It’s barely past 9 a.m. when you stir in George’s bed at the Burrow, the morning light slipping in through the crooked window. You’re curled beneath the blanket, warm in one of his worn shirts that still smells like him.

George is already awake beside you, propped on one elbow, grinning like he’s been watching you sleep for a while.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough with sleep.

Before you can even respond, he’s pressing a kiss to your cheek. Then your forehead. Then your nose. It's his routine now, a quiet kind of ritual.

“You’re in my shirt again,” he teases, fingers brushing the hem where it hangs off your thigh. “Not that I’m complaining. I think I love you in my clothes more than I ever loved wearing them myself.”

You chuckle quietly, shifting just enough to meet his eyes.

George smiles softly as hand finds yours, his fingers tracing lazy patterns across your knuckles.

George WeasIey is many things: cheeky, loud, and occasionally inappropriate in the middle of family dinner — but when it’s just the two of you, when it’s quiet like this — he’s something else entirely.

He’s sweet. Kind. Far more thoughtful and mature than anyone would guess if they only knew him from school.

He was a bit awkward at the start of your relationship, all unsure hands and nervous smiles, like he didn’t quite believe he could be taken seriously.

But it faded quickly — not because he changed, but because you got to know the real George. The one who listens closely. Who speaks gently. Who tells you when something bothers him, even if it’s small. The one who makes you tea just the way you like it, who always kisses you goodnight — even if he’s half-asleep and missing your mouth by an inch.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear now, fingers warm and careful.

“You planning on staying in bed all day, my love?”

You hum in response, eyes fluttering shut again.

He grins and leans in, brushing his nose against yours.

“Hate to break it to you, but Mum’s been waiting for you all morning.”

You groan, but he’s already slipping an arm around your waist, tugging you close one last time.

“Come on,” he whispers into your hair, voice full of warmth. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”