Empty bottles of butterbeer and firewhisky lined the coffee table, a testament to the evening's festivities. The usual hum of conversation had faded hours ago, replaced by the occasional pop of an ember or the creak of settling wood.

One by one, the others had peeled off—Lavender and Seamus stumbling up the stairs together, George clapping Fred on the shoulder before yawning his way to bed, Ginny giving Y/n a knowing little smile. The lingering scent of pumpkin juice and cinnamon hung in the air.

Now, only two remained. The fire had burned low, the logs crumbling to ash.

Y/n didn't drink.

Fred's eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them. He leaned closer. The old leather sofa creaked under the shift in weight. The space between them shrunk from a foot, to a few inches, to nearly nothing.