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BABE!!! thank you so much 🥹

A Madness Most Discreet p. 4 | G.W.

feat George Weasley x Malfoy!reader

summary: all things come to an end, whether we want them to or not.

cw: angst, abuse, more angst

series navigation | part one | part two | part three | masterlist divider by @roseraris

Reader's POV

Umbridge’s takeover of Hogwarts was swift and merciless. First, it was stricter curfew, more frequent tests, an actually enforced dress-code policy. Then, it was rules framed like 'Wanted' poster’s along every wall. Three, ten, fifty. Stacked like the bricks of ideological prison.

It became harder and harder to see George, the stringent curfew’s and severe punishment for being “unaccounted for” infringing on every spare second either of you had. And, the cherry on top of the pink-frosted shit cake, was the Headmonstresses unending vitriol of Harry Potter, and anyone that breathed within his orbit.

Which, of course, included your George.

You’d once tried sneaking into the Quidditch locker rooms after practice, thinking that surely he wouldn’t be punished for taking an especially long bath. But that rotten feline, Mrs. Norris, was waiting just outside the door, blinking owly up at you. You’d had just enough time to slip into the shadows when Filch dragged George into the hallway, gravelling on about how Umbridge was going to have a field day with him for wastin’ so much water.

The following morning, George was sallow-eyed and vacant, like she’d carved something out of him. You hadn't asked him to meet up since, unable to stomach the thought of you being responsible for any amount of his pain.

So you watched, helpless, horrified, as his smile faded. Every passing glance grew shorter, shadowed, until he was barely looking at you at all for fear of being caught.

How swiftly your paradise had become a hellscape. And how selfish of you to mourn the newfound freedom you lost, when you were one of the lucky few seemingly untouched by Umbridge’s wrath.

It was by virtue of your name, certainly. And you’d never been more ashamed to bear it.

Nearly two weeks had passed without even a brush of hands, his absence like a tear in your side, when you spotted him during a trip to Hogsmeade, loitering at the back of Tomes & Scrolls, eyeing you over a dusty volume.

Excitment buzzed under your skin. As discreetly as you could manage, you snuck along the stacks, feigning a painstaking search for particular title, until you reached the aisle George was hiding in.

He didn’t acknowledge you when you came around the corner, nose still buried in the book you were sure he wasn’t reading, but you felt his attention as keenly as a scratchy sweater against your skin.

“There’s a closet right behind me,” he murmured, turning an unread page.

“Now?” You asked, risking a glance at the heavy wooden door over his shoulder.

“If you’d like,” he teased, a ghost of smirk shifting his mask of disinterest.

With a final glance to ensure no one was watching, you slipped around him and pulled open the door, it’s metal handle cool and solid in your palm. It opened to a dingy storage closet, complete with brooms and stacks of crates, illuminated only by the sliver of light you let in, and quickly swallowed in darkness once you let it fall shut behind you.

You stood quietly, hands wringing together as you waited for the door to open once more. A minute ticked by, three, five.

“What is he—shit!”

George suddenly appeared in front of you, materializing in the blackness like a wraith. “Sh, sh, I’m right here—it’s alright,” he soothed, grabbing your shoulders to steady you. "Didn't mean to startle you, love."

“How did you—”

“Walking through walls spell.”

“Where did you—”

“Do you want to interrogate me or make the most of the five minutes we’ve got?”

“George—” his name was little more than a whisper, sacred and secret as a prayer.

“I know.” His arms slid around you, finally, finally, warm and coaxing, and home, and you melted into his chest, clinging to his sweater as the longing of the last few weeks tipped into desperation. “I’m here, darling.” The words were mushed into your hair, poignant as a spell. “I’m here.”

“I’ve missed you so much,” was the only thing you could think to say, and it was nowhere near enough.

At first, you’d been embarrassed about how deeply your seperation had affected you, but you cared less and less as the days turned to weeks. Before, you could pretend that it was just a fling, that it was just sex, but the gnawing in your chest, the bottomless hunger in your stomach that no amount of food or drink could fill—that wasn’t just fun. It was something far worse.

Something ardent, urgent.

“I’ve missed you too, rattlesnake,” he cooed, cradling the side of your head and turning your face up towards his. “That’s by far been the worst punishment, and the cunt doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.” The words were shaped like a joke, but there was no real humor in his voice, no glimmer of mirth in his eyes.

“How are you? How’s your family?” You asked, fear gripping you so suddenly it stole your breath.

“I’m alright, we’re alright,” he said, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “All things considered, I suppose. How are you?”

You rolled your eyes. So typical of George to ask how you were when he, his family, and half of Hogwarts were being actively harassed. “Enormously privileged, all things considered,” you sighed.

He smiled, miraculous as a beam of light breaking through a thundercloud. “Well, I certainly feel like the privileged one now,” he whispered, his nose caressing yours as he came closer, backing you against the pile of crates.

“Why’s that?” You breathed, barely able to resist cannibalizing that last inch of air between you.

“Because, I may be on the brink of losing everything, but you’re still mine.”

He kissed you before you could process that, his lips slow but insistent, drinking you in like honey wine. Everything fell away, the stress rolling off your shoulders as you parted for him, tongue sweeping across his in a decadent dance.

You never wanted to let him go.

Your hands found their way into his hair, the coppery locks febrile as feathers, and you drew him closer, deeper, rising on your toes to press every inch of yourself against every inch of him. You’d been hollow for weeks, starved and rotten and empty. George was the purge of a spring storm, the rush of snowmelt river, sweeping throughout you, rinsing away the layers of grime and dust and misery—a baptism.

And then, he was gone. Stepping back with a hand over his mouth, another on your shoulder, keeping you at bay when you whined in protest.

“We don’t—I’m sorry, she has spies—” He took a step back, reaching for the door handle.

You followed him, heart ringing like a church bell against your bones. “George, wait—”

“I had to see you, but I shouldn’t have—”

“Love, please—just hold on a second—”

“She could hurt you—”

“She can’t hurt me—”

“You don’t understand!” He barked suddenly, voice sharp, jagged with pain. It sent you back a step. “This is it.”

You shook your head. He was right—you didn’t understand. “It’s just school, George. She’s just a bitch, it’ll be over soon—”

He shook his head, eyes falling to the floor. Unable to look at you. “Don’t assume that you’re safe, alright? No one is safe.”

“George, I don’t—”

“Just, promise me you’ll keep your head down?” he asked, reaching out to catch the tears that had started to roll down your cheeks. “No matter what happens. Promise me you’ll stick with your brother and do whatever he says.”

You reeled back, stunned that he would tell you to rely on Draco of all people. “How could you say that? After everything—”

“Because he’s the only person that loves you as much as I do,” he confessed, the words a jumbled rush, and you felt the floor fall away from beneath you. “He won’t let anything happen to you.”

George loves you?

“I—”

“Don’t say anything, just—just promise me.” His eyes bored into yours, rich and warm as cinnamon bark. If a person’s soul had a color, surely, this was George’s. The color of home, the color of safety.

“I promise,” you said, and you meant it, even if you didn’t understand.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, brows pinched together like it was agony, lips damp with tears, and then disappeared through the door once again.

George’s POV

George should have known you wouldn’t listen.

Why would you? You were completely oblivious to the literal war brewing just under your nose, and if he didn’t love you so much, he’d loathe you for being so damn naive. It was hardly fair of him to blame you though—he was part of the problem.

He wanted so badly to tell you everything he knew, about your parents, the Order, the Ministry. About Dumbledore’s Army, the countless nights he’d been spending training hexes and defensive spells with his family and friends in secret instead of wrapped around you. Training to be used against your family, against…Merlin, he prayed it would never be you at the other end of one of their wands.

How could he live with himself if you got caught in the crossfire?

He’d had ample opportunity to tell you what was going on, really tell you. Hell, he could have stolen you away into the night and ran for America, spared you, protected you, done something. But instead, he had to watch you from a far, helpless to protect you lest he make your suffering, and his own, even worse.

Telling you anything would endanger everyone else he holds dear. His siblings, his parents, countless innocents…

So, he waited, and he watched.

He watched you as you went to and from your classes. Watched when you drifted aimlessly around the library, looking for something, only to return to the alcove you’d shared all those weeks ago. Watched when you laughed with your friends, or fought with your brother.

He watched when you rose from your seat in the Great Hall. Watched as you stalked across the aisle to where Umbridge was scolding a sobbing first year Hufflepuff. Watched when you shoved yourself between them, haughty brow raised while you called Umbridge an incorrigable, tasteless sow in front of Merlin and everyone. Watched when you smacked Draco away, the poor sod only trying to pull you from the grave you’d dug yourself. Watched when Umbridge composed herself, rising like she was twenty feet tall, instead of barely five.

But, he stood when Umbridge opened her mouth.

"You spoiled little bitch," Umbridge had spit at you in a vorocious, lipstick-smudged hiss.

George was halfway off the bench when Fred caught him, dragging him back into his seat before he got them all sent to Azkaban.

His brother’s hand firmly on his shoulder, George was forced to watch while Umbridge berated you, though you gave twice as good as you got, his venomous little rattlesnake, until Snape and Draco finally separated the two of you.

Draco all but carried you out of the hall, kicking and screaming.

It wasn’t until later that George realized Fred had never asked him why he stood up for you.

When George saw you in Potions the following day, your eyes were puffy and bloodshot, your hair lifeless against your cheeks, and he considered blowing up his cauldron just so he draw you away in the ensuing chaos to ask if you were alright.

It was pointless though, he knew you weren’t okay. And neither was he.

He felt like a corpse most days, hollowed out and cold, his heart removed from his body entirely. Walking around in a Slytherin skirt, raw and vulnerable, it’s beat still coaxing his ambling flesh along. Waiting to be reunited.

But, time was running out.

He knew as much when a letter came tapping at their dorm window in the middle of the night, written on a scrap of parchment, the hand shaky but familiar, the mark on the bottom one his father had shown he and his brother the summer before. What felt like a lifetime ago.

The mark of the Order of the Phoenix.

The letter was short, devoid of any detail. But it’s message was clear enough.

You’re needed. - R.L.

Somehow, it had gotten back to Umbridge that they’d received an unchecked letter, probably a spy residing in the Gryffindor common room, or a particularly cruel-spirited portrait.

She summoned George first.

He thought he’d be afraid, standing at the gummy maw of the Headmistresses office, but he thought of you instead. Your sharp tongue and indomitable spirit. And he felt braver.

It didn’t matter what she took from him. He had you.

“Do you know what I’ve called you here for?” Umbridge asked when he sat at the too small table in front of her desk, his knees pressing up against the underside of the table top.

“You just couldn’t resist me any longer, could you, Dol?”

It was stupid of him to jest, in hindsight, but you were fresh in his mind, so present, he could taste your venom on his tongue. Emboldening him.

She made him write “I am fortune’s Fool,” one hundred times with that terrible, inhumane, cursed quill.

I am fortune’s Fool. I am fortune’s Fool. I am fortune’s Fool. I am fortune’s—

He could still see the scrawl every time he closed his eyes. He hadn’t yet dared look down at the burning itch along the back of his hand, crawling and scratching and raw. But he knew exactly what was there. Etched into his skin like gruesome tattoo.

The walk back to his dorm stretched on for miles, and he was unspeakably glad to find only his twin waiting for him on the bottom of their shared bunk, holding the letter from Professor Lupin in his hand.

Fred looked at George’s hand, their once identical flesh forever altered. Different, now.

“We have to leave,” Fred said. “Tomorrow.”

George nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Reader’s POV

A delicate tap on your nose woke you from sleep. A paper crane rested on the pillow beside you, it’s head dipping to peck the tip of your nose once more, and your heart nearly leapt out of your mouth from excitement.

As quietly as you could so as not to disturb your roommates, you unfolded the crane. You instantly recognized the handwriting.

Room of Requirement. Burn this after reading. - G

There was a tiny doodle of snake at the bottom of it, it’s eyes in the shape of small lovehearts.

You pulled on your robes and rushed out of your dorm, stuffing some pillows under your quilt to avoid suspicion should one of your roommates wake up in the middle of the night, and tossed the bird into the fire on the way out.

Though, you couldn't help but tear off and pocket the little doodle.

The Room of Requirement was something you’d only heard of in murmurings, between dusty pages of Hogwarts History books. Somehow, you’d retained the knowledge of its location and managed to sneak, undetected, into the correct corridor, your footsteps echoing along the rough stone.

By now, the portraits all detested Umbridge for rearranging them, and the ghosts hated her for trying to exorcise them, so you knew they’d keep your secret from Filch.

You walked up and down the corridor, searching for a door, when suddenly, one opened just a few feet in front of you. Instinctively, you recoiled against the wall, prepared for Filch or a professor to walk out, but no one did.

A beat passed, and you decided to creep closer, candlelight spilling onto the stones from the doorway. Gathering your courage, you poked your head around the wood and gasped.

The room was enormous, filled with mirrors and practice dummies and big wooden crates. Books and papers were strewn everywhere, copies of the Daily Prophet tacked up along walls, enchanted ‘Wanted' posters growling disdainfully at nothing. A fire place roared against one wall, and in front of it, illuminated with burnished vermillion, shadow stretched long across the open floor, was George.

You couldn’t help yourself, you rushed across the room to him, throwing your arms around his neck when he turned at the sound of your hurrying feet. You buried your nose into the crook of his neck, firewarmed and fragranced with lingering traces of his cologne and something acrid, almost metallic.

“Was starting to worry you wouldn’t find me,” he murmured, stroking your hair as he held you. “Should have known better, my clever girl.”

“What are we doing here?” You asked, pulling back to look around the room. “Why does it look like…this?” You knew the Room of Requirement transformed itself to suit the occupants needs, so you’d assumed there would be a…bed involved. Or at least a chaise.

“I wanted to teach you a few things,” he said, swiping a hand through his hair. “In case you chose to pick any more fights with faculty,” he added, noting the way your smile faltered. But it wasn’t because of his words, it was because of the bandage around his hand.

“What happened?” You asked, grabbing for it.

George was quicker, tucking it behind his back. “Nothing! Just a scratch from Quidditch practice. You know how paranoid Pomfrey gets—”

“Let me see it,” you argued, trying to reach around him. Something squirmed at the back of your mind, a disquiet that wormed it’s way down your spine.

Was he lying to you?

“I’m fine, love. I swear,” he said, catching your hands with his free one. “Nothing to worry yourself with.”

The disquiet grew stronger. “George, what’s going on?” you asked, meeting his eyes.

He sighed, shoulders sagging. “Can we just—have fun for a little while? Throw some hexes, beat the bollocks off some straw men?” He glanced at the dummies, and you followed his eyes.

It dawned on you that they looked like Death Eaters.

Like your father and his friends.

You were already nodding. You could never deny him anything, not with those eyes, or that sad, barely-there smile. “Yeah.” You took a few steps back, withdrawing your wand and brandishing it in his direction. “Show me your worst, Weasley.”

The two of you toiled away the next few hours practicing basic hexes and defensive spells, most of which your father had already taught you, but you’d admittedly not practiced in ages. George even taught you a few new things, stronger, more violent spells that would do actual harm, and you didn’t ask where he had learned them.

By the end, the two of you were laughing, a little sweaty from the exercise and buzzing with adrenaline, and it almost felt like old times again. Just the two of you, getting to laugh and flirt and tease without fear of being caught, or fear of reprecusions. Without the crushing weight of the world crumbling down around you.

Just you and your Georgie, cheeks sore from smiling, lungs tight from belly-laughing.

You’d pulled him into you on the wooden floor, arms wrapped around his shoulders, his weight heavy between your thighs, and you said everything you couldn’t with the fervid press of your lips against his. His hands were everywhere, under your blouse, gripping your thighs, spreading you open, when suddenly he stopped, lurched back as if he’d been struck.

“Wait—I—” he shifted back, resting on his knees, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, pale and trembling.

“What is it?” You asked, sitting up, reaching for him. “Are you alright?”

He lowered his hand, holding it outwards to stop you from closer. Tears were running down his cheeks, his eyes rimmed with crimson. “I have—I have to tell you something,” he whispered, the words tight in his throat. Frayed at the edges.

Your heart dropped through the floor, a chill rinsing through you. “What?” you asked.

He was quiet for a moment, maybe a thousand moments. The silence stretched on for eons, suffocating, endless, total. Then—”Fred and I are leaving,” he said, finally bringing his eyes up to meet yours.

“L-leaving?” you stuttered. “For how long?”

His jaw flexed, and he averted his eyes back to the floor. It was answer enough.

Fred and George were leaving Hogwarts. George was leaving you. For good.

The room spun. “But it’s—it’s the middle of the school year. You can’t just leave,” you argued, as flimsy and pathetic as it was. “You can’t—” your voice was getting shrill now, panicky. It grated against your ears, chafed your polished sensibilities, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. Not when it felt like your heart was being ripped out of your body.

George’s hands were on you, drawing you into his chest, but you resisted, pushing back with feeble arms.

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. George wouldn’t just leave you, not alone, not with—them. Not after everything. Not when you needed him, when you loved him.

“I have to,” he pleaded, gripping your hands. “Please, try to understand. They need me, I—”

“I need you!” You roared back, and he recoiled as if you’d slapped him.

“Love—”

“You’re going to just leave me here? With these people I fucking hate? That hate me?” You were being selfish, you knew you were, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Couldn’t stop the flood of panicked, cruel, sharpened words spilling from your mouth. “I can’t stay here, I refuse to—there’s nothing—how could you just leave me? I thought you loved me!”

He shook his head, eyes screwed shut. He was completely still, save the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“You can’t say you love me and then…” you could barely get the words out. “And then leave.”

George looked down at his hand, the bandage half-off, something deep and red and glaring peaking over the edge. He took a long, shuttering breath, then—“I shouldn’t have said it.”

You grabbed your wand and stormed out, the door banging shut behind you.

Too weak to make it back to the dungeons, you found the nearest door that didn’t lead to George, a broom closet, and locked yourself in. Deciding as you crumpled to the floor that it would be better to just fucking rot there than face your world without George Weasley in it.

A professor found you the following morning. They shuttled you to the hospital wing without a word. You didn’t remember much of the walk, or the two days you spent there, Madam Pomfrey keeping you pacified with sleeping draughts and jellybeans.

She thought you had a stomach bug, considering you could hardly keep food down, the grief too large for there to be room for anything else. You didn’t bother to correct her.

When word finally reached you that the Weasley twins were gone, having made their grand exit in a cacophany of fireworks and flame, you were glad you had missed it. Because you either would have dragged him back down to earth, claws sunk so deep he could never escape you again, or, you would have let him take you anywhere, everywhere, given up everything for a boy that didn’t even bother to ask you to go with him.

That didn’t love you.

So you let him go, and prayed the heartbreak would alchemize into hate.

Thank you for reading! (also I'm sorry)

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#there will be an ending for SURE #harry potter #george weasley fic #george weasley #george weasley fanfic #george weasley fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #ammd

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