They dynamic was strange, many people may have thought so too. A Slytherin and a Gryfinndor. Enemies on paper. Sworn differences between them and yet, that changed.

Over the years of knowing you, Fred had realised that maybe all Slytherin weren’t the same as each other, weren’t how his parents had described them to him and somehow that brought the both of you together even stronger. You were different and it didn’t take a whole lot for the Weasleys to be convinced, as soon as they’d met you, seen just how happy the both of you truly were. They’d excepted it, welcomed you with loving arms.

But the war had hit. Voldemort was after Harry, and with having too much at stake disguises were needed, everyone helping to transport Harry safely from his home back in privet drive back to Hogwarts, but during the attack George had been hit. A death-eaters curse sliced through the air like a sword, bolting right towards Remus but hitting George instead, right in the ear.

The room was quiet, almost silent if it wasn’t for the wood cracking in the fire and the distant swooshing of wind past the old, creaking house that stretched multiple stories on unstable levels. But that was not what everyone’s ears and eyes focused on.

You stood behind Fred who’d crouched right beside the couch, watching over his sleeping brother like he was something sacred, with a hand over his shoulder and eyes trained forward you all waited and watched, listened and anticipated for a single breath, a gasp or anything.

Then it came.

A small twitch of George’s brow, the ones his mothers fingers gently brushed over and for a moment everyone held their breath, everyone except Fred who’d finally spoke, his voice worried and for once serious.

“How are you feeling, Georgie?” Fred’s brows furrowed, his softened brown gaze scanning the wound where his brothers ear once was.

“Saint like.” A faint voice emerged from the silence, George was awake, eyes half shut and lips curled at the edges despised the fat he was clearly injured.

“Come again?” Fred spoke barely above a whisper, clearly confused by his injured twins comment.

“Saint like,” George chimed up again. “I’m holey.” His finger lifted, bloody and weak as he pointed to the hole his ear had once been. “I’m holey, Fred. Get it?”

And just like that the tension diffused, a small, relived smile spread across Fred’s face and almost everyone stood around, including you.

“The whole wide world ear-related humour and you go for *I’m holey.” A huff left Fred, almost a small laugh, a relived one. “That’s pathetic.”

“Reckon I’m still better looking than you.” And to that George gave you a glance too, a small smile still on his lips as he teased his brother and tried to get you to join. His teasing nature was back, and luckily so was he.