He's wrinkly now, but she is too. The kind of woman she always pictured when the word witch was spoken to her as a child. At least she doesn't have a huge hairy mole, although Fred insists the birthmark on her back has gotten bigger. She fires a hex at him, intentionally missing so she can take out that awful, awful photo of them that he insisted on hanging. He pouts, still playful in his old age, and she kisses him with the same passion as that first time in the Burrow nearly a century ago. Love is young forever.

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