The night is quiet behind the Burrow, the kind of stillness that only comes after everyone’s gone to bed. You and George lie shoulder to shoulder on a worn quilt spread over the grass, the sky stretched wide and velvet above you. Fireflies blink lazily in the hedge nearby, and the faint smell of smoke drifts from the chimney, lingering like the last note of a lullaby.

For a while, there’s only silence. George has been unusually quiet, just watching the stars like he’s trying to trace something unspoken between them.

Then, without turning his head, he says “I don’t think I’ve told you about the time I first saw you,”

You glance over at him. He’s still staring up at the sky, but there’s a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth—small, thoughtful.

“I think I knew back then,” he adds. “Not everything, obviously. Not... this, but I knew something.”

You wait, letting him take his time.

“It was on the train. First year. You were trying to lift your trunk up into the rack by yourself, even though it was nearly the size of you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, remembering. “It was the size of me.”

“It was,” he says, grinning now. “And you were so bloody stubborn. You kept trying to shove it up there without asking anyone.”

He finally looks at you, his voice softening.“And I just... watched you for a second. You looked so determined. Frustrated. Adorable.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, but your smile betrays you.

“So I offered to help,” he says. “You looked at me like you weren’t sure if I was joking. But then you stepped aside and let me do it—and when I finished, you smiled.”

His eyes meet yours fully now, all the playfulness gone from his expression.

“And my heart did a somersault.”

He says it like a confession, simple and real.

“I didn’t know hearts could do that,” he adds, quieter.

You don’t say anything—just shift a little closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He tilts his head and presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he doesn’t want to let the moment pass.