Four Days.

Fred Gideon Weasley had tried everything short of setting the tent on fire to get five minutes alone with you. Five minutes. That was all he asked for. Just you, him, and maybe a locked door—preferably one that didn’t have George banging on it with spoons two minutes later.

“Do you know,” Fred said, dramatically flopping onto the couch beside you, “that in some cultures, four days of celibacy is considered torture?”

You didn’t even look up from your book. “We’re in a tent with sixteen people, Fred.”

“A tent with rooms,” he pointed out, voice rising in desperation. “Rooms that have doors!”

“Doors that don’t work when your mother Alohomoras them every hour to do laundry checks.”

“Exactly why I proposed we hide in the laundry,” he grumbled. “No one checks the laundry basket.”

You turned a page. “You mean the one your dad accidentally charmed to sort itself and nearly folded your arm in half yesterday?”

Fred groaned, flopping face-down into your lap. “I’m losing my mind. I haven’t even kissed you properly in days. I’m starting to hallucinate. I swear that tree outside looked like your legs.”

“Go outside and flirt with it then.”

He turned his head, looking up at you with puppy-dog eyes. “Love of my life. Future mother of my children. Please. Just thirty seconds. We don’t even have to do anything—just stand next to each other…without George popping out of a closet.”

You were about to reply when Molly shouted from the other room, “Fred, stop bothering her!”

Fred sat up, hands raised to the ceiling. “I CAN’T EVEN GROVEL IN PEACE!”