It hadn’t even been a real fight.

Just something small and ridiculous. You were tired, he was tired, and the two of you managed to turn a tiny comment into a whole argument that neither of you actually meant.

You ended up storming out of his room, muttering under your breath, cheeks hot with frustration. And because you were stubborn, you curled up in the Gryffindor common room with your arms crossed like a barricade, staring at the fire and pretending you weren’t listening for footsteps coming down the stairs.

George’s voice floated in before he even rounded the corner.

“Alright. I’ve come to grovel. Mentally, spiritually, emotionally… and if required, physically.”

You refused to look at him.

He walked around the sofa so he could stand directly in front of you, hands on his hips, like he was preparing for some kind of performance.

“Sweetheart,” he said. “Light of my life. Ruler of my heart. Destroyer of my peace. I’m here to beg.”

You kept your eyes on the fire.

George made a soft, dramatic gasp.

“You’re ignoring me. Cruel. Heartless. I’m wounded.”

Still no reaction.

So he did the one thing you absolutely didn’t expect.

He dropped to his knees in front of you and rested his hands on your knees with exaggerated devastation.

“Please forgive me,” he said in a stage whisper. “I can’t go on like this. My crops are dying. My skin is dull. I haven’t known joy in at least ten minutes.”

You bit the inside of your cheek so you wouldn’t laugh.

He leaned closer.

“I’ll do anything. I’ll write sonnets. I’ll carry your books for the rest of the year. I’ll even admit that I practiced flirting lines in the mirror when I first liked you.”

That one made your mouth twitch.

George caught it instantly.

“A smile. Merlin, I’m winning you back,” he said. Then his voice softened. “Come on, love. Don’t stay mad at me.”

You finally looked at him.

He wasn’t joking now, not fully. His eyes were warm, a little worried, and his thumbs stroked the sides of your knees in small circles like he couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Honestly. I hate fighting with you. I hate knowing I upset you. I was being stubborn and you didn’t deserve it.”

Your chest softened, just a little.

“I still think you were wrong,” you muttered.

George blinked.

Then he lifted his hands dramatically to the heavens. “Take me. I have tried everything.”

You snorted, and he grinned triumphantly before leaning forward and resting his forehead gently against your leg.

“Please forgive me,” he murmured. “I love you more than my pride. And that’s saying something.”