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George couldn’t quite pinpoint when or how it had happened, but somehow, against all odds, he’d ended up the last single Weasley at Christmas. And it was far from ideal.
Fred, after years of maddening back-and-forth, had finally settled things with Angelina. Their smugness was practically tangible, the pair inseparable now, laughing and sharing secretive glances that made George roll his eyes. Even Charlie, who everyone assumed would remain forever married to his dragons, had surprised them all by showing up with a boyfriend. Their mum, of course, silently judged the poor bloke — not because he was a man, but because he wouldn't be bringing her any more grandchildren.
It was bad enough that Ginny, Ron, Percy, and Bill were all knee-deep in parenting — or well on their way. There were always sticky fingers grabbing at gifts, toddlers screaming in delight (or frustration), and overworked parents juggling bottles and nappies. George swore the Burrow smelt permanently of talcum powder and baked goods. It was enough to make him sick — or maybe just envious. Either way, it wasn’t helping.
The most annoying part, though, was his mum. Oh, Molly Weasley was relentless. She seemed determined to marry George off to the first eligible witch — or even semi-eligible witch — she could find. Subtlety? Not her strong suit.
Just last month, he’d popped by the Burrow for a quiet lunch, only to find his mother entertaining a witch who was, by George’s quick calculation, at least ten years younger than him. She’d batted her lashes and giggled nervously while his Mum practically shoved a tea cup into his hand and whispered, “She’s just finished her NEWT’s, dear. Very talented. Don’t let her get away!” George was twenty-eight, for Merlin’s sake — not exactly desperate and entirely to old to be entertaining anything with this witch, though his mother seemed to think otherwise.
It wasn’t that George was opposed to settling down. Far from it, really. The idea of love — the kind that could handle his particular brand of chaos and charm — was appealing in theory. He could picture it: someone who could make him laugh, someone who wouldn’t mind when his experiments occasionally went sideways and filled the flat with purple smoke, someone who’d look at him the way Fred now looked at Angelina. But the endless parade of awkward setups, forced introductions, and witches his mother insisted were just perfect for him? That wasn’t it. It felt transactional, like he was nothing more than another unchecked box on Molly Weasley’s ever-growing life checklist.
For now, he had his shop. His freedom. And the faint, almost foolish hope that love — true, messy, extraordinary love — might stumble into his life when he least expected it, just like in the stories. That was enough for now, even if his mother didn’t agree.
Christmas morning at the Burrow was as chaotic as ever. Wrapping paper flew through the air like confetti, kids squealed with excitement over new toys, and the adults ducked between the mayhem, cups of tea and half-eaten mince pies clutched in hand. It was a madhouse. And George truly loved every minute of it.
This was the best part of being an uncle. No responsibilities, no late-night feedings, no worrying about whether the kids’ socks matched. Just fun. He got to spoil them rotten, loading them up with the wildest, most ridiculous toys and pranks the shop had to offer. He was that uncle — the one who gave gifts that made his siblings groan and kids cackle with delight.
George watched Victoire gleefully chase Louis around the living room, the sound of their laughter echoing through the chaotic warmth of the Burrow. Louis was shrieking, trying to outrun a screeching, self-propelling pygmy puff that George had enchanted to make farting noises. Victoire, clearly delighted by her brother’s terror, had tears streaming down her face from laughing so hard.
George couldn’t help but grin. This was the life. Being the mischievous uncle suited him perfectly. It was a far cry from his own childhood, where every knut had been stretched thin and every holiday came with a subtle undercurrent of worry about what they could afford. He and Fred had spent countless nights as teenagers scrounging for ingredients, testing wild ideas in their room, and dreaming of a life that seemed impossibly far away. Back then, success was a flicker of light in the distance, something they chased with everything they had.
Now, that flicker had grown into something real, something bright. Their dream had come true and watching his nieces and nephews light up with pure joy — made it all worth it. Now, George could afford to make their holidays magical in ways he and Fred could only imagine as kids. It made the tug of loneliness bearable.
By the time lunch was being served, the house was buzzing even more. The honorary Weasleys had arrived: Hermione, Lee, little Teddy, and his grandmother Andromeda, all filing in with a chorus of greetings. Mum, as ever, was in her element, fussing over everyone, making sure plates were piled high with food.
Of course, Lee had brought a witch with him — a vibrant woman with wild curls and an infectious laugh. George couldn’t remember her name but figured it didn’t matter; Lee always had someone new in tow. Hermione, however, arrived alone, as usual. Not that anyone didn’t notice. There was always a murmur of disappointment from the family whenever she came without someone on her arm, though she brushed it off with ease. George secretly loved that about her. She never let their expectations rattle her, never let their questions or raised eyebrows get to her.
And truth be told, George was always a little relieved Hermione came solo. It wasn’t that he wished loneliness on her — far from it. But her being alone meant he had her all to himself, at least for a little while. Once the inevitable chaos of wrangling the children began and the couples drifted into their own little domestic orbits, he and Hermione could slip away unnoticed. It was their tradition now, their unspoken agreement. Their escape from any and all events that they were invited to.
Lunch was as loud and bustling as ever. The dining room at the Burrow packed, every chair around the long, mismatched table occupied. The conversations were animated, overlapping as everyone excitedly talked about their gifts or their plans for the lull between Christmas and New Year’s. Platters of food passed back and forth, everyone eating as though they hadn’t already been snacking on mum's endless supply of mince pies and treacle tarts all morning.
Ron was midway through detailing his and Padma’s upcoming “babymoon,” a term that immediately set George on edge. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but he was quite sure he didn’t like the sound of it.
“It’s like a last hurrah before the baby comes,” Ron was saying, gesturing enthusiastically with a forkful of roast potatoes. “A chance for us to do some fun stuff, spend time together, you know, before everything gets completely mental.”
George glanced at Hermione, who was sitting next to him, one hand covering her mouth as she stifled a laugh. Her shoulders shook ever so slightly, and her eyes sparkled with amusement.
“What’s so funny?” George leant in and whispered, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
Hermione turned toward him, the corners of her lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “Padma,” she whispered back, her tone conspiratorial, “is as pregnant as a human being can possibly get. Honestly, I’ll be impressed if she manages to roll off the bed when they get to their hotel.”
George snorted, unable to hold back his own laughter, which he quickly disguised as a cough. Hermione’s humor was quiet, sharp, and utterly infectious. It was one of the things he loved most about their little moments like this — her ability to cut through the noise and find something hilariously absurd in the midst of all the chaos.
“What do you reckon their idea of fun is now?” he asked, grinning. “Rearranging the hospital bag for the twentieth time? Picking out nursery paint swatches?”
“Don’t forget arguing over baby names,” Hermione added with a smirk. “Ron’s bound to suggest something ridiculous like ‘Bilius Junior.’”
George had to bite his lip to keep from bursting out laughing. “Merlin’s beard, you’re right. Poor Padma doesn’t stand a chance.”
Across the table, Ron shot them a suspicious look. “What are you two whispering about?”
“Nothing,” George said smoothly, his face the picture of innocence. “Just admiring the glow of expectant parenthood. You’re positively radiant, Ronniekins.”
Ron rolled his eyes, muttering something about George always taking the mickey out of him, whilst Hermione casually took a sip of her wine, her expression as serene as if she hadn’t just been mocking him moments ago.
As the conversation drifted toward Percy and Audrey’s holiday plans — Percy meticulously outlining every detail with the enthusiasm of someone who had written a schedule — and Ginny’s exasperated stories about managing her brood of wild, energetic children, George felt a familiar warmth settle in his chest. It wasn’t just the firewhisky in his glass or the snug, lived-in chaos of the Burrow. It was this.
As the day wore on, Hermione reached for the bag she’d tucked by the hearth when she arrived, a sturdy-looking thing George was certain had been charmed to hold far more than it seemed. Sure enough, when she opened it, she began pulling out an array of oddly shaped parcels, each wrapped with the kind of care and precision George associated with her. Her gifts were always a spectacle, and not just because of what was inside.
“Ah, here we go,” Hermione said with a grin, holding up a small package that jingled faintly. “This one’s for James.”
She handed it to the oldest Potter child, who eagerly tore it open to reveal a tiny set of carved, enchanted sleigh bells. “These,” Hermione began, crouching slightly to be at his eye level, “come from Lapland, in Finland. It’s where reindeer come from — you know, the kind Father Christmas uses.”
James’s eyes widened. “Real reindeer?”
“Absolutely,” Hermione said, her tone conspiratorial. “These bells are meant to keep them calm during long flights. If you shake them gently, they’ll ring differently for every reindeer. Want to try?”
James nodded enthusiastically, shaking the bells and beaming when they emitted a melodic chime. He bolted off a moment later to show Harry, shouting about magical reindeer.
“Every year, you set the bar too high, Granger,” George teased, leaning closer to her as she reached into her seemingly bottomless bag for another package. His tone was light, but there was a hint of genuine admiration in his voice. “The rest of us just toss some toys in a bag and call it a day. You’re making us look bad. Do you have any idea how hard it is to compete with you?”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. She handed the next gift to Albus — a beautifully carved jaguar figurine with shimmering eyes — who accepted it with wide-eyed wonder. as she explained its origins and how she got it.
“Maybe you should start putting more effort in,” she quipped, straightening up and fixing him with a mock-serious look. “It’s not my fault I’m the best at gifts. I can’t help being naturally thoughtful and creative.”
“Oh, naturally,” George said, smirking. “It’s a gift-giving gift, is it? Some sort of innate talent?”
“Exactly,” she said, feigning haughtiness. “Years of honing my craft. I do research, you know. I plan.”
“Well, aren’t you just the gift-giving Queen of the Burrow,” George said with a laugh, nudging her shoulder playfully. “But don’t forget, Hermione, you’ve set a dangerous precedent. Next year, these kids are going to expect a story and a souvenir from the moon.”
Hermione’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned closer, her voice low and teasing. “You know, muggles have been to the moon. I could do it.”
George laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh that caught him slightly off guard. “I did hear about that,” he said, feigning thoughtfulness. “Though don’t you have to be, like, a science person to get there? Space suits and rockets and all that?”
“I am a science person,” Hermione shot back, her grin widening as she crossed her arms. “Arithmancy, potions, spell crafting — practically wizarding sciences, George. I’ve just never needed a rocket. Yet.”
“Well, if anyone could do it, it’d be you,” George conceded, his smirk softening. “I’ll just sit back here on Earth and watch the headlines roll in: Hermione Granger, First Witch on the Moon.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione replied, waving a hand dismissively. “I’d never take all the credit. I’d bring back souvenirs for everyone, obviously.”
She moved on to the rest of her gifts, pulling one out for each child and accompanying it with a story. George watched as she handed Lucy a delicate snow globe from Switzerland, enchanted to make real snowflakes fall inside. She explained the charm with such enthusiasm that even Hugo, who had been halfway across the room chasing Victoire moments ago, stopped to listen.
“This snow globe,” Hermione began, crouching to Lucy's eye level, “comes from the Alps, the tallest mountains in Europe. It’s charmed to never stop snowing inside. If you listen closely, you can hear the wind howling like it does in the real mountains.”
Lucy held it up to her ear, her eyes wide with wonder. “I can hear it!” she exclaimed before darting off to show her parents.
The afternoon wore on, the warm, chaotic energy of Christmas afternoon spilling into the evening. Christmas crackers popped and fizzed, sending small explosions of glitter, tiny trinkets, and questionable jokes throughout the house. The kids eagerly pulled them apart with their cousins, laughing and donning the brightly colored paper crowns inside, most of which were slightly too big and slipped down over their eyes. Even some of the adults got in on the fun — though George noted that Percy’s attempt to tell one of the cracker jokes had been met with a collective groan.
Charlie’s boyfriend, however, had made a less dignified impression. After one too many helpings of mum's brandy-soaked trifle — not to mention the steady supply of firewhisky George had seen him sampling — he’d become overly animated, loudly retelling a story about wrangling dragons in Romania with increasingly slurred enthusiasm. Eventually, Charlie, looking equal parts amused and embarrassed, had marched him off to his old room to sleep it off.
“If he survives Mum’s morning critique, I’ll be impressed,” George muttered to Hermione as they passed the scene. She stifled a laugh, whispering back, “If Charlie brings him back, it’ll be a Christmas miracle. That’s the kind of story that sticks.”
The later it got the more the energy in the house softened. Slowly but surely, the domestic side of Christmas began to take hold. The younger kids, sugar-crashed from the day’s excitement, were reluctantly corralled by their parents and shepherded upstairs for baths and bedtime. The sound of protest drifted down from the upper floors — small voices declaring their eternal energy or claiming they weren’t even tired yet.
George sat in his usual spot by the fire, his mug of spiked cocoa warming his hands, his feet comfortably propped up on an ottoman. Around him, the familiar chaos of a Weasley Christmas was winding down. Parents muttered about misplaced pajamas and bedtime routines, siblings haggled over the division of new toys, and Mum orchestrated the madness with her usual mix of exasperation and affection, her voice firm but laced with warmth.
He watched it all with a faint smile, the scene as predictable as it was endearing. But his attention was soon drawn away when Hermione, sitting on the sofa across the room, caught his eye. She raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her gaze, and tipped her head toward the door. In her hand, she held a bottle of amber-colored alcohol, which she shook lightly as if to entice him.
This. This was best part of Christmas. The escape from family life, the quiet retreat to a space where they could leave the noise and expectations behind.
George didn’t need to be asked twice. He rose quickly, trying not to attract attention as he slipped past the others, leaving his mug on the mantle. Hermione was already moving, her footsteps light and quick, and he followed her out the back door, the cold air biting at his cheeks as they stepped into the snowy evening.
By the time they reached the old oak tree at the edge of the garden, both were laughing quietly, their breaths visible in the crisp air. The tree had become their unofficial hideaway, a place where they could decompress from the madness of Christmas day. It stood tall and sturdy, its bare branches etched against the star-speckled sky, and beneath it, they found a peaceful pocket of quiet that felt worlds away from the bustling house.
Hermione, ever prepared, pulled a picnic blanket from her seemingly bottomless bag and spread it out beneath the tree. With a quick flick of her wand, she muttered a warming charm, enveloping them in a bubble of comfortable heat that pushed back the winter chill.
“Perfect,” she said, settling onto the blanket and patting the spot beside her. “Care for a drink, Weasley?”
George grinned, dropping down beside her and accepting the bottle she offered. He examined the label, which bore some incomprehensible script. “What’s this? Another one of your exotic Muggle finds?”
“From my trip to Scotland,” she said, her tone light. “It’s single malt whisky — properly aged and absolutely divine. Thought you might appreciate it. Bought it just for the occasion.”
“Well, Granger, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip. The whisky burnt as it went down, smooth but bold, and he let out a satisfied sigh. “Merlin’s beard, that’s good. You sure you’re not just here to win me over with your superior taste in booze?”
She laughed, taking the bottle back for her own sip. “If it works, I won’t complain.”
They sat there for a while, passing the bottle back and forth, the warmth of the charm wrapping around them like an invisible blanket. Above, the stars shone bright against the inky sky, and the muffled sounds of the Burrow — children’s laughter, distant footsteps — felt far away.
George leaned back against his arms, his gaze shifting to Hermione. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I think this might be my favorite part of Christmas.”
“What, the part where you run away from your family?” she teased, her lips curling into a smile.
“Exactly,” he said, laughing softly. “No offense to them, of course. But it’s nice… this. Getting away from the noise, the questions, the matchmaking attempts. Just sitting out here and… being.”
Hermione nodded, her expression thoughtful. “I know what you mean. It’s exhausting, sometimes. All the expectations. Everyone wanting to know why you’re not exactly where they think you should be.”
“Exactly,” George said, glancing at her. “It’s like, what if I’m fine where I am? I don’t want to spend Christmas explaining why I’m not married with a house full of kids?”
“Preaching to the choir,” Hermione said, raising the bottle in a mock toast before taking another sip. “I can’t count how many times Molly’s tried to set me up with someone — or how often people ask why I’m not ‘settled down.’ It’s as if being single at Christmas is some sort of tragic affliction.”
“Well, if it is,” George said with a smirk, “then at least we’re in it together.”
Hermione smiled, the warmth of it reaching her eyes and sending a ripple of ease through George. “You’re not so bad to share the affliction with, Weasley.”
“That’s high praise coming from the Queen of the Burrow,” he teased, raising the bottle in a mock toast before taking another sip. “I’ll take it.”
They continued to pass the bottle back and forth, their conversation weaving effortlessly between playful jabs and genuinely softer moments. The whisky burnt less as the night wore on, its warmth spreading through them both, loosening their words and their laughter. Each joke seemed funnier than the last, and soon, the two of them were cackling uncontrollably, leaning into each other as they struggled to catch their breath.
Hermione’s head eventually dropped onto his shoulder, her body shaking with laughter that refused to subside. George felt the weight of her there, warm and solid, and for some reason, it made him laugh harder too. Whatever she’d said — something about Percy’s ludicrously long holiday itinerary — wasn’t even that funny, but in their drunken haze, it was comedy gold.
“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione gasped, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Stop. My stomach hurts. I can’t breathe.”
George, still laughing, slumped against his elbows, letting her weight shift more fully onto him. “You think you can’t breathe? I’m dying over here, Granger. You’re lethal.”
The laughter gradually subsided into the occasional giggle, and a comfortable quiet settled over them, the world around them softened by the whisky’s glow. George turned his head slightly, looking down at Hermione as she rested against him. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold creeping in and the alcohol, her hair a bit wild from the wind, and her lips still curved in a faint, residual smile.
In his haze, he couldn’t help but wonder. How was she single? How was there no bloke in her life, no one else to steal her away from moments like this? Because, sitting here with her, he was struck by just how amazing she was.
She was clever — unbelievably so — but not in a way that felt intimidating. Her humor was sharp, quick, and unexpected, surprising him in the best, most disarming way. And then there was the way she looked tonight, sitting beneath the sprawling oak tree with the faint light from the Burrow dancing in the distance. It cast a warm, golden glow over her features, softening the sharpness of her wit with a quiet, natural beauty.
She wasn’t trying to impress anyone — just being herself — and yet she was stunning in a way that stirred something deep in his chest. Something unfamiliar, uncomfortable, but undeniably real. And if he were being honest with himself — dangerously honest — something lower as well.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Hermione asked suddenly, her voice soft and teasing but laced with genuine curiosity. Her gaze flicked up to meet his, her warm brown eyes catching the dim light like polished mahogany.
George blinked, startled by how direct the question was. She had always been good at calling him out, though, and now was no exception. “Looking at you like what?” he asked, aiming for casual, though his voice came out rougher than he intended.
Her lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that said she didn’t believe him. “Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle. Or like I’ve got something on my face. Do I?”
“No,” George said quickly, shaking his head. He leant back against his hands, letting his head tilt upward toward the stars. “Nothing like that. I was just… thinking.”
“About what?” she asked, her tone light but probing.
He hesitated, the whisky’s warm buzz loosening his tongue just enough to let the words slip free before he could stop them. “I just was thinking… how easy it would be to fall in love with you.”
The words hung in the air between them, half a joke but more than half not. His tone carried his familiar humor, the kind he used to deflect and soften blows, but there was something underneath it that betrayed the seriousness of what he’d just said.
Hermione blinked, clearly surprised. “You… what?” she asked, her voice a mix of surprise and disbelief.
George chuckled nervously, the sound shaky even to his own ears. He cursed the whisky they’d been drinking, cursed his own inability to keep his mouth shut. “I’m joking,” he said quickly, his tone light, too light. “Obviously.”
“Merlin, I hope not!” she blurted out, and for a split second, George thought his heart might explode. She was praying he wouldn't fall in love with her. Of course she was. What had he been thinking? They had just been talking about how they were happy single. He let out a slight huff, his chest tightening as he tried to push the moment away.
But before he could dwell on her words or retreat further into self-deprecation, Hermione shifted. She moved away from where she’d been leaning against his shoulder, suddenly pushing him back onto the picnic blanket with surprising force. He landed with a soft thud, the cool fabric beneath him, blinking up at her in stunned silence.
“I’ve been waiting about three years for you to notice me,” she said, her voice firm but tinged with exasperation. Her hands were planted on either side of his shoulders, her face so close that he could see his own startled expression reflected in her warm brown eyes. “And now you think you could fall in love with me before we’ve even kissed?”
George stared at her, his heart hammering in his chest, his mind struggling to catch up. Her words echoed in his head like a spell he couldn’t quite unravel. “You… you’ve been waiting for me?” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hermione rolled her eyes, though her smile softened the gesture. “Well, I mean, I do get you drunk every Christmas hoping it’ll help you notice me,” she teased, her tone light but with an edge of vulnerability.
Her words hit him like a bludger to the chest, knocking the air right out of him. “Wait,” he said, his voice full of disbelief, “you’ve been planning this?”
“Not planning exactly,” Hermione said, tilting her head as if to reconsider. “More like… giving you opportunities. And watching you completely miss them. Repeatedly.”
George’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. His quick wit — his most reliable weapon — had completely abandoned him. “You’re serious,” he finally said, and it wasn’t a question. “You’ve been… into me? For years ?”
Hermione let out a soft laugh, her cheeks tinged pink — whether from the cold or the confession, he wasn’t sure. “Of course, George. Did you really not notice?”
“No!” he exclaimed, his voice a little louder than he intended. “I mean, why would I? You’re you! Brilliant, beautiful, terrifyingly smart you! And I’m just…” He gestured vaguely to himself, lying flat on the blanket. “Me.”
Hermione’s expression softened, the teasing edge melting into something gentler. “And what’s wrong with you being ‘just you,’ George? You’re clever, and funny, and kind in ways you don’t even realise. And you make me laugh like no one else can.”
For a moment, he could only stare up at her, completely floored. No one — not even his family — had ever spoken about him like that. Not with that kind of sincerity, that kind of quiet conviction.
“Well,” he said finally, his voice shaky but laced with humor, “this is a lot to process. I’m going to need a minute.”
Hermione smile, leaning in slightly, her hair brushing his face. “Take all the time you need, Weasley. But I’m not letting you off the hook for that little confession of yours.”
“Which one?” he asked, his smirk returning. “The one where I said I could fall in love with you, or the one where I admitted I’m a clueless idiot?”
“Both,” she said, her voice softening as her eyes searched his. “But mostly the first one.”
George’s heart pounded as Hermione’s words settled over him, heavy with meaning, their significance undeniable. The moment hung between them, charged and fragile, and suddenly, he couldn’t resist any longer. “Well,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, his gaze flicking briefly to her lips before meeting her eyes again, “if we’re going to figure this out, I think there’s only one way to start.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow, the corners of her lips twitching into a teasing smile. “And what’s that?”
“This,” he said, his voice steady but soft, before reaching up and closing the gap between them.
His lips met hers, tentative at first, testing, as though he were stepping across a line he’d never dared approach before. But his hesitation melted almost immediately, replaced by something deeper, warmer, and utterly electrifying. A spark shot through him, one that sent his heart racing and his thoughts scattering. For a moment, the world around them ceased to exist. No chaotic Burrow in the background, no biting winter air. Just her — soft and warm.
Instinctively, George’s hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer. Hermione responded in kind, her hands moving to his shoulders as she leant down onto him, her kiss growing more certain, more insistent. It was everything he hadn’t known he’d been waiting for, and yet somehow more.
When they finally parted, their breaths mingled in the cold air, their foreheads resting against each other’s. Hermione’s cheeks were flushed, her lips curved into a soft, almost shy smile.
“Well,” she said, her voice slightly breathless, “that was… a good start.”
George let out a chuckle, his grin lopsided but bright. “Not bad for a bloke who didn’t even know you fancied him until two minutes ago.”
“Not bad,” she agreed, her tone teasing as her fingers brushed against the collar of his jacket. “But you could’ve figured it out a lot sooner if you’d paid attention.”
He groaned, pulling her down with him until they were both lying beneath the sprawling branches of the oak tree. “Next time you know something I don’t,” he said, glancing across to her, “can you just tell me? Save me from looking like a complete idiot?”
Hermione laughed, the sound light and easy as she settled beside him, propping herself up on one elbow. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, you weren’t a complete idiot. Just… oblivious.”
George turned his head to look at her, his smile softening. “You waited,” he said, his voice quieter now, more serious. “All this time… you waited for me.”
She met his gaze, her eyes warm and steady. “I thought you were worth waiting for,” she said simply.
Something inside him shifted at her words. It was a rush of emotions he wasn’t entirely sure how to name — gratitude, awe, and something so profound and consuming that it could only be love. For a man who spent most of his life deflecting with humor and avoiding the thought of deeper feelings, it was both terrifying and exhilarating.
He reached for her hand, his fingers lacing with hers instinctively, as if they’d always belonged there. The cold of the night faded, replaced by the warmth of her presence, grounding him even as his heart raced.
“Well,” he said after a moment, his tone lighter but no less sincere, his lips curving into a small smile, “I don’t think I could fall in love with you now.”
Hermione blinked, her brows furrowing slightly as she looked at him, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. “What do you mean?”
George’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leant closer, his voice dropping into a low, mischievous tone. “Because, Granger,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand, “I’m already bloody there.”
Her lips parted, her expression softening into something he couldn’t didn't have a name for, but the glow in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She didn’t laugh, didn’t tease him, didn’t deflect. Instead, she leant closer, her free hand cupping his cheek as her thumb brushed along the faint stubble there.
“Good,” she said, her voice a whisper that carried more weight than anything he’d ever heard. “Because I’ve been there for a while.”
And just like that, she closed the distance between them, her lips capturing his in a kiss that was as tender as it was electric. If the first kiss had been a spark, this one was a slow-burning fire, warming him from the inside out. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his jumper, pulling him closer, and he responded in kind, his hands framing her face with a gentleness he hadn’t realised he was capable of.
When they finally parted, their foreheads rested together, their breaths mingling in the frosty air. Hermione’s cheeks were flushed, her smile soft and radiant, and George couldn’t help but think she’d never looked more beautiful.