Harry felt broken. Not just sad—shattered. Like something deep inside him had cracked and wouldn't go back together. The world around him—the trees, the sky, even the familiar hum of the Weasleys' chatter—blurred as though someone had smudged the ink.
He barely remembered getting to the Burrow. One moment, he'd been standing in the wreckage of something awful, the next, he was stepping over the threshold into the Weasleys' crooked old kitchen.
Ron kept flicking nervous glances his way, clearly wondering if Harry was about to collapse or detonate. Ginny watched him too, her gaze softer, but just as concerned.
Harry didn't blame them. He felt untethered, like he was floating behind a sheet of glass—watching everything happen but not quite inside it. Like one of Nearly Headless Nick's more bewildered cousins.
He stood just outside the front door and hesitated. The Burrow—with its tilting walls and garden full of gnomes—should've felt safe, like stepping back into worn-in trainers. But instead, he felt… off. Like someone had stuffed his insides with mismatched socks—one too tight, the other slipping uselessly down his ankle.
"Welcome home, Harry!" Mrs Weasley's voice rang out, warm and certain, arms open like she was one step away from wrapping him in a full-on mum-hug.
Home.
He stepped inside slowly, trying to scrape together a smile but only managing a small, crooked twitch. His heart thudded on, unsure whether it was anxious or just wildly confused.
"Harry," Mr Weasley said, joining his wife with that familiar twinkle in his eye—the one that usually meant something half-innocent, half-mischievous was about to happen. "Molly and I have got a little surprise for you."
Oh no.
"Surprise?" Harry echoed, wary. His brain still felt foggy—was this a prank? No. Not here. Not at the Burrow. Right?
Mrs Weasley beamed, her hands clapping together in delight. "Percy's moved out!"
There was a beat of silence.
Harry blinked. "Er… congratulations?"
Ron gave a snort of laughter and elbowed him.
Mr Weasley grinned, his eyes glinting with quiet satisfaction. "And seeing as Percy's off playing at being a proper Ministry man and won't be needing his room anymore… we thought you might like it."
Harry's stomach did a small, startled somersault.
"I—what? No, that's—no, you don't have to—I'm fine, really—Ron's room is—"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Mrs Weasley said briskly, already ushering him towards the stairs. "You deserve your own space, dear. Percy even said so himself, and you know how rarely he parts with a compliment."
Harry stopped, sceptical. "Percy actually said that?"
Mrs Weasley made grand, exaggerated air quotes. "'Harry has, regrettably, earned the right to a private space.'"
Ron let out a bark of laughter. "That's Percy-speak for 'I begrudgingly like you.'"
"I—I don't know what to say," Harry stammered, his face growing warm. His mind, unhelpfully, flashed back to the cupboard under the stairs—Dudley thumping on the door, Uncle Vernon shouting for more bacon.
"You don't have to say anything," Mrs Weasley said gently, slipping her arm around his shoulders, her touch firm and steady like she could pin him safely in place. "Just come and have a look."
Still moving as though caught in a dream, Harry followed her up the wonky, creaking staircase, Ron trailing behind with a grin that said he was thoroughly enjoying the whole thing.
The door creaked open.
It took Harry a full second to process what he was seeing.
The room was brilliant. The walls were covered in rich scarlet and gold, like someone had bottled Gryffindor pride and painted with it. Quidditch posters covered nearly every inch—Puddlemere United, the Chudley Cannons, even a massive Holyhead Harpies one that looked enchanted to lunge if you got too close.
And right in the centre, in bold block letters:
WELCOME HOME, HARRY!
Harry's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. No sound came out.
There weren't words for this. Not really.
"Ron picked everything," Mrs Weasley said proudly, her eyes shining as she looked around the room. "He couldn't remember which team you supported, so he just included all of them."
"Even the Harpies?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ron shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Ginny said she'd hex me if I left them out. So, yeah."
"I'm not complaining," Harry said, a small laugh escaping before he could stop it. "Pretty sure I've got enough fan gear now to start my own league."
Ron grinned. "Mate, if all the Gryffindor colours are a bit much, I can tone them down. Maybe."
Harry stepped further inside, still taking it all in. His trunk was already there, unpacked neatly—Mrs Weasley's magic, no doubt. The bed looked impossibly soft, covered in thick, fluffy blankets that practically dared him to fall straight in. There was even a little reading nook in the corner, shelves already filled with his books, a lamp perched beside them.
And there it was—a wardrobe. A proper one. Big, solid, probably a bit wobbly if you leaned on it, but still—his.
A real one.
Big enough to hide in.
Or nap in.
Or, possibly, hide from naps.
Ron nudged him with his elbow. "Look at that wardrobe. Big enough to fit Hagrid."
Harry swallowed, his throat tight. "I don't even know what to say. Honestly. Thank you."
Ron rolled his eyes, but his grin stayed put. "Don't get all soppy on me. You'll ruin the Gryffindor vibe."
Mrs Weasley gave Harry a quick squeeze around the shoulders, warm and firm, the way mums always seem to know you need. "You're part of this family, Harry. You always have been. This is your home now."
Something inside Harry cracked—but it wasn't the painful kind. It was something cold, something heavy, starting to melt.
Ron leaned lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Only problem is, it's four flights up to my room now. So if you forget your wand in the kitchen, you're doomed. But I'll swap with Ginny. You know. For easy access."
"I'll risk it," Harry said, still smiling.
"Oh—and your room's right next to Ginny's," Ron added quickly. "So if you hear weird singing at night, that's her. Not a ghost."
Ginny appeared in the doorway as if summoned, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in perfect Weasley defiance.
"I do not sing," she said flatly. "And no, Ron, I'm not swapping rooms with you."
Ron groaned. "Come on, Gin, Harry needs his best mate nearby."
Ginny smirked. "Funny. I don't hear Harry complaining."
Harry froze. His mouth had gone completely dry.
Ginny tossed her hair, gave them both a little wave, and strolled away, thoroughly pleased with herself.
Ron looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him. "Brilliant. I've lost my room, my dignity, and my baby sister to the Boy Who Lived."
Harry laughed—really laughed. It burst out of him before he could stop it, surprising him, scattering some of the thick fog that had clung to him for days.
Maybe things weren't fixed. Maybe they wouldn't ever be.
But right now, standing in this ridiculous, over-the-top, Gryffindor-soaked room, with his best mate cracking jokes and the smell of Mrs Weasley's cooking drifting up the stairs—right now, he felt all right.
Actually—maybe even a bit better than all right.
For what felt like a never-ending hour, Harry and Ron lugged box after box up and down the Burrow's lopsided staircases. Most of them were stuffed with old schoolbooks, battered Quidditch gear, or mystery items that clanked ominously whenever they jostled them. Every few steps, Ron muttered under his breath—grumbling about how "bossy" Ginny had become, how this was "clearly not my job," and how their mum was telling them to use magic to speed it up and then come help with dinner.
Ron, naturally, wasn't using magic. On principle.
"Honestly, Ginny's not even helping," Ron grumbled, wiping sweat off his brow as they heaved another box through the crooked hallway. "She waved her wand once and disappeared. Typical."
Harry couldn't help laughing, even as his arms ached. "You do realise she tricked you into doing all of this, right?"
"She tricked you too, mate."
"Yeah," Harry said, smirking, "but at least I saw it coming."
Ron let out a theatrical groan. "She's worse than Mum these days. If she ever gets her own place, I'm not visiting. I'm serious."
They reached the top of the stairs again, breathless, and Harry paused for a moment by the little window on the landing. The world outside was drenched in that soft, golden light you only got in the early evening—quiet, still, like the whole day was sighing to a close. The Burrow, with its sloping walls and patchwork repairs, seemed to glow in it. From the kitchen below, the smell of dinner drifted up—garlic, roast vegetables, something sweet in the oven.
Harry didn't say anything, but something inside him clicked into place. This house, with its noise and its clutter and its creaking floors, was the only place that had ever truly felt like home.
They started back down the stairs, the wood groaning under their weight.
"Harry! Come on, dinner's ready!" Mrs Weasley's voice floated up from below, warm and cheery, cutting through Ron's latest round of complaints. She stood at the foot of the stairs, apron dusted with flour, hair wild like she'd just been wrestling gnomes in the garden.
Harry hesitated for a second, watching her bustle about. The sound of plates clattering, people laughing, chairs scraping across the flagstone floor—it all pulled at him, steady and sure. For the briefest moment, he let himself believe it. He wasn't just a guest here, not some stray the Weasleys had taken in out of obligation.
Mrs Weasley hadn't called him to dinner like a visitor. She'd called him like family.
He followed the noise, the warmth pulling him forward.
Before heading to the kitchen, he ducked into his room for a breather. It was already half-cluttered—Ron's mess creeping into his space, Harry's books tucked neatly under the bed. He thought about starting one later. Something light. Souls: An Introduction. Riveting.
"Oi! Don't fall asleep in there!" Ron's voice rang down the hall. "You'll miss the good bits!"
Harry rolled his eyes and trudged towards the kitchen.
The smell hit him first—rich, comforting, proper home cooking. Roasted carrots, buttery potatoes, something meaty, and fresh bread, the kind that made his stomach growl so loudly Ron would have teased him if he'd heard.
The long wooden table was already crowded, forks clinking, chatter bouncing around like Bludgers. Mrs Weasley zipped between chairs, refilling plates with uncanny speed and terrifying accuracy.
Harry slipped into the seat between Ron and Ginny. Without missing a beat, Mrs Weasley landed a generous heap of food in front of him.
"Eat up, dear," she said, patting his shoulder with her floury hand.
"Thanks," Harry murmured, managing a small smile as he picked up his fork.
For a moment, Harry's thoughts drifted to the Dursleys. Dinner at Privet Drive had never looked—or smelled—anything like this. He could picture Aunt Petunia, carefully sliding his meagre portions onto the plate as though she were feeding a stray cat she rather hoped would leave. He flinched inwardly at the memory.
"Harry?" Mrs Weasley's voice cut gently through his thoughts. She was watching him now, a knowing look in her eye—soft, but firm enough to pull him back.
He blinked and quickly jabbed at a roasted potato with his fork. "Sorry—just thinking."
Across the table, Ron and Ginny were bickering again.
"No, you dropped it!" Ginny said, waving her spoon at him accusingly.
"Oh, come off it. I had the Quaffle—you shoved me."
"It was a gentle nudge! You fall over like a sack of Flobberworms."
"That's because I'm carrying you and Katie every practice!"
Harry grinned to himself as he chewed, listening to them squabble until it dissolved into laughter. For a brief, glowing moment, everything felt normal.
And then his eyes landed on the empty chairs.
George's chair sat there, half-pushed out as though he might come wandering in any minute. The one next to it—Fred's—felt louder in its silence. It might as well have had his name scorched into the wood.
Harry's chest tightened. He could see them, just for a second—the twins pelting Quirrell with enchanted snowballs, grinning like they'd cracked the secrets of the universe. They'd been unstoppable then. Brilliant, loud, alive.
And now—
Ginny caught his eye. Her smile faltered just a little, as though she knew exactly where his mind had gone. She didn't say anything, just nudged his knee gently under the table.
That small, steady nudge anchored him better than any charm could have.
Across the table, Mr Weasley glanced up from cutting his steak. "So, Harry," he said, in his calm, kind way, "how's the new room? Settling in all right?"
"Yeah," Harry said automatically. "Still unpacking, really. I think I'll just stay in tonight. Maybe read a bit."
Ron frowned. "You're not seriously calling it a night already, are you? You slept most of the train ride here."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "And I still feel like I've been hit by a Bludger. Your point?"
"My point is—you're seventeen, not seventy," Ron said, poking at his mash. "At this rate, I'll be sending you owl post at the old wizards' home before we sit NEWTs."
Ginny snorted into her drink.
Harry sighed. "What would you have me do? Throw a party?"
"Maybe!" Ron shrugged. "Or I don't know—come flying, play chess, sneak into the attic and see if that ghoul's still knocking about. Something."
Harry gave him a tired look. "You've got a very strange idea of fun."
"And you've got a very old idea of bedtime."
Harry turned to Ginny. "Is he always like this?"
"All the time," she said sweetly, not missing a beat.
"You know," Harry muttered, idly pushing a carrot round his plate, "one of these days, I am going to turn seventy. And you lot are going to feel dreadful for mocking me."
"I already feel dreadful," Ron said, clutching his chest dramatically. "But mostly because you're boring."
Mrs Weasley rolled her eyes fondly. "Boys," she sighed, returning to the stove to dish out seconds.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Harry let the smile spread across his face without forcing it.
Ron, meanwhile, was cramming half a loaf of bread into his mouth and washing it down with a heroic gulp of pumpkin juice. He leaned across the table, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal ministry secrets.
"Did Hermione say anything to you about job applications?"
Harry froze mid-bite, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. And there it was—the topic he'd been dodging like a rogue Bludger all week.
"She… might've mentioned it," he muttered, stabbing at his potatoes with a bit more force than was strictly necessary.
His stomach twisted. It seemed like everyone—from well-meaning professors to Hermione with her endless lists—had decided that Harry Potter needed a job. Immediately. Preferably yesterday.
Ron groaned and let his head drop to the table with a dull thud. "She won't let up. Honestly, it's like she's on some grand mission to get me employed before the weekend. I mean, come on—we survived a war. Doesn't that buy us a few weeks of doing absolutely nothing?"
"You'd think," Harry said, keeping his tone light, though the weight in his chest didn't match. He wasn't even sure what doing nothing was supposed to feel like anymore. "But it's Hermione. You know she's not going to stop until you give in."
"She's already drawn up a list," Ron moaned, lifting his head just enough to glare at his plate. "Careers she finds 'acceptable'. You should've seen her face when I said I might try going pro in Gobstones."
Harry snorted properly at that. "Did she threaten to hex you?"
"Only a bit," Ron said, though there was a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth now. Then his eyes narrowed, suddenly sharp. "What about you? You must've thought about it. Don't tell me you haven't."
Harry hesitated. The knot in his chest pulled tighter, the same knot that always surfaced whenever someone mentioned the future—as though he was meant to have one. As though he hadn't been inches from death more times than he could count.
"I'm still thinking," he said flatly.
Ron raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come off it. You want to be an Auror, don't you? Same as before?"
Harry sighed and dropped his fork with a faint clink. "Yes, Ron. Same as before. Auror. Magical law enforcement. Catching Dark wizards. Brilliant. Happy?"
"Blimey, all right." Ron held up his hands, palms out. "Didn't realise 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 sink.
"Then go for it," Harry snapped, sharper than he meant. "No one's stopping you."
Ron stared at him, properly thrown now. "Wait—what? I thought you'd be glad. It was your idea in the first place."
Harry looked down, twisting his napkin between his fingers. He didn't know how to explain it without sounding like a complete wreck. He wasn't even sure what he was trying to explain. Was it guilt? Fear? Pressure? Probably all of it—and something else, something heavier he couldn't name.
"It's not that simple," he muttered.
Ron frowned. "Why not? You'd be brilliant, mate. Everyone knows it."
And that was exactly the problem, wasn't it?
Everyone expected him to be brilliant. Brave. Steady. The Boy Who Lived, now conveniently expected to know exactly what came next. Like it was all written out neatly in some Ministry leaflet: Survived Voldemort? Here's your five-step career plan!
"Just drop it, all right?" Harry barked, louder than he intended.
The kitchen went silent. Forks paused mid-air. Conversations snapped shut. Harry could feel the weight of everyone's eyes on him, burning like stage lights.
He stood abruptly, the scrape of his chair against the floor loud enough to make Ginny flinch.
"Thanks for dinner, Mrs Weasley," he mumbled, and without waiting for a response, he turned and left the room.
His footsteps thundered up the stairs—two at a time, faster and faster, as though he could outpace the silence he'd left behind.
Behind him, Harry could hear Ron's confused voice float faintly through the Burrow.
"What was that all about? Did I say something wrong?"
Harry winced, halfway up the stairs. Brilliant. Now Ron felt guilty. That made two of them.
Down in the kitchen, the air still buzzed with tension, thick and uncomfortable. Ginny's voice cut clean through it, sharp as ever.
"You were being a prat, that's what."
"I was only asking a question!" Ron protested.
Mrs Weasley's gentler tones chimed in, full of motherly patience.
"He's had a long day, dear. You all have. Just… give him a bit of space, won't you?"
There was the scrape of chairs, the rustle of people pretending to carry on like nothing had happened. But Harry didn't go back. He kept climbing, wishing he could leave his thoughts behind on the stairs like a jumper he didn't need.
He shut the bedroom door quietly behind him, like if he made too much noise, the whole house would come crashing in again. He dropped onto the bed, not even bothering to kick off his shoes. The mattress dipped beneath him, soft and familiar, but somehow still felt like it was pushing back. Like even his bed wasn't sure he belonged there.
Merlin, he was tired. Not just tired—completely done.
The war was over, but it had carved out pieces of him no one else could see. And now he was expected to what—become an Auror? Run headfirst into danger again, like he hadn't already watched enough people he loved fall?
He stared at the book in his lap—some old Defence text Hermione had handed him weeks ago. He couldn't even remember the title. The words blurred. He wasn't really reading. He just wanted to look busy. If he looked busy, maybe no one would ask questions. Especially not Ron.
Naturally, fate wasn't going to let him off that easy.
He heard the footsteps first—Ron's heavy, unmistakable stomp down the hall, subtle as a herd of hippogriffs.
Then, a knock.
"Oi. You still awake?" Ron's voice was soft. Too soft. That meant trouble.
Harry sighed through his nose and went to crack the door open. One look at Ron's face—creased with concern, trying to look casual and failing—and Harry turned straight back to his bed, retreating like a soldier finding the nearest trench. He grabbed the book again. Armour.
Ron walked in anyway.
"So…" Ron dropped into the desk chair, spinning it lazily like he had nowhere else to be. "What're you reading?"
Harry didn't even look up. "Nothing."
"Looks thrilling." Ron leant over dramatically, squinting at the cover. "Is that Advanced Defensive Strategies for Modern Combat? Riveting."
"Shove off." Harry clutched the book like it might shield him.
Ron raised an eyebrow. "Did I hit a nerve, or is that just your new personality?"
Harry flipped a page he hadn't read, burying his face deeper.
"Harry," Ron said, sharper this time.
"For Merlin's sake, what?" Harry snapped, tossing the book aside like it had personally offended him. "What do you want, Ron?"
Ron blinked, caught off guard. "Well, I was going to ask why you stormed off earlier, but now I'm just wondering if you've gone completely mental."
Harry dragged a hand through his hair, gripping it at the roots like maybe that would stop the pressure building behind his eyes.
"I told you—I'm fine."
"Oh, brilliant. You're fine," Ron shot back, his sarcasm razor-sharp. "You storm off halfway through a conversation, hole up in here, snap my head off when I knock—but sure. Fine."
"I don't need a bloody intervention, alright?" Harry stood, arms folded tight across his chest. "Can't I just have a moment to breathe?"
Ron got to his feet too, his temper flaring. "You've had moments, mate. You've had days, locking yourself away like you're cursed or something. Talking might actually help, you know."
"I don't want to talk!" Harry bellowed, his voice cracking. "I don't want advice, or kind words, or any of that useless rubbish that won't change anything!"
"Then what do you want?" Ron snapped. "You want us all to pretend you're fine? Is that it? Because that's what it feels like, Harry! Like you're daring us to leave you alone while you quietly fall to bits!"
Harry faltered, chest heaving. "You don't get it," he muttered. "You don't know what it feels like."
Ron stared at him, incredulous. "Are you serious? You think you're the only one who's lost people? The only one who's scared? Bloody hell, Harry, we were all there."
"It's not the same," Harry bit out, low and dangerous. "You don't understand."
The silence that followed landed like a slap.
Finally, Ron spoke again, quieter now, but with just as much weight.
"No. I don't. But I still care. And I'm sick of you shutting me out just because you're scared of needing someone."
Harry turned away, suddenly drained. "I'm not scared," he said, though his voice wobbled.
"Then why are you pushing me away?"
Because if I let you stay, I'll fall apart, Harry thought. Because I'm supposed to be the strong one. Because if I admit I'm broken, I don't know if I'll ever come back from it.
But all he said was, "I just… I need space."
Ron shook his head, backing towards the door. "Fine. Have your space. Enjoy your bloody book." He slammed the door so hard the picture on the wall rattled crooked.
Harry stood in the echo of it, his shoulders sagging as the silence settled over him like a suffocating cloak. He dropped back onto the bed, pressing his face into the pillow and wishing it would just swallow him whole.
Then—bang, bang, bang—a knock, sharp and sudden, made him jump. His heart shot up into his throat. His muscles tensed on instinct.
He gritted his teeth. Another interruption.
"What now?!" he shouted, his voice ragged, raw with frustration as he paced to the window, hands clenching uselessly at his sides. The tension had been simmering all day, boiling under his skin, pressing hard behind his eyes. He didn't even care who it was. He'd had enough.
He could already see it—Ron, barging back in, arms flailing, voice loud enough to shake the house. Probably with another speech. Exactly what Harry didn't need.
But then came a quiet voice. Careful. Steady.
"Harry."
Not Ron.
Harry froze. His chest tightened in a completely different way.
He was at the door in seconds, yanking it open.
Ginny stood there, her arms folded—not defensive, but calm, like she'd been waiting him out. Her expression was soft but firm, her eyes holding his in that way she always had—that way that cut straight through him.
"Ginny—" he started, already hating himself. "I'm sorry. I thought it was Ron. I didn't mean to shout. I just… I'm on edge."
Ginny stepped forward and gently placed her hand on his cheek. Her touch was warm—steadying, pulling him back from the edge for just a moment. She tilted his face until he met her gaze.
"It's alright," she said softly. "Honestly, we could hear Ron from the kitchen. He's in one of his moods."
Harry let out a small, hollow laugh, but the shame still weighed heavy on his chest. He looked away, jaw tight. He hadn't meant to snap at her. But lately it was as though everything grated on him. Every sound too loud. Every look felt like a question he didn't know how to answer.
"I shouldn't have taken it out on you," he muttered. "You didn't deserve that."
Ginny shook her head. "I'm not here to have a go at you, Harry. I'm here because I'm worried."
She stepped into the room properly, closing the door quietly behind her. Something shifted in the air—quieter now, more still. Harry backed away, giving her space, though somehow the walls felt like they'd crept closer.
"You've barely said a word since yesterday," Ginny went on, her voice softer now. "You've been distant. Not just tired—something's bothering you."
There it was—that tug in his chest. Of course she could see through him. She always could.
"I just need time," he said, turning his back on her. His voice came out low and rough. "There's… there's a lot in my head at the moment."
Ginny didn't move. She let the silence sit between them, unhurried, before she spoke again. "I don't want to push you. But you have to let me in, Harry. Even just a bit."
His throat tightened painfully. He stared at the worn patch of wall in front of him, blinking hard. How could he explain the knot of everything tangled inside him? Half-formed thoughts, things he'd learned, things he suspected.
"It's not that I don't trust you," he said at last. "I do. It's just—"
"Then tell me," she interrupted, gently but firmly, stepping closer. "You don't have to carry this on your own."
He wanted to. Merlin, he wanted to tell her everything. But how could he dump this on her shoulders? She'd already been through enough. He didn't want to add to her battles.
"I don't want to make things worse for you," he whispered. "You've lost enough. You've got your own fight. You don't need mine on top of it."
Ginny narrowed her eyes—not angry, but fiercely steady. "That's not how this works. If we're doing this—if we're us—then we carry each other's loads. You're not protecting me by shutting me out, Harry. You're just leaving me behind."
Something twisted in his chest—tight, aching. She wasn't wrong. But the words still wouldn't come.
Then she caught him off guard.
"Last night… you found out something, didn't you?"
His breath snagged. He didn't answer, but he knew his silence gave him away.
"I thought so," Ginny said quietly. "I could tell. When you came into the Great Hall—you looked different. Like something had cracked inside you."
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. He hated that she'd seen it. Hated that he wasn't strong enough to hide it from her. The memory clawed at him—the realisation, the way the air had gone cold around him, the weight of it still pressing on his ribs.
"I can't talk about it yet," he said at last, his voice barely there. "I need time. I need to figure it out—get it straight in my own head."
He finally turned to look at her—and saw it, that flicker of disappointment she quickly tucked away. But she didn't argue. She just nodded, stepping closer and slipping her fingers around his.
"Alright," she said simply. "I'll wait. I'm not going anywhere. Whenever you're ready."
Harry swallowed hard. The words caught in his throat, so he just squeezed her hand in response.
Ginny gave him a last, searching look, then slowly pulled away and walked to the door. Her footsteps down the hall were soft, but each one echoed loudly inside him.
He stayed there long after she'd gone, staring at the door, his heart heavy with all the things he couldn't bring himself to say.
Harry woke early the next morning, his heart flickering with something he hadn't felt in what seemed like ages—excitement. Real, honest excitement. After everything that had happened the night before, he wanted—no, needed—to do something good. Something that would show the Weasleys just how much he appreciated them.
They had taken him in without question. Given him warmth, safety, family—things he'd never known growing up. He owed them that. And after snapping at Ron the way he had, the guilt still sat heavy in his chest. But today felt like a chance to put things right.
Sliding out of bed, Harry padded quietly downstairs. The familiar scent of the Burrow wrapped around him—wood smoke, the faint perfume of Mrs Weasley's flowers on the windowsill, and something warm and sweet from last night's baking. The kitchen looked exactly as it always did: mismatched chairs clustered round the worn wooden table, a few teacups still drying on the rack, and the old clock ticking loudly in the corner. It made something in his chest ache, but in a good way.
This wasn't just a house. This was home.
Harry took a steadying breath and rolled up his sleeves. He knew how to cook—years with the Dursleys had made sure of that. But this time, he wasn't doing it because he had to. He was doing it because he wanted to. Because maybe, just maybe, if he made something warm and filling, it would say what he couldn't quite put into words.
He gathered eggs, bacon, and tomatoes from the pantry and garden, setting everything out on the side. The soft sizzle of food in the pan was oddly comforting. Through the window, the garden was alive with morning colour. Bees drifted lazily over the flowers, and the breeze tugged gently at the tall grasses. It felt like the world had finally quietened.
He stirred the eggs slowly, carefully, thinking of Mrs Weasley—how she always made sure everyone was fed and happy, how she fussed when they didn't take seconds.
He didn't want to take any of this for granted.
Footsteps approached. Fast. Firm. Mrs Weasley.
Harry froze, spatula in hand, just as she entered the kitchen. Her eyes widened at the sight of him standing by the stove, flour dusting his borrowed apron, plates already stacked high.
Please don't be cross, he thought, glancing anxiously at the doorway. I only wanted to help. I didn't mean to take over…
"Harry! What on earth—?"
She stopped mid-step, surprise softening into a wide, fond smile that made Harry's ears burn.
"I, er—" He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling about twelve again. "I thought I'd, you know, have a go at breakfast. Just wanted to help. If that's alright?"
Mrs Weasley blinked, then gave a little laugh. Her face warmed completely. "It's more than alright, dear. You've always been welcome here."
That word—welcome—hit him harder than he'd expected. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to hearing it. Not like this.
She stepped closer, eyes sweeping over the table. She let out a quiet gasp at the sight of the spread—perfectly cooked eggs, crispy bacon, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, and even fresh bread. Glasses of orange juice glinted in the morning sun like little drops of amber.
"Merlin's beard, Harry. You've really outdone yourself," she said, beaming.
Harry shrugged, though the tips of his ears were burning. "Hope it's alright. Thought you deserved a bit of a break."
Before she could answer, Mr Weasley appeared in the doorway, straightening his slightly crooked emerald green robes. He paused, eyebrows lifting in surprise as he took in the scene.
"Harry?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.
Mrs Weasley turned towards him, her voice glowing with pride. "Arthur, look what Harry's done! He's made all of this!"
Mr Weasley's expression softened immediately. "Well, I'll be… That's quite something. Very impressive, Harry."
Harry ducked his head, pretending to stir the beans again. "Living with the Dursleys taught me how to get up early. And, well, how to make breakfast."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. He wasn't fishing for sympathy—it was simply part of the truth. But saying it out loud left an odd, hollow feeling in his chest.
Mr Weasley simply nodded, calm as ever, his voice warm. "Still, it means a great deal. It's a lovely thing to do."
Mrs Weasley turned back to him, her voice softer now. "You've got a real knack for this, Harry. You have."
He didn't quite know what to say to that. So he just smiled.
"I'll go and wake Ron and Ginny," she said, her smile still bright as she bustled towards the stairs.
Harry watched her go, something warm settling quietly inside him. Maybe today would be alright after all.
Ron came down the stairs a few minutes later, footsteps slow and heavy, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his face still creased from sleep. He looked like he hadn't rested at all. Rubbing his eyes, he stopped short at the sight of the table.
The smell of eggs and bacon filled the kitchen—warm, inviting—but to Harry, it felt suffocating now. The weight in his chest hadn't lifted. If anything, it had settled deeper.
Ron sank into the chair beside him without a word. "What's all this?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Is it someone's birthday or something?"
Mrs Weasley gave a small chuckle. "No, dear. Harry made breakfast for us."
Ron blinked, clearly struggling to process this. He stared at the plate in front of him like it might suddenly turn into a Howler.
"Harry did?" he said, his surprise thinly disguised.
He didn't look at Harry—just picked up his fork and prodded the eggs like they might bite him.
Harry swallowed hard. He'd hoped this would ease things, smooth over the crackling silence that had built between them. But the heaviness lingered, pressing in on all sides. It was the kind of silence that filled up your lungs and made it hard to draw breath.
He stole a glance at Ron, but Ron's gaze stayed fixed on his plate.
"You didn't have to do all this," Ron muttered. His voice wasn't angry, but it wasn't grateful either.
Harry couldn't find a reply. He wasn't sure there was one that wouldn't make things worse.
Mrs Weasley's voice, light and almost too bright, broke the tension. "George will be coming for dinner in two days."
Harry's thoughts jolted to a stop.
"How long's he staying?" Mr Weasley asked, tugging on his coat.
"Not sure," she said quietly, a wistful note in her voice. "He's been so busy lately. Barely has time to write, let alone visit."
Ginny slipped into the kitchen just then, moving as if she were made of glass—fragile, brittle, ready to shatter. Her hair was pulled back too tightly, and her eyes were dull, dark shadows beneath them. She sat across from Harry without speaking.
Harry couldn't stop staring at her. He'd seen her cry, seen her furious, seen her fierce—but this emptiness unsettled him in a way he didn't know how to face.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words stuck, thick and useless in his throat.
Outside, the faint sound of Mrs Weasley's humming drifted in from the garden—light, content, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside the house.
The silence pressed down, unbearable.
"I need to borrow Pigwidgeon," Harry said at last, forcing the words out carefully. "There's a letter I need to send."
The scrape of Ron's fork halted mid-motion.
"Who're you sending it to?" Ron asked, his voice flat.
Harry's stomach lurched. He hadn't expected the question to hit so sharply. He hesitated. "Someone important."
Ron turned to him slowly, his brow creasing. "That's not an answer."
Harry shifted in his seat, suddenly clammy, his palms damp. "I can't explain just yet."
Ron let out a sharp breath and sat back in his chair. "So that's it? We're back to this? You hiding things. Us pretending we don't notice."
"I'm not pretending—" Harry started, but his throat was tight and his voice cracked on the words.
"So is that a yes or a no, then?" Harry asked quickly, desperate to move on, desperate to stop the conversation from sliding further.
Ron's jaw tightened. "It's a no," he snapped. "And you know why."
Harry's chest tightened. "I don't understand—why are you doing this?"
"Because I'm tired of being shut out!" Ron's voice rose, sharp and cracking as he finally met Harry's gaze.
Harry's stomach twisted. The guilt crashed over him like a cold wave.
Ginny slammed her hand on the table, the crack echoing through the kitchen. "Ron, that's enough."
"No," Ron snapped, his voice trembling with fury. "He needs to hear it. He needs to stop acting like we don't matter. Like we're just—just background noise."
Harry dropped his eyes to his plate. His vision blurred. His appetite had vanished; the food in front of him might as well have been ash. Shame curled in his chest, cold and sharp.
"Maybe he's got a reason," Ginny said, her voice quieter now. "We're all just… trying to survive, in our own way."
Ron let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, is that what this is? Secrets. Lies. Silence. That's not surviving, Ginny."
Harry's hands tightened into fists beneath the table. His chest ached. He didn't want this. Not now. Not like this.
Then Ron slammed his fist on the table, sudden and loud.
Harry jolted hard, his whole body flinching.
"This isn't just about you, Harry!" Ron shouted, his voice raw. "You're not the only one hurting!"
The room seemed to shrink around him. The air turned thick, impossible to draw into his lungs. His thoughts scattered, panic surging under his skin.
Ron shoved his chair back and stormed out, leaving a hollow silence in his wake.
Ginny's eyes followed him, wide and shining with unshed tears.
Harry didn't move. He sat frozen, cold creeping through his limbs like something slow and cruel. He felt like he might split apart if anyone touched him.
"I don't want things to be like this," he said, barely more than a whisper.
Ginny turned to him, her face tight with hurt. "I know. But he's angry. And he's scared."
"I never meant to shut anyone out," Harry whispered, the words clawing their way out of his throat. "I just—I thought if I said it out loud, it would… break something. I never meant to make you feel small. Either of you."
"I trust you," she said softly, firmly. "But you've got to let us in. Even when it's hard."
Harry met her eyes. The weight of it all—the promise, the failure, the chance—settled on his chest like stone. It hurt, but he didn't turn away.
For a long moment, he couldn't speak. Then he stood.
"I'll fix it," he said quietly.
Ginny's lip trembled, but she managed a small nod, brushing away a tear. "Promise me you'll try."
"I promise."
And this time, he meant it.
The Burrow, once alive with warmth and noise, now felt cold. Empty.
Harry drifted through its narrow hallways, Ron trailing somewhere behind, neither of them speaking. It was strange—this place had always felt like home. Now it was as if he were wandering through someone else's house.
Every room seemed to echo with the absence of laughter. The kitchen, usually buzzing with clatter and chatter each morning, was silent now. Just the occasional clink of cutlery against plates—sharp, hollow, painfully loud in the quiet.
Ron barely looked at him.
Whatever had settled between them, Harry didn't know how to fix it.
They ate in silence. The sort of silence that pressed down on his chest and made swallowing difficult. After forcing down a few mouthfuls of dry toast, Harry stood and left the table without a word.
He closed his bedroom door quietly—not slamming it, not even pushing it firmly—just softly, as though trying to keep the world out.
The air smelt of old parchment and sunlight-warmed dust, a scent that usually settled him. But not today.
His gaze drifted to the corner. Hedwig's cage sat there, empty.
Harry crossed the room and rested his fingers against the cold bars. The smooth metal was cool beneath his touch—lifeless now. And the silence seemed louder for it.
She should have been here. She always had been.
Trying to find another owl felt… wrong. Like replacing her would somehow undo who she'd been to him. But she hadn't just been an owl. She'd been his first real companion. She'd been there when no one else was. She'd heard things no one else had, because he'd trusted her with them. Things he hadn't even told Ron or Hermione.
When everything else had been uncertain, she had always been there—steadfast, loyal, quiet.
Now she was gone. And the ache that had lodged itself in his chest wouldn't leave. It didn't burn the way it had in the beginning. It was duller now. Heavy. A weight he'd simply grown used to carrying.
But it was still there. And sometimes, in moments like this, he wondered… was this just grief? Or was something worse happening to him?
His eyes drifted to the pile of books stacked by his bed—thick library volumes about souls. He'd combed through every one of them, hunting for answers. Hoping something would explain the crack he felt inside himself. Hoping something would make sense of this… wrongness.
But the books had only made it worse.
Big words. Long theories. Endless chapters of uncertainty. Pages upon pages of possibilities. Nothing that told him what was actually happening to him.
He shoved the top book aside, its spine thudding against the others. The sound didn't even echo properly in the cramped room.
He stood. Pacing helped. It made him feel like he was doing something, even though his thoughts still spun themselves in circles.
Maybe Slughorn would know something. He'd lived through more than most. He had stories—proper ones. Not just the sort you find in books.
But asking meant talking to Ron.
And Ron hadn't really spoken to him in days. He just stayed in his room, shut away, quiet and simmering.
Harry paused by the window, staring out as the sun dipped lower behind the trees.
He missed Hedwig.
He missed Ron.
He missed the feeling that he wasn't carrying this all on his own.
The kitchen fireplace roared to life in a burst of green flames, and a moment later, George Weasley stepped out, face streaked with soot, already grinning.
Harry barely had time to turn before Mrs Weasley swept past him, arms flung wide.
"There you are!" she cried, crushing George into a hug that looked like it might knock the air out of him. She pulled back, her face alight. "My handsome boy—how are you?"
Harry watched them with a twist in his chest. He couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him like that—like just seeing him made the world brighter.
George gave a lopsided, sheepish smile. "Still standing, Mum."
"You're early!" she fussed, already eyeing the pantry. "Do you fancy anything special for dinner?"
George waved her off. "Anything you make's brilliant."
Mrs Weasley beamed, patted his shoulder, and bustled away, humming under her breath as she began pulling out pots and ingredients, her hands already busy.
Harry took a sip of his tea, only to find George heading straight for him, grin firmly in place.
"Harry."
"George." Harry stood, and they exchanged a proper hug—solid, steady, the sort of hug that reminded Harry he hadn't realised how much he'd missed this.
"You look dreadful," Harry said lightly as they pulled apart.
"Cheers, mate. You're positively radiant yourself," George shot back with a smirk. "How've you been?"
"Alive," Harry said honestly. "Which is more than I expected, to be fair."
George gave a soft chuckle, though his eyes still held that flicker of something tired. "Yeah. Same here."
Harry gestured to the chair beside him. "Shop still going?"
"Sort of. Bit wonky, but I reckon if it's loud enough, it counts as living." He slumped into the chair and dragged a hand through his hair. "Anyway, how's Percy's old room treating you? Any spontaneous lists of house rules appearing on the walls?"
Harry smiled faintly. "Comfy, surprisingly. Though I half expect to wake up one morning with a glowing noticeboard above my bed."
George grinned, his eyes glinting. "You're lucky we didn't leave the pink paint."
Harry blinked. "Pink?"
"Oh yeah," George said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Fred and I once painted Percy's whole room hot pink when he had a girlfriend. Said it was a 'creative rebranding'. Percy nearly combusted. Never mentioned her again after that."
Harry snorted into his tea. "That's evil."
"Yeah, but it was the good kind," George said with relish. "We added glitter the next day. Percy threatened to hex us bald."
Harry laughed properly, the sound echoing through the kitchen, light and easy for the first time in ages.
For a moment, things felt normal.
But then Percy's name lingered in the air too long, and the mood shifted. Harry felt it—the subtle pull in George's expression, the way his smirk faltered ever so slightly as he glanced down at his tea.
Harry hesitated. "Have you… spoken to him?"
George nodded, slow and thoughtful. "Yeah. Actually, he gave up his room willingly. I told him if he didn't, I'd slap pink paint all over it again."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "He didn't put up a fight?"
"Nope. Which is how I knew something was off." George's voice softened, a little less sure now. "He just said he was ready to 'move on'—his words. Thought he'd start a new chapter, all very neat and tidy." George made exaggerated air quotes, his smile a bit forced. "He's back at the Ministry. Keeps his head down."
Harry frowned, uneasy. He knew the look of someone trying to outrun guilt.
"Is he alright?"
George let out a long breath, gaze drifting to the window. "I dunno. Honestly, I don't. But I'm trying to let him work it out. Same way I am."
Harry nodded. That was the thing about now—everyone was trying to work it out in their own quiet, tangled ways.
"Kingsley got the Minister's job though," George said, voice brightening just a little. "There's one bit of proper news."
Harry smiled. "Yeah. He's the right choice."
George clinked his tea against Harry's in a lazy toast. "Finally. One thing we don't have to worry about."
Before anyone could say more, the front door swung open and in strode Mr Weasley.
"George!" he beamed, pulling his son into a firm hug. "You're a sight for sore eyes, my boy!"
"Good to be back, Dad," George said, grinning. "Missed the good old-fashioned chaos."
Harry barely had time to smile before heavy footsteps thundered overhead. A heartbeat later, Ron came skidding into the kitchen, his socks slipping on the floor.
"George!" Ron shouted, throwing his arms round his brother in a clumsy hug. "You're early!"
George ruffled Ron's hair with mock affection. "Missed you too, Ronnie-kins. Look at you—nearly respectable now."
"Shove off," Ron grumbled, though he was grinning like mad.
Dinner that evening was loud and wonderfully familiar. Laughter bounced round the kitchen like a runaway quaffle, and Mrs Weasley kept piling their plates like she was on some personal mission to overfeed them all.
Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten so much and actually wanted to. The food was brilliant—proper roast, warm rolls, treacle tart for pudding—and somehow, the weight in his chest eased a little with every bite.
Afterwards, as the plates cleared themselves and Mrs Weasley hummed a soft tune while wiping the worktop, she turned to George with a hopeful look.
"You're staying the night, aren't you, dear?"
"Just tonight," George said, stretching his arms behind his head. "Got to open the shop early tomorrow. The pygmy puffs don't sell themselves, you know."
"Well, your bed's ready. Fresh sheets and everything."
George flashed her a grateful smile. "Cheers, Mum. Nothing beats your sheets. Smell like lavender and guilt."
She tutted at him but didn't hide her fond smile.
Harry leant back in his chair, taking it all in—the chatter, the clinking of cutlery. The Weasleys were all here, filling the house with noise, filling the gaps that had felt so painfully wide not long ago.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Harry felt something settle inside him.
A flicker of peace.
He didn't know how long it would last. But right now, that didn't matter.
He'd take it.
The night dragged on, slow and heavy, like one of Professor Binns's worst History of Magic lectures. Harry sat by the window, watching the stars wink in and out behind drifting clouds—as though the sky knew a joke he didn't.
His mind, however, wasn't laughing. It was a tight, tangled knot that refused to loosen.
Then—tap tap tap.
Harry flinched—not quite like a Death Eater had burst through the door, but not far off. He whipped round to find George grinning at him from the doorway, like he'd just stumbled upon his next great prank.
In one hand, he held two bottles of Butterbeer, cold and beading with condensation.
"Fancy a drink in my secret hideout?" George asked, waggling the bottles like an irresistible bribe. "Got one for Ron too—if he ever stops sulking."
Harry blinked at him. "You've got a secret hideout?"
George's grin widened, absolutely delighted. "Doesn't everyone? Mine's got stolen cushions, highly questionable snacks, and a rather concerning number of Extendable Ears I may or may not have 'borrowed' back from Percy's desk."
Harry tried to smirk, but the weight in his chest stayed put. "Ron's not coming," he muttered. "He's… he's still angry. We had a row. He's not speaking to me."
That knocked just a bit of the edge off George's grin. His eyes, always sharp even when he was teasing, flickered with something quieter. "Oof. Trouble in paradise, huh? What was it—Quidditch, homework, or the age-old curse of the tragic love triangle?"
Harry let out a soft, miserable breath. "None of those. Just… stuff."
George's voice stayed light, but he didn't look away. "Ah. Stuff. The worst culprit of all."
He held out the Butterbeer again, one brow raised. "Come on. You talk, I listen. Worst case, I make you cry, then give you a heartfelt hug I'll absolutely blackmail you with for the rest of your natural life."
Despite himself, Harry gave a faint laugh. He didn't want to talk. But sitting alone in the dark, choking on guilt, wasn't much better. And George—George wasn't a bad choice. He was like Fred, only slightly less likely to accidentally set the room on fire.
"I've been avoiding it," Harry admitted quietly, staring down at his hands. "The conversation. With Ron. I know I need to fix it, but I don't know how."
George leant against the windowsill, and for once, his grin faded into something softer. "Yeah, well. You don't have to know how. You've just got to try. That's the bit most people mess up."
Harry turned the Butterbeer bottle over in his hands. Try. That word again. The one Dumbledore had always made sound so simple.
Still, he gave a small nod. "Alright. Let's talk."
George raised his bottle in salute. "To awkward conversations and excellent hideouts."
Harry clinked his bottle against George's, the sound oddly comforting, and followed him out into the hall—unsure whether this was going to be a terrible idea, or the best one he'd had in weeks.