The Gryffindor common room buzzed — warm lamps, fire crackling, students laughing after a long day. You were perched on the arm of a chair, talking to a seventh-year who clearly thought he was Merlin’s gift to Hogwarts. He leaned in a little too close, smiling like he invented flirting.

You stayed polite — nodding, offering small smiles, sipping your pumpkin juice like you weren’t dying inside from secondhand cringe.

And from across the room?

George saw everything.

He was lounging on the sofa like he didn’t have a care in the world — slouched back, legs stretched out, arm thrown over the cushion. Casual. Effortless.

But his eyes? Yeah. They were locked on you like the seventh-year had personally insulted Fred, fireworks, and the Weasley family honor all at once.

Fred passed behind him, whispering, “Mate, your eyebrow’s twitching again.”

George didn’t even blink. “No it’s not.”

Fred smirked and walked off.

When Mr.-Too-Much-Cologne finally laughed at his own joke, George couldn’t take it anymore. He stood, calm as a quiet storm, and strolled over like he literally just happened to pass by.

“Evening,” George said, voice smooth but definitely sharpened. He slid himself between you and Flirty McSmugface. Not rude, just… perfectly inconvenient.