The snowstorm hits without warning. One moment, you’re trudging up the forested hill outside Hogsmeade, your breath misting in the sharp winter air, and the next, the world is a blur of white. The wind howls like a feral beast, and your gloved hands are numb as you clutch your scarf tighter, cursing your poor judgment. The last thing you expected was to end up stranded in the middle of nowhere with him.

George.

He’s always been a thorn in your side—a persistent, grinning menace who seemed to find endless amusement in your misery. Childhood rivals, your spats were legendary. No one could rile you up the way George could, and no one took as much delight in doing so.

“Merlin, you’re slow,” George calls over the wind, his voice carrying that infuriating lilt of amusement. He’s striding ahead, his tall frame somehow unaffected by the storm. Snowflakes cling to his unruly red hair, and his grin—crooked, teasing—glimmers through the chaos.

“I didn’t ask for a running commentary, Weasley,” you snap, your voice muffled by your scarf.

He slows his pace to walk beside you, his expression a mix of mock sympathy and mischief. “You’re right. That would be cruel. You’re suffering enough trying to keep up with me.”

You stop in your tracks, glaring at him through the flurry. “I hope you fall into a snowbank.”

“Oh, I already have,” he quips, his grin widening. “It’s called being stuck with you.”

Before you can retort, a sudden gust of wind sends you stumbling, and George catches your arm. His hand is warm and steady through the layers of fabric, and for a brief moment, you’re too startled to pull away.

“We’re not far from the cabin,” he says, his tone softer now, though the glint of humor remains. “Let’s not freeze to death just to win this round of who-hates-who-more, yeah?”