The Girl Who Was A Secret - George Weasley

Chapter 12

George's POV

"I'm nervous."

"Well, don't be."

"Thank you, George. That somehow just alleviated all of my worries."

I snicker and squeeze her hand in reassurance. "Just relax. My family doesn't bite—or, well, Ron used to, but that was back when he was, what, five? And besides, you already know him, and he's never bit you before, has he? "

"Not helping."

"And you've met most of my family already this summer."

"I haven't met Bill and Charlie," she argues, eyes worriedly darting from my own to the wooden door in front of us.

I laugh again. My eyes don't fail to catch onto the way she's frantically tapping her foot against the ground, how she keeps worrying at her bottom lip. The sight has me grinning widely.

"Listen," I say, removing my fingers from her own in favor of turning her around to face me. My hands go to her neck, cradling the sides of her cheeks. "They're going to love you. And if they don't... well, I can always find a different family."

"George," she sighs.

"Only joking," I grin, and lean in to press a very brief kiss to the tip of her nose. "But I mean it. They'll adore you, they did this summer so I don't see why that would've changed. They'll possibly adore you even more than I do, although that's up for debate."

She lets out a long breath, pursing her lips together in an attempt of a smile, I commend her for trying. I drop my hands back to my sides and lace my fingers through hers again, turning to face the door like we're about to venture into some sort of grand adventure and not into my family's living room, I'm about to twist open the knob, until Sarah goes, "Wait."

I glance at her. Her eyes are wide and the look on her face is still so uncertain. Sucking in a breath through her teeth, she asks me, "How do I look?"

The grin on my face is so impossibly wide. "Like a billion galleons," I tell her. Just because I can't resist the urge, I swoop down to press one more kiss to her lips. And then finally, I twist the knob.

The moment I step foot through the door, I'm immediately enveloped by the wafting scent of something being cooked on the stove. It smells familiar, like I should know what it is, but I have never been much of a chef. But I recognize the sounds, the voices coming from the kitchen despite all of them mingling together to form one raucous chorus of chatter. I know exactly which voice belongs to who, I know that the loud shriek is my mum reprimanding one of them, and I know that the sound of someone whining is very likely Ron. That laugh is Bill's, too, mingled with Fred's voice. I just know, automatically, without even having to think about it. I know, too, without looking down on the "welcome" mat in front of the door, that there are going to be muddy boots on top, and there they are. I step around them. I know that there is going to be a quilt magically knitting itself together on the couch without even having to look at it, and there it is.

And just like that, I know I'm home.

Something about having Sarah in the vicinity of a place so important to me, a place that's part of me, has my heart feeling full. I pause for a moment in the doorway, taking it all in, but I'm snapped out of my brief spell of inexplicable happiness when my father comes lumbering out of the door leading to the kitchen.

"George!" my dad exclaims loudly, and just like that all chatter from the room behind me ceases.

"They're here?!" I hear my mother panic.

"We didn't hear you come in!" dad continues.

"Likely because mum was too busy screaming," I grin, and walk forward to envelop my father in a hug.