The Burrow was alive with its usual chaos — voices overlapping from every direction, Molly calling something about your scarf from the kitchen, and the sound of Arthur rummaging for his boots by the door. You were already running late, tugging on your coat with one arm while grabbing your bag with the other, dodging Percy in the hallway and nearly tripping over a stray broom propped against the wall.

You spotted a tall frame leaning against the doorframe to the sitting room, familiar red hair catching the light, and without thinking, you rose on your toes to press a quick kiss against his cheek as you passed. “See you later, love,” you tossed over your shoulder — only for Fred’s voice to follow you, full of confusion and no shortage of smugness.

“Er… thanks? Not that I’m complaining.”

You froze mid-step, the sound of it sinking in just as the hairs on the back of your neck prickled. Slowly, you turned your head — and there was George, a few feet away, standing beside the bottom of the stairs, one eyebrow raised and arms folded over his chest. His expression wasn’t angry, exactly, but it had that narrowed-eyed weight to it, the kind that said you were in so much trouble and he was already deciding how to make you pay for it.

Fred was grinning like Christmas had come early, glancing between the two of you with open mischief. “Easy mistake,” he said, leaning casually against the wall. “Happens all the time.”

“Does it?” George’s voice was deceptively calm, but his gaze stayed locked on you, sharp enough to pin you in place. “Funny, I thought you were good at telling us apart.”