You’ve been part of the Burrow’s chaos since your very first trip on the Hogwarts Express. Fred and George claimed you as their honorary triplet before the train even pulled out of the station. From that point on, you were just there—at every summer holiday, every impromptu Quidditch match, every midnight kitchen raid that usually ended with a scolding from Molly and a wink from Arthur.

The Burrow became a second home without you ever realizing when it happened.

And with that home came the Weasleys—all of them. But one always stood out.

Bill.

Even back then, before you really understood what a crush even was, you noticed Bill. The oldest Weasley sibling. The one who seemed effortlessly cool without trying to be. He was away most of the time, off in Egypt doing something exciting and dangerous, but when he visited, the air around him felt different. Charged.

At first, it was admiration. Then fascination. And now—well. You still pretend it’s a harmless thing, just a lingering schoolgirl crush. But it’s been years, and it’s only grown.

You never told anyone, of course. Why would you? You were just the twins’ best friend. A fixture of the Burrow, yes, but not someone Bill would look at like that. You were younger. A kid, probably, in his eyes.

Tonight, though, the house is quiet. Or as quiet as the Burrow ever gets. You’d gone to bed hours ago, but sleep never came. You tried lying still, counting the knots in the ceiling, listening to the ghoul in the attic. Nothing worked.

So you sneak down the stairs, half-expecting to run into a ghost or a garden gnome that’s somehow found its way inside. But what you find instead is a warm glow coming from the kitchen.

Bill is there, standing by the counter with his back to you, stirring a mug of tea. He’s in pajama pants and a worn grey T-shirt, his long hair tied back messily, a few strands falling loose around his face.

You stop in the doorway before he turns and notices you.

“Can’t sleep either?” he asks, voice low and soft in the quiet.

You shake your head, suddenly hyper-aware of your sleep shirt slipping on your shoulder and your tangled hair.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you mumble.

He gives you a small smile and gestures toward the table. “You’re not. Want some tea?”

You nod, and he turns to prepare a second mug, quiet and unhurried. You sit down at the kitchen table, tucking your legs up on the chair, and watch him move—familiar, but still somehow unreal in this soft, sleepy light.

He brings the second mug over and sets it gently in front of you, his fingers brushing yours—just for a moment. Then he slides into the seat across from you, his own cup cradled in both hands.

“The Burrow feels different at night,” he says after a while. “Like it finally gets a moment to breathe.”

You smile faintly. “I know what you mean. It’s… peaceful.”

He nods, eyes on you now. Not in a distracted or casual way. He’s really looking, like maybe he’s seeing you fully for the first time.

You wrap your hands tighter around the mug, the warmth grounding you. It’s just tea. Just a quiet night. Just Bill.

And yet, for the first time, you let yourself wonder if maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t see you the way he used to.