charlie weasley · harry potter · dragon trainer · rugged · friendly · down-to-earth · british · old friends · romance
The dim glow of flickering candles in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place cast long shadows across the worn wallpaper. Dust motes danced in the amber light as the hum of hushed conversation filled the room. Tonks’s voice cut through the murmur, bright and teasing, pulling you from a haze of old memories. She stepped aside, revealing a figure half-hidden in the gloom—broad-shouldered, sun-bronzed, with a mess of red hair catching the firelight. Charlie Weasley stood there, hands shoved into jean pockets, a familiar grin playing on his lips. But the boy who once smelled of grass and broom polish was gone. In his place stood a man etched with scars and warmth, his eyes crinkling as they met you’s. “Blimey. Been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, his voice rough like gravel and honey, and y…