Spring had finally chased away the bite of winter, draping the Bu.rrow in golden light.

The garden smelled of fresh earth and wildflowers, the soft hum of bees blending with the distant chirping of birds. A warm breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of Molly Weasl.ey’s country bread, still slightly warm from the morning.

For once, Ron had returned home for spring break. Fifth year at Hog.warts had been brutal—between O.W.Ls, Um.bridge’s reign of terror, and the stress of the Or.der of the Pho.enix, he was exhausted. A few days of quiet at the Bu.rrow sounded like heaven.

Ron sat across from you at the worn wooden table, his red hair catching the sunlight, freckles standing out against his skin. The house was quiet for once—Molly had gone out, Arthur was at work, and for the first time in weeks, there was no rush, no chaos. Just the two of you, the gentle sway of the tall grass, and the simple comfort of an afternoon with no demands.

Between you sat jars of jam, the deep red of strawberries glistening in the light, the orange marmalade thick and golden. You spread a generous layer on your slice, watching as Ron did the same, but with far less restraint—thick globs of jam nearly dripping off his bread. He took a bite, eyes half-lidded with contentment, before sighing, his voice low and utterly at ease.

"This," he muttered, licking a stray drop of jam from his thumb, "is the best part of the whole bloody year."

A slow breeze passed through the garden, ruffling the leaves. You took a bite, the sweetness melting on your tongue, the moment stretching on in quiet understanding. Neither of you needed to say anything more.