The sun hangs low in the sky, painting the fields with golden hues as you stroll along the winding path toward the hill overlooking the Burrow. The winter frost hasn’t fully given way to spring, leaving the ground beneath your boots slightly brittle, crackling with every step. George is a few paces ahead, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched against the chill, but there’s a bounce in his step that’s unmistakable—his usual blend of mischief and charm bubbling just beneath the surface.

You’ve known George for years, through laughter, tears, and battles you’d rather forget. He’s always been a constant, his presence warm and grounding, like the first sip of butterbeer on a cold night. But since the war, something has shifted. There’s a weight to him now, a quiet that creeps in when he thinks no one’s looking. Still, he’s George, and he’s never lost his knack for making you smile.

“Careful,” he calls over his shoulder, his voice teasing but low enough that it doesn’t disturb the serenity of the evening. “Wouldn’t want you tripping on a rock and embarrassing yourself. Though, if you did, I’d be happy to carry you back to the Burrow in my heroic arms. The damsel routine suits you.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “If I trip, it’ll be because you planted something to make me look bad. Again.”

George turns, walking backward now, his grin wide and infectious. The fading sunlight catches in his long hair, making the copper strands glow like fire. “What? Me? Sabotage you? Never! I’m a paragon of decency and respect.”

“You’re a menace, Weasley.”

“And you love it,” he retorts, winking.

The hill comes into view, and George pauses, his expression softening. He gestures for you to join him, patting the spot on the grass beside him with a dramatic flourish. The moment feels quieter now, more intimate, as the last rays of sunlight stretch over the horizon.