The autumn had grown bitter by then—its once-vibrant foliage long surrendered to the wind, leaving behind skeletal branches and a garden that looked as though it had been trampled by a herd of unruly hippogriffs. The Burrow, stubbornly standing against the creeping chill, seemed to huddle in on itself, its crooked chimneys puffing smoke into the gray sky like an old man sighing into his pipe. It was one of those rare breaks from Hogwarts, the kind where the castle had been deemed unfit for students while some grand, mysterious preparations unfolded—likely another attempt at impressing foreign dignitaries or, more likely, hiding the fact that the staircases had a habit of rearranging themselves at the worst possible moments.

So, naturally, the entire Weasley brood—Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny—had tumbled back home, dragging Harry and Hermione along as if they were extensions of the family. And then there was me, George's best friend, his partner in crime since the very first train ride to Hogwarts, the one person who could match the twins step for step in mischief and yet still manage to rein them in when their ideas veered into the realm of actual danger.

The afternoon was young, the sun a pale, reluctant thing hovering above the horizon, and the house hummed with the usual chaos—Mrs. Weasley's voice rising above the clatter of pots, Ron and Harry bickering over chess, Ginny laughing at something Fred had charmed to float just out of Percy's reach. But I had slipped away, leaning against the rickety railing of the back porch, watching the wind toy with the last of the fallen leaves as if they were nothing more than discarded bits of parchment. A quiet exhale escaped my lips, a ghost of warmth in the crisp air, and for a moment, it was just me and the dying season.

George noticed my absence almost immediately. It was a habit by now—his eyes scanning a room, counting heads, always landing on the space where I should be. He tugged on his bright red wellies (a gift from Bill years ago, charmed to never let in water, no matter how deep the puddle) and made his way outside, his steps quick, as if worried I might vanish entirely if he took too long.