FicWad

Harry felt broken.

Not just worn down, or tired, or hollow—but properly shattered. As though something inside him had cracked, hairline at first, then fractured all the way through when he wasn’t paying attention. And now, whatever was left was too brittle, too scattered, to piece back together.

The world outside—the gently bowing trees in the orchard, the chatter of the Weasleys, the shifting summer light—looked like it had been painted in watercolours and left out in the rain. Everything blurred, soft at the edges. Nothing stuck.

He barely remembered the journey. One minute, he was still standing at King’s Cross, floating somewhere between panic and disbelief, and the next… he was here. At the Burrow.

Or rather, outside it.

He stood frozen just beyond the crooked threshold, unable to move forward, though the door was wide open and welcoming. His hand hovered awkwardly at his side, not quite reaching for the frame. He could hear voices inside—Mrs Weasley, unmistakable, bustling about—and the familiar creak of the old wooden stairs as someone ran down too fast. Probably Ron. Possibly George.

It should have felt like coming home.

But it didn’t.

The Burrow—tilted, ramshackle, and teeming with warmth—usually settled something in Harry’s chest the moment he saw it. Like slipping on a pair of old trainers: scuffed, loyal, and always where you left them.

But now… now it felt just slightly off. Like stepping into a memory and realising the furniture had moved.

He felt adrift. Not quite in the moment, but not outside it either.

Ron was hovering nearby, hands stuffed in his pockets, flicking anxious glances in Harry’s direction every few seconds, clearly wondering whether he was about to keel over or start yelling. Ginny stood on Harry’s other side, silent, steady, her eyes scanning his face like she was searching for the version of him she knew. Or trying to figure out if this was still him at all.

Harry didn’t blame them.

He didn’t feel like himself either.

Then: “Welcome home, Harry!”

Mrs Weasley’s voice rang out from inside—warm, bright, and entirely unshakeable. She stood in the kitchen doorway, beaming at him with arms already outstretched, like she had every intention of hugging the life out of him before he made it past the garden gnomes.

Home.

The word echoed oddly in his head. A nice idea. A fragile one.

He made himself step forward, forcing a smile that didn’t quite make it all the way. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. His heart thudded uncertainly in his chest, and for the briefest moment, he couldn’t tell whether it was fear or just confusion.

“Harry!” Mr Weasley joined his wife, smiling beneath his thinning hair, eyes bright behind his spectacles. “Molly and I have a little surprise for you.”

Harry’s stomach tightened. He felt a tiny jolt of dread twist through his middle.

“Oh,” he said warily, stepping into the kitchen with a faint frown. “What sort of surprise?”

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them. It was just—after everything—he wasn’t sure how much more he could handle without snapping in half.

Mrs Weasley beamed. “Percy’s moved out!”

Harry blinked.

There was a small pause in which he tried to make sense of the statement.

“Er… congratulations?”

Ron snorted, clearly enjoying the moment. “It is a bit of a miracle.”

Mr Weasley chuckled. “He’s taken a flat near the Ministry. Proper bachelor setup, from what I hear. Got a kettle and everything.”

“And,” Mrs Weasley added, clapping her hands together, “since Percy no longer needs his old room, we thought—well—you might like it.”

Harry stared at her.

“I—what? No, I couldn’t. Honestly, I’m fine, really—I can stay with Ron like always; I don’t need—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said briskly, already reaching for the stair rail as if that settled the matter. “You deserve your own space, dear. Percy even said so himself, and you know how rarely he parts with a kind word.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Percy actually said that?”

Mrs Weasley gave an exaggerated sniff and mimed air quotes. “‘Harry has, regrettably, earned the right to a private space.’”

Ron burst out laughing. “That’s basically a declaration of love, coming from Percy.”

Harry flushed, both grateful and unsure of what to do with the warmth rising in his chest. A room. His own room. Not a borrowed bed. Not the floor. Not a cupboard under the stairs.

He tried to think of what to say, but the words caught on something sharp in his throat. His mind—without permission—flashed to Privet Drive. To the spiderwebs on the ceiling of the cupboard. To Dudley stomping overhead. To the crack beneath the door where light never quite reached.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Mrs Weasley said gently, her tone softening. She slipped an arm around his shoulders, the weight of it oddly grounding. “Just come and see.”

Still blinking like someone caught in the wrong dream, Harry followed her up the narrow stairs, Ron right behind them, grinning in a way that said he wasn’t going to let Harry get all weird about it.

The door creaked open.

Harry stopped.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring.

The room looked as though it had been dipped in scarlet and gold. Gryffindor colours covered nearly every surface—from the hangings on the bedposts to the cushions on the window seat. Quidditch posters lined the walls: the Chudley Cannons, Puddlemere United, and even an enormous Holyhead Harpies banner that winked enchantingly as they entered.

But the thing that caught Harry’s breath was the message stretched across the far wall in shimmering, enchanted paint:

WELCOME HOME, HARRY!

He couldn’t speak.

His throat was too tight. His chest was too full.

He opened his mouth—once, twice—but no sound came out.

“Ron picked everything,” said Mrs Weasley with a proud little smile, her hands clasped in front of her as she surveyed the room like she’d personally conjured every detail with her own wand. Her eyes were shining slightly. “He couldn’t remember which team you supported—so he just included all of them.”

Harry looked around again, more slowly this time. The posters were everywhere, layered in enthusiastic disarray: Puddlemere United, the Wimbourne Wasps, the Tutshill Tornados, and—yes—there, flying right above the bookshelf, a particularly fierce Holyhead Harpies banner, enchanted so the players zoomed in and out, all green robes and glittering gold.

“Even the Harpies?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Ron gave a half-hearted shrug, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying to look like he wasn’t blushing slightly.

“Ginny said she’d hex me if I left them out,” he muttered. “Didn’t seem worth losing my eyebrows.”

Harry grinned.

“I’m not complaining,” he said, laughter escaping before he could stop it. “Pretty sure I’ve got enough fan gear in here to start my own league.”

Ron gave a snort. “Well, if the whole Auror thing doesn’t work out, I hear they’re hiring broom shed attendants at the Cannons. Pretty sure they’ll take anyone.”

Harry stepped further inside, his footsteps slow, deliberate, like he was afraid the room might disappear if he moved too fast. Everything had the slightly chaotic charm of the Burrow—nothing symmetrical, nothing pristine—but it was his. Or, at least, it had been made for him.

His trunk was already against the wall, perfectly unpacked—no doubt by Mrs Weasley’s efficient charm work. The bed looked soft enough to sink into for a week, layered in thick blankets and a massive knitted quilt, deep crimson with gold thread woven through. A battered old lamp perched by the bedside, flickering gently. In the corner was a squat little reading nook with shelves already filled—his textbooks, a few Muggle novels Hermione had snuck him, and The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore still shoved behind a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages.

And then—there it was.

A wardrobe.

An actual, proper wardrobe. Not a shelf. Not a crate. Not a rail in someone else’s room.

It was big and wooden and slightly uneven, with one door that hung lower than the other and a handle that looked like it might’ve once been part of a butter churn. But it was solid.

Big enough to hide in.

Or nap in.

Or, if he was being honest, hide from naps.

“Look at that thing,” said Ron, nudging him with his elbow. “You could fit Hagrid in there. Sideways.”

Harry blinked hard and swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he murmured. His voice came out rough, thinner than it should have been. “Honestly. Thank you.”

Ron gave an exaggerated groan and rolled his eyes. “Don’t get all soppy on me. You’ll ruin the Gryffindor vibe.”

But Mrs Weasley just smiled, and her hand came up to squeeze Harry’s shoulder—briefly, gently, and with the kind of warmth that made his ribs ache.

“You’re part of this family, Harry,” she said softly. “You always have been. This is your home now.”

And something inside Harry cracked—not painfully, not like it had done before. Not like that brittle snapping he’d grown used to.

This was different.

This felt more like thawing. A slow, careful melt of something that had been frozen for far too long.

Ron lounged in the doorway, arms crossed, that familiar crooked grin on his face. “Only problem is it’s four flights up to my room now. So if you leave your wand in there, you’re basically dead. Might as well move back to the cupboard under the stairs.”

Harry laughed.

“I’ll risk it,” he said. “Feels worth the peril.”

Ron nodded solemnly. “That’s the spirit. Oh—and your room’s next to Ginny’s, by the way. So if you hear weird singing at night, don’t panic. That’s not a ghost. That’s just her.”

And as if summoned by her own slander, Ginny appeared in the doorway, arms folded, one eyebrow raised in what could only be described as peak Weasley defiance.

“I do not sing,” she said flatly.

Harry was fairly certain she hadn’t even blinked.

“And no, Ron, I’m not swapping rooms with you.”

Ron groaned. “Come on, Gin. Harry needs his best mate nearby!”

Ginny smirked, tilting her head just so. “Funny. I don’t hear Harry complaining.”

Harry froze. His mouth opened, then closed again, uselessly.

Ginny winked, then tossed her hair over her shoulder and walked away, utterly unbothered.

Ron stared after her, looking genuinely betrayed. “Brilliant. I’ve lost my room, my dignity, and my baby sister to the Boy Who Lived.”

Harry laughed again. He couldn’t help it. The whole moment was ridiculous and completely ordinary, and somehow that made it magic all its own.

For what felt like a never-ending hour—possibly longer, if Harry was being dramatic, which at this point he thought he was entitled to—he and Ron lugged box after box up and down the Burrow’s crooked, groaning staircases. Most of the boxes had clearly been packed in a state of mild chaos. Some bulged at the sides, stuffed with curling parchments and cracked schoolbooks that still smelt faintly of ink and cauldron fumes. Others were so laden with mismatched Quidditch gear that they thudded and clanked ominously with every jolt, like a Bludger might come flying out if they weren’t careful.

By the fifth trip, Ron was muttering darkly under his breath with every step—complaints directed at Ginny, the concept of stairs in general, and the sheer injustice of life itself.

“Honestly,” Ron panted, wiping a sleeve across his forehead as they wrestled another dusty crate through the narrow upper landing, “Ginny’s not even helping. She waved her wand once, told me I looked strong, and then vanished. Typical.”

Harry snorted, adjusting his grip on the box. His fingers were starting to go numb.

“You do realise,” he said, breathless but grinning, “that she’s tricked you into doing the whole thing.”

Ron glanced sideways, his expression somewhere between betrayal and resignation. “She tricked you too, mate.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, with a faint smirk. “But at least I saw it coming.”

That earned a theatrical groan from Ron. “She’s worse than Mum, I swear. If she ever gets her own place, I’m not visiting. Ever. She’ll have me retiling the roof before I’ve taken off my shoes.”

Harry laughed again, in spite of himself. The ache in his arms was becoming something dull and oddly satisfying, like proof that he’d actually done something useful. It was ridiculous, really—sweating buckets in a house held together by magic and luck—but he wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

They reached the top of the stairs again, and Harry paused, just for a moment, by the little window on the landing. The late evening light spilt across the crooked floorboards in soft, slanted lines, gilding the dust motes in gold. Outside, the countryside glowed—the orchard, the pond, even the ramshackle broom shed in the distance all seemed wrapped in a sort of tired, contented hush.

The Burrow itself looked like it had grown from the earth, leaning and lopsided but solid, safe. It didn’t matter that the floors creaked or that the walls never quite lined up. There was a warmth here—a hum beneath the noise and the clutter—that Harry had never known at Privet Drive, not once.

From downstairs came the sounds of clinking plates and something sizzling, and the faint smell of garlic and rosemary floated up the staircase. There was laughter too—Ginny, unmistakably, and probably Arthur trying to tell a story over her.

Harry didn’t say anything, but something small and quiet clicked into place inside his chest.

This wasn’t just where he was staying.

It was home.

And it wasn’t because of the bed or the food or the cheerful mismatched wallpaper peeling in the corners.

It was because he was wanted here.

Even when he wasn’t useful.

Even when he was tired, or quiet, or just… existing.

He followed Ron down the stairs again, the old wood groaning beneath them, the box in his arms rattling dangerously with every jolt.

“Harry! Come on, dinner’s ready!” Mrs Weasley’s voice rang out from the kitchen below, full of cheer and entirely too much energy for someone who’d likely been working since dawn. She stood at the base of the stairs, apron dusted with flour, hair pinned up in a way that suggested a minor duel with a mixing bowl. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the oven, and her wand was already levitating a stack of steaming plates toward the table.

Harry hesitated for half a second. Just long enough to watch her.

She hadn’t called him like a visitor. There was no careful politeness in her tone. No uncertainty. She’d called him like he was one of her own.

Like she’d been calling him down to dinner his entire life.

And for that brief, blinking moment, Harry allowed himself to believe it was true.

Before heading into the kitchen, he ducked into his new room for a breather. Ron had already dumped half his own belongings in there, of course—his shoes by the bed, a sweater draped over the back of a chair—but it was still his room now. He glanced around: the Gryffindor banners, the neat stack of books beneath the window, the wardrobe that creaked when you looked at it too long.

He considered picking up Souls: An Introduction, which was still sitting unopened on the nightstand—but before he could so much as touch the cover—

“Oi! Don’t fall asleep in there!” Ron bellowed down the corridor. “You’ll miss the good bits!”

Harry rolled his eyes and trudged toward the kitchen, pretending his legs weren’t aching like he’d spent the afternoon fighting mountain trolls.

The smell hit him first—warm, rich, and comforting in that deeply unfair way that only home-cooked meals ever managed. There were roasted carrots and buttery new potatoes, something meaty and tender-smelling, and fresh bread. His stomach gave an undignified lurch.

Mrs Weasley bustled over, somehow managing to serve food, clear plates, and pile some more food.

Harry slipped into the seat between Ron and Ginny. Without a word, Mrs Weasley swooped in and deposited a steaming plate in front of him. A generous one, too.

“Eat up, dear,” she said, patting his shoulder with one flour-dusted hand.

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly, managing a smile as he picked up his fork.

For a fleeting moment, he thought of the Dursleys.

Of Aunt Petunia carefully portioning out his food like she was feeding something wild she hoped wouldn’t bite. Of Dudley reaching across the table to steal from his plate. Of cold meals eaten in silence, the telly blaring, and Uncle Vernon complaining about everything from work to the neighbours to the shape of Harry’s face.

And then—

“Harry?”

Mrs Weasley again. Her voice was gentle, but there was something in it that didn’t let him drift too far. She was watching him now with that knowing look she seemed to carry in her back pocket. As though she’d seen the shadow cross his face before he even realised it was there.

He blinked, shook himself slightly, and jabbed at a roasted potato. “Sorry—just thinking.”

Across the worn old table, lit golden by flickering candles and the soft dusk pouring through the windows, Ron and Ginny were at it again.

“No, you dropped it!” Ginny said sharply, brandishing her spoon like a wand of accusation. “Don’t try and twist it.”

“Oh, come off it,” Ron huffed, waving his fork dismissively. “I had the Quaffle—you shoved me.”

“It was a gentle nudge. Honestly, you fall over like a sack of Flobberworms.”

“That’s because I’m carrying you and Katie every practice,” Ron retorted, his voice rising, though a grin tugged at the edge of his mouth.

“You’re not carrying anyone, Ronald. You barely manage to fly in a straight line!”

Harry, still chewing a mouthful of bread, stifled a laugh. The familiar sound of their bickering—petty, pointless, affectionate—echoed like a charm over the kitchen, and for one brief, golden moment, he let it wash over him. It was all so wonderfully ordinary. The scraping of cutlery on mismatched plates, the scent of roasted carrots in the air, and Ron snorting quietly into his drink.

For a heartbeat, it felt like nothing had changed.

And then his gaze drifted—only slightly—to the other end of the table. Two empty chairs sat near the hearth. One of them—George’s usual spot—was pushed back at an odd angle, as though he’d just stood up and would return any minute, cracking some half-witted joke. But the one next to it… Fred’s chair… It was perfectly straight. Unmoved. Untouched.

It felt louder in its silence than anything else in the room.

Harry’s chest tightened.

He could still see them clearly in his mind. Fred’s face split in that irrepressible grin as he and George hurled enchanted snowballs at Quirrell’s turbaned head in their first year. Their laughter had rung out in the corridors like music. Back then, they’d seemed untouchable. Unstoppable. As if even the war had known better than to go near them.

And now…

He blinked, swallowing the lump in his throat along with his bite of potato.

Across the table, Ginny caught his eye.

Her expression softened, and the laughter died down behind her eyes. She didn’t say anything, but she leaned forward slightly under the table and nudged his knee with her own.

That one small nudge grounded him better than any spell ever could. Like she was saying, I know. I miss him too. You’re not alone.

Harry exhaled slowly and turned back to his plate.

Arthur cleared his throat gently, slicing through the hush. “So, Harry,” he said, in that kind, even voice of his, “how’s the new room treating you, then? All settled in?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied at once, with a smile that felt only slightly forced. “Still unpacking, really. Might just stay in tonight. Read a bit.”

Ron frowned, setting down his fork. “You’re not seriously calling it a night already, are you? You slept most of the train ride here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And I still feel like I’ve been hit by a Bludger. Your point?”

“My point,” Ron said, stabbing at his carrots with great emphasis, “is that you’re seventeen, not seventy. If you keep going like this, I’ll be sending you owl post at the old wizards’ home before we even sit our NEWTs.”

Ginny snorted into her pumpkin juice, her eyes glinting.

Harry gave a long-suffering sigh. “What would you have me do, Ron? Throw a party in the barn?”

“Maybe,” Ron said brightly. “Or come flying. Play chess. Sneak into the attic and see if that ghoul’s still banging about. Something. Anything other than hiding with a book like Hermione on revision week.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’ve got a strange idea of fun.”

“And you have a tragically outdated idea of bedtime.”

Harry turned to Ginny with mock despair. “Is he always like this?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “All the time,” she said sweetly, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

Harry let out a soft laugh.

“One of these days,” he muttered, chasing a stubborn carrot round his plate, “I am going to turn seventy. And when I do, you lot are going to feel terrible for mocking me.”

“I already feel terrible,” said Ron, clutching his chest dramatically. “But mostly because you’re boring.”

“Boys,” Mrs Weasley said with long-suffering affection, bustling back to the stove. “Eat your food before it goes cold. And stop bickering, or I’ll have you clearing out the chicken coop again.”

Ron and Ginny made identical faces of horror.

And Harry—Harry just smiled.

“Oi,” said Ron suddenly, leaning across the table with his mouth full of bread. “Did Hermione say anything to you about job applications?”

Harry stiffened.

There it was.

He lowered his fork slowly, the food on his plate suddenly far less appealing.

“She… might’ve mentioned it,” he muttered, stabbing at a potato with unnecessary vigour.

That same dull twist in his stomach came back, the one that had been nagging at him since the moment they’d stepped off the train at King’s Cross. Like he was supposed to have figured it all out by now—life after the war. Where to live, what to do, how to feel normal again. And everyone, it seemed, had an opinion.

Ron let out a groan and thunked his forehead onto the table with a thud. “She will not stop. Honestly, it’s like she’s taken it personally that we’re not all sending owls to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She’s on a mission.”

“You think she’s got job charts?” Harry said lightly, trying not to sound as exhausted by the subject as he felt. “Colour-coded ones?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Ron muttered. “She probably made a full presentation to McGonagall before the term ended.”

“She’s not wrong, though,” Harry added.

“She did draw up a list,” Ron moaned. His voice was muffled but filled with drama. “Careers she finds ‘acceptable’. You should’ve seen her face when I told her I might try going pro in Gobstones.”

Harry nearly choked on his drink. He let out a bark of laughter before setting the glass down with a clink. “Gobstones? Seriously? Did she threaten to hex you on the spot?”

Ron lifted his head, revealing a lopsided grin. “Only a bit. She reached for her wand and everything. I think she thought I was joking. I wasn’t.”

Harry smirked, but before he could come up with a reply, Ron’s grin faded. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with something more deliberate. “What about you?” he asked. “You must’ve thought about it. Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

Harry’s smile vanished. That familiar knot tugged hard at his chest—tight and unyielding. The future. As if it was just sitting there, neatly wrapped up, waiting for him to open it like a gift he hadn’t asked for.

“I’m still thinking,” he said flatly, eyes on his plate, as though the answer were somewhere between the carrots and the bread.

Ron gave him a look. “Oh, come off it. You want to be an Auror, don’t you? Same as before?”

Harry let out a breath and set his fork down with a soft clink. “Yes, Ron. Same as before. Auror. Magical Law Enforcement. Catching Dark wizards. Brilliant. Happy?”

Ron blinked. “Blimey, all right.” He held up his hands as though fending Harry off. “Didn’t realise it was a crime to ask. I just thought—well, I was thinking about doing it too. We could be a team.”

For some reason, that made Harry’s stomach sink.

He knew Ron meant well. Meant it kindly. But the thought of joining up—diving headfirst into the same danger again—felt less like purpose and more like a weight being tied to his ankles.

“Then go for it,” Harry said, a little too quickly. A little too sharply. “No one’s stopping you.”

There was a beat. A tiny one. But in it, something changed.

Ron stared at him. “Wait—what? I thought you’d be glad. It was your idea in the first place.”

Harry looked away, fingers curling around the edge of his napkin, twisting it in his lap. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. He didn’t know how to say it. That he was tired? That he wasn’t sure he could keep fighting things in the dark anymore? That sometimes, when he looked in the mirror, he still saw the boy under the cupboard, not the hero in the headlines?

“It’s not that simple,” he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear.

Ron frowned, trying to puzzle it out. “Why not? You’d be brilliant, mate. Everyone knows it.”

And that—that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it?

Everyone expected him to be brilliant. Expected him to be fine. Harry Potter, victorious. The Boy Who Lived. Again. Now with career aspirations and crisp Ministry robes and a flat in London where he could keep his medals in a drawer and never mention the people who didn’t make it.

He wanted to scream. To throw something. To not be Harry Potter for five minutes.

“Just drop it, all right?” He snapped, louder than he meant to. Sharper than he’d ever spoken to Ron in a long time.

The sound seemed to cut the kitchen in half.

Forks hovered in mid-air. Glasses paused mid-sip. The warmth and hum of Weasley chatter froze around them like a spell had been cast.

Harry pushed back his chair. The legs scraped against the floor with a screech that made Ginny flinch.

“Thanks for dinner, Mrs Weasley,” he muttered. The words felt hollow, automatic. He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t want to see their faces. Not Ron’s confusion, not Ginny’s worry, not Mrs Weasley’s sad little nod of understanding.

He left the table in silence and climbed the stairs two at a time, each step sounding far too loud in the narrow house.

Brilliant, he thought bitterly. Now Ron felt guilty. That made two of them.

As he reached the landing, he could still hear the kitchen murmuring behind him—voices blurred but rising with tension.

“What was that all about?” Ron’s voice floated up, frustrated and raw. “Did I say something wrong?”

Harry paused halfway up the stairs, hand on the bannister, forehead pressing into the cool wood. Ron didn’t deserve that. None of them did.

Down below, Ginny’s voice rang out—sharp and unwavering.

“You were being a prat, that’s what.”

“I was only asking a question!” Ron fired back, incredulous.

Mrs Weasley’s gentler voice joined the fray. “He’s had a long day, dear. You all have. Just… give him some space, won’t you?”

Chairs scraped back. The clink of cutlery resumed. But Harry knew that kind of quiet. The kind where no one was really eating. The kind where everyone was pretending.

He shut the bedroom door behind him with a soft click, like he didn’t trust it not to slam. The walls felt too close, too warm. He kicked off his shoes half-heartedly and let himself drop onto the bed with a sigh that came from somewhere deep.

The mattress gave beneath him, soft and familiar. But it didn’t feel like rest. It felt like waiting.

He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the uneven lines where Ron had stuck up a Chudley Cannons poster with spellotape and no precision. It was peeling at the corner.

I should be fine, he thought. It’s over. It’s done.

But it wasn’t. The war had ended, but it had left its marks—deep, invisible ones. And somehow, everyone seemed to think that now it was just a matter of picking a job, ironing his robes, and smiling for the Prophet.

He didn’t want to be anyone’s hero anymore.

He just wanted to figure out who he was without everyone else deciding it for him.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, trying to will the thoughts away, but they stuck—heavy, stubborn, and close.

He was seventeen. Seventeen, and already older than some men ever lived to be. Seventeen and exhausted down to his bones.

And now he was supposed to become an Auror. Again. Risk his life. Again.

He didn’t even know if he had anything left to give.

Harry stared down at the open book resting on his lap—Advanced Defensive Strategies for Modern Combat, or something equally thrilling. He couldn’t even remember when Hermione had pressed it into his hands. A week ago? Longer? Probably accompanied by a speech on preparedness and the importance of staying sharp. The sort of thing that had once roused him to action. Now, it might as well have been written in gobbledegook.

The words blurred on the page, unread and uninviting. He wasn’t reading. He just needed something to do. Something to make him look occupied. If he looked busy, maybe no one would ask him how he was feeling. Maybe no one—especially not Ron—would start poking around, trying to crack him open like he was some cursed object in need of dismantling.

Of course, fate had no intention of giving him that courtesy.

He heard the footsteps first—heavy, deliberate, Ron’s trademark stomp down the hallway. Subtle as a blast-ended skrewt. And then, a knock. Not loud, not impatient. Just… tentative.

“Oi,” came Ron’s voice, far too gentle to mean anything good. “You still awake?”

Harry sighed quietly through his nose. Of course he was awake. It wasn’t like sleep came easily these days. He hauled himself off the bed and cracked the door open, just wide enough to see Ron’s face—creased with concern, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.

Harry didn’t speak. He turned back to the bed like a soldier retreating to the nearest trench, picked up the book again, and anchored it firmly in his lap. Armour. A flimsy one, but still.

Ron let himself in anyway, crossing the room in that awkward, lanky stride of his, and flopped into the desk chair, spinning it half-heartedly.

“So,” he said, as though they were discussing the weather. “What’re you reading?”

Harry didn’t even glance up. “Nothing.”

Ron peered exaggeratedly over his shoulder, squinting at the cover. “Looks riveting. Is that Advanced Defensive Strategies? Blimey. You must be desperate.”

“Shove off,” Harry muttered, clutching the book tighter like it might shield him from further commentary.

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Hit a nerve, have I? Or is this your new thing—moody silence and bedtime textbooks?”

Harry turned a page he hadn’t read. The room seemed to shrink.

“Harry,” Ron said again, voice sharper now.

“For Merlin’s sake, what?” Harry snapped, slamming the book closed and tossing it onto the floor, where it landed with a heavy thud. “What do you want, Ron?”

Ron blinked, taken aback. “Well, I was going to ask why you stormed off earlier, but now I’m just wondering if you’ve completely lost it.”

Harry dragged both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots like he might yank the thoughts straight from his skull.

“I told you—I’m fine.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Ron said, crossing his arms. “You’re fine. That’s why you legged it from the table like your chair was on fire, haven’t said more than ten words since you got here, and are now hiding out with a book you clearly hate.”

“I don’t need a bloody intervention, alright?” Harry stood up, fists clenched at his sides. “Can’t I have one moment to breathe without everyone analysing it?”

“You’ve had moments,” Ron shot back, rising too. “You’ve had days, mate. Locking yourself in here like you’re some kind of ghost. Talking might actually help, you know.”

“I don’t want to talk!” Harry’s voice cracked, the words laced with heat and something dangerously close to grief. “I don’t want advice or sympathy or any of that useless crap that won’t change a bloody thing!”

Ron’s eyes flashed. “Then what do you want? You want us all to pretend you’re fine? Act like nothing’s wrong while you sit here falling to bits?”

Harry faltered, chest heaving, the anger draining into something worse—exposure. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, barely audible. “You don’t know what it feels like.”

Ron stared at him, disbelief written all over his face. “Are you—Harry, are you serious? You think you’re the only one who’s lost people? The only one who’s scared out of his mind about what’s next? We were all there, mate. Every bit of it.”

“It’s not the same,” Harry said, voice low, dangerous now. “You don’t understand.”

That silence again. The kind that didn’t just hang between them but seemed to press down.

Then Ron said, quieter now, but more deadly sincere than before, “No. Maybe I don’t. But I still care. And I’m sick of you shutting me out because you’re scared of needing someone.”

Harry turned away, back towards the window, as though the night sky might offer a way out. His arms wrapped around himself without meaning to.

“I’m not scared,” he said, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him.

“Then why are you pushing me away?”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the truth—the real truth—was so brittle, he was terrified it might shatter if he said it aloud.

Because if I let you stay, I’ll fall apart. Because I’m supposed to be strong. Because if I admit I’m broken, I don’t know if I’ll ever come back from it.

But all he managed was, “I just… I need space.”

Ron stared at him, jaw tight, eyes narrowed in frustration. Then he shook his head slowly, backing toward the door.

“Fine,” he said flatly. “Have your space. Enjoy your bloody book.”

The door slammed behind him. The force of it rattled the poster on the wall—one of the Chudley Cannons figures looking mildly startled.

Harry stood alone in the echo of it. The room felt hollow. Airless.

He sat back down, the mattress giving under his weight like it might swallow him whole if he asked nicely. He pressed his face into the pillow, breathing in the faint scent of dust and old linen, and wished it would all just stop. The expectations. The pretending. The ache of having survived.

Then—bang, bang, bang—a knock at the door. Sharp. Sudden.

Harry flinched, heart jolting as if it had been yanked up into his throat. His muscles tensed, the instinct to fight or flee rising like a tide beneath his skin.

For a moment, he just stood there, fists clenched uselessly at his sides, jaw tight enough to ache. The tension that had been building in him all day—tightening coil by coil behind his ribs—finally snapped.

“What now?” he shouted, voice hoarse with the kind of frustration that came from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

He turned from the bed and stalked towards the window, as if distance might ease the heat thrumming beneath his skin. The glass was cool beneath his palm, but it didn’t help. His breathing was too fast. Too loud. Every part of him felt raw and stretched thin.

He didn’t care who it was. He’d had enough. Another bloody interruption. Probably Ron, back for round two—arms flailing, voice loud enough to wake the ghoul in the attic. More questions. More demands to talk. Merlin, Harry couldn’t face it.

But then—a voice.

Not loud. Not sharp.

Just one word.

“Harry.”

He froze.

Not Ron.

That voice—steady, quiet, unmistakably Ginny—cut through everything.

The frustration drained out of him so fast it left a hole in its wake. He was across the room before he even realised, yanking the door open.

Ginny stood on the landing, arms folded—not closed off, not angry, but composed. Like she’d been waiting him out.

Her eyes met his, and something in him pulled tight. She didn’t look surprised to see the state he was in. Just sad.

“Ginny—” he started, already hating the sound of his own voice. “I thought you were Ron. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. I just—” He exhaled sharply. “I’m on edge.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t scold. Instead, she stepped forward and laid a warm hand against his cheek. Her fingers were soft, sure. Her thumb brushed lightly along his jaw, grounding him in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

“I know,” she said gently. “Honestly, you’re not wrong—Ron was halfway to breaking furniture down there.”

Harry gave a short, humourless laugh. The kind that collapsed halfway out of him.

Still, the guilt crawled in around the edges. He looked away, jaw tight.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” he muttered. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Ginny shook her head, brushing a stray strand of red hair behind her ear.

“I’m not here to have a go at you,” she said. “I’m here because I’m worried.”

She stepped into the room properly now, nudging the door shut behind her with a quiet click. The moment it closed, the air seemed to shift—thicker somehow, more still.

Harry backed away slightly, letting her in, even though every instinct in him was curling inwards. The walls felt closer than they had a minute ago.

“You’ve barely said two words since yesterday,” Ginny went on, quieter now. “You’ve been… not just tired. Off. Something’s bothering you.”

Of course she’d noticed. She always did.

Harry turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just need time,” he said, his voice rough. “There’s… There’s a lot in my head at the moment.”

Ginny didn’t press. She let the silence sit between them, waiting for him to fill it—but not forcing him to.

“I’m not asking for everything,” she said at last. “But you’ve got to let me in. Even just a little.”

His throat tightened. Merlin, how did she do this? See through him like that? How did she stillcare after everything he’d failed to say?

“It’s not about trust,” he said, facing the wall, his voice barely audible. “I do trust you. It’s just—”

“Then tell me,” she interrupted, her voice soft but unwavering. She took another step closer. “You don’t have to carry this on your own.”

He swallowed. The words were there—clogged in his chest, caught on the edge of something deeper. But they wouldn’t come. He was so tired of explaining, so tired of unravelling the knot inside him only to find it tighter than before.

“I don’t want to make it worse for you,” he said, voice low. “You’ve had your own battles. Your own losses. You don’t need mine dumped on top.”

Ginny’s eyes flashed—not angry, but fierce in that steady, Weasley sort of way.

“That’s not how this works, Harry,” she said. “If we’re doing this—really doing this—then we share the weight. You’re not protecting me by locking me out. You’re just leaving me behind.”

Something twisted hard inside him. She wasn’t wrong. He was pushing her away, and for what? Some misguided attempt at strength? Because it was easier to suffer in silence than risk being truly seen?

Then, almost too softly to catch:

“Last night… You found out something, didn’t you?”

His breath caught. He didn’t answer, but she didn’t need him to. His silence said enough.

“I thought so,” Ginny murmured. “You looked different. When you came into the Great Hall—you weren’t just tired. It was like… something had cracked.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

He could still feel it—the cold realisation sinking into his bones, the weight of knowledge settling over him. Something he hadn’t even begun to process.

“I can’t talk about it yet,” he said finally, forcing the words out. “I need to get it straight in my head first. Otherwise… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

Ginny didn’t argue. She just stepped closer and gently reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.

“Alright,” she said simply. “Take your time. I’ll wait. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry looked down at their joined hands. Her fingers were warm. He gave the tiniest squeeze back, because words felt impossible—but that, at least, he could manage.

Ginny searched his face for a moment longer, then let her hand slip away. She walked to the door without another word, and this time the silence she left behind wasn’t angry. It wasn’t cold. But it was heavy.

Harry woke before the sun had fully risen, the sky outside still tinged with grey, pale light only just beginning to spill through the curtains. For a moment, as he lay there blinking at the ceiling, there was that strange, fleeting moment of disorientation—where am I?—before the familiar smell of wood smoke and honeysuckle settled around him and the answer landed gently.

The Burrow.

And, surprisingly, that flicker in his chest—that wasn’t dread. It wasn’t the tight coil of nerves he’d come to expect on waking. It was… excitement. Not grand, not earth-shattering.

It startled him, that simple feeling. He hadn’t felt it in weeks. Not since before the world had turned upside down again and again. And it was fragile, this little surge of hope—like something new trying to take root in ground that had been scorched too many times.

Still, he sat up, rubbed a hand over his eyes, and let the feeling settle.

After everything that had happened the night before—snapping at Ron, shutting everyone out again—he needed this. A moment to do something right. Something good.

Because he owed the Weasleys more than he could ever say.

They had taken him in without hesitation, year after year. Gave him warmth, safety, and something that looked and felt and breathed like family. They never asked for anything in return. And that was precisely why it mattered.

He had to show them somehow.

Slipping out of bed and tugging on the jumper Mrs Weasley had knitted him last Christmas, he padded softly down the stairs, bare feet silent on the warm, worn wood. The house was still and shadowed, the early light painting everything in gentle greys and golds. He passed the sitting room, where a single armchair still held the ghost of someone’s body heat, and stepped into the kitchen.

The air was cool but full of the Burrow’s usual patchwork scent—fresh earth from the garden, something faintly floral from the windowsill, and the ever-present warmth of cooked sugar and old magic baked into the walls.

Harry paused, looking around.

The table stood just where it always did, cluttered and endearing: an old knitted tea cosy sat atop the kettle, a tin of biscuits half-shut beside the bread bin, and yesterday’s Daily Prophet folded beside a mug that still bore a faint ring of tea. The hands of the grandfather clock creaked as they moved, pointing not to numbers but to comforting things like travelling, lost, or home.

He took a deep breath, the kind that felt like it reached all the way to the base of his spine, and rolled up his sleeves.

Cooking was one of the few practical things the Dursleys had ever taught him—though not out of kindness. But this morning, it wasn’t about duty or obligation. It was something else entirely. Maybe if he made something warm and filling, it might say what he couldn’t quite bring himself to put into words.

Thank you.

I’m sorry.

I see everything you’ve done, and I don’t take it for granted.

He fetched eggs and bacon from the pantry, picked a handful of tomatoes from the garden just beyond the back door, and found fresh bread tucked in a tea towel. The sizzle of food in the pan was oddly soothing. Outside the window, the morning was waking up—dew on the glass, bees buzzing lazily around the lavender, birds calling from the orchard.

For a little while, he allowed himself to lose track of time.

He moved with quiet precision, carefully cracking eggs into the pan, flipping the bacon, and setting out plates. The kettle began to whistle gently, and he moved to pour out tea. It wasn’t perfect, not by a long stretch, but it was honest.

Then came the footsteps—quick, purposeful, and unmistakably Mrs Weasley’s.

Panic jolted in his chest. For one absurd second, he thought about ducking out the back door.

I only wanted to help, he thought, glancing down at the spatula in his hand, the flour on his jumper. Please don’t be cross. I didn’t mean to take over.

The kitchen door opened, and she stepped in, her dressing gown tied haphazardly at the waist, wand tucked behind one ear.

She blinked.

“Harry!”

She froze mid-step, her eyes widening—not with anger, but with the kind of surprise that quickly softened into something warmer. Her mouth twitched, then curved into a fond smile that made Harry’s ears go hot.

“I—er—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling all of twelve. “I thought I’d have a go at breakfast. Hope that’s alright. Just wanted to… I dunno… pitch in.”

Mrs Weasley looked from him to the stove to the table, where the eggs were steaming, the toast stacked neatly beside the butter dish. Her eyes grew misty.

“Oh, Harry…” she said softly. “It’s more than alright. You’ve always been welcome here.”

He gave a small shrug, not trusting himself to speak.

She came further in, inspecting the breakfast like it might vanish if she looked away. “Merlin’s beard,” she murmured. “You’ve really outdone yourself.”

Before Harry could answer, Mr Weasley appeared in the doorway, adjusting his slightly skewed tie, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“What’s all this?”

Mrs Weasley turned to him, her smile positively glowing. “Arthur, come and look! Harry’s made breakfast!”

Mr Weasley blinked at the scene. “Did he now?”

He took a step forward, surveying the table with the kind of reverence usually reserved for new Muggle inventions.

“Well, I’ll be… This looks wonderful.”

Harry ducked his head, stirring the baked beans more than necessary. “Wasn’t a big deal. I used to do it every day, back at Privet Drive. Old habits, I suppose.”

He regretted it the moment it left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to bring them up. Not now. But the Dursleys were stitched into him in ways he still didn’t fully understand—ghosts of a life he didn’t want, yet couldn’t quite shake.

Mr Weasley gave a quiet, thoughtful nod, not pressing, not pitying. “Still. It’s a fine gesture, Harry. Very fine indeed.”

Mrs Weasley was already moving to set the table, humming softly under her breath. “You’ve a knack for this, you know,” she said. “Fred and George always set off the smoke alarm, bless them. And Ron’s hopeless unless it comes out of a packet.”

Harry smiled faintly.

“I’ll go and wake the others,” she said, eyes still gleaming as she touched his shoulder in passing. “They’re in for a lovely surprise.”

She disappeared up the stairs, her dressing gown swishing behind her.

Ron came down the stairs several minutes later, his steps slow, dragging almost, each one creaking in protest beneath his weight. His hair stuck out in tufts, and the pillow crease on his cheek hadn’t yet faded. He looked half-asleep and half-hungover from something heavier than dreams. He rubbed at his face and yawned without bothering to cover it, then froze mid-step at the threshold of the kitchen.

His eyes swept the table, taking in the neat stacks of toast, the steam curling from a jug of hot tea, and the smell of bacon hanging thick in the air. His brow furrowed, not in confusion exactly—more like suspicion.

“Is it someone’s birthday or something?” he asked, voice hoarse and unused, as he slid wordlessly into the seat beside Harry.

Mrs Weasley gave a small, fond chuckle as she set down a dish of freshly sliced tomatoes. “No, dear. Harry made breakfast for us.”

Ron blinked.

He looked at her, then at the table, then—briefly—at Harry, eyebrows lifted like he’d misheard. “Harry did?” he repeated, his surprise not quite masked.

Harry didn’t say anything. His throat had gone dry the moment Ron appeared in the doorway. The words he’d been rehearsing all morning—something light, maybe even a joke—curled up and died before they reached his mouth.

Ron glanced down at his plate as though expecting it to start singing or explode.

He picked up his fork and stabbed at the eggs without enthusiasm. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he muttered, not unkindly, but certainly not warmly either.

Harry swallowed hard. He’d hoped this might be a peace offering. A way to bridge the space between them—quietly, without needing to explain things he wasn’t ready to say. But the hope that had fluttered in his chest earlier was already fading. The tension was still there. The kind that wrapped around your lungs and made breathing feel like effort.

Ron didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on his plate like there might be answers hidden in the scrambled eggs.

Harry’s mind raced for something—anything—that might soften things. But all he could feel was the guilt still lodged beneath his ribs.

Mrs Weasley’s voice broke the silence, bright and airy—too bright, really, like she was trying to blow away the storm with forced cheer.

“George is coming for dinner in two days,” she said as she levitated a stack of plates towards the cupboard.

Harry’s head snapped up. He hadn’t seen him in weeks—not since the war—and the reminder sent a fresh jolt of unease through him.

“How long’s he staying?” asked Mr Weasley from the hallway, tugging on his coat as he passed the kitchen door.

Mrs Weasley hesitated. “Not sure,” she said, the smile fading just slightly. “He’s been so busy. Barely has time to write anymore, let alone visit.”

No one answered. The air sagged with that familiar grief. Harry looked down at the table, suddenly unable to taste the tea he was sipping. He didn’t know what he’d expected from this morning, but it wasn’t this tight knot of awkward silence and words unspoken.

The kitchen door creaked again, and Ginny stepped inside. She moved like she was trying not to disturb anything—like even the floorboards might shatter beneath her.

Her hair was scraped back in a tight ponytail, strands clinging to her temples like they’d been forgotten. There were deep shadows under her eyes, like bruises that sleep hadn’t touched. She slid into the seat across from Harry without so much as a glance at anyone.

Harry stared at her.

She wasn’t angry, exactly. He’d seen Ginny angry, seen her spark like a firework and blaze hot and brilliant. This was different. This was quieter. Hollow.

It unsettled him in a way that caught him off guard. The Ginny he knew was never this still.

He wanted to say something—‘You alright?’ or ′Did you sleep?′—but the words tangled somewhere between his chest and throat. And besides, he could already feel the answer in the silence that stretched out between them.

Mrs Weasley was humming faintly now, somewhere near the garden. Mr Weasley had left for work.

Harry set down his tea. The ceramic clink felt louder than it ought to.

“I need to borrow Pigwidgeon,” he said suddenly, trying to sound casual. “There’s a letter I need to send.”

Ron’s fork stopped mid-motion.

“Who’re you writing to?” he asked, without looking up.

Harry hesitated. He hadn’t expected the question to bite. He should’ve.

“Someone important,” he said quietly.

Ron finally looked at him. Not with anger, exactly. But with something colder—wary, worn thin. “That’s not an answer.”

Harry shifted in his seat. His palms were damp. He wiped them on his jeans under the table. “I can’t explain yet. I just—need to send it.”

Ron let out a slow breath and sat back in his chair, arms folded. “So we’re back to this again, are we?” he said. “You keeping secrets. Me pretending I don’t notice.”

“I’m not pretending,” Harry said quickly. His voice cracked slightly. “It’s not a big deal.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed.

Harry’s stomach twisted. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Yes, it bloody matters,” Ron snapped, voice rising suddenly. “You don’t get to come back, cook breakfast, and act like everything’s fine while shutting us out at the same time.”

Harry flinched. “I’m not trying to shut you out. I just—there are things I can’t say yet. Things I haven’t sorted in my own head.”

Ron’s jaw clenched. “Funny. That’s always your reason, isn’t it?”

Harry pushed his chair back slightly, feeling the room close in. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Ron said, his voice low and angry now, “that I’m tired of being your best mate onlywhen it’s convenient. Tired of you going off on your own and telling the rest of us to just trust you.”

“I do trust you,” Harry shot back, the words coming too fast, too defensively. “But this isn’t about—”

“Then act like it,” Ron interrupted sharply. “Stop making me feel like some idiot you need to protect from the truth.”

Harry stared at him, throat thick. He wanted to argue. He wanted to shout back. But all he could feel was the guilt—hot and bitter—burning just under his skin.

“You can write your letter, but you’re not using my owl to keep secrets.”

Ginny’s palm struck the table with a sharp crack that rang through the kitchen like the snap of a wand. Plates rattled. A spoon clattered to the floor. Even the ghoul in the attic seemed to be still for a moment.

“Ron, that’s enough.”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the silence—clear, hard, and full of warning.

Ron rounded on her at once, face flushed, jaw tight. “No,” he snapped, fury vibrating in his voice. “It’s not enough. Not nearly. He needs to hear this. He needs to stop acting like we don’t matter. Like we’re just—just background noise.”

Harry kept his gaze fixed on his plate. His breakfast had gone cold, but he hadn’t touched a bite. The eggs looked waxy, the bacon congealed, and the toast like cardboard.

Ron’s words hit their mark, each one sinking into Harry like a splinter.

Harry’s chest tightened. Guilt twisted inside him. He wanted to speak—to explain, to defend himself, to say something—but his throat felt thick, clogged with all the words he hadn’t said in time.

Ginny’s voice came again, softer now, though no less firm. “Maybe he’s got a reason,” she said, eyes flicking towards Harry. “We’re all just… trying to survive, in our own way.”

Ron let out a bitter, humourless laugh. It sounded wrong in the room—too sharp, too tired. “Oh, is that what this is, then? Secrets and half-truths? Disappearing in the middle of dinner? Pretending nothing’s wrong when everything’s wrong?” His hands trembled slightly as he pushed his plate away. “That’s not surviving, Ginny. That’s running away.”

Harry’s fists clenched beneath the table, nails biting into his palms. His head bowed lower. The words were true. That was the worst part. He had run—from grief, from guilt, from the unbearable weight of trying to be strong when all he felt was broken.

But he hadn’t wanted this. Not this shouting. Not this silence that screamed louder than words.

And then—

BANG.

Ron’s fist slammed down on the table, sending a tremor through the wood. Harry jerked violently, his whole body flinching as though a spell had been fired.

“This isn’t just about you, Harry!” Ron bellowed. His voice was raw now, fraying at the edges. “You’re not the only one who’s hurting!”

The words shattered something.

Harry felt it—the sting of it, the way truth always stings when it’s spoken out loud. For a split second, he wanted to shout back, to say he knew that, of course he knew that—but the words wouldn’t come. Not with the weight of everything pressing down on him. The loss. The fear. The way people looked at him, like he was meant to have all the answers, when he barely knew how to breathe some days.

The kitchen had shrunk. The air had grown thick, hard to swallow. The walls loomed too close. It felt like the cupboard under the stairs again—small and dark and full of things no one else wanted to see.

And then Ron shoved his chair back. It scraped harshly across the floor, legs dragging. Without another word, he stormed out, footsteps pounding up the staircase. The door slammed somewhere overhead a second later.

Silence descended again. But it wasn’t peaceful. It was sharp. Brittle. Dangerous.

Ginny stared after him, eyes wide and glistening, her lips parted but unspeaking. A tear clung stubbornly to her lower lashes, refusing to fall.

Harry didn’t move.

He sat frozen in place, his breath coming too shallow, too fast. His skin felt cold—his limbs stiff, as though he were under a Body-Bind that had missed his heart. That kept pounding. Hurting.

He couldn’t even find the words to ask if she was alright. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack down the middle.

“I don’t want things to be like this,” he said at last, the words raw and low, as if they’d been torn from somewhere deep inside.

Ginny turned to him slowly. Her face was pale, tight with something close to pain. “I know,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled slightly in her lap. “But he’s angry. And scared. We all are.”

Harry nodded, not because he agreed, but because it was the only thing he could do.

“I never meant to shut anyone out,” he whispered, barely audible. “I just… I thought if I said it all out loud, if I let it into the open, it’d break something that can’t be fixed.” He drew in a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to make either of you feel small. You’re not. You’re everything. You always have been.”

Ginny looked at him. There was still hurt in her eyes, but something else too—something steadier. Stronger.

“I trust you,” she said quietly. “But you’ve got to trust us, too. You’ve got to let us in—even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

He met her gaze. It held. The weight of what she was saying settled in his chest—but it didn’t crush him.

He nodded again, this time slower, firmer.

“I’ll fix it,” he said. The promise hung in the air, fragile but real.

Ginny’s lower lip trembled. She blinked quickly, swiped at her cheek, and managed a small, sad smile.

“Promise me you’ll try.”

“I promise.”

Harry wandered the narrow halls with no real aim, Ron a few steps behind, though neither of them spoke. The silence between them had grown dense, thick enough to choke on. Every step echoed too loudly in the stillness, the floorboards creaking in protest under their weight.

He’d always thought of the Burrow as home—at least, as close as he’d ever got to one. But now, it felt like someone else’s house. Like he was drifting through a memory of something that had once been his but wasn’t anymore.

The kitchen was the worst of it. Normally, it would be bustling by now—pans clattering, radio murmuring, Mrs Weasley fussing over breakfast and telling someone to mind the toast before it burnt. Instead, there was only the quiet clink of a fork against a plate.

Harry sat across from Ron, though they might as well have been on opposite sides of the world. Ron kept his eyes on his food, barely lifting them. There was no animosity, not really—just distance. And Harry didn’t know how to bridge it.

He forced himself to chew a bite of toast, dry and tasteless, like eating parchment. He could feel the silence settle in his lungs with every breath, pressing down against his ribs.

After another few minutes of that unbearable stillness, he pushed his plate away and rose without a word. Ron didn’t look up.

He climbed the stairs slowly and slipped into his room, shutting the door gently behind him. Not a slam. Not even a proper close. Just… quiet. As if he didn’t want the house to notice him.

His eyes went to the corner of the room almost at once.

Hedwig’s cage sat where it always had—still, empty, untouched. A thin layer of dust clung to the bars.

He crossed the room and laid his fingers against the metal. It was cool beneath his skin, oddly final. Lifeless.

She should have been there. Her feathers rustling as she shifted. That low hoot she used to give when he stayed up too late or forgot to open the window. She had always been there.

And now she wasn’t.

It was more than missing her. It was the way the room felt different without her in it. Quieter, somehow. Less certain. Like part of it had been hollowed out and hadn’t been filled back in.

Trying to find another owl had felt wrong. Like it would be replacing her—as if she were a thing that could be replaced. But she hadn’t just been an owl. She’d been his first friend in this world, before Ron and Hermione, before Hogwarts had really begun. She’d been the first creature he could trust.

She’d never judged him, never asked for more than he could give. She’d just… been. Steadfast. Fierce. Quiet in her own way.

And now that she was gone, the ache she left behind had settled in for good. It didn’t cut the way it had at first. It didn’t knock the breath out of him like it had done at Godric’s Hollow. No, this was something slower. Heavier. Like carrying a stone in his chest and learning to walk anyway.

His eyes drifted to the stack of books by his bed—thick, spine-creased volumes on magical theory, ancient soulcraft, and obscure wandlore. Some borrowed from Hogwarts’ library, some bought second-hand from a dusty little shop in Diagon Alley. He’d read every one, combed through page after page in the hope of finding something—anything—that might explain what he felt.

The fracture inside him. The sense that something was missing…

He dropped into the chair beside the desk and picked up the topmost book, flipping it open to a marked page. More diagrams. More long-winded passages on the metaphysical properties of the soul. It all felt maddeningly distant.

He let out a sharp breath through his nose and shoved the book aside. It slid off the desk and landed with a dull thud on the floor, pages fluttering open.

He stood, unable to sit still any longer, and began pacing. The motion helped—just enough to keep the panic from setting in properly. He could feel it sometimes, like static under his skin. He didn’t know what it meant. But it was there.

Maybe Slughorn would know something. The man had seen things, after all—lived through more than most. He’d know where to look and which questions to ask.

But that meant talking to Ron.

And Ron hadn’t exactly been keen on talking lately. He kept mostly to his room, saying very little, eyes shadowed with something Harry didn’t quite understand—and didn’t know how to fix.

Harry stopped by the window and looked out.

The garden stretched wide beneath him, all golden light and swaying grass. Gnomes rustled in the hedges. A pair of butterflies tangled lazily above the pumpkin patch. It was beautiful. Ordinary.

And still, he felt alone.

He missed Hedwig.

He missed Ron, too—the easy way they used to talk, the stupid jokes, and the silent understanding that didn’t need to be said aloud.

And more than anything, he missed the feeling that he wasn’t carrying this on his own.

The kitchen fireplace flared suddenly, erupting in a rush of emerald-green flame. Ash scattered across the hearthstones as a figure stepped through the Floo with an easy confidence that filled the room before he even opened his mouth.

George Weasley, his face smudged with soot and his grin already halfway formed, dusted off his robes with a casual flick of the wrist. There was a flicker of mischief in his eyes—the same spark that had always been there—but something quieter, too, lurking just beneath.

Harry had only just turned towards the sound when Mrs Weasley swept past him in a blur of movement, arms outstretched.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, and before George could say a word, she enveloped him in one of her signature bone-crushing hugs. Her face, when she pulled back to get a proper look at him, was alight with something fierce and tender all at once. “My handsome boy—look at you! You’ve hardly changed. How are you?”

Harry stood there watching them, something tugging low in his chest. That look—the one Mrs Weasley gave George, like seeing him was enough to right the world—Harry couldn’t quite remember the last time someone had looked at him like that. He was glad for George, truly, but it stirred something hollow in him all the same.

George gave a sheepish half-laugh and shrugged. “Still standing, Mum. That’s got to count for something.”

“You’re early,” she said, already bustling around, pulling open the pantry doors, her fingers twitching for something to do. “You must be hungry—do you want anything special for dinner?”

George waved a hand, his grin widening. “Anything you make is brilliant, Mum. You know that.”

Mrs Weasley gave him one last affectionate pat on the shoulder before she returned to the stove, already humming softly under her breath as pots began to clatter and levitate with practised ease.

Harry took a sip of lukewarm tea and barely had time to set the mug down before George turned towards him.

“Harry.”

“George.” Harry stood and offered a proper hug. Not the sort you gave out of politeness, but the kind that said, I’ve missed you, even if you didn’t say it aloud.

“You look dreadful,” Harry said, pulling back, his tone light.

“Cheers, mate,” George replied, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You’re positively glowing yourself.”

Harry chuckled. “Still alive.”

“Better than the alternative,” George said quietly, though there was a flicker in his eyes—one Harry recognised. A tiredness that no amount of jokes could cover.

They sat at the kitchen table, the late afternoon sun spilling through the window and catching the dust in the air.

“How’s the shop?” Harry asked, settling back in his chair.

George gave a half-shrug. “Louder than it’s ever been, which is probably a good sign. I reckon if something’s noisy enough, it counts as living. Might not be neat. But it’s something.”

Harry nodded. There was something reassuring about that—chaos, as life.

“Anyway,” George went on, eyeing him. “How’s Percy’s old room treating you? No spontaneous enforcement of bedtime regulations?”

Harry gave a faint smile. “It’s fine. Comfortable, actually. Though I keep expecting some sort of glowing list of household duties to appear over the bed.”

George leaned in, lowering his voice like they were both thirteen again. “You’re lucky we didn’t leave the pink paint.”

Harry blinked. “Pink?”

“Oh yeah,” George said cheerfully. “Fred and I painted the whole thing hot pink once, when Percy was seeing that girl from Ravenclaw. Called it a rebranding exercise. Percy nearly had a coronary.”

Harry snorted. “That’s cruel.”

“Cruel, but poetic,” George said, his grin widening. “We added glitter charms the next day. He threatened to file a complaint with the Ministry of Magic. Said he’d hex our ears off.”

Harry laughed, the sound spilling out unexpectedly and echoing through the room. For the first time in what felt like days, something inside him eased, even if only a little.

But the moment wavered. Percy’s name hung in the air too long, unspoken things stirring underneath. George’s grin faltered ever so slightly, and his gaze dropped to his tea.

Harry hesitated. Then: “Have you… spoken to him?”

George nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Briefly. Said he was fine, that he didn’t need the room anymore. Offered it up without even being asked.”

Harry frowned. “Really?”

“Didn’t even blink. Which is how I knew something was off,” George said, voice softer now. “He’s… quiet. Still at the ministry. Working. Keeping his head down, like always.”

“You think he’s alright?”

George didn’t answer at first. His fingers tapped against his mug. “I think he’s surviving. Same as the rest of us. Just got his own way of doing it. I keep hoping he’ll say something, but… you know Percy. Never much good at saying when he’s hurting.”

Harry nodded, staring into his tea. That was the strange thing now—everyone was walking around with pieces missing, and no one quite knew how to talk about it. Everyone grieving, but doing it sideways. In silence. Alone.

“Kingsley got the minister’s job, though,” George said after a moment, the tone of his voice lifting. “That’s one bit of proper news.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, managing a smile. “He’s the right person for it.”

George raised his mug. “To one thing, at least, not being a total disaster.”

Harry clinked his against it, the quiet tap of ceramic strangely grounding.

Just then, the front door banged open, and a moment later Mr Weasley stepped into the kitchen, his face flushed from the walk and his expression alight when he spotted his son.

“George!” he said warmly, pulling him into a hug that was both firm and fond. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, my boy.”

George hugged him back. “Good to be back, Dad. Missed the good old-fashioned chaos.”

Mr Weasley chuckled, stepping back to clap George on the shoulder. “Well, there’s plenty of that to go around.”

Harry barely had time to smile when a tremendous thud-thud-thud of footsteps thundered from overhead, shaking the ceiling dust loose. A heartbeat later, the kitchen door flew open with a bang, and Ron came skidding into the room, half-running, half-sliding in his socks.

“George!” he bellowed, nearly tripping over a stray stool as he flung his arms round his older brother. “You’re early, you git!”

George wheezed under the sudden impact but didn’t miss a beat. He wrapped Ron in a theatrical hug and began ruffling his hair with mock sentimentality. “Missed you too, Ronnie-kins. Merlin’s beard, look at you—almost respectable these days.”

“Shove off,” Ron grumbled, batting his hands away, though he was grinning like a loon.

George gave him a playful shove in return. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be gone again before you get a chance to grow weepy.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “You wish.”

The tension that had been clinging to Harry since he’d arrived at the Burrow loosened a little, like a knot untangling beneath the surface. This was how it was supposed to be—voices raised in cheerful teasing, someone laughing too loudly, Mrs Weasley fluttering about in the background pretending not to smile at her sons’ antics.

Dinner that evening was everything Harry hadn’t known he’d been starving for. The table groaned under the weight of roast beef, crisp potatoes, gravy thick enough to stand a spoon in, and rolls still steaming from the oven. Conversation flew back and forth like a flock of excited owls, overlapping and messy, and all the more comforting for it.

Laughter rang out—bright, unfiltered, bouncing off the mismatched chairs and the low-beamed ceiling like a rogue quaffle in a broom cupboard.

Mrs Weasley kept topping off plates with determined affection, as though convinced one of them would waste away if she paused for more than a minute. She clucked at George for not eating enough, at Ron for wolfing his food like a starving hippogriff, and tried—unsuccessfully—to slide a third helping of pudding onto Harry’s plate.

Harry, for once, didn’t refuse it.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten so much and wanted to. Not just from hunger, but from something deeper. The food was warm—the sort of meal that made you feel tethered and safe.

Each bite chased something cold out of his chest.

Across the table, Ginny was laughing at something George had just said, her head thrown back, her eyes crinkled at the corners in that way that made Harry forget how to breathe properly. Even Ron was smiling for once, the tired edge in his eyes dulled by the comfort of family and food and familiar walls.

Harry sat back, the warmth of the meal spreading through him, and tried to hold on to the feeling. He wasn’t sure when this house had last felt like this—whole. There were still shadows in the corners, of course. Empty chairs that drew the eye. But tonight, they weren’t quite so loud.

As the last of the plates cleared themselves with soft clinks and a few protesting clatters, Mrs Weasley began to hum to herself while wiping down the worktop, her wand flicking in time with the tune. She turned to George then, hopeful and gentle.

“You’re staying the night, aren’t you, dear?”

George yawned, stretching his arms behind his head. “Just tonight. Need to be up early—shop’s still standing, but Merlin knows for how long. Pygmy Puffs have staged a coup, I think. They’ve claimed the till.”

Mrs Weasley gave a fond huff. “Well, your bed’s ready. Fresh sheets, fluffed pillows, just how you like them.”

George gave her a lopsided smile. “Cheers, Mum. You’ve got a knack. Your sheets always smell like lavender and guilt.”

She tutted, swatting at him half-heartedly with the tea towel, but her smile lingered all the same.

The night dragged its heels like a stubborn student late to class, slow and heavy as one of Professor Binns’s lectures on eighteenth-century Goblin rebellions. The air in Percy’s old bedroom had grown still and stifling, the sort of thick silence that made Harry feel more restless by the minute.

He sat by the window with his knees drawn up, forehead resting against the cool glass, watching as the stars played hide and seek behind slow-moving clouds. They winked in and out of sight with an odd sort of smugness, as if the sky was in on a joke he didn’t understand.

But his mind wasn’t laughing.

It was a mess—an uncomfortable, knotted tangle of thoughts that twisted tighter the longer he sat still. Conversations he hadn’t had. Things he should’ve said. Faces he missed. Regrets he couldn’t put down, no matter how many times he tried.

Somewhere downstairs, the sound of the wireless drifted faintly upwards—a crackling murmur of a familiar song that only made the quiet seem louder.

And then—tap tap tap.

Harry flinched, shoulders stiffening before his brain caught up. Not quite the full jolt of someone bursting through the door wand drawn—but not far off, either. Old reflexes died hard.

He turned sharply, wand hand twitching on instinct.

But it was only George, leaning in the doorway, his grin already firmly in place like he’d been rehearsing it.

He held up two bottles of Butterbeer, both dripping with condensation and glowing slightly in the dim candlelight.

“Fancy a drink in my secret hideout?” He asked cheerfully, waggling the bottles like bait. “I’ve got one for Ron, too—though he might prefer it hurled at my head, if his mood’s anything to go by.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “You’ve got a secret hideout?”

George’s grin widened, clearly delighted with himself. “Doesn’t everyone? Mine’s got stolen cushions, a suspiciously large tin of Honeydukes toffees that definitely weren’t paid for, and at least six Extendable Ears I may or may not have liberated from Percy’s top drawer.”

Harry tried for a smirk, but it didn’t quite land. The heaviness in his chest hadn’t shifted, not really.

“Ron’s not coming,” he said quietly, gaze dropping to the floor. “He’s… still angry. We had a row. He’s not talking to me.”

That knocked just a fraction of the brightness from George’s expression. His eyes—eyes too much like Fred’s for comfort some days—sharpened slightly, though his voice stayed easy.

“Oof. Trouble in paradise, eh? What was it this time—Quidditch rivalry, leftover food, or the age-old tragedy of the brooding hero and his long-suffering best mate?”

Harry let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “None of those. Just… stuff.”

George tilted his head. “Ah. Stuff. The least helpful word in the English language and the source of ninety-nine percent of wizarding drama.”

He stepped into the room, offering a bottle like a peace offering. “Come on, then. You talk, I listen. Worst case scenario, you cry into your Butterbeer, and I offer you a tragic but oddly comforting hug that I’ll hold over your head for the rest of your natural life.”

Harry gave a small huff of amusement. He didn’t want to talk. But sitting alone in a too-quiet bedroom with nothing but guilt for company was worse. And George, for all his nonsense, wasn’t the worst person to open up to. He was sharp in ways people didn’t expect—funny, yes, but there was steel beneath the jokes. Especially now.

Besides… he missed Fred too. That was the unspoken thing that always hung between them, wasn’t it?

“I’ve been avoiding it,” Harry admitted at last, fingers tightening around the bottle. “The conversation. With Ron. I know I need to fix it; I just… I don’t know how.”

George slumped against the windowsill, eyes thoughtful now. “Yeah. Well. Nobody ever does, really. That’s the problem. Everyone thinks it has to be perfect—the right words, the right timing. But half the time, you just need to show up and say something. Anything.”

Harry nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. That sounded like something Dumbledore might’ve said. Or maybe Sirius, in one of his clearer moments.

Try.

That word again. The one that was always harder than it sounded.

He turned the bottle over in his hands, watching the condensation bead and run.

“You reckon he’ll even listen?” Harry asked.

George shrugged. “Dunno. But he’ll hear you. And that counts for something.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable—just… full. Then George raised his bottle in mock salute.

“To awkward conversations, stolen sweets, and secret hideouts.”

Harry clinked his Butterbeer against George’s with a soft clink. The sound echoed gently, oddly reassuring.

He followed him out into the hallway, footsteps light on the stairs. He still didn’t know what he was going to say to Ron or whether he’d even manage it tonight. But maybe it didn’t matter.