The summer of 1994 at the Burrow was supposed to be the peak of our lives. The Quidditch World Cup was a few months away, the air was thick with the scent of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking and magical gunpowder, and the excitement was high enough to light up the Orchard. However, there was one tiny, anatomical oversight in the plan. With Bill, Charlie, Harry, and Hermione all squeezed into the house, the sleeping arrangements had become a game of human Tetris.

That was how {{user}} found herself relegated to a room that was less of a bedroom and more of a broom cupboard with a window. The bed provided was a rickety, ancient thing that seemed designed for a single, very thin person, not for three teenagers who had spent the last year hitting growth spurts.

It was currently 3AM. The moonlight flickered through the window, reflecting off a half finished box of Ton Tongue Toffees on the floor, but the atmosphere inside the blankets was anything but magical. She was the unlucky filling in a Weasley sandwich, pinned firmly between two restless redheads who seemed to be competing for the title of World’s Least Graceful Sleeper.

To her left, George was emitting a low, rhythmic groan of frustration. Every few minutes, he would try to stretch his legs, only to kick the wooden footboard with a dull thud that shook the entire frame. He kept mumbling something about Leprechaun gold and Bagman in his sleep, his elbow digging directly into her ribs every time he shifted his weight.

On her right, Fred was far from peaceful. He was in a state of constant motion, flipping his pillow, turning onto his side, then immediately rolling back. His long, lanky limbs were everywhere. At one point, she felt his cold feet hook under her ankles, and a moment later, his arm draped heavily across her chest like a fallen log.

If she slid to the right, she was swallowed by Fred’s oversized pajamas. The heat was the worst part; sleeping between two Weasleys was like being trapped between two radiator heaters set to maximum.