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The pain in your leg had lessened ever since you started coming to the lake every day, but it never truly left.
You floated in the middle of the dark water, clad in nothing but your undergarments. The air was cold, the sky overcast, the lake biting—but somehow, you found comfort in it.
You didn’t need to look to know he was there.
Still, you turned your head slightly and found him at the shore, watching you—not intrusively, never that, but quietly, protectively. That was just how he was.
George Weasley.
Your best friend since childhood. Since Hogwarts. Since everything.
You listened to the faint rustle of fabric as he shed his outer layers. A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips as the water shifted around you and he slipped in, wincing slightly at the cold before making his way toward you.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, pushing damp hair back from his face.
You huffed a quiet laugh. “You know my leg. The water helps with—”
“The pain,” he finished, softer now. His eyes flickered over you, searching. “You okay?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the distance between you, your arms looping around his neck as your legs wrapped around his waist. He caught you easily, one arm settling at your back, grounding you there.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You traced the familiar lines of his face—the curve of his brow, the slope of his nose, the freckles scattered across his cheeks like constellations you’d memorized long ago.
Then you rested your chin against his shoulder, holding him a little tighter.
“Take us deeper,” you murmured.
He didn’t question it. He never did. With slow, careful movements, he guided you farther out, where the water deepened and the world quieted. You took a steady breath, and he mirrored you, his grip on you tightening just slightly as you both dipped beneath the surface.
The cold wrapped around you instantly. You settled together in the stillness, your bodies close, suspended in the muted blue. Your eyes fluttered shut, the familiar calm washing over you.
You didn’t see the way he watched you. Didn’t notice the hesitation in his expression before he lifted a hand, brushing his knuckles lightly against your cheek.
Your eyes opened at the touch. For a moment, everything stilled—your gaze locking with his, something unspoken passing between you.
Then your chest tightened.
It was subtle at first. A flicker of discomfort. Then sharper. Your breath—what little you had—was gone faster than you expected. Panic flared as your grip on him tightened, your body tensing as instinct kicked in. You tried to push upward, but disorientation set in too quickly.
And then he moved.
One hand came up to steady your face as he pulled you closer, urgency replacing the softness from before. Your lips met—not tentative, not slow, but desperate—as he forced a breath out to you.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t romantic.
It was survival.
Your lungs burned as you took what little air you could, your fingers clutching at him as he pulled you upward. The surface broke around you in a rush. You gasped, coughing as air flooded back into your lungs. The lake that had once felt calm now churned around you as you struggled to steady yourself. Beside you, George was coughing harder, dragging in uneven breaths.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he choked out, his hands gripping your arms. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
You blinked at him, still catching your breath, dazed. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
“You stopped moving,” he cut in, shaking you slightly. “You just—went still.”
That wiped the faint confusion from your face. “Oh.”
The realization settled heavily between you. His grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand slid up to your cheek, brushing damp hair back with a gentleness that didn’t match the panic from seconds ago.
“You’re okay,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His gaze searched your face like he needed proof. “You’re okay.”
Something in your chest ached at that. “I’m okay,” you said softly.
He exhaled shakily, forehead dropping against yours. For a moment, you just stayed like that—close, breathing the same air, the distance between you nonexistent.
Then, quieter—
“I thought…” He let out a weak laugh, the sound uneven. “Merlin, that was—”
You didn’t let him finish. You tilted your head up and kissed him. This time, it wasn’t rushed. Not desperate.
Just real.
He stilled for half a second before responding, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened—gentle, but certain. When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours again, his breath still uneven.
“I just kissed you,” he murmured.
A small smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah. You did.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly before looking at you again, something softer settling into his expression. “…You’re really okay?”
You nodded. And this time, you meant it.