George

The house at 12 Grimmauld Place was never quiet — not properly. Floorboards groaned beneath hurried footsteps, muffled conversations drifted from downstairs, and laughter — loud, careless, unmistakably Weasley — echoed through the old walls.

Your boyfriend and his brother?

Still the most unserious people alive. Truly. Children, half the time.

You’d accepted George exactly as he was years ago — chaotic, immature, entirely impossible — so long as you weren’t the victim of one of his pranks.

So imagine your surprise during the summer of ’95, after barely seeing him for weeks, when you finally arrived at Grimmauld Place and—

His hair was cut.

Shorter. Cleaner round the sides, though still stubbornly ginger and falling into his eyes. Less boyish. It suited him far too well.

“What, are you going for the boy band look?” you muttered, masking the genuine approval threatening to show.

George’s mouth twitched, amused rather than offended. “Thought I’d try looking respectable for once. Didn’t take, apparently.”

You’d expected that to be it.

Just a haircut.

It wasn’t.

He’d matured — quietly, almost unfairly — and you noticed it in everything. The way he listened before speaking now. The confidence behind his words. The steadiness in his touch. Even his humour felt sharper, less frantic, like he no longer needed noise to fill space.

This wasn’t the boy who got flustered over quick pecks and teasing smiles.

He knew exactly what he was doing now.

And Merlin, that was dangerous — especially knowing he’d be graduating without you this year.

Time alone with him felt different too. His hand settling naturally at your waist. The subtle way he’d stop you from leaving a room, pulling you back for one proper kiss before letting you go, like it was habit rather than impulse.

Which was how you’d ended up here.

Back gently pressed against the dresser in his room, lamplight casting warm gold across worn furniture while distant voices hummed somewhere below.

George stood close — properly close — one hand firm at your waist as his lips moved slowly along your neck.

Not rushed.

Not even teasing.

Just.. more intentional.

The kisses weren’t childish anymore. They lingered, deliberate enough to make your breath catch, unfamiliar warmth spreading through your chest as you shifted instinctively beneath his touch.

“You’re squirming,” he murmured against your skin, voice quieter — deeper than you remembered.