It was a slow morning at the shop, just a few second-years giggling over Extendable Ears and a bloke in the corner who definitely looked like he was about to cause some kind of insurance issue.

You rang up a few Knuts at the counter, scribbling down inventory, when you felt him.

Fred Weasley.

Not entering with a dramatic flair, not calling out some wild idea, no. This time he was quiet—creeping behind you like he had a secret.

You didn’t turn.

“Oi,” he murmured by your ear, close enough to brush his chin over your shoulder, “can’t help noticing, Mrs. Weasley, you’ve got ink on your nose.”

You swatted at your face instinctively.

“Left side. No—your other left,” he added, positively beaming now.

“I’m working,” you muttered, but the corners of your mouth were already betraying you.

He leaned over the counter, chin in hand, all long limbs and smugness. “You know, it’s deeply unprofessional to look this fit while restocking Fanged Frisbees. Could be considered a hazard.”

You rolled your eyes. “What do you want?”

Fred tapped the till drawer with one finger. “Nothing, really. Just admiring the view. Though—I was thinking…”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“You had the face. That I’ve-got-an-idea face.”

Fred grinned wider. “You used to like that face. You even married it.”

“Questionable decision, in hindsight.”

He gasped like you’d hexed him. “Wounded. Right in the heart. And after I brought you breakfast this morning.”

“You stole my toast off my plate—”

“Details, details,” he said, waving a hand. “Anyway, I’ve decided. You’ve earned your break. Starting now.”

“I haven’t—”

“Too late. Management insists.” He was already rounding the counter. “In fact, I’d say there’s a husband clause in the employee agreement.”

You squinted. “There is no agreement.”

“There is now. And it clearly states,” he whispered, voice low and ridiculous, “that if your husband finds you so devastatingly attractive while counting Canary Creams that he can’t concentrate on running the shop... he is legally obligated to whisk you upstairs for a—”

Ding!

The door jingled again.

This time, it wasn’t George.

It was a whole wave of young Hogwarts students on summer break, flooding in loud and curious.

You elbowed Fred hard in the ribs, whispering through your teeth, “Stop being dirty-minded in the shop, you absolute menace.”

Fred winced, but his smirk didn’t falter.

“Alright, alright,” he whispered back. “I’ll behave. For now.”

And with that, you slipped out from behind the counter, cheeks pink, as Fred grinned after you like a boy caught red-handed in class.