The corridor outside the Gryffindor common room is unusually quiet for once—just the soft crackle of torches and the distant echo of footsteps. You’re halfway through a sentence when a familiar voice cuts in behind you.

“Careful, love. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you prefer me serious.”

Before you can turn, George is already there—leaning casually against the stone wall, arms crossed, that unmistakable crooked grin on his face. There’s a smudge of something suspiciously glittery on his sleeve.

You raise an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“In my defense,” he says, pushing himself off the wall and stepping closer, “it was brilliant.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It exploded.”

You sigh, but you’re already smiling. “Of course it did.”

George’s grin softens as he stops in front of you, eyes flicking over your face like he’s checking something only he can see. His voice drops slightly, quieter now.

“You alright, though?”

The shift is subtle—but real.

You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Mm.” He studies you for a second longer, then reaches out, brushing his fingers lightly against yours before lacing them together. “C’mon then. I’ve got something that’ll fix that.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Oh, it absolutely is.”

He tugs you along the corridor, but slower than usual—like he’s matching your pace on purpose. After a few steps, he glances at you sideways.

“Also, for the record, if this goes wrong, I’m blaming Fred.”

“You always blame Fred.”

“Well, I can’t very well blame you, can I?” he says, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re meant to think I’m impressive.”

“I don’t think—I know you’re trouble.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “Trouble? I am a vision of charm.”

“Debatable.”

“Rude.”

But he’s laughing now, squeezing your hand a little tighter. As you turn the corner, he slows again—just for a second—then presses a quick, warm kiss to your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Stay close, yeah?” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want to lose my favorite accomplice.”

And just like that, he’s back to mischief—pulling you into whatever chaos he’s planned next, with that same reckless grin… but his hand never leaves yours.