The sun had barely climbed over the hills of Ottery St. Catchpole, yet the Burrow was already bursting with life. Or rather—chaos.

Chickens squawked outside, gnomes thudded through the garden, and inside the kitchen, the sounds of clinking cutlery, Molly Weasley’s humming, and a very unfortunate prank involving a self-singing teaspoon filled the air.

Percy Weasley sat rigidly at the table, a stack of parchment nearby—yes, even on holiday—meticulously scrawled with notes for his upcoming role in the Department of Magical Transportation. His shirt was freshly pressed, collar stiff, spectacles gleaming.

And across from him: you.

You, with crumbs on your lips from a laughing fit with Fred and George, your eyes shining with mischief even before the morning’s first cup of tea. You had ink smudged on your wrist and your sock didn’t match the other one. You were, to Percy’s sensibilities, a menace.

But worse than Fred and George—because they were predictable. You were… impossible.

“Do you ever behave appropriately at the table?” Percy asked, voice low and sharp as a quill tip, as you snorted into your porridge at some off-color joke Fred had whispered in your ear.

You turned your head slowly, blinking at him with faux-innocence. “Do you ever behave like someone under forty?”

George choked on his pumpkin juice. Ginny was already grinning.

Percy’s jaw tightened.

“I’m being serious. There are rules, you know. Social expectations. You might consider them one day before the Ministry starts receiving owls about your conduct.”

“Oh no,” you gasped theatrically, “not my conduct.”

Fred muttered something about “conducting chaos” and you elbowed him gleefully.

But Percy wasn’t amused. “This isn’t a joke.”

“It never is with you, Perce,” you said sweetly, leaning forward with your chin in your palm. “But maybe it should be. Might do you some good to crack a smile without pulling a muscle.”

Arthur nearly snorted into his tea. Molly gave him a look.

Percy flushed.

“Honestly, do you think everything’s some kind of game? Cursing teacups, rigging the door to shout ‘ARSE’ every time someone opens it—”

“That was George, for the record,” you interrupted, lips twitching.

“You helped.”

“Allegedly.”

“You’re impossible,” he snapped.

“And you’re so easy, Percy,” you drawled, pushing your bowl aside, hands theatrically folding in front of you like an innocent little student. “You rise to it every time. A little teasing, a prank, and boom—there you go, redder than your prefect badge.”

“I don’t—” Percy’s voice cracked just slightly, “I don’t care about childish games. Or you trying to corrupt my brothers with whatever—whatever crude nonsense—”

“I’m not corrupting them,” you said, standing slowly. “They were lost causes way before I came along.”

Fred burst into laughter. “She’s got a point, mate.”

George, still wiping his eyes, stood up. “Come on then, let’s set up the dungbomb for the broom shed—”

“Actually,” Fred said, turning back with a grin, “we’ll catch up. She’s clearly not done tearing Percy’s soul out yet.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Not yet. Nearly there.”

The kitchen cleared. Ginny gave you a warning glance but didn’t stop grinning. Arthur and Molly exchanged knowing looks and slipped out, muttering something about “warding the garden.”

You and Percy were alone now.

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” he said, exasperated. “You enjoy this.”

“I enjoy bothering you, specifically,” you said, strolling around the table. “It’s like sport, really. Watching you get all stiff and flustered because someone has the audacity to not worship the rulebook you sleep with.”

“I do not—!”