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Diagon Alley has been coming back to life in pieces. Shop by shop, window by window, as if the street itself wasn't sure it wanted to be bright again. Some mornings you can almost forget what the war had done to it—until you pass the boarded windows of Flourish and Blotts, or the ghostly quiet where Florean Fortescue's used to stand.
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes looks whole from the outside with its bright banners, polished glass, and the faint smell of gunpowder and sugar. Inside, it still carries the war in small ways.
Fred favors his right arm, the shoulder stiff where the blast seared through nerves. When the weather turns damp, the scars along his collarbone flare red, and you quietly swap his shirt for a softer one. He hears less out of his right ear now; George's left is half-gone, so between them, they joke they make "one fully functional twin."
You sweep while Fred balances on a ladder, wand clamped between his teeth as he repairs the levitating fireworks charm. George hums off-key in the back room, testing a batch of Fanged Frisbees that hiss every few seconds. Sunlight spills through the windows in warm stripes, catching dust and laughter that hasn't quite learned how to stick again.
When Fred reaches too far, you move on instinct—a small step to his left, finding the side to his left, finding the side where sound still carries without problems.
"Careful," you call up.
He glances toward you with that now familiar half-turn of his head before answering. "You say that like you don't enjoy patching me up."
"Fussing isn't my hobby."
"Could've fooled me."
A loud pop erupts from the back, followed by George's muffled, "I'm fine!" Fred's laugh spills out, real and startled. For a moment it fills the shop, life pushing its way back through the cracks.
When it fades, you're still smiling. Maybe this is what healing looks like. Not spells or miracles, but the quiet restitching of someone's soul through small moments.
You reach for a box of prototype fireworks, wondering if the twins labeled this one properly. You set it on the counter, your wand and a piece of parchment for inventory notes in your hand. You raise a brow at the label "mostly safe."
"Completely harmless," Fred says once he sees your expression. "We simply put it on our older fireworks so we know which is which."
"Ah," you muse. "So it's still hazardous. Have you tested the older ones?"
"'Course I have," he says, then grins. "Just... not indoors."
You open your mouth to reply, and the firework pops.
You stumble back, instinctively throwing an arm up. It's over as quickly as it started—just a flare and a puff of pinkish smoke—but the blast leaves your sleeve singed, the skin beneath your wrist red and stinging.
Fred doesn't move.
The color drains from his face, wand halfway raised. The smell of sulfur hangs heavy, and somewhere in that haze you see the memory hit him.
You say his name quietly.
That's what pulls him back.
He's moving, too fast, his hands catching your wrist before you can protest.
"You're hurt. Merlin, you're—" His voice breaks off. He's scanning for blood, for wounds that don't exist in the now but did back in the castle. His breathing is too shallow.
George appears in the doorway, eyes wide. "What—Fred—"
"She's fine," Fred says, too quickly, still holding your wrist. "She's fine. Right?"
You nod, trying to steady your voice. "I'm fine."
George crosses the room and lays a gentle hand on Fred's shoulder. "Hey. Look at her. She's okay, mate."
Fred meets your eyes slowly. You're close enough to see the tremor in his jaw, the faint seen in his eyes that he'd never want you to acknowledge. His grip loosens by degrees, but he doesn't let go. George notices and quietly summons a tin of burn salve on the counter beside you.
"I'll, uh, go finish inventory," he mutters, leaving the door to the back room open behind him.
You reach for the tin, your hand brushing Fred's as he does the same. He flinches, then exhales.
You try to smile. "Occupational hazard."
He huffs a laugh that doesn't quite make it all the way. "That's my line."
You unscrew the salve, dip your fingers into the cool cream, and he just watches. The burn isn't bad, but his gaze lingers like it might be. When you spread it across your wrist, he catches your hand before you can finish. He turns your wrist in his hand gently.
"You're sure that's it?"
You nod. "Singed, not charred."
He huffs out a breath. "Good. I don't fancy learning how to run the place on my own."
"You'd have George."
Fred glances toward the back room where a faint hum of whirring charms still echo. "Exactly my point."
The grin that follows is small, but you know it's genuine.
"You really should label these better," you say, plucking the cracked shell from the floor.
"Where's the fun in that?"
"The fun," you mutter, "is not catching fire at work."
He snorts, tapping the edge of the broken firework with his wand so it vanishes in a puff of pink smoke. You can tell he's still shaken, but he's trying to move on quickly. "Noted. You're adding that to the safety manual, then?"
"If I thought you'd read it."
The last of the smoke fades. The scent of burnt sugar lingers in the air, and Fred's still close enough that you can see the faint patchwork of scars along his collarbone where the sunlight catches them. It's a small thing—standing there, joking about nearly setting yourself on fire—but it feels like progress, despite the small reactionary episode.
You'll take it.
The shop sighs every now and then, reminding you that even buildings need rest. You close the door behind the last customer, turning to examine shop, which is now cast in gold light that spotlights the half-finished joke boxes and cooling cauldrons.
George leaves after tidying the register, yawning "Don't stay up too late, yeah? And don't blow anything else up."
"Rich, coming from you," you call without looking up from the inventory list.
Fred salutes with mock solemnity. "No promises."
George rolls his eyes and makes his way up the stairs to the flat above the shop, shutting the door behind him.
You're perched on the counter, wand in one hand, absently tracing circles in the layer of soot you never quite managed to clean. Fred's at the workbench, fiddling with the remains of the firework from earlier. He's pretending to study it, but the way he keeps flexing his right shoulder gives him away.
"Still stiff?" you ask.
He doesn't turn, humming distractedly. "Bit."
"Let me see."
"You really do enjoy patching me up."
"Only because you make it necessary."
He chuckles, but he sets the tool down and steps closer, rolling his sleeve up so you can reach his shoulder. The scars are pale in the lamplight, tracing along his collarbone and disappearing beneath the fabric. You press your fingers gently against the muscle, feeling it twitch under your touch.
"Too much lifting?"
"Mm. Occupational hazard."
You snort, tapping your wand gently, easing the muscle with a warming charm. He exhales, sounding more like a content sigh than anything else.
"Better?"
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You don't have to keep healing me, you know." His grin tugs at one corner, gentler than usual. "But I'm not exactly complaining."
You smile, shaking your head. "You'd be hopeless without supervision."
"Tragic, but true."
He leans back in the chair, and you perch on the edge of the workbench. His hand drifts until it brushes yours in a small touch, and you don't move away. You wouldn't dare.
There was a time you thought you'd never feel his touch again, when he was lying on the floor of the castle.
Fred squeezes your fingers and stands, moving to the register. He mutters something about George's handwriting being a crime, and shrinks the day's receipts with a wave of his wand. You watch him move, noting the limp that's starting to show. It only shows when he's tired, and you resist the urge to mother hen him.
You make up for it by casting the protective wards, watching the shimmer cover the space. You never used to do this--barely anyone in Diagon Alley did--but the war changed things. Trust has to be rebuilt, even between friends.
"You should get home," Fred says as you lower your wand. You nod, disabling the wards long enough for the two of you to slip out of the front doors. You reweave them, much to Fred's annoyance, before stepping back.
You start toward the Leaky Cauldron together, steps slow and even. The cobblestones are slick underfoot, the light drizzle making the stones shine. Fred keeps his hands in his pockets, walking close enough that your arms brush.
"I think we had a good day," he says. "We didn't burn the place down. Or lose any limbs."
"High bar."
"Hey, I believe in setting achievable goals."
You laugh quietly, the sound big in the empty alley. The shop fades behind you, still shining purple and red. Neither of you speak the rest of the way, content to bask in the comforting silence each other's presence brings.
When you reach the Leaky Cauldron, he holds the door open for you. Inside, the firelight spills warm against the brick walls. The Floo grate hums quietly, waiting.
You turn to him. "You don't have to walk me every night, you know."
"I know." He grins. "But it gives me time to pretend I'm not completely useless outside of the shop."
"You're not."
He tilts his head, his grin widening. "Careful. Flattery like that might make me walk you all the way home next time."
"Don't threaten me with a good time," you shoot back, a smile tugging at your lips.
He snorts, stepping back so you can reach the hearth. "Go on before I think of another excuse to keep you here."
You step into the green glow of the Floo, feeling the heat against your face. "Goodnight, Fred."
He tips an invisible hat. "G'night, my favorite personal healer."
The flames flare, swallowing you in emerald light.
Outside, the first drops of rain start to fall. Fred watches the hearth for a moment longer before turning back toward the street, the faintest smile still tugging at his mouth.
The flat above the shop smells faintly of smoke and cinnamon tea, the way it always does at this hour. The lights are low, the walls cluttered with blueprints, and there's a half-repaired prototype on the table next to a mug someone forgot to finish.
Fred trues to slip in quietly, wandlight dimmed to a whisper. He takes a few minutes to try and replicate the protective wards you cast, but gives up after he doesn't get the perfect shimmer you do.
George is still awake, slouched in a chair with his feet kicked up, one eye cracked open. "You walk her to the Floo again?"
Fred sighs. "Are you tallying my good deeds, now?"
"Mate, I don't need to." George yawns, stretching like a cat. "You always come back looking like someone told you you're the funniest bloke they'd ever met."
"I am."
"Uh-huh."
Fred shrugs out of his cloak, tossing it onto the arm of the sofa. The shop's constant hum doesn't reach this high. Up here, the quiet is pure, filled only by the creak of wood and the slow patter of rain against the window.
George doesn't let it drop. "You know, I could run the shop for a night. Give you two an evening—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll hex your pillow."
George smirks. "You like her."
Fred looks over, pretending not to. The grin gives him away anyway. "She's a menace."
George laughs, shaking his head. "She's good for you."
Fred rolls his sore shoulder, the one that never quite stops aching, and the only only she's able to ease. "I'm going to bed."
George waggles his fingers. "Night, Lover Boy."
Fred snorts. "Night, pest."
When the door clicks shut, the flat goes still again. Rain traces lines down the window, faint light catching on the shelves. He stands there a moment longer, thinking about the way she'd told him he's not useless like it was the simplest truth in the world.
He smiles, something in him stitching back together, and finally heads to bed.