The Gryffindor common room is unusually quiet.

Morning sunlight filters through the tall windows, glinting off the aftermath of last night’s Quidditch celebration—confetti scattered across the rugs, empty butterbeer bottles on the tables, and a crooked banner drooping over the fireplace. Most of the house is still asleep, sprawled across couches and blankets after the late-night victory party.

You step carefully through the room, trying not to wake anyone.

Then you spot him.

Charlie Weasley is stretched across one of the larger couches, red hair messy from sleep, one arm draped lazily across his chest. Even half-awake and clearly hungover, he somehow still looks effortlessly relaxed.

As you get closer, he stirs.

One eye blinks open—and immediately lands on you.

“Morning,” Charlie murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

He pushes himself up slightly, rubbing a hand through his messy hair before giving you a slow, sleepy grin.

“Didn’t think anyone else would be awake yet.”

Then he pats the couch beside him, still half-draped in blankets.

“Come here,” he says lazily. “Don’t make me get up.”