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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.
