Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bright sunlight flooded through the little flat over the shop, causing George Weasley to ground and roll over, tugging the ragged quilt up over his head.

“George, wake the bloody hell up,” a loud voice boomed, directly, uncomfortably close to his one good ear.

George sat bolt upright in bed, wand in hand, pointed at the intruder.

Alicia Spinnett reared back, crashing into George’s nightstand and knocking over a lamp, a half-full glass of water and a dish of marbles he’d been working on enchanting for the last week. They immediately scattered everywhere and vanished.

“George, it’s just us,” Angelina said, steadying Alicia with a gentle hand. 

Katie Bell was there as well, using her wand to siphon up the spilled water.

“I told you lot that this was a bad idea,” Katie said in a dry voice. “Look at the state of him.”

“What the hell are you three doing here? It’s the morning?” George exclaimed, rubbing his face with his free hand. “Merlin’s balls, I’m not even dressed.”

Alicia shook her head.

“No, George, it’s half past two in the afternoon.”

“Well, it’s my day off. I’m allowed to have a bit of a lie in.” George said weakly, but he could feel their eyes narrowing at him. “Look, I had a late night—”

“You missed pick-up quidditch. Again.” Angelina said, cutting him off. Her finger was stuck in his face, and he batted it away before she could scratch him with her sharp, glittery black nails.

“It’s been a month since you’ve made it out with us. And before that, we had to pick you up. You spend all your time here at the shop, George. It’s not healthy.” Alicia added.

Katie nodded, a frown on her face. “I talked to Oliver and he said you haven’t been to dinner at your parent’s place in months.”

“You talked to Oliver? Why? How would he know that?” George asked, fumbling for the glass of water so he could drain the last few drops.

“He’s been dating your brother Percy for a year, George!” Katie exclaimed.

“Oh, right, I forgot,” George said.

“You forgot?” Angelina said acidly. “All right, that settles it. George, we’ve been worried about you and think you need a change so we’re taking you out.”

A prickle of unease ran down George’s back at the determined looks on the three witches’ faces. 

“Where, exactly, are you taking me? Do I get a choice in this at all?” He asked, already steeling himself for whatever bullshit they were about to drag him into. 

Alicia shook her head, heading over to his closet and beginning to rifle through his robes.

“No, you don’t. You need to get out of this rut you’re in, George. And we’ve got the perfect idea for how to shake you up.”

Reluctant but unwilling to keep arguing, George got up and stumbled towards the bathroom while they began arguing over his robes.

He honestly hadn’t realized how much he’d been neglecting his relationships, but he got so lost in his work and sometimes it just felt easier to stay here in his workshop after a long day. He looked around the room at the sparsely furnished flat and sighed. 

This hadn’t been the life he’d imagined for himself. But it had been several years since Fred’s death and this was the life he had. 

Once he got to the sink, he splashed some cool water on his face. Between the streaks of gold where his red hair had begun to fade and his missing ear, the man in the mirror could no longer be mistaken for his brother, gone and forever eighteen. 

A sharp knock at the door made him look away from his reflection.

“Oh, now you know how to knock,” George snarled, grabbing a towel off the hook and pressing his face into it.

“Piss off, we knocked before but you didn’t answer. We needed to make sure you hadn’t blown yourself up,” Angelina said, opening the door. “Get in the shower, you stink. We’ve picked out some decent robes for you.”

She began pushing him towards the shower stall, ignoring his outraged muttering. 

“Are you at least going to let me get undressed in privacy?” George finally said as she turned on the faucet for him. “Or are you just here to ogle my cock.”

“Nothing we haven’t all seen before, George,” Alicia chirped from just outside the bathroom door.

“Mine’s bigger,” Katie said, “and it glows in the dark.”

“Merlin’s balls, that’s enough. Get out you three harpies. I’ll be done in ten minutes for whatever insanity you’ve cooked up.”

George slid out of the gray sweatpants and Holyhead Harpies shirt he’d been sleeping in and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water run over his body. He tried to rack his brain for what they wanted from him. 

Thirty minutes later when he was standing outside a trendy stretch of shops along Horizont Alley, staring at the three witches and pulling at the hair they’d put a bunch of mysterious products into.

“It’s sexy,” Alicia had assured him as she arranged his hair just so, leaving a curly lock to hang down on his forehead.

He looked like a prat.

“Am I allowed to know why you’ve bloody well kidnapped me yet?” George said, finally, one skeptical eye on the brick building in front of them.

He didn’t typically come down this section of the street, where the shops catered more to wealthy witches. A pretty sort of climbing plant with fragrant pink blooms crawled up the front of the building. It made his hands itch. 

“It’s for your own good, George. We just want you to have an open mind.” Angelina reassured him as they dragged him through the front door.

A little bell jingled and almost immediately, a witch he recognized rushed out, along with a petite blonde witch he did not.

“Hey babe,” Katie said, giving the blonde a very familiar kiss on the cheek. She blushed bright red and smiled at everyone.

“Lavender? George said, finally remembering the name of the witch in front of him.

“Yes, hello, George. We’ve been expecting you here at Greengrass, Patil, Patil and Brown.” Lavender said, “come step into our office. Ladies, you can stay out here.”

“Greengrass, Patil and Brown? Sounds like a law firm.” George said, looking around at the space.

It stood in stark contrast with his own shop, shelves bursting with products and colors everywhere. This room felt quiet, not ominous but heavy, in a way George wasn’t sure if he liked. Whatever magic they did here was serious magic, he could feel it seeping into his pores, curious, testing.

The other witch, the blonde one who Katie kissed, smiled at him indulgently.

“Funny, that’s just what Pansy said.”

He ignored her, and continued pressing. “What exactly do you do here, Lavender?” The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

“We’re a matchmaking office, George. We’ll ask you a few, simple questions, take a sample of your hair, and then present you with a match you can marry for a year and a day.” Lavender said simply.

“Using a precise blend of alchemy and Muggle science developed by our team,” the other witch answered. “We’ve had several happy couples. And if you’re dissatisfied with your match for any reason, you can always choose to step away after a year and a day.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” George said, sitting down heavily on one of the fussy pink chairs. “You guys are trying to get me handfasted?”

Everyone began to speak at once as George cradled his head in his hands.

“We won’t do anything without your consent.”

“It’s just a year, George.”

“You need to shake things up, you can’t keep rotting alone like this.”

“Did you not tell him what we do?”

“Give him some room to breathe!”

Angelina crouched down in front of him, putting a hand on his knee, “George, this is for your own good. Just consider it, all right. All you have to do is fill out their little questionnaire and see if there’s someone out there for you. Nothing’s permanent, unless you want it to be. But George, you can’t live like this anymore. You’re not living at all.”

George’s mouth felt dry as he considered what she was asking of him. It wasn’t permanent. Just something to change his life. 

He closed his eyes and pictured his days, working, stocking shelves, developing new projects, going upstairs alone, drinking Firewhiskey until he fell asleep. Each day the same, stretching on and on unless he stopped it. 

George felt a pressure in the center of his chest, as if he’d taken too big a bite of a pumpkin pasty and couldn’t get it all the way down to his stomach. He imagined signing this, marrying some witch he’d never met before. His entire life upended.

He imagined if he didn’t—he just kept doing what he was doing, sitting alone in his workshop every evening, eventually drinking too much Firewhiskey until he blew off his own damn hand.

What did he have to lose? He’d already lost everything he had.

Fred would think it was hilarious, getting handfasted. It wasn’t hard to imagine Fred’s face, picking out a bright orange pair of dress robes to stand next to him as he got married to some random witch for a year. The thought made him smile. 

Fuck. 

Maybe they were right.

Maybe it was time for a change.

He wiped his eyes with the edge of his sleeves and looked at Angelina.

“All right. I’ll do it.” 

This set off another chorus of excited chatter, George’s ears turning pink as they began to fuss over him.

Finally, the petite blonde witch elbowed her way in front of him.

“Hello, Mr. Weasley. I’m Daphne Greengrass and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Now, if you’d like to follow me, we can begin with the interview.”

Angelina stood up and turned to follow but Daphne held up a hand, stopping her where she stood.

“Ladies, please. I’m sure you’re all very excited, but let’s give Mr. Weasley some privacy.” Daphne said, narrowing her eyes.

With a minimal amount of fuss, Daphne had arranged it so he was suddenly being pushed towards a pink door at the back of the room, Lavender Brown two steps behind her. 

The door opened with a soft click and he was ushered into a conference room. 

“Hi, George, it’s nice to see you,” said one of the Patil twins, sitting at the long conference table scribbling furiously with an ostentatious-looking peacock feather quill.

The other Patil twin entered through a different door, wearing a labcoat and pale blue gloves. The sight of her next to her sister made him feel a little strange. A matched set. Like he used to be.

He shook his head and sat down, trying to focus.

“I’m Padma. I’ll be taking a sample of your hair,” the Patil twin who had just walked in said. 

He sat perfectly still as she plucked a strand from his head and put it into a small crystal vial that began emitting a pale purple smoke that smelled like something sweet.

“Oooh, mango, nice,” Padma said, giving him a shy smile as she turned around and went back through the door she’d just come in from.

The other Patil twin—must be Parvati, he realized, since Padma was the one taking his hair for nefarious purposes, looked at him with a far more serious expression.

“Are you ready for the questionnaire?”

He shrugged.

The two witches began to ask him questions, one after the other, while taking copious notes. If he’d bothered to sit his NEWTs, he thought it might have felt like this. McGonagall had a less severe aura.

“Sexual preference?” Daphne said.

“Er, well, I wouldn’t mind having it.” George responded, but it didn’t get a laugh. 

Daphne looked at him, her wide blue eyes narrowed slightly as she marked something down on her parchment. George tried not to peek. 

“Fine,” he said, uncomfortable with the silence. “I’ve kissed a few blokes before, as a lark, and it’s fine but I mostly prefer witches.”

“Open-minded, a good quality in a man,” Parvati intoned, writing it down. 

After a grueling hour of questions, during which George quietly vowed to hex all three of the witches who had dragged him here, Parvati slipped a final bit of paperwork into his hands.

“There’s no guarantee that you’ll be matched, George. We try our best to find the right situation for everyone, and we’ve had loads of success but—” Parvati said, handing him a self-inking quill.

“We are not liable for any property damage during the handfasting period?” George interrupted, reading one of the items on the list in front of him.

“Standard legal disclaimer, of course,” Daphne said. “Don’t forget to initial everywhere that’s glowing pink, and sign your name at the bottom.”

“We’ll owl you if and when we find you a match,” Parvati said, a pleased expression on her face when he signed the paperwork with a slight flourish. “Angelina took care of the bill.”

The first week after he’d been dragged to the matchmaker’s office, he’d made an effort to get out more. He’d gone to Sunday dinner, held Ron and Hermione’s new baby Rosie and even played a game of pick-up Quidditch. 

But then Monday had rolled around, and Tuesday, and Wednesday. The effort of smiling all day in the shop, performing for the people who came in to see him, having to stare at his own face in the mirror to shave. It was easier to just head upstairs, pour himself a glass of Firewhiskey and do the accounts in silence. 

George had been working on an update to the Wonder Witch line—nail polish that changed color to your mood when an owl pecked at his window. 

He blinked in surprise—he hadn’t realized but the sun had come up. He’d come upstairs last night after closing up the shop, sat down to work on the charms and simply never bothered to go to bed. 

He got up and unhooked the latch, taking the roll of parchment from the owl. It hooted at him and he tossed it a treat from the little dish next to the window, but it didn’t fly away.

“Do I need to send a response?” George asked the owl, his voice gravelly.

The owl hooted again at him, giving him a look.

“Fair enough,” George muttered, unravelling the parchment and smoothing it out on the counter.

To Mr. George Weasley,

We are delighted to inform you that a match has been found for you. Please arrive at Greengrass, Patil, Patil and Brown Thursday morning at 11:00 am promptly.

Please read the enclosed information containing all the details you need for your future, and return the following waiver signed and dated in order to confirm your bonding ceremony.

I am voluntarily participating in this Handfasting. I understand that there are risks associated with my participation in this Handfasting, such as physical and/or psychological injury, pain, suffering, illness, disfigurement, temporary or permanent disability, death or economic loss. These injuries or outcomes may arise from my own or other’s actions, inactions, or negligence. Nonetheless, I assume all risks of my participation in this Handfasting, whether known or unknown to me, including travel to and from the handfasting (including Apparition, broom, Floo or other Magical or Muggle methods of transportation) or any events incidental to this Handfasting.

Thank you and have a Wonderful Handfasting!

Lavender Brown

“Well, fuck,” George said to the owl. “I didn’t expect that.”

Chapter Text

The office had a distinctly Muggle feel, all trendy and bright with pink neon letters saying insane things like IT’S A LOVE STORY and LOVE IS SWEET. On the far wall, a big open window looked out onto Horizont Alley below, a large flitterbloom plant wrapped around a concrete pillar awkwardly placed in the corner next to it. 

Millicent leaned back on the pink velvet chaise lounge, feeling a bit ridiculous nestled amongst the heart-shaped cushions. She had dressed up for this, Merlin knows why. Her plain brown hair was curled in soft waves around her face instead of in the typical tight braid she favored at work and she’d let Pansy go at her face with her wand and an entire purse full of Lady Helen Callaghan’s Captivating Cosmetics. 

She still looked like herself—it had been her main request to Pansy. She didn’t want to start this whole thing off with an expectation she couldn’t meet. That wasn’t the point of this, after all. But she wanted to look nice for the occasion, and try . 

So here she was, at Greengrass, Patil, Patil and Brown’s office, eyelashes layered with three coats of Lucious Ladylike Lengthening Ultra Lash Mascara and her lips a sticky pink color that tasted like butterbeer. Her robes were a pretty cream color and Pansy had pinned a flower to her hair from a bouquet her own husband had given her, muttering “for luck” and wiping her eyes a little as she said it.

Pansy had wanted to come with her, for moral support, but Millicent had told her she wanted to do it alone. Truthfully, she just didn’t want anyone else to see the look of disappointment on her match’s face, not unless they absolutely had to, anyway.

Just as Millicent was debating if this was a huge mistake and she should just try to open the window and escape down the side of the building to go have a nice steak pie and a pint of stout at the Leaky, Daphne Greengrass and Lavender Brown walked in, clipboards in hand and smelling of some sort of fruity body spray.

“Millie, darling, I’m so happy to see you!” Daphne squealed, leaning down to give Millicent a kiss on both cheeks. “I’m so excited to introduce you to your match!” 

“Is he already here?” Millicent said, looking around. She hadn’t seen anyone else come inside.

Lavender gave her an encouraging smile, reaching a hand out to help her up out of the seat.

“Yes, right this way and we can proceed with the handfasting,” Lavender said, tugging Millie rather forcefully now.

The conference room ahead of them was charmed to remain cool—Pansy had told her once that was to make sure nobody’s makeup ran. Millicent gently touched her lower lip, hoping she hadn’t smudged the lipstick. 

Standing next to the table, drumming fingers restlessly was a tall, redhaired man. His hair was a little long, with stubble on his cheeks. When he turned to look at her, his blue eyes widened for a moment and she realized he was missing a rather large chunk of his ear.

She knew him.

Not well, but she knew him. She’d worked with his brother Charlie before, called him for a consult on a dragon egg hoarding situation just outside of the village of Bwlchgwyn in Wales. It wasn’t Ron, who she’d shared half her classes with at Hogwarts, or the poncy one who worked at the Ministry and had argued with her father for a week over the permits for his Floo. 

It was the funny one, who once charmed all the forks at the Slytherin table to drop their food. Pansy had been furious—she’d ruined a new acromantula silk blouse with some spaghetti bolognese, but it had delighted Millie.

“Hi George, it’s nice to meet you,” Millie said, her voice cracking.

She couldn’t quite meet his eyes, choosing to stare instead somewhere around the vicinity of his nose. It was slightly crooked, as if he’d been hit by a stray bludger once or twice, and hadn’t healed quite right.

He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head to the side like a crup.

“Oh bollocks,” Millie blurted out, “I’m sorry. Did I get your name wrong? I’m sorry. Are you… er… Bill? Or, well, you’re a Weasley right? You look so much like your brother Charlie, from the Romanian Dragon Reserve? He was one of the dragonologists that helped out when—”

“It’s George, you had it right,” he said, interrupting her with a smile. 

“Oh thank Merlin,” Millie sighed, sticking her hand out for a shake. “I thought I’d gone off on the wrong foot there.”

He looked down at her hand and took it—it was warm, calloused. Like hers. 

“And your name?” He asked, his blue eyes crinkling at the sides. 

“Er, yes, sorry about that. I’m Millicent Bullstrode, but please, call me Millie. Nobody but my parents call me Millicent.”

“All right, Millie.” 

She was still holding his hand. Her face heated, a bead of sweat dripping down between her cleavage and into her bra, and she dropped his hand.

He gave her another quick smile, a slight lift of the right side of his lip. Millie felt for one painful second that perhaps he was going to tell her it was a mistake, he couldn't possibly do this.

But then Daphne was next to her again, grinning at Millie like she was selling tooth cleaning charms and tying a pale pink ribbon around their hands. Millie’s heart was in her throat as a soft gold light appeared between them and the ribbon vanished.

“A year and a day,” Lavender reminded them, as they were escorted out of the room. “And you can decide what to do after that.”

They walked in silence along Horizont Alley, headed towards Diagon.

“So that was—” George began to say.

“Did you—oh, sorry, you go first.” Millie said.

“Er, no, you go ahead.” 

“Are you hungry?” Millie asked suddenly, her stomach giving a loud growl. “I've got all my things in my bag, but we could stop at the Leaky for lunch first if you'd like.”

“Well, I probably ought to get back to my shop soon but, fuck it, eh? Let's eat. It's not every day you get handfasted.”

Millie snorted, covering her mouth with her hand the second the sound left her mouth. 

George laughed as well, the sound of it as rusty as the old Mini her Muggle grandfather swore he was going to fix someday. 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s good to know I can still make people laugh.” He wrapped his own hand around her wrist, tugging it away from her mouth. “I hope Hannah’s got shepherd’s pie today. She’s been on a health kick lately and I can’t stand her veg.”

“Do you eat there often?”

“No, usually I get it as takeaway. I haven’t been there in months, really.”

Walking down the street with George was intoxicating—Millie felt as if she’d drunk a spiked gillywater.  The weather was glorious and Diagon Alley was crowded with people taking advantage of the sun to do their shopping, people pushing prams, children begging for toy brooms, couples strolling hand in hand.

George held the door for her as if it were normal, and led them to a corner booth. 

It was hard not to notice the eyes on them—Hannah in particular gave them both a wide-eyed look, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. But she took their order, shepherd’s pie and a Coronation chicken sandwich with a large side of chips to share, and left them alone. 

“So, er, you have work after this then?” Millie asked, grabbing a napkin and spreading it over her lap. 

She didn’t want to drop any chicken on her dress robes. 

“Yes, and you? Actually, what do you do?” George asked. “I’m sorry, this is so fucking weird. I don’t really know anything about you.”

“Oh, well, I’m not that interesting,” Millie began to say.

“Wait, didn’t you say you’d worked with my brother Charlie? On dragon eggs?” George interrupted. “Anyone that works with dragons is a little bit interesting, I’d think.”

Millie took a sip of water, her cheeks heating up.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I work as an Emergency Magical Creatures Control Officer for the Ministry. I work with magical creatures that are being harmed in some ways—a bit like an Auror?”

“Oh, wow, and you don’t think that’s interesting?” George asked.

“Well, my mum and dad aren’t too fond of it. But Care of Magical Creatures was always my best class, so it felt like a natural fit.” 

At that point, Hannah arrived with their food and they both spent a few minutes chewing in companionable silence.

“So where do you live? I can walk you home after this, if that’s—”

“Can I drop my stuff off at your place before I go back to the office—”

Millie set her sandwich down on the table, her heart pounding after they both spoke at the same time.

“Oh, did you not mean for me to move in with you?” She asked quietly. “I thought… since we’re handfasted…”

His face had gone pale, with two bright patches of pink on his cheeks.

“I honestly hadn’t thought about it.” He admitted, staring down at his plate. “But you did say you had your things with you, right?”

Millie wished she could sink into the floor. 

“Yes, I, I was living with my parents and thought I would move in with you but it’s fine. I can, oh I’ll Floo Pansy and see if she and Neville have a spare room, I don’t want to put you out if you weren’t, it’s just—” She couldn’t stop herself. Words kept pouring out of her mouth, her voice going higher and louder. 

Her napkin fluttered to the floor as she stood up abruptly, grabbing her purse from the floor. She could practically feel Hannah Abbott’s eyes on her from behind the bar. 

“I can just leave,” she said, her voice squeaky. “I, my cats, you see. I was going to set up for them first before I moved them but this way—”

George grabbed her hand again and pulled her next to him. She let him maneuver her into his side of the booth, painfully aware of how sweaty her palms must be. 

“Take a deep breath, all right? I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking. I can take you to the flat, you can stay with me. It makes sense, right? We did get handfasted.” George whispered, letting go of her hand.

Millie tried her best to give him a reassuring smile, clenching her teeth very widely.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to,” she said.

“I’m not offering because I have to, Millie,” he replied. “It’s—”

He stopped abruptly, looking over at his left where Hannah stood, holding two flutes of pale pink bubbling liquid.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I just heard you say you’re handfasted. I wanted to give you these on the house! Congratulations to you both!” Hannah said, a friendly smile on her face.

It had been years since Millie had solved her problems with her fists, but Circe’s tits, was she ever tempted now. Instead, she smiled back at Hannah, jaws aching, and took one of the glasses she was offering.

“Thanks, Hannah,” George said, before chugging the glass of champagne in one go. 

“I’ve been thinking about trying it myself,” Hannah tittered. “I’ve heard good things.”

She stood there smiling at them, a tea towel draped over her arm. Millie shifted in her seat, rubbing her thighs together in discomfort. All Millie wanted to do was get out of there as fast as possible.

“Yes, well,” George said. “Thanks for the bubbles Hannah, but do you mind?”

“Oh, of course, enjoy the rest of your meal! Congratulations again!” Hannah said, giving them their privacy once more.

At least as much privacy as one could get at the Leaky Cauldron at lunch time.

George turned to Millie and put his hand on her arm.

“Please don't run off just yet. I'll take you to my flat and you can drop off your things.” He said in a low voice, his dark blue eyes staring directly into her own.

Millie couldn't help herself, she shivered slightly under his touch. She wanted to lean into him but she knew she needed an answer first.

“If you weren't expecting to move in with someone, why did you sign up to be handfasted?” Millie asked, staring directly back at him.

He let out a sigh and eyed her glass of champagne that was still half full. She pushed it towards him with a finger and he gave her a grateful smile, drinking it down in a gulp.

She watched him swallow, tapping her hand on the table. Her other hand itched to grab her wand and Apparate out of there, but she waited.

“You're right to ask that,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “I'll not lie to you. I didn't expect to be handfasted, not really. I just… I didn't want to be alone anymore. I don't know if I'm fit company. But, if you want to move in, well, I'm happy to have you. And your cat.”

“Two cats.”

“Two cats, right. I'm happy to have all three of you, then.” He seemed distant, distracted—no longer the cheerful man he’d been just ten minutes ago.

Millie sucked in her breath and thought for a moment about the suitcase she'd shrunk down and stuck in her bag. Could she bear to unpack it all back at her parent’s house?

Feeling the weight of disappointment in their look. Sad, single Millie and her cats.

With the same impulsive attitude that led her to sign up for the damned thing in the first place, Millie nodded her head.

“All right, George. Take me to your flat.”

Chapter Text

He’d reshelved the boxes of Daydream Charms three times, but wasn’t satisfied with the presentation. George sat down on the floor where he had stood, frowning at the glow-in-the-dark packaging.

It couldn’t be helped. He was a fucking arsehole.

Millicent didn’t deserve this—he was a bloody mess. That morning, he hadn’t thought about anything but himself. His own boredom, and unhappiness, and loneliness. 

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had sex. Or had even wanted it. 

Then he’d seen her in the office, thick brown hair framing her round face, a full, luscious mouth and curves like a broom racetrack. 

Suddenly, he’d felt like a randy 4th Year all over again, getting his first peek at a witch’s breasts.

Until it all blew up in his face because she needed to move in with him and he hadn’t bothered to read the fine print of the stupid, bloody contract he’d signed. 

Fred was the one who’d drawn up the original paperwork for the shop when they were testing products at Hogwarts—George had never had a mind for contracts. He felt like a right prick, now.

Now she was upstairs in his flat, unpacking her things.

Seeing his place through her eyes had made him feel unsteady on his feet. She’d taken her suitcases out of her bag and enlarged them, examining the pile of old takeaway containers on his counter with a thoughtful expression.

He ought to send a Howler to Angelina. It was her fault he was in this stupid mess. They could have just left him alone. He hadn’t been hurting anyone.

George eyed his watch. It was half past seven. The shop had been closed for an hour and a half at this point, but he hadn’t the nerve to go upstairs yet. He leaned over his knees and rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes.

It would be rude to leave her alone upstairs. 

The shepherd’s pie he’d had at the Leaky was big enough to keep his stomach from growling, but he did desperately want a glass of Firewhiskey, and his head was throbbing. 

Every once in a while, he’d get a phantom pain where his missing ear was, and today was one of those days. It itched him and he wanted to scratch and scratch and scratch until he drew blood. 

“You can’t hide down here forever,” George whispered to himself, but he didn’t get up off the floor. 

He stretched his body out, pointing his toes, and groaned when the bones in his feet cracked. 

“You're getting old and out of shape,” he muttered, and tried not to think about how Fred would never grow old.

It was always in the back of his mind, the comparison, the fact that he'd once had a mirror and now he was alone, only half a person.

The door that led to the upstairs flat creaked open, and from his place in the ground, he saw a pair of feet in fuzzy green socks. He looked up at Millie’s strong, curved bare legs and the cut-off pair of sweats she wore underneath a baggy Slytherin Quidditch jersey.

He scrambled to his feet and knocked over several boxes, some insane excuse flowing from his mouth like Aguamenti.

“Sorry to scare you,” she said, ducking her head and going pink in the cheeks.

She was tall, almost of a height with him, even without shoes. He waited for her to say whatever it was she had to say to him.

“I noticed you didn't have much food in the fridge, so I nipped out to Tesco, grabbed some things. Do you want anything in particular on your jacket potato, or is cheese and canned chili fine? A salad, too. From a bag. So nothing fancy but…” She trailed off. “It's edible.”

“What about your cats?” George asked.

“They'll be fine tonight. My dad, well, he claimed he never wanted a pet, but he adores them. So I can go get them in the morning once everything is set up.”

He looked at her in the dark, the only light the faint glow from some of the packaging on the shelves. She'd showered, and her hair was still damp, no longer loose around her face but instead plaited into a long braid that hung over her shoulder. It had left wet marks on the green jersey she wore.

Part of him was curious whose it was—she hadn't been on the team, not while he was at Hogwarts. Whose name was on her back?

“Ah, thanks,” he said, taking that idle thought and shoving it down where it belonged. “Just uh, let me finish up here and I'll join you upstairs for dinner.”

She nodded and turned, heading back from where she came.

The name on the back was BULSTRODE. That made him irrationally pleased, and he dusted his hands and stuck the boxes on the ground back on the shelf any which way.

By the time he went upstairs, he noticed the changes she'd already made. She'd vanished the empty containers on the counter and had set some of the dishes to wash themselves. The table was set, and she was just emptying a can of chili into a pot on the little stove.

He didn't even remember owning a pot.

“Smells good,” he said, noting the green and silver crochet blanket she'd draped over the couch and a neat stack of luggage by the Floo.

She gave him a look that made his own lips twitch in amusement. 

“It's canned chili, George,” she said in a flat voice.

“Yeah, well, you saw the state of my fridge,” he replied, grabbing the bag of salad on the counter and rummaging in the cupboard for a bowl. “Are you a cook?”

“Oh, Salazar, no. But I know my way around a Tesco freezer aisle. My mum loves to cook, but I never had the patience. I like to eat, though. You?”

George smiled at the inside of his cupboard. “My mum taught us all how to cook, but to be honest, when I moved in, I never really got into the habit. Other stuff just seemed more important at the time.”

She didn’t respond to that, but instead, she came up behind him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. She rubbed her thumb in a small circle, and he found himself leaning into her touch. 

He took a breath and turned to look at her. Her round cheeks were lightly dusted with freckles, and her lips were pink and full and just a little chapped.

He wanted to say something, anything, smart right then, but instead, he nodded curtly at the table.

“Let’s eat,” he mumbled, taking down the bowl and setting it on the counter, stepping away from her touch.

Dinner was a quiet affair, only the sound of them chewing and the scrape of knives on plates breaking up the silence in the room. 

“If you prefer, I can sleep in that other room,” Millie said suddenly, setting her fork down next to her empty plate. “We don’t have to share a bed or anything, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

George choked on the bite of potato he’d been in the process of swallowing, and it took a few moments of coughing and Millie thumping him enthusiastically on the back before he was able to speak. 

His eyes watered as he looked at her, carefully avoiding looking at the shadowed hallway. 

“The other room?” He asked slowly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

He’d put a Notice-Me-Not charm on that door several years ago and had gotten out of the habit of looking in that direction. It must have faded, and he hadn’t even noticed. When had that happened?

She kept talking, her words spilling out of her faster and faster. 

“Yes, it’s a bit dusty and filled to the brim with rubbish, but I can tidy it up and move in there if you prefer.” Millie waved her wand to summon a napkin that batted him gently in his face. “I just want you to be comfortable since you’d said you hadn’t exactly… expected this. I don’t want to presume, you know, that we’d…”

George held up his hand to catch the napkin. 

“It’s all right. No, no. Uh, that room’s not really ready for that right now. You can sleep on my bed and I can take the sofa,” George said, interrupting her.

She wrinkled her nose at him, clearly displeased.

“I can’t turn you out of your own bed, George. I can take the sofa.”

“My mum would have my arse if she knew I put a lady on the sofa. I’ll take it.” George insisted again, standing up to clear the dishes from the table.

If she had cooked, he could certainly wash the dishes. 

She stood up as well, grabbing her own plate from the table.

“Well, that’s a load of sexist rubbish,” Millie said. “I’m perfectly capable of sleeping on a sofa.”

George took the plate from her hands, briefly brushing her fingers with his own. Her fingers were calloused, strong, and he had the briefest flash of what they might feel like wrapped around his cock. 

His mother would really have his arse if she knew he was thinking about that, too.

“Fuck it, this is stupid. We’re both adults, and we’re bloody handfast for the next year. Sleep with me.”

She blushed, cheeks turning a rosy pink. The color travelled all down her face and neck, and his eyes followed it for a moment to the neckline of her jersey. Did it go all the way down to her generous breasts? Had they given him some kind of lust potion at the bloody handfasting ceremony? 

All day long, his mind had begun to wander towards things like how his fingers might sink into the plush fullness of her hips instead of on his job. It was beginning to get… uncomfortable, and sharing a bed probably wouldn’t help. It really had been too long since he’d last had sex with a willing witch.

“All right,” she answered. “At least until we can sort out the other room. I’m too knackered to argue about it tonight.”

George nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak at this moment. The other room was… he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. It could wait until tomorrow. Or later this week. It didn’t really matter.

He waved her off so he could finish the dishes, and she could go lie down in his bed. It was strange, hearing someone else moving around in this space. He charmed the rest of the plates to dry and went to join her in the bedroom.

She had left on a small orb of glowing blue light, and it cast strange shadows across her face where she lay against the pillow. She was curled up along the left side of the bed, one hand in a fist near her lips. Her breathing was slow and steady, and he wondered if she was truly asleep or merely feigning it.

Either way, he whispered a quick goodnight and cast a finite on the light, sliding into the covers beside her.

It wasn’t long before they had settled into a routine. Millie was an early riser, and though she tried to be quiet, even going so far as to use a silencing charm, her absence from the bed caused George to stir. So, George began to wake up with her, putting on toast and tea while she showered and got ready for the day. 

He’d say goodbye, sending her off with a thermos and a sandwich, and head downstairs to open up the shop. 

Depending on the day, she’d bring back some takeaway or swing by the Tesco with some groceries, and they’d take turns. One of them would cook, the other would start the dishes. 

It wasn’t anything fancy, usually. Millie wasn’t kidding when she said she wasn’t much of a cook, and George was  woefully out of practice. But something about the repetition, knowing she was there, had him looking for the copy of Mathilda Miracle’s Easy Weeknight Magic Meals his mother had gifted him and Fred when they’d first moved in.

In the beginning, he and Fred had been too enthralled with their new freedom to bother cracking it open. Choosing instead to go to Muggle London and try everything, curries and pizza, and Muggle girls. Merlin, so many Muggle girls.

The front page of the book had his mother’s neat handwriting, and when he first pulled it out from under the pile of spellbooks on his desk he’d opened it to that page.

Dear Fred and George, I hope you find this useful. I want you to know how proud I am of you both, although I may not always show it. You both have become such wonderful, independent young men, but you’ll always be my little boys.

Love,

Mum

He’d held that stupid book in his hands for a long time after reading that, his mouth dry and his palms sweaty. When Millie had come through the Floo, bits of feathers in her braid, she’d stared at him for a moment before plucking the book from his hands.

She looked at the cookbook, squinting a bit at his mother’s dedication, and then she turned to look at him, a soft, sad smile on her lips.

“Well, the no-wand-required grilled peri-peri chicken looks amazing. I’d eat that,” Millie said, setting the book down on the table. “I wouldn’t mind getting my own back against a chicken after today.”

George let out a breath, studying her again—more slowly. The two cats—Missy, a fluffy tortoiseshell and Rupert, a small ginger cat, had both run out at her entrance and were twisting around her legs, sniffing and pawing at her with unusual energy.

“Sorry, just had a moment there… what, uh, happened to you?”

In addition to the bits of white feathers clinging to her hair, he realized she had tears running up and down her khaki uniform. The edge of one collar was loose, hanging slightly off her shoulder and exposing a hint of a lime-green bra strap and her hands were covered in scratches.

“Merlin, are you bleeding?” George exclaimed, stepping forward to grab her hand and examine it.

Without thinking, he summoned one of the jars of dittany paste from his work desk. There were scorch marks up and down her arm, as well, and she smelt faintly of smoke.

“It’s not a big deal,” Millie mumbled, tugging her hand back. “We were called to a severe case of animal hoarding up in Burnham. An elderly chap had several dozen flaming marsh daisy hens, just running amok. Absolute chaos, I’ll have you know.”

“There were flaming chickens… in Burnham?” George asked, unable to stop himself. He’d grabbed her hand back and began using his wand to clean up some of the scratches. 

Millie’s round cheeks turned pink as her lips turned up in a slight smile.

“I know, bloody ridiculous, isn’t it? They’d gotten loose and set the thatch roof on fire. The aurors were livid, screaming about the statute while we were chasing the hens all around the lane. I got off pretty easy, though. Oliver Copperthwaite had to go to St Mungo’s because one of them set his trousers on fire, he’ll be on leave for a few weeks, but I just wanted to get home.” 

At the word home, George felt a pang in his chest. Millie thought of this place as a home. He squeezed her hand, unable to say anything. Instead, he set about carefully applying the paste to her scratches, touching the soft skin on the underside of her arm.

George was silent throughout dinner, content to let Millie chatter on about work. He watched as she gave the two cats their own food, watching as she scratched them behind their ears. He sat next to her on the sofa as she leafed through a copy of Magical Birds and Bloom, and he pretended to make notes on a new line of products for pets. 

The candlelight flickering in the room made Millie’s skin glow, and he wanted to touch her again, feel the softness of her skin. But he didn’t know how to ask—or if it was fair to ask. 

After all, he still didn’t know if this was temporary or not. And just beyond their little bubble stood Fred’s door.

Chapter Text

Nicking fashion magazines and Muggle nail polish from Boots had been how she’d first made friends with Daphne and Pansy and Tracey.

“How is your young man doing, then, lovie?” Ethel asked from where she sat on the porch.  “Dottie told me about him, when will you bring him round so we can have a look at him?”

Millie was crouched down near Ethel’s feet, weeding the flower beds. She grunted, pulling up a particularly stubborn weed—wishing she could just use her bloody wand, but she wasn’t sure if someone might walk past the house, and the last thing she needed was to get busted for breaking the Statute.

“Oh, I don’t know if it’s that serious yet, Ethel. I’ll let you know.”

“Well, don’t wait too long. You young folk always think you’ve got nothing but time, but—”

“Stop pestering my granddaughter, Ethel,” Dottie said, opening the screen door. “Millie, come inside for a moment, I’ve got some biscuits and tea for you.”

“Oi, what about me? Am I just chopped liver to you then?” Ethel muttered.

“You will be if you keep monopolizing her. Stay out here, you old bat,” Dottie snapped back, but her tone was affectionate and she had a smile on her wide mouth.

Mille stood up and stretched, cracking her back with an audible pop.

“Put some Tiger balm on that, lovie. You only get the one back.” Ethel said, picking up the basket of knitting at her feet. “Or can your lot regrow that too?” she asked in a whisper.

“Not everything can be regrown,” Millie whispered back.

“A shame, my knees aren’t what they used to be.”

Millie followed her grandmother inside, ignoring Ethel’s exaggerated wink behind her. The two elderly women basically had a comedy routine going at this point and would often spend hours amicably bickering back and forth.

“Sit down, dear, and let me have a look at you,” Dottie said, her tone sharp.

Millie obeyed, sitting down at the table and resting her arms on the plastic floral tablecloth. Dottie set a plate of biscuits in front of her and a steaming mug of tea.

Plucking a biscuit from the plate, Millie took a bite and then straightened in her seat, conscious of the fact that Dottie was giving her a onceover.

“Well, Dottie, what is it?” Millie finally asked, dusting the crumbs off the front of her blouse.

“I know I don’t understand everything about your world, kitten, but some things are the same, whether it’s magic or mundane,” Dottie said, her voice shaking slightly. “It took me a long time to admit how I felt. Too long. I could have wasted my life if I hadn’t gotten lucky.”

The old woman cast a glance at the door to the porch where Ethel still sat, knitting, or more likely, dozing in the early morning sunshine.

“I don’t want you to waste yours,” Dottie said, wrapping her thin, gnarled hands around Millie’s and squeezing tightly. 

Millie squeezed back, closing her eyes and thinking about George.

After her conversation with her grandmother, Millie went back to the flat she shared with George to take a much needed shower. He should be out still with his friends playing quidditch and she had time to herself to think over what Dottie had said.

Somehow, inexplicably, she’d fallen in love with George. The way you slid into bed at the end of a long day. He filled her up with a lightness just by being George. Beautiful, funny, caring George.

It was the way he brought her favorite biscuits from the shop and served them with tea on lazy Sunday afternoons or how he designed a tiny golden snitch cat toy for Missy and Rupert to chase. The fact that he asked about her day, remembered stories she told him about Dottie and her “dear friend” Ethel. The way he looked at her, blue eyes smouldering, that set her belly to rumbling.

But then he would sink into silence, staring at the other bedroom door. She pretended not to notice when he lay in bed awake next to her, gazing blankly up at the ceiling. The bottle of Firewhiskey that emptied far too quickly for her comfort, the untouched plates of food she’d scrape into the rubbish bin.

Millie couldn’t help but see George as a whole person, a person who was deeply hurt in a way she didn’t think she could touch. 

Not everything is your responsibility to fix, Millie reminded herself as she turned off the water, summoning a towel from the rack and warming it up with a charm.

Rupert hopped down off the toilet seat where he’d been perched, watching her shower, and wound himself through her legs. She bent down to scratch him behind the ears and smiled as he purred. 

“Where’s Missy, then?” Millie asked the cat.

Of course, the cat didn’t verbally reply, but he did walk out of the bathroom, tail straight up like an exclamation point, before giving her a look that clearly said, follow me. Millie wrapped the towel around her body and followed Rupert into the hallway towards the bedroom.

To her surprise, George was there laying on the bed with Missy seated on his chest purring loudly.

Millie tried to back up before George could look up and notice her, wet and nearly naked, but he sat up, dislodging Missy, who gave an annoyed squeak. George stared at Millie, his hand reaching up to brush his messy hair off his face.

The room felt heavy and hot, as if all the steam from the shower had moved here, thickening the air between them.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were out,” Millie stammered, unable to bear the silence. She could feel herself go pink and itchy in embarrassment, horribly aware of just how inadequate the towel was wrapped around her. “Isn’t today your quidditch day?”

George swallowed before replying. “Er, yes, but it got cancelled. Ang and Katie both got food poisoning. Dodgy meat pies at some food festival yesterday, apparently. So I came back.”

His eyes were still on her, and Millie’s own hands twitched, pulling the towel closer over her breasts and belly. As he gazed at her, Millie felt her own embarrassment melt away—instead, with a roaring in her ears, she felt a heady surge of power. She met his eyes and knew the way he was looking at her, hungry. She licked her lips. 

“Sorry, I should, uh, let you have your privacy,” George mumbled, turning around to face the other side of the room.

“No, it’s, it’s all right,” Millie replied, her own eyes on the broad line of his back. “We are married, after all.” 

“We are married,” George repeated, still facing the opposite wall.

Millie stepped closer to the bed, willing herself to have the courage to reach out and touch him.

George stood up abruptly.

“I’ll let you get dressed,” he said. “I'll put on something for an early supper, turn on the wireless.”

He shut the door with a soft click as he left the room, leaving Millie and both cats on the other side.

Millie sat down on the bed and buried her face in her hands, a wave of humiliation sweeping through her entire body, making her go cold all over. Missy crept up beside her, butting her head affectionately against Millie’s arm.

“Not my finest moment, eh girl?” Millie mumbled.

She couldn’t help it—she leaned down to give the cat a scratch behind the ears and immediately felt a tiny bit better. She hadn’t imagined that look on George’s face. He had been interested in her. But she didn’t know what made him leave so abruptly. 

Had she been too forward?

She breathed out through her nose, trying to calm herself. No. She’d been fine. 

What she really needed was to talk to him. Honest, straightforward, figure out how he felt about taking their marriage to the next level.

Millie pulled on a casual pair of sweatpants and a cozy sweater before leaving the bedroom, plaiting her hair into her typical tight braid.

The smell and sound of sizzling sausage greeted her and both cats ran towards the stove where George was cooking, immediately twisting about his feet.

“Oi, you two. You can't trip me just to get what you want,” George said, dancing around them and holding the spatula up high.

“They’re big fans of crime, I wouldn’t put it past them,” Millie said, walking towards the tea pot to lift off the cozy and pour herself a cuppa.

George’s cheeks turned pink as he looked at her, the dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes clearly apparent in the bright light of the kitchen. 

“I’m sorry, about earlier,” George said, looking directly at her. “I just…fuck, I’m burning the sausages.”

He turned back to the stove to pull off the pan, which had started smoking and spitting hot grease everywhere. Millie knelt down to push the cats out of the way before he tripped and burned himself.

Amidst the commotion, Millie heard the sound of the floo. The two cats scattered at once, diving off in two different directions to hide.

“George, it’s been months since you’ve been home and your father told me not to meddle, and that you’re a grown man who should have his space, but I’ve had it up to here with this behavior—”

The smoke from the pan set off the fire alarm charm in the kitchen, cutting off the woman shouting from the floo. George stood still, as if he’d been frozen solid, the smoking pan in one hand and his wand in the other.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed out. “My mother.”

“Are you all right in there? It looks smoky,” George’s mother continued to shout. “I’m not sure if the floo connection isn’t faulty. Percy said he fixed it up for us but you never know. I can come through—”

Millie’s eyes widened.

“Do you want to go in there?” She whispered at him, “I can take care of the pan.”

George shrugged. 

“I mean, I don’t want to but I probably have to!” He whispered back, nearly dropping the pan as he stuck it back on the stove.

Millie pulled out her own wand and disabled the smoke alarm charm, before siphoning up some of the smoke. The cats had vanished, hiding from all the noise, and George squared his shoulders, heading towards the floo.

“It’s been five months, George, and you still haven’t brought Millicent round except for the one time. I may be old-fashioned but if you’re going to continue living with her, I just think we ought to meet her more than once.”

“Mum, please!” George said, interrupting her. 

“Well, there you are, dear. It certainly took you long enough to answer your floo. Oh, but you look so skinny. Are you sure you don’t want to come over for supper today? Both you and your Millicent.”

“She’s not my Millicent!” George burst out loudly, startling her so much she dropped her wand on her foot.

“Oh, fuck,” Millie muttered, bending down to pick it up. She was tempted to cast a silencing charm. She didn’t need to hear this.

“Well, not with that attitude,” George’s mother retorted. “Honestly, George. You’ve been married to the girl for half a year and—”

“Mum, I’ve got something on the stove. Can we just do this later? Please?”

The sound of a grate slamming in front of the floo echoed through the flat as the connection fizzled out. The door swung open with a loud bang and George stormed in, red in the face.

“I’m sorry about that,” George said, panting and out of breath.. “I didn’t want—I didn’t mean…” 

“George, it’s fine.” Millie tried to say, but he kept talking, shaking his head.

“No, it’s not fine. I don’t know why she’s trying to insert herself—” George began gently banging his head on the door.

“Because she cares about you, and she’s worried about you, and to be fair, she’s not wrong. George, you can’t… I can’t go on like this,” Millie said. 

George sighed, sliding down to the floor, back against the wall. He stretched his legs out. The room still smelled of burned sausage and smoke. 

Millie sat down next to him and put her hand on his arm.

“I’m not going to lie to you. I like you, and I think, maybe, you like me. But if this is going to work, we have to actually talk. If you want it to work.” Millie said quietly.

“Millie—”

“George, let me finish. I like myself, too. And I’m tired of accepting less than I deserve. I deserve to be happy, George, and so do you.”

Millie conjured a handkerchief and handed it to George so he could wipe his eyes. 

“I’m going to go away for a little bit, George. I think you need some time to think.”

George nodded, the silvery tracks of tears obvious on his face. 

“Millie, I do want to give this a go. A real go.” His voice was rough, thick with emotion. “I just… I don’t know if I’m enough.”

Millie squeezed his bicep, willing her magic, her heart, to reach out and touch his.

“I think you’re enough, George, but you need to think so, too.”

Then, Millie stood up and left George there, seated on the cool kitchen tile, and gathered her things into a suitcase. George was still on the floor when she stood on the porch and apparated to Brighton. 

Chapter Text

When George woke up, the room was quiet. Nobody was meowing for breakfast, the soft sound of Millicent’s breathing wasn’t there, her warm body wasn’t beside him in the bed. His throat and behind his eyes ached. It had been a long time since he’d cried himself to sleep—not since the first few days after the Battle, before he’d started taking everything he felt and turning it in on himself. 

Now it was like everything had been knocked loose, his skin felt raw and exposed. He’d only known her for a few months but something about the way she’d slotted into his life, not seamlessly, no—nothing in life was ever really seamless. But she’d brought laughter and new ideas and she looked at him like she wasn’t waiting for Fred to finish his sentences. 

George wanted that. He wanted her quite desperately. He just didn’t know how to take it.

He rolled over in the bed and pressed his face into her pillow, sniffing the faint scent of her vanilla shampoo. 

Right.

First step.

Get out of the bed.

He could smell himself and he needed a shower, rather badly.

Slowly, painfully, he extricated himself from the bed. Merlin, he wasn’t seventeen anymore. 

The bathroom still held faint traces of Millie. She’d left behind a hair tie on the sink, with a few bobby pins scattered around. The cats liked to take them and bat them into the corners, and it had given him the idea to try and design a tiny snitch for them to play with. Maybe even an entire line of enchanted pet toys.

Somehow his world had expanded to fit her and he hadn’t even realized it was happening until last night. 

He lingered in the shower, touching the bottle of her shampoo that was still on the shelf. By the time he summoned a towel to him and dried his hair, he had an idea. First, he would clean the flat—including the other room. Fred’s things, Fred’s memory, deserved better.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Millicent telling him he deserved better. He shook his head, trying to shake loose his thoughts and dressed quickly.

If he didn’t try to do this now, he didn’t know when he’d next gather the nerve.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn shut letting in no light. It smelled like a stale stasis charm, frayed at the edges. Dust had managed to seep in over the last few years, and George couldn’t help himself—he sneezed.

He conjured a mask to cover his face and went to open the curtains, letting in the light. There were spiderwebs in the corner, but no sign of any other insects. He muttered a quick thank you to the spiders for their service before vanishing their webs.

It felt strange being in here. Heavy.

There were stacks of books and papers on Fred’s desk, the bed linens were still pulled aside as if he’d be crawling into them, and the wall had faint scorch marks from the war that had never been cleaned up.

It was midday when George heard a tapping coming from the kitchen. He set down the notebook of Fred’s he’d been leaving through and looked around him. He had not made much progress—there was simply so much stuff. 

An owl was perched on the window, glaring at him and tapping insistently with its beak.

George opened the window and took the note.

Dear George, 

I just wanted to check in with you. I got to my grandmother’s all right. I’ll be here for a couple of days while we sort things out.

Please don’t be mad at me. I’m not mad at you. I hope you’re doing all right.

Love

Talk to you soon I hope,

Millie

George gave the owl a treat.

“Wait here for a sec, would you? I need to reply.”

He quickly scrawled a reassurance that he wasn’t mad, his quill leaving little spots of ink everywhere and gave it back to the disgruntled looking owl.

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” George said, tucking the roll of parchment into the little satchel tied to the owl’s foot.

It took off in a burst of wind and feathers, and George closed the window once more, latching it tightly. 

He checked under the sink for some cleaning materials to help deal with the room and sighed. If he wanted to do this properly, he needed to consult an expert. He just wasn’t sure he was ready to face her yet.

It took three days of entering Fred’s room, helplessly shuffling about some papers and turning around before he finally realized he couldn’t put it off any longer. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the fire, headed for the Burrow.

“Mum, are you—oh, hi Hermione,!” George began to say before he realized Hermione wasn’t alone.

George closed his eyes and backed up against the edge of the fireplace, knocking over an iron poker. It fell to the ground with a loud clatter, knocking a container of floo powder everywhere.

“Fuck,” George muttered.

“Oh, hello, George,” Hermione said, tugging the edge of her robe back down over her thighs. 

“Er, sorry about that,” Ron muttered, getting up off his knees and wiping his mouth.

“For Merlin’s sake, you two. On the sofa. Don’t you have your own flat?” George asked, dragging a hand down his face. “I sit on that, you degens.”

“Oh, don’t be a prude, George,” Hermione said, cheeks tinged a delicate shade of pink. “Can we help you?”

“Can you help me? For fuck’s sake. You know what, I don’t even want to talk about it, bloody perverts,” George muttered, using his wand to siphon up the floo powder back into the container. “Do you know where Mum is? I want to talk to her.”

Ron cleared his throat, sitting down next to Hermione on the sofa and pulling a decorative pillow onto his lap.

“She just nipped out to the bakery. We were going to have tea together but—” Ron said.

 George interrupted him. “You decided you needed to defile the sofa?”

“Ah, come off it. I’ll scourgify it if it bothers you that much. I once caught Fr–” Ron stopped himself before he finished his sentence, eyes widening.

Ron turned to Hermione, a frantic expression on his face.

“Molly will be right back, she just wanted to pick up some biscuits from the shop,” Hermione said smoothly, putting a hand on Ron’s shoulder in reassurance.

“You can say his name, you know.” George said, his expression turning serious. “Fred. You don’t have to be shy around it with me. I’m not made of fairy wings.”

Ron and Hermione shared another look, communicating something that he was left out of. George felt a pang of longing for that sort of connection, the wordless way of just knowing what someone is thinking without being told. He’d had it once, with Fred, and had lost it. 

Was it something he could have again? 

Another twinge in his stomach now as he thought about Millie, the way she smiled and moved around him in the kitchen, setting the table as he cooked.

“We don’t think you’re weak, George. We just, I just don’t want to hurt you.” Ron said slowly, his eyes somewhat glassy.

Tears, George realized. He was tearing up—they both were. George reached up and wiped his eyes with the bottom of his palm.

Hermione murmured something in a soft voice, and stood up, leaving an empty space on the sofa next to Ron. As she left the room, George sat down next to Ron, resting his face in his hands.

The sofa creaked beneath his weight, a comfortable and familiar place. The ticking of the family clock like a heartbeat that surrounded them. 

“I felt weak,” George confessed.“I felt like it wasn’t fair, that I was still here and he… he wasn’t.”

A warm arm wrapped around him, pulling him close.

“We all miss Fred, George. We always will. But I’m glad you’re here.” Ron said, his own voice wavering. 

Letting out a shaky breath, George wiped his face again with the edge of his sleeve.

“Ah, yes, because I’m your favorite.” George said.

“Fuck off,” Ron replied, but the affection in his voice was clear. 

They sat there for another few minutes in silence before Ron cleared his throat.

“Er, so, what brought this on, then? If you, er… don’t mind me asking. Not that I’m saying you need a reason to talk or anything, just, um… yeah.”

“Stop, please. I’m begging you,” George laughed. 

“Oi, don’t laugh at me. I’m trying to be a safe space.” Ron flicked George in his good ear.

George considered retaliating with a stinging hex but thought better of it, turning around on the sofa to face his brother. 

“Where did you learn that?”

Ron shrugged, his cheeks turning pink again. He tapped his fingers on his knees, his restless energy contagious—making George want to tap his feet as well. 

“Hermione’s gotten really into this Muggle cycle-ology stuff.” Ron lowered his voice, glancing towards the door to the kitchen as if she would hear him and come storming out. “It sounds rubbish but it’s actually good stuff, you know? Talking about your feelings.”

George nodded.

“So, do you want to talk about them?” Ron continued.

“My feelings?”

“Yes, you numpty. What do you think? Look, I’m not great at this but I’m here if you want to talk. Or Hermione can get you the name of someone. It really does help.”

Leaning back on the sofa, George stared up at the ceiling. There was a scorch mark up there from Percy’s first accidental magic that looked exactly like the profile of the Muggle Queen Victoria. His mother had been too proud of it to remove it. 

All around the room were little touches from their childhood—the one and only blanket Ginny had tried knitting, too short to cover anyone up because she’d gotten bored, but still placed on a chair. Drawings they’d done pinned framed on the wall, the jerky crayon figures flying on broomsticks or dueling with wands. Posed family portraits and informal pictures.

Pictures of him, always with Fred. He’d never been without Fred.

“I just, I’d been thinking. About Millie, you know,” George began, then stopped himself. “Wait, I need to start over. It’s not her fault. I don’t want you to think that. Just that, with her, I felt guilty because I realized I was doing things Fred never would. And maybe I was letting that guilt stop me from… living.”

Ron looked at him, his red-rimmed blue eyes serious. 

“Just because Fred isn’t here physically, doesn’t mean he isn’t still with us, George. In our hearts. He wouldn’t want you to stop living your life because of him. He’d hate it.”

“Yeah, he would.” George admitted, closing his eyes and imagining the look on Fred’s face if he told him he had married a Slytherin witch without even knowing her name first. 

For once, imagining Fred didn’t feel like a slicing hex. Instead it was more like pressing on a bruise. It hurt still, but there was also comfort in pushing it—the pain meant he was still there, in his heart.

“Oh, boys,” their mother cried out, stepping into the room with her arms outstretched. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you both here. Oh, Georgie. He would be so happy for you.”

George sat up and opened his eyes, Hermione stood just behind Molly, an apologetic look on her face.

“Sorry!” Hermione mouthed, as his mum swept him up into a hug.

“It’s fine,” George mouthed back, patting his mother on the back. “Mum, I’m fine.”

George stayed for tea and let his mother fill him up with biscuits and potted ham sandwiches, fussing over him the entire afternoon. It should have felt stifling, the way she would hover and keep adding things to his plate, but as he sat there basking in her warmth and care, it felt right for the first time in a long time.

When he finally stood up to leave, his mother filled a large cauldron for him with a broom, a dust pan, several potions and a book on household charms.

“If you want me to come over and help you,” she whispered into his shoulder as she hugged him. 

He could feel the damp of tears on his shirt and realized he, too, was crying again.

“Thank you, mum, but I need to do this.”

George went back home by Floo to finally clean the flat.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since Millicent had left George’s flat, but the time moved slowly, like a failed potion that went all sludgy in the cauldron. Dottie and Ethel had doted on her, making the already small space feel even smaller by the constant offering of hobnobs and Pimm’s cups. 

“My older sister always used to say the best way to get over a man was to get under a new one,” Ethel whispered one evening. “But I personally recommend a woman. They make better lovers.”

“Oi, Ethel,” Dottie exclaimed, rolling up her copy of HELLO! and smacking Ethel on the shoulder with it. “Stop trying to corrupt my granddaughter. She’ll sort it out in her own time.”

She’d had time. Plenty of time to think about whether or not she’d made the right decision, leaving George alone at his flat like that. Millie wanted him, quite badly, but she also wanted someone to want her back.

When Millie first signed the contract to let Daphne find her a husband with magic, she didn’t have any expectations. She just didn’t want to be alone anymore. But after spending time with George, Millie realized she simply couldn’t settle for less. She liked him too much to beg him to stay. He needed to want it for himself.

“It’s fine,” Millie said, slurping the last of her tea.

They were all sprawled out like cats on the porch, enjoying the evening breeze. The air smelled of the sea and Millie had the urge to go swimming, something she hadn’t done in years. Not since she used to rise early and cast a warming charm on herself to go swim in the Black Lake. 

A familiar crack interrupted the quiet and Millie nearly dropped her mug. She sat up straight, the hairs on the back of her neck rising with anticipation. 

“Gran, Ethel, I think you should go inside,” Millie whispered.

She moved her hand slowly, carefully to the pocket where her wand sat, resting her fingers against the smooth grain of the wood.

From around the corner of the house, plucking several dead leaves from his hair, strode George Fucking Weasley. He held a bouquet of bright red peonies and wore a ridiculous brown suit with a bright orange and green striped tie. 

“You really ought to trim that—” he started to say.

“You scared the shit out of me!” Millie exclaimed, standing straight up and pointing a finger directly at him. 

“I’m sorry, I, are you all right?” George said.

“Oh, is this your young man?” Dottie said, getting up off the porch to have a better look at him. “He’s tall.”

For a brief moment as Dottie circled George like a shark, Millicent considered the feasibility of apparating directly into the ocean. 

“Dottie, dear, I think your granddaughter and her young man need to talk,” Ethel said. 

Dottie let out a gentle harumph, but nodded at Ethel. 

“I’ll be right inside if you need me, Millie, dear. You, I have my eye on.” Dottie pointed her own finger at George. 

“Of course, ma’am,” George said, nodding at her.

So slowly it was almost painful, Dottie hobbled to the porch, backwards, keeping her eyes on George the entire time.

This was beginning to feel like some horrible play.

“Gran, I know, and you know I know, you can move faster than that,” Millie finally grumbled, tired of her grandmother’s antics.

“Oh, let an old woman have her fun,” Dottie muttered, before moving inside with significantly more dexterity.

George and Millie stood outside her grandmother’s home for just a moment, staring at each other. She looked down at the bouquet in his hands, the faintest flicker of hope burning in her chest.

“Are those—”

“Do you wanna—”

They both tried to speak at the same time, before George held up the bouquet, thrusting it at her.

“Yes, they’re for you. I wanted to know if you wanted to take a walk.” George said.

Millie nodded, not sure if she could trust herself to speak. She took the bouquet and laid it gently on the chair on the porch and then began to walk, leading him down the pathway of the house and along the pavement that led to the high street.

He kept pace with her, silent and warm. He was always so warm.

“How have you been?” George asked, his voice polite.

“Well. And you?” Millicent asked.

She felt like a marionette whose strings had been cut, unsure of how to move or where to put her bloody hands.

“I’ve been… oh for Merlin’s sake, I’ve thought of you every day since you’ve left, Millie. The color of your eyes, the way you laugh, the smell of your shampoo—I even miss the bleeding cats.” George said, the words tumbling out of him now in a flood. 

“You love those cats and you know it,” Millie choked out, her voice thick. She was going to cry.

George’s face must be a mirror of hers—his eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. As she looked at him, she saw the dark circles under them, the rawness of his lower lip where he’d been chewing at it.

He smiled at her though, and kept talking. “I know everything about this has been completely backwards. But would you take pity on a desperate man, Millicent?” 

His voice cracked and Millicent felt the echo of it twinge in her chest.

“Give me a chance to start over. I want… I want to be in it for real this time.”

Merlin help her, she wanted to say yes so badly. The way his blue eyes bore into her, the tension he held in his body. She wanted to wrap herself around him and never let go.

“I spoke to my mum about Fred,” George continued. “And Hermione helped me set up an appointment with some Muggle mind healer. I’ve been… talking to people.”

“Oh, George,” Millicent couldn’t help herself. “Are you—”

“I didn’t do it for you—I mean, not just because of you.” George interrupted her, stepping close to her on the pavement. “I just… fuck, I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?”

Millicent shook her head.

“You’re not. I understand what you mean. And I’m glad.” She reached out and put a hand on his arm, gently squeezing his bicep through the scratchy wool of his coat.

“Millie, please,” George said, bending down to her. “May I kiss you?”

She could smell the peppermint as he exhaled. She breathed it in, unable to resist him any longer.

“Please kiss me, George.”

Their lips pressed together clumsily at first, a desperate sort of touch as he wrapped his arms around her. She couldn’t breathe, all she could do was taste him, feel him.

His hands moved up and down her back, resting firmly on her bum. She reached up and pulled at his already messy red hair.

“It’s about damn time!” Someone hollered from the cottage, and Millie and George broke apart, their faces flushed from each other.

“Does that mean we can start over?” George asked.

“Yes, George,” Millie said, pulling him in for another kiss. “It’s a yes.”