It was late October, the kind of night where the small town in London felt like it had forgotten how to breathe. Rain pressing against the windows, wind whining down the street, and you were curled on the sofa with a blanket pulled high over your shoulders, pretending that quiet didn’t feel like loss.

The owl hit the glass with a thump.

You froze. Hardly anyone ever wrote anymore.

By the time you got to the window, the creature was already glaring in that judgmental way owls always did. You opened the latch. It thrust out one leg. You untied the envelope.

Your name. In handwriting you knew as well as your own pulse.

You almost dropped it.

The room felt wrong somehow too small for the way your chest tightened.

You sat down before your knees betrayed you, thumbs brushing over the parchment like it might burn you. Maybe it already had.

You opened it.

Fred and Angelina formally invite you to their wedding

The fancy gold lettering blurred. The date, December twenty fourth. At The Burrow, bold and unmistakable.

Your heart didn’t just stop. It did something crueler. It stumbled, reached for a memory that wasn’t there anymore, and then sank like it finally gave up.

Four years without a word, and this was the thing he chose to send.

The rain outside kept tapping the glass, like it wanted to remind you of another night, years ago, when he kissed you under the bonfire sparks and promised he couldn’t imagine a future without you. The same mouth that must’ve kissed someone else now, whispered vows meant for someone else.

Your hands shook. You hated that they did.

You tried to breathe, but your lungs felt full of ghosts. Hogwarts corridors. Midnight laughter. His stupid grin. The way he used to say your name like it meant something. All those moments you’d tucked away because moving away was supposed to help.

Supposed to.

You’d left to forget him.

All it took was one letter to undo everything.

You set the invitation down like it weighed too much. Maybe it did.

Because how were you supposed to go? How were you supposed to see him? How were you supposed to stand there and cheer while someone else married the boy who used to hold your heart like it was made of something precious?

You pressed both palms over your eyes.

Didn’t cry. Wouldn’t cry.

Except… you loved him. You always had.

You’d spent four years trying to unlearn him, and none of it worked. Not even a little.

Somewhere out there, Fred Weasley was planning a wedding.

And you were sitting alone in a dim flat, trying to remember how to breathe.