It was one of those slow, foggy mornings in the Great Hall. The kind where none of us talked — not yet, not until the coffee kicked in and the toast started working its magic. you sat slumped across the Gryffindor table in a comfortable silence, the clatter of plates and chatter around us barely registering.

Fred had his head in his hands. George was stirring his tea like he’d forgotten what he was doing halfway through. You were just trying to stay awake long enough to finish buttering your bread.

That’s when the boy came sprinting over — some fourth-year from our house, red in the face and puffing like he’d run from the dungeons.

“Fred!” he gasped, skidding to a halt beside us, eyes wide. “You’ve got to see—”

Without even looking up from my plate, you cut him off.

“That’s George,” you said calmly, nodding toward the twin on the right. “That one’s Fred.”

There was a pause.

George blinked, looking over at you, surprised.

Fred snorted into his pumpkin juice.

The boy flushed crimson. “Right—sorry, I—sorry, George—”

He ran off before either twin could answer, and the table fell quiet again.

George was still staring at you.

“What?” you muttered, taking a bite of toast.

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Nothing,” he said softly, that warm, amused tone he got when something actually meant something to him. “Just… thanks.”

you didn’t say anything back.

you didn’t have to.