"No one will move you again. I'll be back in a few hours, and we're leaving for good," he vowed, his forehead pressed to Teddy's. Leaving the boy was agony, but the orphanage, under Mrs. Cole's confounded gaze, was now the safest place for him for a few more hours. The Burrow, when Harry and Daryl apparated to its outskirts, was a portrait of wrongness. The once-chaotic, vibrant home stood too quiet. No ghoul thumped in the attic; no Errol-like owls crashed into the windows. It felt like a museum dedicated to a lost family. George answered the door; the sight of him was a fresh wound. The vibrant, mischievous twin was gone. In his place was a thin, hollowed-out man. His hair was lank, his famous humor replaced by a stillness that was profoundly unsettling. One ear was missing, but that old injury seemed trivial compared to the emptiness in his eyes.
"Harry," George said, his voice flat. No surprise. No warmth.
"George. Can we come in?"
A slight, weary nod. They stepped into the kitchen. It was clean, sterile. No simmering pots, no knitting, no smell of Molly's pies. The clock on the wall was the final, brutal blow. All nine hands, once pointing to 'Home,' 'traveling,' 'mortal peril,' now pointed squarely at a single, new designation: 'lost." Harry's gaze snapped from the clock to George. "Where is everyone?" George let out a sound that was almost a laugh, but devoid of any joy.
"Gone. Percy's at the Ministry, married to his job and his new, proper, pure-blood wife. Bill and Charlie are abroad; can't blame them. Ron and… her… are in London, playing happy heroes with the Ministry. Dad's buried in his shed, but he's not really there either." He looked directly at Harry, and a flicker of the old George surfaced, sharp and pained. "Mum and Ginny are at Shell Cottage. They said they needed peace. From the memories. From the… associations."
The word 'associations' hung in the air, heavy and accusatory. Harry understood. He was the association. The boy who lived, who brought the war to their doorstep, who got Fred killed, whose godson lost his parents before he even knew them.
"They left you here alone," Harry stated, his throat tight.
"Someone had to mind the ruins," George replied, his eyes drifting to the window, towards the orchard where a single, lonely grave now stood. "Why are you here, Harry?"
"Teddy," Harry said, the name a blade. "Andromeda gave him up. He's in Wool's Orphanage."
For the first time, a genuine emotion broke through George's numbness: pure, unadulterated horror. "What?" he breathed. "But… the family… we protect our own…"
"Do we?" Harry's question was soft, deadly. "The wireless today. Percy. The Werewolf Registry. The 'civic duty.' Is that the family line now?"
George flinched as if struck. He looked from Harry's hardened face to Daryl, who stood silently observing, a stark reminder of a world where loyalty was bearded, not inherited. He looked down at his own hands, the hands that used to create wonder.
"I didn't know about Teddy," George whispered, the words ripped from him. "They didn't tell me. I've been… here." He gestured vaguely at the empty house. "I'm not on the family floo network anymore."
The finality of it, the total isolation, was devastating. The Weasleys had not just fractured; they had imploded, and in their fear and grief, they had exiled one of their own and abandoned a child. Harry felt his rage temper into something colder, more resolute. George was a victim here, too. Another casualty of the great betrayal.
"I'm getting him out tonight," Harry said. "He'll be with me. And Daryl, and you, if you will come with."
George nodded slowly, a spark of the old fire-anger, this time, not joy- lighting in his depths. "Good." He met Harry's gaze. "What do we need?"
"Nothing from here. Pack anything you want to bring. We'll meet in your flat," Harry said, his meaning clear.
He turned to leave, Daryl falling into step beside him. At the door, George's voice stopped them, stronger now. "Harry."
Harry looked back.
"Tell him… tell Teddy… his Uncle George is sorry."
"You can tell him yourself when you see him," Harry says with a sad smile.
Harry and Daryl disappeared from the shell of The Burrow. Harry felt the first, faint flicker of something besides fury and grief. It was the fragile, tentative outline of a new foundation. Not built on the old, broken family, but on the one he would choose: a guardian, a hunter, a lost godson, and a twin seeking redemption. The war for home was just beginning. The air snapped back into place as Harry and Daryl reappeared in London, the city's noise crashing over them like surf. Harry exhaled slowly, grounding himself. One promise made, one ally reclaimed. The clock was ticking now, literally and figuratively. Somewhere across the city, Teddy was waiting, believing him. Daryl glanced sideways at him as they started down the street. "You good?" he asked quietly.
Harry nodded once. "I am now." It wasn't entirely true- but it was truer than it had been an hour ago. Rage had sharpened into purpose. Grief had found a direction. He reached out instinctively, brushing the magic that tethered him to Teddy, feeling the faint, steady pulse of the child's life and presence. Safe. Afraid. Holding on.
"Orphanage extraction in a few hours," Daryl said, already planning. "Clean or loud?"
Harry's mouth curved into something that wasn't a smile. "Clean," he said. "For Teddy." A pause, then colder: "Loud comes later."
Daryl huffed softly. "Figured."
They reached the building that Daryl is renting for the night- a nondescript block that blended into the city, forgettable by design. As they climbed the stairs, Harry felt the last vestiges of his old life finally shear away. The blind faith. The exception, that doing the right thing would be enough. It hadn't been. It had never been. Inside, Harry moved with purpose, warding the space with spells older than the war, spells he'd learned not from books or mentors, but from necessity. Protection layered on protection. Contingencies nested like teeth. This was what guardianship looked like-not trust, but vigilance. When he finally stilled, the room felt different. Anchored.
Harry looked at the city through the window, toward the dark sprawl that hid Wool's Orphanage within it. "I'm coming for you," he murmured, not just to Teddy, but to every lie that had put the boy behind bars and called it safety. Outside, the clouds began to break, thin seams of moonlight bleeding through the gray. Once Harry is mentally prepared, he apparated in the narrow alley behind George's London flat, rain slicking the cobblestone. Harry didn't move at first, shoulders squared, as if bracing against something unseen.
"You all right?" Daryl asked.
"I will be," Harry said, and meant it.
George packed quickly. There wasn't much left: clothes, a few photos, dust-covered joke prototypes. He hesitated only once, slipping Fred's watch into his pocket with shaking fingers.
"I'm ready."
They didn't linger. As they apparated away, Harry felt it- something shifting, settling. The old foundations were gone. What remained would be built by choice, or not at all. The war for home had begun.