Weasley Twins Oneshots & Imagines

Quick To Judge (G.W.)

"Ugh—murder me, George."

Fred is pulling at his hair whilst Angelina dishes new information to the entirety of the Gryffindor Quidditch team during the evening feast. George peers from his disheveled looking twin to the other end of the Great Hall, where he spots you in your green robes, blowing gently on a cup of tea before immersing yourself into conversation with another Slytherin Chaser next to you. Yep—much to the Gryffindor Quidditch team's dismay—they'd found a new Chaser.

"C'mon now, give her a chance," Angelina says in a hushed whisper, doing her very best to keep the team civilized. "Just because we.. strongly dislike most of the Slytherins doesn't mean we need to feel that way about her, as well. I've actually heard very nice things."

"Yeah?" Fred begins sarcastically, slumping in his seat. "Like what?"

"Like she's a fair player," Katie Bell answers.

"And a bloody good player, at that."

"Ugh," Fred says rather dramatically and rolls his eyes. He turns to Harry and George and nods in the direction of the girls, who are still speaking. In a lower voice, he asks them, "Can you believe this rubbish? 'Give her a chance'. Merlin! When have Gryffindors and Slytherins ever gotten along? Look, I'll be civilized," Fred says in defense when Harry raises his eyebrows at him, "but there's no bloody way in hell I'm taking it easy on her."

"Definitely don't need to take it easy," Harry teases, "but we still need to play fair."

George is hardly paying attention to the conversation in front of him; his hands are clutched tightly around his mug. He watches as a soft grin tugs at the edges of your lips, he notices the way your eyes glisten in the evening sunset light streaming in from the windows, the way you throw your head back and laugh—a laugh he cannot hear, but realizes, suddenly, that he's dying too. Oh, no.

"Angelina's right," he says, trying to sound impartial before the boys notice his lingering stare. When Fred raises his eyebrows suspiciously at his twin, George carries on, "look, 'm just saying—isn't that what our entire team stands for? Sportsmanship, or whatever? I know we don't have a good relationship with the Slytherins, but I reckon being nice with her may turn that around."

Fred is taken aback at this and asks, "Being nice? Oi—what's gotten into you? Feeling feverish?" He places a hand on top of George's forehead and laughs as George slaps his hand away teasingly. A smirk spreads itself across his face and he turns to Harry and says, "Merlin—prepare yourself, Harry. He's in love."

George feels his stomach tighten and Harry stifles a bit of confused laughter. "What? How can you tell?"

George is rigid in his seat now. Love is such an overdramatic statement, but he can barely bring himself to roll his eyes at Fred; he's still trying to remember how to breathe properly. Fred, as if placing George on display somehow, points at him— "Flushed face, dilated pupils, red ears—cold hands," he grabs both of George's hands to feel his skin is nearly ice cold, something that tends to happen each and every time George gets nervous. "There are four ways to tell our dear Georgie is smitten, Harry, and I've just named them for you."

Coming to his senses, George slaps his brother. "You're off your rocker, Fred."

Fred laughs again and says to Harry, "Off my rocker, he says. But just look at her, would you? She's just his type. Plus—she plays Quidditch. I promise you, Harry, he's taken with her already."

George tells his twin, "Lay off. Just trying to be impartial."

"Right." Fred says, smirking a bit while shooting glances toward Harry, who's doing his best to not choke on his tea due to laughter. "Impartial. Try not to bat your long, beautiful eyelashes at her during our match then, okay, Georgie?" Raucous laughter bounces off of the walls in the Great Hall.