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First it started with my eyes.
My eyelids grew heavy.
Second, it was this weird pulling in my heart.
Finally, my head nodded off. I fought it for a bit, lowering my head onto my desk maybe. Then the muscles in my neck jerked my head back up. I was trying—desperately—to stay awake.
History of Magic was hard, not solely because of the course material, though. It was beyond difficult for me to stay awake in Professor Binns' class. Mostly because he was a poltergeist with a droning tone of voice. A voice that sounded like a beat-for-beat match for the way my dad used to read to me when I was sick and needed coaxing to sleep.
Luckily, Fred was always there to save the day.
“Castillo, psst, Castillo!”
Fred jabbed his elbow into my stomach and I straightened up.
I heard someone snicker behind us, and I whipped around—who could find this funny? Find me struggling to stay awake during this very critical lecture so hilarious.
Fred's twin brother, of course. George Weasley. Resident nuisance. Eighteen years old and apparently still convinced that annoying me was a personality trait. But avoiding someone who shared the same last name—and an unfortunate resemblance to one of your best friends—wasn't an exact science. I stumbled over it every day.
“Ah, Miss Castillo. Lovely to have you join us again,” Professor Binns levitated toward me. “Perhaps you can tell us about the founding of St. Mungo's Hospital. I've heard you're applying there for an apprenticeship. You must know about its establishment?”
I stammered, opening and closing my mouth in awkward hesitancy.
I felt George reach over and rest his hand briefly against the back of my neck. Two light taps against my skin before he pulled away.
Professor Binns frowned. “Mr. Weasley?”
George laughed. “Sorry, Professor. Castillo had something just—uh—there. I took care of it.”
Professor Binns nodded slowly.
“Miss Castillo?”
My hand rushed to where George had touched. A small piece of parchment stuck to my fingers. I stretched above my head discreetly and made out George's looping handwriting.
St. Mungo's was founded by famous Healer Mungo Bonham in the 1600s.
“Correct. Five points to Ravenclaw.”
Relief settled into my stomach.
Professor Binns floated over to a group of Hufflepuffs trying to craft a catapult intended to throw wads of paper at the sleeping Gryffindors in front of them.
George leaned over the table again, right behind my head. He leaned in until I could feel his breath stirring the loose strands of my hair.
“You're welcome.”
I swatted at him, not giving him the time of day.
When class finally ended, Fred turned to me.
“It’s ice cream time!”
In true Fred fashion, he dashed away while I scrambled to follow him.
George's arm snaked around my waist the moment we stepped into the corridor. Michael Corner blushed, hid his face, and nearly walked into a column at the sight. Michael coughed and used random hand gestures to signal he was going to make himself scarce.
I peeled George's hand off my hip and planted my feet so I was in front of him rather than tugged flush against his side. How many times had he and I discussed this?
“George.”
“Future Mrs. Weasley.”
I pursed my lips, looking around to see if anyone was noticing us.
The Gryffindors who had their hoods filled with balls of paper were too distracted arguing with the pair of clever Hufflepuff girls to pay us any mind. The dandelion pollen filtering through the corridors landed on his hair. He noticed it on mine first, delicately brushing the white puffs off me.
He didn't make a comment on it. Didn't wink. Didn't call me his future spouse. He just brushed the dandelion seeds away like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Will you shush? I am not your future Mrs. Weasley.”
He tilted his head.
“You're sure about that? I just saved your cute little self in class. Don't I deserve a prize?” He tapped his cheek expectantly.
George was going to be waiting a long time if he was holding out for a kiss from me.
“We can't, George. We just... can't.”
I tried to hurry down the hallway. Fred kept skipping ahead, none the wiser. As if I hadn't been accosted by his brother. His brother. Entirely too tall. Entirely too close. Soft brown eyes that made it impossible to remember why saying no was supposed to be easy. I'd melt into them, then drown in the depths of friendship hell—something I was trying to avoid. George was the one making it increasingly difficult.
“Castillo,” he said, his voice low enough that I felt it more than heard it.
George grabbed my wrist gently, keeping me from following Fred.
“Why not?” George asked. “Why can't we?”
“Your brother. George, your brother.”
He blinked.
“My brother?”
“Yes. Fred.”
He stared at me, confused. Then he grimaced, his eyebrows furrowing in disgust.
“Castillo, the Weasleys aren't one of those kinds of pure-blood families. Merlin, that's revolting.”
“I’m Fred’s friend! I’m your friend!” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You numpty!”
“We don't have to tell Fred right away. You can be my special secret,” he proposed, glancing up at the ceiling like his History of Magic daydream was becoming particularly vivid. “Wouldn't you like that? Us, sneaking off to empty classrooms? Love letters sent by owls. Holding hands under desks in our shared classes. A private elopement when we graduated, then escaping to Greece afterward?”
The dunce.
“What about Greece?”
Fred leaped into my arms, so I was hugging him and falling backward at the same time. George's eyes immediately dropped to my footing. Fred had nearly bowled me over before, and George had already shifted forward half a step. If Fred did bring me down, George had already clocked it so he could catch us.
“Youse are walking so slow. I said it was ice cream time! Pistachio Caramel is waiting in a tub for you, Castillo.”
“We aren't walking slowly, Fred,” George began.
I put my arms around Fred's shoulders. We walked down the hallway, leaving George behind.
“Only George walked slowly. I unfortunately got caught behind him, Fred,” I explained.
Fred seemed to accept the answer, partially dragging me down to the kitchens so we could get his favorite after-class snack.
George huffed, then ran to catch up to us.
***
He’s a toddler disguised as a man.
He was worse than that actually, he was a babbling baby.
But he was the same age as me. And I knew that. Because George Weasley was my friend and my brother’s housemate in Gryffindor. Cael looked up to George and Fred like they were some kind of ethereal prankster foxes that could manage to steal gems from Gods.
I whipped my head around and held my hand against George’s mouth.
“Stop whining!” I muttered.
I put my other hand behind his head. My fingers got caught in his orange hair. His hair shouldn't have felt that soft under my fingers. That was borderline criminal—an offense to my nature.
The urge to shake some sense into him grew stronger every second. I didn't want anyone seeing George cling to me in the middle of the hallway. I'd worked too hard to seem indifferent to him. Much to George’s numerous attempts to get me to cave to him. To let him into my world, my passions, my life.
His hand found my side, and he gave me a teasing pinch. My body jerked away from the touch. The contact sparked something unpleasantly alive in my gut. Something I was choosing to classify as nausea for my own sanity. But I still craved it all the same. Like a bad habit I had no intention of breaking, no matter how many times I insisted I hated it.
He tried to speak under my hand.
I let go for just one painful second.
“One kiss,” his words spilled out.
“No,” I hissed.
“Okay then, twenty kisses.”
“Please stop talking,” I said.
I released him entirely and tried to hide my face with my blue sleeve.
“Fifty kisses and a cuddle.”
My ears burned.
He was clever. Everyone knew that. But George Weasley had never learned how to be subtle when it came to the people he loved. His heart of gold was infuriatingly irreplaceable and impossible to tarnish. I often wondered if I really was the only one to make it melt. He acted as though I was the only person capable of turning him all disgustingly gushy and lovey-dovey. As if there weren’t hundreds of other girls at our school.
“I will seduce your brother and run away to China with him if you continue this tirade,” I mumbled, scanning the hallway for an escape route.
All the good secret pathways were moving. Hogwarts was fighting me about trying to leave. Like it had a mind of its own and actually wanted me to stay with George longer.
We had several professors coming around the corner from their staff meeting ending early. I was supposed to be helping Professor Flitwick with extra grading as the seventh year Ravenclaw prefect. I needed to be responsible, and focus on the task at hand. If any of the teachers saw George and I together, this late at night, without a reason or even a note, points were going to be taken.
I dreamt of myself taking ten points away from Gryffindor every time I simply saw George. Alas, prefects can only take points away from their own house.
“Which brother? Because if you say Fred, I may actually take emotional damage.” George sighed, putting a hand to his forehead. “I can’t compete with him.”
Bill would’ve been more tolerable. The only thing I knew about him was that I’d seen him in Curse-Breaking News from the Daily Prophet. Fred would’ve hit too close to home for me to actually date.
George wrapped an arm around my hips. His mouth was hovering dangerously close to my ear.
I hated how I noticed how cold George was. He’d left his bloody robes, likely in his common room. The grey jumper wasn't doing nearly enough against the evening chill. Even in the last month of school, the middle of May, he was still getting nighttime brushes of frigid temperature.
“Do you like your men masculine, Castillo?” He flexed his arms around me, “Or do you like them sweet? Sour? Sarcastic? Because trust me, I can do it all.”
I froze for a second.
My type had become annoyingly persistent gingers with a freckle on their upper lip. To add salt to the wound I was still trying to lick, they had to be tall too. Like, over six foot two tall. Freakishly built like his arms belonged around me. And smell like burnt wood with apple and cinnamon for good measure too. Revolting. Absolutely revolting. I needed to bite into a grass flavoured Bertie Bott’s jellybean to induce vomiting.
I turned around in his arms, fisted his jumper tight, and pulled him into me.
“I like my men like I like my dogs. Quick to heel and slow to bark.”
“Arf.”
George gave a wicked smirk. Divine trickster creature thing. Cael would love to see this smile play out right before him. In fact, if Cael were here, he’d ask me to get George to sign my robes—or worse, my prefect badge.
I groaned and let him go.
He held me tighter. One arm wound around my waist, while the other rested between my shoulder blades, keeping me close enough that escaping became a theoretical concept.
“One kiss,” he whispered, “Just so I know how it feels with you.”
The teasing had vanished from his voice.
I wriggled in his hold, which seemed to egg him on further.
“You’ve kissed girls before George,” I argued.
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“I want to know how a kiss feels with you,” he smiled, “You really need to listen better, love.”
I reached up, slid my hand into his hair again and scratched lightly. His light brown eyes fluttered shut at the touch. He relaxed, leaning forward as a shiver ran down his spine. The sensation bled through him into me. It unsettled me more than I anticipated.
I used my other hand to cup his cheek.
George’s eyes flew open.
I brought him closer and tilted my head to the side.
His tongue peeked out to wet his lips, while his mouth stayed open in shock.
For a moment, I wondered if I should kiss him.
The hand he had at my shoulders gripped the fabric, and his breathing was growing shallower by each centimeter I was getting closer.
I bit his neck. Hard enough to surprise him, but not enough to hurt. I was sure it would leave a mark. A faint imprint of my teeth against his pale, freckled skin. If he kept playing Quidditch like he did, he'd only develop more of those annoying little speckles. Maybe I could steal his Beater’s bat and hit him over the head with it.
He yelped and I found my opening to slip out of his arms.
He seemed more dazed than he should’ve. One hand going straight to the side of his neck where I’d dug my teeth into him. He pulled his hand away slowly, and then tucked his hands into his pockets.
As I retreated to the Ravenclaw common room, where a pile of essays awaited me for grading, George shouted one final remark.
“Joke’s on you! I liked that!”
“I could tell—you stiffened up immediately,” I yelled back, not turning around. “Go take a cold shower!”
His quick-witted remark, worthy to rival only mine, came mere seconds after I’d finished my last word.
“Not without you!”
Maybe I could hide his body in the Owlery.
I actually believed George would crack one of these days, pull a Romeo and Juliet, and somehow drag both of us into an unnecessarily dramatic demise. And we’d both cease to exist. Or I’d end up in his arms. Somehow, either option sounded like I’d lose myself.
***
“You marked him—bloody hell, you really marked him Castillo,” Fred was holding George’s face in one hand and pushing George’s shoulder down with the other. The mark was terribly visible. Horribly mine. I’d left it on him, and it had been two days, and it still looked like a hickey.
I pleaded for a quick death.
George spoke from under the careful inspection of his twin, “Actually, it was very pleasant. I’d like to replicate it as soon as feasible. It’s been a great week.”
Fred snorted, “Oi, Georgie, don’t go chasing after Castillo. She’s already turned your horny arse down. Several times at that.”
“I’ve already started the race, Freddie.”
Fred made a face, then glanced at me. Waiting to see if I would continue George’s joke that he was missing the point of. If only Fred knew the extent to which George was decidedly not joking about it all.
I grumbled, “Five hundred kilometres to go.”
George shook Fred’s hands off him.
“So the finish line is in sight then?” George made a praying gesture, “I used to dream of days like this.”
Fred smiled brightly at George, patting him on the shoulder. Fred turned to face me, raising his eyebrows once and then setting them back to normal on his features. Like he knew something secret. I suppose Fred did get more of George’s personal thoughts and feelings than I did. Twin telepathy wasn’t real though, despite the pair of them pranking me that they shared thoughts in second year.
And, as far as I knew, George hadn’t exactly told Fred that he’d been actually trying to pursue me. Fred saw the jokes, laughs, and jests here and there. Fred didn’t see the notes George left me in the hood of my robes, or the way George kept trying to hold my hand in our joint classes.
Fred spotted Angelina Johnson, going over to her, and left the conversation silently. Something I used to think was impossible.
George and I continued walking to the Great Hall. My stomach growled and asked for me to eat as many Shepherd’s pies as I could. Because once I left Hogwarts, getting to eat the House elf specialty of carrots, potatoes, and green beans all mixed with a chicken broth and thick mushroom soup was not going to happen. I’d have to find a way to get the recipe before school ended, and graduation took away my favourite food.
“Are you going to visit me over the Summer Holidays?” George asked, once we turned down a more quiet hallway to reach the main entrance.
I hadn’t thought much about it. Fred had mentioned it, since apparently Ron had invited Hermione and Harry to stay as well. After hearing that Ron had invited friends, George wanted to invite me to come and stay over as well.
My throat went scratchy, like an elbow that desperately needed to be moisturized.
“I don’t know. Cael’ll—”
“He won’t miss you.” he said, then he recovered from the slightly harsh wording by continuing with, “I, however, will miss you.”
He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that the smile he'd been wearing finally disappeared, “You have to come.”
His cheeks darkened, going a sharper shade of red than I was used to seeing on him.
“You need to come to our house,” he croaked in correction.
“I heard you the first time,” I sighed, “What are the logistics? I can’t stay long, I have Healer training starting in July.”
“June. You stay for all of June.”
He said it like it was final. I'd just signed away the only free part of my summer and placed it straight into George's more than eager hands. He was holding it like a delicate origami flower, asking it to keep blooming into a bouquet with his magic.
“Your mum—”
“Mum likes visitors.” George cut in.
I couldn’t argue about it now.
“I’ll owl my family,” I replied gruffly.
George pumped his fist.
“I have to go tell Fred—” He started to turn on his heel, then seemed to think better of it.
Before I could protest, he scooped me into a hug from behind. I barely had time to inhale before he squeezed me tight, his nose at my neck and breathing me in deep. He finally let me go after the warm embrace hung on for just a moment too long and ran off to find Fred.
I put a hand to my face.
Wretched Rowena, my face was hot.
***
The stereotype was true.
Gryffindor boys were the jealous sort of boys. The only reason I knew that to be accurate was because, well, I was on the receiving end of seeing one get jealous in real time.
And that counted as the most bloody hell I’d ever witnessed.
The King’s Cross station was in a rush, parents kept rushing around to pick up their kids. Students were making plans with their friends for visits, and other holidays over the summer. New graduates like me were trying to lug our overfilled trunks off the train.
Once I got mine off the train and plopped down on top of it, crossing my legs and waiting for Fred and George to come and help me get to their home, Roger Davies stopped in front of me with a neatly wrapped parcel.
And soon enough, I found myself in the middle of trying to turn down Roger Davies' invitation to see him play for the Ballycastle Bats next week, the first official week of summer. I had already promised Fred and George I’d be staying with them, so going and staying with the Davies’ family for Roger’s first game wasn’t the best way to show appreciation for the Weasleys' generosity.
Roger had given me a beautiful, formal, invitation to come. Front row seats to the game. He’d even gotten me the black bat-embroided jersey with his family name on the back in white letters. He’d be on first-string for their Chaser line up. I held Roger’s gifts in my hands and didn’t know if I was supposed to return them or keep them as I tried to politely decline the offer. Roger was kind, in all senses of the word. He and I got along fine, being Housemates and all that. But he wasn’t exactly my type.
I had unfortunately allowed a gremlin with red hair and spots like a dalmatian burrow into the deepest part of my heart.
“I can’t, I’m sorry Rog.” I started, lifting my hands to hand him the gifts.
Roger pressed them back into my arms, “No, it’s okay, take them. They were for you anyway.”
I pushed the gifts again.
Roger politely laughed, “No, really.”
“I feel bad for taking them, you should give it to someone—”
“Someone like you. Just take ‘em. No harm, no foul.”
I laughed quietly, bringing the jersey and invitation close to my chest.
Roger rubbed the back of his head and tried to seem more sheepish than disappointed.
“Worth a shot, no?”
I nodded, reaching out with one hand and squeezing Roger’s bicep, “Thank you. For thinking of me.”
Roger walked away, his shoulders having fallen. I had deflated him, the poor lad.
I turned the jersey and note over in my hands. The fabric was almost like velvet, and based on the runes stitched in the hems—it would be a warming jumper too. I cocked my head to the side while looking at it thoughtfully.
Then I shrugged, opening my trunk and settling the jumper and note at the top.
I sat back down on the chest, scanning out amongst all the train go-ers.
George was making a face I couldn’t place, while Fred was blabbering on incessantly—almost—coaxing George?
I gave a small wave to George and Fred, offering a lopsided smile. George was holding so much air in his face that his cheeks puffed up a little. Fred poked the side of George’s face and George scowled at him before shaking it off and walking towards me. Fred began to laugh as a banshee would.
I hopped off the trunk like a frog leaping off a lily pad.
“Well, how do we get to the Weasley house?” I asked, once George and Fred had gotten within a range where I wouldn’t have to raise my voice. I never did like yelling or being loud much. George was the loud one, I could remain politely calm—that was suitable.
I guess that was why I never enjoyed Quidditch much either, the screaming and cheering and all that.
Fred took one end of my trunk and jerked his head to George, George bent down and picked up the other end.
I chuckled, “Yeah, no…”
I tried stealing the handle from George, wrapping my hand over his. His fingers were comparatively much larger than mine though. They practically dwarfed mine, upsettingly. It turned my stomach over.
“Hey, what gives?” I complained, pulling on his hand with both of mine now.
George refused to let go.
"No."
"Georgie." I used the nickname precisely because I knew it made George weak in the knees. But this time, he wasn’t so much as budging over the cute way I’d said it.
"No,” he said defiantly, nose upturned away from me. Actually, his entire face turned away. I spotted the way his Adam’s apple was working against him. The nickname was working, but he was too stubborn to yield to me about this in particular.
"It's my trunk."
"Correct,” he said it like an announcer, like Lee Jordan—as if a magical ding was supposed to ring out the following second after his last syllable.
I rubbed my thumb over the back of his hand.
"Then let me carry it."
"Incorrect."
“Git,” I remarked with a pout, removing my hand from his.
“Sit down.”
I frowned, “You’re telling me to sit on the nasty floor of the train station.”
Fred lifted his end of my trunk higher.
George used his other hand to guide me by the small of my back closer to my trunk, “Sit on your trunk. We’ll Apparate.”
“Do I have to?”
"You've already accepted another bloke's jumper today," George muttered.
I wasn’t sure I had heard him quite right, “Excuse me?”
His hand gripping the handle tightened, "Nothing."
I cringed with a loud grimace, “You’re going to splinch me if we Apparate.”
George shook his head, “I’d never.”
“You could.”
Fred rolled his eyes, “If George ever hurt you, Castillo, he’d most definitely crumble into a pile of ash and dust on the spot. Like when that first year accidentally tipped over one of McGonagall’s prized gargoyles."
The poor statue hadn’t stood a chance against the first year, who had jam all across his face, and fingers laden with Fever Fudge from the new Snackbox the twins had made. One little nudge was all it took and the gargoyle went tumbling to the ground. Seeing George’s face of utter shock when the grey idol shattered into crumbs had been worth it though. Even If McGonagall made me help the twins Transfigure the dust back into a mean-looking figure of what the statue once was.
“Weren’t you the ones to triple-dare that first year into doing that?”
I remembered it perfectly.
“Irrelevant,” George said, patting the small of my back again, “Now, would you please sit?”
“Set the trunk down, it’s a lot of weight to carry.”
George laughed, now fully relaxed from whatever had been curdling his blood earlier about me talking with Roger. I still made no move to sit, standing in place with my arms folded. George gave me a once-over. Then, he groaned, “Sit or I’ll make you.”
A jolt ran down my spine.
I sat down.
The familiar rush of being Apparated was like drowning. First, it filled your mouth and nose. Then it slipped down your throat, until your lungs felt like bursting. The relief came when we landed in the middle of a cosy living space with brown couches—plenty of cute multicoloured patches sewn into various spots.
The rug beneath my shoes was a woven wool rug.
The Weasley House felt like the Weasley twins, fulfilling and comfortable.
Until a young girl with two plaits in her hair launched herself at me and I flew backwards from my trunk and landed on the floor with her straddling my lap. My calves were on the top of the chest, and my back was firmly against the floor.
“Castillo!”
“Ginny—” I gasped, “You’re crushing me.”
And my skirts had flown up to my upper thighs.
Rowena help me.
I lowered my voice, “Ginny…my skirt.”
Ginny was already bouncing her head from side to side, such a fourteen year old it almost hurt me at how she was ignoring the fact I was practically flashing George and Fred.
George’s eyes were fixed on my now bare-thighs.
“Stop looking!” I managed, trying to reach around to pull the skirt down again. A fight with gravity could not be easily won.
Fred had already turned around, his shoulder shaking as he laughed. I was erasing his name from my best friend list. And it was already a short list at that.
George’s face was entirely blank, mouth slightly agape, and he kept blinking emptily.
“George!” I called his name, hoping that would help if I said it angrily enough.
He was gone, entirely gone to the world. Because of my legs…stupid shoddy legs. And my lack of thigh highs, I’d complained about them to the extent my mum stopped buying them for me. I would’ve paid anything, maybe sold my prized novel collection, for money to buy a pair of thigh highs at the moment.
George turned around and tried to walk away, until he ran into the wall. A loud thunking sound where his head met the plaster.
“Oh shit,” he groaned, rubbing his forehead.
Fred dramatically fell to the floor, hitting his fist against the floor as he gasped for air between laughs.
Ginny paused her rant on how much she loved Quidditch for one brief and glorious second, then looked around.
“Geez, Castillo, what did you do to my brothers?”
I gritted my teeth and spoke through them, “Ginny. My thighs are out.”
She slapped a hand across her face.
George ducked his head lower, still facing the wall. “Please do not say thighs.”
What a manchild.
Ginny slowly removed herself, and helped me stand up. I brushed my hands against the fabric of my skirt, straightening everything up again.
“Alright, it’s sorted. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, boys.”
Fred rolled around, becoming a star fish on the floor. He had a hand on his stomach, which was rising and falling rapidly as he caught his breath.
George turned around with his hands raised, forehead red from running into the plaster wall.
“In my defense…I did turn around.”
I dragged a hand over my mouth, “After nearly a century of staring!” I extended my arms out in frustration.
George shrugged, “I’ll see it all eventually?”
I stepped forward and hit his shoulder, and he yelped.
“No.” I hit him again, “You,” another hit, “Will,” smack on the bicep, “Not.”
George yelped again, not from pain—I knew what that sounded like—but from surprise.
“I’ve taken my punishment!”
I tugged on the hair at the back of his head slightly, “You tolerated four of them.”
George looked down at me and pointed behind his head where I was holding, “Five.”
I stuttered, but no response came up. George accepted the win with ease. I’d merely let him win this time. Mostly because I was still reeling from the fact that his attraction wasn’t just a joke. Apparently, it went beyond just teasing and humour. He actually found me…cute? It settled somewhere in between my lungs and lodged itself there, making a home out of the knowledge.
Maybe there was more to this than I initially anticipated.
Ginny laid down on the floor next to Fred.
“Are we going to live like this for the entire month?” Ginny asked, perplexed.
Fred kicked his feet in the air excitedly, “Hopefully.”
***
Summer had never felt so comfortable before.
Going into a kitchen that was already half-booming with teenagers playing Wizard’s Chess or eating seven bowls of cereal was a new experience. Or seeing Molly knitting a sweater with a big C on it, not for Charlie, but for Castillo, was also endearing. The only time I held genuine fear was the one day I had worn Roger’s jersey during an evening roasting s’mores and George kept trying to spill melted marshmallows on it. I hid it deep in my trunk and noted to myself to never bring it out around George.
Days in the sun exploring the orchard next to the Burrow, and George only needed to reach his hand up to grab an apple before handing it down to me. I took one bite and fell for the sweetness of it.
I looked up at him, “This is good.”
I said it with genuine disbelief, apple juice running down my chin. I wiped it away with the hem of my T-shirt, lifting the fabric without a second thought. The apple was a deep, glossy red with a flavour unlike anything I'd tasted before.
He laughed, “No, it’s an apple.
I wagged a finger at him.
"No." I took another bite. "It's a good apple."
The idea sprouted and bloomed all at once.
I grabbed onto the short sleeve of George’s shirt to keep him from continuing to walk through the trees.
“Apple pie. We need to make apple pie,” I suggested, sticking the apple into his mouth.
"Bossy thing," he mumbled around the apple.
I ignored him, naturally.
Catching the apple before it fell out of his mouth, George reached up with his free hand and plucked another apple. Gathering about twelve apples in total. I started to carrying them in my shirt back to the Burrow. Until they kept threatening to slip out of my shirt and I had to acquiesce and give half of them to George, who held them in his arms like it wasn’t even a bother.
We poured all of them into a basket sitting on the kitchen table. I put my hands on my hips and tried to recall every recipe I knew. Which wasn't a lot—I’d never been known as a Master Chef or an excellent cook.
“Okay…I know—ingredients.” I leaned my hip against the table and looked back at George, “I just don’t know the order, exactly.”
“Well, that was almost promising, Castillo.”
“Don’t taunt me, it’s unbecoming for a young man,” I jested.
George gave me a crooked grin, eyebrows raising for a second of teasing.
“I think Mum has a recipe book somewhere,” he started, brushing past me and going to the cabinets. He opened a few and scanned the titles. I wasn’t surprised at how quickly he found it, a Magical Baking Book. Apple pie was one of the first recipes listed. “This is technically for headaches, but it should be fine if we don’t add any mugwort.”
I cringed, “No mugwort will be going into my apple pie.”
“Alrighty, boss lady,” George pushed the book across the kitchen island for me to read, “This is all up to you now.”
It took six hours to make the apple pie. The recipe had said it would take two. Either I was doing something wrong, or it was all George’s doing. I chalked it up to George being a hindrance the entire way through.
Every time I measured flour, he'd somehow end up dusting my nose with it. When I poured the milk, he'd bump my elbow just enough for it to slosh onto the counter. At one point he'd hidden the very last apple I needed to peel, insisting he'd "never seen such a fruit in his life." I'd eventually found it tucked inside the pocket of his jumper. The menace.
It seemed like he was doing everything to extend the duration of making a simple apple pie.
By the time the pie finally emerged from the oven, the grandfather clock in the Burrow struck midnight. Steam curled lazily into the kitchen air, carrying with it the spicy scent of cinnamon, butter, and baked apples.
I folded my arms on the island, setting my chin on my forearms as I stared at the masterpiece. George wandered up beside me and copied my posture, resting his chin on his folded arms.
He bumped my shoulder gently with his own.
"Took six hours, one missing apple, and approximately a kilogram of flour..." His smile grew almost unbearably fond. "...worth every minute."
I tried to agree with him, but then I yawned.
“Ginny’s already asleep,” I complained quietly, “And I bet Hermione’s taken my spot on the cot in her room, they had been debating Muggle logic puzzles the entire evening.”
Hermione would sometimes take my bed, and I would swap her to stay in Ron’s room.
Giving it more thought I continued, “I’ll have to sleep in Ron and Harry’s room—they have the extra bed.”
I didn’t know why I was narrating my thought process to George. It just felt right.
George’s upper lip curled, the freckle there becoming distorted by his expression of disgust.
"Ron and Harry's room?" he repeated slowly.
I blinked, equally as slowly as he’d repeated my words, "Well... yes. They have the spare bed."
He looked personally offended by the very architecture of the Burrow.
"Absolutely not."
"Why not?"
"Because." He gestured vaguely toward the staircase, as though the answer should be obvious. "They're gross teenage boys."
I straightened up, backing up until my hips landed against the kitchen table behind us. I folded my arms. His logic was entirely flawed if his issue was that Ron and Harry were teenage boys.
"Georgie, You are also a boy."
George straightened up too, rolling his left shoulder a few times to get a knot out. He left his left hand on his right shoulder as he gave a loose shrug.
"It’s different,” he said, his voice bordering on being weak and strong at the same time. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to turn this exchange into a joke or something more serious.
I leaned more into the argument of it all, "How?"
"Because..." He frowned harder. "Because they're Ron and Harry."
"Yes."
"And I'm me."
I pinched the bridge of my nose, "That explains nothing."
George sighed dramatically, rubbing both hands down his face "Look, all I'm saying is I don't like picturing you sleeping in a room with two blokes."
“I did once last week.” And then, because I’m clever, I added, “And you just pictured it.”
My filter left me when it got this late at night.
George tensed, “Exactly. Don’t care for it one bit.”
I couldn't help laughing.
"You're jealous."
His ears went pink, and even in the low beige lighting of the kitchen and living spaces, I could see George getting flustered-frustrated. Which I believed should be a new terminology just for George Weasley.
"I'm being sensible,” he attempted.
I stepped forward to him, and pushed him gently on the shoulder.
"You're being ridiculous."
"Both things can be true." Before I could answer, he snapped his fingers. "I've got it."
I immediately regretted the entire exchange.
"You can have my bed."
"George Gideon Weasley."
He leaned forward, closing the space between us further. His nose almost brushed mine. His hands were tucked deep into his pockets. I could see the way his forearms were trying to escape his cultivated posture of composure, twitching every so often.
"I'll sleep on the floor. And, Fred snores anyway. I was looking for an excuse."
“No.”
George shook his head, “Wrong.”
I rolled my eyes, putting a hand on his face and moving him away from me.
George bit my pointer finger.
“Ow!” I cried, trying to keep my voice down. Nearly the entire house was already asleep.
He froze and unlatched his teeth from my finger. His eyes went into a frenzy, but his mouth couldn’t make any words come out.
He stared at my finger in horror.
"...I just bit you."
"You did."
"Good Godric." He looked genuinely distressed. "I don't know why I did that."
"Neither do I,” I whined.
"That wasn't..." He gestured helplessly. "...that wasn't flirting."
“It’s okay,” I remedy the situation in perhaps the worst way possible and I stuck my finger into my own mouth, more out of instinct than anything else. I wasn't even sure why. It wasn't as though saliva fixed bite marks.
His gaze snapped to my mouth.
George’s throat worked. Even from the distance between us, I could hear his heart thumping against his ribs.
He shut his eyes for one long second.
"I am entirely powerless against you, Castillo." He sighed, “I’m done for. Sign the death certificate now.”
Cinnamon still dusted the bridge of his nose. There was egg yolk and milk on his chest. His hair had only become messier throughout the evening because I kept absentmindedly shoving my fingers through it whenever he annoyed me.
He was a mess.
But he was my perfect, weird, and lanky mess.
I don’t know why or when.
But I do something entirely uncharacteristic of myself.
Blame the midnight brain.
Blame how George had worn me down.
Blame how I was already a goner long before he started trying to get my attention.
Blame his stupid face.
Blame his stupid golden heart.
I reached up with both hands and curled my fingers into the front of his shirt.
George looked down at me, completely still.
"Castillo?"
I tugged him the last few inches.
I searched his face for even the smallest hint that he'd pull away. No evidence to be found at all. If anything, his blown-out eyes told me he was already on the brink of the death he'd just described. And now I really was going to sign the death certificate.
I kissed him.
***
I’m ruined entirely.
How does one politely remove a sleeping Gryffindor from one's person when he'd developed an alarming attachment to a rather private area of one's anatomy? Not a question I'd ever imagined asking myself. Especially regarding George.
At some point while we'd been asleep, George had apparently decided my chest was an acceptable place to anchor himself. Barely lucid, we'd kissed for Rowena knew how long on the couch before George had eventually coaxed me upstairs. I couldn't remember deciding to stay with him. At some point we'd simply fallen asleep together in his bed. With George spooning me. One admittance—that I would deny should anyone ask—was that George was warm.
I started by gingerly lifting his wrist with my hand to detach him.
What I received was a sleepy whine and him groping around my torso until he was firmly reattached to me. My toes curled against their will.
Fred was asleep, with his sheets pulled over his head and his feet sticking out at the end of the bed. Snoring like my brother Cael did. I almost laughed, but considering where George’s hand was now pulling me in closer, I realised laughter would wake him. I wanted my escape to be painless for him. I’d embarrassed him enough the entire time I’d been at the Burrow.
There was already that time he’d accidentally run into Ginny’s room looking for her flashlight while I’d been changing. Or when Ron had chased after Crookshanks, Hermione’s prat of a cat, and pushed me into George’s lap. And I’d nearly forgotten, but couldn’t discount when I saw a spider in the hallway and leaped into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist to try and get away from the creature. He’d nearly exploded each time, and became the core means of getting Fred to howl like he was crazed.
I was smart. Objectively. Top of the Charms class. I could absolutely solve this.
If George's arm stayed exactly where it was, then all I had to do was slowly shuffle backwards. Once there was enough room, I could duck underneath his arm and slide off the bed without waking him.
I carefully eased my shoulders back an inch. George frowned in his sleep, I could feel it against my hair.
After a long, terrifying moment, his expression softened again.
I kept easing myself back into him. And it was a success. I'd nearly escaped. I bent my knees, preparing to wriggle downward beneath his arm.
A sleepy noise escaped him.
Before I could react, his arm tightened around my waist.
As though his sleeping brain had concluded I was escaping and absolutely refused to allow it. I found myself pulled straight back against him.
"Oh, for Rowena's sake," I whispered to absolutely no one.
His nose buried itself into the back of my hair.
He sighed contentedly.
The git.
I could wake him.
Absolutely not.
George would remember exactly where his hand had been. He'd apologise so profusely he'd probably try sleeping outside with the garden gnomes out of embarrassment. I'd never hear the end of it from Fred either.
I glanced toward the other bed. Fred remained blissfully unconscious. His blanket had migrated somewhere around his knees now, one foot hanging dramatically off the mattress while he snored loud enough to frighten passing owls.
How one twin slept like an angel while the other treated unconsciousness as an opportunity to become an overgrown octopus was beyond me.
I tried again. Carefully laying one of my fingers down at a time, I lifted George's wrist. It rose. Victory.
Then, still asleep, he made another tiny protesting sound and caught my hand. Unexpectedly, he simply laced our fingers together. Then with our interlocked hands, he brought them to a spot right below my chest.
As though that solved whatever problem his sleeping mind thought we were having. My entire body forgot whose side it was on. The enemy that was my heart melted immediately.
"Oh, that's unfair," I whispered.
He smiled in his sleep. I stared at the back of his freckled hand wrapped around mine. There was no strategy in the world capable of defeating a sleeping George Weasley.
Fred finally stirred in his sleep.
Dread filled me.
George caught on rather quick when I turned around and unlinked our hands. At first, he had been slightly pissed.
“Castillo, you’re not leaving me,” he grumbled, tugging me into him again. He slung his leg over knees and pressed his heel against my calf.
I whisper-yelled at him, “Fred is waking up, let me go, you freakishly possessive oaf.”
George, with his eyes still closed, rubbed my back.
He turned over on his back while I was still holding onto his side to keep from falling off the edge of the bed.
His brightest idea in the situation was to adjust the duvet so it covered me entirely.
Now I was in the dark against George’s chest while Fred made a groaning sound. Likely a morning stretch.
“Oi, Georgie, you might need to lay off the cookies, you seem a bit chubby from where I’m looking.”
I muffled my giggled against George’s ribs.
“Yeah, yeah,” George sat up on his bedframe, keeping the blankets covering my head. “You gonna shower then?”
The floor creaked, presumably as Fred got off his bed.
“Think so—”
The door slammed opened, the hinges creaking out against the betrayal.
“Where did Castillo go?” Molly Weasley demanded, “And why is there a pie in my kitchen, I do not remember making one?”
“Honestly Mum, we have no idea,” Fred started.
George echoed the sentiment, “Mother might not know best after all.”
Molly clicked her tongue.
She stepped into the room.
No.
Please.
No.
I wrapped my arms tighter around George’s torso and tried to blend in with his body under the sheets.
“Why are you still in bed George?” Molly asked, “Your buddy is gone and you’re not concerned? Horrible behaviour if you’re expecting to start courting her.”
Fred laughed, “Castillo would never.”
George scoffed, “I’m wearing her down, she’s growing attached to me. I’ll have you know.”
I pinched his side. George winched at the feeling.
Molly spoke next, “George, hop out of bed, we really must go looking for her.”
George's voice came out strained, “She’s fine. Did you check the shower?”
Molly moved more into the bedroom, and the footsteps were getting closer to George’s bed. I wondered what I was going to say to explain away the last twenty-four hours of my life. Something like I’d Apparated wrong wouldn’t work. Or saying the Wackspurts stole me from Ginny’s room wouldn’t be feasible either.
“Mum—no.”
George’s voice had the strangest mixture of panic and resignation in it. George Weasley had faced angry professors, exploding inventions, and Fred’s ideas after midnight without flinching. But apparently his mother discovering me hiding in his bed was where he drew the line.
George tightened his hold on the top of the sheet. He had to fight against another force. Molly was trying to lift the sheet up.
“Why,” Molly began slowly, “is there a girl’s shoe underneath your bed?”
My loafers. I’d kicked them off without much thought during the night. I stopped breathing. George stopped breathing. Fred, menace that he was, made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like he was trying not to laugh.
“George,” Molly said again.
George’s humour died within his own dry laugh, “Right, okay, before we all jump to conclusions—”
“Jump to conclusions?” Fred repeated. “Mum, there is literally a girl hiding under his blanket.”
“Mum, she’s not—”
I looked up at him from beneath the blanket.
Not what?
Not a girl?
Not hiding?
Not here?
Molly sighed.
The kind of sigh that mothers perfected after years of dealing with children who were technically adults but behaved like they had been dropped on their heads as infants.
“Castillo.”
My entire body froze.
The sheet lifted.
There was no escape.
Just me, George Weasley’s bed, and Molly Weasley standing there with the expression of a woman who had just discovered exactly what she expected to discover. For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Molly blinked. Her eyes flickered between George, me, the state of the room, and the fact that I was currently wrapped in George’s duvet like some kind of in-progress invention that he still needed to work the kinks out of. All the while I was still clinging to him like that could turn me invisible. Fun fact, that’s actually not how invisibility works. My soul left my body. I wanted to steal his soul from his body as retaliation.
“Mrs. Weasley—”
“Not a word,” she said quickly.
I immediately stopped.
George sat up straighter.
“Mum—”
“George.”
He stopped too. It was honestly impressive. The woman had an entire household of chaos under control with a single word.
Molly placed a hand over her mouth, and for one horrifying second I thought she was angry. Then her eyes softened, “Oh, sweetheart.” Molly’s expression became painfully fond.
“You two made a pie.”
George looked at her.
“Brilliant deduction,” he commented.
I hit his chest, “George.”
“Sorry.” George apologised to me.
“You made a pie,” she repeated, “and then you stayed up all night.”
I felt my cheeks tinge with heat under the skin.
“We were just—”
“Baking,” George said.
“Talking,” I added.
“Talking while baking,” George corrected.
Molly looked between us. She smiled. Somehow that was the scariest part of this all.
George cleared his throat, “Mum. This is my girlfriend. Girlfriend, this is my mother.”
I furrowed my eyebrows at him.
“I already know your mum.”
“Yeah, but it’s different now.”
It hit me that he was reintroducing me as his girlfriend. He hadn’t even asked. I realised I’d accepted when I didn’t correct him. Oh, well.
Molly sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting my back.
“Three rules. No sleeping in the same bed again,” George made a sound of complaint at that one, Molly shot him a stern look. “No hands below the waist George.” Again, another disgruntled noise from George.
Molly turned to look at me, the same brown eyes as George. Soft, sweet, earthy eyes.
“And please, please, Castillo, make sure you’re sure before you do anything foolish just because George suggests it.”
My ears began to burn, almost like the pie had last night before George got it out of the oven. The edges were still a little charred, but mostly redeemable.
Fred extended his hands at me and George still hugging in bed, “They get three rules and I get a grounding? How is this fair?”
Molly stood up and forced Fred’s head down as he grimaced.
“They didn’t sneak into a shower together, that’s why. Castillo is still clothed.”
This was apparently news to George because he commented, “You and Angelina?”
Fred made a pleased face, “Yeah.”
“Brilliant.” George replied.
Molly hit Fred on the shoulder, “Not brilliant! Get married before you give me a grandchild.”
Fred wiggled his eyebrows once Molly left the room.
I eased my hold on George, relieved.
“Hey,” he complained, trying to bring me closer again, “I liked what you were doing earlier.”
I tried to get off the bed, but George pulled me down by the wrist and I landed over him like a human duvet. He rubbed his hands over my back.
Fred raised his hands and went to leave.
“Wait—don’t leave—I need a witness.” I said, but Fred was already shutting the door behind him.
George slid his hands to the backs of my thighs.
I face planted in his chest. We already broke rule number two on Molly Weasley’s list.
Manchild. Clingy.
Now, mine to deal with. Everyday.
***
SIX YEARS LATER
“Would you quit that?” I begged.
George was sitting on a cot in St. Mungo’s, swinging his feet back and forth gleefully.
Gleefully.
“Don’t think marriage protects you from being scolded,” I started, using my wand and tapping the top of his head to start taking down his vitals.
A soft glow passed over him as the diagnostic spell ran through his body, gathering the information I needed.
I wrote the information from my wand onto his chart.
“You snuck into your own shop at night,” I began, scanning the parchment, “exploded a chair, and then almost got blown to bits.”
I looked up at him.
“All because you wanted to test a prototype.”
He barely had a scar on his leg from being too close to the blast zone.
“Yes.” He answered. George lifted both his hands and made a grabbing motion with them. “Now can you make me better?”
He did things like this, and it did stress me out. Whenever he dove too deep into a new project and threw himself into it. Or when he’d joke a little too much on days I was already stretched thin. However, he knew that these traits did affect me—and even if he failed at keeping them to a minimum—we worked on it together. Because, I wasn’t perfect either. Neither of us were.
I handed him a pain potion.
“There you go darling,” I said with as much sweetness as possible.
He took it down in one big gulp, complained that it tasted like battery acid, and then put a hand on my stomach. But not really on my stomach, on the baby bump that had me loosening the straps of my Healer’s robes in the back by the metal clasp little by little.
“Stop acting like I’m fragile,” I pouted.
I tried to take his hand off the baby bump. Only three more months of carrying his child, and it was going to drive me insane when the baby inevitably had his red hair. His hand kept making gentle circles over my belly.
“You’re tired. You’ve worked the entire day. You’re pregnant with our baby boy,” he sighed, “Forgive me if I worry.”
“I’m not weak though.”
“I know you’re not, you’re impossibly strong.”
I stared at him. George rarely said things halfway. He would never bend the truth when it came to me, or his feelings.
“I just think,” he continued, quieter now, “that maybe you don’t have to carry everything all the time.”
Jokes were easy. Teasing was easy. Trying to steal me away to Greece was easy. But beneath all of it, that’s where his genuine love and care resided. His golden heart, and the fact that he saw all of me. George Weasley knew me. Beyond the sarcasm, jests, and pride—he saw the girl who fell asleep in History of Magic and who still couldn’t remember a recipe to save her life.
I put my hand over his.
“You’re going to be a good father.”
“Yeah? You really think so?” The tenderness in his voice broke me. And I was starting to cry easily since month four. George noticed the tears welling up immediately, He reached up and brushed them off my face, “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”
I kept crying while nodding at him. The baby growing underneath my robes was probably the most frightening invention George had ever created. It kept making me emotional. But also, the one I was most excited for.
“I’ll wait in the foyer, and then when you’re done,” he checked his watch, “in twenty minutes, we’ll go home.”
I wiped my nose, “Okay, Georgie.”
He ruffled the top of my head, “It’s all good, sweet girl. We’ve got apple pie at home.”
A relief. I needed apple pie with pistachio ice cream as soon as we got through the door. And George would make it happen.