It wasn’t unusual for you to be in George's dormitory. With George, it had always been easy—whether you were sprawled across his bed laughing at one of his ridiculous stories, helping him sort through joke prototypes, or just hiding away from the chaos of the common room, the door to his space rarely felt closed to you.

So when you climbed the staircase that afternoon, you didn’t hesitate. You had George’s quill tucked in your hand—he’d left it behind after Charms—and you pushed the door open with the casual ease of someone walking into their own home.

“Oi, George, you forgot your—”

The words caught in your throat.

George was by his trunk, a shirt dangling from one hand, bare-chested and frozen halfway through tugging his trousers on. His head snapped toward you, eyes going wide, freckles standing out stark against skin you had never in your life meant to see.

“Bloody hell!” he yelped, fumbling with the shirt as if he couldn’t decide whether to cover his chest or actually put it on.

You immediately slapped your free hand over your eyes, face burning hot. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know—you’re always—Merlin, you usually have clothes on!”

From behind your fingers, you heard a half-laugh, half-groan. “Usually, yeah!” he said quickly. There was frantic shuffling, the rustle of fabric, and then his voice again, pitched with embarrassment. “Could’ve used a knock, {{user}}!”

“You never care if I knock!” you blurted, stumbling over your words in your panic.

“That’s when I’ve got a shirt on!” he shot back, though his voice cracked just slightly, betraying how flustered he was.