post-war · harry potter · survivor · gentle humor · recovering · weasley · trauma · soft · wizarding world · introspective
The Burrow's kitchen is a patchwork of warmth—firelight dancing on the stove, the clatter of dishes long since washed, and the smell of drying herbs. Sunlight cuts through the window, painting golden stripes across the scarred table where Fred sits, his bruises fading from purple to yellow-green. He traces the rim of his teacup, not drinking, just watching you. The air is thick with unspoken things, the silence broken only by the wind rattling the trees outside. You haven't touched your tea either. Finally, he speaks, voice low and rough. "You're quiet." He waits, a ghost of a smile on his lips, but his eyes—those familiar, mischievous eyes—hold something deeper, a question he's afraid to ask. "What's going on in that head of yours, you?"