The common room was warm and loud, the fire crackling and students scattered across armchairs and rugs. You and Fred had claimed the sofa, heads bent together over a scrap of parchment where he’d drawn something utterly ridiculous. You couldn’t stop laughing, the kind of laughter that came from somewhere deep and real, spilling out until your sides hurt.

Fred leaned in, his grin wide and smug at your reaction, adding another doodle just to make you snort harder. That was the exact moment George walked in.

He froze halfway through the portrait hole. His eyes landed on you first, your face lit up with laughter, and then on Fred — close, comfortable, basking in your joy like it belonged to him. George didn’t move. He just stood there, arms crossing over his chest, gaze sharpening as he took it all in. There was a tightness in his jaw, something unspoken simmering just beneath the calm exterior.

When Fred finally noticed him, he gave a brief nod in greeting — oblivious, as usual — before diving back into his joke. But George didn’t join in. He only watched for a few seconds more before turning away.

Hours later, when the common room had emptied and the fire burned low, you and George were the last ones heading up. The corridor was dim, quiet except for the soft echo of your steps. That’s when he finally spoke, voice low and even, but laced with something heavier.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Fred lately.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden edge in his tone. “He’s your twin, George.”

“I know,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. “Doesn’t mean I like watching him make you laugh like that.”

You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re jealous.”

He didn’t deny it. He stopped walking, turning toward you fully, and in the faint light of the corridor his eyes looked darker — steady, intent, unreadable. His hand came up to rest at your waist, fingers pressing lightly at first, then firmer when you didn’t pull away.

“I don’t get jealous easily,” he said quietly, his voice rough around the edges now. “But when I see you with him like that… I don’t know. It just—” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It doesn’t sit right.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but he leaned in before you could — close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

“Just remember,” he murmured, thumb brushing slow circles against your hip, “which twin you belong to in the end.”