You used to belong to the Weasleys.

Not officially, not by blood, but in all the ways that mattered. The Burrow had known your footsteps. Molly had stopped asking when you’d be staying for dinner and simply set an extra plate. Arthur greeted you like you’d never left. Bill and Charlie teased you like a sister. Ron argued with you like family, loud and fond, and Ginny shared knowing looks with you across the table, your laughter always finding each other first. Percy pretended not to notice how easily you fit.

And Fred and George had been your best friends long before Fred became the boy you loved.

It had been easy with Fred. Loud laughter, shared looks across rooms, his hand finding yours without thinking. George had been there too, always, like the other half of a sentence. The three of you a constant. Unbreakable.

Then the war happened.

And Fred didn’t come back.

After that, everything that had once felt like home became unbearable.

You stopped answering letters. Stopped visiting. You told yourself it was kindness. That the Weasleys were grieving enough without having to look at you, a living reminder of what they’d lost. And George… George was impossible. He looked too much like Fred. Sounded too much like him when he laughed by accident, before remembering he shouldn’t.

So you disappeared.

Except for one place.

Fred’s grave sat on a gentle rise, quiet and well-kept, the grass always a little greener there as if the earth itself remembered him fondly. You came every week. Sometimes with flowers. Sometimes with nothing but yourself. You talked to him quietly, or not at all. You sat on the grass and let the silence hold you. You told him about things you’d never said when he was alive. You told him you were sorry. You told him you loved him, even though it was too late for it to matter.

Except it still mattered to you.

That day felt like any other.

The sky was overcast, soft and grey, the kind of day that made the world feel hushed. You were kneeling by the headstone, brushing your fingers over his name like it might anchor you, when you sensed someone behind you.

You didn’t turn at first.

You knew before you looked.

George stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he wasn’t sure he was welcome here. He looked older. Not just from time, but from loss. Like part of him had learned how to be quiet and never unlearned it.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The air between you was thick with everything you hadn’t said in years.

“I didn’t know you still came,” he said eventually, voice low. Careful.

You swallowed, standing slowly.

“Every week.”

He nods once, like that makes sense. Like of course you do.

“I didn't leave because I didn't care,” you say suddenly. “I just thought if I stayed away, it would hurt less.”

“Did it?”

You shake your head. “No.”

George lets out a quiet, broken laugh that isn’t really a laugh at all. “Figures.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s fragile, but honest. Two people standing on opposite sides of the same loss, finally close enough to see it clearly.

“I missed you, you know?” he says, softer now.