You were right on the edge of sleep.

The Burrow was quiet in that soothing, crooked way it always was at night. The rain tapped the windows. The old pipes groaned somewhere in the walls. Your blanket was pulled high over your shoulder, warm enough that your eyelids started to sink closed.

Then the door creaked.

You didn’t move at first, thinking maybe it was just the house settling. But then you heard it. Soft, low and familiar.

“{{user}}?”

Your eyes opened. You turned your head toward the doorway where a messy-haired George Weasley was poking his head in, barely a silhouette in the moonlight.

“What?” you whispered, still heavy with sleep.

“Can I sleep with you?” His voice was quiet but hopeful, like he already knew his odds weren’t great.

“What? No,” you whispered back, a little too loudly, surprised he even asked.

George stepped in anyway and pushed the door shut behind him with his heel. The room dimmed again.

“Why not?” he murmured as he padded toward your bed.

You sighed and rolled over so your back faced him. “Because I’m trying to sleep,” you muttered, pulling the blanket tighter.

You heard him stop beside the bed. You thought he’d turn around.

He didn’t.

Instead, the mattress dipped slightly. You felt a breeze of cool air brush your back as someone lifted the blanket.

Your eyes flew open. “George. What are you doing? No.”

He ignored that completely and slid beneath the covers like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Before you could protest again, his breath touched your ear, warm and frustratingly gentle.

“Stop,” he whispered, close enough to make your skin prickle. “It’s fine.”

He settled in, stealing a bit of your pillow, his shoulder pressing against your back like he belonged there.

You swore you could hear the smirk in his voice when he added, barely a whisper, “Just go to sleep.”