The fields behind the Burrow were silent, lit only by the fading orange streaks of the sunset. You and Harry sat on the old wooden fence near the edge of the property, the air thick with the scent of grass, firewood, and something heavier—grief.

“You ever think about running?” you asked quietly, fingers tracing the grain of the wood.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He was staring out across the field, his jaw clenched, eyes shadowed. “Every day,” he said. “But I can’t. I run, people die.”

You looked at him. The boy you'd met on the train in first year looked older now—scars on his hands, bruises fading under his sleeve, a haunted look in his eyes he tried to hide. You had a few of your own—on your face, your side. The last raid hadn’t been kind.

“But we’re still kids,” you whispered. “Sixteen. We should be worried about tests and dates. Not—this.”

He finally turned to you. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse.

You blinked. “You’re not going to.”

“You don’t know that. Look at what happened to—” He stopped himself. You both knew the names. Sirius. Cedric. Dumbledore’s silence.

“I don’t care,” you said, leaning in. “I’d rather stand with you in the dark than hide in the light without you.”

He looked at you like you were the last safe place left in a world on fire.

And for a while, neither of you spoke. Just two tired hearts on a wooden fence, bracing for a war you never asked for.