The Gryffindor common room was loud.

Too loud.

Voices bounced off stone walls like ricocheting spells, a blur of laughter and arguments, footsteps pounding, chess pieces yelling. The fire crackled far too aggressively, the portrait hole slammed open every few minutes, and someone in the far corner was singing—off-key.

It felt like everything was vibrating inside your skull.

You pressed your hands to your ears, fingers curling into your hair as you stared down at the table in front of you. Your book was open, pages unread. Your quill lay forgotten. You couldn’t focus. You couldn’t breathe.

Fred and George were at practice—an unusually long one today. You hadn’t planned on needing them. You were okay earlier. But now your head was spinning, your skin felt too tight, and it was all too much.

Without a word, you slipped away.

You climbed the stairs to the boys’ dormitory like muscle memory, not stopping until you reached the top. You hesitated only for a second before slipping inside the room the twins shared.

Fred and George’s room felt different the moment you stepped inside. Calmer. Quieter. The air held a faint scent of toffee, parchment, and something smoky. It smelled like them.

You shut the door softly behind you and leaned against it for a second, breathing in the silence. No voices. No loud noises. Just the creak of the wooden floor beneath your feet and the muffled distant sounds of practice out on the field.

You crawled onto Fred’s bed first, pressing your face into his pillow, inhaling the soft mix of cinnamon, broom polish, and something warm you could never quite name. It helped. A little. But it wasn’t quite enough, the tension still clinging to your shoulders like a too-tight cloak.

So you rolled over and reached for George’s jumper draped over his bedpost. It was oversized, worn soft at the sleeves, and smelled like him—peppermint and fireworks. You pulled it over your head, sleeves swallowing your hands, and curled up under Fred’s blanket, the smell of them both wrapping around you like armor.

It helped. The pressure of the blanket, the comforting scent, the quiet. You focused on the feeling of the knit against your fingertips, breathing slowly, grounding yourself again.

Eventually, the door opened.

You didn’t even lift your head—you were too tired. But you heard the footsteps, felt the weight dip the mattress on either side of you.

Fred’s voice was the first, softer than usual. “Hey, love…”

George’s hand brushed over your back. “We saw you weren’t in the common room. Thought we’d find you up here.”