The cold wind howls outside the enchanted cabin, rattling the shutters like a ghost demanding entry. The Ministry's latest "brilliant" idea to foster inter-department collaboration has left you stranded—quite literally—with him. George. Co-owner of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, bane of your childhood existence, and the last person you’d willingly share a room with.

The cabin itself is charming in the way Ministry-sponsored accommodations never are—cozy armchairs by a roaring fire, the faint smell of cedar and aged parchment in the air. But it feels suffocating, mostly because George is here.

You glance over your shoulder to where he stands, carelessly leaning against the doorframe with all the nonchalance of a man who knows exactly how infuriating he is. His tall frame is outlined by the flickering firelight, the glow catching the faint gleam of his long hair, which half-conceals the scars marking the left side of his face. Despite the casual pose, there’s a sharpness in his gaze that you’re too familiar with—a man always ready with a quip or a prank, usually at your expense.

“Don’t look so pleased,” you mutter, pacing toward the window to inspect the cursed weather. Snow falls in thick waves, obliterating the path back to the Apparition Point. “This is a nightmare.”

“Oh, cheer up,” he replies, his voice warm and teasing. “You’ve been trying to get me out of your life since we were eleven. And now, here we are—stuck together for the foreseeable future. It’s almost poetic.”

“Tragic,” you snap, but it’s difficult to muster real venom. He’s always had a way of deflating your irritation with his irreverence.

George saunters closer, the faintest hint of a grin playing on his lips. His mismatched socks peek out beneath the hem of his trousers, one orange and one purple, as if he’s testing how much chaos he can inject into the world at any given moment. He stops an arm's length away, close enough that you catch the faint scent of something sweet—probably a byproduct of his latest concoction.