12. stories

George's POV:

George sat at the bustling dinner table with his family, including Harry and Hermione. It was summer, his favorite season. Normally, the Burrow buzzed with warmth, laughter, and that familiar chaotic energy that made it feel more like home than any other place on Earth. But this year, everything felt... dimmer.

He hadn't gotten over it.

Any of it.

Talwyn's absence was like a splinter wedged into the heart of everything good. His mother kept saying the pain would fade with time, but time only made it worse. It wasn't fading—it was deepening, expanding, like an echo he couldn't escape. He missed her more every day.

He kept imagining things. A knock at the door. A quiet tap on the window. He'd run to it, open it, and she'd be there. Talwyn, smiling with that rare, unburdened smile she only wore at the Burrow. A smile that meant she was safe. That she had peace. 

He'd pull her into his arms. Tell her it was over, that she never had to run again. That he would protect her and never let go. 

But none of that ever happened.

Because it wasn't real.

She was gone.

And he would most likely never see her again.

He pushed peas around his plate with the dull edge of his fork, barely listening to the chatter around him. It was all background noise now. Laughter, jokes, snippets of stories from Harry and Hermione. But George wasn't part of it, not really. He hadn't been for months. He was quieter now. Still. Like an empty vase on a windowsill where flowers had once bloomed but hadn't been replaced.

He hadn't laughed properly in months. Not really. Not since she left.

She was everywhere and nowhere all at once, sometimes in the smell of Molly's cooking, sometimes in the creak of the stairs, sometimes in the silence before sleep. His chest tightened every time he thought of her name, which he did far more often than he admitted.

Across the table, Fred was regaling Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione with one of their old stories. George didn't even realize he was listening until-

"Remember when we stole the car to go get Talwyn?"

George's fork paused mid-air.

Ron's head jerked up. "Wait, again? I thought the only time you lot flew the car was second year! I didn't realize you two were the ones to go and get her."

Fred grinned. "Yeah, the second time was way worse. We didn't tell Mum, just like the first time. We just took off. Middle of the night. I swear the thing barely had enough fuel."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You stole the car to pick up a girl?"

"She wasn't just a girl," Fred said, laughing. "She was... well, Talwyn. Remember when Ron left school for awhile? It's when she was here."

Molly, who stood at the sink, went quiet.

"You should've seen Mum's face," Fred added, still grinning as he leaned back in his chair. "We thought she was going to skin us alive. But then she saw Tal. She pulled her right into a hug and didn't let go for, like, ten minutes. I swear, I don't know how she didn't burst a lung."

Hermione glanced toward George, curious. "Was she your girlfriend or something?"

Silence followed.

George hadn't spoken the entire dinner. Not one word.

Fred's smile slipped a little as he looked over at his twin. "Kind of."

Ginny, sensing the shift in mood, cleared her throat and changed the subject, something about Quidditch tryouts, but the table had already fallen slightly quieter.

George hadn't moved, but his knuckles were white around his fork. He finally spoke, voice low, almost distant.

"She looked happy for once."

Everyone glanced at him.

"That night," George added. "When we brought her here. She smiled for real."

He stood slowly, the scrape of the chair legs loud in the hushed room. Then, without another word, he left the kitchen, footsteps echoing on the old floorboards as he headed for the stairs.

Fred didn't follow.

And no one else said Talwyn's name again for the rest of the meal.

The stairs creaked under his feet as he climbed, every step slower than the last.

He wasn't angry. Not really. He'd heard Fred tell that story before, hell, he had told it before. It used to make him laugh. Used to feel like one of the best nights of his life.

But tonight it just... hurt.

He stepped into his room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The light through the window was warm and golden, the kind that usually made the walls glow, but all George could feel was the hollow silence pressing in on him.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. They were calloused, stained faintly from ink and pranks and potion ingredients. Hands that used to build laughter, now just sat idle. 

Useless.

His eyes drifted to his mirror. His neck still wore the necklace she gave him, well, technically stole from her when she left it behind. A little silver thing, worn smooth from fingers and time. He kept it close. Always.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair.

The image of her wouldn't leave his mind. The way she smiled when she had tea by the fire. The way she lit up when Molly braided her hair. The quiet way she looked at him when no one else was watching.

He missed her.

He missed her more than anything.

And maybe the worst part wasn't that she was gone.

It was that she had wanted to be.

He sighed, blinking hard against the burn in his eyes.

And George just sat there, in the golden light, trying to hold together the pieces of a heart she hadn't meant to break.

The sun had dipped lower now, casting long shadows across the floor. George reached over to his bedside table, pulling open the top drawer with a soft scrape. He pulled out a worn leather notebook, the edges frayed, the spine nearly torn from overuse.

He stared at the page for a long moment, his quill hovering above the parchment.

Then, without thinking, he began to write.

~

Dear Talwyn,

Fred was telling that story again tonight, the one about the car.

Mum turned red and pretended to be furious all over again, but she smiled when no one was looking.

I didn't laugh.

I wanted to. For Fred. For Mum. For the everyone. 

For you.

But I couldn't.

You were supposed to be there. Sitting between Ginny and me, stealing bites off my plate and kicking me under the table when I said something dumb.

I still leave space for you, you know. At the table. In my room. In my plans.

I hope wherever you are, it's not hurting so much anymore.

I hope you know I still-

~

George paused, the word half-formed at the tip of his pen. He exhaled slowly, then finished the line.

~

-I still think about you. Every day. And I always will.

Yours,George

~

He tore the page carefully, folding it along a practiced crease. Then he leaned to the back of the drawer and pulled out a small box.

It was full.

Letter after letter, carefully dated, folded, stacked in perfect rows.

He had written to her every single day since she had left.

Not a single one had been sent.

He placed the new letter gently on top, closed the lid, and tucked the box away.

Then he sat back, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

But maybe, maybe, someday, she'd read them.

And know she had never really been alone.