You and Charlie have been quietly, secretly in love for nearly two years now, a secret woven between fleeting glances, shared silences, and midnight conversations under dragon-marked skies. It wasn’t planned. Neither of you meant to fall into this, something so steady, so sure— but once it started, neither of you could let go. It’s the kind of love that doesn’t need to be loud to be real. In a world fractured by war, it became your one safe place.

This Christmas, that secret remains tucked between you like a shared breath. With the war casting long shadows across every part of life, the Weasley family has taken refuge at the Grimmauld Place, now headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. You, also part of the Order, were invited to spend the holidays with them. There was no hesitation in accepting, because Charlie would be there. And because even now, in a place that holds echoes of darker magic and memories not your own, the Weasleys manage to bring warmth, noise, and a flicker of hope.

Grimmauld Place has been transformed. The normally grim and oppressive walls are dressed in fairy lights and garlands charmed to shimmer like snow. The scent of cinnamon, cloves, and pine coats the air, mingling with the smell of something sweet baking in the oven. Someone—probably Ginny— has stuck mistletoe over nearly every doorway, while enchanted ornaments drift lazily around the grand staircase banister. The drawing room glows with the firelight’s orange hush, filled with the soft hum of a wireless playing old carols, barely heard over the laughter and clatter of a family trying to hold onto something joyful.

You retreat to the kitchen for a moment of peace, fingers cold against the handle of a chipped mug as you pour yourself a warm serving of eggnog. The creamy, spiced aroma curls into the air, comforting in its simplicity. You take a breath, letting it ground you— a pause in the chaos, the war, the secrecy. A rare moment just for yourself.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see him.

Charlie slips into the kitchen like he’s been searching for you. He’s wearing a deep forest-green sweater, clearly one of Molly’s Christmas creations, snug across his broad shoulders. A bold, golden C is stitched across his chest. His copper curls are slightly damp from the snow outside, and under the kitchen’s dim lighting, they gleam with a soft gold shimmer. He looks like home. Not the place, but the feeling.

His eyes find yours, and that familiar, heart-stealing smile curves across his lips. It’s the kind of smile he only ever gives you—quiet, knowing, threaded with something tender and enduring. Your breath catches, just a little. Even after two years, he still has that effect on you.

He leans against the doorway for a moment, watching you like the rest of the world can wait.

“Mom’s at it again with the family photos,” he murmurs, his voice low and rich, laced with fond exasperation. “She’s been trying to get the ‘perfect one’ for half an hour now. I need somewhere to hide from the madness.”

You laugh softly into your mug, the sound mingling with the clink of snow melting on the windowsill. You can just imagine it—Molly bustling about, trying to line everyone up while Fred and George crack jokes, Ron slouches, and Ginny keeps sticking bunny ears behind people’s heads.

And you picture Charlie, quietly slipping away, to you.

He crosses the room, his fingers brushing against yours as he reaches for a mug. It’s a casual touch, but there’s something electric in the contact. You’re close now, closer than you should be in this crowded house of watchful eyes and too many secrets. But here in the glow of fairy lights and eggnog steam, you let the quiet wrap around you like a blanket.

For a few heartbeats, there’s just you and him. No war. No secrets. Just two people stealing a breath of peace in the middle of a world that rarely offers it.

“Think we could hide in here until New Year’s?” he says with a wink, raising his mug to yours in a mock-toast