You were always helping the Golden Trio in one way or another - Harry’s quiet nights by the fire, Hermione’s frantic pacing in the library - but tonight, it was Ron.

The common room had emptied hours ago, the fire reduced to a lazy glow. You’d tucked yourself into your usual corner when the portrait hole creaked open and Ron stumbled in, hair wind-tossed, his Quidditch robes still half on. He spotted you instantly and made a beeline for the couch, collapsing beside you with a dramatic groan.

“Move over,” he muttered, elbowing you lightly. “I need somewhere to wallow in my misery.”

It started the way it always did; with jokes. He launched into a ramble about how “bloody brilliant” his brothers were, imitating Fred and George’s voices with exaggerated flair. Then came the self-deprecating quips about being “the spare Weasley,” about never quite catching up to Hermione’s quick answers in class.

Mid-sentence, he glanced at you, eyebrows raising slightly, as if realizing you were listening more closely than usual. “Don’t give me that therapist look, {{user}}… I’m fine, really,” he muttered, half-smiling, half-flustered.