You stood just outside the little restaurant with the crooked sign, the one tucked beside the alleyway with enchanted ivy creeping up the side. Laughter and music drifted through the open windows, spilling warmth into the street, but none of it reached you.

The occasional breeze teased the hem of your dress, made you shift your weight and fix your hair again, like maybe this time he’d turn the corner and see you. Maybe this time he’d appear, out of breath and apologetic, eyes lighting up like they always did when they found you.

But the corner stayed empty.

And the street kept moving without him.

You checked the time again, your stomach twisting tighter with each passing minute.

He was supposed to meet you at six.

“Wear that red dress. The one with the sleeves that fall off your shoulders. You looked unfair in it last time,” he’d murmured yesterday, voice low and playful.

Then he’d reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and said, “Meet me outside that little place by the corner, the one with the crooked sign. Six o’clock sharp. Just you and me.”

And you’d said yes without hesitation, your cheeks warm and your stomach flipping.

You had spent time getting ready — more than you’d ever admit. The red fabric hugged your body just right, your hair was styled the way he once absentmindedly said he liked, and you even wore the perfume that made him trail off mid-sentence last week in the corridor.

You were excited.

You felt stupid now.

Still, you waited. You told yourself maybe he’d gotten caught up. Maybe he’d lost track of time. Maybe Fred dragged him into something ridiculous, or a prank went too far. Something out of his control. Something forgivable.

Maybe he had forgotten.

But the thing with George is that he never forgets.

Not when it comes to you.

He would’ve made time.

Your jaw tensed as you looked down the street one last time, hoping — praying — to see his face through the crowd.

You didn’t.

And you knew, then.

He wasn’t coming.

Your throat tightened, and you blinked hard, swallowing it down before it could rise. You didn’t want to cry in the crowded street of Hogsmeade.

Not for him.

So you made your way back to the castle.

You walked slower than you needed to. You kept your eyes on the ground, jaw tight, chest burning. You dressed up. You showed up. And he didn’t.

You didn’t expect to see him when you climbed through the portrait hole into Gryffindor Tower.

But there he was.

George WeasIey, lounging on the common room couch with his feet up, a box of sweets between him and Alicia Spinnet.

Her laugh rang out just as you stepped through. His arm was draped across the back of the couch, his head tipped toward hers as he said something low that made her smile and nudge his leg with her foot.

You froze.

The room spun, just a little.

He hadn’t forgotten.

He hadn’t been detained or distracted or even trying to make his way to you.

He was here.

With her.