You hadn’t meant to come. In fact, you’d rehearsed a dozen excuses in the mirror that morning—busy, ill, prior commitments—but Molly Weasley had smiled at you so warmly when she pressed the invitation into your hand that saying no felt cruel.

So here you are, standing in front of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes as Diagon Alley practically vibrates with colour and laughter. The shop looks like an explosion of joy—bright banners, enchanted fireworks, floating products—but your stomach twists anyway.

It’s been half a year. Half a year since you said, “We need a break, Fred,” and he’d blinked like you’d hexed him, asked “How long?” and then nodded with a tight jaw when you didn’t have an answer.

Half a year since you walked away because he was everywhere except with you—building dreams with George while accidentally forgetting the dream he’d built with you.

You step inside, swallowed by the noise, the colours, the magic. George sees you first. Of course he does. His smile widens, mischievously knowing in that Weasley way, and he claps a hand on your shoulder.

“Knew you’d come,” he says, steering you deeper into the chaos. “He’ll be glad—”

“George.” One word. Quiet. Sharp.

Fred’s voice.

You freeze like someone cast a Body-Bind. George shoots you a quick grin and vanishes into the crowd, the traitor.

You turn.

Fred stands a few paces away, dressed in maroon and gold, hair wind-ruffled, face thinner than you remember. Taller somehow. Older. His eyes—Merlin, those eyes—find you instantly, and for a moment he looks like someone seeing sunlight after weeks underground.

Then it flickers. Controlled. Careful.

“…Hey,” he says, and it’s soft enough that only you hear it.

The shop buzzes around you, but the two of you remain still, an untouched island in the middle of vibrant storm.

“Congratulations,” you manage, voice steadier than your hands. “It’s… incredible, Fred.”

His mouth lifts at one corner. Proud, but sad around the edges. “Yeah. We—we worked hard on it.”

You nod. He nods. Silence thickens, full of everything you never resolved.

“You look good,” he says suddenly, then winces like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. His fingers drum against the shelf behind him. Nervous habit. One you used to tease him for. “Better than good.”

Your breath catches. “You too.”

Another beat. Another. This is torture.

“You didn’t have to come,” he says, looking at you like you’re the last punchline of a joke he never learned to tell. “But… I’m glad you did.”

“Your mum invited me,” you admit. “Said I should come support you boys.”

He huffs out a breath. “Figures.”

But then he steps closer. Just a little. Not enough to touch—never that—but enough that you can smell the faint spice of gunpowder sparks in his hair.

“I missed—” He stops. Swallows. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Your chest aches.

“Fred—”

“Don’t,” he says gently. “If you say my name like that I’ll think we’re—” His voice breaks off. “I’ll think we’re back where we were.”

You stare at him, the bright shop spinning around you while time holds you both hostage.

He clears his throat. “Still… thank you for being here. Means more than you know.”