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𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞-𝖘𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓:
𝔩𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔦𝔯

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𝕾UMMER HEAT CLUNG TO THE AIR, thick and unmoving, as you sat at your desk, flipping through a book on advanced spellwork. The heavy air pressed against your skin, making the loose strands of hair at the nape of your neck stick uncomfortably.

A bead of sweat traced a slow path down your temple, but you ignored it, your focus trained on the faded ink scrawled across the yellowed pages. The quill in your hand tapped absently against the parchment, an impatient sound that filled the otherwise silent room. The ink on the page was smudged where your wrist had rested too long, but you barely noticed.

From beyond the open window, the distant echo of laughter rang through the estate. Leon. His voice, bright and careless, carried through the afternoon like a songbird's call.

You didn't have to look to know what he was doing — he was probably outside, running barefoot through the grass, the sun gleaming against his wind-tousled hair. Or maybe he was tossing a quaffle back and forth with his friends, their shouts and cheers filling the air as they played without a single thought of responsibility.

Leon didn't have to be here. He didn't have to sit at this desk, pouring over complex theories and archaic runes. He didn't have to constantly prove himself.

You tightened your grip on your quill. The feather bent slightly under the pressure.

"Why does Leon get to do whatever he wants while I have to stay inside studying?" You finally asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

Your father barely looked up from his newspaper. He sat in his usual spot, the flickering light from the chandelier casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face. He turned a page with a slow, deliberate movement, the crisp rustle filling the space between you.

"Because you're responsible," he answered simply, as if the answer was self-evident. "Your brother isn't."

The words hit you like a slap.

For a moment, you just stared at him, your fingers clenched so tightly around the quill that your knuckles ached. The familiar lump formed in your throat, thick and suffocating.

Your mother, seated at the dining table with her ever-present cup of tea, sighed softly. The porcelain clinked lightly as she set her spoon down, her rings catching the dim light. She studied you with that familiar gaze — sharp and knowing, the kind that told you she expected you to understand without further explanation.

"It's not just about responsibility," she murmured, swirling the tea in her cup and watching as the steam curled upward. The world will be kinder to Leon," she continued, her voice calm but firm. Because he's a boy. But you..." She exhaled, shaking her head slightly, as if the weight of her own words pained her. You'll have to work harder. Be better. No one will hand you anything."

The air in the room grew heavier, pressing against your ribs.

You swallowed, your fingers curling into a fist against your lap. A sharp, bitter taste settled on your tongue. It wasn't fair. You knew it wasn't fair. But when had fairness ever mattered in this house?

Leon got to be carefree. Leon got to make mistakes. But you? You had to be exceptional.

Your nails dug into your palm as you forced yourself to nod stiffly. Your gaze dropped back to the parchment, the ink still smudged and imperfect.

There was no point in arguing.

There never was.

The Burrow was a far cry from the structured, quiet world you were used to. The walls seemed to hum with life, filled with overlapping voices, the clatter of dishes, and the distant sound of the ghoul in the attic. It smelled like home-cooked meals, freshly baked bread, and a faint hint of something burning — likely thanks to one of the twins' latest experiments.

You sat at the Weasleys' worn wooden table, surrounded by the usual chatter. Mrs. Weasley moved around the kitchen, humming as she worked while Hermione flipped through The Daily Prophet, occasionally rolling her eyes at whatever nonsense Rita Skeeter had written that day.

Harry sat across from you, looking entirely at ease despite the usual chaos. You didn't notice the way his gaze flickered toward you every so often before quickly looking away. Ginny, sitting beside him, had been oddly quiet, stirring her pumpkin juice absentmindedly as she stole glances at you.

"You know, (Y/n), I'm surprised your father let you come over," Mr. Weasley commented, setting his tea down with a soft clink. "I've seen him around the Ministry. He's always struck me as a very reserved man. Keeps to himself, doesn't he?"

You felt a flicker of something tight in your chest — guilt, maybe, or the nervous weight of a secret hanging too precariously close to exposure. You forced a smile, hoping it didn't look as forced as it felt.

"Yeah, he is," you admitted, keeping your voice even. "He's always been like that."

You didn't mention how he hadn't actually let you come. How you had told your parents that you'd be at your Uncle Frank's house instead, using him as an easy excuse. It wasn't even really a lie — Uncle Frank had agreed to cover for you — but still, if your parents ever found out...

You pushed the thought aside. You were here now. That was all that mattered.

Fred and George suddenly burst into the room, bringing with them the kind of energy that made the Burrow feel even livelier than before. The door slammed open with a loud creak, and the twins entered, already animated and buzzing with excitement.

"Right then," Fred announced with an enthusiastic grin, throwing an arm over your shoulder in a way that made your heartbeat quicken. "Who's up for some mischief?" His voice was a low, playful drawl, and his eyes sparkled with that unmistakable glint you always associated with trouble.

George grinned beside him, his arms crossed over his chest in a casual stance, but his eyes gleamed with the same mischievous energy. "Because we just had the best idea."

Your stomach flipped as you found yourself under Fred's arm, his energy infectious. He always had this effect on people — an aura of fun and spontaneity that made everything feel more exciting. As you looked at Fred, something stirred in your chest.

After Fred and George's enthusiastic announcement of their best idea yet, the evening spiraled into a series of games and harmless pranks that had everyone in stitches. The sounds of laughter and playful chaos filled the house. You had all gathered in the living room, the warm glow of the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls.

You found yourself sitting beside Fred on the floor, your knees brushing against his as you joined in a ridiculous round of Exploding Snap. The game was chaotic, as usual, with cards exploding and sending puffs of smoke into the air. Every time a card detonated, Fred would nudge you with his elbow, his grin wide and mischievous. The warmth of his side, the contagious nature of his laughter — it was all so familiar.

On your other side, George kept the game lively with his witty commentary, his voice light and teasing. "You see, the trick is—" George started, right before his own card exploded in his hands, sending him into a flurry of comical swats at the air.

You and Fred burst into laughter at the sight of George yelping and shaking his hand. "Brilliant strategy, mate," Fred teased, his voice rich with mockery.

Across the room, you noticed Harry watching you. He'd been quieter than usual, but every so often, his blue eyes would flicker toward you, then away, like he was trying not to stare. You caught Ginny doing the same, her glances lingering just a second longer than they should. Her cheeks flushed pink whenever you caught her eye.

But you couldn't take the time to figure out what was going on with Harry or Ginny. You were focused on Fred — on the way his energy pulled you in so effortlessly, his laughter ringing in your ears, his presence feeling so easy.

As the evening wore on, something began to shift, slowly and almost imperceptibly. You weren't sure when it happened exactly.

Maybe it was when George partnered with you for a charades game, and neither of you could guess the word correctly, leading to a fit of giggles that had you both collapsing into a heap on the floor, breathless with laughter. Or maybe it was when George ruffled your hair playfully like he'd done with Ginny after you won a round of Wizard's Chess against Ron, his touch light and teasing. Or maybe it was the way he smiled at you — his grin warm and familiar, but without the spark of something more.

He always gave you the kind of smile you'd give an old friend, someone who belonged in your life, but not in the way you had imagined — nor previously hoped.

Honestly, it was surprising how quickly you were able to relieve yourself of such crushes.

You cared about him, yes. There was a fondness there, a deep connection that had grown over the months, but the butterflies weren't there. The fluttering excitement, the anticipation that had once raced in your chest when he was near — it had faded. It wasn't the same anymore.

You weren't sure if it had ever been real in the first place. The idea of it, maybe. The fantasy of what it could have been. But as George laughed beside you, his attention on a prank he was planning, you realized you were just... comfortable. Comfortable in the same way you were with any of your closest friends, and that was all.

The feeling settled into your chest, a quiet realization that seemed to seep into your bones.

And as you glanced at George, your heart didn't race. It didn't flutter. It just felt calm. A small part of you wondered how long it had been that way, and why it had taken so long for you to notice.

At some point, the twins decided to shift their focus to their favorite pastime—teasing Ron.

"Oi, Ron," George called from across the room, his voice carrying a note of mischief that made the air around him crackle with energy. A grin stretched across his face, one that could mean nothing but trouble. "We've been thinking, and we've got a grand idea for a new invention. We'd love for you to be our test subject."

Ron immediately tensed, his freckles standing out even more against his pale face. His eyes narrowed warily, his expression an instant mixture of suspicion and dread. "Not a chance," he shot back quickly, eyeing the twins as if they were about to spring something outrageous on him.

Fred draped an arm around Ron's shoulder with exaggerated care. His voice dripped with mock sincerity. "Come on, little brother, where's your sense of adventure?"

"You mean my sense of self-preservation?" Ron muttered under his breath, trying to wiggle free from Fred's arm but failing miserably.

George pulled something small from his pocket — a tiny, innocuous-looking candy that glinted in the light. "It's just a tiny new prototype of our Skiving Snackbox, but we need to make sure it doesn't turn the user's skin blue permanently this time." His smile was as wide as ever, but his eyes gleamed with that familiar spark of trouble.

Recoiling in horror, Ron's face scrunched up in a mix of disgust and fear. "No way!" He exclaimed, backing up as if the candy might bite him.

Watching the exchange with an entertained yet wary eye, you decided to step in before things escalated further. The twins could get a bit carried away, especially when it came to their pranks on Ron. Crossing the room quickly, you plucked the candy from George's fingers, holding it up in front of you like a challenge.

"Why don't you two test it yourselves first?" You suggested, your voice playful but firm. You gave them a knowing look, raising an eyebrow.

"You wound me!" He exclaimed, his eyes wide with mock hurt. Fred gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded to the very core. "What, don't you trust us?"

You raised an eyebrow again, your gaze sharp. "Do you trust it?"

The twins exchanged a brief, calculating glance. You could practically see the cogs in their minds turning, weighing the risk. After a long moment of silence, George sighed dramatically and admitted defeat.

"...Point taken," he muttered, his shoulders slumping in exaggerated resignation. He shoved the candy back into his pocket, clearly not willing to risk his own skin turning an odd shade of blue just to get a laugh.

Ron shot you a grateful look, his face softening as he muttered, "About time someone looked out for me around here." He gave a half-hearted laugh, clearly relieved to be spared.

Chuckling at the interaction, Fred shook his head with a grin. "Alright, alright, we'll give Ron a break. For now."

Ron huffed, but you could see the tension melt away from his shoulders as the twins turned their attention elsewhere, already plotting their next bit of mischief. Fred and George never stayed down for long, their minds always whirring with ideas, but for the moment, they had been stalled — thanks to you.

Giving Ron a small, reassuring smile, you took a seat on the couch beside him. He slouched into the cushions, clearly grateful for the temporary peace. "Thanks, (Y/n)," he muttered under his breath, leaning back and relaxing.

You shrugged, feeling a small sense of satisfaction at the twins' rare defeat. "Anytime, Ron."

The afternoon sun streamed through the open window of the Weasleys' sitting room, casting golden beams that danced over the wooden floors. Floating specks of dust caught the light, giving the room an almost magical quality as you crouched beside a stack of books, carefully sorting through them. The quiet hum of the house settled around you, broken only by the occasional sound of footsteps from upstairs and the faint chatter drifting in from the kitchen.

Hermione sat cross-legged across from you, scanning the spines of various books with a scrutinizing gaze, her brows furrowed in concentration. She seemed to be evaluating each one not just by its title, but by the weight of it, as if she could determine the worth of a book just by looking at it.

Mrs. Weasley had asked for help organizing the cluttered bookshelf that stretched across the back wall, and somehow, you and Hermione had ended up being the only ones actually doing it. The others had mysteriously disappeared the moment chores were mentioned.

"You don't have to help if you don't want to," Hermione mentioned, her voice quiet but laced with an undercurrent of concern. She didn't look up from the book in her hands — 'A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions', a thick book that seemed to have seen its fair share of use. "I can finish this on my own."

Shrugging, you adjusted the pile of books beside you, your fingers tracing the leather of a particularly old-looking one. "I don't mind. It's better than being a test subject for the twins' new prank ideas."

Making a sound of agreement, Hermione's lips curled into something that resembled a smile. She placed the book in her hand onto the 'keep' pile, which was already growing higher than the 'donate' pile.

A silence stretched between you both, with the only sound being the soft rustling of pages as Hermione flipped through book after book, sorting and discarding them with ease. You worked alongside her, moving books with purpose, but your mind wasn't entirely focused on the task at hand.

You could feel Hermione's gaze flickering toward you every so often, the way her brown eyes studied you like she was trying to figure something out. Finally, after a long moment of quiet, she spoke, her voice softer than usual. "You're... different from how I expected, you know."

You raised an eyebrow, glancing over at her. "Expected?"

She hesitated, clearly trying to find the right words. "Well, I mean, we've had classes together for years, but we never really talked. I've just always known that your marks competed with mine. You just seemed... I don't know, hard to approach?"

The statement caught you off guard, and you chuckled lightly, the sound escaping before you could stop it. "That's funny. I thought the same about you."

Hermione blinked, looking genuinely surprised, her eyes widening slightly. "Me?"

You tilted your head, pausing for a moment as you thought about it. "You're always so—" You hesitated, trying to find the right word that would express the feeling you were trying to articulate. "Focused. Smart. You always have the answer to everything, so I guess I just assumed you wouldn't really be interested in talking to someone like me."

She frowned, her fingers absentmindedly brushing a stray curl behind her ear. "That's not true," Hermione replied softly. "I mean, yes, I study a lot, but that doesn't mean I don't want to talk to people." She glanced up at you, a glimmer of something sincere in her expression. "I think I've just... always been a bit intense. Maybe I make people feel like they can't talk to me."

You gave her a small, understanding smile. "Well, we're talking now, aren't we?"

Hermione studied you for a moment, her gaze lingering on you as if weighing your words carefully. Then, to your surprise, she smiled back — just a little, but enough to make you feel like maybe this conversation had been a bit of a breakthrough for both of you. "I suppose we are," she hummed, her voice softer now.

The conversation lapsed into more silence, though this time it didn't feel awkward. You reached for another book, your movements slower than before, surprised at how easily you were settling into this moment with Hermione.

It had started as something purely practical, just organizing a bookshelf, but now it felt like more — a chance to get to know someone you'd seen in