It’s the kind of place you never would’ve stepped foot in eight months ago. Too small. Too exposed. But Daphne had insisted, and Pansy had practically dragged you through the door.

You’ve barely pulled your chair beneath you when the flash catches your eye. Ginger. Bright and unmistakable, even from across the room.

Your gaze snaps towards it. Towards him.

The world narrows to a pinpoint. For one terrifying moment, it’s George. It’s George, and he’s here, and you haven’t spoken in eight months, and you’re sat in a quiet café with your pregnancy impossible to hide.

But then the man laughs, and it’s not his laugh. Not George’s. Not quite. Lighter, louder, carrying through the room with an easiness George lost somewhere in the war.

It’s Ron. Of course it’s Ron. George is still in Romania. That’s what you’ve told yourself for months. That’s what gets you through the nights.

The relief is quick and sharp. But it doesn’t last.

Because Ron isn’t alone. Hermione Granger sits beside him, curls tumbling over her shoulder as she laughs at something Harry Potter says. Ginny Weasley is there too, nudging Ron with an elbow, grinning at something on Harry’s face.

Your breath catches. You look away so fast your neck twinges. But it’s too late to unsee them. Too late to pretend the café doesn’t suddenly feel a hundred times smaller.