Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She stared down at the paper in her hands, feeling like an absolute idiot. The crumpled map, slightly smeared from being shoved into her pocket one too many times, seemed to mock her with its uselessness.

“It should be here,” she muttered under her breath, glancing up at the shop she’d stopped in front of. Her eyes darted between the map and the nondescript storefront, hoping for some miracle revelation. But the only thing staring back at her was a faded sign advertising "Fine Magical Instruments."

The map insisted the apothecary was right here. It had to be. Right?

Had she been given bad directions? The instructions her roommate, or flatmate, as they apparently called them here, had scribbled down had seemed simple enough:

Leaky Cauldron, head to the back door, count brick three up, two across. Walk until you reach the Menagerie, take a left, and the apothecary is the second shop down.

She replayed the steps in her head for the fifth time that day. Maybe the sixth. It didn’t help. The buildings all blurred together in a haze of ancient brick and slightly wonky signage.

She sighed, the sound carrying the weight of frustration. She should have clarified the directions, taken an extra five minutes to grill her flatmate before bolting out the door this morning. But no, in her eagerness to explore Diagon Alley on her own, she’d assured herself she’d figure it out.

Big mistake.

With a huff of annoyance, she turned on her heel, her eyes still glued to the crumpled piece of paper. The faint buzz of magical activity around her felt like it was mocking her ineptitude. 

“Walk until you reach the Menagerie, then take a left,” she repeated under her breath, more to keep herself sane than anything else.

Her steps quickened as she scanned the street signs, or lack thereof. How could magical London be this confusing? She’d been navigating the magical world since she was in diapers, for God’s sake. Surely, she could handle one enchanted shopping district.

Apparently not.

“Apothecary is second down,” she said, stopping abruptly in front of yet another wrong shop. Her frustration peaked as she took in the distinctly non-apothecary vibes of the bright green storefront.

“Fucking Christ!” she exploded, crumpling the map into a tight ball and tossing it to the cobblestone ground. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment almost immediately, but the childish outburst felt oddly cathartic.

“Whoa, what did that paper ever do to you?”

She spun around, her face flaming as a deep, amused voice interrupted her tantrum. A tall man stood a few paces away, arms crossed and a crooked grin plastered across his face.

“Oh, nothing, I just…” she stammered, struggling to find the words to explain herself without sounding like an absolute fool.

The man chuckled, stepping forward to retrieve the crumpled map. His movements were casual, effortless, and she found herself caught in the moment, watching as he unfolded the paper and scanned the directions. Freckles were scattered across his tanned face, and silvery scars traced faint lines along his jaw and temple. A fiery mop of red hair completed the picture, and she realized she was staring.

“Whoever gave you these directions either hates you or hasn’t been here in about five years,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he pointed to the handwritten instructions.

“Excuse me?” Y/N blinked, confused and mildly offended on behalf of her flatmate.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone softening. “I just mean the apothecary moved a few years ago. These directions are outdated.”

Y/N closed her eyes, biting down the irritation bubbling to the surface. Of course, the one day she decided to wing it, she got sent on a wild goose chase.

“My roommate gave me these,” she explained sheepishly. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m not from around here.”

The man’s smile shifted, turning warmer, more genuine. “Yeah, I picked up on that,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “American?”

“How could you tell?” she teased, her lips quirking up despite herself.

He laughed, the sound light and disarming. “Just a guess.” He glanced at the map again before folding it neatly and handing it back to her. “Tell you what, I’ll take you to the apothecary. It’s on the way to where I’m headed anyway.”

“You don’t have to…” she began, but he was already gesturing for her to follow.

“It’ll save you from crumpling up more paper in frustration,” he said over his shoulder, his grin widening.

“So, what brings you to this side of the pond?” the man asked, his tone light as they began their trek down the bustling street. 

He walked with the ease of someone who’d navigated these cobblestone paths countless times, his steps confident and purposeful. Meanwhile, Y/N was trying her best not to trip over the uneven stones, her shoes scuffing awkwardly against the ground.

“I moved for work,” she began, catching herself as she stumbled slightly. “I got a job at the Natural History Museum. I’m part of a small team that makes sure the artifacts the no-maj’s bring in aren’t, like, cursed or magically significant,” she explained, her voice lifting with excitement as she spoke about her job.

The man’s lips quirked into a fond smile, his freckled face softening as he listened. “I have a brother who does something similar,” he said. “He used to work in Egypt as a curse breaker, dealing with old enchantments in the pyramids.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in awe. “The pyramids? That’s incredible. I’ve always wanted to see them,” she said, her words spilling out in genuine admiration. She could already imagine the sun-soaked ruins, the ancient magic buzzing in the air.

“What’s your name, by the way?” the man asked, glancing at her with an easy grin. “I’d rather not keep referring to you as ‘American’ in my head.”

She laughed, the sound light and unguarded. “Y/N L/N,” she said, offering a smile. “What’s yours?”

“Charlie Weasley,” he replied, his name rolling off his tongue with a practiced familiarity. He came to a stop, gesturing ahead. “The apothecary is two doors down from here.”

Y/N’s gaze followed his gesture, but it landed on the vibrant chaos of the shop they had stopped in front of. Bold, whimsical letters stretched across the storefront: 

Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

Her eyes flickered between the sign and Charlie, the dots connecting in her mind. “Is this your shop?” she asked, tilting her head curiously.

Charlie chuckled, shaking his head. “No, my brothers own it. Fred and George,” he explained, his tone laced with pride despite his casual words.

Y/N nodded in understanding, her gaze lingering on the storefront. The colorful displays in the windows practically shouted for attention, filled with an assortment of bizarre and likely mischievous products.

“Right. Well, thank you for helping me get to the apothecary,” she said, turning back to him with a cheeky grin. “I’ll be sure to tell all my friends you’re the best tour guide around.”

Charlie returned her grin, pretending to tip an invisible hat. “Much obliged,” he said with mock formality. “See you around, Y/N.”

Before she could respond, he disappeared into the vibrant shop, leaving her standing on the cobblestones with a bemused smile. She shook her head, glancing once more at the chaotic storefront before continuing on her way.

—

She fiddled nervously with the hem of her shirt as the older woman led her through the labyrinthine halls of the museum. The grandeur of the place was both awe-inspiring and intimidating, with towering ceilings and intricately carved archways that seemed to stretch endlessly. Her footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floors, the sound only adding to the quiet hum of the building’s atmosphere.

“On top of your, well, magical duties,” the woman said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “you’re expected to be familiar with the ins and outs of this place. It may seem daunting at first, but I promise it gets easier the more you work here.” Her tone was reassuring, and her smile softened the formal edge of her words.

They stopped at the entrance, the very spot where the tour had begun hours ago. Y/N glanced around, feeling a bit more grounded now that she’d walked through the building’s vast exhibits and winding corridors.

“Any questions?” the woman asked, her hands clasped in front of her.

Y/N thought for a moment, her mind briefly flicking through everything she’d just learned, before shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so,” she said with a small, grateful smile.

The woman, Lori, she’d introduced herself earlier, nodded in approval. “Well, that’s all for your orientation. We’re all thrilled to have you on our team, Y/N. See you Monday.” With a final nod, Lori turned and walked back the way they’d come, her heels clicking faintly against the floor.

Elation bubbled up in Y/N’s chest, and she felt like she might float right off the ground. It was everything she could do to keep from squealing like a child in the middle of the museum. Her lips twitched with the effort of holding back a grin as she glanced down at her watch.

1:07.

Her roommate wouldn’t be home for another three hours, and she was far too excited to sit in her empty apartment. The museum still buzzed with quiet activity around her, and the idea of exploring its exhibits before her first official shift on Monday was too tempting to resist.

The architecture around her was imposing yet somehow comforting, as though the centuries-old walls had stories to tell, if only she had the time to listen. Y/N wandered into the fossil exhibition, her breath catching as she stepped into the dimly lit space. The towering skeletons loomed above her, their ancient bones casting long shadows against the walls. Her eyes fixed on a particularly large display, the intricate curves of the creature’s ribcage and skull drawing her in.

“That’s a dragon skeleton, you know.”

Y/N jumped, the unexpected voice startling her. Turning quickly, she was met with a crooked grin and a pair of familiar freckled cheeks. “Charlie? What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone laced with surprise.

He shrugged casually, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. “It’s my dad’s fortieth today,” he explained. “He’s obsessed with everything Muggle—or no-maj, as I’ve heard you Americans call them. He goes crazy for this kind of stuff.”

Y/N’s lips twitched into a smile. “What kind of dragon is this?” she asked, gesturing to the skeleton. She already knew the answer but couldn’t resist using it as an excuse to keep the conversation going.

Charlie tilted his head, examining the bones with a practiced eye. “It’s a Hebridean Black,” he announced confidently. 

“I’m impressed you knew, especially since it’s not complete.” Y/n replied

“Well, I’d hope I know my breeds,” he teased. “I do work with dragons, after all.That’s kind of my thing.” Charlie grinned

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. “Does your whole family have exciting jobs or something?” she asked, laughing lightly. “A curse breaker, entrepreneurs, and now a dragon tamer. The next thing you’re going to tell me is one of your brothers is on an international Quidditch team.”

Charlie’s laugh was loud and genuine, the sound echoing through the quiet exhibition. “No, no international Quidditch players in the family,” he said, “but my sister is on a shortlist for the Holyhead Harpies.”

Y/N scoffed playfully. “Good lord,” she muttered. “Do any of you have normal jobs?”

Before Charlie could respond, they were interrupted by a loud voice. “Oi, Char-char, quit chatting up birds! We’re here for family time.”

Y/N turned toward the voice and found herself staring at two identical men, likely about her age, dressed in equally outrageous outfits that nearly made her laugh out loud. The mischievous grins they wore were so similar to Charlie’s that she immediately knew who they must be.

“I’m not chatting anybody up,” Charlie said defensively, crossing his arms. “This is my American friend I was telling you guys about.”

There was an immediate shift at those words. One of the brothers stepped forward, grabbing her hand and shaking it vigorously, while the other quickly followed suit, taking her other hand.

“My, my, an American, you say,” one of them said, his tone mockingly serious.

“You should be in jail for your crimes against the crown,” the other declared dramatically.

“Yes, yes, death penalty for traitors of the crown!” the first added with a mock gasp, their antics perfectly synchronized.

Y/N burst into laughter, unable to help herself. “I’ll have you know I’m a very law-abiding citizen,” she managed between giggles.

“You’re going to shake her arms out of her sockets,” Charlie interjected, stepping forward to gently pull Y/N out of their enthusiastic grip.

The twins relented, their grins never faltering. “You must come meet the family,” one of them insisted.

“I don’t—” Y/N began, raising her hands in protest, but before she could finish, one of the twins looped his arm through hers, the other doing the same on her opposite side.

“No need to be shy,” said the one to her left. “We Weasleys don’t bite.”

“Unless we’re provoked,” added the one to her right, winking cheekily.

Charlie rolled his eyes but followed along as they guided Y/N out of the exhibit. The twins chattered away, introducing themselves as Fred and George and peppering her with questions about life in America.

“So, are cowboy hats mandatory?” Fred asked, his expression deadpan.

“Or do you get fined if you’re caught without one?” George chimed in.

Y/N snorted, shaking her head. “Only on Tuesdays,” she quipped, earning approving laughter from both of them.

They led her to a bustling cafe area within the museum, where the rest of the Weasley clan had gathered. The group was loud and vibrant, their laughter and chatter filling the space. Mrs. Weasley was fussing over her husband, who seemed delightedly overwhelmed by the assortment of Muggle trinkets spread out in front of him. A young woman sat nearby, her arms crossed but a faint smile tugging at her lips as she watched the chaos.

“Mum, Dad, everyone,” Fred said with a dramatic flair, letting go of Y/N’s arm and gesturing toward her like a showman unveiling a masterpiece. 

“This is Y/N, Charlie’s American friend.” 

All eyes turned to her, and Y/N suddenly felt like she’d stepped into a spotlight. 

Mrs. Weasley’s face lit up, her warmth instantly putting Y/N a little more at ease. 

“Oh, it’s so lovely to meet you, dear,” she said, pulling Y/N into a gentle hug before she had time to react. “You’re a friend of Charlie’s? Funny, I don’t think he’s mentioned you before.” 

Y/N felt her cheeks warm. “Oh, um… we met a few days ago in Diagon Alley. He helped me out, and then we bumped into each other again today,” she explained, her voice faltering slightly. 

“Well, any friend of Charlie’s is a friend of ours,” Mrs. Weasley said with a kind smile, looping her arm through Y/N’s and steering her closer to the group. 

“I’m Molly, by the way.” The older man sitting nearby stood and gave her a wide smile, his glasses slightly askew. 

“Arthur Weasley,” he introduced himself, shaking her hand with enthusiasm. “A real pleasure to meet you, Miss Y/N.” 

“Thank you,” Y/N said with a small, nervous laugh, glancing at the table cluttered with what looked like small Muggle trinkets. “Oh, and happy birthday!” 

Arthur’s grin widened, clearly delighted. “Thank you, thank you! And tell me, do you know what this is?” He held up a small object—a round keychain adorned with a fake dinosaur bone. 

Y/N tilted her head. “Um… a keychain?” she answered. 

“Exactly!” Arthur exclaimed, his excitement palpable as he held it up for everyone else to admire. “It’s what Muggles use to keep their keys together. Brilliant, isn’t it?” “Mum, Dad, maybe ease up a little before you scare her off,” Charlie said, his tone teasing but affectionate. 

“Oh, I’ll manage,” Y/N replied, her smile relaxing into something genuine. Her gaze shifted to a younger girl sitting nearby, watching the exchange with a glimmer of amusement.

 “Ginny,” the girl said, standing to offer her hand. Y/N shook it, her curiosity piqued. 

“Oh, so you’re the sister I’ve heard about?” Y/N asked. Ginny grinned. 

“I’d hope so—unless Charlie’s hiding another sister somewhere.” 

Next to her, a tall boy with freckled cheeks and a shy demeanor raised a hand in an awkward wave. 

“Ron,” he mumbled, his ears tinging pink as he quickly sat back down. 

“I’m Percy,” another redhead added, stepping forward with an air of authority. He adjusted his glasses and shook Y/N’s hand with precise formality. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

“Much obliged,” She returned with a kind nod of her head. 

As the group settled into their seats at the café, the twins wasted no time launching into their favorite topic: Y/N’s American roots.

“So, tell us,” Fred began, leaning across the table with an exaggeratedly serious expression. “Do Americans actually eat bacon with maple syrup, or is that just a cruel stereotype?”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “We do, but it’s not like a law or anything. It’s just… good.”

George made a face of mock horror. “Savages.”

“Right, because treacle tart for breakfast is the height of sophistication,” Y/N shot back, her grin widening as the twins burst into laughter.

Molly, seated nearby, smiled fondly at the exchange. “What’s it like back home, dear? Do you miss it?”

Y/N hesitated, her gaze softening. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “I miss the big open spaces. And the sunsets—they’re… different. Bigger, I guess.”

“That’s because they don’t have as many buildings in the way,” Charlie chimed in, earning a laugh from Y/N.

“Probably,” she agreed. “But it’s nice here, too. Diagon Alley’s a bit of a maze, but it’s got charm.”

“Well,” Arthur said, his voice bright as he adjusted his glasses, “you’re always welcome at the Burrow. It’s nothing grand, mind you, but it’s home.”

Y/N smiled, feeling the warmth of his words settle around her. “Thank you. I’d love to see it.”

Fred leaned in conspiratorially. “Just a warning: once Mum feeds you, you’ll never leave.”

“Guess I’ll pack a bag, then,” Y/N quipped, the table erupting in laughter as Molly gave Fred a playful swat on the arm.

"Y/N, why don’t you join us for dinner at the Burrow tonight?” Molly Weasley said, her eyes sparkling with genuine warmth. "It’s the least we can do after Charlie’s told us how much he’s enjoyed meeting you."

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to intrude…” Y/N began, though her heart fluttered at the invitation.

“Nonsense!” Molly interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “We love having guests, don’t we, Arthur?”

Arthur nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely. You’d get a proper introduction to wizarding Britain—Weasley-style,” he said, gesturing to the lively group around him.

Y/N hesitated, glancing at Charlie, who gave her an encouraging smile. “You’ll love it,” he said simply. “Mum’s cooking is legendary.”

Fred leaned closer, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And don’t worry, we’ll keep the jokes about Americans to a minimum.”

“Define ‘minimum,’” George added, smirking.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Well, how could I say no to that?” she said, looking back at Molly. “Thank you—I’d love to.”

“Brilliant!” Molly clapped her hands together. “It’s settled, then. We’ll get Charlie to pick you up before tea.”

As the family returned to their celebration, Charlie leaned closer, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Brace yourself. Dinner at the Burrow is… an experience.”

Y/N smiled, already feeling a strange sense of belonging among the chaotic, loving Weasley clan. “I think I’m ready for it,” she replied.

—

She stood in front of the mirror, nervously fiddling with the hem of her sweater. The soft fabric twisted between her fingers as she tilted her head, eyeing her reflection critically. The sweater was fine, nice even, but was it too casual? Too plain? She had already changed her outfit four times, each choice leaving her more uncertain than the last.

“You’re being stupid,” she muttered under her breath, her voice low and harsh in the stillness of the room. “It’s not that serious. It’s just dinner.”

Her stomach churned anyway. She let out a frustrated sigh, smoothing the fabric of her sweater as if it would magically grant her confidence. A sudden knock at the door jolted her out of her spiral, the sharp sound echoing in the small space.

She turned toward the door, her heart leaping slightly in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she swung it open.

Charlie stood on the other side, his easy grin and casual posture instantly grounding her. The faint smell of fresh air and something earthy, like pine or smoke, seemed to follow him.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice warm and steady as he extended his arm to her.

She hesitated only for a second before stepping out and locking the door behind her.

“I think so,” she said, her voice softer now as she looped her arm through his.

Charlie gave her a reassuring nod. With a sudden loud CRACK, they vanished from the doorstep.

The sensation hit her immediately. The familiar but still deeply unpleasant feeling of being shoved through a too-tight rubber tube made her stomach flip. She clenched her teeth, barely suppressing a groan. Then, with another jarring CRACK, it was over.

She gasped as her feet hit solid ground, the cool evening air brushing against her face. Her eyes widened as she took in her surroundings. They stood in an open field bathed in the soft, golden glow of twilight. A tall, lopsided house rose before her, its mismatched windows and chimneys jutting out at strange angles. Specks of warm yellow light glowed from within, and the faint, inviting aroma of something savory wafted toward her. Wildflowers danced gently in the breeze, their colors vivid against the fading light, while chickens clucked and scurried across the yard, pecking at the dirt.

It was chaotic and imperfect, but there was an undeniable charm to it. It felt alive.

“What do you think?” Charlie asked, his voice breaking the spell.

She turned to him, still trying to gather her thoughts. “It’s—” she trailed off, searching for the right words as she stared at the house. “Amazing,” she finally said, her voice full of awe.

Charlie’s grin widened, his chest puffing out slightly as if he’d built the house himself.

“We better get inside before Mum sets a search party on us,” he said, nodding toward the house. The faint sound of clinking dishes and muffled voices reached them, growing louder as they approached.

With a small smile tugging at her lips, she followed him toward the door

Chapter Text

The Burrow was alive with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of dishes. Y/N stepped through the doorway into a space so warm and inviting it felt like stepping into a hug. The scent of roasted potatoes and pork mingled with the rich aroma of gravy and something sweet dancing in the air. 

The kitchen was a whirl of activity, with Molly bustling between the stove and the table, her wand directing a ladle to stir a pot while she stacked plates with practiced ease.

“Oi, Y/N!” a loud voice called out, and she spotted Fred, grinning at her from the table. He waved her over with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Saved you a seat. Right next to the charming one.”

“That’s me,” George interjected from across the table, earning an exaggerated scoff from Fred.

She made her way over, carefully weaving through the chaos of chairs and family members, trying to take in everything at once. 

A clock ticked softly in the corner, the wood-paneled walls were adorned with moving photographs, their subjects waving cheerfully at her. A stack of books teetered precariously near the fireplace, and the whole house seemed to hum.

As she sat down next to Fred, Y/N couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. 

“This place is incredible,” she murmured.

Fred smirked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Wait ‘til Mum gets yelling about something. Really completes the ambiance.”

“I hope you’re hungry,” he added as he handed her a plate.

“Starved,” she replied, inhaling deeply once more. The smells were intoxicating, a reminder of home-cooked meals she hadn’t realised she missed.

“Ron!” Molly’s sharp voice rang out across the kitchen. “Get your grubby fingers out of the pudding!”

Ron, mid-swipe at a bowl of something creamy and golden, froze like a deer in headlights. “I was just checking if it was done,” he mumbled, quickly retracting his hand as Molly shot him a glare.

“By sticking your fingers in it?” Ginny said, rolling her eyes as she passed him a clean spoon. “Try this. It’s called ‘not being disgusting.’”

“Enough out of you,” Ron muttered, his ears turning pink as he busied himself with a plate of bread rolls.

Arthur, seated at the head of the table, chuckled warmly. “Careful, Ron, you'll be banned from dessert.”

“I’m not banned, am I, Mum?” Ron asked quickly, shooting her a worried glance.

“That depends on how well you behave,” Molly replied, her tone stern but her eyes twinkling.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the tension of being an outsider slowly melt away. She leaned closer to Fred and whispered, “Does this happen every night?”

“Every meal,” he confirmed, looking far too proud of the chaos. “You’ll love it here. We specialise in entertainment.”

“Entertainment or torment?” George quipped.

“Both,” Fred replied with a grin. “We’re multi-talented.”

Molly bustled past, setting down a steaming bowl of vegetables in the center of the table. She paused to pat Y/N on the shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind a bit of noise, dear. With this lot, it’s unavoidable.”

“It’s perfect,” Y/N said sincerely, her gaze sweeping over the cozy kitchen again. 

Ginny plopped down beside George, shaking her head at her brothers. “Ignore them. They think they’re funny.”

“We are funny,” Fred corrected.

“No, you’re annoying,” she countered, snagging a roll from Ron’s plate before he could stop her.

“Hey!” Ron protested. “Get your own!”

“And miss the fun of stealing yours?” she shot back, grinning.

Molly took a seat beside her husband, smiling kindly at Y/n. 

“You better get cracking, Y/N,” Charlie called from a few seats down, his grin wide as he gestured at the food-laden table. “There’ll be nothing left if you wait much longer.”

Y/N smiled, feeling the warmth of his teasing, and turned her attention to the feast before her. Taking his advice, she began piling her plate with roasted pork, golden potatoes, bright green peas, tender carrots, and flaky little pastries that looked too good to resist. She finished it off with a generous ladle of thick, dark gravy, the aroma alone making her stomach growl in anticipation. The scents were heavenly, a comforting blend of herbs, roasted meat, and buttery richness that filled the room.

Her plate was a masterpiece of food, and her mouth watered just looking at it. Not knowing where to start, she scooped a little bit of everything onto her fork and took a big bite. 

The flavors hit her all at once, savory pork, perfectly seasoned vegetables, and the velvety gravy tying it all together. It was so delicious she couldn’t help but close her eyes for a moment, savoring the explosion of flavors.

“So, Y/N,” Molly began, her voice cutting gently through the hum of conversation. “What do you do for work?”

Y/N froze mid-chew, her eyes widening slightly as all attention turned to her. She quickly chewed harder, trying to swallow without choking, and reached for her glass of water to help wash it down. Setting the glass back down, she gave a sheepish smile.

“Well,” she began, setting her fork aside. “I work at the museum here in London. Actually, I was finishing an orientation there earlier today before I ran into Charlie.”

“A museum?” Arthur leaned forward, his curiosity palpable. “Muggle museums are fascinating, so many exhibits! What do you do there?”

“I’m part of a small team of magical historians,” Y/N explained, her nerves easing under Arthur’s enthusiasm. “We make sure the artifacts No-Majs bring in aren’t cursed or magically significant before they go on display.”

“Like a curse breaker?” Ron asked, his brow furrowing in thought.

Y/N shook her head, smiling. “Not quite. Curse breakers work on a much larger scale. What we do is a lot more focused. We just ensure the items brought in are safe for No-Majs to display and study. If something turns out to be cursed or too dangerous, there’s a separate department that handles it.”

“Sounds like you’re the first line of defense,” Percy remarked, adjusting his glasses. “Cataloging magical artifacts sounds like no small task.”

“It’s definitely detail-oriented,” Y/N agreed. “Most of our job involves identifying enchantments, figuring out their purpose, and determining if they pose any risk. A lot of the time, it’s minor things, like a quill that writes by itself or a mirror that gives overly enthusiastic compliments.”

“Now that’s something I could use.” Fred interjected, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. 

“For what?” Ginny asked, rolling her eyes. “Inflating your ego even more?”

“Exactly,” George chimed in, grinning. “Fred’s confidence isn’t quite unbearable enough yet.”

The table erupted into laughter, and Y/N couldn’t help but join in, the tension in her shoulders easing.

“Have you ever found something dangerous?” Ron asked, clearly intrigued.

“A few times,” Y/N said, nodding. “We’ve had a cursed necklace that tried to strangle its owner and a painting that screamed whenever someone looked at it. But those cases are rare. Most of the time, it’s harmless, like a clay pot that sings or a book that rewrites itself depending on the reader.”

Arthur’s eyes sparkled with fascination. “Muggles have no idea how extraordinary their world becomes when it overlaps with ours. What do they make of these items?”

“They usually just think they’re quirky or broken,” Y/N said with a small laugh. “It’s amazing how easily people dismiss the magical when they don’t know it exists.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve got a fascinating job, dear,” Molly said warmly, her genuine smile lighting up the cozy dining area. “And an important one. It must feel good knowing you’re helping to preserve history.”

“It really does,” Y/N admitted, her cheeks flushing slightly as she set her fork down. “I’ve always loved history. My dad and I used to go to a different museum every month when I was a kid. He loved them almost as much as I did.” She paused, her eyes softening as she recalled the memories. “There’s this big magical museum in Magical New York kind of like the magical world’s version of the Smithsonian. He took me there when I turned ten, and I think that’s what really sparked my interest in it all.”

“Are both your parents magical?” Ginny asked curiously, her head tilted as she rested her chin on her hand.

Y/N shook her head, a fond smile playing on her lips. 

“Nah, just my dad. My mum’s a No-Maj. She’s always been supportive, though.” She chuckled, the sound soft and nostalgic. “Dad was the one who taught me all about the magical world. He always said that being a witch meant having one foot in two different worlds, and I should learn to love both.”

“That must have been an interesting way to grow up,” Arthur said, his tone tinged with admiration.

“It was,” Y/N agreed. “I grew up in a small town in Georgia, where magic wasn’t exactly common. Most of my friends were No-Majs, and my mum did her best to keep things as normal as possible. But Dad would sneak in little bits of magic here and there, a charmed broom to help clean the house, enchanted fireworks on birthdays, that kind of thing.”

Fred and George perked up at the mention of enchanted fireworks. “He sounds brilliant,” Fred said. “A man after our own hearts.”

“He really was,” Y/N replied, her smile widening. “He always wanted to visit London, though. It was on his bucket list. He loved everything about British history, both magical and No-Maj.”

“He must be thrilled you’re living here now,” Ginny said, her voice light.

Y/N hesitated, the smile faltering for just a moment. She could picture her father’s gleaming smile, the way his eyes would light up at the news.

“He would have been,” She agreed, a wave of bittersweet sadness washed over her, and she quickly took another bite of her dinner to distract herself, letting the flavors ground her.

“Would have been,” Ron said loudly, his fork clinking against his plate. “What changed?”

“Ron!” Molly chastised sharply, her voice tinged with disapproval. “Mind your manners.”

“No, it’s alright,” Y/N said gently, setting her fork down and taking a breath. “He died just after I graduated from Ilvermorny.”

The room grew quieter, the lively chatter dimming to a soft murmur. The warmth of the room seemed to hold her, a silent show of comfort.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” Molly said, her expression filled with understanding as she reached out to pat Y/N’s hand. “Losing a parent is never easy.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said, managing a small smile in return. “It was hard, but he always encouraged me to follow my dreams. Moving here felt like a way to honor him, you know? He’d have been over the moon.”

There was a quiet nod of agreement around the table, a small acknowledgment of the weight of her words. 

After a moment, Fred leaned closer, breaking the silence with his usual mischievous tone.

“Well, if your dad was as brilliant as he sounds, then he’d definitely approve of you hanging out with us.”

“Absolutely,” George chimed in. “We’re practically a historical exhibit ourselves. Living legends, really.”

Y/N chuckled, the tension in her chest easing as the table erupted into gentle laughter. Ginny rolled her eyes, and Molly shook her head with a fond smile, but the warmth radiating from the family made Y/N feel a little lighter.

As the conversation shifted and the lively energy returned to the table, Y/N took another bite of her meal, savoring the flavors. 

Slowly, the plates began to clear as Molly stood up from the table, her wand in hand. With a graceful flick, the dirty dishes floated toward the sink, clinking softly as they settled into the soapy water. The warm hum of post-dinner conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

“We made an American delicacy for dessert,” Molly announced proudly, waving her wand once more. A massive apple pie floated to the center of the table, its golden crust perfectly crisp and flaked with sugar. Alongside it appeared an impressive trifle layered with custard, jelly, and whipped cream. Both desserts gleamed under the warm light, looking like they belonged in a wizarding cookbook.

Y/N’s grin widened as Molly handed her a generous helping of pie, the cinnamon-scented steam wafting up to tickle her nose. “This looks amazing,” she said earnestly, her fork already hovering over the plate.

“Careful,” Fred said from across the table, watching her with mock seriousness. “Mum’s desserts are enchanted. One bite and you’ll never want to leave.”

George nodded solemnly, a spoonful of trifle halfway to his mouth. “Happened to us. We were going to move out years ago, but she keeps us trapped here with puddings and pies.”

“Honestly, I don’t see the downside,” Y/N quipped, taking her first bite. The warm, gooey filling and buttery crust melted on her tongue, and her eyes closed in bliss.

“See?” Fred gestured dramatically to George. “She’s already under the spell!”

–

After dinner, Y/N wandered about the Burrow, her curiosity drawing her to every quirky detail of the cozy, mismatched house. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke and baked goods, and the soft glow of enchanted lanterns illuminated the rooms. Family photographs in animated frames waved at her from the walls, and a few stray knitting needles clattered away in the corner, working on a scarf of their own accord.

She stopped in front of a tall, old clock that sat proudly in one corner of the living room. At first glance, she thought it was just another whimsical wizarding relic, but upon closer inspection, she realized the clock didn’t display the time at all. Instead, its hands, each labeled with a family member's name, pointed to various locations: Home, School, Work, and Bed. All the hands currently rested on Home, except for one, which pointed to Bed.

“Who’s in bed at this hour?” Y/N mused aloud, leaning in to examine the name on the errant hand.

“Bill,” came a voice directly in her left ear.

“He’s our oldest brother,” added a voice in her right.

Y/N startled slightly, spinning to find Fred and George standing on either side of her, identical smirks plastered across their freckled faces. 

“Do you two always pop up out of nowhere?” she asked, laughing despite herself.

“Part of our charm,” Fred said with a wink.

“I haven’t met him, have I?” she asked, pointing at the clock.

“Nope,” George replied, popping the p for emphasis. “Bill’s a busy bee.”

“Probably for the best, though,” Fred added, crossing his arms. “We wouldn’t stand a chance if he were here.”

“Why not?” Y/N asked, her brows furrowing.

“Because,” Fred said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart, “all the witches go crazy for him. They think he’s all cool and mysterious.”

“But really,” George interjected with a grin, “he’s just a massive nerd.”

Y/N chuckled, glancing back at the clock. “He’s the curse breaker, right?”

“Yep,” George said. “Used to work in Egypt, raiding tombs and dodging deadly curses.”

Fred leaned in conspiratorially. “But he traded all that in for nappies and bedtime stories when Victoire was born.”

“Victoire?” Y/N asked.

“Our niece,” George explained. “Mum’s first grandchild. Total scene-stealer.”

Fred nodded solemnly. “Mum cried for two days when she was born. It was very dramatic.”

“Not as dramatic as when George sat on a toy broomstick last Christmas and broke it,” Fred teased.

“That was a faulty broom, and you know it!” George shot back, narrowing his eyes.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head at the antics. “Well, now I’m curious to meet this infamous Bill,” she said.

“Careful what you wish for,” Fred warned. “If you’re not careful, you might fall under his nerdy spell too.”

“Unlikely,” Y/N shot back with a grin. “I’m more interested in the clock. Do you think it could tell me where my lost socks are?”

“Not a chance,” George said. “That’s advanced magic. Even Dad hasn’t cracked the sock mystery.”

Fred sighed wistfully. “One day, though. One day.”

Chapter Text

The letter had arrived on Thursday afternoon, the parchment folded haphazardly and shoved into her mailbox like an afterthought. Y/N frowned as she unfolded it, immediately greeted by the nearly indecipherable scrawl.

“We will pick you up after work and show you the best spots in London. Be not afraid.”

She tilted her head, squinting at the messy handwriting as if it might magically rearrange itself into something legible. It took a full five minutes of deciphering before the message became clear, and even then, it felt more like a command than an invitation. The tone practically oozed Fred and George, and she couldn’t help but grin.

By Friday, her excitement had built to an almost unbearable level. As much as she loved her job, the endless hours of cataloging artifacts and poring over dusty records could be mind-numbing. The thought of an evening with Fred and George, as chaotic as it was likely to be, felt like a breath of fresh air.

When the clock finally struck five, she bolted from her desk, her bag slung over her shoulder as she made her way to the museum’s grand entrance. The cool evening air greeted her as she stepped outside, but it wasn’t nearly as refreshing as the sight that awaited her.

Fred and George were waiting, just as they’d promised, or rather, threatened. George stood near the museum steps, pretending to study the architecture with an air of mock seriousness. Fred leaned casually against a lamppost, his arms crossed and a crooked grin on his face that spelled trouble.

“There she is!” George called, raising both arms like he was greeting a celebrity.

Fred, who had been leaning casually against a lamppost, straightened up and strode toward her with exaggerated pomp. “The woman of the hour! Ready for your initiation into proper London life?”

“Does this initiation involve any hexes?” Y/N asked suspiciously, crossing her arms but unable to suppress a grin.

Fred draped an arm around her shoulders as if they’d been friends for years. “Only if you insult the queen,” he said seriously. “Or refuse to join in our pub crawl.”

George sidled up on her other side, his grin matching Fred’s. “It’s very British, you see. Pints, laughter, and us guiding you through the evening like the stellar role models we are.”

“Role models?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

Fred gasped dramatically. “Y/N, you wound me.”

“But she’s not wrong,” George said, shrugging. “We are notoriously terrible influences.”

Y/N rolled her eyes as they began to walk, the twins on either side of her like an overly enthusiastic escort. “So, what exactly is the plan?” she asked, trying to hide her amusement.

“Simple,” Fred said, holding up a finger like a professor giving a lecture. “Step one: we take you to a pub that has the best chips this side of the Thames.”

“Step two,” George continued, “we dazzle you with our unparalleled charm.”

“Step three: you laugh so hard you cry,” Fred added.

“And step four: you tell everyone back at the museum how much fun you had with your two favorite Brits,” George finished with a wink.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head at their antics. “I think ‘fun’ is one way to describe this.”

They led her through the bustling streets, their constant chatter making the city feel more alive than ever. Every few steps, Fred or George would point out something random

“That’s where a pigeon attacked Fred last year,” or, “Don’t go in there, their pies are cursed, and not in the fun way” keeping her laughing until her cheeks ached.

As they reached the first pub, Fred held the door open with an exaggerated bow, and George ushered her in with a flourish.

“Ladies first,” George said, grinning.

Y/N fanned her face with her hand, batting her eyelashes in a dramatic display. “What gentlemen,” she declared, “who said chivalry was dead?”

Fred and George exchanged a look, their matching smirks spelling trouble.

“Well, we do our best,” Fred said, puffing out his chest. “Someone’s got to uphold the honor of the family.”

“Yeah,” George added, giving her a once-over. “We’ll just pretend we don’t see the dirt on Fred’s shoes.”

Fred kicked at George’s shin, missing entirely as Y/N snorted, trying to suppress a laugh. Together, they ushered her into the pub, which looked nothing like the bars she was used to back home.

The room was dimly lit, with the warm glow of sconces and a roaring fire casting long shadows on the stone walls. The wooden beams overhead sagged slightly, as if they carried the weight of centuries of stories. The smell of ale, roasted meat, and something faintly herbal hung in the air, a far cry from the overly sanitized bars she’d frequented in the States. It was old, ancient, even.

Wherever they were now, she hadn’t even caught the name of the place, it looked like it belonged in a medieval village rather than the bustling city of London. 

The mismatched chairs and uneven tables were packed with patrons, some laughing raucously, others bent over quiet games. 

A smoky jukebox in the corner belted out a peculiar mix of jazz and folk music.

“What do you think?” Fred asked, steering her toward the bar.

Y/N glanced around, wide-eyed. 

“I feel like I’m about to be accused of being a witch,” she said finally, her tone dry.

Fred laughed, clapping her lightly on the shoulder. 

“Oh, don’t worry. If anyone starts yelling, we’ll just point at George and claim it’s all his fault.”

“Oi,” George protested, nudging Fred with his elbow. “I’m clearly the innocent one here.”

“Sure you are,” Y/N said with a grin, sliding onto one of the bar stools.

The bartender, a stout man with a beard that looked as old as the pub itself, approached them. His sharp eyes flicked over the trio, his expression softening as he saw the twins. 

“Weasley trouble tonight?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

“Always,” Fred said brightly. “We’re initiating our friend here into the fine tradition of British pubs.”

The bartender nodded knowingly, wiping a glass with a cloth. 

“First time, eh? Better start her off with something light.”

“Or,” George interrupted, leaning conspiratorially toward Y/N, “you could try the Dragon’s Breath.”

Fred’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, yes. Bold choice. It’ll definitely be memorable,.”

Y/N arched a brow, looking between the two of them. 

“Sounds like a trap.”

“It’s not a trap,” Fred said, holding a hand to his chest as if offended. “It’s an experience.”

“Fine,” Y/N said, laughing. “I’ll take the Dragon’s Breath, but if it’s awful, you’re both buying me dessert.”

“Deal,” George said without hesitation, flagging down the bartender.

As they waited for their drinks, Y/N continued to take in the pub’s surroundings. 

“So,” Fred said, pulling her attention back to them, “what’s the verdict so far? Are you utterly dazzled by our superior culture?”

“I’ll admit it,” Y/N said, leaning her elbows on the bar. “This place is pretty great. Though I don’t know if that’s the pub or you two.”

George grinned. “Oh, it’s definitely us.”

The bartender returned with her drink, a frothy amber pint that shimmered faintly. 

Y/N hesitated, lifting the glass to her lips. The first sip was smooth, almost sweet, then the spice hit. Her eyes widened, and she coughed, thumping her chest as a fiery heat spread across her tongue.

Fred and George erupted into laughter, doubling over as she reached for a glass of water. “What—what did you give me?” she choked out, her voice half-scolding, half-amused.

“The Dragon’s Breath,” Fred wheezed. “We didn’t lie!”

“Welcome to Britain,” George added, raising his glass in a mock toast.

Despite herself, Y/N couldn’t stop laughing, even as her mouth burned. 

The more she sipped her drink, the easier it became. The initial fiery burn of the Dragon’s Breath mellowed into a pleasant warmth that spread through her chest. By the time she reached the dregs of her glass, Y/N felt the first flickers of alcohol loosening her limbs and her laughter coming a little easier.

Fred and George jumped to their feet, practically in unison, and Fred tossed a handful of Galleons onto the table with a flourish. “Thank you for the hospitality as always, Aloc,” he announced, giving the bartender a theatrical bow.

“Yes, yes, so many pubs, so little time,” George chimed in, his grin wide as he took Y/N by the arm and steered her toward the door.

“What’s next on the agenda?” Y/N asked, stumbling slightly as they stepped out onto the cobbled streets. The alcohol was definitely working its way through her system now, leaving her pleasantly buzzed and warm.

“You’ll see,” George answered, shooting Fred a conspiratorial grin.

The Lamb & Flag was a narrow, historic pub hidden in the winding alleys of Covent Garden, its timeworn exterior glowing under the warm light of nearby gas lamps. Stepping inside felt like stepping into another era—one of Dickensian London, with its low, dark wooden beams and walls lined with faded paintings and ancient-looking maps. The tables were small and uneven, their surfaces polished to a shine by centuries of use, and the air buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional shout from the bar.

“This place has history,” George said, his voice reverent but his smirk betraying his true intentions as he led Y/N toward a corner booth. “Proper, real history. They say Charles Dickens drank here.”

“Charles Dickens?” Y/N repeated, looking around with wide eyes.

Fred leaned closer as they slid into the booth, his tone low and conspiratorial. “Yep. He wrote A Tale of Two Cities right in that corner.” He pointed to an empty chair by the fireplace, his face the picture of seriousness.

Y/N blinked, her gaze flicking to the chair, before narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Really?”

George grinned. “Nope, but it sounded good, didn’t it?”

She laughed, shaking her head as Fred returned with three ciders. He placed one in front of her with a flourish. “Here you are. The second-best cider in London.”

“Second-best?” Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow as she took the glass.

Fred winked. “We save the best for last.”

The first sip of cider was crisp and refreshing, a welcome change from the fiery intensity of the Dragon’s Breath. Y/N leaned back in her seat, letting the buzz in her veins settle as the twins launched into another one of their ridiculous stories.

“So there we were,” George began, gesturing dramatically, “testing out one of our new prototypes, Weasley’s Wheezing Whistlebombs. A flawless invention, if I may say so.”

“It wasn’t flawless,” Fred interrupted, smirking. “You set your own hair on fire.”

“Details,” George said, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyway, this Muggle cop shows up, thinks we’re up to no good, which, fair enough, and Fred here decides to tell him we’re part of a street performance act.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Fred said, grinning.

“Only because you juggled three fireworks while quoting Shakespeare!”

Y/N laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “Wait—what did the cop do?”

“Oh, he was completely charmed,” George said smugly. “Even asked for tickets to our ‘next performance.’”

Fred raised his glass in a mock toast. “To the Weasley charm. Works every time.”

“To not getting arrested,” Y/N added, clinking her glass with theirs.

The cider went down smoothly, and Y/N found herself settling further into the warmth of the pub and the company of the twins. By the time they left the Lamb & Flag, the streetlights outside had come to life, and the crisp London evening felt charged with the promise of more mischief. Y/N looped her arms through theirs as they led her to the next stop, her laughter echoing down the cobblestone streets.

The George Inn was tucked away in Southwark, its sprawling courtyard glowing under strings of fairy lights. The creaking wooden floors and galleried balconies made it feel like a portal to another century. Y/N tilted her head back, marveling at the place as they stepped inside.

“This is like something out of a fairytale,” she murmured, taking in the lantern-lit beams and packed tables filled with patrons laughing over mugs of ale.

“Fairytale?” Fred scoffed, leading her to the bar. “This is real history. Shakespeare probably downed a pint here.”

“Or twenty,” George added, grinning. “He seemed like a party guy.”

They handed her another drink, this time a lighter ale. “This one’s easier,” Fred assured her, tapping his own glass. “A beginner’s choice.”

It was smoother than the last, but Y/N was feeling the effects now, her balance less sure and her laughter louder. The twins took full advantage, making increasingly ridiculous jokes about the "ghost of Shakespeare" sitting at the next table.

By the time they left, Y/N was leaning heavily on Fred’s arm, her cheeks red from both the alcohol and constant laughter. “I’m not sure if I’m drinking or just inhaling your nonsense,” she said, giggling as George led the way to their next destination.

“Both,” Fred said, grinning. “It’s the Weasley special.”

The Mayflower sat perched along the Thames, its timbered exterior glowing softly under the moonlight. Inside, the pub was dim and atmospheric, with wooden beams overhead and a crackling fireplace in the corner. The walls were adorned with nautical artifacts—old ropes, ship wheels, and faded maps that told stories of seafaring adventures.

“Now this,” Fred said as they stepped in, “is a proper pub. Oldest one along the river. They’ve been serving pints since before America even existed.”

George leaned toward Y/N, his smirk widening. “Feeling patriotic yet?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, laughing as Fred ordered them a round of stout. When the bartender slid a glass her way, she hesitated before taking a cautious sip. The dark, malty brew was rich and intense, and she blinked a few times as the flavor settled. “Wow. This one’s... strong.”

“Strong like us,” George said, flexing his arm dramatically.

“Or our ability to hold our liquor,” Fred added, clinking his glass with hers.

As the stout worked its way through her system, Y/N’s laughter became even freer, her words a little more slurred. She found herself caught up in the cozy atmosphere, watching the flickering firelight dance across the room as the twins bantered back and forth, keeping her in stitches with their antics.

By the time they left the Mayflower, Y/N stumbled slightly as she stepped outside, gripping George’s arm for balance. “You two,” she said, her voice a mix of exasperation and affection, “are going to ruin me.”

Fred grinned, looping an arm around her shoulders. “Ruin you? We’re upgrading you.”

“Cheers to that,” George added, leading the way to their final stop of the night.

The Spaniards Inn, perched on the edge of Hampstead Heath, seemed to glow in the moonlight, its old, crooked exterior oozing charm. Inside, the warmth of a roaring fireplace greeted them, and the scent of mulled cider mingled with the faint smokiness of the wood beams overhead. It was quieter than their earlier stops, with soft murmurs of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses adding to the cozy atmosphere.

Fred led the way to a corner booth, helping Y/N settle into the seat with a dramatic flourish. “Here we are,” he said. “The final chapter of tonight’s adventure.”

George returned moments later, carrying three steaming glasses of mulled cider. “The perfect drink to end the night,” he said, setting one in front of Y/N.

She took a cautious sip, the spicy warmth spreading through her like a comforting hug. “This is amazing,” she murmured, wrapping both hands around the glass as if she could soak up its heat.

“Best in the city,” Fred declared, leaning back in his chair.

As the night wore on, the cider worked its magic, loosening the last of Y/N’s inhibitions. Her laughter came easily, and her cheeks were warm—whether from the fire, the alcohol, or the company, she wasn’t sure. At some point, she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she gazed at Fred and George with wide, glassy eyes.

“You know,” she began, her voice a little too loud and her words slurring slightly, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you two.”

Fred arched an eyebrow, his grin teasing. “Well, you’re not wrong. We are one of a kind.”

“No, I mean it,” she insisted, her hand wobbling slightly as she pointed at them. “You didn’t have to do this, taking me out, showing me around, making me feel... like I belong. But you did. And... and I’m just so grateful.”

George chuckled, leaning on the table to rest his chin in his hand, mirroring her. “Aw, Fred, she’s gone full sap on us. We’ve broken her.”

Fred nodded solemnly, raising his glass. “A masterpiece of our making. To Y/N, the sappiest American in all of London.”

“Stop it!” Y/N cried, though she was laughing as she swatted at him. “I’m being serious. You’ve made everything so much better. I didn’t think I’d find anyone like you here, and... and now I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Fred and George exchanged a look, their grins softening. Fred reached over, giving her hand a light squeeze. “Well, you’re stuck with us now. No refunds.”

George raised his glass with a warm smile. “To Y/N, our new favorite stray kitten.”

“And to the best pub crawl in history,” Fred added, clinking his glass with hers.

Y/N beamed, her eyes misty as she lifted her glass to meet theirs. “To you two,” she said softly. “For being the best.”

Everything after the last pub was a blur. One moment Y/N was laughing uncontrollably with Fred and George in the middle of London, their arms linked as they stumbled down cobblestone streets. The next, she was waking up in an unfamiliar bedroom, her head pounding like a drum and her mouth as dry as parchment.

The midmorning sun poured through the window, mercilessly bright, forcing her to squint as she rolled over. Blinking a few times, she took in her surroundings—wooden beams, mismatched furniture, and a distinct homey clutter that she vaguely recognized. Voices floated up from somewhere below, muffled but distinctly cheerful.

Dragging herself out of bed, she shuffled to the door and twisted the knob, stepping out onto the landing. That’s when it hit her. The hallway, the stairs, the smell of something delicious wafting from the kitchen—she was at the Burrow.

Her foggy mind pieced it together as she descended the stairs, one hand gripping the banister for balance. By the time she reached the living room, three familiar grinning faces were waiting for her, their expressions far too smug for her liking.

“There she is,” Charlie said brightly, stepping forward and thrusting a mug of dark blue liquid into her hands.

Y/N didn’t bother asking questions. Trusting Charlie’s easy smile, she tipped the mug back and downed it in one gulp. The concoction was bitter and slightly fizzy, but as it went down, the pounding in her head began to ease almost immediately. She let out a long sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging as the tension melted away.

“Better?” Fred asked from his spot on the sofa, his head tilted lazily against the armrest as he grinned at her.

“So much better,” Y/N agreed, setting the mug down on a nearby table and giving Charlie a grateful nod.

“We thought we’d killed you last night,” George announced, leaning back in an armchair with a dramatic sigh. “You went down faster than a Quaffle through a goalpost.”

Y/N smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry, I probably should’ve mentioned I’m a bit of a lightweight.”

“A bit?” George repeated, his grin widening. “Lightweight is an understatement. You only had five drinks!”

Y/N shrugged, her smile turning playful. “What can I say? You two are a terrible influence.”

Fred sat up, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Us? A terrible influence? We were nothing but supportive of your pub crawl journey!”

“Supportive?” Y/N laughed, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorway. “You gave me a drink called ‘Dragon’s Breath’ and said, ‘You’ll probably survive.’ That’s not supportive.”

George snorted, shaking his head. “It’s a rite of passage. You should be thanking us.”

“Thanking you?” she echoed, rolling her eyes but unable to stop the grin tugging at her lips.

Charlie chuckled, leaning against the back of a chair. “Well, you survived. That’s what matters. Welcome to the Burrow’s hangover cure services.”

“Much appreciated,” Y/N said, rubbing her temples for good measure before plopping down into an empty chair.

Fred and George exchanged a look, their grins widening. “So,” Fred said slowly, “ready for round two tonight?”

Y/N groaned, throwing a cushion at him. “Not a chance!”

The room erupted into laughter, and as Y/N sank further into the cozy atmosphere of the Burrow, her headache gone and her heart full, she couldn’t help but feel a little grateful for the chaos these Weasleys had brought into her life.