#drunk fred weasley

[willingbrainrot]

Request 😱

😂 sorry

i was wondering if you could do a Fred Weasley x reader where they have been friends for a long time and it’s sorta a slow burn and it throws the reader off because out of no where Fred starts to get really shy kinda around them and they are really confused. Until one night at a gryffindor party and he has had a few too many drinks and they reader gets him out of there so he won’t make a fool of himself and they go to the astronomy tower to kinda just chill out and he looks at the reader and everything just spills. He tells them that he has loved them for such a long time and he is just completely convinced they don’t feel the same way but the do lol.

thanks bestie boo :) 🙏🏻 🫶🏻 have fun with it :)))

Of course!

again, im not the best writer so hang in there lol i either write in too much detail or not enough usually so make sure to give me some constructive criticism!

Fred Weasley x gender neutral!Reader

Warnings: Alcohol, underage drinking, gingers

Looking at the stars

I walk into my charms class, holding all my book maybe a bit too many and i scan the room until my eyes land on a certain red-head and his brother. Fred and George Weasley, Two identical twin brothers.

They may look the same but they are very different. I've always been closer to Fred rather than George, Fred and i just click! platonically of course! And that's all we'll ever be...

As i walk over to them Fred notices.

"Hey Y/N! Come sit!" Fred yells, waving at me.

I walk over and sit on his right and just get myself situated as Fred and George talks to the others. I suddenly notice Fred looking at me subtly, once i look back he quickly turns his head away. Huh, strange.. He's never acted like this before.

"What's up Fred? I say, scooching forward to get a better view of his face.

"O-oh! nothing! Don't worry about it y/n!" He's says, frantically. "Actually, i was wondering if you're going to the party in Gryffindor dorm? Its next week and it would be could if you would show up!" He says

"hm..", I'm not too sure if i would be welcomed seeing as I'm not a Gryffindor(Ignore this if you are). Maybe i should go, it could be fun! "maybe, ill think about it" I say, smiling at him.

He furrows his eyebrows "Okay fine, but you better give me an answer soon."

A few days later as i'm sitting outside reading, I hear something behind me. But before i could turn around, something grabs me by the shoulders.

"BOO!" I hear someone say and i jump in fear. I turn around to see... Fred. Of course.

"Not funny! I could of had a heart attack and died!" I say, unable to bite back my smile.

"oh noooo, darn" He says sarcastically as he sits besides me. Then he subtly scoots away a few inches I wonder what that's about?

"How caring." I sarcastically, smiling and looking into his eyes. I notice he's looking anywhere but my eyes, but i don't say anything. There he goes, acting odd again.

"Soooo, have you made up your mind about the party?" He says excitedly.

I smile, i've always loved seeing him get excited about hings, and how could i say no to that face. "Alright, fine. Ill go, as long as you don't leave me in a random corner not talking to anybody." I say, half-joking.

"I would never! i, am the most noble of all knights" He says in a joking tone with a smirk plastered on his face.

"Yeah sure you are, prince charming" I say, trying to hold back a small laugh. I notice a weird reaction from him when i called him that, and his face is getting redder? Maybe he's getting a sunburn, i don't know how gingers work.

On the night of the party I start to get ready, getting in my favorite outfit and heading to the Gryffindor common room. I look and see people all around with red solo cups and the dim lighting. Am.. am i late? I thought it started at 9, I look at my phone to see the time is 11:30. Ah, so i am. Whoops

I look around to see Fred and George, both chugging down punch from the punch bowl, i hope that's not spiked. I walk over to them and Fred quickly notices, stopping what he's doing to look at me.

"Y/N!!! HIIIII!!" He says excitedly, and very very loud. "Where were you!??? I wass looking everywhere but *HICCUP* couldn't find you!!" He says, slurring his word.

The punch was definitely spiked.

"Oh sorry Fred, I was late. But- are you okay?" I say, concern all over my face. He shakes his head as a no, then stops to think, then shakes his head yes. "W-what??" I say, very confused.

"Watcha doin?" He's says, giving me a cute little goofy smile.

"Ok, i'm getting you out of here you look like you're gonna fall over any second now." I say, sternly. I then grab his hand and start leading him.

I look behind me to make sure he's okay and see him staring at me with an odd expression. "Uh, whatcha looking at buddy?" I say softly.

"y-youre prettyy" He says giggling a bit. That's just the drink talking, i'm sure. I'm not his type, right?

I decide to go to astronomy tower, he plops down onto the floor looking at me, I start laughing a bit, seeing him like this is so weird. But either way, i decide to join him and sit next to him.

"Hhheyy y/n. ynow you're really really pretty. I like looking at your face" He slurrs, with a goofy smile on his face.

"I'm sure that's just the alcohol talking, Fred." I say, looking into my lap.

"But its not," He starts "I do think you're super prettyy! I really really really like you!" He says, extenuating the last really. "You're so sweet and funny, and you always laugh at my jokes! Even when they suck!" He says, lifting my chin to look at him.

I quickly become flustered at, well, everything that's going on right now! "s-so, you like like me?" I quietly say in a questioning tone.

"mmhm!" He hums " I always have! I was just afraid you wouldn't like me back..." He says, being a bit quieter at the last part. "I mean, you're so awesome! you deserve so much more than me. You deserve someone like c-" I cut him off, pulling him into a quick kiss.

It only lasted a second or two, but mage a huge impact

"you dummy, i've liked you since, well forever!" I say, still blushing, matching him. He looks at me, smiling.

We quietly hold hands, in a comfortable silence, looking at the stars.

I hope you enjoyed this! it was fun to write!

I think i may have wrote a bit too much but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

I am still currently taking requests and would love to hear your prompts!

[mallowsweetmiri]

Truth, Dare, or Punishment ~ Fred Weasley

summary: you bitches asked for dom!Fred and you shall receive. a game of truth or dare in the common room goes south when Mclaggen dares you to kiss him

warnings: possessive dom!Fred, smut, cursing

---------------------------------------------------------

The night had been going splendid so far. Everyone was way too excited after the arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrong to go to sleep, and the older Gryffindors decided to get shitfaced as the perfect solution to their restlessness. After all, there was no quidditch this year to justify throwing common room parties, so you guys had to get creative. The new year brought new witches and wizards to corrupt, and so the twins finally let their baby brother Ron and his year join the fun. It been going well, granted Hermione was drunk off her ass, but Harry had been watching over her well enough. You were also past the point of drunk, and you assumed by their faces that the rest of the group were on their way there. At this point in the night, those who were still awake were circled up playing a filthy game of truth or dare. Angelina had gone to do seven minutes in heaven with George, Neville had eaten a puking pastille, and Ron had madeout with Lavender Brown in a disturbing manner. It was time to spin the bottle again to see who would ask the next question. Hermione giggle and leaned into the circle to spin the bottle. Everyone look around with nervous smiles as it spun around and around, before landing on Cormac McLaggen. You cringed. This was possibly the worst person it could've stopped on. Your body had a visceral reaction when your name left his lips.

"Y/N," he smiled drukenly, "Truth or dare?" You rolled your eyes. Oh, great.

"Truth," you said, grabbing your drink and taking a swig. You were going to need it.

"Who did you lose your virginity to?"

You choked on your drink as the rest of the group murmured at the question, Hermione's jaw dropping before a stream of shocked laughs escaped her. You felt Fred tense up beside you. Your mind raced with the memories of this summer at the Burrow.

"Just like that, Y/N. You're doing so good," Fred praised as he thrusted into you, kissing the crook of your neck while he fucked you. He'd been teaching you how kiss, as a friend of course. He had to help out his dear friend Y/N when she confessed how embarrassed she was that she had never kissed anyone. Never done anything with anyone. From there it had escalated. First, you wanted to know learn to give a blowjob, but soon enough Fred thought it'd be best if you knew what these things felt like too. After a while, you both realized you were terribly obsessed with each other, and one night you decided to let him be the one to take your virginity. He was big, and you were nervous, but he was so sweet about it. Even at the beginning when you thought it wouldn't be able to fit, he was reassuring and gentle with you. But that was at the start, and by now he was fully fucking you on your back, your pussy starting the soften around his cock as pleasure began to ripple through your body. You both came together in a heap of sweat and kisses.

"Y/N," McLaggen sung, waiting for your response.

"I'm not answering that," you coughed, still choking on your drink. The group has set up measure to tell if someone was lying, so you couldn't fake still being a virgin. You supposed the question wasn't that out of pocket, but you couldn't answer it. Nobody knew about you and Fred besides George, and you both wanted to keep it that way. Especially from your families.

"Well then, you know the rules," McLaggen tsked teasingly, "you forfeit to dare."

"What? No, I-"

"Those are the rules Y/N," Hermione cringed, unable to stop herself. McLaggen smirked.

"I dare you to kiss me."

You felt nauseous. McLaggen was disgusting, and the last person you'd ever want to kiss. Unfortunately, you'd brought this onto yourself. You should've known he would dare someone to kiss himself. What a weirdo. The circle groaned and laughed in disgust as McLaggen puckered his lips. You cringed and shifted your weight to lean across the circle. Just as you were about to shuffle over to him, Fred grabbed your wrist and pulled you back. You looked back at him and saw anything but a smile on his usually cheerful face. He spun the bottle and landed it on himself in a hasty motion, still holding onto your wrist tightly.

"McLaggen, I dare you to stop wearing your fucking Ballycastle Bats tighty whities to every single quidditch practice," Fred sneered before yanking you up with him and pulling you towards his dorm. You heard the group go crazy with laughter behind you and hoped it would cover for the fact that Fred just pulled you away from the party. Hopefully George could cover for you two, he should be done with seven minutes by now. Fred dragged you up the stairs without so much as a look in your direction. Once you reach his dorm, he threw open the door. What was happening?

"Fred-" he smashed his lips into yours and shut the door with your body. You gasped as your back hit to wooden surface, Fred pulling your skirt up while his hand gripped your thigh. He used your lifted leg as leverage to grind down into your hips as he pressed you against the door. Your pussy pulsed when you felt him against you, his hands gripping in all the right places. Wait a minute. When did he start kissing you again?

"Fred," you said quickly, pulling away from his mouth. He tried to kiss you again. "Fred, we just left the party. You just dragged me up here when I was supposed to kiss-"

"Don't even say his name," Fred growled, his breathing heavy and hot as he kept his face inches from yours.

"I'm sorry," you whispered out, unable to speak properly. You'd never seen Fred mad before.

"I'm sorry I dragged you," he softened, ducking his head down to kiss your neck, "but I wasn't going to let somebody else kiss you." With that, he began to attack your neck. His left hand came up to grip the back of your head as his tongue and teeth lapped at your sweet spot. You let out whimpered moans as he worked, his fingers gripping you just right. Rougher than usual.

"Freddie," you moaned, grinding yourself onto his leg. You needed more. This man had hooked, and you'd never been so addicted in your life. He picked you up under your legs and carried you to the bed before placing you down on your back. He stood over you, leaving you panting on the bed as he took off his shirt and undid his belt. His eyes were locked on yours. You wanted to look away but you couldn't, his gaze wouldn't let you. When he finished, he rushed towards you again, kissing you deeply as his hand flipped your skirt up. His tongued rammed itself into your mouth, stifling your moans when his fingers grazed over your clit. You blushed as his fingers masterfully moved your panties aside and dipped into your core. Fred laughed into the kiss as he felt you.

"Already so wet for me," he breathed huskily, "are you ready to take me?" His words had you aching. You nodded up at him bashfully. You wanted him so badly. You had turned into such a slut for his cock. "Good girl." He sat up and flipped you over, pulling your panties down as he took off his own pants. He didn't bother to take off your skirt as he pulled you back onto him. You let out a guttural moan as you felt his length stretching you out.

"Fuck, Freddie," you whined as he gripped your hips and began to thrust into you. He was going to leave bruises for tomorrow, but you didn't care.

"You're taking it so good, Y/N" Fred groaned, smacking your ass, "you like getting fucked by me? Huh?" He picked up his pace, pounding into you hard. Your moans were bouncing with the rhythm of his thrusts as he waited for your reply.

"Y-yes, Freddie. I love when you fuck me," you whined, feeling you pussy begin to clench around him. His dick twitched at the feeling and groaned. In one motion, he pulled out and spun you onto your back, pulling your shirt up over your tits and pinning your wrists above your head.

"God, you look so fucking pretty. Can't see your beautiful face while I'm behind you," Fred grunted as he thrust back into you. You moaned and threw you head back. You writhed underneath Fred, his hand constraining your wrists. You desperately needed to grasps something. You were reaching the edge.

"Freddie," you cried, unable to say anything except his name. Your eyes clenched shut as you felt your stomach knot up one final time.

"That's it, baby. Come for me." You could feel his eyes on you as you released yourself around his throbbing cock. As the waves of pleasure began to slow, Fred grunted and became sloppy. He released your hands and buried his face into your neck as he came, pushing himself as deep as he could inside of you. He laid there for a moment before pushing himself off you and pulling you onto his chest. You couldn't help but giggle a little as he kissed your head and rubbed your shoulder.

"You are so jealous," you teased, looking up to see Fred. He laughed with a sleepy half smiled.

"I'm not jealous," he retorted, pinching your cheek. "I'm just protecting whats mine."

[mssorceressupreme]

Amortentia Pt. 2 | F.W

If you haven’t read Pt.1 I suggest you do as this is a continuation, here’s the link! 🥰🥰:

Amortentia Pt. 1

———

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: you and Fred have an apology dinner but it gets disrupted by a group of unfriendly men, and Fred saves you by pranking them. Both of you manage to escape them, and as you're stuck in a confined alleyway space with Fred, you start to realise, maybe he's not so bad after all.

Warnings/tags: noncon touch, drunk/scary men, enemies to lovers (continued from pt 1), pranks, forced proximity (again lol), trapped in a confined space together, fluffy ending, fred weasley is the standard <3

a/n: I added a birthday part cuz it was my birthday yesterday so I thought why not 🥹🥵

——— The Three Broomsticks was warm and inviting, a haven against the biting cold of the almost-winter day. Outside, frost kissed the cobblestones, and the skeletal trees rattled in the wind, but inside, a comforting fire crackled in the hearth, sending a soft glow over the room.

You sat at a small table in the corner with Fred, the remnants of your meal scattered between you. Your Butterbeer was still warm in your hands, the frothy top sending ribbons of steam into the air.

Fred leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretching lazily under the table as he looked at you, his lips curved in his trademark smirk. “So…” he began, his tone light and teasing. “Do you still think I’m an annoying menace, or have I managed to earn, oh, I don’t know, half a point in my favour?”

You pretended to consider this, tapping your chin as your eyes glinted with mock thoughtfulness. “Hmm… you’re still very much a menace,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching up. “But I suppose you’re slightly less unbearable than before.”

Fred gasped, placing a hand on his chest dramatically. “Slightly less unbearable? Merlin, you’re just full of compliments today, aren’t you? Careful, or I might get a big head.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, despite your best efforts to keep your guard up. “Don’t worry, Fred. Your ego’s already big enough for the both of us.”

He grinned, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. The soft light from the fire made his freckles stand out more than usual, and his eyes—mischievous and warm—seemed to catch every flicker of flame. “Well, you did forgive me for the prank that wasn’t even meant for you, so I’m taking that as a win.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve forgiven you. I’m still humiliated, you know. My shoes squelched with pudding for hours,” you shot back, but your smile betrayed the sharpness of your words.

Fred’s laugh was warm and rich, and it made the corners of your heart soften despite your better judgment. “You’ve got to admit, though, the idea of Ron stepping into a giant pudding bomb was brilliant. You just had…unfortunate timing.”

“Unfortunate is an understatement.” You shook your head, exasperately. “How do you even come up with these things? Is pranking a full-time career for you?”

“Pretty much.” He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously. “But don’t act like you’re not curious. What about you? Surely you’re not all books and rules, are you?”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back. “And what makes you think that?”

Fred leaned closer, his grin widening. “Because if you were, you wouldn’t have agreed to come here with me. Or you’d at least look more miserable about it.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the warmth creeping up your cheeks. “Fine. Maybe I’m… a little curious.”

Fred’s smirk deepened. “Knew it.”

The conversation flowed naturally after that, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in ages. Fred had a way of drawing you out of your shell with his wit and easy charm, and you began to see past the mischief to the kindness beneath.

He had an easy way of making you laugh, his humour quick and sharp but never cruel. It was…nice. You hated to admit it, but it was nice.

Halfway through the meal, Fred glanced toward the counter and stood abruptly. “I’ll be right back. Got to sort something out.”

“Sort what out?” you asked, watching him suspiciously.

He grinned. “You’ll see. Don’t miss me too much.”

You rolled your eyes as he headed toward the bar, where he started chatting animatedly with the bartender, leaving you alone at the table. You took a sip of your Butterbeer, glancing around the nearly empty pub. It was a quiet day, likely because of the cold, and most of the tables were vacant.

As you set your mug down, your fork slipped off the table, clattering to the floor. With a small sigh, you bent down to pick it up, only to bump into someone’s leg.

“Oi, watch it,” a gruff voice snapped.

Startled, you looked up to see a man scowling down at you. His expression shifted when he took in your face, his frown turning into a sleazy grin. “Well, well. What’s a pretty girl like you doing here all alone?”

“I’m not alone,” you said firmly, straightening up.

But the man ignored you, his eyes roaming over you in a way that made you uneasy. His two friends joined him, flanking him on either side, their grins just as unsettling.

“Why don’t you come sit with us, sweetheart?” one of them said, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face.

You jerked back, your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart. “Leave me alone.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” the first man said, stepping closer. “We just want to get to know you better. What’s the harm in that?”

He placed a hand on your shoulder and you glared at it, "Don't touch me." You gritted your teeth.

"Come on, don't act like you don't like it." The man smirked, about to move his arm elsewhere on your body.

"Let's take this somewhere more fun, eh?" He then whispered into your ear and your face scrunched up in disgust.

Before you could respond, Fred’s voice cut through the tension like a whip.

“Is there a problem here?”

The men turned to see Fred standing a few feet away, his expression cold and his usual playful demeanour gone. The man touching you slowly removed his hand from your shoulder.

“Who’s this, your boyfriend?” one of the men sneered.

Fred’s jaw tightened, and he took a step closer. “Yeah, I am. And you’re going to leave her alone. Now.” His usual playfulness replaced by a rare edge of anger.

You'd been so intimidated by the group of men that you didn't notice Fred claiming he was your boyfriend. Though a lie, you couldn't care less, you just wanted out.

"Look at you kids, thinking you're so tough eh?" They mocked.

"Why don't you sod off and let her come have fun with us." One of the men snarled, attempting to shoo Fred away.

"I said to leave her alone." Fred raised his voice slightly, his face stern, any bit of kindness, all erased. His eyes looked as though they were shooting daggers at the men.

You'd never seen him this cross before, and you hated to admit but it was, dare you say, slightly attractive.

The men exchanged glances, clearly unimpressed. “Or what?”

Fred didn’t bother answering. Instead, his fist shot out, connecting with the nearest man’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

Chaos erupted. The other two men lunged, but Fred slipped past them and grabbed your hand, yanking you toward the door together. “Run!”

You didn’t need to be told twice. The two of you bolted out of the pub, your laughter mixing with your ragged breaths as you sprinted down the street. "But the bill? We didn't pay—" You panted.

"I've covered it don't worry!" Fred responded, yelling as you continued running.

“Fred, they’re going to catch us!” you gasped, glancing over your shoulder to see the three men chasing after you.

“Not a chance,” He said, pulling you into one of the tiny wall gaps within the narrow alleyway.

The space was so tight that you were practically pressed against Fred, your back against the cold brick wall. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his breath warm against your temple as you both tried to stay silent in this confined space.

He smiled down at you, and you averted your eyes, trying to hide how flustered you felt.

Brilliant, yet again, you were trapped with none other than Fred Weasley.

“Fred, they’re getting closer,” you whispered peeking out slightly, your voice trembling.

Fred reached into his pocket, pulling out a small ball. “Not for long.”

With a flick of his wrist, he threw the ball into the street, and it exploded in a burst of fireworks, the colourful sparks blinding your pursuers. The men shouted in confusion, stumbling back before finally retreating.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your heart beating rapidly as the men retreated, running the opposite direction. “Fireworks? Really?”

Fred grinned, his face inches from yours in the tight space. “What can I say? I like to make an impression.”

And then it hit you—fireworks. You’d smelled fireworks in your Amortentia potion. Your eyes darted to Fred, his face lit up by the lingering sparks, clearly proud with his 'prank'.

A small smile played on your lips as you observed him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice softer now as he turned his attention back to you.

You nodded, snapping out of your thoughts. “Yeah. That was… amazing.” You chuckled softly.

Though, seconds later, your laughter died as you realised just how close you were. The alley was quiet now, the only sound the distant hum of the village and the pounding of your heart. Fred’s eyes met yours, and neither of you moved.

You felt a slight rush flow straight to your core as your bodies pressed against each other, but you quickly snapped out of it, ignoring your fantasies.

“This is… not how I expected today to go,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

Fred’s lips twitched into a smile. “Welcome to the world of mischief.”

"It wouldn't hurt to do this more often would it?" You found yourself giving in to whatever this was...fun? pranks? mischief? After a taste of this, it was hard to resist the urge for more.

"Never." He grinned.

Fred reached into his pocket again, pulling out a small box. “Oh, and…happy birthday Y/N.”

Your eyes widened as you took the box, opening it to find a cupcake with the words “Happy Birthday” scrawled in icing.

“How did you—?”

“Hermione told Ron...to tell George...to tell me,” Fred admitted, his grin sheepish. “Thought I’d get you something sweet. You know, to make up for everything.”

You smiled, a warmth fuzzy feeling spreading throughout your chest, this was the first time a guy had gotten you a gift. “Thank you, Fred. This… this means a lot.”

As the two of you walked back to Hogwarts, your laughter and banter filled the cold night air. You found yourself looking forward to spending more time with Fred.

And as his hand brushed yours briefly, sending an electrical spark through you, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were starting to fall for him.

It couldn't possibly be.

Had he managed to charm you?

An answer you'd never in a million years anticipated would escape your mouth, fell right out.

Yes, yes he did.

___ a/n: @htchnr, @wwmalufa, @owlisbuffering I ended up making a part 2!! Hope you guys enjoy it hehe <33

[sundrop-writes]

I'm Not Angry (Anymore)

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader

I’m not angry… anymore. (Well, sometimes I am.)

I don’t think badly of you. Well - sometimes I do.

It depends on the day, the extent of all my worthless rage… 

I'm Not Angry (Anymore).

Part One: The Lion and The Serpent

Summary:

You and George have never been friends.

You have known him for a long time, and even if your schoolyard hatred toward him turned into hesitant co-operation during the War (still paired with mild annoyance), the two of you never became friends.

You working at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is simply out of convenience for the both of you. And even if you can't bring yourself to leave the awful job, it's certainly not because of the weird attachment you have formed with one of your bosses.

You and George Weasley are definitely not friends.

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader. Enemies to Lovers. Pre-Smut, Heavy Plot Build-Up, Romance. Set Post War.

Word Count: 29,900

Harry Potter Masterlist | AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

Full warnings list and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: the reader character goes by she/her pronouns and has a vagina (though as with most of my fics, most of the pronouns used throughout are you/yours); this fic does use Y/N and L/N (as in Last Name); there are no descriptions of the reader’s race, weight, hair colour, eye colour, or general looks other than a few statements about George being taller than the reader (and even then, it does not say how much taller he is than her and it does not state that she is ‘tiny’ or petite) - this is based off the idea that Oliver Phelps is 6 foot 2 and most people would be shorter than that by comparison; there is descriptions of the reader wearing very hyper feminine clothing, including skirts, dresses, and high heels (and it is stated that she wears high heels on a regular basis), and it's stated that she regularly wears makeup (I had a very specific clothing aesthetic in mind for this character, I couldn't help it); the reader is a Slytherin, and this fic explores the ‘evil Slytherin’ trope because the reader used to be somewhat of a bully but she joined Dumbledore’s Army during her time at Hogwarts and joined the Order of the Phoenix when she turned 17; the reader is the same age as Fred and George and was in their year (so DA took place during her seventh year and the Battle of Hogwarts took place when she was 19 or 20); the reader is a Pureblood and comes from a family that upholds typical Pureblood values - while she used to believe in those things (or was taught to) she broke away from her family and is not a Pureblood supremacist; the reader has a father and other unnamed family members who are Death Eaters, and clearly expected her to follow in their steps; this takes place three years after the Battle of Hogwarts (so the reader character is 23 or 24 in this fic, but you can imagine her to be whatever age you want her to be) - there is some discussion/explanation of the fallout from the War; even though Fred is not the love interest character, this is a ‘Fred Lives AU’ (I can’t put George through all that); this might be slightly OOC Fred - but I do think this is genuinely how Fred would react if one of his siblings had a crush on a Slytherin (the Weasleys can be petty); mentions of canon deaths (Cedric Diggory); there is some ACAB themes - the reader is wrongfully arrested (but George helps to keep her out of prison); George has some trauma over Fred almost being killed; general themes of trauma and PTSD (because both the reader and George fought in and experienced a war); the reader has trauma because she comes from an emotionally abusive and neglectful household (though there are no mentions of her ever being physically abused at home); alcohol and drinking - in this part, only the reader character gets drunk (in a flashback), and she gets drunk with the purpose of drowning out emotional pain, but this is only a one-time thing and she does not have a drinking problem; mentions of vomiting due to drunkenness (does not happen during the fic) (also general mentions of vomit because they sell Puking Pastilles at the shop - but it doesn’t happen during the fic and there’s no detailed descriptions of it); mentions of the reader being raised with House Elves and having a specific beloved House Elf; mentions of a snake being used to scare the reader (if you have a fear of snakes, this might trigger you, but it does turn out to be a rubber toy snake and not a real one); mention of the reader having to experience Umbridge’s canon torture (writing with the blood quill to the point where it slices her hand badly); there is mentions of the reader being right handed (her right hand is her wand hand and the hand she uses to write), so if you’re left-handed, sorry; something that could be considered forcible confinement - George handcuffs himself to the reader as a joke and loses the key, leaving them stuck together; I believe that is all for this section. The next part will have smut (a lot of it) - so don’t get attached to reading this story if you don’t like smut.

A/N: I know that I said this was going to be late, and I genuinely thought it was. But I was feeling a bit better today (even though I am still mostly feeling crappy) and I wanted to get it done so that I can take a break to rest before I start work on editing the next part. And I am really excited to see what people think of this so far, so please enjoy. I am obsessed with their dynamic, and I hope you love it just as much as I do!!!

...

“Um, excuse me, Miss?” 

You were distracted away from your work when someone called for your attention - you had been opening and unpacking a new box of Screaming Yo-Yos, but you put that aside for now. You looked up and put on your best (rather fake) customer service smile, the shelf in front of you still half empty, only halfway done as you abandoned it to help the customer. 

You rose up from your back-aching kneeling position on the floor and wiped your hands on your apron - an ugly, obnoxiously bright orange one with the Weasley W on the chest, your uniform. You were allowed to wear whatever clothes you wanted with it, but the colour easily ruined whatever outfit you tried to put together. A bit of public embarrassment to go along with the forced nicety that you had to participate in while doing the job. You straightened yourself to better speak to the person - a woman in her forties who most definitely wasn’t the regular clientele for the shop. 

“Yes?” You said, your voice bright in a very forced way, your fake smile continuing to beam toward her as she responded with a grin. 

“My son absolutely loves this kind of stuff, and I was wondering if this would be a good gift for his birthday?” She asked, gesturing toward a large fireworks display behind her. 

Your eyes wandered toward the obligatory ‘must be at least sixteen years old to purchase’ sign that the twins had put on the fireworks display. One that Professor Hermione Granger had been down their throats about adding (‘in a large, legible font’ she had specified). She had been very adamant about it after multiple of her First and Second Year students had nearly taken fingers off from lighting the fireworks and then holding onto them as they exploded, despite the clear instructions on the packaging. 

“How old is your son?” You asked, trying to sound politely curious rather than cautious. 

You knew better than to scare away a potential customer. You didn’t need Fred down your throat again about how your ‘sour attitude’ was driving away business. 

“He’s ten. About to turn eleven. I wanted to get him something for his big day.” She said, clearly beaming with pride. 

“Those are a bit, uh… advanced.” You said, choosing your words very carefully. “I think I know something much better for someone his age.” 

You put a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her over to a section of products that the twins had recently come out with - animal themed masks with animated, moving features that made genuine, loud animal sounds when the wearer put them on. The eyes also blinked in time with your own eyes, and the mouth moved in time with your own speech behind the mask. 

They were a big hit with younger kids, especially for sneaking up behind people and scaring them with a loud sound. Even if you found the display to be loud and annoying, you did have to admit that it was adorable to see smaller kids put the masks on and get so excited to become their favourite animal. 

“Morph-O-Masks.” You said, motioning toward the display with an outstretched, showy arm that felt far too familiar of your red-haired bosses. They were rubbing off on you in a painfully obvious way. “They make genuine animal sounds, have moving tongues, eyes, and ears, and we just released a Hungarian Horntail-” 

“Oh my little Gareth would love this one,” 

The woman said, clearly excited, as she picked up the classic lion mask. It had a large, furry mane and the toothy mouth that opened wide to let out a loud, realistic roar. 

“He’s been hoping to get into Gryffindor, just like his father. I didn’t go to Hogwarts myself. I’m American, you see, so I went to Salem. But I moved here when my Walter proposed. And we had sweet little Gareth a few months later. Fat little baby, he was-” 

“That is our best seller,” You commented with a nod, trying to gently cut off the woman’s irrelevant rambling. 

“Thank you so much, dear.” The woman thanked you, and much to your internal annoyance - she then pulled you in for a tight hug. 

You rolled your eyes sharply over her shoulder, your fake smile dropping into a harsh scowl where she couldn’t see. As your annoyance toiled on, you were simply thankful when the hug lasted no more than a three count (because you were most definitely counting in your head). When she pulled away, you directed her to the cash register where Fred was waiting to check out the purchase and then you got back to stocking the yo-yos. 

Your thankfulness ended the moment you turned around and found the other twin waiting for you. George was lingering behind you, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. 

“‘That’s our best seller’,” He repeated your words, mocking you in a girlish tone that did not at all sound like you. 

“Shut up,” You griped, rolling your eyes again, shoving your hands sharply into the pockets of your apron in order to resist the urge to hit him. 

You had to force yourself to remember that it wasn’t your school days anymore, and you couldn’t afford to lose your job as much as you could afford to lose a few house points back in the day. You had to control the petty nature of your temper much more now. 

“No, really, that was great.” He continued on, still grinning with an intense aura of satisfaction. 

It made you want to slap him. Not because you didn’t like to see him smiling, but because it felt like he was mocking you. You hated the way his smile curled humiliation into your gut, and you wanted that feeling gone. 

“You’re finally settling into the job now, eh?” He added on gleefully. 

“It’s work,” You shrugged, eager to end the conversation. 

You attempted to move around him to get back to unpacking the yo-yos - but with the isles cramped so tightly together and with his body so stupidly broad, he easily blocked your way, giving you a very punchable smirk as he purposefully stood in your way. Before you could squeeze around the other way, he leaned in closer, forcing you to take a step back as he moved to grab something off the Morph-O-Mask display. 

You hated that you caught a whiff of his cologne along the way, during the moment that you were a bit too close to him as he moved toward the display and you couldn’t move away fast enough. The scent was far too strong - a cedarwood and lavender combination that you hated, and even so, his hard day’s work was causing the slightest bit of sweat to seep through. It was truly awful.

(That’s what you told yourself, anyway.) 

“I see you still haven’t sold any of the serpents yet.” He chimed, holding up a scaly bright green serpent mask from the display. “If this was a house tournament, I would say that Gryffindor is winning,” 

You knew that it was no coincidence that the original line of masks had consisted of a golden yellow lion, a green serpent, a bronze eagle, and a black and white badger. The badger let out a very terrifying snarl and had rather creepy beady red eyes - which had to be the reason you hadn’t sold many of those, not due to any lack of loyalty from Hufflepuffs. 

It wasn’t your fault that kids were more attracted to the ones that came in the secondary release than they were to a simple round-headed serpent with a flicking tongue and a very dull hissing sound. They loved the different types of dragons, a spider with snapping fangs and dozens of eyes, even the black cat that purred and flicked its ears sold out more often than the serpent. 

Typically, you wouldn’t engage in such a stupid, childish conversation with George, but something had been on your mind considering the original four for a while. Especially when you thought about how many times you had to restock the lion mask in the few short weeks that the Morph-O-Mask line had been out. 

“Did you consider the inherent bias?” You posed, tilting your head at him. “This is a shop owned by two Gryffindors, therefore you are bound to have more Gryffindor customers - especially due to the time you two spent performing grassroots marketing back at Hogwarts, which primarily took place within Gryffindor Tower,” 

George’s face knit with intense thought as you explained this, and you were glad that for once, he was pensive and actually taking in your words, rather than cutting you off with some kind of joke. 

“And even if done unconsciously, you put more care and thought into the design of the lion mask, so it did turn out to be the best one.” You hated to admit it, but it was true. 

Between the quality of the fur and the intense daring beauty of the eyes - the way it raised its mouth and let out the deep intimidating roar - it was beautiful. The serpent - which was supposed to be a fellow predator - looked dull in comparison. 

“And it’s the one you’ve used primarily for marketing,” 

You pointed to the front window, where the lion mask was on a stand advertising the new product. The one in the window was charmed to open its mouth and roar every minute or so, putting on a show to bring people in and check it out. 

“It’s like you set up the serpent to fail.” You spoke with finality. “And then you blame it on a poor stock girl for not shilling it hard enough,” 

You ground intense sarcasm into your final words, taking the green mask from his hands and tossing it back onto the shelf with the large pile of its unsold brothers, finally skirting around him as he stood there shocked into silence. He was genuinely impressed by the amount of thought you had put into it. He finally snapped out of his shock by the time you had knelt back down beside the box of yo-yos, continuing to neatly stock the shelf with them. 

Of course, George wouldn’t leave the topic well enough alone. He turned around to bother you once again, coming to hover over you like a shadow while you worked. 

“Well, perhaps next time we should consult a Slytherin for further research and development,” He said, giving you a grin. “Especially one as thoughtful and intelligent as you.” 

“Let me know when you find one who’s willing to donate her time.” You replied, brisk and cool and entirely dismissive, grabbing the finally empty cardboard box from the yo-yos and shuffling back to the storage room. You were thankful to have an excuse to finally flee away from George, escaping the conversation. 

You were behind the thick wood of the storage room door by the time that George wandered over to the front counter, visibly sulking in front of Fred. 

“That was smooth.” Fred told him, entirely sarcastic. 

“Oi, that was the longest we’ve ever gone without her insulting me. I am making progress.” George replied, determination ultimately distinct in his voice. 

“Yeah, at this point, you’ll be going on your first date in your fifties and be married by the time I have grandchildren,” Fred joked, sounding proud of himself, even standing a bit taller to compliment his words. 

“You don’t even know if Angelina wants kids,” George argued easily, eager to navigate around the subject of his pathetic crush. 

“Yeah, but at least I know she wants me.” Fred nagged, putting emphasis on the word in a way that made George roll his eyes. “At least I’m not hung up on some stone cold Slytherin bit-” 

“Hey!” 

George chastised, knowing that he was somewhat hypocritical now because he would have easily hurled that kind of language at you during your school days. He was understanding when Fred heaved a sigh and shook his head in return. 

“Maybe I like cold.” George added on dully, still trying to justify himself to his brother. 

“Then go stick your cock in the freezer.” Fred sighed. “Maybe it’ll help you get over this nonsense so you can start seeing someone who’s actually good for you.” 

George didn’t say anything further, not wanting to waste his energy and words on trying to explain it to a brother who just couldn’t understand. There was no one else for him, no one else who lived in his heart - no one else but you. 

Even if you refused to look his way - he couldn’t look at anybody else but you. 

… 

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. 

Part of you - well, most of you - had to wonder how the hell you ended up here. 

It had been three years since The Battle of Hogwarts. Three seemingly winding and endless but so very short years since the great Harry Potter had delivered the final blow to the dark side, killing Voldemort and for the most part, killing all the festering ideas that he represented. 

And not surprisingly, the entire Wizarding World was still very much in the process of healing, even years later. 

Many of Voldemort’s followers had fled Hogwarts in the wake of his defeat, and they had quickly gone into hiding or fled the country altogether, fleeing like cockroaches from the light rather than taking a stand without him there to lead them. Some of them were still being hunted down and persecuted for their crimes; internal investigations were still ongoing at the Ministry, looking into who was responsible for such a dark wizard even having a foothold to so easily take control of the government and even Hogwarts. 

Hogwarts had been reconstructed and normal classes had resumed, but it was clear that the effects of the War were still lingering on the place that had once been a battleground. Many veteran professors had retired in the wake of what had happened, leaving positions vacant and desperate to be filled. This caused a strange kind of immaturity as freshly graduated wizards and witches stumbled along, teaching new students in subjects that they had barely mastered for themselves. 

And you - your life had turned into one big joke. Literally. You were working at a fucking joke shop, when just a few short years ago, you would have absolutely scoffed at the idea and completely dismissed it as impossible. A past version of yourself would have endlessly mocked the version of your future self who wore that embarrassing orange apron, publicly branded as a slave to two annoying pranksters that you absolutely detested during your school days. 

And one of the worst parts? 

You couldn’t even truthfully say, not even in the private of your own mind, that you hated those two annoying redheads now as much as you had in the past. Because you truly didn’t hate them as much. You weren’t even sure if you did hate them now. 

The War had softened you. You still weren’t sure if it was for the better or if it had weakened you greatly - if it had made you tired and complacent. But the whole experience had definitely softened your opinion of the Weasleys and how much you paid attention to things as petty as house rivalries. 

Yes, you were a Slytherin. Yes, you were a Pureblood. 

Yes, you had been raised in a world much different than the one you currently lived in. But it was the changes along the way that had made you the person you truly were. 

You had been raised in rich nobility, constantly catered to by House Elves, never knowing love or affection from a constantly cold father who only showed you disappointment and disdain. You had been raised to believe that you were inherently better than others because of your surname, because of your blood status, because of your family’s generations old wealth and magic. You had been trained from a very young age to think that nothing was more important than upholding the reputation of that name because of all the wealth and generational magic behind it. 

Your mother had been married to your father via a marriage contract - something not uncommon in Pureblood society, something you believed would be your fate. Though your mother had died when you were young and you had very few memories of her - one of those memories being her telling you that you shouldn’t marry young, you should go out and explore the world and ‘find your own path’, you still had been raised to believe that the ways of your family were the right ones. 

You had been raised to believe that your father’s word was as good as Merlin’s Law. For a long time, you believed that you would go to Hogwarts - not to get an education, but to carry on the tradition of Slytherin nobility, getting good grades to show off your magical prowess, and make others aware of your family’s ongoing perfect Pureblood reputation. And then, when you turned seventeen, you would be sold off in a marriage contract similar to the one that had bonded your mother to your father. And it didn’t matter if you were happy or not. That part never mattered. 

Your life never revolved around something as frivolous as joy, laughter, and pranks. 

Perhaps that was why you developed a natural contention for the Weasleys - particularly Fred and George. Because they spent so much of their lives smiling. They were always so happy, seemingly for no reason. They came from a magical family, they had Pureblood lineage, but their family didn’t represent or value the same things that yours did. They didn’t care about reputation or blood purity or upholding traditional values. They cared about happiness and love and friendship. 

You spent a lot of your days trying to believe that they were stupid and you were truly better off than they were. You spent a lot of time telling yourself that you would be better off in the long run because you studied more than they did, and you had a parent who cared about your future - someone who was setting you up for a good life. You spent a lot of your time pushing down feelings of loneliness - or telling yourself that those truly superior to their peers always end up lonely. 

While the twins spent their days surrounded by friends, smiling and joyful, you spent your days walking the halls of Hogwarts alone, swept up in your own thoughts, constantly worried about your future. To you, it seemed like they didn’t think farther than a few days ahead with the way they acted. And it bothered you. They bothered you. They were a nuisance. 

The twins spent so much time laughing - boisterously, loudly, uncaring of who heard them or who they annoyed in the process. Even when they spoke of paranoia for authority figures, even when they voiced a passing worry about their mother’s iron fist - truly, you knew that they didn’t worry about getting in trouble. Because if they did, they wouldn’t actually carry out half the things that they ended up doing. 

Meanwhile, your days were riddled with worry - cautious of everything from your posture to your hairstyle to the length of your skirt, knowing that if you made even the slightest poor impression, it would become a rumor that got back to your father. And it made you stressed - and that stress made you sour. And it was something that you easily took out on the Weasleys, especially the loud, annoying Fred and George. 

…

Any time you so much as crossed paths with Fred and George while at Hogwarts, your day was instantly ruined. All it took was a simple sighting of the two heads of bright red hair for any calm to immediately leave you. As soon as they were near, your blood pressure skyrocketed and bitter words came flying out of your mouth. 

You hated the fact that the castle was so sprawling and large and yet somehow, you kept seeing them so damn often. Part of you couldn’t think that it was simply a coincidence when you saw them. When they kept appearing in the corridors that they knew you took to class, lingering in the dungeons even when they didn’t belong there, lurking near the Slytherin table at meal times. Part of you had to believe that they kept doing these kinds of things on purpose simply to annoy the hell out of you. 

“Ugh, you two haven’t been expelled yet?” You sneered the words in their direction as you walked by, your shiny black heels clacking on the stone floor as you made your way towards Potions class. “I would say that this place has gone to the dogs, but I’ve actually had pitbulls more well behaved and more easily trained than you two idiots.” 

They were huddling close to each other, standing off to the side of the large corridor, and you were instantly suspicious of them and slightly upset that there was nothing you could immediately accuse them of. You could sense that they were up to no good, as always, and you knew that the evidence of that fact wouldn’t come to you cleanly. 

“Oh, Y/N, it’s you.” Fred gave you a feigned, sarcastic smile, and the part of you that thrived off conflict paused your stride and allowed him to keep speaking rather than passing on by. “I thought I heard all the innocent wildlife fleeing in terror.” He put a dramatic hand up to his ear, as though actually listening for this. “Careful, brother, you’ll want to avoid the large cracks when the ground opens up to swallow her back into the dark pit from which she came.” 

It was the typical kind of words he hurled at you. He believed that you were ‘pure evil’ in human form, and he prided himself on coming up with increasingly creative ways of stating that fact. 

“I’m surprised that you can hear anything with all the gunpowder and confetti in your ears.” You jested back. “How many IQ points did you lose after that last explosion? Do they have to let the two of you tag-team your exams now? I mean, if you think about it, the both of your brains added up might make it to Troll level.” 

“We do just fine. Better than most, actually. Especially if the scores were adjusted for academic favouritism from a certain greasy-haired creep.” Fred sighed harshly in return, crossing his arms firmly. 

It was something he had talked about for years, both to your face and behind your back - the idea that you were only considered to be academically gifted because teachers favoured you, especially Snape. And when asked how you achieved such good grades with professors who weren’t your Head of House, he posed another, even more ridiculous sounding theory. He genuinely believed that your father paid them off - that because you were so ‘stinking rich’, you could afford to buy your good grades. 

Notwithstanding that his older brothers certainly didn’t have the coin to buy their grades and two of them had made Head Boy in their time. And when you pointed that out to him, he only stopped off steaming mad without admitting that this fact blew huge holes in his theory. No - he would much rather go around spewing massive lies about you (that many of the other Gryffindors believed simply due to Fred’s charisma and popularity) rather than accepting the truth that you truly worked hard and studied. Rather than accepting the fact that you were genuinely smart, while he on the other hand was a lazy, dumb oaf. 

You were about to open your mouth to argue passionately against the point when George jumped into the conversation. 

“Is that a new perfume?” He added on, dramatically sniffing the air to further punctuate his point. “Or just the scent of ravaged innocent souls coming off you? It is rather lovely, I must admit.” 

Your stomach twisted in an odd way as you weren’t sure whether to interpret this as a compliment or a joking insult. He was clearly playing off his brother’s words, dancing around with the implication that you were evil - but he said that you smelled nice when Fred often said that you ‘stank of the burnt cinders off hell from miles away’. The odd feeling became even more jarring when Fred let out a bright, jeering laugh at the words and high fived his brother in response. 

As terrible confusion rusted through you, you couldn’t conjure a clever response. Your next instinct was to flee. But of course, you couldn’t let them know that you were running away - you couldn’t show anything resembling panic or fear. You couldn’t bare your neck to a pack of hungry lions. 

“Well, as delightfully immature as this is, I am afraid I don’t have the time to stand around here and compete in this stunning battle of wits,” You announced, truly grinding sarcasm into your words to drive home your point as you began to walk away. “Perhaps next time you can come a bit more prepared and actually challenge me. I have to get to Potions.” 

“Aww, how disappointing for us.” George replied, faking a whine in his voice that made you clench your jaw with annoyance. “Another time, then?” He tacked on, waving at you and giving you an oddly sincere smile as his eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t perceive as hope. 

“Say hello to Snape’s back mole for us!” Fred added on, shouting at your back. 

Even as you walked away, you knew that the twins were lingering in the corridor for a reason. Some terrible reason. They stayed in that same spot for far too long, paying far too much attention to you, their eyes glued to your every move as you crossed over the courtyard. 

By now, you knew them well enough to know that something was up, and it made you highly suspicious of everything around you - so that when something snagged your toes, you instantly paused, rather than continuing on with your usual steps. When you looked down, you let out a small huff. Of course. Your eyes followed a very thin, near-invisible tripwire to a bucket that was strung up in a tree above your head. 

You could only imagine what kind of sickening mixture was in the bucket. So you made a point of dramatically stepping over the tripwire, and you smiled to yourself when you heard the twins swearing and sighing with disappointment from their spot far off behind you. And before you finally left for class, you turned around, spotting them in a poorly concealed hiding place in one of the window-like openings around the edge of the courtyard. 

And then, just to prove a point, you blew them a kiss off the tip of your extended middle finger, wanting to show them that they truly hadn’t bested you. Your stomach made that strange twist again when George made a distinct motion of catching the kiss before he winked at you while Fred chose to flip you off in return, clearly mouthing the words ‘horrid bitch’ at you. 

You couldn’t linger too much on it, though. You had to get to class. 

… 

Back then, you thought of the Weasleys as nothing more than daily annoyances. You certainly didn’t think that they would be your future employers. You didn’t think that they would be people that you would be fighting a war alongside. 

You thought your life was perfectly planned out ahead of you. You thought that treating others poorly and being generally mean was just a reputation that naturally preceded you - something that you lived up to very well. Everything in your life was finite and decided, and you were just playing the role that had already been drawn out for you. 

Until Voldemort made his return. 

For you, it was a clear line in the sand. 

After years of walking around blind, sleeping through life - all it took was seeing Cedric Diggory’s limp, dead body in the grass to awaken you. 

You had lived your life talking about your perceived superiority over others, listening to your father talk about it near constantly. But the longer your life went on, the less you actually believed it to be true. The longer you spent away from home while at Hogwarts, the more it all felt like an act to you; one as fake as the smile you put on at the shop for the customers. 

So when it came time to take the next step - when your father urged you to scorch your arm with a Mark in loyalty to a man risen up from the dead and start killing others who were supposedly ‘lesser’ than you, and therefore undeserving of life - you just couldn’t do it. You didn’t have the true pride to back up beliefs that were never your own. 

So you turned away from your father, and you did the one thing that you could remember your mother telling you to do. You found your own path. 

You had been the only Slytherin to join Dumbledore’s Army, to much hatred and suspicion from the others at first. And even though they had attempted to exile you, it felt like the correct, obvious choice. You knew that you weren’t accustomed to such things, but it felt like the right thing to do. 

While it was the first (quiet) rebellion you made against your father’s choices for your life, it was also the most time you had spent around the twins outside of the classes that you had with them. They kept making jokes about you secretly being Umbridge’s mole within the group - which Hermione had assured them and everyone else couldn’t possibly be true, only for you to find out in the most spectacular and horrific way exactly how she had been so assured. And eventually, the twins soon became more adjusted to the idea that you truly didn’t have any ulterior motives. 

But that didn’t mean you were opposed to kicking their asses in dueling practice. 

(Or any other time.) 

… 

You had grown used to the stares and ugly looks that you received whenever you walked into a DA meeting. As much as Hermione vouched for you and assured everyone that you were not intent on betraying them to Umbridge, people had a very difficult time getting used to your presence there. They simply couldn’t adjust to the idea that a Slytherin, especially one who had a Death Eater for a father, genuinely wanted to oppose Voldemort, and was actively training to do so. 

But you weren’t going to spend your time making noble rallying speeches in order to justify yourself to them. You had your own personal reasons, and that was more than enough for you. You were sick of your father’s ways. You knew that you weren’t any better than someone like Hermione Granger simply because of the name you had been born with. And you wouldn’t stand by and watch people like her be murdered or be forced into performing the killing yourself because your father thought you didn’t have a backbone. 

You were sick of a world where you were nothing more than an ornament to him - something quiet and beautiful to help maintain his reputation until you would be married off to someone else to continue doing the same for them. Being sold into a future where you would be forced to produce babies who would be fated to carry on the terrible cycle. 

Even if you would be killed for it, you needed to stand up and fight back. 

You knew that you were likely the only one in the room, other than Harry Potter himself, who was actively thinking about the worldly consequences of these meetings. You were likely the only other person thinking about the possibility of your own untimely death. Everyone else was just showing up for their own personal satisfaction, and the fact of not falling behind in their DADA efforts while Umbridge was actively restricting their education. 

On this day when you walked into the Room of Requirement as the other DA members trickled in, you attracted only enough attention to receive a few solitary sour looks. You had to guess that people were getting a bit more accustomed to you attending the meetings by now. But you picked up on a particularly harsh conversation from a group of huddled boys. You easily recognized the twins, and you thought you knew the others as Dean and Seamus… something. You didn’t know their last names. 

“And have you seen who’s in The Inquisitorial Squad? It’s all Slytherins, it’s just a matter of time until-” Seamus whined. 

“Until that stuck up bitch, L/N, rats on us. Yeah. It was a complete mistake letting her join.” Fred easily cut him off, entirely unafraid to call you harsh names, whether you were listening or not. 

“When have you ever met a Slytherin with good intentions?” Dean posed to the small group. 

“Guys, listen, I think you might be overreacting-” Surprisingly, George tried to oppose them, but his words were swiftly cut off. 

“Seriously, who’s ever heard of a good Slytherin?” Seamus sneered. 

“Well just because I joined this group doesn’t mean I’m ‘good’.” You said, stepping between the twins and forcing yourself into the conversation. 

This caused the boys to either shamefully stare at the ground or divert their eyes off to the side as they clearly weren’t expecting to be overheard by you. George was the only one who dared to look at you, his expression clearly confused at your choice of words. 

You decided to explain yourself. 

“Just because I oppose my father’s traditional hatred of Muggleborns and I don’t believe in mass murder doesn’t mean I’m not still a heinous bitch. It doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped - what was it that you said, Fred? That I strike fear into the hearts of children and rot plantlife with my every breath?” 

“Yeah.” Fred grumbled quietly. “I may have said that.” 

“My point still stands.” Seamus griped bitterly. “There is no such thing as a good Slytherin.” 

“Then it’s irritably clear that you’ve never picked up a book in your short, useless life.” You spat back at him. 

As more confused looks were thrown your way, you dove into a stash of mental research that you had reserved for exactly this occasion, and began spouting off facts. 

“Kory Anderson, during The Great Fire of 1916 that nearly wiped out the entirety of Hogsmeade, she rescued six children from homes within the village and then cast barrier charms to contain the fire until it naturally blazed out. She was a Slytherin.” You announced confidently. 

“Yeah, but-” Dean began to speak up, and you drove right over whatever he had to say. 

“Isaac Lahesen - he invented the first wide use Pain Relief Tonic in 1756. The original recipe is still widely followed and commonly used today. He was a Slytherin. Gally Poulter - died from Ancromantula venom poisoning due to his experiments with the venom that later lead to the invention of the common Anti-Bruise Tonic. His efforts also helped to conserve the Ancromantula as a species and brought them back from the brink of extinction-” 

“Alright, jeez, we get it.” Fred sighed, finally cutting you off.

“I could go on.” You replied plainly, trying not to sound too smug. “It pays to take your head out of your arse every now and then and insert it into a library book.” 

You turned to stomp away then, and you were entirely surprised when you felt someone catch your elbow. You whipped back around to glare at the person automatically, and had to forcibly crane your neck upward to meet George’s surprisingly soft gaze. You knew it was him in an instant. 

Mostly because Fred always looked at you like you carried hellfire in your shoes wherever you went, and George most definitely did not. 

But you could also easily spot the difference between the twins because George had broken his nose during a Quidditch game against Slytherin during your third year. A game that you had been sitting in the stands for - forever banned from participating in ‘something so brutish’ by your father. It had been a nasty move from one of the Slytherin players who had swung their Bludger’s bat at his face in a fit of anger when they realized that Harry had caught the snitch and they had lost. 

The bone growth around the break gave his nose bridge a distinct bump near the top that Fred did not have. It was something you found quietly endearing, along with his soft eyes. Something you had only recently admitted to yourself in the quietest, darkest recesses of your mind. 

“What?” You snapped at him, wondering why he had stopped you and why he was touching you. 

He recoiled from the touch quickly, as if only then realizing just how long he had been holding onto your arm. 

“Sorry.” He muttered quietly. “And I’m sorry about them, too.” 

He added on, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to point toward the spot where Fred, Dean, and Seamus were still standing - where Fred was now showing the two boys something inside a large box. Likely some of their disgusting, horrible ‘products’ - but it made the boys laugh and smile. You almost envied their care-free nature. But you definitely didn’t envy their ignorance. 

“They’re being knobheads.” George declared confidently. “I know it probably doesn’t mean much, but I never thought that you were here to spy on us. You’re actually really good. With the spells, and whatnot, I mean. You’re really talented.” 

You felt a sickly fullness - almost like an ache in your chest coming from deep within your stomach - as you looked over his expression and knew for certain that he was being sincere. As it truly hit you that this wasn’t some dumb prank where he would laugh in your face after you accepted the compliment. Still, nonetheless, as your insides squirmed, your outer shell became prickly once again in a well practiced defense mechanism. 

“Why would I care what you think?” You spat back harshly. “You can barely cast a protection charm and you waste most of your talents coming up with stupid, useless joke products anyway. I don’t need you to tell me that I’m talented in order to know my worth, Weasley.” 

It was only a moment later when the words had already left your mouth that you realized you had inadvertently complimented him in return. You became overwhelmed with a desire to smack him when he began smirking at you. That desire became almost crippling when he leaned into you, crowding tightly into your personal space before he whispered something in a low baritone that stuck to your ear terribly well as he reached into his pocket. 

“Perhaps sometime I could get you alone and show you how well I waste my other talents,” He said, forcing his hand into yours and giving you something. 

Between the strange psychological mind game of his words and the way he quickly retreated, you thought for sure whatever he had given you would be a trick - that it would blow up or poison you or something. Your eyes flickered, panicked, from the back of his head as he resumed his spot beside Fred to what he had placed in your hand, and you were eerily surprised to find a seemingly perfectly normal sweet. 

One of your favourite sweets, actually. 

It was something you would have purchased from Honeydukes for yourself - a kind of hard candy that came in many different flavours, wrapped individually in plastic. They turned your hair and eventually your skin the same colour as the candy the longer that you sucked on them - but for you, that was never the appeal. You simply enjoyed the taste. Your personal favourite was the sour green apple ones, and you almost always left Hogsmeade with a large bag of them in hand and ended up with green streaks in your hair from sucking on them throughout the days. 

It was almost as if George had known that your personal stash had just run out. 

You stashed it in your pocket, still suspicious of it, wondering if he had tampered with it somehow. He was likely waiting to laugh as your skin broke out in boils or you vomited viciously and had to beg him for the cure. And it was only when you were back in the security of your dorm that night when you found it in your pocket once again that you decided it would be safe to open it. If he had tampered with it, he wouldn’t get the satisfaction of watching you suffer from the results of his prank. 

But there wasn’t one. It had simply been a random thoughtful gift. 

When George saw you the next day with a small lingering streak of green in your hair, he smiled to himself. 

… 

The practice that you got from DA was invaluable when you fought during the Battle of Hogwarts - much to your father’s undisguised hatred, on the side of The Order of the Phoenix, as an official member. As much as he absolutely hated your new affiliations, he definitely found a way to get back at you for ‘dessamating years of carefully crafted heritage’ - as he had put it when he confronted you on that day. 

When the battle ended and everyone on the losing side began to flee, you weren’t at all surprised to find out that your father had escaped, rather than being among the dead or the few who the Order managed to capture on site. You couldn’t have been so lucky. 

Perhaps it was the karma of your younger years coming back on you - the fact that you had so harshly, thoughtlessly bullied others, tossed words around so carelessly, at one time truly believing that you were better than others simply because of the family that you came from. Now it was all coming back to you, life turning around to spit in your face, showing you what a truly rotten person you were. 

Your father went to Gringotts and cleaned out your personal vault (as well as his own), taking every single bit of gold that your mother had left you when she had died. And it soon became obvious to you that he used the money to flee the country - not because he needed it. A small sack’s worth of the gold would have supplied him on his fugitive’s journey. But he took all of it simply because he thought that you were no longer worthy of it. 

You were denying your ancestral ways, and now, you were no longer worthy of your ancestral riches. 

It was a cruel slap in the face, and it left you abandoning any plans you had to apprentice as a future Potioneer in Ireland - or even the plans you had to take a break and vacation in the Maldives for a while and recover from The War. 

Instead, fate had you dawning that stupid orange apron in London to earn a living for once in your life - taking up the first paying job that you were offered, especially after you heard what the hourly wage was. Perhaps the Weasleys were a bit stupid with money after not having much of it for most of their lives, but they were paying far above the average rate that most other jobs in the Alley did, so you had to jump at the opportunity. 

All of it was so damn ironic. 

The products that you had degraded and openly hated since the moment you had heard about them were now something that you had to proudly promote to customers. The pranksters you had called annoying with every opportune breath were now your bosses, and dictated your life every single day. Even if it felt backwards, you started to establish a new, quiet life. The twins let you live in the flat above the shop, and while you hated being constantly surrounded by everything Weasley - eventually, you got used to it. 

But even that gentle peace was disrupted. 

Only a few short months after The War, you were blindsided. Members of the newly formed Department For Internal Investigation for The Ministry of Magic, along with pre-existing Aurors, showed up at the shop with a warrant for your arrest. The grounds of said warrant? Your blood relation to a known Death Eater. You were being accused of helping your father and others flee the country, along with conspiracy against The Ministry. You were being accused of feeding them information from the inside to aid in their evasion of current law enforcement. 

It was DA all over again. Only this time, it was on a scale that could end up with you in prison for the rest of your life. 

… 

George found himself thankful for finally having a slow day at the shop. 

Now that school age kids were returning to Hogwarts, the summer rush was finally over and the hectic chaos of those three months was finally behind them. It did only leave a small breath of relaxation before the turbulence of Halloween and then eventually Christmas, very busy gift buying seasons for the Wizarding community, but at least they had the quiet of September to hold onto while they still could. 

George could have never pictured him and his brother being this successful when they were just tossing around ideas, writing things down and drawing crude diagrams on scraps of parchment while huddled together on their bedroom floor back at the Burrow. And he knew that he should never be rueful of having ‘too many customers’ - but it was nice to have a breather every once and a while, especially when the shop got as intensely busy as it did sometimes. 

Perhaps he was just getting too old, but he found himself getting sick of the chaos every now and then. His sixteen year old self likely would have beat him over the head to know that even so much as thought those words, but it was true. 

They were taking this as an opportunity to rearrange the shop, shifting around some product displays to make things look nicer and flow easier, as well as refilling inventory that had gotten wiped out during the height of busy season in Diagon Alley - those last few days that people had been scrambling to get school supplies before September First. Inevitably, hordes of young people had ended up inside the shop, getting things to bring to Hogwarts that definitely were not on their list. 

George actually felt a swell of pride to know that there had been an official amendment to the Hogwarts Code of Conduct, one that specifically banned the possession and use of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products by any student (or professor, for that matter). It was something that had stuck around a lot longer than the ‘educational decree’ that Umbridge had made back in the day concerning the twins’ earlier products. 

McGonagall had even sent the twins a letter about it personally, kindly asking them not to sell products to any students. They had sent her back a personalized Jack-In-The-Box that featured a tattered Umbridge as the ‘Jack’, jumping out and screaming once it reached the end of its song, running away from a terrible beast that chased her from within the box, along with a note that bluntly said ‘not a chance, Professor’. And though the amendment stayed written in the Code of Conduct, it was silently agreed that they would disagree on the matter. 

It had practically tripled their sales since then, because students followed in their mischievous footsteps and loved to do something simply on the basis of being told not to do it. Banned items are the most sought after, of course. 

(Fred and George had even started putting together something that they called ‘The Hogwarts Special’ - a box full of their most popular items bundled together at a discount price, all in disguised brown paper packaging rather than the bright colorful packages that they had become known for, better to sneak into a school trunk without being caught.) 

As George heaved another large package of Skiving Snack Boxes into the middle of the floor, his eyes landed on you. 

You were working on a display for the center of the store - a combination of new products and their most popular classics, your face knit in concentration as you arranged the products in a way that you thought was most appealing on the display stand. Somehow, even wearing your slightly stained work apron with your hair in a messy but practical style and your makeup mostly smudged off from the hard day’s work, you were a truly gorgeous vision. You would always be gorgeous in his eyes. But there was something truly goddess-like about you as the midday sun poured in through the front window to brush across your skin. 

George’s eyes lingered on you for a few moments longer, trying to work up the nerve to say something. He always struggled with what to say to you. And the longer he stood there behind his large stack of boxes, the more the voice in his head screamed: she hates you. 

Well he knew that hate was a strong word. As much as he knew that’s how you might have described it, he knew that it was likely not the right word for how you truly felt. If you had been crassly annoyed with him when the two of you first met due to his pranks and the stupid house rivalry, those feelings had never developed into hate. Especially not after your time in DA together - not after fighting on the same side of a war. 

Some foolish part of him liked to think that after working side by side for so long, the two of you could actually be considered friends. But he wasn’t sure that’s how you saw it. 

When your fingers fumbled and you dropped a Screaming Yo-Yo, causing it to fall to the floor and roll away (the charmed mechanism inside of it letting out little yelps as it rolled across the floor), George bent forward and caught it as you rushed to chase it before it rolled underneath one of the shelves. His breath caught in his chest when the two of you brushed hands around the small object. 

“Oh, here.” 

“Thanks.” 

Both of your quiet voices merged in the air as he handed you the toy and you rushed back to a standing position, holding the object awkwardly and staring at it as you fiddled with the string, avoiding eye contact with him. 

“Stupid little-” You muttered out angrily, and then sighed. “I would say that it jumped out of my hands, but it’s not nearly as bad as those display fireworks,” 

You said, pointing toward a display model of one of the fireworks tubes, which was designed to constantly burn and sputter on the back end, causing it to flip around and fly on a string without ever burning out. Wrangling it onto that string in order to tie it to the display - that had been a particularly challenging time. 

“Sorry about that,” George said quietly, giving a nervous chuckle. “The magic behind it was actually quite tricky, you see-” 

His train of thought was cut off by the sound of the bell ringing above the door - he was surprised that they had customers at this time when this early in September was usually such a dry time for them. When he looked up to greet whoever it was, a frown cut into his face when he instantly realized that these weren’t clients. 

There were about five people, all dressed in formal black robes, topped off with varying kinds of very businessy headwear and stiff expressions, instantly recognizable as Ministry officials. It was quite clear that they weren’t coming into the shop looking for Puking Pastilles or fireworks - they were here for something else. 

Whatever that something was instantly worried him - George’s stomach jolted with anxiety as he wondered if all their business permits were in order (that was Fred’s job, and ordering stock was his). But surely, if it was a simple matter of paperwork, they wouldn’t send this many officials out to take care of it. 

No - this had to be something much worse. This was something big and terrible and that worried him much more. 

“Good afternoon.” George greeted them with a smile (hopefully not looking too nervous) as he forced his spine tall and proud, feigning confidence in front of people who would judge him for his appearance and his mannerisms. “How can I help you fine people today?” 

Fred craned his head up over the shelves to get a look at who it was, instantly picking up on the nervous tone in his brother’s voice where few others would. He had been deeper inside the store at the counter near the cash register, going over the inventory numbers that the three of you had counted up the night before, looking to confirm them with his superior math skills. (Of course, now he was very much distracted from that task.) 

The one leading the pack of stiff looking officials - a particularly stiff man with many wrinkles, who was wearing a black bowler hat to cover a seemingly bald head, someone that George had never seen before and did not recognize - answered George by reaching into the pocket of his robes and pulling something out, extending a piece of parchment out to show him. 

“I have a warrant here for the arrest of one Ms. Y/N L/N.” He said plainly, his tone entirely dull and official. “I was informed that she is employed here.” 

“Warrant?!” You cried out, having been staring at the parade of strangeness from beside George - in a moment your face and body went from the dull tired that came with a long day to stiff with anxiety, clearly shocked. “That can’t be right, that’s bullshit-!” 

You moved to charge toward the man, and George put a protective arm in front of you. He wasn’t quite sure if his instinct was to protect you from the group with their eyes now locked on you, hands moving to their wands, or if he was intent on protecting them from a wrath that he knew you could easily rain down upon them. (Either way, he was protecting you from your own temper, protecting you from flipping out mindlessly on law enforcement and racking up additional very real charges to add to the ones that they had on your warrant now that were - like you said - bullshit.) 

You did fall silent and hovered behind George, letting out a grunt of frustration - but still, he didn’t move his arm, clinging onto your hip beside your apron and causing you to grip his wrist in return while you scowled at the officials past him. 

“Look, we don’t know anything about this.” Fred told them - by now, he had woven his way through the shelves to stand at George’s shoulder. “She’s worked for us for a while but we don’t know anything about-” 

It appeared that he was about to claim your innocence - or at the very least, claim that he and George never knew of any criminal activities that you had partaken in. 

“What are the charges?” George gaped. “Obviously you’ve gotten this all wrong.” 

“Yes, obviously.” You added on with a hiss, tense behind George, clearly eager to fight them once again. 

“You may take a look.” The man said, prodding the paper toward George once again. “But I can assure you that I am not wrong.” 

George let out a grunt of dissatisfaction and snatched the warrant from the man, and his eyes began flickering over the words at lightning speed. You crouched in closer as you read along with him - he saw something about ‘conspiracy to commit heinous acts’ and ‘conspiracy against the Ministry of Magic’, but none of it was blatantly clear to him - nothing read as a clear, specific crime. And he knew that you hadn’t done anything wrong. 

“This is bullshit!” You cried out again. “Conspiracy? I’ve been here playing with fireworks and stupid puke sweets for the past few months and you think I’ve had time to commit conspiracy?!” 

“Can you please confirm your identity, Miss?” The man asked, his voice still deadpan and lacking any emotion. “Are you in fact Miss Y/N-?” 

“I don’t have to tell you shit.” You said, slowly backing up. 

George’s stomach sank when two of the Ministry lackeys rushed to you, more of them taking different routes to get to you as your hand went to your apron for your wand. He ached to fight them off for you, but he knew it wouldn’t end well. 

“Look, Y/N, just go with them!” Fred shouted, his tone deeply frustrated. 

You refused to listen. 

Instead, you ran toward the door, clearly looking to get to the Apparition point outside before they could catch you. 

But they were well-trained Aurors, and they were faster. One of them struck you down with a wordless curse, making you limply fall into one of the fresh displays, knocking down a spray of colourful boxes along the way. Fred heaved out a groan and smacked a hand across his face, clearly upset about the mess. George instinctively ran to your aid, only to be yanked back by Fred, a harsh grip digging into his arm that barely held him back, every single cell in his body screaming at him to help you. But he was forced to watch on in horror while they put some kind of binding curse on your wrists and took your wand out of your apron pocket, confiscating it. 

“On what grounds?!” George shouted - his body coursing with intense rage, on the verge of tears. 

He finally shook himself out of Fred’s grip, but only because his brother knew him too well, and knew that he was still in shock now and would do nothing more than witness the horrible things unfolding in front of him. He could do nothing more than watch as they lifted your limp, barely conscious body from the floor, holding you up by your shoulders. 

“What grounds do you have for this arrest?!” He screamed, clutching the warrant so hard that he began to tear holes in it with his fingernails. 

The leader nodded toward the two people who were holding you, and George couldn’t race across the shop quickly enough to catch them as they stepped out into the street and then Disapparated with you in a blur. His feet felt numb on the floor as he practically tripped over the mess, and he was left with a shaking hand on the doorknob and tears swelling in his eyes, left staring out the glass panes at the empty spot that you had left. 

Now he had nothing more than a harsh pain in his chest that made him want to scream. 

They were taking you away. They were stealing you from him. After all the work he had done to make sure that you would stay with him, that you would be safe. They were taking you away. 

“Sir, I am sorry that you hired someone of such credence without knowing it. Typically their forms of deception are-” The bowler hat man began to speak again, and George flared with anger. 

“What are the charges?” George asked again, whipping around to face the man.

George eyed Fred, who was strangely quiet, staring him down for once in all their years, with what was an unreadable look. He had to wonder why Fred wasn’t as upset about this demonstration of injustice as he was, even if he didn’t like you that much. 

“I have already given you the warrant, Sir, which is my only necessary duty under Rule 36, Section B-” 

“This is a piece of rubbish!” George yelled, cutting off the man’s rambling. “It’s so unreadable - it - it doesn’t mean anything,” He added harshly, throwing the now crumpled warrant at the man’s feet. 

The man sighed and kicked it aside. 

“I have copies.” He said under his breath, seemingly more so to himself. “The charges are Conspiracy to Commit Fraud, Conspiracy Against the Ministry of Magic, Aiding and-” 

“What does that even mean? What evidence do you have?” George pressed. “I’ve known Y/N for years, she hasn’t done anything wrong. You’ve got this all wrong, you’re mistaken.” 

The man paused, hanging a deadly silence over their heads as George stared him down and Fred stared George down, all very tense. George was seemingly the only person in the room who had absolutely no idea what was going on. He was the only one who thought it was entirely shocking that you had been arrested. 

“Is Miss L/N not related to a known Death Eater? Several, actually, if I’m not mistaken?” The man posed. 

George’s throat tightened harshly. 

They were arresting you because of what your father had done? 

That was so unfair. So grossly unfair. That was plainly unjust. It was horrible and unethical and - just stupid. It was bullshit. 

“Yes, but-” 

“Well I’m terribly sorry to break the news to you, Mr. Weasley, but typically those regrettable values are passed on in families. Nobody has seen or heard from Mr. L/N since The Battle of Hogwarts, and we have a feeling that his daughter will know exactly where to find him.” 

“She won’t.” George spat back. “She hasn’t spoken to her father in years, I know that for a fact.” 

George hated to lie, but he knew that if he did tell the truth, they wouldn’t believe him. They would never believe the fact that the last time you had seen your father, it had almost ended with you dead for your ‘betrayal’ of the Pureblood line. 

“Well Mr. Weasley, I’m afraid that the Ministry can’t simply take your word for it. We must use our own tactics and gather the information for ourselves.” 

His stomach grew sickly at the implication of what ‘tactics’ they would use, thinking that you would come back to him as a hollow shell of your former self after being tortured by Dementors for hours, destined to never give them the answers they wanted to hear. And that was only what he knew about the things they did. Merlin knows what other things he couldn’t even imagine that they might do to you. 

Before George could further argue - before he could defend you and explain that you hadn’t spoken to your father, that you hated him, that you had no idea where he was - the man left the shop and Disapparated himself as well, leaving George hurt and speechless. 

But only for a moment.  

Then, everything within George was telling him to spring into action. You hadn’t done anything wrong, and there was nothing they could truly charge you with. If they were extorting you for information about your father, they weren’t going to get it. So they needed to leave you the hell alone. 

George was going to free you. 

He stormed past Fred to the store room, grabbing his coat off the hook he had hung it on in order to lug around the boxes, and he put it on and started straightening up his appearance a bit. If he was going to the Ministry (or to Hogwarts to seek back-up first, he wasn’t quite sure yet) then he would need to look nice to ensure that he would be taken seriously. 

“What are you doing?” Fred asked, slowly trailing behind him into the storage room, entirely curious about his shift from shock and anger to determined urgency. 

“Going to get help.” George announced, as it was the only thing he was sure about. 

Help from where or who, he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps he should go to Hogwarts and find Hermione - he could grab the crumbled warrant off the floor along the way and have her read it. She would know how to decipher the bullshit wording and find some kind of loophole within it. 

“Are you going to close up and come along or are you staying back to watch the shop?” George asked, his mind still busy with planning his next move. 

Fred gaped at George, his expression somewhere between disgust and shock. Again, George felt a strange uneasiness in the fact that he genuinely didn’t know what his brother was thinking. Perhaps he was intimidated by the idea of taking on the Ministry, or perhaps he was just hesitant to leave the shop when they had so much work to do. But George knew what had to be done when such harsh injustice had just been done right in front of his eyes. 

“You can’t be serious.” Fred breathed out quietly, almost timidly, the words leaving him like air seeping out of a balloon. 

“I am.” George easily confirmed, firm and confident now. “Maybe we can go to Dad, or-” 

“Dad’s department would have absolutely nothing to do with this.” Fred fired back, edging on rude. 

“Then I’ll go to Hermione. She’s read books about this sort of stuff - hell, she’s probably read through the laws that they are currently breaking by holding Y/N without cause, and-” 

George moved to walk around Fred, going to get the warrant so that Hermione could look it over. Much to his shock, Fred stopped him by raising a hand to the middle of his chest. 

“Georgie, slow down.” He said, using the nickname in an attempt to ground his brother from what he believed to be a small fit of insanity. “Look, I know you had a very strange, misguided, schoolboy crush on this girl once, but-” 

“That’s not what this is about.” George ground out through his teeth. 

Yes, George had confided in Fred that he fancied you - only to have Fred mock him relentlessly for it. But even if he had absolutely no romantic inclination toward you, seeing someone be arrested without cause would still truly bother him. It just wasn’t right. If it had happened to you or anyone, it wasn’t right. 

“Then what is it?” Fred pressed. George chose not to dignify this with an answer, hoping that his brother was having a momentary brain aneurysm that would soon end and that they would be back on the same page again. “As far as I’m concerned, dear brother, they just took care of our problem for us. We should be thanking them.” 

George clenched his jaw angrily. This was the first time in nearly ten years that he had genuinely wanted to hit his brother. 

“You can’t be serious.” George hurled Fred’s words back at him, harsher than Fred had originally said them, causing him to roll his eyes. 

George stepped around him and walked back out into the shop to find the crumpled up paper that he needed. 

“Come on, what’s so great about Y/N anyway?” Fred whined. “Any sense of good looks she has is easily wiped out by her horrible personality-” 

“She’s not nearly as horrible as she was.” 

George argued gently, reaching down to pluck the paper off the floor. 

“Besides, this isn’t about great or not great - this isn’t about stupid personality conflicts. This is about right and wrong. And you know it.” George told his brother firmly. “She shouldn’t go to Azkaban simply on the basis of being related to a Death Eater when she hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s shown that she’s nothing like her father, so she doesn’t deserve to be arrested for his crimes just because they’re too bloody stupid to find him.” 

George stared Fred down, and Fred looked swollen with thought for a moment, taking a heavy breath and clenching his jaw as he clearly hesitated to speak. Obviously, he wanted to argue - but he knew that George was right. 

“And might I remind you that she saved your life. And you would not even be standing here with breath in your lungs to whine and complain without that ‘horrible’ witch that you claim to hate so much.” George added on smugly, unable to resist. 

Naturally, this caused both of them to think back to The Battle of Hogwarts, when you had indeed saved Fred’s life. A Death Eater had fired off a curse that caused a ceiling to collapse above Fred’s head, and if not for your quick thinking to hurl a non-lethal stunning curse at Fred that threw his body out of the way of the debris, he would have been crushed under hundreds of pounds of falling stone and killed. 

Of course, he whined at you for days after he woke up from the minor head injury that you caused by knocking him into one of the few still-standing walls. And to this day, he had never once thanked you for saving his life. And you never brought it up, because whenever you did, all he did was whine about the scar he now had - one that was well disguised in his hairline and barely noticeable. He always said that you had ‘deliberately maimed’ him to get back at him for the years of name calling. 

The two of you couldn’t get along over anything. 

“You’re gonna keep lording that over my head, aren’t you?” Fred mumbled quietly, rolling his eyes. 

After a few moments of Fred’s mind churning hard, the thoughts clearly simmering behind his eyes, he took his wand out of his pocket and flicked it toward the front of the shop. In a few smooth movements, he closed the blinds, locked the door, and switched the sign from ‘Welcome’ to ‘Closed - Please Come Again Later’. 

“Fine.” He huffed out, clearly defeated. “I guess you’re right. But I don’t have to like it.” 

George beamed a smile at this brother. 

“We’ll go and find Hermione, then?” 

“Strangely, I think we’ll have better luck calling in a favour from our big brother.” Fred noted. “The stick up Percy’s arse might actually be useful for once.” 

George hadn’t even thought of that. But that was why he and Fred made a very great team. 

“And for the record, I still don’t like Y/N.” Fred hastily added on as they walked upstairs to leave via The Floo Network. “But I do hope that this finally gets you laid.” 

George sharply rolled his eyes at this, and chose not to reply - mostly because he knew that coming from Fred, it wasn’t entirely intended as a joke. 

… 

You were surprised by how passionately the twins defended you. They stood up as character witnesses for you in court - and had even called upon others to do the same. 

Perhaps that was why you were still ‘settling into’ a job that you continuously claimed to yourself was only temporary. 

As much as you were annoyed by the constant sounds and bright colours and the steady stream of customers, you found a certain sense of comfort in the shop. You were annoyed by the twins, but when it mattered most, they had backed you up. They had saved you. And you knew that people needed laughter now more than ever, even if you weren’t in on the joke. 

… 

You were pleased that even if your life didn’t necessarily make you happy, you had established a sense of routine that made your life relatively stress-free. 

You would wake up, make yourself a cup of tea, get dressed and put on some make-up (even though the obnoxious orange apron ruined whatever ‘look’ you typically tried to go for, you still did pride yourself in your appearance). And after eating something easy for breakfast, you would make your way downstairs to help George open the shop. 

Sometimes he would bring you a pastry as a thanks for being awake so early, which you found strange because it was quite literally part of your job. But you still found yourself accepting whatever danish or croissant he brought you - and taking his copy of the Prophet to read on your lunch time break when Fred finally stumbled out of bed to come into work. 

George was much more of a morning person, so he and Fred had an agreement that if George opened, Fred would be the one to stay later to close up when needed. 

They balanced each other out in a lot of ways. 

Fred was better with numbers, so he attended to the books. George was better with the artistic aspects, so he designed the packaging for new products. Fred was much more outgoing and easily charmed new people - so he spoke to people about getting WWW products into shops in other places around the world. And he even made business deals to get them rare and new ingredients for products that they wanted to make. And George was a better Potioneer, so he often made test batches of those new products with the new ingredients that Fred acquired. 

During your time at school, you had been one of the people who had made the mistake of believing that the twins were simply two halves of the same person. You had thought that they were truly identical, inside and out. You lumped them together in your mind so often, thinking that there weren’t any differences between them. 

But the more time you spent around them, especially while working at the shop, the more you realized that they were truly, utterly different. They worked together not because they couldn’t be separated or because they naturally came as a pair - but because they had established a friendship and a working relationship that genuinely worked well for them. They balanced each other out with their unique talents, they didn’t just have the same skill set twice over. 

In a lot of ways, you admired it. 

Even if that strong partnership had caused you to be covered in slime or paint or to be tripped and trapped in a broom closet during your days at Hogwarts far too many times. You admired them much more now that you worked with them, and not against them. 

It was seemingly just another random Monday when George took a break from whatever he had been doing and came to find you in the upstairs store room. You were going through a new batch of products and taking inventory of everything before you stocked them out on the floor. 

“How’s it going?” George asked, using his height to his advantage to peek over the pile of boxes at you. You were sitting on the floor with one of them open in front of you, counting and sorting a batch of products for their newly improved Skiving Snack Boxes. 

“Fine, I guess.” You answered dully, using your quill to jot down a number on your parchment before you forgot it. “Wasn’t Fred supposed to do this last night? Where is he, anyway?” 

“Oh, he’s gone on a trip.” George told you, leaning his folded arms on the box in front of him. “He’s visiting Angelina during her week off from Harpies’ training.” 

Angelina Johnson, Fred’s girlfriend of a few months, had been recruited for the professional Quidditch team The Holyhead Harpies. A few weeks prior, she had left to go to Berlin, where the team’s prestigious coach resided and they had a training camp set up for the team. Since then, you had overheard Fred complaining to George near constantly about how she wasn’t allowed to leave training to come and visit him and how he almost never got letters from her because she was too busy and too tired to write to him. 

You hoped that him getting laid for a week straight would mean that he came back in a better mood. Even if it meant a whole week of you having to pick up the slack and do more work while he was gone. 

“And he’s meeting with some potential investors while he’s there.” George added on, casual and conversational. “Apparently he was in communication with someone who has a line of Prank Quills that we might want to buy off them for the shop,” 

“I thought you two always made your own products?” You questioned, raising a brow at him. 

“So far that has been the case, yes.” George confirmed, obviously proud. “But it never hurts to expand our horizons and see what other mischievous minds have come up with,” 

You shrugged. It wasn’t your business to worry about. 

“I just wish that I would have been warned that I would be stuck in this dusty, spider-invested hole doing inventory.” You lamented, staring down at yourself in disgust. 

You had worn a dress that day, and a pair of rather nice black lace tights along with your usual heels. And now you were sitting on the dusty floor, with your shoes and tights getting disgustingly filthy. 

“I would have worn crappier clothes…” You mumbled the last part to yourself, heaving a small sigh as you lightly kicked one of the boxes, needing to get out some of the frustration. 

“I thought Fred mentioned this to you?” George posed, confused. “He should have warned you that you might have to pick up a few extra shifts-” 

You let out a harsh scoff, cutting off George’s words. 

“This might have escaped your attention, George, but Fred doesn’t talk to me unless it’s absolutely necessary.” You pointed out. “Beyond talking about the products, he doesn’t even say ‘hello’ to me when he comes in. I think if the building was on fire, he would ask you to tell me to evacuate.” 

George sighed, mentally conceding to your point. 

“Yeah, I think Mum got on him about that whole… ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say’, bit.” 

You rolled your eyes at this. 

You thought back to a time when Mrs. Weasley had come into the shop to bring the twins some food she had made for them, complaining about how they likely weren’t eating properly. 

But she had accidentally stumbled upon Fred calling you stupid and useless, accusing you of losing some of his inventory sheets, though the conflict was far from one-sided. You had called him blind and dumb and said that he would never be able to find a hole in his own arse even with a mirror, arguing that he had obviously lost them himself. 

But naturally, Molly had only heard the incriminating words coming from him, which quickly put a fury in her. She had put her casserole dishes on the front counter, marched around it, grabbed him by the ear, yanking him harshly toward her - she berated him for calling you such names without shame and threatened to yank his ear right off so that he and George would match. 

(She had put on a sweet voice and apologized profusely to you on his behalf before making him grunt apologies through the pain, and then she had invited you to a nice helping of cottage pie - so the day turned out wonderful for you.) 

Obviously, since then, he had been terrified to say a cross word to you, lest it somehow get back to his mother. 

“Well I understand.” You replied. “He’s never had anything nice to say to me, so he’s just stopped talking to me completely. It makes sense now.” 

“Yeah, Fred is…” George trailed off, trying to find words for it. 

To this day, George didn’t entirely understand why Fred was so petty and aggravated with you. Sure, the two of you had exchanged plenty of mean words to each other during your days at Hogwarts, but you weren’t even as quick to anger these days as he was. He was usually the one to start it. 

“I’m sorry about him.” George landed on those words, deciding that even if he didn’t understand the cause behind Fred’s petty anger toward you, he could apologize for it. “He can be a bit of a stupid git sometimes.” 

“‘Can be’ - that’s a funny way to put it.” You replied, nodding, your face breaking into a slight smile. 

George smiled. Again, he was pleased to have a conversation with you where you didn’t seem so deeply annoyed with him and didn’t try to insult him. Thus far, you didn’t even seem so eager to get away and end the conversation. 

He would even dare to say that you seemed content. That you were enjoying his presence. 

Typically, this would be the part of the conversation where he would say something like ‘I should let you get back to work now’, and then he would leave the room and leave you alone, knowing that your patience with him was thin and he shouldn’t wear it out. But this time, he decided to push things just a bit farther. He was trying to make progress with you, after all. (He knew that Fred had been joking, but he wanted to go on a real date with you before the end of the decade.) 

“Well, at least we can enjoy this week without him.” 

You were intensely curious about his use of the word ‘we’ in that sentence, but another word tripped you up far more. 

“Enjoy?” You questioned. 

You knew that sometimes Fred and George bickered with each other - running a business together could be stressful, and they didn’t constantly agree about everything. But as far as you knew, they enjoyed spending time together and they were practically inseparable. You didn’t think that George would be relieved to have time without Fred. 

You wondered why he seemed so happy not to have Fred around. 

“Yeah,” He nodded. 

George grinned at you, and you found a pang shooting through your gut. It was an odd kind of delight that you could barely acknowledge igniting inside of you as you realized that he was smiling at you, genuinely smiling at you. There was no indoor swamp or parade of water balloons to be found. You weren’t the butt of a joke in order for that smile to happen. It ignited an instinctive panic within you, but you found yourself really liking his smile. 

“We should have dinner together or something.” He chuckled brightly. “We could finally spend some time together outside of work. Have a discussion that doesn’t involve sales numbers or product displays.”

That small spark of panic flamed into a full-blown raging fire when you realized what he had meant. That the ‘we’ had been the truly important part of the sentence - ‘we can enjoy this week’ - he had meant that he wanted to spend time with you. He wanted to enjoy some time with you. 

He wanted to spend time with you outside of work? 

He wanted to be alone with you? 

He was asking you out on a date. 

No, he wasn’t - a voice inside of your brain instantly demanded. There was no way he was asking you out on a date. He didn’t like you, he never thought of you that way. There was no way he thought of you romantically. 

He was only trying to be nice because he was a decent human being. He had been raised much differently than you had. This was just his instinct toward common courtesy acting up again - the same one that had caused him to extend the job offer toward you in the first place. He thought you were pathetic and lonely and he likely knew that you spent all of your time outside of work by yourself. He was extending this offer to you due to pity. 

Absolutely alarmed with that internal panic, you forced yourself to break the horrible moment of ongoing silence by asking: 

“Is that… necessary?” You choked out, knowing that you sounded like an animal caught in a trap, hating how intimidated and unsure your voice was. 

“What?” George gaped in return, his face pressing tight with confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“Are you ordering me to have dinner with you?” You asked, doing the cowardly thing and doubling down instead of clarifying what you truly meant - asking him if he had intended it romantically, as a date. “Are you asking me as my boss or can I do what I please in my own free time?” 

George’s face shifted from bright and hopeful to downtrodden, and seeing this instantly caused something inside of you to ache. It was the first time since unnerving grief of The Battle of Hogwarts that you had felt anything other than stress and tired boredom toward life. 

“I’m asking you as a friend.” He quickly clarified, a sharp sourness popping up in his voice, barely covering up the lulling sadness that tightened his throat. “And I thought that you would be pleased to spend your free time with me, but I guess I thought wrong.” 

Friend. 

For some reason that hurt you more than any insult could have. The strange reality of a date you could have dealt with. Even if he had come in and demanded that he was taking you out on a date - your mind would have eventually adjusted to the pure bizarreness of it. 

But him calling you a friend? It hurt and it was too strange, all at once. 

You weren’t friendly. You weren’t anybody’s friend.

Perhaps it was because something inside of you screamed that you didn’t deserve the title, but you hated it. Instantly, it caused you to seethe with anger. So as he finally turned and walked away in defeat, you had to open your mouth and deliver the final blow. You pushed yourself up off the floor, barely able to see over the stack of boxes to shout your next words at him. 

“We aren’t friends!” You spat out bitterly. “I’m not your friend.” 

When he turned back to you, he had the most utterly hurt expression that you had ever seen - his gentle eyes swimming with pain and his mouth drooping into a pathetic frown, his cheeks that were usually full with laughter sagging in a horrible way that didn’t suit him at all. 

Though it made you feel sickly to see him like this - in the typical fashion that you were taught, you killed any kindness that had been shown to you. You stepped out from behind the boxes, and continued firing blows as he tried to speak. You had to make sure that this notion of ‘friends’ was truly dead.  

“Y/N-” 

“No.” You rasped, your throat slightly tight with tears that you were holding back, hating yourself for being like this. “Just because we ended up on the same side, doesn’t mean we have to like each other. Fred doesn’t like me, so why should you?” 

George’s expression grew even more painful at this, but he didn’t have anything left to say. 

“I’m your employee, that’s it.” You said, firm and finite. “We can be courteous to each other, but we don’t need to have fucking tea parties and hold hands and-” 

“I get the point.” George sighed, cutting you off. “I get it. I won’t try to be nice to you anymore.” 

With that, he stormed out, not sticking around long enough to see the bitter, angry tears that you released as you moved to get back to your work. 

After he rang up a few off-season customers in the shop and then saw them off, his mind began churning and he formed a terrible, brilliant plan. Even without Fred around, he could still make plenty of trouble on his own. 

And as George plotted his clever, mischievous little plans to get back at you, he also thought about how you came to be employed at the shop in the first place. He thought back to the whole reason that he believed the two of you were friends at all. A night that he considered two parts luck and one part clever scamming on his part - as most of his life beforehand had been. 

… 

Three days. 

It had been just three days since The Great Harry Potter, The Chosen One had defeated Lord Voldemort once and for all, truly killing the darkest wizard of all time, even leaving behind a corpse to prove it. A corpse that had been burned in the courtyard of Hogwarts to many rousing cheers from the tired crowd of onlookers. It had been three tender days since the battle had ended, leaving everyone tired, battered, bruised, and cautiously optimistic for the future. 

It had been three days filled with roaring celebrations for the Dark Lord’s defeat, and those rousing parties were finally starting to die down, leaving a breath of space in the wake of the disaster, time for funerals to bury the dead and mourn the people everyone had loved. And finally leaving mindfulness for the discovery of gruesome things that Voldemort’s followers and people within the Ministry were trying their best to cover up. Many people who had ended up on the wrong side were fleeing the country, trying not to be apprehended for their crimes. 

George had been awake for days straight, setting up some extra spells to protect the shop from looting as Diagon Alley descended into chaos with so many celebratory parties having broken out. With Fred still in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing due to the injury he had sustained during the Battle, taking the time he needed to recover, George was on his own to make sure that Fred still had a shop to come home to. He had to make sure that everything they had worked so hard for wasn’t ruined in just a few short days. As happy as he was that Voldemort had been defeated, he was glad that all the revelry seemed to be dying down now. 

Though he was bone-tired and exhausted, as he locked up the shop, he chose not to go back to the apartment - vacant of Fred and far too lonely. And he couldn’t see himself going to the Burrow either, where Mum was likely cooking a feast to over-feed everyone and fussing over injuries. (He didn’t need his head wound cleaned until it was sore and he was feeling a bit too sickly to eat.) 

He couldn’t lay down and go to sleep, because every time he closed his eyes, all he could think about was the image of Fred, his head bloody with a large cut across his forehead from where you had flung him into a wall, to save his life from tons of falling debris. But still, the sight of his limp, unconscious body on the floor as he grew more pale, unable to woken up no matter how much George shook him and called his name - it was a frightening one that shook his soul at the time. 

George had only been able to breathe again once he received the news from Madame Pomfrey that Fred was going to be okay. He would just be unconscious for a few days while the wound healed and the swelling in his head went down. 

So, like many other people on this day, whether it was for celebration or mourning or just to dull the pain, George wanted to get drunk. He was not surprised when he found The Leaky Cauldron packed, and he had to force his way in, using his height to his advantage to elbow his way up to the bar in an attempt to place his order. But before he could actually get the barmaid’s attention, any thought about drinking flew from his mind when he spotted you. 

You were leaning against the end of the bar, propped up with your face in the palm of your hand, your elbow pressed against the bartop - you looked as though the filthy, unpolished wood of the bar was the only thing supporting your entire system at the moment. 

Your dark eye make-up was smeared, and you were sitting on a long dark trench coat that you had draped over the barstool, your blouse was partially unbuttoned, revealing the dark, lacy bra that you had on underneath. Your dark stockings were torn in some places, beginning to turn into runs up your whole leg, your skirt riding up to a short length that he knew you would have deemed far too inappropriate and yanked down if you had been paying attention at all, one of your heels having fallen off to the floor. 

You were a drunken mess, that much was immediately obvious. As he shoved past more people and got closer to you, he could smell the scotch practically seeping out of your pores. 

George had to wonder how long you had been camping on that barstool, drinking away your sorrows. He wondered which loved one you were mourning - who had died that was close to you in order for you to need so much booze to drown the feelings out. He immediately felt an instinct flare up to care for you, and he knew that he wouldn’t be having his drink, and he wouldn’t be leaving the bar without you. Especially not when you were in this state. 

“Y/N.” George gently called your name as he came to stand at your side, still towering over you as you sat on the tall barstool. 

Instinctively, he put a hand on your back, feeling the need to protect you from the bustling crowd, suddenly conscious of how many men were in the bar and how vulnerable you were. He felt intensely lucky that he was the one to find you, and not some other foul git with worse things on his mind. 

Finally, after a long, delayed moment, you turned your head in response to him calling your name. Your eyes were terribly slowed by how much alcohol was in your system, and you moved in slow motion as your gaze wandered from the wall in front of you over toward him, seeming entirely surprised to find that the warm hand on your back was attached to him. 

“Weasley.” You said quietly, and then let out a small hiccup. “George. George Weasley. You’re the tall one.” 

“Yes.” George responded. 

He knew that with the bandage wrapped around his head, still supporting his very visible ear injury, (or rather, the random hole in the side of his head where his ear used to be) he was much more easily discernible from Fred. But he was still glad that you knew who he was. 

“How much have you had to drink?” He knew that it was likely a stupid question, but still, he felt the need to ask it. 

“How much have you had t-to drink?” You countered, slurring, scowling harshly at him. 

As much as he would like to pull up a stool beside yours and follow you into stupid levels of drunkenness, he knew that he had to be the responsible one. Stupid Gryffindor nobility. And he owed you, because you had saved Fred’s life just a few days ago. He would owe you for that for a long time. So it was time to start paying you back - even if getting you into a warm bed and making sure that you didn’t drown in your own vomit was small compared to saving someone’s life, it would still be a start. 

“Come on,” George insisted, wrestling your coat out from underneath you and trying to get you into it. 

Of course, you immediately started fighting him like a cranky drunk toddler as he moved to put your arm into the sleeve. 

“No!” You shouted at him, beginning to push him away, causing a few pairs of eyes in the pub to look over. “I am gonna keep drinking! B-because getting drunk is the thing to do. Drinking is the thing. It’s all that there is.” 

“Why?” George countered, pausing with your arm awkwardly halfway into your sleeve. 

You gave a long, lazy blink up at him. He thought that perhaps if you could vent your sadness to him, then you would be less inclined to drink, and you wouldn’t fight him off so that he could take you home to rest. 

Your face broke into a smile - not one of actual happiness, but a twisted one that said your mind was truly breaking under the weight of what had upset you. And then, you began laughing. A broken, harsh laugh that pierced right through George as your scotch-soaked breath puffed across his face. 

“I - I have nothing!” You cried out, sounding utterly mad. “I have no prospects, no family, no job! No future! Nothing!” 

So that’s what was upsetting you so much. The end of the war had reminded you that you and your ‘family’ had ended up on two very different sides. And the entire battle against Voldemort had disrupted your education and the Potioneer training that you had wanted to do after Hogwarts, so you weren’t sure what you wanted to do with your life now. 

It was all a very crappy situation to end up in. While George had the shop to go back to, and a very loving family to fall back on for support (his mother’s love so smothering that sometimes he dared to complain about it) - you didn’t have anything. A pang of guilt throbbed inside of him as he watched your face become distant and haunted, and even more terrible words came drifting from your drunken lips. 

“He even took Pixie.” You sniffled quietly, picking up the cup in front of you and finishing the last of your drink. “The bastard took everything… and he just had to - fuck. I can’t believe he killed Pixie.” 

“Who’s Pixie?” George wondered quietly, hating the depth of the mourning in your voice. 

He had to guess that the ‘he’ you were referring to was your father. It didn’t surprise him that he had killed someone dear to you, and that was one of the reasons you were in the bar, trying to drink yourself into unconsciousness. George wondered if Pixie was a pet of yours or something along those lines - it would be a bit of a strange name for a person. But if it was a person, he would report the murder so that your father would pay for the crime when they caught him. 

“She - she was my House Elf.” You told him with another drunken stutter. 

Oh. 

George had never been around House Elves much in his life. He knew that it was something often linked to Pureblood culture, and his parents had never liked the idea of having one around. They were much more into ‘the value of hard work’ and ‘getting stuck in’, and they had always taught the Weasley children from a young age that if you want something, you need to do it for yourself. It was likely why Fred and George had worked so hard to get the shop - making the products from scratch, getting their seed money by taking bets, filling out all the paperwork to get the lease in Diagon Alley. Even if it wasn’t exactly what their parents had envisioned for them, they had worked hard for it. 

George’s experience with House Elves was very minimal. Other than the few times he and Fred had ducked into the Hogwarts’ kitchens to hide out from a professor after a particularly epic prank, only to have dozens of beady eyes staring at them; or hearing Harry speak of Dobby as a good friend; or the few months the Weasleys had stayed at Grimmauld Place and he had tried his best to avoid Kreacher and his ramblings about ‘Blood Traitors’ - he wasn’t really sure what having a House Elf was even like. 

So he simply sat there and listened as you spoke about Pixie, your heart clearly aching for your lost beloved Elf. 

“She was m-more of a mother to me than… well my mother was dead. She took care of me more than my father did, honestly. She did everything for me. It was her job, but - it felt like family.” You choked on these words, clearly most mournful when thinking of this. “She used to wake me up, and cook for me, and do the little buttons on my jumpers. And she used to tell me ‘don’t frown, girlie, because you never know who could be falling in love with your smile’. And I know it’s stupid, but I loved her. And I was - I was gonna take her with me. I - I had no clue where I was gonna go, but I was gonna take her with me.” 

George’s insides ached as the undistilled sadness came through your voice, and he could do little more than to listen as you continued on. He knew that it was important for you to feel heard when you were at your weakest. 

“I went home. I wasn’t planning on staying, I just… he ruined everything.” You huffed, your words touched with anger even though grief was the prominent emotion. “He had burned all the pictures of my mother… and there was this jewelry box that she had given me that belonged to her grandmother. And he had smashed it. He just wants me to suffer. He’s such a bastard.” 

You looked up at George then, your eyes shining with tears, and his throat was throttled by his own unshed tears. 

“He is.” George easily confirmed. Unsure what else to do, he tried once again to get you out of the bar. “Come on, love. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, and we can get you some water-” 

He moved onto trying to care for you, knowing that he couldn’t take away your pain. He could only try to ease it - he could only be there for you now to make sure that you didn’t make a terrible mess of yourself. He was trying to make sure that you had a safe place to land. 

“I don’t even have a reputation.” You whispered this quieter, pulling George closer by the front of his shirt to say it, as though it were a fantastic secret. “That used to be all I could think about - my reputation. I used to spend every day thinking of what other people thought of me… I mean now I know what everyone thinks of me!” 

Much to George’s alarm, you back shouting, turning to stare at everyone else in the pub as you intentionally attracted their attention. 

“They all think I was part of it! They all think I’m one of them!” You hissed out, your voice struggling to slither out of your heavy, drunken lips, not sounding nearly as intimidating as you likely wanted it to while you glared at the crowd of on-lookers. “But look! Look, everyone!” 

George had no idea why, and then suddenly, you ripped your arm out of your jacket once again, and you began waving both your arms frantically, showing off your bare arms to everyone who continued to stare. 

“Look, everyone! No Marks! I am not the person you think I am!” 

Oh. 

You were desperate to prove that you hadn’t been fighting on the wrong side. 

“Just because my father is a self-righteous arseh-” 

“Love, calm down.” George told you, gently bringing your arms back down, knowing that you would regret making a fool of yourself later. 

You let out a sputtering laugh in his direction. 

“Good idea!” You gasped, and then waved toward the barmaid. “I’ll have another-” 

“No, she’s cut off.” George said sharply, looking at the barmaid rather than trying to tell you. 

George then went back to trying to dress you, squatting down and forcing your shoe on, which wasn’t too difficult. When he came back up and kept trying to wrestle you into your coat, he found the barmaid waving a piece of parchment in his face. 

“She hasn’t paid her tab.” She said gruffly. 

By the look of the amount, you had been there all night. 

“Send it up to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.” George said, shoving the paper back across the bar. 

“Fine.” The woman huffed. “But I didn’t know that a couple of good boys like you associated with Death Eaters-” 

“She’s not a Death Eater.” George spat back. “She saved my brother’s life a few days ago. So you should check your facts before someone in a worse mood hears you spouting that shit,” He added on, giving a thinly veiled warning. 

George finally got you into the coat, and he kept an arm tight around your shoulders as he steered you through the crowd and out of the bar. Walking you down the cobblestone street, keeping you from tripping over yourself while you were wearing those bloody heels was certainly interesting. After a journey that felt too long, he finally got you through the shop and upstairs to the apartment above it. 

He and Fred still had a few boxes left there (more for storage purposes than anything else), and he would have to find something to make up the bed with, but it was better than nothing. Definitely better than trying to Apparate with you in this condition. 

He sat you down on the couch that they had left behind, and you sank into the soft furniture, quickly kicking off your irritating shoes as you relaxed back and closed your eyes. George went to the kitchen and got you a glass and filled it with water, bringing it over to you, knowing that something other than liquor would do you some good. 

You took it from him without a fight, and began gulping it down, finishing almost the entire thing as he smiled at you. He was glad to be taking care of you right now. Not only did it occupy his mind, but he was thankful for the company. Unlike what most people thought, you were easy to get along with. 

As you took a breath from the water, he moved toward the boxes, looking for something to make up the bed with. You gave him a curious look. 

“Is someone moving?” You slurred out, your words still weighed down by drunkenness. 

You would definitely need to sleep it off. 

“Yeah.” He answered. “Fred and I have already moved. We used to live here. But we got a better place outside of London.” 

“Oh.” You replied, giving another hiccup. “T-too bad. This place is kind of cozy.” 

He was surprised that someone like you - someone who came from riches and grew up with the ‘finer things in life’ didn’t make a comment about the apartment being small and cramped. But he supposed that you weren’t a snob like Malfoy, after all. 

“It’s nice that it’s empty. It means that nobody will care that I’m putting you up here for the night.” He told you. 

“What?” You gaped in return, seeming confused by his words. 

“You’re not Apparating while drunk.” He told you. “So you’re staying here.” 

There was a moment of comfortable silence, and then you surprised George when you spoke up again. 

“George?” 

When he turned around to face you, you were looking at him with that intense sadness in your eyes again, and it truly struck through his gut. He hated that he felt so utterly helpless. He hated that he couldn’t take your pain away. 

“What is it, love?” He asked, wondering what was on your mind now. 

“Do - do you think I’m a bad person?” You asked, your voice terribly pitiful and small. 

Just like the image of Fred bloody and unconscious, this punched a hole right through George’s chest. 

“What? No. Of course not.” George itched with the urge to reach out and sweep you into a hug, but he feared that this would make you uncomfortable. So he squeezed his hands at his sides and eventually crossed his arms over his chest as he spoke again. “You’re so far from being a bad person. You fought alongside us. You saved Fred. You’ve always been good.” 

“Not always.” You huffed quietly. 

“Well you’re certainly no Death Eater.” 

George declared, turning back and grabbing a quilt that his mother had made from one of the boxes and bringing it into the naked mattress that was still stacked on the twin frame in the bedroom. (When the shop first started, the twins had been so busy that they used to take shifts sleeping, and only needed one single bed between the two of them, so it was all the apartment had.) 

By the time he had made up the bed to be somewhat comfortable, he came back out to discover that you had fallen asleep on the couch. So he decided not to risk waking you up by levitating you, and instead he very gently lifted your feet up to join the rest of your body, tucked a small throw pillow under your head, and covered you up with the quilt. 

While he stood there, admiring how peaceful you looked in your sleep, he did have to use the deepest form of self restraint to keep himself from laying a small kiss on your forehead. He couldn’t let himself give in to that urge because that wasn’t the nature of your relationship. No - he just left you a note telling you to meet him downstairs in his office when you woke up. 

… 

When you found George in his office the next day, if you had any signs of a hangover, you certainly didn’t show them. You were carrying yourself very well - you had rubbed off your smudged make-up, tidied up your hair, straightened out your clothes, and even taken off (and presumably thrown away) your ruined stockings, giving him a rare glimpse of your bare legs. 

However, as you stared him down after knocking on the open door, he was surprised to see such a deep scowl on your face. He thought that the two of you had made progress the night before and that you would be… softer toward him. Especially after opening up to him so much. 

“Y/N-” He greeted you warmly. 

“Look, Weasley, I’m really sorry about last night. Whatever happened-” You began speaking vaguely, and he cut you off, immediately curious of something. 

“How much of it do you remember?” He asked. 

He would be mildly devastated if you didn’t remember the night before - the tender emotions of it, the way you had opened up to him. But he knew that you had certainly been drunk enough to cause memory problems, and that was likely the only reason you had opened up to him so much. He definitely wouldn’t hold it against you in the long run. 

“Excuse me?” You gaped, seeming almost insulted by the question. 

“How much of last night do you even remember?” He prodded, repeating the question. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?” 

You let out a huff, your whole body tense. And then, deflating like a balloon, your posture slumped for the first time in all the years he had known you, and you finally let your guard down in front of him for the first time while sober. 

“No.” You admitted hesitantly. “Go ahead, start laughing.” 

You were on the verge of tears, and George hated that you thought he might make fun of some of your most vulnerable moments. 

“I don’t think people being upset is very funny.” He told you honestly. “People freaking out because they’re covered in muck or because something jumped out at them? Yes, that’s funny. Genuine upset - that’s not funny.” 

“Thank you for the clarification.” You said, deadpan coming into your voice as you were unsure how to proceed. 

You moved to leave, and George’s next words stopped you. 

“Last night, you were complaining because you said that you have no prospects.” He told you. “Nothing planned for your future.” 

You froze up, not yet turning around - absolutely hating the vulnerability you had disclosed to him. 

“Fred is gonna be in the hospital for a while, as you know. And I’m gonna need some help around the shop while he’s gone. We’re probably gonna help around here after that anyway. We’ve been getting busier and busier.” George continued on. 

You slowly swung around, heart pounding in your chest as you processed his words. 

“I know it’s probably not glamorous - it’s gonna be a lot of hard work and some of the products can be tricky-” 

“Are you offering me a job?” You asked, trying to get clarity on the situation. 

“Yes.” George nodded. “It’s fifty Galleons a day, flat rate, no commissions. Plus, if you want, the flat above the shop is vacant. And it’s furnished.” 

“What would the rent be?” You asked, thinking that there was a catch. 

George shrugged. “It comes with the position. But you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.” 

He remembered what you had said about going ‘home’ but not planning to stay there - you said that you had no clue where you planned to go, and he wanted to help you out with that. He truly wanted to be your soft spot to land. 

He knew that you were likely used to living in some fancy mansion, and the flat above the shop was small and shabby in comparison - but you had called it cozy. You liked it. Hopefully you would consider it a nice place to live, especially in the wake of the war that had just taken place. 

“And you want me to take the job? You want me around here? In your shop? Every day?” You questioned, motioning toward yourself. 

“I can think of nobody better qualified for the job.” George grinned at you. 

You let out a sigh. “Okay. I - I guess you have yourself a new employee, then.” 

George extended out a hand to signify that it was a done deal, and out of ingrained social queues, you took it and sealed the verbal agreement with a handshake. 

That was how you came to be employed at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. 

… 

That had been over three years ago. 

You had truly believed that the whole thing would be temporary. And you found more and more that as the days went on, you didn’t mind working at the shop or living in the small apartment above it. 

You found that more and more - you were getting used to it. And you were even enjoying this quiet life. 

… 

You were dreading coming in after having that harsh conversation with George. Immediately after it happened, you regretted so boldly telling him that you weren’t his friend instead of simply taking him up on his offer. But it had been done, and you couldn’t simply go back and change your actions now. 

When you came into the shop that morning, you didn’t find any trace of George. Luckily, there was a set of internal stairs that led from your apartment directly into the shop, so you didn’t have to worry about needing a key for the front door in order to be let in. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if George was making you open by yourself due to his new policy about no longer being ‘nice’ to you, so you set about performing the opening duties all on your own. You swept the floor, faced the shelves, opened the curtains and made sure all the products in the display windows were working how they should be. It was lonely. You found yourself missing his usual quips about ‘barely having his eyes open’ and how he was surprised that you managed to look so awake and put together so early. 

But you had done this to yourself. So you had to accept it. When you were about to open the cash register and make sure that you had the correct amount of change to start the day, you noticed a small box sitting on the counter. A box with a label on it that signified it was from one of the nearby pastry shops in the Muggle part of London. 

It was a place that George ventured often to get baked goods, and he had brought you back pastries from there before. You eyed the box suspiciously. It was large enough to fit quite a few items, and with Fred not around, you had to assume that George had left the box on the counter, intending to share whatever he had brought back with you. He was revoking his promise awfully quickly, but you didn’t entirely mind. 

You were glad to forget about the previous day’s conversation and simply go back to the quiet, pleasant dynamic that the two of you had established. He harassed you with his niceties and you grew increasingly annoyed by it until he got the hint and left. It was simple, but it worked. 

You moved toward the box and lifted the lid, interested to see if he had picked up any of the chocolate croissants this time - 

“Fucking hell!” 

You let out a harsh scream when something jumped out of the box at you as soon as you opened the lid - a blur of green, a pair of glowing eyes and a forked tongue that leapt toward you. Instinctively, you jumped back and ended up with one of your high heels wedged between the floorboards (in a strangely large gap that you constantly whined at the twins to get fixed). This caused your entire foot to get stuck, which made you trip over yourself and fall into the display of Extendable Ear boxes that was set up behind the counter. 

You let out another undignified scream as you felt yourself falling, and you frantically looked around for whatever it was that had come out of the box, soon spotting the long, lanky body of the snake on the floor at your feet. You squirmed and screamed again, literally wiggling out of your own still-stuck shoe in order to escape it, frantically tripping over the downed boxes trying to get farther away.  

Your fright quickly turned to fury when you heard laughter. 

Laughter that was all too familiar to you. Except, it wasn’t echoed by a secondary voice that sounded like a pair to the first. It was entirely solo this time. 

You looked for the source of the laughter, craning your neck upward toward the voice. Soon you saw George descending from the second floor balcony that overlooked the main floor of the store, his face split with a wide grin as the sounds died off into a dull chuckle. You glared at him the entire time. You began to grind your teeth out of pure fury while he raised his hands and slowly began to clap. 

“My, my, that was magnificent.” He announced loudly, congratulating himself. “You dream, and you hope, but you never think it’s gonna be so satisfying.” 

“Satisfying?” You parroted back, the word coming out as an infuriated hiss. “You put a live snake in a pastry box to scare me and you-” 

“Live snake?” George quickly cut you off. “Seriously, do you think I’m that reckless?” 

He walked over to the area behind the counter, and you felt truly stupid when he picked up a very obviously rubber toy snake from beside your now empty shoe. He turned around and presented it to you with a wide, satisfied smirk - one that would have looked far more fitting on Fred. 

“It’s charmed.” He announced proudly. “Though I am flattered that you consider my work so realistic. But I suppose I had to step up my game after you critiqued my Serpent Morph-O-Mask to hell and back.” 

“Shut up.” You huffed at him, limping over with your uneven, one-heeled walk, going to retrieve your shoe. You hoped to put it back on and make up some excuse about something else that you had to do, and hopefully you would be able to avoid him for the rest of the day. 

“And you know, this wouldn’t have happened if you simply wouldn’t have assumed that anything in this box was for you.” George pointed out, motioning to the still open box of pastries on the counter, which you now noticed had a few very delicious looking croissants in it. The chocolate ones that he knew you liked. “You could have just asked me-” 

“So then I would have gotten scared by a fake snake after I asked you nicely for a pastry?” You fired back sarcastically, leaning down grabbing a hold of your shoe. 

You were soon disappointed to find that the heel was firmly wedged into the gap, and you yanking on it once, twice, did nothing to free it. You stood up and moved to grab your wand from your apron, but by then, George had knelt down and had a hand on it. He used a burly arm to pull it free with a grunt in one single motion - a show of strength that you would never admit had impressed you. 

“I don’t think you’ll ever find out what happens when you ask for things nicely, because you never do.” George told you, holding out your shoe for you as he continued to kneel, implying that he would slide it onto your foot for you. “Now, come on Cinderella.” 

His words confused you, but you stepped forward anyway, feeling exceedingly awkward about it. Especially with how unexpectedly intimate it felt to have him put a warm hand on your calf and guide you into the shoe, shoving it snugly onto your foot with his other hand. 

“What the hell is Cinderella?” You asked him quietly as you pulled your foot back, now with your shoe securely on it. 

“Oh, it’s some Muggle story that Hermione made Ron read. He was telling us about it-” He explained as he stood to his full height. “Some woman loses her shoe, and this prince-” He cut himself off abruptly. “Some ladies cut their toes off, and there’s mice. It sounds interesting, I guess.” 

You almost wanted to ask him to further explain it, mostly out of bored curiosity. But before you could, he changed the subject entirely. 

“Clean this up,” He told you, gesturing to the many boxes you had knocked over in your haste to escape the joke snake. “And then go sweep upstairs. Last night I had a mishap with some of the Instant Peruvian Darkness Powder on my way out.” He added on, speaking to you curtly like a boss typically would. 

He then took one of the croissants and closed the box before he promptly left to go open the shop’s front door for the day. 

You looked at the pile of boxes now scattered across the floor and heaved out a sigh. 

This was a horrible change of pace. Any time that the twins had pranked you in the past, they had always been the ones who had been forced to clean up afterwards. But you definitely weren’t at school anymore. They weren’t going to be forced to scrub cauldrons for detention if they did something to you. 

It was going to be a very long day. 

… 

With Fred gone, it turned out to be a grossly long week. 

Without his brother there, George was bored or something, and he turned to bothering you for entertainment. Which meant that his childish pranks only continued and grew worse as the week went on. 

The next day he brought you a cup of tea, seemingly as a peace offering to apologize because you had been so upset about the (fake) snake. You accepted it without thinking anything of it, taking a small break in between stocking shelves and sweeping the floor to drink it. 

Unknowingly, for the rest of the day, you walked around with large, bright blue feathers growing out of your head where your eyebrows were supposed to be. 

Customers gawked at you and children pointed and laughed, which you thought was run of the mill for a joke shop. You forced yourself to assume that they were enthusiastic about the products around you - not that they were laughing at you. You only thought to duck into a bathroom and check to see what was wrong after you spoke to George about a new product line and it was clear that he could barely contain his laughter through the whole conversation. That was around late afternoon. And when you finally saw what he had done to you, then you stormed upstairs, boiling angry, absolutely fuming at George for embarrassing you like that. 

Not wanting to start firing off spells so close to your face, you did the only thing that you could think to do - you trimmed the feathers down with a pair of scissors and ended up shaving your eyebrows cleanly, completely off, when you saw that there was still traces of the bright blue growing out of your roots. You ended up having to draw them back on with an eyeliner pencil, and by the time you returned, George scolded you for taking ‘such a long break’ and made you sweep cobwebs out of one of the store rooms as a punishment. 

Later that night, after consulting an article in Wonder Witch Magazine about overplucking one’s brows, you mixed up and applied the slightest dab of hair tonic to the area and managed to grow them back to the way they were, but you were still fuming angry with George. 

The rest of the week went like that. He disrupted your usual routine with childish pranks, making you angrier and angrier. Glitter bombs disguised in a package of Extendable Ears that you had to unpack, making frog sounds go off whenever you were talking to customers to disrupt you, and then escalating to releasing live frogs into the store to scare you and making you run around to catch them before they ruined the merchandise. 

Toward the end of the week, after a hard day of living in paranoia of every move he made, trying to dodge his childish antics, you went upstairs and collapsed onto your bed. You were utterly exhausted, and you couldn’t help but to think about a time when he had been kinder to you. You truly thought that without Fred around, George was a lot less lethal when it came to this ‘mischief for no good reason’ stuff. 

At least, that’s what your time at Hogwarts had led you to believe. 

… 

Umbridge was one of the worst things to ever happen to Hogwarts. 

You had seen far too many awful, unqualified professors in your time - and you could officially say that the man who turned out to secretly be a Death Eater was a better teacher than her. 

But even as you sat in a lonely, secluded, cold corridor after a long, late night detention with her - even as you clutched your bloody hand, she wasn’t the main person occupying your mind. She wasn’t the reason you were quietly sobbing to yourself while you clutched your hand to your chest, for once, not caring if you got your pristine uniform stained with your own blood. 

Being in detention with her had gotten you thinking about everything in your life. Your father, your blood status, everything that had led up to this point. And as you had written those hundreds of lines with her terrible quill, somehow scrawling in your own blood, you kept thinking about the last DA meeting that you had been to. A meeting where Harry had been teaching everyone The Patronus Charm, and you hadn’t even attempted it. 

Why not? 

Because you couldn’t come up with a single strong happy memory to focus on while casting the spell. And you were far too embarrassed to admit to anyone in the room, especially Harry. And the more you racked your brain, trying to come up with a memory that you believed could help you pull off the spell, the more you came up with: your father screaming at you, telling you that you weren’t good enough, casually tossing discontent toward you, telling you that you were stupid and emotionally immature when you were only a child. 

Your only friends being House Elves - who were nice to you, but forced to be there in order to care for you. You thought of lonely days at Hogwarts where others stared at you and whispered about your past, where the few attempts you made at friendship during your early days of school were met with children fleeing from you because they believed the rumors about your family and how ‘evil’ you must have been because of them. 

You thought of how embarrassing it would be to not be able to perform the spell in front of everyone at DA. How they would all know that you were a fraud. And the more you thought about how pathetic your life was and how embarrassing the next meeting would be, the more upset you became. 

So you wept. 

Little did you know, someone had stumbled upon you and was listening to your cries. 

Umbridge had come up with the horrifying but clever strategy of separating Fred and George for their detentions. On this night, while Fred was scrubbing cauldrons for Professor Snape while George had just finished shining the floor in the Defense Against The Dark Arts Classroom. On his way back to the Gryffindor common room, he was more than surprised when the sound of weeping in a corridor led him to you. 

At first he was terrified to approach - terrified that acknowledging you crying would get him on the wrong end of a hex. But as he lingered near the end of the secluded corridor, eventually, you looked up and spotted him on your own. 

“Oh great.” You sighed heavily, sounding entirely bothered by his presence. 

“I'm unarmed.” He said, putting up both his hands in surrender, showing you that he held no prank products and genuinely meant no harm. 

You hastily wiped your tears, an instinct to hide your vulnerability; though you knew there was no way that he hadn’t seen you crying. You were hoping naively that he would simply let the subject pass in silence - and he might have, until he spotted something on the back of your hand. A set of red welts that were bleeding freely that signified that you had just been freed from a detention with Umbridge yourself. 

“What were you in for?” George asked, gesturing to your hand, cautious not to get close enough to touch it, not wanting to unintentionally graze against the open wounds and hurt you. 

“Oh.” You sighed, glancing down at it, having been so caught up in your upsetting thoughts that you had almost forgotten about the smarting of your hand. “I must not tell lies.” You said, reciting the line now engraved into your hand that was illegible past the blood. 

You realized that you couldn’t tell him the truth - ironically, completely ignoring the directive that Umbridge had been trying so hard to drill into your head. So you quickly made up a lie about the reason you had been put into detention in the first place. 

“The awful old cunt was convinced that I was lying to her when I said I have no clue what you and Fred are planning next.” 

In actuality, she had called you in for ‘questioning’, and grown increasingly angry when you refused to drink the tea she offered you. Veritaserum was colourless, tasteless, and odorless, but because of your true talent for potions, you immediately recognized the amber tinted bottle on her desk that clearly contained it. Knowing that the stuff couldn’t be stored with any chance of light getting at it and tainting, so it had to be kept in tinted glass, you pushed the tea cup away and she immediately gave herself up with her petty reaction. 

She questioned you about what kind of ‘activities’ you got up to outside of class, only to receive boring, dead-pan answers from you about studying and sleeping, and then she moved on to asking you about why you were spending increasing amounts of time with ‘the Weasleys’, and Granger and Potter. When you went silent, she not-so-subtly threatened to Owl your father and tell him about ‘the kind of company that you were keeping, and you couldn’t help it - you grabbed a quill off her desk and slapped it down in front of her, daring her to do it. 

Which only ended with you writing lines for her. It meant that you had silently won that round. You guessed that she was actually slightly afraid of your father - or afraid of the fact that you didn’t seem all too scared of him. Not anymore. 

But you couldn’t possibly spill all of this to George now. Just because you worked on practicing spells with the DA members didn’t mean that George or any of the others cared about your personal gossip. 

Despite what Umbridge believed, it was just easier to make up a lie. 

“I don’t even know what Fred and I are planning next.” George replied honestly, light laughter on his lips. “We just use a mixture of improvisation and our knack for causing mischief.” 

“Exactly.” You said. 

“You know, I have a healing cream that works pretty well to prevent scars.” He said, reaching his hand out to show you his, where the once deep indent of ‘I shall not talk back’ was now barely visible. “Fred and I had to come up with something good after testing the early versions of our products on ourselves started to go awry.” 

You never would have guessed that they actually tested those awful products on themselves, but you had to silently admire them for being willing to do it. 

“Oh, um, thanks but - it’s not that big of a deal.” You said. “I’ll be fine.” 

Truly, the physical pain was not the thing bothering you the most. 

You moved to walk away, and George surprised himself when he dared to speak up again, shouting down the hallway after you. 

“Then why were you crying?” He asked. 

You turned back around, startled into facing him again. You hated that he had asked the one question you hoped he would avoid. 

You heaved a terrible sigh, fidgeting with the end of your skirt as you mulled in the silence, wondering if you should tell him the truth or not. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took the few steps toward you again, closing the gap because you weren’t eager to run away. 

“I -” You choked on a breath, and George waited patiently for you to speak. 

You hated to be vulnerable, but the darkness and the late night made it too easy. The fact that he was alone instead of being bracketed by Fred staring you down with his hyper critical eyes made it too easy. George - sweet George - and his damn soft eyes and his expression full of nurturing rather than judgement. He made it too easy. 

He made it all feel so safe. 

“I couldn’t stop thinking about the stupid Patronus thing from DA, okay?” You admitted hesitantly, rushing to get the words out, bracing yourself for the laughter you felt was inevitably after he heard the words. 

This confused George slightly. 

During the last DA meeting, Harry had been teaching everyone how to produce a Patronus Charm - something that was difficult, but incredibly useful against dark creatures like Dementors. Even George himself hadn't been able to produce a fully corporeal Patronus, only a shield version, which Harry still congratulated him for being able to do. George had noticed you standing back to watch everyone else, pacing around the room with your wand grasped in your hand tightly, held down by your side, and he overheard something about you ‘taking time to think’ when Harry asked you if you needed help. 

He knew that it was a very difficult spell and upon leaving the meeting, he hadn’t faulted you when he hadn’t seen you cast one. 

“What about it?” He asked, confused. 

“I wasn’t able to do it.” You said, clearly embarrassed. 

George shrugged, letting off a nervous laugh. 

“It’s a really hard spell.” He said. “I can’t conjure a full Patronus myself. Not yet. That’s the point of DA - to practice. And-” 

“No.” You heaved, the word so heavy on your breath. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Pure tragedy overtook your features, and George’s heart ached for you as he waited for you to finally speak the words. 

“I - ugh.” You sighed, scuffing your heeled shoe harshly against the stone floor, unable to look at him as you said it. “I couldn’t even try. Because I couldn’t think of a happy memory…” 

You trailed off the last words very quietly, and if George hadn’t been straining his ears to listen, he wouldn’t have actually known what you said. 

Oh. 

Oh fuck. 

George was struck with the horrible realization that not everyone’s life had been like his. He had always known that the two of you were very different, but… he had never thought about it like this. 

On that day in DA, he had struggled to begin because he had too many happy memories to choose from, and Harry theorized that he wasn’t concentrating hard enough on just one. He had memories of childhood birthday celebrations, family dinners, years at Hogwarts with friends, playing pranks with Fred, the Quidditch World Cup - all those among many memories that made him intensely happy. His life was so joyful. 

Finally, George landed on a particularly intense memory of when Bill had gifted him his first broom. It wasn’t brand new, but Bill had spent one of his first paychecks post-Hogwarts on two secondhand refurbished brooms for him and Fred on their birthday so that they could stop using the absolutely crap ones from the Hogwarts storage shed for their practices. That was the year they had both made Beater for the first time. Flying on that broom had felt like the most perfect, joyous freedom that George ever could have tasted. Especially knowing that his brother had gifted it to him. 

“It’s not like my life is terrible.” You quickly rushed to assure George. “But it’s all just - a blur. My father isn’t some vessel of affection. And I don’t remember much of my mother. And Hogwarts-” 

You quickly cut yourself off, sucking in a sharp breath as you held back more tears. 

Oh hell. What had Hogwarts been like for you? Fred and George tormenting you with pranks over some stupid house rivalry? Making your life more difficult for no reason? 

Did you even have any good friends? 

George never remembered seeing you around with anyone. At least, not with friends like he had. 

You always walked the halls alone, you always ate alone. But he thought that was how you preferred to spend your time. He always thought before this that you were simply snobbish and you never thought anybody else was good enough to be in your company. But more and more these days, he was realizing that fact simply wasn’t the case. (He supposed that Slytherins weren’t the easiest to make friends with, and Slytherins didn’t have much luck making friends outside of their house, especially not when their father was a known Death Eater.) 

Silently vowing to become your good friend from then on, George moved on to a more important matter first - helping you cast a Patronus Charm. 

“What do you remember about your mother?” He asked. 

“What?” You gaped, confused. 

“Your mother - do you have any happy memories of her?” He asked. 

You stirred in quiet thought for a moment. You hated where this was going, but with his gentle eyes still giving you that terrible sense of safety, you found yourself opening up to him once again. 

“I don’t remember much of her.” You told him quietly. “She died when I was really young - when I was only four. My father always talks about her like she was some horrid bitch. He never paints a kind picture of her, and I often wonder if I’m misremembering her because I was so young.” 

“You should disregard anything your father says as a general rule.” George told you, entirely confident in his own words as he always was. 

This was the first time that you considered, beyond his beliefs about ‘Mudbloods’ and your family’s ‘natural superiority’, that your father might have been wrong when he spoke about you. Before you could dwell on that thought, however, George spoke up again. 

“What do you remember?” He asked, stressing the word to put meaning on your own personal experiences, not the weight of someone else’s. 

He genuinely valued your opinion for once. It felt strange that someone did. 

“She was kind.” You said quietly, still reserved. “She smelled wonderful - like rising bread dough and fresh flowers. She was always smiling. She-” 

You cut yourself off, growing tearful. It had been a long time since you had allowed yourself to remember. 

“Keep going.” George encouraged you. “It's okay. You should hold onto these things.” 

The soft rumble of his voice - so much gentler than usual - made the words feel true. You tried to let yourself fall into the memories. Far off in your mind, you ran into your mother’s embrace. 

“She used to give me these little square sweets after every meal.” You said, making the small shape with your fingers as the memory truly sank in. “Different chocolates filled with things - mint and nougat and strawberry. She said that you should always have something sweet after every meal. And I would bite them in half and guess the flavour, and then I would give the other half to her and kiss her on the cheek.” 

It was something you hadn’t thought about in so long, and though it was tender, it did bring you joy. 

“Good.” George whispered, terrified to break your concentration on the memory. “Hold onto that.” 

He took his wand from his pocket, not even thinking about the fact that you casting the charm with his wand might not be as successful, if successful at all. He was simply too eager to try it out. He stepped behind you and you felt odd with the sudden closeness, wanting to run from the contact as he crowded up tight to your back and grabbed your wand arm, placing the wand in it. 

“Come on, you can do it-” 

“George, no-” 

“Just try.” He insisted, gently whispering in your ear in a way that was strangely intimate. “Just once. For me.” 

You had no clue why you went along with it, but you did. 

“What was your favourite flavour?” 

“What?” 

“What was your favourite flavour of the sweets that your mother gave you?” He asked. 

“Peanut butter.” You replied. “If it was a peanut butter one, she would let me finish the whole thing by myself. And she always laughed when I licked my fingers. Not in a mean way - she wasn’t laughing at me… but she was laughing because she was happy. Happy because she knew I was enjoying it.” 

“Now say the words.” He whispered, guiding your hand to raise the wand up into the sky. 

Strangely, you trusted him. 

“Expecto Patronum.”

Engulfed by the safety of George at your back and feeling the intensity of your mother’s love inside of you, the overwhelming magic flowed through you. In a moment, you were amazed as a bright white light came flowing out of the wand - George’s wand - not just blasting into a shield but forming into a beautiful array of moving, living beings that filled the whole corridor within seconds. The previously dark space was soon lit up by dozens of tiny bright little lights that danced so beautifully for the two of you. 

At first you thought they might be butterflies, but when you got a closer look at their wings and their size, you realized that they were moths - not as beautiful or well liked by people. How fitting. You couldn’t help but to reach out and try to catch one - and that dreamy little beam of light, that magical little white moth landed on your extended finger before it dissipated off into nothingness as the magic dissolved and the corridor darkened once again. 

“I told you you could do it.” George said cheerfully. 

You turned to George, and likely for the first time ever, you smiled at him. 

“Thank you, Weasley. I mean it.” 

When the Owl Post came the next morning, a random Tawny owl that you did not recognize dropped a poorly wrapped package into your lap and then screeched away. When you peeled it open, you were surprised to find a random jar of some cream, along with a package of peanut butter fudge. It came with a scrawled note that said ‘it would be a shame for that beautiful hand to be scarred forever’. 

You peered across to the Gryffindor table and found a certain tall redhead grinning at you, and he gave you a wink. The cream smelled vaguely of green tea, and was very soothing to apply. The marks on your hand faded within a week of use, and it never left a scar. The fudge tasted amazing, and thankfully, did not give you a fever. It reminded you of your mother - and for the first time in a long time, you actually let yourself indulge in those memories. 

You had to wonder where he had gotten the sweets on such short notice. But you supposed that was just another ‘Weasley trick’ you weren’t allowed to know about. 

That day had shown you a kinder side of George that you had never truly expected even existed. 

… 

Despite what you believed, George could be just as much trouble by himself, even when Fred wasn’t around for him to conspire with. 

The entire week culminated in an incident that you never could have predicted - one that had you mentally begging for Fred’s return. 

That afternoon, just after closing, you were tallying up the register as a part of your end-of-day duties, and George walked up to you, seeming far too ‘innocent’ for your liking. His presence now filled you with a slight sense of dread, wondering what he would do next, but you said nothing about it. You didn’t even look up at him - you continued your work, counting the money and writing down your tally while he lingered off near the edge of the counter. You hoped that if you didn’t acknowledge him, whatever prank he had planned next simply wouldn’t play out. You were far too tired for his antics now. 

“Y/N,” He called your name gently, and you still didn’t look up. 

Instead, you hummed gently in response to acknowledge him, pretending that you were far too busy to look up from your work. He let out a deep sigh, walking around the counter toward you. 

“Look, I do have to say that I’m sorry for everything. This week, I pulled a lot of immature pranks on you and it was a step backward between us,” He announced, his tone sounding oddly… insincere. 

You finally looked up from the ledger book to face him, and you found that his expression was… smug? His mouth was tight, clearly holding back a smile, and his eyes were glinting with an ardent joy that you knew had to be ill-conceived mischief. 

Your stomach churned as you wondered what he was up to, and you immediately knew that the apology was a false, a cover for whatever he was attempting. You didn’t trust him - not one bit. 

But you knew that you couldn’t call him out for it right away, otherwise he would simply try again later. And he would come back with a better set up, or simply try to catch you off guard next time. You had to figure out what he was doing first, and put a stop to it. 

So for now, you pretended to believe him.  

“Yes, it was.” You replied quietly. 

You glanced around, trying to see if he had set up any trip-wires, any hanging buckets. You looked down at the drawers in the front counter to see if any of them had moved during the quick break you had taken for a cup of tea (one that you had definitely made for yourself this time). You had to wonder if he had hidden anything inside of them that would jump out at you when you opened them. 

“Thank you for apologizing.” Your tone was dead, your mind too busy focusing on trying to figure out his next move. 

“I got you something!” He added on excitedly. 

When he reached into his pocket, you instinctively took a step back, your eyes glued to his hand as he took a few sweets out and laid them on the counter. The green sour apple candies that you loved. You were instantly suspicious of them, just like you had been the first time he had gifted you some (in the same manner of apology). But you had to guess that he wouldn’t stoop to tampering with them. 

You gave him a harsh glance, and he gave you a smile. And then, you reached your hand out to grab one. 

But that was your greatest mistake. 

The minute your arm was extended, he reached out with his arm - the one that was closest to you, his left, and before you could blink, he wrapped something cold and metal around your right wrist and tightened it. A sharp ‘click’ sounded through the air as he secured the metal around your arm, trapping you. 

He started cackling loudly - as both the hilarity and the victory of it truly overcame him, and your brain began to process what had just happened. You lifted your arm up, tugging on the metal, realizing that it was a wrist cuff attached to a chain no more than four inches long, and on the end of that chain was George Weasley. 

He had handcuffed himself to you. 

What. The. Fuck. 

He had cuffed himself into the other side and hidden it under his jacket sleeve before walking up to you, holding the cuff in his hand down by his side to hide it from you. He had planned this out. 

But what-? Why had he done this? 

Why the fuck had he chained the two of you together? 

You yanked on it again, causing his hand to flail along with yours, a sharp bite grinding against your skin as the metal tugged on your own wrist, very secure in place. The realization that the two of you were now solidly attached was truly, fully settling into your brain. 

“What the fuck?!” You yelled, shocked and slowly becoming angry as he continued to laugh and beamed a smile at you. “What the fuck is this, George?” 

“Oh come on, it’s a joke!” He replied, still grinning. “We both know that you and I could use some extra time together.” 

“I said-” You were about to remind him of your previous protests to this exact idea, but he cut you off. 

“You said that you didn’t want to spend time together because we’re not friends.” He reminded you. “And the only way for us to become friends is to spend more time together. Ironically.” 

He always had a way of making you regret your own words. 

You glared at him intensely, now absolutely fuming with annoyance and a growing rage. 

“I - I don’t care, you idiot!” You screamed in return, beginning to panic. “Get rid of it! Unlock it!” 

You continued to flail in panic, making your own wrist continue to hurt more as the short chain caused his arm to act like a dead weight against your own, preventing you from moving too far away from him. It made you feel so terribly trapped, and you hated it. 

Sure, of all the people to be trapped with, he wasn’t the worst by far. But you had already spent so much of your life feeling trapped; you had spent so long being defined by your father’s choices for you, in fear that all eyes in the world were judging you based on his reputation (which mostly turned out to be true). And just as you were barely becoming free from those chains, George had come and slapped another literal one onto your wrist. 

It caused a terrible anxiety through you, turning your muscles to putrid stone within seconds and tightening your throat as your body threatened tears. And you refused to let yourself cry in front of him, so of course, it only manifested as harsh anger toward him while your brain put up shields and tried to protect you. 

“Calm down, will you?” George replied, his face still vibrant with laughter, obviously not taking you seriously. “It’s just a joke.” 

Of course. His singular excuse for everything in life. 

“A joke!” You screamed back so harshly that your voice easily broke. “A joke?!” 

“Y/N-” 

You didn’t let him speak. 

“Everything in your life is a joke!” 

You shouted, getting closer to his face to magnify your words since you quite literally couldn’t get away. 

“You had absolutely no work ethic in school and wasted any brains you had on torturing fellow students for a few cheap laughs and now you wonder why you can’t get a girlfriend because you push away any woman in your life with immature antics and you refuse to actually reflect on anything more serious than what you ate for lunch!” 

Your throat became worn out from screaming so many words with so little breath, getting louder as you went along, but it felt nice to get some of the anger out. 

George just rolled his eyes and then smirked at you, and you became even more irritated by the fact that he didn’t seem at all phased by your words. 

“Are you done, lover?” He asked as you took a breath, still shaking with rage. “You are starting to hurt my one good ear. And it is rather precious to me, as you could understand.” He added on, using his free hand to gesture to that side of his head. 

‘Lover’?

This pet name, and the casual nature with which he spoke it, just left odd confusion mixing in with your anger. 

“Weasley, I swear to Merlin, if you don’t take this off me within the next minute-!” You began to threaten him, grabbing your wand out of your apron pocket to point it squarely at his chest. “I will singe all the hair off your body and turn your cock into something so shriveled and unrecognizable-!” 

“So you do think about my cock, eh?” He said, cutting you off, his smirk growing even more intense now. 

You let out a deep growl of frustration and pressed your wand into his throat, and then, as a warning, you began to count. 

“Ten, nine, eight, seven-” 

You weren’t sure if you were counting down to when you would start firing non-lethal curses at him, or if you were counting down to try and make your rage less potent, but you were glad when it worked. 

“Alright, alright, calm down.” George sighed in surrender, and batted your wand down from his throat with his free hand. You weren’t so easily convinced and continued to hold the weapon in his direction, glaring at him. “I’ve got the key right here. It was just a little joke, a wind up, ya know?” 

He started searching the pockets of his jacket, finally ready to give up the key and unlock you. You did feel a twinge of relief, even if you refused to show it, keeping your appearance firm and stony - a way that you hadn’t looked at him in a long time. 

However, that bit of relief was incredibly short-lived as his hand went into more of his pockets and came up empty-handed again and again, and he seemed to grow increasingly more frantic. You grew more panicked too as you noticed him doubling back and checking his pockets over again, even checking his pants, and dumping things out onto the floor - causing random sweets and crumpled pieces of parchment to fall by your feet… 

But still, no key. 

“George.” You ground out between your teeth, pressing your wand tightly against his cheek. 

“I have it here somewhere,” He mumbled hastily, giving you a nervous grin. 

“You lost the key?!” You shouted, lowering your wand now, knowing that another flash of accidental anger would end up with him on the wrong end of a jinx, and (as pissed off as you were) you didn’t want to hurt him by mistake. 

George continued frantically fingering his pockets, but his expression grew more honestly worried now. Whether it was because he was terrified of what you might do to him, or because he actually didn’t like the results of his own prank and truly didn’t want to be chained to you, you weren’t sure. You had to guess that it was the latter - being chained to you for a period of time longer than five minutes would be incredibly unpleasant for anyone. 

“It - it was an honest mistake, really.” He stuttered out nervously, still frantically looking for the key. 

However, you knew that it was just your luck that the key had gone missing - likely fallen out of his pocket somewhere and truly gone. You didn’t count on him finding it anytime soon. Still, you continued to internally panic - you weren’t prepared to spend much longer like this. 

George flinched when you waved your wand again, and you wanted to go on a rant about how you weren’t actually going to hurt him (even as much as you wanted to). But instead, you fought against his dead weight to raise the cuff attached to your wrist upward, and then you began firing off spells. 

“Alohomora!” You tried the first and most obvious one, and naturally, it did not work. “Aperta!” You tried something a bit more advanced, and still nothing. 

“Wow, I actually thought that would work-” George began. 

“Shh.” You cut him off, trying to think. 

You dug through your knowledge for something a bit more advanced - and you thought of a lock breaking spell that you had read about in a rare Japanese spell book during your time at Hogwarts. Back when you had spent most of your time studying because your social life really hadn’t been that great. 

“Hirake Kagi!” You spoke the words sharply, hoping that you remembered the pronunciation well, causing a small bright white light to fire off into the small key hole beside your wrist. 

When you tugged on the cuff - still, it was locked solidly tight, and you heaved a grand sigh of frustration. 

“Okay, well, that didn’t work, so-” George began to speak again, but you found yourself ignoring him. 

You raised your wand again, this time firing off curses toward the short chain that attached the two of you. 

“Confractus!” You fired a simple spell with the intention to break the chain, and nothing happened. 

“Reducto!” 

A large bright white beam of energy burst out of your wand, and as soon as it hit the small chain, it was deflected off the seemingly unbreakable metal and ended up hitting a nearby display of products, destroying a few of the boxes and knocking far more of them over into a heap on the floor. 

“Ignitis!” 

You moved on to fire, causing a bright orange beam to come shooting out of your wand, one that was also deflected off the metal - this time with slightly worse consequences. The ensuing fragments of energy singed up George’s arm and began to light his coat on fire, and caused you to jump back as particles of ember threatened up toward your face before sizzling out. 

“Woah, woah, stop it!” George demanded, grabbing your wand from you and putting it on the counter. 

Luckily, he had a decent amount of experience with this kind of stuff due to his and Fred’s early failures with their products, and he didn’t panic - he simply brought his free hand up and began aggressively patting out the fire until his jacket was only dully smoking, which did impress you. You liked that he could be calm among chaos. 

“You’re going to kill one of us!” He added on, sounding slightly annoyed himself. Perhaps he had a point. “And trust me, you don’t want to be chained to a dead body that you have to lug around. I am a lot heavier than I look, love.” 

The affectionate nickname gave a confusing twist in your stomach, and you glared at him. 

In the back of your mind, you did consider the fact that you didn’t want to be chained to his dead body - because it would be terribly inconvenient, and because at the end of the day, you didn’t want to see him hurt. Even if you wanted to strangle him with the chain of the cuffs to prove a point, you would have stopped before he lost consciousness. 

“Well what do you suggest, if you’re so clever?” You hissed at him. 

He grinned at you. 

“Leave it to a Slytherin to try and brute force her way out,” He said, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket for his own wand. 

“This isn’t about Slytherin or Gryffindor, or any of that pathetic bullshit.” You griped, shaking your head. “Whatever, just - what’s your idea?” 

He raised his wand proudly and announced his spell. 

“Accio key!” 

Then, from seemingly every corner of the shop (including the pile of junk that had landed at his feet after he had emptied his pockets), with drawers opening and doors upstairs creaking open, about a dozen different keys came hurling at the two of you. You instinctively ducked down to avoid the sharp metal that would have pierced your skin and likely left harsh gashes due to his lack of foresight. The cuff tugged on your wrist as a reminder of your predicament, and you conveniently used him as a shield for the oncoming debris, hearing him let out a few grunts as some of the keys inevitably hit him. 

���Oh yes, that was clever.” You griped sarcastically. “That was downright brilliant!” 

“Okay, fine, not my best moment.” George sighed as you stepped out from behind him. “Just help me look through these and see which one is the handcuff key. And then I’ll unlock you and you can be free for the rest of the weekend.” 

He let out a tired huff as he bent down and began picking up the collection of keys off the floor, putting them on the counter to go through them. 

“And Monday.” You added on. “I’m taking Monday off because of this little stunt.” 

“Fine.” He quietly agreed. 

The more keys you looked through, the more anxious you became. You recognized each of them - a ring of keys that unlocked different doors in the shop, a key with a fuzzy dice on the end that was a spare for Ron’s Muggle car (that Fred and George maybe had permission to use), a spare key to Ron’s apartment in London in case of emergency, a spare key to the front door of the shop that Fred had lost months ago, a key to your apartment upstairs, a key to the desk in Fred and George’s office, but - 

“You’re sure that none of these is the right one?” You pressed, panicking. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” George replied, sounding slightly downtrodden about it himself. “It was a little one, a tiny small key-” He gaped, gesturing with his fingers, showing you the intended size. 

“And you lost it!” You cried out, angry and upset at the same time. “Oh, you idiot!”  

George sighed in defeat and you kicked the counter in front of you, causing all the keys laid out on the countertop to rattle, along with the change that was sitting in the open cash drawer from your still unfinished closing count. Strangely, this caused you to come up with a new idea. 

“What shop did you buy the handcuffs from?” You pressed, turning to him with a bright, relieved smile on your face. “We can just go there and buy another set for the key!” 

George’s face twisted into a sickly, nervous expression. Your smile immediately dropped, teeth clenching down so hard that your jaw began to hurt as you glared at him even stronger now. 

“What?” You demanded harshly, not even opening your mouth to grind out the word. 

He was going to kill you with stress before the night was even over. Then he was going to be the one dragging around a dead body. 

“I - I didn’t buy them.” He confessed, his voice quiet and obviously embarrassed. 

Unable to resist the urge this time, you reached up and slugged him, delivering a harsh, solid punch to his shoulder. He let out a grunt. 

“Okay, maybe I deserved that-” 

“What did you do?!” You demanded. “What the hell did you get me into?!” 

“Look, I’ll fix it, I swear-” He began to ramble out apologies, but you were more interested in something else. 

“Where are the handcuffs from?” You asked, slowly creeping into insanity, and definitely losing your patience. 

“I found them in Harry’s desk.” He rushed out the words all at once, and your mind began to spin. 

You had to guess that he meant Harry Potter. 

Which meant that you were truly fucked. 

Harry wasn’t officially an Auror, at least not yet. The Ministry had been trying their best to charm him into the program since The War had ended, and this included having him work as a freelance agent on only the most attractive and exciting criminal cases - something that he and Ron liked to talk about a lot. It meant that his name and picture could be slapped all over the Prophet whenever he brought in a high profile Death Eater that had still been on the loose. 

Because he didn’t officially work with the Ministry, he didn’t have an office at their headquarters (even as many times as they kept offering him their best, most gorgeous offices, including all the perks). He had told you once that he hated the idea of being ‘cooped up’ underground all day. Though you didn’t see how his current accommodation was much better. 

You had been to Grimmauld Place a few times during your time as a member of The Order of Phoenix, but you had only found out that it was Harry’s inheritance and current place of residence a few months after The War. Hermione had invited you over there for dinner (you did appreciate being included, even if Ron and Fred often showed their disdain for her trying to do so). Harry had proudly showed you his office and the many keepsakes within - trophies that Dumbledore or others had gifted to him, and creepy, cursed objects that he had trapped in glass cases that had come with the Black family home. 

You could only imagine what kind of ancient demonic magic was keeping the handcuffs from being destroyed. 

(Little did you know, these handcuffs were a relatively new pair of Muggle handcuffs that one of the other Aurors had modded with many intense, advanced spells and given to Harry with the purpose of keeping their perps from escaping.) 

“It’s not my fault!” George insisted with a yell. “He just left me alone in there with all that stuff! And his desk was unlocked! And I wasn’t even looking in the drawers for a pair of handcuffs, I was looking for documents with some kind of gossip! And when I found them, how was I not supposed to use them for some greater nefarious purpose? It’s entrapment!” 

“Just shut up!” You snapped. “Shut up and let me think!” 

You became breathless from screaming for a moment, and after you gulped in air, you spoke again. 

“What the hell are we gonna do?” 

It was more of a rhetorical question, speaking to yourself as you truly took in the utter horror of the situation at hand - being chained to another person with seemingly no way to escape. But naturally, George had to crack another joke. 

“I thought you wanted me to shut up so you could think,” He mumbled quietly. 

You rolled your eyes sharply. 

And strangely, it was your annoyance with him that fueled your next idea. 

“Harry’s desk…” You mumbled out. “Maybe he has another key? We have to go and talk to him.” 

George frowned again. 

“Harry is in Romania.” He said. “Apparently he’s on some top secret mission. Ron couldn’t stop blabbering on about it, so it must be really important.” 

Romania. Great. 

You clenched your fists incredibly tight, jabbing your nails harshly into your palm, trying to distract yourself from George’s presence. Not ending up in Azkaban for murder was the singular motivation that kept you grounded for a few moments as you forced yourself to take deep breaths rather than to scream. 

“So what do you suggest?” You huffed out, your voice quivering with ill-concealed rage. 

“We could try Bill?” George posed. “He works with cursed objects sometimes. He might know more about this than we do. He might know how to break us out without the key. I’ll send him an Owl?” 

You let out a breath of relief, for once, actually glad that the Weasley family was so large that they had members of such varying degrees of expertise. 

“But we have to get to the Owlery before it closes.” He added on, looking at his watch on his free hand. 

Before you could blink, he was attempting to move around the counter, dragging you with him in a sharp jolt, causing your shoulder to pain harshly. Your mind took a moment to kick in and realize that you had to walk along with him to avoid that dragged-along effect. Even if Bill could solve this, you would still be stuck close by George for the next few hours. 

Great. 

As he headed toward the door, going for the Owlery on the other side of Diagon Alley, you realized something even more terrible - he was about to parade you through the streets chained to him. It was the most foolish, embarrassing thing ever, and though it hurt your wrist, you gave a harsh yank back on the cuffs, causing him to hiss in pain quietly and stop dead in his tracks. 

“What?” He asked as he looked over his shoulder toward you, his tone now becoming ripe with annoyance. 

“I am not being paraded around as your new accessory!” You argued. “I already look foolish enough wearing this gaudy apron! I don’t want to have to explain your unique brand of stupidity to other people!” You demanded, shaking the cuffs for emphasis.

“Well, we are currently stuck together, so if I need to mail an Owl, you’re coming with me!” He shouted back, trying to pull you toward the door once again. 

Instinctively, you reached out and stomped on his foot to stop him (your wand still sitting on the counter where he had put it). Your high heeled shoe made a firm imprint in the middle of his expensive dragon-hide oxford and caused a shooting pain through his foot that had him howling and jumping back, glaring at you. 

“Okay, stop it!” George huffed at you, wagging a finger tightly in your face that you resisted the urge to reach out a bite simply to spite him. “If we’re going to be stuck like this, even if it’s only for a few hours, we have to agree not to wound each other.” 

He would never try to physically hurt you, no matter how upset he was, but he mostly wanted it to be a mutual agreement so that he would be safe from you. 

“Fine.” You sighed. He did have a point. Devolving to petty fighting would only make things worse. 

Then, you thought of something that would make going out in public a bit more bearable. 

“Give me your coat.” You demanded. 

“What?” He gaped at you, confused. 

“Just give it to me!” 

He began to remove it from his free arm, but then he realized a glaring problem - with his hand in the handcuffs, he wouldn’t be able to remove his jacket off the arm that was attached to yours. You saw this issue too and let out a huff, grabbing the fabric from him anyway - it would still work fine for your purposes. You took it as far down his arm as you could and then draped the fabric over your joined wrists, doing your best to conceal the handcuffs from any public eyes. Still feeling the chain biting into your skin as the distance tugged on your wrists, you moved to grab his hand, hating how blazen warm his skin was as you laced your fingers with his to keep him still. 

“You know if you wanted to hold my hand, you could’ve just as-” He began to say, smirking at you. 

“Shut up.” You hissed at him. “Just go.” You motioned toward the door, and the two of you finally set off. 

To the late-afternoon stragglers in Diagon Alley, the two of you would have looked like a simple couple holding hands as you walked along, too lovestick to let each other go. No one would have suspected that you were actually chained together under the fabric of George’s coat due to an ill-timed, poorly thought out ‘prank’. 

Apparently it was almost too convincing. 

George paid for some supplies at the Owlery to write his letter, and of course, he had to be the one to write it because he had conveniently set this up so that his proper, dominant hand would be the one free and anything you wrote with your non-dominant hand would be awful chicken scratch. You almost had to wonder in the back of your mind if your spells had gone so wrong because you hadn’t been using your proper wand hand. 

But you couldn’t linger on those thoughts for long, because the woman behind the counter kept eyeing the two of you heavily as your joined hands rested on top of the counter under the folded fabric of his jacket. 

“You two are just the sweetest, aren’t you?” She said, smiling at both of you past thick wrinkles, clearly endeared by a young couple. “It’s just so sweet to see a couple so in love that they run errands together - just can’t leave each other’s side, not for a moment.” 

“Oh we’re certainly attached, alright.” You replied, knowing that the woman was too rosy-eyed to pick up on the bitter sarcasm in your voice. 

“I wouldn’t trade my Y/N for anything,” George added on, giving you a fake, gooey smile. You resisted the urge to hit him again. “We’ll be back here soon mailing the wedding invitations.” 

You gave him a sharp glare for this comment, especially when the woman giggled brightly at this and started asking George more questions - wanting to know about what day your wedding was planned for and how long the two of you had been together. You were thankful when he wrapped up the conversation with her and mailed off his letter to Bill, and after some more dreadful hand holding back down the street, the two of you got back to the shop. 

He locked up behind the two of you and you both decided to wait for the reply upstairs in your apartment. You hated feeling embarrassed by the bits of mess that you had naturally left in your apartment, not knowing that anybody else would be seeing it anytime soon. Random dishes in the sink, an unfolded blanket on the couch, random magazines around. You wanted to rush to clean up, you wanted to do something - 

“We should probably sit down.” George said, pulling out one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. “It might be a while.” 

You didn’t even have the energy to respond with anger. 

You simply pulled out the chair opposite and collapsed into it, glad that you could yank off your apron over your head and throw it to the side. 

… 

You and George waited in silence for the return Owl. 

You picked up a nearby book, trying your hardest to read when his presence was so distracting, and he simply sat there, contemplating (hopefully considering his life choices and thinking about the consequences of his actions). About an hour passed before there was light tapping on the window, and you were grateful to look up and find a brown barn owl there, waiting for the two of you. George rushed up to open the window and you let out a hiss of pain as he inadvertently tugged on your wrist, still not used to being so closely attached. 

“We’re still attached, moron,” You grunted out, rushing out of your chair to follow him. 

“You know, you don’t have to call me a moron every five minutes.” George sighed. “I know that what I’ve done is stupid.” 

He opened the window and took the envelope from the owl and slipped a coin into a pouch on its leg as a tip for the delivery - clearly another Owlery owned owl. 

“If you knew that, then you wouldn’t have done it.” You replied dully. 

George didn’t reply any further, too busy ripping open the envelope to read the letter while you closed the window. You were curious, but too nervous to read over his shoulder; even when you took a glance at the paper, you found the handwriting too messy to even make-out. Though with the way George was murmuring under his breath as he read it, apparently he could understand it just fine. 

“Oh.” 

“What?” You snatched the letter from him, though you didn’t bother to read it, looking from the parchment to George’s once again nervous expression. “What?” 

“He said that he knows a good professional Ministry curse breaker that he can get us an appointment with.” George announced, forcing a grin. Clearly trying to make you feel better about the news. 

You had a feeling that there was a very large ‘but’ coming. And when you didn’t say anything - when you didn’t start celebrating, instead staring him down with an imposing look, leaving the air open for more words, George provided you with it. 

“But the next available appointment is in two or three days.” 

“Two or three days?!” You screamed, your throat becoming sore from how much you had screamed that day. “Have you stressed the exact nature of our predicament to him?” 

“Yes!” He assured you. “But these are very busy people! And they’re dealing with situations much more life-threatening than ours at present!” 

George Weasley had handcuffed himself to you, and now the two of you were stuck together.

...

Continue Reading Here: Part Two - Epoximise

A/N: I will ask you kindly - if you enjoyed this fic, please reblog it or comment something meaningful down below. I would love to have a conversation with people who enjoyed the fic and sat through the entire thing to be able to read this ending message.

Typically, with a multi-part fic, I would have some kind of reblog and comment goal at the end asking people to give the fic a certain number of comments and reblogs before I post the next part, but I have found that even this doesn't get people to meaningfully engage with fics. The last time I did this with a fic, the goal was not met, and it has been sitting there for months with enough likes to have more than doubled the goal, but people just don't give a fuck to actually comment or reblog. They just leave a like and move on without caring how much effort it actually takes to write a 30k, 40k, 50k fic.

If you're going to comment, I don't care to know if the writing quality was good or anything like that (because it doesn't really start a conversation when people go "this is so good!" it just makes me nod and throw a thumbs up - I want to have genuine conversations about my fics and what is happening in them), I do want to have a genuine discussion about the plot of the fic, the dynamic between the characters, and what you anticipate will happen in the next part - I want to talk about your experience reading it and how that experience differs from other fics. I don't just want to be praised (in fact, I don't want to be praised at all), I want to have fun talking about the characters and the universe here.

Because in case it passed your notice, writing a 50k fanfic (which, this adds up to 50k between both parts) - is a lot of work. And all I ask for in return after putting in hours and hours worth of hard, back-breaking work into a fic like this and then posting it for free, is that people take a few minutes to discuss it with me if they took the time to read it.

Also I ask for the courtesy that people please don't hound me and bother me by asking when the next part is coming out.

The next part will be posted when I am finished editing it, and that could be in 2 days or 2 weeks or 2 months, or even 2 years from now if something comes up. Stick around my blog if you want to see it, especially because I will be posting updates about the progress. And for reference, the next part will be the final part - this is not a series, this is a oneshot that has been divided in half for more convenient editing and reading.

That's all. Even if you don't comment, I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope that you have a great day. <3

[draurer]

Bill Weasley, listening to the story of his younger brother, who just entered Hogwarts, about how he made his first friend ->

Charlie Weasley, watching as his younger brother waits for they team's new keeper after every training session to help with homework ->

George and Fred Weasley, who practice longer than the others in the morning training because it's a punishment from the captain of their Quidditch team for making disgusting jokes about their older brother ->

Ron Weasley, celebrating Gryffindor Quidditch Cup with everyone else, sees the team's captain, drunk and cheerful, laughing with his older brother instead of the rest of the team ->

Molly Weasley finding a sock in Padlemere United colors in her house ->

Arthur Weasley, sorting through owl's household mail in the early morning and noticing Hermes, who has three letters from the same person, addressed to his third son ->

Percy Weasley and Oliver Wood genuinely don't understand why no one is surprised by their relationship, because it was so UNEXPECTED and UNPREDICTABLE

[tacobacoyeet]

George and y/nn broke up after the war because they both wanted to concentrate on their careers. The two see each other again years later at Ginny's and Harry's wedding because y/n and Ginny were very good friends even though she was in Fred and George's year. She was always like a big sister to ginny. George and y/n have never stopped loving each other and getting closer to each other again at the wedding. Then they disappear into the burrow and have hot sex. George is Dom as always. When the two come back Fred and Ginny already look suspiciously at them, because both of them always had to hear from the two how much they miss each other.

as fate promised | george weasley x reader

a/n: happy birthday to the most impactful and long-lasting book crush i've ever had. george weasley will always be the character i could never live without. thank you for all 5 requests i have in my inbox for him, but specifically this one. i took some creative liberties, but i hope i've at least given you a hint of what you were hoping for.

warnings: SMUT 18+, alcohol mention, war mention, pregnancy mention, au in which fred is alive (it's his birthday and i'm not cruel) and harry and ginny have a happy wedding, this isn't exactly accurate but... it's fun, i actually wrote a happy ending for once! yay, hastily proofread

The sunlight in Ginny’s bedroom streamed in slow, golden ribbons, casting a soft spell over everything it touched—the lace veil folded carefully on the dresser, the half-drunk flute of champagne on the windowsill, and the back of your neck, where a loose strand of hair clung to the curve of your skin. You laughed, breathless and fond, as Ginny spun in front of the mirror, the satin of her gown whispering against the wooden floor.

"You look like a painting," you murmured, reaching forward to adjust the fall of Ginny’s hairpins, fingers trembling ever so slightly. "Something out of a dream."

Ginny rolled her eyes with affection. "Don't go getting sentimental on me now. I need you composed, remember? One of us has to be."

But you weren’t listening anymore. Not really. Because the second you lifted your gaze out the crooked-pane window, your heart snagged on the sight of him.

George.

He was standing in the garden in a navy-blue jacket that clung to his shoulders like memory. His hair—still a riot of that unmistakable Weasley red—glowed brighter than the sun itself. He was laughing at something Charlie had said, tossing his head back. He laughed the way he always had, but it sat different now. Like something had broken beneath it. Something quieter rested behind his eyes.

Time.

It sat on both of you.

And just like that, the years folded in on themselves. Hogwarts corridors. Sneaked kisses behind greenhouses. Midnight swims in the Black Lake. Fred yelling, "Oi, get a room, you two!" as you and George tumbled into the Gryffindor common room hand-in-hand. Ginny’s endless teasing, how she would groan every time George sent an enchanted origami bird fluttering into your textbooks.

You remembered the day they fled Hogwarts. He had told you beforehand, of course. It was a painful night. Tears streaming, whispered "I love you"s, promises about the future you two had planned. You watched, soon after, the way the fireworks bloomed across the Great Hall ceiling, the way your chest cracked open watching him disappear through the clouds of rebellion. You had known. Even then. That something had ended.

You stayed. Finished what you started. Buried your heart in textbooks and late-night patrols, every breath a battle not to sneak out of Hogwarts and into the joke shop to throw your arms around him.

You kept your chin up. You trained. You earned your Auror badge like it meant something. Like it could stitch up the gaping space he left behind.

The letters faded. The visits stopped. And in their place—emptiness. Weeks turned to months turned to years, and you both just… let it happen.

It hadn’t been an ugly ending, just an agonizing one. A slow unraveling. A missed goodbye. No fights. Just silence where laughter used to live. Tear-streaked cheeks and clutched hands and whispered promises you were both too proud—and too young—to keep.

You’d never stopped loving him. That was the worst part. The love had never left. It had only settled somewhere quieter. Heavier. Waiting.

You blinked, and he was still there.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

But he would.

And when he did, the whole bloody world would stop. It may as well have, already.

You didn’t know if it was hope or fear blooming in your chest—only that it was alive again.

-----

The wedding was soft and golden, like everything that had come before it.

The garden behind the Burrow had been transformed—lanterns floating overhead like tiny stars, wildflowers blooming in mason jars along each aisle, chairs arranged in a perfect, charmingly crooked arc. It smelled like rosemary and lemon tart, like old wood and fresh beginnings. Someone had enchanted the breeze to stay warm and gentle. You could almost pretend it was magic itself.

You stood with the other bridesmaids, bouquet tight in your hands, your dress the same shade of blush Ginny had insisted on months ago with a wicked grin—“George will faint when he sees you in this.”

You hadn’t thought she meant it literally. But now, you weren’t so sure.

Because he was there.

Groomsman. Just across the aisle. Tense, freckled hands clasped in front of him, boutonnière slightly crooked, smile tight at the corners like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. And then—

His eyes found yours.

Everything else faded.

He stared at you like it hurt. Like it healed. Like you were everything he'd buried and didn’t dare dig up again until this moment. He looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world built from dreams. Like he'd spent every day since the war pretending not to search for you in every crowded street, every silent room.

And there was something else too—grief tucked behind the edges of his smile. As if the war hadn’t just taken his ear and a piece of Hogwarts, but pieces of all of you. The laughter was still there, but it sat deeper in his chest now. Older. Earned.

And you? You stared right back.

Because how could you not?

That was your George. Still him. Still yours. Except not. Not really.

Fred elbowed him sharply, grinning like a devil, and George blinked—smiling back with something startled and sheepish and boyish in a way that gutted you.

You looked away before you could drown in it.

But you would’ve given anything to drown in it.

You had imagined weddings before. Countless nights holed up in the Gryffindor Dormitory with Ginny, Hermione, and all of the other girls you grew up with. Some nights it was their dream wedding. Other nights it was yours. A beautiful venue, a devilishly handsome court-jester of a ginger across from you at the altar. A sting in your eyes, a warmth in your chest, the vows you had planned out hidden deep in your diary.

It wasn’t just a conversation with your friends. It was late nights and early mornings, the Gryffindor common room fire crackling beneath whispers between you and your lover. Your head would rest on his chest, the two of you staring off as you planned every little detail of your life together. The color scheme of your wedding, the names of your future children, who would be on dinner-duty each night. You were convinced it was fated. Prophesied. Y/N Y/L/N and George Weasley were written in the stars.

Today, though, this ceremony blurred around the edges, dipped in candlelight and vows and Molly’s occasional sniffles. You caught flashes—Harry trying not to cry, Ginny radiant like sunlight incarnate, Arthur clutching a handkerchief in both fists. There were enchanted doves, there was a harpist whose strings shivered like glass, there was magic in the air and it wasn’t all from the spells.

But mostly, there was him.

Watching you.

And you, pretending you didn’t keep looking back.

Your pulse raced, hot beneath your collarbone. Your knees trembled inside your heels.

Because you knew it, deep in your bones. The moment the last toast was made, the first chance he got—he was going to come to you.

And when he did, you wouldn’t run.

You weren’t seventeen anymore.

You were still his. Even if you hadn’t said it out loud in years.

---

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time the reception hit its stride. Candles floated over tables dressed in mismatched linen. Music played low and rich beneath the hum of voices and laughter. Plates clinked. Wine glasses glittered in the fairy light. You danced with Neville, with Luna, with Bill, all with a smile stretched too tight across your face.

Because you could feel him watching.

Every time you turned, George was somewhere near—laughing with Charlie, talking with Lee Jordan, charming someone’s grandmother,  standing in his brother’s personal bubble as he whispered something that made Fred choke on his drink from laughter.

But he hadn’t come to you.

Not yet.

Your skin buzzed like a live wire. Every inch of you attuned to the way he moved, the weight of his gaze when he thought you wouldn’t notice. You were burning with it. Trembling with it.

And then you were gone.

You slipped away from the crowd, quiet as a spell. Past the string lights, past the garden’s edge, past the kitchen window glowing warm with laughter. You found your way to the porch—the one that creaked beneath your heels and smelled like pine and old summers.

You kicked off your shoes. Wrapped your arms around yourself. Breathed.

The door behind you creaked open, then closed.

You didn’t need to turn.

"You always did disappear at parties," he said softly.

You smiled to yourself. "You always did find me."

His footsteps creaked across the boards.

Then he was beside you.

Close enough to touch, but not touching. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through the air. You stared ahead, out at the setting sun. Fireflies began to buzz over the garden, and someone—Hermione, probably—had enchanted the pond to shimmer gold.

"Hi," he said.

You looked at him. Slowly. Let your eyes take him in, like your memory had starved for him.

"Hi," you whispered.

He breathed out a laugh. "Didn’t know if you’d actually come."

"I wouldn’t have missed it for the world."

He tilted his head. "Fred was bouncing off the walls. Told me if I didn’t clean up and act right, I’d regret it when you walked through the door."

You smiled. "He’s usually right."

George went quiet. His gaze dropped to the floorboards, then rose again to meet yours.

"You look beautiful," he said, voice low. "I mean—you always do. But tonight…"

Your chest ached. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?"

"Don’t say things like that unless you mean them."

He stepped forward. Close. Close enough that your arms brushed.

"I’ve meant every word I’ve ever said to you," he murmured.

You couldn’t breathe.

He was looking at you like he did in the greenhouses. In the library when you snuck him in after curfew. On the Astronomy Tower with your tie in his hand and the stars in your eyes.

Like he was falling through every single galaxy to end up in your arms once again.

"I missed you," he said.

You didn’t speak. Just stood there, blinking hard, willing the tears to stay where they were.

George shifted closer, voice unsteady. "I didn’t know how to let go of you. I thought I could pour everything into the shop, into laughing until it didn’t hurt anymore—but you never really left."

Your breath caught. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I kept moving forward, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. But it did. It does."

His eyes searched yours, but he didn’t flinch. "Then let’s stop pretending."

You opened your mouth to respond—but he kissed you instead.

It was not polite. Not soft.

It was filth and fire, all teeth and tongue, years of frustration and longing colliding behind lips that had forgotten how to be gentle. Your back hit the porch rail with a thud as he gripped your hips and ground against you like he could make up for everything in one breathless second.

You moaned into his mouth, clawed at his jacket, dragging him impossibly closer. His hands were under your dress, fists bunching the fabric as he palmed your ass with a growl.

"Come with me," he rasped, biting your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp. "Now."

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

He took your hand and hauled you upstairs like a man starved, the tittering portraits lining the walls hardly audible as your hearts pounded in your ears, barely making it through his bedroom door before he shoved it closed with his foot and pinned you against it. His mouth was on your neck, hot and open and frantic.

"Missed this," he groaned. "Missed you."

You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, yanked his shirt open, buttons pinging off the walls. He didn’t even flinch. Just lifted you, carried you across the room, and dropped you onto the bed like he owned you.

And maybe he did.

You pulled him down with you, mouth on his, legs wrapped tight around his hips. He kissed you like he was trying to brand himself into your bones.

Your dress hit the floor. His trousers followed.

He didn’t wait.

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and dragged your panties off with his teeth, eyes locked on yours. Then he was on you, tongue lapping between your legs, filthy and unrelenting.

You cried out, hips bucking against his face, and he groaned like he was addicted to it. He licked you through it, through your shaking thighs and gasping sobs, until you were trembling and pleading and yanking at his hair.

He rose over you, lips slick, pupils blown wide.

"You taste just as incredible as you used to," he said hoarsely, stroking himself as he crawled back over you. "I’m gonna ruin you."

You grabbed his face, pulled him close, lips clashing. "Please."

And he did.

He slammed into you in one deep, devastating thrust that made your eyes roll back.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. He set a brutal pace, fucking you into his mattress like a man possessed, like every second without you had been agony.

"You’ve always been mine," he growled, hips snapping hard against yours. "Tell me you never stopped."

"Yours," you gasped. "Yours, George, fuck—don’t stop—"

He flipped you onto your stomach, dragged your hips up, and drove into you again from behind, one hand tangled in your hair, the other splayed over your lower back to hold you still.

The sounds—your moans, the slap of skin, the creak of the bed—filled the room, obscene and perfect.

You were gone. Wrecked. Nothing but sensation and him.

He reached around, fingers circling your clit, and you shattered with a scream, clenching around him so tight he cursed loudly, bucked once more, and spilled into you with a groan that sounded like your name and a prayer.

You collapsed into the sheets, limp and breathless. He followed, covering your body with his, panting into your neck.

"Still with me?" he asked, voice wrecked.

You turned your head, kissed the corner of his mouth. "Always."

He chuckled darkly, still catching his breath. "Hope you're not done. I’m not finished with you."

You grinned at him, panting, glowing. “We’ve got a few years to catch up on, you know. Our plans from 6th year said that I was supposed to have a ring and a pregnancy by now,” you tease.

And from the way he was already hardening again against your thigh—you knew he’d make up for lost time. 

He didn’t give you a moment to rest, not until the moon was casting over the backyard, encasing the party still roaring outside in a cool, whispered glow. 

-----

Later, when you finally emerged, flushed and radiant with something more than just exertion, Fred’s eyes caught yours. Ginny’s followed. They didn’t say a word—just exchanged a look, one that spoke of too many shared conversations and the soft satisfaction of being right.

You didn’t let go of George’s hand.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low enough only for you.

“It’ll be ours next.”

You turned to him. "What?"

He didn’t hesitate.

“The wedding. It’ll be us getting married next.”

And this time, you didn’t flinch.

You smiled.

You believed him.

-----

tagging: @jamespotteraliveversion @hanneh69 @glennussy

[mywhisperingwords]

drunken mouths | fred g. weasley

summary: after a drunken night, where you cannot remember much, but one thing. fred kissed you. and he will not acknowledge it. word count: 3.6k masterlist

“I messed up. I messed up big time,” you confessed to George, banging your head on the counter. You were relieved that no customers were around to witness your humiliating breakdown.

Though you couldn’t see his expression, you were sure George was ignoring your theatrics. At least he acknowledged your words. “What are you talking about?”

“Last night. I messed up to the point of no return—in a way that will haunt me and my bloodline for generations,” you said dramatically.

“A bit over-the-top, don’t you think?” George asked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Oh no, trust me. It’s the most horrific thing to ever happen on this planet. I can never show my face again,” you mumbled, still pressing your face against the counter—which, you now noticed, desperately needed cleaning.

You’d deal with it later. Or maybe not. Maybe the ground would open up and swallow you whole, straight into the fiery pits of Shameland.

That’s all you were hoping for.

“Would you calm down and tell me what awful thing happened last night?”

You mumbled an incoherent response against the counter, which George clearly didn’t find satisfactory. He grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks together. “What?”

Now forced to look him in the eyes, you felt like you were staring directly at your mistake. Maybe that’s why you blurted out, “Fred and I kissed.”

“So?” George laughed, releasing your face.

“So? What do you mean ‘so’?” you said, exasperated. You couldn’t believe his casualness regarding what was, objectively, the biggest moment of your life.

“I mean, isn’t that exactly what you wanted?” he said, grinning smugly.

You stared at him until your eyes started to ache.

“Stop looking at me like that. You’re the one who’s had a massive crush on him for ages,” George pointed out.

“I feel like you don’t understand the gravity of the situation. We were both drunk last night—you were too, if you care to remember—and then we kissed,” you explained, your arms flailing as though that would drive the point home.

George just stared at you, expression blank.

“What if he doesn’t remember? Or worse—what if he does? And he regrets it? Oh, he totally regrets it, because I’m just his friend, and kissing your friend is weird. He’s probably disgusted by me. He’ll fire me, and then I won’t be able to afford rent, and I’ll end up living on the street, and—”

“Okay, okay, breathe,” George interrupted, holding his hands up as though calming a feral creature.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, nodding at him to continue.

“First off, he’s not going to fire you. I wouldn’t let him, okay?” George reassured you.

You nodded again.

“Second, if he doesn’t remember, then you’ve got nothing to stress about. You can both go back to pretending everything’s normal. But,” he added, stepping closer, “I highly doubt he doesn’t remember. He didn’t drink as much as you did, from what I recall.”

Your stomach churned at the thought.

“Now, let’s say he does remember and he rejects you—hold on!” He grabbed your shoulders before you could bang your head on the counter again. “He’s not going to be a twit about it. You’ll survive. Just pretend like it doesn’t bother you, alright? But,” he said, pausing dramatically, “if he remembers and liked it, then congratulations. Your happily-ever-after might actually happen.”

His logic calmed you down—for the moment, at least. Maybe you were freaking out over nothing.

“Now stop scaring away our customers,” George said with a smirk. “If you keep this up, Fred will have legitimate reason to fire you, and there’ll be nothing I can do about it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. But deep down, you still dreaded the moment Fred would walk through that door and meet your gaze. He’d be able to read your feelings as easily as ever.

Standing around waiting wouldn’t help with your sweaty palms or racing heart, so you forced yourself to focus, starting with cleaning the counter.

When you heard rumbling upstairs, your chest tightened. It wouldn’t be long now. You tried to spot a hiding place, somewhere you could spend the rest of your life. The shelf with stink bugs felt fitting.

As if George could read your mind, he slung an arm around your shoulders, keeping you in place.

Footsteps echoed closer, and you froze as the doorknob turned. The door swung open, and there he was.

Fred walked into the shop, his gaze landing on you and George immediately. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—something you couldn’t quite place—before it disappeared.

“What are you two up to now?”

“Nothing. Just a bit of friendly conversation,” George said, tightening his grip on you.

“Uh-huh. It looks more like your conversationalist is plotting an escape,” Fred teased, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s not true, right?” George nudged you. “Tell him that’s not true.”

“That’s not true,” you managed to croak, your throat dry.

Fred kept looking at you, but it seemed like he couldn’t find what he was searching for.

“Right,” he said with a laugh, finally breaking eye contact. He walked closer, and for a moment, you thought he might actually bring it up.

But he didn’t.

“I’m getting breakfast. You two want anything?”

Your stomach dropped. It was worse than him regretting it.

He didn’t even remember.

&

The last few days had been nothing short of torture for you.

On the surface, everything seemed the same, but there was an unspoken shift that made it all feel slightly off.

Fred acted like his usual self—playful, charismatic, and carefree—except for those fleeting moments when you caught him staring at you, his gaze lingering on your mouth a beat too long.

And every time you noticed, he’d look away, as though nothing had changed, as though your world hadn’t been turned upside down overnight.

George had been right: you’d had a crush on Fred for as long as you could remember. Maybe it had started the moment you began working here, or maybe it went back even further, all the way to your school days.

How could it not?

Even back at Hogwarts, Fred had this magnetic pull—an irresistible energy that drew people to him. He made everyone laugh, commanded every room he walked into, and left you hanging on his every word.

But things had changed.

Somewhere along the line, your silly little infatuation had grown into something deeper, something far more complicated.

Not that you’d ever acted on it. The thought of confessing your feelings—and facing the possibility of rejection—had always kept you silent. Instead, you’d buried your emotions and focused on building a genuine friendship with him, one you deeply valued.

But now, that careful balance was gone. You could feel it tipping every time you were near him.

And yet, you had no idea how to address it.

Fred hadn’t said a single word about the kiss—or even about the party where it happened. And that only made you more suspicious.

He loved to reminisce about a good time, especially if he’d been the one responsible for it. Fred called it “self-reflection.” George called it “gloating.”

But this time, there wasn’t so much as a passing comment. Not one word had slipped from his mouth about that night.

The first thing you noticed when you stepped into the apartment was the noise.

It was deafening—laughter, shouting, and music blaring loud enough to rattle the walls.

The air was thick with smoke and the sharp tang of spilled alcohol. Everywhere you looked, there were people—too many people—but not the one you were looking for.

Judging by the lively chaos, the party had been going strong for hours. The liquor you’d dropped off just yesterday had clearly done its job, and you could only hope there was still some left for you.

You weaved through the crowd, dodging swaying bodies and dodging elbows, your senses overwhelmed by the sights and sounds. Friends and old schoolmates pulled you into quick exchanges as you passed, each moment slowing your progress toward the kitchen.

A trip that should’ve taken a minute stretched into twenty.

When you finally made it, you were surprised to find Fred there, leaning casually against the counter, looking far more sober than expected.

Two drinks rested in his hands, but his focus was entirely on you. He greeted you with a familiar grin, the kind that made your heart skip.

“Kind of you to finally arrive,” he shouted over the music, handing you one of the drinks as you came closer.

“You know me—I wouldn’t miss a legendary Weasley party for the world,” you teased, winking as you raised the glass to your lips.

The drink burned as it hit your tongue, but the sweet aftertaste chased away the sting.

“Are you trying to get me drunk tonight, Weasley?” you asked, narrowing your eyes in mock suspicion.

Fred just grinned wider, raising his own cup before taking a slow sip.

Before you could press him further, George appeared out of nowhere, dragging Fred away with some urgent nonsense you couldn’t quite catch.

Left on your own, you got pulled into conversations with familiar faces, your attention shifting from one person to the next. Yet, no matter where you wandered or who you spoke to, you couldn’t stop your eyes from seeking him out.

And every time you found him, Fred seemed to sense it. Even if he was mid-conversation with some pretty girl, he’d glance up as though pulled by an invisible thread, meeting your gaze across the room.

The memory dissolved as Fred entered the small backroom where you were currently trying—and failing—to untangle the chaos of both the shelves and your thoughts.

He froze the moment he noticed you, his expression flickering with something unreadable before settling into what you could only describe as caught off guard.

Confused, you opened your mouth to ask him what was wrong, but before you could get a word out, he snatched a seemingly random box off a shelf. He gave you a fleeting smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes—before all but bolting from the room.

You stood there, staring after him, utterly baffled.

That had to be the most bizarre interaction you’d had with Fred in the last few days—and considering how strange he’d been acting, that was saying something.

Up until now, he’d been doing a remarkably good job pretending nothing had changed. He’d still joke with you and George like always, his laughter just as loud, his quips just as sharp. But you couldn’t ignore the subtle shifts, the cracks in the facade.

For one, he’d started avoiding you after hours. Before that night, Fred would usually hang back after closing, chatting about his latest prank ideas or the absurd customers of the day. Now, he was the first to leave—sometimes even before the shop was officially shut for the night.

And then there was the touch.

Fred had always been physically affectionate—a hand on your back, a teasing nudge, a quick hug that lingered just a second too long. But now? Nothing. No casual brushes, no reassuring pats, not even an accidental bump.

The absence was maddening.

Deep down, you knew the truth: Fred remembered. There was no other explanation for the way he acted now, as though he were tiptoeing around some invisible line.

Maybe George was right. Maybe you needed to be the one to address it.

The thought of confronting Fred filled you with dread, a sharp pang in your chest as you imagined how the conversation might go. He’d tell you the kiss was a mistake, something that should never have happened, something that would never happen again.

“We’re friends,” he’d say, his voice full of regret. “That’s all we’ve ever been.”

The idea alone was enough to break your heart, but a part of you suspected that you wouldn’t find peace until you heard the words from him directly.

Because at this point, the uncertainty was killing you.

“Having fun?” a familiar voice murmured in your ear, warm and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

You turned to see Fred standing next to you, leaning casually against the wall around the corner of the shop. The sight of him made you grin, wide and unrestrained, like he was the only person in the world.

You’d stepped outside to escape the overwhelming crush of bodies in the flat. The party, with its swirling heat and dizzying noise, had been too much, and the cool night air felt like a balm.

The drink in your hand had long been replaced with a small glass of water, though the slight haze in your mind reminded you that the alcohol wasn’t entirely out of your system.

The muffled thrum of a distant upbeat song floated through the quiet street, illuminated by soft moonlight. Above, the sky was a perfect canvas of stars, so bright and clear it made the world seem infinite.

“I can’t complain,” you said, tilting your head back to gaze at the constellations. In that moment, you felt utterly weightless, carefree. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just Fred’s presence, but you realized everything you wanted in life was already within reach.

Well, almost everything.

“But you seem to be having an especially good night,” you teased, your voice betraying the faintest hint of strain. “You’ve been popular tonight, haven’t you?”

Fred didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t care. “They don’t mean a thing to me,” he said easily. “All that matters is that you’re happy.”

His words sent a warmth through you, soft and all-encompassing.

“I am,” you murmured, and in that moment, you almost believed it.

“Then my job here is done,” he said, his grin widening, though his gaze remained fixed on you.

“Done? Already?” you quipped, finally meeting his eyes. That’s when you noticed just how close he was.

The air between you seemed to hum with energy, the space narrowing with every passing second.

“I mean, if there’s something else I can do to make you happy,” he whispered, his voice playful but tinged with something deeper, “just say the word.”

The proximity made your heart race, every nerve alive with anticipation. His breath ghosted against your skin, sending goosebumps rippling across your arms.

“Is that so?” you asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath.

“I’d do anything for you,” he said, and this time, his tone was serious, the lightness in his voice gone.

“Anything?”

Your gaze fell to his lips, and suddenly, there was no room for hesitation.

“Anything,” he murmured, leaning even closer. “Is there something specific you have in mind?”

You felt the answer burning on your tongue, but you didn’t need to say it. He could already see it in your eyes.

He closed the remaining distance, his lips brushing against yours in a tentative, searching kiss. When you didn’t pull away—when you kissed him back—his touch became more certain, more deliberate.

His hand found your waist, his fingers curling gently around you, pulling you closer. Your own hand slid into his hair, threading through the soft strands, and his sharp intake of breath sent a thrill through you.

His reaction was immediate: a soft bite to your bottom lip and a bold slide of his hand to cradle the back of your head, which made you—.

A sudden noise snapped you out of your spiraling thoughts.

The door banged against the wall as George stormed into the room, his frustration evident. “This has to stop!”

You frowned, scrunching up your face, and turned back to the parchment in front of you. The inventory—Fred’s job, not yours—was a mess of numbers that made no sense to you. But with Fred vanishing to Merlin-knows-where, someone had to do it.

Ignoring George, you pretended not to understand. Ignorance was bliss, right?

“Put the quill down,” he demanded, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard. “And listen to me. This whole situation is maddening! You’re both idiots. Just talk to each other, damn it!”

You flinched at his words because they hit too close to home.

Of course, George was right. He always was. But the thought of confronting Fred—of risking the fragile connection you still had—was unbearable. You couldn’t face the possibility of losing him entirely.

Still, you refused to respond, keeping your eyes fixed on the parchment in front of you. You couldn’t even decipher it anymore, the numbers blurring into incomprehensible shapes.

“Fine!” George barked. “But don’t come crying to me when this all falls apart.” His voice softened for a moment before he slammed the door behind him.

Alone again, you tried to refocus on your task, but his words lingered, gnawing at the edges of your resolve.

You didn’t have long to dwell, though. The next time you saw Fred, it was like George had predicted the future.

Fred stood near the counter, in what seemed like a deep conversation with someone. But as you moved closer, you realized she wasn’t a customer. The way she batted her lashes, leaning into his space, left no doubt she was flirting—and Fred? Fred was playing along.

Your stomach churned.

Her laugh, too loud and overdone, grated on your nerves. And Fred—charming, magnetic Fred—seemed to be reveling in it. It was too much.

You knew he would never hurt you intentionally, but watching this felt like a punch to the gut.

And the worst part? You had no right to be angry. Fred wasn’t yours.

But that didn’t mean you could stand there and watch.

Without a word, you stormed past them, your gaze catching Fred’s for just a split second. Whatever he saw in your expression made his own falter, and before you knew it, he was following you.

You didn’t stop until you reached the back office, desperate for the refuge of its familiar walls.

But Fred was right behind you.

You turned to face him, your arms crossed, waiting for him to speak. To explain. But he said nothing.

The silence between you stretched unbearably, pressing down until your chest ached.

“Say something,” you finally choked out, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions.

Fred’s lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t name, and it made the tears well up in your own.

When he still didn’t speak, you turned away, hiding the tears that spilled over and ran hot down your cheeks.

And Fred? Fred said nothing. Not when you bit back a sob, not when you brushed past him, not even when you walked out the door.

The next week, you couldn’t bring yourself to face him.

You told George you were sick and stayed home, retreating to the sanctuary of your bed. But even there, Fred invaded your thoughts, your dreams.

It felt like grieving something you’d never truly had.

Eventually, though, you couldn’t hide forever. Forcing yourself out of bed, you returned to the shop.

George took one look at you and frowned. “You both look awful,” he muttered before pulling you into a warm hug.

His words confused you, but you didn’t ask. Instead, you threw yourself into pretending everything was fine.

Fred, however, was conspicuously absent.

By the time you locked up that night, you were convinced it was better this way—better to avoid him entirely. But fate had other plans.

As you turned the corner toward the back office, Fred appeared, coming down the stairs.

He looked as bad as you felt—his hair a disheveled mess, his clothes rumpled, his eyes hollow. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the shock in his gaze mirrored in your own.

“Where did you disappear to?” he asked, his voice rough, like he hadn’t used it in days.

“Oh, so you can talk to me,” you snapped, your anger bubbling to the surface.

Fred flinched, the pain on his face almost enough to extinguish your fury. Almost.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to the floor. “For everything.”

“Sorry for what, exactly?” you shot back, crossing your arms defensively. “For kissing me? For pretending it never happened?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“What?” you interrupted, your voice trembling. “You didn’t mean to kiss me?”

“No! Not that,” he blurted, his head snapping up. “Never that. That’s the one thing I’d do over again, a thousand times if I could.”

Your breath caught. “So you remembered?”

Fred nodded, his eyes searching yours.

“Then why were you acting like you didn’t?”

He hesitated, then deflected. “You remembered too, didn’t you?”

Your heart stuttered. He was trying to shift the blame, but his question struck a nerve. You had remembered. And you’d stayed silent.

“Because I was scared,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Scared you’d tell me it was a mistake. That you regretted it.”

Fred took a step closer, his gaze softening. “I could never regret it,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Before you could respond, his hands cupped your face, his touch warm and grounding. Then his lips were on yours, urgent and unrelenting, stealing the air from your lungs.

And this time, there was no hesitation. No lingering fear clouding the moment, no doubt tethered to the excuse of alcohol in your veins.

It was just you and him, undeniable, finally finding the courage to want what had always been yours to have.

[allthesmutl0vers]

Dating Fred and George Weasley Headcanons

MDNI, 18+, NSFW

Masterlist Requests/Asks: OPEN (please read) Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader x George Weasley Request: Not a request just wanted to write to fight writer's block. TW: Sexual Situations, Kinks, Some Fluff, Pseudo-Twincest A/N: I feel like I ate with this, tbh. Been working on it for two mf days. 😮‍💨💞 I hope you enjoy! Comment here if you want to be added to the tag list for any/all HP content.

Please feel free to let me know how you feel about this. Comments and reblogs are always appreciated. ✨💞

How you got together:

You had been friends with them forever, but you never expected them to have the same feelings towards you as you did for them. None of you were willing to admit it until it was called out by Ginny and her loud ass mouth when she told you guys to 'just fucking kiss already, for Merlin's sake.'

They had just finished a match against Slytherin and won, of course, so their adrenaline was already flooding. You had opened your mouth to fire back at Ginny with some sarcastic ass comment when Fred grabbed your face and smashed his lips to yours, stealing the breath right out of your lungs.

When Fred finally pulled back, your head was in a daze, and before you could suck in a breath, George grabbed you by your waist, dipped you, and kissed you with the same passionate intensity.

After that, everything else was history, and the only thought any of you could form was, 'Why didn't we do this sooner?'

Fred

Song that best describes your relationship with Fred:

Good Girls Go Bad - Cobra Starship (Iykyk)

Nicknames he has for you:

Darling: His go-to nickname, he uses it all of the time.

Love: Uses this one when he is being extra lovey, or giving you presents.

Sweetheart: (this one is for when you're in trouble and he wants you to know it)

Kinks:

Biting: Fred loves to bite you while he's fucking you. Leaving trails of bite marks all over your neck and going down your collarbones and, especially, between your thighs when he's eating you out. Though he never breaks the skin, he does bite hard enough to bruise. Fred's biggest turn-on is the sounds that leave your lips when he bites down hard and then licks and kisses the same spot, melting pain with pleasure until you can't tell the difference.

Bit of an exhibitionist: Nothing revs Fred up more than the risk of getting caught, especially if it's George walking in when he has you bent over, face down, ass up. He knows you're with George, too, but it's not necessarily about who catches you two in the act. It's about simply being caught.

"Looks like we've been caught, darling," he taunts with a dark chuckle and pulls your head back by your hair to make you look at George while he pile drives into you from behind. "Show Georgie how good I make you feel. Come on, let him hear how I make you scream."

Begging: Hearing you beg, 'Just fuck me already,' almost makes him break and do it. His response? Shoving his cock down your throat, all the while taunting you with little phrases like, 'What was that, darling? Didn't quite catch that,' or 'But you look so good, down on your knees begging for me.' He will definitely give you what you want, but only after tears are running down your cheeks as your need becomes almost too much to bear. Almost. He's not a complete sadist, after all.

Honorable Mentions:

Hair Pulling I mean, need I say more?

Teasing at the MOST inappropriate times, family dinner? Ha, his fingers are right at the apex of your thighs, silently challenging you to keep your facial expressions schooled.

Breeding Kink: You think he doesn't fantasize about filling you up so fucking full with cum, that it's only thanks to your birth control you haven't gotten pregnant yet? That's fucking adorable.

Favorite Positions:

Face down, ass up: What's not to love? It's the perfect position for Fred to slam into you at the brutal pace that leaves you cock-drunk. Perfect for him to either hold your hips still or slam you back onto his cock to match his pace, all the while leaving perfect little fingertip bruises on your hips. Even better is when he pulls you back, flush to his chest, a large hand holding just under your chin, supporting your weight while he leaves a trail of bite marks down your neck and shoulders while you whimper and plead for mercy, not that you actually want it, he just loves to hear you beg.

Against a wall: Being the exhibitionist he is, Fred will fuck you any and everywhere. An empty classroom, a broom closet, the locker room after an intense quidditch match, win or lose, he doesn't care. So long as he gets you. But there is just something about holding you up with your legs wrapped around him, back pinned to the wall (or a locker), that makes Fred fucking feral. The way he can watch your pupils blow with arousal, your lips part and quiver as your orgasm crashes into you like a fucking freight train, the way you tug on his hair as if you're trying to keep some semblance of grounding as you feel your soul leave your body. Fuck, he's sure he's never seen a more beautiful sight in his entire life.

Spit roasting: When you're on all fours on the bed (or anywhere, really), and he pounds into you while you suck off George. Fucking you so hard it forces you to take more of George down your throat. What are brothers for? He's not sexually attracted to George, but there's nothing like watching you take his other half while he slams into you. Both of them work in a delicious and synchronized rhythm, filling you up so full that you might just burst, will burst. Body trembling while George offers you sweet praise and Fred reaches around your body, rubbing tight and fast circles over your clit; all the while, they drag you further and further down to hell or up to heaven. Is there even a difference anymore?

Random Head Canons:

Fred is more possessive, not so much that you're not allowed to have friends of the opposite sex. He knows full well he can trust you to tell him if someone makes you uncomfortable. He knows damn well you're not going to be fucking around with anyone else, given how fucking incredible he and George make you feel. Possessive in the aspect that he will brutally, if not mercilessly, prank anyone who so much as looks at you in any way that isn't platonic.

When you chastise him for these methods, he stops because you are bloody terrifying when you're truly angry. He switches to pulling you onto his lap or brushing your hair over your shoulder in front of them to reveal the litter of bite marks he made or the hickies that George made all over your neck, all with the cockiest fucking smirk on his face.

Fred's Ideal Date: While he loves being buried deep inside of you, he loves treating you to an adventure. His favorite? Walking into the forbidden forest, finding the perfect place to swim (he found the best swimming hole with a ledge to jump off of.) In the warmer months, he'll pack a lunch and take you here, loving the adrenaline rush of jumping and diving off of the small cliff ledge. Swimming behind the waterfall and exploring the caves inside with you. In the colder months, he will challenge you to a snowball fight in the courtyard, George is allowed, too, of course, but one of them will always be on your side against the other. Otherwise it's not really fair, is it?

George

Song that best describes your relationship with George:

Ride - SoMo

Nicknames he has for you:

Baby/Baby girl: Uses this as a placement for your name.

Little One: Uses this when he's teasing you; typically whispers it in your ear when his hands are around your waist. Or when he is watching Fred fuck you before he steps in and joins.

Mine/Ours: Uses this one the most in the bedroom when either he or both of them are fucking you.

Kinks:

Hickies: While Fred loves biting, George is a little more gentle. Note that I said a little. He'll fuck you like a whore in church, but he prefers to drag out the pleasure by sucking the soft skin right behind your ear all the way down your body down to your clit, right to his favorite part on your body, which brings me to my next point-

Eating you out: Holy. Fucking. Shit. If this was an Olympic sport, George would take the gold every single fucking time. Sure, Fred knows how to send you over the edge, but George takes his time. Licking and sucking your clit with slow, purposeful movements, drawing out sounds from your throat that sound inhuman. The way his fingers curl just fucking right inside of you, thrusting against that spongy spot inside of you, scissoring them to spread your walls and thrust his tongue in and out. Seriously, this man would live between your thighs if he could. Sending you over the edge again and again with just his devilish fucking tongue and fingers, he gets off on that shit, literally. This man has cum simply from eating you out before.

Edging: Remember how I said George is 'a little more gentle'? This is what I meant by that. George's favorite hobby when he's buried deep inside of you is bringing you right up to the edge, then pulling out, leaving you feeling empty as your walls clamp around nothing. You whine, and you whimper, and suddenly, he thrusts into you with a snap of his hips. Only to do it all over again.

"You want me to fill you up, baby? Is that what you want?" He teases as he only pushes his tip inside. You try to rock against him, to take him in deeper to satisfy the craving inside of you. "Hmm, I'm not sure you deserve it," he taunts as his thumb lands on your clit. Just as you open your mouth to beg, his hand grips your throat, and he slams into you so hard you see stars, his cock buried so deep that you swear you can feel him in your guts as he finally lets you cum with an Earth-shattering cry around him.

Honorable Mentions:

Choking: Because you know what would make you even more beautiful? A hand necklace. His, to be specific.

Bit of a voyeur: He loves watching you get pounded hard and fast when he typically fucks you hard and slow. The way your face contorts slightly differently when Fred is fucking you amuses him like no other.

Breeding Kink to the fucking MAX: He wants your pussy flooded with cum, if some spills out? No big deal, he'll fuck it right back into you. And after you finish school? Yeah, that shit is going into the fucking trash. (But you have no arguments, tbh.)

Favorite Positions:

Riding him: Guiding your hips, thrusting up into you as your hands rest on his chest to hold yourself up. Sure, George is dominant. But that doesn't love to see the look on your face above him as you come apart, over and over again, until you're a sweaty, shaky mess. George doesn't mind reverse- cowgirl, but he'd much rather see your face as his hand wraps around your throat just hard enough to make you dizzy as he tosses you over the edge, following right behind you.

Missionary (hear me out): Who says missionary is boring? Not you. Sure, nothing beats a bed, but George prefers you laid out across his desk. Or with your legs thrown over his shoulders, ass hanging over the bed as he stands and pounds into you. His thrusts are slow and firm, sliding into the hilt and then grinding against your core, making damned sure to draw out every last moan your body can produce.

Between him and Fred: George is not biased when it comes to fucking you in your ass or your pussy, if he's honest. So long as you're on your knees on the bed, while he's in either hole while Fred is in the other, both slamming into you with an animalistic ferocity. Filling you up so full with their cum that it'll be dripping out of you for days.

Random Head Canons:

George LOVES it when people stare/flirt with you. It drives Fred up the fucking wall when George doesn't try to brutally prank or show off just how much you're theirs. But it gets George off when guys try to flirt with you only to have a drink thrown at them, or you simply laugh at them before pointing out him and Fred. While Fred's anger is palpable, George just winks at you with a shit-eating grin on his face. Maybe it's the voyeur in him, but he loves watching you interact with people, male or female, because he knows you're not going anywhere except right back to him and Fred.

George's Ideal Date: George loves to fly with you on his broom, you in front of him as he grips the broom between your thighs. His favorite time to do it is at night, flying up so high you swear you can almost touch the stars as you soar over the clouds. You know this is what you two are doing when he bundles you up in one or maybe two of his sweaters. Because Merlin forbid you get cold. If it's too cold to fly or it's snowing, he loves to take a walk to Hogsmeade and share a butterbeer. So long as he's spending time with you, he couldn't be happier.

I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I loved writing it. Please don't forget to reblog and comment! ✨✨🤞🏻😇

[deatheaterv]

A STRANGER

pairing : fred weasley x fem!reader

genre : angsty-fluff

summary : once inseparable, you and fred drifted apart after a misunderstanding, leaving him watching you from afar as you became the center of attention. at a gryffindor party, drunk and overwhelmed, he confessed years of pain, believing he no longer mattered to you.

it had been years since you and fred had spoken to each other. back when you were kids, you two were inseparable, always laughing and causing trouble together. but one day, something changed. it was a misunderstanding, something so trivial you couldn’t even remember the details anymore, but it was enough to put a wall between you. and over time, that wall grew taller. so, you became strangers, walking past each other in the halls of hogwarts like nothing had ever happened.

now, in your fifth year, you were practically the most popular person in gryffindor. everyone knew you, wanted to be around you. your charm, your wit, your laugh. it had all drawn people in, and you didn’t even realize how much fred had been watching you. he was trying so hard to ignore the growing feelings that had taken root inside him, but it was impossible. he would see you at dinner, surrounded by your friends, laughing, and it would hit him like a ton of bricks.

he never wanted to admit it, but he missed you. he missed the days when it was just the two of you, no expectations, no people trying to get your attention. just you and him, goofing off and making up jokes that no one else understood.

but now, fred found himself watching you from afar. he couldn’t just walk up to you and act like everything was fine. no, it wasn’t that simple. you were so popular, and he was just fred weasley, the prankster, the one who’d been left behind in your past. he couldn’t bear the thought of being rejected again.

so, he tried everything. he tried being funny, tried catching your attention with little tricks and pranks, but every time, you either didn’t notice or just brushed him off. it was so hard. he could see the way you smiled at other people, but when he tried to talk to you, you just treated him like a stranger. it was like he didn’t even exist to you.

that night, however, was different. it was the gryffindor party, and fred had had a little too much to drink. his thoughts were clouded, and the alcohol gave him a courage he didn’t want but desperately needed. he saw you across the room, laughing with your friends, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

“oi, y/n!” fred called out, stumbling slightly as he made his way over to you. you looked up, a little surprised to see him standing there, his face flushed and his expression unreadable. “can we talk?”

you raised an eyebrow but nodded, motioning for him to follow you to a quieter corner of the common room. you’d never really spoken to him much since you’d grown distant, it felt odd.

“what’s up, fred?” you asked, your voice polite but distant. fred ran a hand through his hair, looking down at his feet for a moment before finally meeting your eyes.

“do you even remember me?” he blurted out, his voice sharp and uneven. the question caught you off guard, and you blinked in confusion.

“huh?”

“do you even remember me, y/n? because i remember you. i remember every stupid thing about you. how you hate licorice wands but eat them anyway if you’re stressed. how you used to laugh at all my bad jokes even when no one else did.” his voice cracked, and he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “but you? you don’t even look at me anymore.

your throat tightened, and you opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off.

“do you know how much it hurts? to go from being your best mate to this? a stranger you can’t even bother to say hi to. i’ve spent years trying to figure out what i did wrong, why you stopped caring. but maybe the truth is you just outgrew me.” his voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes, usually so full of mischief, looked so tired.

“fred, i..”

“no, it’s fine,” he interrupted, his tone laced with bitterness. “you don’t owe me anything. i just… i needed to get it out, you know? because i can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt. seeing you, knowing i’ll never mean anything to you again. it’s killing me.”

you stared at him, the weight of his words crashing down on you. for the first time in years, you saw fred. really saw him. not the jokester, not the prankster, but the boy who used to mean the world to you, the boy you’d let slip away.

fred gave you a forced smile, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “it’s okay, y/n. you don’t have to say anything. i just.. i needed you to know.”

before you could stop him, he turned to leave. but something in you snapped, and you grabbed his arm, pulling him back. he turned, startled, just as you leaned in and kissed him.

it wasn’t rushed or desperate. it was soft, careful, filled with everything you hadn’t been able to say. fred froze for a moment before his hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer. when you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his breath was shaky.

“you idiot,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “you never stopped meaning everything to me.”

fred let out a shaky laugh, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “well, that’s good to know. because you’ve always meant everything to me too.”

[criesinliess]

━AUGUST 2024; susan's recs

TOP GUN: MAVERICK

━━BRADLEY 'ROOSTER' BRADSHAW

jealousy, jealousy; the beach disaster; love confessions in the dark @feralforfrank

you told me not to worry about them @katsu28

that’s not what i meant and you know it @↑

love in the dark @bloatedandalone04

things unseen and heard @↑

the zipper incident @tongue-like-a-razor

pool bets @yelenasbraid

━━JAKE 'HANGMAN' SERESIN

love drug @bloatedandalone04

MARVEL

━━FRANK CASTLE

here for you @feralforfrank

sweet like wine @privateanxieties

drunk on you @sunflowersandsapphires

━━BUCKY BARNES

goodnight kiss @alisonsfics

━━MATT MURDOCK

three empty words; don’t be a fool @petertingle-yipyip

OUTER BANKS

━━RAFE CAMERON

secrets; realizations @katsu28

not her man; his girl @giuliettagaltieri

STRANGER THINGS

━━STEVE HARRINGTON

to be alone together @katsu28

moth to a flame @chelseeebe

everything has changed @↑

feel right into me @headkiss

are we more? @↑

come home — season 4 episode 1 @stevie-petey — ON HER SHIT AGAIN !!

moron @↑

GRISHAVERSE

━━KAZ BREKKER

beggin' @rubysunnday

letters he never sent @yelenasbraid

play with fire @↑

THE BEAR

━━CARMY BERZATTO

place to crash @alisonsfics

take care of you @↑

secret’s out @↑

words unsaid @↑

team building @↑

too good to me @↑

TWISTERS

━━TYLER OWENS

like mother like father like daughter; getting even @wisdomssdaughterr

third times the charm @mickandmusings

don’t take him @briefinquiries

where you belong @↑

too easy @↑

choose you @↑

the hard way @fireinmoonshot

death wish love @↑

TEEN WOLF

━━STILES STILINSKI

all this way @vnderoos

HARRY POTTER

━━DRACO MALFOY

in your place @vnderoos

potions and prats @↑

━━FRED WEASLEY

looks like slytherin betrayal to me @vnderoos

━━GEORGE WEASLEY

how did it end up like this? @vnderoos

━━THEODORE NOTT

kiss with a fist @theostrophywife

LOCKWOOD & CO

━━ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

the best people in life part4 @websterss

[nyxsberries]

Mine to take

Pairing: George Weasley x f!reader

Summary: George is not happy when he sees you dancing with Cedric at the party

Wc: 3.4k+

Warnings: NSFW 18+ Smut, jealousy, mentions of alcohol, possessive behaviour, unprotected sex, oral, choking kink, cursing, fingering, creamp!e.

The warm glow of sunset danced across the sky, casting a gentle orange hue over the Hogwarts grounds. The sound of laughter and murmured conversations drifted from the gryffindor common room, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the soft strains of music. the party has just started and truth be told you are nervous to go inside, because you know you’ll see him, but at the same time you can’t wait to get drunk and get him out of your mind and maybe just maybe he will see you there, he has to because you look breathtaking in that beautiful red dress which happens to be his favorite colour.

You take a deep breath, pushing open a door to the Gryffindor common room. The warmth of the party embraces you, the air thick with the scent of every kind of alcohol. not even a second later you hear a laughter, loud and infectious, but heavenly. ‘fuck’ you turn to look at him. His gingers locks caught your eyes. george weasley. he is sitting on a couch, manspreading while holding a bottle of beer. On his side is his brother Fred, some of his friends and some students you don’t recognise. he is saying something and all of them are hanging onto his every word. he has that effect on people. he says something and everyone laughs. george also cracks a grin. 'god he is so handosme.’ as if hearing your thoughts he looks staright at you from across the room. His eyes meet yours, and the room seems to still for a moment. the corner of his mouth lifts up in a smirk. suddenly aware of everything around you, you quickly look away. you definitely need alcohol in your system. You have to get him out of your mind. as you are trying to get through everyone, someone taps on your shoulder.

“'hey pretty”

you recognise the voice. you turn to look at him

“hey Cedric, having fun?” you ask him, clearly happy to see him

“you know i am, but i can’t say the same about you, looks like you need a drink”

he laughs as he gives you his cup with a smile on his face.

“thanks” you say as you take a sip of whatever it is, probably a punch, a very bad punch.

“you know i was not expecting to get invited after all-“

Cedric is talking to you but you can’t pay enough attention to him, you can feel his eyes on you, so you look in his direction. George is looking right at you and Cedric. his eyebrows furrowed and his grin gone. he takes a sip of his beer. he almost looks angry, you think. Cedric's hand reaches out, gently touching your elbow, breaking your gaze from George.

“Come on, let's dance”

he suggests, a playful smile on his lips. You hesitate for a moment, feeling George's eyes on you. but you are here to have fun. the pulsating rhythm of the music and the warmth of Cedric's touch prove too enticing. You nod, letting him lead you to a dance floor. The music is vibrating through your body. Cedric pulls you close, his hands resting on your hips, his eyes locked onto yours. You move with him. Across the room, you see George standing up from a couch, his eyes burning into you, his jaw clenched. He takes a swig of his beer, his eyes never leaving you, suddenly you feel this excitment. you want to make him jealous. you want him to desire you. the possessives in his eyes makes you riled up. you want more. You feel a thrill run through you, a mix of excitement and defiance, as you continue to dance, losing yourself in the music.

George couldn't take it anymore. He watched as Cedric's hands roamed over your body, his eyes never leaving yours. He slammed his beer bottle down on the nearest table. his gaze was locked onto you. You bit your lip, a mix of excitement and apprehension coursing through you as you watched him stride towards you, his eyes ablaze with desire and jealousy. He grabbed your arm, pulling you away from Cedric with a force that sent a jolt of electricity through you. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, his grip firm yet gentle. He led you out of the common room.

“we need to talk” he says as he drags you to one of the towers, where the music doesn’t reach you two anymore. The castle was quiet, the party a distant hum.

“just stop already, what is your problem” you say angrily. He turned to face you, his chest heaving, his eyes filled with a primal hunger.

“do you like him?”

“Wha-?”

“you must like him a lot, after all you were all over him” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“who? cedric? what does that have to do with you?” Oh now you have done it. His chest was heaving, his eyes ablaze with a fierce intensity that made your heart pound in your chest.

“I can't stand seeing you with him” he admitted, his voice a low growl, laced with a jealousy that sent a thrill down your spine.

“What are you-“

“I can't stand the thought of anyone else touching you, laughing with you, being close to you. It drives me fucking mad”

He took a step closer, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lips. You felt a shiver run through you, his words sending a wave of heat crashing over you. You leaned into his touch, your eyes locked onto his.

“Oooh do you like me, George?” you smirked playfully.

George's thumb traced your bottom lip, his eyes following the movement, a hunger growing in his gaze.

“Like you?” he echoed, a smirk playing on his lips. “was i not clear enough, love?, Every time you're near, it's like my body is on fire. I can't think straight, can't focus on anything but you.”

His hand moved from your cheek, tracing down your neck, your collarbone, until it rested on your waist. You gasped, his words sending a jolt of desire straight to your core. your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You wanted him, wanted him more than you have ever wanted anything in your life. George's eyes flicked between yours, the hunger in them perceptible. He leaned in, his breath hot on your lips.

“I've wanted to do this since the moment I saw you in this dress.”

His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, matching the rhythm of your own. His lips finally met yours, and it was like a spark igniting a wildfire. He kissed you with a fierce intensity, his lips demanding, his tongue exploring. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. George's hands roamed your body, his touch urgent and possessive. He lifted you and your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, as he pressed you against the cold stone wall of the tower. You could feel his hardness through his jeans, grinding against you, making you moan into his mouth. He growled, his lips moving to your neck, sucking and biting, leaving marks that you knew would be visible in the morning. You didn't care. You wanted him to mark you, to claim you. You arched your back, pushing your breasts against him, feeling the friction against your dress. He groaned, his hands moving to your thighs, squeezing them, his fingers digging into your soft flesh.

“Fuck, you taste so good”

he muttered, his voice ragged with desire. He moved one hand between your legs, and under your lace underwear. making you gasp and squirm.

“I need you, George”

you panted, your voice barely above a whisper. George's fingers found your wetness, stroking you with a skill that made your head spin. He slipped a finger inside you, then another, curling them in a way that had you gasping for breath.

“God, you're so fucking wet”

he growled, his eyes locked onto yours.

“I want to taste you love, I want to feel you come apart on my tongue”

He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping your thighs, pushing your dress up to your waist and your underwear down. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire, before leaning in and running his tongue along your slit. You moaned, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He groaned, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through you. He feasted on you, his tongue exploring every inch of you, his fingers still moving inside you. You could feel the tension building, your body coiling like a spring ready to snap.

“George, I'm close”

you panted, your voice barely above a whisper. He looked up at you, his eyes ablaze with hunger, and redoubled his efforts, sending you spiraling over the edge, your body convulsing with pleasure, your cries echoing through the empty tower. George's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he watched you come down from your high, your body still trembling with aftershocks. He stood up, his hands gripping your thighs, his lips glistening with your juices.

“Fuck, you're beautiful when you come” he said, his voice hoarse with desire. He leaned in, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You moaned, your hands pulling him closer, your body already yearning for more. He chuckled, breaking the kiss.

“Patience, love. We've got all night”

Smug bastard, you thought but still those words sent a fresh wave of desire coursing through you. You could feel the heat pooling between your legs, your body already aching for more of his touch. You could play this game. You reached out, your fingers tracing the hard lines of his chest, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. George's breath hitched, his eyes darkening as he watched your every movement.

“You're playing with fire, love”

he warned, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine.

“I know” you replied, a playful smirk on your lips. “And I want to get burned” You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear.

“I want you, George. Right here, right now”

George's grip on your thighs tightened, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. He let out a low groan, his forehead resting against yours.

“Fuck, you're killing me”

he muttered, his voice ragged with desire. He reached between your legs, his fingers finding your wetness. You moaned, your body writhing against his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. George's eyes locked onto yours, his expression fierce and intense.

“I'm going to make you come again, love. And this time, I'm going to be inside you when you do”

The castle was quiet, the only sound that could be heard was the soft rustle of your dress as George moved it up to your waist, and the harsh pants of your breath. He unbuckled his jeans, his hardness springing free, He guided himself to your entrance, his eyes locked onto yours, a silent question in them. You nodded, your breath hitching as you felt him push inside you, inch by inch, filling you completely. You gasped, your body stretching to accommodate him. George groaned, his eyes closing briefly as he savored the feeling of being inside you.

“Fuck, you feel amazing”

he muttered, his voice laced with desire. He began to move, his hips thrusting in a slow, steady rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through you. You moaned, your body moving in sync with his, your fingers digging into his shoulders. The sounds filled the empty tower, a symphony of desire and passion. George's grip on your thighs tightened, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding. His hands roamed your body, He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, his eyes locked onto yours.

“I want everyone to hear you scream my name from the pleasure love. I want everyone to know you're mine”

He leaned down, his lips capturing yours once again. You kissed him back, your body arching into his, your wrists twisting in his grip, not to escape, but to feel more of him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. George's grip on your wrists tightened, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more insistent. He was claiming you, marking you, making sure that every inch of your body would bear the evidence of his possession. You could feel the tension building inside you, your body coiling like a spring ready to snap. George's eyes were locked onto yours, his expression fierce and intense, his jaw clenched as he fought to maintain control.

“Come for me, love”

he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent a fresh wave of heat crashing over you.

“I want to feel you come apart on my cock”

His words pushed you over the edge, your body convulsing with pleasure, your cries echoing through the empty tower as you came. George's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own release. He let out a low groan, his body tensing as he came inside you, his fingers digging into your waist, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He buried his face in your neck, his lips brushing against your skin,

“You're mine now, love. All mine”

He whispered, his voice hoarse. You could only nod, your body still trembling, your heart pounding in your chest, as you clung to him, knowing that you were his, completely and utterly. George's breath was still ragged as he pulled back to look at you, his eyes softening as he took in your flushed cheeks and disheveled hair.

“Come on, love” he said, his voice gentle yet firm, “let's get out of here before someone catches us”

your legs were wobbling slightly as you stood. He chuckled, pulling you into a hug.

“I've got you”

He led you out of the tower, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, guiding you through the quiet castle corridors. The castle was a maze at night, but George navigated it with ease. George led you to his dormitory, the scent of his cologne lingered in the air. He closed the door behind him, locking it with a soft click. He turned to face you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart race.

“I'm not done with you yet, love,”

he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent a fresh wave of heat crashing over you. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lips.

“I want to explore every inch of your body, taste every part of you. I want to hear you scream my name again and again”

You bit your lip, a shiver of anticipation running through you.

“I thought you were tired”

you teased, your voice barely above a whisper. George chuckled, a low, seductive sound that made your insides clench.

“Tired? Love, I've barely even started.”

George leaned in, his lips capturing yours. He backed you up against his bed, his hands roaming your body. He unzipped your dress, letting it fall to the floor, leaving you standing in your lace underwear. He took a step back, his eyes raking over your body, a hunger growing in his gaze.

“Fuck, you're beautiful”

he muttered, his voice hoarse with desire. He reached out, his fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra, his touch sending electric shocks through you.

“I want to see you, all of you”

He unhooked your bra, letting it fall to the floor, his eyes darkening as he took in your naked breasts. He groaned, his hands reaching out to cup them, his thumbs brushing against your nipples, making you gasp. He leaned down, his lips capturing one nipple, sucking and biting, his hands squeezed your breasts, his touch driving you wild. You moaned, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your body tensed up with pleasure. George growled, his hands moved to your hips, his fingers hooking into your underwear, pulling it down. He looked down at you, his eyes ablaze with hunger, He guided you to the bed, his hands gentle yet firm, his eyes locked onto yours. George's eyes gleamed with a dark intensity as he pushed you onto the bed, He wrapped his hand around your throat, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point, his grip firm yet gentle. You could feel the blood rushing in your ears, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You squirmed beneath him, your body arching. his eyes locked onto yours, a smirk playing on his lips. You could feel the heat pooling between your legs, your body responding to his touch, You let out a moan, George chuckled, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, his lips moving to your neck and leaving soft kisses on it. You let out a gasp. George's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, his body pressing down on yours, his hardness grinding against you, making you whimper. George's grip on your throat tightened slightly, his eyes gleaming with lust.

“I want to see you ride me, love”

he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent a fresh wave of heat crashing over you. Before you could respond, he flipped you over, his hands gripped your hips and lifting you effortlessly onto his lap. You gasped, your legs straddling his waist, your hands gripped his shoulders for support. George's hands guided you, positioning you above his hardness, his eyes locked onto yours, a silent question in them. You nodded, your breath hitching as you felt him push inside you. You moaned. your fingers digging into his shoulders. George's hands moved to your waist, his grip firm as he guided your movements, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Ride me, love”

he commanded, his voice hoarse with desire.

“I want to see you take what you want, what you need”

You began to move, your hips rising and falling in a steady rhythm, your body finding a natural pace that had you gasping for breath. George's hands roamed your body, his touch urgent and possessive, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. He leaned up, his lips capturing yours in a kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth, his groans mingling with your moans. George's grip on your waist tightened, his thrusts becoming more powerful, pushing you both closer to the edge. The tension building inside you was unlike anything you'd ever felt. George's eyes were locked onto yours, his expression intense.

“You are doing so good love”

that gave you confidence. You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear, your breath hot on his skin. George's grip on your waist tightened, his breath hitching as he felt your lips move down his neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses. He let out a low groan, his head tilting to give you better access, his body shuddering with pleasure. You smiled, your hands moved to his chest, your fingers traced the hard lines of his muscles, feeling them tense under your touch. your teeth grazing his skin, making him groan again.

“Fuck”

He moaned, his voice ragged with desire. George's breath hitched, his hips bucking beneath you. You could feel him swelling inside you, his body tensing as he neared his release. You moaned, your body responding to his, your own climax building with each thrust.

“Come with me, love” he growled, his voice a low rumble. His words pushed you over the edge, your cries echoing through the room He buried his face in your neck, as you both came together. his breath ragged, his body slick with sweat.

“stay with me tonight”

he said in a whisper. You leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed, a soft smile playing on your lips. You snuggled into his embrace, your body relaxed, your eyes fluttering closed. The last thing you remember before sleep claimed you was the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and the soft kiss he pressed to your forehead.

A/N: hope you liked it, until next time 💋

[miraclemuncher]

How hard is it to move on from a crush on Fred Weasley?

tags/warnings. hogwarts setting, sixth year/gof, (probably inaccurate portrayal of) underage drinking and drug use (don’t let the girl who writes fics write abt partying)

notes. accidentally made it like +1.8k words long so i’m splitting it into more parts. oops. bright side is that most of the other part is written already!

wordcount. 841

part 1 | part 3

Fred Weasley makes it so difficult to move on.

You’ve had six pathetic years to either make a move or move on and so far you’ve done neither. Except you have tried making a move, way too many moves.

There’s an unspoken limit to how many first moves a lady should make.

Fred just doesn’t get flirting. How can he when a standard conversation with him is flirting to everyone else but normal to him?

This is the last year you have to relax, to catch a pre-summer fling and then launch into studying the following school term. Your seventh year will be hell on earth.

So this party must be the one. You are going to meet a new guy to fall head over heels for. Or maybe just one to rebound off of. Either way, you needed a distraction from Fred Weasley. You are done chasing.

There’s plenty of Scandinavians from Durmstrang and French boys from Beauxbatons to go around. They’ll be gone by the end of the year, it’s the perfect opportunity for a mutual fling.

Your friends psych you up while pregaming. You’ll meet a new guy! He’ll be way better than Weasley! they tell you. They’re just as sick of your crush as you are.

It’s too bad you’re a lazy drunk.

You end up getting wasted at the party, half listening to Lee’s drunk rambles while your other half is struggling to stay awake.

There’s a bunch of other people listening too, or they’re at least pretending to listen. Lee doesn’t need an active audience to yap anyways.

You’re briefly jolted awake by the couch sinking deeper as someone fills the empty seat next to you. You ignore it and close your eyes again.

But you can’t ignore it because a wet and cold glass of ice water is lightly pressed against your cheek.

Dazed and confused, you shake your head away from it and hold up your half drunken bottle of butterbeer to deny the drink.

When it’s snatched from your hands, you frustratingly turn to the perpetrator. It’s Fred. You’re face to face with Fred Weasley.

Way, way too close, you lean backwards against the couch arms to create distance.

Fred takes a swig from your bottle and his face scrunches up at the taste. “This is just butterbeer? Wow, you’re an authentic lightweight.”

“No I’m not,” you slur your words. You try to reach for your bottle back but end up slumping against Fred over your own weight.

He helped you sit upright with a laugh. You’re melting in his hands, sober or intoxicated that tends to happen.

“Stop laughing. ‘M not a lightweight. I just took some… some… Huh. I don’t know what I took…”

Fred forces you to cup the glass of water as you ramble on about wondering what you took. You take a sip of the glass by reflex, thinking he’s returned your butterbeer. The water actually tastes pretty refreshing. It helps you sort out your memories from the past few hours. “It’s something George gave to me… I think. Or was that you?” You squint at Fred accusingly.

The last thing you remember is Fred jumping to his feet. Then you wake up hungover as hell in your dormitory the next morning.

Everyone who went to that party was hungover more than usual. The Weasley twins apparently laced everyone there trying to test a new product.

Yup. Classic Weasley twins.

Friendliness at best, a practical joke at worst, you remind yourself.

Over breakfast, a bundle of wrapped chocolates almost land in your hangover soup during the mail delivery. There’s a note attached.

George didn’t mean to lace you. Feel better. X. FW

In genuine dis - fucking - belief, you show it to your friends, they had all gotten laced last night too. The Weasley twins are stupid if they think they can pull off a mass spiking the following day.

“What d’you think will happen to me if I eat them? Swollen tongue? Maybe I’ll grow a tail,” you tell them in amusement.

Your friends were not as amused as you.

After one moment of analyzing the note, they conclude, “Oh girl, he wants you.” It was the fastest a group of hungover teens ever agreed on something.

You try to laugh it off. “What are you talking about? Didn’t you guys get a weakass apology too?”

“Have you ever heard ‘Fred Weasley’ and ‘apology’ in the same context?” They reason. They seriously have a point there.

You threw the chocolates to the bottom of your book bag and cut your breakfast short.

So how hard is it to move on from Fred Weasley?

Fucking impossible.

You had one goal, find literally any other warm body for a single night.

Instead, you drunkenly slumped against him, used his water to sober up, and then wake up to possibly cursed chocolates and a handwritten note.

Now he’s in your head again, except he never left.

Moving on? Fred is not letting that happen any time soon.

part 3

[hanasnx]

the weasley twins get you drunk so they can do gross things to you without you questioning it. it’s so weird having your two best friends run experiments on your body while you’re giggly and intoxicated. george holds the beer to your lips, “go on, have another sip.” while fred’s got a hand on your knee adding, “if we give her anymore she might fall over.” and you’re so fucked up you exclaim happily, throwing your arms up saying, “one of you will have to catch me!” and you’re just sooo cute they have to take your clothes off and ask if you if this feels good

[sundrop-writes]

I'm Not Angry (Anymore)

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader

I'm not bitter anymore - I'm syrupy sweet.

I'll rot your teeth down to their core... if I'm really happy.

It depends on the day, if I wake up in a giddy haze.

Well I'm not angry... I'm not (totally) angry...

I'm not all that angry anymore.

Part Two: Epoximise

Summary:

You and George Weasley are definitely not friends. 

Especially not after he handcuffed himself to you to prove some weird point, as part of another one of his obnoxious pranks - it only made you remember why you weren't friends with him. Now you're stuck like this for the foreseeable future - tied to him because of a stupid stunt.

And it's not your fault when your annoyance and hatred are slowly chipped away as the night slowly feels more like a date. He shouldn't be doing this to you. He shouldn't be acting this nice, cooking this well, smelling so nice, looking so handsome -

The two of you definitely aren't friends. (But you're terrified that you might be something else after this.)

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader. Enemies to Lovers. Smut with Heavy Plot. Set Post War.

Word Count: 37,100

Harry Potter Masterlist | AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: this one has a lot of the same warnings as the first part, because it carries over a lot of the same themes and just deepens them; also if you haven’t read the first part, please do because this is a oneshot that has been split in half and this will not make sense if you don’t read the other part first; the reader character goes by she/her pronouns and has a vagina (though as with most of my fics, most of the pronouns used throughout are you/yours); this fic does use Y/N and L/N (as in Last Name); there are no descriptions of the reader’s race, weight, hair colour, eye colour, or general looks other than a few statements about George being taller than the reader (and even then, it does not say how much taller he is than her and it does not state that she is ‘tiny’ or petite) - this is based off the idea that Oliver Phelps is 6 foot 2 and most people would be shorter than that by comparison; there is descriptions of the reader wearing very hyper feminine clothing, including skirts, dresses, and high heels (and it is stated that she wears high heels on a regular basis), and it's stated that she regularly wears makeup, it’s also mentioned that she is slightly self conscious without makeup - not because she thinks she’s ugly without it, but because she is so used to wearing it and feels ‘naked’ without it (also plays into the theme of appearance vs natural real self); the reader is a Slytherin, and this fic explores the ‘evil Slytherin’ trope; the reader is the same age as George, so in this fic, they would be 23/24; the reader is a Pureblood and comes from a family that upholds typical Pureblood values - while she used to believe in those things (or was taught to) she broke away from her family and is not a Pureblood supremacist; the reader has a father and other unnamed family members who are Death Eaters; this is a ‘Fred Lives AU’ (I can’t put George through all that); this might be slightly OOC Fred - but I do think this is genuinely how Fred would react if one of his siblings had a crush on a Slytherin (the Weasleys can be petty); general themes of trauma and PTSD (because both the reader and George fought in and experienced a war); the reader has trauma because she comes from an emotionally abusive and neglectful household (though there are no mentions of her ever being physically abused at home); alcohol and drinking - in this part, George and the reader have a few casual drinks with dinner, but neither of them are inebriated or drunk and neither of them lack the ability to consent to sex; again, passing mentions of vomit and blood due to the fact that Fred and George sell gross products, but it does not happen in the fic; again, this has the basis of them being ‘accidentally’ chained together with a pair of handcuffs due to a prank gone wrong, so this could be considered forcible confinement; George calls the reader ‘love’; mention(s) of the reader being raised by House Elves; mentions of the reader having poor eating habits (not a full blown eating disorder, but just poor habits in general); mentions of the reader having sex with random unnamed Slytherin characters (sometimes while under the influence of alcohol - though it does not state that she was ever too drunk to consent); (technically) non-consensual staring at someone’s naked body (mostly from George toward the reader, but technically from both of them) (but it’s murky dubcon and they’re both attracted to each other and trying to navigate this radical shift in their relationship); a flashback to The Battle of Hogwarts which includes - mentions of death, danger, the reader is hit with the Cruciatus Curse, the reader’s life is threatened; a separate flashback has slight themes of sexual assault - the reader is a not a date with an unpleasant random guy and he verbally harrasses her and tries to grope her, but she defends herself. 

This part does have smut, so the specific warnings for the smut are: George calls the reader ‘pretty girl’, ‘love’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘good girl’, ‘nasty little bitch’, and ‘missy’ (in a condescending way); there is some dom/sub undertones - George is more dominant and the reader is more submissive, though at first the reader is more of a brat before she submits to George; strength kink - the reader likes George’s muscles and strength; marking kink - George leaves love bites on the reader; teasing - from George toward the reader; tit sucking/tit play (reader receiving); fingering (reader receiving); ‘Sir’ kink - George likes being called Sir (doesn’t play into the fic too heavily, but it’s there); some size kink - George has a giant dick and the reader is definitely turned on by it; finger sucking; unprotected penis in vagina sex (or, as I have said with other Harry Potter fics, you can pretend it’s protected - you can pretend that the characters took some kind of contraceptive potion or used a spell that’s not mentioned here, but no condom is mentioned or used in the fic); praise kink - the reader likes it when George praises her; mentions of anal sex - it is used as a ‘threat’ toward the reader but it does not happen in the fic (and the reader likes the idea, so it’s not much of a threat); overstimulation - towards the reader (not to a severe degree); creampie kink - they are both turned on by the idea of him cumming inside of her, but it’s not breeding kink because there is no specific mentions of breeding or pregnancy; oral sex - reader recieving; lots of dirty talk; and I think that’s it for the smut.

A/N: I am so glad that this is finally done omg. I do apologize that this took so long, but this was a lot to edit, and my illness has been flaring up a lot lately, so I am just proud of myself for getting it done. I really hope that his was worth the wait for you guys. Also, one of these scenes is a flashback to the Yule Ball, and I could not resist putting a reference to the reader's dress - aka the dress I had in mind for her when I was writing this. I have put a link to the Pinterest post where it's relevant, so you can click on it and take a look while reading and then come back, and I have put a picture of the dress at the very end of this fic if you would rather scroll to the end, take a look, and then read the fic. The model wearing the dress is thin, but in my mind that does not mean that the character depicted in this fic is thin or that a fat person wouldn't look good wearing that dress. It's just the photo reference that was available. Anyway - I really hope that you enjoy reading this fic!!

...

Two or three days. 

Two or three days. 

The longer you sat with the information, the more of a headache you developed because of it. 

You had collapsed into a large, plush armchair in the small sitting room of the flat, trying to ignore the horrifying situation that you found yourself in. 

Two or three days. 

With your neck leaned against the back of the chair, you closed your eyes, trying not to let the stress cause you a terrible headache - which seemed inevitable with the situation that you were in. Especially with the cool metal still gnawing at your wrist, ever-presently reminding you that you had an entire man directly attached to you that you could not run away from. 

Anxiety, stress, and dread all battled inside of you, turning into a deadly kind of numbness that forced you to appear calm. 

George knelt down in front of the chair, forced to maintain that closeness between the two of you - quite literally unable to give you some space in order to calm down, even though he knew that was what you needed. When he put his free hand on your knee, seemingly to comfort you, you didn’t even have the energy to get angry about it. The usual defensive disgust about him being in your personal space was nowhere to be found. 

And you would deny that it was because some small part of you liked the warmth of the touch - his hands so impossibly hot, even though the lace of your tights. 

You simply didn’t have the energy to yell at him. It was almost as though your mind and body was shutting down, preparing to conserve energy for the next exhausting hours that you would have to spend tied to him. 

“Come on, love, it won’t be that bad.” He said, his voice soft and soothing as though he was trying to calm a wild animal, trying to mitigate the situation. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. I can bring you over to my place and cook you a nice dinner. You want a nice steak, don’t you? Yes, that sounds nice. Trust me, you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.” 

You let out a harsh breath, and finally opened your eyes to give him another deadly glare. 

“I want your head on a platter.” You told him, your voice eerily steady and calm. 

“Well, I’m afraid that wouldn’t be terribly tasty.” He replied, a small grin breaking back onto his lips. 

Of course he was still making jokes. It was something that made you want to swing a knee up into his chin just to prove a point. But you had agreed not to get violent. 

“But I do have some choice cuts sitting in my refrigerator, and I’ll do ‘em up real nice for you. So you could waste the whole evening glaring at me, or we could try to make the best of it.” 

Strangely, you knew that he was right. Which, for a moment, only made you more angry with him. But you also knew that he would have to spend the rest of the time ‘making it up’ to you (and likely a lot more time after the cuffs came off) - so you might be able to get a neck rub out of it if you played your cards right. His sense of nobility could turn him into an indentured servant to you. For a little while, at least. 

“I want wine.” You told him. “And I want you to be quiet so I can have some peace.” 

“All I have at my place is bourbon. But it’s top shelf,” He replied, giving you a hopeful smile. 

“I have wine in the fridge.” You told him, standing up from the chair. 

When he stood up too, it instantly put the two of you close together, your bodies brushing chest to chest. There was a single, terrible moment where he looked down at you, his eyes reeking of fondness as he craned his neck to make eye contact. 

It caused a shiver down your spine. You swore his stupid smirk grew wider when he noticed it. 

You hated it. 

“And I - I have to get my things.” You stuttered out, desperate to change the subject as you broke out of the awkwardly close position and began dragging him toward the kitchen. 

You walked over to the refrigerator and grabbed the large bottle of wine that you had there. 

George resisted making a comment about how the bottle of wine was all you had in there. 

You didn’t consider being embarrassed about how pathetically bare your refrigerator was - not knowing that was a drastic shift from how the kitchen had looked when Fred and George had been living in the small flat. You had never been taught how to cook because you had spent most of your life being served by your family’s House Elves, unintentionally rendered helpless by having them do everything for you. Now that you lived alone, you bought prepared foods or sometimes, on a particularly bad day, you drank your dinner in wine or tea before falling asleep, not caring to truly take care of yourself. 

“It’s not like I can just pop back over here after your apology dinner is finished.” You added on harshly, thinking about how you would have to bring enough things to stay at his place overnight and pray that the cursebreaker would arrive early. “Which, by the way, we’re not Apparating like this. So your Floo better be open.” 

Your mind flickered to the terrible consequences that could occur if you and George potentially got mixed up. You had no clue what kind of magic was causing the handcuffs to be so strongly held together, and you didn’t want to find out if it would cause the two of you to mend into some horrible amalgamation if you tried to Apparate while cuffed like this. It was a horrifying thought. One much more horrifying than spending the night alone with George. 

“Okay, fine.” George nodded, trying his best to be agreeable toward you because he had been the one to get you into this mess. “And the Floo is open, it’s all fine.” 

You shoved the bottle of wine into his arms and guided him along into your bedroom - again, feeling a slight twinge of embarrassment at the mess that you had left behind that morning. You had absolutely no idea that someone, especially not George Weasley, would be seeing it later in the day. You waited for him to say something mocking about it, and strangely - it didn’t come. 

You kicked some dirty laundry under the bed and grabbed a bag, starting to gather everything you would need for an overnight stay. Inside, you were dreading the idea that you would have to sleep beside George. You tried not to think about that too much for now. 

He looked on silently while you moved, finding intense personal interest in the way you kept your belongings. He thought for certain that someone like you would have been an intense neat freak, not so messy and disorganized. But part of him thought that it was oddly adorable. He found it comforting that - as uptight as you were - at least one part of your life was messy. There was one area of your life where you allowed yourself to let go and be human. 

You grabbed some pajamas and some clothes for the next day, shoving them into your bag without much thought. And then you opened your top drawer to get some underwear, and you noticed George’s eyes instantly glued to the mess of unfolded lace and sheer fabrics. He began staring with intense, wide-eyed enrapturement, clearly unashamed that he being so blatantly nosy about your collection of intimates. 

It made you suddenly self conscious about which ones you were going to choose to put into your bag. With his eyes carefully on you, whatever you picked up, he would then obviously know that you would be wearing them the next day. And with the look on his face, with his likely perverted mind, he would be picturing you in them. Even if he didn’t necessarily find you attractive. 

“Stop looking at my underwear!” You scolded him sharply. 

Feeling intensely caught, his head snapped upward, craning his neck toward the ceiling to avoid further accusation. 

“Sorry.” He mumbled quietly. “Can’t help it.” 

You didn’t bother to argue, and only let out a sigh in reply to his pathetic defense. 

You continued to rifle through the drawer, now incredibly self conscious of your choice. Aside from the few pairs that you wore during your period (which were in the hamper from the week previous) you didn’t have many pairs that were modest or unsexy. You liked wearing pretty, lacy, sexy things for yourself. Wearing them made you feel good. 

So you grabbed a few different ones off the top and vowed to decide later, continuing to hate the predicament that you were in. 

Then you dragged George to the bathroom, and you grabbed your toothbrush and toothpaste and started shoving your messy, scattered make-up products into your make-up bag to bring those along (again, something that you wore for yourself). You were desperately trying not to forget anything important, because you didn’t want to drag George all the way back here if you did forget something. 

Meanwhile, George took on a particular fascination with the fancy glass bottle that you had sitting on the edge of the sink. Clearly, it was the perfume that you wore regularly (as it was only half full, mostly used up at this point), the one that drove him mad every single time he smelled it on you. 

He made a mental note of which one it was so that he could buy one later (definitely not for the purposes of spraying it on his pillow to drive forth the pathetic delusion that you slept in his bed on a regular basis). And then he used his cuffed hand to reach out and grab the bottle, lifting it to his nose for a sniff. 

You were occupied, rooting around in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror to see if there would be anything else that you would need, temporarily too distracted to notice what he was doing. When you heard him inhaling deeply beside you, you glanced over and found him with your perfume bottle practically shoved up his nose, and you found that strange twinge rattling through your stomach once again. 

It made you annoyed and defensive. 

“Give me that.” You whined, not waiting for him to follow the instruction before you reached up and snatched it from him. 

“It’s nice.” He complimented, giving you a smile. “Do I sense a hint of rose?” 

‘You can sense a hint of my foot up your arse.’ 

“Let’s just go.” You sighed. 

… 

You never liked traveling by Floo. 

It was a harsh, hot pull that left you filthy and covered in ash, and it usually ruined whatever nice clothes you had picked out for the day. You avoided using the Floo whenever you could. The minute you turned seventeen and got your Apparition license, you stopped Flooing unless it was absolutely necessary - and it being entirely necessary in this case just ruined your day a little bit further. 

Still being chained to another person when you came out on the other side only highlighted your sour mood - sputtering and coughing as the thick smoke and ash bloomed up around you, drifting up into your nose and causing a terrible irritating reaction that only reminded you why you hated this method of travel so much. 

“You’re supposed to close your mouth, you know.” George commented quietly beside you, clearly unable to resist the urge to make another joke as you struggled to regain your breath. 

“Wh-what did I - I say about you b-being quiet?” You reminded him between gasps, shooting him another glare. 

He rolled his eyes and escorted you from the tall mouth of the fireplace further into his home, taking your bag out of your hands and tossing it into a nearby chair as he began shedding his jacket (that he had wrestled back on with one arm earlier). 

It was then that a truly bizarre realization hit you - you had never been inside Fred and George’s house before. 

You knew that they used to share the small, cramped flat above the shop as their living space before they moved out and upgraded. Something that had happened just a few short weeks before you had moved into the flat, which was why it had been fully furnished and still had some of their homewares and nicknacks in it. But it never really occurred to you to think about where they had moved to. 

Truthfully, up until now, you never thought much about their lives outside of the shop. You knew that most of their lives were the shop. They spend pretty much every waking moment at the shop. Aside from their weekly Sunday dinners with their family, and before Fred had started dating Angelina a few months prior, they had devoted most of their lives to being at the shop. 

They spent all their time making products for the shop, doing business deals for the shop, cleaning and restocking, working, dealing with customers. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was everything to them, and it never occurred to you to think about what they might have outside of that. 

And you realized in those moments that if you had been forced to picture a place where George Weasley lived, this most certainly would not have been it. 

This place was shockingly… nice. It was beautiful, warm, and well decorated. It didn’t remind you of the twins’ gaudy taste in clothing or the packaging they chose for their products at all. 

The fireplace put the two of you out into what appeared to be the main sitting room. The walls were paneled in warm wood tones, some kind of natural dark oak that immediately made the place feel intensely warm and cozy. There was a large patterned rug in the middle of the room, upon which sat a nice dark stained wooden coffee table. It was lined by a very large, comfortable looking couch and two oversized, plush armchairs, with a few smaller side tables between them. 

You were intensely impressed to see books on a shelf that was inlaid into the wall - not just a few, but a very intense, sprawling collection. And a record player in the corner, sitting on a small stand that held a select collection of vinyls in their sleeves. This was sitting beside a bronzed cart that held some of that ‘top shelf’ liquor that George had been talking about. 

They must have entertained here - during the few evenings a year when they weren’t in their office at the shop, hunched over some new invention, trying to get it right. It looked like a lovely, cozy place to hang out. (Not that you would ever be invited back here after you were detached from George’s arm.) 

“Oh, dammit.” George’s frustrated grunting from beside you pulled you out of your thoughts, and you turned to him to see him still struggling with his coat. 

It was as though he had just realized that he wouldn’t be able to get it off cleanly because - again, the two of you were attached at the wrist. It was almost like he had created a glaring problem when he had chained you two together for a quick laugh. He was running so fast that foresight would never catch up with him. 

“Problem?” You asked, giving him a sarcastic smirk. 

“Come on.” 

He said stiffly, quickly dragging you into another room, forcing you to practically trip over yourself in order to follow him (not even giving you time to shed your heels - your feet hurting after the agonizingly long day that you’d had). You ended up down a short hallway in what appeared to be the kitchen. It was another small, cozy room with floral wallpaper and slightly outdated pastel coloured appliances. But you didn’t have time to admire the decor here before he was moving frantically. 

He immediately brought you over to the counter against the wall and tore open one of the drawers, took out a large pair of scissors and slammed them onto the counter. 

“Cut it off me.” George demanded. “As much as I love this damn coat, I can’t be draggin’ the thing around all night.” 

“You’re serious?” You gaped at him. 

You were shocked that he trusted you enough to hand you a pair of scissors and ask you to start cutting. Especially after all the threats you had made earlier. Not that you would actually hurt him - but you were surprised that the underlying trust was there from him. 

It was a very nice looking, expensive coat, but you had done some damage to it earlier with your reckless spell casting, trying to get the two of you out of the handcuffs. So perhaps it was a lost cause. 

“Yeah.” He said. “This whole thing is my stupid fault, so I guess I have to pay for it, right?” 

That made the whole thing even more strange. He seemed far more upset about the fate of his coat than the potential of you hurting him with the scissors - that part didn’t even seem to be in his mind. And something inside of you told you that it was important to rise to the silent trust he put in you. The same kind of trust he put in you when he left you alone to take care of the shop, even for short periods of time, or when he trusted you to make beautiful displays of products that you claimed not to care about. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized that he was the first person in your life that had ever trusted you like this. Your father always assumed that you would ruin the family name somehow, always telling you that you were never good enough in his eyes. And he turned out to be right, just not for the reasons he had first assumed. All of your classmates only viewed you as a terrible, evil, Pureblood Slytherin, and even when you ended up on the right side of The War, people like Fred still saw you as someone with cruel intentions. 

George was the only person who never seemed afraid of you without you having to beg for him to believe you. Without you even having to ask. 

You picked up the scissors and pulled your joined arms closer as gently as you could, slipping the open mouth of the blades into his sleeve. You were curious as to why he seemed so upset about this particular jacket being maimed when you had seen him in so many other ones that were equally as nice, or even nicer. 

“I’m sure you’ll be able to have it mended.” You said, an attempt to be comforting that felt strangely foreign to you, making that hesitant first cut - a slicing of fabric that left a wounded look on his face while he watched. “Besides, you have others, don’t you? It’s not like you’ll be running around naked.” 

You knew that he was truly hurt when he didn’t take the opportunity to make a joke about you picturing him naked. 

“This jacket was one of the first things I bought with my money from the shop.” He explained, his voice quiet. He used his free hand to pull the sleeve back up to his shoulder, unrumpling the fabric so that it would be easier for you to cut him out of it. 

Oh - there was a sentimental attachment. 

“I was walking by Madam Mulkins with a big box of supplies in my arms and it caught my eye - she had it displayed on a mannequin in the window. And originally, I thought it would be a waste of money. I thought I didn’t need something so dressy. But Fred went on this whole rant about how we needed to start ‘dressing smarter’ so that people would take us seriously and wouldn’t just view us as a couple of kids.” 

You finally wrestled through the thick collar with the scissors, freeing his arm from the very nice jacket, truly destroying it in the process. He let it drop to the floor, looking down mournfully at the now ruined pile of fabric before he finished his story. 

“Before that, it was all hand-me-downs. Everything had been stretched out by Charlie or stained by Bill. And I didn’t really mind it. I never thought about my clothes too much. But nothing I had ever worn before, aside from a few Christmas jumpers that Mum had knit - had ever actually been my own. Nothing had been bought just for me.” George continued. 

There was something in his voice - you couldn’t quite place it, but it made your insides quake. It wasn’t jealousy, or even regret. It was a deep kind of sadness that you didn’t know for yourself. You had been so lonely your whole life, you had never considered what living in the shadow of three older brothers would be like. Especially when having a twin that people constantly compared you to. 

“And yeah, since then, Fred and I have bought a whole wardrobe full of smart clothes, and I dress nicely all the time, and I do look like a proper businessman - and it’s probably stupid-” 

“It’s not.” You felt the need to butt in, for once in all the time you had known George truly believing that he wasn’t being stupid. “It’s one of the first things that you earned for yourself, and you value it. And I just destroyed it.” 

You let out a heavy sigh as a wave of guilt engulfed you, creating a terrible ache through your chest. 

You silently vowed that you would use some of the money you had saved up from working at the shop in order to have the jacket mended for him. The second that you were separated from the cuffs, you would steal away the ruined fabric and bring it back to Madam Mulkins to be fixed up. You would have to dread explaining to her how it had gotten sliced up, and singed, and likely have to make up some lie about an accident at the shop - a pair of rogue Chattering Teeth or something. 

“Come off it.” George sighed, taking the scissors from you and shoving them back into the drawer before he slammed it shut. “I asked you too. And like you said, I’m the idiot who got us into this.” He added on, motioning toward the handcuffs. 

He did have a point. 

He took his wand out of his pocket and used it to vanish the ruined fabric away. Well, that plan was now dead in the water - perhaps you could commission Madam Mulkin to make him a new one in the exact likeness of his old jacket… well you mulled that over, George moved toward the fridge. 

“Now - dinner?” 

Your stomach did pang with hunger, finally reminding you that you had eaten very little that day and a good meal sounded like a fantastic idea. Again, you hated that George was right, but you couldn’t deny it. However, your feet were still aching from wearing your heels for so long and you wanted to take them off - but something about walking around in George’s kitchen in just your stockings felt slightly inappropriate. 

Perhaps it was the way you had been raised - the constant hammering on you to never let your posture slip, to never be too casual around others, never too friendly. Never show weakness, because it would be a huge crack in your precious reputation. But even as your feet began screaming with pain, you hesitated to take off your shoes. 

“Can you pass me a knife?” George asked, motioning toward one of the kitchen drawers. 

When he noticed the deep discomfort on your face, he frowned. 

“Look, I know I said that I would cook dinner, and I will take the lead here, but we’re still bloody attached, so I am gonna need a wee bit of your help.” He griped. 

“It’s not that.” You sighed, opening the drawer that had held the scissors and grabbing a large knife, handing it to him. 

He used it to cut open the packaging that held the steaks - two very large, nice looking ones, before he looked back at you with an intensely puzzled expression. 

“It’s - ugh.” You growled quietly under your breath and gestured toward your feet. “My feet are hurting, but - I don’t make it a habit of taking off my shoes in other people’s homes. I don’t behave like some slob, it’s not the way I was raised-” 

George let out a bright laugh, grabbing a pan from a different cupboard and putting it on the stove before he lit the flame. 

“I thought you were breaking away from the ways that raised you?” He posed, reaching around you for a bottle of olive oil, reminding you just how close the two of you were forced to be. 

You tried to ignore the smell of his cologne mixing with the musk of fire coming off the stove, and how intoxicating it was. 

“Well, there’s a difference between being grossly prejudiced and lacking basic manners.” You replied. “Fred and Ron haven’t quite figured that out yet-” 

“Fred and Ron missed the boat on manners because they were too busy fighting Percy for IQ points, not because of how they were raised.” George bit back. “I happened to come out with the perfect combination of manners, stunningly good looks, smarts, and cooking skills.” 

He announced, smirking at you in that terribly smackable way as he grabbed a pair of tongs off a small hook on the wall and used them to lay the steaks in the pan, causing a sharp sizzle. A mouth-watering smell began to drift through the air. 

“Then I guess your brothers got all the common sense.” You said, jingling the chain of the handcuffs as a reminder. 

George rolled his eyes at this. 

“Well, as someone who understands manners and hospitality, I am officially inviting you to make yourself at home.” He told you, his voice sounding firm and for once - serious. “And that means making yourself comfortable by taking off your shoes, if it pleases you to do so.” 

Your insides were shaken by that word - hospitality. 

You then radically realized that he didn’t lack manners, he simply knew them in a much different way than you did. It was once again, the simple fact that the two of you had been raised so differently, and it meant that his idea of manners was very different from yours. 

His mother had likely raised him to believe that being polite to guests meant making them feel comfortable in your home - inviting them to relax and drink and have fun. And your father had always raised you to believe that being mannerly meant being as stiff and uptight as possible, putting up a front of absolute perfection in front of anybody who was watching you. Having guests in your home meant showing others that you were more sophisticated than them by never letting your perfect facade crack - never letting your guard down, not even for a second. 

You had been taught that daring to relax in another person’s home was an utterly terrible crime that you should never even think to do. And George believed that he was a bad host if you didn’t feel relaxed in his home. 

You finally gave in, stepping out of your heels and kicking them back behind you, causing them to end up underneath the small two-person dining table that they had in the kitchen. (You didn’t know that they had a larger, much nicer dining table in a dedicated dining room down the hall that was specifically meant for guests). When you looked over at George after he had turned the steaks, he was grinning at you in that terrible way like he knew something that you didn’t. 

“What?” You demanded sharply. 

“I never realized how tiny you are.” He chuckled, putting down his tongs and reaching over to pat you on the head - a move that immediately reignited your dulled out fury into a full blown fire. 

“Don’t touch me,” You snarled dully, batting his arm away, causing a condescending laugh to come from his lips. 

“Okay.” He replied. “But you are adorable.” 

George was a towering tree of a person, and there were very few people who actually measured up to him in height. Other than Fred, of course. 

So even in your heels, you still often had to crane your neck to make eye contact with him and you always felt short compared to him - anybody would. But you did have to agree with his observation of the fact that without your usual shoes on, it truly emphasized the height difference between the two of you. 

You didn’t exactly like it, though. You didn’t like feeling small compared to him. You didn’t like being reminded that he was tall and broad and muscled and he was now forced to be close to you. You didn’t like the fact that he was such a huge muscled man who towered over you. 

“I am not-” You huffed out, cutting yourself off as you realized that it was useless to argue the point. “I need a glass of wine.” 

George summoned the bottle of wine that he had previously abandoned in the sitting room, and you hated the mischievous glint in his eyes as he poured you a glass. 

… 

Cooking dinner while chained together turned out to be quite an adventure. 

George was very good at helping you clear hurdles that you didn’t even know existed, because you soon realized that it was the most cooking you had ever done in your life. And if George picked up on your inexperience, thankfully, he didn’t say it aloud or take the opportunity to mock you for it. 

He just continued to guide you along gently, telling you how to cut things - making small jokes about the crude nature of your knife cuts with your non-dominant hand while your good hand was chained to his. Telling you where he wanted things put and even helping you identify a few herbs and other ingredients that were entirely alien to you. 

You were surprised that he knew so much about food - you thought that with the way his mother was, he would have simply survived off being babied by her. But you guessed that it was more the opposite. She forced her boys to learn how to feed themselves; she wanted them to be self-sufficient and they actually picked up a lot of useful skills that you (regretfully) had never been taught with the way you were raised. 

It wasn’t long before the two of you were sitting down to a rather nice dinner of perfectly cooked, medium rare filets, miniature golden potatoes pan fried with butter and herbs and bacon lardons, and steamed green beans. He poured himself a glass of wine, then another glass for you. You had finished your first glass during the cooking process, taking a sip every time he accidentally tugged on the handcuffs, trying to remind yourself not to snap on him in frustration. 

A strange layer of intimacy crept in when he had to put his plate close to yours and had to move the other chair from the direct opposite side of the table to be much closer to yours so that his arm wouldn’t be awkwardly outstretched while he ate. You were now huddled very close together, shoulder to shoulder over the warm, delicious food. 

After you ate a few of your green beans, you were faced with trying to cut your steak with your awkward hand, and found yourself holding the fork limply with your non-dominant hand, trying to pin the meat down while tugging the knife against George’s dead weight with your cuffed hand. This led to him heaving out a dramatic sigh and then reaching over to take the steak knife from you - you watched, slightly shocked as he cut off a piece with his firm, free hand and then stabbed it with your fork and offered it up to your mouth. 

“You don’t have to feed me.” You hissed at him quietly. 

“I know that I don’t have to,” He replied with a grin. “But it’s fun.” 

You rolled your eyes sharply, eyeing the meat with hesitation. 

“And I don’t want to wait until tomorrow morning for you to finish your supper. You do deserve to taste this while it’s hot.” He added on. 

You did have to acquiesce to that point. And for some stupid reason, rather than simply taking the fork in your own hand - you indulged him. 

You leaned forward and grabbed the bite of meat off the fork, and any thoughts about how ridiculous the whole situation was melted away as soon as you were met with the amazing taste. He had done a wonderful job cooking it, and it was some of the best food you had eaten in a long time. You couldn’t conceal the moan of enjoyment that you let out, and he couldn’t contain his utterly satisfied smirk at your reaction. 

“Good?” He posed, so utterly self satisfied, already knowing the answer. 

“It’s fantastic, you ass.” You replied after you had chewed and swallowed (unable to shirk those ingrained manners) - sadly, unable to deny him the compliment. 

He continued grinning at you, and you couldn’t help but to add: 

“But you know this means that I’m going to be bothering you to cook for me all the time now.” You told him, hoping that this would deter him a bit and finally dampen his impossibly large ego. 

But he kept on grinning that stupid grin as he went about cutting up the rest of your steak for you to fork it and pick it up yourself, knowing that he wouldn’t get away with cutting it up to feed it to you piece by piece. 

“So that means that I’d have you over here all the time for meals?” He gasped in a cartoonishly sarcastic way. “How absolutely dreadful.” 

Though you knew he had emphasized the sarcasm in his words for a reason, you couldn’t think of any reason why he would actually want to have you in his home more often. He didn’t actually like you and it wasn’t truly necessary. Very strange. 

When you were finishing up your main meal, George surprised you by summoning something down from the top of the refrigerator - a small box that landed in the middle of the table. When he opened it, it presented some very luxurious looking chocolate truffles. 

“Peanut butter fudge is your favourite, right?” He said quietly, selecting a particular one out of the box and placing it down beside your nearly empty plate. 

You took a sip of your wine as you eyed it heavily, knowing that he would have to be absolutely mad to give you one of his ‘dosed’ prank sweets while the two of you were forcibly attached. If you started vomiting profusely or bleeding from the nose rapidly with no way to stop it, then he would have to deal with the consequences. Naturally, he saw the look of pure apprehension on your face, and he knew just the right words to play it off. 

“You need to have something sweet after a good meal, right?” He posed, giving you a sweet, genuine smile. 

Your stomach twisted harshly - unsure how to react to something so absolutely thoughtful. He had remembered something so small that you had told him all those years ago. A fond memory of your mother giving you chocolates after a meal because she believed that it was a good practice. 

You reached out and picked up the bonbon then, trying hard to disguise the shaking of your hand, overwhelmed with emotion, as you guided it up to your mouth. 

“Are you a stalker or do you just have a really good memory?” You asked before you bit into the sweet chocolate, resisting the urge to let out another moan of enjoyment at the perfect combination of chocolate and peanut butter. 

“Bit of both.” George shrugged, giving you a cheeky smirk as he selected one for himself. 

…

After dinner, when you were a bit more than comfortably full (unable to resist finishing your plate even as your stomach began to protest) - George posed that you retire into the sitting room for a while. 

Obviously, he was trying to delay the inevitable, the fact that the two of you would have to sleep in the same bed together for the night. 

You took your still mostly full glass of wine in your hand to bring with you and he finished his off with a long-necked gulp, leaving the empty glass on the table. And then he piled your plates and forks together and shoved them into the sink, mumbling something about washing them later (you were silently thankful that he didn’t insist that the two of you attempt joint dishwashing together). 

Then, the two of you walked back to the sitting room, and he used a flick of his wand to scoot the two large armchairs much closer together, causing a loud scraping across the floor. The rug wrinkled up underneath the feet of one of the chairs - something he also fixed with another simple flourish. It felt surprisingly intimate as the two of you sat in the pair of chairs side by side and George used his wand to light a fire in the fireplace, knowing that nobody else would be coming to pay a visit anytime soon. 

Your body melted into the comfortable plushness of the chair when you sat down. Until then, you hadn’t realized how much the stress of the day had truly affected you, making your muscles tight and achy. You found yourself staring at George as he began flicking his wand in the direction of the drink cart, concentrating on pouring himself a glass of the bourbon that he preferred. 

For the first time in all the years you had known time, you truly took in how handsome he was. 

Sure, you had never been obtuse to the fact that the twins were intensely good looking. (Even if most of Fred’s good looks were erased by how much of an ass he could be towards you.) Fred was dating the woman who had been declared Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Upcoming Quidditch Star for a reason. On top of his looks, he could be charming toward her. He knew how to act sweet when he wanted something out of it. 

You had seen plenty of women come into the shop just to flirt with George, buying products that were meant for children that they clearly had no interest in just for an excuse to linger around the cash register and twirl their hair while they made ‘fuck me’ eyes at him. And at times, he had flirted back and even gone on dates with a few of them. You could only assume that it never culminated in a follow up date or a relationship due to his rampant immaturity and not because of his cooking skills, for sure. 

But even you had to admit - he was very handsome. 

You were deeply reminded of that while looking at his striking side profile in the warm light of the fire. His ginger hair that practically seemed to glow, his pale skin with a few stray freckles, his large nose that suited him so well, along with his round cheeks, so well made for laughter and smiling, and his strong jaw. You had always been too busy being annoyed with him, or fleeing from that annoyance, to actually notice his looks before. When he was calm and not actively aggravating you - it was much easier to acknowledge the fact that he was handsome. 

When George finally took his drink in hand, putting his wand down onto the small end table that had ended up between the two of you, he glanced over at you and caught you staring. He curled a sharp brow in your direction as he raised the glass to his lips to take a sip. Surprisingly, didn’t say anything, but you could feel the mockery coming off him from his expression alone. 

Instinctively, you whipped your head in the opposite direction to avoid his gaze. Your eyes raked over the books that the twins had on their shelves, scanning the titles to avoid any conversation about what had just happened. 

“Some music?” He posed after he had swallowed a sip of his drink, sounding all too smug. 

You hated that you could perfectly picture his expression in your mind even though you couldn’t see it. 

“Yeah, whatever.” You huffed in return. 

George let out a hum of confirmation and you heard some shuffling as he chose a record with some well practiced wandless magic, which you tried not to be impressed by. 

Your eyes continued scanning the books, and you found yourself more and more surprised by the collection that the twins kept. Some of them were in depth books about potion making and the history of certain potion ingredients - no doubt used as research for their inventions at the shop. Some of them were surprisingly mature novels - romance novels, dark gothic horror novels. 

There were even well-researched historical pieces; books you had read that Hermione had recommended to you after The War, ones she had gifted to you, obviously hoping to expand your mind beyond your father’s teachings about what the magical world truly had to offer. At the time you had indulged her, though you had spent a fair amount of time in the library at Hogwarts doing your own search as well. If the twins had actually read all these books, then you were more than impressed. 

You found yourself even more impressed then the peaceful hum of what you quickly recognized as Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 came pouring out of the surprisingly smooth speaker of George’s record player. It was one of your favourite musical pieces by one of your favourite magical artists. 

You had only recently discovered, due to Hermione, that it was also famous in the Muggle World. Apparently back when Bach’s music first became popular, there wasn’t as much rigid structure and laws about the division of the two worlds and it was much more of a choice for Pureblood communities to live in isolation, cut off completely from Muggles and their society. So often, mundane magical happenings often became myth among Muggles, and wizards with great non-magic talents often became famous in the Muggle world too. 

“You listen to Bach?” You gasped quietly, turning to George with a questioning brow. 

“Yes.” He replied with a grin, taking a sip of his drink. “Even though I only have one good ear to listen with, I’d like to think that I have some taste.” 

“I’m just - I’m surprised that someone like you is so… cultured.” You replied, breezing right past his joke. 

He neglected to bring up the fact that he had only bought the album - a recording of Bach’s most famous pieces played by a famous cellist witch who had graduated from Beauxbatons - because he had heard you talking about it. 

He had overheard you ranting to Hermione about how Bach was by far your favourite famous composer. You found Mozart to be too ‘urgent and brutish’, while Bach was ‘melodic and evocative’. Ever since then, George wanted to listen to it because it was something that you liked. And he found that he ended up liking it very much himself, even though he had listened to mostly Wizard Wrock before, and the Muggle pop music that Harry and Hermione had introduced him to. 

“You tend to notice surprising things about a man when you spend less time trying to violently lop his head off,” George told you, smirking. 

“Maybe I could notice more of those things if you spent less time making me want to lop your head off.” You didn’t want to yet again point out the fact that the two of you were literally chained together, but you had a feeling that he got your point. 

You also didn’t want to admit the fact that this was shaping up into a rather lovely evening. Between the dinner, the drinks, and the music - this was better than most dates you had been on. And it was getting easier and easier to ignore the prison-like attachment around your wrist (aside from the soreness of the metal still lingering there, and the dull ache in your shoulder from the initial jostling around). The whole thing was beginning to feel strangely like an evening you had chosen to participate in - one of the nicest evenings you’d had in a long time. 

You felt an itch grow under your skin as a warm feeling grew in the pit of your stomach - one fuelled by George looking at you with fondness, feeling more strangely intentional and romantic while the soothing music swelled in the air. You became desperate to ignore it, so you turned back to the bookshelf and looked for something to distract you. Perhaps you could pick something to read for a while before… going to bed. You still tried to avoid the idea in your mind; the fact that you would later be sharing a bed with George. 

Your eyes landed on the spine of a certain book and you immediately became thrilled. 

“No way! You have Ruined Pride?” You bursted out excitedly, using a simple bit of wandless magic to summon the book off the shelf and a few feet toward you, catching it in your free hand and getting a closer look to ensure that - yes, you hadn’t been mistaken when you read the title. 

It was one of your favourite novels ever. One that you almost always had in your hands during your time at Hogwarts due to how many times you had re-read it over and over again. 

It was a story set back in the 18th century, about a group of Pureblood sisters who were all of marrying age and needed to be settled into marriage contracts by their strict, old-fashioned Pureblood parents. However, one night at a Courting Ball, the main character meets and dances with a tall, free-spirited, jokester of a man and instantly falls in love with him. Only to be utterly devastated when she finds out that he’s a Half-Blood - one of his parents being a Muggle - and therefore, her parents would never accept him as a match for her. 

After trying to deny her feelings for him, through many secret meetings together, creating a hot, intense love affair, the two of them decide that being together is more important than anyone else’s opinions of them. More important than the traditions of her family. And eventually, by the end of the book, they elope against her parents’ wishes. 

You would forever deny that you had read it so many times as a kind of private wish fulfillment fantasy. And you would also heavily deny that you had imagined the male love interest with hazel eyes and red hair, despite him being described multiple times as being blue-eyed and brunet. 

“Again, you sound so surprised.” George chuckled quietly from beside you. “Can a handsome, smart, funny man who cooks not also be cultured? Am I not allowed to have depth? Am I just a pretty face to you?” 

He whined these last words in an exaggerated way and you knew that he was joking, but you were forced to actually take his words seriously for a moment. You were forced to consider that previously you hadn’t thought of him as having depth. You had just thought of him as a prankster, someone always trying to get a laugh out of others without much more to it. 

“You’re so humble, too.” You hissed quietly, hating that he was right once again. “Because of course, the man who put a rubber snake in a pastry box and stood by waiting to watch me open it is definitely someone I would consider to have depth.” 

George rolled his eyes at this. He wanted to argue that it had been a funny prank, but he knew that he was already on thin ice with you. 

“Well I suppose I have stolen a great bit of my depth from you.” He told you. 

“What do you mean?” You asked, definitely confused now. 

“I only bought the album because I heard you talking about Bach.” He explained, motioning toward the record player. “And I only picked up the book because I remembered seeing you with it at one point or another. I was curious what could possibly capture your attention so much,” 

You felt utterly betrayed when a deep flush crept up over your cheeks. No - George couldn’t have possibly meant it in any way that was affectionate. He just wanted to know what went through your mind in the way that somebody would study a heinous bug or a strange kind of animal. Yes, that was it. 

“Well, what did you think of it?” You had to ask, motioning toward the book. 

“The ending was a bit contrived.” He answered. “A Pureblood girl marrying someone of such a low station? Impossible.” He scoffed, a sarcastic edge overtaking his voice once again. 

Again, you felt slightly puzzled by his use of sarcasm. You knew that he wasn’t actually bemused by the book’s themes and you weren’t sure why he spoke of it like that. So instead of further prodding at his words, you cracked open the book and started reading, signalling the end of the conversation. George summoned something off the shelf, opening it in his lap and beginning to quietly read for himself. 

Though at points you did get sucked into the plot of the novel that you had read so many times before, it was difficult to forget exactly where you were and exactly who you were with - especially during moments when you forgot that you were chained to George by the wrist and moved to turn a page with the wrong hand, tugging on him harshly by mistake and mumbling out an apology when you roughly jerked his arm. 

It was difficult not to enjoy the domestic atmosphere, even just due to the fact that it was relaxing. The niceties of it all. The fire crackling down over time, the low hum of the music, the simple comfort of having him in the chair next to yours as you sat in each other’s company without the need to speak; George offering to refill your wine when you finished off the glass. Which you declined and instead asked for a tea, causing him to summon the kettle and tea bags from the other room. He made your tea exactly how you liked without you having to ask just due to so many days spent at the shop together. 

If not for the forcible attachment literally holding the two of you together, you would have called it an overall pleasant evening. And something deep inside of you panged with yearning as you thought about the fact that once the professional cursebreaker freed the two of you from these insufferable handcuffs, you wouldn’t have an excuse to spend anymore time together like this. 

(And you would never, ever admit to the fact that George had been right about this whole thing after all. Never.) 

After an hour - possibly more, you hadn’t exactly been counting, but George had exchanged the record for something else harmonic and classical that you didn’t know off by heart. When you had just reached the lovers’ first kiss in the book, you let out a harsh yawn that you had been trying to contain for a while. You were exceedingly tired, but you didn’t want to admit it. 

“Time for bed?” George posed, closing his book and gently levitating it to the coffee table that sat in the middle of the room. 

“Fine.” You mumbled out, closing your book in surrender and putting it down beside your empty tea cup and wine glass on the table between the chairs. “Let’s get this over with.” 

You were used to having your own space in a bed, and you were not looking forward to attempting to get comfortable for sleep while literally being chained to him. Not looking forward to having to fight him for space in a bed and having him unconsciously tugging on your arm in his sleep. You knew that it would not make for a good night’s rest. 

“I see fatigue is a charming mood on you,” He griped sarcastically, clearly tired himself and letting it affect his mood outwardly. 

“Well you wouldn’t have to deal with my charming moods if not for your short-sighted bouts of idiocy!” You chirped, shaking the handcuffs again, only making your wrist more sore, causing dramatic emphasis - you stood from the chair to tower over him as he was still sitting down, screaming down at him to truly drive home your point. 

He didn’t say anything, only stood up without a word, silently reminding you that you were the lesser stature, and overall, he was not intimidated by you. 

Then he grabbed your bag from beside the fireplace and began walking down the hall, forcing you to trail behind him - past the kitchen, farther than he had taken you earlier, toward what you could only assume to be his bedroom. You passed a room along the way, and you took a glance inside to find that it was the bathroom. You shuddered thinking about the fact that it would likely be an issue that would come up if you and George were stuck together for two whole days. You would have to force him to wear a blindfold. 

There was three rooms at the end of the end of the hall, one with an open door that led to what appeared to be the twins’ office. With a large desk in the middle and shelves lined with all kinds of half-formed, brightly coloured objects, parchment with sketches of designs on them, some things in glass cases that you had to assume were being trapped because they were extremely dangerous (you didn’t know that they were trophies - treasured prototypes that were hallmarks of the WWW brand). The rooms across from each other were both closed doors, both with shiny brass lettering on the front - one with FW and the other with GW. 

George went up to his room, and as he unlocked the door with a mumbled spell, you pointed at the letters and let out a small laugh. 

“So you don’t get lost?” You asked, your natural sarcasm apparent in your tone. 

“No, so the dozens of hookers that we have over don’t get us mixed up.” George replied, clearly sarcastic as well. “We have to do something with the money from the shop, don’t we?” 

It was an easy joke, but you hated the sharp feeling that went through you when you wondered if he had other women here before. You hated that you so easily labeled it as jealousy, rather than annoyance. You hated even more that you knew you had absolutely no good reason to be jealous. You had no claim on George. If he wanted to start telling you about all his sexual exploits with other women just to piss you off - you couldn’t call it cheating, you couldn’t call it unfair. 

He wasn’t yours. 

As you had driven home time and time again - he wasn’t even your friend. 

He was your boss. 

Nothing more. 

George opened the bedroom door to reveal another very nice room in the beautiful, cozy home. 

It came as an intense shock to you that he had dark green wallpaper - the green that he claimed to hate so much because it represented his long rivaled Slytherin. But oddly enough, it seemed to suit him here. Green walls didn’t seem so ridiculously out of place for George Weasley’s bedroom. 

Likely because the wallpaper was paired beautifully with the dark wood, antique-looking furniture, and other homey touches. Furniture that consisted of a tall, ornate wardrobe across from the bedroom door in the far corner of the room - it was open with some of the clothes messily spilling out, showing off a mirror that was attached inside one of the doors. 

There was also a small desk under the window, which currently had the curtains wide open, showing the inky sky, reminding you just how late it was. And lastly, there was a large queen bed in the middle of the room, which was messy and unmade - at least there were signs that he actually lived like a real person too, and he definitely hadn’t been expecting any guests. 

It was nice to know that he likely hadn’t been judging you for your mess while you had been packing your things. 

“So, uh, I’ll get some blankets and whatnot and make myself comfortable here.” George said, gesturing to a spot on the floor between the bed and the wardrobe. “You can have the bed to yourself. I know I’ve already inconvenienced you massively enough with this whole stunt, so-” 

You cut him off with a rattling sigh. 

Of course he was planning on doing the whole noble Gryffindor thing by giving up his bed for you. 

But honestly, you could think of nothing more annoying than sleeping with your arm trailing off the bed all night to reach him on the floor - it would leave you dangling on the edge, trying to get comfortable. You might as well force him to sleep in the bed with a pillow shoved between the two of you as a purposeful barrier. Screw him and his nobility. 

“Really?” You hissed at him, too tired to care how truly sour your tone was. “The bed is plenty big enough for the both of us. So there’s no sense in you pulling my arm out of the socket trying to put some distance between us just because you want to feel like you’re doing the right thing in giving your bed up for a lady. Trust me, I’m not some withering flower who’s terrified to sleep in the same bed as a man. It’s not like you’re stealing my innocence, George.” 

You ploughed right through the words without even thinking about the implications behind what you were saying. After it left your mouth, you hated that it caused you to think back on why you weren’t exactly ‘innocent’. 

Your mind going back to parties in the Slytherin common room, times when they had been celebrating (rare) Slytherin Quidditch victories that had only been won because the best Gryffindor players had been benched or banned. Parties that were wild - the few times when you actually allowed yourself to ‘let loose’. Times when you had been ripe with drink and flirting with someone good looking who had absolutely no other appealing traits - someone who fucked you hard and fast and completely ignored you the next day. 

It was something that happened more than once, and left you ripe with worry that the rumors would get back to your father. That is, until you grew to hate him too much to actually care, and then you cared too much about The War to even look at boys anymore. 

You had never dated anyone seriously outside of those hook-ups. You had always turned out guys who had asked you out (even if you knew their endgame was likely wanting sex) because you knew that your father would hate them and try to get them hurt. And you never wanted to get too attached to anyone because for a while, you had resigned yourself to the fate of ending up in a Marriage Contract. And you didn’t want to be the idiot - someone like the main character in Ruined Pride - who fell in love with someone that her parents would never actually agree to marry her off to. 

So you always ended up fulfilling your purely sexual desires after you had enough alcohol in your system to forget about all that for a while. You never had a serious boyfriend. You had never even gone on a real, romantic date before. 

In fact, this night with George was likely the closest you had ever come to having a man ‘romance you’ - and it had been by force. (You knew how genuinely pathetic it was.) 

“Oh trust me, I’m not worried about your innocence.” George bit back bitterly, seemingly deeply annoyed by your ranting. “And I’m entirely thrilled to share a bed with you.” He mumbled under his breath, reeking of sarcasm. 

It then occurred to you how much he must have been hating the experience too. That he had given up his night to cook for you, catering to you trying to comfort you, and it was just awful - being tied to someone who bitched and moaned in return. He likely wasn’t excited to be tied to you all night when he was used to having the comfort of his bed all to himself. 

“Let’s just get ready for bed.” You huffed. 

“Fine.” He returned, his voice just as sour. 

Your stomach churned when he immediately reached for his tie, beginning to undress. 

Right - getting ready for bed would involve getting undressed in front of him. 

Because possibly the only thing more annoying than sleeping with your arm being yanked off the bed would be sleeping in the nice lacy blouse and button up skirt you had worn for most of the day (which, the waistband was quite snug on you now after the nice dinner you had enjoyed, and that would be even more uncomfortable to sleep in). The only thing you were thankful for was that the neckline of your blouse, the shoulders, and the end of the sleeves were all connected with small, dainty buttons - which was a decorative feature of the design, but it also meant that you didn’t have to cut the clothing off your body. And you were wearing a bra with removable straps. 

It was the only part of your day that seemed to fall under the category of luck. 

You turned yourself so that you were standing back to back with George, hoping that he would get the hint and not look at you. You weren’t looking at him while he undressed. 

You unbuttoned your skirt and let it fall, and then wrestled off your stockings with the use of only one hand, leaving you with the relatively easy task of taking off your blouse and bra. You only had to undo the buttons on one side before simply sliding off the sleeve from your free hand, so it wasn’t that difficult. After your bra fell to the ground, you reached for your bag - which George had dropped on the bed when he came into the room. 

When you turned to grab it, you caught his eye in the mirror. 

He was staring at your mostly naked body utterly shamelessly, making no effort to hide where his eyes were looking. He was frozen there, with his shirt unbuttoned, tie gone, pants missing, his black underwear sinfully tight on his body and revealing firm, toned thighs that you never could have imagined on him, looking so entirely delicious… 

When your eyes flickered back up to his face, he held a slight redness of a blush, but he did nothing to hide the fact that he was wantonly staring at you in the mirror, his eyes fixated on your naked breasts. 

“Hey!” You screamed, instinctively forced to be offended, even though you felt a terrible, undeniable heat creeping up within you. One that, you hated to admit, matched the look in his eyes. You used your free arm to cover your breasts, desperately trying to make yourself modest, though you knew that you were covering little surface area and only squishing the flesh together in an almost pornographic way. “Stop staring at me!” 

“Merlin - I’m only human!” George argued, slapping his free hand over his eyes. “It’s not like you’re ugly. I couldn’t have chained myself to an ugly woman for fun.” He mumbled the last bit quietly under his breath, and you were unsure if he was making jokes to try and defuse the tension or if you weren’t even meant to hear it. 

You found yourself almost regretful that he did follow your instructions. One small part of your brain itching for his eyes back on you, now withering without the intensity of his attention on you. 

You tried your best to shake off that strange heat that had spread through you as you got out your change of clothes. You put on a fresh pair of panties (feeling even more self conscious about the lacy, see-through ones you had brought with you) and slipped on your comfortable cotton sleep shorts. And then you let out a groan as you realized that you would have to take off your sleep shorts because you wouldn’t be able to get your shirt on over your head. 

At least you had thought to bring a camisole instead of a tee shirt, so it wouldn’t have to be cut up and shredded in order for you to put it on. You stepped into the camisole and clumsily pulled it up over your hips, the entire time with George humming to himself and dramatically guarding his eyes, making a point to demonstrate that he was not watching. 

You pulled the fabric up over your chest, only able to pull one of the straps on and having to leave the other hanging dumbly (ultimately deciding on tucking it into the side) before you put your shorts back on then gathered your discarded clothes to shove into your bag. 

“I’m done now.” You said pointedly. “Can you put some pants on?” 

It was only then that you realized George was still standing there in his underwear - his distractingly tight underwear that showed off the outline of his surprisingly large bulge - shit, you had to keep yourself from being a hypocrite by staring too. 

“Well I don’t see how I’m supposed to find my pants with my eyes closed.” George said, faking dumbness, still covering his eyes. 

“You can look now.” You ground out, growing impatient. 

“Oh.” 

He uncovered his eyes, and his gaze immediately went to your covered breasts, as though checking that they were still there. You resisted the urge to smack him. When his eyes finally made it back up to your face, you glared at him with hell in your eyes and a tightly locked jaw, and you hated the filthy knowing that now filled his mischievous eyes. 

“Get dressed!” You barked, urging him into action. 

He picked up a pair of cotton pajama pants that he had shed that morning - in such a rush to follow your orders that at first he stepped into them and pulled them on backwards, having to shove them off and right them before pulling them on again, awkwardly jostling your arm so that he could use both of his hands to tie them at the front. 

Then, he nosed out a tight sigh. 

“You’re gonna have to cut this shirt off me.” He said, and with a snap of his fingers, the scissors from the kitchen came zooming into the room, nearly stabbing you in the eye if not for your quick effort to dodge them. You glared at him harshly as he caught them in his free hand. 

“What are you going to put on to sleep in?” You asked, wondering how he was going to comfortably get a tee shirt on, knowing it would be stupid and impractical for him to go around with one arm hanging out of it. 

“I was planning on sleeping shirtless, as I usually do.” He said, handing you the scissors. “If that’s alright with Her Royal Highness.” These words were ripe with sarcasm, and you tightened your grip around the scissors as you resisted the urge to stab him with them. 

But you couldn’t find any good reason to protest against this. 

It was his home, his bed. Even if it had been his stupid idea that had landed the two of you in this mess, he deserved to sleep comfortably (as comfortably as possible while the two of you were chained together) just as much as you did. 

So you raised the scissors to his shirt sleeve and began cutting. There was no pitiful mourning over this silky shirt, seemingly one of dozens that he had according to the messy contents of the wardrobe. It was only moments before you had the fabric fully severed on your side and he was able to completely ditch it off his free arm. 

It was only now that you realized you had never seen him shirtless before. And you hated that the sight of his shirtless torso was immediately distracting to you. 

You knew based on logic alone that he was muscled. 

You had seen him play Quidditch during your years at Hogwarts. And though you didn’t know much about the sport, you knew that every position was known for having a certain type of ‘build’. Seekers were slim and light, to zip around the field faster. Chasers were usually also slimmer, with strong arms for throwing the Quaffle. Keepers were broad and muscled, using the bulk of their body to help deflect shots - and they were usually heavier with muscle because they didn’t need to be fast or do as much broom work. 

And Beaters were known for being strong - incredibly muscled, with strong arms and strong, thick thighs. They needed a lot of strength to swing their bats to even kick off the weight of a Bludger, let alone get it flying across the field. And they needed strong thighs to stay on their broom, because most of their flying was done with their legs, due to the intense amount of arm work that was involved in being a Beater. 

(Was this something you had taken an interest in just because George was a Quidditch player? Definitely not.) 

And though it had been a long time since George had played for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, you knew from the conversations that he and Fred had on Monday mornings about their Sundays spent with the entire Weasley brood, they continued to play casually with their family. (‘Casual’ of course, was a relative term. From the way they talked about it, it could get just as competitive as the Hogwarts games did - if not more competitive on occasion.) 

On top of that, George often impressed you with how many boxes he could lift, and how large and heavy those boxes were. Even though he had magic at his disposal, it seemed like he was determined not to get lazy while running the shop. (That, and he had warned you that many of the WWW products didn’t fare well with magical transportation, so they had to be lifted manually - which was a lesson you had learned the hard way on your own. More than once.) 

You knew that he was strong - but seeing his bare, broad, muscled body in front of your eyes was certainly something else. Seeing proof of it in front of your eyes began to rewire your brain. 

Seeing his pale skin covered in freckles, clearly from being shirtless in the sun a fair amount of times; perfect skin stretched across the most firm man you had ever seen - not someone who was unrealistically chiseled like a man out of Wonder Witch, but someone who was deliciously strong and so real. Someone with thick arms, a broad, puffed chest, and a smooth stomach with a bit of tummy that signified he ate his own cooking enough to know what he was doing. And your eyes became glued to a trail of fiery hair leading from his belly button and into his low riding bottoms before George snatched the scissors from you, pulling you out of your haze. 

“What - it’s your turn to stare now, is it? Getting me back, are you, love?” He said, his voice turning into a rumbling low whisper that ignited every nerve in your body in a terrible way. 

Your tongue went numb in your mouth and for once in his presence, you were utterly speechless. 

You simply stared up at him, getting locked into the cocky, smug gaze of his hazel eyes. You were partially tempted to slap him because of how insane the rising heat was driving you, and partially tempted to stay completely still just to see what he would do next. 

You wanted to scream when he cleared his throat and took a small step away from you - that stupid Gryffindor nobility acting up once again. 

“You need to use the toilet before bed? Brush your teeth and whatnot?” He posed gently, his eyes now glued to the floor, refusing to look at you. 

“Yes.” You replied quietly. “And you better brush yours. I’m not sleeping next to Mr. Bourbon Breath all night.” That bit of sourness flared up again, seeking some normality against this ocean of unfamiliar territory that you were fighting through. 

George smiled and let out a small, nasally laugh at your comment. 

Again, you felt a strange pang of domesticity as you stood beside George in the bathroom. A calm, eerie kind of familiarity while brushing your teeth together. He waited in silence for you to remove your makeup, wash your face and apply a bit of moisturizer. 

You felt oddly naked, probably more so than when he had been blatantly staring at your breasts, as this was the first time he had ever seen you without makeup in the entirety of knowing you. And when his eyes traced over your face in the mirror, you tried to decipher any judgement or disgust in his expression before deciding with a sudden burst of bitterness that you didn’t care if he liked your bare face or not. 

(Even though, deep down, you cared quite a lot what he thought of you.) 

“You don’t need it, you know.” He said, gesturing to the open make-up bag you had propped open on the side of his sink - the one you had taken your toothbrush out of. “All the - the extra stuff. You’re really quite… pretty without it.” 

You hated how painful it seemed for him to give you a genuine compliment, one not disguised as a joke, and - feeling that prickly defensiveness rising up within you again, you quickly fired back. 

“I know that.” You hissed at him, rolling your eyes. “I like it. I know that I don’t need it. I know I’m gorgeous.” 

“Good god, sometimes you’re so-” George cut himself off, holding back whatever horrid words he had lined up to describe you. “You can’t just take an earnest compliment, can you?” 

You were forced into a terrible silence. 

No, you couldn’t. For you, accepting a genuine compliment was infinitely harder than having an insult hurled at you. 

Perhaps that was what made you feel more naked than going the night without your make-up - having George’s eyes on you and knowing that he saw you for who you truly were. The rawness. Being forced to go without a shield. Not being able to run away from the one pair of honest eyes that stared you down and saw all the things about you that you feared admitting most. 

You couldn’t even muster a ‘shut up’ in return. You shrunk into yourself like a kicked dog, and, pitying you, George didn’t prod at the topic any further. 

The two of you finally moved back to the bedroom to go to bed. 

There was an awkward moment where you had to wait for him to climb into the bed on his knees and he nearly stumbled and fell on his face. But then you were able to sit down and slide your way in, and finally, you were able to collapse into a lying position, flat on your back, where you would remain for the rest of the night. You let out a sigh of relief as George raised his wand to turn off the lights. 

“Nox.” He mumbled quietly, causing the main light in the bedroom to go out, as well as the one in the hallway, shuddering the two of you in complete darkness. 

Strangely, it was something that, rather than making you feel anonymous and comfortable, suddenly made you hyper-aware of just how truly intimate the situation was. You were suddenly entirely conscious of George’s quiet breathing as he closed his eyes and settled into a relaxed position. Suddenly, you felt every inch of his body against yours. 

You had naturally sunken into a dip in the middle of the mattress; either one that was worn in from where he slept directly in the middle or a spot that was pressed down heavier due to the weight of his body, bringing you closer to him by some fucked up fate. This caused your arm to press into the warm, thick strength of his muscles all the way down to where you were joined by the still ever-present cuffs, causing your leg to melt into the warmth of his thigh - skin that was so damn hot, even through the cotton of his pajama pants. 

You couldn’t stand to spend the night like this. Even as his breathing became calm and rhythmic beside your head, signalling that he was beginning to fall asleep, and you knew that it would be rude to move so abruptly - you couldn’t stay still. You couldn’t resign yourself to an entire night laying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about George and his stupid hot skin. 

You roughly scooted away from him, and grabbed one of the pillows beneath your head with your free hand, moving it down to roughly shove it between your two bodies lengthwise. This created a very clear divider between the two of you from hips to shoulders - forcing you to put your cuffed wrists on top of the pillow with as much distance that the small chain would allow without painful dragging on your skin. The sudden movements caused George to let out some groans of complaint, and he blinked open his sleepy eyes to glare at you through the dark. 

“I thought we were going to sleep.” He mumbled, his voice strained with clear anger toward you. 

You knew that you had done a lot to make someone like him angered, and you did feel a pang of guilt for it. 

“I am.” You huffed in return. “I just - I need some space.” 

“Oh, of course. Because sharing a bed with me is such a chore.” He griped, though he did scoot his body an inch over, trying his best to give you that requested space without yanking on your arm. 

You couldn’t help but to think about the fact that sharing a bed with him after finding out that he was so irritably attractive was the part that made it a chore. Not the fact that it was him, not the sharing - you just hated this night. You hated the confusion. You wanted to go back to the shop. You wanted to go back to him winking at you and you pretending to be disgusted by it. You wanted to go back to morning pastries and him stealing boxes from your arms, telling you that ‘ladies’ shouldn’t ‘bother with such exerting tasks’. 

You just hated feeling so uncertain. You hated standing on the precipice and being terrified to fall into an endless nothing that you knew absolutely nothing about. 

You hated that if you surrendered yourself to him - you would have so fucking much to lose. And he wouldn’t. 

“You know, if I knew some spell that would break you out of the stupid handcuffs, I would have set you free and sent you home hours ago.” He said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I know-” 

“Because being attached to me is no picnic either, I know.” You finished the sentence for him, knowing exactly where he was going with it. “Trust me, as soon as this is over, we can go back to exactly how we were before - not spending any unnecessary time together, not liking each other and just trying our best to be polite.” 

That was just how you wanted it. You wanted things to go back to the way they were before. 

Unfortunately, those were the words that unintentionally triggered George into snapping. 

“Stop that! Stop saying that!” He shouted for the first time, his voice bellowing across the room at a level that almost frightened you. 

He bolted upright into a sitting position in order to look at you, giving you a harsh, angry frown that truly didn’t suit his face. You felt the sting of his interrogating gaze as he propped himself on one elbow, leaning on the pillow between the two of you to hurl more harsh words at you. 

“Stop saying that we don’t like each other! You can’t speak for me! No matter how much you dislike me, you can’t dictate how I feel about you! So just - stop it! Stop telling me how I’m supposed to feel! Stop saying that I don’t like you. Because it’s not true.” 

After a moment of staring you down, and observing the emotions that flashed across your face as you struggled to take in his words - shock, upset, but mostly pure confusion - he let out a harsh huff of minty breath in your direction and then collapsed back onto his pillow. 

“For fuck’s sake.” He muttered harshly under his breath. 

“But - but you don’t like me…” Was all you managed to get out, your mind stubbornly unable to take his words as the truth. 

The two of you had been enemies since your school days. Constantly at each other’s throat as a Gryffindor and a Slytherin should be. You were constantly on the receiving end of his pranks, constantly being jabbed with harsh words by the people around him. 

That’s when it hit you, harsh like a stunning spell that you never saw coming. 

That was exactly it: it was always the people around him. 

Fred was the one who called you harsh names while George slipped in seemingly ironic compliments toward you. George was the one who tried to stick up for you among a group of people who hated you - he was the one who advocated for you when the others accused you of having nefarious intentions. George was the one who had hired you at the shop and given you a place to live when you had no money and no place else to go. 

George had never done anything that ever implied he didn’t like you. It was always the opposite. 

“Are you seriously that thick?” George griped in return, his voice cracking with the unhinged exhaustion of his emotions. It was clear that he was truly, utterly frustrated with you. Because you remained silent, seemingly open to actually listening, he continued. “I do like you! I like you as a person, and as a friend. I’ve been trying to be your friend for years! For fuck’s sake - I thought we were friends. I thought you bloody fucking knew that.” 

“I’ve never had any friends before, I don’t know what it’s like!” You yelled in return. “I thought you knew that.” You mumbled the last part quietly, knowing how utterly pathetic it sounded when spoken aloud. 

That’s when it truly hit George - all this time, you had no clue that his kindness was supposed to be friendship. You didn’t know what friendship was like because you never had any friends before. 

You told him that you regarded your fellow Slytherins as classmates, some of them nothing more than polite acquaintances, and he knew that you spent most of your time at Hogwarts in isolation, studying. The only person that you kept in contact with as much as him was Hermione, but he knew that the two of you were polite on the basis of friendly co-operation (a pillar of Hermione’s life after The War) - the two of you weren’t particularly bonded or close. 

“What did you think all this was if you wouldn’t call it a friendship?” George asked, gesturing between the two of you, now entirely curious to hear your view of things. 

You let out a harsh sigh, hating that you were forced to put it into words. A horrible swell of embarrassment passed over you as you began to speak the words. 

“I guess…” You raked your brain for words, wondering how you would put it beyond a boss-employee relationship, wondering what you would label the strange kindness that had gotten you the job in the first place. “I guess I thought that you were just being nice to me. That you were being polite to me out of obligation, or something.” 

Even though you couldn’t see - with the two of you laying on your backs, facing the ceiling - George sharply rolled his eyes, and used his free hand to press fingers into his forehead, absolutely ripe with stress. Though he was glad to hear the words out of your mouth now, because a lot of things were radically rocketing into clarity now. 

“What obligation?” He prodded in return, not giving you a chance to answer before he continued. “Y/N, I’m not even nice to my brothers, and they’re my family. They’re people that I love dearly, and sometimes I am downright rude to them - which sounds horrible, I know, but it’s how siblings show their love.” 

This gave you a passing thought about how you were glad that you didn’t have any siblings, even if you had dreamt of having sisters plenty of times after reading Ruined Pride. 

“But for the record, I am nice to you because it’s a choice.” George continued on. “I do it because I am trying to make an effort. For fuck’s sake - I bring you pastries in the morning, and I make you cups of tea, and I go out of my way to help you lift heavy boxes, and I bring you leftovers from Mum’s Sunday suppers - do you honestly think that I would do all of that just to be polite?” 

You hated how utterly stupid you were going to sound now that all of this was coming to light. But you had to be honest with him. 

“Yes!” You stressed, thinking that it was the obvious answer. “I thought - I thought that it was just how you were raised. I thought you were like that with everyone.” 

“Then why isn’t Fred the same way with you? We were raised the same way, weren’t we?” George asked, posing the ultimate conundrum. 

From what you had seen, Fred was fairly polite to everyone else in his life. Everyone but you. There was only one answer you could come up with, and it forced you to admit that you had been wrong the whole time. Stupid and ignorant and just plain wrong. 

“Because Fred doesn’t like me.” You sighed, sounding truly defeated. “He hates me.” 

The fact of your terrible wrongness had barely soaked in before something else came skyrocketing to the front of your mind. 

“Is that why you did this?!” You asked, yanking on the cuffs to drive home exactly what you meant, unintentionally sending another pain shooting through your wrist. “Is this some stupid attempt to get me to realize that I’ve been an idiot this whole time and I just don’t know how to make friends?” 

“No,” George sighed, shaking his head. “No, that’s not it.” 

“Then what is it?” You asked. “Because I would really like to know the thought process behind it.” 

You resisted the urge to add on ‘if there was one’, not wanting to shut down the conversation with a poorly timed snide remark. 

“Honestly, after you insisted that we weren’t friends, I got more than a little offended.” George admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed to say it out loud. “I thought that you were being bitchy and contrary just for the sake of it. And I wanted to get back at you for it.” 

“So this is your twisted version of revenge?!” You squealed, more than upset that you were forced to be stuck like this just because he thought you were being ‘bitchy’. (If anything, he should be used to your bitchiness by now.) 

“No!” George huffed, getting upsetting that you were misunderstanding his words. “It’s not like that! It’s - ugh. I wanted the pranks to be fun. I wanted you to be forced to admit that you were having fun. I wanted you to admit that you are my friend and that you do like being around me. You never smile, and - I wanted you to crack a goddamn smile for once in your life.” 

Oh. 

His version of ‘getting back at you’ for being bitchy was literally trying to force laughter out of you. He was trying to force the bitch out of you and turn you into someone joyful. It made sense for someone who owned a joke shop. 

There was just one glaring flaw with his plan. You had never found his pranks funny in the past. 

“And you thought the best way to do that would be to annoy the hell out of me?” You posed, your voice dull in pointing out the obvious. 

“I thought that I might finally make you smile.” He explained. “That’s typically what harmless pranks are for - lifting the muscles of one’s cheeks in an upward direction, bringing a feeling of joy.” 

You wanted to remind him that you had never found any of his and Fred’s past pranks funny, but part of you wanted to commend him for trying, at the very least. You were very new to the whole ‘friend’ thing, so you didn’t want to bring him down when he already seemed to be in a foul mood because his pranks had already failed so much. Especially with the last one leaving the two of you locked together so disastrously. 

George let out another harsh sigh, and his next words, especially being delivered with such a heavy, downtrodden tone, surprised you. 

“Is it such a terrible shame that I want you to like me?” 

The yearning in his voice caused a crack over the words, and your insides quaked as what he said truly washed over you. 

He just wanted you to like him. He didn’t just want polite distance, he didn’t just want you to tolerate him - he wanted you to like him. You couldn’t blame him for that. 

But you had been doing your best to mess it up - to put some strange distance between the two of you since you had started working at the shop. Even before that. 

“George-” You rasped out, surprised to find tears straining your throat. 

But he cut you off before you could even begin to come up with the proper words to respond. 

“Is it such a shame that I want us to be friends?” He griped, putting intense stress on the words before he paused and took a breath, his lungs grating across the silence of the room. His next words came out much quieter and gentler. “The handcuff thing was supposed to be a joke. I didn’t intend for you to be stuck with me, especially not since it’s so horrible for you.” 

This struck your insides like a brick being thrown through a plate glass window. 

“It’s not.” You said quietly, hating how pathetic and weepy your voice sounded. 

“You don’t have to lie.” George quickly combated. Before you could argue, he continued. “I am sorry for all this, but I just wanted us to get along. Especially after all we’ve been through. But you’re right - after this night, we can go right back to the way things were before.” 

Something in his words caught your attention and had you skyrocketing to sit upright, staring him down with a glare. 

“What do you mean: ‘after all we’ve been through together’?” You hissed at him, confused and angry. “There is no ‘we’. I’ve been through a lot, I’ve been through hell having to put up with my father, I-” 

George glared back, just as feral. 

“Do you think I haven’t had problems? Do you think everything’s been peachy keen for me my whole bloody life?” He scoffed in return. “I almost had my bloody head blown off in a battle and then I fought in a war. And I saved your life, didn’t I?” 

This statement sent your mind rocketing back to a night that you swore to yourself you would forget. 

… 

Chaos. 

That was the only word to describe the castle as Voldemort’s army descended upon it. 

Every magical barrier of protection had been broken down, leaving everyone inside utterly vulnerable to a horde of Death Eaters and other horrible dark creatures as they flooded the grounds, determined to attack anyone they saw. Creatures who had no care for weather innocent people lived or not - a lot of whom would have found joy in the pain and torture of others. 

You were trying your best to help those you could, evacuating the youngest students out through the Hogsmeade exits that George had shown you, hurling spells at any passing Death Eater that you saw. But it wasn’t long until you were cornered in an old disused classroom by the one person you least wanted to see: your father. It had been years since you had been face to face with him, and it didn’t take him long to make his intentions clear. 

He began hurling spells at you, and you were quick to defend yourself. The two of you engaged in a heated battle, firing off curses - it was clear that he didn’t want to kill you, at least not right away. He wanted to truly confront you first. 

“Useless, terrible little brat!” He screamed, firing another curse that you blocked, thankful for the time that Harry had focused on protection spells in DA. “You always were your mother’s daughter! Defiant, disobedient, stubborn bitch!” 

You fired a stinging jinx at him, hating that he brought your mother into this. You had very few memories of her - but what you did remember of her was a kind, loving woman. You hated those memories being desecrated on principle. He dodged the jinx and fired another spell at you - again, one that you blocked thanks to your practice. 

“I’m thankful to take after her if it means I’m nothing like you!” You shouted in return. “You haggard old bastard! You’re stupid if you honestly thought that I would follow you into this madness-” 

“And you think you’re smart to throw away generations of tradition for what? Your own self righteous cause? For the love of a blood-traitor?!” He bellowed in return. “You would rather be a whore to a kneeling povel than the cherished daughter of an empire?!” 

His last words confused you slightly, but you didn’t dwell on why he said it. Nothing he did or said made much sense to you anymore. 

“Kneeling?!” You scoffed in return. “Says the man who lick’s The Dark Lord’s bullocks for a living!” 

For these harsh words, he fired a blasting curse past your head that you managed to dodge just in time. A large chunk of stone exploded behind you, and you managed to keep a steely expression even when you felt chunks of the debris hitting your back. 

“I do this because it’s right!” You shouted, ultimately answering his question. “I don’t care which side is more powerful - I know which side is more just!” 

You raised your wand to hit him with another spell - but ruefully, he was quicker on the draw this time, and he managed to disarm you. Your wand was flung from your hand, landing across the room before you could blink. Before you could rush to pick it up, he then did the unthinkable. 

“Crucio!” 

The spell caused a red flicker through the dimness of the room, and you cried out in pain as your muscles were stabbed with sharp agony, every single part of your body instantly crippled by the most terrible pain you had ever experienced in your life. In a moment, you fell to the ground, the pain ebbing away dully and leaving your whole body aching. When you opened your eyes - now blurred with tears - your father was standing over you. 

“You will lose in the end.” He said, his voice quieter, more determined. “And you will join your mother in death to maintain my honor.” 

You spotted your wand on the other side of the room, and when you made a move toward it, he pointed his wand toward you again. 

“Crucio!” 

More terrible pain shocked your body - knives pushing into your spine, lightning breaking through your skull. You were barely able to handle it, flailing against the dusty stone floor. You heard screams bouncing off the walls before you realized it was the sound of your own pained voice. 

But another voice entered the room - even with blood thumping so harshly through your ears, you easily recognized who it was. 

“Stupefy!” 

A body flew across the room and knocked over an old, empty shelf, smashing it to pieces - and when you peeled open your eyes, you received the small joy of seeing your father’s unconscious body on the floor among that debris. Then, your aching body was being pulled into a pair of strong, warm arms, and you were greeted with the familiar but utterly terrified face of George Weasley. 

“Y/N?” He said, his voice throttled by years. “Y/N, are you alright?” 

“I’m fine now.” You admitted quietly, no sarcasm on your lips for once. 

He let out a sob of relief - having seen you on the floor so limp and believed that you were dead - and pulled you tight into his chest, holding you tight in a hug. 

Any protests you might have had about the hug died off in your throat as your own emotions took over, causing you to squeeze him back, hanging onto him as an anchor of safety. Almost immediately, your own tears overwhelmed you, and you cried into his chest where you would easily be able to hide it. 

It was a brief moment in a horrible night, but came to your rescue once again, making you feel safe against the horrors of the world. 

… 

“I wouldn’t have let you save my life if I knew you were just going to hold it against me.” You huffed, moving back down to lay against your pillow, staring up at the ceiling as a harsh, angry tear leaked from your eye. The anger wasn’t directed at George, but entirely at your father as you remembered what had happened on that night. 

George bit his tongue to keep from calling you a name, wanting to call you stubborn among other things at your refusal to simply admit that he was right. He also wanted to call you many harsh things at your lack of a ‘thank you’ for his actions. 

After another prolonged silence, you were the next one to speak. 

“Do you know why I took the job?” You posed, sounding terribly nervous. 

“Because it looks stunningly fantastic on any resume?” George replied, utterly clueless, genuinely unsure what you meant and only able to fill the space with a joke. 

You were tempted to back down, then - tempted to tell him to ‘shut up’ and then roll over in order to go to sleep. But strangely, the events of the entire night had peeled you raw like a rotten apple, and you found yourself finally ready to be vulnerable with him. 

So you took a breath, and moved forward with honesty. 

“My father took everything from me.” You told him. “When you found me in that bar, I was getting blind drunk to ignore the fact that I had walked into Gringotts that day, looking to take money out of the account my mother had left me so that I could go on a trip far away from everyone and everything for a while, hoping to forget… and I found out that my father took everything.” 

Your words hit George like a train. You sounded so utterly broken, so sad. It was the first time that he had truly heard your voice so dull and lifeless, rather than fiery and passionate - even if that passion had been fueled by anger. 

He thought about how even if he was raised in a family that didn’t have much money, they always shared everything. If one of his brothers came to him asking to borrow money right now, he wouldn’t hesitate to open his pockets. And your father had been so greedy as to take everything so that you couldn’t have a single Sickle to your name. 

“He needed the money to aid in his escape, yes. But I also think he cleared out the vaults just so that I wouldn’t have anything at all.” You explained. “He didn’t want me to have any of the family money because he no longer considers me to be family.” 

You huffed, anger mixing in with your sadness now. 

“He thinks that I shouldn’t get any of his money or my mother’s money because I betrayed everything they believe in. It wasn’t enough for him to want me dead. When he couldn’t have that, he had to screw me over for the rest of my life… just to have some kind of sick satisfaction.” 

In a moment, George’s hatred toward the man who had tried to kill you easily doubled. 

He began thinking about the fact that if you were his - if the two of you were dating or even if you married, he would absolutely spoil you. You would never want for anything - if you even so much as hinted at desiring something, he would get it for you. You would never have to work another day in your life - not unless you wanted to, of course. Naturally, he would miss having you around the shop. 

But he would absolutely love coming home to you relaxed and pampered and giddy because of all the things he could buy you. He knew that money didn’t automatically equate to happiness, but he thought about how happy he could make you with expensive books and wine and records and fancy new clothes. 

He thought about the fact that he could take so much stress off you and truly give you the life that you deserved. A life that your bastard of a father never wanted for you and never would have given you anyway. George couldn’t stop thinking about wrapping you in his care and protection for the rest of his life and never letting you go again. 

Selfishly, he thought about keeping you chained to him for the rest of his life just because he could. 

Distantly, George thought about something that Bill had said about wedding rings and how Fleur was ‘stuck with him forever’ - and while his mind dwelled on that, you spoke again, your mind seemingly in a very different place. 

“You know, it’s really awful to constantly be seen as ‘the evil Slytherin’.” You sighed. “Even now, even all these years later, I can’t get out of my father’s shadow. Even now when I go places, people still give me dirty looks, like I’m up to something despicable and secretly planning to kill them. I’ve always just wanted to be my own person and make my own choices. Even if they end up being the wrong ones.” 

George had never thought about that. Perhaps it was because he looked at you with such fondness and he could never understand how anybody saw you differently. 

“People have never seen me as my own person either,” He replied, speaking honestly. 

“I guess it must be difficult in its own way to have a twin.” You said. “People never see you as an individual. They just see you two as two halves of one person, right?” 

“It’s not just that.” George clarified. “Being one of six brothers with red hair - it’s difficult to stand apart. Now people mostly just see me as the one with the manky ear.” 

You huffed out a laugh at this, and George grew confused. At first, he thought you were laughing at him, mocking the hilarity of his mangled appearance. But then you spoke up and he grew even more confused - and more intrigued. 

“I don’t think so.” You said. “You and Fred couldn’t be more different. And it’s always been like that. It was like that long before your injury.” 

“Is that so?” He prodded curiously. 

“Yes.” You answered. “You have that bump on the top of your nose from the Quidditch game in third year.” You began to explain - you actually sat up on your elbow to look at him and gestured to his nose, causing George to immediately reach up and start feeling his own nose, analysing your words. “So I could tell the two of you apart for years. And aside from looks, there’s still loads of differences.” 

“Like what?” George demanded, far too curious to know what you meant now. 

Strangely, you decided to humour him.  

“You’re much more gentle. And you’re easier to talk to. Your laugh is nicer - you don’t do that thing where you throw your head back like a gremlin and Fred does. You’re more charming. You actually know when to be quiet during a conversation. You-” 

You cut yourself off abruptly when you noticed George staring at you with a smug grin. He was enjoying your words far too much. Your stomach tangled with harsh embarrassment when you realized that everything you were saying could be interpreted as complimentary. 

“So you do like me?” He said, entirely too happy. 

You felt that twist in your stomach again, and you were eager to escape it. If you hadn’t literally been attached to him at the wrist, you would have run away - you would have Disapparated in a second. But that was the problem of the whole night, now wasn’t it?  

“Goodnight, George.” You huffed, laying back down and turning - as much as you could - forcefully closing your eyes to ignore him even though you could still feel his eyes on you. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He said, still sounding far too pleased with himself. 

You ended up laying there for a while with a mixture of sickening nausea in your stomach and something that you hated to call affection bubbling in your chest, all adding up to a terrible anxiety that made it intensely difficult to fall asleep. 

… 

You were disoriented when you woke up and blinked into the darkness. 

You had that strange feeling that you were sleeping in a bed that wasn’t your own - the same feeling you always got during the first few nights back at Hogwarts at the beginning of a school year, and the first few days back at ‘home’ after returning at the end of the year. The same feeling you had gotten when you had first been settling into the apartment above the shop. But that feeling easily fell into the background as you felt a persistent nagging in your bladder. 

With your eyes barely open, still feeling incredibly tired, you moved to crawl out of bed, and just after your feet hit the floor, you were rocketed out of that gentle sleepiness as you were literally yanked back to reality. You felt a sharp pain around your wrist and you were stopped by a dead weight anchoring you to the bed - one that was so stunningly heavy, it caused you to stumble backwards and fall into the bed. You nearly fell on top of George, where he was still sleeping soundly, lightly snoring with his mouth slightly parted. 

It took you a tired moment to remember that the dead weight was George. You couldn’t just get up and leave freely because you were still bound to him by the wrist. 

You were immediately enraged. 

Any calmness or friendliness you had felt towards him, any nice feelings that had built up through the night immediately flew out the window as you were harshly reminded for the entire reason for this sleepover - the fucking metal cuffs that held the two of you together. The fact that he was now holding you prisoner because of some stupid prank. Your rage boiled over as you remembered that this could end up going on for days. 

“Hey!” 

You shouted at the top of your lungs, entirely uncaring about waking him up. 

One, because your sleep had been disturbed, so he didn’t deserve to sleep peacefully while you were awake. And two, because of his stupid stunt, you couldn’t sneak away to the bathroom by yourself. You needed him conscious and mobile in order to do anything, and it was his own damn fault. He didn’t even stir, and that only annoyed you further. 

Unbeknownst to you, he was entirely used to loud noises trying to disturb his sleep, and well used to sleeping through them due to the household he’d grown up in. 

“Hey!” 

You drew out the word more this time, absolutely annoyed as you became more and more alert. The feeling in your bladder wasn’t even as nagging anymore as your anger and annoyance grew more persistent. 

You shoved him in the chest, and when he barely moved, you let out a sharp growl and then moved to climb on top of him. You weren’t even thinking about the possible implications of being so close to him - only thinking about invading his personal space more so that your voice would be louder to him. 

“George! You big dumb oaf!” You screamed right in his face, delivering a harsh smack to his bare chest that resonated loudly as it was bare skin on skin. This finally jolted him from his sleep, and he awoke with a snort. He began blinking blarily at you, clearly not in a rush to fully wake up - not even with you urgently hanging above him. “I have to use the toilet - and since you chained us together, I’m making it your problem!” 

You let out a quiet gasp when he placed his hands on your hips - two incredibly warm hands that felt larger than they looked when they were spread out against your flesh (somehow radiating intense heat even through the cotton of your sleep shorts). You had to contain a moan when he shifted his hips beneath you, practically shoving his pelvis right up against your crotch, forcing you to feel a certain hardness that you hadn’t known you were nearly sitting on until that moment. You knew that you should have rushed to get off him, but your bones were melting and somehow, your muscles were stiffer than concrete, making you entirely unable to move. 

What the hell was this man doing to you? 

“George-” You choked out, half wanting to apologize, half wanting to scold him, any words quickly dying off in your throat. 

“At least you’ve woken me up to a gorgeous view.” He mumbled tiredly, licking his lips as he stared you down with his eyes still tiredly half open. 

For a moment, you had no clue what he was talking about. 

And then you realized that his lazy gaze was fixated solely on your chest. When your own eyes dipped down, you realized in horror that in your sleep, your shirt had slipped down (likely aided by the fact that you were only wearing one strap due to the god-forsaken handcuffs). So now one of your breasts was completely out, while the other was mostly there, leaving little to the imagination. Not that George would have to imagine, with what he had seen in the mirror earlier. 

You gasped and moved to pull the fabric up with your one free hand, but George’s hand caught yours. You had no clue why - but you froze under the touch, leaving yourself exposed to his hungry eyes. 

“Not so fast, pretty girl.” He whispered, causing harsh goosebumps to pop up all over your skin at a rate so fast that it was almost painful. 

You found yourself numb with shock and terrible intrigue as he ripped the neckline of the fabric out of your fingers and pulled it even further down with utter urgency - pulling the one remaining strap of your shirt down over your shoulder and your free hand and discarding the thin fabric of the top so that it was bunched around your waist. This left your breasts heaving freely in the air as you struggled not to hyperventilate with the pure anticipation of what would come next. 

This was beyond uncharted territory. 

George kept steady eye contact with you as he then moved his hand - agonizingly slow - toward your breast, almost as if afraid that you would suddenly change your mind and smack him across the face for daring to do such a thing. But when no signs of displeasure came from you, he began groping your breast heavily - digging his fingers into the flesh in an utterly possessive, rough way that made you moan and arch your chest toward him. 

You unintentionally ground your crotch against his, your body writhing with pleasure against your will. You became ever more conscious of the large bulge beneath you (that seemed to be growing larger) and the heat between your thighs that was so demanding that it was almost painful for you. He gave a small smirk that would have been utterly insufferable any other time - still kind of was - but you couldn’t even bring yourself to comment on it as you were overwhelmed with pleasure from his touches. 

“Fuck, George-” You hissed out, the words leaving you without permission, your mind still partially convinced that you were still asleep and simply caught up in a bizarre wet dream. 

“I’ve got you,” He mumbled back hotly, his voice dripping with urgency. 

You were surprised when he removed his hand, causing you to let out a whimper of disappointment from deep within the back of your throat. You were surprising yourself with your own desperation - but his touch was so hot, so perfect. 

Thankfully, he didn’t leave you cold for long - he moved his touch to your hip and used his grip to scoot you up his body. You were forced to truly feel his strength now, something you had seen him apply to heavy boxes and stuck doors - but it was so much different when you felt it applied to you. Feeling his strong arms against you forced you to see him as more powerful than you had ever imagined him, and it caused an embarrassing clench in your cunt. 

You almost yearned being moved off his bulge, missing the feeling of it underneath you as you now sat on his lower stomach. And that mental yearning meant that you didn’t see that he had intentionally moved you to be closer to his mouth - now set on devouring your gorgeous tits as he now knew that you would allow him to touch them. 

From there, he didn’t waste another second. He arched himself up off the pillow into a rather uncomfortable position that put his head right at your breasts, moving your cuffed arms so that he could lean on that elbow and forcing you to lean on your hand near his hip. But you didn’t care about the awkward positioning as his mouth engulfed your breast with eagerness and warmth and he began to suck, lavishing you with intense attention that immediately lit your body on fire and flooded your panties with wetness. 

Fuck, he was good. 

“Oh!” You hissed out, unable to contain yourself. “Oh, fuck!” 

You began instinctively grinding yourself against the perfect softness of his stomach, your cunt tingling and needy as he tongued at your nipple. He moaned against your tit, bringing his hand up to better push the fullness of your flesh into his mouth, downright nuzzling his face into your chest with a very characteristic greediness. Clearly, he couldn’t get enough - now that he had permission to touch you, he wasn’t going to give you up so easily. 

He began harshly sucking on your nipple and tonguing around it, causing you to grip onto the sheets of the bed beside his hip with your still chained hand, overwhelmed by the sharp shocks of pleasure coming from his mouth on you. You were desperately needy to cling onto something with your other hand, and you finally landed on gripping onto his ginger hair - weaving your fingers into the fiery redness and holding on fiercely, shoving him tighter into your breast while your chest arched up into him, inadvertently smothering him. 

(Not that he would ever want to escape, not even if you started to pull away.) 

You could do little more than whimper and gasp into the darkness, seemingly a victim to his selfish whims now. You could do nothing but writhe against him, grinding your clothed cunt against his body as you grew hotter and hotter, no longer able to deny your intense attraction to him. Especially not with the way your underwear was sticking to you and every fiber of your being was screaming with lust. All you would do was hope that he wouldn’t be too stubborn to fuck you now.

All you had was the tiny shred of hope that he wouldn’t deny you and leave you needy just to prove some stupid point.

Soon, George did pull off your nipple, only to kiss a hot path across to the other breast, leaving a few fierce bites along the way - his sharp teeth digging into your skin only causing you to let out increasingly pathetic moans. As he wrapped his lips around your other nipple and sucked, you could hardly stand it anymore - you were growing too impatient, too hot and dizzy. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, your clit was singing with need, aching for attention. It was all too much, having his hot mouth laving attention on one of your most sensitive areas - but at the same time, you desperately needed more. 

“George, please-” 

You whimpered, tugging on his hair, trying to pull him away from your chest. You were desperate to get his attention elsewhere, onto more important things. 

Surprisingly, George did comply, leaning back from your skin with his lips rosy pink and slightly swollen now, a perfectly smug grin forming on his face that had regret swirling in your stomach. You hated that grin so much. But at the same time, that stupid expression had you swimming with lust. 

“You know, Miss L/N, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘please’ for anything. Not for as long as I’ve known you,” He hummed, his voice descending into a raspy husk as lust overtook him - it was a tone that shook your insides and caused even more wetness to ruin your clothes. 

You hadn’t even realized it. The word just felt so natural on your lips. 

You hated it. 

Naturally, your mind went on the defensive. Not so sharp as to scare him away, of course. But you wanted to play the game, rather than shrinking down into some docile, complacent little thing. 

“Maybe you’ve ever done anything worthy of evoking true manners from me up until now.” You replied, impressed with yourself that you managed to keep your voice so steady as his large, intensely hot hand stroked up your back, reminding you how strong his touch was. 

“I can’t wait to see your polite side.” George whispered, all hot breath, the words dripping with a kind of innuendo that could only exist between the two of you. 

Before you could blink, he used that strong hand on your back to shove you down into him, poking a weak muscle between your shoulder blades that he seemed to know would knock you over. Almost like he had spent time analyzing all your weak spots from afar; like he had spent time planning every detail of this moment in his mind so that it would be perfect and go off without a hitch, just like he did with his pranks. Of course, it worked just like he wanted it to, even when his pranks didn’t. So this simple move sent you tumbling into his lips, locking the two of you into the very first kiss that you ever shared. 

Though this kiss wasn’t chaste or sweet or romantic - it was nothing like he had dreamed it would be, and somehow, that made it even more perfect. 

You moaned whorishly against his lips, desperately trying to suck breath into your lungs as he consumed your mouth, making you even dizzier. And of course, your efforts to breathe were even further defeated when he used a quick, well thought out move to flip the two of you over. He kept his mouth glued to yours, continuing to move his lips against you with a kind of skill and finesse that had the world melting around you. You couldn’t even wonder where he had gotten all the practice or be jealous of his past conquests, because you were enjoying yourself too much. 

The moment he had you on your back, he spread your thighs with his knees and positioned himself there, hovering above you, kneeling between your legs. Then he moved your hands to a position above your head, rattling the chain of your joined wrists beside your ear, causing you to remember the handcuffs, the entire reason you were in this bed in the first place. It was something you had almost forgotten about at this point due to the mind-numbing pleasure that he was now giving you. 

You would never say it, but you were almost thankful for the stupid prank now. 

A little too soon for you, he pulled his lips away, and whispered against your mouth: 

“You know, love, if you wanted me to fuck you, all you had to do was ask.” 

It was another wave of cocky energy from him, boastful and prideful, and it caused a terrible shiver of lust through you. You didn’t have the room to admit that up until now, you had barely realized that you wanted him to fuck you in the first place, let alone knowing how badly you wanted it. 

You had been far too busy being annoyed with him to ever realize that somewhere under the frustration and anger, you were turned on by him. 

All you could do was gasp in reply when he left another sharp welt on the top of your breast with his teeth, clearly intent to mark you. He then moved his unchained hand down from where he had pinned your wrists above your head, teasing his fingertips down your body, just barely grazing your skin in a way that made you gasp and arch into his touch. With the roughness of his calloused fingertips, contrasted by the agonizingly gentle touch, your muscles seized up at the slow taunting that he raked over you - something that was barely enough, yet sent shocks of stimulation through your whole body. 

“Stop - stop teasing,” You moaned out, all breath, wanting it to sound a lot more demanding than it ended up being. 

“Oh? You want me to stop, do you?” George echoed back, pure trouble in his voice the second you heard it. 

He then moved off you completely, rolling back over to his own side of the bed and putting far more distance between the two of you than you ever would have wanted in those moments. You let out a kind of wounded sound that you didn’t even know you were capable of, absolutely insulted by his actions. You shoved yourself up on your elbows to stare blearily through the dark for him, wondering what the hell he was doing. 

“Well, goodnight again, I suppose.” He said, sarcasm ripe in his voice as he laid back onto his pillow and closed his eyes, clearly pretending to sleep. 

“George!” You squealed, downright annoyed once again. “George Fabian Weasley, I swear to Merlin, if you don’t-!” 

“Oh, you’re going to threaten me into fucking your brains out?” George chuckled, cutting you off and making you choke on your words as your throat swelled with embarrassment. That had been your idea, yes - but now that he said it aloud, it sounded incredibly stupid. “Also, how do you know my middle name?” 

You could answer that by reminding him of a time that his mother had been loudly shouting across the shop because he had sent her a package full of seemingly endless, expanding confetti and balloons for her birthday - but you didn’t want to kill his wood completely by bringing her up. 

“Nevermind.” He sighed, the thought dying off in his mind. 

(As he eyed your breasts, which were still so beautifully out in the open, anything else seemed unimportant.) 

Just as you hoped, he did turn back toward you and crawled back on top of you - this time kneeling high above you, truly lording his height over you even while not even standing, creating a tall, intimidating shadow above you that only turned you on more. He also entwined his fingers with yours between your chained hands so that the handcuffs wouldn’t further maim your poor wrist. 

“Let me give you a taste for how this works, love.” He said, his voice so utterly confident as he stared you down with fire in his eyes. 

He began skimming the fingers of his other hand along the waistband of your shorts, just above the fabric, making your muscles quiver under his touch. It was the barest touch of skin on skin, and it made you whimper out so pathetically. You hated that he was continuing to tease you in the most terrible way as your pussy wept inside your underwear. 

“I am the one in control here.” George stated firmly. “Right now, I’m not just some idiot you can yell at to get what you want.”

Staring into his eyes as he said this, seeing the dark lust that lived there - it truly thrilled you. 

This was the first time in your life that you were actually excited to hear a man say something like this, and not simply tempted to slap him for it. Or at the very least, you didn’t even feel the urge to challenge him into submission. Perhaps it was because you truly trusted George - you trusted him with your life, always felt safe around him because you knew that he had nothing but goodness and nobility in his heart. With him, you were absolutely eager and dripping with slickness to find out what he would do when you eagerly gave up control to him. 

“Outside of this room, you are a queen and I will be your humble servant.” he explained, grinning at you while he said the words. “I will get on my knees to help you put on your shoes, I will pour your wine, I will massage your feet after a long, tiring day, I will cook your meals and hand-feed you if you so desire-” 

Was he trying to make himself sound like the most tempting man in the world? 

“But within the walls of this room, you are mine.” 

The words, and the sudden shift of his voice to roughness absolutely shook you. You let out a girlish gasp and he smirked at you. 

He dug his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties together and used the elastic as a tether to yank you harshly down the bed, just a few inches closer to him. It was an impressive show of strength that had you yelping out in pleasure, shocks of electricity shaking you, your eyes still tethered to his, utterly enraptured in his gaze as his ravenous, smooth honeyed words continued. 

“You will do as I say, you will live for my pleasure, and you will beg for it if you want anything in return. You will be nothing but a set of holes for me to use. You will be a good girl for me - no lip, no backtalk, no whining. No complaining if you ever want my cock, do you understand me?” 

You found yourself panting, now - so overtaken by lust at his words, your body supercharged by everything he was forcing you to imagine that you were reacting as though he was already fucking you when he hadn’t even taken off your bottoms yet. If you were conscious past the intense pleasure, then you would have hated how much power he held over you. But perhaps you let go because he was just the right person to wield that power without abusing it. 

“How does that sound, love?” 

Of course, with all of his perfect nobility - he still had to ensure your consent. 

“Perfect.” You huffed in return, licking your lips to try and combat some of the dryness that was blooming through your mouth. “George, please-” 

He cut off your whining with another kiss, locking your joined hands above your head, making the whole thing feel desperately intimate as he pinned your hand to the bed with his fingers warmly entwined with yours. With your fingers laced together, it felt far too sickly sweet for what you knew was coming next. All you could do was grip his hand tightly back as you moaned into his mouth, gripping his thighs with your knees and bucking up against him, hopelessly seeking friction on your poor, weeping cunt. 

He couldn’t help but to love this version of you. 

He had been dreaming of this for years. He had imagined it so many different ways - getting you alone in an abandoned classroom when the two of you had been back at Hogwarts; getting you alone in his office in the shop now. He had spent so long imagining what it would be like to get you underneath him, moaning and lustful for him. The reality was so much better. And he certainly wasn’t going to waste it now. 

With his lips still pecking at yours, delivering surprisingly sweet kisses, he started finally pulling down your shorts, bringing down the fabric of your underwear along with them. You raced to help him, yanking them down over your body with your one free hand, entirely eager to get him to touch you where you needed it most. If this were any other time, you would have hated looking pathetic and needy in front of him, but in the darkness, in the isolated quiet in the room, it almost felt natural to let yourself finally fall to your inner most whims. 

Especially after the entirely bizarre day that you’d had of being chained to him and having what felt like a date with him, this didn’t seem so strange. 

In fact, the longer this went on, the more and more it felt right. 

It felt right to be underneath George, having his heated gaze tracing over every inch of you. 

You didn’t even have room in your lust-clouded brain to consider the fact that this might have been his plan all along. That right from the moment he had handcuffed the two of you together, he had been waiting to get you naked and needy underneath him. 

Which actually wasn’t true at all. He really had been planning to unlock you from the cuffs the moment that you freaked out and threatened to hex him. But sometimes, his mistakes just had a way of working out really, really well in his favour. 

And that couldn’t be more true as he tossed your clothes careless over his shoulder and came face to face with your gloriously pretty pussy - the prettiest pussy he had ever seen in his life. 

He put his hand on your thigh and forced your legs open, likely with more force than he had originally intended, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was all the more riled up when he heard you let out a pretty moan and your lips dropped open with shock - so he took it even further, pressing your thigh up into your stomach almost harshly. 

He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help getting a bit too excited about the perfect whiff of your natural smell he caught and the glistening wetness he saw clinging to your pubic hair. (His eyes now well adjusted to the dark, especially with a bit of light coming in from the window, casting a glow over your body that made you look even more perfect.) 

“Oh, fuck-” You gasped, clearly loving the way he took control over your body. 

So you did like to be manhandled a bit, you liked him using your body for his own pleasure. 

“Merlin, look at that,” He said, his voice a deep pleasurable hum, unable to take his eyes off the sight of your gorgeous pussy. “Dripping for me, aren’t you, love? Sweet little cunt just drooling everywhere. So fucking wet for me.” 

Your pussy was swollen, puffed with blood from how turned on you already were, downright sticky - utterly glistening as you continued to leak out wetness in anticipation. You were clenching with need and spilling more, smearing some of that wetness onto your inner thighs and even beginning to leak onto the sheets. 

(George made a mental note that if somehow he couldn’t get you back into this bed, he wouldn’t wash these sheets. He knew it was sick and perverted, but he would want to smell you on them for as long as possible - wanting to have something to keep his fantasies going and to assure him that his hadn’t been one very detailed wet dream.) 

He couldn’t resist the urge any longer - he skimmed his touch down your thigh and dipped his fingers in, letting out a quiet moan himself as he finally felt you - as he was finally able to feel how wonderfully wet and hot you were for the first time. 

“Fuck, this is the most perfect pussy ever.” 

George moaned, leaning down to kiss along your shoulder as he continued exploring you with his fingers, still teasing - sloppily stirring your wetness, teasing just to the edge of your entrance before he came and bumped up against your clit and back. He loved the way a moan threatened out of your throat and the way you arched up toward him as he did so. 

“So much better than I ever imagined.” 

His words hit you like a truck. 

He had imagined you like this before? 

He had thought about you sexually before? 

You were shocked. You had no clue that he had ever thought of you this way before. 

“George,” You gasped out, reaching up with your free hand to grasp his shoulder, and he hummed out a moan of acknowledgement in return. “You’ve - you’ve thought about me before?” 

He let out a chuckle, and the nearly mocking tone of it caused your cunt to clench horribly (something that you certainly didn’t expect). Seconds later, he rose up from kissing your neck to look you in the eyes. He traced over your face, and when all he found was genuine shock, he decided to indulge you. 

“Of course I have, sweetheart.” He told you, nothing but pure honesty on his lips. 

He finally brought his touch up to your clit, causing a gasp to rocket from your lungs as he drove sharp stimulation over the sensitive organ all at once - drawing hard circles onto the tiny, swollen bead with the tips of his fingers for a moment before he stopped. Then, he began to circle lazy touches there as he continued to speak. This had you panting harshly in his face while his words floated into your nearly numb ears. 

“You have no idea how many times I would see you walking down the corridor in those pretty skirts, with your shiny heels and your black stockings and all I could think about was shoving you over a desk and ripping a hole in the arse of those tights so that I could fuck you senseless.” 

“Oh, fuck.” You gasped in return. 

Of course, this immediately put a vision in your mind of him cornering you in an empty classroom and shutting up your bitchy complaints by shoving his cock down your throat. 

Or - as he had said, bending you over a random, dusky old desk and ripping a hole in your tights so that he could fuck you senseless. Your sex-addled brain even did you the favour of adding something delicious to the picture - him gagging you with his Gryffindor tie and guiding the length of it around to the back of your head to use as a kind of leash. Both for practicality to keep you quiet so that you wouldn’t get caught, and as a humiliation ritual, showing that the big, strong Gryffindor had truly tamed the bratty Slytherin girl. 

“You like the sound of that, do you?” He whispered heatedly, pressing more harshly circles into your clit again. “You have no idea how many nights I spent in the Gryffindor dormitory with my hand around my cock, thinking about you - thinking about that mouth, thinking about what it would be like to finally shut you up and have you choke on my cock,” 

He growled the words savagely, and you couldn’t help the whimper that you let out in return. 

“I spent so many nights awake, wondering what it would be like to have this sweet little cunt wrapped around my cock, dripping for me, soaking my bullocks - wondering what it would be like to finally have you underneath me, moaning for me, begging me to make you cum.” 

You bucked your hips up into his touch, crying out as a grinding madness flowed through you. His words swam in your brain and his touch created a fire in you from below, making you hot in a way that you hadn’t known was possible before. He overtook you, causing an ultimate domination over your body that overtook you and ultimately harnessed you under his control. 

“Everyone who knows me thinks that my dream for all those years was to run a joke shop,” George whispered frantically. “But my real obsession has been you.” 

You drew frantically close to orgasm, and you let out a pathetic sound when George took his fingers off your clit, taking his touch away from where you needed it most. He dipped his fingers back down to your hole, circling his fingertips around the needy gape and even slipping his touch in, just barely teasing his fingers inside - threatening you with more but not yet fulfilling you in the way you needed. 

Little did you know, in his mind, he was getting back at you for all those nights, getting his own little petty revenge for all the times he had pathetically cum in his own hand while dreaming about you. 

“You’re lying,” You gasped in return, forcing yourself to believe that everything he had said so far was simply for the sake of dirty talk. 

You tried your hardest to angle your hips the right way, trying to trick him into touching you where you needed it the most. But of course, he was smarter than that, always clever even if he was ‘stupid’. And even if he was one hand down, he could still outsmart you. He used a knee on your inner thigh to pin you down, keeping you in place - something that had you letting out a little pathetic moan as he teased his touch back up to your clit and drew more light, taunting circles there. 

“I wish.” He chuckled in response. “If I were lying, then I wouldn’t have been such a pathetic fool all these years - pining after a woman I thought I had absolutely no chance with.” 

Again, these words punched you in the gut. And strangely, he did have a point there. 

“Do you think it was fun for me having you around the shop but knowing that I couldn’t reveal my feelings for you because I thought that you would never feel the same way?” 

He growled out, fire in his eyes that immediately struck you in the gut. 

“Do you think it was fun for me - running to my office every ten minutes because I saw you bent over something and I could barely hold back? Because you looked up at me with those damn eyes? Because you called me Sir and my cock got so hard that I could barely think and I had to lock myself in my office and wank my cock raw just so I could attempt to stay sane?” 

These words truly left you breathless. 

You remembered times when you were having a particularly bad day and he had been getting on your nerves. Days when him giving you orders about stocking shelves or helping customers had caused you to call him ‘Sir’ in a griping, sarcastic tone - ‘Yes, Sir’ ‘I’ll get that done right away, Sir’ ‘Rearrange the front display again, Sir? Of course, Sir.’

At the time, it had been because you were being annoying on purpose, performing a sarcastic version of politeness because he had complained about you back-talking too much. You had always thought that him letting out a huff and stomping away was his way of showing that he was done with your bitchy attitude and fed up with you in general. 

You had no idea that the ironic title turned him on. 

“You like it when I call you Sir?” You posed, still breathless, a unique spark of mischief glinting in your eyes as you thought of all the ways that you could use this fact against him. 

George absolutely loved that look - loved to see you scheming, because he had never seen you do it before. He had only ever seen you too terribly serious. 

Perhaps he had done something utterly dangerous by revealing such a deep secret, by giving you a puppet string of his that you could pull on. But he didn’t care all too much about that right now, because he loved the way that the word sounded on your lips. If he had damned himself, he was having a great time on the way down. 

“Yes,” He admitted weakly, unable to stop himself. 

His hand moved from the wetness of your pussy, now shaking slightly as he moved to grip your thigh, simply needing to hold on to something. 

You gave him a wicked grin as you moved your free hand to the tie on his pajama pants, heavily eyeing the impressive bulge that you had been sitting on not long ago. You wanted him out of those pants - yearning to feel the fullness of it, desperate to know what he would be like inside of you. 

“Please, Sir, I need your cock.” You moaned out, pulling the tie on his pants, giving him your best seductive expression, now fully able to take advantage of a kink that you didn’t know he had. 

“Oh fuck,” George moaned, his head collapsing against your breast as he became breathless - hearing you say the words punched the air out of his chest, twisted up his stomach in the most perfect way. 

You resisted the urge to laugh at how abundant and instant his reaction was, biting your lip to stifle the sounds. Oh, hell yes - you were definitely going to use this knowledge to your advantage in the future. 

“You’re bloody evil.” He added on quietly - no punch behind the words, not truly smiting you for playing into a fantasy that he had always wanted to see come to life. 

In fact, he helped you untie his pants, and he was quick to shuck them off, along with his underwear, just as eager to get his cock out as you were. This resulted in a sharp gasp from your lips as the heaviness of his cock flopped out and fell onto your thigh while he pushed the fabric down and untangled it from his ankles. 

He propped himself up on his knees to toss his pants over the side of the bed, and it gave you a chance to fully admire his cock in the minimal lighting. If you hadn’t felt the size of his bulge earlier, you would have almost thought that the sheer size of what you were looking at was some kind of visual trick due to the shadowiness of the room. 

But there was no denying it - he was huge. 

His cock was a stunning nine inches long, tall and skinny like he was, pale with a bright red tip (exactly like a mini George). An intimidatingly long rod that swung out from his body like a beast - standing stiff and proud, leaking precum, clearly tight with need from how badly he wanted you. Unconsciously, you licked your lips just from looking at it. 

It was by far the biggest cock you had ever seen (including ones you had seen in dirty magazines), let alone the biggest one you had ever been fucked with. You could only imagine how it was going to feel fucking you open, reaching so far up inside of you that you would be able to feel him in - 

“Biggest you’ve ever seen?” George posed, smirking at you, his expression far too cocky for your liking… But you supposed that he had a right to be cocky this time. However, that thought made you hate it even more. “Biggest you’ve ever taken?” 

He reached his free hand down and began slowly stroking himself, and you felt drool collecting in your mouth as you watched his beautifully large hand grip that cock - it was utterly mesmerizing. 

You chose not to answer his question, but your stunned expression and lack of words was more than enough of an answer for him. 

He gave you a truly filthy smirk as he spoke again. 

“I always knew those Slytherin boys just couldn’t measure up.” 

This caused a jolt in your stomach. 

You had never told him about your trysts with boys from Slytherin, and you had hoped that the Hogwarts rumor mill wouldn’t get to you - but you couldn’t be so lucky, could you? 

“George, please don’t-” You choked out his name, hoping that he wasn’t judging you. 

And of course, he wasn’t. 

“Shh, shh.” He said, raising his hand up to gently stroke your cheek, cutting off anything else you had to say. “It’s alright - you’re with the best now. You can forget about all the rest.” 

Of course. He didn’t care who else you had been with - he only cared to make you forget about any other man who had fucked you by making a distinct impression. He only cared about proving that he was the best. 

He wasn’t trying to call you out as some kind of whore… he was just being prideful, as any Gryffindor would be. 

“Not until you prove it.” You huffed out, feeling strangely brave. “Force me to forget about all the others. Make it so that I can only remember the feeling of your cock inside me, George.” 

The heat in George’s eyes seared to a bleeding madness, and you knew that you had pushed just the right button. 

He let out a laugh - not his usual sweet, harmonious laugh, but one that was laced with maniacal madness - a sound of warning that had your breath stilling in your chest, had your stomach twisting around itself as you quaked with anticipation. You carefully took in each of his movements as he scooted up between your thighs, pumping his cock a few more times in his hand before he took the base gently between his fingers, teasing his cock along the hot wetness of your slit - still taunting you. 

“Will you even be able to take all of it?” He posed, pure mockery in his voice. “No girl I’ve been with ever has.” 

Of course, he was bringing up his past conquests, now trying to make you jealous. As the round cockhead bumped against your clit, only further driving you to madness, there was only one thing you could think to say. 

“You should know that a Slytherin never backs down from a challenge,” You hissed sharply, spreading your legs more and trying to force your body down onto his cock. “Now shut up and fuck me before I change my mind, Weasley.” 

You thought that perhaps this might taunt him into roughly shoving his cock inside of you, finally giving you what you had been craving all night. But no, unfortunately, he had more self restraint than that. He had been practicing his self restraint for years when it came to you. 

No - it was as if he knew that the most torturous, agonizing way to go about this would be to go as slow as possible. 

“Love, I told you-” He chuckled, continuing to wipe his cock along your wetness, loving how perfect and sticky you felt against him, how warm. “You can’t boss me around - not here. You can complain all you like, but I am the one who decides how this goes.” 

His stunning confidence and unwavering attitude had you swallowing thickly - for once, you were truly intimidated by him. 

Because you knew that he was right. 

He finally brought his cock down to your entrance and pushed in so utterly slowly, popping the round head into the tightness of your hole - something that caused him to let out a perfect, deep groan as he savoured the feeling of you sucking him in for the first time. 

From there, it was the most creepingly slow, inch by inch movement that you thought you were going to burst. 

You wanted to scream as he kept you pinned in place with his knee on your inner thigh, keeping a hand on the base of his cock to keep himself honest. He had to make sure that he didn’t get too eager and thrust forward into the inviting heat of your pussy and fuck you until you were screaming like he wanted to. 

And yes, in his mind, that was one of the reasons he was doing this so slowly. Obviously, he was trying to get you back for your bratty mouth. 

But he was also afraid of hurting you. He had meant what he said about none of his previous partners being able to take it all. All of his previous experiences had been shallow thrusts and him not being able to cum from penetrative sex because he had been too terrified to hurt the woman below him, wanting to make it a safe, pleasant experience for her. And he wanted nothing but the same for you, even if he couldn’t cum with you.

“Please,” You whined, trying desperately to buck your hips up, unable to move with the angle he had you pinned at. “Fuck! Hurry up!” 

As your frustration and annoyance grew, you dissolved from lust-addled politeness back to the griping bitchiness that you were more accustomed to, hoping that despite his earlier warnings, it would work to get you what you wanted. 

Especially because it was more and more difficult to keep yourself composed when his cock was right there. 

The fullness of his cock splitting you open, your pussy desperately leaking around him - his thickness, his perfect length making you feel so full. You had managed to take all of him - it wasn’t anywhere close to a challenge. You had no clue why he was sitting still, why he was so intent on making you wait with his cock just sitting inside of you. You didn’t know why he was just splitting you open, taunting you as the muscles of your pussy quivered around him and your body silently begged for more. 

You needed him to move. You needed him to pound you senseless until you couldn’t remember your own fucking name. 

“Hurry up and fuck me!” You cried out, tears leaking from the corner of your eye as your desperation only grew. 

You let out a shocked gasp when he reached up and grabbed you by the jaw - a rather aggressive hold in contrast from the sweet, soft, teasing touches that he had been using with you all night. He dug his fingers into your cheeks, forcing your gaze to meet his. The roughness immediately sent a thrill through you. This caused you to leak even more wetness around where the two of you were joined, making your pussy flutter around his cock as he growled his next words at you. 

“If you don’t behave yourself, missy, I’m not giving you the last two inches.” He told you, heaving hot breath into your face. 

The last two inches? 

But - 

Oh fuck. 

The reality hit you like a ton of bricks - the fact that he wasn’t fully inside you, not yet. The fact that there was more of his cock to come. Within seconds, it truly broke your mind - it filled you with intense desire and had moans echoing from your lungs that you couldn’t control. 

“You’re so big!” You moaned out, truly trying to comprehend the size of his enormous cock. “You’re so big! Fuck - you’re so big,” 

You craned your neck down, trying to get a better look at where the two of you were joined, now desperate to see those last two inches still sticking out, barely able to picture it. Your neck began to ache and you couldn’t see properly with the angle and ultimately, you gave up and collapsed back onto the pillow. 

“Yes love, I warned you.” George said, giving another terrible smirk. “Do you still want it?” 

“Yes!” You chirped back - there was no other answer in your mind. “Fuck, please!” 

He chuckled and smoothed his thumb along your chin, dipping the digit between your lips, trying to soothe some of your stunned words by giving you something to do with your tongue. You eagerly started sucking on his thumb, too dumb with pleasure to think about your pride. And finally, he eased those last two inches inside of you, causing you to moan wildly against his finger, feeling a beautifully stinging kind of fullness that you never would have imagined was possible. 

When George’s pelvis finally hit your inner thighs, finally sinking all the way inside of you, both of you moaned intensely. You had no idea that this was his first time truly being this deep inside of someone, truly feeling all that heat and wetness swallowing up his cock. Both of you were loving the feeling so much, loving being so wrapped up in the other person, clutching at the other person’s hand - so much so that it almost made that horrible collection of metal still wrapped around your wrists almost seem forgivable. (Almost.) 

“Good girl.” He sighed, the words coming off his lips so naturally. “Such a good girl, taking all of me.” 

You choked on your breath at this, and then let out another moan as the words truly hit you. 

This was the first time anybody had ever called you good. Ever. 

Even though it was a lustful pet name, it triggered a need for validation deep within you that you had long tried to turn off, and it melted everything inside of you, making you even warmer and more pliant on his cock. 

He pulled his hand away from your face, pulling his thumb out from between your lips - he wanted to hear you now. And he was easily satisfied as your moans echoed even louder as he finally began to move his cock. 

It was a slow grind of his hips quickly turning into sloppy, quick fucking as he lost himself in the feeling of your warm, perfect cunt. Distantly, he was thankful that Fred wasn’t home (especially because neither of you had remembered to close the bedroom door before going to sleep). But part of him wouldn’t have even cared if Fred was around, because of all the times he had woken up to the sounds of Fred and Angelina going at it and had to retreat to the shop to do some late night work just to escape it. 

Though that distant thought soon became a ghost in his mind as you continued to moan and squirm below him. 

He hammered his hips into you at a smooth, even pace - he loved the feeling of you around him so much, and he was afraid to cum too early. And it was instantly clear to you that he was holding back, rather than using this delicious, long cock to its full potential. As your pussy quivered around him, a harsh tingling in your stomach cried out, aching for more. 

“Harder!” You demanded, your voice breathless rather than sounding truly authoritative at all. “Fuck me harder! Come on!” 

“I thought you were gonna be good for me,” He growled out, his voice gravelly and perfect. 

He slowed his hips to an unbearable grind, once again intent on teaching you a lesson. He shoved his cock deep inside you, stuffing you full and rolling his hips tightly against you, reminding you just how impossibly big he was as he gripped tightly onto your hip, likely leaving marks. He pinned you in place as he forced you to feel the full might of his cock, punishing you with every precious inch. 

“But you’re just a demanding little brat, aren’t you?” He huffed, sounding self righteous as ever. 

“And you’re just a tease.” You whined in return, a pathetic moan leaving your lips as his pelvis pressed against your clit, making your whole body shake. “I b-bet you can’t even make me cum.” 

You tried offering up a challenge, hoping he would be determined to prove you wrong, hoping that you could use that Gryffindor stubbornness to your advantage. But instead, he simply smirked at you, rolling his hips against you in deeper, slower strokes - and he became even more satisfied when your wetness leaked down over his balls and he felt your stomach quake against him. 

Your body was telling him everything he needed to know. You were desperate, and he could do whatever he wanted to you. He was in control. 

“Why should I? Why would I want to give into a needy brat like you?” He posed, the low rumble of his voice only driving you more insane. “I could just pull out now and leave your little pussy all alone. I could leave you gaping and needy. I could just leave you like this without letting you cum at all.” 

You had to forcefully bite your lip to keep yourself from outright begging - to stop that needy thing inside of you that wanted to cry and grovel and beg him not to do that because it would be the worst possible outcome. Now that you had gotten a feel for what his cock was like, you couldn’t imagine not having it. You couldn’t imagine not cumming on his cock before the night was through. That would be a tragedy of epic proportions. 

But you knew that George Weasley was just as stubborn as you were, and he would pull out and leave you wanting just to prove a point, even if it meant that he fell asleep with his cock hard and covered in your wetness. He would suffer if it meant that you did too. 

You had to play things extremely carefully from here. 

“If you did, then you would just have to watch me touch myself until I do cum.” You said, trying your hardest to sound confident. It was difficult to keep your voice even as he ground his hips tantalizingly slowly against yours, driving the tip of his cock impossibly deep inside of you. “And - and you wouldn’t be able to leave.” You added on, gesturing with your cuffed hands, reminding him of your ever-present attachment. “S-so you should just fuck me yourself and do it right.” 

Sadly, this didn’t seem to phase him. 

He leaned down, whispering his next world-ending words into your ear. 

“I could pull out and fuck in you in the arse instead,” He rumbled in your ear, absolutely no hesitation in his words. “I could stop touching your pussy completely and cum in another one of your pretty holes to get myself off and just leave you wanting, leave you begging for more. Teach you a lesson.” 

This idea sent sparks shooting off in your brain - something you had never thought about before, something you had never even considered wanting - the idea alone now had your cunt drooling more pathetic wetness around George’s cock. Your mind became consumed by thoughts of him punishing you by fucking you in the ‘wrong’ hole just to teach you a lesson. 

George felt that extra bit of wetness - heard the little gasp you let out that you hadn’t even noticed went past your own lips. He let out a dark chuckle in response. 

“Wow, you actually like that idea, don’t you?” He laughed. “You’re such a nasty little bitch.” 

Before any insecurities could creep in, he let out a dreamy sigh and added on: 

“Oh, my dirty, sweet girl - I love it.” 

And then he swooped down, capturing your mouth in another heated kiss that had you moaning wildly against his tongue. 

Despite not wanting to give into your bratty demands, George felt an intense need growing inside of him. Between the feeling of your perfect, warm cunt surrounding him and how perfectly turned on he was by you - he felt a need to hear more of your moans. He felt a need to please you. 

So ultimately, he gave in. And he did pick up his pace. All too soon, he devolved into a completely mindless, sloppy mess. He was driving his hips forward with almost no finesse, fucking into you with sharp, hard strokes that began driving you cleanly up the bed as he pounded into you harshly. The pure power in his hips knocking the wind out of you as the way his cock smacked into your cunt caused loud, wet sounds to echo throughout the room, barely concealed by his groans and your responsive moans of pleasure. 

“Oh fuck, fuck-” You gasped, everything in the world becoming numb to you except for the feeling of his cock continuously driving up into you, that impossibly long, large thing that was creating a void inside of you that no other man would be able to fill. “George!” 

A desperate knot was drawing tighter in your stomach, having been teased into a tight bind all night - it really didn’t take much and your orgasm was already getting so close. 

“Please, please, please!” 

His mind was swimming as he lost himself to the feeling of that perfect hot wetness surrounding his cock, making it feel like the world around him began and ended with you. And he could have easily stayed inside of you forever. But still, he knew all the signs - the sputtering shallows of your breathing, the way your cunt was fluttering around him, the way your thighs were tensing up, beginning to grip a bit tighter around his hips. 

And he was going to make you beg for it. 

“That’s it, come on,” George growled ferally, leaning in and pressing his teeth to your cheek, loving the light sheen of sweat on your face and lapping a lick at it, enjoying the taste. He chugged in a breath before he spat out his next words. “Beg for it. Beg me to let you cum. Be a good girl for me. Then you can cum on my cock just like you need to,” 

His words - the sheer depravity in his voice made every single nerve ending in your body sing, stealing the breath out of your lungs and temporarily melting your brain. Your voice choked out of your throat and for a moment, all you were able to get out were a few pathetic, nonsensical syllables that truly didn’t add up to any words. You were desperate to comply with his demands as that searing heat grew more maddening in your stomach, as your orgasm became closer. All the while, he continued to pound sharply into your cunt. 

Luckily, George took pity on you. 

“Say: Sir, please let me cum.” He ordered sharply. “Say it. Be a good girl for me.” 

You gulped in a huge breath, and then struggled past the haze of his cock pounding into you in order to comply. 

“Sir, please let me cum!” You shouted, your voice much more desperate than you ever imagined it could be, warbling with pleasure as your pussy clenched around his cock. “Please, please, please-” 

“Shh, good.” He soothed you, so utterly pleased and turned on by your words. “Such a good girl for me. You’re such a good girl. My good girl,” 

He spoke the words with intense liquid madness and determination as he pounded into you harder, bringing his unchained hand down to furiously rub your clit, utterly determined to have you cum on his cock. 

“Such a good girl,” 

Consciously or unconsciously, he kept repeating it because he wanted you to find it true. Ever since you had looked him in the eyes just those few ghostly days after The War, the only thing truly present in your drunken state being the anchoring harsh truth that you believed you were somehow a ‘bad’ person - it had haunted him. 

And he had tried his hardest to spend every single day since then trying to get you to believe that you were a good person. He needed you to know it. You had done good things, and it didn’t fucking matter what anybody else in this fucked up world believed about you. 

You were good because he believed it. 

You were his good girl. 

“My good girl, my precious girl.” He moaned furiously into your skin, licking across your neck as you moaned an echo back. 

And now he was trying his hardest to chase any doubts that you had about this out of you by pounding them out of your head with the fury of his cock. 

These words - spoken with such intense passion and power that it couldn’t possibly be a lie - this is what had you arching up off the bed as your orgasm ripped through your body. 

Those simple but utterly possessive words, the thing that nobody else had ever dared to call you before - the thing that nobody had even considered coming close to labelling you as. Good. It was now something so entirely precious on George’s lips as he sucked a claiming mark into your flesh, moaning ravenously into your shoulder in the process. He continued to fuck you harshly through the waves that whipped at your body, digging his thumb into your clit in a way that was nearly painful but felt so damn good. 

“George!” You rasped out his name, your throat raw at this point from how much noise you had been making. 

You had never been fucked like this before, and you had a feeling that if George expected this to be a one time thing, no other man would ever measure up for you. Not after this. 

As the last of your orgasm ebbed away, leaving you tired and tingling, George’s thrusts slowed down. Eventually, he stilled, leaving his cock rod-stiff and full inside of you, still lighting up the nerve endings of all those absolutely sensitive places and making you ache in the most beautiful way. You were panting harshly as he kissed up your neck, and you did not expect the words that he whispered in your ear next. 

“At least now you have a reason to like me.” He said, a light, joking tone to his voice. 

You couldn’t help the soft, genuine, breathless laugh that you let off when you heard the words. Coincidentally, in all the time you had known him, it was the first of his jokes that you had ever actually laughed at. 

George leaned to your lips and gave you another soft kiss, and you let out a sharp whine as he pulled his hips back. You were expecting that he was going to begin fucking you again - likely at a softer, slower pace due to some gentlemanly regard for your now very sensitive pussy. But you felt a swell of annoyance when he began to pull out completely. 

“Don’t you dare pull out!” You hissed against his lips, your sense of entitlement and general attitude immediately swinging back into play. 

You moved your hand down to his lower back before he could blink, digging your nails sharply into his flesh and using this touch and your knees on his hips to trap him there. This pushed him slightly forward as you tried to force him back into place. 

“Fuck!” He breathed out sharply, thrusting forward instinctively, loving the gasp you let out when his cock slapped against your swollen pussy once again. 

The words smacked him so suddenly - you acting like it was a terrible crime for him to pull out. It was most certainly a kink of his, but something that no woman had ever said to him before. 

He had dreamt of you begging him no to pull out with his hand around his cock, and now you were literally forcing him back inside of you. 

He couldn’t hold back now - he knew that it wasn’t polite or proper, but he shoved his cock inside of you once again, creating a filthy slap as more of your wetness leaked around him. Then, he put all of his unrestrained power into pounding into you, now chasing blind pleasure inside of your perfect cunt. You let out a howl, scraping your nails across his back in delight as a beautiful kind of overstimulation ripped through your body. 

“Filthy bitch.” He growled into your breast. 

“Fucking tease.” You responded, any desire to behave completely thrown out the window. Now that you had cum, any desperation he had teased into you was gone, and any desire to obey him was gone right along with it. He had wound you up with teasing and given you what you needed, and now you were free to taunt him again. “You were trying to scam me out of what’s mine,” 

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” He replied, growing more breathless as he became lost to the feeling of your cunt squeezing his cock. 

“Your cum.” You replied. “You taunt me all night and won’t even cum inside me? It’s not fair.” 

With you being such a brat, he should have made some snide, clever reply about how life isn’t fair. But your voice saying the words ‘cum inside me’ quickly sent him hurdling over the edge - this time, you had the upper hand. 

Mere moments after the words left your lips, he let out a shuddering groan as he slammed his hips tightly against yours, shoving his cock deeply inside of you to milk the feeling. His shoulders shook, gripping your hand so tightly in his where the two of you were chained as he shot his load deep inside of you, savouring the feeling of cumming inside someone for the first time, so utterly happy that it got to be with you. 

He was loving everything from the feeling of your wetness dripping down over him to the way your pussy fluttered around him to the way you gripped his back with your nails and the way you held his hand just as tightly with the other hand. Even the little gasp you released beside his ear as you felt his cum stirring into your guts, marking you so deeply. 

“Fuck.” He sighed. “Perfect.” 

“Fuckin’ right.” You replied. 

You were quickly growing obsessed with the fact that someone like him - polite, courteous, genuine, funny - could dissolve into a beast of a man under the right circumstances. You were growing addicted to both of his sides - the polite gentleman who had made you dinner and set up a perfect romantic atmosphere aftwards, and this man, who was making you lustful and weak on his cock. 

You weren’t sure if you could live without this now - without him. 

George finally pulled out, and you found the gush of a mess that began spilling out of you halfway satisfying and halfway gross. 

“Time to clean up, I suppose.” He hummed out, his voice wrecked. 

You thought that he would reach for his wand, going to use some cleaning spell so that the two of you wouldn’t have to navigate trying to shower while cuffed together - though cleaning spells didn’t work as well as good ole fashioned soap and water, it would be a fine temporary fix. 

You were absolutely surprised, but entirely pleased by what he did next. 

He moved down your body and situated his head between your thighs. Your cuffed hands ended up lingering around your hip, with his fingers digging into the flesh there, while his other hand was on your thigh, holding your legs apart before he dove in with no hesitation. He licked an eager stripe up your cunt, tasting the combined essence of the two of you before he shoved his tongue deep inside of your swollen, gaping hole, now set on ‘cleaning you up’. 

“George,” You whimpered out, reaching down with your free hand to grip his hair, needing to hold on. 

You couldn’t resist humping your hips into his face as you heavily enjoyed the feeling of his fat tongue lapping at you, slurping up your wetness and his own cum as it flowed out of you. 

He began moaning against you, shoving his face tighter into you to feel more of your warmth, determined to lose himself inside of you. This caused his nose to begin bumping up against your clit, perfect stimulation while his tongue fucked inside of you and he lovingly, lazily enjoyed your taste. You couldn’t help but to ride his face, digging your fingers into his scalp as you took a more demanding hold on those gorgeous red locks. 

“Holy fuck, George,” You moaned, more undeniable heat stirring up in your belly. 

You were bone tired but you wouldn’t have asked him to stop - not for anything. 

It didn’t surprise you when a perfect, lazy orgasm rolled through you - one that pitched your breath into a tight gasp as your body stiffened against him, your back arching slightly off the bed. His humming moans against you made it all the more perfect as your thighs quaked beside his head. 

He let out one last deep hum of satisfaction as he moved to pull away, leaving a small, tender kiss on your clit that caused your thighs to jolt. Cheeky fucker. Then, he kissed his way back up your body before diving into a sloppy kiss on your mouth. A kiss that had you tasting yourself on his lips, complete with him shoving his tongue past your lips that you could truly soak in the taste of your own pussy combined with his cum, and how utterly filthy it was. 

You weren’t surprised to feel his cock still hard against your thigh, and you pulled away from the kiss with only one thing on your mind. 

“Stick it back inside me where it belongs.” You huffed at him, looking down the length of his body to that gorgeous cock, now wet with your juices and glistening in the low lighting, so absolutely perfect. 

George groaned lowly, clearly affected by your words. 

He shocked you when he flipped you over, keeping your chained arms above your head and forcing you onto your stomach, giving you a faceful of pillow as you became filled with hazy confusion. He was quick to shove your thighs apart, and in a moment, he complied with your demand - fucking his hard cock back inside of your sore, needy pussy. This time he didn’t wait for you to adjust before he started fucking his hips into you at a rapid pace, forcing sounds out of you and causing you to fall forward into the pillow, which did smother you slightly. 

“So demanding,” He huffed into your ear, hammering his hips even harder. “Good thing that I like demanding, whiny little bitches.” 

His words ripped through you, and you forcefully dug your head out of the pillow, turning your chin to the side to get some air in order to muster a reply. 

“Good - good thing I like lanky, red-headed gits,” You breathed back, the words not packing nearly as much of a punch with your voice lust-weak and breathless. You sounded just like he wanted you to - defeated. And he continued to pound the air out of your lungs with his massive, impressive cock. 

George chuckled, and the sound alone caused a whimper from your lips. 

“Yeah, lanky, red-headed gits with huge cocks.” He whispered in your ear, shoving his hips forward harder in a way that caused you to moan loudly again.

… 

You didn’t even quite remember falling asleep. All you knew was that you spent most of the night in a tangle of limbs, heated and pleasurable with the one person that you never thought would bring you those feelings. 

And you absolutely loved it. 

… 

The next time you woke up, it was due to the strong morning sun hitting your face. 

You almost never slept with the curtains open for this reason. 

Even though you had to get up early every single morning to help open the shop, you preferred getting ready in the soft lighting of a table lamp instead of being assaulted by overhead lighting or the damn sun first thing after opening your eyes. And usually, you got up most morning before the sun even rose anyway. 

You moved your hand to grab your wand, wanting to use it to shut the curtains and get that damn light out of your face, and you were quickly reminded of the stupid circumstances that had set the whole night in motion. 

Your wrist buzzed with pain and a quiet metallic rattle reminded you that you were chained to George Weasley. Chained together with a pair of handcuffs due to a stupid fucking prank. A prank that you never could have guessed would lead to this. 

Currently, he was cuddled tightly into your back like a clingy cat, his limbs tangled up with yours, even in the places where the presence of a pair of handcuffs literally kept the two of you bonded together. His legs were entwined with yours and his other arm was underneath your neck with his hand dangling down by your breast - he had fallen asleep fondling it like a comfort toy. His head was nearly on top of yours, with his whole body so tightly pressed into your back, pure skin on skin underneath the covers. 

Where you were usually grossly adverse to touch from anyone else, you found yourself oddly loving this. And you didn’t know why. You couldn’t find any complaints about this situation. Except for the goddamn metal bracelet around your wrist that was slowly making your skin more and more sore. Other than that, you wouldn’t have changed a thing. Well, the curtain. You wanted to close the curtain to shield the sun from your eyes so that you could get some more sleep. 

You started looking around to find your wand (which, if you remembered, was in your bag, on the floor, over by the wardrobe) - or George’s - but all you could see was a mess of abandoned clothes that caused a flare of heat through your stomach as you were reminded of the night before. And George’s drafts of parchment, his ideas for the shop. As you looked around, unintentionally squirming underneath him, you felt him stirring from his sleep. 

He let out a groan as he swelled to consciousness, and the arm under your head moved to grip your body a bit tighter. An oddly comforting move that caused you to relax back into him as he began kissing down your neck warmly. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.” He said, the morning rasp in his voice sounding so attractive. 

“Morning.” You replied. “I would call it ‘good’ or - better, at least, if this was gone.” You said, shaking your joint wrists for emphasis. “You know people usually take the handcuffs off when the kinky sex is over.” 

George laughed. 

“Yes, I know.” He replied. “And I am truly sorry that I have put us in such a predicament.” 

At least you felt the genuine nature of this apology. 

“Thank you.” You replied quietly. 

“And at least we know that the next few days of our lives won’t be so utterly terrible while we’re stuck together. We have found a way to make the time pass rather nicely,” He added on, his voice slipping into that suggestive tone as he kissed over your shoulder. 

Though something that he said stuck out to you. 

“Our relationship being ‘not so terrible’ - will it just be for the next few days while we’re stuck together, or… will it go beyond that?” You dared to ask, glad that he was behind you and you didn’t have to look him in the eye for this. 

Relationship. 

You were daring to call it a relationship. 

What the fuck had happened last night? 

Oh the damage a pair of little handcuffs could do. 

“Oh, sweet girl.” George sighed, pulling away to hover above you, and you felt his eyes on your face in a way that made you feel far too transparent, far too minuscule. “Look at me, please.” 

For some reason, you followed the instructions. 

You turned your head, leaning into the comforting strength of his bicep underneath you and looking up at him. In the golden light of the morning, his face was even more beautiful - his red hair now more orange, his skin almost luminous, his smile beaming down at you. 

Your stomach twisted with horrible nerves, unable to anticipate what he was going to say next. You hated not knowing if he was going to let you down easy, being the gentleman that he was, or if he was going to say the very wonderfully terrible thing that you were hoping he would say. 

“I meant everything that I said last night.” He told you, passionate dedication brimming his voice in a way that made his throat swell, almost causing him to choke on the words. “I have been dreaming about you for such a long time - and not just in a sexual sense.” 

This jolted something inside you, truly awakening senses that you didn’t even know you had. This filled you with affection, fear, and maybe even love that you didn’t know you were capable of. 

George Weasley… 

Had it really been him this whole time? 

“Is that so?” You dared to prod at him, your throat quivering with terrible fear as you spoke the words. 

George grinned. “Woman, I’ve been in love with you since I was 16 years old.” 

He knew it was likely terrible to use that word with you - the big terrifying L. That if his fussy caring and affection had only annoyed you, then surely this would have you attempting to hack off your arm to get free. But instead of anxiety, all he saw staring back up at him was trepidation - intense insecurity as you took an unsure step toward those huge words. 

You weren’t ready to flee from something so huge - you were once again terrified that it wasn’t real. 

“You - you’re lying.” You declared, your voice quivering even more now. You were trying your hardest to hold back tears while in such a tender state. “I - I was so horrible back then. There’s no way-” 

You cut yourself off, a single tear sliding from the corner of your eye as the words died off in your throat. 

“Hey, Y/N, come on.” George pressed on. “I wouldn’t lie about this, I mean…” He dove into his mind, remembering it so fondly, knowing that there was only one way to truly convince you. “I’ve had a fondness for you for as long as I can remember. But the moment I truly knew it was love - The Yule Ball. Our Sixth Year, when you wore that big poofy dress, with the big gaudy flower on the chest… your hair was done and your make-up was stunning-” 

“Of course you liked how I looked.” You huffed in return, your protective instincts flaring up once again. “It’s easy to fall in love with a girl when she’s wearing a gorgeous, expensive dress.” 

“Yeah, but that wasn’t the reason.” George argued firmly. “I didn’t just think you were a pretty girl in a dress. It didn’t really hit me - the fact that I was truly, utterly, hopelessly in love with you - not until I saw you smack that bloke across the face.” 

His words speared deep inside your gut, and sent your mind reeling back to a night years ago that you had mostly tried to forget. 

For George, it was a very fond memory that he liked to hold onto. 

… 

The Yule Ball had been talked about at Hogwarts for weeks. 

People anticipating the event in hushed whispers, everyone trying their hardest to get dates and moping around if they couldn’t, younger students endlessly upset because they wouldn’t be allowed to attend the once-in-a-lifetime event. 

George honestly thought that it wouldn’t live up to the hype, but on the night of, he found himself pleasantly surprised. 

The decorations were gorgeous, The Great Hall absolutely transformed from how it looked on a day to day basis. It was nothing short of breath-taking. And, with a few well-researched textile spells, the once wretched looking second hand dress robes that their mother had picked up for them actually turned out quite spiffy. (He did slightly regret not having enough time to lend his newly found tailoring talents to his younger brother to save him from the same embarrassment, but - sometimes little brothers just have to go through the natural hurdles of life on their own.) 

Upon Fred’s insistence that he too get a date (after he had made a foolish public show of asking Angelina to the ball, not at all subtle about his interest in her), George walked into the ball with Katie Bell on his arm. Of course, it was only because the girl had been hand-picked and practically shoved in his face by his twin brother - along with a nagging comment about how she was Angelina’s friend, and George would be a crappy wingman if he didn’t bring her along. 

She was a sweet, beautiful girl, and George was glad to be keeping her company while Fred went about his ‘twelve step plan’. Apparently it was some long, drawn out map that he had made to marrying Angelina and having kids by the time they were thirty-five, with those future children’s names already picked out - oh, the blackmail he would have against his dear brother if he ever needed it. But George wasn’t exactly thrilled to be stuck playing wingman, babysitting Angelina’s friend while Fred was off in some corner, snogging his date. 

Between the dancing and the socialization and the general revelry, George’s eyes kept wandering to you. 

His gaze had glued to you the moment you first came in - you were wearing a gorgeous, black and green dress made up of a tattered-looking fabric, something that Fred had snorted and called ‘heinous’, and made a joke about how you looked like you had gotten attacked by ghouls. It made the girls laugh, but George never thought to laugh at your expense, even when you weren’t around to hear. 

George thought the dress was beautifully fitting on you, especially with the delicate flowers on the chest and the waist. Your makeup and hair were beautifully done, as always, with a matching flower behind your ear, topping off the way you had styled yourself. Truly, the only thing that ruined the royalty of your look was the twat dragging you around. 

Your date was someone George didn’t know the name of - he kept racking his brain and all he could come up with was B. Bradley, Bailey, B… Butt. Arsehole. He chuckled to himself and Katie looked at him strangely. When he asked Katie if she recognized the boy on your arm, she gave a stiffly annoyed brow and said that he was a Ravenclaw boy in his seventh year, the year above you, named Craig Burman. 

Burman. Fucker. He had been on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team at one point, for a few months back in George’s Fourth Year. 

George smiled to himself when he remembered Burman crying after Fred had broken his thumb with a Bludger. Which was likely why his stint on the Quidditch team had been so short. 

Even with that satisfaction in mind, George’s eyes kept wandering to you, watching as you danced with him, as he flirted with you - leaning in and whispering in your ear, too ruddy close for his liking… He couldn’t help the sourness in his stomach when your neutral (almost bored) expression turned into a frown and then you stormed out of the Great Hall into one of the connecting corridors. 

George’s insides became even more sour when Burman chased after you. 

George also couldn’t help it when he stood up from his chair and began craning his neck over the heads of other people in the room (thankful for his natural tallness), waiting for a moment to see if you would return. 

“Is something wrong?” Katie asked, her voice a bright, cheerful chirp. 

“Uh… I’ll be right back.” George told her, giving her as much of a smile as he could muster when he was so full of worry. 

He bumped his way through the crowd on the dancefloor and made it through the door you had rushed out of, going around the stragglers lingering in the corridor, gossiping and chatting - as he got further from the noise of The Great Hall, he was drawn down one of the other halls by the sound of your voice. 

“Are you stupid?!” You shouted, your voice echoing off the stone, intense fury in your tone that made every hair on his body stand on end. 

“I - uh - um - ah -”

Another voice came back, not with words, but more as a bit of stuttering nonsense - and you didn’t give the person a chance to form words before you spoke again. 

“‘Buh - bah - buh’.” You mocked him, and then let out a huff. “That’s not an answer! I’m serious, are you daft?” 

George crept closer, and peeked around the corner in curiosity - and just in time, his eyes came upon the sight of you having backed Burman tight against a wall, your stance large and intimidating, your hand winding back to slap him in the face. The crack of skin on skin was glorious, hrash - clearly, you weren’t holding back. 

George couldn’t help the small, silent cheer that he did as your date recoiled, pathetically holding his cheek. 

In some part of his mind, he had imagined himself as the valiant knight, coming to rescue you because your date had been treating you poorly. But it became instantly apparent that you didn’t need rescuing. And he found himself even more attracted to you because of that. 

“I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be smart!” You shouted, continuing with your verbal berating of him. “But I suppose your incessant mouth-breathing has deprived your brain of too much precious oxygen and allowed you to recess to a bloody neanderthal in order for you to think this kind of behaviour is at all acceptable!” 

George was curious as to what kind of ‘behaviour’ got him on your bad side - knowing you, it could have been something as minor as not using a napkin to wipe his mouth after eating. You were incredibly up tight. 

“It’s not my fault, okay?” Burman hissed in return, still clutching his aching cheek. “Blaise said you were easy! That’s the only reason I even asked you out! He said if you had a few drinks-” 

George’s insides stilled with shock. That awful fucking cocksucker- 

“Oh Blaise said that, did he?” Your voice was clearly struck with intense hurt, which you were trying your best to conceal with rage. You reached to your cleavage, pulling your wand out from the front of your dress, and Burman let out a terrified sound and began to run away, but not before you could raise your wand and fire off a curse. “Furnunculus!” 

George stepped toward you then, not wanting you to do anything that might get you expelled due to a mindless momentary fury. 

Burman ran away crying, clutching his face tightly as boils began popping up all over his skin, and George grabbed a hold of your wand arm tightly and held you back. He kept you from stepping forward, clearly attempting to pursue him. 

“I think he’s had enough.” George huffed quietly. 

“I can’t believe you’re siding with him after-.” You cut off your own words, snatching your arm back but thankfully moving to tuck your wand back into the top of your dress, glare sharply at George. “You blokes are all the same, aren’t you?”  

“I’m not siding with him.” George replied, quick to clear up the misunderstanding. “I just don’t want to see you expelled over some stupid prat who’s not worth your time.” He told you. “And you should know that I believe in alternate ways to get revenge.” 

He almost offered up plans on the spot, already thinking of all the things he was going to do to Burman. But he knew that talk of itching powder and fake bugs likely wasn’t going to make you feel better. At least not right now. 

“He - he doesn’t deserve to keep his bullocks after what he did.” You heaved out, the tears in your throat making it more difficult to get the words out. Now that the screaming was done, the upset of the whole situation was truly hitting you. 

“What did he do?” George asked, trying his best to keep his voice calm. He knew that it would be hypocritical to let his anger irrationally take over when he had just stopped you from truly feeling yours. 

You hastily wiped at your eye, trying to stave off the tears, hating the idea of potentially ruining your make-up, and you forcefully looked away from George before you grunted out: “Why do you care anyway, Weasley?” 

George grabbed the decorative cotton pocket square from his jacket and shook it out from being folded, offering it to you as a handkerchief to wipe your tears. 

You stared at it, then at him, seeing nothing but genuine concern on his face. You knew that even though he was a prankster, he wouldn’t have thought far ahead enough to sabotage his own suit in order to prank someone with it. You reached out and grabbed the fabric and then began delicately wiping the edges of your eyes with it, still being careful not to ruin your precisely laid make-up, even through your tears. 

(You had no idea that to this day, George still kept and treasured the stupid small square of material with your black make-up smudges on it because it reminded him of that night.) 

“You can tell me.” He said quietly, trying his best to sound approachable and non-threatening. 

“It’s stupid.” You huffed. “Ugh - he’s stupid.” 

“I have absolutely no doubts about that.” George replied, rolling his eyes. 

“He… he said ‘how many drinks will it take for you to suck my cock?’ And then he tried to take my hand and shove it down his trousers. It was all very juvenile.” You heaved out, trying to get the embarrassing words out all at once. “Like I said, you blokes are all the same.” 

“Not really.” George opposed. “When I take a woman on a date, especially one as rare as you, I respect her. I would treat her like a queen and make sure that she knows she is the most beautiful, special, exquisite creature on earth.” 

George knew the intense irony behind these words, considering the fact that he had practically been ignoring Katie all night and treating her as lesser because he had been watching you out of the corner of his eye, wishing that you had been his date instead. But he didn’t regret his words or the unhinged passion with which he spoke them - not when he saw you swallow thickly and he witnessed the flicker of affection behind your eyes. 

“And if I do have sex with someone, it’s only after a tender seduction that leaves her begging for it.” He added on, feeling far too bold. “I would never be caught using some stupid line like that.” 

You opened your mouth to say something, and George wanted to scream in protest when his name was called from further down the corridor. 

“George! Psst - Georgie!” 

Fred called out, causing his attention to be distracted from you as he whipped around. He found his brother waving at him, standing beside a slightly rumpled looking Angelina, who was hanging tightly onto his arm, and a rather annoyed Katie. He was pointing to a large bottle of Fire Whiskey that was very poorly concealed, being cradled in the breast of his jacket. 

“Come on!” 

Ah yes. Time for the ‘get drunk in the Gryffindor common room’ section of the evening. George had the urge to invite you, but he knew that would likely be frowned upon by his compatriots. 

“You should go.” You said, carefully folding the pocket square with attention to detail, making sure that none of the make-up marks would show on the outside, and then stuffing it back into his pocket. 

“That’s yours.” You mumbled, smoothing your hand over the chest of his jacket after you tucked it in - a gentle touch that had his whole body tingling. 

“Thank you.” He said quietly, now breathless because of you. 

“George!” Fred called out again. 

Hesitantly, George walked away, glancing back over his shoulder to let his gaze linger on you once more - wondering what the night would have been like if he had asked you to be his date to the ball instead. 

… 

A week later, when the boils had just barely cleared up, Craig Burman ran from the Great Hall screaming. He had been delivered a box of sweets that turned into cockroaches right after he bit into the first one. It was a product deemed too unpleasant to go with the WWW line, but as everyone at the Ravenclaw table either laughed or recoiled in disgust, you locked eyes with George across the room, only receiving an all-too-knowing smirk. 

… 

“That night, I instantly fell in love with your fire. Your fight.” George declared. “Seeing the way you stood up for yourself - I just couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. You are someone who never let any bullshit pass without speaking up against it, and I fell in love with you because of that.” 

“You fell in love with me because I was a bitch?” You questioned, still shellshocked by the words. 

George let out a snort of laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I suppose… you could put it like that.” He sighed. “But truly, I fell in love with you because you’re strong. Stronger than you ever give yourself credit for.” 

You became overwhelmed with tingles of affection, and you were stunned into silence, sitting there quietly as he continued to speak. 

“Fred thought I was mad for pining after you for so long, but… there’s never been anybody else for me. Not like this. And if you had never looked my way - if you had never felt the same way about me, then - I guess I would have just died a lonely old bat.” 

Your throat nearly closed in on itself, and all you could do was continue to listen to his impassioned speech for a few more moments. 

“I meant it when I said that I would do anything for you. I will cook for you and do your laundry and be your little servant boy if you want me to. Having you in my home as my guest last night was one of the best nights of my life, even before the sex, and-” 

You couldn’t help it any longer, you pulled him down into a kiss - unsure what to say in the wake of his passionate words, you expressed yourself the only way you could in those moments, kissing him intensely, passionately. 

When he pulled away from the kiss, gently pressing his forehead against yours, you tried your hardest to form words. 

“You are mad.” You told him, a joking tone to your voice that made him smile. “But I understand it now, at least. And I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you… just, without the little chain in the middle.” 

George let out another bright laugh - a sound that you absolutely, utterly loved. 

“Alright.” He sighed. “But I was rather starting to like being chained to you.” 

You let out a bright laugh. “You dickhead!” 

“What? Is it so wrong that I want to wear a pretty girl as a bracelet?” 

… 

Soon, the two of you agreed to get up and get breakfast. 

Getting dressed while still stuck together was much easier this time, especially because you weren’t particularly worried about modesty this time around. He simply put his pajama pants back on (without underwear - something that made his soft cock hanging inside the fabric truly distracting for a few moments). 

You picked out a pair of clean underwear (he let out a cartoonish whistle and picked through the ones you had packed, making a joke about how all you had were ‘stripper clothes’) - and put your shorts back on. And then he went into the office and got a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes promotional tee shirt for you, one that he could sacrifice to cut the neck extra wide so that you could pull it up over your hips and step into it. It ended up foolishly falling off one of your shoulders, then, but it was comfortable and mostly covered you, so you didn’t entirely mind. 

You had to laugh when you realized that you somehow always ended up in that gaudy orange. But as you watched George carefully nurse a pan of scrambled eggs, his hair glinting in the morning light pouring in through the kitchen window - you had to think that it did kind of suit you. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” George asked, very much not used to you standing beside him, staring at him with doting affection in your eyes. 

“I was just…” You leaned in, hiding your face in his shoulder, almost embarrassed. “Thinking about how orange suits me.” 

“Orange?” He replied, mischief in his voice. “Or ginger?” 

“Shut it.” You sighed in reply, the words playful now more so than angry. 

“Georgie!” 

You were surprised when someone called out from the sitting room, clearly having just Flooed in. 

“Georgie, you awake?” 

Fred. It took you a moment to recognize his voice when he wasn’t being snarky or angry. 

“Kitchen!” George called back, and then he gave you a confused look. “He’s not supposed to be in for another few days,” He told you, speaking quieter so that only you could hear these words. 

Leave it to Fred to ruin your (nearly perfect) weekend. 

“Well, brother, you are going to owe me big time-” Fred began speaking in a boastful voice, but cut himself off when he entered the kitchen and his eyes landed on the two of you. 

It was likely that he hadn’t been expecting to see you. You were surprised that news of your ‘handcuff’ predicament hadn’t gotten around to the entire Weasley clan just by gossip alone. As Fred’s eyes scanned over the two of you in your (unfortunately) scantily clad state, his eyes grew wider and you resisted the urge to hide behind George out of embarrassment. 

“I can explain-” George rushed out, only to be cut off. 

“No need.” Fred said, clearly dampening down laughter. “Ron already covered it in his letter.” He held up a parchment envelope, waving it around. 

Your stomach dropped. So they had been gossiping. 

“Ron?” George choked on the name, upset. “What the bloody hell does he have to go with this? What did Bill do?” 

He abandoned his eggs for a moment, tearing across the room, seemingly forgetting that you were attached to him and dragging you uncomfortably along in his pursuit to steal the letter from Fred. Of course, he knew his brother too well and dodged around the table to avoid the move, keeping the letter close to his chest and grinning widely as he released the information slowly, lording over the power for a few minutes. 

“Oh, our dear oldest brother was trying to help you,” Fred grinned. “He didn’t want you to have to wait three whole days for an appointment with the curse breaker, especially not while being forced to be attached to such a moody, terrible girl,” 

“I did not describe you that way in the letter,” George turned to you, rushing to say this. 

You knew he likely wouldn’t have. It was just the other Weasleys’ impression of you. They had interacted with you during your time as an Order member, and they had not liked you much then. 

“So he took a copy of your letter and sent it off to Percy, attaching a note asking if he knew anybody else in the Ministry that knew anything about curse-breaking, but - ah, luckily Percy had contact with Ron and Harry’s handler because he helped set up their top secret mission.” Fred continued on. 

“So he got a letter to Ron, asking for Harry’s spare key, and Ron sent me this,” Fred said, holding up his letter with intense triumph. “Stupid bloke didn’t know I was busy with my girlfriend…” He mumbled this part furiously. “And I was on my way to rescue you. I cut my vacation short so that I could rescue you because I thought you were here, having a miserable time. But it looks like you’ve been just fine.”

Between the marks on your neck and the scratches on George’s back, and the lack of clothing that you were both wearing, you couldn’t make much of an argument to the contrary. It was very clear what the two of you had gotten up to. 

For a few tense moments, nobody spoke. 

Fred and George engaged in a terrible staredown, exchanging a wordless conversation that only twins could. It was clear that George wanted to deny that he had a fantastic night last night, despite his outcry for help. And Fred wanted to directly call him out on having sex with you, but didn’t want the gory details because he hated thinking of you that way. 

“Did you get the key or not?” George pressed, desperately trying to change the subject. 

“Angelina won’t have another week off for three more months!” Fred shouted in return, clearly upset that he had been forced to abandon his time with her. 

“Okay, well - it’s not my fault Ron addressed the letter to you and not me. It’s him you should be mad at!” George quickly defended himself, passing the blame as he had been trained to do growing up. 

“I am.” Fred said plainly, nodding. “And I suppose since you’re having such a great time with your friend here, I’ll just leave you to it.” He grinned. “And you won’t be needing this.” He opened the envelope and tipped it, and something slid out - the tiny, silver, utterly elusive handcuff key. 

You had to contain a gasp when you saw it. 

George opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, you did something entirely dumb, and entirely impulsive. (George was rubbing off on you.) It was something entirely grown out of frustration and a hatred for the soreness in your wrist. 

You picked up the spatula that George had been using for the eggs, and threw it across the kitchen at Fred, hitting him squarely in the face. He let out a harsh ‘ow!’ and dropped the handcuff key - and you used a quick, simple summoning spell to get the key before it hit the ground, catching it tightly in your palm before he even realized what was going on. 

“What was that for?” Fred barked, rubbing a now sore spot on his head and looking from you to the spatula that was now at his feet. 

But you were already unlocking the handcuffs at your wrist, so utterly relieved to be free. George grinned at you as you unlocked his side, going so far as to stick his tongue out at his brother in mockery - knowing that this round, he had gotten the victory. 

“Well I suppose that since you’re no longer attached to my brother, you can go home now,” Fred said dismissively, still rubbing that spot on his head. 

“No, I’m just going back to bed.” You replied, moving toward the kitchen door. Then you turned to George. “And you know what whole ‘making it up to me’ thing? That’s gonna start right now. And I’m not just talking about the handcuffs - I’m talking about the snake in the pastry box, the feather eyebrows, everything.” 

“Of course, my love.” George replied, winking at you. 

“You can start by making me breakfast and bringing it to me in bed. But something other than those eggs - because they’re burning.” You told him, causing him to turn and rush to take the pan off the stove as a light smoke began to come off it. 

You let out a light laugh as you walked out of the room, looking forward to closing the curtains and relaxing in his bed for a while. 

“Snake in a pastry box?” Fred gaped. “What the hell have you been up to while I was gone?” 

“Trust me, brother, the details would bore you.” George chuckled in return, his smile so cheek-splitting that it was beginning to hurt. 

… 

Just about a year later, you found yourself in Hogsmeade. 

It was a place that reminded you of your youth. Of course, it was a place that was frequented by students during trips that Hogwarts allowed, but you were never someone who went on those trips frequently. Back then, you never had friends to attend with you. You went if you wanted some sweets or if you wanted to browse the shops, but even when you did do those things, you never stuck around for more than an hour or so before you took the long walk back up to the castle and enjoyed the time that the Slytherin common room was fairly empty because everyone else was socializing down at the village. 

But today, it was a place of joy and new beginnings. Today was April first - April Fool’s Day. The biggest day of the year for any prankster, and the grand opening of the official second location of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. It also happened to be Fred and George Weasley’s birthday. 

The second location was a beautiful orange building at the very end of the village. A place that the twins had specially built for this purpose, towering over every other small shop around, and utterly magnificent. And as luck would have it (or, as their perfect marketing skills had seen to) - it was a Saturday, so the students from Hogwarts were visiting, rushing down the bustling streets like a crowd of ants, eager to get into the brand new shop. 

You had worked a morning shift at the flagship store in Diagon Alley before trading off with Benny. He was someone new they had hired to help with the transition while opening the new store, knowing that they would have to be in Diagon Alley less and less as they tended to their new baby. And after you had worked your shift, you had picked up George’s special birthday present from Madame Malkin's before you Apparated over to come and help them with the inevitable rush from all the Hogwarts students coming on their afternoon trip. 

You had to elbow your way in the door, and you were struggling your way through the crowd with the large gift box. You were amazed by how many people were already here on the first day, both young and old, not just students but people who had seemingly come to Hogsmeade just for the opening of the shop. Holding the gift box up in front of your face to protect it from the bustling crowd, you accidentally bumped into someone. 

“Oh, sorry.” You said, lowering to see who it was, pleasantly surprised to find Hermione - or rather, Professor Granger standing in front of you. 

“Y/N.” She grinned. “I suppose you’re here to help the twins?” 

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I’m trying to find George to give him his birthday present first.” You said, tapping the box to tell her that’s what it was. 

“Oh, goodness.” Hermione said. “I completely forgot today’s their birthday. I’ve been so busy grading essays, and with exams coming up-” 

“I’m sure they don’t mind.” You said, knowing how anxious she could be. 

“Wish them a happy birthday for me?” She posed. You nodded. “Right now I’m just trying to make sure the least lethal items get into my students’ hands.” 

With that sentiment, you had to wonder if opening a WWW so close to Hogwarts was a good idea or not. But you supposed that the twins truly didn’t care about that. If anything, they were up for encouraging students to buy the ‘most lethal’ products. 

“Gregory!” Hermione called to someone behind you, using a sharp tone that you had only heard her use with Ron a handful of times. “Gregory, put that down! Now!” 

She walked around you and charged toward whoever Gregory was, and before you could linger on the interaction, you finally spotted George. He was standing in front of a display, giving a demonstration of one of the products.  

“Trick coins.” He said proudly, showing off a coin that would always land on whatever side was ‘called’ while it was in the air. “Bet your friends and win every time! Heads or Tails, young man?” 

He asked, picking an eager young Third Year who was wearing a Gryffindor scarf from the crowd. The boy smiled and George flipped the coin up with an elegant flare of his thumb. 

“Tails!” The boy called out eagerly, and when George caught it and flipped it against the back of his hand, and then he revealed it to the crowd, it was still the non-face side of the coin, as the boy had called out. Naturally, this recieved many ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’, and many loud cheers. 

“Due to an advanced transfiguration charm, it responds to your voice and morphs on command, but appears to be nothing more than a regular coin to the naked eye!” George explained, holding it up as he gave the last of his pitch. 

The students began cheering, and then swarmed the display as he walked away, having spotted you. 

“Hello, love.” George grinned, leaning down and giving you a kiss on the cheek. “Please tell me that those are some extra Extendable Ears, we sold out in like two hours-” 

“No.” You replied, knowing that you had packed an extra box of the Extendable Ears and hidden it in the back. You would show him later. “It’s your birthday present.” 

George’s smile widened. 

“I thought you already gave me my birthday present.” He replied. 

The glint in his eye immediately told you what he was talking about. 

The night before, you and Angelina had baked a cake that was definitely lopsided, with slightly melted icing, but ended up tasting good, and you both gave it to Fred and George as you sang them Happy Birthday. It looked pathetic compared to the multi-layer cake that Molly made for them with orange frosting and decorative patterns of fireworks in different colours of frosting, with three Ws on the top and some small sparklers. But they loved it because both of you had tried even though you both had minimal experience with baking. 

And early that morning, before the sun had even risen, when he had been eager to get out of bed and rush to Hogsmeade to make last minute preparations before the shop made its grand opening, you had pinned him to the bed. You had dug your nails into his hips and practically sucked the life out of his cock, leaving him trembling and causing him to get dressed standing on shaking thighs while you grinned at him from the bed. 

“Technically, this is your gift.” You said, motioning toward the box. 

“You know if you’re not careful, I’ll become spoiled.” He told you brightly. 

You wanted to make a comment about how you were simply repaying him - someone who made an effort to make you dinner almost every night, bought you beautiful, thoughtful gifts at random for no reason, and generally pampered you. But the affectionate words got stuck somewhere along the way. 

George took your hand and guided you back to his office - one that was much smaller than the one he had in Diagon Alley, more meant for doing simple paperwork than actually experimenting and coming up with new products. 

He pulled the chair out from his desk and turned it around to face you, letting out a tired grunt as he sat down. Clearly, he was already very tired even though the day was barely half over. You knew that he loved his work so much, but you did worry that he didn’t take enough breaks from it - enough time to actually relax. 

You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face as you gave him the box, and he quickly tore off the shiny paper and lifted the lid. His eyes danced with happiness as he lifted the fabric out of the box. 

It was a perfect replica of the shiny, royal purple coat that you had been forced to cut apart when the two of you were cuffed together. Not only was it a good birthday gift, but you thought it was a perfect way to honor the opening of a new shop. Seeing as he had loved the other one because it had signified the twins opening their shop in the first place. 

“It’s the same, right?” You asked, hoping that you didn’t sound overly eager, but at the same time hoping that you had remembered it in enough detail to describe it to Madame Malkin properly. In fact, you had drawn a picture of it and carefully chosen the fabric with her, telling her that she would be trying to replicate her own past work because George had loved it so much. “I tried my hardest to remember it-” 

“It’s perfect.” George beamed, standing up to try it on, his smile absolutely cheek-splitting at this point. “Thank you so much.” 

He put two hands on either side of your face and pulled you in for a kiss. You savoured it for a moment, truly loving that you could have him - that all his sweetness and his affection was yours now. 

“I did make one small change, though.” You told him as you pulled away. 

You grabbed the left side of the jacket, pulling it back and showing off the inner breast pocket. Here, you had asked for detailed embroidery of a serpent to be added, similar to the one on the Slytherin crest. 

“So you can keep me close to your heart.” You said. And then immediately thought: “Is that too cheesy?” 

“It’s just cheesy enough, thank you very much, my love.” He chuckled - and then he put a gentle hand on your cheek and titled your face upward, pulling you into another kiss. 

“George, please told me that you found those Extendable Ears-” 

Of course, the two of you were disrupted by Fred barging in. Annoying. 

“L/N.” He said your name curtly, acknowledging your presence rather than greeting you. “George really doesn’t need to be distracted right now-” 

“I packed another box of Extendable Ears and put them in the upstairs store room.” You said, turning around to face Fred. 

“What? No!” Fred spat back, immediately ready to argue with you. “There’s nothing up there but Skiving Snack Boxes and Morph-O-Masks, you-” 

“Did you actually pull out some of the boxes and look?” You stressed, immediately steaming forward and walking out of the office, now on your way to the store room, determined to prove him wrong. 

“I don’t need to look to know that you’re wrong!” Fred argued back. 

George sighed and took off his new jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair to come back to later. He knew that he would have to go and break up the argument, but he took a breath, giving himself a moment of peace before doing so. 

As much as some things change, some things are just damned to stay the same.

...

So that is officially the ending of this fic!

I might write more with these characters set in this universe in the future, but for now that is a very big MIGHT and I am not directly working on anything like that at the moment. I always like to leave my fics with a very distinct ending so that way I can move on to other things and feel satisfied that I have finished with a certain fic.

I really appreciate comments - I would love to hear your thoughts about this fic, because it does take a lot of hard work to write and edit a fic that is over 60k. But please, if you are going to comment, do not simply comment asking for 'part 2', or asking for more. I do consider it rude when people finish a long fic and then immediately ask for more, because it feels like someone is blatantly ignoring all the work that I have put into a fic and saying that I have not worked hard enough, or saying that an already completed fic feels incomplete.

I would love to hear your thoughts about the characters, the dynamics, or certain moments during the fic. I always love it when someone comments telling me what their favourite moment was, and I never find long winded comments to be annoying or 'too much'. Always feel free to bring your enthusiasm to the comments!!

Anyway, even if you don't comment, I hope you enjoyed reading, and I hope that you have a great day!! And if you enjoyed this fic, definitely feel free to check out my other Harry Potter related stuff on my Harry Potter Masterlist.

Happy Reading,

Sunny ☀️

PS, here is the picture of her dress:

[luvendiary]

spilled bottles; spilled words / f. weasley

fred weasley x reader

summary: drunken confessions are not exactly on your list for top most romantic situations. warnings: drinking and smoking. not proofread, we die like men.

The party was still going on at full blast in the Gryffindor common room. You could hear the music even from out in the courtyard. 

Occasionally a drunk student or two passed you by chanting drunkenly about how they had won the cup or something along those lines. 

You on the other hand – slightly tipsy and definitely giddy had been tasked with taking care of a certain red-headed twin. 

Fred and you were both currently sitting by the archway that led to an inside patio. With empty bottles discarded next to you, your fingers were wrapped around a lit cigarette, which you briefly put up to his lips, allowing him to inhale. The breathing exercise will do him well – you thought.

Maybe it was the charismatically funny nature Fred seemed to possess or the alcohol making your veins buzz that made you somehow more susceptible to laughter. Either way, you didn’t remember this particular story being half as funny when you were sober. 

He was currently telling you about how George and him had dyed Malfoy’s hair a bright shade of neon-pink, on how he hadn’t taken it that well. You could not stop laughing for the life of you. Just picturing him in your mind made you fall back into a giggle-fit every time.

“He told Snape, didn´t he?” you asked as you brought the cigarette up to your lips again.

“He tried to,” Fred replied, his voice laced with laughter. “But Minnie found him first. She said something about how she wasn’t completely sure his dad would be fond of the new hairstyle.”

More laughter exploded from your chest. 

Fred grinned at you, a little lopsided—maybe from the alcohol, maybe from the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed.

“I would have paid to be there,” you said as you looked up at him. When you saw the way he was staring at you, you let your head fall slightly to the side, assessing him.

“What?” you asked with a small giggle. “Don’t tell me you turned my hair pink,” as if it would make any difference, you picked up your discarded bottle and peered into it. 

Fred let out a bark of laughter. “No, but now that you mention it— blush pink, maybe. Really bring out your eyes.”

You snorted. “Please. I’d end up looking like melted strawberry ice cream.”

“You’d be the prettiest melted strawberry ice cream,” he said with a dramatic flutter of his eyelashes, clutching his chest like he’d just seen a divine being.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. “You’re such a sap when you’re drunk.”

“Am not,” he said, feigning offense. “I’m charming. I’ve got layers. Like an onion.”

You laughed again, shaking your head as you leaned back against the wall. “You’re absolutely smashed.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, nudging your knee with his own. “But I still have my wits about me. Enough to know when I’m sitting next to the prettiest person at this school.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “Wow. Bold choice. I would’ve gone with Angelina.”

“She’s cool,” Fred agreed with a lazy nod. “But she’s not you.”

Something about the way he said it—like it wasn’t just part of the joke anymore—made the air shift. The smile on your face faltered just a bit, and Fred noticed.

“Alright,” you breathed out after a brief moment of silence. “I think it’s time we turn in for the night.”

That seemed to sober him up, just a touch, gaze flickering over your face. “Okay, no more jokes,” he said, his voice suddenly softer. “Can I say something without you thinking it’s just the alcohol talking?”

You raised a brow. “That depends. Are you about to profess your undying love, or tell me you somehow shaved Malfoy’s eyebrows in his sleep?”

“I wish I’d done that,” he muttered, then looked at you again, serious now. “No. It’s the first one.”

You blinked.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, and there was no smirk this time. No teasing tone. Just a kind of raw honesty you hadn’t seen from Fred very often.

You were speechless. You stared at him, eyes wide, waiting for him to say something, to break the silence he had created. 

Your heart was pounding in your chest. “This is not funny,” you whispered, your voice cracking just a tiny bit. 

“I’m not trying to be,” he said, his eyes flickering between yours. “I mean it. I think about you all the time—when we’re in class, when you laugh at something stupid I say, when you pull that face at McGonagall like you’re two seconds from telling her she’s wrong—”

“Fred,” you cut in, your heart suddenly hammering, a lump rising in your throat.

He tilted his head slightly, waiting.

“You’re drunk.”

“I am,” he said, not backing down. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

You stood, arms crossing defensively over your chest. “You really expect me to believe this? That after however long we’ve known each other, this is the moment you choose to say something? Half a bottle of firewhisky deep and slurring your compliments?”

He scrambled up after you, expression flickering with something like panic. “I didn’t plan it, alright? It just—it came out. But I mean it. Every word.”

You shook your head, taking a step back. “Say it to me when you’re sober, Fred. When you’re not reeking of liquor and trying to make me laugh.”

“I always try to make you laugh,” he said, but your back was already turned.

But you were already gone, leaving Fred standing there under the archway, cigarette smoke curling in the air between his fingers and the words he never got to finish.

The morning after smelled like hangovers and regret.

The Gryffindor common room was a disaster—cushions strewn across the floor, empty bottles under armchairs, and someone’s sock inexplicably hanging from the chandelier. Fred emerged from the boys’ dormitory squinting against the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. His hair was a mess, and his shirt was halfway tucked in.

George, chewing on a piece of toast, gave him a once-over. “You look like you wrestled a banshee in your sleep.”

Fred groaned. “Feel like I lost to one, too.”

George tossed him a flask. “Hangover potion. Also, did you do something weird last night?”

Fred’s heart thudded. “Define weird.”

“Perhaps telling a certain girl you fancy her?”

Fred paused. “That’s not weird.”

George raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember saying it, do you?”

Fred pressed a hand to his forehead. The memory was blurry—but it was there. The courtyard. The cigarette. The laughter. The way you looked at him when you stood up. The hurt in your voice.

“I remember enough,” he muttered. “She didn’t believe me.”

“Well, you were off your face,” George pointed out helpfully.

Fred pressed his palms to his eyes and groaned.

“She’s down in the library,” George said nonchalantly, which made him snap his head up at him sharply.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Walked past on the way to sneak scones from the kitchens. She didn’t even glare at me. She’s clearly still mad at you.”

That was all Fred needed to hear.

The library was unusually quiet for this late in the morning, and you were hunched over a half-filled parchment, trying to ignore the pounding behind your eyes and the way your stomach still twisted at the memory of last night.

So when someone slid into the chair across from you, uninvited, you didn’t even look up. “Unless you’re Madam Pince, I don’t want to talk.”

“Not even if I brought you a peace offering?”

Your eyes flicked up to meet Fred’s. He held out a warm pastry wrapped in a napkin. Your stomach betrayed you by growling.

“I’m still mad,” you said flatly, taking it anyway.

“I figured.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Look, I’m not here to make another joke or say something half-witty. I just… I wanted to say it properly. While I’m sober. Completely and unfortunately sober.”

You hesitated, chewing slowly.

Fred cleared his throat. “What I said last night—it wasn’t just drunk talk. I meant it. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while, but I kept bottling it. Because, well—you're you, and I’m me, and I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

You stared at him, guarded. “So you waited until you were sloshed to drop the L-bomb?”

Fred winced. “Yeah, not my proudest move. But I’m here now, and I’m saying it again. I’m in love with you. And if you don’t feel the same, that’s alright. I just… I needed you to hear it and know I meant it.”

Silence settled between you, only the soft scratching of a quill from a student nearby breaking the moment.

Finally, you set the pastry down. “You’re lucky I like pastries.”

Fred blinked. “Is… is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe,” you said, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Ask me again when you’re not hungover and smell like stale firewhisky.”

Fred smiled and you knew then that you were completely done for. Because, truth be told, you were completely whipped for Fred Weasley as well.

[pit-and-the-pen]

Harry Potter Masterlist

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George Weasley:

In my defense...

1- Black Hole Sun

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3-Circles

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But what if...Jk...unless...

A small piece of Home

Dirty Little Secret

Kissing In Cars

Mix Up

Fred Weasley:

Good Night Moon

Drunk and Half Asleep

Baby It’s Cold Outside

Anger Management 

Lighten up?

Draco Malfoy:

Sun

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You’re too Sweet

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Venus

Achilles come Down

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Look at The Stars, Look How They Shine for You