Harry felt broken.
It wasn't just tiredness. It was as if something under his ribs kept tugging, hollowing him out a little more each time. As if something inside him had cracked, hairline at first, then split all the way through when he was not looking. Now whatever remained was too brittle, too scattered, to piece back together.
The world outside—the gently bowing trees in the orchard, the chatter of the Weasleys, the shifting summer light—looked as though it had been painted in watercolours and left out in the rain. Everything was blurred, soft at the edges. 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 felt like coming home.
But it didn't.
The Burrow, tilted, ramshackle, and teeming with warmth, usually settled something in Harry the moment he saw it, like slipping on old trainers: scuffed, loyal, and always where you left them.
Now it felt off, like stepping into a memory where the furniture had been quietly rearranged.
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 Harry 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 whether this was still him at all.
Harry 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 said, wary as he crossed into the kitchen. "What sort of surprise?"
It was 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.
Mrs Weasley beamed. "Percy's moved out!"
Harry blinked.
There was a short 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 like always; I don't need—"
"Don't be silly," she said 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."
Harry 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. Not the floor. 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 said gently, her arm slipping around his shoulders, the weight of it oddly steadying. "Just come and see."
Still blinking like someone in the wrong dream, Harry followed her up the narrow stairs. Ron trailed behind, grinning in a way that warned Harry he was not going to be allowed to get strange about it.
The door creaked open.
Harry stopped.
For a long moment he simply stared.
The room looked as though it had been dipped 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," said Mrs Weasley 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 particularly 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 said 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."
Ron snorted. "If the Auror thing falls through, the Cannons are hiring broom-shed attendants. I hear they will take anyone."
Harry 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, nothing pristine, but it was his. Or it had been made for him.
His trunk already waited by the wall, neatly unpacked by 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 already filled: 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 wardrobe. 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 looking suspiciously like it had once belonged to a butter churn. But solid.
Big enough to hide in.
Or nap in.
Or, if he was honest, hide from naps.
"Look at that thing," said Ron, nudging 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. "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 said 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. This felt like thawing, a slow melt of something that had been frozen for far too long.
Ron lounged in the doorway, arms folded, his familiar crooked grin in place. "Only problem is there are four flights to my room now. Leave your wand up there and you are finished. 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 is the spirit. Oh, and 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 said flatly.
Harry was fairly sure she had not even blinked.
"And no, Ron, I am not swapping rooms with you."
Ron groaned. "Come on, Gin. Harry needs his best mate nearby."
Ginny 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, completely 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—possibly longer, if Harry was being dramatic, which he decided he was perfectly entitled to—he and Ron hauled box after box up and down the Burrow's crooked staircases. Most of the boxes had clearly been packed in a rush. 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 that 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 with every step about Ginny, stairs, and the sheer injustice of life.
"Honestly," Ron 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 starting to go 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 tricked you too, mate."
"Yeah," said Harry, smirking faintly. "But at least I saw it coming."
That earned a theatrical groan from Ron. "She's worse than Mum, I swear. If she ever gets her own place, I'm not visiting. Ever. She'll have me re-tile the roof before I've taken off my shoes."
Harry laughed in spite of himself. The ache in his arms had turned into something 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 Harry had never known at Privet Drive.
From downstairs came the clatter of plates, something 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 didn't say anything, but something quiet and certain clicked into place inside his chest.
This wasn't just where he was staying.
It was home.
And it wasn't because of the bed or the food or the cheerful, peeling wallpaper.
It was because he was wanted here.
Even when he wasn't useful.
Even when he was tired, or quiet, or just… existing.
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 floated 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 like she'd just survived a duel with a mixing bowl. Her cheeks were flushed from the oven's heat, and her wand was already levitating a stack of steaming plates toward the table.
Harry hesitated for half a second, just long enough to watch her.
She hadn't called him like a guest. There was no politeness in her tone. No uncertainty. She'd called him like one of her own.
Like she'd been calling him down to dinner his whole life.
For that brief, blinking moment, Harry 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, Mrs Weasley swooped in and deposited a steaming plate in front of him. A generous one too.
"Eat up, dear," she said, patting his shoulder with one flour-dusted hand.
"Thanks," Harry said quietly, managing a smile as he picked up his fork.
For a fleeting moment, he thought of the Dursleys. Of Aunt Petunia carefully portioning out his food as though feeding something wild she hoped wouldn't bite. Of Dudley reaching across the table to steal from his plate. Of 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 thought 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 the memory.
"Harry?"
Her tone was gentle but steady, the kind that pulled him back whether he wanted it or not. 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!" Ginny snapped, brandishing her spoon like a wand. "Don't twist it."
"Oh, come off it," Ron said, waving his fork. "I had the Quaffle—you shoved me."
"It was a gentle nudge. Honestly, you fall over like a sack of Flobberworms."
"That's because I'm carrying you and Katie every practice," Ron shot back, 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 like 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 though 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.
Harry exhaled slowly and turned back to his plate.
Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. "So, Harry," he said in his kind, even voice, "how's the new room treating you, then? All settled in?"
"Yeah," Harry replied quickly, smiling faintly. "Still unpacking, really. Might just stay in tonight. Read a bit."
Ron frowned, setting down his fork. "You're not calling it a night already, are you? You slept most of the train ride."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And I still feel like I've been hit by a Bludger. Your point?"
"My point," Ron said, 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," Ron said 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."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You've got a strange idea of fun."
"And you've got a tragic one of bedtime."
Harry turned to Ginny in mock despair. "Is he always like this?"
She didn't hesitate. "All the time," she said sweetly.
Harry 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 feel terrible for mocking me."
"I already feel terrible," Ron said dramatically, clutching his chest, "but mostly because you're boring."
"Boys," Mrs Weasley said with long-suffering fondness, bustling back to the stove. "Eat before it goes cold. And stop bickering, or you'll be cleaning out the chicken coop again."
Ron and Ginny groaned in unison.
Harry just smiled.
"Oi," said Ron suddenly, leaning across the table with his mouth full of bread. "Did Hermione say anything to you about job applications?"
Harry 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. Like he was meant to have everything sorted already: life after the war, what to do, how to feel normal again. Everyone had an opinion.
Ron groaned and dropped his forehead onto the table. "She won't stop. It's like she's taken it personally that we're not all applying to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She's on a mission."
"You think she's got job charts?" Harry asked lightly, trying not to sound as weary as he felt. "Colour-coded ones?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," Ron muttered. "She probably made a full presentation for McGonagall."
"She's not wrong, though," Harry said.
"She made a list," Ron moaned. "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."
Harry smirked, but before he could reply, Ron's grin faded. "What about you? You must've thought about 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 said quietly, eyes on his plate.
Ron gave him a look. "Oh, come off it. You want to be an Auror, don't you? 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. He didn't want to go back into darkness, not when it already lived in him.
Harry exhaled and set down his fork with a soft clink. "Yes, Ron. Same as before. Auror. Catching Dark wizards. Brilliant. Happy?"
Ron blinked. "Blimey, all right." He raised his hands. "Didn't know it was a crime to ask. I just thought… I was thinking of doing it too. We could be a team."
For some reason, that made Harry's stomach drop.
He knew Ron meant well, but the thought of going back to danger again felt less like purpose and more like being dragged under.
"Then go for it," Harry said 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."
Harry looked away, twisting the napkin in his lap. He didn't 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. Expected him to be fine. 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 quiet.
Harry pushed back his chair. The legs scraped the floor with a screech that made Ginny flinch.
"Thanks for dinner, Mrs Weasley," he said. The words felt hollow. He didn't wait for a reply. He didn't want to see their faces: not Ron's confusion, not Ginny's worry, not Mrs Weasley's quiet understanding.
The ache flared sharp 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 voice rose, frustrated. "Did I say something wrong?"
Harry paused, pressing his forehead against the bannister. Ron 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 voice 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 felt thick and close. He kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the bed with a sigh that seemed to empty him.
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. It's 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 just wanted to work out who he was without everyone else deciding it for him.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, but the thoughts clung to him, heavy and stubborn.
He was seventeen and already older than some men ever lived to be. Seventeen, and exhausted down to his bones.
The ache beneath his ribs flared again, sharp and cold, like something inside him remembering it shouldn't be whole.
And now he was supposed to become an Auror. Again. 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 couldn't 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, it might as well have been written in gobbledegook.
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, maybe no one 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. Ron's trademark stomp down the hallway. Subtle as a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Then a knock followed. Not loud. Not impatient. Just… tentative.
"Oi," came Ron's voice, too gentle to mean anything good. "You still awake?"
Harry sighed through his nose. Of course he was awake. Sleep hadn't come easily for a while now. He pushed himself off the bed and cracked the door open just enough to see Ron's face, creased with concern, trying and failing to look casual.
Harry said nothing. He turned back to the bed 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 said, 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," Harry 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?"
Harry turned a page he hadn't read. The room seemed smaller for it.
"Harry," Ron said again, voice sharper now.
"For Merlin's sake, what?" Harry 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 said, 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 shot back, standing too. "You've 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 don't want 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 don't know what it feels like."
Ron stared, disbelief etched across his face. "Are you serious? You think you're the only one who's lost people? The only one terrified about what comes next? We were all there, Harry. Every bit of it."
"It's not the same," Harry said, voice low, dangerous now. "You don't understand."
Silence. Thick. Pressing.
Then Ron said quietly, but with more force than before, "No. Maybe I don't. But I still care. And I'm sick of you shutting me out because you're scared of needing someone."
Harry turned away, towards the window, as if the night sky might offer escape. His arms folded round himself before he realised.
"I'm not scared," he said, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
"Then why are you pushing me away?"
Harry 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. Because I'm supposed to be strong. Because 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, stepping back 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 of the figures 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—bang, bang, bang—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 under his skin. The glass was cool beneath his palm, but it didn't help. His breathing was too fast. Too loud.
He didn't care who it was. Probably Ron again, back for round two, arms flailing, voice loud enough to wake the ghoul in the attic. More questions. More talking. Merlin, he couldn't face it.
But then—a voice.
Not loud. Not sharp.
Just one word.
"Harry."
He froze.
Not Ron.
That voice, steady, quiet, and unmistakably Ginny, cut through everything.
The frustration drained out of him so fast it left a hollow ache behind. He was at the door before he'd even thought to move, yanking it open.
Ginny stood on the landing, arms folded—not defensive, not angry, just composed, as if she'd been waiting him out.
Her eyes met his, and something inside him tightened. She didn't look surprised at his state, just sad.
"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'm on edge."
She didn't 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 said softly. "Honestly, you're not wrong; Ron was halfway to breaking furniture down there."
Harry gave a short, humourless laugh that collapsed halfway 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 said. "I'm here because I'm 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. "You've been… not just tired. Off. Something's bothering you."
Of course she'd noticed. She always did.
Harry turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just need time," he said roughly. "There's a lot in my head."
He hated how small his voice sounded, how much it gave away.
Ginny didn't rush him. She let the silence stretch, patient and steady.
"I'm not asking for everything," she said at last. "But you've got to let me in. Even a little."
His throat tightened. How did she do that, see through him so easily, and still care?
"It's not about trust," he said quietly. "I do trust you. It's just—"
"Then tell me," she said, 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. He was so tired of explaining, so tired of unravelling the knot inside only to find it tighter.
"I don't want to make it worse for you," he said. "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 said. "If we're doing this, then we share the weight. You're not protecting me by locking me out. You're just leaving me behind."
Something 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 said, "Last night… you found out something, didn't you?"
His breath caught. He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"I thought so," Ginny murmured. "You looked different. When you came into the Great Hall, it was like something had cracked."
Harry clenched his jaw. He could still feel it, that cold weight settling in his chest.
"I can't talk about it yet," he said 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. She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.
"All right," she said simply. "Take your time. I'll wait. I'm not going anywhere."
Harry looked down at their joined hands. Her fingers were warm. He gave a tiny squeeze, because words were still too hard.
Ginny studied him for a moment longer, then let go and moved towards the door. She opened it quietly, not looking back.
This time, the silence she left behind wasn't angry. It wasn't cold. But it was heavy.
Harry woke before the sun had fully risen, the sky outside still tinged with grey, pale light only just beginning to spill through the curtains. For a moment, 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. It wasn't the tight coil of nerves he'd come to expect on waking. It was… excitement. Not grand, not earth-shattering.
It startled him, that simple feeling. He hadn't felt it in weeks. Not since before the world had turned upside down again and again. And it was fragile, this little surge of hope, like something new 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 feeling settle.
After everything that had happened the night before—snapping at Ron, shutting everyone out again—he needed this. A moment to do something right. Something good.
Because 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 something 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 still 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: an old knitted tea cosy sat atop the kettle, a tin of biscuits half-shut beside the bread bin, and yesterday's Daily Prophet folded beside a mug that still bore a faint ring of tea. 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 felt like it reached all the way to the base of his spine, and rolled up his sleeves.
Cooking was one of the few practical things the Dursleys had ever taught him—though not out of kindness. But this morning, it wasn't about duty or obligation. It was something else entirely. 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 pan, flipping the bacon, and setting out plates. The kettle began to whistle gently, and he moved to pour 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 in his chest. For one absurd second, he thought about 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 go hot.
"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 said softly. "It's more than alright. You've always been welcome here."
He gave a small shrug, not trusting himself to speak.
She came further in, inspecting the breakfast like 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!"
Mr Weasley blinked at the scene. "Did he now?"
He took a step forward, surveying the table with the kind of 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. But the Dursleys were stitched into him in ways he still didn't fully understand: ghosts of a life he didn't want, yet couldn't quite shake.
Mr Weasley gave a quiet, thoughtful nod, not pressing, not pitying. "Still. It's a fine gesture, Harry. Very fine indeed. You've done enough for one morning."
Mrs Weasley was already moving to set the table, humming softly under her breath. "You've a knack for this, you know," she said. "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 said, eyes still gleaming as she touched his shoulder in passing. "They're in for a lovely surprise."
She disappeared up the stairs, her dressing gown swishing behind her.
Ron came down the stairs several minutes later; his steps 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 half-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 asked, voice hoarse and unused, as he slid wordlessly into the seat beside Harry.
Mrs Weasley gave a small, fond chuckle as she set down a dish of freshly sliced tomatoes. "No, dear. Harry made breakfast for us."
Ron blinked.
He looked at her, then at the table, then, briefly, at Harry, eyebrows lifted like he'd misheard. "Harry did?" he repeated, his surprise not quite masked.
Harry didn't say anything. His throat had gone dry the moment Ron appeared in the doorway. Every word he'd planned vanished.
Ron glanced down at his plate as though expecting it to start singing 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, without 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, every silence that had grown between them.
Ron didn't look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on his plate, like there might be answers hidden in the scrambled eggs.
Harry's mind raced for something, anything, that might soften things. But all he could feel was the 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 said 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 said, 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 that 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 like she was trying not to disturb anything, like even the floorboards might shatter beneath her.
Her hair was scraped back in a tight ponytail, strands clinging to her temples like they'd been forgotten. 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.
Harry stared at her.
She wasn't angry, exactly. He'd seen Ginny angry, seen her spark like 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 said suddenly, trying to sound casual. "There's a letter I need to send."
Ron's fork stopped mid-motion.
"Who are you writing to?" he asked, without looking up.
Harry hesitated. He hadn't expected the question to bite. He should've.
"Someone important," he said quietly.
Ron finally looked at him. Not with anger, exactly. But with something colder, wary 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 back to this again, are we?" he said. "You keeping secrets. Me pretending I don't notice."
"I'm not pretending," Harry said quickly. 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, voice 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. Things I haven't sorted in my own head."
Ron's jaw clenched. "Funny. That's always your reason, isn't it?"
Harry pushed his chair back slightly, feeling the room close in. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Ron said, his voice low and angry now, "that I'm tired of being your best mate only when it's convenient. Tired of you going off on your own and telling the rest of us to just trust you."
"I do trust you," Harry shot back, the words coming too fast, too defensively. "But this isn't about—"
"Then act like it," Ron interrupted sharply. "Stop making me feel like some idiot you need to protect from the truth."
Harry stared at him, throat thick. He wanted to argue. He wanted to shout back. But all he could feel was the 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 voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the silence; clear, hard, and full of warning.
Ron rounded on her at once, face flushed, jaw tight. "No," he snapped, fury vibrating in his voice. "It's not enough. Not nearly. He needs to hear this. He needs to stop acting like we don't matter. Like 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 looked waxy, the bacon congealed, and the toast like cardboard.
Ron's words hit their mark, each one sinking into Harry 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 words he hadn't said in time.
Ginny's voice came again, softer now, though no less firm. "Maybe he's got a reason," she said, eyes flicking towards Harry. "We're all just… trying to survive, in our own way."
Ron let out a bitter, humourless laugh. It sounded wrong 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 wrong?" His hands trembled slightly as he pushed his plate away. "That's 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 had run from grief, from guilt, from the unbearable weight of trying to be strong when all he felt was broken.
But he hadn't wanted this. Not this shouting. Not this silence that screamed louder than words.
And then—
BANG.
Ron's fist slammed down on the table, sending a tremor through the wood. Harry jerked violently, his whole body flinching as though a spell had been fired.
"This isn't just about you, Harry!" Ron bellowed. His voice was raw now, fraying at the edges. "You're not the only one who's hurting!"
Harry noticed Ron's hands were shaking.
The words shattered something.
Harry 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 knew that, but the words wouldn't come. Not with the weight of everything pressing down on him. The loss. The fear. The way people looked at him, like he was meant to have all the answers, when he barely knew how to breathe some days.
The kitchen had shrunk. The air had grown thick, hard 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 again. 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 lashes, refusing to fall.
Harry didn't 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.
"I don't want things to be like this," he said at last, the words raw and low, as if they'd been torn from somewhere deep inside.
Ginny turned to him slowly. Her face was pale, tight with something close to pain. "I know," she said. Her voice 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 whispered, 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 in a shaky breath. "I didn't mean to make either of you feel small. You're not. You're everything. You always have been."
Ginny looked at him. There was still hurt in her eyes, but something else too, something steadier. Stronger.
"I trust you," she said quietly. "But you've got to trust us, too. You've got to let us in, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
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 said. The promise 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 dense, thick enough to choke on. Every step echoed too loudly in the stillness, the floorboards creaking in protest under their weight.
He'd always thought of the Burrow as home, or at least as close as he'd ever got to one. But now, it felt like someone else's house. Like 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 be bustling by now, 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. Ron kept his eyes on his food, barely lifting them. There was no animosity, just distance. And Harry 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 didn't want the house to notice him.
His eyes went to the corner of the room 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 felt different without her in it. Quieter, somehow. Less certain. Like part of it had been hollowed out and hadn't been filled back in.
Trying to find another owl had felt wrong. Like it would be replacing her, as if she were a thing that could be replaced. But she hadn't just been an owl. She'd been his first friend in this world, before Ron and Hermione, before Hogwarts had really begun. She'd been the first creature he could trust.
She'd never judged him; she'd just been there. Quiet in her own way.
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. It didn't knock the breath out of him like 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 soulcraft, and obscure wandlore. 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 in the hope of finding something, anything, that might explain what he felt.
The fracture inside him. The sense that something was missing…
He dropped into the chair beside the desk and picked up the topmost book, flipping it open to a marked page. 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 book aside. It slid off the desk and landed with a dull thud on the floor, pages fluttering open.
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 know what it meant. But it was there.
Maybe Slughorn would know something. 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 meant talking to Ron.
And Ron hadn't exactly been keen on talking lately. He kept mostly to his room, saying very little, eyes shadowed with something Harry didn't quite understand and didn't know how to fix.
Harry 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.
And still, he felt alone. But he wasn't sure if alone was safer or just easier.
He missed Hedwig.
He missed 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 an easy 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 just 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 look at 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, something tugging low in his chest. That look, the one Mrs Weasley gave George, like seeing him was enough to right the world—Harry couldn't quite remember the last time someone had looked at him like that. He was glad for George, truly, but it stirred something hollow in him all the same.
George gave a sheepish half-laugh and shrugged. "Still standing, Mum. That's got to count for something."
"You're early," she said, already bustling around, pulling open the pantry doors, her fingers twitching for something to do. "You must be hungry—do you want anything special for dinner?"
George waved a hand, his grin widening. "Anything you make is brilliant, Mum. 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." Harry 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 said, pulling back, his tone light.
"Cheers, mate," George replied, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "You're positively glowing yourself."
Harry chuckled. "Still alive."
"Better than the alternative," George said 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.
George gave a half-shrug. "Louder than it's 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's something."
Harry nodded. There was something reassuring 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."
George leaned in, lowering his voice like they were both thirteen again. "You're lucky we didn't leave the pink paint."
Harry blinked. "Pink?"
"Oh yeah," George said cheerfully. "Fred and I painted the whole thing hot pink once, when Percy was seeing that girl from Ravenclaw. Called it a rebranding exercise. Percy nearly had a coronary."
Harry snorted. "That's cruel."
"Cruel, but poetic," George said, 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."
Harry laughed, the sound spilling out unexpectedly and echoing through 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?"
George 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?"
"Didn't even blink. Which is how I knew something was off," George said, voice softer now. "He's… quiet. Still at the ministry. Working. Keeping his head down, like always."
"You think he's alright?"
George didn't answer at first. His fingers tapped against his mug. "I think he'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. Everyone was 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 one bit of proper news."
"Yeah," Harry said, managing a smile. "He's the right person for it."
George raised his mug. "To one thing, at least, not being a total disaster."
Harry clinked his against it, the quiet tap of ceramic strangely 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 said warmly, pulling him into a hug that was both firm and fond. "You're a sight for sore eyes, my boy."
George hugged him back. "Good to be back, Dad. Missed the good old-fashioned chaos."
Mr Weasley chuckled, stepping back to clap George on the shoulder. "Well, there's plenty of that to go around."
Harry barely had time to smile when a tremendous thud-thud-thud 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, half-sliding in his socks.
"George!" he bellowed, nearly tripping over a stray stool as he flung his arms round his older brother. "You're early, you git!"
George wheezed under the sudden impact but didn't miss a beat. He wrapped Ron 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," Ron grumbled, batting his hands away, though he was grinning like a loon.
George gave him a playful shove in return. "Don't get used to it. I'll be gone again before you get a chance 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. Conversation flew back and forth like a flock of excited owls, overlapping and messy, and all the more comforting for it.
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 though convinced 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 like 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 just from hunger, but from something deeper. The food was warm, the sort of meal that made you feel tethered and safe.
Each bite chased something cold out of his chest.
Across the table, Ginny was laughing at something George had just said, her head thrown back, her eyes crinkled at the corners in that way that made Harry forget how to breathe properly. Even Ron was smiling for once, the tired edge in his eyes dulled by the comfort of family and food and familiar walls.
Harry sat back, the warmth of the meal spreading through him, and tried to hold on to the feeling. He wasn't sure when this house had last felt like this—whole. There were still shadows in the corners, of course. Empty chairs that drew the eye. But tonight, they weren't quite so loud.
As the last of the plates cleared themselves with soft clinks and a few protesting clatters, Mrs Weasley began to hum 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?"
George yawned, stretching his arms behind his head. "Just 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 how you like them."
George gave her a lopsided smile. "Cheers, Mum. You've got a knack. Your sheets always smell like lavender and guilt."
She tutted, swatting at him half-heartedly with the tea towel, but her smile lingered all the same.
The night dragged its heels like a stubborn student late to class, slow and heavy 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 sort of 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—tap tap tap.
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 turned sharply, wand hand twitching on instinct.
But it was only George, leaning in the doorway, his grin already firmly in place like he'd been rehearsing it.
He held up two bottles of Butterbeer, both dripping with condensation and glowing slightly in the dim candlelight.
"Fancy a drink in my secret hideout?" He asked cheerfully, waggling the bottles like bait. "I've got one for Ron, too—though he might prefer it hurled at my head, if his mood's anything to go by."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the offer. "You've got 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 definitely weren't paid for, and at least six Extendable Ears I may or may not have liberated from Percy's top drawer."
Harry tried for a smirk, but it didn't 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. He's not talking to me."
That knocked just a fraction of the brightness from George's expression. His eyes, eyes too much like Fred's for comfort some days, sharpened slightly, though his voice stayed easy.
"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, offering a bottle like a peace offering. "Come on, then. You talk, 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 didn't 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, wasn't 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 need to fix it; I just… I don't know 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 right words, the right timing. But half the time, you just need to show up and say something. Anything."
Harry nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. That sounded like something Dumbledore might've said. Or maybe Sirius, in one of his clearer moments.
Try.
That word again. The one that was always harder than it sounded.
He turned the bottle over in his hands, watching the condensation bead and run.
"You reckon he'll even listen?" Harry asked.
George 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 bottle in mock salute.
"To awkward conversations, stolen sweets, and secret hideouts."
Harry 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 what he was going to say to Ron or whether he'd even manage it tonight. But maybe it didn't matter.