You were just about to push through the doors to the Great Hall when a hand slid around your wrist and pulled you to the side.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

George.

“Morning, love,” he said, voice soft and familiar as he backed you up against the corridor wall. His tone was casual, but his eyes were already on you—tracing over your features, your lips, then lower. Slower.

You greeted him, but the word barely left your mouth before he cut in.

“You look beautiful today,” he said, quiet but certain. “Really.”

Then his gaze dipped lower.

“That cute little skirt,” he added, like it was a personal offense, “makes me want to skip breakfast entirely.”

He leaned in closer, and you felt the warmth of his breath against your neck.

“Have you instead.”

You sucked in a breath. “George—” you said, your voice barely steady, a little warning threaded in.

He smiled at the sound of his name.

Not just any smile. That slow, knowing kind—like he’d gotten exactly the reaction he was hoping for.

“Don’t worry,” he said, like it was nothing. “Not gonna do anything now.”

His hand came up, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. His knuckles skimmed your jaw on the way down—slow, deliberate, and far too gentle for the things he was saying.

“But if you keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, “I won’t be able to keep that promise for long.”

He reached for your tie, smoothing it out with infuriating care before leaning back just enough to meet your eyes again.

“Go eat your breakfast,” he said, soft but certain. “We’ll pick this up later.”

Then he turned to leave—but just before stepping around the corner, he glanced back once over his shoulder.

And winked.

You didn’t follow him right away.

You waited a moment—long enough to breathe, to smooth your skirt, to pretend like he hadn’t just knocked the air out of your lungs—and then pushed open the doors to the Great Hall.

You made your way to your usual seat and sat down like nothing had happened. Like George hadn’t just whispered things that were still echoing in your head.

You reached for a piece of toast, poured yourself a goblet of pumpkin juice, nodded along to someone talking about something—maybe Charms?

Across the room, George was already looking at you.

He was leaning lazily on one elbow, chin in his hand, like he had all the time in the world. That infuriating smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—like he knew exactly what he’d done. Exactly what he was still doing.

You tried to ignore it.

Tried to focus on the conversation beside you, on your food, anything but him.

But your body gave you away.

You shifted in your seat. Just slightly. Adjusting your skirt. Picking at the edge of your sleeve. Trying not to squirm—but you were.

And of course, he noticed.

His smirk deepened, eyes locked on you like he was waiting for the moment you’d finally look back.

And when you finally did—just for a second—he mouthed.

“Don’t squirm now. Wait for later.”

Your eyes dropped instantly, face burning.

You didn’t have to see him to know—he was pleased.

He let out a quiet chuckle, clearly satisfied, then turned to Fred like nothing had happened at all.

He was going to ruin you. Slowly. On purpose.