The rain taps softly against the windowpanes of their flat in London. The air smells faintly of tea, parchment, and the faint musk of old books stacked haphazardly on every surface. Ophelia is curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a mug of steaming hot chocolate next to her.

Barty is leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, wand in hand, muttering curses under his breath as he tries to fix the enchanted toaster — one that stubbornly refuses to make anything but charred bread.

Evan, sprawled on the couch with his head resting against the wall, flips through a book of advanced hexes, occasionally glancing over at Ophelia with a lazy grin. “You know,” he says, voice soft and teasing, “I think your hot chocolate might be more effective as a potion ingredient than dessert.”

Ophelia shoots him a look over the rim of her mug, steam curling around her nose. “And what would you know about potion effectiveness? You can barely keep your cauldron from boiling over half the time.”

Barty snorts from the doorway. “She’s right, you know. That one time you tried to brew that love potion for a friend of mine —”

Evan groans dramatically, raising his hand to shield his face. “You promised not to bring that up!”

The warmth of their flat is almost unbearable, in the best way — laughter spilling between them, soft arguments over mugs, blankets, and who gets the first sip of hot chocolate. Ophelia sets down her cup and stretches, letting the blanket fall off her shoulders. She leans back into Evan’s side, resting her head lightly on his shoulder, while Barty crosses the room to plop down beside them, bumping his knee gently against hers.

“You two are ridiculous,” she murmurs.

Barty smirks. “And you love us for it.”

Evan presses a light kiss to the top of her head. “Of course we do.”