The Burrow was glowing. Warm lanterns floated lazily through the summer air, fairy lights tangled around tree branches, and soft music drifted from the open windows as guests laughed and danced on the grass. It was Ginny’s birthday — a proper Weasley celebration, filled with cousins, classmates, and chaos.

You were dressed for the occasion. A soft, flowy dress in a color that flattered your sun-kissed skin, sandals you’d kicked off hours ago, and a necklace you borrowed from Hermione. You hadn’t expected to feel so out of place. Or so seen.

It was the black shirt that did it. His black shirt.

Bill Weasley — Ron’s oldest brother. Egypt-scorched skin. Hair tied back. Sleeves rolled up. A man in a house full of boys.

He had arrived late, which meant you saw him arrive — the way the crowd seemed to shift around him. Like he didn’t quite belong to this world anymore. Too golden. Too grown. Too dangerous.

And yet he spotted you across the garden like he’d been looking for you.

You shouldn’t have looked back.

It had started subtle. Earlier in the evening, when Molly was floating treacle tarts toward the tables and you’d been sipping pumpkin fizz with Ginny. He passed behind you, murmured a soft “careful there, sweetheart” when you nearly bumped into him. His hand on your waist — nothing inappropriate, nothing someone else couldn’t do — but it lingered just half a second too long.

It didn’t escape you. It didn’t escape Molly, either. Her eyes had flicked to his hand. And then to you. And then away, like she’d decided to pretend she hadn’t seen anything.

You hadn’t been alone together since.

Until now.

The garden had thinned out. Most guests had gone inside, music still humming under the chatter. You’d wandered off barefoot through the tall grass behind the shed, pretending to look for Crookshanks, who’d been missing for the last hour.

But you weren’t really looking. And you weren’t really alone.

You heard him before you saw him — the crunch of footsteps behind you, soft and slow.

“I don’t think he’s back here,” Bill’s voice was low. Rough velvet. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

You turned.

And there he was. Moonlight catching on the curve of his jaw, sleeves now fully rolled up, collar loose, the top button undone. His shirt was black. Unforgivingly black. And you hated how that color made him look like every dark thought you’d never say out loud.