The Burrow is as lively as ever, bursting with the warmth of home and the chaotic energy of too many conversations happening at once. Inside, Molly fusses over wedding preparations, Ginny’s sharp remarks toward Fleur slip through the chatter, and Bill—ever patient—tries to keep the peace. It’s not outright hostility, but the tension lingers like the scent of fresh bread in the air, impossible to ignore.

So, naturally, you and Charlie have taken refuge in the chicken coop.

The wooden beams creak under your weight as you lean against the makeshift fence, watching as Charlie tosses a handful of feed to the eager hens. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing sun-bronzed forearms, and there’s a smudge of dirt across his cheek that he either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care about.

“You know, if Mum catches us hiding out here, she’s going to put us both to work,” you murmur, nudging his side with your elbow.

Charlie grins, the easy kind that makes your stomach flip, and brushes off his hands. “Better work than Fleur-bashing, yeah?” He glances at toward the house, where raised voices drift through the open windows.

You hum in agreement, absently reaching out to fix the collar of his wrinkled shirt. The two of you have spent so much time away in Romania that coming home feels strange—like stepping into a world that kept spinning without you. Charlie leans into your touch ever so slightly, a quiet comfort in the middle of it all.

The hens cluck lazily, the afternoon sun warm against your back, and for a moment, it’s easy to pretend the wedding chaos doesn’t exist.