You grew up in Ottery St. Catchpole, not far from the crooked chimney and laughter-filled windows of the Bur.row. From the time you could toddle, you were tangled in the whirlwind that was the Weas.ley family.

Ginny had been your first real friend—the two of you spent hours outside mixing potions made of daisies and dirt, laughing until your cheeks hurt. Somewhere between age six and thirteen, you made a pact: no dating each other’s brothers. Ever. Too messy. Too complicated.

And then Ron had to go and get tall. And funny. And impossibly endearing, even when he had marmalade on his chin or tripped over his own feet.

It started small: he’d sit a little closer by the fireplace, steal your toast just to see you glare, mumble something sarcastic that made you snort into your pumpkin juice. Somewhere between the jokes and shy glances, your heart started betraying the pact.

Ron was persistent—but in that very Ron way. He’d say things like, “hey, d’you reckon Ginny would hex us if she found out?” with a half-smile and pink-tipped ears. You resisted. For a while.

But one summer afternoon, the Bur.row buzzed with noise as the rest of the family played Quid.ditch outside. You and Ron snuck off to “cool down,” escaping the sun and the guilt and Ginny’s laugh echoing from the garden.

In his room, the air was still. You sat cross-legged on his bed, legs brushing under the tangle of his sheets. You hadn’t planned to fall into his arms. But he looked at you—really looked—and whispered, “You don’t have to say anything. Just… don’t go.”

His voice cracked. Your resolve did too.

It wasn’t just about breaking a childhood promise anymore. It was about choosing something real, messy, and maybe worth it.