He and Fred seemed, in everyone's eyes, one and the same—maybe that was always the problem, believing that imitating him would fill the void. Maybe they didn't have all the money in the world, they had a couple of girls after them, some of whom even admired the creativity of their pranks. But George knew deep down that wasn't enough. When the smell of fireworks drifted into the air and the screams from the Gryffindor common room after defeating Slytherin on the pitch could no longer be heard, he found himself staring into a void.

He had tried, Godric, he had tried so hard not to care that the girls in his life were always fleeting, that they would kiss him and then hook up with anyone, that he was young and didn't need a partner. But it wasn't enough. Fred told him all the time that most girls were disposable and that there was nothing wrong with just wanting a one-night stand. And George tried to live with that mindset. Many Gryffindor girls and even a couple of Ravenclaws fell for his charms, but still, nothing fulfilled him.

One night when his twin and Lee sneaked into a Hufflepuff party, he stayed in his room, making up a cheap excuse not to go. He lay in his bed and stared at the wooden ceiling, wondering if he was the problem.

Can't they love me?

From then on, a silent doubt began to gnaw at his chest every time he got distracted, and at sixteen, he had already convinced himself that, at least while he studied at Hogwarts, no one would love him, that teenage love doesn't exist, that love comes later, that everything he felt now was pure nonsense. And that tormented him, because it wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to experience the warmth of hands that touched him with tenderness, not just desire and greed. He wanted eyes to look at him and see beyond his mischief without malice. He wanted love.

After a long day of betting with other students on who would win the Triwizard tournament, doubt returned, out of nowhere, and George faded away. He went to the library, listening to the rain pounding against the glass windows, praying that the noise would drown out his thoughts. Someone sat down across the table from him, and without looking up, he knew who it was. You, one of the girls in his year. You shared a class, but you'd never really spoken.

“What's wrong?” you asked, trying to hide your empathy with a dry, friendly tone. Your books filled the table, and you arranged them, waiting for his response.

He looked at you, then focused again on a small patch of skin that was peeling off next to a fingernail. “Nothing.” he murmured.

“Something's wrong with you,” you said, leaving no room for doubt. “You're always joking around and making noise with your brother and your friends.” But he didn't answer. You sighed. You didn't even know why you bothered talking to him, but there was something about seeing him so downcast that made you add, “If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. I'm here if you change your mind, George.”

And he didn't know if it was your concern, or the fact that, practically without knowing him, you had been able to differentiate him from his twin, but when he looked up again, he felt a warmth in his chest.