The common room was quiet when you returned. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows on the walls, but most students were still at dinner. Good. You didn’t want to be seen like this.

You kept your head down, sleeves tugged low over your wrists as you sank onto the worn couch nearest the fire. The sting in your hand hadn’t faded, and the shame that came with it burned just as much. You hadn’t cried. Not in front of her. Not when she smiled that sickly-sweet smile and handed you that cursed quill.

But now, in the quiet, the tears prickled behind your eyes.

You didn’t hear him come in. Just the soft creak of the floorboard. Then the quiet, warm voice.

“Hey.”

Your head snapped up, and there was George. He was already moving toward you, his expression shifting from casual to deeply concerned when he caught sight of your face.

“What happened?” he asked, his tone low and careful. “Are you alright?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. So instead, you shook your head slowly and tugged your sleeve back.

There it was. ’I must not speak out of turn.’ Carved in red.

His brows knit, and the look on his face turned deadly serious. But he didn’t speak right away. He just sat down beside you, reached out, and gently took your hand in both of his like it might break.

“Merlin,” he whispered. “She actually made you use that bloody quill.”

You nodded, trying to blink the tears away. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” His voice cracked a little as he said it.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t have the energy. So you let him hold your hand, his thumb brushing carefully over the angry red letters. Then he shifted closer and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest without another word.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered against your hair. “I should’ve walked with you. I should’ve waited. I didn’t know she’d—”

“It’s not your fault,” you said, muffled into his jumper.

His scent surrounded you—fireworks, parchment, and the faintest hint of something sweet. Safe.

You stayed there like that for a while. He didn’t rush you. Just held you close, rubbing slow circles along your back with his thumb, not saying anything unless you did first.

Eventually, your breathing steadied. Your head stayed tucked under his chin, but your hands gripped his jumper instead of hiding.

“She’s awful,” you whispered.

“The worst,” he agreed. “I’ve considered transfiguring her into a dung beetle. Fred’s more partial to blasting her into orbit.”

That made your lip twitch, just slightly.

George pulled back just enough to look at you. “We’d get expelled, of course. But I reckon it might be worth it. For the cause.”

You gave a tiny laugh, tired and broken at the edges. “You’re both idiots.”

“Gorgeous idiots, though,” he said, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “And speaking of—your handwriting is remarkably elegant, even when etched into your skin. Is that some kind of weird talent?”

You shook your head, finally meeting his eyes properly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably charming,” he corrected, grinning now, though his gaze softened when it drifted back to your hand. “You shouldn't have to be strong all the time, you know. You’ve got me now. Always.”

Your heart clenched.

Then he kissed your forehead—gentle, grounding.

And when he pulled you close again, you let yourself melt into his arms, pain and all.