The Great Hall was its usual midday chaos — clinking cutlery, overlapping conversations, the smell of roast chicken and pumpkin pasties hanging warm in the air. You were halfway through your lunch, idly spearing a roasted potato with your fork, when a familiar weight dropped onto the bench beside you. The movement jolted your plate just enough for gravy to ripple over the edge.

Fred didn’t bother with a greeting, just leaned his elbow on the table and angled himself toward you, brown eyes glinting with mischief. “Be honest with me,” he said, low enough that it cut through the surrounding noise, “you can actually tell me and George apart… right?”

There was a smirk tugging at his mouth, but his tone carried that teasing challenge you knew all too well. His head tilted slightly, like he was trying to read your reaction, waiting to pounce on whatever answer you gave.

He didn’t break eye contact, even as his hand wandered toward your plate to steal a chip, popping it into his mouth like he had every right to it. “Go on then,” he added, leaning in close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table. “Tell me exactly how you know it’s me and not him. And don’t say it’s my charm — he’ll be gutted if that’s the only difference you’ve noticed.”