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George would often find his eyes roaming during class. The way she chewed on the end of her quill or how her soft waves fell in place without her trying, framing her face perfectly.
She was a foreign concept; with her dark eyes, full lips and pretty brown hair. Always seemed so far out of reach, like something he couldn't quite wrap his head around, something he could grab for but never hold.
She had him transfixed.
Whenever George noticed she was in the same vicinity, his pranks would get flashier, his smirk, broader, and his laugh, a little louder.
And in the rare instances where she would spare him a glance, or laugh at his antics, never failed to leave George feeling like he was flying.
It was safe to say that George Weasley was infatuated.
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Their quidditch team had utterly obliterated Ravenclaw.
The celebration was, in true Gryffindor fashion, over the top.
Flashing lights in the dark, the Weird Sisters debut album blaring so loud you could feel it in your chest, the smell of flavoured alcohol and fading base notes of perfume, the sporadic bursts of glitter and confetti conjured trough the tips of adrenalin-fuelled teenagers wands.
Right in the middle of it all was her.
She was dancing, hips swaying to the beat, arms thrown up carelessly. George was Hypnotised.
Perhaps it was the one too many shots of chocolate liqueur, George would think looking back, but he found himself moving towards her with newfound confidence.
They danced.
She looked up at him and smirked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. That's what did it for him. He gently took her hand in his and lead her to one of the sofas. They talked, both slightly tipsy and practically buzzing, courtesy of the stimuting atmosphere.
He spoke passionately, she reciprocated, both leaning into each other as the conversation grew more exciting.
All the chaos and noise of a raging party going on full swing around him and George still couldn't take his eyes off of her.
With her glittery eyeshadow and red-tinted lips.
Those lips would taste like cherry, he would find out later. And so would she.
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George was never religious, but he memorised her body like a verse in the Bible and said her name like a prayer. Maybe it would be cliché, to compare her to Aphrodite, but he was beyond caring.
She was a goddess. The goddess all things rich. Of pleasure, of gold, of wine and chocolate. A sensual indulgence. And George was dissipated.
She layed fast asleep, curled up into his side. He shut his eyes as well, still relishing the feeling, the ghost of her lingering touch, from when she was on top of him. Gentle stokes and soft noises. Better than any euphoria. Black lace. Candlelight. Hand gripping neck. Transfigured silk sheets.
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Walking up to tangled limbs, morning breath kisses and fluttering eyelashes.
How did he get so lucky?
He held her closer, tighter.
It was times like these that always left George feeling like he was glowing.
And sometimes, she would swear, that he was.