Summer at the Burrow had its own kind of rhythm. Loud in the mornings, louder at meals, and somehow peaceful in between. The house creaked like it was breathing—alive with Weasleys, clutter, and the occasional rogue ghoul thudding in the attic.

You’d arrived with Hermione a few days ago, both of you dropped off early to spend the rest of the summer with the Weasleys before the Quidditch World Cup. Harry wouldn’t be joining until the end of the month, but Ron was already home, and Ginny was endlessly excited to have company.

You shared Ron’s room, two camp beds crammed into a space that already struggled with one. Hermione, naturally, bunked with Ginny. The arrangement worked, mostly. You didn’t mind Ron’s snoring, and he didn’t mind when you stayed up late reading by wandlight.

Hermione wasn’t far—usually downstairs helping Molly with cooking spells or out back reading in the shade while Fred and George set off something they definitely weren’t allowed to be testing. You saw her a lot, and that was never a complaint.

The two of you talked often, sometimes in snatched moments while Ron was busy trying to charm his chess set into listening to him, or when Ginny was off with the twins. Nothing dramatic—just small things. Glances during dinner. Conversations that kept going long after they should’ve ended. Quiet laughter shared across the room while the others bickered over exploding snap.

Then, it was the kind of July heat that made spellwork sluggish and tempers short. So when Fred burst into the kitchen shouting, “Lake day!” with a towel around his neck and a smirk on his face, no one argued.

By midday, you were walking the grassy path past the orchard, robes traded for shorts, tank tops, and borrowed Weasley towels. Ginny carried a basket of snacks. Fred and George levitated an entire barrel of butterbeer behind them, nearly knocking Ron over twice.

Hermione walked beside you, her sleeves rolled up, a light sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. The air was thick with the smell of summer—earthy, sweet, and warm. She looked up, squinting into the sunlight.

“It’s far too hot for anything but floating,” She said, her voice almost drowned out by the chatter of the twins ahead.

You could only agree with the sentiment. The heat was almost unbearable, and all you could think about was the cool embrace of the lake.

The lake was hidden behind a grove of crooked trees, water calm and glassy beneath the sun. It smelled of moss and wildflowers, and the moment Fred cannonballed in, it smelled like wet Fred.

You waded in with Hermione. Ron and George were already wrestling in the deeper end. Ginny launched herself off a rock with a triumphant yell. You and Hermione stayed near the bank for a while, water lapping at your shoulders.

Hermione, her damp curls sticking to her neck, smiled at the water’s cool embrace. “I forgot how nice it is here,” She murmured, almost to herself. Her voice, usually filled with books and logic, now carried something else—contentment, maybe. Or peace.