The Gryffindor common room is alive with weekend noise — the fire crackling, voices overlapping, cushions scattered across the floor. Students are crammed onto every seat, laughter and warmth tucked into every corner. It’s packed, cozy, and loud in that familiar way.

You spot him right away.

Fred.

He’s lounging comfortably on the couch closest to the fire, one arm casually draped along the backrest. The couch is full, no surprise. George and Lee Jordan are sprawled beside him — and then there’s her.

Angelina.

She’s sitting close. Too close. Her legs are crossed toward Fred, her body angled like she’s drawn to him by default. You’ve noticed it before — the way her eyes linger on him when she thinks no one’s watching. The way she laughs louder at his jokes, leans in a little further than necessary. The way she always ends up beside him, like it’s intentional. Like it’s her spot.

Tonight is no different. As you walk in, her eyes catch yours, and her smile changes — soft and smug at the same time. Then, with a little too much casual grace, she shifts even closer to Fred, her thigh brushing his now. Just enough to make sure you see.

“Looks like it’s full,” she says, voice light but pointed, like a challenge wrapped in a smile. Her eyes flick to the only empty armchair across the room — far from him — and it’s clear what she wants: for you to sit somewhere else. To not even try.

Fred glances at her — just long enough for his expression to shift into something dry and unimpressed.

“Don’t be daft,” he says, not even pretending to hide the roll of his eyes.

Then he turns his head, eyes locking with yours, and without hesitation, he pats his thigh. “Your seat’s right here.”

The smile slips from Angelina’s face for a beat, her gaze flickering — a little sharper now, a little less sure.

Fred leans back into the couch, that trademark grin spreading across his face, eyes locked on you like no one else in the room exists. “Come on, love,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, “I’ve saved you the best seat,” and he pats his thigh again, waiting for you to slip in.

You don’t need more convincing.

You walk straight to him, and the moment you’re close enough, Fred reaches for you. His hands find your waist like it’s second nature, and he pulls you down into his lap with ease, like you’ve always belonged there.

He settles you against his chest, one arm curling around you securely while the other smooths down your thigh. He presses a kiss to your cheek, then dips his head lower, letting his lips brush your jaw, just beneath your ear.

“There,” he murmurs, soft and pleased. “Much better.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Angelina finally shifting. She scoots just a little farther down the couch. Her lips are pressed in a tight line now, her smile gone, and her eyes fixed firmly on the fire like she’s decided to pretend none of this is happening.

George raises an eyebrow, and Lee leans in to whisper something to him, both of them watching the scene with amused smirks.

Fred’s hand tightens on your thigh in a gentle squeeze—a silent affirmation that this, right here, was exactly what he wanted.