Beloved- George Weasley

Chapter 98

The fire had burned low by the time Diana heard the faint pop outside the kitchen window, everyone was already sleep, but Diana couldn't sleep not without knowing George was at home safe. She froze, heart pounding, her wand already in hand. The wards shimmered faintly—first green, then blue—and only then did she exhale. That color meant one thing or one person, George.

She pushed the curtain aside. There he was, standing just beyond the garden fence, soaked to the bone, cloak clinging to his shoulders. The rain came down in sheets now, thick and unrelenting, blurring him into the night. She wondered if his Aunt Muriel would hear, and come downstairs screaming again. That wasn't a fun night.

When he stepped through the door, it creaked softly on its hinges, pushing that thought out of her head, Diana crossed the room in two strides. "Merlin's beard, George! Look at you," she said, eyes scanning him from head to toe. "Where have you been? I've been worried sick!"

He grinned, that lopsided grin that still had the power to undo her anger. "Miss me that much?"

"Don't joke," she said, voice sharper than she intended. George shivered, throwing his cloak on the kitchen chair, before he walked to the living room, and sat down in from of the fireplace, soaking up the heat. 

"Alright, alright," He tugged something from the inside pocket—a tiny, humming metal box with a glowing dial. "Lee finally got the signal to work. We broadcast tonight. Potterwatch is live again."

He tossed her the box, and she easily caught, her eyes widening. "You mean it worked?"

"Worked and then some," he said proudly. "Fred nearly blew up the first transmitter, but you know," He shrugged, "Classic Weasley innovation. We measure success in minor explosions."

Diana tried to smile, but it came out weak, stretched thin with worry, she sat down next to him, her thigh brushing his. "You shouldn't be going out this often. It's not safe anymore. If someone follows you—" 

"They won't," he said easily, brushing a hand through his dripping hair. "We've got decoy wards, false trails, the works. Lee's even enchanted an old wireless to mimic the frequency if anyone gets too close. Brilliant bloke, that one."

"You say that every time," she muttered, folding her arms. "One night you'll come back late, and it won't be because of the rain."

He stopped, just for a moment, his smile faltering. The firelight flickered across his face, making the shadows deepen around his eyes. "Hey," he said softly, stepping closer. "Look at me."

She did. His voice dropped lower. "I know it's bad out there. But people need to hear something besides fear, need to know Harry's still fighting. That we all are."

Diana's throat felt tight. "And what about me?" she asked quietly. "What am I supposed to hear when you don't come back?"

He reached up, his thumb brushing her cheek, warm even against the chill of his skin. "Then you'll tune in," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "And I'll make sure the first words you hear are, 'Good evening, listeners. Rapier here—and I'm still alive.'"

She let out a shaky laugh despite herself. "You're impossible."

"Comes with the family name," he said, and she could almost hear Fred's voice layered with his for a split second. That hurt in ways she couldn't name.

George leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "You've got nothing to worry about. I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" she asked, half teasing, half serious. "Because your idea of safety usually involves fireworks."

"That was one time," he said indignantly. "Maybe two. Three at most."

She gave him a look, and he chuckled, setting the little metal box gently on the table. Its hum filled the silence, a steady, low sound like a heartbeat.

"What's that for?" she asked, curious despite herself.

"Backup transmitter," he explained. "If the main signal cuts out, this one'll kick in. It'll keeps the broadcast running even if we're compromised."

"You make it sound like a spy mission," she murmured.

He winked. "That's because it is."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rain hammering against the roof and the faint hiss of the fire. George shrugged off his jumper and tossed it on the ground, exhaustion finally catching up.

"How long were you out there?" she asked quietly.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Since sundown. We had to move locations twice—there was a patrol near Ottery St. Catchpole, and we weren't about to risk getting tailed. Fred nearly hexed a Death Eater who got too close, but we managed to vanish before they realized."

Her stomach twisted. "George, that's not—"

"Don't," he interrupted gently. "If I stop now, it means they win, and I'm not giving them that."

She studied him, the way his eyes—still bright with that mischievous spark—looked just a little more tired than they used to. He was still George, still laughter and light, but there was steel underneath now.

Without thinking, she reached for his hand. "I just wish things were different."

"Me too," he said softly. "But you know, it's strange. Even now—when everything's falling apart—it feels like we're doing something that matters. I think Fred feels it too."

Diana smiled faintly. "He'd better. Or else I'll hex both of you."

He grinned again, and for a heartbeat, the heaviness lifted. "Now that's the spirit. Scary and charming."

"You forgot intelligent," she said.

"I was going to say terrifying, but sure, we'll go with intelligent."

She smacked his bare arm, laughter bubbling up between them—real laughter, not the nervous kind that filled most days now.

When the laughter faded, she leaned against his shoulder, the hum of the transmitter filling the quiet. "When do you go back out?"

"Tomorrow night," he admitted. "We're setting up a safe channel for messages—Lee thinks we can use the old joke shop charms to encrypt names."

"Of course he does," she said fondly. "You three could probably run the resistance with nothing but Extendable Ears and Canary Creams."

"Don't tempt me."

They fell silent again. The world outside was cold and dangerous, but in that small, flickering living room, it felt suspended—like time had paused just for them.

George's hand found hers again, fingers intertwining. "You know," he said softly, "when this is all over, I'm reopening the shop."

She smiled, eyes half-closed. "And what, you'll sell anti-Death-Eater joke boxes?"

"Exactly. The 'Dark Lord Detonator.' Comes in sets of three."

Diana laughed quietly, resting her head against his arm. "I'll be your first customer."

He looked down at her, his voice almost a whisper. "You already are."

Outside, the storm raged on, but neither of them moved. The fire had burned down to embers, glowing softly in the hearth. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed midnight.

"George?" she murmured, her voice heavy with sleep.

"Yeah?"

"Promise me you'll come back."

He hesitated just long enough for her to notice. Then he said, quietly but firmly, "Always."

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

But as she drifted off against his shoulder, the little transmitter on the table flickered—a faint, uncertain pulse of light in the darkness—like it, too, wasn't sure how long it could hold.