Katie.

That night, in the backyard of the Burrow, the Midnight Firework Duel was in full swing.

"Katie," Rowan called, stepping forward and twirling a charmed sparkler like it was a dueling wand. "Your move."

I smirked, rolling my shoulders and tightening my grip on a miniature firework launcher. "Hope you brought more than bad pick-up lines and defective Whizbangs, Woods."

"Bold words for someone still covered in glitter from yesterday."

I launched the first spark, a violet burst spiraling past his shoulder with a hiss. He dodged and retaliated, his smirk matching the wicked gleam in his eyes.

"I'm starting to think you just like throwing things at me," he said, voice low as he stepped closer.

I shrugged. "Only when you deserve it."

He caught my wrist mid-throw and leaned in. "Then I guess I should deserve it more often."

I should've hexed him. I didn't.

Only a foreign sound erupted from my throat, somewhere between a curse and a laugh.

Later that night, it got out of hand.

It started with harmless background music drifting from the wireless while we cleaned the kitchen. But somewhere between Ginny spiking the butterbeer with an energy charm and Hermione levitating spoons to dance in formation, we'd spiraled into what would soon be known as the Great Kitchen Karaoke Hex-Off of '95.

Ginny launched herself into a dramatic spin, wand slicing the air. "You cannot sing Celestina Warbeck and skip the choreography!"

Hermione—red-faced and laughing—was trying to hex the spoons into a coordinated routine. "I'm committed! I just don't sing in front of witnesses!"

Adrien was on the bloody table, barefoot, hairbrush in hand like a microphone. "Then you better Obliviate us all when this is over!"

I had two dishrags doing backup dancing with a floating mop, and I couldn't remember the last time I laughed this hard without causing property damage.

From the living room, the boys had clearly taken up spectator status.

"They've absolutely lost it," Ron muttered, stage-whispering like we couldn't hear him over the chorus.

Fred held up an imaginary scorecard. "Ten out of ten for Adrien's mic technique. Subtract two for Hermione's spoons forming a union and refusing to work."

George leaned against the wall, biscuit in hand, looking deeply entertained. "Five galleons says Katie's mop joins the rebellion."

I shot a glance over my shoulder and shouted, "He's just unionizing for better working conditions!"

Rowan looked impressed. "Honestly? This is terrifying and amazing."

"I think I love them," Harry said, sounding half asleep from the couch.

Fred leaned closer to George, still loud enough to hear. "If the kitchen explodes, I say we charge admission to the fallout."

Then—

A throat cleared.

Loud. Tired. Parental.

We all froze mid-chaos to find Mr. Weasley standing in the doorway in his pajamas, arms crossed and wearing a face that said equal parts "I'm too old for this" and "why does this feel familiar?"

"I'd ask what's going on," he said dryly, "but I have a feeling I'd only get a headache for an answer."

Ginny froze, mid-dramatic wand pose. "Hi, Dad."

Hermione lowered her wand like she'd just been caught doing dark magic. "We were—uh—testing charm theory?"

Adrien, still on the table and completely unbothered, lifted her brush. "Rehearsing for an audition. Hogwarts: The Musical."

Mr. Weasley sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Alright. How about we table the performance until it's not midnight and not shaking the rafters? Deal?"

"Deal," I muttered, biting back a laugh.

He gave us one last long look—like he was trying to commit the scene to memory—and padded off toward bed, mumbling something about teenagers and enchanted spoons staging revolts.

The second we heard the door click upstairs, Adrien raised her brush again like it was Excalibur.

"Intermission?"

"Intermission," we all agreed—then promptly collapsed into wheezy laughter, limbs tangled in pillows, hexed spoons still twitching in the sink.

That night, after everything had finally quieted down—the last spell fizzled out, and Ginny stopped singing into a levitating soup ladle—Adrien and I curled up in our room, breathless from laughter. The blankets were still warm from the chaos, and the window let in a soft summer breeze that barely stirred the edges of the parchment taped to the wall above our beds.

But under the warmth, a quiet settled.

Adrien rolled onto her side, propping her head up on one hand. "You and Rowan."

I didn't move. "What about us?"

Her look was all-knowing in that way that made me want to toss a pillow at her. "Something shifted."

I stared at the ceiling for a long beat, watching the shadows from the trees outside flicker across the plaster. "He surprised me," I admitted. "In a good way. I'm not used to that."

"Mm," she hummed.

"I don't know what it is exactly," I continued, softer now. "He's cocky. Annoying. Smirks too much and uses charm like it's a defense mechanism. But... when he apologized? For getting protective? It felt real."

Adrien nodded like she'd known it already. "That's rare."

"I didn't think he paid attention," I whispered. "But he does. More than he lets on. And when he looks at me lately, it's not just like I'm someone to banter with. It's like... he sees past the surface. Past all of it."

Her voice was quieter now. "Do you trust him?"

"Not fully," I said. "But... I'm not afraid of the idea."

She smiled at that, slow and genuine. "That's how it starts."

I groaned and rolled toward her. "Don't make this a thing."

"Oh, it's already a thing," she grinned. "The second he looked at you like you'd rearranged his entire worldview by existing in sweatpants? A thing."

I tossed a pillow at her. She caught it—barely.

"And you're one to talk," I shot. "You've been floating since Fred handed you a detonator wrapped in a bow."

Adrien let out a dreamy sigh and flopped back dramatically onto her pillow. "He's just... ugh. He's like if chaos was hot and charming and said ridiculous things with this stupid crooked smile and then kissed your forehead like it's a promise."

I blinked. "That was... oddly poetic."

"Was it?" She blinked up at the ceiling, dazed. "I don't know what I'm saying. My brain short circuits when he calls me 'love' in that voice."

I snorted. "You sound drunk."

"Drunk on freckles and sin."

I wheezed into the covers. "Merlin's sake, write that on a T-shirt."

She laughed with me, cheeks flushed and eyes soft. "I don't know what this is with him. But I know it feels... like something I didn't know I wanted."

We both fell silent for a while after that.

Just the soft rustle of blankets, the creak of the floor settling, and two girls letting the quiet hold all the things we weren't ready to say out loud yet.

And for once, the night didn't feel heavy.

It felt like maybe—just maybe—we were allowed this.

The next morning, Adrien and I—proudly exhausted—opened the shop early, sunlight spilling across the shelves as we restocked glitter bombs and straightened signage like the power duo we were.

A few hours and several enchanted receipts later, the front door banged open.

Fred, George, and Rowan trudged in like overworked Quidditch players who'd been hit with their own bludgers. Fred's shirt was only half-buttoned, George had glitter in his beard again, and Rowan looked like he'd rolled out of bed, wrestled a firework, and lost.

"Good morning, angels," Fred said, stretching. "How's the empire?"

"Flawless," Adrien answered, not even glancing up.

Rowan leaned against the counter beside me. "You two get some kind of illegal head start or what?"

I arched my brow. "Preparation isn't cheating, Woods. It's just competence."

That earned me a crooked grin. "You're lucky I find that hot."

The morning rush at the shop was surprisingly steady, and by noon, we were already in the groove.

Rowan and I ended up tag-teaming a sale without even planning it—just fell into step. A trio of third-years wandered in looking for something "flashy but low risk," and before I could say anything, Rowan leaned on the display beside me, charm dialed up to eleven.

"What you want," he said smoothly, "is a distraction cloak and a minor havoc kit. Looks impressive, low casualty rate."

I raised a brow. "And if you add the fake OWL results, it's practically detention-proof."

The three kids exchanged wide-eyed looks and threw galleons on the counter.

"You're terrifying," Rowan muttered as they skipped away.

I smiled sweetly. "That's why I win."

"Alright, alright," George called from behind the register, where he'd been sneakily watching us over the edge of a product catalog. "That was impressive. But I feel a proper challenge brewing."

Fred, who'd just walked out from the back, stretched and looked up. "Challenge?"

George grinned and slapped the counter. "Duel-Off."

Fred's eyes lit up. "Say more."

George gestured between us like a game show host. "You two—" he pointed to Adrien and me, "versus you two—" now Fred and Rowan. "We split up. Friendly fire encouraged. Highest sales win. Losers clean the backroom and restock the Howler shelf."

Fred groaned. "That shelf smells like scorched parchment and emotional damage."

"Exactly," George said, already scribbling names on a magical scoreboard that floated above the counter, tallying totals with each sale. "Winner gets bragging rights and the last of Mum's lemon tarts."

Adrien cracked her knuckles. "You're on."

Fred turned to her. "What if I bribe you with a kiss mid-sale?"

She smirked. "Try it. I'll upsell the customer while hexing your shoelaces together."

George clapped again. "Duel starts now. Sell like your pride depends on it."

It did.

The customers came in waves, and the flirtation? Weaponized.

Fred blew kisses across the aisle while Adrien demoed a whistling wand to a teenage girl and her dad—never once looking away from Fred as she winked and sold two.

"Shameless," Fred muttered, trying not to trip over his own envy.

Adrien tossed her hair like a goddess of retail warfare. "Jealousy doesn't sell, sweetheart."

Meanwhile, Rowan was offering discount bundles to a group of fourth-years when I slipped in behind him with a charm-enhanced sales pitch that made every product on the table shimmer.

"Limited edition," I said, my voice dipped in that magical lilt that made even the parents in the back curious.

Rowan leaned over. "That voice should be illegal."

I batted my lashes. "You're just mad because you can't do it."

George, now firmly in MC mode, narrated from the register. "Point to Team Adrien for upselling a prank parchment set to a Slytherin fifth-year with trust issues! Bonus point for calling Fred 'Captain Wrinkle.'"

Fred turned with a mock gasp. "Low blow!"

"Buy better shirts," Adrien said sweetly, tossing him a wink.

By late afternoon, the scoreboard was lit up like a Quidditch pitch. Adrien and I worked the floor like seasoned duelists—charm, confidence, and a little chaos. Fred and Rowan held their own, but every time Rowan got cocky, I turned the flirt up two notches.

"You're cheating," he whispered after I sold an entire Decoy Detour set to a Ravenclaw with freckles and zero impulse control.

I leaned in, smiling. "I'm winning."

At five sharp, George raised both arms. "Alright, duelists—quills down! Final tally's in!"

Everyone gathered by the counter, breathless, glitter-smudged, and sweating like we'd just run laps.

George cleared his throat. "By six sales and one point deduction—Fred sold a product to a mannequin, don't ask—the winners are... Adrien and Katie!"

Fred's jaw dropped. "That mannequin was suspiciously lifelike!"

"You should've known when it didn't blink for five straight minutes," Adrien said, smug.

Fred turned to her. "Rematch tomorrow?"

She leaned in, brushing invisible lint from his collar. "Only if you promise not to cry when I beat you again."

Rowan looked at me, hands in his pockets. "Same time?"

I smirked. "Bring a better pitch. And maybe a shirt that doesn't look like it lost a duel."

That grin—cocky, crooked, and just a little undone—was everything.

The Duel-Off was over.

The girls had won.

Adrien and I bowed dramatically to our fake adoring fans before I snuck upstairs for a break—Rowan trailing after me with two bottles of pumpkin fizz and that half-grin that always looked like it was one second away from becoming trouble.

We flopped onto the couch in the flat above the shop, still pink-cheeked and glitter-dusted from the afternoon mayhem. I stretched my legs across the coffee table, Rowan dropped beside me like he owned the whole cushion, and for a second, we just let the chaos buzz down to a hum.

"You realize," he said, cracking open a bottle and handing it to me, "Adrien's probably going to turn that victory into a multi-part series."

"'The Art of the Sale: How to Flirt and Destroy Your Enemies,'" I said solemnly. "By Adrien Blackwood."

"Featuring Fred Weasley: Human Prop and Distracted Sales Intern."

I laughed into my drink. "Honestly, Fred looked so lovesick I thought he might just hand her the till."

"Did you see George trying to officiate their banter like it was a sport?"

"He was keeping score like a Quidditch commentator. Honestly, I think he's just bitter no one flirts with him mid-sale."

Rowan gave a mock gasp. "Poor Georgie. All those products and no one to seduce him over the Anti-Gravity Bubblegum."

"Tragic," I agreed, grinning. "Maybe next time we'll throw in a pity wink."

"Don't," Rowan said. "He might propose."

I laughed harder than I meant to and tipped my head back against the armrest, only realizing too late that I was now half-facing him, our knees almost bumping. The shift in the air was subtle—still light, still easy—but quieter now. Still warm, but shaded differently.

Rowan looked at me for a beat. Not smirking. Not joking.

Then he said, "Hey... can I ask you something?"

I blinked. "You already did. Adrien's writing a book and George needs therapy."

He huffed a laugh, but didn't break eye contact. "I meant something real."

I hesitated. Then nodded. "Alright."

"The name Vexley." His voice was low now, not hesitant, but not prying either. "I've heard it before at school. From teachers. Rumors about you...?"

Ah.

There it was.

I didn't stiffen—but only because I'd had practice. Years of it.

I swirled the last bit of butterbeer in my bottle, staring into the fizz like it might distract me from what I was about to say. "The rumors about Vexley aren't wrong."

Rowan looked up at me then—really looked—but didn't interrupt.

"My father—sperm donor, Denzel Vexley..." Rowan snorted but I pushed on with a small smirk, "He's exactly what people say he is. Power-hungry. Blood purist. Master manipulator with half the Ministry in his pocket and the other half too afraid to blink wrong."

I paused, pressing my thumb into the label of the bottle.

"I was born a Vexley. But I didn't grow up in it—not really. Adrien's family took me in when I was eleven. I didn't even know my parents were alive until last year."

His brow furrowed, but he stayed quiet.

"I thought they were dead. Or gone. Turns out... my mother, Alice, was alive for a while."

I swallowed hard.

"Bellatrix Lestrange killed her."

Rowan let out a low breath. "Shit, Katie..."

"I didn't find out any of this until last year," I said, voice lower now. "Everything I thought I knew about my blood, my family—it flipped. Adrien's family, the Blackwoods, they gave me their name. Their protection. Their love. But—" I gestured vaguely with the bottle. "As I told you before, they're all gone now too, so we're bunking with the Wasleys."

There was a moment of silence before I sighed.

"So yeah, I'm still technically a Vexley."

I finally met his eyes.

"But I live like a Blackwood. I fight like one. And when people ask who raised me? Who made me who I am?" I tapped my chest once. "It wasn't Denzel."

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, watching me with that unreadable look he wore when something hit deeper than he'd let on. "You ever think about going back?"

"To what?" I said, sharper than I meant. "A name that built an empire out of fear, works for the wrong end of the wand?"

He nodded, more to himself than to me. "Didn't think so."

We sat in silence for a beat—comfortable now, in that way you get when someone knows the hard parts and doesn't flinch.

Then Rowan tilted his head slightly. "You know, you don't move like someone with something to prove."

I gave a humorless smile. "That's because I already did."

Rowan didn't speak. Just nodded slowly.

I didn't know what I expected—pity, discomfort, a quiet "sorry" like it meant anything. But what I got was just... him.

"That's brave," he said. Simple. Steady.

"It was survival," I replied.

He tilted his head. "Same thing sometimes."

I looked at him, really looked—because this was new. This softness, this lack of judgment, this effort to see more than just the headlines.

"Alright," I said, needing to shift the heat in my chest. "My turn."

Rowan raised a brow. "I didn't realize this was an interrogation."

"Too late." I tucked one leg under me, facing him now. "What's it like? Living in Oliver Wood's shadow?"

He let out a long, exaggerated groan and flopped dramatically to the side, arm thrown over his eyes like I'd mortally wounded him.

"Oh, you're unbearable," I said.

"I'm tragic," he corrected. "An unappreciated, forgotten younger brother doomed to forever be asked, 'Wait—you're related to Oliver Wood?' as if that's a valid personality trait."

"Poor baby."

"I'm fine," he said, laughing now. "Really. I love my brother. He's brilliant. He just... sets the bar high. And everyone expects I'll either match it or fail spectacularly trying."

I considered that for a second. "You're more than just a Quidditch player."

Rowan blinked at me, surprised.

"I've seen it," I added. "You care. About people. About the work. You're funny, infuriating, kind when you think no one's watching. You're more than Oliver's little brother. People just need to shut up long enough to notice."

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue—but then closed again.

And that half-grin came back. Slower. Realer.

"You trying to flatter me, Blackwood?"

I smirked. "You'd know if I was."

He laughed, then nudged my foot lightly with his. "Thanks."

"Don't get used to it."

"Oh no. I'm absolutely framing this moment."

"Try and I hex your shoes to sing Celestina Warbeck."

Rowan grinned wider. "Still worth it."

And as I sat there, opposite him, half-sunlight pouring in through the window and soft dust floating through the air like we were suspended in a bubble—

I realized I wasn't waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Rowan had just made a joke about Fred's hair being the second-most chaotic thing in the shop—after George—when footsteps pounded on the stairs.

"Katie?" Fred's voice, urgent but measured.

I turned from the couch. "Up here!"

He appeared a second later, his usual grin absent. "Hey. Sorry to break up the party," he said, glancing between me and Rowan before settling his gaze on me. "George just brought in a letter."

My stomach dipped. "From who?"

"Matthew," Fred said grimly. "Addressed to Adrien. He handed it off to her right at the front counter."

I was already halfway standing. "She opened it?"

He nodded once. "Didn't even say anything. Just took one look and went straight to the backroom."

The way he said it—quiet, careful, like handling something fragile—told me more than his words.

I grabbed my wand from the cushion beside me. "Let's go."

Rowan didn't say a word. He was already on his feet behind me.

We followed Fred downstairs, the playful hum of the shop replaced by a strange quiet. George was still behind the counter, scanning receipts—but his expression was tight.

Fred led us to the backroom.

"She's in there," he said, voice low.

I didn't knock.

I opened the door.

Adrien sat on a crate, her elbows on her knees, the letter unfolded and limp in her hands. Her eyes didn't lift immediately—just flicked up like she already knew who'd walked in.

"Don't start," she said softly. "It's not a threat this time."

That was somehow worse.

I stepped inside anyway, with Fred and Rowan behind me. "So what is it?"

Adrien looked at the paper again. "He's inviting me to dinner. With his new wife. And kids."

Fred's jaw flexed. "You're kidding."

Adrien didn't respond.

I moved closer, crouching a little in front of her. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head, eyes still locked on the letter. "No. I just needed a minute."

I stayed there, silent, giving her the space to breathe through whatever was rattling around in her chest.

Fred shifted beside me, eyes darting between the crumpled letter and Adrien's expression like he was debating what to say. Rowan hovered near the door, uncertain but clearly tense.

I glanced at both of them and offered a soft, grateful smile. "Can you two give us a minute?"

Fred hesitated—but only for a beat. His gaze lingered on Adrien a second longer before nodding. "Yeah. Of course."

Rowan gave a small, understanding nod and followed Fred out, pulling the door gently shut behind them.

The silence left behind wasn't heavy. Just... raw.

I sat down beside her on the crate, shoulder brushing hers. "He wants dinner?"

Adrien scoffed quietly. "Dinner. With his new wife. His new miracle children. Formal, probably at some overpriced place where the butter costs extra."

I bit the inside of my cheek, holding back every curse I had in my arsenal.

She let out a shaky breath. "He listed off their hobbies like a resume. Didn't ask a single thing about my life. Just assumed I'd want to play along like we've been in touch this whole time."

I didn't speak for a moment—just let her get it out.

"He mentioned Beauxbatons like it was a footnote. Called it a 'rough patch.' Said he's proud I'm finally 'stable.' Like I'm a damn rehab case."

I watched Adrien violently throw the letter, but it just slowly and gracefully hovered from the hair to the floor—little to no effect from her violent outburst.

I exhaled slowly. "You don't have to go."

She was quiet, then murmured, "I know."

"But if you feel like you do... we scale it down. Lunch. Somewhere that isn't suffocating. Less performance. More control."

Adrien turned toward me, brows raised. "Lunch?"

"Me and you," I said simply. "Maybe Fred and Rowan, if you want backup."

She blinked, then snorted. "Like a security detail?"

I gave her a sideways look. "Like family. The kind that doesn't require a bloodline to prove it."

Adrien didn't respond right away. She just sat there, sighing and reluctantly picking the letter back up to fold it back within its creases.

Then, finally: "Okay. If I go... it's lunch. Small. Controlled."

I nodded, keeping my tone steady. "And you don't have to pretend you're fine if you're not."

She leaned her head against my shoulder with a tired sigh. "You really hate him, don't you?"

"Passionately," I muttered. "I don't care if he has a new family or a new crown. He doesn't get to treat you like a cautionary tale in his success story."

Adrien let out a breath that sounded like it could've been a laugh—or something close.

"And for the record," I added, "if we're doing this, Fred and Rowan are definitely wearing black."

That got a small, real smile from her. "For intimidation?"

"For fashion."

Adrien closed her eyes. "Thanks, Katie."

"Always," I whispered. "We've got you."

That evening, the Burrow's kitchen was warm with the scent of herbs and dish soap, the clatter of dinner now a memory. Adrien and I stood by the hearth, letter in hand, while Fred and Rowan leaned against the counter behind us—silent but steady, like backup muscle for a duel that hadn't started yet.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sat across the table, exchanging glances as Adrien reread the letter for the third time.

"He wants dinner," she said finally, voice tight. "With me. His wife. The new kids. A family meal."

Mrs. Weasley's brows knit. "And this is the first you've heard from him in how long?"

"He sent me a letter at the end of term last year, but..." She trailed off, and an understanding sigh collectively settled over the kitchen.

"I don't trust it," I said, arms crossed. "The timing. The invite. Him."

"He's still your father," Mr. Weasley offered gently. "That doesn't mean you owe him anything, but it does mean it's worth considering what you want out of this—if anything."

"I don't know what I want," Adrien admitted. "Which is... terrifying."

Mrs. Weasley reached across the table and covered Adrien's hand with her own. "Then start small. Lunch isn't a commitment. It's a boundary. A chance to decide if you even want to open a door—let alone step through it."

Adrien nodded. "That's what Katie said."

I cleared my throat. "I also said we should pick somewhere neutral. Small. Low pressure. No big gestures or performative family dynamics. Just... us. Her. Me. Maybe Fred and Rowan."

Fred raised a hand. "Absolutely in."

Rowan blinked. "Wait. What's the big deal with this guy?"

Fred turned slowly, incredulous. "You're kidding, right?"

I snorted. "Down boy—he's new to the crew," I shot, turning to Rowan, "Matthew Blackwood is the absentee father of the year—if the year was cursed."

Fred nodded. "He popped in just long enough to criticize Adrien for being expelled, ignore the fact that she survived more than most adults, and talk about his shiny new family like she's a distant cousin. Not to mention, he didn't bother to include her—or his son, her brother—to his wedding to this 'new wife.'"

"Cool," Rowan muttered. "So we hate him."

"Not hate," I said. "But we definitely don't trust him. Or like him. Or want Adrien to sit through an emotional trap without backup."

Rowan crossed his arms. "Say less. I'll bring a bat."

"Not that kind of lunch," Adrien mumbled—but her smile was real this time.

Mr. Weasley stood, giving Adrien a soft pat on the shoulder. "Just remember—you're not alone. And you get to decide how this goes."

Mrs. Weasley followed, pausing by the door. "We're proud of you. Both of you."

And then they were gone, the kitchen door swinging shut behind them with a soft click.

Fred dropped into the nearest chair, legs wide, hands on his knees. "Okay. Now that the adults have given you the balanced, emotionally mature response—what the actual hell, Adrien?"

Rowan slid into the seat beside him. "Seriously. This guy walks back into your life and expects tea and biscuits?"

Adrien sighed. "He's trying. In his own messed-up way. I just don't know if I want him to."

"You don't owe him anything," I said again, firmer now. "But if you go, you're not going alone."

Fred nodded. "I'm there. Whether you need me to be the charming boyfriend or the terrifying one."

Adrien gave a soft laugh. "You're always both."

"And you've got me," Rowan added. "Not that I'm great with awkward family tension, but I've been to enough Quidditch dinners to fake it."

Adrien looked between the three of us—her eyes softer now, her posture less guarded.

"Okay," she said. "Lunch. Small. With backup."

And just like that, the dread in the air began to shift—less like a storm cloud, more like thunder in the distance. Still there. Still real.

But maybe... manageable.