missed you, too. Both of you."
"It was weird... not having you with us, spending a summer break without your old books falling from your hands." Fred teased you, ruffling your hair.
"Hey! At least you saw something way older than my books. How big were the pyramids?"
Both of them stood up, mimicking how big the pyramids were, rambling about everything they saw and how they had tried to shut Percy inside a pyramid but failing as soon as Molly caught them.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The familiar castle of Hogwarts welcomed them... but despite their excitement, the sight of the Dementors 'supervising' Hogwarts from any possible harm after Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban made the atmosphere dark.
"It's colder in here, isn't it?" George murmured, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to keep you close.
"This is crazy. Black escapes from one of the most secure prisons, and we're the ones who have to endure these horrible creatures." Fred shook his head, walking towards the entrance faster. "Come on, let's go inside before those things suck our happiness away."
"I'm so hungry," you spoke excitedly, walking inside the Great Hall.
"You're always hungry," George laughed, following you until you reached your house's table. "See you later"
You hummed softly, sitting down next to Alice, one of your closest friends.
"Hey, sweetie," Alice hugged you, "What happened to Fred and George? They're hot as hell."
You rolled your eyes, smacking her arm gently.
"You're talking about my best friends!" You chuckled, earning a huff from her.
"Oh, come on! Have you seen them?"
"I did, yeah." you whispered, glancing at George.
"You're drooling." Alice cackled, covering her mouth.
"I am not drooling!" you replied quickly, looking away from George's direction.
"Who's that girl sitting close to him?"
Your head snapped abruptly towards the pair, your eyes zeroed on the way this mysterious girl was literally clinging to George's side.
"I have no idea," you exhaled, biting your lips hard.
"You're going to make it bleed," Alice whispered. "Besides, you're basically fuming."
You took a slow breath, shifting your gaze to the plate in front of you.
"I'm not fuming. George can do whatever he wants with whoever he wants"
"Suure," Alice muttered while you stuffed your mouth with... roasted potatoes.
~~~~~~~~~~~
A few months later, Lydia kept dancing around George until she successfully managed to kiss George.
And you saw it all.
You were walking towards the Gryffindor common room with two cupcakes in hand, something you had prepared for the twin's seventeenth birthday. You've always loved to bake, especially during special events. But when you saw a red-haired guy kissing a blonde girl fervently, the cupcakes fell from your hands.
George was kissing Lydia.
His hands were wrapped around the girl's waist, and his tie was loosened.
Your feet moved before you could register the scene in front of your eyes, running away without any care.
Why was the sight of George kissing another girl upsetting you this much?
"Hey, little hellion." Fred called you, hands in his pockets and a grin plastered on his face. "Where are you running to?"
"I'm fine, don't worry about me." you whispered with choked voice.
Fred furrowed his eyebrows, catching your wrist firmly. "Don't worry about you? There is clearly something wrong, and you tell me not to worry about you? What happened?"
When you turned around to face him, your cheeks were already covered in tears.
"You're crying..." Fred whispered, wiping away your tears with gentle hands.
Then, from the corner, George appeared - the two smashed cupcakes in his hands.
"Fred, you can't imagine what happened! Hey, little butterfly -" his words came to a stop as soon as he saw you crying. "You're crying. Who did this to you?"
You wanted to shout out loud, telling him that he was the reason why you were crying. But even you couldn't fully understand why you were crying.
So you did what you're apparently good at right now: you lied to him. You lied to yourself, too.
"It's... it's because of a guy."
"A guy? Tell me his name, and I swear I'll punch him as hard as I can"
"It's fine, George. I just need to let him go"
But Fred was still looking at you with confused eyes, wondering if there's something more under that painful truth.
"Anyway... happy birthday to both of you." you whispered before walking away.
When you disappeared from their sights, Fred looked down at the ruined cupcakes in George's hands.
"What are those?" he pointed at the homemade sweets with his finger.
"I found them smashed on the floor," George replied.
Fred nodded absently, fixing his hair. "What were you going to tell me?"
"Oh, yeah!" George exclaimed happily. "Me and Lydia kissed!"
Oh. Oh. Fred's eyes widened. Now everything makes sense. You loved baking. Those smashed cupcakes. Your tears. Everything led him to the same conclusion: you've seen George kissing Lydia.
"You two kissed? Do you even like her, or are you just enjoying her attention?"
George's smile dropped, and a frown appeared on his face.
"Are you implying that I'm just fooling around?"
"No, George." Fred sighed, looking back at the direction you've run off to. "I'm just saying that you should think about it before you jump into this relationship"
"Honestly? This connection is... physical, you know?" George chuckled, fixing his tie.
"George, you're better than that," Fred murmured. "I know you're excited and all, but just think about it, yeah?"
~~~~~~~~~
The following days, you tried to avoid both Fred and George. You were still trying to understand why the thought of George with another girl was bothering you so much... that's why you were currently sitting on the edge of your bed with the box you and George made years ago.
"Are you sure you're not in love with him?" Alice sat down next to you, placing a hand on your shoulder.
"I can't possibly be in love with my best friend, right?"
"Honey, what if that's exactly why you fell for him? You know him better than anyone else"
You gulped, opening the box with trembling hands.
"I don't know anymore, Alice." you whispered, picking up a small origami butterfly. "George made this years ago... Arthur gave him a muggle book where they taught you how to make origami, and he insisted on doing one for me"
Alice gave you a small smile, nodding slowly.
"That's actually cute. I've never understood why he keeps calling you 'little butterfly'."
"He's been calling me that way since we were two kids. We were at the Burrow, playing outside when all of a sudden, I saw a butterfly and began to follow it... but then I lost sight of it, and I literally got lost, too. Everyone was panicking until the butterfly reappeared, and it led me home. That's when George hugged me, crying out loud. I tried to reassure him, telling him that, like the butterfly, I found my way back home. Since then, he started to call me 'little butterfly' because every time he loses himself, he knows that I will always lead him home"
Alice wiped away your tears, hugging you tightly.
"It's never been just a friendship, and you know it. You were his home"
"Exactly... I was." you whispered bitterly. "Not anymore"
"Bullshit! Do you seriously think that Ravenclaw can actually take your place? Y/N, George is completely in love with you. He hadn't understood it yet"
"I wish you were right," you murmured, closing the box of memories.
~~~~~~~~~~~
"You've been avoiding us," Fred stopped in front of you, blocking your path.
"I'm busy, Fred."
"Busy with what? Cut the crap, Y/N. I know you've been upset about something, and you'll tell me why because I'm one of your best friends - Hell, I'm like a brother to you, so stop avoiding me and talk to me!"
"I'M ANGRY WITH GEORGE, OKAY?" You finally snapped. "Is that what you wanted to hear? Because I'm pretty sure you already knew"
Fred let out a loud sigh, rubbing a hand on his face. "Yeah, I've had my ideas... but why? What did he do?"
"Please, don't ask something that even I can't understand." You closed your eyes, unable to tell him everything.
"It's me! It's just me! You can talk to me," Fred begged you, holding your hands.
"I think I'm in love with George."
YAY! I finally wrote this fanfic, I'm so happy with the results. Obviously, this is just the first part of the story (^o^)
Anyway, I would like to thank @uzmacchiato for the amazing dividers, as always☆
Tag list : @aniveraweasley @head-locked @wisp1q @khumiko
If you want to be added to my tag list or stay permanently on it, leave a comment here!
Summary: You're just trying to help your best friend get the boy she likes, but George Weasley keeps looking at you instead. Turns out the only person who doesn't know she's the one worth looking at is, is looking at her.
Warnings: no use of y/n
Cw: angst
Wc:3k+
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 (finale)
Everyone noticed Cecily first.
Always. Without fail. You had accepted this the same way you accepted that the staircases moved and the food appeared at dinner. Its just one of those things that was true and not worth questioning.
Cecily was your best friend and she was, by every measurable standard, beautiful. Not in a complicated way. In a very simple, immediately obvious way that made boys forget what they were saying mid-sentence.
And you were, you.
Quiet. Careful. The kind of person who stood slightly behind Cecily in every conversation without meaning to. The kind of person who got through five years at Hogwarts by being easy to overlook. You didn't mind being looked at so much as you had no idea what to do with it when it happened, so you made sure it happened as rarely as possible.
It was a good system.
It was working fine.
And then Cecily had to go and develop feelings for George Weasley.
---
"He smiled at me," Cecily announced, dropping into the seat beside you at breakfast, immediately stealing your toast.
"In Transfiguration. George Weasley smiled at me."
"He smiles at everyone," you said. "It's sort of his whole thing."
"Not like this." She pressed her hand to her cheek. "This was different. This was a specific smile."
"You're describing a smile like it has subcategories."
"It does." She turned to look at you very seriously. "There's the polite smile, the jokey smile, the — "
"Cecily."
"— and then there's the one where they're actually looking at you, like really looking, and it's — " She fanned herself. "It was that one."
You glanced across the Great Hall. George was at the Gryffindor table arguing with Fred about something, gesturing widely, nearly knocking over a goblet of pumpkin juice. He caught it without even looking. Just reached out and steadied it mid-sentence.
You looked back at your porridge.
"So talk to him," you said.
"I can't just talk to him." She looked at you like you'd suggested she walk into the Black Lake. "He's — you know what he's like. He'd say something funny and I'd laugh too hard and it would be embarrassing and I'd have to transfer schools."
"You're being dramatic."
"I'm being realistic."
"Those aren't the same thing."
She slumped against you. "Help me. Please. You're so good at this stuff, you're calm, you don't get flustered, nothing rattles you."
You thought about how your brain went completely offline whenever anyone addressed you directly and how you had once walked into a door because a prefect said good morning to you.
"Sure," you said. "I'll help."
The plan was simple. Clean. Required zero conversation on your part.
You knew George and Fred camped out at the back corner of the library every Wednesday afternoon to work on their joke products. You knew this because you were in the library every Wednesday too — had been since second year — because it was the one place people left you alone.
You told Cecily to come return a book at half past three. Told her exactly which aisle to walk through. Told her to wear the blue top.
Then you sat down with your Potions notes and minded your business.
---
You were doing brilliantly at minding your business until someone sat down across from you and said, "You planned that, didn't you."
You grabbed your inkwell before it tipped. Your heart had relocated to your throat.
Fred Weasley was sitting across from you, chin in his hands, looking deeply entertained.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you said.
"The aisle your friend just walked through leads to exactly one place, and that place is our table." He picked up your quill. Examined it. Put it back. "Clever plan."
You gulped, you're heart racing.
"I suggested she return a book. That's all."
"Uh huh." He did not look convinced. He looked the opposite of convinced. "You know, we've been in the same year for five years."
"I know."
"Never spoken."
"I noticed."
"You're very — " he tilted his head " — compact. Conversation-wise."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't entirely a compliment."
"I know."
Fred laughed, surprised, like he hadn't expected that. He stood up, tucking the chair back in.
You sat very still. Then you turned back to your Potions notes and read the same sentence eight times.
---
Friday. The corridor outside Charms.
You had your head down, bag pulled close, moving fast because the Friday crowd made your skin feel wrong. You had a system — stay left, watch the gaps, don't make eye contact, be home free.
The system failed when someone fell into step beside you and just stayed there.
You looked up.
George Weasley. Hands in his pockets, walking like he had nowhere to be and all day to get there.
Your brain did something it did not have permission to do.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," you said, and immediately looked back at the floor.
"I'm George."
"I know who you are."
"Right." He sounded like that amused him. "You're in my Transfiguration class."
"Yes."
"You never talk in class."
"I talk when I have something to say."
"McGonagall called on you Tuesday. You answered in eleven words and then went completely silent again." A pause. "I counted."
You looked at him. "You counted my words."
"Fred talks too much," he said simply. "I started counting as a coping mechanism. Now I just do it."
You had no idea what to do with that information. You looked back at the corridor. The fork was coming up ahead — left for you, and then this conversation would be physically impossible to continue and you could go back to existing in peace.
"You were in the library on Wednesday," he said.
"I'm always there on Wednesdays."
"I know. You had your Potions book open." A beat. "Upside down."
The heat hit your face so fast it was almost impressive. "I was thinking."
"With the book upside down."
"It's a method."
"Is it a Potions method specifically or a general thinking method?"
"It's a — " You stopped. He was smiling. Not laughing at you, just — smiling, like he found you genuinely interesting, which was somehow worse. "Can you not."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing something."
He laughed — low and quiet, not Fred's big boom, something warmer and more contained and it landed right in the center of your chest and stayed there, which was absolutely not allowed.
You were at the fork. Left. Go left. Go left right now.
"You should talk to Cecily," you said. The words came out faster than you planned. "My friend. You know her — dark hair, always laughing? She's really fun, like actually fun, not just polite fun."
George blinked. "Okay —"
"She's your type," you continued, because apparently you had committed to this and there was no stopping now. "Like I genuinely think she's your type. She's funny, she laughs at everything, she'd actually keep up with you —"
"My type," he repeated slowly.
"Yes. And she loves Quidditch, she knows all the teams, you could talk about that for hours. And she's kind. Really kind. And she bakes, I don't know if that's relevant but she makes these incredible — anyway. The point is." You adjusted your bag strap. It did not need adjusting. "You should talk to her. Like, properly talk to her. I think you'd really like her."
George stared at you for a second.
"Did you just pitch your friend to me," he said, "like a business proposal."
"I was being helpful."
He pressed his lips together like he was physically trying not to smile and failing completely. "Right," he said. "Cecily. Got it."
"Right. So. You should — yeah." You pointed vaguely to the left. "I have to go."
"You're not late," he said. "We just got out of the same class."
"I have things. Other things."
"Things," he repeated slowly, like he was testing the word.
"Important things. Goodbye."
You turned left so fast you nearly walked into the wall. You recovered. You did not look back. You kept walking with your chin up and your face absolutely on fire and your heart making a lot of noise about something that was none of its business.
Behind you, George watched you go.
He was still smiling.
A/n: i just thought of the storyline an instantly wrote it cause ive been missing my pookie :3
summary: Instead of packing your boyfriend's clothes away, you’d like to see what he’s packing underneath them all.
wc: 900+
cw: making out, suggestive content
When George walks out of the bathroom to find you laying on his bed on your stomach, kicking your feet up behind you, he allows a loving smile to grace his features. You, on the other hand, can’t help the bodily reaction you have at the sight of your boyfriend. Your eyes widen, and your legs go suddenly still. In the distance, you hear yourself gasp. George stands in front of you, eyebrows raised at your reaction, but can he really blame you? He’s only wearing an old, ripped t-shirt, some boxers and a pair of socks, and he can nearly see you drooling over his muscular legs.
“Nice surprise.” George’s two, simple, genuine words have you snapping out of your haze, pushing yourself off your stomach to slide your legs underneath you and kneel facing him. You watch silently as George takes slow steps towards you, a teasing grin on his face. When he’s finally close enough, George puts a hand on your cheek, caressing your soft skin with his thumb. Both your hands come up, resting on George’s thighs, which instantly flex at your touch.
George’s thumb stops its circles on your cheek, moving to finally rest on your bottom lip. You wrap your lips around the tip of his finger, sucking lightly. George chuckles, removing his thumb from your mouth and you sigh, sitting up off your ankles. Teasingly, George leans down to press a soft kiss on your lips. You try deepening the kiss, but to your misfortune, your boyfriend pulls away, leaving you yearning for more. “Please.” You hear yourself whisper, but George is already walking past you to sit down on his bed.
Pouting slightly, you kick your legs off the bed, pushing yourself to stand up with your hands on your hips. George furrows his eyebrows from where he is sat with his back against the headboard, gesturing for you to come closer to him. You feel fulfilment engulf you, pride filling your chest as you throw yourself onto George.
George huffs slightly as you knock the air out of his chest, his arms snaking around your waist just like yours had been thrown over his shoulders. Whilst you rearrange yourself over George’s lap, he busies himself by nosing at your neck, pressing kisses on every inch of skin he can reach. You hum when he introduces his teeth into the mix, nibbling on your neck softly enough that he wouldn’t leave any bruises. After all, today’s the last day of term before everyone goes home for the holidays, and the last thing you’d want your parents to notice are dark love bites on your skin.
“One for the road?” George asks, words muffled against your skin. You giggle, pressing yourself down onto his lap with a wiggle to tease him. His clothes are still sprawled all over the room, clearly in the midst of packing before he decided on taking a shower. Procrastination at its best.
Running your hands underneath George’s shirts, you revel at the feeling of his soft skin, velvety under your fingertips. George grabs you by the hips, dragging you forward on his lap so you sit atop his growing erection. He leans forward, attempting to press his lips to yours, but you pull back by the slightest bit, only letting his lips graze yours as you mumble “You’ll still have time to pack, won’t you?”
“Yeah, love. When have I had to worry about that before?” His sarcastic comment has you chuckling against his lips, vividly recalling the way you stayed up with him early into the hours of the morning to pack all of his belongings before your last holiday. You hope that tonight, you’ll be able to spend time with George a little differently. Instead of packing all his clothes away, you’d like to see what he’s packing underneath them all. Instead of folding clothes up yourself, you’d prefer to be folded in half by your boyfriend on his messy bed.
But unfortunately, just as you hook your fingers into the band of George’s boxers, the twin’s other half decides to make up for the lack of productivity he's had all day. Fred enters the room loudly, unaware of the moment he interrupted until he hears your disappointed sigh, head dropping to rest on your boyfriend’s shoulder. George places his hands over yours, smiling apologetically at you despite knowing you’re not paying any attention to his face.
“Get a room!” Fred jokes with an annoying smirk, slumping down on the floor at the foot of his bed to begin folding his own clothes that had been thrown in a messy pile when he had begun 'packing'.
You lift your head off George’s shoulder, tugging him by the shirt desperately. His eyes are immediately clouded with confusion, but he wordlessly follows you off the bed, lips tugging upwards into a proud smile when you grab him by the hand, beelining towards the bathroom. It’s even messier in there, but you prop yourself up on the limited space the sink offers, hooking a leg around George’s hip. He grins widely now, arms landing on each side of you to trap you between the sink and his body.
He ducks his head down, lips hovering just above yours, but just before he’s able to connect them, a voice from outside the bathroom door calls out “Can you pass me my toiletry bag?”
