The narrow cobblestone street outside Weasley's-Wizard-Wheezes was quiet now, save for the occasional echo of footsteps fading into the evening. You stood by the window of George's apartment, gazing down at Diagon Alley as the last of the twilight painted the horizon in hues of amber and violet. The familiar scent of baked goods and faintly burnt fireworks lingered in the air, a cocktail of chaos and comfort that only George could create.

Behind you, George was rummaging through his pantry, muttering theatrically under his breath.

"Honestly, you'd think I’d stock something as simple as tea," he said, his voice carrying the lilt of exasperated amusement. "But no, it's just leftover candy floss, half a bag of Bertie Bott’s—likely the weird flavors—and what appears to be… is this a toadstool?!" He turned to you, holding up the offending item as if it were evidence in a murder trial.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “That’s what you get for living above a prank shop. No tea, just chaos and toadstools.”

George grinned, his eyes crinkling in that familiar, disarming way that made your stomach flutter. “Chaos and toadstools. Sounds like the name of a band. Reckon we’d sell out the Leaky Cauldron?”

“Only if you promise to wear glitter again,” you teased, turning to lean against the window frame.

He snorted, leaning his tall frame against the kitchen counter. “That glitter was for science. Completely necessary. And you loved it—admit it.” His playful smirk softened as he looked at you, his gaze lingering just a second too long.

You looked away, pretending not to notice the shift. The comfortable rhythm of your friendship always seemed to stutter in moments like this—moments when the weight of unsaid things hung in the air like a spell waiting to be cast.