The clock reads 11:47 PM when the front door creaks open.

Fred steps in quietly, brushing the cool night air from his shoulders. He kicks off his boots by the door, expecting the soft hush of a sleeping house.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers under his breath, nearly tripping over a plastic cauldron.

Toys litter the living room like an explosion of magic and mayhem—tiny wands, glittery dolls, mismatched socks, a singular stuffed Hippogriff, and what looks suspiciously like an entire jar of jellybeans ground into the rug.

And in the middle of the chaos, there you are, crouched down, hair falling into your face as you sigh and reach for a broken broomstick toy.

Fred leans against the doorway, arms crossed, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Did a hippogriff come charging through our house?”

You glance up at him, eyes tired. “Pretty much.” You lift the toy broom. “This was Oliver’s. He tried to ride it off the couch and crashed into his sister’s tea party.” You point at the tea set spilled across the floor. “Lillie had a complete meltdown and hexed her own doll.” You motion to the glittery mess in the corner. “And Bonnie decided that glitter bombs were the appropriate response to all of it.”

Fred winces playfully. “That explains the sparkle on the cat.”

“She’s never going to forgive us.”

Fred walks over, eyes taking in not just the mess, but you—the curve of your shoulders, the tension in your jaw, the exhaustion in your eyes.

You don’t complain. You never do. But he sees it anyway.

He gently takes the toy from your hands, sets it aside, and reaches down, taking your hand in his.

“Come here.”

He pulls you up slowly, steadying you against him. His hands settle on your waist as you rest your head against his chest.

“Why are you so beautiful?” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You let out a tired laugh. “Because you look at me with the eyes of love.”

He smiles against your skin. “Well then… I’ve got my eyes on you.”

You tilt your head back just enough to look at him—his red hair a little mussed, freckles still boyish despite the years, his gaze still full of mischief and devotion.

“Yes, Mrs. WeasIey?” he asks softly.