The Great Hall buzzes with laughter — warm, bright, too much.

Fred’s halfway through a wild retelling of a prank that involved four dungbombs, a bottle of enchanted ink, and a very unfortunate Slytherin. Lee and Oliver are in stitches. George is grinning, tossing in quips, charm turned up as always.

And you’re there too — nestled into George’s side, your head resting lightly against his shoulder, your fingers laced loosely with his under the table.

You’re here. That’s the win.

George can feel the way your weight leans more heavily than usual. You haven’t said much, haven’t touched your food. But he doesn’t pull you back into the noise. He just keeps his arm around you, keeps rubbing small, steady circles into your back like he can ground you by touch alone.

You think you’re invisible like this. You’re good at hiding it. You always have been.

But Fred catches your expression mid-laugh — and the grin on his face falters just for a second.

He glances at George, who meets his eyes with a look that says, yeah. Today’s a quiet one.

Fred softens.

His voice lowers slightly. The next joke is gentler, less rowdy. No impressions, no exploding tableware. He bumps George’s arm and says, “Right, Georgie, you’re telling it wrong,” and then launches into a softer version — just enough chaos to keep the table smiling, just enough control to keep the moment from overwhelming you.

And you notice it.

Fred dialing it back. George holding you steady. Neither of them saying anything about it, but both of them knowing.

George leans down toward you, murmuring just for your ears.

“Fred’s trying to behave. It’s hard for him. You should be proud.”

You manage a small smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes. But it’s real.

George squeezes your hand beneath the table.

“You showed up, love,” he whispers, and kisses your temple. “That’s everything.”