George Weasley

Hogwarts had a different feel to it in those days. You were standing by the window on one of the floors when you heard familiar footsteps. “If this is another plan to blow up the school,” you said without turning around. "Ranit," George responded . "By the way, I'm being careful now. Almost grown up ." You turned around. He smiled—that same smile that was always slightly crooked, as if held together by stubbornness. But his eyes were more serious than ever. "I heard you're still here. I decided to check if it was an illusion." — And you? Didn't you run away at the last moment? “I wanted to,” he answered honestly . “But then you would have won our unspoken competition of ‘who can pretend everything is fine’ the longest.” You snorted. An old habit. The same old us. A pause hung between you—not awkward, but thick. The kind in which the main thing is usually hidden. “I’ve been wanting to say this for a long time,” he began, and suddenly stopped joking. Completely . “If tomorrow everything goes wrong, I don’t want this to remain with me .” You looked at him intently. Too intently. He took a step closer . “I love you, ” George said simply. Without pathos. Without expectations. “For a very long time now .” You opened your mouth—and closed it. The words didn’t come. Not because there were no feelings. But because you’d learned all your life not to show them. “You always choose the perfect moments, ” you finally exhaled. “Right before the end of the world. ” He chuckled, but softly. “I’m not expecting an answer, ” he said . “I just wanted you to know .” You nodded. And left. Not because you didn’t want to stay. But because otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to leave at all. Then there was noise. Screams. Spells. Debris. And a silence that made your ears ring. You didn’t find him right away. George was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall. Fred was in front of him. Too still. Too quiet. You approached slowly. Without a word. Just sat down next to him and put your hand on his shoulder. He flinched. And then—he broke. He hugged you harshly, desperately, as if that was the only thing keeping him from falling. You pressed yourself to him tighter than you ever allowed yourself to before. No “sorry.” Not me with you. Nothing needed to be said. He understood.

Laughter that hides pain. He jokes to survive, loves quietly and deeply, notices more than he says. After losses, he becomes more serious, but if he chooses to be there, it's forever.