Snow fell quietly outside the crooked windows of the Burrow, blanketing the garden in soft white. The house was full — laughter, Weasley chatter, the scent of cinnamon and something perpetually burning in the kitchen. It was the kind of cozy chaos that made you feel alive and slightly dizzy at the same time.

You’d been there for a few days already, visiting for the holidays with Harry and Hermione. Ron had begged you all to come — “Mum’s cooking, proper Christmas, c’mon.” You’d expected the usual: jokes from Fred and George, Ginny’s sarcastic remarks, Arthur rambling about plugs, and Molly fussing over everyone’s scarf.

What you didn’t expect was Charlie.

You remembered him vaguely from first year — that night with Norbert(a). He’d swooped in like some heroic big brother figure, handling everything so smoothly that you and the others could barely get a word out. Since then, he’d been little more than a name in the Weasley family lore — “Charlie, the one with dragons,” “Charlie, the one in Romania.” He was always too far away, too busy, too mythical to actually meet.

Until now.

He’d arrived two days before Christmas, bringing the smell of fire and wild air with him — something untamed that didn’t quite fit within the Burrow’s cozy walls. You noticed him the second he stepped through the door, hair longer than you remembered, arms strong, his grin bright and real. Everyone swarmed him, of course, and you’d just stood there awkwardly, clutching your cocoa.

He found you later, by the fireplace. “You’re the one who helped smuggle Norbert out, yeah?” he’d asked, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You laughed. “That was ages ago.”

“Still. Brave of you lot,” he said, leaning on the mantel, firelight painting his freckles gold. “Most kids would’ve run screaming from a dragon, not raised one under a school roof.”

And just like that, you started talking.

It turned out Charlie wasn’t just brave and strong — he was funny, so funny, and endlessly curious. You talked about everything: dragons, creatures, traveling, magic, life. You didn’t even notice how the hours slipped by until Molly called for supper and you realized you hadn’t seen Harry or Ron since morning.

The next day, it happened again. And again.

Fred teased you, of course, and even Ron looked mildly suspicious. But you didn’t care, because he was like 15 years older. And because it wasn’t anything like that — not exactly. It was just that Charlie made you feel something you hadn’t realized you were missing. The way he listened when you spoke. The way he shared stories about Romania — his voice softening when he spoke about the dragons. The way he made you laugh until your sides hurt.

He’d take you outside sometimes, pointing at the stars, telling you how the dragons would roar at them. He even let you see a few of his burn scars, explaining how each one had a story. You didn’t know why, but that trust — that quiet intimacy — meant more than anything.

On Christmas night, you sat with him on the back porch. Everyone else was asleep. The air was freezing, but he didn’t seem to care — and neither did you.