The late afternoon sun slanted warm and gold through the crooked windows of The Burrow, catching in the dust motes and turning them to sparks. The kitchen smelled faintly of treacle tart and something experimental that had gone slightly wrong upstairs.

George paced.

Which was saying something, considering he usually bounced.

Fred lounged at the table, boots kicked up on a chair, lazily flipping through a stack of rejected Skiving Snackbox labels. He didn’t even glance up when George huffed for the fourth time.

“She fell asleep,” George said finally, running a hand through his hair. “Mid-sentence, Fred. I was telling her about the Canary Creams prototype and she just—” He snapped his fingers. “Gone.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Dead?”

“Sleeping.”

“Oh.” Fred shrugged. “Less tragic.”

George shot him a look. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

George stopped pacing and leaned both hands on the table, staring down at his twin. “She’s always tired around me. Always. Head on my shoulder, eyes half-lidded. Last night she fell asleep holding my hand.” His voice dipped, frustration tangling with something softer. “What if she’s bored? What if I’m boring?”

Fred blinked up at him slowly, then swung his boots down and sat properly.

“George.”

“What?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Cheers.”

Fred pointed toward the stairs, where faint floorboards creaked—where she was currently curled up in George’s room, likely tangled in one of his jumpers. “A sleepy woman in your presence isn’t bored, George.”

George frowned.

“She feels safe around you,” Fred continued, more serious now than George expected. “You just regulate her entire nervous system.”

George scoffed weakly. “I’m not a Healer.”

“You don’t have to be. You know how her home life is. She’s always on edge.” Fred’s tone softened. “Flinching at loud voices. Listening for doors shutting too hard. Waiting for something to go wrong.”

George’s jaw tightened. He did know. He’d seen the way her shoulders locked up at raised voices. The way she scanned rooms like she was mapping exits.

“But around you?” Fred nodded toward the ceiling. “She doesn’t have to.”

George’s gaze drifted upward, through wood and plaster, to where she lay. He pictured her there—curled on her side, lashes resting against her cheeks, breathing deep and steady. Not the shallow, braced breaths he’d noticed before.

“She sleeps because she can,” Fred said simply. “Because for once she’s not waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because when she’s with you, her body isn’t in fight-or-flight anymore.”

George swallowed.

“She’s not bored,” Fred added. “She’s exhausted. There’s a difference.”

The kitchen felt quieter suddenly. Even the ticking clock on the wall seemed gentler.

“I just…” George’s voice dropped. “I want her to be happy with me.”

Fred’s grin returned, softer this time. “She is, you daft prat. Do you know how rare it is for someone like her to relax? To actually let herself drift off? She trusts you. That’s not boredom—that’s bloody sacred.”

George stared at the table for a long moment.

Then, slowly, his shoulders eased.

Upstairs, a faint thump sounded—probably her shifting in sleep.

George straightened.

“I’m going to check on her.”

Fred smirked. “Try not to wake Sleeping Beauty. You worked very hard to earn that.”

George paused at the doorway, glancing back. “You really think—”

“I know,” Fred said firmly.

And for the first time all afternoon, George didn’t feel restless.

He felt needed.