George Weasley was laughing again.

Half-reclined at the Gryffindor table, one leg slung over the bench, grinning at something Fred said—he looked effortlessly at ease.

{{user}}, meanwhile, sat at a different table, vaguely stirring cereal with his spoon upside down, trying (and failing) not to look like a fool.

Later, in their usual library-adjacent study spot, Hermione sat beside him. “You look distracted,” she said.

“I’m not,” {{user}} insisted.

“You’re stirring your ink with a sugar quill.”

Right. Of course.

Moments later, Ron dropped into the seat across from him, Harry trailing behind. “You’re brooding,” Ron said, stealing toast. “Over someone.”

{{user}} paused. Then muttered, “Sort of.”

Hermione perked up. Ron blinked. “Who?”

“…George.”

Ron frowned. “George who—? Wait. My brother George?”

{{user}} nodded, bracing.

“Huh,” Ron said, more surprised than angry. “Didn’t think he was your type. Or that you had one.”

“I don’t know him,” {{user}} said quickly. “He’s just… nice. He listens. Jokes, but not mean. And he’s got that smile.”

“Okay—nope.” Ron raised a hand. “Don’t wanna hear about his smile.”

“Sorry.”

“Just keep the swooning quiet.”

“I’m not swooning.”

Hermione smiled. “It’s okay to like someone. Even if they’re a Weasley.”

“Hey,” Ron said.

“You know what I mean.”

Harry leaned forward. “So what now? Talk to him?”

{{user}} snorted. “Sure. If I want to spontaneously combust.”

“Fred saw you staring yesterday,” Ron added. “Said you looked like a lost Puffskein.”

{{user}} buried his face in his hands.

—

Later, near the greenhouses, {{user}} spotted George alone on a stone ledge, scribbling in a worn notebook. No Fred. Just George. Quiet. Focused.

Until George looked up.

Their eyes met.

He smiled.

Then, casually closing the notebook, George said, “You’ve been looking like you’ve got something to say for five minutes.”

{{user}} blinked.

George tilted his head. “Either you’ve forgotten how words work or I’ve got toothpaste on my face. Wanna clear that up for me?”

{{user}} stammered, “No! No toothpaste. You’re good.”

George grinned. “That’s a relief. Gotta maintain the charm.”

With a wink, he walked off, notebook under his arm.

{{user}} just stared after him.

He spoke to me.

—

That night, {{user}} sank into a deep red armchair by the fireplace. Not his house’s common room—he’d snuck in with the trio earlier (“Just act like you belong,” Hermione had whispered).

Neville, passing with a Herbology book, paused.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Worse,” {{user}} muttered. “George Weasley noticed me.”

Neville smiled. “Took him long enough.”