George Weasley, as much as you adored him, could be downright insufferable.

Somehow, your relationship seemed to thrive on the most ridiculous arguments. One day, he’d claim dragons were nothing more than oversized, over-romanticised lizards and that you were daft for admiring them. The next, he’d insist that squeezing toothpaste from the middle of the tube was “far more sensorily satisfying” than your neatly-bunched method at the cap.

It always began the same way: a careless, half-thought comment dropped with perfect precision, designed to poke at your annoyingly pedantic streak. George had a talent for winding you up, and Merlin, did he love exercising it.

Most of the time, he started these debates purely to hear you launch into a rant—your eyes flashing, your voice quickening, your cheeks heating. He’d sit back, arms folded, smirk tugging at his lips like a cat who’d just knocked over a potion flask on purpose.

Today was no different. After class, he had casually tossed out some deliberately wrong remark—something about Hippogriffs being “just vain, overgrown chickens”—and then accused you of being tragically misinformed. That was all it took.

You were off, your voice sharp and passionate as you tore apart his “logic.” Your cheeks flushed pink, your eyes practically sparking like a misfired spell, and George swore you’d never looked more irresistible. Maybe it was leftover frustration from class, maybe he’d simply pushed you too far, but you were furious—and he loved every second of it.

And then, with a glint of mischief in his brown eyes, George leaned in and kissed you.

He didn’t even know what possessed him—whether it was the way your lips were pursed in that adorable little angry pout, the desire to silence your tirade, or just sheer, wicked curiosity. But the moment his lips pressed against yours, your rant cut off instantly.

Exactly as he intended.