Innova {George Weasley}

Quaerere

"Colpo di fulmine. The thunderbolt, as Italians call it. When love strikes someone like lightning, so powerful and intense it can't be denied. It's beautiful and messy, cracking a chest open and spilling their soul out for the world to see. It turns a person inside out, and there's no going back from it. Once the thunderbolt hits, your life is irrevocably changed."

― J.M. Darhower, Sempre

No 12. Grimmauld Place was still draped in ancient spider webs that hung down from the rafters and tried to brush your head as you walked past. The hallways were still enveloped in a kind of gloom that didn't seem to want to go away. It was, however, understandable that a house so long steeped in the darkest of Dark Magic would refuse to let its secrets be exposed to the Light.

George clutched Harry's letter in one hand, now mostly crumpled and slightly soggy from when he had spilled beer on it. He still wasn't so sure about this whole business, especially not with Malfoy here. But damn it all, Harry was right. He did need space from his family.

George walked towards the kitchen. In another of his letters, Harry'd said that the kitchen or the upstairs Living room and Library was were he could be found most of the time. Besides, he could hear voices coming from the kitchen, and the closer he got, the brighter the rooms became. When he reached the kitchen itself, a soft glow and an incredible smell came from under the door. He reached for the doorknob and pulled his hand back after a second. What the hell was he doing here so close to light and laughter and warmth without Fred? He belonged in the darkness, the cold and the gloom of ordinary Grimmauld.

Without George noticing, the door to the kitchen had suddenly swung open, revealing the slim figure of a twenty something girl. Her hair was threaded copper and gold and auburn and glimmering in the light. It was tied into a knot at her neck, but most of it fell in copper red strands around her face. Her skin was creamy and glowing in the firelight and there were freckles across her nose and just under her eyes. Her eyes however, glowed almost golden with hazel around the edges.

When she turned fully, George saw the sadness that infused her eyes, and the downturn of her mouth, and the fading laughter lines around her eyes, and then the silverly scars that crossed her throat and twined up the left side of her face.

Her beauty was delicate, fragile, and completely destructible. It was a dawn kind of beauty, quiet and soft and utterly breathtaking when you looked closer.

A faint shimmer of golden magic touches him gently on the shoulder. It shimmers and morphs to form words

Hello, they say. Who are you?

"George Weasley. And you are...?"

Innova Gray.