You stood barefoot in the tall, swaying grass just outside the Lovegood tent, wand tucked behind your ear and arms outstretched, embracing the chaos of the World Cup atmosphere. The air was electric—flags waving, fireworks already crackling, and someone a few tents down attempting to enchant their cauldron to spit out fizzy pumpkin juice (with... sticky results).

Fred found you easily. He always did. Like some magnetic pull, he could locate you even in the wildest crowd. You barely had time to turn before strong arms wrapped around your waist and you were spun once, twice, laughing as your feet left the ground.

“There she is,” Fred murmured against your hair, “Witch of my dreams, moonbeam of my summer, sister of delightful chaos—”

“—and keeper of your pranks,” you quipped, poking his chest. “What’s your scheme this time, Weasley?”

Fred grinned like a boy who already had a plan. “Let’s call it… an upgrade. Secured us access to a much better view of the match. Charlie says Krum’s warming up shirtless.”

You raised a brow. “You’re tempting me with Krum now? Not even subtle.”

“I only tempt you to keep you close,” he said, winking. “Also, I might’ve put a charm on Percy’s tent that turns his hair blue if he lies. Which, by my count, means he has about twenty seconds.”

The “VIP” spot he’d scouted was nestled atop a charm-elevated hill, with a perfect view of the pitch and just far enough from the loudest crowd to make it feel like your own little bubble. The flash of brooms in the sky painted your skin in streaks of gold and green, and Fred’s arms wrapped around your waist as he whispered nonsense Quidditch commentary in your ear.

You laughed until your ribs ached. You forgot about time. And when halftime came, with the stars twinkling above the buzzing lights, Fred turned you gently toward him.

“I’m glad we’re here,” you said, fingers slipping into his. “This whole year—us—it’s been… something I didn’t know I needed.”

Fred’s voice was quieter than usual. “With you, everything feels right. Not just summer. Not just Quidditch. You.”

You tilted your head up, heart fluttering as his hand cupped your cheek. The world around you faded, your lips just about to meet—

A loud, distinct throat-clearing cut through the moment like a Severing Charm.

Fred practically jumped back. You turned sharply toward the sound.

Your father, Xenophilius Lovegood, stood at the edge of your tent flap, wearing an oversized velvet hat shaped like a snidget and holding a teacup with steam spelling out “NO SNOGGING ZONES ENFORCED” in runes above it.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he said, voice serenely curious. “I was just wondering if either of you had seen my Crumple-Horned Snorkack diagram. It flew off just before Fred started monologuing again.”

Fred’s ears turned an impressive shade of red.

You tried—really tried—not to laugh.