Chapter Text
It was one of those days again.
The sky pressed heavy and swollen with storm clouds, wind howling across the pitch in cold, angry gusts. Rain lashed the windows of the stadium and the thunder rolled like distant cannon fire.
But the Gryffindor Quidditch team still practiced.
Of course they did.
You stood beneath the cover of the stadium’s upper stands, leaning against the soaked railing, hood drawn tight around your face. From up here, the red robes moved like flickers of flame across the pitch. Familiar shapes, familiar rhythm.
Your eyes, however, were drawn, unavoidably, to them.
The tall, unmistakable redheads at the heart of every storm.
Fred and George Weasley were impossible to miss. Even in a sea of crimson, they stood out like firecrackers in a downpour. You almost laughed aloud thinking it, how they were probably the best natural lightning rods in all of Hogwarts.
Normally, you might be down there with them. Not as a player. Not anymore. But sometimes you'd take a few slow laps around the pitch on a practice broom, just to feel something. Just to remember.
Today wasn’t one of those days.
The cold cut deeper now. Your joints didn’t bend the same way they used to. And you were tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that no nap could cure.
So you stood above them instead, watching.
Spectating the game you used to command.
It used to be your sky.
Once upon a time, you'd soared through every storm, every foul, every impossible match. Rain or shine, you never missed a game. You weren’t the star player, but you were damn close. Strong in the air. Balanced, quick-thinking, brutal when necessary. Your teammates had called you a bloodhound on a broom, once you caught the scent of a goal, you didn’t let go.
Until the day your world quite literally fell out from under you.
And then came the game that changed everything.
It was a match against Slytherin.
The weather had been brutal, freezing wind, sleet in the eyes. You’d woken up that morning feeling off, a sick tangle of fever curling in your spine, but you'd hidden it. You always played.
You remembered the flash of green as a Slytherin beater clipped you in the side. Your balance, normally rock-steady, slipped for the first time in years.
You fell.
You should’ve hit the ground hard and bruised. That was normal in Quidditch. But the second your body hit the pitch.
It felt like needles driving into your nerves. Your body locked up. Your scream barely made it over the storm. Rain fell in your eyes and all you could see was a swirl of sky and mud and pain.
They later told you the spell was old, dark, and vicious.
------
The Hex: Spina Mordax - "The Thorned Spine Curse"
A cursed hex from the early Goblin rebellions, designed for magical traps. It's a dark, illegal hex designed to mimic the sensation of being impaled upon impact. When cast on a surface like the Quidditch pitch, it lay dormant until kinetic force triggered it. Your fall activated it and instead of soft earth, it felt like crashing into a nest of invisible thorns, driving deep into bone and nerve. It caused significant nerve damage and magical inflammation, leaving long-term paralysis risk and delayed magical healing.
They found the curse in the grass days later, faint traces pulsing like veins.
Whoever hexed the pitch set it before the game began.
They were caught and expelled within days. A bitter seventh-year who hated Gryffindor’s winning streak. It made headlines for a week in the Daily Prophet.
-----
You were young and it was hard to understand, let alone accept. They say there are five stages of grief, and you went through every single one. Some days, all five at once.
Denial.
At first, you refused to believe it. Even as the pain throbbed through your body, even as you lay motionless in the hospital bed, unable to sit up on your own, unable to walk without assistance, you convinced yourself it was temporary. Just a bruise. Just a bad fall. You’d be back on your broom in no time. You had to be.
Anger.
When denial faded, rage filled the cracks. You snapped at everyone: the nurses, your teammates, your professors and worst of all, your parents. Especially them. No matter how much they tried to comfort you, you pushed them away. You didn’t mean to hurt them, but the pain inside of you had nowhere else to go. They never stopped showing up, even when your words did.
Bargaining.
You begged the Healers with the same desperate question over and over again: Will I recover? Will I play again?
The soft sorrow in their eyes said more than their words ever could. Still, you clung to hope. Maybe, maybe, if you worked hard enough, trained long enough, wished fiercely enough… your body would obey. You made silent promises to the stars, to yourself, to anything that might be listening.
Depression.
But hope wasn’t enough. Days turned into weeks, and you had to leave Hogwarts behind. Recovery was long and cruel, a slow climb without a summit in sight. You became a shadow of yourself. The days blurred. The nights felt endless. You lost count of how many times you stared at the ceiling, too tired to cry, too numb to sleep. Loneliness curled up beside you like a second spine.
Acceptance.
Then, one morning, it clicked, not in a dramatic way, but like the final piece of a puzzle settling quietly into place. You realized you had two choices: let the past consume you and drag down everyone who still loved you… or find a way forward.
So you chose to live. It wasn’t giving up. It was choosing to keep going.
You learned to walk again. To breathe without bitterness.
You told yourself it wasn’t the end, just a different beginning.
No, you couldn’t play on the team anymore. But you could still fly sometimes. You could still be part of the world you loved. Even if it meant standing on the sidelines with aching bones and a scarred heart, you were still here. Still standing.
And that had to count for something.
-----
“Careful!”
The warning rang across the pitch, urgent and sharp. You barely had a second to register it before a Quaffle came soaring toward the stadium seating, fast and reckless, like it had a vendetta.
The younger students nearby froze like startled owls. Too slow to duck. Too wide-eyed to run.
Instinct took over.
Your hand shot up, catching the Quaffle cleanly with a sharp thwack. Pain bloomed immediately through your shoulder, but you didn’t show it, just clenched your jaw as the weight of the ball settled in your palm.
“You guys okay?” you asked, glancing at the group.
They nodded, a bit shaky but clearly grateful. One of the first-years gave you a timid thumbs up.
“Good. Don’t sit so close to the field, yeah? This lot plays like they’ve got Bludgers for brains.”
You smiled faintly as they scampered back toward the higher rows. When you turned, the players on the pitch waved sheepishly in apology, Harry gave you a thumbs-up, Alicia mouthed a “thanks” and someone let out an appreciative whistle from above.
You threw the Quaffle back with practiced ease, but the second your arm followed through, a hot, needle-like pain lanced through your shoulder. You winced. Quietly. No one noticed.
Of course they didn’t. You’d gotten good at hiding it.
The ache was always worse when it rained. The cold cut deeper in late autumn, when the wind carried winter on its back and the sky stayed bruised for days. The healers had told you the stiffness was normal.
“Residual nerve sensitivity. Scar tissue inflammation. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
Lucky didn’t feel like the right word. But you nodded and learned to live with it anyway.
You sat down on one of the lower benches, ignoring the sting in your shoulder, and watched the team resume practice. Red robes streaked across the gray sky like sparks. Mud flicked up from every landing. Laughter echoed faintly even as thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.
You used to be up there.
Not just flying. Soaring. Throwing your heart into every play, every pass, every brutal, beautiful match. You used to be the wind.
Not anymore.
Now your bones ached when it drizzled. Now you couldn’t sleep through cold nights without waking up sore. Now you watched from the sidelines, clapping and cheering when you could, pretending it didn’t kill you to stay grounded.
And maybe that’s why you’d gotten... pricklier. Less patient. Especially with certain snakes in green who thought they were clever. If a Slytherin so much as looked the wrong way at a first-year lately, you were already reaching for your wand. It wasn’t noble. It was projection. It was fury without a name.
And you’d earned a bit of a reputation for it.
Apparently, some fourth-year Slytherin claimed she saw you hex a student without speaking, just glared at them and their shoes caught fire. Ridiculous. Mostly. But the rumor spread, and now most of them ducked into doorways when they saw you coming.
You didn’t care enough to correct it.
You reached up and tried to stretch your arm again, just a bit. It was no good. The pain pulsed beneath your skin, sharp and unrelenting.
You sighed. Merlin, this is going to ruin your whole day.
A sudden warmth pressed against your cheek.
You flinched slightly, then blinked up and froze.
George Weasley stood there, rain-damp curls pushed back from his forehead, a crooked smile playing on his lips. He towered over the bench, blocking out the overcast sky like a walking firework of freckles and mischief.
“George.” you said, surprised.
“Y/N.” he echoed in mock formality, his grin widening.
He had pressed a warm water bottle gently to your cheek, one of those self-heating ones Madam Pomfrey sometimes handed out for muscle cramps.
Without asking, he plopped down beside you, stretching out those long legs until they nearly bumped the row in front. He let out a content sigh as if the bench had been made specifically for him.
You stared. “Where’d you get this?” you asked, holding up the bottle.
“Stole it. Obviously.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Fine. Borrowed. Madam Pomfrey’s got a soft spot for charming redheads with a history of broom-related injuries.” He glanced at your shoulder meaningfully. “Thought you could use it.”
You hesitated. Then pressed it tighter to the ache. It helped. A little.
“Thanks,” you murmured, quieter now.
He glanced sideways, reading you like he always did when he got serious for half a second. “You’re trying to hide it again.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
George scoffed lightly. “You winced so hard when you threw that Quaffle, I thought you were about to hex the ball itself.”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “Old injuries act up. I manage.”
“You always ‘manage’” he said, mimicking your air quotes, “and then end up sulking out here in the freezing rain.”
That earned a laugh from you, short and reluctant.
George turned to face the pitch, elbows resting behind him on the bench as he leaned back. His posture was so relaxed. All untamed edges and boyish nonchalance. You remembered when he and Fred joined the team in second year, tiny prank-happy upstarts with more confidence than caution.
But George had changed over time. He still joked. Still teased. But now there were moments like this. Quiet ones. Moments where he showed up with warm water bottles and eyes that noticed too much.
“You’re done for the day?” you asked.
“Break.” he said lazily.
“You’ve been having a lot of those lately.”
“Maybe I just like the view.”
You raised a brow, and he grinned wickedly.
“Not the rain,” he clarified. “Though you do make sulking in thunderstorms look very dramatic.”
“Me and Fred always give in some extra hours,” George said, voice a bit lower now, slower, like he was settling into the comfort of your presence. His head dipped until it gently leaned against your shoulder, just heavy enough to let you know he was truly there. “Don’t you think we deserve a little break once in a while?”
You let out a dramatic huff, rolling your eyes skyward, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward anyway. “A ‘little break’? That’s what we’re calling it now?”
Not that you didn’t know. Of course you knew. Everyone had at least heard whispers about the not-so-secret scheming the twins were always up to. They’d been working on some sort of business, something wild, loud, and most definitely against half a dozen school rules. You’d even caught them sketching something explosive-looking on spare parchment in the common room once.
Still, you had to admit it: juggling Quidditch, schoolwork, and whatever madness their entrepreneurial dream required… that took real brains and ambition. You’d never say it to his face, at least not without adding a sarcastic jab, but it was impressive.
“So,” you said casually, pretending not to notice the way his hair brushed against your cloak as he leaned into you, “where’s Fred?”
George lifted his head slightly, twisting to look at you with an exaggerated frown. “Why are you asking about him when I’m right here?”
You raised your brows at his faux-wounded tone. “Weren’t you two joined at the hip or something? I’m simply pointing out the missing twin.”
The truth was: you had noticed Fred’s absence. And it wasn’t just today. Lately, the dynamic duo hadn’t been so... duo. It was strange. Like looking at a moving portrait with one side slightly faded. Something just felt off.
“He’s busy.” George replied, a little too simply.
“Busy?” you echoed. “Without you?”
“Well,” George said, glancing away with a crooked grin tugging at his lips, “I can’t exactly tag along on his date, can I?”
Your head snapped toward him. “Date? Fred’s on a date?”
George chuckled at your expression, his freckles crinkling with amusement. “Surprised?”
You blinked. “Shocked, actually. Not that he doesn’t have options. I mean, half the school flirts with him. I just... forget you lot are growing up.”
You rubbed your temple dramatically, sighing like a war-weary aunt. “Maybe it’s because I’m older. I see everyone a year younger than me as tiny ducklings. Chaos-filled ducklings.”
George let out a genuine laugh, a warm rumble in his chest that you could feel in the space between you. “Ducklings? I’m wounded. Here I was, trying to impress you, and now I find out I’ve been waddling around in your head this whole time.”
You shrugged with mock innocence, but he wasn’t letting you off that easy.
“Yeah, well,” he said, tone dropping playfully, “what about me, then?”
You glanced sideways, catching the sparkle of challenge in his brown eyes. Merlin, he really did know how to lean into a moment.
“What about you?” you asked, playing dumb.
He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Fred’s got people throwing themselves at him left and right. But I, tragic, humble, devastatingly handsome me, get no love at all.”
You snorted. “You two are literally identical. I don’t see how that’s possible.”
George leaned in, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Apparently Fred’s the hot one.”
You raised an eyebrow. “According to who?”
He tapped his temple. “A very reliable source. My ego.”
You let out a snort-laugh, trying to smother it, but George caught it anyway. He beamed like he’d just won a bet.
“Everybody has their own charm,” you said lightly, tossing him a crooked smile that didn’t quite hide the way his question lingered in your chest.
“Right,” he muttered, stretching his legs out with a loud creak of the bench. “Still... he gets a girlfriend before me.”
There was a twinge of something behind his words, humor, sure, but also a quiet sort of insecurity. It made you glance at him, properly this time. His eyes were still on the pitch, but the grin had softened.
“You fancy someone too, then?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
It was meant to be teasing, light, easy. But something about his silence afterward wasn’t.
Then, calmly, “Yeah.”
You blinked. “Oh really?”
You were surprised by how curious you suddenly felt. Not nosy curious, invested curious. Like you'd just opened a door and found a secret room inside someone you thought you already understood.
“Yeah,” he said again, quieter now. “But... she doesn’t seem all that interested in me.”
He kept his tone even, unbothered, like it was just a passing comment. But you weren’t fooled.
His posture was too still. His fingers tapped the bench absentmindedly, rhythm offbeat. Something vulnerable lived in that confession.
You opened your mouth. Then paused.
Whoever she is, you thought, she’s clearly a fool.
“Oh, come on,” you scoffed between laughter. “Who wouldn’t be interested in you? Anyone who isn’t must be boring as a brick wall.”
The grin tugging at your lips wasn’t just amusement, it was comfort. Teasing, light-hearted, familiar comfort. The kind only George Weasley ever managed to pull out of you, even on colder, aching days like this one.
“You tell me.” he muttered with a playful sigh, voice dry as ever, but that subtle smirk lingered.
As far as you knew, George hadn’t exactly been the romantic type or at least, not openly. So his offhanded confession took you a little by surprise. But you figured if he was truly into someone, and if that someone had even half a brain, it wouldn’t take much for him to win them over. With that cheeky charm, crooked smile, and frustratingly perfect comedic timing? They’d be lucky to stand a chance.
You gave him a sideways glance, watching how the breeze tousled his already-wild red hair, making it stand on end like the static mischief it embodied. “Maybe you just need to try a bit harder.”
“Try harder?” he echoed, as if the very idea offended his entire bloodline.
“I mean… Fred’s dating someone now, right?” You tilted your head. “If you’re so hopeless,” you tease. “maybe you should just ask Fred for advice. He’s clearly winning.”
George let out a quiet laugh, looking away for a moment. A ghost of a smirk played on his lips as he exhaled slowly, like he was already preparing for whatever teasing might come next. When he turned back to you, that familiar mischievous glint danced in his brown eyes.
“I think you know who she is,” he said, smirking. “Remember when Fred kept badgering you about one of your very pretty friends?”
You blinked, thrown off for half a second. “George,” you said flatly, “I have lots of pretty friends. You’re going to have to narrow it down.”
The way you sang it, like a proud anthem, made George snort with laughter.
George laughed, a full, delighted laugh that made your chest warm up a bit more than the hot water bottle had earlier.
“Right, of course you do. Forgive me for being unspecific.”
Not to brag or anything, but yes, you did. All your girls were stunning in their own right, and you’d die on that hill. Though now that you thought about it… yeah, Fred had been unusually persistent back then. Always nudging you, grinning too hard whenever he brought someone up.
“Alright, alright,” George leaned forward a little, resting his arms over his knees, voice lowering with casual certainty. “She’s the one with braids. Wears yellow robe. Tucks wildflowers into her hood like she’s trying to charm the bees.”
Your eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh! You mean Marcie? She’s the one I tutor the younger years with sometimes.”
George nodded, brows lifting slightly like he was glad the pieces had finally fallen into place.
You whistled. “Well, she’s pretty, smart, sweet… and terrifyingly patient. What’s Fred looking for, a mum?”
You snorted at the image: Fred trailing behind her like a puppy while she quietly corrected his posture and handed him vitamins.
You weren’t shocked Fred had pulled someone. You were shocked he’d pulled Marcie. Quiet, observant, soft-spoken Marcie, who’d never once breathed a word of this to you. Oh, you were going to interrogate her thoroughly the next time you saw her. Gently, of course. But thoroughly. No mercy.
“More like someone who can smooth out all his chaos.” George muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching as he said it. But something about his tone had changed. Slightly more bitter. Slightly less amused.
Your brow furrowed, head tilting. “I still think you should be with someone who likes you as you are. Not someone who exists just to calm you down like you're a rabid Hippogriff.”
That made him laugh. Then he looked at you again.
That made him glance at you. And not just glance. Eyes steady and dark and full of something too unreadable to name. The kind of quiet stare that made the rest of the world feel like background noise.
A gust of wind blew past, snapping your hood down from your head. Cold air nipped at your cheeks, threading into your collar before you could react. You reached up but his hand was already there.
George moved fast, like it was second nature, tugging the hood back up over your head with practiced ease. Then, without a word, he gently pulled the drawstrings and tied them beneath your chin with a soft, precise knot.
“H-Hey- !” you reached up to bat his hands away, caught somewhere between flustered and furious. “What are you- ?”
“Hold still.” he said, voice low. Firm. But warm. He didn’t meet your eyes, too focused on making sure your ears were covered.
“Seriously, George- ”
“It’s freezing,” he muttered, adjusting the knot just enough to cover your ears again. “You shouldn’t be out here so long.”
“I want to be here,” you countered, even as your voice softened.
He frowned, but it was the kind of frown that came with a hidden smile. Like he was trying to be annoyed but failing miserably.
“Your shoulder’s acting up, isn’t it?”
You stiffened.
His eyes found yours again, this time steady and searching. Not asking. Knowing
He didn’t need an answer. He already knew.
You’d worked so hard to hide the pain, to brush it off with your usual stubborn pride. To pretend the ache that lingered like a ghost in your bones was something you could shrug away. And your friends, to their credit, had learned not to baby you. They kept their concern quiet.
But George?
George saw right through you.
And in that moment, you hated how right he was. How easily he could see through the carefully built shield you wore around everyone else. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t complain. You didn’t even look like you were in pain but he still saw it.
You straightened your spine, jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie.” It wasn’t said with anger. It wasn’t an accusation. It was... something gentler. Something closer to a plea.
“I saw your hand earlier,” he continued quietly. “When you caught the Quaffle. You flinched. And you didn’t even look surprised.”
His voice was different now. Lower. Gentler. Not pitying, he knew better than to speak to you with pity but laced with something else.
You sighed and slowly stood from the bench, brushing your hands together. “Alright, alright. Why are you acting like my mum all of a sudden?”
“You were the one acting like mine five minutes ago.” he shot back, already grinning again.
“Go back to practice, Weasley.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave you a dramatic salute, his knuckles brushing his forehead with exaggerated solemnity like a soldier off to war.
He gave you a dramatic salute as you turned to leave, his legs sprawled like he didn’t have a care in the world, but his eyes, those watchful, careful, unreadable eyes, lingered on you until you disappeared up the stands.
You didn’t see the way he watched your retreating figure.
-----
“And you’re such an arsehole, you didn’t tell me you and Fred-”
You leaned in with a grin, half-accusation, half-tease, but didn’t get much further before your friend squeaked and lunged toward you, palm outstretched, trying to smother your mouth.
“Shhh!” she hissed, glancing around with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. “Keep your voice down!”
You swatted her hand away, already smirking. The damage was done. The grin was splitting across your face like a sunrise.
“You didn’t tell me because it wasn’t serious,” you mocked gently, repeating her earlier excuse. “Oh? So now it is?”
She blushed so hard she could’ve melted the frost from the grass, turning her face to the side like that could save her from your relentless teasing. “That’s not what I meant…”
You were currently lying sprawled on a tartan blanket by the Black Lake, basking in one of the rare sunny days Hogwarts offered during the colder seasons. The chill still clung to the wind, but the sky was brighter than it had been in weeks. Sunlight dappled through the clouds in broken streaks, glinting off the water’s gentle ripples. It wasn’t exactly summer, but it was enough to lure you both outside with books, snacks, and the need for Vitamin D.
“So how’d it happen?” you asked, reaching lazily for your pumpkin juice. “I thought Fred was too… spontaneous for your tea-sipping soul.”
She gave a short laugh and shook her head, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “I just didn’t expect him to approach me. That’s all.”
You raised a brow. “Why not? You’re cute. You tutor first-years. You practically smell like fresh parchment and moral superiority.”
“I thought he was interested in you.”
You nearly choked on your drink. “Me? Oh my God, Marcie, you seriously need your eyes checked.”
She gave you an awkward laugh, cheeks still cherry-red. “I mean… you were always around them.”
“I was around everyone on the Quidditch team. That’s not exactly special.”
She shrugged. “Fair. Still… I never noticed them much before.”
She didn't need to clarify who "them" was. Two tall, freckled boys with chaotic grins and a talent for mischief immediately came to mind. You'd spent so many afternoons watching red hair dart across the pitch, it was almost second nature.
“I couldn’t even tell them apart at first,” she admitted sheepishly.
That made you laugh, a full, obnoxious belly-laugh that made you double over, holding your stomach.
“Oh Merlin, that’s why you kept calling him ‘Weasley’ even after he told you it was okay to use his name!”
She groaned. “Yes…”
You wheezed. “You ice queened him with his surname! No wonder he thought you hated him!”
She huffed in defeat as you rolled onto your back in the grass, still cracking up.
“He told me once he thought you were just being cold,” you said, grinning up at the clouds. “Sounded so wounded. I thought he was just trying to make more friends.”
Her eyes widened. “He told you that?”
“Mhm. I still remember his exact words-” you sat up again, mimicking Fred’s voice in a bad imitation, “‘Who’s that pretty friend of yours?’ All puppy-eyed and awkward. It was actually kind of adorable.”
Marcie buried her burning face in her hands. “Oh my God. I’m going to hex myself into the lake.”
You grinned wickedly. “Too late. I’m telling your grandchildren someday.”
She didn’t dignify that with a response.
“But seriously,” you added, nudging her. “How long were you planning to keep it from me?”
She hesitated. “It wasn’t… anything serious at first. And Fred’s… he’s just…”
“Loud? Impulsive? Dramatic?”
“Passionate,” she corrected softly. “He’s passionate. About everything.”
Your teasing faltered a bit at the honesty in her tone.
“And now?”
She looked out at the lake, the smile tugging at her lips softer this time. “Now I kind of love that about him.”
You narrowed your eyes dramatically. “Oh no.”
“What?” she blinked.
“You’re a goner,” you declared. “That’s it. No saving you now.”
She blushed deeper, then reached out and flicked your forehead. “Shut up.”
You yelped, rubbing your head with a pout as she grinned.
“You know,” she added, voice quieter now, “he asked me to come to the Quidditch World Cup. With his family.”
You snapped upright. “What?! Marcie, that’s practically marriage in Weasley language.”
“It’s not like that-”
“Oh no, you’re already in too deep,” you interrupted. “You’ll be sipping tea with Molly and learning everyone’s jumper sizes next.”
Her lips twitched with amusement as she muttered, “It’s just a trip.”
“Sure, just a trip with seven redheads and a family clock that tracks your soul. You’ll be knitted into the tapestry by the end of summer.”
She rolled her eyes and returned to her book, but you caught the little smile she couldn’t hide. The sun dipped lower, casting golden light over the lake as a gentle breeze tousled your hair.
The laughter faded into a comfortable quiet. You lay side by side on the blanket, each nose-deep in your own novel, pages fluttering in the wind.
“But I’m not comfortable going alone, you know… first time meeting the Weasleys and all.”
You looked up when Marcie suddenly broke the quiet. Her book lay forgotten in her lap now, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. You blinked, slightly startled, then tucked your own book aside.
“Can you- uhm- go with me?”
She clasped her hands together in front of her, eyes wide and pleading in that help-me-before-I-have-a-breakdown kind of way.
You blinked. “I- I'd love to, hell, it's the Quidditch World Cup, but I don't think my parents will let me.”
Which, to be fair, was a massive understatement.
Your parents barely let you walk to the Owlery alone anymore. The idea of you attending the most chaotic sporting event in the wizarding world, after your injury? They’d have a meltdown. You could already hear the overprotective rants echoing in your head.
Still, if there was a way around it…
“It’s okay,” Marcie rushed out. “Fred invited me to the Burrow. I asked if I could bring a mutual friend, and he said yes.”
You stared. “You want me to go to the Burrow? Like, visit the Weasley house?”
Your voice pitched higher at the end, caught between surprise and disbelief.
She nodded eagerly. “He said his family, well, mostly his mum… would love to meet me. And you’re the only person I know that’s close enough to them to make it… not awkward. Please, just this once?”
You were already about to say yes when she added, “I even bought you a ticket.”
You gasped. Actually gasped. Your hands shot out to grab hers. “You did? Marcie! Why didn’t you lead with that?! Obviously, I’m coming!”
-To be continued-