George was in love with you, hook, line, and sinker. It had started slowly: butterflies erupting in his stomach in Arithmancy, then it had gotten out of hand until he was too stupidly in love with you to do anything about it.

You were everything George wasn’t: composed, elegant, raised in a house where dinner came on silver, not mismatched crockery. You weren’t cruel or snobbish, not like some of your Housemates, but you were different. Not the sort of person George Weasley ever imagined himself holding hands with down by the Black Lake.

He figured it was just a crush—a passing fancy that would fade. But then, days turned into weeks, and there wasn’t a single morning he didn’t find himself scanning the Great Hall for you.

He tried to get you out of his head; nothing good could ever come out of being obsessed with you. You were near the exact opposite of him; there was no way you’d spare a minute for him. Even if something happened between you, which was more unlikely than Snape awarding the twins points, it wouldn’t last very long: you were from different worlds.

But somehow—against all odds—it did.

It started when you’d laughed, a quiet laugh, after he and Fred hexed a particularly arrogant Slytherin whose ego could rival Lockhart’s. And then, when you’d offered to help George with a particularly tough Arithmancy assignment.

Then it wasn’t long until George couldn’t help but flirt with you, and you, to his surprise, returned the flirting.

By Christmas, Fred had dubbed you both “Hogwarts’ best couple” after you sent Christmas gifts to every single Weasley. Even Ginny had been smirking knowingly, and Molly couldn’t stop asking when she might get to “meet this lovely young witch.”

It felt right—like magic that needed no wand.

Then came the letter.

You’d told him, eyes a little uncertain, that your father wanted to meet him. And not just him—but his parents as well. When Errol crash-landed on the Gryffindor table at breakfast, feathers everywhere, and dropped an envelope that probably cost more than his potions book, embossed with your family’s crest in emerald wax, George had frozen mid-bite.

Your father was inviting the Weasleys to dinner.

Panic set in faster than a rogue Bludger. What could Arthur possibly say to a man whose cutlery probably polished itself? What would Molly wear that didn’t have a patch or a singe mark from one of the twins’ experiments?

But this was you. And for you, George would do anything—even face the disapproving gaze of an ancient pureblood patriarch.

So, come break, he pulled on the nicest robes his family had (Bill's old ones), helped his mum with the seams on her best blue gown, and told his dad he looked dashing, even though Arthur’s robes still smelled faintly of engine oil and Fwooper feathers.

When they Apparated into the Scottish Highlands at dusk, the air smelled of pine. Before them loomed an ancient watchtower, half in ruins, half enchanted to gleam like it had never aged a day.

Then came the sound—a deep, echoing rumble from beyond the trees. A carriage emerged from the darkness, lacquered black and drawn by two Thestrals, their wings folding neatly as they landed before the path. Their pale eyes glimmered ghostlike in the mist.

Arthur squeezed Molly’s hand as the carriage door swung open on its own, no driver in sight.

The ride through the forest was silent but for the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the soft pulse of enchantments humming in the air.

When the carriage finally stopped, George caught his breath. Your family’s estate rose from the hills magnificently. Turrets twisted skyward and windows gleamed with candlelight from inside. He’d seen it before, in the enchanted photo album you’d shown him one night by the Black Lake, but it wasn't like seeing it in person.

Before Molly or Arthur could even process the grandeur, the massive doors swung open. Your parents stepped through the large entrance, dressed in robes that made Molly's eyes flicker down in faint insecurity.

George swallowed the shame that was climbing up his throat when he saw you come out, too.