just enough light
pairing: george x hufflepuff!fem!reader word count: 4.4k OOF we're so back warning(s): war, blood, injury, george losing his gosh darn ear, some sexual content but i cut it off before anything dramatic because i can't write smut to save my life it makes me so wildly uncomfortable looool premise: you receive an urgent owl from fred that george has been injured the night before bill and fleur's wedding. so you drop everything, as you always do for him, and apparate to the burrow. you were never going to say anything, or do anything. but his injury, the impending war, the romance, the firewhiskey, all has a way of working itself into your veins before your desperation for george reaches new levels. A/N: OH hey, remember little old me? your resident weasley twin OBSESSED gryffindor girlie? well, i'm back. recently, the feels have been creeping in to write for my favorite boys again, and when the potter feels swoop in and straight up punch me in the face, there's no denying it. this is one of those stories that literally just poured out of me and i couldn't stop writing. so, let's dive back in, shall we? *i do not give permission for my work to be posted on any other platform.
The streets outside are dark, bleak, wet with fresh rain from a storm that just rolled through. The normally vibrant Diagon Alley has lost all its colour, all its life, amidst the tension of the impending war. Death Eaters storm the streets regularly. And yet, here you are, still at the headquarters of the Daily Prophet, trying your best to showcase what truly matters: the facts of it all.
It's no secret to that the Wizarding community had been at odds for a few years, until it was revealed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named really did return, and since then it’s just been a fight for survival. But you still worked long hours, wrapping yourself up in your work, fact-checking and writing until the late hours of the night, if only to prevent yourself from thinking and letting your mind run rampant.
You’re going on hour ten, and you’re halfway through an article draft when the owl taps at your office window.
You furrow your brows. You don’t recognize this owl – brown feathers a bit ruffled, wide around the eyes. Bloody hell, looks like he’s gone through the ringer to get here. You give him a quick gentle pet to thank him for his delivery. You untie the note attached to his leg and immediately recognize Fred’s handwriting – rushed, smudged, as if written in a hurry.
Come quickly. Do not ask questions. George has been hurt.
Your whole body freezes at Fred’s words. George. Hurt.
You’d been friends with the Weasley family since you were young, and you met the younger boys on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole. Turns out they had the same knack for pranking that you do. Separated only by house during your Hogwarts years, the three of you were inseparable.
On the bottom of the note is something dark – blood, maybe, or perhaps spilled ink. You don’t take the time to analyze.
You drop your quill and papers to the floor, grab your cloak, and Disapparate before you think otherwise.
-
Somehow, in the darkness of the evening, the Burrow glows against the countryside, warm light spilling from the windows. You see a faint light coming from the twins’ window, and sprint inside.
“Oh, darling,” Molly says softly, and pulls you in for an embrace. “Thank you for getting here so quickly. He’s—” she’s dabbing her eyes and sniffling before she can finish her sentence, which sends your thoughts spiraling. With a quick squeeze of her hand, you’re off in a flash – your legs are carrying you up the steps faster than you can register, floorboards creaking beneath your feet, before you’re standing in the doorway breathing heavily, nearly folding at the seams at the sight in front of you.
Fred, cheeky as ever, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, turns to his disfigured twin. “Told you she’d come storming in here like a hurricane.” To you, he winks and then softens at the panicked look on your face. “He – he’s fine, really,”
“Honestly, Fred,” you begin, slapping him with your hand. He fake winces. “Can’t you just be serious for one moment?”
Mockingly, he brings a hand to his heart. “I haven’t got a serious bone in my body, I’m afraid. It’s like you don’t know us but at all.”
You shut your eyes, half-annoyed and half-relieved, that they’re both here, they’re both alive, and pull him into a bone-crushing embrace. You did in fact, storm in there like a hurricane, and yet now that you’re here, in their childhood bedroom, Quidditch posters on the wall, prototypes of old inventions and ghosts of who they were as children in every square inch of the space, you can’t bring yourself to look at George.
Until he speaks.
“Oi,” he calls, raising a hand from the bed. It’s covered in blood. “I’m the injured one here, why aren’t I getting an embrace?”
You and Fred pull apart. He snorts back a laugh and says to George, “You just want to get your hands on her, is all.”
When you finally turn to look at him, you swallow over a lump that’s lodged itself in your throat, and George manages a wink. “Reckon you’re right.”
At some point throughout this whole ordeal, you’d started crying, you just didn’t know when. Your cheeks are now tearstained, sniffles rising to the surface, and you can hardly even manage to crack a grin at his horrendous flirting. You normally always do. His grin softens, before vanishing completely. “Hey,” he sticks out his hand weakly. “Come ‘ere.”
You let go of Fred now and make your way over to the bed tentatively. His ear is entirely gone. It’s covered in blood, which has matted down his hair in a deep red clump. There’s blood stained against the side of his face and down his neck, and across his shirt. You look away, through the window at the moonlight spilling in. Though your eyes are too blurry to really notice it.
George takes your hand in his and gently guides you to the bed. “Please, sit,” he croaks out. And so you do. With his clean hand, he reaches out, wiping a tear from your cheek, pushing your hair behind your ear. And you’re putty in his hands.
It hasn’t always been this way. Not when you were young. You could handle his flirty grins, that bubbling laughter, his over-the-top antics and the horrendously cringey yet funny way he’d call you “love” when trying to be obnoxious. It used to be so easy to dart from. But something changed over the years. Your heart began to hammer when his eyes would find yours in the busy Great Hall, your breath would hitch whenever he grabbed your hand to drag you onto the Quidditch pitch late at night to practice, and now…
You shut your eyes and try to swallow down your tears, but it’s no use. They fall voluntarily from your eyes. You can still feel his fingers brushing your clenched jaw line. “You didn’t tell me.” You mean, of course, the moving of Harry Potter, the taking of the Polyjuice Potion, the putting their lives at risk by quite literally becoming him and dodging the most evil of wizards left and right in the air. You finally open your eyes, and George’s face has gone from his usual happy, cheeky self, to more solemn. More sorry. You turn to look at Fred now. “Either of you.”
“We wanted too, Y/N,” Fred says, “but we didn’t want you worrying for no reason.”
George’s voice sounds a bit stronger. “We knew you’d worry.”
“I always worry!” you snap, and both twins tense a bit. “But that’s not the point! The point is, you should’ve told me! And it’s not for no reason, Fred!” Your deep breaths feel like breathing fire. It’s coursing through your veins. You will yourself to calm down. Through another long deep breath, you run a hand through your hair and laugh a bit – not your usual laugh, but more exasperated. Desperate. “I’m sorry. But you could’ve been killed!” you cry, squeezing George’s hand. “Either of you!”
George takes his chances on joking. “Suppose it’s lucky I wasn’t, then.”
“Lucky,” you spurt out, laughing in disbelief. “Right.”
Somehow, he’s able to sit up with as much strength as he can muster, and a little help from you, until he’s upright. It’s paining him, you can see it, but you also know he won’t stop, so it’s no use trying to bother to get him to lie back down. He rests his forehead on your shoulder for a moment to catch his breath, and you place a hand on his back to steady him. Finally, he looks up at you. “I’m sorry. You’re right, we should’ve told you. But I promise I’m okay.”
“Thank Merlin.”
You grab the washcloth from his bedside table and gently press it to the side of his face, careful not to touch his ear. The blood is starting to come off. He closes his eyes, breathes in and out slowly, and lets you do what you must to feel better. Silence stretches between you both, only the hollow sound of creaky steps and muffled chatter from floors above filling the air.
You think maybe he’s fallen asleep in that upright position. “Does it hurt?” you ask, almost a whisper, and his eyes flutter open.
“Only when I smile,” he says.
“Oh, well, good thing you never do that,” you finally tease.
He cracks a grin. Not his normal cheeky one. This one’s softer, gentler. He brings his own hand to his face, covering yours with his fingers, weakly.
Across the room in the entryway, reminding you both of his presence with a little startle, Fred clears his throat. “Are you two planning on making heart eyes at one another all night, or shall I fetch us all a cup of tea?”
“Don’t think I won’t use a biting doorknob on you when you least expect it,” George fires jokingly, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of you.
Smiling, you turn to Fred and say, “Tea sounds lovely.”
Fred vanishes down into the kitchen, and you’re left alone with George. You help him to lay back down after cleaning his hair, helping Molly bandage him up, and placing him into a more comfortable pyjama shirt. He asks you to stay, so you do. After a while, you feel him settle into a deep sleep, his breathing rhythmic, his bandaged ear highlighted by the moonlight flooding the window. You feel a pang in your chest.
But he’s alive. And for now, you can breathe.
-
Morning breaks soft and golden over the Burrow’s fields. What a beautiful day for a wedding. You’re awoken by the kettle making a pot of tea. The usual chatter can be heard throughout the Burrow, and for a moment, you feel like you’ve dreamt it all – the owl, the note, the blood on his shirt – until you hear the twins’ chorused laughter coming from a few floors above.
Right. He’s alive.
He’s hurt, but thank Merlin, he’s alive.
That’s what gets you through the day. You’d like to be laying by his side, but you know he needs his rest before the evening festivities. Plus, it wouldn’t look quite right for George’s friend to crawl underneath the covers with him, nursing him back to health.
You swallow and shove the thought down.
You help where you can – placing decorations, putting up the tent, making sure all is in order with Ginny so Molly doesn’t have to do all of it. Of course, the magic does the heavy lifting. And though you spend most of the day outside, peering up longingly at the house, your heart and mind are with the boy up on the second floor.
In the afternoon, the guests begin to arrive. They’re surprisingly exuberant and excited despite the impending war that rests on the horizon, but you digress – perhaps, that’s all the more reason to have a wedding. Besides, you knew that Fleur would never settle on changing the date. She and Bill were marrying, come hell or high water.
You see him only once before the ceremony: George, a bit pale but more colour in his cheeks than yesterday, dressed smartly in purple with a crisp white bandage tied around his head. You can’t help but laugh – even on his brother’s most important day, he’s still looking mischievous. Wouldn’t be George otherwise. You can see him peering around the crowd, wondering who he’s looking for, hoping he’s looking for you. But when he doesn’t find you, an overly friendly Beauxbatons girl, one of Fleur’s friends from school, inserts herself into the conversation the Weasley family is having, and the ache in your chest doubles.
You place yourself in the crowd with Hermione and Harry, somewhere near the back, and breathe in deeply as you watch the Weasley men take their place next to Bill at the altar. You begin fidgeting with your necklace, only to give yourself something to do instead of staring. But it’s no use. It’s like you’re waiting for his eyes to find yours. And when they do, they soften, and a small smile spreads itself across his lips, and he raises a hand in hello. You do so back before the music swells and the bride is set to marry the groom.
An overwhelmingly stunning ceremony, you watch as Molly dabs at her eyes for her oldest, now married, son. All of the Weasley boys are patting Bill on the back before he takes his place with his wife for their first dance. Silently, Fred slips away from the group, appearing near you with a glass of firewhiskey in his hands. As Bill and Fleur begin to sway to a gentle melody, Fred carefully clinks his glass with yours.
“He’s been watching you all afternoon,” he says matter-of-factly.
You feel your muscles tense. Careful not to show too much emotion, you offer a slight, “Hmm?” pretending to watch the newlyweds. But Fred sees right through you. You’re looking directly at the man who has owned your heart for the better half of your life, keen on not imagining what it would be like for him to love you back. Because he could never. He has never.
“Oh, please,” he huffs, as if he can read your mind. For a moment, you wonder if he can. “You two are horrid at hiding it. Always have been.” Blood pounds in your ears at his words, and you turn toward Fred, confused.
“What do you mean?’
Fred cocks his head and peers at you, with just a smidge of mockery. “Come on, Y/N. The whole world knows he’s loved you for years. Except, I guess, you,” he breathes. You furrow your brow further. If this is true, how did you never know? Why did he never tell you? You suppose, now, for the same reasons you never told him. Self-doubt. Your heart aches in places you didn’t know existed.
Fred turns back to look toward his twin, his jaw tight. “He scared us all half to death last night.” Back to you, he continues. “Don’t miss the chance to tell him whatever you’ve been holding close to you for all these years.”
Silently again, he slips away, vanishing into the crowd of couples who have now joined Bill and Fleur on the dance floor, leaving just you and your racing heart.
-
Music hovers over the grass inside the tent. Couples sway together. Arthur and Molly, looking like love-pinched teenagers, Ron and Hermione holding one another awkwardly, sweetly, Fleur, a radiant bride. You stand near the tent flaps, hands grasped tight around a glass of Firewhiskey that’s nearly finished.
He appears before you, a cheeky grin on his face. “Now what’re you doing all the way over here, looking as beautiful as you do?”
“Chaperoning,” you joke. You feel a chill from outside, the sweet summer air is becoming cooler. Your breath hitches at the word beautiful. You don’t feel it. It’s just a silly blue dress you had hanging in your closet. “Just getting some fresh air.”
“Well, care for a dance?”
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” you grin.
“Nah, doctor's orders – I’ve got to move around a bit – keep the charm in working order.”
Across the room, Fred Weasley grins to himself and turns toward that animated Beauxbatons girl from this afternoon. “Does that doctor happened to be named Fred?”
George smiles fully now. “He does know me best, after all.”
And when he offers you his hand, you take it.
The world shrinks itself down to soft candlelight, rain-damp grass, and a light tune. Carefully, he takes your waist in his hand, holding you as if you’re some delicate glass figurine, and he’ll break you if he squeezes too tight.
Together, you move quietly, with some nervous stolen glances and soft smiles, both a bit unsure at first, but unwilling to let go of one another. The years spill together. You remember the day everything changed – you caught him in the corridors, defending a second year against some nasty Ravenclaw. He was comforting the young boy, his normal mischievous tone nowhere in sight. You didn’t realize how quickly it happened – the way your heart had soared, grin broadened at his softness, but between all the moments afterward of chaos and magic and tomfoolery that took place behind the castle doors, somewhere, somehow, you fell in love.
And if Fred is telling the truth, then so did George.
“I scared you last night, didn’t I?” he asks suddenly.
You look up, taken by surprise. His 6’4 frame is nearly swallowing you whole. “You did.”
“I didn’t mean too,” he admits. Sheepishly, he continues, “Kind of scared myself, actually.”
You squeeze his hand. “I know.”
He continues, “I heard you. Yelling later on, when speaking with Freddie, after I’d fallen asleep. Couldn’t tell if you were angry or panicked.”
“A little bit of both,” you admit. “But don’t worry. I’m not anymore. Angry, I mean.”
Slowly, he twirls you beside candlelight. The music floats between you both. You hate how disturbingly good he looks in purple, and the way it makes you feel all fuzzy. He laughs – that familiar, wonderful sound, and teases, “Wow, didn’t think you’d miss me that much.”
But you’re suddenly not in the mood to joke. “You’re wrong.”
The song changes to something a bit more upbeat, but neither of you move or let go of one another. The crowd blends into hues and shadows of silvery dust, and George moves to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. For a fleeting moment, you can hear nothing but the swift beating of your heart.
His hand stops at your jaw, fingers dancing across your neck, and when his eyes meet yours, everything you’ve both been hiding for years and years lives right there, between you both – years of jokes, secret hand-written letters during lessons, late nights on the Quidditch pitch and all of those almost-moments. Words hover on his lips, and on yours, unnecessary, and unspoken.
And then he leans in slowly, heart pounding, tensions rising, and kisses you.
It’s soft, and quick, and fleeting, and not nearly enough after all the years of waiting. He hovers there for a moment, his lips lightly brushing yours, and you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes for fear that it’ll all be just a dream, it’s all been a dream.
But you do. And he’s there, and he’s real, hunger roaring in his eyes. Your glance drops down to his lips, and you’re not sure how much longer you’ll last before you’ll scream. You take his tie in your hands and gently tug him toward the edge of the tent, through the flaps, and into the darkness of the countryside.
Neither of you say anything. Neither of you have too. You back up toward the entrance of the Burrow, and when you’re both inside, away from the crowd, alone, it’s electrifying and scary and it seems like bottled up feelings are taking over the both of you, and George pushes you against the wall and kisses you fiercely. It’s dizzying and passionate and years of hidden love and more, and you’re kissing him back, hungrily, the fire back in your veins, but a different kind. You both stumble, clumsily, drunkenly, up the stairs, stopping every few feet to hold one another, to remove shoes, and ties, and hair barrettes, when you finally reach the second floor. Again you’re pinned to the doorway, desperate for air as he leaves open-mouthed kisses along your neck and collarbone, his grip on your waist tightening.
“I need you to know,” he says, breathless, still kissing you, “that it’s you. It’s always been you.”
“And it’s always been you, too,” you reply unbuttoning his shirt, careful of his injury. Your dress pools in a mess of blue around your ankles before you’re out of the doorway.
It’s dizzying and dangerous, and you can still hear the music faintly from outside, and the moonlight is spilling in again, and you can’t believe how different the evening before was. You’re both a tangled mess of limbs and sheets, finding one another’s bodies in the darkness, careful, slow, exploring one another to make up for all the time you didn’t.
He pulls away for a moment, body on top of yours, and the way the moonlight highlights his muscles is enough to undo you right there. You’re absolutely desperate for him. His arms are shaky due undoubtedly to nerves, eyes glistening like a wildfire. “I love you.”
A cheeky grin pulls at your face, but you’re unable to respond before he’s silencing you again, slower this time, dragging his tongue over your lip and down your neck, an involuntary moan escaping you. You can feel him smile against you. Your hands tense around his arms. Shit. You didn’t want to give in that quickly.
“Like that, do you?”
“Oh shut up,” you said, pulling him closely again, feeling his hands moving slowly and gently across your abdomen, when you guide him in a way that says yes, more.
He presses his forehead to yours, but his eyes are closed, surely willing himself to also not give in. He wants to be careful with you. Delicate. Slow. You can tell. But you’re ravenous. And you know he is too.
He clenches his jaw tightly. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he admits. Precious glass figurine, and all that.
“You won’t.” You whisper.
It’s more tangled limbs, hungry kisses, curious fingers exploring every inch. Breathless moans fill the room; you can’t even try and hide it anymore. His lips are pressed to your skin, the moonlight highlighting his face, and he looks up at you, eyes glistening with a type of hunger you’ve never seen before. The lava inside of him has turned to raging fire. This is a George you’ve seen only in your mind; countless evenings your head had wandered to places where he and you were giving in to one another. But this side of him, you’re finally experiencing for real. Your heart drums against your chest at the fire in his eyes. His voice is sensuous. Animalistic. “Can I take care of you, love?”
Your heart nearly constricts. You want to scream to the heavens and say yes because the idea of him doing that to you makes your entire body shake, but guilt presses at you. Last night. He’s barely rested and everything’s hazy. “George, your–”
“I’ll be okay,” he says. There’s teasing in his eyes, vapid fire in his veins. He’s eager and starving.
You breathe in deeply, and bite at your bottom lip. He presses more kisses to your chest. “Can I?”
“Yes,” you reply, breathless, and you fall into a drunken type of haziness as he sinks lower in the dark, that infamous smirk painted upon his face as he leaves a trail of kisses down your abdomen.
-
There’s a knock on the door, and suddenly everything is a mixture of bright sunlight, firewhiskey aftermath, and tangled bedsheets. You groan and turn slowly toward your side to see George, shirtless, one eye open. “Morning love,” he grins.
Holy shit. So it hadn’t been a dream. You grin sheepishly.
The door flies open and you jump to cover your own exposed body with the remaining part of the sheet that isn’t on the floor. “Bloody hell, Fred!” you sneer, barely awake. “Could’ve waited a moment!”
“Aww, you two,” he teases, and you groan again, knowing the two of you will never be able to live this one down for as long as you both shall live. “Would’ve loved to have waited, but figured you two would want to make yourselves look presentable before Mum and Dad get down, ‘cause I’m pretty sure they’re awake up there,” Fred winks, tossing you your dress from the floor.
Your cheeks flush crimson red, but George only laughs. “Could you take this more seriously, please, Weasley?” you scoff.
“‘Fraid I can’t, darling,” he says, placing his hands behind his head. “Oh, relax, don’t rush, it’s fine that you spent the night in here” he continues as you try and maneuver your dress back on while still hiding under the sheets. “We’re adults. We’ll just tell Mum you were taking care of me, that's all.”
You heard it before it even left his stupid mouth. Fred snorted immediately, not missing a beat, “Oh she took care of you, alright–”
A dull thwap! of a pillow that you’d thrown against his head knocks Fred a tad off balance, as does his own snickering. Your cheeks are surely that of a tomato now. Embarrassment swallows you whole. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be, Frederick?” you asked through gritted teeth.
“I’ll go put on a pot of tea for you lovebirds,” Fred winks. “Oh, and you’re welcome, by the way, for spending the evening on the couch. My poor body could barely handle it.”
“Do all right then, Fred?” George asks innocently.
But there’s nothing, you’ve come to know in all these years of shenanigans and tomfoolery, that’s innocent about the Weasley twins. Fred leans against the wall, arms crossed, “Had my own bit of Beauxbatons fun.”
“Oi, get out!” you tell him again, half laughter and half annoyance in your voice. You hear Fred’s footsteps retreat down to the first floor, undoubtedly beginning breakfast for a group full of wedding hangovers.
You and George dress quickly, grabbing a pair of pyjamas from your bag so it doesn’t look like you’re doing the walk of shame down to the first floor this morning. Hovering on the staircase, George stops you, and pulls you in closer.
“I meant what I said last night,” he tells you, running a hand through your hair. “I really do love you.”
You bring a gentle hand to his face, and brush your thumb against his cheek. He closes his eyes at your touch, and savors the moment, because the entire Burrow is beginning to wake.
“You didn’t exactly give me a chance to respond last evening,” you wiggle your eyebrows at him and he laughs. “You know I love you too, right?”
“Well, I always assumed, the way you always followed me around–” you swat him with the sleeve of your homemade Weasley sweater. Now, sweeter, more serious, “Now I do.”
He leans in and kisses you once again, and the remnants of heat and passion course through your veins, just for a moment, before you’re melting into his embrace, becoming weak at the knees, not believing this is what you two have been missing out on all these years. Him. Here. Alive. You two, together. At last.
Somewhere nearby, Ron and Harry’s laughter echoes a few staircases above, the morning awakening as if nothing at all has changed.
But for you, everything has.
You think, fleetingly, that love during war feels a bit like dancing on a cliff’s edge — the wind fierce, the view endless, the ground uncertain. Yet somehow, you’re not afraid.
Because he’s holding you, and you’re both still standing.
Because even in the dark, there’s enough light to find each other.
