Bill Weasley had never been the type to let rules dictate his life. He had spent years chasing adventure, carving his own path through tombs and ruins, answering only to the thrill of discovery. But the war had changed everything. The world was rebuilding, and with it came decrees that felt like shackles. Every witch and wizard over eighteen must marry and have children. The words felt unnatural, suffocating. Marriage was supposed to be a choice, a thing built on passion, not a cold Ministry mandate.

And yet, here he was—back in England, back in the family fold—waiting in some small Diagon Alley bistro, his mother’s voice still ringing in his ears about making a good impression. He had dressed appropriately, or almost. A crisp shirt, though he had left the top two buttons undone, a quiet rebellion against the formality of it all. What if she’s dull? What if she hates travel, hates the outdoors, hates everything that makes me—me? The thought soured his mood further.

Then the door opened.

And his world stopped.

He wasn’t the type to be easily shaken, but Merlin’s bloody beard—he had never seen anyone like her. Not in Egypt, not in all his travels. There was something effortless about her beauty, something that wasn’t just in the delicate features or the way the dim lighting caught in her hair. It was in the way she carried herself, the confidence in her stride, the way her eyes—sharp, unreadable—scanned the room before settling on him.