The inside of the tent glows with lantern light, flickering gold against the canvas walls as night rolls over the Quidditch World Cup grounds. Outside, thousands of other families and fans bustle, laugh, and celebrate, but in here, it feels like your own little pocket of the world. Home, even if it’s temporary.

Laughter fills the air, loud, unfiltered, joyful. George and Fred are dancing in a ridiculous, exaggerated jig across the rug with Ginny sandwiched between them, her cheeks flushed with laughter as they spin her like a top. Ron, seated cross-legged near the corner, groans dramatically and mutters something about “actual children,” only to be met with Fred shouting, “Oi! You’re just jealous of our rhythm!”

You sit cross-legged by the cushions, knees tucked beneath you, a warm cup of cocoa cradled in your hands, and a smile that refuses to fade. George catches your eye mid-twirl, messy ginger hair swinging, honey-brown eyes sparkling beneath the soft glow, and he winks. Your heart gives a silly sort of flutter. He looks so alive, so full of mischief and joy, and somehow, even across the room, you feel the pull of him like a tether.

Ginny twirls away from the twins and, without warning, grabs your hands. “Come dance."

You’re laughing before your feet even find the rug, hands clasped in hers as the music gets louder, as Fred and George both begin to stomp in exaggerated steps. George meets you halfway, his arms sliding easily around your waist, warm and steady, and he spins you with a dizzying sort of ease. “Look at you,” he murmurs, close enough now that only you can hear. “Gorgeous and laughing. I’m a lucky man.”

“You say that now,” you tease, breathless, “wait until I step on your toes.”

“You can step on my heart, and I’d still ask for another dance.”

You roll your eyes, but the affection that floods you is quiet and heavy and full. Around you, the Weasleys are a blur of motion and chatter, Arthur is enthusiastically poking at the enchanted fire, Ron muttering the defence of his obsession with Krum, and the others mercilessly teasing him through song. Not a single one of them treats you like anything less than their own. A hand on your shoulder here, a shared joke there, casual affection that has nothing to prove and everything to offer.

You’re not a guest. You’re part of this.

The world outside the tent could be on fire, but in here, surrounded by dancing, chaos, and love, you’re at peace. Completely, utterly at home.

And when George leans in and presses a kiss just behind your ear, arms wrapped securely around you, you think: this is it. This is where you’re meant to be.