Marrying him felt, strangely enough, like returning to Hogwarts — only brighter.

He had always been the brightest thing in any room, but now the light was different. Softer. Earned. With the shop thriving and the house forever echoing with the thunder of small, determined feet, it was more than he’d ever dared to ask for.

The children were loud — Merlin, were they loud — but never louder than when George came home early from the shop. On those blessed afternoons, the front door would slam open and the whole house shifted on its axis. It was as though someone had cast a Cheering Charm on the walls themselves.

You fed into their quiet moments — storybooks, whispered secrets, soft hands braiding hair. George fed into their chaos. He’d scoop them up, spin them round, let them hang off his arms as though he were a climbing frame.

It was a full one-eighty the moment he crossed the threshold.

That was how you always knew he’d arrived, even when he tried to be subtle. Like now.

You were curled on the sofa with a book, the sitting room bathed in golden afternoon light, when a shriek split the air so sharply you nearly dropped the page. One daughter. Then another. Then all of them.

“DAD!”

Of course.

You didn’t look up. Merely turned a page.

Bootsteps — familiar, uneven — crossed the hall. His laugh followed, warm and unapologetic.

“Has your mum been a right tyrant all day, then?” he asked in mock horror. “Proper strict, yeah?”

Giggles erupted.

“Yes!” one of them cried, far too enthusiastically.

You raised a brow but kept reading.

“Thought as much,” George went on solemnly. “Tragic. Absolutely tragic behaviour from a Weasley.”

You heard him crouch down, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that was, in truth, not quiet at all. “Reckon we ought to stage a rescue, don’t you?”

More laughter.

“Alright, off you lot. Let me have a word with your mother before she starts confiscating my biscuits.”

Shockingly, they obeyed. Scampered off like startled Kneazles.

You didn’t comment on the fact that they never listened to you that quickly.

George rounded the sofa at last, sunlight catching in his hair — a shade darker now, faint silver at his temples that hadn’t been there years ago. There was something steadier about him since the war. The humour was still there — always would be — but it carried weight now. Depth. A knowing.

He leaned over the back of the sofa to get a proper look at your face.

“Oh,” he sighed theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest. “My favourite tyrant.”

“Shut your mouth,” you replied at once.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said instantly, hand raised in surrender — effortless, cheeky, obedient only in jest.

He moved around and dropped into the armchair opposite you, sprawling in a way that suggested complete comfort in his own home. One ankle hooked over his knee. He studied you with open fondness — not subtle, never subtle.