You don’t remember how you got there. Only that the dust still hadn’t settled, that Percy’s voice was hoarse from screaming Fred’s name, and that your knees hit the stone floor hard enough to bruise.

Fred was limp in his brother’s arms, blood streaking his temple, freckles dusted in grey debris. There wasn’t even time to be afraid—only to act.

"Rennervate," you whispered, your voice shaking as you gripped his shirt, stained and torn at the shoulder. You said it again—louder, desperate. A third time.

Then, a breath.

Not yours. His.

His chest stuttered, then rose fully. And the sound you made—it wasn’t a cry. It was relief ripped raw from your lungs, everything inside you unspooling like thread from a fraying wand core.

Two weeks later, the sunlight at the Burrow bled through the kitchen windows, soft and golden, pooling on the scarred tabletop where Fred sat. The bruises on his arms had gone from violent purple to yellowing green. He wore them like war medals—ugly, proud things.

Your tea had gone cold between your hands, but he kept watching you.

"You're quiet," he said finally.

You shrugged. “Still feels like I’m waiting for something to go wrong.”

Fred tilted his head. “That’s not like you.”

“No,” you murmured, eyes locked on the rim of your mug. “It’s what you do to people.”

He chuckled, but there was a tremor to it. You didn’t look up until his hand slid over yours, thumb brushing the edge of your knuckles.

“I think I died,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And then I woke up to you.”

Outside, the wind rattled the trees. In your chest, something cracked open just enough to let the light in.

You turned your hand over under his, gripping back.

And you didn’t ask what it meant.

Not yet.