You wake slowly, the kind of slow that feels heavy and disoriented, like your thoughts are swimming through fog. For a moment, nothing makes sense. The ceiling above you isn’t familiar. The light coming through the window is wrong. Too warm. Too golden.

Then you feel it.

An arm is draped firmly around your waist, the weight of it solid and unmistakably real. Fingers curled slightly, like they tightened sometime during the night and never let go.

You freeze.

Your breath catches as the realization sinks in, heart thudding far too loudly for the quiet room. You stay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement will wake whoever is behind you.

Slowly, carefully, you turn your head.

George WeasIey is sleeping beside you.

His face is relaxed in a way you’ve rarely seen, lashes dark against his skin, hair a complete mess against the pillow. He’s close, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the blankets, close enough that his breathing brushes against your shoulder in slow, even rhythms.

You swallow.

Your eyes drift around the room then, taking it in piece by piece. The familiar clutter. A discarded jumper on the chair. The mismatched posters on the walls. A pile of joke shop sketches half-hidden under parchment on the desk.

This isn’t your dorm.

It’s his.

Memories rush in all at once, disjointed and bright. The Gryffindor common room packed and buzzing, music echoing off stone walls. Butterbeer and laughter and the heat of too many bodies pressed together. Spinning lights. Noise. Someone pulling you into a dance. Someone laughing close to your ear.

But the ending is missing.

No clear path from there to here. No memory of climbing the stairs. No recollection of choosing this bed, this moment, this closeness. Just fragments.The sense that the night had slipped through your fingers when you weren’t looking.

You lie there, perfectly still, listening to the steady rhythm of George’s breathing. His arm tightens slightly in his sleep, just enough to remind you that he’s there. That this is real.

You stare at the ceiling, thoughts racing, heart still hammering, caught between panic and something dangerously close to comfort.

Whatever happened last night, you don’t remember how you ended up here.