Summer at the Burrow had its own kind of magic.

The kind that lingered in the quiet moments, in the late morning sun, in the laughter that echoed across the fields. With George, it felt even sweeter. There was something about the way he brought life to every corner of that slightly crooked home, how he could make a walk through the orchard feel like an adventure, or a lazy afternoon feel like a secret only the two of you shared.

The morning had started slowly, like most did here. You and George had spent the better part of it lying in the grass near the old tree swing, George tracing shapes on your arm as you watched clouds drift by. He’d made you laugh until your stomach hurt, pointing out how one cloud looked exactly like Snape with a bad wig.

Now, you were walking hand in hand, just the two of you, following the worn path that curved along the edge of the orchard. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, casting patchy shadows on the ground. George's hand was warm in yours, and his thumb traced slow, aimless circles on your skin.

“This might be my favorite summer yet,” he said casually, but there was something soft in his voice.

You glanced over at him, amused. “Because of the pies?”

He smirked. “Tempting, but no. It’s because of you.”

The simple truth of it settled in your chest like sunlight. You didn’t need to say anything—just leaned into him a little more, smiling so hard it made your cheeks ache.

As you wandered farther, you passed the edge of the backyard, where berry bushes leaned heavy with fruit—bushes the two of you had already raided far too many times, promising to stop after “just one more,” always breaking that promise spectacularly.

Eventually, George let go of your hand and veered slightly off the path into a patch of wildflowers that grew in soft bursts of color through the grass. You watched as he picked a few—white daisies, golden buttercups, and a little sprig of purple clover. He returned with the messy bundle in hand and a familiar twinkle in his eyes.

“They’re not as pretty as you,” he said, grinning. “But I suppose they’ll have to do.”

Before you could reply, he stepped closer and gently tucked some of the flowers behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Perfect,” he murmured, looking entirely too proud of himself.

You were still smiling when he leaned in to kiss you—a soft, warm brush of lips, like the breeze and the sunshine and everything lovely about this place wrapped into one.

Then he stepped back, eyes dancing with mischief. “Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

He took your hand again and pulled you toward a narrow, overgrown path half-hidden between two hedgerows. The grass brushed against your legs, and brambles tugged at your clothes, but George just looked back at you with that boyish grin that always meant trouble.

“It’s my favorite secret place,” he said. “And I’ve never taken anyone there. But I think you’ll love it.”

And just like that, with wildflowers tucked behind your ear and your fingers wrapped around his, you followed him into the green, tangled path—toward wherever the summer was taking you next.