feverish - george weasley x reader poll winner
The sea was restless that morning. It pressed against the jagged rocks below Shell Cottage, gray and foaming, as if the world itself had not yet learned how to be calm again. The battle had ended days ago, but the air still trembled with the memory of screams and fire.
Bill had settled George in the alcove beneath one of the windows days before, when they’d returned by Portkey—exhausted, frightened, and stained with blood—and he hadn’t moved him since.
He looked almost buried beneath a mountain of knitted blankets, freckles still visible against the pallor of fever. Every so often, he muttered something under his breath—a name, fragments of a song their mother used to sing, a joke—before falling silent again.
The house still smelled faintly of sickness, and every breath drawn through its old bricks carried with it the scent of ginger from Fleur’s ancestral remedy—comforting, domestic, heartbreakingly normal in a world that no longer was.
The Frenchwoman had spent the night awake, telling the girl that he’d spiked a fever sometime during the night and it hadn’t broken yet.
She had found him at dawn, still lying beneath his blankets, lips parted to let out a faint, feverish rasp that didn’t sound like anything good. He trembled, looking so small beneath all that wool—so much smaller than the boy she remembered from the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts—and she could do nothing to stop it.
She had left him only long enough to make a warm drink, while Fleur and Bill washed the cloths they used to cool his forehead, their quiet smiles creating a fragile spark of light and normalcy.
The cottage creaked beneath her gentle steps, and George’s only visible eye—hazy, glassy, the color of whiskey in firelight—opened.
“Did I die?” he croaked.
“No, not yet. Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, sitting down on the edge of the alcove to be near him.
“Tragic. I was hoping to haunt Percy,” he murmured, a faint, familiar grin flickering across his face as he struggled to prop himself up. “Move his quills around. Make him question his sanity.”
George sighed, his burning face twisting with discomfort as she took his hand.
“Here,” she said, lifting the mug toward him. “Tea. Careful—it’s hot.”
The Gryffindor sniffed the cup suspiciously, half-lidded eyes softening as his free hand brushed against her skin, barely aware of the gesture.
“You didn’t let Fleur make it, did you? Her teas taste like something you’d feed a dying Hippogriff.”
She shook her head. “I made it myself. Just ginger and honey.”
“Mm. That’s what she says, too.”
He took a small sip, his hand trembling under the cup’s weight—something painfully small and human in the motion.
Through the small cracks of the window, they could still hear the sea’s roar, blending into the horizon until sky and water were one silver blur. The conch shells hanging outside sang their soft, endless song, flowing in and out of the cottage like a heartbeat.
She sat on the floor, resting her chin on her knees as he drank, covering the drops that had spilled onto his shirt with the blanket—just as he used to when he was a child.
“You should sleep,” she murmured. “You look like you fought another war in your dreams.”
“What if I did?” His eyelids were heavy, his head pounding like a drum.
“You’ll wake up, and we’ll still be here.”
Something in that reassurance eased him. Whatever he’d meant to say next died on his parted lips as the fever tugged him back toward unconsciousness.
She watched him breathe—rough, uneven, but still breathing.
Some minutes later, as she read her favorite book, Fleur entered the room, carrying with her the soft scent of jasmine and her hair braided neatly down her back. She had likely gathered her favorite flowers from the field behind the cottage and would spend the day weaving them into a garland to hang on the door.
“He still sleeps?” she whispered, moving softly, afraid to disturb them.
“Sort of,” the girl replied. “He drifts.”
The veela’s eyes gentled. The girl’s mind wandered to everything they had lost—visible only in the quiet moments like this. She remembered the Burrow, the laughter around the table, the twins’ stupid jokes that filled the air with a lightness everyone now feared they’d forgotten.
She watched him for hours, afraid that if she looked away even for a moment, the fever would drag him down into that abyss of blood and bodies that had once been their school—the place where they had met.
No one knew what was wrong with him, and there seemed to be no explanation for the strange illness that was slowly draining his strength.
Hours later, the fever spiked again, covering him in cold sweat and waking him with a shudder. His glassy eyes couldn’t seem to focus. A few minutes earlier, he had been clutching a worn sweater—Fred’s, she thought, though no one else could have told the difference.
“Hey,” she said softly, feeling him stir behind her. “You’re awake.”
“‘Awake’ is a generous word,” he muttered, eyes slipping shut again as she sat beside him, dipping a cloth into cool water and pressing it gently to his freckled forehead—so pale it hardly looked alive.
“Better?”
His breathing grew worse, his body trembling like the little fishing boats rocked by the waves outside.
“You’ve got cold hands.”
“That’s the point.”
Then his glassy eyes fixed on her—as if trying to memorize every detail: the way her hair caught in the firelight, the faint crease of worry between her brows as she tended to him with quiet care. But something shifted in his expression—a sudden fear tightening his features.
“George?” she whispered.
He seemed distant, seized by some unseen terror. “Don’t—don’t move.”
“Why?” Her heart began to hammer, just as it had during the battle, when she’d watched the people she loved attacked and falling all around her.
George lifted a trembling hand, eyes wide and fever-bright. “There’s something there.”
There was nothing—only the warm, familiar kitchen of Bill’s cottage, the conch shells still chiming outside in the calm of a day that didn’t deserve the word calm except for the fragile hope that the wounded would heal, and that the wizarding world might learn to live again after the war.
“There’s nothing—”
“I saw it,” he whispered, voice cracking. “A wolf. Huge. It was—bloody hell, it was standing right there. It was looking at you.”
A knot tightened in her throat. He was getting worse, and despite all the nights spent at his side and all the days searching for a cure for this strange, supernatural fever that was slowly consuming him, there was nothing she could do.
She held his hand, feeling the heat of his skin—a painful, precious proof that he was still alive.
“George, there’s nothing here. You’re sick, love. It’s just the fever.”
She leaned over him, brushing his burning cheek as he shook his head weakly, panic flickering like firelight in his eyes.
“It’s not—no, it felt real. It—it took you. I saw it take you.” His voice broke, tears gathering but never falling. “I… I don’t want to close my eyes again.”
“You have to rest.”
“What if I wake up—and a wolf’s taken you away?”
She smiled then, a few loose strands falling from the braid she wore when she was too tired to care, a halo of sweetness and sorrow softening her young face.
“Then I’ll hex it for you,” she said, “and make sure it brings me back.”
George’s shoulders finally relaxed, though he didn’t let go of her hand. He seemed to laugh—if a weak, breathless sound could be called that—and for a moment, just a moment, she saw the boy she had known. The one who had spent his life laughing even when there was nothing funny, who would give anything to make someone else smile.
She thought of their shop—the one the twins had built with their own hands—tucked into a corner of Diagon Alley, filled with the bright chatter of children and the soft clatter of mischief.
Outside, the sea breathed. Bill’s watch sat alone on the table, ticking faintly while he worked somewhere outside, mending the old wheelbarrow in preparation for the seasons when he and Fleur would grow vegetables in the garden. And she stayed beside George, watching him until sleep claimed him again—calm, peaceful, as though there were no wolf waiting at the door.
At some point she must have fallen asleep too, her head tilted against the alcove where George had been lying for days. Her cheeks were flushed—the kind of warmth born not from comfort but exhaustion—and the distant hum of the sea cradled her.
When she heard footsteps, she startled awake, as if afraid to be caught doing something she’d promised herself she wouldn’t.
Fred stood by the door, leaning heavily against the wall. His skin had a pale, glassy cast, and thick bandages cut across his shoulder and chest before disappearing beneath a worn shirt that Bill must have thrown at him. A faint red stain seeped through the linen, and each step he took seemed to draw a sharp breath through his teeth.
“Thought I’d find you down here,” he said quietly.
The sunrise painted the floorboards gold. How long had she been asleep?
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” she asked softly, brushing the sleep from her eyes.
“And miss the sight of my twin finally shutting up?”
She shook her head, rising, stretching her neck to ease the stiffness. “You’re no better off than he is.”
“Difference is,” he said, lowering himself into a chair with a hiss of pain, one freckled hand pressed to his ribs, “I’m charming enough to hide it.”
But the closer she moved, the more she saw how wrong he was—the cracked whiteness of his lips, the deep bruised shadows beneath his eyes, the short, shallow breaths strained by the bloodstained bandages.
“You shouldn’t be walking,” she reminded him.
“I heal better when I’m annoying people,” he replied. “Ask Mum.”
She smiled—because that was Fred. Still Fred. He watched her, the way the morning light touched her face—the same face he remembered from Hogwarts, soft and bright, the girl who had studied beside them in the library for hours, comparing notes after exams, all three laughing over who had misread the same question.
“You look worse than either of us,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” His tone softened. “You’ve been sitting up with him all night again, haven’t you?”
She paused, then sat beside him, resting her chin on her clasped hands.
“He’s scared to sleep.”
“And you’re scared to leave him.”
The truth of it lingered in the quiet air between the scent of ginger and the faint chime of shells. Fred rubbed absently at his side, a tired smile tugging at his mouth.
“At least let me make you some tea.”
“No. Sit for a minute. I don’t need tea. I need to remember what people look like. That room’s driving me bloody mad.”
It was good to see him out of bed—the same bed he’d lain in when they thought he was gone. They had found him beneath the rubble, his face gray with dust and blood, and George had fallen to his knees beside him, broken by the certainty that his brother was gone—until Molly had arrived and seen it: a tiny, trembling motion beneath his jumper. So faint it could have been a trick of light. But it meant he was alive.
“You love him, you know,” Fred said finally.
She looked up, startled. He said it as though it were the simplest observation in the world. She opened her mouth, but no words came—and Fred, of course, understood.
“You always did. I saw it back at school, before either of you figured it out. You loved us both, but him… more.”
“That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” Fred said, leaning back carefully. “And I’m Minister for Magic.”
She laughed, stepping forward to hug him carefully, mindful of the pain. He felt warm again—alive again—as though the blood had finally returned to his veins and reminded him he was still here.
“See?” he smirked. “Still got it.”
“Go rest now,” she said gently, watching him rise with a smile.
“I will. Just wanted to remind you I’m still around.”
“How could I forget?” she said, a little less pale now, a little less tired. “Don’t scare me like that again.”
Fred disappeared up the stairs, his messy red hair catching the light, but his voice echoed once more through the room:
“No promises—but I’ll try.”
He had promised her that his twin would be all right, and she meant to hold him to it. And suddenly the cottage, though still small and shadowed, felt alive again—lit from within by that stubborn, flickering spark of something human, something familiar, creeping out from the corners and cracks to fill the house.
She thought of Fred’s face as he looked at his brother—how he’d hidden the fear and pain behind that empty-cheeked grin and trembling hands, unable to find peace even in sleep. He had told her how, when they were children, George used to wake screaming from nightmares—dreams of monsters crawling down from the attic to take his family away and never bring them back. But, Fred had said, you’ve always had a way with him. She calmed him. She kept his feet on the ground.
Half a day passed before the fever returned—worse than before. His body burned, shuddering, words tumbling from his lips half-formed and meaningless. The cool cloths no longer helped. Even Bill grew restless, pacing the wooden floorboards to the rhythm of the gulls outside.
George’s body jerked uncontrollably, seized by fear, his eyes vacant.
“Don’t let it in,” he whispered hoarsely.
She frowned, pressing a cold sponge to his neck.
“The door,” he gasped. “It’s scratching at the door.”
But there was nothing—no sound, no movement—only the waves crashing on the rocks and the tall grass whispering in the wind.
“George,” she said firmly, gripping his hand. “There’s nothing there. Do you hear me? You’re safe.”
“It’s waiting—for me to fall asleep. For you. I can’t—can’t let it take you.”
They were face to face now, his trembling hand cupping her cheek.
“You’re seeing things that aren’t real,” she said softly. “You’ve got to rest. You’re burning up.”
She could see the panic on his face—the exhaustion, the fierce stubbornness that made him George Weasley through and through—and her heart ached to see him like this, fighting shadows only he could see. She wanted to promise him that nothing could take her away, that she would stay, always, until he could stand again. And somehow, beneath it all, there was something quiet and unbreakable between them—something that endured everything.
“You’re safe,” she whispered, stroking his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His fever seemed almost tangible now—alive and cruel—and she wished more than anything that it could take her instead, just to let him breathe again, to live, to realize his brother was alive and that they would both make it.
“You promise?”
She smiled through the small tears slipping down her cheeks, born of fear and weariness.
“I promise.”
George exhaled, his breathing slow but steady now, unconsciously shifting to make space for her beside him. She lay down, though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t—for fear of making things worse—but she had long since understood there was nothing left to do except stay.
She brushed his hair back, her fingertips tracing his temple for hours until her own eyes drifted shut.
The wind sang against the windows, and the fire crackled softly in the hearth as the hours slipped by—hours filled with hope that, somehow, the world would find its way back to life again. That small, defiant spark still burning between the bricks of the cottage.
When she finally woke, George was propped up on one elbow, his eyes still glassy but open, alert.
“The fire’s gone out,” he rasped. “Reckon that’s your fault.”
She opened her eyes, pleasantly surprised to find him like that. It felt as if a dream were teasing her, and she was afraid to return to the real world, afraid he might disappear for good once she did.
“You there?” he asked with a laugh, though his chest clearly wasn’t ready for it, and he ended up coughing. She reached for a glass of water, holding it steady and warning him to sip slowly.
“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face — hair that had fallen loose from the braid she’d worn for weeks.
“Neither have you.”
“I’ve got an excuse. Fever dreams and all that. What’s yours?”
She shook her head, a smile blooming on her lips as she realized that what she’d wished for over so many sleepless nights was finally here — and something between them had changed.
“Tragic,” he said. “You could have done better than a half-baked twin with one ear.”
“There’s nothing half-baked about you.”
George took another sip of water, watching her — the girl lying in that little alcove that still smelled faintly of fear and sickness — and she had the sweetest, most frightened smile he had ever seen.
“Fred would say otherwise.”
“Fred would say you’re the saner one.”
“Then he’s feverish too.”
They laughed again, and the heaviness in George’s chest seemed to ease, the pressure in his lungs lifting, as though he could finally breathe again. It was a small spark of familiarity — a glimmer of the life that once was — and it lit something in his eyes.
As Fleur had said, the only thing she could do was be there each time he woke, to remind him that the fear — that she might vanish while he slept — was just that: fear. And she knew that love was only ever this — being seen, again and again, until the fear faded away.
She still worried that this might be the last moment of calm before another fever struck, but a quiet part of her whispered that maybe, if she let her guard down just a little, things might truly get better — that one day they might return to the Burrow, to greet Molly, and even think about reopening the shop in Diagon Alley, to bring back the laughter the world so desperately needed.
But that night, the fever returned. He sat up suddenly, frantic, searching for her. She was there — her delicate hands resting lightly on his arm, eyes closed in shallow rest, a book forgotten on her chest.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He stared at the window, eyes wide. “He was here again.”
“The wolf?”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “He stood outside. White this time — not black. He didn’t look angry. Just… waiting.”
Their hands found each other beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining in the stillness of early morning. The silence filled the little cottage, soft and fragile.
Upstairs, Fleur and Bill lay wrapped in each other’s arms beneath the window that looked out over the cliffs and the sea — that endless sea whose rhythm had become the heartbeat of their days. It was like that constant hum scientists spoke of when they tried to describe the universe — a sound we’ve grown so used to that we no longer hear it. It brought a kind of peace that was almost disarming.
“Maybe it’s your mind trying to tell you something,” she said quietly.
“Like what?”
“That it’s time to rest. That you don’t have to watch everything anymore.” She shifted slightly, guiding his head to rest against her chest. “We’re alive, George. That has to count for something.”
And the next morning, George’s color had returned. His delirium had softened into mere exhaustion, and seeing her beside him felt less like a fever dream than it had the day before.
“Still guarding me from wolves?”
She laughed, seeing him truly lucid for the first time since the battle. “They didn’t stand a chance.”
“Good,” he murmured, settling back into the pillows. “Because I think I finally might sleep.”
“Go on then,” she replied softly. “I’ll still be here.”
Half the day passed like that — her by the window, watching the sea and counting gulls that wheeled against the clear blue sky. Outside, a few small, weathered boats drifted toward the pier not far from the cottage — perhaps some hikers, or maybe a curious wizard come to glimpse the edge of the world.
The scent of sickness was fading, replaced by the warm smell of toast that Fleur had made for lunch, sunlight pouring through the windows. And for the first time in weeks, George was out of the alcove when she returned from her errands.
“Well, look who decided to join the living,” she said.
George laughed, his voice still rough. “Not sure I qualify yet. Everything still hurts — and I think I frightened Fleur by asking if the kettle was talking to me.”
There was a strange brightness in his eyes — one she knew too well — and every word reached her clearly now. Fleur’s voice floated from the kitchen, a melody of French phrases too quick to follow, mingled with laughter and the sound of dishes clinking together, joined by Fred’s familiar teasing tone that filled the cottage once more.
“If I eat one more of those fancy soups, I’ll turn into a fish,” Fred groaned.
“Zat would not be so bad,” Fleur replied airily. “You would match ze smell.”
Fred reappeared from the bathroom a few minutes later, leaning against the wall with one hand. He looked better — freshly showered, wearing an old faded shirt he must have found in the laundry basket Bill had enchanted that morning before heading into town to meet Ron and Hermione.
“Oi, George. You’ve looked better.”
“And you’ve looked worse,” George shot back, his voice steadier than it had been in days.
Fred’s bandages were no longer stained with blood, and even he had regained some color beneath the storm of freckles that dusted his skin.
“Heard you were seeing wolves.”
“Only one,” George said, glancing at her with a smile. “But she’s keeping an eye on me now.”
He grabbed a slice of bread and took a bite, that smile still painted on his lips.
Fleur had opened all the doors, letting the sea wind sweep through the house while she and the girl unpacked the groceries. Little by little, both twins were regaining their strength, and the cottage was beginning to sound like itself again — filled with dreams and laughter, plans whispered by boys who had survived and couldn’t wait to return to the world.
A world of lazy afternoons at the Burrow, of Molly’s table always set, and of students who would one day wander back into the shop those twins had built with their own hands.
“For the record,” Fred said, smirking, “she fussed over me more.”
Fleur arched an eyebrow as she mended one of Bill’s old shirts, pretending not to listen.
“She only fussed because you were delirious,” Fred added. “I was charming.”
“You were drooling.”
“You’re both children,” Fleur said, shaking her head. “She took care of you both.”
Fred crossed his arms, his dark circles fading, his hair sticking up in that hopeless way that no comb or potion could ever fix.
“Right, but who does she like more?”
“Who says I like either of you?” she said with a smile.
The twins exchanged a glance — that familiar spark of mischief lighting their faces — and burst into laughter.
“She likes George, it’s bloody obvious,” Bill called out as he tied back his hair.
And outside, the sea sang softly against the rocks, as if even it had finally learned how to be calm again.
here's your poll winner! Thanks to everybody to voted, and a huge shout out to whoever won this fic. I will write some of the other prompts as well, so if you haven't voted for "feverish" you'll get a little gift too. Anyways, I really really really hope you'll like it, as I've never written such a dialogue dense one shot and I don't know how to feel about it... I'd love to hear your ideas!
