The smell of antiseptic potions and Madam Pomfrey’s sharp voice filled the otherwise quiet Hospital Wing. George was propped up against the pillows on one of the narrow beds, one leg stretched out stiffly beneath the sheets, his hair even messier than usual from the wind and whatever chaos he’d managed to cause on the Quidditch pitch.

“I told you,” he said the moment you stepped into view, his grin just as wide as ever despite the fresh bandage peeking out from under his sleeve, “you should’ve seen the other bloke. Well… bludger.” His voice was casual, but there was a faint wince when he shifted to sit straighter, quickly covered by that familiar, lopsided smirk.

You pulled the chair closer to his bedside, already giving him the look that said you weren’t buying the act. He knew that look too well — which is exactly why he leaned into it. “Don’t give me that face. I’m perfectly fine. Madam Pomfrey just enjoys my company, that’s all. Keeps me here for the conversation.” His fingers drummed lightly against the blanket, restless even now, his eyes following you as if making sure you didn’t worry too much.

When you reached for his arm to check the bandage yourself, he laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Merlin, you fuss worse than Mum. And I quite like it, don’t get me wrong, but if you keep staring at me like that I’m going to start thinking you’re here for my devastating good looks and not my wellbeing.”