#overweight reader

The first time it really hits him is during training.

You’re sparring with John, all sharp movements and determination, sweat slicking your skin. You’re strong—stronger than you give yourself credit for—and when you manage to flip him onto the mat, the room erupts with whoops and laughter. Someone whistles.

And then you freeze.

Your smile falters. Your hands instinctively tug your shirt away from your body like it’s clinging too close, like it’s betrayed you. Your eyes flick down, shoulders curling inward as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong.

Bucky sees it all in real time.

The pride drains out of you, replaced by something ugly and familiar—shame.

Later, when everyone’s filing out, you overhear it.

You weren’t supposed to.

It’s not even cruel. That’s what hurts the most.

“She’s impressive for someone her size.”

For someone her size.

The words lodge under your skin like shrapnel.

You don’t say anything. You never do. You just swallow it down and pretend your chest doesn’t ache as you grab your bag and leave the gym early. By the time Bucky realizes you’re gone, it’s already too late.

That night, you don’t join everyone for dinner.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re used to it. You tell yourself that Bucky—beautiful, broken, perfect Bucky—could never actually want someone like you anyway.

Why would he?

He looks like he was carved out of marble. You feel like excess.

When he knocks on your door, you almost don’t answer.

Almost.

You’re wearing an oversized hoodie, hair pulled back, no armor between you and the world. When you open the door and see him standing there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he’s nervous, something inside you twists.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t call you on the lie. He never does. Instead, he asks, “Can I come in?”

You step aside.

The silence that follows is heavy. He paces once, then stops in front of you, jaw tight like he’s bracing himself.

“I heard what they said,” he finally says.

Your heart drops.

“Oh.” You shrug, too casual. “It’s nothing. I hear stuff like that all the time.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

You laugh—a sharp, brittle sound. “It’s true, though, Buck. They’re not wrong.”

That’s when he looks at you like you’ve just punched him.

“Don’t,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk about yourself like you’re something to be tolerated.”

You feel your throat burn. “You don’t get it.”

He steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I do,” he says quietly. “You think I don’t see how you flinch when someone looks at you too long? How you apologize for taking up space? You think I don’t hear the way you joke about yourself before anyone else can?”

Your eyes sting. “I’m just being realistic.”

“No,” he snaps, then softens immediately. “You’re being cruel to yourself.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know what it’s like to live in a body people think they’re allowed to comment on. To feel like you have to earn being wanted.”

His voice drops. “I spent seventy years being used like a weapon. I know what it’s like to think your body is the only thing anyone sees.”

That shuts you up.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “The difference is… no one ever taught me I was allowed to want kindness. Or softness. Or someone who looks like you.”

You blink. “What do you mean—someone who looks like me?”

He steps right into your space now, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I mean someone strong,” he says. “Someone who fills a room. Someone warm. Someone real.”

Your voice trembles. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.” His metal hand lifts, hesitant, stopping just short of your waist. “But I won’t touch you unless you want me to.”

You swallow. “Why me?”

His eyes soften. “Because when you smile—when you forget to hide—it feels like coming home.”

The tears come then. Ugly, uncontained. You cover your face, ashamed even of this, but he’s there immediately, arms wrapping around you, holding you like you’re precious instead of fragile.

“You don’t have to be smaller,” he murmurs into your hair. “Not for me. Not ever.”

You cling to him, breathing him in, letting yourself believe—just for a moment—that maybe your body isn’t something to apologize for.

Maybe it’s something to be loved.

You find him by the roadside. You’ve followed his journeys, one of the many mortals you enjoy watching the life of, and now you find him in need of help. His clothes are dirtied, he is sat in a muddy ditch, hair misplaced and blood bleeding from the broken skin of his lip. He is beaten and he is bloody, but not dangerously so. But you are a minor goddess, good for healing little wounds and mending small broken things. 

You don’t answer his questioning calls until you’ve placed a hand on his cheek and the bruises have faded, the cuts stitching themselves back together, the rips in his doublet mending. You doubt he knows what god you are, few do, but his eyes glimmer with recognition as he takes in your form. You are the homeliest looking of the gods, although by mortal standards anything but. Your hips are wide, your stomach soft, your skin is covered in marks and scars from your previous mortal life. Your hair does not shine and your eyes do not glow. You looked as you did in your mortal life, only with something extra, something which mortals could never place a finger on and could never quite describe. It was an essence that let them know you were more than them, something else, something other. For some this bred fear, other’s awe, some comfort, and many curiosity.

“You’re Desara” He lifts himself from his place sitting, only to kneel instead. Blue eyes twinkling up at you, taking in the strands of your hair, the colour of your eyes, the way your dress falls around your body as if purposefully effortless. He tries not to stare, he really does, but he’s never met a god before and you’re...godly, no...otherworldly, effortlessly beautiful, shining like a beacon and, most of all, you look kind. There is a softness in your face that he never expected a god to have, he always imagined there would be glares and glowering, thunderbolts and lightning. He always thought gods were supposed to be frightening.  You were the opposite of what he had imagined, you gave off a feeling of comfort and safety that had his shoulders relaxing without a thought.

“That’s what you mortals call me...I go by Y/N...” You rest your hands on his shoulders and urge him to rise, he towers above you. Another thing he thought impossible. He always imagined the gods doing the towering, but he has to angle his head downwards to look you in the eye. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to look a god in the eye...he’s not sure what godly etiquette is. He’s fully prepared to make a massive faux pas and be struck down with some sort of plague or be crushed under the might of your godly powers. 

“Well, that’s very...”

“It’s a very mundane name, I know. I wasn’t always a goddess, you know?” You say with a small little smile, coy, playful. He shakes his head and swallows hard. He will admit he knows your name, knows that you are a minor goddess, known for little things, but he does not know what little things and he does not know your story or history. He always imagined that Gods were born. That they simply burst into existence or rather they existed and birthed everything else. He’d be lying if he said he was an overly devout man, he’d seen enough to be open minded, but had never been one for leaving offerings at shrines or speaking out prayers and thanks.  

“I was once a farmer’s daughter. I sowed the seeds, I threshed the wheat, I brought in the harvest...and then one day a god came to me and decided to make me a god too. She believed they needed more, believed she could create something more of me. I think she believed I’d become a great one, a powerful one.” You laugh and he thinks it is supposed to sound bitter and humourless, but instead it sounds soft on the breeze like the light strumming of his lute or the sound of birdsong on a spring morning. “So I became Desara, Goddess of the little things, the warmth of a hearth, the feeling of home after a long journey. Goddess of small creatures and little deeds, of jaunty tunes and a noiseless breeze. Goddess of the seed that roots and the weed that dies, Goddess of the daisy chains and flower crowns. Of worms and of rhymes. Of broken noses and split lips. My powers are minor and few pray to me. Mostly, little children who find my rhymes and songs amusing or who wind chains of flowers for their friends. They soon forget, however.”

“A rather impressive list, oh beautiful creature, oh mighty goddess” He is not sure how anyone could forget you. If you consider yourself minor and unimpressive he cannot imagine what the other gods are like, but he finds that he has no interest in finding out.

“Please. Y/N. I do not enjoy being....grovelled too or worshipped. I am so tired, Julian Alfred Pankratz. I have lived so long and so lonely.” 

“If I am to call you Y/N, then please call me Jaskier.” There is a pause before he continues, “Surely you have admirers at your beck and call?” He cannot imagine you without them. Cannot imagine why men and women would not flock to worship at your feet, why they would not revel in the swell of your hips or the softness of your body, the kindness of your face, or the gentle nature of your words. It seemed to him that anyone would be a fool not to admire and worship you. 

“Admirers are not loves. They grovel, they seek, they desire, they want, but they do not wish to truly know or listen or care. What I would give to be mortal again, to live in the moment, to know there is an end. To be loved for myself, a farmer’s daughter and not a goddess.”

“Is there not some way to do so? To become mortal, I mean?” He doesn’t pretend to know much about these sorts of things, that was always Geralt’s area of expertise, but it makes sense to him that anything that is made can be unmade, anything that is fixed can be broken. 

“For all my years, my knowledge of gods and kings, monsters and men is rather limited. If there is, I doubt the other God’s would tell me for fear that in some hateful fury I might make them mortal. Although I tend to avoid them where possible and would much rather leave them to their quibbling and return to a simpler life”

“Your predicament moves me, Y/N...I am humbled in your presence, “ You go to cut him off and chastise but he stops you, “Not because you are a god or some immortal being but because it is clear to me you have a mortal soul longing for what mortals do.  Love.” Perhaps he is flowery with his words, like most bards are, but you decide that he truly means what he says, no matter how poetic it might appear. 

“If you will permit me, I would try to help? I have little knowledge on the subject of Gods, but I know a friend who might know where to look.”

“The Witcher.” He looks surprised, “Us Gods watch, you know. From our skies and our seas and our grasses and our trees. I find you enjoyable in your journeys, Toss a Coin to Your Witcher really was a masterpiece,” 

“-Why thank yo-” You cut off the thanks, not needing thanks for speaking what you feel is the truth. 

“I watch and I know things. He is your friend and you are right, he knows a great deal about my kind and all the tricks to make or break us...do stress that I was not born a god, I was made...and surely what was made can be unmade?” You take a deep breath and humble yourself, kneeling in front of him in a way none of the other gods would,  “I...thank you, Jaskier...I wish to be me again and I no longer wish to be so old and weary and never age. Thank you for trying even if an answer cannot be found.”

“I’ll find an answer. For good or ill. I’ve never had a quest of my own before, a true adventure, and I refuse to fail you, Y/N. I hope I can return your mortality.” You feel a little of your composure slip at the genuine kindness and determination in his voice, at the hopefully gleam in his blue eyes. You blink away what tears have filled your eyes and stand up to lean forward, pressing a thankful kiss to his forehead, gentleness you bestow upon any you can, but rarely with such genuine feeling. 

“Thank you, Jaskier. I will aid in what little ways I can, but I am no greater god, I cannot do much but mend small breaks, and soothe little hurts.” It’s a warning, kindly, but one to remind him that if he needs help greater than you can give then there is little you can do. It would pain you to see one of your favourite mortals perish in an effort to help you, you wanted your mortality, but not at the cost of a life. Perhaps your mortality wasn’t even possible to regain.

Dinner that night was a riotous affair. You, six Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione all crammed in around a table, reaching for the amazing food that Mrs Weasley always made. Shoulders bumped against each other, the volume reaching extraordinary heights, but as you sat there you couldn’t help but smile. This felt right. Being around all these people. So welcome. Watching the way Ginny looked up to Charlie and the way Ron and Harry joke around, while Hermione rolled her eyes at George. You’d often felt alone since Fred’s death, a distance seemed to exist in your mind between yourself and the Weasley’s, a gnawing guilt. While you lived with them there were very few moments like this, one’s where you felt like yourself again. 

As you look around the table with a smile, your eyes catch Charlie’s. A soft, small smile, shy, lifts at the corner of your mouth and you're delighted to say that Charlie smiles more with his eyes than anything else. 

When you go to bed that night you think perhaps it will be a night in which you will fall asleep easily, in which the memories won’t haunt you, in which the guilt that settles like a stone in your stomach will ease...that is a foolish belief you realise rather quickly. Your head rests against your pillow as you stare at the ceiling. 

You toss and you turn, twisting this way and that. You lie on your side for a moment, arm curled beneath your pillow, before flipping onto your back and then your front before going back to your back. You try sleeping with your head at the other end of the bed, maybe you’ll trick your brain that way. It doesn’t work. You try every trick possible, but you just can’t sleep. The frustration is clouded by other thoughts, intrusive ones, the ones you try not to dwell on because you can’t change the past and you can’t bring him back. You don’t have that kind of power, although sometimes you wished you had a time turner, you might go mad, but maybe, in the process you could bring one of your best friend’s back. Maybe you wouldn’t fail him this time. 

You lie there trying desperately to calm your mind, to silence your thoughts, to sleep, for what seems like hours. In truth it can’t have been more than an hour before you decide to just forgo all the tossing and turning and potter downstairs to make a warm cup of something and maybe nab a biscuit or two. 

The Burrow is eerily quiet at this time of night, the lights are out, the stairs creak as you pad down them, and a chill has you grabbing the knitted throw blanket from the living room on your way to the kitchen. There was never a shortage of blankets at the Burrow. Something you could thank Mrs Weasley endlessly for. 

You wrap yourself up as tightly as possible, the blanket a soothing weight across your shoulders, before putting the kettle on the stove. Despite magic being at your disposal, you always preferred to make hot drinks whether coffee, tea, hot chocolate or otherwise, the muggle way. Working with your hands, going through the motions of creating something whether food, drink, art or something else entirely, helped you calm down more often than not. You suppose it was very Hufflepuff of you, doing things the muggle way, doing things the homely way. 

You look up before he’s even at the entrance to the kitchen, you hear the footsteps softly pad down the stairs, the creek of an old floorboard, the quiet shuffling of clothes and a soft sigh of frustration. You didn’t know who you’d expected, Charlie, wasn’t it though. Perhaps Ginny or maybe Ron or even Mrs Weasley. 

The tattooed dragon that had previously been on his neck had moved, as magical tattoos are want to do. It was now laying across the other side of his neck, nearer to his shoulder, barely peeking from his sleep shirt, sleepy and annoyed looking. You wondered if it wanted to sleep but couldn’t because of Charlie’s alertness. You’d never given much thought to wizarding tattoos, but you suppose they must have some sort of personality or thought process or....something. Why else would they move? You supposed that they might work like wizarding portraits, perhaps the dragon had been a real one, its likeness etched into his skin.

His hair is out from the tie it had been in during the day, loose around his face and a sort of bird's nest that screamed ‘i’ve been tossing and turning for a while now’. During the day he’d looked so confident, put together, like everything was okay, but here, in the dark of the kitchen, with only a few little lights to provide a warm glow, he looked haggard. He looked how you felt. 

“Would you like something to drink?” You keep your voice soft. Partly knowing that the walls in the Burrow were thin, not wanting to wake the others, and partly because it didn’t seem right to speak loudly or even speak at your normal volume right now. 

He pauses for a moment, taking in the kettle on the stove that’s begun to whistle quietly, thanks to a well placed muffling charm, the blanket across your shoulders, the bags underneath your eyes. He blinks before nodding his head towards you in confirmation, a small upturn at the corner of his mouth, a polite smile not more and not less. It cannot compete with his earlier bright smile during the day. 

“Tea, please, love.” You grab a tea bag and another mug, making both your own preferred hot drink and his mug of tea. Only stopping to ask if he had sugar in his tea, for him to respond with 3, and you to not comment further despite knowing his mother would probably exclaim that 3 was 2 too many. 

You carefully hand him the mug, not wanting to spill a drop, fingers brushing against his. You note his hands are rougher than most wizards, years of hard work will do that. Most wizards and witches have soft hands, skin that only ever touched a wand. The Weasleys are some of the few you knew who relished in hard work and manual labour, some things magic helped with like chopping vegetables, but other things like collecting eggs or planting fruit in the garden seemed to them more suited to their hands. Like you they seemed to enjoy the calming nature of going through the steps, of grounding yourself with the world around you. 

You sip at your drink and study the grooves in the table, the different grains of wood, the stains and the marks. Some you know the story of. Like the burn that was caused by Ginny playing with Arthur’s wand at the age of 5. Others are the sorts of stains and marks that come from a family using it every day, from children playing and drawing and existing. 

Charlie clears his throat and you lift your eyes to his, he looks a little sheepish, “Sorry, if this is a bit...if you don’t want to talk, but can I ask why you’re not in bed?” 

The truth is that you’ve barely known Charlie a couple of days and perhaps normally you’d be reluctant to talk about anything personal, about nightmares or your guilt or your feelings. But, Charlie isn’t a complete stranger. He’s a Weasley and there has never been a Weasley you couldn’t talk to, even Percy who could be and had been an arse in the past. Even when he wasn’t around, the other’s talked about Charlie, their darling boy or their amazing brother. If you knew one Weasley you inevitably felt like you knew the rest even if you’d never met. Maybe it was that he was a Weasley, that he was Fred’s cool older brother, or maybe it was that you were lonely and fed up of hiding it all...that you knew him the least and it seemed easier to talk to someone who’d understand and yet didn’t know you well enough to push too far. Or maybe it was just that Charlie Weasley had one of those faces that made you want to talk. 

“I...I struggle to sleep these days. I’ve struggled to sleep since the battle to be honest...if it's not tossing and turning then it’s nightmares. When the lights go out the thoughts come out...”

“From what I heard you did alright. You helped people, you got a few death eaters along the way...” There was an unspoken question, ‘what do you have to be haunted about? What did you do? or what did you not do?’

“Yeah....I helped some people, used my healer training to my advantage and sure I got a few stunning spells in, but I....I couldn’t save the one person that really mattered. I couldn’t....” You breathe in a shaky breath and can already feel the tears welling in your eyes at the thought of him. A hand reaches across the table and covers your own. It’s a comforting gesture, it reminds you that you’re safe here.

“I couldn’t save Fred...I tried, y’know, I even tried muggle methods, I thought maybe if magic wouldn’t help, muggle medicine might...I thought if I could just get him breathing again he’d be okay. It would all be okay...I” You close your eyes hard, feeling the press of your lids together, the wetness welling at the corners, “It’s my fault...I don’t even know why your parents let me stay...how any of you can even look at me...if I had been a better healer, or better at defence, then Fred might still be here.”

“You can’t seriously believe that?”

You lift your eyes to his, his eyebrows are furrowed, twisted down, mouth set in a frown. “I should have been able to save him. I have helped so many people. I have stopped so many people from dying...but I couldn’t save him.” You avert your eyes, his stare feels too intense, too much.

“You’re not to blame, look at me,” He squeezes your hand, firmly, but still gentle. The other reaches forward, a finger underneath your chin to lift your face as he brings your gaze back to his and leans ever forward as if all he wants is for you to truly listen and truly believe. “You didn’t kill Fred. You didn’t cause his death. No one can bring someone back from the dead..there was nothing you or anyone else could do. Rookwood was to blame. Voldemort and his followers were to blame. Not you.” 

“Then why do I feel like I am? Like I should have done better?”

“Because we all do. Do you think Percy doesn’t blame himself? Like maybe if he’d not made a joke, not distracted Fred, he’d still be here? Do you think George doesn’t think he could have protected his own twin better? Me? I wish I'd bloody been right there, right next to him. I wish I did more and I feel the guilt of not doing more each day...We all feel like we failed him. You don’t feel guilty because you did something wrong, you feel guilty because he was your friend and you’re a good person. Good people always want to do better, even if it's not possible, love.”

“How do you do it? How do you keep going?” It feels impossible some days, the idea that you shouldn’t feel guilty or sad or angry or hurt. Some days you almost forget that he’s not here, you see George and go to ask after Fred, you think of a joke and think that you should go tell him...Some days simply getting out of bed seems impossible.

“I let it go. You can’t live in the past or else you’ll forget the present, and never look to the future. That’s what we were fighting for. That’s what Fred was fighting for, a better future. I chose to stop punishing myself for what I did or did not do because my brother would feed me a canary cream if he heard me blaming myself.”

You let out a sharp laugh, quick, unexpected even for you, and it's true. Fred wouldn’t stand for it, he wouldn’t stand for anyone blaming themselves, he’d tell you to buck up and crack a few jokes, stop hurting yourself. He was like that. Whenever he found you squirrelled away behind a tapestry, sad and crying, he always found a way to make you smile. His life’s work was getting people to smile.

“...Thank you. I know it’s not going to get better over night, but...maybe it’s time to try and stop dwelling in the past.” You stare into your empty mug for a second before rising to place it beside the sink. He’s still drinking his tea, and you, realise this whole time you hadn’t asked him why he wasn’t asleep.

“Why...why aren’t you asleep, Charlie?” You lean back against the counter to watch him, the blanket slipping off of your shoulders slightly. 

“I...I have a few old injuries that keep me up sometimes. Mostly my back, the scars I have ache a lot...but I...I sleep best on my back so...” 

It surprises that his lack of sleep was something that seemed so fixable to you, but you often had to remind yourself that most witches and wizards struggled with even basic healing charms and didn’t think in the same way that you did. Healing was a skill and knowing the right solution to a problem took both natural intuition and training.

“Do you...have you ever learnt lenio?” You move closer to him, throwing the blanket off of your shoulders and onto the back of your chair. Each step shows your healer nature as you itch to get closer and have a look at the problem, to solve it like you do every day of the week. 

“Uh, I’ve never heard of it?”

“Oh...I suppose you’re probably used to being given potions for pain, they usually last longer, don’t rely on the witch or wizard’s will power. It’s a...a pain relief spell, it works on a great deal. I...Hermione’s scar hurts a lot so I taught her it, but her scar’s easy for her access...you could always see me before you go to sleep each night and I can administer it. It’s considered outdated because of potions but I find that it’s most effective for scarring or pains that distract or make you unfocused and people don’t get as reliant.”

“Does...does it last awhile?”

“It varies on the caster’s strength of thought, I typically find when I cast it it lasts anywhere between 12 hours to a day, some people it can last minutes. Hermione manages to make it last around 8 hours. It’s why it fell out of fashion, not a lot of wizards or witches have the aptitude for it.” Potions had become easier. Easier to make. Easier to administer and more predictable when duration was involved. But, pain relief potions could be addictive and you always found yourself leaning towards charms and spells over potions, where possible. 

“Before you...before you go to bed could you cast it? I’d really like to get some sleep, love.”

Nod with a small smile, easing the tension in Charlie’s shoulders just that little bit. That famous bedside manner of yours pushing its way to the surface. 

“You said it was your back?” You ask as you reach for your wand in the waistband of your pyjama shorts. He nods at you, “First year on the reserve a Hungarian Horntail decided he didn’t like me very much...never told mum.” You let out a little laugh at that, the thought of Mrs Weasley’s reaction was rather comical in your mind. While she could be fearsome, she was also known for her over the top and sometimes melodramatic responses. 

You understand why he chose not to tell her. Mrs Weasley could be overbearing in her protectiveness and you’re sure she would never have let him work on the reserve again, no matter how much he loved it. “Could you...um, disrobe for me.” You ignore the nerves in your stomach and try to get into the healer mindset, you’ve seen plenty of patients wear even less and it was never a problem before. You weren’t going to let Charlie Weasley taking his shirt off get to you. You’d seen him without it early that day and surely he couldn’t affect you quite so much the second time.

Or that’s what you told yourself before you found yourself gazing at him a little too long. Truth was Charlie was an attractive man, even fully dressed and the beauty of his torso was not diminished by you having seen it previously. Up close you noticed things that you hadn’t earlier in the day. Scars of various types caught your eye, a few bite marks you recognised well as various types of dragon, scratches, burn marks, his body told the story of a dragon keeper who had known pain and yet still enjoyed his job. He was covered in freckles head to toe, or at least what you could see of his body, and red hair that criss crossed his arms and his chest. The dragon had moved from his shoulder and neck area, stalking its way across his left ribs, breathing little spouts of fire.

You cleared your throat and gestured for him to turn his back towards you. You could see it was covered in scars, a large portion was burn scarring, but there were claw marks too. You placed a hand gently on the top of his shoulder and gently pushed him forward so that you could get a better look. Your other hand softly trailed over the skin, examining the depths of the scars, making an assessment of what sort of scarring it was. “These were healed poorly, did you not go to the reserve healer?” You could tell they could have been healed better, they would have left a mark certainly, but with less pain you were sure. It was, in truth, a rather shoddy job. 

“Oh, I went...he’s just not very good.” You scoff, not very good was an understatement and you wrecked your brain for anyway you could fix the damage done. You’d never seen wounds healed so poorly or such extensive scarring caused by magical healing, you think that they might have healed better on their own.  

“This was about nine years ago, correct?” You watch the back of Charlie’s head move up and down in a nod, “He used a mending charm.” You scoff, irritation strong within you.

“Is that wrong?”

“They’re meant for objects not people, it’s why you have so much scarring, why it hurts...I just wonder...I wonder if...I know you just wanted me to do a quick lenio, Charlie...but I’d like to try something, I have absolutely no idea if any of the spells I know will work, but I might be able to permanently reduce the pain, and the damage.”

“You couldn’t do that with Hermione?”

“Her scar is the product of dark magic...that’s...we’re still trying to figure out how to undo that sort of injury, but this is normal in comparison. I could make it worse or I could make it better or it could do nothing...”

“Love,” he looks over his shoulder at you, eyes surprisingly full of mirth, “I doubt you could make it worse, give it your best shot.” 

You think through all the healing spells you know and you contemplate the nature of this. It isn’t an open wound or a broken bone, but it is damaged flesh, scar tissue so mangled it hurts and you think deep about your time at St Mungo’s, the many healer’s you’ve known and learnt from and you think of your own experience creating spells, melding your wants, desires, outcomes, into a single word, a single channel for your magic. You use his confidence in you and your desire to see his pain reduced or undone as a force behind the words that leave your mouth without even thinking and the almost natural movement of your wand. 

“Renovare” It’s not a spell you know and yet, as you speak the words and channel your magic through your wand, you know what it does and you know what it’s purpose is. Renew. To fix what isn’t wounded, but is damaged, to heal what has been healed poorly. You watch delicate streams of pearlescent light, flickering between white and pink and teal, fall over the scars and break them apart delicately before rehealing wounds. You hear Charlie hiss and squeeze his shoulder in reassurance that everything is working the way it should and that you’re sorry it hurts. The scars that are left behind are less angry, closer to the skin, and less like knotted damaged tissue. Perhaps had you been there when it happened, there would be no scars at all, but unmending and re-mending a wound is not so perfect or simple. You have the presence of mind to realise this is a new spell, of your own creation, and that you should write all of this down before you go to sleep tonight. This spell could be a breakthrough for wizarding medicine, at least where angry scars that cause pain are concerned. You’re so focused on fixing his pain that this realisation doesn’t bring you the pride it should, after all, not many witches or wizards could simply create a spell.

There’s something satisfying about watching the process, the breaking open of skin and the regrowth of new. The new scars looking as you’d want them to be, knowing that you have fixed the work of a poor healer and hopefully, in the process, stopped the pain that causes Charlie’s lack of sleep. 

You run your hand over the new scars once you’re done, checking the thickness of the scar tissue, his dragon has moved to his back now, curiously dancing around your fingers, nipping as if it could catch them. You get the feeling that it is grateful for your work. “Does it hurt at all? or...at least is the pain lesser?”

“It’s...it’s sore, like i’ve just come off the quidditch pitch, but it doesn’t hurt. Not like it used to.”

“Mmm...,” you continue your observations for a while, asking more questions about how it feels as you go, “I suspect the soreness will go, I have just broken your scars open and re-healed them...they look better, proper healing work, none of that bollocks from before.” You find your patience for bad healers always to be quite small, healing was serious business, people’s lives, their feelings were at risk and bad healers, in your opinion, simply shouldn’t exist. 

“I...thank you for letting me try I...”

“I’ve never heard that spell before.”

“That’s because I just created it.” He looks at you as you expect, surprised and a little bit in awe. Most wizards and witches can’t just make their own spells, you know this, but your experience with Fred and George had taught you a few things. The two of them had always innately created their own charms and potions, and they taught you how it should feel, how to focus, how to think, how to tap into that part of yourself that was purely magic, that knew without words what it could and wanted to do. 

“That’s...impressive.”

“Your brothers’, they’re...they were...George and Fred have always...” You sigh in frustration, it is so hard to find the right tense now. George is here and Fred is not, but they're a pair, not individuals and it feels wrong to...to leave one out. He’s patient with you, soft eyes, a reassuring smile as a hand reaches for yours and gives a quick squeeze. “When we were in school, the twins just knew how to make their own spells...all their products are their own work and creation...they taught me how to...how to tap into that part of me, the part that knows what to do. I’ve not done it in years, I've not had need to...I just knew what I wanted to happen and I let myself guide me.” You smile at him softly, round cheeks pushing upwards with your smile. His eyes are darting curiously across your face as if seeking out the answer to some question only he knew. 

There’s a look of surprise behind the curiosity. You can see it, that he never fully realised just how brilliant his brothers’ were. Most of the people who meet...met the twins underestimated their abilities, but they were brilliant. Sometimes you just have to look past the laughter, the jokes and the ostentatious colours. 

“Thank you...thank you for this,” He gestures to his back, “and thank you for teaching me something about the twins that I...that I failed to realise myself. We’ve always undervalued them, I love them...loved...but, even I saw them as jokers and never...never realise the work they put in.”

“Brilliant, that’s how I describe them. Insane. Terribly immature at times. Quick to anger, like most Weasleys, but brilliant and kind...” You look off into the distance, eyes losing focus for a second, “have I told...has anyone told you how I became friends with the twins?”

“I always assumed they just wouldn’t leave you alone,” It’s a cheeky smile that makes you laugh, “that would be rather like them.” You lean against the table, thick thigh pressing lightly against the outside of his knee as you think back on how you met the twins. 

“In truth...it’s not a wholly happy story. But it’s not entirely sad either, meeting them was the best thing that ever happened to me. They gave me friendship, companionship, knowledge, protection, and family. They gave me a wizarding family that would always support me and I don’t think at the age of eleven I truly understood the importance that your family would play in my life. Now, I couldn’t live without them.” You turn your eyes on him with a soft smile. 

“We have a way about us...Weasley’s collect people, I think. We’re never happy alone, we like a full house, we like fighting over a bathroom in the morning and cramming around the table. Mum loves adding people to the family, and I'm sure the moment she met you she knew you’d be the newest addition.” You smile at that. You wonder if a Weasley could ever truly be happy alone. While Charlie lived away from his family, you were sure, judging by his little smile, that the distance was hard on him and that he probably surrounded himself with friends and colleagues to feel that familiarity. 

“It was my first year and I was crying…” You look up at the ceiling, the wood beams that cross it, the hanging pots and drying herbs. “I was behind the tapestry on the 5th floor...there’s this little room behind it and I found it by accident, I’m rather clumsy,” You laugh and look back at him. It startles you a little to realise you have his undivided attention, but it also pleases you, to know that he’s listening, that he values what you have to say even if it's just a silly little story. 

“I was bawling really, none of that quiet dainty crying. It was rather horrible actually...they must have heard, said I sounded like Moaning Myrtle which just upset me more...they sat beside and they asked ‘what’s happened? Who do we need to prank?’' It was ever so Fred and George even back when you were all just eleven. Their solution to a problem was often either pranking the person responsible or starting a fight with them. The latter was your least favourite of the two.

“Sounds like them, although I wouldn't have been surprised if they offered to throw a few punches...we have hot tempers.”

“You seem awfully mild mannered for a Weasley to me?” It was true, Charlie and Bill both seemed like two calm individuals, at least compared to Ginny or Ron or even Mrs Weasley. All of whom were known for their explosive, passionate tempers. 

“Well, love, you’ve never seen me nearly tear the Ravenclaw quidditch captain a new one after a blatant display of cobbing...Although, i’m definitely less fiery than Ginny. She scares me a little sometimes.”

“She is prone to bouts of violence,” You love it about her though, her quickness to defend others, her bravery. If there ever was a Gryffindor it certainly was Ginevra. “Either way, they offered pranking services rather than violence...good move on their part, I suspect I would have been terrified of them had they offered to break someone’s nose…”

“So who or what made you cry? Homesick?”

“No...I mean, I was homesick, but that wasn’t what had me crying behind that tapestry...it was boys actually. They’d been picking on me, all years, all ages, all houses, for the first few weeks of my life at Hogwarts. Sometimes it was my hair...and other times it was my teeth, sometimes it was the fact I was muggle born...but mostly, it was that I was fat,” You see he rearing up to say something at the word, but you stop him before he can speak, “I am fat. Charlie, that’s not an insult to me, I can be a million wonderful things, and fat is just a descriptor. I am fat and a hufflepuff and I am pretty and I am brave and I am terribly dedicated to my work. But back then...the way they used it. That was an insult. I was fat, I was a whale, a pig, or some other creature they could demean me with. They said I was ugly and unworthy and ‘who’d want to date you?’...I wasn’t even old enough to care about dating, but they made me feel like I was unlovable...and then your brothers came along.”

You smile at him, at the hand he’s placed on your knee in reassurance, the hand that doesn’t stay there too long out of respect for you. He’s listening now, truly, there is no desire to butt in, to interject, because he realises that you do not unjustly hate your body. You are simply telling a story. “After that they never let anyone say a bad word about me...they protected me and I protected them too...you’ve not seen a thing until you’ve seen a hufflepuff fly at Draco Malfoy with the intent to maim.” You quirk a lip thinking of all the times you’d nearly hurt the boy, he was better now, you could have a civil conversation, but Merlin, he’d been terrible in school.

“Should I worry for my personal safety?” Charlie laughs, leaning back away from you as if you might attack at any moment, but it is all play and it makes you chuckle. “I think you’re safe, dragon boy…”

There’s a comfortable silence in which your leg pressed against Charlie’s as you leant against the table, Charlie leaning back in his chair. It’s the sort of silence that feels like companionship, there is no pressure in your chest to speak, no feeling that the silence was wrong, no strange buzzing in your chest. 

“I’m glad they looked out for you...you deserve to have people who look after you the way you look after them.”

“You...you barely know me.” You look at him through your lashes, feeling shy, bashful at the kind words. He just gives you a stunningly soft smile, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“True, but in the short time I have known you you’ve been nothing but kind, caring, and you even invented a spell simply to help me. Love, that says more than anything else about you. You care about people...and people should care about you too.” The tenderness should scare you, intimidate you, instead it makes warmth blossom in your chest and happy tears well in your eyes because no one has ever said something so kind. Even when you doubt how useful you are, even with the guilt, it means so much to hear someone acknowledge the kindness you give, the care you provide, and not take it for granted. It is this that makes you realise how desperately you want to keep Charlie Weasley in your life, even simply as a friend because he cares so deeply about people and because he doesn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed to share those thoughts or feelings that would matter most to a person. 

June was looking to be surprisingly warm in England and with that in mind you forwent the usual woollen jumpers of the Weasley clan and instead reached for your summer clothes that had been sat in the back of the wardrobe for many months. Pulling on a pair of denim shorts, the only pair that you’d managed to get to fit given your wide hips (unlike other denim shorts they didn’t gape at the waist much to your joy), and a vest top, before shoving your feet in your worn trainers. Running a brush through your hair you contemplated the changes you’d gone through since Hogwarts.

You were still a large woman, wide hips, soft stomach, big arms, fat rolls, a soft looking face, thick thighs. But, the self-consciousness you’d held during school was almost nonexistent. The energy you used to have was somewhat diminished, you usually had dark circles under your eyes, and a tired sort of look. Your hair was finally how you’d always wanted it, your parents no longer allowed to tell you off for cutting it this way or that or dying it this colour or the other. (Not that changing your hair was particularly hard when you had magic at your disposal). You looked older, that was certainly true, the youthful look had gone slightly and while you still looked young, you certainly looked like the adult that you were. You hadn’t grown any taller since school and for the most part you thought you looked rather the same, just with more confidence in yourself, a generous helping of trauma and heartache and a few years added on. 

Returning the brush to the dresser underneath your mirror, you decided it was probably time to make your way to the little patch of vegetables and fruits that you were charged with watering. 

There was something relaxing about gardening at the Burrow, it took your mind off the war that had been and instead allowed you to ground yourself. The sounds of the birds in the trees, the feel of the warm sun on your skin, the soil beneath your hands and knees. It involved a multitude of sensations which helped focus you, helped you smile, even briefly and reminded you that somethings don’t change. Despite everything the earth was still the same, the birds still sang their songs, the sun still decided to shine. While you had all changed and all been touched, some things were constant. 

You watched George swing a gnome wildly as you filled a watering can, Ron was nearby being bitten by a gnome. Aguamenti came in handy, quickly filling the can. The vegetables were doing well already, despite needing a little weeding and a little watering, the plants looked healthy. You were sure that Mrs Weasley had some sort of secret trick to making them grow so well and so effortlessly.

You started weeding first, despite the warm sun bearing down on you. You found yourself wiping your brow of sweat every few minutes and your skin felt like it was covered in a thin layer of moisture. But, still you persisted. Until you heard George swear loudly. This swearing prompted a series of events which completely distracted you from your gardening. This series of events went something like this; George swore (something about Merlin’s saggy balls), you promptly looked up to make sure he hadn’t been seriously hurt to find he had just been lightly kicked in the shin by a gnome, at the sound of laughter your eyes moved from George to Charlie...and there in laid your distraction.

As has previously been said Charlie Weasley was an incredibly attractive man, but more so when he was shirtless, standing in the sun, with a large smile on his face. It was a beautiful sight. Charlie’s smile was on its own something that made you feel warm inside, like things were okay because he was smiling. But, dear merlin, were you a woman with certain feelings. Charlie was broad shouldered and beautiful, genuinely beautiful.  The magical tattoos that moved across his skin of their own accord, the heavy layer of freckles. The scars that littered his body didn’t detract from the sheer beauty of Charlie, if anything it added to it.They made you more aware of just how resilient and strong Charlie was. You wondered if he could pick you up with those strong arms, what it would be like to be carried by Charlie or simply to be held by him. He looked warm and safe...and delicious. You sighed wistfully as you watched him degnome the garden, your weeding and watering long forgotten.

“You can’t be serious.” You jump with a little squeak (or rather a loud shout) as Ginny pops up right behind you and interrupts your day dreaming. George and Charlie look over at you, from your place in the dirt where you’d fallen in shock, but seemed to decide that you were okay. With a light laugh at your expense they returned to degnoming.

“Ginny!” You hiss at her, “Don’t scare me like that!” You loved the girl dearly, but she knew you were easily scared. Especially after the war. It had heightened your anxiety and hyper awareness.

“I wouldn’t have scared you if you hadn’t been drooling over my brother.” She teases, sitting down next to you in the dirt, “Besides, mum asked me to come help you...I think she noticed you were distracted.”

“Please tell me she didn’t...she’ll be insufferable.” You look towards the Burrow, worried you might see Mrs Weasley eagerly watching you. 

“So you don’t want to date my brother?”

“I...I find him pleasant to look at...is all.” That was a lie and the both of you knew it. You would happily date Charlie Weasley. Not only was he physically very attractive, but he was funny and seemed kind and invested in his career. You just had reservations...after all he worked and lived in Romania and if it all went terribly wrong what would happen with your extended family? Would you no longer be able to spend time with the Weasley’s? What if he wasn’t interested and you simply made everything terribly awkward?

“You know there’s no harm in liking someone, right? It’s not going to kill you to admit you’re attracted to him.”

“It’s more than that, Ginny. It’s more complicated. There’s a million other factors to take into account. We’re not kids in school, Gin...we’re adults and we have our own lives and that’s not even taking into account that just because I think Charlie is handsome doesn’t mean he’s interested in me in the slightest!” You pick at the stones in the vegetable patch, throwing them away, just to give your hands something to do. You can feel the embarrassment rising in you at talking about this with his own sister, your friend. 

“Piss off! As if he wouldn’t be!” 

“Gin, this is the brother that I have been told on numerous occasions will probably remain a bachelor forever. Why would he be interested? I’m a bit of a mess...” Charlie had always been portrayed as a lone wolf, the least likely Weasley to get married, and most likely to die a bachelor. It was hard to imagine he’d suddenly take an interest in a relationship just because you were there. 

“We all are. The war did a number on most of us...but you’re amazing and I know my brother. If he’s not already interested, he will be.” She bumps your shoulder with her own and for a moment she seems like the older one, the wise one...not you. 

The two of you work together on the vegetable patch, talking about other things such as Harry and whether he’ll propose before Ginny does and her contract with the Holly Head Harpies. It’s nice, you think, as you take in a deep breath of fresh air before a cold wet feeling falls over you and you gasp in shock. 

Your hair is dripping, you blink water away from your eyes, your clothing soaked as you look up to see a now empty bucket hovering above your head and a laughing George Weasley doubled over nearby. With a battle cry you run at your best friend and tackle him to the ground, grabbing your wand you cast aguamenti and a stream of water hits him straight in the face. It doesn’t take him long to throw you off and run away, but you watch as Ginny chases after him. Ron is watching with a gnome attached to his leg, his attempts to shake the little thing off don’t seem to be working. In all this excitement you forget that another Weasley was also present...that is until two arms wrap around your thick waist and pull you off the ground.

You barely have enough time to yell “Charlie!” Before a stream of water hits your face. You try not to laugh, lest you choke on the water, but it's hard to do so. Something about this whole situation just seems hilarious to you. Maybe it's your pitiful attempts to get free, not that you were trying especially hard, or maybe it's that it feels like it used to. Like things weren’t different. Like you were all still kids not war weary adults. 

“Charlie!” You push away from him, managing to break free and immediately turn on him wand raised. 

This water fight between you, Charlie, George, and Ginny, with the occasional complaint from Ron as he gets sprayed by water, continued until Mrs Weasley came out of the Burrow.

“Look at the lot of you! Inside, you best get dry and changed before you catch your death!” 

You laugh lightly at the concern on Molly’s face as she ushers you all in with a tea towel in hand, most likely having been making lunch when she saw the lot of you soaked to the bone. 

You look up at Charlie as he bumps your shoulder lightly and smiles down at you as he passes. You sigh lightly as he walks in front of you. It would be rather nice you think...to be Charlie’s girlfriend. Rather nice indeed. 

After the war you’d found it harder and harder to spend long periods of time with your family. Not only were you working and living within a magical world that they were not a part of, but they didn’t know of the war or understand the true trauma of the experience for you and most of the wizarding community. You’d lost one of your best friends...Fred wasn’t coming back and your family had no idea that any of it even occurred. You’d seen your own friend alive one minute, and dead the next. Nothing could quite compare to the feeling, like choking on your own breath. Like drowning.

As a result you not only lived with the Weasley’s, Molly protesting whenever you tried to pay her money (you had Bill help you put some into their vault anyway, feeling the need to give them something for their kindness), but spent most of your holidays there as well, rarely returning home for Christmas, Easter, or the summer time. As much as you loved your family you struggled to be around them and they didn’t understand you either. 

In your grief you’d found that helping others made it easier, or at least helped you forget the feelings of guilt and grief that sat so heavy in your stomach. Helping George get back on his feet, helping Lee get his enthusiasm back, helping Mrs Weasley with dinner and around the house, helping everyone just seemed to make it easier to handle. That and working relatively long hours as a healer at St. Mungo’s often took your mind off of the war and what had been lost. You often chose to hide your feelings from the war behind Hufflepuff cheer. But, sometimes you wished someone would notice. You didn’t blame them for not, everyone had their own problems, your remaining best friends most of all. Grief and running a business took much attention. 

You woke up that Saturday morning fully aware that you should get out of bed, but that you didn’t want to. It wasn’t a particularly important Saturday, no plans had been made, no work to be done, no visitors expected. Yet, it would turn out to be a Saturday that completely changed your whole life. 

Since moving into the Burrow, 2 years prior, you had been staying in Fred and George’s old room, seeing as George lived above the Flat. You had spent the first few weeks simply making sure the room was safe, the twins had left many pranks around their room, but also all sorts of potion ingredients. You’d packed everything up and taken it to the Flat...It had been hard, going through all their childhood things with George. Hard for you, but harder for George. Years on and George was doing better, but you knew he still didn’t feel complete, like something was missing. But he slept better, stopped having nightmares, and generally seemed to have some of his old cheer back. It helped that Angelina was there for him as well. He was moving on and growing happier each day. 

The few things that you had been given by the Weasley family included clothes. At first it had been odd, being given some of Bill or Charlie or George’s old clothes to wear to bed or around the house. But, that had gone away quite quickly considering the oversized quidditch jerseys, jumpers, and shirts, were incredibly comfortable. Bill’s fit most snug, being a plump woman, with wide hips and a stomach, and Bill being one of the lankier of the Weasley’s. George and Charlie’s clothes fit much larger on you, however, seeing as they were some of the broader, stockier Weasley’s. It still surprised you that Charlie had been a seeker and not a beater.

The night previous you’d gone to bed in Charlie’s old quidditch jersey and a pair of pajama trousers with little snitches on, that had previously belonged to George. The trousers were much too long on you, covering your feet, and the Jersey while it clung to your hips was loose in every other aspect. It was a pairing that you enjoyed simply for its comfort. It was not something the Weasley’s even blinked at or questioned, after all you’d been gifted the clothes and had been wearing them for the last few years. So you hadn’t really thought twice, as you stumbled out of bed, feet hitting the powder stained floor, about going to breakfast as you were. 

You yawned loudly, covering your mouth with your hand, as you walked into the kitchen, not really taking in which Weasley’s were at the table, being much too tired to do so. 

“Morning” You sighed out as you grabbed a plate and collected your breakfast, Mrs Weasley having already placed dishes of eggs, toast, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, and sausages out on the dining table. 

“Good morning, dear!” Mrs Weasley called back, followed by a variety of familiar Weasley voices, and one that you did not recognise, that gave you pause. 

You wouldn’t say you were mortified to look up from your breakfast and realise that Charlie Weasley, the very attractive Charlie Weasley, was sitting in front of you, with an amused half smile and a raised eyebrow. But, you certainly were mildly embarrassed, simply because you were not exactly dressed for introductions and you were almost certain that you had a million knots in your hair. 

“Uh, hello...” You wave awkwardly, a little stinted, with an embarrassed smile. 

“Hello, love. I see mum finally gave away my jersey” You’re certain that Charlie is trying not to laugh, although you don’t feel hurt by this fact. Much like the rest of the Weasley’s Charlie comes across as laughing with you rather than at you. 

“I can...you can have it back, I...”

“It’s alright, looks better on you than it does on me. Might be a tad small for me now actually.” You relax at his easy going manner about it. You were sure it would be a little weird for the second oldest Weasley to finally meet someone while said someone was wearing his clothes. But, apparently not. 

“Y/N, right? I don’t think we’ve properly met?”

It had been two years since you’d last seen Charlie Weasley, that had been at Fred’s funeral and you’d not really taken much notice of him at the time. You had been, naturally, more concerned with and consumed by your own grief and the proceedings before you. 

You’d forgotten how handsome Charlie was. With broad shoulders and deep red hair, pulled back into a ponytail. Charlie was by far the most freckled of the Weasley’s with dense freckles across his face and sharp jaw, down his neck, and over his arms. The last time you’d seen Charlie he’d been dressed in a full suit, covered head to toe, the time before that he’d been a teenager, now you realised that he had a tattoo that you had never previously seen. It was a beautiful tattoo, a welsh green on his neck that twisted its head and puffed smoke from its nostrils. 

“We haven’t, just crossed paths, here and there. Surprising, really.”

“Considering you are not only friends with my brothers...” he pauses just a moment, before correcting himself, “brother, and have been living here, yeah, just a little surprising. Hufflepuff, right?”

“Yeah, managed to make Head Girl in the end, much to...much to Fred and George’s delight.” It was still odd wanting to mention them both, but realising that one of them wasn’t around anymore. But, it was true, Fred and George had teased you for weeks, over the fact that you, best friend to the biggest pranksters at Hogwarts, managed to make Head Girl. “Are you still working at the reserve in Romania?” 

“Yeah, thought I'd be head keeper by now...but...”

“Bad boss?” 

“He’s not bad, but we don’t see eye to eye when it comes to the dragons.” You raise an eyebrow, curious for him to continue. You’d never really been especially good at Care of Magical Creatures but that didn’t mean it wasn’t fascinating to you. “He wants to commercialise the reserve, make it a place people can come visit rather than a place for us to keep the dragons from the Muggles. Daft really, dragons’ll sooner eat a bunch of tourists than sit pretty for them.” 

“The reserves aren’t supposed to be tourist attractions though...why would...surely that’s dangerous and also not exactly fair on the dragons?”

“Oh, it’s definitely dangerous, it takes multiple keepers to restrain a dragon and the dragons aren’t exactly in cages on the reserve like a muggle zoo. Luckily he hasn’t gone through with the idea...yet.” He frowns in a way that tells you he suspects it’ll happen anyway and his tone suggests irritation with the situation. You’re sure for someone who loves dragons so much and wants them to be kept away from muggles and left to their own devices, it must be terribly frustrating. 

There’s a beat of silence as you continue eating. You feel a little awkward, although that certainly isn’t Charlie’s fault. It’s made worse by the sensation of Mrs Weasley’s eyes on the two of you. You were more than aware that Mrs Weasley’s one goal in life since the war had been to marry off each of her children, you included in that. Ginny had since been dating Harry, Ron was with Hermione, George was with Angelina, Bill was already married and Percy...you weren’t sure about Percy.  But, that left Charlie as the oldest single Weasley child, and yourself...still not dating much to Molly’s dismay. She was constantly asking you if you’d met anyone lately. 

“You’re a healer right?”

“At St. Mungo’s, on the Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites, although I'm often dragged away if someone's had a few too many hexes that have interacted poorly.”

“Ever had any dragon bites?”

“Once, a Peruvian Vipertooth, lady was in a right state for a while. Came out the other end though.” 

“Nasty bites, aggressive little buggers. You’d probably have a field day on the reserve the amount of bites and burns we have each day.” At that Charlie lifted his own arms to show an array of burn scars and old bite marks. Some had healed well, others less so.

You pointed at one, “Looks like you avoided seeing the healer.” You raise an eyebrow and make the face you learnt from Madam Pomphrey, the one that explicitly says you disapprove of avoiding proper medical care. You’d spent a great deal of time with Poppy not just because of the twins but also because she’d helped you prepare for your healer training. 

He lets out a slightly nervous laugh and looks away from you, red rushing up his neck in traditional Weasley fashion at being caught, “Didn’t want to bother anyone, it wasn’t serious. No need to worry, love.” You grab his arm and pull it closer to get a closer look. Trying to ignore the fact he had very strong forearms and incredibly warm skin.

Working on the Serious Bites Ward meant that you had a good eye for bite marks and what might have made them. Some dragons had very distinct bite marks. A Peruvian Viper Tooth had a different set of teeth to a Hungarian Horntail for instance. 

“Ukranian Ironbelly, right? Young one, by the looks of it.” 

“Just a baby really, got a bit over excited is all. Hurt like a bludger to the head though.”

“You should always see the reserve healer, you know? You could get a serious infection from a bite like this.” You let go of his arm and lean back in your chair, arms crossed, fixing him with the same look again. 

“I would if our healer was as nice as you. He’s got the personality of a fire crab who’s had its tail yanked.” You try not to take the compliment as more than it is. 

“Grumpy and explosive?” You knew a few healers like that. They didn’t exactly have the best bedside manner and it made many a witch or wizard reluctant to seek treatment. 

“Exactly. Augustus Pye still working on the ward? He tried to give dad stitches that time...” 

“Yes...” You sigh, it wasn’t that Augustus was a horrible person to work with so to speak, but you’d had a few awkward encounters with him when you’d first started working on the ward. 

“You don’t sound happy about that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the man...he just...it's a very small ward you see and he may have...there were a few times where...”

“He asked her out on a date and she said no and embarrassed the poor bastard.” George’s voice comes from behind you with a laugh, before he takes the seat besides you. You’d been flattered, really you had, but, Augustus wasn’t someone you were particularly attracted to. Not physically, nor intellectually nor in regard to his personality. He was nice...but that was just it. You hadn’t expected to go into work and be asked on a date, either, it had been all a bit of a shock really...you hadn’t gotten a great deal of romantic attention in school. Being a big girl meant that boys were more inclined to tease you than date you. Not that you were upset about that, teenage boys were the worst. 

“Thank you, George. I obviously couldn’t disclose that myself.” You roll your eyes

“I still don’t know how you did it, you’re far too nice to say no to anyone.”

“I...” You look at all the curious eyes watching you, feeling a wave of genuine embarrassment as you realise you’re going to have to tell them the truth...that you’d really struggled to say no and had instead, “told him I was already seeing someone, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings!” You protest as George lets out a loud laugh next to you.

“It’s not funny, George! I was very flattered but...I didn’t want to tell him he was just...meh! How do you let someone down nicely? At least this way he thinks it's because i’m already taken not because I find him lacklustre!” 

“Just say it. You don’t find him attractive, you don’t want him to ravage you in the store room, it’s not that hard. You do know you’re an adult and not thirteen, right?” 

You let out an unhappy moan as you let your face fall into your hands at George’s teasing. 

“George Weasley!” You hear Molly scold him about talking about private matters such as ‘ravaging’ and teasing you so much, before turning her attention to you. “It’s okay not to like someone, dear, you don’t have to lie to save someone else’s feelings. Although, it would have been lovely for you to go on a date...it’s been a while, dear.” 

“Mum.” Charlie gave his mother a look which you knew too well, many of the Weasley children had given their mother that exact same look whenever she tried to encourage them to find a date. It was a relief to have someone else tell her to leave well enough alone. You loved Mrs Weasley dearly, but you’d rather date someone you wanted to rather than date someone simply to please her. 

“Oh, alright. Charlie, I need you and Ron to degnome the garden, you too George since you’re here. Y/N, dear, could you water the vegetables in the garden today?”

“Of course, Molly.” You’d long since learnt not to call her Mrs Weasley to her face. Molly hated any of her ‘adopted children’ calling her Mrs Weasley, Harry and Hermione still hadn’t quite gotten out of the habit yet though. Much to Molly’s dismay. 

The Weasley family had become your own family, your own wizarding family. Having grown up with muggle parents, it was both a shock and a joy at the age of eleven to discover that you were in fact a witch, that all those strange occurrences, such as Billy having a sudden and severe wedgie after picking on you, began to make sense. You finally felt like you fit in somewhere.

Your own family struggled to understand your new world, what magic was like, what you were exposed to, the dangers, the joys. It made connecting with them hard, not to say that you didn’t still love your family, you did, but it was hard to talk with them. Even more so after finishing at Hogwarts, after the second wizarding war, and becoming a healer. Your life was in the wizarding world, not the muggle, it put a wedge between you and your family. So the Weasley’s filled a hole that had formed. Your own family just couldn’t comprehend what you’d seen and gone through during the war, and you were loath to even tell them it had happened at all. 

Fred and George Weasley had, despite being Gryffindors and you being a Hufflepuff, befriended you from the moment you met. They often joked that it was because none of the teachers thought you were capable of pulling pranks and would believe that you were a good influence on the twins. While you certainly tried to rein them in it was impossible. The twins and Lee Jordan had certainly been much wilder than yourself, what with their ridiculous and amazing pranks, you had certainly been dragged into more than your fair share. But, often you were the one patching up burns after misfiring fireworks or getting rid of hexes and jinxs that were particularly troublesome or which had been caused by an event that Poppy shouldn’t be aware of. No one could have tried to calm Lee’s flamboyant narration of quidditch games or Fred and George’s ability to create the most brilliant pieces of magic.

To some it seemed like a weird relationship that you had with the three boys, but it was the best friendship group you could ask for. Whenever another student made fun of you for being overweight or for your hair or the way your face looked or your teeth or height or called you names because of your muggle born status, the boys were there. Likewise you were there whenever you could be for them; healing injuries, aiding in complicated charms, and on the odd occasion yelling at slytherins much more intimidating than yourself. There had been a few occasions upon which you’d helped the boys try to get a date with a girl that had taken their fancy as well. Not always with positive results. But, teenage affection never did run smoothly. Especially not when it involved Lee and Angelina.

Over your years at Hogwarts you had met most of the Weasley’s. Percy, the perfect prefect, who had a tense relationship with his family but still appeared to love them very much. Ronald, the boy who never seemed to feel good enough. You tried to praise him when you could, knowing he felt lost in the sea of family achievements and his friends’ own abilities and skills. Ginny, a sweet girl, but also incredibly fierce. Her traumatic experience with Voldemort in her first year had only made her braver, and you had a soft spot for the only daughter of Mr and Mrs Weasley. Arthur Weasley was a kind soul, who spent more visits than you can count asking about muggle inventions and culture, even asking for your help when tinkering with muggle devices. Not that that ever ended particularly well. Molly Weasley was a mother to everyone who needed it, always making sure you had enough food on your plate, that you had a Weasley Jumper on Christmas morning, and that you had people to lean on. While Molly could also be fierce in her anger and her ability to cut people off, she was still Mrs Weasley and cared for you and others greatly.

You eventually met Bill during the war. You hadn’t gone to his and Fleur’s wedding, simply because you wanted to spend as much time with your family before you joined a war that might very well kill you or them. You had been more than aware of it looming on the Horizon. Your family had been entirely unaware of the situation and you knew that they’d been suspicious about your persistent presence at the time, if grateful.  Bill was interesting to talk to, he was smart and had a great deal of knowledge on hexes and curses. He also had a streak of mischief that you recognised from the twins. 

Charlie Weasley, you had seen in passing. You had been a young student when he’d been at Hogwarts, despite your friendship with his younger brothers you never talked or officially met. You had watched a few quidditch games as a young student while Charlie had been Gryffindor Captain and there had always been brief glimpses of Charlie through your life. Though not enough for you to properly dwell on the man or wonder too much. A glimpse at the Gryffindor table, a glimpse during the war, a glimpse of him at Fred’s funeral. You knew of him, of his skills, his interests, his past history with the Cursed Vaults, but didn’t know him. He was the one Weasley you had never truly met or known.