Harry felt broken.
It wasn't just tiredness. A pull from inside his ribs seemed to hollow him out steadily. As if something deep had cracked, hairline at first, then split all the way through when he was not looking. Now, what remained was too brittle, too scattered, to piece back together.
The scene outside, with its trees, the Weasleys' voices, and the changing light, resembled a watercolor painting that had been rained on. The edges were soft, and everything was unclear. Nothing stuck.
He barely remembered the journey. One minute he was still at King's Cross, floating somewhere between panic and disbelief, and the next he was here. At the Burrow.
Or rather, outside it.
A part of him wondered if his mind was blocking things out on purpose. He stood frozen just beyond the crooked threshold, unable to step forward. His hand hovered uselessly at his side, not quite reaching for the frame. Voices carried from within—Mrs Weasley, unmistakable and bustling—and the old stairs creaked as someone thundered down too fast. Probably Ron. Possibly George.
It should have given the impression of coming home.
But it didn't.
The Burrow—tilted, ramshackle, and teeming with warmth—usually settled something in Harry the instant he saw it, like slipping on worn trainers: scuffed, loyal, and always where you left them.
The situation now seemed unfamiliar—a rearranged memory.
He felt adrift. Not quite in the moment, not outside it either.
Ron hovered nearby, hands in his pockets, sending anxious glances every few seconds as if deciding whether he was about to keel over or start shouting. On Harry's other side, Ginny was quiet and steady, her eyes searching his face for the version of him she knew. Or checking if that was still him at all.
He did not blame them. He did not feel like himself either.
"Welcome home, Harry!"
Mrs Weasley's voice rang from the kitchen doorway, warm and bright and unmistakable. She stood beaming, arms already open, as if she meant to hug the life back into him before he reached the garden gnomes.
Home.
The word echoed oddly. A lovely idea. A fragile one.
He made himself step forward, forcing a smile that did not quite make it all the way. His heart thudded uncertainly, and for a moment he could not tell whether it was fear or confusion.
"Harry!" Mr Weasley joined his wife, smiling beneath his thinning hair, eyes alight behind his spectacles. "Molly and I have a little surprise for you."
Harry's stomach tightened. A thin thread of dread pulled through him.
"Oh," he murmured, wary as he crossed into the kitchen. "What sort of surprise?"
Not that he did not trust them. It was just that, after everything, he was not sure how much more he could take without snapping.
She beamed. "Percy's moved out!"
Harry blinked.
There was a brief pause while he tried to make sense of it.
"Er… congratulations?"
Ron snorted, clearly delighted. "It is a bit of a miracle."
Mr Weasley chuckled. "He has taken a flat near the Ministry. Proper bachelor set-up from what I hear. Got a kettle and everything."
"And," Mrs Weasley added, clapping her hands, "since Percy no longer needs his old room, we thought you might like it."
Harry stared. "I—what? No, I couldn't. Honestly, I'm fine. I can stay with Ron, as always; I don't need—"
"Don't be silly," she replied briskly, already reaching for the stair rail as if the matter were settled. "You deserve your own space, dear. Percy even said so himself, and you know how rarely he parts with a kind word."
He raised an eyebrow.
Mrs Weasley sniffed and made air quotes. "'Harry has, regrettably, earned the right to a private space.'"
Ron burst out laughing. "That's basically a declaration of love, coming from Percy."
Heat rose in Harry's face, a warmth he did not quite know what to do with. A room. His own room. Not a borrowed bed or floor. It was not a cupboard under the stairs.
He tried to speak, but the words snagged on something sharp. His mind flashed, unbidden, to Privet Drive: spiderwebs on the cupboard ceiling, Dudley thundering overhead, and the thin crack of light beneath a door that never opened far enough. He hadn't realised he'd stopped breathing.
"You don't have to say anything," Mrs Weasley soothed, her arm slipping around his shoulders, the weight of it oddly steadying. "Just come and see."
Still blinking like a person in the wrong dream, Harry followed her up the narrow stairs. Ron trailed behind, grinning in a way that warned him he was not going to be allowed to get strange about it.
The door creaked open.
He stopped.
He simply stared for a long moment.
The room appeared as though someone had dipped it in scarlet and gold. Gryffindor colours covered nearly every surface, from the bed hangings to the cushions on the window seat. Quidditch posters crowded the walls: the Chudley Cannons, Puddlemere United, and an enormous Holyhead Harpies banner that winked as they entered.
But what caught his breath was the message across the far wall in shimmering paint:
WELCOME HOME, HARRY!
He could not speak. His chest tightened again, not with fear but with something he couldn't name: a reminder that sometimes kindness hurt more than cruelty because he didn't know how to deserve it.
He opened his mouth once, twice, but no sound came.
"Ron picked everything," Mrs Weasley announced with a proud little smile, hands clasped as if she had conjured it all herself. Her eyes shone. "He could not remember which team you support, so he included all of them."
Harry looked again, slower this time. Posters everywhere, layered in enthusiastic chaos: Puddlemere United, the Wimbourne Wasps, the Tutshill Tornados, and, above the bookshelf, a fierce Harpies banner where players streaked in and out, green robes flashing gold.
"Even the Harpies?" he asked, eyebrow quirking.
Ron shrugged, trying not to blush. "Ginny warned she would hex me if I left them out. Did not seem worth losing my eyebrows."
Harry grinned. "I am not complaining. Pretty sure there is enough fan gear in here to start my own league."
His best friend snorted. "If the Auror thing falls through, the Cannons are hiring broom-shed attendants. I hear they will take anyone."
He stepped further in, moving carefully as if the room might vanish if he went too fast. It had the Burrow's usual chaotic charm—nothing symmetrical nor pristine, but it was his. Or it had been made for him.
His trunk was already waiting by the wall, neatly unpacked with unmistakable Mrs Weasley efficiency. The bed looked soft enough to swallow him for a week, layered with thick blankets and a great knitted quilt, deep crimson threaded with gold. A battered lamp flickered gently by the bedside. In the corner, a squat reading nook held shelves filled with his textbooks, a few Muggle novels Hermione had slipped him, and The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore wedged behind Quidditch Through the Ages.
And there it was.
A wardrobe.
An actual closet. Not a shelf, not a crate, not a rail in someone else's room. Big and wooden and slightly uneven, with one door hanging lower than the other, the handle looked suspiciously like it had once belonged to a butter churn. But solid.
Huge enough to hide in.
Or nap in.
Or, if he was honest, avoid naps.
"Look at that thing," Ron nudged him. "You could fit Hagrid in there. Sideways."
Harry blinked hard and swallowed the lump in his throat. "I do not even know what to say," he murmured. His voice came out rougher than it should have. "Honestly. Thank you."
Ron groaned theatrically. "Do not get all soppy on me. You will ruin the Gryffindor vibe."
Mrs Weasley only smiled and squeezed Harry's shoulder, briefly and warmly enough to make his ribs ache. "You are part of this family, Harry," she assured softly. "You always have been. This is your home now."
Something inside him cracked, though not like before. Not the brittle snap he had grown used to. It felt as if something was melting away gradually, after being frozen for a very long time.
Ron stood in the doorway, arms crossed, with a crooked grin on his face. "Only problem is there are four flights to my room now. If you leave your wand up there, you're done for. Might as well move back to the cupboard under the stairs."
Harry laughed. "I will risk it. Seems worth the peril."
Ron nodded solemnly. "That's the spirit. By the way, your room is next to Ginny's. I can probably swap rooms with her. Anyway, if you hear weird singing at night, do not panic. That is not a ghost. That is her."
As if summoned, Ginny appeared in the doorway, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in peak Weasley defiance. "I do not sing," she snapped flatly.
Harry was fairly sure she had not even blinked.
"And no, Ron, I am not swapping rooms with you."
He groaned. "Come on, Gin. Harry needs his best mate nearby."
She smirked, tilting her head. "Funny. I don't hear Harry complaining."
Harry froze. His mouth opened and shut, useless.
Ginny winked, flicked her hair over her shoulder, and strolled off, totally unbothered.
Ron stared after her, aggrieved. "Brilliant. I have lost my room, my dignity, and my baby sister to the Boy Who Lived."
Harry laughed again. He could not help it. The whole thing was ridiculous and completely ordinary, and somehow that made it a kind of magic all its own.
For what felt like an endless hour, he and Ron hauled box after box up and down the Burrow's crooked staircases. Most of them were packed hastily. Some bulged at the sides, stuffed with curling parchments and cracked schoolbooks that still smelt faintly of ink and cauldron fumes. Others were so full of mismatched Quidditch gear they thudded and clanked with every step, as though a rogue Bludger might burst out if they weren't careful.
By the fifth trip, Ron was muttering darkly at each footfall about Ginny, stairs, and the sheer injustice of life.
"Honestly," he panted, wiping a sleeve across his forehead as they wrestled another crate through the narrow landing, "Ginny's not even helping. She waved her wand once, told me I looked strong, and then vanished. Typical."
Harry snorted, adjusting his grip on the box. His fingers were going numb.
"You do realise," he said, breathless but grinning, "she's tricked you into doing the whole thing."
Ron gave him a look somewhere between betrayal and resignation. "She fooled you too, mate."
"Yeah," Harry agreed, smirking faintly. "But at least I saw it coming."
That earned a theatrical groan from Ron. "Ginny's worse than Mum, I swear. If she ever gets her own place, I'm not visiting. She'll have me re-tile the roof before I've taken off my shoes."
Harry laughed despite himself. The ache in his arms had turned into a dull and oddly satisfying proof that he'd actually done something useful. It was ridiculous, really, sweating buckets in a house held together by magic and luck, but he wouldn't have traded it for anything.
They reached the top of the stairs again, and Harry paused by the little window on the landing. The evening light spilt across the crooked floorboards in soft, slanted lines, gilding the dust motes in gold. Outside, the orchard and pond glowed under the fading sun, wrapped in a kind of tired, contented hush.
The Burrow itself looked as if it had grown straight out of the earth—leaning, lopsided, but solid. Safe. It didn't matter that the floors creaked or the walls never quite lined up. There was a warmth here, a hum beneath the noise and clutter, that he had never known at Privet Drive.
From downstairs came the clatter of plates, food sizzling, and the faint scent of garlic and rosemary drifting up the staircase. There was laughter too; Ginny, unmistakably, and probably Arthur trying to tell a story over her.
Harry said nothing, but something quiet and certain clicked into place inside his chest.
This wasn't just where he was staying.
It was home.
The bed, food, and wallpaper weren't the reason.
It was because he was wanted here.
Despite his lack of usefulness.
Even when he was exhausted, or distant, or simply… living.
He followed Ron down the stairs again, the old wood groaning beneath them, the box in his arms rattling dangerously with every jolt.
"Harry! Come on, dinner's ready!" Mrs Weasley's voice drifted up from the kitchen, full of cheer and entirely too much energy for someone who'd probably been working since dawn. She stood at the base of the stairs, apron dusted with flour, hair pinned up as if she had just survived a duel with a mixing bowl. The oven's heat made her cheeks red, and her wand floated plates to the table.
Harry paused briefly to observe her.
She hadn't called him like a guest. There was no politeness in her tone. No uncertainty. She regarded him as if he were her own.
As though she'd been calling him for dinner his entire life.
For that brief, blinking moment, he allowed himself to believe it was true.
Before heading into the kitchen, he ducked into his new room for a breather. Ron had already dumped half his belongings there: shoes by the bed and a jumper slung over the chair. He glanced around: the Gryffindor banners, the neat stack of books beneath the window, and the wardrobe that creaked when you looked at it too long.
He considered picking up Souls: An Introduction, still unopened on the nightstand. Slughorn's words kept echoing in the back of his head, the way certain truths did when they were too dangerous to face outright, but before he could touch the cover—
"Oi! Don't fall asleep in there!" Ron shouted from down the corridor. "You'll miss the good bits!"
Harry rolled his eyes and trudged toward the kitchen, pretending his legs didn't ache like he'd spent the afternoon fighting mountain trolls.
The smell hit him first: warm, rich, and comforting in that deeply unfair way only home-cooked meals ever managed. There were roasted carrots and buttery new potatoes, something meaty and tender-smelling, and fresh bread. His stomach gave an undignified lurch.
Mrs Weasley bustled over, somehow managing to serve food, clear plates, and pile on even more all at once.
Harry slipped into the seat between Ron and Ginny. Without a word, she swooped in and deposited a steaming plate in front of him. A generous one too.
"Eat up, dear," she murmured, patting his shoulder with a hand dusted with flour.
"Thanks," he replied quietly, managing a smile as he picked up his fork.
For a fleeting moment, he thought of the Dursleys; Aunt Petunia carefully portioning out his food as though feeding something wild she hoped wouldn't bite. Dudley reaching across the table to steal from his plate. Cold meals eaten in silence, the telly blaring, and Uncle Vernon complaining about everything from work to the neighbours to the shape of Harry's face. The memory made his stomach twist. Back then, hunger had been simple; now, it felt heavier, like even food didn't quite reach him.
Then Mrs Weasley's voice cut softly through his thought.
"Harry?"
Her tone was gentle but steady, the kind that drew him near. She was watching him with that knowing look she always carried, as though she'd seen the shadow cross his face before he realised it himself.
He blinked, shook himself slightly, and jabbed at a roasted potato. "Sorry, just thinking."
Across the worn old table, lit gold by candlelight and the fading dusk through the windows, Ron and Ginny were already at it.
"No, you dropped it!" she snapped, brandishing her spoon like a wand. "Don't twist it."
"Oh, come off it," he retorted, waving his fork. "I had the Quaffle—you shoved me."
"It was a gentle nudge. Honestly, you fall over just the same as a sack of Flobberworms."
"That's because I'm carrying you and Katie every practice," Ron countered, though a grin tugged at his mouth.
"You're not carrying anyone, Ronald. You can barely fly in a straight line."
Harry, still chewing a mouthful of bread, stifled a laugh. Their argument—petty and affectionate—filled the kitchen like a charm. For a few perfect seconds, he let it wash over him: the scrape of cutlery on mismatched plates, the warmth of roasted carrots in the air, and Ron snorting into his drink.
For a heartbeat, it felt as though nothing had changed.
Then, his gaze drifted to the far end of the table. Two empty chairs sat near the hearth. George's was pushed back at an angle, as if he'd just stood up and would return any moment, grinning with some ridiculous joke. But Fred's chair was perfectly straight. Unmoved. Untouched.
Its silence spoke louder than anything else in the room.
Harry's chest tightened.
He could still see them clearly: Fred's grin as he and George hurled enchanted snowballs at Quirrell's turban, their laughter echoing through the corridors like music. Back then, they had seemed untouchable, unstoppable, as if even the war had known better than to go near them.
And now…
He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat along with a bite of potato.
Across the table, Ginny caught his eye.
Her expression softened, the laughter fading from her gaze. She didn't speak, but under the table she nudged his knee gently with her own.
That small touch grounded him better than any spell could. It said, I know. I miss him too. You're not alone.
He exhaled slowly and turned back to his plate.
Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. "So, Harry," he asked in his kind, even voice, "how's the new room treating you, then? All settled in?"
"Yeah," he answered quickly, smiling faintly. "Unpacking at the moment, really. Might just stay in tonight. Read a bit."
Ron frowned, setting down his fork. "You are not calling it a night already, are you? You slept most of the train ride."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And I'm still feeling like a Bludger has hit me. Your point?"
"My point," he insisted, stabbing at his carrots, "is that you're seventeen, not seventy. Keep this up and I'll be sending you owl post at the old wizards' home before we even sit our NEWTs."
Ginny snorted into her pumpkin juice, her eyes glinting.
Harry sighed. "What do you want me to do, Ron? Throw a party in the barn?"
"Maybe," his best friend offered brightly. "Or come flying. Play chess. Sneak into the attic and see if that ghoul's still about. Anything other than hiding with a book like Hermione."
He rolled his eyes. "You've got a strange idea of fun."
"And you have a tragic bedtime activity."
Harry turned to Ginny in mock despair. "Is your brother always this way?"
She didn't hesitate. "All the time," she confirmed sweetly.
He let out a quiet laugh.
"One of these days," he muttered, chasing a carrot round his plate, "I'll actually turn seventy. Then you'll all be sorry for mocking me."
"I already feel awful," Ron declared dramatically, clutching his chest, "but mostly because you're boring."
"Boys," Mrs Weasley chided with long-suffering fondness, bustling back to the stove. "Eat before it goes cold. And stop bickering, or you will clean out the chicken coop again."
He and Ginny groaned in unison.
Harry just smiled.
"Oi," Ron blurted suddenly, leaning across the table with his mouth full of bread. "Did Hermione say anything to you about job applications?"
He stiffened.
There it was.
He lowered his fork slowly, his appetite gone.
"She might have mentioned it," he muttered, stabbing his potato harder than necessary.
That dull twist in his stomach returned, the one that had followed him since King's Cross. He felt he should have already sorted everything: life after the war, his plans, and how to feel normal again. Everyone had an opinion.
Ron groaned and dropped his forehead onto the table. "She won't stop. It's as if she has taken it personally that we're not all applying to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She is on a mission."
"You think Hermione's got job charts?" Harry asked lightly, trying not to sound as weary as he felt. "Colour-coded ones?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," Ron grumbled. "She probably prepared a full presentation for McGonagall."
"She's not wrong, though," he admitted.
"She made a list. Careers she finds 'acceptable'. You should've seen her face when I told her I might go pro in Gobstones."
Harry nearly choked on his drink. He laughed, setting the glass down. "Gobstones? Seriously? Did she threaten to hex you?"
Ron grinned. "Only a bit. Thought I was joking. I wasn't."
He smirked, but before he could reply, Ron's grin faded. "What about you? You must've considered it."
Harry's smile slipped. The knot in his chest tightened again. The future waited like a parcel he didn't want to open.
"I'm still thinking," he whispered, eyes on his plate.
Ron gave him a look. "Oh, come off it. You wish to be an Auror, correct? Same as before?"
Every time he thought of the Auror Office, of duels, of curses, of chasing Death Eaters, his pulse quickened in the wrong way.
Harry exhaled and set down his fork with a soft clink. "Yes, Ron. Same as before. Auror. Catching Dark wizards. Brilliant. Happy?" He snapped.
Ron blinked. "Blimey, all right." He raised his hands. "Didn't know it was a crime to ask. I just considered… I was thinking of doing it too. We could be a team."
That made Harry's stomach drop.
He knew his best friend meant well, but the thought of going back into danger again felt similar to being dragged under.
"Then go for it," Harry cut in quickly, sharper than intended. "No one's stopping you."
A beat of silence followed.
Ron frowned. "Wait, what? I thought you'd be glad. It was your idea in the first place."
He averted his eyes, twisting the napkin in his lap. He did not know how to explain that he was tired, tired in a way sleep didn't fix. That sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, he still saw the boy under the stairs, not the hero in the headlines.
"It's not that simple," he muttered.
Ron frowned. "Why not? You'd be brilliant. Everyone knows it."
And that was the problem.
Everyone expected him to be brilliant and to be okay. Harry Potter, victorious. The Boy Who Lived, now with career plans and crisp Ministry robes and a London flat where he could keep his medals in a drawer and never mention the ones who didn't make it.
He wanted to shout. To throw something. To stop being Harry Potter for five minutes.
"Just drop it, all right?" he snapped, louder than he meant.
The sound sliced through the kitchen.
Forks froze. Glasses hovered. The warmth vanished, replaced by brittle silence.
He pushed back his chair. The legs scraped the floor with a screech that made Ginny flinch.
"Thanks for dinner, Mrs Weasley," he murmured. The words felt hollow. He didn't wait for a reply. He did not want to see their faces: not Ron's confusion, not Ginny's worry, not Mrs Weasley's quiet understanding.
The ache flared sharply behind his eyes again, like a warning. He gritted his teeth and climbed faster, as though he could outrun it.
Brilliant, he thought bitterly. Now Ron feels guilty. That makes two of us.
Halfway up, the voices carried after him, muffled but tense.
"What was that about?" Ron's tone rose, frustrated. "Did I say something wrong?"
Harry paused, pressing his forehead against the banister. His best friend didn't deserve that. None of them did.
Downstairs, Ginny's voice rang out, sharp and certain. "You were being a prat, that's what."
"I was only asking a question!" Ron shot back.
Mrs Weasley's words followed, softer but firm. "He's had a long day, dear. You all have. Give him some space."
Chairs scraped. Cutlery clinked. But Harry knew that kind of quiet: the kind where no one was really eating, where everyone was pretending.
He shut his bedroom door gently, as though it might slam of its own accord. The air seemed thick and close. With a sigh, he dropped onto the bed after taking off his shoes.
The mattress dipped beneath him, soft and familiar, but it didn't feel like rest. It felt like waiting.
He stared at the ceiling, following the uneven lines where Ron had stuck up a Chudley Cannons poster with Spellotape. It was peeling at the corner.
I should be fine, he thought. It's over and done.
But it wasn't. The war had ended, but its marks remained, deep and invisible. Everyone seemed to think it was just a matter of picking a job, ironing his robes, and smiling for the Prophet.
He didn't want to be anyone's hero anymore.
He simply wanted to find himself, independent of others.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, but the thoughts clung to him, heavy and stubborn.
He was a young man and already older than some men ever lived to be. Seventeen, and exhausted down to his bones.
The ache beneath his ribs flared once more, sharp and cold, like a part of him remembering it shouldn't be whole.
And now he was supposed to become an Auror, and risk his life again.
He wasn't sure he had anything left to give, and worse, he couldn't shake the fear that whatever was broken inside him might never heal.
Harry stared down at the open book on his lap—Advanced Defensive Strategies for Modern Combat, or something equally thrilling. He could not remember when Hermione had thrust it into his hands. A week ago? Longer? Probably with a speech about preparedness and keeping sharp. The sort of thing that used to stir him into action. Now, the writing might as well have been gibberish to him.
The words blurred on the page, unread and uninviting. He wasn't reading. He just needed something to hold, something that made him look occupied. If he looked busy, it's possible that nobody would ask how he was feeling. Maybe no one, especially not Ron, would try to pry him open like some cursed object begging to be taken apart.
Of course, fate had no interest in letting him be.
He heard the footsteps first; heavy, deliberate. His best friend's trademark stomp down the hallway. Subtle as a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Then a knock followed. Not loud. Not impatient. Only… tentative.
"Oi," came Ron's voice, too gentle to mean anything good. "You still awake?"
Harry sighed through his nose. Of course, he was not asleep. Sleep hadn't come easily for a while now. He pushed himself off the bed and cracked the door open just enough to see his face, creased with concern, trying and failing to look casual.
He said nothing. He turned back to the mattress like a soldier retreating to a trench, picked up the book again and anchored it on his lap. Armour; flimsy, but something.
Ron stepped inside anyway, crossing the room in that awkward, lanky stride, and flopped into the desk chair, spinning it half-heartedly.
"So," he began, as if commenting on the weather. "What are you reading?"
Harry didn't look up. "Nothing."
Ron leaned over his shoulder, squinting at the cover. "Looks riveting. Advanced Defensive Strategies? Blimey, you must be desperate."
"Shove off," he muttered, clutching the book tighter as if it could shield him.
Ron raised an eyebrow. "Hit a nerve, have I? Or is this your new thing—moody silence and bedtime textbooks?"
He turned a page he hadn't read. The room seemed smaller because of it.
"Harry," he pressed, voice sharper.
"For Merlin's sake, what?" He snapped, slamming the book shut and tossing it to the floor. It landed with a heavy thud. "What do you want, Ron?"
Ron blinked, taken aback. "Well, I was going to ask why you stormed off earlier, but now I'm wondering if you've completely lost it."
Harry dragged his hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots as if he could pull the thoughts straight out of his skull.
"I told you, I'm fine."
"Oh, brilliant," Ron retorted, folding his arms. "You're fine. That's why you legged it from the table like your chair was on fire, haven't said ten words since we got here, and are hiding with a book you clearly hate."
"I don't need a bloody intervention, all right?" Harry stood, fists clenched. "Can't I have one moment to breathe without everyone analysing it?"
"You've had moments," Ron argued, standing too. "You have had days, mate. Locking yourself away like you're some ghost. Talking might actually help, you know."
"I don't want to talk!" Harry's voice cracked, raw with anger and something perilously close to grief. "I am not looking for advice or sympathy or any of that useless rubbish that won't change anything!"
Ron's eyes flashed. "Then what do you want? For us to pretend you're fine? To act like nothing's wrong while you sit here falling to bits?"
Harry faltered, chest heaving, the anger draining into something worse: exposure. "You don't get it," he muttered. "You wouldn't know how I feel."
Ron stared, disbelief etched across his face. "Are you serious? Do you think you are the only person who has experienced loss? The only one terrified about what comes next? We were all there, Harry. Every bit."
"It's not the same," he said, voice low, dangerous now. "You don't understand."
Silence. Thick. Pressing.
Then Ron stated quietly, but with more force than before, "No. Maybe I don't. But I still care. And I am tired of you shutting me out because you fear needing someone."
Harry turned his back and gazed out the window, hoping the night would provide a way out. His arms folded around himself before he realised.
"I'm not scared," he insisted, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
"Then why are you pushing me away?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. Because the truth was brittle, too fragile to touch.
Because if I let you stay, I'll fall apart. I am meant to be strong. If I admit I'm broken, I might never come back from it.
All he managed was, "I just… need space."
Ron's jaw tightened. He stared for a moment, then shook his head, retreating towards the door.
"Fine," he said flatly. "Have your space. Enjoy your bloody book."
The door slammed behind him. The Chudley Cannons poster rattled, one figure looking mildly startled.
Harry stood in the echo. The room felt hollow. Airless.
He sat down again; the mattress sagging beneath him as if it might swallow him whole. He pressed his face into the pillow, breathing in dust and old linen, wishing everything would just stop: the expectations, the pretending, the ache of having survived.
Then—tap, tap, tap—there was a knock at the door. Sharp. Sudden.
Harry flinched, heart jerking up into his throat. His muscles tensed, fight or flight rising like a tide beneath his skin.
For a long moment, he stood there, fists clenched, jaw aching. The tension that had built all day finally snapped.
"What now?" he shouted, voice hoarse with frustration that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.
He turned towards the window, as if distance might cool the heat of his body. The glass was cold beneath his palm, but it did not help. His breathing was too fast. Too loud.
He didn't care who it was. Probably his best friend again, back for round two, arms flailing, yelling audibly enough to wake the ghoul in the attic. More questions. More talking. Merlin, he couldn't face it.
But then—a voice.
Not boisterous. Not sharp.
Just one word.
"Harry."
He froze.
Not Ron.
The steady, quiet tone, unmistakably Ginny's, cut through it all.
The frustration drained out of him so fast it left a hollow ache behind. He was at the door before he'd even considered moving, yanking it open.
On the landing, she stood, arms crossed, appearing composed, not defensive.
Her eyes met his, and something inside him tightened. His condition did not surprise her, only saddened her.
"Ginny—" he started, already hating the sound of his voice. "I thought you were Ron. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout. I just—" He exhaled sharply. "I am on edge."
She did not flinch. She stepped forward and laid a hand on his cheek, warm and steady. Her thumb brushed along his jaw, grounding him in a way he hadn't realised he needed.
"I know," she murmured softly. "Honestly, you're not wrong; Ron was halfway to breaking furniture down there."
Harry gave a short, humourless laugh that collapsed partially out of him.
Still, guilt crept in around the edges. He looked away.
"I shouldn't have snapped at you," he muttered. "You didn't deserve that."
Ginny shook her head, brushing a strand of red hair behind her ear.
"I'm not here to have a go at you," she replied. "But because I am worried."
She stepped in and nudged the door shut quietly.
Harry moved aside to let her pass, though every instinct told him to retreat further.
"You've barely said two words since yesterday," Ginny went on, softer now. "It seems you're not simply tired, but also a bit off. Something's bothering you."
Of course she'd noticed. She always did.
He turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just need time," he answered roughly. "There's a lot on my mind."
He hated how small his voice sounded, how much it exposed.
Ginny didn't rush him. She allowed the silence to stretch, patient and steady.
"I'm not asking for everything," she whispered at last. "But you've got to let me in. Show me some trust, even a tiny bit."
His throat tightened. How could she understand him so well and still care for him?
"This isn't about trust," he said quietly. "I have faith in you. It's just—"
"Then tell me," she pressed, gentle but sure, stepping closer. "You don't have to carry this alone."
He swallowed hard. The words were there, caught and choking him, but they wouldn't come. The explanations exhausted him, by untangling the knot only to make it worse.
"I do not want to worsen your situation," he admitted. "You've had your own battles. Your own losses. You don't need mine on top."
Ginny's eyes flashed; not angry, but fiercely determined.
"That's not how this works, Harry," she countered. "If we're doing this, then we share the weight. You aren't helping me by keeping me out. You're just leaving me behind."
A certain feeling twisted deep inside him. She wasn't wrong. He was pushing her away, thinking it was strength, when really it was fear.
Then, almost too softly to hear, she added, "Last night… you learned something, didn't you?"
His breath caught. He did not answer.
"I thought so," Ginny murmured. "You looked different. When you came into the Great Hall, it was like a breach had occurred."
Harry clenched his jaw. That cold weight was still settling in his chest, and he could feel it.
"I can't talk about it yet," he managed at last. "I need to get it straight in my head first. Otherwise, I'll just make a mess of it."
Ginny nodded, understanding flickering across her face. Reaching out, she took his hand and interlaced their fingers.
"All right," she said simply. "Take your time. I will wait. I'm not going anywhere."
Harry looked down at their joined hands. Her fingertips were warm. He gave a tiny squeeze, because words were still too hard.
Ginny studied him for longer, then let go and moved towards the door. She opened it quietly, not looking back.
In this moment, the silence she left behind wasn't angry nor cold. But it was heavy.
Harry woke before the sun had fully risen. Pale light was only just beginning to spill through the curtains, and the sky outside was still tinged with grey. For a split second, as he lay there blinking at the ceiling, there was that strange, fleeting moment of disorientation—where am I?—before the familiar smell of wood smoke and honeysuckle settled around him and the answer landed gently.
The Burrow.
And, surprisingly, that flicker in his chest—that wasn't dread or the tight coil of nerves he expected on waking. It was… excitement. Not grand, not earth-shattering.
It startled him, that simple feeling. He hadn't felt it for weeks. Not since before the world had turned upside down again and again. This brief surge of hope was also fragile, like an idea trying to take root in ground that had been scorched too many times.
Still, he sat up, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and let the emotion settle.
After everything that had happened the night before—snapping at Ron, shutting everyone out again—he needed this. A moment to do something good.
He owed the Weasleys more than he could ever say.
They had taken him in without hesitation, year after year. Gave him warmth, safety, and a presence that looked and felt and breathed like family. They never asked for anything in return. And that was precisely why it mattered.
He had to show them somehow.
Slipping out of bed and tugging on the jumper Mrs Weasley had knitted him last Christmas, he padded softly down the stairs, bare feet silent on the warm, worn wood. The house was still and shadowed, the early light painting everything in gentle greys and golds. He passed the sitting room, where a single armchair continuously held the ghost of someone's body heat, and stepped into the kitchen.
The air was cool but full of the Burrow's usual patchwork scent: fresh earth from the garden, something faintly floral from the windowsill, and the ever-present warmth of cooked sugar and old magic baked into the walls.
Harry paused, looking around.
The table stood just where it always did, cluttered and endearing: a well-worn knitted tea cosy sat atop the kettle, a tin of biscuits half-shut beside the bread bin, and yesterday's Daily Prophet folded next to a mug that still bore a faint ring of beverage. The hands of the grandfather clock creaked as they moved, pointing not to numbers but to comforting things like travelling, lost, or home.
He took a deep breath, the kind that seemed as if it reached all the way to the base of his spine, and rolled up his sleeves.
Cooking was one of the few practical matters the Dursleys had ever taught him—though not out of kindness. But this morning, it wasn't about duty or obligation. It was unlike anything else. Maybe if he made something warm and filling, it might say what he couldn't quite bring himself to put into words.
Thank you.
I'm sorry.
I see everything you've done, and I don't take it for granted.
He fetched eggs and bacon from the pantry, picked tomatoes from the garden just beyond the back door, and found fresh bread tucked in a tea towel. The sizzle of food in the pan was oddly soothing. Outside the window, the morning was waking up: dew on the glass, bees buzzing lazily around the lavender, and birds calling from the orchard.
For a little while, he allowed himself to lose track of time.
He moved with quiet precision, carefully cracking eggs into the skillet, flipping the bacon, and setting out plates. The kettle whistled gently, and he poured out tea. It wasn't perfect, not by a long stretch, but it was honest.
Then came the footsteps; quick, purposeful, and unmistakably Mrs Weasley's.
Panic jolted through his chest. For one absurd second, he considered ducking out the back door.
I only wanted to help, he thought, glancing down at the spatula in his hand, the flour on his jumper. Please don't be cross. I didn't mean to take over.
The kitchen door opened, and she stepped in, her dressing gown tied haphazardly at the waist, wand tucked behind one ear.
She blinked.
"Harry!"
She froze mid-step, her eyes widening, not with anger, but with the kind of surprise that quickly softened into something warmer. Her mouth twitched, then curved into a fond smile that made Harry's ears flush.
"I—er—" He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling all of twelve. "I thought I'd have a go at breakfast. Hope that's all right. Just wanted to… I dunno… pitch in."
Mrs Weasley looked from him to the stove to the table, where the eggs were steaming, the toast stacked neatly beside the butter dish. Her eyes grew misty.
"Oh, Harry…" she whispered softly. "It's more than alright. You have always been welcome here."
He gave a small shrug, not trusting himself to speak.
She came further in, inspecting the breakfast as if it might vanish if she looked away. "Merlin's beard," she murmured. "You've really outdone yourself."
Before Harry could answer, Mr Weasley appeared in the doorway, adjusting his slightly skewed tie, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
"What's all this?"
Mrs Weasley turned to him, her smile positively glowing. "Arthur, come and look! Harry's made breakfast!"
He blinked at the scene. "Did he now?"
He took a step forward, surveying the table with the reverence usually reserved for new Muggle inventions.
"Well, I'll be… This looks wonderful."
Harry ducked his head, stirring the baked beans more than necessary. "Wasn't a big deal. I used to do it every day back at Privet Drive. Old habits, I suppose."
He regretted it the moment it left his mouth. He hadn't meant to bring them up. Not now. However, the Dursleys were stitched into him in ways he still did not fully understand: he couldn't quite shake the ghosts of a life he didn't want.
Mr Weasley gave a quiet, thoughtful nod, not pressing, not pitying. "It's a kind gesture, Harry. Very fine indeed. You have done enough for one morning."
Mrs Weasley was already moving to prepare the table, humming softly under her breath. "You've got a knack for this, you know," she remarked. "Fred and George always set off the smoke alarm, bless them. And Ron's hopeless unless it comes out of a packet."
Harry smiled faintly.
"I'll go and wake the others," she added, eyes still gleaming as she touched his shoulder in passing. "They're in for a lovely surprise."
She disappeared up the steps, her dressing gown swishing behind her.
Ron came down the flight of stairs several minutes later; his footsteps were slow, each one creaking in protest beneath the floorboards. His hair stuck out in tufts, and the pillow crease on his cheek hadn't yet faded. He looked half-asleep and hungover from something heavier than dreams. He rubbed at his face and yawned without bothering to cover it, then froze mid-step at the threshold of the kitchen.
His eyes swept the table, taking in the neat stacks of toast, the steam curling from a jug of hot tea, and the smell of bacon hanging thick in the air. His brow furrowed, not in confusion exactly, but more like suspicion.
"Is it someone's birthday or something?" he grumbled, voice hoarse and unused, as he slid wordlessly into the seat beside him.
Mrs Weasley gave a small, fond chuckle as she set down a dish of freshly sliced tomatoes. "No, dear. Harry made breakfast for us."
His best friend blinked.
His gaze shifted between her, the table, and Harry, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. "He did?" he echoed, his surprise not quite masked.
Harry said nothing. His throat had gone dry the moment Ron had appeared in the doorway. Every word he had planned vanished.
Ron glanced down at his plate as though expecting it to sing or explode.
He picked up his fork and stabbed at the eggs without enthusiasm. "You didn't have to do all this," he muttered, not unkindly, but certainly not warmly either.
Harry swallowed hard. He'd hoped this might be a peace offering. A way to bridge the space between them quietly, not needing to explain things he wasn't ready to say. But the hope that had fluttered in his chest earlier was already fading. The tension was still there. The kind that wrapped around your lungs and made breathing feel like effort. He wished he could undo it all—every word left unsaid, and the silence that had grown between them.
Ron didn't look at him. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, as if he thought the scrambled eggs might hold answers.
Harry's mind raced for something, anything, that may soften things. But all he could feel was guilt still lodged beneath his ribs.
Mrs Weasley's voice filled the room, and for a moment, he let it. He needed someone else's sound to drown out his own.
"George is coming for dinner in two days," she announced as she levitated a stack of plates towards the cupboard.
Harry's head snapped up. He hadn't seen him in weeks, not since the war, and the reminder sent a fresh jolt of unease through him.
"How long's he staying?" asked Mr Weasley from the hallway, tugging on his coat as he passed the kitchen door.
Mrs Weasley hesitated. "Not sure," she admitted, the smile fading just slightly. "He's been so busy. Barely has time to write anymore, let alone visit."
No one answered. The air sagged with a familiar grief. Harry looked down at the table, suddenly unable to taste the tea he was sipping. He didn't know what he'd expected from this morning, but it wasn't this tight knot of awkward silence and words unspoken.
The kitchen door creaked again, and Ginny stepped inside. She moved as if she were trying not to disturb anything, as if even the floorboards might shatter beneath her.
She scraped her hair back into a neat ponytail, with strands clinging to her temples as if she'd forgotten them. There were deep shadows under her eyes, like bruises that sleep hadn't touched. She slid into the seat across from Harry without so much as a glance at anyone.
He stared at her.
She wasn't furious, exactly. He'd seen her angry, her spark a firework and blaze hot and brilliant. This was different. This was quieter. Hollow.
It unsettled him in a way that caught him off guard. The Ginny he knew was never this still.
He wanted to say something—'You alright?' or 'Did you sleep?'—but the words tangled somewhere between his chest and throat. And besides, he could already feel the answer in the silence that stretched out between them.
Mrs Weasley was humming faintly now, somewhere near the garden. Mr Weasley had left for work.
Harry set down his tea. The ceramic clink felt louder than it ought to.
"I need to borrow Pigwidgeon," he blurted, trying to sound casual. "I have a letter to send."
Ron's fork stopped mid-motion. "Who are you writing to?" he demanded without looking up.
He hesitated. He hadn't expected the question to bite, but he should've.
"Someone important," he replied quietly.
His best friend finally looked at him. Not with anger, exactly. But with something colder, warier and worn thin. "That's not an answer."
Harry shifted in his seat. His palms were damp. He wiped them on his jeans under the table. "I can't explain yet. I just need to send it."
Ron let out a slow breath and sat back in his chair, arms folded. "So we're doing this again, are we?" he gritted out. "You keeping secrets. Me pretending I do not notice."
"I'm not hiding anything," Harry insisted. His voice cracked slightly. "It's not a big deal."
Ron's eyes narrowed.
Harry's stomach twisted. "It doesn't really matter."
"Yes, it bloody matters," Ron snapped, tone rising suddenly. "You don't get to come back, cook breakfast, and act like everything's fine while shutting us out at the same time."
Harry flinched. "I'm not trying to shut you out. I just—there are things I can't say yet. The stuff I haven't sorted out in my head."
Ron's jaw clenched. "Funny. That's always your reason, isn't it?"
He jogged his chair back, feeling the room close in. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Ron retorted, his voice low and angry now, "that I'm tired of being your best mate only when it's convenient. Had enough of you going off on your own and telling the rest of us to just rely on you. Count on your friends too, you know."
"I do trust you," Harry argued, the words coming too fast, too defensively. "But this isn't about—"
"Then act like it," Ron cut in sharply. "Quit treating me as if I'm an idiot you have to protect from the truth."
He stared at him, throat thick. He wanted to argue and shout back. But all he could feel was guilt, hot and bitter, burning just under his skin.
"You can write your letter, but you're not using my owl to keep secrets."
Ginny's palm struck the table with a sharp crack that rang through the kitchen like the snap of a wand. Plates rattled. A spoon clattered to the floor. Even the ghoul in the attic seemed to be still for a moment.
"Ron, that's enough."
Her speech wasn't loud, but it cut through the silence; clear, hard, and full of warning.
He rounded on her at once, face flushed, jaw tight. "No," he barked, fury vibrating in his voice. "It's not. Not nearly. He has to hear this, and he needs to stop acting as if we don't matter. As though we're just—just background noise."
Harry kept his gaze fixed on his plate. His breakfast had gone cold, but he hadn't touched a bite. The eggs appeared waxy, the bacon congealed, and the toast seemed similar to cardboard.
Ron's words hit their mark, each one sinking into him like a splinter.
Harry's chest tightened. Guilt twisted inside him. He wanted to speak, to explain, to defend himself, to say something, but his throat felt thick, clogged with all the expressions he hadn't said in time.
Ginny's voice came again, softer now, though no less firm. "Maybe he's got a reason," she offered, eyes flicking towards Harry. "We're all just… trying to survive, in our own way."
Ron let out a bitter, humourless laugh. It sounded off in the room; too sharp, too tired. "Oh, is that what this is, then? Secrets and half-truths? Disappearing in the middle of dinner? Pretending nothing's wrong when everything's not right?" His hands trembled slightly as he pushed his plate back. "That is not surviving, Ginny. That's running away."
Harry's fists clenched beneath the table, nails biting into his palms. His head bowed lower. The words were true. That was the worst part. He fled from grief, guilt, and the unbearable burden of trying to be strong when he felt completely broken.
But he hadn't wanted this. Not this shouting. Not this silence that screamed louder than speech.
And then—
BANG.
Ron's fist slammed down on the table, sending a tremor through the wood. Harry recoiled sharply, as though he'd been hit by a spell.
"This isn't just about you, mate!" Ron bellowed. His voice was raw now, fraying at the edges. "You're not the only one who's hurting!"
He noticed his best friend's hands were shaking.
The statement shattered something.
He felt it—the sting of it, the way truth always stings when it's spoken out loud. For a split second, he wanted to shout back, to say he knew that, of course he understood that, but the words wouldn't come. Not with the weight of everything pressing down on him. The loss and the fear. The manner people looked at him, like he had all the answers, when he barely recognised how to breathe some days.
The kitchen had shrunk, and the air had grown thick to swallow. The walls loomed too close. It felt like the cupboard under the stairs again: small and dark and full of things no one else wanted to see.
And then Ron shoved his chair back. It scraped harshly across the floor, legs dragging. Without another word, he stormed out, footsteps pounding up the staircase. The door slammed somewhere overhead a second later.
Silence descended once more. But it wasn't peaceful. It was sharp. Brittle. Dangerous.
Ginny stared after him, eyes wide and glistening, her lips parted but unspeaking. A tear clung stubbornly to her lower eyelashes, refusing to fall.
Harry did not move.
He sat frozen in place, his breath coming too shallow, too fast. His skin felt cold; his limbs stiff, as though he were under a Body-Bind that had missed his heart. That kept pounding. Hurting.
He couldn't even find the words to ask if she was alright. He didn't trust his voice not to crack down the middle.
At last, he murmured, "I don't want things to be like this," his speech raw and low, as if he had torn it from somewhere deep inside.
Ginny turned to him slowly. Her face was pale, tight with something close to pain. "I know," she whispered. Her tone was steady, but her hands trembled slightly in her lap. "But he's angry. And scared. We all are."
Harry nodded, not because he agreed, but because it was the only thing he could do.
"I never meant to shut anyone out," he breathed, barely audible. "I just… I thought if I said it all out loud, if I let it into the open, it'd break something that can't be fixed." He drew a shaky breath. "I didn't mean to make either of you feel small. You're not. You are everything and always have been."
Ginny looked at him. Her eyes still showed hurt, but also a feeling that was stronger.
"I trust you," she told him quietly. "But you've got to have faith in us, too, and let us in, even when it's hard. Especially when it is."
He met her gaze. It held. The weight of what she was saying settled in his chest—but it didn't crush him.
He nodded again, this time slower and firmer.
"I'll fix it," he promised. The vow hung in the air, fragile but real.
Ginny's lower lip trembled. She blinked quickly, swiped at her cheek, and managed a small, sad smile.
"Promise me you'll try."
"I promise."
Harry wandered the narrow halls with no real aim, Ron a few steps behind, though neither of them spoke. The silence between them had grown thick enough to choke on. Every step echoed too loudly in the stillness, the floorboards creaking in protest under their weight.
He had always thought of the Burrow as home, or at least as close as he'd ever got to one. But now, it felt like a stranger's house. He was drifting through a memory of something that had once been his but wasn't anymore.
The kitchen was the worst of it. Normally, it would bustle by this time, with pans clattering, the radio murmuring, and Mrs Weasley fussing over breakfast and telling someone to mind the toast before it burnt. Instead, there was only the quiet clink of a fork against a plate.
Harry sat across from Ron, though they might as well have been on opposite sides of the world. His best friend kept his eyes on his food, barely lifting them. There was no animosity, just distance. And he didn't know how to bridge it.
He forced himself to chew a bite of toast, dry and tasteless, like eating parchment. He could feel the silence settle in his lungs with every breath, pressing down against his ribs.
After another few minutes of that unbearable stillness, he pushed his plate away and rose without a word. Ron didn't look up.
He climbed the stairs slowly and slipped into his room, shutting the door gently behind him. Not a slam. Not even a proper close. Just… quiet. As if he did not want the house to notice him.
His eyes went to the corner of the bedroom almost at once.
Hedwig's cage sat where it always had—still, empty, untouched. A thin layer of dust clung to the bars.
He crossed the room and laid his fingers against the metal. The chill seeped through his fingertips, raising goosebumps along his arm.
She should have been there. Her feathers rustled as she shifted. That low hoot she used to give when he stayed up too late or forgot to open the window. She had always been there.
And now she wasn't.
It was more than missing her. It was the way the room seemed different without her in it. Quieter, somehow. Less certain. As if something had hollowed out part of it and had not filled it back in.
Trying to find another owl had felt wrong. As though anything could take her place. But she hadn't simply been an owl. Hedwig had been his earliest friend in this world, before Ron and Hermione, before Hogwarts had really begun. He had trusted her before any other creature.
She had never judged him; she'd just been there. Quiet, but in her own manner.
And now that she was gone, the ache she left behind had settled in for good. It didn't cut the way it had at first or knock the breath out of him exactly as it had done at Godric's Hollow. No, this was something slower. Heavier. Like carrying a stone in his chest and learning to walk anyway.
His eyes drifted to the stack of books by his bed: thick, spine-creased volumes on magical theory, ancient soul craft, and obscure wand lore. Some borrowed from Hogwarts' library, and some bought second-hand from a dusty little shop in Diagon Alley. He'd read every one, combed through page after page hoping to find a clue, anything, that might explain what he needed to do.
The fracture within him. The sense that something was missing…
He dropped into the chair beside the table and picked up the topmost book, flipping it open to a marked spot. More diagrams. More long-winded passages on the metaphysical properties of the soul. It all felt maddeningly distant.
He let out a sharp breath through his nose and shoved the volume aside. It slid off the surface and landed with a dull thud on the floor, pages spread out.
He stood unable to sit still any longer and began pacing. The motion helped just enough to keep the panic from setting in properly. He could feel it sometimes, like static under his skin. He didn't understand what it meant. But it was there.
Maybe Slughorn would have information. The man had seen things after all, and lived through more than most. He'd know where to look and which questions to ask.
But that involved talking to Ron.
And his best friend hadn't exactly been keen on communicating lately. He kept mostly to his room, saying very little, eyes shadowed with something Harry did not quite understand and didn't have a clue how to fix.
He stopped by the window and looked out.
The sky beyond was pale and endless, but in the glass, he saw only himself, and for the first time, he wasn't sure the reflection was whole.
The garden stretched wide beneath him, all golden light and swaying grass. Gnomes rustled in the hedges. A pair of butterflies tangled lazily above the pumpkin patch. It was beautiful. Ordinary.
Despite that, Harry felt alone, and he was uncertain if being on his own was safer or just easier.
He longed for Hedwig and Ron, too—the easy way they used to talk, the stupid jokes, and the silent understanding that didn't need to be said aloud.
And more than anything, he missed the feeling that he wasn't carrying this on his own.
The kitchen fireplace flared suddenly, erupting in a rush of emerald-green flame. Ash scattered across the hearthstones as a figure stepped through the Floo with a calm confidence that filled the room before he even opened his mouth.
George Weasley, his face smudged with soot and his grin already halfway formed, dusted off his robes with a casual flick of the wrist. There was a flicker of mischief in his eyes, the same spark that had always been there, but something quieter, too, lurking beneath.
Harry had only just turned towards the sound when Mrs Weasley swept past him in a blur of movement, arms outstretched.
"There you are!" she exclaimed, and before George could say a word, she enveloped him in one of her signature bone-crushing hugs. Her face, when she pulled back to get a proper view of him, was alight with something fierce and tender all at once. "My handsome boy—look at you! You've hardly changed. How are you?"
Harry stood there watching them, an emotion tugging low in his chest. That expression—the one Mrs Weasley gave her son, as if seeing him was enough to right the world—he couldn't quite remember the last time someone had looked at him that way. He was glad for him, truly, but it stirred an emptiness in him all the same.
George offered a sheepish half-laugh and shrugged. "Still standing, Mum. That's got to count for something."
"You're early," she remarked, already bustling around, pulling open the pantry doors, her fingers twitching for a task to do. "You must be hungry. Do you want anything special for dinner?"
He waved a hand, his grin widening. "Any creation of yours is brilliant. You know that."
Mrs Weasley gave him one last affectionate pat on the shoulder before she returned to the stove, already humming softly under her breath as pots began to clatter and levitate with practised ease.
Harry took a sip of lukewarm tea and barely had time to set the mug down before George turned towards him.
"Harry."
"George." He stood and offered a proper hug. Not the sort you gave out of politeness, but the kind that said, 'I've missed you,' even if you didn't say it aloud.
"You look dreadful," Harry observed, stepping away, his tone light.
"Cheers, mate," he shot back, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "You're positively glowing yourself."
He chuckled. "Still alive."
"Better than the alternative," George murmured quietly, though there was a flicker in his eyes, one Harry recognised. A tiredness that no amount of jokes could cover.
They sat at the kitchen table, the late afternoon sun spilling through the window and catching the dust in the air.
"How's the shop?" Harry asked, settling back in his chair.
He gave a half-shrug. "Louder than it has ever been, which is probably a good sign. I reckon if something's noisy enough, it counts as living. Might not be neat. But it is something."
He nodded. There was a feeling of reassurance about that chaos, like life.
"Anyway," George went on, eyeing him. "How's Percy's old room treating you? No spontaneous enforcement of bedtime regulations?"
Harry gave a faint smile. "It's fine. Comfortable, actually. Though I keep expecting some sort of glowing list of household duties to appear over the bed."
He leaned in, lowering his voice as if they were both thirteen again. "You're lucky we didn't leave the pink paint."
Harry blinked. "Pink?"
"Oh yeah," he recounted cheerfully. "Fred and I painted the whole thing bright magenta once, when Percy dated that girl from Ravenclaw. Called it a rebranding exercise. He nearly had a coronary."
Harry snorted. "That's cruel."
"Brutal, but poetic," he declared, his grin widening. "We added glitter charms the next day. He threatened to file a complaint with the Ministry of Magic. Said he'd hex our ears off."
A burst of laughter escaped Harry, echoing loudly throughout the room. For the first time in what felt like days, something inside him eased, even if only a little.
But the moment wavered. Percy's name hung in the air too long, unspoken things stirring underneath. George's grin faltered ever so slightly, and his gaze dropped to his tea.
Harry hesitated. Then: "Have you… spoken to him?"
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Briefly. Said he was fine and that he didn't need the room anymore. Offered it up without even being asked."
Harry frowned. "Really?"
"Did not blink whatsoever. Which is how I knew something was off," George admitted, voice softer now. "Percy's… quiet. Still at the ministry. Working. Keeping his head down, like always."
"You reckon he is alright?"
He did not answer at first. His fingers tapped against his mug. "I think my brother's surviving. Same as the rest of us. He just has his own way of doing it. I keep hoping he'll say something, but… you know Percy. Never much good at saying when he's hurting."
Harry nodded, staring into his tea. That was the strange thing now; everyone was walking around with pieces missing, and no one quite knew how to talk about it. All were grieving, but doing it sideways. In silence. Alone.
"Kingsley got the minister's job, though," George said after a moment, the tone of his voice lifting. "That's a solitary bit of proper news."
"Yeah," Harry agreed, managing a smile. "He's the right person for it."
He raised his mug. "To one thing at least, not being a total disaster."
The gentle tap of ceramic as Harry clinked his against it was oddly grounding.
Just then, the front door banged open, and a moment later Mr Weasley stepped into the kitchen, his face flushed from the walk and his expression alight when he spotted his son.
"George!" he exclaimed warmly, pulling him into a hug that was both firm and fond. "You're a sight for sore eyes, my boy."
He hugged him in return. "Great to be back, Dad. Missed the good old-fashioned chaos."
Mr Weasley chuckled, stepping away to clap him on the shoulder. "Well, there's plenty of that to go around."
Harry barely had time to smile when a tremendous stomp-stomp of footsteps thundered from overhead, shaking the ceiling dust loose. A heartbeat later, the kitchen door flew open with a bang, and Ron came skidding into the room, half-running and sliding in his socks.
"George!" he bellowed, nearly tripping over a stray stool as he flung his arms round his sibling. "You're early, you git!"
George coughed under the sudden impact but didn't miss a beat. He wrapped his younger brother in a theatrical hug and began ruffling his hair with mock sentimentality. "Missed you too, Ronnie-kins. Merlin's beard, look at you, almost respectable these days."
"Shove off," he grumbled, batting his hands away, but grinning madly.
George gave him a playful push in return. "Don't get used to it. I'll be gone again before you have time to grow weepy."
Ron rolled his eyes. "You wish."
The tension that had been clinging to Harry since he'd arrived at the Burrow loosened a little, like a knot untangling beneath the surface. This was how it was supposed to be: voices raised in cheerful teasing, someone laughing too loudly, and Mrs Weasley fluttering about in the background pretending not to smile at her sons' antics.
Dinner that evening was everything Harry hadn't known he'd been starving for. The table groaned under the weight of roast beef, crisp potatoes, gravy thick enough to stand a spoon in, and rolls still steaming from the oven. Like excited owls, the conversation was messy, overlapping, yet comforting.
Laughter rang out, bright and unfiltered, bouncing off the mismatched chairs and the low-beamed ceiling like a rogue Quaffle in a broom cupboard.
Mrs Weasley kept topping off plates with determined affection, as if she believed one of them would waste away if she paused for more than a minute. She clucked at George for not eating enough, at Ron for wolfing his food as though a starving hippogriff, and tried, unsuccessfully, to slide a third helping of pudding onto Harry's plate.
Harry, for once, didn't refuse it.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten so much and wanted to. Not only from hunger, but from something deeper. The dish was warm, the sort of meal that caused you to feel tethered and safe.
Each bite chased the icy feeling out of his chest.
Across the table, Ginny was laughing at a joke George had just said, her head thrown back, her eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made him forget how to breathe properly. Even Ron was smiling for once, the tired edge in his gaze dulled by the comfort of family and food and familiar walls.
Harry settled in, savouring the food's warmth, and wished to keep that feeling. He wasn't sure when this house had finally felt like this—whole. There were still shadows in the corners, of course. Empty chairs that drew the eye. But tonight, they weren't so loud.
As the last of the plates cleared themselves with soft clinks and a few protesting clatters, Mrs Weasley hummed to herself while wiping down the worktop, her wand flicking in time with the tune. She turned to George then, hopeful and gentle.
"You're staying the night, aren't you, dear?"
He yawned, stretching his arms behind his head. "Only tonight. Need to be up early—the shop's still standing, but Merlin knows for how long. Pygmy Puffs have staged a coup, I think. They've claimed the till."
Mrs Weasley gave a fond huff. "Well, your bed's ready. Fresh sheets, fluffed pillows, just the way you want them."
George offered her a lopsided smile. "Cheers, Mum. You've got a knack. Your blankets always smell like lavender and guilt."
She tutted, swatting at him half-heartedly with the tea towel, but her happiness lingered all the same.
The night dragged its heels like a stubborn student late to class, slow as one of Professor Binns's lectures on eighteenth-century Goblin rebellions. The air in Percy's old bedroom had grown still and stifling, the sort of thick silence that made Harry feel more restless by the minute.
He sat by the window with his knees drawn up, forehead resting against the cool glass, watching as the stars played hide and seek behind slow-moving clouds. They winked in and out of sight with an odd smugness, as if the sky was in on a joke he didn't understand.
But his mind wasn't laughing.
It was a mess: an uncomfortable, knotted tangle of thoughts that twisted tighter the longer he sat still. Conversations he hadn't had. Things he should've said. Faces he missed. Regrets he couldn't put down, no matter how many times he tried.
Somewhere downstairs, the sound of the wireless drifted faintly upwards: a crackling murmur of a familiar song that only made the quiet seem louder.
And then—knock knock.
Harry flinched, shoulders stiffening before his brain caught up. Not quite the full jolt of someone bursting through the door, wand drawn, but not far off, either. Old reflexes died hard.
He spun, his hand twitching on instinct.
But it was only George, leaning in the doorway, his grin already firmly in place as if he'd been rehearsing it.
Two Butterbeer bottles dripped and softly glowed in the dim candlelight as he held them up.
"Fancy a drink at my secret hideout?" He asked cheerfully, waggling the drinks like bait. "I have one for Ron, too—though he might prefer it hurled at my head, if his mood's anything to go by."
Harry blinked, surprised by the offer. "You have a secret hideout?"
George's grin widened, clearly delighted with himself. "Doesn't everyone? Mine's got stolen cushions, a suspiciously large tin of Honeydukes toffees that I definitely didn't pay for, plus at least six Extendable Ears that I may or may not have taken from Percy's top drawer."
Harry tried for a smirk, but it did not quite land. The heaviness in his chest hadn't shifted, not really.
"Ron's not coming," he said quietly, gaze dropping to the floor. "He's… still angry. We had a row, and he is not talking to me."
That knocked just a fraction of the brightness from George's expression. His eyes, which were a bit too similar to Fred's, became sharper while he maintained a calm voice.
"Oof. Trouble in paradise, eh? What was it this time—Quidditch rivalry, leftover food, or the age-old tragedy of the brooding hero and his long-suffering best mate?"
Harry let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "None of those. Just… stuff."
George tilted his head. "Ah. Stuff. The least helpful word in the English language and the source of ninety-nine percent of wizarding drama."
He stepped into the room, handing a bottle as a peace offering. "Come on, then. You speak, I listen. Worst-case scenario, you cry into your Butterbeer, and I offer you a tragic but oddly comforting hug that I'll hold over your head for the rest of your natural life."
Harry gave a small huff of amusement. He did not want to talk. But sitting alone in a too-quiet bedroom with nothing but guilt for company was worse. And George, for all his nonsense, was not the worst person to open up to. He was sharp in ways people didn't expect—funny, yes, but there was steel beneath the jokes. Especially now.
Besides… he missed Fred too. That was the unspoken thing that always hung between them, wasn't it?
"I've been avoiding it," Harry admitted at last, fingers tightening around the bottle. "The conversation. With Ron. I know I must fix it; I just… I have no clue how."
George slumped against the windowsill, eyes thoughtful now. "Yeah. Well. Nobody ever does, really. That's the problem. Everyone thinks it has to be perfect—the correct words, the right timing. But half the time, you only need to show up, and try to say something. Anything."
Harry nodded slowly, letting the statement sink in. That sounded like a remark Dumbledore might've said. Or maybe Sirius in one of his clearer moments.
Try.
That word again. The specific thing that was always harder than it seemed.
He turned the bottle over in his hands, watching the condensation bead and run.
"You reckon he will even listen?" Harry asked.
He shrugged. "Dunno. But he'll hear you. And that counts for something."
They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable. Then George raised his drink in mock salute.
"To awkward conversations, stolen sweets, and secret hideouts."
He clinked his Butterbeer against George's with a soft clink. The sound echoed gently, oddly reassuring.
He followed him out into the hallway, footsteps light on the stairs. He still didn't know how he'd speak to Ron, or if he could tonight. But maybe it wouldn't matter, just as long as he tried.