The sky is settling into twilight, a pale wash of violet fading into the hills beyond the Burrow. The house glows behind you, warm windows, soft voices, the clatter of dishes, but out here, the quiet is heavier.

You spot him just past the garden, perched on the low stone wall that lines the field. He’s hunched forward slightly, elbows on his knees, turning something over in his hands. A small ball of magical light hovers just above his palm, bright, flickering softly, like a miniature firework waiting to bloom.

He coaxes it higher with a flick of his fingers, then lets it dim again. The colors shift, blue, gold, back to red, fizzling at the edges like it can’t decide what it wants to be.

He doesn’t look up as you approach, but the light sputters once and steadies, almost like it recognises you.

You sit beside him. The stone wall is cool beneath you; the grass brushes your ankles. For a while, neither of you speaks. The firefly crackle of the light in his hand is the only sound.

“I was an idiot,” he says quietly. “Said things I didn’t mean. Got too wrapped up in being right.”

The firework pulses a soft amber now, low and steady. He turns it slowly in his palm, watching it like it might have answers.

“I just—when it’s you, I forget how to pull back. You matter too much.”

His voice goes quieter still.

“I hate fighting with you. And I hate this bit after, where I don’t know if I’ve ruined it.”

He finally looks at you. The light reflects in his eyes, flickering with something raw, hope, maybe. Or regret. The kind of honesty that only comes when the world is still, and the stars are just beginning to appear.