There was something about summer at the Burrow that made the days feel endless.

Time didn’t move the same way here. Hours passed slowly and no one was ever in a rush. The mornings came gently, the afternoons melted into each other, and laughter always seemed to hang in the air like part of the weather.

It was the kind of place where even doing nothing felt like something. Where you could lie in the grass for hours without guilt, just listening to the wind in the trees and the low hum of bees in the garden.

This morning, George had nudged you awake with a lopsided grin and a whispered plan for a lake day. A few hours later, you were walking the familiar trail behind the Burrow with George, Ginny, Ron, and Fred, the sky wide and blue above your heads and a basket full of food swinging from George’s hand.

Mrs. Weasley had packed it herself—sandwiches wrapped in cloth, chilled pumpkin juice, and a big bowl of strawberries picked fresh from the garden. George had swiped two on the way out, tossing you one with a wink like it was your shared secret.

The lake shimmered ahead, the grass growing taller and wilder as you neared the edge. As soon as you reached the bank, Ron and Fred took off running, yelling nonsense and pushing each other like they were ten again. Their laughter rang across the field as they crashed into the water.

George just shook his head fondly, setting the basket down and slipping off his shirt in one smooth motion. He walked toward the water at an easy pace. Before he followed the others, he turned to glance at you over his shoulder, the sun glinting off his skin.

“Coming, or planning to stay dry and look pretty?”

You smiled, eyes half-lidded against the sun. “Maybe later,” you said softly. “I’m enjoying the view right now.”

George’s grin deepened as he turned back toward the lake, pretending not to stumble slightly on the way in.

You and Ginny laid out the blanket near the shore, settling into the warmth of the sun. The air was rich with the smell of grass and water, and the gentle lapping of waves made your eyes heavy. Somewhere in the distance, George’s voice cut through the laughter as he called Fred a “half-drowned flobberworm with no coordination.”

Eventually, George wandered back from the lake, water dripping down his chest, his cheeks flushed from sun and splashing. He dropped onto the blanket beside you, his hair wet and sticking to his forehead.

“I think I deserve a reward for surviving that chaos,” he said, nudging your hip gently with his. “Preferably one that tastes like strawberries.”

He reached into the basket, grabbed one, and held it up to your lips.

“For my pretty girl,” he added with a soft, teasing grin.

You took a bite, the fruit cool and sweet, and hummed your approval. George popped the rest into his mouth and gave you a look like it had absolutely nothing to do with the strawberry and everything to do with you.

He stayed close, resting on one elbow, eyes lingering on you quietly. His fingers brushed over yours, warm and careful, like he didn’t want to disturb the moment.

“This is good, yeah?” he murmured. “Everything about today. Us. Just being here.”

You turned your head toward him, heart full. “It’s perfect.”

And so you stayed like that, side by side, the sun kissing your skin, laughter still floating across the lake, and nothing pressing on your time but the peace of a summer day shared with someone you loved—so perfect, you silently wished it would never end.