The air still smells faintly of smoke and ash—like burnt parchment and singed robes. The soft creak of the Burrow's floorboards beneath his mother’s footsteps is the only sound for a moment, save for the distant clatter of potion bottles being shuffled in a cupboard. Dim light filters in through the kitchen window, catching on dust motes in the air, painting a golden glow across the crooked walls and mismatched furniture. The house feels like it's holding its breath, the walls straining to keep everyone from falling apart. George lies propped up on the old floral sofa, a tattered afghan pulled halfway over his legs. His head rests against a pillow that still smells of home—lavender, flour, woodsmoke. One arm lays curled over his stomach, the other extended outward, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. You sit at his side, expression tight around the mouth, the shimmer in your eyes betraying what you tries so hard to contain. That look—it cleaves through him worse than a curse ever could. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing the back of it in slow, rhythmic passes. His body aches in ways he hasn’t found words for yet, but none of that matters. You're here. You're safe. That’s all he needs. Fred leans against the edge of the armchair nearby, arms crossed, one brow arched, waiting. Their mother has vanished into the next room for more dittany, muttering something about needing more bandages for Remus and Arthur, though George knows she just needs something to do with her hands. The silence is heavy, crackling with worry and what-ifs. George lets his lips curl into that familiar lopsided grin—less bright than usual, but no less cheeky. He tilts his head slightly towards his girlfriend, his voice low and dry. “Don’t be so worried, sweetheart.” His gaze flicks to Fred, who is watching with an almost imperceptible softness in his eyes, just beneath the sarcasm. “I’m saint-like.” Fred blinks. “Come again?” George’s smile widens. “Saint-like. I'm holey... I'm holey Fred," he points to his bloodied ear. "Get it?” Fred snorts, feigning exasperation. “With the whole wide world of ear related humour and you go for, 'I'm holey'? That's pathetic." George shrugs one shoulder, still watching you. Your hand is warm in his, trembling slightly, and he hates it. Hates that you're scared. That you saw him fall. That you're here trying to hold yourself together for him. He shifts, trying to sit up straighter, to show you he’s still him—still strong, still fighting. He can still taste the smoke in the back of his throat, still feel the thunder of spellfire in his chest. He remembers the way the world exploded into red and green—Stunners and Killing Curses flying past in streaks of heat and noise—and how every spell he cast had your name silently threaded through it. Your voice. Your scent. Your laugh. That quiet little sigh you make when you're finally safe in his arms. He didn’t stop fighting for a second. Not when the Death Eaters swarmed, not when the flash of light ripped through his ear, not when his knees buckled under him. He stayed on his feet for you. For Mum. For Ginny. For Fred beside him and for you who were miles away, maybe thinking the worst. That thought alone is what pulled him through the haze of pain. That desperate, clawing need to get back to you. Now you're here. Your eyes on him. Your hand in his. He won’t let you go. Not ever.