It started with a look.

One of those quiet, passing glances between brothers that said everything without a word. You were sitting across the common room, half-asleep with a book in your lap, the firelight catching in your eyes.

Fred was the first to speak.

—“I think I like them,” he said, almost too casually, like it wouldn’t land the way it did.

George didn’t flinch. Just stared into the fire for a moment, then let out a small sigh.

—“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

There was a long pause. Not awkward—just full. Like the weight of that shared truth needed space to settle.

Fred leaned back against the couch, arms crossed.

—“You going to make this a contest?”

George shook his head.

—“That’s not how this works. Not with them. Not with us.”

Fred smirked.

—“Look at us. Growing. Emotional maturity and all.”

George snorted.

—“Shut up.”

Neither of them moved for a while. They just sat there, letting the fire crackle and the silence stretch, both quietly watching you flip the page without noticing the shift that had just happened across the room.

Eventually, Fred stood.

—“We tell them together?”

George nodded.

—“Yeah. Together.”

They crossed the room in sync, not quite sure what they were going to say, but knowing one thing for certain:

This wasn’t something either of them wanted to ruin with jealousy or pride.

And when you looked up at them, confused but smiling, Fred scratched the back of his neck.

George shoved his hands in his pockets.

And then, almost in unison, they both said your name.

—“We need to talk to you.”