#*ੈ🍃 ݁sativariddle!works.

[sativariddle]

Hi! if you're okay with doing requests I'd like to request one, with George x Weird girl reader type thing? Like she's kind of off in her own world most of the time, she has odd hobbies and people don't really pay attention to her but George notices her, something along those lines if you could do that I'd really appreciate it!! You don't have to of course, but I really love your works and would love to see your spin on this!

AUTHOR’S NOTE; got a little carried away bc this ask made me kick my feet in the air. I LOVEEE ITT enjoy!!

hogwarts had always been noisy.

the corridors hummed. footsteps echoing on stone, distant laughter slipping through secret passageways, the occasional bang of a rogue spell gone wrong.

but for you, it was quieter than most would expect.

you drifted through it like a ghost, not because you were shy but because you simply existed differently.

while other students rushed to classes, fretting over essays and quidditch matches, you paused to trace the cracks in the walls, wondering how many years it took for a stone to fracture like that.

you memorized the way shadows stretched long and thin before dinner, how they seemed to yawn alongside you.

you were the girl who collected oddly shaped rocks and swore they had personalities. the girl who believed puddles were portals if you stared into them long enough. the girl with ink-stained fingertips and star charts folded into every pocket.

george weasley never meant to notice you.

at first, you were just another blur in the chaotic tapestry at hogwarts.

a background character.

but then, there was the moment—small, insignificant to anyone else, but the kind of moment that sticks to you like honey.

it was a thursday, overcast and gray, with a drizzle that made the castle smell like wet stone and old parchment.

george was late for transfiguration, sprinting down the corridor with fred, both laughing breathlessly after pulling a prank that left filch covered in enchanted feathers.

rounding a corner too sharply, george collided with something—or rather, someone.

books scattered. a glass jar slipped from your hands, shattering dramatically against the stone floor, releasing what looked like… marbles? no. tiny glass orbs filled with swirling colors, like miniature galaxies trapped inside.

george blinked, stunned, as you dropped to your knees, frantically trying to scoop them up, your expression more devastated over the broken jar than the fact you’d just been bulldozed.

“oi—sorry ‘bout that,” george managed, kneeling to help. he picked up one of the orbs, holding it to the dim light.

the colors inside shifted like liquid stardust. “what are these?”

you didn’t even glance at him. “they’re memories.”

george snorted, thinking you were joking. “right. whose?”

now you looked at him, gaze sharp and distant at once, like you were staring through him rather than at him. “no one’s yet. they’re empty.”

fred, impatient, called from down the hall, “come on, georgie!”

george hesitated, then set the orb gently in your palm. you didn’t say thank you, just cradled it carefully, as if he’d handed you something fragile.

that should’ve been the end of it.

but it wasn’t.

because after that day, george couldn’t stop noticing you.

it’s strange, really—how you can see someone once, and then suddenly they’re everywhere.

like the universe flipped a switch, unlocked a new character, and now they’re woven into the background of every scene.

the way you sat alone in the library, sketching constellations in the margins of your notes. how you whispered to plants in the herbology greenhouse as if they could hear you.

the time he saw you crouched by the lake, holding a mirror to the water, watching the reflection ripple like it was telling you its secrets.

you were odd.

and that intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

weeks had passed, and george found himself seeking you out without meaning to. not in an obvious way—just little things.

sitting closer to you in the great hall, though you never seemed to notice.

lurking around the library under the pretense of “studying” (fred never bought that excuse). even lingering in the corridors you frequented, pretending to tie his shoelace when you walked by.

he’d done a few things he wasn’t proud of just to catch your attention, but you were never easy to impress.

you remained oblivious.

until the day you caught him.

it was charms class.

george had been doodling nonsense in his notebook—half listening, half watching you from across the room as you carefully crafted what looked like a miniature solar system with floating, enchanted marbles.

after class, george tried to be smooth.

he sidled up beside you as you had already packed your things.

“so,” he began, trying for casual. “are you secretly a cosmic witch, or do you just like making tiny planets for fun?”

you didn’t even flinch. just looked at him with those unreadable eyes and said flatly, “why do you keep staring at me?”

george choked on his own charm.

“staring? i wasn’t—staring. i was just—observing. there’s a difference.”

“observing implies intent,” you replied, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “so what’s your intent, weasley?”

he had nothing.

no clever comeback, no witty retort.

just an awkward, “dunno. you’re interesting.”

that made you pause.

not blush. not smile.

just pause, like you were processing the word as if no one had ever used it on you before.

you replied, “people think i’m strange.”

george smirked. “strange’s just interesting with a bad reputation.”

── ⌗ ꒰ time jump ꒱

their friendship—or whatever strange thing it was—grew like ivy. not fast or obvious, but quietly persistent.

george learned you loved thunderstorms because they made the world feel honest. that you hated pumpkin juice but drank it anyway because you simply liked the color.

that you collected lost buttons from the corridors, claiming they were “tiny artifacts of forgotten moments.”

you keep a notebook filled with sketches of clouds, each one named and assigned a personality; gregory, the anxious cumulus, always on the verge of unraveling, and beatrice, the dramatic cirrus, stretching herself too thin just to be noticed.

you insist some clouds are in love with each other, their shapes shifting to stay close even when the wind pulls them apart.

you collect broken things—buttons with only two holes, cracked teacups, watches that no longer tick.

you believe imperfections tell better stories, that something flawed has lived more, felt more.

your dorm shelf is a tiny graveyard of beautiful, useless objects, each piece quietly existing, cherished simply because you decided they mattered.

you believe stepping over the same floor tile twice in a day brings bad luck. so you walk in zig-zags, completely serious, as if defying invisible curses stitched into the stone.

you think the grand staircase is alive, its moods dictating where it leads.

you thank it politely when it takes you the right way, as if it could hold a grudge.

you claim certain books whisper to you—that’s why you never pick them logically.

you run your fingers along spines until one hums beneath your touch, and that’s the one you choose.

and somewhere along the way, he realizes—he doesn’t just find your oddities entertaining. he finds them beautiful. because you notice things no one else does.

little, ordinary things most people overlook. and somehow, impossibly, you noticed him too.

but have you noticed?

have you noticed the way he’s liked you since the day he saw you.

have you noticed the way his body always leans into yours without thinking, drawn to you like your clouds in the wind.

have you realized that your warmth—simple, effortless—has been keeping him from the cold far longer than you know?

you had learned that george weasley was more than jokes and pranks.

that he laughed loud to fill silences that scared him. that he was brilliant with spells but terrible at remembering homework. that he carried grief like a hidden scar, tucked beneath his humor.

how, even though his hair is naturally messy, he can’t help but sometimes try different styles in front of a mirror, looking for a new, slightly better look—though he still always ends up with that signature wild hair.

when he’s on his own, he often talks to himself like he’s in a conversation with fred, sometimes even practicing jokes or brainstorming business ideas aloud.

when george is feeling stuck, he might have an internal debate out loud, weighing two sides of an argument like he’s trying to convince someone else.

his tone goes from passionate to ridiculous as he switches “sides,” eventually laughing at himself for how seriously he takes it all.

he’ll sit with a cup of tea or a crystal ball, pretending to read the future. “ah, i see… danger… or possibly just dinner. maybe a bit of both,” he’ll murmur to no one in particular, fully invested in the act for a few minutes before fred would burst out in laughter.

one night, near christmas, you both sat at the top of the astronomy tower, wrapped in blankets against the biting cold.

fred was off somewhere with lee jordan, and george had claimed he needed ‘fresh air.’

you talked about the stars, as always.

you pointed out constellations, tracing them with your finger in the sky.

george watched you more than the stars.

“do you ever feel like you don’t fit?” you asked quietly, breath visible in the cold air.

“all the time,” he admitted, surprising himself.

you glanced at him, expression soft.

“but you’re…you. you’re funny and loud and—”

“doesn’t mean you fit,” he interrupted gently.

he was right. people pick and choose—no one truly fits in. you just have to let everyone be themselves. it’s better than pretending, though george has mastered the art of that.

you didn’t look through him. you looked at him.

“i have a gift for you,” you said, breaking the silence as you reached into the pocket of your hoodie.

george cleared his throat; you always had a way of turning his thoughts into a tangled mess.

you turned toward him, suddenly shy as you held it out. a small, unassuming package wrapped in crinkled parchment, tied with a piece of deep blue thread.

george frowned.

he tore the present open with impatient hands.

he was always a little too eager, a little too curious for his own good. his mother liked to remind him that kind of curiosity could get him killed.

he thought differently.

driven by curiosity, he took the time to get to know you.

inside the box was a single glass orb.

a marble.

but not just any marble.

it was the same one from the day they’d collided—the day he’d knocked your books flying and picked up one of your tiny galaxies. only now, it was different.

no longer empty.

inside, colors swirled more vividly than before—brighter, richer— purple and deep crimson threads twisting together in a cosmic dance.

it pulsed faintly in his palm, warm despite the winter chill. george turned it over in his fingers. “what’s in it now?”

you didn’t answer immediately.

instead, you reached into your pocket, pulling out your wand “hold it,” you instructed softly.

george obeyed, the orb resting snugly in his palm. then, with a delicate flick of your wand, you tapped it lightly.

the world shifted.

george felt weightless—like the floor had vanished, like he’d been pulled through a bubble, thin as soap film. light blurred around him, colors stretching and folding until—

he was standing… somewhere else.

it was hogwarts, but not as he’d just left it.

the corridors were slightly hazy, as if viewed through frosted glass. and there—across the hall—was himself.

with a grin too wide to be confident, balancing a teetering stack of enchanted objects. fireworks tucked under one arm, a fanged frisbee spinning dangerously in the other hand, and—merlin’s beard—was that a bouquet of flowers made entirely of self-inflating balloons?

george groaned. he knew exactly when this was.

the day he’d tried to impress you.

it had been weeks after their first proper conversation, and he’d decided—against all reason— over-the-top display of “weasley charm.”

it had gone terribly.

in the memory, george watched his past self approach you, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor near a window, sketching in your notebook.

“greetings, oddball!” memory-george announced far too loudly, startling a nearby first-year. “got something for you!”

you looked up, quill paused mid-stroke.

memory-george attempted a dramatic flourish “behold!” he tossed the bouquet with a triumphant grin.

the bouquet exploded.

not with confetti. not with sparks.

with an actual bang.

the self-inflating balloons detonated mid-air, sending scraps of rubber and glitter everywhere.

the fanged frisbee panicked, bit memory-george’s ear, and the fireworks—oh, sweet merlin— the fireworks ignited prematurely, shooting sparks down the corridor, causing chaos.

memory-george stood in the aftermath, covered in soot, ear bleeding slightly, with nothing but his charred dignity.

you blinked slowly. then said, in your usual monotone:

“…was that supposed to happen?”

real george groaned, rubbing his face. “i can’t believe you kept this.”

but then something veered.

because the memory didn’t stop there.

in the scene, as memory-george turned to flee, humiliated;

you smiled. just the tiniest bit.

a smile hidden when he wasn’t looking. a soft, secret curve of your lips as you watched him walk away.

the memory faded, colors dissolving until george was back on the astronomy tower, the marble still warm in his palm.

you stood there, quietly watching him.

george cleared his throat, heart pounding. “you—you kept that? that disaster?”

you shrugged. “it wasn’t a disaster to me.”

it wasn’t. the way he tried so hard to keep everyone from panicking while the chaos seemed endless—it made you laugh. you found it cute how panicked he was.