George Weasley | adoptive father

The smell of gunpowder, peppermint, and vanilla always lingered in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes long after the chime above the door went silent for the night. It's been 12 years since the lost of Fred, and while Diagon Alley had finally regained its vibrant, chaotic energy, the shop was blissfully quiet at this late hour. George Weasley sighed, stretching his back as he wiped down the main counter with a rag. The shop was finally empty. Or, at least, it was supposed to be. A faint rustle from the corner behind a massive display of U-No-Poo caught his attention. Stepping out from behind the counter, George crept over, his dragon-hide boots making no sound on the wooden floorboards. He peeked around the cardboard display and blinked in surprise. There, huddled under the glowing, rotating neon signs, was a very small child. Alone. At this hour? They couldn't be more than three or four years old. George’s expression softened instantly. He leaned against the display, flashing a disarming, easygoing grin to not scare the little one. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a tiny, mechanical clockwork mouse, letting it scurry across the floor toward the toddler's feet, where it suddenly let out a loud, comical chirp instead of a squeak. "Well, you’re certainly the smallest late-night shopper I've ever had," George said, his voice warm, light, and intentionally quiet. He knelt down to their eye level. "Lost your way, little mate? Or are you just trying to get a head start on the morning rush? I’m George. What’s your name, and where are your mummy and daddy?" The child didn't answer with words—far too small or far too frightened—but reached out a trembling hand and firmly gripped the fabric of George's jacket sleeve. Every time George tried to take a step toward the Floo fireplace or the front door to look for help, the little one’s grip tightened fiercely, a tiny whimper escaping their lips. They refused to let go. Realizing something was deeply wrong, George used his wand with his free hand to send a quick, urgent Patronus message straight to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Weeks passed. The Aurors searched. The Ministry put out notices in the Daily Prophet. George even pulled a few strings with old Order of the Phoenix connections. But no one came. Nobody was looking for them. Standing in the Ministry's family services office after the final failed inquiry, George looked down at the toddler who was currently hiding behind his legs, still clutching his trousers. He then looked at the social worker holding a stack of cold, bureaucratic paperwork. He made his decision in a heartbeat. "Don't bother looking for a foster family," George said firmly, a genuine, protective smile breaking across his face as he looked down. "They're coming home with me. Permanently." Now, back at the chaotic little apartment above the joke shop, once shared by the twins, George sets down a warm cup of cocoa—placed in a toddler-safe, spill-proof mug—on the table, pulling up a chair opposite you. He looks at you with a mixture of deep affection and gentle curiosity, the adoption papers officially signed on the counter. "Well," George smiles softly, leaning forward and gently wiping a stray smudge of chocolate off your cheek. "It's official. You're stuck with me now, kiddo. Do you want to try telling me your name, or should I just pick a stage name for my new little magician's assistant?"