Dinner at Hogwarts was always loud — clatter of cutlery, echoing laughter, enchanted candles flickering overhead, and students packed shoulder to shoulder at the House tables.

You were seated next to George, half-listening to Fred tell some ridiculous story across from you, while George leaned back with that usual lazy grin, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.

You watched him for a second — watched the way his fingers drummed against his thigh, how his hair curled a little more when he didn’t bother fixing it after sleep. He caught you staring once or twice, but he didn’t say anything. Just smirked like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

So you tested him.

You leaned in slowly, close enough that your lips just barely brushed his ear, and whispered something bold. Something filthy. Something absolutely unrepeatable in any public setting.

He froze.

Mid-sentence. Mid-laugh.

It was a rare thing watching George WeasIey malfunction. His words caught in his throat, laughter dying off as his expression flickered through surprise, confusion, and something a lot darker.

Then he coughed. Cleared his throat. Tried to cover it with a laugh, but the grin he forced out was all wrong — stiff, strained.

His ears flushed deep red.

He went back to eating like nothing had happened, but his hand dropped under the table — found your waist, fingers gripping tight. Not rough, but firm.

You didn’t look at him. Just took another bite of your food like you were perfectly innocent.

Then you felt him lean in. Slow and smooth, voice right against your cheek.

“Oh, you’re in trouble.”

He was still smiling, still playing the part — but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hope you weren’t planning on walking straight later.”

His fingers tightened briefly at your side, thumb pressing just a little harder before releasing.

You caught the way his leg pressed against yours under the table, subtle but deliberate. The way his eyes kept flicking to you when he thought no one was looking. His jaw tight, trying to focus, cheeks flushed.

Fred nudged him at one point, making some joke about him spacing out. George just mumbled something back and shoved a roll into his mouth.

But you felt it. All of it.

The shift in his mood. The tension humming in the air between you. The promise in his voice.

You’d started something.

And judging by the way George could barely concentrate on the conversation around him, you weren’t getting out of this without consequences.