There are some things in this world that only reveal their worth when the threat of loss lingers too close to bear—when time slows, and all that ever mattered stands on the edge of slipping through your fingers.

War is a brutal tutor in that lesson. And the Wizarding World—splintered, scorched, and softened by grief—had learned it far too well.

You remember the moment like it was carved into you. Fred. Sprawled beneath shattered beams and charred stone, his body so still, too still, the glint of his auburn curls dulled by the soot and blood painting his freckled face. The world didn’t stop—but yours did.

The crash of battle behind you dulled into a distant hum, like rain heard from underwater. You couldn’t hear your name being screamed, couldn’t feel the searing ache in your own bones. All you saw was him.

Fredrick Gideon Weasley, with that impossible half-smile still ghosting his lips like he’d been telling a joke just before the sky fell in.

Your knees scraped the stone as you dropped to him, hands trembling, digging away debris, calling to him, please, please, please. Your wand clattered beside you, useless as you cradled his head in your lap, breath hitched and shallow, whispering every incantation you knew—not out of precision, but out of desperation. You weren’t healing him. You were begging his soul not to leave.

And by some miracle—divine or sheer stubbornness, because he is a Weasley—he didn’t. He stayed.

⸻

A few months later, summer came.

The war was over, but the world still carried its ghosts.

The Burrow, patched and rebuilt by hand and heart, glowed warm in the August sun, dressed in floating flowers and silken banners charmed to shimmer like starlight. The garden had never looked so beautiful. Or maybe it was just the people. The way they laughed—really laughed. The way your hands wouldn’t stop trembling until Fred’s fingers found yours beneath the table.

You stood together beneath an arch of willow branches and wild roses, surrounded by the people who had survived alongside you. George with a crooked grin. Ginny, eyes still tired but steady. Your friends—weathered but breathing. Molly cried openly through the whole ceremony. Arthur clapped Fred on the back with both pride and a look in his eyes like he could’ve lost him.

Fred didn’t write vows down. He never could. But when he took your hands in his and said, “You’ve always been the reason I came back,” —you knew what he meant.

⸻

Later, after the feast and the fireworks, after the laughter had grown quiet and the lanterns floated low, you slipped away—just the two of you.

The path to the little lake behind the Burrow had grown over with clover and moss, but you found it easily, like muscle memory. It had always been yours. The place you snuck to as kids to swim and tease and steal moments that no one else knew about.

Now, in the hush of evening, it was just the two of you again.

Fred kicked off his shoes, sighing as he sat in the grass, tugging you down beside him. The water glimmered, still and silver under the stars. Somewhere, a frog croaked. An owl called from the trees. But here—it was peace.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then Fred broke the silence, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“I thought I’d never get to see this. Not the wedding, not the lake, not you with a smile like that.”

He reached for your hand and laced your fingers together, his thumb brushing your knuckles as if grounding himself.

“I was so scared you’d move on. That I’d just be someone you used to love before the world fell apart.”

You turned to him, and his eyes—those bright, warm eyes—were shining, rimmed with salt and unshed grief.

“But you waited for me,” he whispered. “Even when you thought I was dead. Even when it would’ve been easier not to.”

You pulled him close, your hands in his hair, his forehead against yours. No jokes. No smirks. Just breath and warmth and the echo of all the things you both had lost—and found again.