The pitch was loud from the very start, but you were louder. The twins had a match that afternoon, and you were tucked into the front row of the Gryffindor stands, scarf wrapped tight, voice already half-gone from cheering.

Every time the players shot past, Fred made a point of spotting you. Sometimes it was a quick smirk, sometimes a bold wink that made the people beside you elbow each other knowingly. George, not to be outdone, gave you those subtle, amused glances—like he enjoyed watching you cheer even more than the game itself.

The match stretched on, fast and chaotic, until finally the final whistle echoed across the stadium. Gryffindor erupted in victory. Fred threw both hands into the air, George whooped loud enough to shake dust off the hoops, and both of them immediately looked for you in the crowd before joining the rest of the team.

Later—once the celebration in the common room calmed down—you found yourself in the twins’ dorm. The lanterns glowed low, the windows fogged from the cold night air, the room smelling faintly of broom polish and whatever prank they’d tested last.

You barely had time to sit before Fred slid in behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, his chin resting gently against the back of your shoulder. His face pressed into your hair, warm, soft, like he was still catching his breath from the game.

George moved in front of you, settling his head against your chest with a tired sigh. His arms wrapped around you too, loose at first, then tightening—like he’d decided he had no intention of letting go.

Caught between both of them, you felt the rise and fall of their breaths syncing with yours. They were warm, clingy, content—like two oversized kittens who’d won their match and now fully intended to keep their reward: you.