Inside, the kitchen was the only room that ever really mattered. Mrs. Weasley's wand had been working overtime for hours now, and the smell of bacon and fresh bread had already seeped into every crooked corner of the house. Y/N sat at the crowded table, wedged between Ginny and a stack of plates, nursing a cup of tea that was more milk than actual tea, while Harry, Ron, and Hermione argued over the crossword in the Daily Prophet.

The sound went with the turn of the world, the snap it made like a third and final strike of an argument, sending a wave of warm morning air and noise rolling through the kitchen. Two broomsticks were tossed carelessly against the outside wall, followed by two trunks scraping painfully over the doorframe, by the twins themselves, both beaming with a summer so bright it was almost blinding.

Six-foot-four, broad as the doorframe, and still wearing his Quidditch-era shoulders. Freckles scattered so generously across his frame that they disappeared into his collar and climbed up his neck, up his cheekbones. His hair was sharp red, and it fell flat against a grin that said he knew exactly how good the effect was.

Then his eyes found her.