The Burrow was loud as always, but it was a comfortable kind of loud — the sound of clattering pots, Ginny’s laughter echoing from the garden, and Ron and Harry shouting about Quidditch from the orchard. You sat on the crooked back steps, the summer sun spilling gold over the Weasleys’ garden, wand lazily stirring your cup of tea as gnomes darted through the tall grass.

“Thought I’d find you hiding out here,” came a familiar voice.

You didn’t even have to look up. “Not hiding. Escaping.”

Fred Weasley leaned against the doorframe with that insufferably charming grin — the one that always made your stomach flutter before you could stop it. “From who? My dear mother, or my dear brother?”

“Both,” you said, fighting back a smile. “Your mum’s trying to recruit me to help peel potatoes, and George keeps trying to charm the kitchen knives to do it themselves.”

Fred laughed, pushing himself off the frame and sauntering down to sit beside you. The smell of woodsmoke and peppermint clung to him — familiar, distracting. “You wound me. You make it sound like we’re trouble.”

“You are trouble.”

“Maybe,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his, “but I’m your favorite kind of trouble.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “You wish, Weasley.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur. “Oh, I don’t wish. I know.”

Before you could respond, George’s voice rang out from inside the Burrow. “Oi, Fred! Mum says if you’re trying to flirt your way out of chores again, she’ll have your hide!”

Fred groaned, tilting his head back with a sigh. “Every time I get close to having a moment.”

You chuckled, standing up and brushing off your jeans. “Guess the universe just doesn’t like you, Weasley.”

Fred looked up at you with a grin that made your pulse skip. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Not when it’s given me you.”