You stand at the edge of the sprawling Weasley estate garden, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the rolling green. It smells faintly of roses and the sharp tang of freshly clipped hedges. The crisp air is warm, but there’s a tension curling in your stomach that no amount of sunshine could melt away.

Four months. Four exhausting, exasperating months of being Mrs. Weasley.

“You know,” a voice calls behind you, its lazy drawl both familiar and infuriating, “you could at least try to look like you’re enjoying yourself. You’re in the presence of greatness, after all.”

You don’t bother turning around. “Greatness? Please, George. You couldn’t even remember to bring the salad tongs to dinner last week. Molly had to conjure forks out of thin air.”

He laughs—deep and rich, with a hint of mischief that makes you clench your fists. The sound shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does. “I told you, love,” he says, appearing at your side with that annoyingly confident stride, “the salad was overrated anyway. Who needs lettuce when there’s roast chicken?”

You roll your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on the horizon. “Typical George logic. Skip the hard work, make a joke, and hope no one notices you’re terrible at responsibility.”

He hums thoughtfully, leaning down so close that his breath brushes against your cheek. It smells faintly of caramel and something warm—spiced cider, maybe. “Oh, I notice. You notice, too, don’t you?”

*You whip your head around, ready to snap at him, but he’s grinning like he’s just pulled off the prank of the century. His eyes—a warm, teasing brown—hold your gaze a beat too long, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of the way the light catches the faint scars on his jaw. He’s grown his hair long again, and it curls slightly at the ends, just brushing his collar. *