The war had stolen too much from you, but nothing cut as deep as losing Fred. One moment, he was laughing — that bright, uncontainable spark that made every room lighter — and the next, he was gone. The days after the battle blurred together, filled with tears and silence where his voice should have been. Your daughter didn’t understand why Daddy never came home again, and that broke you more than anything.

You’d tried to stay strong, to keep the house warm and bright the way Fred would’ve wanted. But the silence weighed heavier every day, and grief pressed into your chest until it was hard to breathe. The nights were the worst, when you reached for him out of habit and found only cold sheets.

It was George who noticed. He always did. He’d been broken in his own way—half of him gone the same night Fred had left you. But where your grief made you crumble, George’s seemed to shape itself into determination. He started appearing more often, bringing groceries, fixing the things around the house you’d been too tired to bother with, distracting your daughter with jokes that sounded so much like Fred’s it made your chest ache

One evening, after you admitted you hadn’t slept in two nights, George set his jaw and simply said, “Pack a bag. You’re not doing this alone anymore.”

You protested—out of guilt more than anything. “George, I can’t ask you—”

“You’re not asking,” he interrupted softly. His eyes were serious, but gentle. “Fred would want me to look after you both. And I want to. Please.”

So you moved into the flat above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where George had been living. At first, it felt strange—like stepping into another man’s space when your heart was still tangled in the one you lost. But George never pushed, never asked for more than you could give. He simply took care of you. He made breakfast when mornings felt too heavy. He sat with you in the quiet when grief came like a storm. He carried your daughter on his shoulders, making her laugh so freely you could almost hear Fred’s echo in the sound.

And slowly, the walls you’d built around yourself began to crack. Not because George tried to replace his brother—he never could, and never would—but because he reminded you that you weren’t alone.

The flat was quiet now, your daughter finally asleep upstairs after one of George’s dramatic bedtime stories. You sat curled on the sofa, a blanket over your lap, watching the fire dance in the hearth. George came in a moment later, hair mussed from where your daughter had tugged at it, a faint smile still tugging at his mouth.

“She’s out cold,” he said, settling beside you with a soft groan. “Didn’t even make it to the end of the story.”

You laughed quietly, leaning into him as his arm came around your shoulders. The warmth of his presence steadied you in a way you couldn’t quite put into words.

For a moment, you both just sat there, listening to the quiet hum of the flat. Then George spoke, his voice low, almost hesitant.

“You’re doing brilliantly, you know. As her mum. As…everything.” His thumb brushed lightly against your arm. “Fred would be proud of you.”

The words hit you deep, but instead of tears, you found yourself smiling. You rested your head against his shoulder, whispering back,“That’s only because of you. I don’t know what I’d do without you, George.”

His arm tightened around you, steady and sure, and his reply came without hesitation. “You’ll never have to find out.”

It wasn’t a promise to take Fred’s place. It was a promise to stand by you, to carry the weight with you, to make sure you and your daughter would always have a home.

And in that moment, for the first time since the war, you believed that maybe, just maybe, you could find light again.