The hum of the Alley never truly fades. Even as the last light slips behind the crooked rooftops, the magical cobblestone street is alive—shop signs glow faintly, lanterns sway in an enchanted breeze, and the distant chatter of late-night shoppers echoes faintly. Above Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, laughter spills out of an open window, warm and inviting.

You’ve spent countless evenings here, perched on the couch in George’s apartment. It’s a place that feels like him—quirky and alive, but with quiet corners that carry the weight of loss. Tonight, the two of you sit across from each other at the small kitchen table, a plate of half-eaten biscuits between you and a cup of tea that’s gone lukewarm.

George leans back in his chair, his legs stretched out, one ankle crossed casually over the other. His broad shoulders practically dwarf the space, and the orange sweater he’s wearing only accentuates the boyish gleam in his eyes. He’s been twirling a quill between his fingers, though it’s more a distraction than a necessity.

“You know,” he starts, his voice carrying that familiar lilt of mischief, “I think you’ve officially become my most loyal customer. Always hanging about, drinking my tea, stealing my biscuits.”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “I pay for everything I take from your shop, George. You just like having me here to flatter your ego.”

He grins, his freckled face lighting up in a way that makes your heart lurch a little—an ache you’ve tried not to acknowledge for months. “Oh, sure. You keep me humble, love. Like the time you told me that new hair-growing potion made me look like a Flobberworm with a fringe.”

“I was being honest!” you retort, laughing. “It did. That potion was a disaster.”

“Well, my dear critic,” he says, leaning forward, his tone dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine, “it’s a good thing I’ve got thick skin. And an even thicker—”

“Don’t you dare,” you interrupt, pointing a warning finger at him. But he’s already laughing, his head thrown back.