He Fell Like Rain ( Viktor Krum X Reader )

The sun, a shy whisper of gold, was just nudging its way over the horizon, painting the sky in soft mauves and grays. Inside the old, familiar creak of the Burrow, you cinched the drawstrings of your worn backpack. It smelled faintly of summers past, of grass and old books.

Downstairs, the house was already humming with the eager rustle of excitement, the clinking of plates, and the scent of sizzling sausages. But up here, in the shared room, only the soft scratch of Percy’s quill broke the quiet. He was already at his desk, buried in a thick, dry book about interdepartmental magical cooperation, his brow furrowed in familiar concentration.

You watched him for a moment, perched lightly on the edge of your bed, the mattress sighing under your weight. Your twin, your other half. Even now, in the hush of early morning, his resolve was clear.

“Perce,” you said softly, your voice barely disturbing the silence.

He didn’t look up immediately. “You really don’t want to come with us?”