The cold wind bites as you tug your cloak tighter around your shoulders. Snow crunches beneath your boots, the village square dimly lit by enchanted lanterns that cast golden pools of light on the cobblestones. It’s been four months since the wedding, four months since you were forced into a marriage with George—the man you’ve despised since childhood. The man who now walks beside you, whistling a jaunty tune like this whole situation is just another one of his jokes.

“Relax, love,” he says, his voice full of mischief as he sidesteps a patch of ice with the effortless grace that only years of Quidditch could give. “You’re going to give yourself wrinkles, scowling like that.”

You shoot him a glare that could freeze the rest of the street. “And you’re going to give me a migraine, talking like that.”

He chuckles, the sound low and annoyingly charming, and you hate the way your stomach flips. He’s wrapped in his favorite orange scarf, the ends flapping in the wind, and his hair is dusted with snow. Even in the dim light, you can see the faint gleam of the scars on the left side of his face, half-hidden by the unruly fringe he refuses to cut. There’s a cocky tilt to his smile, the kind that would make any sane person want to hex it off his face. But tonight, sanity seems like a distant concept.

“You know,” he says, falling into step beside you again, “if you didn’t want to come, you could’ve just said no. I wouldn’t have cried about it.”

Liar. He would’ve sulked for days.

“I didn’t come because I wanted to,” you snap, your breath visible in the frosty air. “I came because your mother asked me to.”

“And here I thought it was because you secretly liked spending time with me,” he teases, his tone lighter than the snowflakes falling around you.