FicWad

Harry was feeling completely devastated, like a vital part of him had been irreparably shattered. Everything seemed to blur together around him, making it hard for him to recall the moment he had reached the Burrow alongside the Weasleys. Ron and Ginny appeared worried as they gave him concerned glances, though Harry struggled to grasp the full extent of the situation. It was as if he was trapped in a foggy dream, unable to fully comprehend the seriousness of what was happening.

Harry stood at the door of the Burrow, feeling more like an intruder than a guest. The vibrant house, with its crooked roof and sprawling garden, was both familiar and comforting.

“Welcome home, Harry!” Mrs. Weasley announced, as if the word alone held magic.

Harry offered a shy smile as he stepped over the threshold.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley began. “Molly and I have a surprise for you.”

Harry’s interest piqued, but a hint of nervousness stirred inside him as he met their expectant gazes.

“Surprise?” he echoed, unsure if he was ready for whatever news they had to share.

Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands together, her eyes shining with excitement. “Percy has moved out!” she declared.

“Right,” Harry replied, confused. He noticed Ron’s eyes widen, anticipation evident on his face.

“And what’s more?” Mr. Weasley continued, “we’ve decided to give you Percy’s room.”

Harry’s heart dropped. “Why would you do that?” he asked, bewildered. “I can’t just take his room.”

“Of course you can!” Mrs. Weasley replied, her voice warm and encouraging. “Percy’s excited to pass it on to you; he believes you deserve a space of your own. Besides, now that he’s off doing his ‘Ministerial duties’”—Mrs. Weasley made air quotes—“he hardly needs it!”

Harry couldn’t find the words. The thought of having a room, a place to call his own, felt surreal. Memories of his cupboard and Dudley’s second bedroom that was more like a store room at Privet Drive flooded back—a dark reminder of a life he was trying to leave behind.

Ron piped up, his grin contagious. “C’mon, Harry! You’re going to love it! It’s got Gryffindor colours and Quidditch posters. You’ll practically feel like you’re flying!”

Harry’s surprise turned into curiosity, and Mrs. Weasley, with an arm around his shoulders, led him up the staircase, chattering excitedly about the details.

When they reached the door, Mrs. Weasley opened it, revealing a bedroom painted in deep scarlet and gold.A magnificent banner was proudly displayed on the wall, bearing the welcoming message, “Welcome home, Harry!”The walls were also adorned with posters of various Quidditch teams—Puddlemere United, the Chudley Cannons, and a particularly large one featuring the Holyhead Harpies, which made Harry chuckle.

“Ron picked all the decorations,” she said, rolling her eyes with amusement. “He wasn’t sure who your favourite team was, so he thought he’d just cover all bases.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said, grinning. “I guess I can’t complain about being spoilt for choice!”

“If the Gryffindor hues prove to be too intense for your liking, just say the word, mate. We can easily adjust them to your preferences.” Ron assured Harry.

Harry stepped further inside, taking in the details. A trunk in the corner already held his belongings from Hogwarts, courtesy of Mrs. Weasley’s magic, and the bed was made with thick, warm blankets that looked inviting. The more he explored, the more his heart swelled with gratitude.

“I—I really can’t believe this. Thank you, all of you,” Harry stammered, feeling the weight of their kindness settle in his chest.

“Just you wait until you see the closet,” Ron teased, elbowing him. “Clearly, it has enough room for a whole horde of robes. Better make sure to keep that green one of yours—if only for fashion emergency purposes!”

Harry laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing. Now, in this vibrant room, he began envisioning laughter, friendship, and warmth—the things he had always longed for.

“I’ll cherish it, I promise,” he replied earnestly, giving them both a heartfelt smile. “You’ve made this feel more like home than I ever imagined possible.”

Mrs. Weasley beamed at him. “You are home, Harry. Welcome to the family.”

“Climbing up an additional four flights of stairs to get to my room shouldn’t cause you any trouble, right?” Ron asked Harry. “By the way, your belongings are still there. If you want, I can swap rooms with Ginny, as hers is directly next to yours.”

Harry glanced at Ginny, who stood arms crossed, her expression fierce like a lioness protecting her territory.

“I’m not changing rooms with you, absolutely not!” she declared, her voice unyielding.

“Please, Ginny. Harry needs his best friend,” Ron implored, desperation creeping into his tone.

Ginny shot a sharp glare at him, a smirk flashing across her face as she looked back at Harry. “Well, I don’t hear Harry complaining!”

Heat flooded Harry’s cheeks. Ginny had a way of disarming him, cutting through the haze of worry that clung to him. But with one final roll of her eyes, she stormed away to her room, leaving Ron grumbling under his breath.

Harry and Ron spent the next hour hauling items, each plodding step amplifying Ron’s gripes about his sister’s defiance. Despite the extra labour, Harry found himself laughing at Ron’s grumbling. The Weasley home, once a chaotic whirlwind of siblings and magic, was becoming a haven for him.

When they finally finished, the world outside the Burrow was settling into twilight. Warm, golden light spilt from the windows as the smell of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking wafted through the air. Even the tangle of stairs seemed less daunting with the promise of dinner at the end.

As they made their way down, a deep sense of belonging surged through Harry. It struck him as odd to hear Mrs. Weasley call his name amidst the lively chatter, her voice resounding with warmth and acceptance. It was as if she were opening up her family to him in that single moment.

“Harry! Come on, dinner’s ready!” she beckoned, her apron dusted with flour and her hair frizzy from spellwork.

On the way down, he wasn’t just anticipating dinner; he was savouring the sound of a family. It was different here, a feeling he had long been deprived of.

Before joining them at the table, he made a quick stop in his new room. His library books lay tucked away under the bed. The thought of diving into those pages before drifting into sleep excited him.

“Harry!” Ron called out again, snapping him from his reverie and beckoning him into the warm glow of the dinner table.

The kitchen was a symphony of scents, where the sharp tang of roasted vegetables melded with the warm sweetness of freshly baked bread. As Harry sat down at the long wooden table, the clamour of family filled the air. Mrs. Weasley, bustling with energy, placed generous portions of food on his plate, her smiles as warm as the steaming meals she conjured.

For a fleeting moment, Harry’s attention drifted—his mind wrestling with the shadows of his estranged relatives. Aunt Petunia’s cold demeanour felt like a frost, and he shivered at the thought. Just then, Mrs. Weasley flashed him a knowing glance, as if sensing his disquiet, and nudged him gently to take a bite. He obeyed, savouring the brilliance of her cooking, allowing it to momentarily drown his heavy thoughts.

Beside him, Ron and Ginny engaged in playful banter, their laughter like sunlight breaking through a cloud. Yet the empty chair across from them, where George should have sat, brought a crushing weight to the air. Fred’s absence was a ghost that lingered, silencing the usual ruckus shared amongst the twins. Harry’s heart ached as memories flowed in—like the day Fred and George had bewitched snowballs to chase Professor Quirrell, oblivious to the menacing darkness lurking beneath.

Despite the tension, Ginny’s presence beside him sparked a flicker of warmth in Harry’s chest. He longed to reach out, to intertwine their fingers beneath the table, yet he held back, opting instead for stolen glances. When she caught his eye, her smile ignited an ember of hope—a tiny balm against the profound sadness in the room.

“So… Harry,” Mr. Weasley said, carving into his steak with careful precision. “Are you adjusting well to your new room? Any plans for tonight?”

“Yeah, thank you.” Harry’s voice felt flat and far-off, his thoughts buried beneath a rising tide of anxiety. “I’m still trying to get everything set up, but I think I might just stay in and relax tonight.”

Ron’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You slept for hours on the train, and now you want to go to bed early? Are you suddenly eighty years old? Last I checked, we’re only seventeen.”

A sharp sigh escaped Harry, and he shot a glance at Ron, his light-hearted banter feeling like a jab rather than a joke. All he wanted was a moment to himself, away from everything bearing down on him. “Alright, then what do you suggest I do instead?” he asked, trying to mask the irritation in his voice.

“I don’t know, something normal for a seventeen-year-old?” Ron said, his tone mocking as he winked.

“Such as?” Harry felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He wasn’t quite sure what was considered “normal” anymore.

“Definitely not going to bed at nine o’clock,” Ron declared, puffing out his chest for emphasis. Across the table, Ginny rolled her eyes, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged exasperated glances.

Ron washed down a mouthful of food with a large gulp of pumpkin juice, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Did Hermione mention anything about job applications to you?”

Harry’s stomach twisted. The topic couldn’t be avoided any longer. “She might have mentioned it,” he replied, feeling the weight of expectations press against him. With the news from Professor Slughorn still fresh in his mind, the mere thought of job hunting made him dizzy with anxiety.

“She’s been nagging me to start sending out applications,” Ron complained, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “We just survived a war. Don’t we deserve a break?” His voice was tinged with the exhaustion of their shared past.

“Yeah,” Harry said, feigning disinterest. “But you know Hermione—I would start applying if I were you. You know she won’t let up until you do.”

“What kind of job are you thinking of?” Ron pressed, as if Harry possessed some hidden knowledge.

“Honestly, Ron, the same thing as before. I want to become an auror.” Harry snipped, irritation bubbling over with each inquiry.

“Right, I remember you mentioning that,” Ron said, chewing his food leisurely. “I was thinking of becoming one as well. Then we could team up, mate.”

For a moment, Harry’s heart sank, caught in a vortex of disappointment. “Then why not go for it?” His voice was sharper than intended. “Don’t let me hold you back.”

Ron’s face twisted in confusion. “Why the hesitation? I assumed you’d be thrilled about the plan.”

Harry bit back his emotions, reminding himself that this was Ron’s future being discussed, not his. “It’s not that simple,” he muttered, the truth hovering just out of reach like smoke.

“Why don’t you give it a try, Harry?” Ron’s tone was light, imbued with the naive optimism Harry both admired and resented. “You’d be brilliant at it.”

With each hopeful word, Harry’s insides twisted further, clenching tightly. “Can’t you just let it go, please?” he exploded, the words spilling out in a rush of anger. The clatter of forks hitting plates echoed in the room as the laughter faded. His heart raced, fuelled by unvoiced frustrations. With a half-hearted nod to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, he shoved his chair back and stormed out, leaving behind the chaotic warmth of the kitchen.

His footsteps reverberated through the kitchen, and Ron remained behind, mouth agape and forehead wrinkled in confounding worry. Silence settled awkwardly in his void as he attempted to decipher the emotional storm that had just crashed over dinner.

As Harry marched up the winding staircase, he overheard Ron’s anxious inquiry. “What was all that about? Did I do something wrong?” Ron’s voice trembled, catching Harry in his own web of unease.

The kitchen fell quiet, and the rustle of chairs shifting filled the silence. “No, you were simply behaving foolishly,” Ginny retorted, devoid of patience for Ron’s easygoing nature. “Have a bit of empathy for him, will you?”

Ron’s savoury wave of indignation crashed against a tide of confusion. “I was only asking—”

“It’s obvious that he wasn’t ready to discuss it, Ron,” Mrs. Weasley added, her authority softened by concern. “Don’t push the issue. Give him some space tonight. Allow him to unwind. It’s been a tiring day for him.”

Harry reached his room, aware of the muffled conversation below and the concern of family washing over him. He sank onto his bed, the familiar weight pressing down. The walls felt both confining and comforting, a barrier from the expectations that loomed beyond.

What would they think if they knew how deeply the war had left its mark? He wanted to be an auror, to stand alongside his friends, to fight for what was right. But how could he face the prospect of his body betraying him?

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the pages of the book he had barely absorbed. It was just a cover for his turmoil, a way to pretend that everything was alright. But the truth was wrapped around his heart like an unwelcome Devil’s Snare, squeezing tighter with every breath. He heard the unmistakable sound of Ron’s footsteps approaching; he had known this confrontation was inevitable.

When Ron knocked on his door, the tension in Harry’s stomach knotted even further. “Are you still awake, Mate?” Ron’s voice was hopeful yet laced with concern. Harry hesitated before opening the door, knowing full well that he couldn’t hide from Ron’s probing gaze.He walked back to his bed, grabbing the book along the way.

“What are you reading?” Ron asked as soon as he entered the room and settled himself at the desk.

“Nothing much,” Harry mumbled, hoping the nonchalant answer would deflect his friend’s questions. As they settled into the same routine, Harry clutched his book tight, treating it like a shield against the world that felt increasingly heavy upon his shoulders.

Ron leaned back, an eyebrow raised. “It must be quite a thrilling read if you can’t even tell me about it.”

Harry chose to remain silent and continued to turn the pages of the book, pretending to be captivated by the words on the paper.

“Harry,” Ron called out urgently, desperately trying to catch his attention amidst the chaos of their argument.

Harry reluctantly set down his book, hisirritation brewing within him like a pot about to boil over. “What do you want now?” he snapped, unable to contain the annoyance in his voice when Ron finally approached the topic they both knew was coming.

“Why did you storm off earlier?” Ron asked, eyes piercing through the flimsy excuse of a book in Harry’s hands.

“I’m fine, alright? Can’t you get that? Stop bothering me!” Harry shot back, his voice sharp.

But Ron’s frustration was a force of nature. “No! I don’t get it! You always act like everything is okay, even when it’s clear that it’s not!”

“Perhaps if you refrained from asking foolish questions, there would be no need for me to pretend!” The words slipped out, harsher than he intended, revealing the depths of his inner turmoil.

Ron’s expression shifted from anger to confusion. “What has caused this sudden change in you? You were fine earlier, but now you’re behaving like a completely different person!”

Harry inhaled sharply, struggling to steady the tempest inside. “Everything’s fine; there’s no need to worry. I simply need some time alone. Can you please respect that?” It felt like a desperate plea wrapped in a wall of frustration.

“You always resort to isolating yourself to solve problems!” Ron exclaimed, arms gesticulating wildly. “Why not consider reaching out to others? It’s important for you to improve your ability to communicate, Harry.”

“What’s wrong with wanting privacy? You’ve done the same when you wanted to be alone!”

“Fine! Do whatever you want!” Ron appeared hurt, his voice rising in anger as he tossed the words like daggers. He stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the walls, leaving Harry engulfed in a suffocating silence.

The tumultuous feelings crashed over Harry like waves rolling in on a turbulent sea. He buried his face into his pillow, allowing the warmth to cocoon him. Yet his heart pounded with dissatisfaction, knowing that Ron only wanted to help but feeling cornered nonetheless.

“I don’t need you to fix me,” he thought bitterly. “I just need you to understand.”

But understanding seemed like a mountain too high to climb. Harry had always been the strong one—the one who wore a mask of indifference and bravado. He couldn’t let Ron see the cracks that had developed, the uncertainty that loomed over him like a cloud threatening to unleash a storm of despair.

A sharp knock on the door startled Harry. Frustration mounted with each second that ticked by. “What now?!” he bellowed from the far end of the room, his voice straining under the pressure of unspoken truths. His heart raced, each thump echoing his mounting anxiety. He could already picture Ron, arms flailing, storming in with another round of boisterous commentary.

“Harry,” a soft voice crept through the door, pulling him from his spiralling thoughts. He jumped up, heart racing, and rushed to answer.

When he opened the door, he was met by Ginny’s calm, concerned expression. “I’m sorry, Ginny,” he murmured, regret spilling from him like the moonlight that streamed in through the window. “I didn’t mean to shout. I thought it was Ron, and my frustration got the best of me.”

Ginny reached out, her hand brushing against his cheek, guiding his gaze up to meet hers. “It’s okay. We could hear Ron’s booming voice from the kitchen. He’s probably just blowing off some steam.”

Harry felt warmth flood his cheeks, a surge of embarrassment washing over him. He was aware that he had overreacted, but shame clung to him like a second skin. He sighed and glanced away, uncertainty clouding his eyes.

“I’m really concerned about you,” Ginny said gently, her voice barely above a whisper. “I really wish you’d trust me enough to share what’s bothering you. I just want to help.”

He turned further away, his voice almost breaking. “I just can’t.” The reluctance to articulate his worries weighed heavily in his chest. Fear gripped him. What if Ginny couldn’t handle the truth? What if he shattered the fragile peace they had fought to maintain?

“But why? Why is it so hard for you to open up to me?” Her tone shifted; the worry transformed into an escalating urgency.

Harry’s heart raced as he struggled for words. “I don’t want to bring you any more pain,” he finally said, pain lacing his words. “You’re already dealing with so much. I don’t want to add to your burdens.”

“Last night, when we talked, you discovered something, didn’t you?” Ginny pressed, her tone now a blend of curiosity and determination, as if daring him to lie. “I just want to be here for you, to support you through everything you’re going through.”

Silence hung heavy between them. Harry’s resolve wavered under Ginny’s probing gaze. He let the quiet stretch, fully aware that she wouldn’t relent until she unveiled the truth. After a moment, he gave a subtle nod, acknowledging her piercing insight.

“What is it, Harry?” Ginny’s voice was tender, and her fingers gently caressed the furrowed lines of worry etched on his face, seeking to provide comfort amid his turmoil.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his heart weighed down by the unsaid. He turned away, unable to bear the intensity in her eyes. “I can’t tell you yet. I’m not ready to open up about this, and I don’t expect you to understand. Honestly, I’m having trouble making sense of it all. Still, now is not the right moment for this conversation.”

Disappointment flickered across Ginny’s features, and Harry felt the weight of it settling over them both. Yet, despite her own conflicting emotions, she reached out, tenderly holding his hand. “Whenever you feel ready, I’ll be right here for you,” she promised, patience lacing her words.

After she spoke, Ginny slowly turned away, walking back toward her room. Harry watched her retreat, feeling an ache deepen in his chest. Alone, he felt the horizon of his emotions stretch wide and uncharted.

As the door softly clicked shut behind Ginny, the silence filled the space like thick fog, inviting Harry to reflect. He thought of Ginny’s unwavering support and the way she always stood by, ready to shoulder whatever burdens he laid bare. Why couldn’t he reciprocate?

Burdened by fears of losing her and the chaos within, Harry sank to the floor, resting his forehead against the cool wood. If he didn’t share his struggles soon, he feared that the silence lurking between them would only grow. The internal battle raged as he considered what honesty could mean—both for himself and for Ginny.

In the quiet of the room, he closed his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, one day he would find the strength to speak, to share the storms that raged within him, and to trust that Ginny could weather them by his side.

Harry woke up bright and early the following day, sunlight streaming through the curtains of the Burrow, casting warm golden hues on the walls. He had awakened with a sense of excitement fluttering in his chest, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in quite some time. Today, after everything that had transpired the previous night, he wanted to contribute something special. Something that would convey his heartfelt gratitude to the Weasleys for their unwavering acceptance and boundless trust.

The echoes of his regrettable behaviour from the night before still lingered in his mind—his outburst fuelled by pent-up fear and insecurities. But he was determined to make amends. As he tiptoed into the kitchen, he felt the familiar sense of belonging wash over him, but this time, he wanted to show them that he truly felt like part of their family.

Harry stood at the threshold of the kitchen, taking in the picturesque setting. The room radiated warmth and comfort, with bright, assorted chairs surrounding a spacious wooden table that seemed to beckon him. His heart swelled as he thought of the times they had gathered here, sharing laughter, stories, and love. Despite the neatly stacked enchanted cookbooks on the mantel, Harry hardly felt the need to consult them. Cooking breakfast had been a routine chore in the Dursleys’ household, and he was confident in his ability to prepare a meal that would please the Weasleys.

He gathered the necessary supplies from the cupboards: fresh eggs, crispy bacon, and the last of the homegrown tomatoes from their garden. As he cracked the first egg into the sizzling pan, a comforting aroma filled the air, making his mouth water. He gazed out the window at the vibrant garden outside, the flowers swaying gently in the morning breeze, and felt a newfound appreciation for the simple joys this place offered.

As he concentrated on his task, Harry silently hoped that Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t be upset with him for using her kitchen. He wasn’t trying to overstep; he simply wanted to lighten her burden. The Weasleys had opened their home to him without hesitation, offering him a love that had been sorely lacking in his life for so long. He thought of all the kind things they had done for him—how Mrs. Weasley had fussed over him, how Ron had stood by him in his darkest hours—and felt an ache of gratitude swell in his chest.

Moments later, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs, and Harry turned to see Mrs. Weasley entering the kitchen, an apron already tied around her waist. She glanced up, eyes widening in surprise at the sight before her.

“Harry! What are you doing?” she exclaimed, her voice a mix of astonishment and delight. Harry turned back to his culinary endeavour, his cheeks a warm shade of crimson.

“I, um, thought I’d make breakfast,” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “I just wanted to help. I hope that’s okay.

Her eyes softened, and she exchanged a knowing smile with him. “It’s more than okay, dear. You’ve always been welcome here. Now, let me help you.”But she was taken aback by the sight before her. The table wasadorned with plates overflowing with eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, and bread, accompanied by goblets brimming with freshly squeezed orange juice, leaving her in utter disbelief.“You’ve done a marvellous job, Harry,” she said, pride radiating from her smile.

Mr. Weasley, adorned in his elegant green robes, stepped into the kitchen, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight before him. Molly and Harry stood side by side at the counter, animatedly discussing the fine art of pancake flipping. “Harry?” he managed to exclaim, a tinge of disbelief lacing his tone.

Molly beamed, her face alight with excitement. “Arthur, look at all of this! Harry took the time to make all of this for us!” She proudly gestured to the spread, her eyes sparkling with admiration.

Harry’s heart swelled with pride at the glowing approval from Mr. Weasley. “I must say, Harry, I am truly impressed. It’s not often that young men wake up early and prepare such a feast,” Mr. Weasley said, his earnest gaze shining with paternal warmth.

“Living with the Dursleys taught me to wake up early and do chores before they even woke up,” Harry confessed, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. He felt momentarily vulnerable sharing that part of his life, but the acceptance in Mr. Weasley’s eyes soothed his lingering insecurities.

Molly interjected with a motherly warmth, “You have a special talent, Harry; that much is clear.” She looked towards the door. “Please, take a seat while I go call Ron and Ginny to join us for breakfast.”

As if on cue, Ron shuffled down the stairs, his hair tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep. He rubbed the remnants of dreams from his eyes, only to find Harry in the midst of an impressive spread. Without making eye contact, Ron sank into a chair beside him. “Is there a special occasion today?” he asked, feigning casualness. “Are we celebrating something?”

Molly chuckled softly. “No, dear, there’s no special occasion. It was Harry who prepared all this wonderful food for us this morning.”

Ron’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across his features before he quickly shifted his gaze to the plate before him, examining the bacon and eggs as if they were an intricate puzzle. While curiosity nagged at him, he focused on his meal, determined to appear indifferent.

Harry could sense the residual tension hanging between him and Ron like a cloud, a remnant of their recent argument. All he could offer was a tentative smile, hoping it would bridge the gap between them even just a little.

“George will be joining us for dinner in two days,” Molly announced, stirring Harry’s train of thought.

“How long will he be staying?” Mr. Weasley asked, a sense of anticipation creeping into his tone.

Molly pondered for a moment before responding, “He didn’t say how long he’ll be here, but I’m sure he’ll want to catch up with everyone. You know how busy he’s been running the shop. He hardly has time for anything else now.”

Ginny joined the rest of her family at the table, her usually vibrant brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail and a tired expression etched onto her face. Harry, seated at the end of the table, studied her with keen but cautious eyes. He had seen her at her lowest—after betrayal, loss, and heartache—and something about her demeanour struck an unsettling chord in him.

Molly Weasley’s voice sang cheerfully from outside as she tended the chickens, unaware of the brewing storm within her household. While Arthur had long since left for work, the others resumed their breakfast in an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the clinking of forks on plates.

Not wanting to dwell on the tension but feeling compelled to address it, Harry finally broke the silence. “May I borrow Pigwidgeon for a brief moment to deliver a letter?” he asked Ron, trying to keep his tone light.

Ron paused, his chewing slowing as he turned to Harry. “And to whom do you plan to send it?” he replied cautiously, a hint of seriousness in his eyes.

Harry’s heart raced at the unexpected scrutiny. “To someone important,” he answered vaguely, wishing he could bypass the question altogether.

Ron’s brow furrowed in confusion, annoyance creeping into his expression. “Right,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping from his tone, as he resumed eating with an exaggerated nonchalance that only deepened the tension.

“And is that a yes?” Harry pressed, feeling the nervous knots in his stomach tighten.

“No, it’s not,” Ron clarified, his tone dismissive and sharp.

“But why not? What’s the reason behind your decision?” Harry asked, exasperated and confused.

With a deepening frown, Ron glared at him. “I already told you it’s a no,” he snapped, rolling his eyes at Harry’s frustration.

Ginny couldn’t take it. “Ron, stop!” she interjected, glaring at her older brother, her patience clearly wearing thin.

Ron, however, wasn’t ready to back down. “It’s important he knows that keeping secrets can have negative consequences for those around him! Ginny, you have to see this,” he argued vehemently, clearly unwilling to let the matter drop.

Ginny sighed, the conflict weighing heavily on her shoulders. She glanced back at Harry, her heart aching at the sight of his constricted posture. “Maybe Harry has reasons for not sharing everything, Ron. We’re all dealing with things in our own way,” she pleaded.

“Are you serious?” Ron scoffed, disbelief evident on his face. “You think he trusts us? He clearly doesn’t!”

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, the tension rising like steam from a boiling kettle. Harry, feeling cornered, buried his face in his plate. The remnants of his breakfast felt like an anchoring weight, refusing to pull him into the chaotic conversation swirling around.

Then Ron slammed his fist on the table, causing Harry to jump slightly. “This isn’t just about you, Harry! You have to be honest!” He shouted, his face flushed with frustration. Without another word, he pushed his chair back violently and stormed out of the kitchen.

Ginny’s heart sank as she watched her brother leave, anger and disappointment radiating from her. She turned to Harry, whose silence spoke volumes. “Harry, I—” she began, but words felt inadequate, even compared to the weight of their recent argument.

“I don’t want this to be like this,” he muttered finally, his voice tight but sincere.

“I know… I just… he doesn’t understand,” Ginny whispered, tears of frustration threatening to spill from her eyes.

Anguished by his friends’ turmoil, Harry pushed back from the table and stood, facing her. “I never meant to hurt you. Or anyone. I thought you’d trust me,” he admitted, misplaced anger bleeding into vulnerability.

“I do trust you, but you need to trust us too,” Ginny implored, her fierce spirit shining through her sadness.

For a moment, silence enveloped them both fully, a chasm of misunderstandings and unspoken fears stretching between them. Harry felt the weight of his choices crashing down, the vulnerability trembling in his chest.

“I’ll fix this,” he vowed, a flicker of determination igniting within.

Ginny nodded, hope flaring as she blinked away her tears.

For two long days, Harry and Ron wandered through the Burrow like strangers trapped in a desolate cold. With each morning, the laughter that usually filled their kitchen was replaced with silence. Ron’s stubborn hostility hung thick in the air after their quarrel—a rift that felt both inexplicable and insurmountable. At breakfast, the clinking of cutlery echoed like the tolling of a bell, marking the distance growing between them.

After scraping together a hasty meal, Harry retreated to the comfort of his room, shutting the door on the unease. The familiar scent of old parchment and sunlight filtering through his window provided little comfort as his thoughts settled on one thing—Hedwig. He picked up her empty perch, its wood cool under his fingers, the absence of her wings flapping around the house starkly evident. The idea of finding another owl felt like betrayal, a hollow act of replacing a friend, and each notion of moving on tightened a heavy knot in his stomach.

She had been more than just an owl. Hedwig had listened to his secrets, helped him express fears he couldn’t share with others, and remained steadfast through every perilous journey he had undertaken. Without her, Harry felt an unshakeable emptiness, one that no new feathers or wings could fill. The room fell silent, the fading evening light casting long shadows against the walls that seemed to echo his grief.

Meanwhile, Ron’s anger simmered on a low boil. He didn’t understand why Harry could be so withdrawn, lost in the tumult of his own thoughts. Ron felt justified, convinced that Harry kept secrets from him and Ginny, breeding distrust among friends who had fought side by side. The confrontation lingered in his mind. He was tempted to storm upstairs and demand answers, but pride and anger tangled with worry, leaving him immobile.

Ginny, caught between her loyalty to her brother and her feelings for Harry, found her thoughts racing. She moved through mounds of laundry, dusting away with little focus, each mop of fabric pulling her back toward the conflict that unfolded each day. Why hadn’t Harry confided in her? She had seen the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he always seemed to be wrestling with something much larger than himself. Was it trust that he lacked? Ron’s words echoed in her head, a gnawing question she could no longer ignore.

It was a strange relief for Harry that his chest no longer burnt like it had in the past weeks, yet shadows of doubt lingered at the edges of his mind. Had it truly been just a phase, or was there something deeper festering within him?

He glanced at the stack of library books teetering beside him, their spines lined with promises of knowledge. He’d poured over them, seeking answers to his gnawing paranoia, but the words felt disjointed and vague. Philosophical musings on the soul offered more questions than solutions. He couldn’t shake the feeling that a critical truth lay just beyond his grasp.

He pushed the books away and rose to pace, hoping the movement would break the spell of anxiety clinging to him. He knew that Professor Slughorn had more to offer than just dusty academic theories; he was full of connections and real-world remedies. But Ron was holed up in his room, stubbornly refusing to make amends, consumed by his own worries and anger.

Molly’s heart was filled with joy when George Weasley unexpectedly arrived earlier than anticipated. As George emerged from the kitchen fireplace that afternoon, his soot-streaked face lit up the small room. Molly rushed to him with open arms, embracing him tightly. She stepped back, eyes sparkling as she surveyed his familiar features, once so lively and expressive but now touched by maturity. “How’s my handsome boy?” she asked, her voice wrapped in warmth, as if she were pulling him into a snug quilt.

Even though George’s face held a serious expression, his features softened into a broad smile in response to his mother’s question. “I’m doing great, mum,” he replied cheerfully, but Molly caught a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—a shadow hiding behind the smile.

Molly’s own grin broadened, happiness radiating from her. “Your dad will be home soon. Is there anything specific you’re craving for dinner?” Her eyes glimmered with anticipation, eager to share the simple joy of a well-prepared meal.

George gently shook his head, his smile unwavering. “No, anything you make will be perfect.”

With a loving smile, Molly affectionately patted his shoulder and turned to the worn wooden counter. She gathered ingredients, the familiar sounds of her humming filling the cosy kitchen.

Meanwhile, George caught sight of Harryseated at a small, worn table. Harry cradled a steaming cup of tea, his eyes glistening with tales from the past.

“George,” Harry greeted warmly, setting down his teacup and stepping forward to embrace him like a brother. “It’s great to see you. How have you been?”

“I’m managing, thank you,” George replied, a hint of fatigue creeping into his smile. Harry noted the subtle shadows beneath George’s eyes but opted not to bring it up. “And yourself?”

“I’m doing well,” Harry said, lifting his cup again. “How are things over at the shop? Is everything going smoothly?”

George chuckled lightly, leaning back as he relaxed into the moment. “It’s still quite hectic, but I’m not complaining at all. That’s just the way I prefer it.”

Harry could sense the melancholy edging into George’s tone, but he knew better than to pry.

“How are you finding Percy’s old room?” George asked, his eyes gleaming with interest.

“I’m really enjoying it,” Harry replied, a smile spreading across his face at the mere mention.

After a moment, George’s expression brightened. “I remember when Fred and I painted Percy’s walls bright pink as a prank. He was so embarrassed, but looking back, it was hilarious.”

Harry laughed, picturing the scene vividly.

“Percy was so annoyed by the pink walls that he never brought up his girlfriend again,” George added with a hint of pride. “So, we decided to make it even brighter to match his frustration.”

As laughter echoed between them, the warmth of shared memories enveloped the two friends. “It was one of the best pranks we ever pulled,” George concluded, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Playing pranks adds excitement to life, don’t you think? Although Percy may have been irritated, it was worth it for the fun we had. And he’ll never be able to forget it.”

But George’s carefree demeanour faltered momentarily as Percy’s name hung in the air.

It had been almost two weeks since they had fought together in the Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry couldn’t shake off the worry that gnawed at him. “How has Percy been?” he asked, concern lacing his tone. “Have you talked to him?”

“Yes, actually,” George said, casually stirring his tea as his expression shifted. “I suggested that he give up his room for you. Otherwise, I would have changed it back to its original pink decor.”

“And he simply agreed?” Harry raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

George chuckled. “Yes, he knew I wasn’t joking. I expected him to refuse, giving me incentive to bewitch his room once more. But he acquiesced without complaint, like an obedient puppy. He said it was time for him to move out and start his ‘new life.’ After Fudge resigned, he returned to work for the Ministry.”

Harry nodded, the weight of Percy’s decisions settling in. “So, he’s really moving on?”

George sighed. “I was glad when the wizarding community finally voted for someone worthy to be the next minister—Kingsley Shacklebolt. He can bring about change and unity for us all.”

At that moment, Mr. Weasley came home, his face lighting up with joy at the sight of George. “My boy!” he cried out, wrapping George in a warm embrace. “It’s truly delightful to have you back!”

George’s grin widened as he replied, “I’m thrilled to be home, Dad. I was starting to feel a bit homesick for all the commotion here.”

Just then, Ron’s quick footfalls echoed down the stairs. He threw himself into the kitchen, his face lighting up upon seeing George. “George!” he shouted, pulling his brother into his own hug. “We didn’t expect you to arrive until dinner time!”

With a chuckle, George tousled Ron’s hair affectionately. “I missed my Ickle Ronnie-kins,” he teased. “You’ve grown so tall now. But you’ll always be my baby brother.”

Dinner that evening was a lively affair, punctuated by laughter and jesting, though a shadow seemed to loiter over the table. George caught Ron shooting an unusual look at Harry, who sat uncharacteristically silent, staring into his plate.

After clearing the table, Molly Weasley turned to George, her eyes bright with maternal joy. “Are you staying longer, dear?”

“Just for tonight,” George replied, feeling the warmth of home wrap around him. “Then I have to leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Wonderful!” Molly beamed. “I’ve already put fresh sheets on your bed.”

“Thanks, Mum,” George said gratefully.

The night lingered on as Harry gazed listlessly out of his window, lost in his own thoughts. Stars dotted the sky like scattered embers, but his mind was a muddle of confusion and frustration. A faint tapping broke the silence, startling him from his reverie. He turned just in time to see George Weasley standing outside, a broad grin on his face and a couple of butterbeers in hand.

“Care for a drink in my secret hideout?” George offered, his eyes glimmering with excitement. He extended a chilled bottle towards Harry, who raised an eyebrow at the unexpected intrusion into his solitude. “I also brought enough for Ron, if he wants to join.”

Harry sighed, the weight of his recent quarrel with Ron pressing heavily on his chest. “I’ll come, but Ron probably won’t. We had a disagreement, and he’s not on talking terms with me.”

The smile on George’s face faltered slightly as he noticed the gloom clouding Harry’s expression. “Having some trouble in paradise, are we?” He asked, a hint of concern threading through his light-hearted tone.

Harry’s silence hung awkwardly between them, a testament to the rift that had grown so easily between him and Ron. George, ever perceptive, was quick to follow up. “It can’t be that terrible. Maybe a heart-to-heart could help. What do you say?”

Opening up to George felt foreign and uncomfortable, but Harry couldn’t shake the urge to share. “That’s the problem. I’ve been avoiding that conversation,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor as if it held the answers.

Perplexed, George furrowed his brows and leaned in. “And why’s that, Harry?”

Harry opened his mouth, the words teetering on the edge of his tongue, but found that he had no idea how to articulate the muddle of emotions swirling inside him. Instead, he fell back into silence, avoiding George’s piercing gaze.

Encouragingly, George nudged him gently. “Come on, then. Let’s have a chat and see if we can sort things out. It might make things better, don’t you think?”

Reluctance settled like a stone in Harry’s stomach, but there was something about George’s sincerity that softened his resolve. “Okay, let’s talk,” he finally agreed, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.