The final box of Skiving Snackboxes slides into place, Fred giving it a satisfied pat as he steps back. George wipes his hands on his robes, glancing sideways at you, his partner in every way that matters. You’ve been there through all the late nights, every ridiculous prototype, every explosion and laugh. He slips an arm around your waist as you both take a step back, surveying the vibrant chaos of the shop—your shop.

Shelves brimming with colors and tricks, little whirs and puffs of smoke still curling from corners. Fred stands just beside you both, arms crossed, his grin wide but quiet for once as he soaks it all in with you.

You turn toward the windows together. The front panes rattle faintly with the sound from outside—shouts, laughter, the rising buzz of a crowd too big for the narrow alley. Diagon Alley is packed. Witches, wizards, students in half-buttoned robes, even a reporter or two, every one of them out there waiting.

For this. For you.

George’s heart thuds once, hard. Not fear exactly—just everything. He keeps his voice low, only for you.

“You think it’s ready?” he whispers, eyes still on the window, but all his focus on the weight of your head on his shoulder.