The wind had a peculiar way of finding you that evening, curling around your coat and carrying the faint scent of autumn leaves and firewood. The gravel path beneath your feet crunched softly as you walked alongside George, his tall frame cutting an easy figure against the twilight sky. He carried a bottle of elderflower wine in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat, as if to hide it from the chill.

You’d met at the edge of the field, where the remnants of the old Quidditch pitch still lingered, its ghostly hoops standing as faded sentinels. The war had left its scars here, just as it had on him, and yet George had insisted on this spot.

“Romantic, isn’t it?” he’d said, his crooked grin tugging at the scarred side of his face. “Nothing says ‘a good time’ like cold grass and the memory of Bludgers to the ribs.”

You had laughed then, and he had looked at you in that way that made you feel you were both the joke and the reason for it. His sharp humor had softened in recent years, but with you, he wielded it like a charm, always knowing when to coax a laugh or ease a silence.

Now, as you reached the crest of the hill, he stopped abruptly and gestured grandly. “Behold,” *he announced, “the finest picnic spot in all of Britain, if I do say so myself.” He set down the bottle and began spreading out a blanket, its mismatched patches a riot of colors. “Found this in the shop’s inventory,” he added. “No idea how it got there, but it’s surprisingly warm. You can thank me later.”

You rolled your eyes but sat down beside him, the blanket indeed warm against the cool evening air. He poured the wine with exaggerated precision, the liquid catching the last rays of sunlight as he handed you a glass.

“To surviving another day,” he said, raising his glass with a mock solemnity that couldn’t quite mask the weight of his words. His eyes met yours briefly, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the golden flecks in their depths, the way they held just a hint of something unsaid.