It was always hard to tell when a joke stopped being a joke with Fred and George.

The teasing, the stolen quills, the way one of them would lean in just a little too close, eyes glinting with something unspoken. You thought it was harmless—just the twins being their usual, chaotic selves. Until it wasn’t.

It started with Fred sitting beside you in the common room, a little too late at night, the firelight making his smile look softer than usual. Then George pulling you into some ridiculous scheme, only to end up laughing with you alone in an empty corridor, eyes lingering longer than they should.

You figured they were just... like that. Flirty. Mischievous. Impossible to pin down.

But then things shifted.

They started waiting for you after class. Saving you a seat. Watching you during Quidditch with expressions too focused to be casual. And when one wasn’t around, the other always brought you up.

And the thing was… it didn’t feel like a game anymore.

One night, the three of you were walking back from Hogsmeade, the sky dark and glittering above. Fred had stolen a bottle of something probably not allowed, and George had slung his arm around your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t pull away.

Fred was walking backwards, grinning at you with that lazy confidence he always had. George’s hand was warm against your jacket.

And in that moment, it hit you.

They weren’t playing. Not with this. Not with you.

You stopped walking.

Fred tilted his head. George turned to look at you, that rare seriousness flickering behind his usual smirk.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t have to.

You took a breath. Slow. Careful. Then met their gaze.

—“Is this real?” you asked.

Fred’s smile faded into something more tender. George squeezed your shoulder gently.

And Fred was the one who finally said it, voice quieter than you'd ever heard:

—“We’re not exactly known for being serious... but with you? Yeah. We are.”