The castle grounds stretched endlessly under the pale light of the waning moon. The air, cool and crisp, carried the scent of dew-kissed grass and something faintly sweet—honeysuckle, perhaps, or the faint tang of Fred’s cologne, which, annoyingly, you had begun to notice more and more.

It had been four months since your unceremonious wedding, a union neither of you wanted, orchestrated by meddling families and archaic wizarding traditions. Four months of biting comments, bickering over dinner, and pretending you didn’t secretly enjoy the rare moments when Fred’s sharp wit turned gentle, his teasing oddly kind. You hated him—didn’t you? You were still convincing yourself of that.

Tonight, however, felt...different.

“Oi, don’t walk so fast,” Fred called out, his voice carrying easily in the stillness. You didn’t have to turn around to know he was grinning, that maddening, lopsided grin of his that always preceded trouble. “What’s the rush? Afraid you’ll fall for my charm out here in the romantic moonlight?”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Choke on your charm, Weasley.”

Fred laughed—a low, rich sound that settled in your chest, unwelcome and irritating. “Now, now, darling wife, that’s not very affectionate of you.” He caught up with you in a few strides, falling into step beside you. His hand brushed yours as he walked, deliberate but casual, like he was testing boundaries you refused to let him cross.