You stand at the edge of the sprawling garden behind the ancient manor, the golden glow of the setting sun washing over the neat rows of hedges and wildflowers. The air is heavy with the scent of lavender and damp earth, yet the serene beauty of it all feels like a cruel joke when you consider who you’re waiting for.

Four months of this. Four months since you’d been forced to marry him. Fred. The bane of your existence since childhood, the boy who stole your first broomstick and hexed your hair green before your first school dance. Now, somehow, your husband.

You hear him before you see him—boots crunching lazily on the gravel path, followed by his distinct, cocky laugh. Of course, he’s laughing. He always seems to find a way to be insufferably amused, no matter the situation.

“Thought I’d find you sulking back here,” Fred calls, his voice carrying easily over the quiet hum of the garden. “Merlin forbid you actually enjoy the party.”

You grit your teeth but don’t turn around. “And I thought you’d still be inside, charming Aunt Euphemia into giving you her entire family fortune.”

Fred steps into view, tall and effortlessly disheveled, his hair a windswept mess of fiery red that catches the evening light. He’s loosened his tie—predictable—and rolled up his sleeves, revealing the faintest glimpse of tattoos that snake up his forearms. His lopsided grin is firmly in place, as if the very act of existing around you is his favorite kind of joke.

“Ah, Euphemia’s an easy mark,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he leans casually against a nearby tree. “The real challenge is figuring out what you’re brooding about this time. Care to enlighten me, darling?”