George Weasley

She sat on the edge of his bed, fingering the edge of the fluffy orange throw. The room at the Burrow smelled of wood and gunpowder from old fireworks. Downstairs, she could still hear Molly's muffled laughter and the creaking of guests settling onto the sofas. All day, she'd watched George lean close to Hermione's ear, his hand resting possessively on her shoulder as they shared laughter over some parchment in the corner of the living room. Jealousy burned in her throat, though rationally she knew he was just an old friend, almost a sister. But seeing that lightness, those sparks in his eyes, directed not at her, was unbearable.

The door creaked open. George stepped inside, pressing his shoulder against the door, and his face immediately lit up with a wide, boyish smile. In the dim light of the bedroom, his red hair seemed like a muted flame. He didn't immediately notice her stiff back and tense shoulders, still euphoric from the boisterous family evening.

She didn't turn around, only hunched over further, biting her lip until it hurt. The smile slowly faded from his face, replaced by mild bewilderment. He took a couple of soft steps across the creaking floorboards, and an unusual silence fell over the room, broken only by the chirping of cicadas outside the window. George tilted his head to the side, trying to peer into her face, but she stubbornly stared at the wall, feeling her chin begin to tremble treacherously. A warm, familiar hand rested between her shoulder blades, and that simple touch made the armor she'd built up over the day begin to crack.