Potions class is half over. Professor Snape prowls the aisles like a waiting verdict, robes billowing behind him, his voice a low murmur of criticism and contempt.

You're at your workstation near the back. Your quill scratches steadily across parchment. The instructions for the Draught of Living Death are annotated in margins so neat they look printed.

Two rows ahead, a redhead is whispering to the boy beside him. The other twin. George, you've gathered. The one who laughs louder than necessary, who never sits still, whose presence seems to fill every room he enters like a breath held too long.

He's not looking at you.

Not yet.

His hand drifts below the tabletop. A wand movement. Silent. Quick. His twin nudges him, grinning.

Across the aisle, a Slytherin girl's cauldron bubbles. Then foams. Then— fwoosh.

George turns slightly in his seat. Casually. As if stretching.

His eyes find yours.

There's a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. The look of someone waiting for a punchline to land.

You meet his gaze. You do not laugh. You do not smile. You do not even blink. You just hold his stare, once, then return to your notes, your quill steady, your expression unchanged.

Behind you, someone snickers.

But George Weasley is quiet for the first time all lesson.