Unreal

Chp 94 The Weight of Returning

It had been two days.

Two days since Fred kissed me breathless, touched me like he was memorizing every inch. Two days since we got dangerously close to something I still wasn't sure how to name—but I hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. Or him. Or the way I'd whispered don't stop like a secret I didn't know I was keeping.

Part of me hated that we did stop. The other part... well, that part kept replaying every single second like my brain was trying to drive me insane.

But today was the day we returned to Hogwarts, and if I didn't pack my things soon, I'd end up leaving behind half my robes and maybe my dignity.

My room—no, Percy's room—was already nearly bare, save for my trunk sitting open on the floor. The light from the window stretched across the wooden floor in sleepy strips, casting everything in that same golden hue I'd woken up to all week. I stared at the bed one last time, remembering everything that happened—or almost happened—on it, and let out a shaky sigh.

I was going to miss this room. This crooked, slanted, absolutely charming house. The Burrow had wrapped itself around me like a warm sweater I didn't know I needed. And now I had to shrug it off.

My feet dragged a bit as I made my way down the stairs, the old wood creaking beneath me like it didn't want to let me go either. The scent of Molly's cinnamon scones still lingered faintly in the air, mixing with something more herbal—probably one of her weird teas. Soft morning chatter filtered through from the living room, accompanied by the occasional rustle of newspaper.

When I stepped in, Ginny and Hermione were already curled up on the couch, legs crossed, dressed and ready like the model students they were. Hermione looked up and smiled. "Morning, finally."

"Shocking, I know. I'm awake and packed," I said, flopping beside her.

"You feeling alright?" she asked gently, like she could read the fog still clinging to my brain.

I nodded. "Just... tired."

Before she could press, Sirius spoke up from the nearby armchair, one leg crossed over the other as he casually flipped the page of the Daily Prophet. A steaming mug was perched in his hand, looking far too elegant for someone who probably hadn't brushed his hair yet.

"You look like someone who's been having fun dreams," he said, not even looking up.

Hermione nearly choked on her tea. I blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

Sirius peeked over the top of the paper now, eyes twinkling. "Just saying. Bit flushed, dreamy stare. That's not your usual brooding look, so I figured."

I made a strangled noise. "Can we not psychoanalyze me before breakfast?"

"I'm just saying," Sirius said with a smirk. "If you're going to keep looking like you've got secrets, I expect a letter every time something juicy happens at school."

I rolled my eyes, biting back a grin. "Right. I'll owl you every time I think about making a questionable life choice."

"Good. I'll start a scrapbook."

We all lapsed into a kind of peaceful silence after that—me and Hermione on the couch, Sirius still sipping whatever mysterious black liquid he claimed was tea. The waiting stretched, cozy but heavy, like the air was counting down the minutes until goodbye.

Eventually, Molly's voice echoed from upstairs—followed by no response.

She gave it five seconds before marching up the rest of the way herself.

Hermione glanced at me. "Place your bets?"

"Fred blames George, George blames Fred, and Ron pretends he was already dressed," I said immediately.