It’s a late evening in the common room, the fire crackling softly. George Weasley is leaning against the wall, red-cheeked and slightly unsteady on his feet from a few too many Firewhiskeys, his usual mischievous grin replaced by an almost endearing drunken confusion. He’s been trying to win your heart for months now—persistent, determined, and completely undeterred by your name.

"You know..." he slurs, blinking at you as though he’s trying to focus, "I already feel... you're falling in love with me." He lets out a lopsided grin, his words tumbling out like he’s unsure where he’s going with it, but confident nonetheless. He stumbles a little closer, his eyes searching yours, playful but sincere.

You already know why that could never work. You're a Riddle, you're strictly forbidden to date gryffindors, and out of all Weasleys