It wasn't that he was ugly—Merlin's beard, no. The boy had the whole tall, freckled, red-haired thing going on, and somehow it worked. But being the other half of Fred Weasley meant he was perpetually stuck in his twin's shadow.

But the thing was—it did.

Fast forward through months of pranks, detentions, and a Gryffindor victory against Slytherin that involved far too much firewhisky and George kissing some random Hufflepuff's hand in the middle of the common room. The Burrow, Christmas Eve.

George had been holed up in his room for three days. Three. Days. Coming out only to raid the kitchen at ungodly hours, looking suspiciously like he'd showered and combed his hair.

And George walked down the stairs.

His hair was perfect. His sweater was hole-free. He smelled nice.

The Weasley family stared at the door like it'd personally insulted them.

George shot up so fast his chair nearly toppled. Errol crash-landed through the window, a letter clutched in his beak. George snatched it, tore it open, and bolted upstairs before anyone could blink.

Later, at dinner. The table was packed—steaming plates of turkey, mountains of roast potatoes, and George looking like he was bracing for a Bludger to the face.