It started like a challenge. A harmless one. One of those things George latched onto like a Niffler to something shiny. You didn’t laugh at his jokes.

Not even a smirk.

Not even once.

And that—that was mental. Because everyone laughed at George. That was sort of the thing. He and Fred had made a career out of being funny. Their shop was booming, their pranks were legendary, and Hogwarts hadn’t been the same since they left in a blaze of fireworks and Filch’s uncontainable sobs.

But you? You were different. You didn’t disapprove of the jokes. You didn’t tut or scowl or look at him like he was wasting your time. No, it was worse than that.

You just looked right through them. Like they were background noise. Like he was just another voice in a world full of sound.

And that was when it started. The game.

Make you laugh.

It wasn’t like he expected to fall for you or anything. It was supposed to be fun. A little war of smirks. A few well-timed punchlines, maybe some glitter bombs. He tried everything. Singing Fanged Frisbees, Pygmy Puffs in hats, charmed fireworks that spelled out “WHY SO SERIOUS?” across the corridor ceiling.

Nothing.

But you noticed him. He could tell. You watched him the way quiet people watch everything—measured, thoughtful, maybe even suspicious. And he knew better than to mistake silence for indifference.

You saw him. You just didn’t react.

And that made something curl tight and sharp in his chest.

So he got quieter.

Just a little. Subtly. Enough to hang back when he passed you in the corridor. Enough to swap a joke for a comment about your book. Enough to pay attention to the way your eyes flicked up when someone said your name—like it startled you, like you weren’t used to being addressed at all.

He started showing up to the library more often. That was weird. He hated the library. The quiet made his skin itch. But you were always there, fingers ink-stained, lips pursed in concentration, like the rest of the world didn’t quite exist unless someone forced it to.

So he started sitting nearby. No pranks. No big entrances. Just a quiet sort of presence. A paper airplane passed between pages. A chocolate frog tucked under your notes. Little things. Human things.

You still didn’t laugh.

But one day, you looked up and said something—something real. Not a joke. Not a reaction. Just a soft, honest comment about the page he was reading, and it cracked something wide open in him. You trusted him enough to speak.

That was when the mission changed.

Because suddenly it wasn’t about making you laugh. It was about seeing what else you’d say. What you thought about when no one was listening. What you dreamed about when the lights were off and your walls weren’t up. He wanted to know what made you feel safe. What made you feel heard.

So he sat with you. Talked with you. Listened.

And fuck, you were brilliant. Not in the flashy, know-it-all kind of way. Just quietly unstoppable. You remembered details no one else bothered with. Noticed kindness in places he missed. Understood grief in a way that made his chest ache.

You never asked him to stop joking.

But when he did, when he let himself just be George, you leaned in a little closer. And Merlin, did that do him in.

One night, when the shop was locked and the world felt too loud, you were there. Sitting behind the counter with a tea in your hands, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, hair falling into your eyes. He dropped beside you without saying a word, and you didn’t flinch when his shoulder brushed yours.

You just handed him your extra biscuit.

And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, voice rough and quieter than he meant, he muttered, “You know, I thought making you laugh would be the hard part. Turns out, I just wanted to make you feel safe.”