romanczukowsky

[romanczukowsky]

Double Trouble in the Library

Pairing: Fred x George x Reader (threesome)

Summary: When you’re drowning in notes and desperate to pass your classes, the last thing you expect is for Fred and George Weasley to turn your study session into a fiery lesson in more ways than one. Mischief, laughter, and teasing touches escalate into something far hotter than any textbook could teach…

Content Warnings: Explicit content / Smut / Threesome / NSFW / One shot

You’d been trying to read the same paragraph for the past ten minutes, eyes sliding uselessly over the words without taking in a single thing. The library was silent, save for the occasional turn of a page or scratch of a quill—but your mind refused to stay quiet.

Maybe it was because you were already weeks behind. Maybe it was because every time you did try to focus, you remembered the way Fred and George had dragged you into some ridiculous prank or late-night escapade. And now here you were, drowning in ink-stained notes, wondering if your professors would let you repeat the year out of sheer pity.

You rubbed your temples, muttering under your breath. “Merlin’s balls, I’m doomed.”

“Not doomed,” a warm voice said, startling you. “Just… distracted.”

You looked up—and nearly forgot how to breathe. Cedric Diggory stood there, sunlight catching in his hair even indoors, that easy Hufflepuff smile tugging at his lips. He gestured toward the stack of books in front of you.

“Need a hand?”

You hesitated, then nodded, trying not to sound too desperate. “Honestly? I need about four hands, a new brain, and probably divine intervention.”

His laugh was smooth, low. He slid into the chair across from you. “I can’t promise the divine, but…” His eyes sparkled with something that didn’t feel purely academic. “I’m fairly good with Transfiguration. Care to let me try?”

You handed over your notes, your pulse quickening when his fingers brushed yours. He leaned forward, close enough that you caught a faint whiff of soap and parchment. His lips quirked, his tone shifting just slightly.

“You know,” Cedric murmured, “you look far too lovely to be worrying over wand motions.”

Your cheeks heated instantly. Still—you weren’t the type to back down. You tilted your head, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “And you look far too smug for someone who hasn’t even explained chapter twelve yet.”

He chuckled, leaning even closer. “Maybe I like a challenge.”

Your heart thudded. Maybe… maybe this studying thing was finally about to get interesting—

Until the library doors slammed open.

Two voices, loud and unmistakable, carried through the shelves: “Oi, reckon we’ll find her sulking over dusty books again?” “Place your bets, brother—ten Galleons says she’s already drooling on the parchment.”

Fred. George.

And, of course, they were heading straight for you.

Cedric’s smile lingered as he leaned just a little closer, his quill poised over your notes. “See, the trick with this spell is—”

“Aha! There she is!”

You jumped at the sound, nearly knocking your inkpot. Two tall shadows fell across your table, and before you could react, Fred dropped unceremoniously into the chair beside you, swinging his legs up onto another. George leaned against the opposite side, folding his arms with mock severity.

“Well, well,” George drawled, eyes flicking between you and Cedric. “Caught red-handed. You’re not studying—you’re fraternizing.”

Cedric cleared his throat, sitting a little straighter. “We were just—”

“Flirting?” Fred cut in, grinning wickedly. “Didn’t know tutoring came with extra services.”

Your face burned hot, and Cedric shifted uncomfortably under the twins’ identical stares. He offered you a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe I should let you… catch up with your friends.”

“Brilliant idea,” George said smoothly, sliding into Cedric’s vacated chair before it even cooled.

Fred gave a mock salute as Cedric walked away, muttering something about Quidditch practice.

When you turned back, both twins were watching you with that maddening, knowing look—the one that made your stomach flip and your palms itch.

“Really?” Fred asked, tilting his head. “Diggory?”

“He is clever,” George added, lips twitching. “But I’d hardly call him exciting.”

You rolled your eyes, hugging your notes to your chest. “At least he was actually helping me. You two are the reason I’m this behind in the first place.”

Fred clutched his chest dramatically. “Accusations! Wounding, truly.”

George smirked. “She’s not wrong though. Poor thing’s buried under parchment because we keep distracting her.”

You huffed, though your lips threatened to twitch. “Exactly. So unless you plan on being serious for once in your lives, you can leave me to my work.”

Fred leaned in close, his grin softening into something more deliberate, more dangerous. “Oh, we can be serious.”

George mirrored him on your other side, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Deadly serious. In fact, I think it’s time we introduced a new system.”

Your brows rose. “System?”

Fred’s lips curved into a slow, teasing smile. “Rewards. Every time you focus and get something right…” He tapped the edge of your parchment, then let his gaze flick down to your mouth. “…you earn something sweeter than good marks.”

Your breath caught, heat curling low in your stomach as George’s fingers brushed against the back of your hand. His voice was a low murmur by your ear.

“Let us be your tutors, love. Promise—we make learning unforgettable.”

Fred leaned closer, so close that your shoulder pressed against his chest. His warm breath tickled your ear. “Alright, first lesson of the day: focus, and earn your prize.”

George mirrored him on the other side, his hand brushing yours lightly against the parchment. “Simple enough, yeah? You do the work, and we… reward you. No tricks… well, only a few.”

You swallowed hard, your cheeks hot. “And what exactly are these rewards?”

Fred’s grin deepened, wicked and slow. “Peculiar kind of tutoring. For every correct answer, a kiss. A little reward to keep motivation high.”

George’s hand lingered, brushing your fingers just so. “And maybe… a touch here or there if you really impress us.”

Your breath hitched, and your pen nearly slipped from your grip. “I—this is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Fred’s tone was mock-outraged. “You call a bit of incentive ridiculous? We’re practically helping you learn.”

George leaned closer, lips dangerously near your temple. “But if it doesn’t distract you, then maybe… we’re doing it wrong.”

You bit your lip, trying to focus on the thick tome before you, but every brush of their fingers, every glance down at your lips made concentration impossible. Still, you tried. You scribbled out the correct spell, reciting it perfectly, and froze when Fred’s hand brushed your cheek.

“Good girl,” he murmured, leaning in. His lips met yours in a light, teasing kiss, barely a brush, yet your whole body trembled.

George followed instantly, pressing a softer, slower kiss to your other cheek, nipping gently at your jaw. Your notes fell forgotten, and your knees felt weak beneath the table.

“You—don’t stop,” you gasped between kisses, heat pooling low in your stomach. “You’re supposed to help me—focus!”

“Focus,” George echoed, voice low, almost a growl. “We are helping you. Just… differently.”

Fred’s hands slid to your shoulders, holding you close as he kissed you again, firmer this time, lips claiming yours, teasing your tongue. George’s hand traced your spine, subtle touches that sent shivers through your core.

You couldn’t help it—you melted into them, gasping, lips moving between the two as they alternated teasing, demanding, worshipping. Each kiss, each brush of a hand was a reward, and your mind went dizzy with heat and pleasure.

“Answer this,” Fred whispered against your lips, “and you’ll get something even better.”

You couldn’t see straight, not with George’s hands roaming lightly over your arms, Fred’s lips leaving trails of fire along your neck. Your pen hovered uselessly above the parchment. All that mattered was them, and the promise of more, and the delicious tension coiling tight in your stomach.

It was impossible to focus… yet every correct answer earned you another touch, another kiss. The “reward system” escalated quickly from playful to dangerously sensual. Your chest heaved, cheeks flushed, fingers trembling as George murmured something against your jaw, making your knees go weak again.

Fred whispered in your ear, voice husky: “We told you… we make learning unforgettable.”

And you, breathless, dizzy, heart hammering, couldn’t argue. You’d never been more motivated in your life.

Your notes lay forgotten, ink smeared as your hands trembled—not from the work, but from the heat between you and the twins. Fred’s lips crushed against yours, mouth hot and demanding, tongue teasing, claiming. George mirrored him on the other side, his hands sliding up your arms, over your shoulders, tracing the curves of your body under your robes.

You gasped, chest heaving, fingers clutching at their shoulders, pulling them impossibly closer. Every brush of a hand, every press of lips was electric, igniting a fire low in your belly that made you arch involuntarily.

“Such a good girl, focusing so well,” Fred murmured against your lips, teasing your tongue with his own as his hand slid down your back, fingertips tracing the line of your spine.

George’s lips nipped at your jaw, down your neck, his hands roaming over your hips, sliding dangerously under your robe. “You don’t even need to study… we can make this your lesson.”

You moaned softly, head tilting back, giving in to the sensations. One of their hands found the hem of your robes, fingers tracing the bare skin of your thighs. You shivered violently, barely able to breathe.

“Fred… George…” your voice trembled, needy and high-pitched, “I… I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” Fred whispered, lips brushing your ear, sending shivers straight through you. “You can, you want to… you’ll do whatever earns your reward, right?”

“Yes…” you gasped, thighs trembling, heart racing, “I… I want…”

George’s hand slid lower, teasing the edges of your panties through the thin fabric. Fred’s tongue traced your collarbone, down to the swell of your breast over the robe, making you whimper. The twins were perfectly synchronized—one kissing, one touching, alternating their attention in a maddening rhythm that left you gasping, shivering, burning all at once.

“Such a clever little thing,” George murmured, pressing kisses down your neck as his fingers slipped inside the waistband of your panties. You cried out softly, body arching toward him.

Fred’s lips left yours, sliding down your jaw, teeth grazing gently as he cupped your breasts over the fabric, kneading, teasing, making your body quake. “Answer one more question right… and the reward doubles,” he teased, voice low and husky.

You whimpered, trembling, barely able to form words as their hands, mouths, and touches drove you wild. Every correct answer earned another kiss, another touch, their hands slipping farther, teasing, claiming, driving you to the edge faster than you could comprehend.

George’s thumb rubbed against your clit through your panties, sending shocks of pleasure that made your hips jerk against his hand.

“Do… more…” you gasped, voice broken, “please…”

And the twins obeyed, alternating kisses, touches, and whispers that sent you spiraling over the edge. Your body trembled violently, moans escaping in gasps, fingers clutching their hair, pressing them closer as pleasure rolled through you like a storm.

When you finally collapsed against the table, trembling, breathless, they leaned down beside you, lips brushing yours in soft, lingering kisses, fingers tracing lingering paths across your flushed skin.

“You… really do deserve the reward,” Fred murmured, voice low and intimate, lips pressing once more to your temple.

George’s hand lingered on your thigh, warm and comforting, his breath hot against your neck. “And don’t you forget it,” he added, smirking. “We’ll make sure every lesson is unforgettable.”

You shivered, flushed, heart racing, knowing that your library “study session” would never be the same again.

[romanczukowsky]

Careful What You Wish For part. III

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: A quiet evening in the common room turns into a heart-pounding game of cat and mouse. One teasing glance, one deliberate touch, and suddenly the line between friendship and something more begins to blur. As tension simmers in every word and gesture, you realize that some encounters have the power to change everything…

Warnings: Romance / Slow Burn/ Light Drama / Part. III

The common room glowed warm when you entered, the fire crackling low in the hearth, armchairs pulled close in cozy clusters. Most students had already gone to bed, leaving the room almost empty.

You quickened your steps, desperate to escape upstairs before your face betrayed you again.

But Fred wasn’t about to let you.

Before you could reach the staircase, his fingers curled around your sleeve again, tugging you backward. You stumbled, and in a swift movement he steered you toward the sofa near the fire.

“Fred—”

“Uh-uh,” he cut you off, grinning as he dropped onto the couch and pulled you with him. You landed on the cushion beside him, books clutched tightly to your chest.

He stretched an arm across the back of the sofa, leaning in, his voice dropping just for you. “Can’t let you run off yet. I need to check if my teaching actually stuck.”

Your eyes widened. “Now?”

“Of course now.” His grin deepened, playful, insufferable. “Wouldn’t want Percy thinking I’m useless, would we?”

Heat crawled up your neck as his gaze flicked over your face, sharp, searching. He was far too close, his shoulder brushing yours, his knee almost touching.

Fred leaned in just a fraction more, smirk tugging at his lips. “So… tell me. What’s the first step in brewing a Forgetfulness Potion?”

You swallowed hard, your mind suddenly blank.

His chuckle rumbled low in his chest, triumphant. “Thought so.”

You lowered your gaze, fingers clenching the books to your chest as heat surged up your neck. The world felt suddenly smaller, the space between you and Fred charged, electric.

Without warning, his hand shot out, lifting the books from your grasp. “Hmm… maybe these are holding you back,” he said, tossing them behind the couch with a casual flick.

You barely had time to register the soft thud before his hand returned, this time resting on your knee.

The contact sent a jolt through you. Your breath hitched. He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, his warm breath ghosting along your cheek. “Looks like I’ll need to explain this… thoroughly,” he murmured, eyes glinting, voice low, teasing, almost dangerous.

You wanted to respond, to find words, but they caught in your throat. Every instinct screamed, every nerve seemed alight under his gaze. His other hand slid lightly along the side of the sofa, inching toward you, closing the space between you.

He pressed a little closer, just enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him, for your heart to pound faster. His eyes tracked your every subtle movement, your every blink, your every swallowed breath. You felt dizzy, overwhelmed, entranced—and you couldn’t pull away.

Fred’s lips curved into a slow, knowing grin as he leaned even nearer. “Care to confess…” his hand moved up slightly, brushing over your thigh in a daring, teasing caress. “or are you going to keep me in suspense?” His eyes glittered with amusement and something sharper.

Just as the tension threatened to shatter, a loud, cheerful voice cut through the charged air. “Fred! Where’ve you vanished to? Had to hand out those Canary Creams myself—Nevil ate two! You should’ve seen it!”

George’s arrival pulled both of you from the haze. Fred straightened slightly, giving his brother a brief, amused glance. “Ah… didn’t mean to disappear,” he said smoothly.

You seized the moment. “Goodnight,” you murmured under your breath and sprang to your feet. Almost immediately, you stumbled over the scattered books Fred had thrown, but you didn’t pause to pick them up.

Hastening your steps, you moved quickly toward the girls’ dormitory. Behind you, you heard George’s soft, muffled laughter—clearly amused by the scene you were leaving behind.

Fred’s gaze burned on you from just a few paces back, intense and smoldering. You could feel it on your back, like a tangible heat tracing your spine, making your heart race faster with every step.

You collapsed onto your bed, tugging the blanket over your shoulders, but sleep refused to come. Every inch of your skin still felt electrified from him—every brush of his hand, every teasing tilt of his body, every smoldering glance replayed endlessly in your mind.

Your cheeks burned, your pulse raced, and you swallowed a breath that felt suddenly too loud in the quiet dormitory.

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to summon some sense of control, some pause—but it was impossible.

His touch, so brief yet deliberate, lingered in your memory like fire tracing down your spine. You could still feel his weight against yours on the sofa, his knee dangerously close, his fingers brushing just enough to make your mind falter.

Percy. Of course, Percy had ruined the perfect moment. If he hadn’t appeared, maybe you could have… done what?

Shown him you weren’t so easily flustered? Or maybe you would have let him see exactly how thoroughly he had you under his spell. The thought made your stomach twist in a deliciously uncomfortable way.

You bit your lip and buried your face in the pillow. What were you supposed to do now?

Avoid him?

Pretend nothing happened?

Or—heaven forbid—let him know just how much effect he had on you?

Your thoughts spiraled, each one hotter than the last, until the only thing you could do was hug your knees close and try—vainly—to catch your breath.

Every time you imagined his teasing smile, the subtle dominance in the way he’d leaned closer, your mind shivered. You couldn’t help it. Fred Weasley had claimed a corner of your thoughts, and there was no evicting him. Not tonight.

Morning light filtered softly through the curtains as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your mind was still entangled in the memory of last night.

You paused at the door of the girls’ dormitory, hand hovering over the handle. Do I… want to see him today? you wondered, heart hammering. No, I’ll be calm. Composed. In control.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped out into the corridor, feet quiet on the stone floor. Each step felt heavy with anticipation, your pulse quickening as you approached the stairwell.

And then—

“Oi.”

The single word sliced through the morning calm. You froze, eyes snapping toward the sound.

Fred stood just a few paces down the hall, leaning casually against the wall. But something in his voice was softer now, warmer.

“You left your books,” he added, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer. “I could leave them in the common room, but… I thought I’d return them to you personally.”

He gave you a crooked, almost indulgent smile that made your knees feel weak. The air between you felt charged, different from before—playful, yes, but also undeniably intimate.

You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. “Th-thank you,” you managed, words trembling more than you’d like.

Fred’s eyes lingered on yours, sharp and probing, but now with a faint warmth, a softness beneath the familiar challenge. “Don’t mention it,” he said casually, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Just… don’t forget your notes next time, top student.”

Heat flared to your cheeks. “I’ll try not to,” you murmured, but your mind raced with every subtle nuance of his expression, every hint that this morning would be anything but ordinary.

You reached out instinctively, fingers brushing against the edge of the books he held.

“Wait,” he murmured, tilting his head, eyes darkening slightly. “There’s… something else I need to show you.”

Before you could answer, he stepped aside, motioning toward the stairwell with a look that made your stomach twist.

Something in the way he held your gaze told you it wasn’t just the books he meant.

Your breath hitched. The hallway, the morning light, even the distant echoes of other students—all faded.

You had no idea what he was about to do… and somehow, that made it impossible to step back.

And just like that, the day held its first, unspoken promise: everything was about to change.

[romanczukowsky]

Spells and Mischief

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: When a younger Gryffindor realizes she’s forgotten a crucial essay, Fred Weasley steps in to help—turning a quiet study session into a playful, magical adventure.

Between mischievous spells, teasing challenges, and unexpected sparks, she discovers that even the simplest homework can lead to moments she’ll never forget.

Warnings: Romance / Age difference / Humor / Crush

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with the usual evening chaos. Cards snapped, laughter echoed off the high stone walls, and the fire cast dancing shadows across red and gold tapestries.

You were wedged at a low table between Ron, George, and Fred, caught up in the noisy rhythm of Gobstones and Exploding Snap, both games somehow happening at once under the twins’ direction.

You didn’t really care who was winning. Not when Fred Weasley sat directly across from you, his grin sharp and golden in the firelight, every joke rolling off his tongue with careless charm.

He was older—but he never made you feel too small to belong. To everyone else, he was a whirlwind of chaos and trouble. To you, he was a storm you wanted to get caught in.

“Oi, it’s your turn,” George nudged you, eyebrow arched.

Startled, you dropped the wrong card, and Ron groaned so loudly the first-years nearby turned to look. Fred leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.

“Hopeless,” he declared, then tipped you a wink so quick you almost doubted it. Almost.

Your cheeks warmed. You ducked your head, pretending to fuss with your cards, though your heart wasn’t in the game anymore. It never was when Fred smiled at you like that.

The noise blurred around you until a sudden thought struck, hard and cold. Your stomach dropped.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

Fred glanced up, catching the change in your face. “What’s with the funeral voice?”

You pressed your palms to your temples. “Professor Flitwick. I completely forgot—I’ve got an essay due tomorrow.”

George groaned dramatically. “Another academic tragedy.”

But Fred was watching you, his grin softening. “How long?”

“Two rolls of parchment,” you mumbled miserably.

Fred leaned across the table, voice lowering so only you could hear over the laughter and noise. “Alright. We’ll knock it out together. In and out, quick as you like. And then—” he fanned his cards with a flourish “—we’ll be back here to watch me win again.”

Your eyes widened. “You’d actually help me?”

He shrugged, casual but kind. “What else are older Gryffindors for, eh? Can’t let you drown in homework when there are games to be played.”

George rolled his eyes, muttering something about Fred’s heroic streak, but Fred was already on his feet. He scooped up your abandoned cards, dropped them on the table, and jerked his head toward the portrait hole.

“Come on then,” he said, grinning. “The library awaits.”

The library was hushed, cloaked in that familiar, heavy silence broken only by the scratch of quills and the soft rustle of turning pages. Lantern light spilled across long tables, catching the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air.

You dropped your bag with a groan, parchment already unrolled in front of you. Fred flopped into the seat opposite, balancing his chair on two legs like he had no concept of rules or gravity.

“Alright,” he said, grabbing the nearest book and thumbing through it. “Flitwick wants parchment, he’ll get parchment. Doesn’t mean it has to be good parchment.”

You stifled a laugh. “I don’t think that’s how school works.”

Fred leaned over the book, his eyes skimming quickly. “Hah. Listen to this—‘Ludicrous Liminal Charms: A Guide to Spells of Dubious Practicality.’ That sounds promising.”

He tapped the page with exaggerated seriousness. “Here’s one that makes someone follow your orders. Not Unforgivable, don’t panic—just a cheap party trick. Imagine what we could do with this.”

Your eyes widened. “Fred—”

“Think about it!” He was grinning now, wicked and bright. “Malfoy forced to shine shoes in the Great Hall. Or Neville dancing on a table. Tell me that wouldn’t be worth detention.”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh too loudly. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s brilliant,” Fred corrected. Then, with that infuriating tilt of his head, “We should try it out.”

You blinked. “On who?”

He gestured at himself with mock gallantry. “Yours truly, of course. Safer than blowing up the room by accident. Though if I sprout a second head, I expect you to take responsibility.”

“Fred, no—”

“Fred, yes.” He slid his wand across the table toward you, daring you with his grin. “Come on, show me what you’ve got.”

Your fingers tightened around your wand, your stomach fluttering nervously. You knew this was a game to him, but something in his gaze made you bold.

You whispered the incantation. He froze, straightening slightly as though the magic had struck.

“Now what?” he asked, voice oddly flat.

You swallowed. “Um… raise your hand.”

Fred’s arm shot up instantly.

You gasped. “It worked!”

“Try harder,” he said in that same strange tone, lips twitching faintly.

“Stand on the table,” you commanded, unable to keep the laughter from your voice.

He clambered onto the tabletop with dramatic precision, nearly knocking over the inkpot. George would have howled to see it.

You were giggling uncontrollably now, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Okay, okay, stop before Madam Pince throws us out.”

Fred hopped down, brushing imaginary dust off his robes. His grin flickered, something softer replacing it as he watched you. The warmth in his eyes made your stomach flip.

And before you could lose your nerve, you whispered, almost too quiet to hear:

“Kiss me.”

The laughter died in your throat. The silence stretched between you, heavy and charged.

Fred blinked, genuinely stunned for the first time that evening. Heat surged to your cheeks, but you didn’t retract your words—you couldn’t.

Then he moved. Slowly at first, as if testing the moment, his hand hovering near yours before finally resting on the edge of your parchment. His lips brushed yours—soft, tentative, yet carrying an undercurrent of something deeper. A heartbeat passed, and then another, and the kiss grew just slightly bolder, more certain.

Your chest fluttered, nerves alight, every sense attuned to him. For a moment, the world shrank until it was just the two of you, suspended between laughter, mischief, and the undeniable pull that had been building all evening.

“Mr. Weasley!”

Madam Pince’s voice cracked through the silence like a whip. She stood over your table, eyes blazing. “This is a library, not a broom cupboard! If I have to warn you two one more time—out! Both of you!”

You jerked back, crimson with mortification, while Fred leaned back in his chair with infuriating calm, lips still curved in the ghost of a smirk.

You scrambled to gather your things. “Come on, Fred—”

But he didn’t move.

“Fred,” you hissed, tugging at his sleeve.

He blinked again, gaze snapping back to you, and a faint, uneasy smile flickered across his face. “I—uh… yeah, right,” he stammered, taking a hesitant step forward.

Fred’s movements were slow, almost reluctant, as though each step required effort. His eyes darted around the dimly lit common room, avoiding yours with a barely perceptible shyness you’d never expected from him.

“Are you… okay?” you asked softly, stepping closer so your shoulder brushed his.

He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah, just… didn’t see that coming,” he admitted, voice low. His smirk returned, but it was softer now, more uncertain than usual.

You squeezed his sleeve gently, letting your fingers linger. “Neither did I,” you whispered.

Finally, he gave a resigned little laugh and let you guide him toward the others. “Alright, alright,” he said, mock-exasperated. “You win this round, genius.”

The common room had thinned out, the fire casting a warm glow over the few students still awake. You slipped in first, cheeks still flushed from the library, with Fred trailing a step behind you. He looked… off, like his head was somewhere else entirely.

“Finally!” George called from across the room, waving a deck of Exploding Snap cards. “Took you long enough—come on, we’re in the middle of a game!”

Ron was sprawled beside him, looking equally impatient.

But you shook your head, heart still racing with leftover adrenaline. “In a minute. I… I need to try something first.”

Neville, half-asleep in an armchair, perked up at the sound of his name being muttered. He blinked blearily at you, clutching his Herbology notes like a shield.

“Try… what?” he asked, voice trembling.

You stepped forward, wand clutched tight. “A spell. Don’t worry—it’s harmless. I just need to test it.”

Neville’s eyes went wide with alarm. “On me?”

George leaned forward, grin already wicked. “Oh, this should be good. Go on, Y/N. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Ron frowned, confused but curious, while Neville looked ready to bolt.

You ignored them all, raising your wand. The incantation slipped from your lips, firm and confident. The tip glowed faintly, a shimmer of magic hanging in the air.

“Stand up,” you commanded.

Neville flinched, staring down at himself as though expecting his body to move on its own. Nothing happened. He glanced up helplessly, cheeks red.

“Try again!” George urged, nearly bouncing with excitement.

You did. Once. Twice. Louder, sharper. Still—nothing. Neville remained planted in his chair, looking both relieved and embarrassed.

Your stomach dropped. It had worked before. You were sure of it. Slowly, your gaze slid to Fred.

He was standing stiffly by the staircase, expression frozen somewhere between shock and guilt.

“Maybe…” he began carefully, rubbing the back of his neck, “maybe it just doesn’t work on him.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Then we’ll test it on you.”

Fred’s head snapped up. “What?”

George burst out laughing. “Brilliant idea! Go on, Y/N—make him hop around like a toad.”

Ron’s brow furrowed, still lost. “Wait—what spell is this?”

But you barely heard him. Your eyes were locked on Fred, who gave a weak, nervous smile. “Ah… I think it’s a bit late for that, don’t you? Best save it for tomorrow.”

“No,” you shot back, your voice firmer than you expected. “Now.”

The color drained from Fred’s face. He stammered, laugh high and awkward. “You know, I really am exhausted. Bed’s calling. Goodnight, everyone!”

Before you could say another word, he bolted for the staircase, two steps at a time, leaving George cackling, Ron bewildered, Neville trembling, and you—standing there with your wand in hand, your cheeks burning, and your heart pounding like mad.

[romanczukowsky]

Between Pages and Dreams

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: You fall asleep with a story, and wake up in another world entirely. Hogwarts is real, George Weasley exists, and every heartbeat carries the thrill of the impossible.

Warnings: Romance / Slow Burn / Fantasy / Magical Realism

You pull the blanket closer around your shoulders, the soft glow of the bedside lamp pooling over the worn pages of your book. The house is silent, the kind of silence that makes every creak of the floorboards or sigh of the wind feel amplified. But you hardly notice—your eyes are fixed on the lines of text, your lips curved in a faint smile.

There he is again. George Weasley. The words describe him as a prankster, mischievous and sharp-witted, but the way you picture him feels so much more vivid, so much more alive than ink on paper has any right to be. His laughter almost echoes in your mind, and you imagine what it would be like to stand next to him, to catch that spark in his eyes not on a page, but in person.

It’s silly, you know. He isn’t real—just a character, a boy dreamed up by someone else. And yet, the thought of him lingers long after you close the book. You’ve even found yourself scrolling through fan-written stories, hidden under the covers, heart racing with every line as though you were being let in on a secret you weren’t supposed to know.

Tonight is no different. Heat rises to your cheeks as you skim another story, the glow of your phone screen lighting up your face in the dark. Somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, your eyelids grow heavier, the words on the screen beginning to blur. You fight it, not ready to let go of the fantasy just yet.

But sleep is quicker. It steals over you in an instant, soft and deep. The last thing you remember is the echo of George’s name in your mind, looping like a promise.

And then—darkness.

But the darkness doesn’t last.

Your eyes flutter open, expecting the familiar blur of your bedroom ceiling, the faint red digits of your alarm clock glowing on the nightstand. But instead, you’re met with stone. Cold, towering arches, lit by floating torches that sway in a draft you can actually feel brushing your cheek.

You sit up too fast. The blanket slips off your shoulders, except—it isn’t your blanket. Heavy fabric, rougher, darker. A robe. You glance down and your breath catches. Black folds of cloth, trimmed in colors that shimmer strangely in the torchlight.

“No way,” you whisper. Your own voice echoes softly against the high walls.

The floor beneath you is not carpet but polished stone. You press your palm to it, half-expecting your hand to sink through like in a dream. But it’s solid. Cold. Real.

You pinch the soft skin of your forearm, hard. Pain shoots through you.

Still here.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you stand, wobbling slightly. The corridor stretches ahead, lined with portraits. And they—they move. A woman in a ruffled gown lifts her chin and eyes you curiously. A man in a feathered hat tips it in greeting.

Your throat tightens. It can’t be. It shouldn’t be. But every nerve in your body tells you it is.

This is Hogwarts.

Your feet carry you forward almost without permission. Each step feels like walking deeper into someone else’s dream—except it’s yours. The candles flicker as you pass, shadows chasing across the walls. You’re dizzy with awe, with disbelief, with something close to joy.

Then—impact.

A shoulder collides with yours, firm enough to jolt you back to reality.

“Sorry!” a voice says quickly, warm and bright. The boy doesn’t stop, already walking past.

You whirl around, the apology still ringing in your ears.

Red hair catches the light. Freckles. A grin tossed over his shoulder before he turns back to his twin.

Your heart stops.

It’s him.

George Weasley.

Your legs move before your brain can argue.

“Wait!” The word bursts out, far too loud for the quiet corridor.

Two identical heads of flaming hair turn in unison. Matching grins spread across their faces, mischievous and sharp. You suddenly realize your palms are sweating.

George tilts his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Do I know you?” His voice is exactly as you imagined—warm, teasing, with a lilt that makes everything sound like the start of a joke.

Words knot in your throat. Your name tumbles out, shaky, rushed: “Y/N. I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeats slowly, as though testing the sound. His smile deepens. “Well, I’m George. And this—” he jerks his thumb toward the twin at his side “—is the less impressive version of me.”

Fred rolls his eyes. “Less impressive and still twice as handsome.” He nudges George with his elbow.

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it, high and nervous but real. The sound makes George’s eyes flicker back to you, curious now.

“You’re new,” he says simply, studying you. It isn’t suspicion—more like intrigue. “Hogwarts doesn’t just grow new students overnight.”

If only he knew. Your heart thuds painfully. What am I supposed to say? That I fell asleep in my world and woke up in yours?

You shrug, forcing your lips into a faint smile. “You could say I’m… visiting.”

“Visiting?” Fred echoes, one eyebrow arched. “From where, exactly? Mars?”

“Would explain the dazed look,” George adds. His grin softens the words, like he’s teasing but not unkindly.

You fight the urge to pinch yourself again. Every second feels stolen, impossible. And yet here you are—talking, laughing, being noticed.

“Maybe,” you say, surprising yourself with a little spark of boldness, “but I think I like it here.”

George chuckles, the sound low and warm, and something in your chest flips.

“Well then, Y/N the Visitor,” he says, leaning slightly closer as though sharing a secret, “stick with us. You never know what sort of trouble you’ll get into on your own.”

And with that, the twins start walking again. Only this time, George glances back—just once—to see if you’ll follow.

You hesitate for only a second before your feet carry you after them. The twins move quickly, weaving through corridors as though the castle itself bends to their will. Their laughter bounces off the stone walls, tugging you forward like a string you can’t resist following.

George glances back once, catches you trailing a few paces behind, and smirks. Not cruelly—more like he finds the whole thing amusing. You feel your cheeks burn, but you keep going.

The three of you spill into a staircase that shifts under your feet, sliding sideways as though the castle itself has decided to join the game. Your gasp earns a chuckle from Fred.

“First time?” he teases.

“On this staircase,” you mumble, clutching the banister.

George’s laugh is softer this time, close enough to make the hair on your arms prickle. “You’ll get used to it. Eventually.”

The days blur into one another, threaded together by moments that feel too vivid to be dreams.

You wander through the Great Hall, staring at the floating candles. You trail your fingers along ancient stone walls, watching suits of armor bow or mutter as you pass. You nearly jump out of your skin when a ghost swoops overhead, and George—of course—laughs until he’s doubled over.

He always seems to find you.

Sometimes he teases you for the wide-eyed way you take everything in, calling you Visitor with a mischievous tilt of his lips. Other times, his voice softens, as though he can’t quite help it: “Careful, Y/N,” he murmurs once, steadying you by the elbow after Peeves nearly drops a bucket of ink over your head. The touch lingers a second too long before he lets go.

You notice the small things: the way his grin always comes with a spark in his eyes, the way his laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep, the way he nudges Fred in silent conversations only they understand. But sometimes—when his gaze flickers back to you—it feels like you’re the only one in the room.

The library is quieter than you imagined.

The moment you step inside, your breath catches. Rows upon rows of shelves stretch upward so high that the ceiling disappears into shadow, like the room itself has no end. Floating globes of light hover near the rafters, drifting lazily as though they have all the time in the world. Dust motes shimmer in their glow, dancing in the still air.

Your lips part, but no sound comes. You’ve never seen so many books in one place. Some are bound in cracked leather, others shimmer faintly as though alive, their spines etched with runes you don’t recognize. One title glimmers in gold, written in a language you can’t even name.

Curiosity tugs you forward. You trail your fingers along the edge of a shelf until one volume seems to almost call to you. It’s heavy, bound in dark green hide, its clasp cool against your palm as you unfasten it. The pages inside are crowded with sketches—strange plants curling across parchment, words scrawled in tiny, cramped handwriting.

You can’t help yourself. You read, your eyes darting line by line, trying desperately to take in every detail before the book closes itself or vanishes like a dream. Your heart hammers. If this is all in my mind, how can it feel so real?

A voice breaks the silence.

“Careful. Some of those bite.”

You start so violently that the book slips from your hands and lands on the table with a dull thud.

George Weasley is leaning against the nearest shelf, arms folded, watching you with an expression equal parts amusement and intrigue. His red hair glows in the dim light, untamed and warm against the cool shadows.

“You—” Your voice catches. You clear your throat, trying again. “You scared me.”

“That’s a shame,” he says lightly, pushing off the shelf and strolling closer. “Usually I only go for pleasantly surprised.”

Your pulse skitters. He sits across from you without waiting for permission, reaching over to nudge the heavy book so it spins toward him. He doesn’t look down at it, though—he looks at you, eyes glinting with that same spark you’ve read about, only now it’s alive, burning right in front of you.

“You’re full of surprises, Y/N,” he says, resting his chin in one hand as though settling in for a long conversation. “Most people come here to nap. You, on the other hand, look like you’re trying to memorize the entire library in one go.”

“I just… didn’t expect it to be this incredible,” you admit, your voice hushed as though afraid of breaking the spell. Your gaze drifts upward to the endless shelves, then back to him. “It’s like the books go on forever.”

“Sometimes it feels that way,” George replies, softer this time. His eyes follow yours briefly before returning to your face. “But forever’s not so bad, if you’ve got the right company.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. You glance down, pretending to fuss with the clasp of the book, but the flutter in your chest won’t go away.

And when you risk looking up again, he’s still watching you—steady, curious, as though he’s found something far more interesting than even the library’s endless secrets.

George doesn’t break eye contact. The book between you is only a prop now, forgotten, its pages whispering softly as though they too are waiting.

You shift in your seat, trying to look anywhere else—the shelves, the globes of light drifting lazily near the ceiling—but your gaze keeps snapping back to him. The freckles across his nose, the crooked line of his smile, the way he seems so utterly at ease while you feel like your heart might beat itself out of your chest.

“Do you always stare like that?” you ask, aiming for playful, though your voice trembles just enough to give you away.

“Only when there’s something worth staring at,” George replies without missing a beat.

Your throat goes dry. Heat blooms across your face. He says it like a joke, but his tone carries something steadier, deeper.

Silence folds over you again. Not empty—charged.

George leans forward, elbows on the table, closing the space inch by inch. His voice drops, low and quiet. “You really don’t seem like you’re from around here, Y/N. And I can’t figure out why, but I don’t want to stop wondering.”

You swallow hard. Words scatter in your head like startled birds. “Maybe…” You hesitate, then whisper, “maybe you don’t have to.”

The look in his eyes shifts—mischief softening into something more open, almost vulnerable. He pushes the heavy book gently aside and reaches across the table, his fingers brushing yours. The contact is feather-light, but it sends a shiver all the way up your arm.

You don’t think—you just move.

One second you’re leaning forward, the next your lips meet his. Tentative at first, almost questioning, then firmer when you feel him respond. His hand slides over yours, warm and steady, while his other hovers as though he’s afraid to startle you.

It’s not perfect—your nose bumps his, your pulse is a thunderstorm—but it’s real. Real enough to make every doubt vanish, real enough to feel like the world outside this library could dissolve into mist and you wouldn’t care.

When you finally pull back, your breath catches. His does too.

George laughs softly, not his usual mischievous bark but something gentler. “Blimey,” he whispers, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Didn’t see that coming.”

Your chest tightens in the best possible way. “Neither did I.”

And yet—you both lean in again.

The days after that kiss blur together, but not because they’re forgettable—because they glow, each one brighter than the last.

You start to notice little things. George finds excuses to be near you: sliding into the seat beside you at breakfast, brushing past you in crowded corridors, dropping sarcastic comments that only you seem to understand. And when Fred raises a brow at the way George lingers in your orbit, George only smirks as if daring his twin to say more.

Sometimes, the three of you roam the castle together. Fred keeps the jokes flowing, but you catch the way George watches you when he thinks you aren’t looking—how his grin softens, how his eyes crinkle at the corners like he’s memorizing your face.

Other times, it’s just you and him. A stolen walk by the Black Lake, where the water reflects the silver of the moonlight. An hour in the common room, sharing whispered jokes while everyone else dozes by the fire. Or another visit to the library, where he teases you for reaching for books that weigh more than you do, only to carry them himself with a wink.

Your chest feels fuller every day, like there’s a secret blooming inside you. It scares you—how quickly this dream has started to feel like a life.

One evening, as the castle grows quiet and the sky outside deepens into indigo, George tugs you aside near the courtyard. The air is cool, scented faintly with grass and stone.

“Close your eyes,” he says, his tone half-playful, half-serious.

You raise a brow. “Why?”

“Because I asked nicely. Come on.”

With a shaky laugh, you obey. You hear the faint rustle of fabric, the clink of metal, and then—warm fingers brushing your wrist. Something cool slips against your skin.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Open.”

You look down. A simple bracelet rests on your wrist: a braided cord, worn but sturdy, with a small charm dangling from it—a tiny broomstick, etched so finely it catches the light.

Your breath hitches. “George…”

“It’s nothing fancy,” he says quickly, scratching the back of his neck, uncharacteristically nervous. “Just something I made a while back. Never thought I’d actually… you know, give it to someone.” His eyes flicker to yours, uncertain. “But it suits you. And now you can’t deny you belong here. Not entirely.”

The weight of it feels heavier than its size allows, not because of what it is but because it’s from him.

You smile, your chest aching with something too big to name. “I’ll never take it off.”

Relief floods his face, chased by that familiar grin. “Good. Because I’d hex it back onto your wrist if you tried.”

You laugh, but it’s shaky, threaded through with the thundering of your heart. And when George leans closer, slipping his hand into yours, the bracelet catches the starlight between you like proof that this moment is real.

The days that follow pass in a blur of magic and wonder. Lessons, wandering the castle, and quiet moments with George weave together, each one leaving your chest fuller than the last. Before you know it, the weekend arrives, bringing with it the excitement that has been buzzing through the castle all week: the Quidditch match.

The roar of the crowd rattles the very walls of the stadium. Banners whip in the wind, scarlet and gold flashing against the sky. You sit perched on the edge of the stands, heart hammering, trying to absorb every detail: the smell of grass, the shimmer of enchanted hoops glinting in the sunlight, the wild cheers echoing like thunder.

George stands beside you, his broom tucked casually under one arm. His grin is electric, alive with the thrill of the match about to begin. “Ever flown before?” he shouts over the noise.

You shake your head, already dizzy at the thought.

“Perfect,” he says, eyes sparkling. “First time’s always the best.”

Before you can protest, he takes your hand and pulls you onto the pitch. The broom feels impossibly light beneath your fingers, yet when you mount it, your stomach swoops as though you’re holding the reins of a storm.

“Don’t think about it,” George calls, straddling his own broom. “Just let it happen.”

The whistle blows. Players shoot into the sky like arrows. The crowd erupts. And then—it’s you. The broom lifts beneath you, soaring higher, higher, the wind tearing through your hair, your laughter spilling out before you can stop it.

The castle looms in the distance, the sun blazing against its towers. Below, the match unfolds in a blur of color and motion. George swoops past you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, his grin wider than ever.

“You’re a natural!” he shouts.

You’re not sure if that’s true, but in this moment, you don’t care. You’re flying.

Then—suddenly—the broom lurches. A gust of wind catches you sideways. Your balance slips. Fingers claw at the handle, but it bucks beneath you like a living thing.

“Y/N!” George’s voice, sharp, panicked, cuts through the roar.

The world tilts. The sky spins. For one dizzying heartbeat, you see his face—fear in his eyes, his hand reaching toward you.

And then you’re falling.

Air tears past your ears. The ground races up to meet you. The noise of the crowd fades, swallowed by the rushing dark.

You jolt upright.

Your alarm clock shrieks on the nightstand, numbers glaring red: 10:14.

Your chest heaves. Sheets cling to your skin, damp with sweat. Your room is exactly as you left it: messy desk, stack of books, the glow of daylight sneaking through the blinds.

No castle. No broom. No George.

For a moment, you can’t breathe. It was a dream—too vivid, too impossible. Your laugh catches in your throat, shaky, almost broken. “Of course,” you whisper. “Of course it was.”

You shove the blanket aside and stumble into the bathroom. Cold water splashes against your face, grounding you in the here and now. You grip the sink, eyes squeezed shut, trying to swallow the ache in your chest.

Then—something cool brushes your wrist.

You freeze. Slowly, you look down.

A braided cord rests against your skin, worn but sturdy. A small charm dangles from it, glinting faintly in the light.

A broomstick.

Your breath hitches. The world tilts again, but this time not from falling.

For a long moment, you lie still, heart still racing, mind caught between wonder and disbelief. The magic of the night lingers on your skin, in the echo of laughter, and in the warmth of a hand that may or may not have been real.

Because maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t only a dream.

You sit on the edge of your bed, fingers tracing the small charm on the bracelet again and again. It’s solid, tangible, heavier than it looks—and yet it carries a weight far more impossible than metal could ever hold.

Outside, the world moves on as usual: birds calling, distant footsteps, the low hum of traffic. Nothing hints at the magic that felt so real just hours ago. And yet, every time you look at the bracelet, a shiver runs down your spine.

A part of you wants to tell yourself it’s just a dream—a vivid, thrilling, utterly impossible dream. But another part… another part refuses.

You can almost hear the echo of his laughter in the corners of your room. Almost feel the brush of his hand. Almost see the glint of red hair under the library lights.

The bracelet lies against your wrist, quiet and patient, a small tether to a world that may have existed only for you.

And you can’t help but wonder:

Was it only a dream, or has a piece of Hogwarts—and George—found a way to follow you home?

You smile, your chest tight with a strange, thrilling hope. Either way, something has changed. And somehow… you know it’s only the beginning.

[romanczukowsky]

Careful What You Wish For part. II

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: A single hour with Fred turns into much more than you expected. Between laughter, teasing, and the sharp weight of his gaze, studying feels less like work and more like a game. But when an unexpected interruption shifts the balance, you’re left wondering whether Fred’s lesson is really about Potions… or about you.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Banter & Teasing / Power Play / Tension / Slightly Suggestive / Flirty / Part. II

By mid-morning, you were crossing the courtyard with a couple of friends, laughing about Quidditch matches and the latest gossip. Your fingers twisted the straps of your textbook bag as you scanned the entrances, hoping he might appear.

“Are you even listening?” one of your friends teased, nudging your arm.

Blinking, you realized you’d been staring at the archway instead of the conversation. “I—I’m listening,” you said quickly, forcing a smile.

And then he appeared. Fred Weasley. Effortless, confident. He didn’t hurry or seek attention, but when his gaze met yours, it cut through the chatter and warm afternoon air like a spark.

“You’ve got an hour,” he said casually, teasing in that familiar lilt that made your pulse skip. “If you want to make it worth it, meet me in the library. Now.”

He started walking away. Your first instinct was to run after him, but a gentle tug on your sleeve stopped you.

“Don’t,” your friend whispered with a sly smile. “Trust me—he’ll wait.”

Exhaling, you gripped your books tighter, heart hammering. You practically bounced with anticipation, keeping an eye on every corridor and cluster of students. Your friends fell in behind you, their teasing fading into background noise.

Fred stopped at the library entrance, giving a brief, teasing smile before gesturing for you to go first. “After you.”

You picked a table. Fred sat opposite you, loosening his tie, opening his book, letting it fall open naturally. “So, what exactly do you want to tackle today?”

For the next hour, the world shrank to just the two of you and your potions notes. He explained each step with ease, occasionally leaning forward, his hand brushing yours—almost by accident, you thought. His eyes lingered on your face as you reacted to his clever demonstrations.

Every so often, your gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. Minutes passed too quickly, yet Fred seemed perfectly unbothered, or perhaps fully aware of how time slipped by.

At one point, he leaned back, smirk stretching lazily as he gestured with a spoon. “Stir like that, and it’ll fizz over… but you’re clearly enjoying the danger, aren’t you?”

Your cheeks warmed, but you kept your voice steady. “I wouldn’t say no to a little chaos,” you murmured, and his eyes flicked up sharply, catching the subtle dare in your tone.

He paused occasionally to let you think through a step yourself, but his focus never wavered. If you hesitated, his hand hovered near yours—a light, guiding presence that made your pulse race and the tension between you almost tangible.

The hour passed quickly. Fred didn’t move to leave. You glanced at the clock, surprised—and a little disappointed—at how fast it had gone. He leaned back, letting his gaze roam over the table and, inevitably, you, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

“Looks like we could keep going,” he said, casual yet knowing. “Or are you going to tell me you’ve had enough?”

You shook your head.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “Good,” he murmured. “I like your persistence.”

Time blurred after that. When he leaned closer to clarify a step, you noticed the strength in his hands as he guided the quill across the parchment, precise and unhurried. Once, he flipped a page too quickly and laughed, the low sound tugging at you more than it should.

“Botched that step once—Snape nearly had me scrubbing cauldrons for a week,” he admitted, smirking. Yet his patient explanation, filled with humor, left you smiling despite yourself.

And when your finger brushed his again, lightly, he finally looked up, gaze lingering a heartbeat longer than before, a slow, knowing curve tugging at his mouth before he let the moment dissolve back into the rustle of pages.

The sun dipped, casting long shadows through the tall library windows. Gathering your books, you prepared to leave. Fred rose alongside you. Together, your steps fell almost perfectly in sync.

Just as you reached the doorway, Percy Weasley appeared, arms crossed, amusement tugging at his lips. “Finally,” he said, teasing lightly. “My brother actually went and asked someone smart for help.”

Fred didn’t comment, only letting a faint, nearly imperceptible smile touch his mouth.

“Hi, Percy,” you said coolly, brushing past him, heart still racing.

Percy’s grin widened. “I knew it—you really are the best. I mean, your grades… top marks. And now my brother’s actually doing more than pranks and tricks.”

Fred’s gaze followed you, attentive, heat pooling in your stomach. You felt it—his eyes on you—making your pulse quicken.

Percy glanced at the clock, smirk faltering. “Right, I must run. Have to return a rather… extensive book today. Good luck, you two.”

You lowered your head, stepping out of the library, and felt Fred fall in beside you. The doors closed softly behind you, muffling the chatter inside.

“Wait a second,” Fred murmured, voice low and teasing as he matched your pace. “So… you’re the best student, huh?”

Your face flushed scarlet. “What? No, not at all,” you mumbled.

He didn’t let it go. One hand shot out, gripping your sleeve and pulling you slightly closer. “Oh, really? I think you might be lying,” he said, leaning just enough to make your heart skip.

You tried to look down, but his hand shifted, brushing your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes locked on yours, smoldering, daring, teasing.

Heat crept up your neck. Your eyes darted away, cheeks flaming.

Fred’s grin widened, his other hand rising to cup your jaw lightly, tilting your head so you couldn’t look anywhere but him. “Come on,” he murmured, low, almost a purr. “Tell me… are you really that good?”

Your breath hitched. “I… I’m not,” you whispered, barely audible.

His laughter was soft, knowing. He leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his body pressed against yours as he held your gaze, unrelenting, electric.

“Maybe Percy’s right,” he whispered, leaning even closer, until only a breath separated you. “Maybe you’re just afraid I’ll notice.”

Your mouth parted, but words refused to come. Every nerve in your body alight.

His grin curved slowly, dangerous. “Merlin—you should see your face.”

You shook your head, but his thumb brushed your jaw, sending sparks racing down your spine.

Then, just as the air grew too charged, he released you. His hand fell away, slinging an arm casually across your shoulders.

“Come on, top student,” he said lightly, voice full of infuriating amusement. “It’s late. Don’t want you collapsing from overstudying.”

Your stomach lurched—torn between relief and frustration—but his arm stayed firm as he steered you toward Gryffindor Tower.

[romanczukowsky]

Hey everyone! 👋

I’ve been working on my story and I’d love your input. Most of my writing is in first-person POV, seeing everything through the eyes of the reader character.

But I’m wondering… would it be more enjoyable or easier to follow if I switched to third-person?

I really want this to feel fun and immersive for you, so I’d love to hear your thoughts. Do you prefer first-person POV, third-person POV, or a mix?

Please drop your opinion below! ⬇️

[romanczukowsky]

Careful What You Wish For part. I

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: You only wanted help with Potions. That’s all. Just a little guidance, maybe a shortcut through the mess of ingredients and instructions. One lesson turned into a challenge, a spark you couldn’t put out—because when Fred looked at you, it wasn’t just your grades that were in danger.

Warnings: Slow Burn (but with sparks right away) / Banter & Teasing / Power Play / Tension / Slightly Suggestive / Flirty / Part. I

You hesitated at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, textbooks clutched to your chest like armor. Your eyes landed on him immediately—Fred Weasley, sprawled across the couch, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he knew exactly how much you liked looking at him.

He didn’t notice you—or at least, he didn’t seem to care. Which, of course, made your stomach twist even more.

Taking a steadying breath, you stepped forward. “Fred,” you called, trying to keep your voice casual.

He lifted one lazy eyebrow. “Yeah?” His tone was teasing, casual… but his eyes flicked over you like he was taking inventory, and suddenly you felt exposed.

“I… I need some help with potions,” you admitted, forcing your voice to stay even. “I thought maybe you could—”

“Help you?” He interrupted with a soft, mocking laugh, the kind that makes your pulse skip. “With potions? That’s ambitious.”

A few boys at the table snickered, glancing between the two of you. Heat rose to your neck, but you didn’t retreat.

Fred leaned back, eyes glinting with faint amusement, then flicked them back to you. “Honestly? Ask Granger. She’s probably dying to help.” And with that, he turned away, like your presence barely registered.

You swallowed down the sting and let a small, knowing smile curve your lips.

“Right,” you murmured, tilting your head just enough for him to notice. “I suppose I could ask Granger. She’s brilliant, after all.”

Fred’s smirk widened, as if he’d won—until you leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him.

“But between you and me… I always thought you might be better at teaching things professors would never show us.”

The table went silent. His cocky grin flickered, just for a heartbeat—enough for you to catch the spark beneath his mask.

You straightened, feigning innocence as warmth crept up your spine. “Anyway… thanks for the advice.”

Turning on your heel, you let the quiet tension trail—his stare burning along your back.

The next day, when you slid into a corner seat with your potions textbook, you felt a presence across from you. Fred.

“Granger busy?” His voice dripped sarcasm, but the glint in his eyes gave him away.

You didn’t look up. “Mm. Didn’t ask her.”

“Why not?” His tone was casual, but fast.

You turned the page slowly, savoring the moment, then lifted your gaze. “Because I thought maybe you’d want another chance.”

Fred leaned back, smirk curling just enough to reveal something hungrier beneath. “Oh? And why would I even consider it?”

Your finger hovered, lifted deliberately as if signaling him to hold on, then trace the last line of your textbook deliberately slowly, a silent wait, letting the tension coil tighter between you.

His smirk faltered for a moment, a flicker of surprise. Then, with a deliberate, confident motion, his hand slammed the book shut. The sharp thunk made your chest jump.

Fred’s fingers lingered on the edge of the book, as if claiming it for himself. He leaned forward, gaze intense, unblinking. “I don’t have time to wait,” he said.

You swallowed, heat rising in your chest, and let your eyes drift up to meet his.

“I was just about to finish my point,” you said, tone casual, but every word carefully measured to tease.

Fred’s eyes narrowed slightly, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He leaned back, hands resting lightly on his knees, as if weighing you, testing the waters. “Ah,” he murmured, voice low, teasing. “I see what’s going on here. Trying to pull me into your little game, huh?”

You let a small, subtle smile play at your lips, but didn’t move. “I wouldn’t want to waste your talents on someone who can’t keep up.”

Something shifted in him. His smirk faltered. He leaned forward slightly, and let out a long, deliberate breath.

“Fine,” he said finally, tone low, confident, and just a little amused. “I’ll help you. But I expect full attention. And no more stalling, understood?”

You nodded, letting the smallest pause before answering. “Understood.”

Fred pushed the book open, fingers brushing yours briefly as he settled next to you, just close enough that the heat from his arm pressed against yours. He glanced down at the pages, then back at you. “So,” he said, eyes locking onto yours, “where do you want me to start? What exactly do you need me to explain?”

For the next hour, you moved through potions step by step, his guidance calm but attentive, his hands occasionally brushing yours as he leaned in to point something out. Each touch was brief, almost accidental—but enough to make your pulse quicken.

He didn’t lecture or mock; he simply watched as you worked, correcting gently where needed, and allowing you to think through the steps yourself.

The room felt smaller with every passing minute, charged with something unspoken. You focused on your notes, carefully hiding the warmth creeping through you at every glance he threw your way.

By the time you closed your textbook, the sunlight had shifted across the common room.

“So,” he said finally, “did that make sense? Or are we scheduling… more of these?”

Your chest lifted imperceptibly at the question. You kept your voice even, calm. “I think I understood… but I wouldn’t say no to a little extra practice.”

Fred’s smirk widened, “Good,” he murmured, tone low, satisfied. “We’ll do this again. And next time… maybe we’ll go a little further.”

Without another word, he pushed himself up from the chair and strode back toward his friends, leaving you alone with the echo of his presence.

You sat there for a long moment, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the damp spots on your hands and quickly wiping them against your robes.

A flush creeping over your skin, and you realized how much you’d been holding in—how tightly, all this time, you’d been waiting for his attention.

Shaking your thoughts loose, you packed up your books and headed to your next class. The day moved on normally—almost too normally—yet your mind kept drifting back to him.

In the hall, a few of your friends caught sight of you and nudged each other. “So… how did it go with Fred?”

“He was… helpful,” you said pretending nonchalance.

A few of the others exchanged glances, rolling their eyes or joking, clearly a little jealous. “Don’t waste too much time on the school clown.”

The hours passed quickly. Lessons, assignments, little distractions.

By evening, in the Gryffindor dormitory, the conversation naturally turned to him. Fred had, without even trying, become the center of the girls’ gossip.

As you settled into your bed, the day’s chatter still echoing in your ears, your mind replayed every detail. The way he had looked at you, the smirk, the challenge… and a warmth spread through your chest. You drifted to sleep with a smile, heart light, exhilarated that he had agreed to help you.

The next morning, you woke drenched in sweat, breath coming fast. Your cheeks burned as the remnants of a dream clung stubbornly to your mind. It wasn’t an ordinary dream—he had been there, impossibly close. His hand, bold and certain, had traced over your body, lips teasing your neck, breath hot against your skin.

Shivering, you shook your head, a mixture of embarrassment and thrill flooding through you. And yet, as you swung your legs over the bed and stood, a grin spread across your face.

Today felt like it could hold anything—especially because you knew you would see him again.

By the time you reached the Great Hall, the morning buzz surrounded you. Heads bent over plates of breakfast, the smell of fresh bread and eggs filling the air. At a corner table, Fred and George sat with Lee Jordan, their laughter mingling with conversation.

For some reason you couldn’t explain, as you drew closer to their table, your hand lifted the hem of your skirt—just a little higher than school regulations technically allowed.

Lee’s voice carried, loud enough to turn a few heads. “Looks like our new pupil is back,” he said with a grin, nudging Fred knowingly.

“Back for more?” Fred muttered casually, not even looking at you at first.

Only then did his gaze lift to you—sliding down your figure, stopping squarely on your exposed legs.

You tilted your head slightly. “I’ll have a little time today,” you said smoothly, “so if you’re offering… after class, I’m free.”

He cleared his throat, finally dragging his eyes back up to yours. “Well… if you insist.”

George stifled a laugh, nudging him under the table. Fred shot him a sharp look. You turned and walked away, heels clicking softly on the stone floor, feeling that familiar heat crawl up your spine.

The victory was subtle but undeniable. You had played the game well—and he had taken the bait.

Your heart pounded as you slid onto the bench beside your friends, their chatter washing over you like meaningless noise. Because no matter what they said, no matter how normal the day seemed—Fred Weasley had just agreed to something, and you weren’t sure either of you knew how far it would go.

Part II.

[romanczukowsky]

Potion Mishaps

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: When a failed hair-growth potion experiment turns into a schoolyard disaster, everything seems lost… until George Weasley steps in to defend you. Shared detentions, unexpected gestures, and fleeting, accidental touches ignite a slow-burning, electrifying game between the two of you.

Warnings: Slow burn / Fluff / Romance / Light Drama / Explicit content - language

Laughter echoed against the tiled walls of the girls’ bathroom, though it wasn’t exactly cheerful. Your friend sat cross-legged on the counter, tugging helplessly at her freshly chopped hair.

“I can’t believe I did this,” she groaned. “I look like… like a disaster.”

“You look like a brave girl post-breakup,” you countered with a grin, trying to ease her misery. “But hey, that’s what potions are for, right?”

A small collection of vials clinked on the floor where you and the others had been sneaking ingredients. The potion you’d brewed wasn’t exactly textbook material, but in theory it was supposed to stimulate hair growth. In practice… it smelled like mint mixed with burnt toast.

“So,” one of the girls asked, “who’s brave enough to test it?”

You sighed, rolling up your sleeves. “I will.”

The liquid burned as it went down, and the effect was immediate.

In the mirror, tufts of hair began to sprout wildly — long clumps in one place, bald patches in another, until your head looked like an overgrown, patchy garden. The girls gasped, then burst into helpless giggles.

“Brilliant,” you muttered, yanking a scarf over your head. “Absolutely brilliant. Let’s just hope this wears off before I die of humiliation.”

The worst part wasn’t the hair. The worst part was knowing what came next. Potions. With Snape. The one class where appearances were picked apart as easily as brewing instructions, and every mistake was announced with biting sarcasm.

Clutching the scarf tightly, you followed your friends down the stairs into the dungeons. The air grew colder with every step, and so did the knot in your stomach.

By the time you reached the classroom door, whispers had already begun.

“What’s she got under there?”

“Merlin, she looks like Quirrell with that ridiculous scarf.”

You stared at the stone floor, willing yourself to vanish, when a sharp tug at the back of your head made your blood run cold.

In one swift motion, a Slytherin girl had yanked the scarf away.

Your hair — uneven, wild, a mess of tangled curls and bald patches — fell into full view.

The silence lasted only a heartbeat before the room erupted in laughter.

“Sweet Circe, what is that?” one boy choked out.

“Looks like a Flobberworm nesting ground!” another howled.

Heat rushed up your neck, burning your cheeks. Your hands shot up, desperate to cover the disaster, but it was useless. They were everywhere. Laughing. Pointing. Even your own friends shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting away. Not one of them spoke.

And then—

“Shut. It.”

The words cracked through the noise like a whip.

George Weasley had stood up from his seat, jaw tight, eyes hard in a way you’d never seen before. Fred was beside him, arms folded across his chest, his usual smirk replaced with something sharper.

The laughter faltered, but a Slytherin boy snorted, “Relax, Weasley, we’re just having a bit of fun—”

George took a step forward. “If you call that fun, you’ve got a sad idea of a joke.” His voice was low, even, but there was no mistaking the steel underneath. “Say one more word, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The boy smirked, pretending to focus on his shoes. For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. And then, just loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Careful, Weasley — stand too close to her and you’ll catch it.”

The laughter came back, sharper, meaner. Heat shot to your face, your chest tightening as if the walls themselves had closed in.

George didn’t hesitate. His fist connected with the boy’s jaw before you could even gasp. The crack echoed through the dungeon like a Bludger hitting stone.

“Go on, George!” Fred called under his breath, a wicked grin tugging at his lips. “Show him what for!”

“GEORGE!” you cried, “It’s not worth it,” tugging at his sleeve, trying to pull him back. His muscles were rigid beneath your fingers, breath coming fast as though he was ready to swing again.

For a long moment he stayed rooted in place, eyes blazing, chest heaving. Then slowly, reluctantly, he let you drag him back a step.

The Slytherin boy was doubled over, clutching his jaw, glaring daggers but not daring to speak again. The rest of the class had gone utterly silent.

And that was when Snape’s voice sliced through the air, colder than ice.

“Weasley. Both of you.” His gaze flicked like a blade toward Fred, then landed on you. “And you, Miss Y/N. Detention. Tonight.”

Your stomach plummeted. You released George’s sleeve at once, but the ghost of the heat in his arm lingered against your palms.

The next lessons passed much more quietly. You kept the scarf tightly wrapped around your head, and no one dared make a single remark. Every whispered comment from the Slytherins had died, leaving you to sink into your desk with a mixture of relief and simmering anger.

You couldn’t help it — your friends hadn’t defended you. Not one of them had spoken up, and it stung far worse than any Slytherin insult. Still, when the final bell rang, summoning you to detention, you found yourself almost looking forward to sitting with the Weasley twins, rather than hearing yet another story about heartbreak and petty crushes.

Fred and George were already waiting when you arrived.

The task before you was simple enough: polish the cauldrons, organize the shelves, and tidy the dungeon’s potion storage.

“You don’t need to hide behind that scarf,” Fred said after a moment, glancing at you with that familiar twinkle. “Seriously, you can take it off.”

You shook your head, tugging the scarf tighter around your hair. “I don’t feel comfortable without it right now.”

George’s expression softened. “Don’t worry about it. You still look lovely, even with it on.”

Fred let out a mock gasp, leaning back against his chair. “Lovely? That’s a stretch, George. Let’s not get carried away now.”

The three of you laughed, the tension in your shoulders loosening for the first time all day.

Once the cauldrons were shining, George leaned a little closer, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “So… what happened? How did it get… like that?”

You hesitated, then started to explain quietly, describing what you had added to the potion and how you’d hoped it would help your friend.

Fred leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. “Hold on, hold on,” he interrupted with a grin. “If you really want results next time, you shouldn’t have used that. Try adding this instead,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially and pointing to a different ingredient on the shelf. “Trust us, it’ll work way better.”

Your hair was still hidden under the scarf, but your chest felt a little lighter just being here, talking with them.

By the time the detention was over, the dungeon had returned to its quiet state. You stretched, feeling the stiffness in your arms from polishing cauldrons, and realized something: in all that time, you hadn’t properly thanked George.

“George I wanted to say thank you. For stepping in back there. I really appreciate it.”

George waved a hand dismissively, that familiar easy grin returning. “Don’t worry about it. No one’s going to get away with insulting you on my watch.”

Fred, ever the instigator, leaned back and smirked. “Hear that, world? Step lightly. Or George will punch you. And I’ll probably egg him on.”

You laughed softly, the tension from earlier easing just a little. For a brief moment, it felt like the three of you could stay there forever, caught in the warm bubble of camaraderie and subtle teasing.

As you and the twins began leaving the dungeon, George walked slightly closer. When a stray lock of hair fell over your forehead, he reached over and gently tucked it back. His fingers brushed your temple longer than necessary, and he murmured quietly, just to you:

“You’re still lovely.”

Before you could respond, Fred threw an arm over both of you, practically sandwiching you together. “Oh, you lover boy,” he teased loudly, wiggling his eyebrows at George.

Your cheeks warmed, but it was different this time — lighter, easier, as if the weight of the earlier humiliation had finally started to lift.

The next morning, you woke up with a strange lightness in your chest. You glanced in the mirror and smiled—your hair had mostly settled back into place, no bald patches, no wild tufts sticking out. Today, the scarf felt unnecessary.

You walked down the corridor toward the Great Hall, the morning light streaming through the tall windows. The castle was still quiet, with only a few students rushing for breakfast.

“Morning!”

You turned at the familiar voice and saw George and Fred right behind him.

“Hi!” you replied, smiling.

Fred leaned slightly toward you, a mischievous grin on his face. “Look at you! Almost normal now, huh?” he teased, letting out a soft laugh.

George nudged him sharply in the ribs, a smirk tugging at his lips. You couldn’t help but smile at their antics, feeling the lightness from yesterday lingering.

Over the next days, something began to shift.

You found yourself noticing George more than you ever had before. Noticing the way his laughter always seemed a little softer when it was aimed at you. The way his eyes lingered on yours for a heartbeat too long, as if he were memorizing your face before looking away.

In the common room, he always found his way beside you. The stories he told were meant for the group, but his gaze kept flickering back to you, like he wanted to catch your reaction most of all. And when you laughed, he leaned in, eyes crinkling with a warmth that made the whole world feel smaller, simpler — just you and him, sharing the moment.

Sometimes it was accidental — or at least, it felt like it was. His hand brushing against yours when he passed you a quill. His fingers grazing your sleeve as he reached past you for a book. But each fleeting touch left a spark, something unspoken that lingered long after.

Even in the corridors, when you crossed paths, he would dip his head close just to whisper, “Morning,” his voice low and meant only for you. And no matter how ordinary the day was, those small words stayed with you.

Little by little, without either of you saying it aloud, you realized it: George wasn’t just close. He was choosing to be close. And somewhere along the way, you found yourself hoping he wouldn’t stop.

The first snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the grounds in soft white and frosting the castle windows. By the time you settled into the common room that afternoon, the world outside glowed with winter light, the fire in the hearth crackling warmly.

You and a few of your friends curled up on the couches, blankets draped over your legs, voices low but full of excitement. Valentine’s Day was only a few weeks away, and the talk had, of course, turned to it.

“I’m definitely sending mine to Cedric Diggory,” one girl announced with a dreamy sigh. Another giggled. “I just hope I’ll get one from Adrian Pucey — Merlin, have you seen him in Quidditch practice?”

The others dissolved into laughter, trading names and secrets, their cheeks pink with anticipation. You listened, smiling softly, but didn’t add much. Your thoughts drifted elsewhere, though you weren’t about to admit it.

“Here you go.”

The sudden, warm voice pulled you from your reverie. You looked up to see George standing in front of you, holding out a steaming mug of hot chocolate. He placed it gently into your hands, his fingers brushing yours just briefly before he straightened. His grin was playful, but there was something softer in his eyes, something meant only for you.

“Ladies,” he said with a mock bow and an exaggerated flourish, his tone perfectly theatrical, as though he were bidding farewell to a court of queens.

Your friends laughed, and you couldn’t help but smile as he turned on his heel and strolled away, still humming under his breath like he’d just exited a stage.

The moment the portrait hole closed behind him, every head whipped back toward you. “Oh. My. God.” “What was that?” “Don’t you dare tell me there’s nothing going on, Y/N!”

You opened your mouth, ready to deny it, but one of your friends leaned forward, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “Come on. Is there something between you and George?”

Your lips parted, but no answer came. Instead, your mind slipped away into the same loop it had been circling for days. George had been… different lately. Ever since he’d stood up for you in the dungeons, he’d been kinder, softer, almost protective. But was that all it was? Just kindness? Pity, even? A sense of responsibility he couldn’t quite shake?

Or was it something more? The way his gaze lingered too long, the way he made you laugh without even trying… did that mean he was already enchanted by you? Or were you just reading into things you desperately wanted to be true?

One of the girls suddenly clapped her hands together, eyes bright with mischief. “Well, there’s one way to know for sure.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“An elixir,” she whispered dramatically, like she’d just uncovered the secret to life itself. “Something to get the truth out of him. Imagine—George Weasley, unable to hide what he really feels.”

Your stomach flipped. “An elixir of truth? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, come on! How hard can it be? We still have time before Valentine’s Day. If we start soon, maybe we can make it work.”

Another girl giggled. “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”

You arched a brow. “What’s the worst that could happen? Do I need to remind you of your ‘brilliant’ hair-growth potion?”

That set them all off laughing, but the first girl only waved her hand dismissively. “This time it’ll be different. This time, it’ll be perfect.”

You shook your head, trying to look unimpressed, but your gaze drifted across the room. George was back at his table, laughing at something Fred had said, his profile caught in the glow of the firelight. And something inside you ached with the thought: What if I could know? Really know?

Your fingers tightened around your mug as warmth flooded your cheeks. Maybe… just maybe, it’s not the worst idea after all.

The days slipped by quicker than you expected. Between classes, late-night whispers, and stolen moments in the girls’ dormitory, you and your friends had been busy. The elixir wasn’t perfect, not yet — but with every simmering cauldron and every scroll of notes spread across the floor, it grew closer.

The night before Valentine’s Day, the potion was finally ready for a test. “Not me,” you said firmly, holding up your hands as the others turned toward you.

They groaned, laughing, but finally agreed. One of the girls reluctantly took the vial, and within moments, the truth spilled out of her lips without hesitation. Favorite color. Secret crush. Embarrassing dream. No resistance, no second thought — it worked.

Your hearts raced with triumph. All that remained now was George.

By the time you slipped back into the common room, it was late. The boys were gathered at the far table, their game of Exploding Snap winding down with laughter and groans of defeat. George’s gaze found yours almost instantly, lingering just long enough to send warmth creeping up your neck.

Eventually, the group thinned out, some yawning their goodnights, others retreating upstairs. You found yourself by the fire, George drifted over, and dropped into the seat beside you. Close — not too close, but enough that you felt the heat of him even more than the fire.

For a moment, silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of burning logs. Then his arm brushed yours, casually, almost absentmindedly — though it sent your pulse into chaos.

“So,” he said, glancing sideways at you with that crooked half-smile. “Got any plans for tomorrow?”

You tried to laugh it off, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Depends. Why? Do you?”

“Maybe,” he said lightly, though his eyes lingered on you longer than his tone suggested.

He leaned in a fraction, as if he meant to say more — or maybe to do more.

The fire popped softly, a spark flying up the chimney, but you hardly noticed. All you could feel was him — close, closer, like he was about to close that last inch of distance.

Your pulse hammered in your throat. If he moved just a little more, if you tilted your head just slightly—

But then George stopped. His lips curved, just barely, into that maddening grin. He ran a hand through his hair, as though shaking off a thought he wasn’t ready to finish.

“Guess we’ll see, won’t we?” he murmured, his voice low, warm, and utterly unreadable.

The words sank into you, teasing, unfinished. You forced a faint smile, but inside, something twisted — a restless ache, the craving for more than almost.

And as he leaned back, putting just enough space between you again, you realized he knew exactly what he was doing.

The Gryffindor common room was alive with laughter and shrieks that morning. Girls squealed as they tore open cards, boys groaned over gaudy, glittery hearts.

You sat on the couch, forcing a smile as you watched the chaos unfold. Everyone had something in their hands—except you. Not a single card, not a single note. But truthfully, only one name mattered anyway.

George.

And he hadn’t sent you anything.

That thought gnawed at your chest, sharp and heavy. So when you carried over the steaming mug of hot chocolate, your fingers trembled just slightly. You’d slipped the tiniest drop of your potion inside, your last hope for an answer you were too afraid to ask for directly.

The twins were at their usual table, Fred crowing about a victory in wizard chess while George leaned back, grinning lazily.

“Cheers, Y/N,” George said as you handed him the mug. His fingers brushed yours in the exchange, sending a bolt of heat up your arm. You quickly turned away, pretending not to notice.

As soon as he held the mug, he glanced down at the chocolate inside and a slow smile spread across his face. Then he took a sip. And when his gaze finally lifted, it locked on you—just a little too intently.

“You know…” His voice was softer, uncertain, as though weighing each word. “You have no idea how hard it is to sit next to you and not just say it.”

Your stomach flipped. “Say what?” you whispered.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes never leaving yours. “That you’re the only one I wanted to send a Valentine to… that I… like you.”

And then, he reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He slid it across the table, his thumb lingering at the edge.

One simple card. No glitter, no lace. Just your name, and at the bottom, one letter.

G.

Fred glanced up, smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, you lover boy!”

Your fingers brushed his as you reached for the parchment, a small electric shock running through you. Before you could open it, George’s voice shifted—soft at first, then rougher, more intimate.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “About what it’d be like if you actually said yes… if you were mine.”

The common room stilled. A few giggles, some gasps—but George didn’t seem to notice. He leaned closer, words spilling unchecked, every thought tumbling free.

“I keep catching myself staring at you, wondering if you even notice. Half the time, I can’t concentrate in class because all I can think about is you—your laugh, the way you look at me when you don’t even realize it.”

His hand, still lightly covering yours on the card, tightened slightly, teasing.

“And I’ve imagined—” His voice dropped lower, huskier, carrying across the stunned silence of the common room. “I’ve imagined you sitting right on my face…”

The common room had gone dead silent, every pair of eyes on the two of you.

Fred stifled a laugh behind his hand, while one of your friends froze, eyes wide with disbelief.

George leaned just a little closer, that made your stomach twist. “I want to feel that little smirk of yours as I pull you down… to hear you moan, to watch how you move when I’m completely under your control.”

He let the words hang, teasing, heavy with promise. “I’ve imagined every shiver, every gasp, every tiny sound you’d make while I do exactly what I’ve been craving for weeks…”

But George leaned closer, lowering his voice — though everyone could still hear.

“And if you let me, I’ll make sure Valentine’s Day is one you’ll never forget.”

“BLOODY HELL, GEORGE!” Fred yelled, trying to cover his brother’s mouth with his hand, laughing through his teeth, while half the room erupted into laughter and scandalized gasps.

George’s eyes never left yours. He paused, lifting the mug to his lips. Steam curling around his face as he took a slow, deliberate sip. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “Still a little clumsy with your potions, aren’t you?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “I—I just…” you stammered, flustered, words failing.

He leaned in slightly, fingers brushing yours again as he set down the mug. “Relax,” he murmured, voice dropping, teasing and husky, “that doesn’t mean I’m not going to enjoy every bit of your effort. Honestly… I quite like watching you try.”

Your eyes flicked away for a moment, then back—and that mischievous glint in his gaze made your stomach twist in a delicious way.

“Lots left to learn, my dear,” he added softly, leaning closer, “but don’t worry… I’ll make sure you get the hang of it.”

[romanczukowsky]

Between Attention and Allure

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: The story shows how the tension and complex dynamics between you and Fred Weasley gradually build. At first, he seems playful and elusive, but over time he deliberately draws your attention, showing jealousy toward Cedric Diggory and subtly signaling his interest.

Do you dare to play his game?

Warnings: Slow Burn / Fluff & light romance / First Kiss / Friends to lovers / Light rivalry / Light Angst / One-shot

Fred Weasley was never supposed to matter this much. He was a blur of laughter in crowded corridors, a flash of ginger hair disappearing around corners, a voice that could turn the dullest moment into something alive. He belonged to everyone and no one at once, untouchable in his brilliance, impossible to capture.

And yet, somewhere along the way, he became the center of every thought I tried to push away. It wasn’t just a crush—those were simple, fleeting, harmless. This was something heavier. Something that clung to me in quiet moments, tightening its hold whenever he was near.

I caught myself memorizing him in fragments: the curve of his grin, the lazy confidence in his stride, the way his eyes lit up just before he said something clever.

The worst part was the way he looked back sometimes, his gaze lingering just a second too long, reading the quiet thoughts I never dared to voice.

He knew. Of course he knew.

And instead of ignoring it, he played with it.

Today the Great Hall was crowded, the hum of voices echoing off stone walls as I moved down the Gryffindor table, gathering signatures for the new student committee initiative.

“Just a quick signature,” I said, sliding the quill toward a fifth-year who scrawled his name without hesitation.

And then I reached them. Fred and George sat sprawled across the bench.

George leaned forward immediately, scanning the parchment. “Always knew you had ambition.” He signed with a dramatic flourish.

Fred leaned back in his seat, one arm draped across the table, eyes fixed on me with infuriating amusement. “And what do I get if I sign?” he asked lazily, twirling the quill between his fingers once George passed it along.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “You get the satisfaction of helping other students,” I shot back, trying to keep my tone even.

Fred’s grin widened. “Mm, doesn’t sound like much of a reward. I was hoping for something more fun.”

George groaned. “Just sign it.”

But before Fred could, another voice cut in.

“Hey, I heard about the petition,” Cedric said, his warm smile disarming as he leaned slightly closer, “I think it’s a brilliant idea. Count me in.”

I blinked.

“Actually,” he continued, leaning toward me with a conspiratorial grin, “I could help you get more signatures. Two heads are better than one, right?”

Before I could answer, Fred let out a sharp laugh. “Careful, Diggory. Sounds like you’re trying to steal my job.”

Cedric glanced at him, unbothered. “Didn’t know you were planning to help.”

Fred’s eyes flicked to me, catching the way I was still smiling at Cedric. Something dangerous sparked there. “Oh, I’m helping,” he said smoothly, finally pressing the quill to parchment with a flourish that rivaled George’s. He shoved it back into my hands, brushing my fingers deliberately. “See? Always dependable.”

I swallowed hard, heart racing. Cedric and I moved down the table, collecting more names, his presence warm and encouraging beside me. But every time I glanced back, Fred’s gaze was on us, sharp and unreadable.

Later, when we delivered the parchments to Professor McGonagall, her stern gaze softened. “Looks like you’ve gathered quite a few signatures,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Well done.”

Relieved, I stepped into the corridor with Cedric. He was mid-sentence when a familiar voice rang out behind us.

“Don’t let Diggory take all the credit!” George teased, and I turned to see the twins lingering in the hall.

Fred wasn’t smiling. He tossed a small ball between his hands, his eyes locked on me with unsettling intensity.

I managed a steady, “I won’t.”

Cedric excused himself a moment later, leaving me at the stairwell with Fred. He leaned close, his voice low enough to send a shiver straight down my spine.

“So,” he drawled, eyes flicking over me, “is this how you’re getting signatures now? Batting your lashes at Diggory?”

My breath caught. “What? No—I wasn’t—”

He arched a brow, smirk tugging at his lips. “Relax. I’m impressed. Bold strategy. Though I’d hate to see how far you’d go if you needed a hundred more names.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. And yet—” Fred slid an arm around my shoulders in one smooth, careless motion, tugging me closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His warmth seeped straight through me, my pulse racing.

“Oi, George!” Fred called down the corridor, not even bothering to remove his arm. “You coming, or are you planning on letting me walk this charming committee leader all the way back to the tower on my own?”

George snorted, jogging to catch up. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said, grinning at me. “He’s just hoping you’ll write him a pass when he skips his next library session.”

Fred gave a mock gasp of offense, squeezing my shoulder lightly before steering me forward. “You wound me, brother. I’d never rely on cheap tricks.” His eyes slid to mine then, a glint of mischief dancing in them. “Well. Almost never.”

Back in my dormitory, I lay staring at the canopy of my bed. My heart still hadn’t slowed, not really—not since Fred’s arm slid around me as if it belonged there. The memory of his warmth pressed against my side left me restless, wide awake.

But the confusion was worse.

Was he… jealous? Was that what that sharp grin meant, that pointed comment about Cedric? Or was I only imagining it—another trick, another game?

And yet tonight, it hadn’t felt like a joke. Not entirely. The way his arm stayed heavy across my shoulders, the way his gaze lingered when George wasn’t looking—it all felt too deliberate. Too careful to be careless.

I rolled onto my side, burying my face in the pillow, frustrated with myself. Maybe Cedric’s easy smile, his willingness to help, had been useful for more than just gathering signatures. Maybe Fred had needed a reason to step closer. If so… perhaps I could use that.

The thought sent a thrill down my spine, equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. If Fred was going to play games, maybe it was time I learned how to play back.

The next morning, I slid into my usual seat at the Gryffindor table, parchment tucked under my arm. The air smelled of toast and pumpkin juice, and the chatter of students swelled around me. Cedric spotted me from the Hufflepuff table and raised his hand in greeting before turning back to his friends.

I smiled—just enough for Fred to notice.

Sure enough, when I reached for the jam, Fred leaned across from further down the bench, his elbow bumping George’s plate. “Careful there,” George muttered, glaring at his brother.

But Fred’s attention was fixed on me. “Busy morning already? Got another petition to drag Diggory into?” His voice was light, teasing, but there was a sharpness beneath it.

I pretended not to notice, calmly buttering my toast. “Maybe. He does have good ideas.”

Fred’s brow twitched almost imperceptibly. “Good ideas…”

George snorted into his porridge, but Fred didn’t laugh. He was watching me far too closely, as though waiting for me to slip.

“Fred...” George drawled, leaning back with a cheeky grin. “You might get jealous if she talks to Diggory too much.”

Fred’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing just enough to make George chuckle. “Don’t be daft,” he said, voice tight, though the edge in it betrayed him.

I felt my chest tighten, the thrill of watching Fred squirm sending a warmth straight through me. George leaned forward, pretending to inspect my toast. “I mean, really,” he said, whispering loudly enough for Fred to hear, “you might want to keep an eye on her. She seems… attentive, don’t you think?”

Fred’s jaw ticked, and for a heartbeat, he looked dangerously amused and annoyed at once. “Attentive, huh? Careful, George, you’re treading on thin ice,” he warned, voice low, laced with a teasing menace that made me bite my lip.

George shrugged innocently. “I’m just making observations. You know, helpful ones.”

“Helpful, is it?” he murmured, leaning just slightly closer. “We’ll see how helpful you are in a minute.”

George’s grin widened, clearly delighted with himself, and leaned back, leaving Fred’s attention fully on me now. The tension between us hummed, electric, almost tangible, as I tried to pretend nothing had shifted—though every nerve in my body screamed that it had.

During the day, I had made my way to the library, and now it was quiet, the usual hush broken only by the scratch of quills and the occasional turning of a page. I carried my parchment toward an empty table, determined to finish notes for the committee.

“Fancy seeing you here,” a familiar voice said. I looked up to see Cedric leaning against a bookshelf with one arm, a grin on his face. “Need a hand?”

“Uh… sure,” I said, trying to sound casual.

We spread out the parchments and quills, working side by side. Cedric talked quietly about his own plans for the committee, his warmth and calm efficiency a stark contrast to the simmering tension I had been feeling with Fred.

“Here, let me help you with that section,” Cedric said, leaning closer. “You’ve got a bit of ink on your cheek—here, I’ll wipe it off.”

I blinked, a small smile tugging at my lips, when a low clearing of a throat froze me mid-motion. I looked up.

Fred was standing there, arms crossed over his chest, right across from us, his sharp gaze pinning me in place.

“Maybe you two should take a break,” he said, his tone casual but carrying an unmistakable edge.

Cedric waved a hand, still holding his quill. “It’s not exactly exhausting work, Fred. Just a few notes for the committee.”

Fred’s eyes flicked between us, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Just a moment,” he said, stepping closer. Before I could react, his hand lightly cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing away the tiny smear of ink Cedric had pointed out. His touch was gentle, deliberate, but the heat in his gaze made my pulse spike.

“There,” he murmured, eyes locking with mine. “Better.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he shook his head slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“You’ve got to pace yourself with all these committee notes. Don’t tire yourself out,” he added, his tone casual, almost teasing—but the slight edge in his voice made me stiffen.

Cedric cleared his throat. “Well… we could take a short break, maybe stretch a bit—”

Fred’s smirk deepened. “No need,” he cut in smoothly. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your hard work.” He stepped back half a pace, his eyes still locked on mine. “I only came for a book.”

He glanced briefly at the nearest shelf, then gave a careless shrug. “Actually… doesn’t matter which one.”

With that, he turned on his heel, striding away with practiced nonchalance. Just before disappearing behind the rows of shelves, he glanced over his shoulder and winked.

My breath caught, heat rushing to my cheeks before I could stop it.

Cedric let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he bent back over the parchment. “Typical Fred.” he said lightly, as if it explained everything.

I forced myself to look back down at the parchment, quill trembling faintly between my fingers. Maybe I’d imagined it—the way Fred’s gaze had burned, the way his touch had lingered a moment too long. Maybe it was nothing. Just another trick, another game. He was good at that. Too good.

And yet… my pulse still hadn’t settled. Not since he winked.

Evening fell quickly, and the parchment in front of me had begun to blur. Letters danced on the page, refusing to stay still, so I gathered my notes and returned to the tower. I thought I’d fall asleep right away, but sleep never came. I could still feel the warmth of his hand against my cheek. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that flash in Fred’s gaze as he disappeared between the shelves.

The next day, once classes ended, the common room buzzed with life. Gryffindor always did—wizard chess clattered on one table, books lay abandoned across sofas, someone plucked a violin near the fire.

Of course, Fred and George had claimed the best seats. George leaned intently over the chessboard, while Fred lounged back in his chair, spinning a piece idly between his fingers instead of playing.

“Need an opponent?” I asked, meaning to pass by.

Fred tipped his head back, eyes gleaming. “Sure you want to play me? I hear chess requires a clear head. Dangerous thing, sitting across from me.”

George groaned. “Play him. He’ll give up soon anyway—his favorite tactic is distracting his opponent with nonsense.”

I smiled and sat down. The stone pieces stirred to life, clattering into neat rows.

Fred resting his elbow on the table. “So… Diggory was hovering around you again today?”

I pretended to focus on the board. “Maybe. Why?”

“Not asking,” he said easily, though his eyes lingered. “Just observing.”

“I didn’t realize you were so observant.” I moved my bishop, forcing his rook back.

Fred whistled low. “Clever. You’ve got an eye for strategy.” He leaned in, voice dropping just enough for only me to hear. “Tell me—do you approach people the same way?”

My heart stuttered, but I only shrugged. “Maybe. You probably do too.”

George groaned dramatically, sliding his king forward. “For Merlin’s sake, stop flirting over the chessboard. You’re making the pieces uncomfortable.”

Fred flashed him an innocent smile. “This isn’t flirting.” His knee brushed mine beneath the table—and stayed there. “This is competition.”

The pieces clashed and shattered, but I barely noticed. Every move Fred made carried something heavier than the game. Every glance said: I see you.

When my queen finally cornered his king, Fred laughed, leaning back in defeat. “All right. I admit it. You win.” His gaze caught mine, more serious than it should’ve been. “But don’t worry—I never lose twice in a row.”

George clapped his hands. “Brilliant. I’m off to get tea before the two of you set fire to the board.”

When he disappeared, silence thickened around us. Fred rested his chin on his hand, leaning close enough that the firelight flickered in his eyes.

“So?” he murmured. “Do you like playing with me… or against me?”

My pulse thundered. Somehow I managed, “That depends.”

Fred’s smile spread slowly, like he’d heard exactly the answer he wanted. Then he leaned back, casual again, and began resetting the pieces for another match.

“Ready for round two?” he asked, voice deceptively light.

Fred won the next game with ease, his smirk triumphant as he tipped my king over. I managed a wry smile and murmured my congratulations before retreating to the armchair by the fire.

I unrolled fresh parchment, determined to draft the committee proposal for Professor McGonagall. But the words tangled uselessly in my head, every neat line collapsing into thoughts of Fred—his grin, his voice, the way he leaned just a little too close.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself focus.

With a quiet sigh, I gathered my notes. “I’ll be in the library,” I said, pushing myself up.

George, sprawled across the sofa, raised his brows. “Meeting Diggory?”

Fred’s elbow jabbed into his side before I could respond. I caught the motion from the corner of my eye—the casual, brotherly shove, but his jaw was tight. I didn’t stay to watch the rest. I only muttered something about needing quiet and slipped out.

The library was just as I hoped—silent, vast, rows of shadows and candlelight. I had already settled at a corner table, quill scratching across parchment as I tried to force the proposal into shape. By the time I was halfway through a paragraph, the hush had begun to ease the tightness in my chest.

“Mind if I join you?” a familiar voice cut softly through the silence.

I looked up, startled, as Fred appeared beside my table, a book tucked loosely under his arm, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Fred Weasley… in the library? And alone?” I managed, arching a brow.

His grin spread easily. “What, you thought I couldn’t read? I’m full of surprises.”

Before I could respond, he slid into the chair beside me, casual as if it were the most natural thing in the world. My quill hovered uselessly over the parchment. Somehow, having him so close made every word I’d been struggling to write vanish.

He leaned over, pretending to glance at my notes. “Show me that,” he murmured, tilting my parchment toward him. When he took the quill from my fingers, our shoulders brushed, and a jolt shot through me.

We were close enough that our legs touched under the table, and I became painfully aware of every subtle movement. My eyes flicked to a passing student, and I froze—they were staring. Fred Weasley, in the library. No wonder they looked like they’d seen a ghost.

Fred’s fingers snapped in front of me. “You listening?” he asked, tilting my face toward him. I blinked, caught in his gaze, and my thoughts scattered.

He leaned a fraction closer under the pretense of pointing at the notes. His arm brushed mine again, a slow, teasing contact. I swallowed, aware of how impossibly close we were, how my heart had started hammering like a drum.

“Hmm… maybe like this?” he murmured, his voice low, guiding the quill. His knee nudged mine, our legs brushing in a deliberate, almost playful way. I could feel the heat of his body, the warmth of his hand lightly pressing my thigh under the table.

His face tilted closer, just inches from mine. My breath caught. He hesitated, searching my eyes, as if asking silently for permission. Then, ever so gently, his lips brushed mine—soft, tentative, testing the waters.

Fred pulled back slightly, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Still with me?” he murmured.

I struggled to find words, my mind a swirl of excitement, confusion, and something deeper that made my stomach twist. “I… I suppose,” I managed, trying to keep my voice steady.

Fred’s grin widened, giving me the smallest, almost imperceptible wink. “Good. Because I’m not sure I’d be able to resist… helping you with your work if it keeps going like this.” before leaning in again, this time with more certainty. The second kiss was firmer, bolder, and he pressed me gently toward him, my hands barely steady as my quill slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor.

Fred’s hands didn’t stay idle. One slid slowly to the curve of my thigh, pressing and warming me under the table, while the other rose to cradle the back of my neck, tilting my head just enough to deepen the kiss. Every brush of his lips sent a shiver through me, a delicious, aching heat that made my knees weak.

He pulled me closer, his body flush against mine, leaving no space between us. He groaned softly against my mouth, a sound low and hungry, and I realized he wasn’t holding back anymore—couldn’t hold back.

Breathless, my mind scattered, all focus on him—the warmth, the weight, the pull. The world outside the library ceased to exist; there was only the heat between us, the urgent press of lips and hands, and the impossible tension that made it feel like the room itself was shrinking around us.

Fred finally pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against mine, chest heaving, lips brushing my temple in a softer, lingering caress. “Can’t get enough of me, can you?” he murmured, voice husky, eyes blazing. I could only nod, my own hands trembling, aware that nothing—nothing—would let this fire die anytime soon.

The air between us was still charged, my lips tingling, when footsteps broke the spell. I turned—only to see Cedric standing a few feet away, blinking at us like he’d walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Uh… hi?” Cedric’s voice trailed off, his usual steady calm faltering. His eyes flicked from me to Fred, to the quill still abandoned on the floor, and back again. “Are you two… working?”

Fred’s grin stretched slow and shameless, his arm still draped along the back of my chair, thumb brushing the bare skin at my neck like he had no intention of moving. “Depends on your definition of work, mate,” he drawled, eyes dancing with mischief. “We were making… progress.”

Cedric blinked, his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or frown. “I only meant—I was going to offer some help with her proposal.”

“She seems to prefer my methods, right?”

My cheeks warm, heart racing, while Cedric gave a small, awkward laugh and slowly retreated, muttering something about “I’ll just… leave you two to it.”

Fred’s grin widened as soon as Cedric was out of sight. “Now that’s sorted,” he murmured, leaning in again, close enough that I could feel every line of his body. “Where were we… oh yes, your notes.”

Fred bent to pick up the fallen quill, twirling it between his fingers like he’d just won a trophy. With Cedric gone, his grin softened—still cocky, but less sharp—as he set the quill back on my parchment.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat with exaggerated seriousness, “as I was saying… if you’d like, I could actually help you with this. Properly. Professionally.” He tapped the parchment with mock gravity. “No distractions this time.”

The words had barely left his lips before I reached out, fisting the front of his sweater and yanking him down to me. Our mouths collided in a kiss that was nothing like tentative—it was fierce, claiming, the kind of kiss that left no room for teasing.

Fred let out a startled groan, half laugh, half surrender, before his hands gripped my waist, hauling me closer as if he couldn’t stand an inch between us. The quill clattered uselessly back to the floor, forgotten again.

I deepened the kiss, refusing to let go, tilting my head to press harder, hungrier. His attempt at “professional” dissolved instantly; he melted into me with a heat that made my chest ache, his lips parting to meet mine with equal urgency.

One of his hands slid up my back, over my shoulder, and tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp against his mouth. That sound only spurred him on—he kissed me deeper, rougher, like he was done pretending he had any restraint left.

When I finally pulled back, breathless, Fred’s freckles stood out against the flush in his cheeks. His grin was crooked, dazed, utterly wrecked. “Professional, huh?” I teased, my voice barely steady.

He laughed under his breath, forehead dropping to mine. “Merlin help me,” he rasped, still clutching me close, “because if that’s your idea of distraction… I don’t stand a bloody chance.”

What neither of us realized was that the day was only just beginning.

[romanczukowsky]

Whispered Tips

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: A Beauxbatons transfer arrives at Hogwarts, daunted by whispers, new faces, and the chaos of first-year life. Amid awkward encounters and secretive stares, Fred Weasley takes a peculiar interest in her, offering guidance, mischief, and quiet moments that feel dangerously personal.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Fluff & light romance / First Kiss / Friends to lovers / Light rivalry / Light Angst / One-shot

The train screeched to a stop, and I clutched my trunk tightly, heart hammering in my chest. This was it—my first year at Hogwarts. Or, rather, my first year at Hogwarts after Beauxbatons. My parents had moved to England for work, and now I was stepping into a school I’d only heard about in whispers and letters. Everything felt thrilling, unfamiliar… and terrifying.

The train screeched to a stop, steam curling around the platform as students spilled out in every direction. I wrestled my suitcase out of the carriage, the weight making me stumble forward—straight into someone’s chest.

“Whoa there!” a warm, amused voice said, steadying me by the arm. I looked up into a pair of mischievous brown eyes set under a mop of vivid red hair. His grin widened. “Hello, gorgeous. Haven’t seen you around before. You must be new.”

Flustered, I adjusted my grip on my trunk. “I—yes. I’m new. I… transferred from Beauxbatons. My parents moved here for work.”

“Beauxbatons, huh? That explains the accent,” he said lightly, clearly teasing but not unkind. “Well, lucky us. I’m Fred. Fred Weasley.” He gestured behind him, where another redhead was smirking knowingly. “That’s my twin, George. The one who looks almost as handsome as me.”

George rolled his eyes, grinning. “Almost?”

Fred ignored him and carried on introducing the group. “Oliver WoodQuidditch captain and obsessed with it, too. And Lee Jordan resident commentator and troublemaker, second only to us.”

Each gave me a smile or a wave, and I felt a little less like I was drowning in a sea of strangers. But it was Fred who still hadn’t let go of my arm, his hand lingering just long enough for me to notice before he finally released it with a wink.

“Stick with us, and you won’t get lost,” he said, effortlessly confident. “Hogwarts can be a bit overwhelming at first, but trust me—you’ll find your way.”

For the first time since stepping off the train, I believed him.

We reached the massive oak doors of the castle, and that was where a stern-looking witch in emerald robes swept toward us, gathering the first-years. Her sharp gaze landed on me, and with a small nod she beckoned.

“Come along. You’ll join the others for the Sorting.”

I towered over most of them, earning more than a few curious glances. One boy, wide-eyed and clearly oblivious to tact, whispered loudly, “Are you—are you part giant or something?”

The group tittered nervously. Heat crept to my cheeks, but instead of shrinking back, I arched a brow and muttered just loudly enough to be heard, “Obviously.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the first-years, and I caught Fred watching from the side of the hall, eyes gleaming with amusement and something else—approval, maybe.

When my name was finally called, I walked to the front, the Sorting Hat waiting like a crown of destiny on its stool. The moment it slipped over my head, a wise, ancient voice filled my mind.

“Ah… bold, confident, quick with wit. You’d do well in Ravenclaw, or perhaps Slytherin… but no, there’s a streak of bravery, a hunger for challenge. Yes, I see it. Better be…”

“Gryffindor!”

The Hat shouted the word, and the table on the far left erupted into cheers. I slipped the hat off, my pulse racing, and made my way toward the house that had already welcomed me—even before the Sorting. Fred’s grin was the first thing I saw as I sat down.

The feast was a blur of golden plates piled high with food, enchanted candles floating overhead, and laughter echoing through the Great Hall. By the time dessert disappeared from the tables, I was dizzy with it all.

“First-years! Gryffindors, this way, please!”

The prefect’s sharp voice cut through the din. A tall, rather serious-looking boy with the same bright red hair as the twins raised his hand to gather us.

“That’s Percy,” Fred whispered at my side, leaning close enough for me to catch the warmth of his breath. “Our dear, rule-abiding older brother. Don’t worry, he’s not contagious.”

I bit back a smile as Percy shot Fred a pointed glare before marching us through twisting staircases and long, echoing corridors. At last, he stopped before a portrait of a rather plump woman in a pink dress.

“Password?” she asked in a singsong voice.

“Caput Draconis,” Percy answered crisply, and the portrait swung open to reveal the Gryffindor common room.

The space was warm and welcoming, all deep crimson and gold, with armchairs gathered around a crackling fire. The younger students gasped in delight, some running to claim seats, others chattering in awe.

George bounded up beside me, his grin wide as ever. Before I could ask what he was up to, he caught my hand and tugged me through the crowd.

“You’ve got to meet him,” he said over the din. “The one and only Harry Potter.”

We stopped in front of a boy with messy black hair and bright green eyes behind round glasses. He looked startled as George announced, “Harry, meet our newest Gryffindor.”

Harry’s gaze lifted to me, and for a moment, he seemed to forget how to breathe. His hand twitched as though he wasn’t sure whether to offer it.

I smiled softly and extended mine first. “It’s an honor to meet you, Harry. I just wanted to thank you—for what you’ve done. Not just for Hogwarts, but for the whole world. People like me… we owe you more than we can say.”

Color rose in his cheeks instantly, his voice catching. “I—I didn’t… it wasn’t just me,” he mumbled, clearly flustered. Hermione beamed at me, while Ron puffed out his chest as if he’d taken the compliment himself.

Before I knew it, others had noticed me too. Boys introduced themselves, vying for a smile, asking about Beauxbatons, complimenting my accent, my hair, my laugh. It wasn’t overwhelming exactly—after all, Beauxbatons had prepared me for attention—but it was exhausting, and my smile was beginning to ache.

That was when Fred appeared at my side again, his timing unnervingly perfect. He leaned down slightly, speaking just for me.

“Want an escape route? I happen to know all the shortcuts in this castle. Perks of the job. The moving staircases, the portraits that gossip, Peeves—oh, you’ll love him” His grin was easy, confident, but his eyes were sharper—watching me, seeing I was tired beneath the attention.

I arched a brow, letting a bit of humor creep into my tone. “You know, I’ve already had about a dozen offers of help tonight. Why should I take yours?”

Fred’s grin deepened, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Because, unlike the rest of them, you won’t regret mine.”

And for the first time since leaving Beauxbatons, I felt like I belonged.

The first morning in Gryffindor Tower felt like waking up inside a dream. The dormitory glowed with early sunlight filtering through high windows, the scarlet curtains around the beds still rustling as girls hurried to dress in their new robes. I had to remind myself I wasn’t in Beauxbatons anymore—the soft blue silks replaced by heavy wool, the elegant chandeliers swapped for warm, flickering torches.

By breakfast, the Great Hall buzzed with energy. Owls swooped overhead, dropping letters into waiting hands, and plates filled magically with toast, eggs, and pumpkin juice.

Classes were a whirlwind. Charms with Professor Flitwick had me both fascinated and flustered.

If Charms had been amusing, Potions was another matter entirely. Professor Slughorn seemed almost absurdly delighted with me.

“Ah, our transfer from Beauxbatons!” he beamed as I brewed my first simple mixture. “Exquisite technique, simply exquisite! Just look at that stirring motion—textbook perfect.”

The praise made my ears burn, and I tried to hide behind my cauldron, but it was no use. Whispers spread quickly around the dungeon, and not all of them were kind.

“She hasn’t even been here a week and he’s already doting on her.” “Of course she’s perfect, she’s French.”

I clenched my jaw, pretending not to hear, though the sting lingered long after class had ended.

Flying lessons weren’t any better. Mounting the broom had seemed simple enough, but once my feet left the ground, panic stole my balance. My broom wobbled wildly while a pair of girls nearby—both already hovering gracefully several feet above me—snickered.

“Maybe they don’t fly at Beauxbatons,” one called sweetly, looping effortlessly around me. “Don’t worry, you’ll catch up... eventually.”

Even the castle itself seemed determined to test me. I hurried down a corridor clutching my books, two portraits of elderly wizards leaned together, whispering far too loudly.

“Pretty thing, isn’t she?” said one, stroking his painted beard. “Indeed. Wouldn’t mind being young again myself,” chuckled the other.

My cheeks burned as I quickened my pace, ignoring their chuckles echoing after me.

By the time evening fell, I was wrung out—physically, emotionally, everything. I paused in a quiet corridor, sagging against the wall with my books pressed to my chest.

That was when Oliver Wood appeared, his broom slung casually over his shoulder.

“Rough first day?” he asked kindly. His Scottish lilt softened the words. “Don’t let it get to you. Hogwarts can be brutal at first, but you’ll find your stride. Especially with Quidditch. I could give you some tips, if you’d like.”

Before I could reply, footsteps approached. Fred and George came striding down the corridor, their voices carrying ahead of them.

“Ah, there she is,” George announced, spotting me instantly. “Looking utterly exhausted, poor thing.”

Fred’s eyes lingered on me a little longer, sharper than his brother’s playful tone. “Long day?” he asked, voice lower, as though it was meant only for me.

I shifted the weight of my books against my chest, feeling the ache in my arms after a long day. Fred glanced at them, then, without asking, reached over and pulled the stack neatly out of my grasp.

“Here,” he said simply, tucking them under his arm as though they weighed nothing. “You’ve carried enough for today.”

“Fred—” I started, but he only arched a brow in mock offense.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you lug these around after a day like that?”

Before I could argue, George had already fallen into step on my other side, Oliver trailing just behind as we made our way toward the Gryffindor Tower. Their chatter filled the corridor, but Fred’s focus seemed fixed on me.

“You know,” he began casually, “if you’re feeling shaky in any of your classes, we could start working on them together this weekend. No pressure, of course—just… a little extra help.”

I glanced at him, trying to gauge whether he was teasing or sincere, but his grin was softer than usual, less mischief and more warmth.

“And what subject do you think I’m weakest in?” I asked, half-challenging.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Charms. Flitwick’s class. You’re good, but your wrist,” he flicked his own wand-hand in the air “you’re gripping it too tightly. Makes your spells wobble.”

I stared at him, both impressed and slightly embarrassed. “You were watching me that closely?”

Fred shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Of course I was. Someone had to make sure you didn’t set someone hair on fire.”

George snorted, Oliver chuckled, but Fred’s eyes never left mine.

“Tell you what,” he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “We’ll find a quiet spot, maybe the gardens, and I’ll show you how to hold your wand properly. No audience, no pressure.”

I let out a small laugh. “Alright, Fred. I’ll take you up on that.”

His answering smile was bright enough to rival the torches flickering on the castle walls.

The weekend came quicker than I expected. Saturday morning dawned crisp and bright, with a breeze that carried the scent of grass and blooming roses from the castle gardens.

Fred was already waiting when I arrived, leaning lazily against the low stone wall with his wand tucked behind his ear. He straightened when he saw me, that irrepressible grin spreading across his face.

“Right on time,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d ditch me.”

I raised a brow. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m a terrible teacher,” he replied immediately, eyes dancing. “But don’t worry you’ll survive.”

I rolled my eyes, but the nervous flutter in my stomach betrayed me.

We found a quiet spot near a cluster of flowering shrubs, the castle towering in the distance but far enough away that the voices of students faded into nothing. Just the two of us, the hum of bees, and sunlight spilling over the grass.

Fred gestured grandly, as though presenting a stage. “Alright, Beauxbatons. Show me your wand grip.”

I lifted my wand, holding it the way I always had. His smirk deepened.

“Exactly what I thought.” He stepped closer, close enough that I caught the faint scent of soap and smoke that clung to him. “You’re holding it like you’re about to stab someone.”

“That bad?” I murmured, suddenly self-conscious.

“Not bad. Just… tense.”

Before I could react, Fred’s hand closed gently around mine. Warm, steady, guiding. He adjusted the angle of my wrist, his thumb brushing lightly against my fingers as he shifted my grip.

“There,” he said softly. “Loose. Like it’s an extension of you, not a weapon you’re about to throw.”

My breath hitched, though I tried to cover it with a small laugh. “You sound like you’ve said this before.”

“Maybe once or twice,” he admitted. “George never listens. But you—” His eyes flicked to mine, lingering for a moment longer than they should have. “You might.”

I swallowed, focusing on the wand rather than the way my pulse thrummed under his touch. He stepped back just enough to give me space.

“Try a simple levitation charm,” he suggested, pointing at a stray fallen leaf.

I lifted my wand, repeating the familiar incantation. This time, the leaf rose smoothly into the air, floating with surprising grace. My smile broke out unbidden.

“See?” Fred said proudly, as though he’d been the one to cast it. “Perfect. I knew you had it in you.”

I laughed, lowering the spell, and for the first time since I’d arrived at Hogwarts, I felt something shift. The sting of whispers, the weight of expectations, the exhaustion—all of it faded here, in the warmth of Fred’s smile and the easy steadiness of his presence.

Maybe Hogwarts wouldn’t be so impossible after all.

The following week passed in a blur of classes and corridors, but I began to notice a pattern.

Fred Weasley seemed to appear everywhere.

Not in the overbearing, following-me-around way—but in the just enough to make me wonder way. He’d be leaning casually by the entrance to the Great Hall, falling into step with me as though it were coincidence. Or sliding a chair out in the library before I even realized I was searching for one.

Once, when I muttered under my breath about forgetting my quill, one seemed to appear at my elbow—Fred tossing it down with a wink. “Tragic, really,” he teased. “What would you do without me?”

I laughed it off, but there was something different in his smile. Not the broad grin he showed the whole world, but a quieter one—like he’d found a secret he didn’t mind keeping.

It was easy to overlook, with everyone else clamoring for my attention. Some of the boys from Gryffindor made their interest painfully obvious, tossing compliments like sweets. But Fred’s gestures weren’t loud. They were subtle, almost hidden in the noise of the castle. And somehow, those were the ones that lingered with me.

Rain pattered softly against the tall library windows, a steady rhythm that made the room feel even cozier. I settled at our shared table, the stack of textbooks Fred had left behind looming over me. He had disappeared moments ago, promising to fetch a book he thought might help me with the charms assignment.

With nothing else to do, my curiosity wandered to the neat piles of his notes. I picked up a worn, leather-bound notebook lying on the corner of the desk. Its cover was scuffed and the edges frayed, giving it an air of quiet secrecy. I flipped it open and froze.

The lines were rough but unmistakable: sketches. It was me.

A quick sketch of my hands holding a book. Even a tiny, imperfect curve of my smile.

Heat rushed to my cheeks. I shouldn’t be looking. Whoever’s notebook this was, these drawings weren’t meant to be seen.

Footsteps approached, and my heart jumped. I snapped the notebook shut and pushed it aside, adjusting my posture as if I had been reading nothing at all.

Fred appeared at the table, his brow slightly raised. “Everything… okay over here?” he said casually, though there was a flicker of suspicion in his eyes.

I forced a smile, avoiding his gaze. “Oh, yes! Just… checking some notes for Charms.”

He studied me for a moment, his gaze lingering a fraction too long, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh,” he said slowly, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “Sure you weren’t… peeking at anything else?”

I shook my head, keeping my voice light. “Nope. Just the notes. Promise.”

Fred’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t press further, though the faint suspicion didn’t entirely leave his expression. He gave a small shrug, letting it go—for now.

Later in the library had grown quiet, the soft scratching of quills and rustle of turning pages filling the air. Fred and I had been going over charms for what felt like hours, and my brain was beginning to buzz. I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms and letting out a tired sigh.

“I think I need a break,” I admitted, glancing at him. “And… there’s something else I should probably tell you.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Oh? What’s that?”

I hesitated, then blurted it out. “It’s not just charms… I’m… not very good at flying either. At least, not yet.”

His expression softened, a reassuring smile spreading across his face. “Flying, huh? That’s fine. We’ll tackle that too. You’ll get the hang of it. I can show you a few tricks to make it easier.”

Before I could respond, Oliver appeared at our table, carrying a stack of books. “Hey! If you’re talking flying, I was going to offer some tips too,” he said cheerfully. “Two heads are better than one, right?”

I laughed softly, feeling a little overwhelmed but grateful. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

Fred’s eyes flicked toward me, a faint glimmer of something unreadable protection, maybe a hint of jealousy—but he leaned back with a grin. “Well, you listen to me first. You won’t regret it,” he said, his tone playful but firm.

I nudged Fred under the table with my foot.

I pointed toward an empty chair as Oliver began talking, launching into a detailed explanation about broom handling.

As I listened, my foot kept brushing against Fred’s, light, almost accidental, but neither of us moved away. The small contact lingered between us, unspoken yet somehow charged, making it impossible to focus entirely on Oliver’s instructions.

The next morning, the rain had eased into a gentle drizzle, and the grounds glistened with fresh puddles. Fred led me out to a quiet corner, away from the usual students. He carried our wands and a single broom, smiling in that confident, teasing way of his.

“Ready for your first proper lesson?” he asked, setting the broom down and gesturing for me to stand beside it.

I nodded, gripping the handle nervously. “I think so… I hope I don’t embarrass myself.”

Fred crouched slightly to adjust my grip, his fingers brushing mine. “You won’t. Just relax.”

His voice was calm, grounding, and I felt a flush creep across my cheeks. As he stood closer to demonstrate a posture, I noticed how the space between us seemed to shrink naturally. My hand hovered near his as he guided me through the stance, and for a brief moment, our eyes met. There was a spark there—warm, electric, unspoken.

“Okay,” he said softly, leaning just slightly closer to make sure I understood. “Take a deep breath.”

I nodded, heart racing, and climbed on. Fred stayed right beside me, hand hovering near mine, ready to steady me if I wobbled. The proximity, the brush of his sleeve against my arm, even the faint scent of him—it all made my head spin in the most delightful way.

When I finally lifted off the ground, I grinned, exhaling sharply, feeling both triumphant and ridiculously aware of how close he was.

Fred stood beside me, his hand occasionally brushing mine as he adjusted my grip on the broom. “Relax your shoulders… not so stiff,” he murmured, leaning just slightly closer than necessary. I could feel the warmth radiating from him, my pulse quickening with each subtle touch.

“Better,” he said, his fingers lingering a moment longer on mine than required. I swallowed, caught off guard by the quiet intensity of his gaze. “Now, a gentle push forward—think of the broom as part of you, not separate.”

As I adjusted my balance, our bodies were almost touching. I could feel the light pressure of his hand near my back when he leaned to correct my stance, the proximity sending a thrill up my spine.

“By the end of the month you’ll be flying like a pro.”

I glanced at him, smiling, and for a brief, unguarded moment, I let my attention drift. That tiny lapse was enough—my balance faltered, and I felt myself slipping off the broom.

“Whoa!” Fred’s voice was sharp, but calm. Before I could even register panic, his hands were around me, steadying me against his chest. Our faces were only inches apart, the smell of his hair warm and familiar. My heart thudded wildly.

“Got you,” he murmured, his breath brushing my cheek. “Careful there…”

I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks, acutely aware of how close we were. His hands didn’t move, holding me firmly, yet gently, giving me no room to pull away. My own hands rested tentatively on his arms, unsure whether to stay or retreat.

Just as the closeness between us became almost too much to bear, a voice called out from behind.

“Oi! Didn’t see you two up here,” Oliver said, landing lightly on his broom beside us. “Though I reckon Y/N wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t been holding her so close, Fred.” He smirked, clearly teasing, but there was no malice.

Fred raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Well, someone’s got to make sure she survives right?”

Oliver nudged him with a grin.

Fred chuckled softly, watching Oliver launch into a detailed monologue about broomsticks and flying techniques. Instead of continuing their lesson, the next twenty minutes slipped by in laughter and debate about broom brands, handling, and even a few stories from past Quidditch matches.

I mostly just listened, letting their voices swirl around me. I stayed quiet, absorbing, letting their enthusiasm carry the conversation while I lingered slightly behind.

Fred must have noticed. His eyes found mine, and that familiar, knowing look made me feel seen. “Alright,” he said, his grin still teasing but softer now, almost careful. “I think that’s enough for one day.”

I felt a small smile tug at my lips, grateful for the gentle attention, and nodded. Following him, I realized how comforting it was just to have him nearby, the chaos of the day softening with every step toward the common room.

The common room was alive with its chatter when we returned. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting a soft glow across the room, and clusters of students had gathered around games, books, and laughter. I barely had time to settle into one of the cushioned armchairs before Katie waved me over, her grin mischievous.

“Fancy a round of wizard’s chess?” she asked, patting the seat opposite her.

I agreed, though my skills in chess—magical or not—were questionable at best. The carved pieces shuffled into their starting positions, grumbling amongst themselves, and the game began.

It didn’t take long for Fred to appear at my side. Instead of joining the circle of boys watching a game of Exploding Snap across the room, he leaned casually against the arm of my chair, his presence so close I could feel the brush of his sleeve.

“You’ll want to move your knight,” he murmured just low enough for only me to hear, his breath tickling my ear.

I bit back a smile, trying to focus on the board. Katie’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she said nothing, only smirking.

Fred leaned closer again, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “If you don’t, she’ll have your rook in two turns.”

I hesitated, then reached for the knight—but before my fingers could close around it, his hand covered mine, warm and steady.

“In chess,” he said softly, his grin spreading wide, “you have to say it out loud.” His eyes caught mine then, amusement and something far gentler flickering between us.

For a moment, I forgot entirely about the game, about the room, about everything but the weight of his hand over mine and the way his gaze seemed to draw me in, closer, closer...

“Oi!” Katie’s voice broke through the haze, loud enough for the handful of students watching to burst out laughing. “If you two want to sit here making eyes at each other instead of playing, maybe let someone else take a turn?”

The laughter rippled through the room, lighthearted and teasing. My face flushed hot as I quickly pulled my hand back, stammering something about focusing. Fred, of course, only smirked wider, completely unbothered by the attention.

“Guess we’ll just have to show them what a winning team looks like, eh?” he said, still watching me more than the board.

Katie rolled her eyes dramatically, resetting her pieces with a flick of her wand. “Alright then, show us how brilliant the two of you really are.”

The game stretched on, each move growing sharper, more calculated. Fred remained at my side the entire time, his hand brushing the arm of my chair now and then, his whispers soft and deliberate. Every suggestion he murmured seemed to tilt the game in my favor, piece by piece until Katie’s frustration grew evident.

And then, with one last confident move, my queen slid across the board. Katie’s king toppled over with a grumble, the pieces scattering in surrender.

“Checkmate,” I breathed, hardly believing it myself.

A grin spread across my face, brighter than I could control, and the group around us erupted into good-natured laughter and cheers. Katie groaned, tossing her hair back. “Beginner’s luck,” she muttered, though the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement.

I looked up at Fred, glowing with triumph, and he leaned just close enough for only me to hear. “Told you we’d make a winning team.”

Before I could reply, George’s voice boomed across the room. “Oi, Freddie! Lee and I need you for something important business!” His tone was unmistakably mischievous, but Fred didn’t argue.

He gave me a lingering look, the corner of his mouth tugging up in a knowing half-smile. “Don’t go losing without me.”

“Next round?” I heard Oliver Wood appeared beside me, cheerful and full of energy. “Just you and me?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

I hesitated, then glanced toward Fred—expecting him to be gone—but to my surprise, he had paused, leaning against the table’s edge, watching us with a faint crease between his brows. “I’ll stay,” he said.

Oliver chuckled. “Alright, then. But we’ll manage just fine between the two of us.”

Fred’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. A spark of something possessive flashed in his eyes, a tension I hadn’t noticed before. The friendly air of the room shifted subtly, the playful game now underlined by an unspoken rivalry.

The match began. Oliver was teasing, complimenting, laughing at my moves, and I felt a thrill at his energy—but I couldn’t stop glancing over my shoulder. Fred was there, leaning near the table, his gaze fixed on Oliver, but the weight of his presence brushed against me like a subtle heat.

He leaned in, whispering suggestions under his breath, his lips barely brushing my ear. I shivered, the touch deliberate, intimate, as if claiming a corner of my attention without anyone else noticing. His eyes never left Oliver, silently warning him who really had the control.

Oliver, however, didn’t falter. His grin widened as the game grew sharper, his strategies anticipating my every move. Fred’s tension rose beside me; his whispers became more urgent, but his gaze was still fixed on Oliver, a silent challenge burning in his eyes.

The game shifted. Oliver began to gain the upper hand, and the air of playfulness faded. Fred leaned forward, his focus entirely on defeating Oliver, his instructions to me now almost secondary. Every glance he threw at Oliver was edged with competitiveness, his body taut with the desire to win.

Finally, with a precise, confident move, Fred triumphed. He leaned back, his hand settling lightly on my thigh—a claim and a reward, intimate and certain. My breath hitched at the contact, and I felt the thrill of the game turning into something altogether different.

Fred’s gaze met mine, dark and intense, daring me, teasing me. My heartbeat raced, and without thinking, I leaned a fraction closer.

“Fred…” I murmured, voice low and trembling, a mixture of question and invitation.

He smirked, closing the distance, lips brushing mine lightly at first, testing. The world narrowed: the chessboard, Oliver, the room—all disappeared. Only the warmth of him and the electricity between us remained.

The kiss deepened naturally, urgent and absorbing. My hand brushed his shoulder; his hands traced my back, firm but careful. The tension from the game, from the rivalry, now channeled into this single, charged moment.

From the edge of the room, a few Gryffindor voices broke through softly, surprised murmurs rather than a chorus of cheers. Fred’s lips curved into a triumphant grin as he lingered just long enough, thumb brushing along my skin. “Now that,” he murmured, low and possessive, “is how you finish a game.”

[romanczukowsky]

In the Quiet, You Found Me part. II

Pairing: George Weasley x Ravenclaw!reader

Summary: Rule #3: Trust isn’t given, it’s earned. Rule #4: Sometimes, the hardest battles are fought with your own heart.

He broke both.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Angst /Mutual Pining / Fluff and Tension / Romance / Part II.

This is the updated, extended version — I hope you'll like it! Happy reading, and thank you for joining me on this journey 💛

We never talked about what this was. Not really.

There were no labels. No questions. Just… time. Just us.

Sometimes, he’d show up in the quietest parts of my day — when I was alone, or pretending to be — and he’d act like it was the most natural thing in the world to sit beside me and talk about nothing.

Other times, I’d find myself hoping he’d be there. And he usually was.

He never made a big deal of it. Never asked why I didn’t sit with anyone else, or why I always looked like I had one foot out the door.

He just… stayed.

The world felt smaller then. Quieter. Like we’d carved out a space just for us — away from the noise, the expectations, the prying eyes.

We talked about everything and nothing. Plans for the weekend that never really mattered, the absurdity of certain classes, his endless jokes about the professors.

Slowly, the walls I’d built started to crumble. I found myself leaning into the moments we shared — the easy laughter, the brush of fingers, the weight of his presence beside me.

And slowly — somehow — that mattered more than I ever expected.

Tonight, it was different.

He’d waited for me just outside the Great Hall, leaning casually against one of the stone arches, his sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled from the soft breeze drifting through the open windows. The golden haze of late evening clung to everything, turning the stone corridors honey-warm and quiet.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice low but easy, eyes already finding mine like they always did.

We didn’t go far — just walked, aimlessly, side by side. The castle grounds were wrapped in the kind of calm that only came after a hot day — when the heat still lingered in the stones, but the air had cooled just enough to carry the scent of grass and late-blooming flowers. His hand brushed against mine once, then again. And the third time, he laced our fingers together — like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And I let him.

As we wandered back through the quieter corridors toward the dormitories, I could feel people watching us. A pair of girls paused mid-conversation. A group of fourth years sitting on the windowsill turned their heads, then quickly looked away, whispering.

He held my hand the whole way, thumb gently stroking the side of mine, grounding me in a way I hadn’t known I needed. He didn’t say much. Neither did I. The quiet between us was full — with something unspoken and new and trembling just beneath the surface.

He stopped when we reached the door.

He didn’t let go of my hand until we reached the arched entrance to the Ravenclaw dormitory. The lantern light pooled around us, casting shadows on the stone walls, but his presence kept the space warm, steady.

“It was… really nice,” he said, voice low, a hint of something lingering just beneath the words. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, slow, almost absentminded — except nothing about it felt absentminded at all.

“It was,” I agreed softly, my lips already shaping the word goodnight.

But before I could finish, he leaned in. My body moved instinctively, closing the space between us. His free hand rose, fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, lingering just long enough to graze the shell of it. Then he traced along my cheek, his touch feather-light.

I barely whispered the last syllable — night — before his lips touched mine.

It was nothing like I’d imagined. Softer. Warmer. The world narrowed to the press of his mouth on mine, the gentle insistence, the faint taste of mint and something sweet — chocolate, maybe, from dessert. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out everything else.

His forehead was still resting against mine, his breath mingling with mine in shallow, unsteady pulls.

“I’ve been meaning to do that for a while,” he murmured, his voice low enough to feel more than hear. “Wanted to.”

Something in me snapped — or maybe it clicked into place. My fingers tightened in the fabric of his sweater, pulling him down before the space between us could grow.

The second kiss wasn’t careful. It was heat and want and a quiet desperation that had been waiting far too long. His mouth claimed mine, deeper this time, his lips moving with a purpose that made my knees weaken.

His hand came up to cradle my jaw, firmer now, tilting my head just enough for his tongue to slide against mine — unhurried but devastating. I felt him step in closer, the wall pressing cool against my back as his body replaced the air around me.

His knee slipped between mine, parting them slightly, just enough to make my breath hitch. His thumb traced the line of my cheekbone before his fingers slid into my hair, holding me there like he was afraid I’d disappear.

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything except feel. His kiss was a slow burn — not rushed, but full of that I can’t stop energy, each movement pulling me deeper in. My hands slid up his chest, gripping his shoulders, needing him closer, needing more.

When he finally pulled back, his lips lingered over mine, both of us breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync.

And then — footsteps. Voices. Students heading toward the dormitory.

He exhaled, leaned back just enough to meet my eyes.

“Goodnight,” he said, his smile slow and devastating. “See you tomorrow.”

And just like that, he let my hand slip from his, walking away before I could remember how to breathe.

I stood there for a moment, still feeling the imprint of his lips on mine, my heartbeat racing like it might break free from my chest. I watched his figure move away down the corridor, tall and easy in his stride, until the shadows swallowed him completely.

It was ridiculous, how light I felt.

The same girls we’d passed earlier were now coming back toward the Ravenclaw dormitories, their eyes flicking from me to somewhere behind them, no doubt toward George.

I caught one of their stares — then quickly tilted my head up, pretending to study the ceiling like there was something worth seeing there.

They swept past, and I followed at a slower pace. But just as I reached the foot of the stairs, something caught the faint torchlight. A glint of gold.

I bent down and picked it up — a worn, folded piece of parchment. The second my fingers brushed its surface, I knew. The Marauder’s Map.

It must have slipped from George’s pocket when he walked me here.

I hesitated only a moment before deciding I’d give it back to him tomorrow. But as I turned the parchment over in my hands, a thought struck me — stubborn and insistent. No. I’d give it to him tonight.

I tapped it open with my wand, the ink unfurling across the page. My eyes followed his name through the twisting corridors of the castle, and I set off after him.

The castle was quieter now, shadows stretching long over stone. My footsteps echoed softly, my grip tightening on the parchment as I wound deeper into the maze.

When I reached a fork in the hallway, voices carried through the still air — low, laughing.

I stopped, glancing at the map. George… and Fred. And Lee.

I froze. Something in me said George wouldn’t want me handing him this map in front of his brother — not with the way Fred could be. I lingered in the shadow of the archway, waiting for their voices to fade so I could step out.

But then I heard it.

“…you’ve been grinning all evening, mate,” Fred’s voice teased. “So? Did you win the bet?”

There was a pause — a heartbeat of silence — before Lee’s laugh broke it. “Told you she’d fall for it. Guess I owe you five Galleons.”

Fred snorted. “Honestly, can’t believe she actually let you kiss her.”

Something in my chest went cold, sharp.

I glanced at the map again — George’s name was still there, unmoving. But he didn’t say a word. Not one.

Their voices blurred into the low hum of the corridor, but those few words stuck, twisting in my ribs.

I stayed there, pressed to the wall, the map clutched tight in my hand, torn between stepping out or letting the darkness keep me hidden.

I waited, breath held, hoping George would deny it — say something, anything — but he stayed silent.

A single tear slipped down my cheek, falling onto the map where his name was written in bold, mocking ink.

Without a sound, I turned away, the map clutched tightly against my chest like a fragile, burning secret.

Behind me, their laughter echoed, accompanied by the soft thud of hands patting shoulders.

I didn’t look back.

And in that silence, a storm began to gather inside me — quiet now, but ready to rage.

I didn’t sleep.

The hours bled together — shadows shifting across the ceiling, the muffled sounds of the castle settling for the night, the faint echo of laughter that wasn’t really there. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard it again. Fred’s voice. Lee’s laugh. That awful, bottomless silence from George.

By the time the first light crept into the dormitory, my body felt hollow. My head was heavy, my throat raw, like the night had been one long argument I’d never spoken out loud.

I moved on autopilot. The corridors were already stirring with the early rush, footsteps and voices bouncing off the stone. The Great Hall was bright with morning light, the smell of toast and coffee drifting through the air.

I didn’t want to be there. And then I did.

George.

He was at the Gryffindor table, head tilted back slightly as he laughed at something Lee had said. The sound reached me even through the noise of the room — warm, unbothered, the same laugh I’d once leaned into like it was safe.

Then his eyes found mine.

For a second, I froze. My chest tightened, heat rising sharp and fast under my skin. He smiled — easy, open, like nothing between us had shifted. Like last night hadn’t happened at all.

And that made something inside me twist hard.

Because how dare he?

I held his gaze just long enough for him to see that I wasn’t smiling back. Then I turned away, sliding onto the Ravenclaw bench without a word. My hands curled into fists under the table, nails biting into my palms.

Somewhere across the room, I could feel him watching me. And for the first time in a long while — I didn’t want him to.

The next — Herbology, felt impossibly long. I tried to focus, tried to immerse myself in the earthy smell of soil, the gentle rustle of leaves, the carefully tended pots lined up along the benches.

Professor Sprout’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Pair up for today’s assignment, please.”

I froze for a moment, eyes flicking around the room. And then I saw him. George. Walking toward me with that casual, effortless stride, the one that made my chest clench even now.

Without thinking, I spun toward Mira, one of the other Ravenclaws, and offered her a small, quick smile. “Do you want to be partners today?”

Her eyebrows lifted, but she nodded, and I quickly slipped beside her, deliberately putting distance between myself and George.

George’s approach slowed for a moment, his eyes narrowing just slightly in surprise. I caught the faintest crease in his brow, that brief pause before realization hit. Then he turned on his heel and walked back toward Fred’s station, laughing lightly as if nothing had happened.

I bit my lip, trying not to watch him, forcing my focus on the small, stubborn sprouts in front of me.

Then I thought I heard Fred’s voice, low but teasing, drifting across the classroom. “…So… You kiss that bad, eh?”

My stomach lurched. I blinked, unsure if I’d really heard it. There was a soft thud beneath the table.

My eyes narrowed. He had kicked Fred. Under the table.

Heat rushed up my neck. My hands gripped the roots I was supposed to be transplanting, and before I realized it, the stubborn little plant snapped in my fingers.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to calm down, shoving the broken piece of root back into the soil, pretending it was part of the assignment.

Finally, class ended. The group shuffled together for the next set of lessons, the corridors buzzing with students moving between classrooms. I kept my head down, weaving through the crowd, trying to disappear in the sea of robes, pretending he didn’t exist.

I became a master of avoidance. I wove through the hallways, ducked into empty classrooms, lingered at the library tables longer than necessary—all with the singular purpose of not crossing paths with George. Each time I heard his voice or the familiar cadence of his laugh, my stomach twisted.

By evening, the corridors had emptied, the golden light of sunset spilling through high windows. I thought I was safe, my heart finally slowing after a day of careful evasion.

Until I felt it.

A presence. Calm, certain, the one that had haunted my thoughts since yesterday. George.

He walked toward me, casual, leaning slightly on the wall as though he belonged to the shadows themselves. My pulse quickened, and I stepped up my pace, weaving around other students, keeping my head down.

“Hey,” he called, soft, almost casual. “How’re you?”

I quickened my steps, forcing the words out of my mind.

He matched my pace, effortless. “If it’s about yesterday…” he began, voice low, almost careful. “…if you want to wait, I’ll wait. No rush.”

Something in me snapped. I skidded to a stop, spinning to face him. My eyes burned, anger and disbelief coiling tight in my chest.

“What?” he asked, genuine confusion flickering across his face.

I didn’t answer with words. I dug into my robes and pulled out the worn, folded piece of parchment—the Marauder’s Map. My fingers trembling.

„Oh, thanks!”

“I know,” I said, my voice low but sharp, full of accusation. “I know.”

George’s eyes widened. “Wait—what?”

George froze for a heartbeat, eyes wide, lips parting as if to speak, then closing again. The evening shadows of the corridor seemed to press in around us, tightening with every pulse of my anger and disbelief.

“You… you knew?” he whispered, a flicker of something like relief—or fear—crossing his face.

“Yes,” I said, gripping the Marauder’s Map tighter. “All of it. The bet. The dare. The kiss.”

George ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt warring on his face. “Y/N… I—”

“Don’t,” I snapped, my chest heaving. “Don’t try to make excuses. I saw how Fred laughed. I know it was a bet. And I… I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

He swallowed, taking a careful step closer, hands raised slightly in a gesture that was part surrender, part pleading. “It wasn’t meant to hurt you. I—”

“You—” I cut him off, voice cracking despite myself. “You let it happen. You let him dare you and… and you didn’t stop it. You didn’t tell me the truth!”

George flinched, but his voice was low, steady, almost reverent now. “I like you. Not the bet, not the dare. You. From the start. I just… I didn’t know how to say it. And I didn’t think… I thought it would be easier if—if it was a joke. A dare. I never meant to—”

I took a step back, eyes narrowing, chest tight. “A joke? You think a kiss is a joke?”

“No!” His voice rose, but carefully, like he didn’t want to scare me away. “Not a joke. Never a joke. You have to believe me. That night—what you felt—what I felt—it was real. All of it. I promise.”

I stared at him, torn between disbelief and the undeniable pull I felt every time he was near. My fingers trembled around the map. “How am I supposed to believe that after everything?”

He took another step closer, bridging the distance carefully, but not forcing it. “By letting me show you. By letting me prove it. I’ll wait. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait.”

I shook my head, without a backward glance, I spun on my heel and strode past the threshold of my dormitory, my steps sharp and purposeful, leaving the corridor—and him—behind.

The days following our encounter passed in a careful rhythm. I kept my distance, and he respected it — mostly. In the hallways, we’d pass each other, and he would give me a shy, honest smile that made my stomach twist, even if I tried to look away.

In the library, he sometimes handed me books from the top shelf — titles I didn’t really plan to read, and usually I just set them down in a pile, not even glancing at him. Yet, I felt the weight of his presence, subtle but insistent, like a quiet insistence that I notice him even when I tried not to.

One afternoon, during a Herbology lesson, we were gathering ingredients for a potion. I reached for a vial just out of reach, and his hand shot out, steadying it for me. My fingers brushed his again, and I froze. He smiled faintly, as if he hadn’t expected me to notice, and returned to his own work.

Then Lee, ever the instigator, leaned over with a sly grin. “So… how’s it going with you two? Still… complicated?”

A ripple of laughter followed, light teasing, but I felt my cheeks burn. George’s head lifted slowly. His eyes caught mine for just a heartbeat, sharp and unreadable.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice low but firm, cutting through the laughter. “Honestly, enough of the jokes.”

The room fell a fraction quieter. I blinked, surprised by the authority in his tone. Lee’s grin faltered slightly, and Fred muttered something under his breath.

George leaned back just slightly, smirk returning, but there was no mistaking the edge in his voice. “She’s not… yours to tease. Not that way,” he added, almost casually, letting the words linger like a dare.

My heart thumped. It was the first time he had said anything remotely like that—direct, protective, but still in his style. Not bold and awkward, not overbearing.

And I realized, with a mix of irritation and something else I didn’t want to name, that he wasn’t just waiting anymore. He was trying.

We filed out of the greenhouse with the rest of the class. He reached the door first and, with a faint smile, held it open. “Fancy spending a bit of time together?” he asked, voice casual but eyes searching.

“I’ve got quite a few things to take care of,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral.

“Then let me help,” he offered without missing a beat.

Before I could respond, voices called from behind us. “Oi, George! We’ve got something to sort out—”

“Not now!” he shot back over his shoulder, his tone sharper than usual. “I’m busy.”

That caught me off guard. Busy. With me.

I hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded. “Alright. Just for a bit.”

We made our way to the Owlery, the sound of fluttering wings greeting us as we climbed the worn stone steps. I pulled out a neatly folded letter while George rummaged for a suitable owl. One particularly impatient barn owl flapped onto his arm before he was ready, jabbing its beak into his finger.

“Bloody...” he hissed under his breath, shaking his hand.

I tried to hide the small smile tugging at my lips, pretending to focus on tying my own letter. Still, the faint warmth of amusement crept in despite everything.

Once our letters were sent, he fell into step beside me again. Instead of heading back inside, we wandered toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The late sun spilled molten gold over the treetops, shadows stretching long across the grass. The air was cool, rich with pine and damp moss.

We didn’t speak much, but something between us felt different — looser somehow, though still strung tight, like a bow not yet released.

The leaves crackled under our boots. George kicked at a stick, hands in his pockets, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “You know… I meant what I said,” he began, voice low but steady. “About the kiss. About waiting. About… all of it. Whatever it started as, it’s not that anymore.”

I kept walking, but slower now.

He moved ahead a step, making me look at him. His gaze held mine, earnest and unflinching. “All I know is…” He hesitated, then took a small step closer, “…I’d rather stand here, make a complete fool of myself, than let you keep thinking I don’t care.”

Something in my chest pulled tight, my pulse hammering in my ears. “George…” My voice wavered between a warning and something I didn’t want to name.

He closed the gap between us by another fraction, close enough that I could feel the faint heat of him, the scent of parchment and smoke clinging to his jumper. His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth — just long enough to make my breath hitch — before lifting back to mine.

And then… he leaned in.

Every instinct screamed not to move, but my body betrayed me — my breath caught, my chin tilted the smallest bit. I could feel the moment balancing on a knife’s edge.

But instead of kissing me, his hand lifted to my face. His fingers brushed my cheek, warm and deliberate… and when he pulled away, he was holding a tiny fleck of owl feather he’d plucked from my skin.

“Couldn’t let that stay there,” he murmured, a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

I exhaled a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, equal parts relief and frustration knotting in my stomach.

He stepped back, his grin widening just enough to let me know he’d noticed.

I blinked, forcing my feet to move again, brushing past him with what I hoped looked like indifference. My skin still tingled where his fingers had grazed my cheek, and that infuriated me more than anything.

We walked in silence, the shadows of the Forbidden Forest reaching long across the path. Every few steps, I could feel his eyes on me — not in the casual way boys look, but like he was trying to memorize something he didn’t want to lose.

“You’re impossible,” I muttered without looking at him.

“Mm,” he said, falling into step beside me again. “And yet… here you are, walking with me.”

I shot him a glare, but he only grinned, as if the challenge in my expression was exactly what he’d been hoping for.

The castle loomed ahead, its windows glowing amber in the early evening light. I should have turned toward the common room. Instead, I kept walking, and to my horror, so did he.

“You still think I’m lying,” he said finally, quieter this time, almost like he was speaking to himself.

“I know you are,” I replied flatly, even though my voice lacked the conviction I wanted it to have.

He tilted his head, studying me. “Then I guess I’ll just have to prove it.”

Something in his tone made my stomach twist — not the usual teasing confidence, but a kind of promise. Dangerous, steady.

We reached the base of the stairs, the parting point between our worlds. He stopped, and for a second, I thought he might try again — lean in, close that distance for real. Instead, he simply stepped aside, letting me pass first, his gaze holding mine until I was halfway up.

And damn it, I hated that I could still feel it burning into my back the whole way to my dormitory.

The next day the courtyard was buzzing with late-afternoon chatter, groups spilling out from lessons, cloaks fluttering in the light breeze. My arms ached under the weight of an unsteady pile of books and loose sheets of parchment.

Across the way, George stood with Fred, Lee, and a couple of other Gryffindors, their laughter carrying easily over the crowd. He was grinning at something Lee had said—until his eyes caught mine. The smile faltered for just a second, then shifted into something softer.

Without hesitation, he broke from the group.

“Oi, lover boy!” Fred called after him, earning a ripple of snickers. George didn’t even glance back.

He closed the distance in a few long strides, stopping in front of me. “Here, let me,” he said simply, and before I could protest, he’d lifted the books from my arms like they weighed nothing.

“I’ve got it,” I said, reaching to take them back.

His mouth curved into a crooked grin. “Not a chance.”

We walked side by side through the archway and down a quieter corridor, the air between us charged with something unspoken. Every time our shoulders brushed, my pulse jumped.

At the next turn, he stopped, placing the books gently on the ledge of a nearby window. His eyes found mine, steady and unreadable for a heartbeat, then warmer—pulling me in like they always had.

“I’m not going to pretend I’ve done everything right,” he murmured, voice low enough that it felt like it belonged only to me. “But I’m not walking away from this. From you.”

I swallowed, searching for the wall I’d so carefully built between us, but it felt thinner now, like one more push might break it entirely.

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his gaze dipping to my mouth and back up again. My breath caught, my heartbeat loud in my ears. His hand lifted, brushing something—imaginary or not—from my cheek, fingers lingering for a fraction too long.

And then his lips were on mine.

At first, it was tentative, almost questioning, giving me every chance to pull away. I didn’t. Instead, I leaned into him, letting the familiar taste of him sweep through me, dizzying, intoxicating. Every brush of his tongue, every press of his lips, sent sparks racing up my spine.

That was all the permission he needed.

His arms slid around my waist, strong and sure, pressing me flush against him. The kiss deepened, sudden and hungry, as if he’d been holding back a storm. My hands gripped the front of his robes, clawing at him, anchoring myself to this impossible, breathtaking moment. I could feel the pulse of his heartbeat against mine, wild and fast, matching the erratic rhythm of my own.

His lips moved with a fire I’d never known, and I melted against him, letting the world fall away—no books, no boys, no expectations—just him. His hands traced the curve of my back, gentle then insistent, as if memorizing me in a way that words could never capture.

When we finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against mine. Our breaths mingled in the tight space between us, hearts hammering in sync, bodies still pressed together. I felt dizzy, overwhelmed, alive in a way that made everything else fade.

“Not a chance,” he whispered again, voice low and husky, and this time, I didn’t even pretend to wonder what he meant. It wasn’t the books. It never had been.

He smiled that crooked, dangerous smile that made my knees go weak, and I realized I didn’t want to step back. I didn’t want to breathe without him.

Slowly, deliberately, he brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, fingers grazing my cheek, thumb lingering a second too long, sending shivers down my spine. The teasing, torturous smile on his lips promised that this—this moment—was only the beginning.

[romanczukowsky]

In the Quiet, You Found Me

Pairing: George Weasley x Ravenclaw!reader

Summary: Rule #1: Don’t trust boys with magical maps. Rule #2: Definitely don’t fall for one.

You broke both.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Mutual Pining / Fluff and Tension / Soft Angst / Romance / Part I.

I never cared much for Gryffindor noise. All that loud laughter in the Great Hall, the endless games in corridors, the shouting during Quidditch practice. It filled the air like static — always buzzing, always bright, always far too much.

I liked the quieter corners of the castle. Places where my thoughts didn’t have to compete with someone else’s punchline.

They didn’t notice me, not really. And I liked it that way.

Until him.

George Weasley laughed like the world was made for it — reckless and full and unbothered by who was watching. That laugh came before him, echoing through corridors like some kind of warning bell.

Today, it spilled down the staircase to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom — sharp, bright, and unmistakably his.

I glanced up from my book, only to see him stumble forward, shoved by his brother and Lee Jordan, grinning like he’d already won a game no one else was playing. One strap of his bag hanging loose over his shoulder.

He caught his balance, straightened — and then saw me.

That grin didn’t fade. If anything, it shifted. Focused.

Right on me.

I looked back down, flipping the page I hadn’t finished reading. I expected him to move on. Expected the moment to pass.

But it didn’t.

A pair of shoes stopped near mine. A beat of silence, and then —

“Didn’t mean to laugh so loud. But I swear Lee tells the worst jokes at the worst times.” His voice was warm — like butterbeer in winter. Too easy. Too familiar.

I looked up slowly.

George Weasley. Closer than expected. Taller than he looked from across the Great Hall. Still grinning.

I didn��t smile. “You weren’t exactly whispering.”

“Guilty,” he said, unbothered. “But you looked so composed, I figured I owed you a personal apology.” He tilted his head. “And maybe a name?”

I blinked. “You don’t know it?”

He blinked back. “I’d like to.”

I didn’t wait for his reaction. I just adjusted the strap of my bag and walked past him, heels of my boots tapping lightly against the stone floor. I felt his eyes follow me as I moved — not with judgment, but with something else. Something curious.

The corridor was already thinning as students headed into classrooms. I turned the corner without looking back.

But if I had, I might’ve seen him do it.

George Weasley, still standing where I left him, ran a hand through his hair with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked over his shoulder toward Fred and Lee, who were leaning against the wall a few feet away, half-smirking, half-waiting. George didn’t say a word — just shot them a look and raised his eyebrows. A silent, knowing exchange passed between the three of them.

Then he rolled his shoulders, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and strolled off toward his next class like he hadn’t just decided something.

It started with little things.

Like him turning up in the library — looking wildly out of place and very aware of it.

He wasn’t holding a book. Of course not. He wandered past the shelves like he was on some kind of hunt, fingers brushing titles he’d never read.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” he said finally, stopping just short of my table. “But I figured if I kept walking past the quiet corners, I’d get lucky.”

I didn’t look up. Just turned the page I was already halfway through.

“I can be quiet,” he offered, as if it were a skill he rarely used but was willing to try.

I raised an eyebrow, still not meeting his eyes. “Doubt it.”

He stayed for almost an hour, saying nothing else. Sometimes I caught him glancing my way — but I never looked back.

He’d lean against the Potions classroom door like he’d simply forgotten he had somewhere to be — but only ever when I walked past.

When I was leaving the owlery, the parchment finally tied to the owl’s leg, when I almost bumped into him.

“Sending another letter to the family?” he asked, his voice easy, like we’d been having conversations for years.

I gave a small nod, not looking away. “You know how it is.”

He nodded, then glanced toward the rafters. “Careful with that one,” he added. “Bit of a diva. Tried to take my finger off last week.”

I looked up. Same owl as always. “She only pecks people who deserve it.”

That earned a small smile from him — quick, crooked, amused. “Ouch.”

He moved toward the perch, reaching for one of the calmer owls. “Maybe we’ll walk back together.”

I shifted my bag on my shoulder. “No need. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

He didn’t push. Just leaned back slightly against the stone. “George,” he said, like it wasn’t the first time he’d said it to me — though it was.

I slowed at the steps. Looked back.

“Y/n,” I said simply.

A small silence settled between us — not awkward, just... waiting.

“Till next time, Y/n.”

I didn’t answer, but I didn’t rush either. We exchanged a look — steady, light, unspoken — before I turned and walked out into the courtyard.

And even with my back to him, I knew he watched me leave.

The next day sunlight streamed through the glass roof of the greenhouse, casting warm patches of light on the green leaves. Professor Sprout stood by the table, holding small pots and bags of seeds.

“Today, a practical task,” she announced with a slight smile. “Each of you will plant a herb of your choice. You can work in pairs, but only after everyone has their seeds.”

Eyes slowly scanned the room, looking for partners.

When the word “pairs” was said, George Weasley didn’t hesitate.

His gaze quickly landed on me before he walked over without a word and sat down beside me at the wooden table.

Fred and Lee, standing nearby, exchanged knowing smiles that looked like a silent bet. But George either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Looks like we’re partners,” he said lightly, not breaking eye contact with my face.

I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

We worked in silence, planting seeds into the soil, watering gently, and holding the young shoots steady.

When we finished, I took off my gloves, and his eyes were drawn to the scar running along my wrist.

George furrowed his brow slightly, looking at it with interest and something close to concern.

“It’s nothing?” he asked softly.

I glanced down at the mark, then met his gaze with quiet steadiness. “It’s just a reminder,” I said. “Some risks leave scars. Doesn’t mean they weren’t worth taking.”

George nodded slowly, his expression quietly kind — like he understood without needing words.

After Herbology, I found myself wandering toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. I needed to gather some herbs—something simple, something familiar. The cool shade calmed the usual noise swirling in my mind.

As I knelt down to pick a handful of nettles, a shadow fell across the clearing. I looked up.

George.

Again.

I sighed, half annoyed, half amused. How was it that no matter where I went, I seemed to bump into him?

“Seriously,” I said, brushing dirt off my hands, “how do you keep finding me? It’s like you’re following me.”

“Maybe I am,” he said, reaching into his bag and pulling out a folded parchment, worn at the edges but clearly important to him.

I blinked, curious despite myself.

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone,” he said, his voice lower now, almost conspiratorial.

I studied him for a moment.

“Fine,” I said after a pause. “My lips are sealed.”

He smiled — not the loud, reckless grin I’d seen before, but something quieter, more genuine.

For the first time, it felt like maybe there was more to this loud, careless boy than I’d thought.

We’d been sitting on a fallen log for a while, the forest around us calm and still. George carefully unfolded the parchment and spread it between us.

He pointed to one. “That’s Fred, over by the Quidditch pitch. Probably trying to prank someone.”

I squinted, trying to follow the dots. “And that one?” I asked, nodding toward a cluster near the library.

“Lee and Angelina. Probably debating whether to study or sneak out for some mischief.”

I smirked. “You’d think they’d get along better.”

George chuckled softly. “You don’t know half of it.”

He paused, tracing a dot with his finger. “And that’s Thomas.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Thomas with… what’s her name… Lila? They’re like… together, right? Or whatever.”

George laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, they’re definitely ‘together.’ Seen them sneaking off behind the greenhouses more times than I can count.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ugh, typical. Probably making out or something.”

George smirked. “Right? Total scandal.”

I nudged him lightly.

It was meant to be quick — barely a tap, just something to match his teasing. But something in his grin shifted, softening.

He didn’t lean in right away. Not obviously. But suddenly, I was more aware of the space between us — or the lack of it. Of how his arm brushed against mine. Of the warmth coming off his coat.

I glanced at him, and his eyes were already on me. Still playful, but quieter now. Focused. Too close.

I cleared my throat and shifted, pushing myself up from the log, brushing soil from the back of my robes. “I should probably head back.”

George didn’t move to stop me. But he tilted his head, considering me.

“We could... I don’t know.” He scratched the back of his neck, like the words weren’t quite his usual brand of smooth. “Maybe gather a few things? For Professor Sprout. You said you like plants, right?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You want to go foraging with me.”

“Think of it as a noble Gryffindor offering protection to a reckless Ravenclaw in the deep, dangerous forest.”

I snorted. “Oh, please. You're just bored.”

“Painfully,” he said, grinning. “But also curious.”

I looked at him for a moment — at the boy with mischief in his smile and warmth tucked somewhere underneath it — and then, before I could second-guess myself, I said:

“There’s a patch of wolfsbane deeper in. If you can keep up.”

His grin widened. “Lead the way, Professor.”

And just like that, we disappeared into the trees — not side by side, but not far apart either.

At first, I thought it was nothing — just small things. Until I caught myself thinking about him, even in the quiet, even when he wasn’t there.

Maybe it was the third time he showed up in the library and sat across from me without saying a word — just dropped a book onto the table, the title something obscure about magical flora, and said, “Thought of you.”

Maybe it was how he didn’t expect anything in return. How he never asked why I liked what I liked. He just… learned. Paid attention in his own ridiculous way.

One day it was a pressed sprig of silverleaf between parchment. The next, a folded note tucked inside Advanced Herbology for Healers, underlining a passage about root memory and saying, Sounds like you.

Sometimes he’d ask questions. Sometimes not.

But he always found me.

And the strangest part?

I didn’t mind.

I liked it — the way he found me without fanfare. The way his attention softened over time, like he realized I wasn’t some puzzle to solve or a dare to win.

It wasn’t loud anymore. It wasn’t static.

It was… steady. Real.

And it made the silence feel a little less lonely.

A few days later, I found him outside the library, sitting on the edge of the stone railing, legs swinging slightly like he had all the time in the world.

He looked up as I approached — eyes lighting up the way they sometimes did now, like I was something worth noticing.

“I thought you’d be in the greenhouse,” he said, half-smiling.

“I was,” I replied simply, and held out a small wrapped bundle.

He blinked. “What’s this?”

“Dried frostnettle,” I said. “You complained last week that your hands kept freezing during early Quidditch practice.”

He looked down at the cloth, unwrapping it slowly. Inside were a few thin, silvery sprigs, neatly tied with thread. The scent was cool and sharp — clean.

George didn’t say anything right away.

When he looked back up, something in his expression had shifted. Just slightly. Like he wasn’t sure whether to grin or take it seriously — and ended up somewhere in between.

“This actually works?” he asked, quieter than usual.

“It’s not a joke,” I said, deadpan. “But it stings a bit when you crush the leaves. So don’t whine.”

That made him laugh — really laugh. But not in the way he used to.

It was warmer. Quieter. For me.

He stood, still holding the bundle carefully like it was something rare.

“Thanks,” he said, a little softer. “Really.”

I just shrugged. “You find me. I figured I’d return the favor.”

And for a second, he didn’t move — just looked at me with that same not-quite-smile, as if trying to figure out how the hell we got here.

His gaze dropped, just for a heartbeat, to my mouth.

He took a small step closer — not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the shift in the air between us.

And then—

The library door creaked open behind us. He blinked, stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right,” he said, like he’d just remembered the real world existed.

There was a pause — just long enough for the silence to stretch between us. Then, without looking up, I felt his eyes on me again.

“I—uh,” he started, hesitating, “you look nice, you know. Not like anyone else here.”

I glanced up, caught his gaze — sincere, a little shy. It wasn’t a compliment thrown carelessly; it was something quiet, real.

I smiled softly, feeling a warmth spread through me. “Thanks,” I said quietly. “I’ve got Potions next with the Hufflepuffs. Can’t be late.”

He gave a small, knowing smile, his eyes flickering briefly to the pocket of his robes — where I knew he kept something important. “Alright then. You better get going. But… don’t worry — if I don’t see you, I know where to find you.”

“See you around, George.”

He gave me one last easy smile before turning toward the door.

As the library door clicked shut behind him, I felt something shift — like maybe he was watching out for me in his own way.

I found myself waiting for him, though I hadn’t expected to. At first, I thought he was just another noisy Immature boy, but now… I wanted him to look for me. To find me. It was a strange feeling, like being a delicious target waiting to be caught.

I wandered the halls between classes, near the greenhouses, across the grounds. But he was nowhere to be found.

The next day, somewhere in a busy corridor, I caught a glimpse of him — weaving through the crowd with that easy grin. He saw me too, gave a quick nod, and drifted away with his class.

For the first time, I felt like I was chasing his attention. That thought surprised me.

I’d had a long day — one of those where everything feels just a little too loud, too crowded, too… much. So I went up to the Astronomy Tower with Mira after dinner, both of us wrapped in our house cloaks, quietly watching the stars blink into being.

The view up there was breathtaking — vast sky, clear air, the lake below dark and still. We didn’t talk much. We never needed to.

After a while, Mira stretched and stood. “You staying?” she asked, pulling her sleeves down.

I nodded, not looking away from the sky. “Just a little longer.”

She left with a soft goodnight, and the silence settled back in — comforting, familiar. I lost track of time, tracing constellations with my eyes, letting my thoughts stretch with the stars.

Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes passed. Then I heard footsteps behind me.

Not rushed. Not sneaky. Just… casual.

“Thought I might find you here,” came his voice — George’s, light as ever, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

I didn’t turn right away. “You stalking me now?”

He chuckled and stepped beside me, hands in his pockets, looking up. “You’re hard to lose, you know. Bit of a trail.”

I glanced sideways at him. “You and that map again?”

He only smiled, which I guess was answer enough.

We stood like that for a moment, side by side, looking out over the lake. Something moved in the water — just under the surface, a ripple and then a flash of something dark and massive. He leaned forward slightly to follow its path.

Then I noticed his eyes on me again. Or not on me — on my hand.

He didn’t ask right away. Just looked. Then: “That thing on your wrist… does it still hurt?”

I flexed my fingers, the scar catching the faint moonlight. “Sometimes,” I said. “But not really.”

“Is there… anything you can do for it?” He sounded genuinely curious. Not worried. Just interested.

I shrugged. “I’m working on a few things. Potions, mostly. Some of them a bit… experimental.”

That got a look out of him. “Experimental?”

I smirked. “Trying to come up with something no one’s thought of yet.”

He whistled under his breath, impressed. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“There was this plant,” I said, quietly. “Rare. I thought I could take a small piece. But it didn’t agree.”

His brows rose. “It fought back?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I lost.”

And for some reason, that made him grin. “Still sounds worth it.”

I didn’t say anything back. Just let the silence settle again — the good kind.

He didn’t say anything for a while after that.

Then I felt it — not a sudden movement, not some dramatic lean-in. Just… a shift. A pause. He turned slightly toward me. I could feel his eyes on mine.

When I finally looked, he was already close. His gaze flicked — lips, then eyes again — and I knew what he was about to do before he moved.

But I turned my head. Just slightly. Looked past him, toward the lake again, like I’d seen something move. Maybe I had.

He stopped.

Didn’t step back right away — just let out a small breath, not quite a sigh. And then he smiled, soft and understanding.

“Right,” he murmured. “Bad timing. Story of my life.”

I didn’t answer. Just let the quiet stretch.

Next day — Herbology class had ended early. The greenhouse buzz died down, and the castle grounds felt open, warm, and unusually free.

“Hey,” he said after class, catching up with me as I wiped soil off my sleeves. “We’ve got the afternoon off. Want to walk?”

I blinked at him. “A walk?”

“Don’t make it weird,” he grinned. “Just a walk. Maybe by the edge of the Forest. No man-eating plants. Promise.”

I hesitated — for no real reason — then nodded. “Alright.”

The path was quiet. Golden leaves stirred beneath our feet, and the sunlight came through in dappled patches. It was the kind of day that almost didn’t feel real.

He waited until we were out of sight from the castle to speak again.

“I made you something,” he said, suddenly a little awkward.

I frowned. “You made something?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he muttered, pulling a small bundle from his pocket. “Not every Weasley invention explodes.”

I laughed, and he handed it over — a small, simple charm on a worn bit of cord. A smooth stone center, etched with tiny, almost invisible runes.

“It’s not fancy,” he said. “But it’s charmed. Subtle warding. Nothing dramatic. Just enough so the… less friendly plants keep their distance,” he said with a crooked smile. “Figured it might help. You know. After that thing that tried to eat your hand.”

I turned it in my fingers, something soft pulling in my chest.

“For me?”

He shrugged like it was no big deal, but his ears had gone a little pink. “You said you were working on dangerous plants. I figured you could use a little backup.”

I looked up at him — and he was already watching me. Not intense. Just steady.

“Thanks,” I said. “Really.”

“Try not to cut your hand off again,” he said, his voice light — but softer than usual. “I’m kind of really fond of that one.”

His fingers wrapped gently around mine — not playfully, not like a joke. Just… steady. Warm.

He traced the edge of the scar with his thumb, eyes never leaving mine.

Like it mattered. Like I mattered.

I didn’t pull away. Maybe I should’ve — maybe I would’ve, any other day — but instead, I leaned in, just slightly. Just enough that the space between us shrank, just enough to let it be clear.

And then—

“Oi! There you are!”

Fred’s voice cracked through the stillness, far too loud, far too Fred. He clapped George on the back hard enough to jostle both of us. George’s hand slipped from mine.

Fred laughed. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We’ve got that thing, remember?”

Only then did he glance at me, as if realizing I was even there.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Oh. Hey.”

I gave him a nod — neutral, cool. My chest felt suddenly, stupidly cold.

George cleared his throat. “I’ll catch up. Just give me a sec.”

Fred gave a dramatic sigh, but wandered off, whistling something off-key.

George turned back to me, a faint apology in his expression. “Sorry about that. My brother…”

I waved it off. “It’s fine. He’s… very Fred.”

He smiled a little. “Yeah.”

He hesitated like he didn’t want to leave, like he wasn’t quite sure if it was okay to go. I saved him the decision.

“You know where to find me,” I said, the old line slipping out before I could stop it.

He nodded, took a step back — but I caught his sleeve.

He looked at me again — curious, surprised.

And then I said it. Just like that.

“Maybe… maybe next time you don’t use the map.” I cleared my throat. “Maybe just… meet me. On purpose. Like a real person.”

He blinked — once, then again. And then, slowly, that not-quite-smile curved again. But this time, it was a little closer to the real thing.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Just tell me where.”

I didn’t know then how much that answer would change everything.

Part II.

[romanczukowsky]

Spellbound and Spellchecking

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: When studying at Hogwarts becomes an excuse to spend time together, something more than friendship develops between George and Y/N.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Romance / Delicate romantic and intimate scenes / Friends to Lovers / Cozy moments / Mutual pining / One shot

The corridors of Hogwarts were always loud after breakfast – a chaotic blend of shuffling feet, animated conversations, and the occasional half-shouted spell from some reckless second-year. But today, there was a sudden hush in the air as Professor McGonagall strode through the sea of students with the clipped, precise pace that usually meant trouble for someone.

I watched her approach from the stairwell landing above, arms folded over my robes, curiosity sharpening my gaze. It didn’t take long to see who was in the line of fire.

“Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall’s voice rang out – brisk and scolding. “And you, Mr. Weasley,” she added, her stern glance sliding naturally to Fred, who was leaning far too casually against the wall nearby.

George looked up, all faux innocence and crooked smile. “Good morning, Professor.”

“Don’t test me, Mr. Weasley,” she snapped. “Your last two marks in Potions and Transfiguration were not only abysmal, they were bordering on tragic. One more failed assessment and I will have no choice but to suspend you from the Quidditch team.”

That wiped the grin off his face – if only slightly.

Fred let out a low whistle, but said nothing.

McGonagall’s sharp eyes narrowed further. “This isn’t a joke. Not anymore. And that goes for you as well, Fred. I suggest you both start taking your studies seriously before you’re grounded in more ways than one.”

With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the corridor, robes snapping behind her like a warning flag.

There was a long beat of silence.

“Yikes,” Lee muttered.

“Overdramatic much?” George shrugged, still leaning against the stone wall, trying to look unfazed. “One more exam won’t kill me.”

Fred elbowed him. “Yeah, but one more failure might kill your chances of ever scoring again.”

“Oh shut up,” George muttered.

That was when I moved. I hadn’t meant to—not exactly—but something in the way he tried to brush it off, the way his mouth tightened just barely at the corners, made me speak up.

“I could help you, you know.”

Four pairs of eyes turned to me at once.

I held my chin high, defiant even as heat crept up the back of my neck.

“With Potions. Or Transfiguration. Or whatever else you’re failing. Just—if you actually care.”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “Well, look who’s throwing herself at Georgie now.”

Lee snorted, covering his mouth with his fist.

George opened his mouth, closed it, then finally scoffed. “I’m fine, thanks.”

I blinked once. My smile didn’t falter, but something behind it flickered – a flash of something sharp and wounded. “Right,” I said coolly. “Of course you are.”

I turned and walked away before anyone could say another word, my footsteps echoing down the corridor. My jaw was clenched tight, but my chest ached with something hollow and hot. Embarrassment. Or maybe something worse.

I didn’t look back.

But I didn’t have to.

I could feel it – the weight of George’s stare following me as I disappeared into the crowd.

The Gryffindor common room was warm and noisy in the late afternoon, the fire crackling in the hearth while students lounged on crimson sofas or hunched over homework. I sat near the window, books spread out in front of me, trying to focus despite the distractions.

Then, through the hum of chatter and laughter, I heard footsteps—slow, hesitant ones—coming my way. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Y/N?” George’s voice was softer than I expected, almost cautious.

I closed my book and looked at him. He wasn’t wearing his usual cocky grin. Instead, there was something vulnerable in his eyes, a flicker of uncertainty.

“Can we talk?”

I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “You mean after you ignored me in the corridor and made me look like a fool?”

His lips twitched into a sheepish smile. “Yeah. About that.”

I waited, feeling a strange mix of irritation and curiosity.

“I’ve been thinking… maybe McGonagall wasn’t wrong. Maybe I do need help with this Potions stuff. And, well, I figured if I’m going to fail anyway, I might as well try to pass—with your help.”

I wanted to believe him, but my pride pushed me back. “I don’t have time to babysit someone who thinks he can skate by.”

Fred and Lee appeared from behind the couch, snickering loudly. “Oi, Georgie! You finally coming to terms with needing a brain?” Lee teased, nudging Fred.

Fred grinned. “Looks like someone’s getting serious.”

George flushed but kept his gaze on me. “I’m serious. Please. Just one lesson. That’s all I’m asking.”

I hesitated. His usual bravado was gone, replaced with something honest, almost shy. It was... disarming.

“Fine,” I said after a pause, “but don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

He smiled—really smiled this time—relief flooding his face.

“Deal,” he said quietly.

As he sat down next to me, I felt a strange flutter in my chest. Maybe this slow burn was about to start heating up after all.

The library was quieter than anywhere else in the castle — the perfect place to concentrate, or so I thought.

George and I sat at a worn wooden table tucked away in a corner, a stack of Potions books spread before us. I was trying to explain the complicated process of potion brewing — precise measurements, timing, careful stirring — but George’s attention was... somewhere else.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement a few tables away. Fred and Lee were sitting close together, trying hard not to laugh. Between them, a series of tiny, folded paper notes were flying back and forth like mischievous owls.

And George? He was making ridiculous faces in their direction—eyebrows raised, tongue sticking out—clearly playing along.

I cleared my throat sharply. “George, can you please focus?”

He grinned without turning to me. “I’m fine, really.”

Another paper airplane landed squarely on our table.

I picked it up, unfolded it, and read the message: “Still no clue, Georgie?”

I squeezed the note tightly until it crumpled. My patience snapped. “Enough,” I said, standing up abruptly. “I’m done. If you don’t want to take this seriously, then I’m not wasting my time.”

I grabbed my things and walked out before George could protest.

But of course, he did.

“Wait, Y/N!” His voice was softer this time, less cocky. He caught up to me in the hallway, slightly out of breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes earnest. “I know I’ve been messing around, but I want to actually learn. And the library… it’s too distracting. What if we tried outside? Somewhere quieter? Just you and me.”

I hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his tone.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said finally, a small smile tugging at my lips.

He grinned like I’d just handed him the winning broomstick.

And maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something worth waiting for.

The sun was warm on my skin, and the gentle rustle of leaves mingled with the soft splash of water against the shore. George had somehow convinced me to meet him outside—by the lake—away from the noise and distractions of the castle.

I sat on the soft grass, books open but forgotten for a moment as George reached down and plucked a handful of pebbles.

“Alright,” I said, trying to focus. “Tell me—what’s the first step in brewing a Swelling Solution?”

He grinned and flicked a pebble toward the water. It skipped three times before sinking. “That depends on what you mean by ‘first step,’” he teased. Then he lobbed another stone, this one skipping seven times.

“Seven times!” I gasped, eyes wide. “That’s a record.”

I looked up at him, amused. “Enough showing off. Sit down.”

He threw his hands up in mock surrender and walked over, lowering himself onto the grass beside me. His shoulders were warm from the sun, and he glanced my way with a sheepish smile.

I reached out and brushed a loose lock of hair away from his forehead, my fingers lingering a moment longer than I intended.

His eyes caught mine, and for a heartbeat, everything else fell away.

“Back to the book?” I whispered, my voice softer than before.

He nodded, but the smile tugging at his lips said more than words ever could.

I turned the page, trying to focus on the complicated instructions about timing and ingredients, but my eyes kept flicking back to George. He was sitting uncomfortably close now, his leg nearly brushing mine.

“So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “what’s the trickiest part about this potion?”

He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks reddening just a little. “Getting the timing right, I guess. Too long stirring, and it all goes wrong.”

I smiled, leaning in just enough to catch a whiff of his familiar, slightly earthy scent. It made my heart do something odd—a little flip, maybe.

“Okay, repeat after me,” I said, tapping the book. “Add the powdered root of asphodel...”

“Add the powdered root of asphodel,” he repeated, voice low.

“Good.” I looked down at my notes, then up again, catching him watching me.

His eyes were soft, a little uncertain, like he was waiting for permission to say something more.

I swallowed hard.

“George... do you really want to get better at this? Or are you just saying that?”

He looked down at the grass between us, fingers tracing invisible patterns. Then he met my gaze and nodded firmly.

“I do. I mean it.”

For a moment, we just sat there, the quiet broken only by the occasional bird call and the gentle lapping of water.

Then, almost shyly, he shifted closer. Our shoulders touched.

I felt a spark—electric and warm.

“I’m all ears.”

And just like that, between whispered instructions and shared smiles, the lesson became something much more — a quiet dance of connection, one slow step at a time.

The corridors of Hogwarts felt stuffy and crowded compared to the quiet openness of the grounds. George caught me just as I was turning the corner near the Charms classroom, his usual mischievous grin softened into something more genuine.

“Hey,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “How about we take the next lesson somewhere... less boring? The library’s fine and all, but I know this great spot in the forest. We could study there.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You have some strange study habits.”

He shrugged, clearly unbothered. “Well, it’s got character. Plus, it’s quieter. What do you say? Wanna come?”

There was something about the way he asked — hopeful but casual — that made me smile.

“Okay,” I agreed with a feigned loud sigh.

We walked side by side through the towering trees, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in scattered golden patches. George led me down a narrow path until we reached a small clearing with a fallen log and a view of a sparkling stream.

“This is it,” he said, gesturing proudly. “My secret spot. Me and Fred come here sometimes... you know, to, uh...” He paused, grinning cheekily. “To bring some of the girls around. Classic Gryffindor strategy.”

I smirked, raising an eyebrow. “By ‘strategy’ you mean trying to impress girls, right?”

George laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Exactly! The perfect place for a bit of ‘charm offensive’.”

He leaned back, rocking slightly on his heels, clearly enjoying the moment. Then, almost forgetting himself, he added, “I mean, it’s not like I still do that...”

I rolled my eyes and before he could say anything else, I planted myself firmly on the fallen log. “Alright, sit down before you start embarrassing yourself.”

George blinked, then with a mock sigh of defeat, he sat beside me, picking up a twig from the ground and waving it around like a wand.

“So, what’s the next potion ingredient again?” he asked, eyes focused on the stick as if it held all the answers.

I repeated the instructions, watching as he tried to keep up, occasionally getting distracted by the way the sunlight caught his hair.

After a while, the quiet between us felt comfortable. Not awkward, not forced — just easy.

I finally broke the silence. “Why do you like studying outside so much?”

George looked up at the sky, taking a deep breath.

“It’s the peace,” he said slowly. “At home, it’s always a mess — Percy, Ron, Dad — Mum trying to keep us in line, noise everywhere. When I’m stuck inside four walls, I feel... trapped. Like a bird in a cage.”

I studied his profile, the way his jaw clenched just slightly.

“You have a big family,” I said softly.

He smiled, his eyes lighting up, and started talking, his hands moving animatedly as he painted pictures of each brother. With a sweeping gesture, he mimicked Percy’s serious, upright posture, then flicked his fingers playfully to imitate Fred’s mischievous grin. His fingers danced again, showing Ron’s flustered shrug, and then he made a broad, protective gesture that made me picture his dad standing firm, unshaken.

As he spoke, I watched the way his face softened, the warmth shining through his laughter and glances. When he looked at me, that familiar, easy smile touched his lips, and his eyes held a spark — a mix of humor and something deeper that made my heart skip.

For a moment, I let myself get caught in that smile.

But then I shook my head, forcing myself back to the books. “We should probably get back to studying. There’s still quite a bit to cover.”

George nodded, though I caught the reluctant pause before he turned back to the open pages between us.

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual lunchtime chaos — students chatting, clinking cutlery, and the faint hum of magical chatter filling the air. I was settling down at my usual table when I spotted Fred, Lee, and George weaving through the crowd towards me.

The boys continued on, but George stopped right beside me and smiled. “I’ll catch up in a minute,” he said over his shoulder to Fred and Lee.

He sat down next to me with a casual ease that made my heart skip unexpectedly.

“Listen,” he started, lowering his voice just enough to be sure no one else could hear, “your notes? They’re brilliant. I actually let myself read them last night. Not gonna lie, thanks to you, I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass Snape’s Potions for once.”

I blinked, surprised but pleased. “Really?”

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah, and we only have Transfiguration left after that. Then it’s all downhill — or, well, done.”

George smiled softly, and as he stood up, he accidentally brushed his hand against mine. Then, almost imperceptibly, his finger grazed my arm before he turned and walked away.

I sat there, heart still fluttering, the quiet space between us suddenly charged with something unspoken. In my mind, I whispered, If he passes Transfiguration, that’s the end of our study sessions. And maybe... I’m not ready for that yet.

I couldn’t help but replay the moment over and over in my mind as I wandered around the common room, pacing in small circles. What if I found a way to stretch out these study sessions just a little longer? What if I held back, made him think he still needed me?

But then, a cold knot of doubt tightened in my chest. What if by doing that, I’m actually hurting him? What if my hesitation costs him his spot on the Quidditch team?

The questions swirled around me, tangled and heavy. Was I being selfish? Or just scared?

I wasn’t sure. But one thing was clear: I didn’t want this to end. Not yet.

The weather had turned overnight — low, sullen clouds now pressed against the windows, and the steady whisper of rain made the castle feel smaller somehow. Colder. The lake was out of the question, the forest drenched. Which meant… the library.

I sat across from George at one of the tucked-away tables in the back, parchment spread between us, candles flickering lazily above our heads. It should’ve felt cozy. Quiet. Instead, the air between us was tense, almost restless.

George tapped his quill rhythmically against the edge of his notes, brows furrowed in frustration. After a while, he muttered, “This is pointless.”

I didn’t even look up. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, I meant it then too.”

I blinked at him slowly, forcing my voice to stay calm. “You’re distracted.”

“No, I’m bored,” he muttered, sharper than usual. “And tired. And completely done pretending I care about the difference between a proper hand-to-paw transfiguration and accidental fur growth.”

I closed my book—not loudly, not angrily, just enough to say: Try me.

“You asked me to help you.”

He leaned back, scrubbing both hands over his face. “I know, I know. I just—” He exhaled sharply. “This place makes me feel like I’m suffocating.”

I studied him for a beat. The way his shoulders rose and fell, a twitch in his jaw. I understood more than I wanted to admit.

“It’s not the lake,” I said softly. “Or the woods.”

His gaze flicked to mine. And for a moment, the irritation slipped. His eyes held something quieter underneath — not quite apology.

“I just… liked it better out there,” he said, almost to himself. “With you.”

My heart snagged on that last part, but I didn’t let it show.

“We don’t always get ideal conditions,” I said gently. “Sometimes we just get through it.”

He looked at me properly then — really looked. And something shifted, like a weight settling.

“I don’t want to get through it if it means being an arse to you.”

The edges of my mouth twitched. I nudged his notes back toward him.

“Then stop sulking and focus.”

A beat.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“You’re definitely sulking.”

George huffed a soft laugh and leaned back in again, slightly closer now. Not enough to touch, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, see the corner of his mouth pull up in something that wasn’t quite a smile — but not far off.

And just like that, the air between us shifted again. Still charged. Still complicated.

But maybe… still ours.

George huffed a soft laugh and leaned back in again — this time, just a bit closer. Our knees brushed beneath the table, a fleeting touch that neither of us acknowledged out loud, but neither of us pulled away from, either.

He didn’t look at me right away, just reached for the edge of my parchment, tugging it slightly toward him with a half-smirk.

“This bit,” he said, tapping a note I’d scribbled in the margin, his fingers grazing mine for the briefest second. “I swear, you write like McGonagall hexed you mid-sentence.”

I rolled my eyes, but my pulse betrayed me. “It says: cross-species transfiguration is volatile and unstable. Not my fault you can’t read anything without moving your lips.”

His eyes finally met mine, sharp but amused, and for a second too long, neither of us looked away.

The air around us tightened, like it always did when we got too close, too quiet. George looked down again, tracing the line of my notes with his finger — slow.

I watched him with a mix of frustration and fascination, torn between brushing it all off or letting it settle somewhere deep under my skin.

The library had long since emptied out, the candles floating low and the windows now bathed in the deep blue of late evening. We finally packed up in silence, parchment rustling as I tucked away my notes.

George scooped up my bag before I could even reach for it.

“I got it,” he said simply, slinging it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. My stomach fluttered.

We walked side by side down the quiet corridors, footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor. The silence between us was easy this time — not tense, just... charged. I could feel it in the way his shoulder brushed mine every so often, how neither of us pulled away.

Then, from down the hall, someone yelled, “Oi, Weasley! That your girlfriend?”

A chorus of laughter followed. I stiffened instinctively.

George only laughed — a short, easy sound. “Jealous?” he shouted back over his shoulder, not missing a beat.

My cheeks burned.

We reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. He handed me back my bag, his hand lingering against mine — warm, calloused fingers brushing the inside of my wrist. I looked up, and he stepped just slightly closer.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “For tonight. Really.”

I could feel my heart pounding like a bloody drum.

Before I could answer, a voice from behind: “Ooooh, someone's getting all sentimental.”

More teasing, more giggles.

I flushed hard and ducked past George, muttering something about sleep. I didn’t look back.

We didn’t study again. Not right away.

Classes resumed, days blurred, weather shifted. But something between us had changed — like a string pulled taut, waiting to snap.

One warm afternoon, I was walking back from the library when I spotted George and Fred across the courtyard, heading in my direction.

Fred nudged George and said, just loud enough for me to catch: “Take her there, mate. That spot? Guaranteed magic.” Then he grinned at me and added, “You’ll thank me later.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A simple hey would’ve worked, Fred.”

George smirked, unfazed. “You busy?”

I shook my head slowly.

“Come on then.”

He led me out past the lake, farther than we’d ever gone during our so-called study sessions. The path wound through tall grass and dipped into a small cove. Water sparkled like glass, and trees arched in a canopy above us. It was... breathtaking.

“Thought you’d like it,” he said.

“I do.”

We sat. Talked. Tried to study — genuinely, for maybe twenty minutes — then got distracted, throwing pebbles into the water, laughing at how utterly hopeless he was at pronouncing half the Transfiguration terms.

Then, out of nowhere, he stood and started tugging his jumper over his head.

My brain short-circuited.

“What are you doing?” I asked, mouth suddenly dry.

He grinned. “It’s too nice not to swim. C’mon.”

And then he jumped. Shirtless. Into the water.

I blinked. “You’re insane!”

He surfaced, laughing, and ran both hands through his soaked hair. “It’s amazing! Come on, don’t be boring.”

I hesitated, the cool air suddenly feeling heavier against my skin. My shoes were already off, and the soft grass beneath my feet grounded me, but my heart was pounding in a way that felt entirely new — raw and exposed.

His eyes didn’t waver as I slowly pulled off my jumper, the fabric slipping past my shoulders and revealing the bare skin beneath. The way he looked at me was different now — less playful, more intense, as if he was seeing me for the first time in a way that both thrilled and unsettled me.

I stepped closer to the water’s edge. The sun lit up my hair, and I felt his gaze follow the curve of my neck, the line of my collarbone, the slight tremor of my fingers.

I waded in. The water was cold, biting, perfect. I gasped, and he splashed me like a devil.

We swam. We shouted. We laughed like kids.

But then, just as the sun began to warm my skin again, a shadow passed over us — a cloud sliding slowly across the sky. A sudden chill ran down my spine, prickling my skin with goosebumps.

I shivered, the cold suddenly sharper, and instinctively started to head toward the shore.

“Hey, what��s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle but curious.

“C-cold,” I admitted, my lips trembling as I wrapped my arms around myself.

Before I could say more, he stepped up behind me, his chest warm against my back. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around me in a comforting embrace.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered softly, his breath warm against my ear. “The sun will be back any second now. And if it’s not…” His voice dropped, playful but tender. “I’ll keep you warm.”

A soft heat spread through me, chasing away the chill — not just from the water, but from something deeper.

He held me close for a moment longer, his hands steady and warm against of my body. I could feel the steady beat of his heart pressed lightly against my back, syncing somehow with my own. The world around us faded — only the gentle lapping of the water and the soft rustling of the breeze remained.

Slowly, I turned in his arms, our eyes meeting.

His fingers brushed a stray lock of wet hair from my face, and I caught my breath. The air between us thickened, charged with something fragile yet undeniable.

“Are you cold?” he whispered, voice low, rough with something more than concern.

I shook my head, barely daring to speak. “No… just… warm now.”

His smile was soft, almost shy, as if he was surprised by the sudden closeness between us. Step by step, we closed the gap until our faces were inches apart.

Every small movement felt amplified — the slight tilt of his head, the way his eyes searched mine, the subtle parting of his lips.

And just when I thought I might lose my nerve, his hand found mine, fingers intertwining gently, grounding me.

“We don’t have to go back just yet,” he murmured, the invitation hanging between us.

He leaned over me, his hand tilting my chin up with a feather-light touch. His gaze held mine, deep and searching, like he was trying to read every hidden thought.

His lips brushed against mine — soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. Then, with a quiet confidence, the kiss deepened, full of a longing that had been simmering beneath the surface.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. The heat between us flared as his hold tightened, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.

He carried me slowly toward the shore, every step deliberate, every breath shared. When he laid me down on the scattered clothes, his body settled atop mine with a gentle weight, grounding me in the moment.

His hands moved with slow, deliberate care, tracing every curve and contour as if memorizing the shape of me. The warmth of his touch sent shivers down my spine, igniting a fire that spread through every nerve.

Our breaths mingled, shallow and quick, the space between us charged with a magnetic pull too strong to resist. His lips hovered just above mine, teasing, asking without words.

For a moment, time held still — the world reduced to the soft brush of his breath, the heat of his gaze locked on mine, and the delicious ache of anticipation.

Then, with a whisper barely louder than a heartbeat, he finally closed the distance, lips capturing mine in a kiss that promised everything.

[romanczukowsky]

Jealousy’s Quiet Fire

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Sometimes, the biggest magic happens in the quiet moments you don’t see coming. When Y/N steps into the wild world of dates and distractions, George finds himself less prankster and more… jealous sidekick. Between awkward Shield Charms and stolen glances, old feelings bubble up with a hint of tension—and maybe a bit of friendly competition. Because who said love can’t be complicated and hilarious?

Warnings: Slow Burn / Romance / Mild Sexual Content / Emotional Angst /Implied Romantic Tension / One shot

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with the kind of noise only a return to Hogwarts could bring — excited chatter, clattering dishes, and the occasional shout of a prank gone wrong somewhere down the hall.

Fred and George sat on the armrest of the worn leather couch, already holding court like the kings of chaos.

“So this summer,” George started, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, “Fred got this brilliant idea to start selling self-inflating cauldrons. Perfect for lazy potion makers, he said.”

Fred rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile. “They were going to be a hit—until the first batch exploded and flooded the entire shed.”

George laughed. “Yeah, flooded the shed, drowned Percy’s toads, and nearly wiped out the garden gnome army. You could say it was a splash hit.”

Fred threw up his hands. “Very funny. Mum made me clean it all up for three days.”

“And don’t forget Mum’s face when she found your ‘experimental fireworks’ under the kitchen table,” George added, still chuckling.

“That was a minor miscalculation,” Fred said, grinning. “The fireworks weren’t supposed to launch indoors!”

“Minor, right. Maybe next time test them outside the Burrow, yeah?”

The whole common room chuckled, drawn in by their easy banter.

Then George caught sight of me walking past and waved me over with that crooked grin — the one that made me forget how much younger I was compared to him.

“Y/N!” he called in a warm and familiar voice. “Come here, don’t lurk!”

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. “Lurking isn’t my style.”

He laughed, “Good. That’s what we like.”

“Missed you this summer,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way my heart jumped.

George’s smile softened just a bit. “Yeah, well, don’t get too sappy on me now.”

Fred grinned from his spot. “Speak for yourself, Georgie.”

We all laughed, and for a moment, I was just part of their world — younger, maybe, but definitely not invisible.

Autumn melted into winter faster than I liked, and with each passing week, I told myself I'd give up trying — and each week I didn’t.

Every opportunity I had, I slid closer to George — always with a reason, of course.

“Could you show me that Shield Charm again?” I asked one evening in the common room, sliding my books onto the table where George was lounging with a bag of Every Flavour Beans.

He looked up with that same warm, unreadable smile. “Sure. You still can’t get the wand movement right?”

“I can, actually,” I said quickly. “I just thought… a refresher couldn’t hurt.”

He shrugged and moved over to give me space. “Alright then. Let’s see it.”

I tried. I always tried. Not just with the spell — with my hair, with my laugh, with how casually I leaned against the back of the couch while he corrected my grip on the wand.

George, as always, was patient. Helpful. Charming. And utterly, entirely… Oblivious.

He never flirted. Never lingered. Never once looked at me the way I sometimes caught myself looking at him.

Another time, right before Christmas break, I “accidentally” left my Charms notes in the common room, just to circle back and find George still there, sorting through a box of Zonko's leftovers.

“Oh — hey,” I said, feigning surprise. “Didn’t expect anyone else to be up.”

He looked up, startled, then grinned. “I’m basically nocturnal at this point. Want a chocolate frog?”

I nodded, heart skipping. “Thanks. Um… also, I left my notes… do you think you could help me go over Switching Spells again?”

“Sure thing,” he said, already shifting to make space for me on the couch. “You have a test or something?”

“Not really,” I lied.

Fred would’ve winked. Lee would’ve teased. Even Ron would’ve caught on by now. But George? George just smiled that same smile and explained the theory like I was his best mate’s little sister.

By the time February rolled around and hearts were floating in windows, my own was somewhere between frustrated and still hopelessly devoted.

Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts was always an explosion of glitter, pink confetti, and enchanted paper hearts that fluttered through the corridors like butterflies with no sense of personal space.

And every year, I sent George a Valentine. Always unsigned. Always the same: a red card, sealed with a tiny heart and the letter Y.

I used to think he’d figure it out. That maybe one year, he’d smile in that knowing way and say something clever. He never did.

This year, I’d told myself: Enough. No Valentine. No initials. No more trying.

The Gryffindor common room was packed after dinner, buzzing with energy. Enchanted envelopes zoomed from student to student, trailing glitter or heart-shaped bubbles. Girls squealed. Boys groaned. Someone in the corner was already halfway through their fifth chocolate frog.

I was curled in the armchair by the fire, trying very hard not to care. I still got a few cards — sweet, safe ones from my friends. Lavender, Parvati, even a pink scribble from Neville that looked suspiciously like he had panicked halfway through.

Then it happened.

A deep red and violet envelope floated straight to me, glowing faintly, shaped like a heart — and singing.

“Oh Merlin,” I muttered, just as it landed on my lap and burst into a dramatically off-key serenade:

🎵 “Y/N, Y/N, with eyes so bright, You shine like stars on a snowy night. Brave and kind and full of grace, With you, my world’s a better place!” 🎵

The entire room turned.

Fred cackled so hard he nearly fell off the armrest. I sat frozen, cheeks on fire.

When the song finally sputtered to a halt, the heart unfolded into a card. In elegant handwriting, just two words: — Cedric Diggory

The silence lasted a beat too long. Then:

“Wow,” Seamus whispered. “That was… dramatic.”

“Mate has pipes,” Lee added, nodding solemnly.

I risked a glance across the room. George wasn’t laughing. In fact, he looked… Confused? No — caught off guard.

His gaze flicked to the card. Then to me.

No joke. No wink. Just that flash of something — something new.

And for once… he hadn’t gotten a Valentine from me.

The next afternoon, the buzz about The Valentine still hadn’t died down.

Apparently, when a singing, glowing, violet-red heart explodes in the middle of the Gryffindor common room — and it’s from Cedric Diggory — people don’t forget.

I tried to ignore the way heads still turned when I entered the Great Hall for lunch. I balanced my tray, pretended not to care, and slipped quietly toward the Gryffindor table… until I saw him.

Cedric. Smiling. Walking toward me like he did it every day.

I swallowed, half-wishing the floor would swallow me first. Too late.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, stopping just at the end of our table. I knew Fred and George were sitting nearby. “Did you, uh… get my card?”

Every sound seemed to blur except for my own heartbeat.

“Um… yeah,” I managed, trying not to sound breathless. “I did. It was… very impressive.”

Cedric chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bit over the top, maybe.”

“A bit?” I heard Fred mutter, not even trying to be subtle.

I smiled, even though my face was definitely turning pink again. “I thought it was sweet. Unexpected, but sweet.”

Cedric grinned. “Glad you liked it. See you around, Y/N.”

And just like that, he was gone.

But the table wasn’t silent.

George lifted his goblet, taking a slow, deliberate sip of pumpkin juice — like he hadn’t just heard every word.

“Next year,” he said dryly, “I might send a singing troll in a tutu. That seems to be the new standard.”

Fred choked on his drink. “Bit jealous of Diggory’s flair, are we?”

I looked down at my plate, pretending I hadn’t heard — but my ears were burning.

George rolled his eyes but smirked. “Please. He’s good, but not that good.”

Ever since Valentine’s Day, Cedric had been… everywhere.

In the corridors between classes — “You know, your smile could disarm anyone.”

Outside the library — “Do you always read with your head tilted like that? It’s adorable.”

Even in the Great Hall — “You have the neatest way of arranging your quill and parchment. Very elegant.”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh or swoon. Usually I just blinked and muttered something like “Um, thanks?” while stuffing parchment into my bag and mentally screaming.

Fred, naturally, found it hilarious. “Oh, here comes your stationery admirer again,” he said one morning, elbowing me as I sat down. “Better sharpen your quill properly or he’ll write you a sonnet.”

George, who sat across from us, didn’t laugh. He just shoved another spoonful of eggs into his mouth and said, flatly, “It’s pathetic.”

I looked up, surprised. “What is?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. “That he thinks a few cheesy lines make him interesting.”

Fred raised an eyebrow at him, and I caught the exchange. But George just gave a faint smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

And I… well, I didn’t know what to think. Cedric was nice. He was kind. And, okay, objectively very good-looking. And if George couldn’t be bothered to actually say anything — then maybe I should give Cedric a chance. At least he made his interest obvious.

So when Cedric asked if I wanted to sit with him in the courtyard after Herbology — “just for some air,” he said, though the flowers weren’t the only thing he seemed interested in — I nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

And I swear, the second we sat down on that stone bench, laughing at a Puffapod that had exploded on my robes earlier, Fred and George walked straight past. Fred winked. George didn’t even look at me.

But I looked at him. And I felt something strange twist in my chest — like I’d dropped the wrong potion ingredient and wasn’t sure whether it was about to explode… or change everything.

It started with a walk.

Nothing dramatic. No candlelit dinner in the Room of Requirement. Just Cedric asking if I wanted to walk with him after Transfiguration.

“Bit of a breeze today,” he’d said, smiling that unfairly perfect smile. “But I figured, if you’re wrapped up warm, we could do a few laps around the courtyard. I won’t recite poetry. Promise.”

I laughed, tucking a curl behind my ear. “Tempting offer.”

So I said yes.

It felt nice, actually. Easy. He wasn’t pushy, just… attentive. He asked about my favorite subjects, about how I’d learned that shield charm so quickly in Defense, about whether I’d ever tried honeydukes’ cinnamon snaps with cocoa. (I hadn’t. He promised to bring some back next Hogsmeade weekend.)

And yet—somehow—our peaceful walk turned into a thing.

Because two minutes later, we passed Fred and George sitting on the low wall near the greenhouses, casually tossing a Quaffle between them.

“Oh, what a coincidence,” Fred said loudly, catching the ball one-handed. “Y/N! Look who I found loitering near the ivy!”

George didn’t say anything, but his eyes flicked straight to Cedric. Then to me. Then back to the Quaffle.

“Hey,” I said, pretending this wasn’t the most awkward moment in the history of my social life.

Cedric nodded politely. “Fred. George.”

George gave a single nod. No grin. No joke. Just that unreadable look he sometimes wore when someone beat him at Exploding Snap.

“Well,” Fred chirped. “We were just discussing how the weather’s perfect for a walk. Right, George?”

George shrugged. “Guess so. If you’re into walking in circles.”

Cedric raised an eyebrow. “It’s not a race.”

George finally grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. Wouldn’t want you to lose at everything, mate.”

My heart skipped a beat.

Fred caught my eye with a little smirk that said he knows. Knows what, exactly, I wasn’t ready to admit — but I felt it.

I felt it everywhere George went quiet.

I didn’t mean to snap at him.

Okay—maybe I did.

But after days — weeks, really — of George doing nothing but tossing snide remarks and making faces like Cedric was a dementor in human form, something in me finally snapped.

“I just don’t get why you’re being like this,” I’d said, arms crossed, standing halfway up the common room stairs as he leaned against the wall, expression unreadable. “You don’t like Cedric. Fine. But why do you care who I spend time with?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it so awful that I want to try something? Feel something?” My voice shook, and not because I was cold. “Not everything has to be a joke or a prank. Sometimes it’s just... real. And I want something real.”

George had exhaled hard, jaw clenched.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, voice low. “You’re right. I’m being a prat.”

And that was it.

So I went to Hogsmeade with Cedric.

We drank warm butterbeer. He told me I looked beautiful when I laughed. He offered to carry my scarf when the wind nearly took it away. It should’ve been lovely.

But the whole time, George’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of my mind — the way it got quiet when something actually mattered.

And it mattered.

Which is probably why I found myself back in the common room that evening, cheeks flushed from the cold and maybe from the drinks, heart pounding faster than it should’ve.

When I stepped into the common room, the fire was crackling lazily, casting soft golden light across the space. A group of younger boys were huddled near the window playing Exploding Snap, arguing over the rules. Fred was half-sprawled on the rug, flipping through a deck of enchanted cards that occasionally belched glitter.

George was in the armchair by the fireplace, legs over the side, reading a comic that floated slightly above his lap — "The Practical Jokers’ Guide to Defensive Hexes," from the looks of it.

I brushed snow from my coat and offered a small wave. “Hey.”

Fred looked up — and immediately grinned.

“Well, well,” he said, drawing out the words as he stood and stretched like a cat. “Look who’s back from her dreamy date in frosty Hogsmeade.”

He elbowed one of the fifth-year boys, then added, “Alright, lads, looks like it’s bedtime for us common folk.”

There were a few groans, a snort, but Fred merely wagged his brows at me before winking and heading upstairs. The others trickled after him, clearly in on… whatever joke he was making.

George didn’t move.

He just looked at me over the edge of his comic, his expression unreadable — but his eyes a little too focused for someone just casually curious.

“How was it?” he asked finally, folding the comic closed and setting it on the armrest. “Didn’t freeze your nose off, did you?”

I smiled, shrugging out of my coat. “Not quite. I think I’ve still got most of my fingers.”

He smirked softly, then motioned toward the fire. “You want the warm seat?”

I shook my head. “No. You look too comfortable. I’ll take this one.”

I dropped into the couch opposite him, tucking my legs beneath me, heart still racing in a way that had nothing to do with the cold anymore.

The room was quiet now — the kind of quiet that settles in when you’re the only two left awake, with the firelight dancing between you, and too many things unsaid.

George tilted his head just slightly, studying me like he was trying to figure out if I was different now.

“So…” he said slowly, “Did he make you laugh?”

I blinked. That wasn’t what I’d expected.

“He tried,” I said honestly.

George nodded, his mouth twitching — not quite a smile. “That sounds about right.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’ve got a scoring system.”

“Maybe I do,” he said with a shrug, voice smooth and teasing. “And let’s just say... he’s not exactly climbing the ranks.”

I laughed. “Well, he did say I have very graceful quill posture.”

George dropped his head back against the couch with an exaggerated groan, clutching his chest like he’d been personally wounded. “Quill posture? Merlin help us.”

I grinned, curling further into the cushions. “You’re just jealous.”

George didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me, for a moment too long, the firelight catching the shift in his expression.

Then he said, quietly — but without looking away, “I am.”

That made me pause. “…What?”

He exhaled through his nose, stood slowly, and crossed the small space between our couches. My heart was pounding before he even sat down beside me.

“I’m jealous,” he repeated, voice lower now. “I’m jealous you haven’t asked me for help with Shield Charms in ages.”

I blinked at him, thrown. “That’s what you’re—?”

“You used to ask me all the time,” he said, resting his arm along the back of the sofa, close but not touching. “Now suddenly you’re laughing at someone else’s jokes, and I’ve been replaced by a bloke who thinks parchment organization is flirting.”

I tried to smother a smile, even as my heart flipped. “You miss tutoring me?”

“I miss you, Y/N.”

He didn’t say it like a confession. He said it like a quiet fact — like it had been true for a while now, and he was just finally done pretending otherwise.

I don’t know what I’d expected him to say — a joke, maybe. A snarky quip. But not that.

Not I miss you.

Something in my chest fluttered, then dropped like a stone.

The fire crackled softly beside us, painting the room in warm gold and flickering shadows. George’s arm was still resting behind me, fingers barely brushing the edge of my shoulder — close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin, but not quite touching.

I swallowed. “I didn’t mean to replace you.”

He tilted his head, eyes still fixed on mine. “Didn’t say you did.”

“I just…” I faltered. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It mattered.”

Those two words landed like a weight between us.

Neither of us looked away.

I became hyper-aware of everything — the warmth of the fire, the steady thrum in my chest, the way his knee just barely bumped mine. His expression had shifted into something softer, something careful.

And then, slowly, he reached out — one hand lifting to gently brush a piece of hair behind my ear. His touch was light. Reverent.

My breath hitched.

His voice, when it came, was softer than I’d ever heard it. “You’ve got time, Y/N. You don’t have to rush into anything.”

I searched his eyes, heartbeat thudding in my throat. “What if I don’t want to wait?”

George didn’t move — not yet. But something flickered in his gaze, and I could feel the shift in the air between us. Like if either of us so much as leaned in an inch, everything would change.

His hand lingered at the side of my face, thumb brushing just barely along my cheek. “You’re dangerous when you say things like that,” he murmured.

“Why?”

He pulled back, clearing his throat with a smirk.

“Well, that’s enough serious talk for one night,” he said, rising from the couch. “Don’t want to give the others the wrong idea.”

I laughed softly, but my heart was still racing.

As he walked away, I realized one thing was clear:

Nothing would ever be the same between us again.

The next morning, sunlight spilled softly through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room. I woke up feeling oddly light—like the weight of the world had shifted overnight.

I stretched, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. The crisp air turning warmer, the faint scent of blooming flowers drifting down the corridors. It was impossible not to feel a little electric inside.

I found myself humming quietly, the urge to dance rising like a secret fire. Spinning around my dorm room, careful not to wake the others, I felt the pulse of something new, something hopeful.

Even though George had joked about helping me with my Shield Charms — half teasing, half serious — I knew, deep down, he saw me differently. Maybe not saying it out loud, but the way his eyes lingered, the small things he did… He cared.

After Herbology, Cedric caught up with me just outside the greenhouse.

“Hey,” he said with that easy smile. “So… how was Hogsmeade yesterday? Did you have fun? Think we’ll do it again?”

I shrugged, keeping my tone light. “Thanks for the invitation. It was… nice.” I didn’t say whether there’d be a next time.

We started walking toward the castle, the sun warming the early spring air. The path was lined with budding trees, birds chirping overhead — everything felt alive, but my mind was tangled in thoughts of George.

We talked about everything and nothing, jokes slipping between us like sunlight through the leaves. When we reached the edge of the grounds, Cedric stopped and sat on a low stone wall. I hesitated a moment, then joined him.

He looked at me with a calm smile. “You know, I really like how you laugh.”

He leaned in slowly, eyes closing, and the world seemed to slow down around me.

My heart hammered as I started to lean back, unsure, trying to keep some distance — but before I could catch myself, I lost my balance and tumbled backward off the wall, landing on the soft grass with a surprised gasp.

Cedric blinked, clearly startled but amused. “Guess I’ll have to watch my step around you.”

Lying on the soft grass, laughing at my own clumsiness, I realized that I should be with George. With someone who made me forget everything else — without even trying.

Deep down, I already knew it: Cedric was kind, sweet even, but he wasn’t the one who made me feel truly seen. It was George who lingered in my thoughts — even when I tried not to think about him. George, who was always there in the quiet, fleeting moments that said more than a thousand words.

I wanted something more between us. Something deeper. I wanted to spend time with him again — just the two of us, away from the noise and the jokes, no masks, no pretending. Just us, with that slow-burning tension that builds until it finally breaks.

And that’s why, one evening, I asked him for help.

“George, could you help me with that Shield Charm?” I asked, trying not to sound too eager, though I wanted nothing more than for him to say yes.

He looked at me, surprised — but with that same warmth I knew so well.

“I’ll make some time for you,” — he said with a playful wink.

The Room of Requirement formed itself just the way I needed — soft candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long, golden shadows. Thick cushions were scattered near the center of the room, and the faint hum of quiet magic lingered in the air, like the room itself knew this wasn’t just about spellwork.

George stepped inside a moment after me, raising an eyebrow as he took it all in.

„Cozy,” he said, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. „Is this what it takes to get proper tutoring these days?”

I rolled my eyes, cheeks warm. „It’s just comfortable. In case the Shield Charm throws me across the room.”

„Good thinking,” he said, brushing past me with that familiar ease. „Wouldn’t want you flying into the wall. I’m quite fond of your bones being in one piece.”

I tried to laugh, but my heart was already thudding in my chest. He dropped onto one of the cushions, casually stretching his legs out in front of him. The flicker of candlelight danced across his hair, turning it to molten copper, and when he looked up at me — really looked — I had to remind myself to breathe.

„Alright, Y/N,” he said, patting the spot in front of him. „Show me what you’ve got.”

I tried the charm. Twice. It fizzled both times.

George tilted his head, watching me closely.

„You’re overthinking it,” he said gently, leaning forward. „Your wrist is too tense. Here…”

And then he reached out, his hand closing lightly around mine.

The touch was soft — almost hesitant — but his skin was warm against mine, and suddenly the air between us changed. His fingers adjusted the angle of my wrist, just barely brushing along the inside of my palm, and for a second, the wand slipped from my grip entirely.

I laughed nervously. „Sorry,” I murmured. „Guess I’m a bit… distracted.”

George looked up at me, his eyes searching mine. „Yeah. Me too.”

Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, just enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke again.

„You’ve been in my head for weeks, Y/N.”

His voice was low, rough around the edges, like it cost him something to admit it. His gaze dropped for half a second—to my lips, then back up to my eyes. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just aching.

"And it’s been driving me mad," he added, barely above a whisper. "Watching you with him. Trying to pretend I didn’t care. Trying not to care."

I swallowed hard, heart hammering in my chest. "You were jealous," I murmured.

A breath of a laugh left his lips. "Completely. I hated how he looked at you. Like he thought he had a chance."

He paused.

"But it wasn't even about him, really. It was the idea that you could want someone else. That maybe… maybe I was just the funny one. The friend. The background noise."

"George," I breathed, shaking my head. "No. It was never like that."

"I know that now," he said quietly. "But watching you smile at someone else while I was trying not to feel anything… it tore me up."

His hand brushed against mine—fingertips first, then slowly, purposefully, his palm slid against my skin until our fingers tangled.

"You drive me absolutely crazy," he said, his voice soft but full of restraint. "And I’ve tried to be patient. Tried to let you figure things out. But Merlin, Y/N…"

He leaned in closer, lips just grazing the edge of my cheek, his breath hot against my skin.

"I want you so badly it’s killing me."

A slow shiver rolled down my spine. I could feel the air shift — heavy with tension, but intimate, close. Like the world had shrunk to just us.

"And the worst part?" he whispered. "I don’t just want to kiss you. I want more. I want everything—the late nights, the stolen glances, your laugh in my bed, your legs tangled with mine."

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

My voice was barely there when I spoke. "Then take it. Slowly."

His eyes darkened—intense, reverent. He didn’t lunge. He didn’t rush.

Instead, his fingers slid up my arm with agonizing care, brushing the side of my neck. His other hand settled on my waist, grounding, possessive—but gentle.

When his lips finally met mine, it was soft. Testing. Like a question and a promise in one.

And then deeper.

Hotter.

Hungrier.

He tasted like heat and hesitation and finally letting go. His kiss wasn’t perfect. It was real—messy, desperate, slow and burning.

And it said everything he hadn’t.

That he’d waited. That he wanted. And that now, finally, he was done waiting.

His lips moved against mine like he was learning me—slow at first, reverent, then deeper, hungrier, as though weeks of restraint had finally cracked. His hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers grazing warm skin, not rushing—just exploring, savoring.

I gasped softly into his mouth, and that sound seemed to undo him.

He groaned, low and quiet, pressing me back gently onto the cushions, his mouth trailing down to my jaw, then my neck, slow, open kisses against my skin that made my spine arch.

"God, Y/N…" he breathed against my throat. "You have no idea how many times I imagined this."

His hand found my waist again, holding me like he couldn’t believe I was real. Like if he let go, I might vanish.

"And it was always like this?" I asked, voice thick, teasing—but trembling too.

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, his thumb brushing under my lip.

"No," he said hoarsely. "It was never this—never this good. Never you."

His lips crashed into mine again, this time more desperate, less careful. Our bodies pressed together, warmth building, friction electric. Every touch sparked something deeper—his hand tangling in my hair, my fingers tugging at the edge of his shirt, nails scraping lightly over skin.

And still, even in the heat of it all, he kept whispering things against my mouth, against my collarbone, like he couldn’t stop:

"You’re driving me insane…"

"You feel so fucking good…"

"I’ve wanted this for so long…"

Every word stoked the fire, each breath tangled with mine. There was no room left between us. No doubt. No going back.

Only want. And him.

George.

Burning against me.

And for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t cold anymore.

[romanczukowsky]

Shelved Feelings

Pairing: Fred Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: Y/N work in a bookshop for the summer. He keeps coming back for books he's already read — or maybe just for her.

Warnings: Slow Burn / Soft Smut / Explicit sexual content / One shot

That summer smelled like dust, coffee, and old paper.

I was helping my uncle at Flourish and Blotts. It wasn’t the dreamiest plan for the holidays — but it was quiet, calm, it smelled like books and coffee, and I liked putting things in order. Things that didn’t quite fit. Like titles, prices, entire shelves. Or my own thoughts.

My red cat - Archibald, though I called him Archi - spent most of his time lounging on the counter.

In theory, he was supposed to scare away customers with greasy fingers. In practice, he scared everyone away. He didn't purr. He judged. In silence.

I worked from morning till evening.

Stacked new releases, recommended books, fetched parchment for older wizards who always forgot to buy some.

Some people from my year looked at me like I’d grown an extra head — as if working in a bookstore was something deeply suspicious. I usually just smiled back. Tired, but sincere.

I gave discounts to friends. And to not-quite-friends, too — if they asked nicely.

But honestly? I liked it. More than I expected.

They walked into the shop together. Fred and George Weasley.

I recognized them instantly — it was impossible not to. Same fiery hair. Same voices. Same foolish sparkle in their eyes. And that way they entered rooms, like they owned every square inch of space they stepped into.

They stopped at the counter.

"He’s kind of ugly, though.", George said, staring at Archi, who yawned directly in his face. "That cat looks like—"

I raised an eyebrow. "He’s my cat."

George snorted. "Well then... congratulations on your taste."

"I’m not selling you any books", I said calmly, lifting one of the titles like it was truly at stake.

Fred burst out laughing. "George, you’ve just insulted the nice girl and her cat. This calls for immediate reparations."

Before I could respond, Fred leaned in slightly, hands in his pockets, smile just a bit too wide.

"He’s absolutely stunning. I’ve never seen a more beautiful cat in my life. Prince of Cats. A furry Adonis."

George rolled his eyes. Fred elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

And just before they walked out, Fred tossed over his shoulder:

"We’ll be back tomorrow. I need something truly profound to read. Maybe you’ll recommend something?"

He came back. The next day. And the one after that. And again. Even though — honestly — he’d already read everything I’d recommended.

Sometimes, he just wandered between the shelves, pausing under the excuse of “looking for something light, but with depth.” Sometimes, he brought me coffee. Sometimes, he tried to bribe Archie with a piece of biscuit. It never worked.

He always stopped by the counter. We always talked a little longer than we needed to. And he always left slowly. Like he was leaving something behind — maybe a question, maybe a promise — hanging in the air between the shelves.

He showed up again. This time, with George in tow — and a strange sort of purpose in his step.

I was halfway through sorting a shipment of Muggle poetry when I heard the bell and looked up. Fred gave me that same smile — wide and a little mischievous. George waved a lazy hand, already poking around the shelf with the books that “looked dangerous.”

Fred leaned against the counter. “What time do you finish today?”

I blinked. “Why?”

“Because we’re taking you out. Creamy butterbeer, bad music, my brother’s awful jokes. You in?”

George piped up from the back. “Just don’t bring your cat. I swear, if Archie even looks at me, I’ll hex myself before we get to the door.”

I snorted.

“A gentleman,” Fred said with a solemn nod. “Unlike some people I know.”

We ended up going.

The Leaky Cauldron was busy — warm and loud and cluttered with the kind of magical chaos that made everything feel slightly unreal. We squeezed into a booth near the back.

At first, it was awkward. George kept teasing Fred about “his new favourite bookstore employee,” and I wasn’t sure where to look.

But Fred was… Fred.

Easy smiles. A hand that brushed mine when he passed me my drink. Stupid, charming jokes delivered so confidently I couldn’t help but laugh.

And somehow, by the time our second round of butterbeer arrived, it didn’t feel so strange anymore.

It was late when we left the Leaky Cauldron.

The streets were slick with rain, still warm from the day, glowing under the golden lamps. We walked. Fred on one side, George on the other. The three of us somehow drifting down Diagon Alley like we’d done it a hundred times before.

George told stories. Loud ones. Mostly lies. Fred laughed the loudest, but every so often, I caught him looking sideways at me — like he wasn’t really listening. Like I was the story he was trying not to tell.

When we got to the bookshop, George stretched his arms and groaned.

“Well, that’s me off. Can’t have both of us fall in love with the same girl. Bit messy.”

Fred shoved him. George winked at me. “Night, Archibald!,” he added loudly, toward the darkened shop window.

We stood outside the door, just the two of us now.

The street had gone quiet. The only sound was the faint flutter of the lamplight and the soft tap of Fred’s fingers against the edge of his pocket.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just rocked on his heels, looking at me.

And then—

“You know I wasn’t just trying to be nice, right?”

My heart flicked in my chest. “About what?”

He looked down. Then up. His voice lower now.

“Coming here. Talking to you. Asking you out. It’s not just… a joke.”

He stepped forward a little. Close, but not too close. His voice was velvet.

“You look like someone I could miss, even when I haven’t left yet.”

He smiled, slower this time.

“Night, then.” And he turned, walking backwards for a moment before finally leaving.

I stayed in the doorway a few seconds longer. Just breathing.

He didn’t come back. Not the next day. Not the one after that.

At first, I told myself he was busy. Then, maybe just out of town. But by the third day, I was shelving books with half my heart and pretending Archibald’s stare didn’t echo how I felt — like someone had promised something and walked away.

By the fourth evening, I stayed longer. Just in case.

I turned the sign to closed, and was halfway through drawing the curtains when— the door flung open. Hard. Fred stumbled in, chest heaving, hair damp from sweat or rain — or both.

“Don’t lock me out,” he panted, breathless. “Not tonight.”

I stared at him, half in shock. “Fred—”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I wanted to come back. I did. But we had to leave for two days and it turned into four and I thought about writing but then I thought—”

He stopped. Looked at me like he hadn’t seen me in weeks. Like I was the first page of a book he’d been dying to get back to.

“I missed you.”

I felt it like a string being pulled inside me. Tight.

He stepped closer, slowly this time.

“I ran,” he murmured. “All the way from the Cauldron. Nearly broke my neck tripping over a bloody broomstick rack just to get here before you closed.”

And then softer. “Tell me it was worth it.”

I didn’t say anything.

I just kissed him.

It started soft — a question, a sigh — and turned desperate almost instantly. Like all the waiting, all the walking away had pressed into this exact moment. His hands cupped my jaw, then tangled in my hair. I pulled him by the collar, bumping against bookshelves, not even pretending to care.

Somewhere behind us, Archibald gave a loud, judgmental mrrrp and jumped off the counter.

Fred laughed against my lips. “Sorry, Arch. You’ll have to find another perch tonight.”

We barely made it to the back room before I was pressed against the wall, his hands on my waist, his mouth finding every place I’d once imagined.

And when he whispered, breath hot and heavy against my throat—

“Tell me to stop, and I will.”

I didn’t.

His fingers trembled slightly when he touched my skin. Not from nerves. From need. From the way his breath stuttered when I pulled him closer, from the way he looked at me like I was something he’d been starving for.

His lips traced the line of my jaw, then lower — over my neck, my collarbone, open-mouthed and slow, like he wanted to memorize me. And I let him.

My back hit the wall again, gently this time, as his hands slid beneath my shirt and settled on my waist like they belonged there.

“You’re sure?” he murmured, voice barely a whisper, warm against my throat.

I nodded.

“Say it.”

“I am sure.” It came out breathless. Honest.

That was all he needed.

Clothes disappeared in pieces — pushed up, pulled down, unfastened with shaking hands and kisses between each breath. The dusty back room, usually so dull and grey, felt like the center of the universe when he lifted me onto the old wooden table.

His mouth worshipped me — teeth grazing, tongue soft, hands everywhere at once. And when he finally pressed into me, slow and deep, forehead against mine, we both broke a little.

“You feel—” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t need to.

We moved like we were made for this — like all those near-touching moments, all the pauses, the shared glances, had built to this. A rhythm that grew hotter, messier, hungrier, until my fingers clutched his back and his name spilled from my lips — once, then again, louder this time.

And he smiled.

“Still not selling me that book?” he murmured, breathless and wicked.

“Never.”

He kissed me again — harder — and made sure I forgot the question.

[romanczukowsky]

Try Again, Weasley

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader

Summary: It starts with a chess game and one stupid line. George Weasley blurts something careless, and it cracks the quiet, soft thing that had been growing between you.

Warnings: Slow burn / Hurt/comfort / Mutual pining / Post-argument tension /Emotional angst soft / One shot

The Gryffindor common room was warm with late firelight.

Everything had that soft, gold-edged glow — like time had slowed, stretching out just for the two of you.

The others were gone, or asleep. A few muffled sounds drifted from the boys’ staircase — laughter, footsteps, the slam of a door — but in this corner, tucked beneath the high window where the moonlight slipped in through stained glass, there was only me and George.

And the chessboard between you.

I made my move. Clean. Strategic. Unapologetic.

My knight captured his bishop — not with triumph, just precision. As if I were simply doing what had to be done.

George’s eyes followed the piece. His jaw flexed. One hand hovered over the board, hesitated, then dropped to his knee instead.

I tilted my head slightly “You’re holding back.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re letting me win.”

His brows pulled together, faintly. “I’m not.”

George didn’t move. Didn’t look at me.

Then, too quickly — almost like he was trying to interrupt my next sentence — he said, flatly:

“I don’t like you that much.”

Silence.

As if a chasm had opened between us and neither of you knew yet how deep the wound was.

I leaned back slowly. The fire snapped behind me Somewhere upstairs, someone laughed — high-pitched, careless — and it felt a world away.

My voice was smaller when it came. “I didn’t ask you to.”

George winced. Not visibly. Just a flicker around the eyes.

I didn't give him a chance to fix it. I got up quietly, my fingers brushing the table, as if I wasn't sure whether to put the game aside or leave it half-finished.

He watched me leave. He didn't call me back. He didn't move. He just sat there, now alone — the board between us like a wound.

And when he finally looked down, he saw that my next move would take his king in two moves.

He didn't let me win.

I was simply better.

And he ruined everything anyway.

Later that night I just lay in bed, eyes open in the dark, watching the shadows on the ceiling shift with the firelight from the common room below.

Somewhere under me, the castle breathed — staircases shifting, portraits murmuring, pipes groaning. But in the girls' dormitory, it was still.

George's voice echoed in my head. I don’t like you that much.

It hadn’t even been cruel. That’s what made it worse.

He hadn’t tried to wound me. He’d just… said it. Blurted it out like it was nothing. Like it hadn’t been weeks of lingering glances and late-night jokes and the way his hand always brushed mine when he passed me the sugar at breakfast.

It was so George. To build something with every sideways smile and every moment that stretched too long — and then pretend none of it mattered.

Like he hadn’t looked at me across that chessboard like I was the only real thing in the room.

Like he hadn’t leaned just a little closer every time I laughed.

Like he hadn’t let me touch his wrist when he was nervous and said nothing when I didn’t let go.

I shifted under the blanket, curling tighter. My jaw clenched.

Maybe I’d misread everything. Maybe it had all been in my head. Maybe I was just—

No, I wasn’t going to do that.

I wasn’t going to be the girl who twisted herself into knots just to excuse the way a boy made her feel like nothing.

He’d said it. I heard it. And it mattered.

But gods, I still wanted to scream.

Because I’d seen the look on his face the second after. That flicker of regret he tried to bury under a shrug. The way he couldn’t meet my eyes when I stood. The way he stayed frozen in that stupid chair like he knew he’d just handed me something I wouldn’t forget.

He knew. And that meant it wasn’t nothing.

Somewhere beneath all that too-cool-to-care bravado, he cared.

He just didn’t know what to do with it.

I rolled over, buried my face in the pillow, and whispered, "Idiot," into the dark.

I wasn’t sure if I meant him or me.

Morning I didn’t go down to breakfast.

Not with the risk of running into him. Not with the words still raw in my throat like I’d swallowed something sharp and stupid and it refused to leave.

So I stayed in the dorm, eyes bleary, stomach hollow. Pretended to be asleep when the other girls stirred. Waited until the room emptied before dragging myself out of bed, dressing like I didn’t care what I looked like.

By the time I made it to the common room, most of Gryffindor had already gone to class. The fire burned low. Someone had left a scarf on the arm of the couch, half-unraveled. It felt like the whole tower was holding its breath.

And Fred was waiting.

Leaning against the hearth, hands in his pockets, looking like he’d been standing there for a while.

I paused.

He raised an eyebrow. “You planning to ghost us all day, or just him?”

My chest tightened. “Did George send you?”

Fred snorted. “Please. Like I do errands.”

I moved past him toward the portrait hole, but he stepped into my path — not blocking me, not quite. Just enough. Just there.

“Look,” he said, gentler now. “He’s an idiot.”

“Obviously.”

“He didn’t mean it like that.”

I glanced at him. “You heard?”

Fred shrugged. “Word travels. Especially when your twin stares at the floor for ten straight minutes after a match, looking like he kicked a kitten.”

I crossed my arms. “So what? You’re here to defend him?”

“Nope.” Fred leaned in, tone light but eyes sharp. “I’m here to tell you to make him work for it.”

I blinked.

“Don’t let him off easy,” he said. “Make him say it. Whatever it is he’s too much of a coward to admit.”

My breath caught.

Fred tilted his head. “And if he doesn’t?”

My voice was steadier than I felt. “Then he doesn’t deserve me.”

Fred smiled, and for once, it wasn’t teasing. “Now you’re catching on.”

He stepped aside then, like he hadn’t just cracked something wide open.

I hesitated. “Fred?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think…” I swallowed. “Was I stupid to think something was happening?”

His answer came too fast to be a lie. “No. You were stupid to think he didn’t feel it too.”

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving me alone with the fire and a hundred unsaid things burning behind my ribs.

By lunch, George still hadn’t said anything.

No apology. No note. No awkward joke whispered across a table.

But he looked.

I could feel his eyes from across the courtyard — flicking up when he thought I wouldn’t notice. Watching me stir my tea like it held answers he’d never be brave enough to ask.

I didn’t give him the satisfaction. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t glance back. I laughed at something Dean said. Tossed my hair like it didn’t matter. Let my smile curl sharp.

Let him see exactly what he was missing. Because he had hurt me. And just because he didn’t mean it didn’t mean it didn’t land.

He didn’t get to wound me and then coast by on charm and freckles. Not this time.

The common room was warm and golden by the time I came back.

The fire had burned low again. The shadows stretched long over the floor. I had a book in my lap I hadn’t turned a page of in thirty minutes.

Because George was pacing.

Not obviously. Not in that anxious, fidgeting way some boys get.

No. He was subtle. Drifting around the edges of the room, closer and closer, like gravity might explain it better than guilt.

I didn’t look up.

He hovered behind the couch now, hand braced against the back. Silent.

I turned a page, slow.

And then, like the coward he sometimes was, he didn’t speak — he just sat. Right beside me. Close enough to make the air thick with everything we hadn’t said.

After a moment, I snapped the book shut. “You don’t get to act like nothing happened.”

He stilled. “I wasn’t going to,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know how to start.”

I turned to face him. “Try with sorry.”

His throat bobbed. “For… saying something before thinking. For making you feel like—like I was embarrassed to like you.”

And there it was. The softness in his eyes. The ache in his voice. That damned sincerity that always hit too deep.

My heart surged, traitorous.

“That’s a good start,” I said. “But it doesn’t fix it.”

His knee brushed mine. I should’ve stood. I should’ve left him sitting in his regret. But instead… I stayed.

He didn’t just apologize once. He kept apologizing — even if he never said the word again.

It started small.

He pulled out my chair in class without looking at me. Passed me the inkwell before I even reached for it. Waited until I finished packing my bag before heading to the door, like he’d suddenly forgotten he was always the first to leave.

At first, I thought it was a joke. Some twisted way of messing with me again.

But it wasn’t.

George was… different.

Not less funny — he could still crack up a room with a single line — but softer. Careful, when it came to me. Like he finally realized words could hit harder than he meant them to.

I saw it — the way he’d open his mouth to say something, then stop halfway. Like he was weighing the joke before it left his lips. Like he knew another stupid slip might cost him more than he was ready to lose.

And something in me cracked a little more every time I saw it. Because I didn’t want him to change for me. I just didn’t want him to keep hurting me.

One evening, when I sat down at the long table, he slid a cup of tea toward me. Quietly. The exact blend I liked — ginger, honey — the one that was never just lying around unless you specifically asked.

I looked at him, eyebrows raised.

George only shrugged, trying to look indifferent.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Sometimes he still joked — about everything, about nothing — but with me, the jokes came differently now. Gentler. Measured. Like he was watching to see if my smile reached my eyes before he dared go further.

He didn’t always get it right. Sometimes he was too quiet. Sometimes too careful.

But I saw something I hadn’t before. He was trying. Not for show. Not for points. Just… for me.

And even though I still heard his words from that night — still felt them like a bruise I kept pressing — I couldn’t lie to myself:

George was earning his way back. Not because he was trying to be someone else. But because he’d finally stopped pretending he didn’t care.

It was late again.

The fire in the common room had burned low, throwing long shadows across the floor. My tea had gone cold in my hands. Most of Gryffindor had gone to bed — the portraits quiet, the tower hushed like the castle itself knew something was about to happen.

George was sitting beside me. Closer than usual. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him even without touching. He hadn’t said much. Just little things — a joke, a half-story, that twitchy smile he got when he was nervous but trying to play it cool.

I watched him from the corner of my eye, let the silence stretch between us until it became something else entirely — tension, slow and thick, like honey too close to heat.

When I finally spoke, my voice was soft. Careful. “I see what you’re doing.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly. “What do you mean?”

“This whole… nice thing.” I paused, searching his face. “The way you look at me like I’m made of glass. The perfect tea. The pauses before you speak. Like you’re editing yourself in real time.”

George looked down at his hands. “I just didn’t want to mess it up again.”

“But you’re you,” I said gently. “You’re allowed to mess up. I never wanted you to be someone else, George.”

He exhaled, a laugh caught halfway between guilt and relief. “I said something stupid.”

“You did.”

“I regret it.”

“I know.”

A beat.

“I still like you,” he said, quiet now, almost unsure. “I don’t know how to stop.”

My heart did something dangerous.

“Good,” I murmured. “Because I don’t want you to.”

He turned his head then, eyes meeting mine — and this time, nothing in him hesitated. Not once.

I leaned in first.

Just enough to close the space between us.

His breath hitched. Mine did too.

The kiss was slow. Intentional. Like both of us knew exactly what we were doing and had no intention of rushing a second of it. His hand found the side of my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek like he was memorizing the shape of me.

When we finally pulled back, he didn’t go far — just enough to rest his forehead against mine, eyes closed.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered.

“You like that?” I whispered back.

His smile turned sharp. “You have no idea.”

[romanczukowsky]

Let It Burn

Pairing: George Weasley x fem!reader x Fred Weasley

Summary: She only meant to work at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. She didn’t mean to fall for George. She definitely didn’t mean to kiss Fred. Now she’s in the middle of something wild, wanting, and far too late to stop.

Warnings: Love triangle / emotional tension / Suggestive content / sensual scenes /Mild jealousy / Angst & emotional / Mentions of physical touch / semi-public intimacy (non-explicit)

Author’s Note: This story started out as a George x Reader piece… and somewhere along the way, Fred refused to stay out of it. What was meant to be a slow-burn romance turned into something a little messier, a little bolder, and a whole lot more complicated.

The moment I stepped inside, I froze.

The shop exploded in color, sound, and smell. Something hissed in the corner, something else popped loudly on a shelf. A group of kids ran past me, gripping squealing lollipops. Someone laughed so hard they nearly fell over. Someone else tried to catch a paper parrot that had just stolen coins from their pocket.

And I almost turned around and left.

But I didn’t.

I pushed through the crowd—elbowing my way forward with nothing but sheer willpower. I had one goal: find them.

Fred and George Weasley. Hogwarts legends. Inventors. Geniuses. Entrepreneurs. Tall, ginger, impossible to miss. I’d seen their faces in the Daily Prophet, and heard enough stories to feel like I already knew them.

I didn’t.

I spotted them after a few minutes—standing behind the counter, chatting with customers, handing something to a boy who looked like the happiest human alive.

I stepped forward, steadying my voice.

“Hi—sorry—excuse me. I’m looking for a job. I’ve just finished school, I’ve got experience with potions, and I’ve got tons of ideas and—”

“We’re not hiring,” Fred said, not even glancing my way.

“Yeah,” George added with a grin, already turning toward a shelf. “It’s a family business. And the pace here’s brutal—not for everyone.”

I froze for half a second. Then pushed forward.

“But I really think I’ve got something you’d be interested in,” I said quickly. “Please, just a minute. I’ve got sketches, notes, prototypes...”

They were walking away. One of their steps was three of mine. And there I was, practically jogging after them in my completely impractical shoes.

“Wait—!” I called, nearly crashing into Fred when he finally turned around.

They stopped. At last.

Fred looked down at me—literally and maybe a bit metaphorically too.

“We appreciate the enthusiasm,” he said slowly. “But like we said, it’s a family-run place. And maybe, maybe, in the future, if someone from the family were interested...”

George, who had been watching silently until now, cleared his throat dramatically and added with a crooked grin:

“Unless, of course, you plan on marrying one of us. That would simplify things.”

I paused. Then shrugged.

“Well. I’ll work on that. But in the meantime… I’d really like to show you what I’ve made.”

Only a few weeks had passed.

And yet, by some miracle, I had a workbench. A nameplate. A drawer full of prototypes. And George Weasley - chaos expert and co-founder of this empire of mischief - was just holding a cup for me to sketch further.

“Sugar?” he asked, already adding it, without waiting for an answer. "You always take two, don't you?"

Fred walked over and slowed down slightly. He stared at the scene as if he had accidentally stepped into the wrong timeline.

George noticed the look. He smiled.

“What?” he asked innocently, handing me a cup. "I'm just keeping the talent caffeinated.

Fred did not answer. He just raised an eyebrow and threw a pack of Pepper Pop Rocks on the nearest shelf.

I lowered my head, biting my lip.

I knew what it looked like. Because, in a way, that's what it looked like.

George began to hover. Not in a weird way - more like, “What are you doing today?” “Do you need something?” “You look frozen, here's my hoodie.”

And I … I didn't complain.

He made it easy to feel the chill. Attention. The smiles. Warmth. As if I had somehow stumbled into exactly the place I should always be.

But from time to time I caught Fred watching. Not annoyed. Not distant. Just… Studying.

Curious.

As if he couldn't understand how I went from being an annoying girl in the hall to someone George actually listened to.

And that… maybe bothered him a little more than he expected.

The next few days? It got worse. Or better. Depending who you asked.

George had decided I was his personal mission. Every morning, he greeted me with, “There she is,” like I was sunrise. Every evening, he checked in with, “Need me to walk you home?” like I was precious cargo. And sometime between testing stink pellets and reworking prank wrappers, he started calling me “trouble” like it was the sweetest compliment.

And I… kept letting him.

One night, I was hunched over the workbench, hair tied up, goggles pushed to my forehead, ink smudged across my cheek.

George leaned in behind me — close enough that I could smell something warm and woodsy on his jumper.

"That new decoy detonator?" he asked softly, eyes flicking to my blueprints.

"Trying something lighter," I muttered, heart beating a little too fast. "So it doesn’t leave scorch marks on the floor this time."

"Smart. You're getting dangerous, you know that?"

I smirked. “You’re just now realizing?”

His grin was slow and lazy. “Nah. I’ve known. Since day one.”

Across the room, Fred dropped a box a little too loudly. We both looked up.

He gave us a single glance — unreadable — and turned back to unpacking.

Later, while George was in the back, Fred cornered me near the front counter.

“You’re really settling in,” he said. Not unkind. Not sarcastic. Just… observational.

I blinked at him. “Is that a problem?”

He looked at me — really looked — and tilted his head slightly.

“No,” he said after a beat. “It’s just impressive. George doesn’t usually hand over his heart and half the storeroom to anyone.”

I crossed my arms. “And you? What are you handing over?”

Fred smiled, just barely.

“Nothing. Yet,” he said. Then added, quieter, “But I’m watching.”

He walked off before I could say anything.

And suddenly… I wasn’t so sure who was the dangerous one anymore.

It was late. The shop had emptied. George had gone home early, something about a Quidditch replay and a suspiciously well-hidden bottle of Firewhisky.

That left me and Fred, finishing inventory.

Well. I was finishing inventory. Fred was pretending to reorganize shelves while absolutely watching me.

I could feel it.

Every time I reached for a box, every time I stretched to scan the labels, every time I pushed my hair behind my ear — his gaze was there. Quiet. Constant. Heavy.

Eventually, I turned around and caught him mid-look.

We froze.

Neither of us moved. The room buzzed with leftover magic and fluorescent light and something thick and hot between us.

“See something interesting?” I asked, trying to sound teasing — not breathless.

Fred didn’t blink. “Yeah,” he said simply. “All week.”

My heart stuttered. “Thought you didn’t like handing things over.”

“I don’t.” He stepped closer. “But I don’t like losing, either.”

I swallowed, heat creeping up my neck. “And what exactly do you think you’re losing?”

Fred’s eyes dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes — slower this time. “Something I didn’t realize I wanted.”

Another step. Just a hand’s breadth between us now.

“I’ve seen how he looks at you,” Fred said, voice low. “How you look at him.”

I opened my mouth to answer — I don’t know what I would’ve said — but he cut me off gently.

“It’s not about George,” he murmured. “It’s about you.”

And then?

He leaned in.

Not all the way. Just enough to make me forget where I was. Just enough for me to taste his breath and feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

“You drive me mad, you know that?” His voice was hoarse now.

“You walk in here with your big ideas and bigger eyes and you laugh like you don’t even know what you’re doing—"

His hand found my waist. Light. Careful. "—and I can’t stop watching.”

I should’ve said something. Anything.

Instead, I let my hands slide up his chest. Felt the thump of his heart through his shirt. And I whispered, “Then don’t stop.”

He kissed me like he’d been waiting all week. Maybe longer.

Hot. Sure. Intentional.

When we finally broke apart, his forehead pressed to mine and he whispered, “Still watching.”

I was still catching my breath when the door creaked open.

Fred didn’t move. Still close, still holding my waist like he didn’t want to let go. His thumb traced an absentminded circle through the fabric of my jumper.

And then—

“Oi—Fred, you still here?”

George.

Fred’s hands dropped like I’d burned him. He stepped back so fast he nearly knocked into the shelves behind him. I took a shaky breath and straightened my shirt, trying to look… normal.

George stepped in, carrying two bottles of Butterbeer and a bag of crisps in his mouth.

He paused.

Looked at Fred. Then me. Then back at Fred.

Something shifted.

He didn’t say anything right away — just walked in and tossed the crisps on the counter. His jaw was tight. His voice, casual in that too casual way.

“You two working late or what?”

Fred scratched the back of his neck. “Inventory.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Inventory in the dark?”

I opened my mouth. Fred beat me to it.

“Mate—” he started, but George just laughed. Not in a ha-ha funny way. More in an I’m very much not laughing way. “You know what? Don’t explain. Doesn’t matter.”

His eyes flicked to me again — and something in them hurt.

“You done here?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if the question was for Fred or for me.

I nodded. Quietly. And grabbed my bag, brushing past them both.

But as I reached the door, Fred’s voice stopped me. “Wait—”

I turned.

His gaze was locked on George’s back. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.”

George didn’t even turn around. “Yeah,” he said. “Funny thing is… neither did I.” And then he left.

The silence that followed was different now. Thicker. Sadder. Not full of tension anymore, but something heavier.

Fred didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Because suddenly… I wasn’t sure who I’d hurt more. Or what I was going to do next.

The Next Morning George didn’t look at me. Not once.

He stood behind the counter like he always did, half-leaning, half-posing — the too-cool-to-care stance he’d perfected over the years. He joked with customers. Gave Fred a nudge when he dropped a box of Dungbombs.

But me? Nothing.

I hovered near the back room, pretending to sort inventory that didn’t need sorting. I watched him through the shelves, waiting for him to glance over. Just once. Just a flicker of eye contact. A smirk. A raised eyebrow. Anything.

But I got nothing.

The worst part?

Fred kept sneaking glances at me.

Not like George used to — teasing, electric, like we had secrets no one else knew. No. Fred looked like someone trying very hard not to look at someone else.

And when our eyes did meet? He looked guilty. Which made me feel guilty. Which made me mad, because I hadn’t even done anything. Had I?

Okay. So maybe I’d kissed Fred. Twice. Maybe three times, depending on how you counted last night. Maybe I wanted to kiss him again.

But that didn’t mean George had the right to shut me out like this. It wasn’t like he ever said anything. It wasn’t like he made a move. It wasn’t like he—

“Hey.”

I blinked. Fred had appeared at my side, leaning a little too close under the pretense of checking the stock list in my hand.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

I shrugged. “Fine.”

“Liar.”

We stood there for a second, the air crackling, thick with everything we weren’t saying. And then he said “He’ll come around.”

“Will he?”

Fred hesitated. “Eventually.”

But even he didn’t sound convinced.

For the rest of the day I didn't show up at the store. I didn’t want to hide in the storeroom forever. But that’s exactly what I did.

Until the door creaked open.

“Hey,” Fred said again, softer this time. He stepped in and let it swing shut behind him. “Can I show you something?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just nodded toward the stairs.

I followed.

Fred pulled a cloth off the workbench in the corner.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“A disaster. Or genius. Depends on you.”

It was one of their prototypes — something half-finished and sparking faintly at the edges. I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to fly, explode, or make tea.

Fred scratched the back of his neck. “I wanted your opinion.”

My breath caught. “You want my opinion?”

“You're good at this.” He said it so plainly, like it wasn’t something I’d been dying to hear since day one. “You see things we don’t.”

That was how it started.

We sat close, shoulders brushing, fingers grazing over wires and sketches. At some point I leaned in to adjust a rune placement — and when I looked up, his face was right there. Closer than I’d expected.

Our eyes locked. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke.

He just… leaned in. So slowly I could’ve pulled away at any moment. But I didn’t.

This kiss wasn’t like the others. It was quiet. Focused. Careful. Like we were both afraid we might ruin it by breathing too hard.

But when his hand slid around the back of my neck and I melted into him — it deepened. Grew heavier. Hungrier.

We broke apart just once — just to look at each other — and then he kissed me again, like he couldn’t help it.

I let him.

I wanted to.

Even if George’s silence still burned in the back of my mind.

The next morning. The shop hadn’t opened yet.

The air still smelled like ink, sawdust, and something faintly citrusy — a cleaning charm, probably. I was bent over the counter sorting receipts when I heard footsteps behind me.

George.

I didn’t turn around. “You’re in early,” I said.

“So are you,” he answered, voice clipped. Tired.

A beat passed.

“Did something happen?” His voice had dropped — low and measured, but something about it made my fingers still on the parchment.

I turned.

He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, face unreadable. That casual pose he used when something wasn’t casual at all.

I swallowed. “You’d have to be more specific.”

George gave a breath of a laugh. Dry. No humor. “With Fred.”

I held his gaze. “Why?”

He shifted. “Because you haven’t looked at me since yesterday. And Fred… Fred’s been floating.”

I blinked. “And you care because—?”

“Because I do.” His voice cracked on it. Just slightly.

George exhaled, stepping forward, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he regretted everything already.

“I shouldn’t have shut you out,” he said. “That was… that was shit of me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It was.”

He nodded once, jaw tightening. “I didn’t know how to say it.”

“Say what?”

Another breath. Longer this time. And then— “That I see you,” he said. “That I’ve been seeing you. Every day. And it’s been driving me insane.”

My heart hammered. “But you didn’t say anything,” I whispered. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Because Fred got there first.”

I laughed, sharp and bitter. “This isn’t a race, George.”

He stepped closer again — not quite touching me, but enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his eyes. “Then tell me it’s not too late.”

Silence. Thick, golden silence that hummed behind my ribs. I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know how. Because part of me wanted him to say it. Needed him to fight for it. And part of me didn’t know if I could trust him not to vanish again.

He saw the indecision in my face.

So George did something unexpected.

He reached out — slow — and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

That was all.

Then he stepped back, nodded once, and said, “I’ll be downstairs.”

And just like that — he was gone.

Leaving me standing there, heart pounding, lips parted, unsure if I’d just been pulled closer or pushed away again.

The day passed in a blur of noise and motion. Kids shouting, shelves restocking themselves, someone set off a Pocket Howler in the joke aisle.

And still — I couldn’t focus.

Not on potions. Not on displays. Not on anything except two pairs of brown eyes that kept stealing pieces of my sanity.

Fred: warm, golden, steady. Always watching, always reaching. George: sharp, unreadable, edged with something deeper he didn’t want to name.

They were like fire and smoke. And I was done sitting in the middle. So when the last customer left, too knowing for comfort, I made my move.

I waited until Fred disappeared into the back, humming, probably reorganizing the chaos we’d made. George was alone behind the counter, pretending to do inventory, but I could see the tension in his jaw.

I walked right up to him.

He looked up, startled. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I said, voice steady. “Don’t talk.”

He blinked. “Wait, what—?”

I kissed him.

No teasing. Just straight up pressed my mouth to his and stole whatever breath he was holding.

He froze for a second — just one — and then kissed me back like he’d been waiting years for it.

His hands found my waist. Mine gripped his shirt. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was hungry. Like we were both trying to catch up on every second we’d wasted not doing this.

When we broke apart, I stayed close. Foreheads brushing. Breath short.

“Why now?” George whispered, voice wrecked.

“Because I wanted to,” I said.

He stared at me — and for once, didn’t hide a damn thing. Desire. Regret. Possession. Hope.

“You’re playing with fire,” he said, a little hoarse.

I smiled. “Then burn with me.”

And then— Fred cleared his throat from the doorway.

We both turned.

He didn’t look angry. Or shocked. Or sad. He just looked at me. And said, softly “Your move.”

The shop was dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that settles only when magic sleeps.

I sat cross-legged on the counter, the cold wood biting through my trousers. Fred leaned against the doorway, arms folded, a lazy grin hiding something deeper. George stood across from me, fingers drumming against the edge of a crate like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or run.

Tension swirled between the three of us. Thick. Sharp-edged.

No more pretending.

“I kissed both of you,” I said. Calm. Steady. “I’m not sorry for it.”

Fred didn’t flinch. George didn’t look away this time.

“I care about you,” I continued. “Both of you. And if that’s a problem—if you want to make me choose—then say it now.”

Silence.

Then Fred took a step forward, that grin tugging wider. “Not really in the mood to fight my brother.”

George smirked. “Speak for yourself.”

Fred rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious,” I said, hopping off the counter, standing between them now — close enough to touch both. “I don’t know what this is. And I’m not going to tear it apart just to make one of you feel safer.”

Neither of them spoke, but something shifted. The air between us pulled tight, magnetic.

Fred’s hand brushed my lower back. George’s fingers caught mine at my side.

“I’m not choosing,” I whispered. “If that scares you…”

Fred leaned in. “You scare the hell out of me.”

George’s voice was lower. “But you make it worth it.”

My heart thundered. I smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“Then let’s see how far this can go.”

And with that, I stepped back — just out of reach. Left them standing there in the low light, staring after me like I was the beginning of something they hadn’t dared imagine.

I walked away—and waited for footsteps.