Harry felt broken. Not just sad—shattered, like something deep inside him had snapped and couldn't be fixed. Everything around him—the trees, the sky, even the warm chatter of the Weasleys—blurred like smudged ink. He barely remembered getting to the Burrow. One minute, he was standing in the ruins of something awful, and the next, he was stepping inside the Weasleys' kitchen.
Ron kept shooting him glances, clearly trying to figure out if Harry was about to pass out or explode. Ginny's eyes lingered too, softer, but equally worried.
Harry didn't blame them. He felt like he was floating in a fog, watching life happen around him but not quite inside it. Like one of Nearly Headless Nick's more confused cousins.
He stood at the front door of the Burrow and hesitated. The crooked house with its wild garden should've felt safe and familiar. But instead, he just felt… out of place. Like someone had swapped his insides for a pair of mismatched socks—one too tight, one slipping down his heel.
"Welcome home, Harry!" Mrs. Weasley called out, arms open like she might wrap him in a full-on mum-hug if he moved an inch closer.
Home.
He stepped inside slowly, trying to force a smile but only managing a small twitch. His heart thudded like it wasn't sure if it was scared or just confused.
"Harry," Mr. Weasley said, walking up beside his wife. He sounded calm, but there was a sparkle in his eye—like he was sitting on a particularly juicy secret. "Molly and I have a surprise for you."
Oh no.
"Surprise?" Harry repeated, eyes narrowing. His brain was still struggling to keep up. Was this a trap? No—this was the Burrow, not the Ministry. Right. Right?
Mrs. Weasley beamed and clapped her hands. "Percy's moved out!"
There was a moment of silence.
Harry blinked. "Er… congratulations?"
Ron let out a short snort of laughter and elbowed him.
Mr. Weasley grinned. "And since he's off playing politics and doesn't need his room anymore… we thought you should have it."
That was definitely not the surprise Harry had expected. His stomach gave a weird flip.
"I—what? No, you don't have to do that. I'm fine where I—Ron's room is—"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Mrs. Weasley said, already shooing him toward the stairs. "You deserve a space of your own, dear. Percy even said so himself, and you know how stingy he is with compliments."
"He said that?" Harry asked sceptically, still rooted to the floor.
Mrs. Weasley made exaggerated air quotes. "'Harry has, regrettably, earned the right to a private space.'"
Ron cackled. "That's Percy-speak for 'I actually like him.'"
"I—I don't know what to say," Harry stammered, heat rushing to his face. His brain flashed back to the cupboard under the stairs, to Dudley banging on the door and yelling for more bacon.
"You don't have to say anything," Mrs. Weasley said, her arm around his shoulder now, warm and grounding. "Just come see."
Still feeling like he was walking through a dream, Harry followed her up the creaky, tilting stairs. Ron was right behind him, grinning like he'd just unwrapped a new broomstick.
The door creaked open.
The room was… incredible. Rich scarlet and gold painted the walls, like Gryffindor itself had exploded in here. Posters of every Quidditch team imaginable plastered every inch—Puddlemere United, the Chudley Cannons, even a giant Holyhead Harpies one that looked like it might actually swoop down and tackle him.
Front and centre, in neat block letters: WELCOME HOME, HARRY!
Harry's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. No sound came out.
"Ron picked everything," Mrs. Weasley said proudly. "He couldn't remember which team you liked, so he just included all of them."
"Even the Harpies?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ron shrugged. "Ginny threatened to hex me if I left them out. So, yeah."
"I'm not complaining," Harry said with a small laugh. "Pretty sure I've got enough fan gear now to support a full league."
Ron grinned. "Mate, if the Gryffindor colours are a bit too much, I can tone them down. Maybe."
Harry stepped further inside. His trunk was already there, neatly unpacked by magic. The bed looked ridiculously soft—fluffy blankets piled high like clouds. There was even a little nook with shelves already holding his books and a small lamp.
And—he nearly laughed—there was a closet. A real one. Big enough to hide in. Or nap in. Or hide from naps.
Ron nudged him. "Check out that wardrobe. Big enough to fit Hagrid."
Harry swallowed hard, his voice tight. "This is… I don't even know what to say. Thank you."
Ron rolled his eyes but was smiling. "Don't get all sappy on me. You're going to ruin the Gryffindor aesthetic."
Mrs. Weasley gave him a quick side-hug. "You're part of this family, Harry. This is your home now."
Harry's heart ached, but in a good way. Like something cold and heavy was starting to melt.
Ron leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Only downside? It's four flights up to my room. So if you forget your wand in the kitchen, you're basically doomed. But I'll swap rooms with Ginny for easy access."
"I'll risk it," Harry said, grinning.
"Oh," Ron added, "and your room's right next to Ginny's. So if you hear any weird singing at night, that's her. Not a ghost."
Ginny suddenly appeared, arms folded, eyebrow arched.
"I do not sing," she said firmly. "And no, I'm not swapping rooms with you, Ron."
Ron groaned. "Come on, Gin. Harry needs his best friend nearby."
Ginny smirked. "Well, I don't hear Harry complaining."
Harry froze. His mouth went dry.
Ginny tossed her hair and sauntered off, smirking all the way. Ron looked like he wanted to crawl under the bed.
Harry cleared his throat, ears burning. "She's… not wrong."
Ron groaned again. "Brilliant. I've lost my room, my dignity, and my baby sister to the Boy Who Lived."
Harry laughed, the sound surprising him. It bubbled up out of nowhere, chasing away some of the lingering fog.
Maybe things weren't fixed. Maybe they never would be.
But right now, standing in this ridiculous, colourful, warm room with his best friend and the smell of Mrs. Weasley's cooking drifting up the stairs, he felt okay. Maybe even a little more than okay.
Maybe, for once, he really was home.
For what felt like a never-ending hour, Harry and Ron hauled boxes up and down the stairs of the Burrow. Most of them were filled with old schoolbooks, Quidditch gear, or mystery items that clanked ominously when jostled. Every few steps, Ron muttered something under his breath—usually about how "bossy" Ginny had gotten or how this was "clearly not his" job"—and how Mrs. Weasley was telling them to use magic to make it faster and help her with dinner afterwards. Ron chose not to use magic.
"Honestly, Ginny's not even helping," Ron grumbled, wiping sweat off his brow as they carried another box through the crooked hallway. "She just waved her wand once and vanished. Typical."
Harry couldn't help laughing, even as his arms ached. "You realise she tricked you into doing all of this, right?"
"She tricked you too, mate."
"Yeah," Harry admitted, smirking. "But at least I saw it coming."
Ron groaned dramatically. "She's worse than Mum these days. If she ever has her own place, I'm not visiting."
They reached the top of the stairs again, breathless, and Harry paused, looking out the small window. The world outside had melted into that soft, golden kind of evening where everything felt calm, like the day itself was winding down. The Burrow, crooked and creaky as it was, seemed to glow in the light. He could smell dinner wafting up from the kitchen—garlic, roasted vegetables, something sweet baking too.
He didn't say it out loud, but in his chest, something settled. This house, noisy and packed with chaos, had somehow become the only place in the world where he truly felt safe.
As they headed downstairs, the steps groaning beneath their tired feet, Harry heard it.
"Harry! Come on, dinner's ready!" Mrs. Weasley's voice floated up, warm and motherly. She stood at the foot of the stairs with her apron dusted in flour and her hair sticking out in all directions like she'd just wrestled a dragon.
Harry slowed for a second, taking it in. The clatter of plates. Laughter. Chatter. For a split second, he let himself believe he really belonged here. That he wasn't just a guest or some tragic orphan the Weasleys had taken in out of pity. Mrs. Weasley didn't just call him to dinner—she welcomed him.
He followed the noise, the warmth pulling him forward.
Before joining the others, he ducked into his room for a quick breather. The small space was already cluttered with Ron's mess on one side and his neatly stacked library books tucked under his bed on the other. He thought about diving into one later—maybe something light, like Souls: The Introduction. Riveting stuff.
"Oi! Don't fall asleep in there!" Ron called from down the hall. "You'll miss the good bits!"
Harry rolled his eyes and headed down to the kitchen.
The scent hit him first—rich and homey. Roasted carrots, buttery potatoes, something meaty, and freshly baked bread that made his stomach growl in betrayal. The long wooden table was already half full, forks clinking, chatter bouncing around the room. Mrs. Weasley was zipping between chairs, refilling plates with alarming precision.
As Harry took his seat between Ron and Ginny, Mrs. Weasley plopped a generous helping of food in front of him.
"Eat up, dear," she said, patting his shoulder with a floury hand.
"Thanks," Harry murmured, barely managing to smile.
For a moment, he couldn't help thinking about the Dursleys. Dinner at Privet Drive had never looked—or smelt—anything like this. He remembered how Aunt Petunia used to serve his portion as though she was feeding a raccoon that had wandered in by accident. He flinched inwardly at the memory.
"Harry?" Mrs. Weasley's voice cut gently through his thoughts. She gave him a knowing look, soft but insistent.
He blinked and quickly stabbed a piece of roasted potato with his fork. "Sorry—just thinking."
Across the table, Ron and Ginny were bickering again.
"No, you dropped it!" Ginny said, pointing her spoon accusingly.
"Oh, please. I had the Quaffle, and you shoved me."
"It was a gentle nudge! You fall over like a sack of Flobberworms."
"Because I'm carrying you and Katie every practice!"
Harry grinned, chewing quietly as their squabble turned into laughter. For a brief moment, everything felt normal.
But then his eyes landed on the empty chairs. George usually sat in one of those. The other chair—Fred's—might as well have had his name burnt into the wood. The absence was loud. Too loud.
Harry's chest tightened. The memory of the twins pelting Quirrell with enchanted snowballs flickered in his mind. That had been one of the first times he'd laughed at Hogwarts. They'd been unstoppable then, like firecrackers with legs. And now…
Ginny caught his eye. Her smile faltered, just slightly, as though she could sense what he was thinking. She didn't say anything, just nudged his knee gently under the table. That small touch grounded him more than any spell could.
Across the table, Mr. Weasley looked up from slicing his steak. "So, Harry," he said, gently clearing his throat, "how's the new room treating you? Settling in all right?"
"Yeah," Harry said, though it came out more automatically than anything else. "Still unpacking a bit. I think I'll just stay in tonight. Maybe read a little."
Ron frowned. "You're not seriously going to bed already, are you? You slept half the train ride here."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "And I still feel like I got hit by a Bludger. What's your point?"
"My point is—you're seventeen, not seventy," Ron said, poking at his food. "At this rate, I'll be visiting you in a retirement home before NEWTs."
Ginny snorted into her drink.
Harry sighed. "What do you want me to do, then? Throw a party?"
"Maybe! Or I don't know—come flying, play chess, sneak into the attic and see if that ghoul's still up there. Something."
Harry gave him a tired look. "You've got a very odd idea of fun."
Ron smirked. "You've got a very old idea of sleep."
Harry turned to Ginny. "Is he always like this?"
"All the time," she said sweetly, without missing a beat.
"You know," Harry muttered, pushing a carrot around his plate, "one of these days I am going to turn seventy. And when I do, you lot are going to feel terrible for mocking me."
"I already feel terrible," Ron said, dramatically clutching his heart. "But mostly because you're boring."
Mrs. Weasley rolled her eyes. "Boys," she muttered fondly and returned to dishing out seconds.
And for the first time in what felt like ages, Harry let himself smile without forcing it.
Ron stuffed half a loaf of bread into his mouth and chased it down with an almost heroic gulp of pumpkin juice. He leaned across the table, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal ministry secrets.
"Did Hermione say anything to you about job applications?"
Harry froze mid-bite, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. And there it was—the subject he'd been dodging like a Bludger all week.
"She… might have mentioned it," he muttered, stabbing his potatoes with a little more force than necessary.
His stomach turned unpleasantly. Between all the professor's "friendly advice" after the war and Hermione's relentless career planning, it felt like the whole world had decided Harry needed a job. Immediately. Preferably yesterday.
Ron groaned and slumped forward. "She won't stop going on about it. I swear, she's got some master plan to get me employed before the week's out. I mean, come on—we just survived a war. Doesn't that earn us a few weeks of doing absolutely nothing?"
Harry shrugged. "You'd think." He kept his tone casual, but a small part of him agreed. Except he didn't even know what "nothing" felt like anymore. "But it's Hermione. You know she's not going to shut up until you cave."
Ron sighed dramatically. "Tell me about it. She's already drawn up a list of 'acceptable careers'. You should've seen her face when I suggested professional Gobstones player."
Harry actually snorted. "Did she threaten bodily harm?"
"Only mildly," Ron said. Then he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at Harry like he was onto something. "What about you? What're you planning? Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."
Harry didn't answer right away. He felt the familiar knot tighten in his chest—the one that always showed up whenever anyone mentioned the future. Like he was supposed to have one. Like he hadn't nearly died. Multiple times.
"I'm still thinking," he lied flatly.
Ron raised a brow. "Come off it. You want to be an Auror, don't you? Same as before?"
Harry sighed and dropped his fork with a soft clink. "Yes, Ron. Same as before. Auror. Magical law enforcement. Catching bad guys. Are you happy now?"
"Hey, no need to bite my head off," Ron said, holding up his hands. "I just thought—well—I'm thinking of doing it too. We could be a team."
For some reason, that made Harry's stomach sink even lower.
"Then go for it," he said sharply. "No one's stopping you."
Ron blinked at him, thrown. "Wait—what? I thought you'd be glad. I mean, it was your idea in the first place."
Harry didn't know how to explain it—not without sounding like a complete mess. He wasn't even sure what he was feeling. Guilt? Pressure? Fear? Probably all of it. Plus something else he couldn't quite name.
"It's just… not that simple," he muttered, fiddling with his napkin.
Ron frowned. "Why not? You'd be bloody brilliant, mate."
And that was the problem, wasn't it? Everyone expected him to be brilliant. Brave, determined, totally together. The Boy Who Lived—and was now expected to have his entire future mapped out like a career day pamphlet.
"Can't you just let it go?" Harry snapped, louder than he meant to.
The room went quiet. The clinking of forks and cheerful chatter screeched to a halt. Harry could feel everyone's eyes turning to him like spotlights. He stood quickly, chair scraping loudly across the floor.
"Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Weasley," he mumbled, before storming out of the kitchen.
He took the stairs two at a time, wanting to put as much space as possible between himself and the sudden silence he'd left behind.
Behind him, he heard Ron's confused voice echo faintly through the Burrow. "What was that all about? Did I say something wrong?"
Harry winced, halfway up the stairs. Great. Now Ron felt guilty. That made two of them.
Down in the kitchen, the tension hung thick in the air. Ginny's voice cut through it, sharp as ever. "You were being a prat, that's what."
"I was just asking a question!"
Mrs. Weasley jumped in gently, her voice full of motherly concern. "He's had a long day, dear. You all have. Just… give him space, won't you?"
There was some scraping of chairs, the awkward rustle of people pretending to be normal again. But Harry didn't go back down. He just kept climbing, wishing he could leave his thoughts behind on the stairs like a discarded cloak.
He closed the bedroom door quietly behind him, as if he made too much noise, the whole world would barge in again. He dropped onto the bed, not bothering to take off his shoes. The mattress dipped under his weight, soft and familiar, but it still felt like it was pushing back—like it didn't want him there either.
Merlin, he was tired. Not just tired—done.
The war might've ended, but it had carved out pieces of him no one could see. And now he was supposed to do what—become an Auror? Run into danger again, wand blazing, like he hadn't already watched half the people he loved fall?
He stared down at the book in his lap—some dusty Defence text Hermione had shoved at him weeks ago. He couldn't even remember the title. The words swam. He wasn't reading them. He just wanted to look busy. If he looked busy, no one would ask questions. Especially not Ron.
Except, of course, fate had other plans. He heard the footsteps before the knock came—Ron's heavy, unmistakable thuds down the hallway. Like a bloody hippogriff.
Knock, knock.
"Oi, are you still awake?" Ron's voice was too soft to be casual. That meant trouble.
Harry didn't answer, just sighed through his nose and got up to crack the door. One look at Ron's concerned face, and Harry turned around, retreating to his bed like a defeated soldier grabbing the nearest foxhole. He grabbed the book again. Armour.
Ron walked in anyway.
"So…" Ron sat at the desk, spinning slightly in the chair like he had all the time in the world. "What're you reading?"
Harry didn't even look up. "Nothing much."
"Looks like loads of fun." Ron leaned over dramatically, trying to read the title. "Is that Advanced Defensive Strategies for Modern Combat? Good stuff."
"Shut up." Harry clutched the book tighter. It was that or punch Ron, and honestly, both sounded appealing.
Ron raised an eyebrow. "Did I hit a nerve, or is that just your new attitude?"
Harry buried his nose deeper in the book, flipping a page he hadn't read.
"Harry," Ron said, more sharply this time.
"Merlin's beard, what?" Harry snapped, tossing the book aside like it had personally offended him. "What do you want, Ron?"
Ron blinked. "Well, I was going to ask why you stormed off earlier, but now I'm just wondering if you've gone completely mental."
Harry ran a hand through his hair, gripping it at the roots like maybe that would stop the pressure building behind his eyes. "I told you—I'm fine."
"Oh, brilliant. You're fine." Ron's sarcasm was sharp enough to shave with. "You storm off mid-conversation, hole up here, and practically bite my head off when I knock, but sure—fine."
"I don't need a bloody intervention, alright?" Harry stood, arms crossed tight over his chest. "Can't I just have a moment to breathe?"
Ron stood too, eyes flashing. "You've had moments, mate. You've had days of locking yourself away like some cursed recluse. Talking might help, you know."
"I don't want to talk!" Harry shouted, his voice cracking. "I don't want advice, or comforting words, or any of that bloody crap that won't change anything!"
"Then what do you want?" Ron snapped. "You want everyone to just pretend you're okay? Because that's what it feels like, Harry! Like you're daring us to leave you alone while you quietly fall apart!"
Harry faltered, chest heaving. "You don't get it," he muttered. "You don't know how it feels."
Ron stared at him. "Are you serious right now? You think you were the only one who lost people? The only one who's scared? Bloody hell, Harry, we were all there."
"It's not the same," Harry said, voice low and dangerous. "You don't understand."
The silence that followed was brutal.
Finally, Ron spoke, quieter this time. "No, I don't. But I still care. And I'm sick of feeling like you're shutting me out just because you're scared of needing someone."
Harry turned away, suddenly exhausted. "I'm not scared," he said weakly.
"Then why are you pushing me away?"
Because if I let you stay, I'll fall apart, Harry thought. Because I'm supposed to be the strong one. Because if I admit I'm broken, I don't know if I can ever come back from it.
But all he said was, "I just… I need space."
Ron shook his head, backing away. "Fine. Have your space. Enjoy your bloody book." He slammed the door on his way out, hard enough to make the picture on the wall tilt.
Harry stood in the echo of it, shoulders sinking.
The silence wrapped around him like a cloak—tight and suffocating. He dropped back onto the bed and pressed his face into the pillow, wishing it would swallow him whole.
A loud, pounding knock shattered the silence, making Harry jump. His heart leapt into his throat. His muscles tightened.
He gritted his teeth. Another interruption.
"Now what?!" he shouted, his voice raw with frustration as he paced near the window. The tension had been building all day—boiling under his skin, pressing behind his eyes. He didn't even care who was on the other side of the door. His nerves were shot, his patience gone.
He could already picture Ron, charging in with wild gestures and that voice loud enough to rattle the walls. Probably with another thing to say. Just what Harry didn't need right now.
Then came a quiet voice—soft, careful. "Harry."
Not Ron.
His heart dropped. That wasn't who he expected. He froze, instantly flooded with regret. Ginny.
Harry rushed to the door and yanked it open. There she was—Ginny, her expression calm but concerned, her arms crossed gently over her chest like she'd been standing there a while.
"Ginny—" he began, already hating himself. "I'm sorry. I thought it was Ron. I didn't mean to shout. I… I'm just on edge."
Ginny stepped forward and placed her hand on his cheek. Her touch was warm, grounding him for a moment. She tilted his face to meet her eyes.
"It's okay," she said softly. "Honestly, we could hear Ron all the way from the kitchen. He's in one of his moods."
Harry let out a weak chuckle, though shame still sat heavy in his chest. He looked away, jaw clenched. He hadn't meant to take it out on her. But he couldn't seem to help it lately. Every noise felt too loud. Every glance felt like a question he didn't want to answer.
"I shouldn't have snapped," he muttered. "You didn't deserve that."
Ginny shook her head. "I'm not here to scold you, Harry. I'm here because I'm worried."
She stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind her. The air seemed to shift—quieter now, more personal. Harry backed up, giving her space, but the walls suddenly felt closer.
"You've barely said a word since yesterday," Ginny continued, her voice quieter now. "You've been distant. Not just tired—troubled."
He felt it then, that sharp tug in his chest. She could see right through him. Of course she could.
"I just need time," he said, turning his back to her. His voice came out low, strained. "There's a lot going on in my head right now."
Ginny didn't move. She let the silence settle before speaking again. "I don't want to push you. But I need you to let me in. Even just a little."
Harry's throat tightened. He stared at the wall, trying to ignore the aching behind his eyes. How could he explain the chaos in his mind when he couldn't even untangle it himself? The things he'd heard… the things he suspected…
"It's not that I don't trust you," he said. "I do. It's just—"
"Then tell me," she interrupted gently, stepping closer. "Talk to me, Harry. You don't have to go through this alone."
He wanted to. Merlin, he wanted to say everything. But how could he drop this weight on her shoulders? She'd been through enough already. He didn't want to darken her world any more than it already was.
"I don't want to make things worse for you," he whispered. "You've lost so much… You're fighting your own battles. You don't need mine on top of it."
Ginny narrowed her eyes just a bit, not out of anger, but determination. "That's not how this works. If we're in this together, then we carry each other's burdens. You're not protecting me by shutting me out—you're just pushing me away."
Harry felt something shift in his chest—an ache, a pull. She wasn't wrong. But he still couldn't speak.
Her next words caught him off guard. "Last night… you found out something, didn't you?"
His breath caught. He didn't answer, but he knew his silence gave him away.
"I knew it," Ginny said softly. "I could see it in your face when you went into the Great Hall. You looked… different. Like something had broken inside you."
He bit down on the inside of his cheek. He hated that she'd seen that. Hated that he wasn't strong enough to hide it. He tried to push the image from his mind—the memory, the revelation, the sickening chill that still clung to his bones.
"I can't talk about it yet," he finally said, his voice a whisper. "I'm not ready. I need time to figure it out. To make sense of it."
He finally looked at her—and saw the flicker of disappointment she tried to hide. But she didn't argue. She just nodded and stepped closer, wrapping her fingers gently around his.
"Alright," she said. "Then I'll wait. I'm not going anywhere, Harry. Whenever you're ready, I'll be here."
Harry swallowed hard. He didn't know what to say. So he just squeezed her hand.
Ginny gave him one last searching look, then slowly turned and walked away. Her footsteps down the hall were soft, but each one echoed inside him.
He stood there long after she was gone, staring at the door, his heart aching with everything he couldn't say.
Harry woke early the next day, heart fluttering with something he hadn't felt in ages—excitement. Real, honest excitement. After everything that had happened last night, he wanted—no, needed—to do something good. Something that showed how much he appreciated the Weasleys.
They had taken him in without question. Given him warmth, comfort, love—things he'd never known growing up. He owed them. After the way he'd snapped last night, the guilt was still there, heavy and bitter. But today felt like a chance to make it right.
Slipping out of bed, Harry padded quietly downstairs. The familiar scent of the Burrow wrapped around him—wood smoke, flowers from the windowsill, and a hint of magic. The kitchen looked just like it always did: mismatched chairs clustered around the big wooden table, teacups still drying on the rack, a clock that ticked far too loudly. It made his chest ache in the best way.
This place wasn't just a safe house. It was a home.
Harry took a deep breath, rolling up his sleeves. He knew how to cook—years at the Dursleys had made sure of that. But this time, he wasn't doing it because he had to. He was doing it because he wanted to. Because maybe, if he could make something warm and delicious, it would say what he couldn't quite put into words.
He gathered ingredients from the pantry: fresh eggs, bacon, and tomatoes from the garden. As he worked, the quiet sizzle of food in the pan was oddly comforting. Through the window, the garden danced with colour. Bees hovered lazily, and the breeze swayed the flowers just enough to make the morning feel alive.
Please don't be angry, he silently hoped, glancing at the doorway. I just wanted to help. I didn't mean to take over…
He stirred the eggs slowly, carefully, thinking about Mrs. Weasley—how she always fussed over them, made sure they had seconds.
He didn't want to take any of this for granted.
Then came footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Mrs. Weasley.
Harry froze, spatula in hand, just as she stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes widened at the sight of him standing by the stove, apron dusted with flour, plates already piled high.
"Harry! What on earth—?"
She stopped mid-step, surprise giving way to a smile so bright it almost made Harry look away.
"I, er…" He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling twelve again. "I thought I'd give breakfast a go. Just wanted to help… if that's alright?"
Mrs. Weasley blinked, then chuckled softly. Her whole face softened. "It's more than alright, dear. You've always been welcome here."
That word—"welcome". It hit him harder than he expected. He didn't think he'd ever get used to hearing it, not like this.
She stepped closer, eyes scanning the table. Her mouth opened slightly in shock as she took in the spread—perfectly cooked eggs, crisp bacon, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, and even fresh bread. Goblets of orange juice gleamed in the morning light like polished amber.
"Merlin's beard, Harry. You've outdone yourself," she said, beaming.
He shrugged, though his ears burnt. "Hope it's okay. I figured you deserved a break."
Before she could respond, Mr. Weasley appeared in the doorway, adjusting his emerald green robes. He stopped cold at the sight of the kitchen.
"Harry?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
Mrs. Weasley beamed, sweeping an arm toward the table. "Arthur, look what Harry's done! He made all of this!"
Mr. Weasley's eyes widened, then softened. "Well, I'll be… That's quite something. Very impressive, Harry."
Harry ducked his head, pretending to stir the beans. "Living with the Dursleys taught me how to get up early. And how to make breakfast."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. He wasn't trying to fish for sympathy—but it was part of the truth. Still, saying it out loud left a strange hollowness in his chest.
But Mr. Weasley just nodded, calm and kind as ever. "Still, it means a great deal. And it's a lovely way to start the day."
Mrs. Weasley turned, her voice softer now. "You've got a gift, Harry. You do."
He didn't know what to say to that. So he just smiled.
"I'll go wake Ron and Ginny," she added, already heading toward the stairs.
Ron came down the stairs a few minutes later with slow, heavy steps, hair wild, face still creased from sleep. He looked like he hadn't rested at all. He rubbed his eyes, then froze at the sight of the table.
The smell of eggs and bacon filled the kitchen, warm and inviting, but the weight in Harry's chest made it feel suffocating.
Ron sat beside him without a word. "What's all this?" he asked, voice rough. "Is it someone's birthday or something?"
Mrs. Weasley chuckled lightly. "No, no. Harry made breakfast for us."
Ron blinked. He stared at the plate in front of him like it was a trick. "Harry did?" he said, not quite hiding his surprise.
He didn't look at Harry. Just picked up his fork and started poking at the food like it might turn into a howler at any moment.
Harry swallowed hard. He'd hoped the gesture would soften things, patch over the silence hanging between them. But the air remained heavy. Tense. The kind of silence where everything unspoken pressed against your ribs until it hurt to breathe.
Harry glanced at Ron, but Ron kept his eyes on the plate.
"You didn't have to do all this," Ron mumbled. There wasn't anger in his voice, but there wasn't gratitude either.
Harry didn't reply. He didn't know what to say that wouldn't make things worse.
Mrs. Weasley's voice broke through the tension. "George will be coming for dinner in two days."
Harry blinked, his thoughts crashing to a stop.
"How long is he staying?" Mr. Weasley asked, slipping on his coat.
"Not sure," she said, wistful. "He's been so busy lately. Barely have time to write, let alone visit."
Ginny entered the kitchen then, moving like she was made of glass—delicate and on the verge of shattering. Her hair was pulled back too tightly, her eyes dull, dark circles beneath them. She sat across from Harry without a word.
He couldn't stop looking at her. He'd seen her cry, he'd seen her furious, he'd seen her brave—but this emptiness in her eyes… It unsettled him.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words caught in his throat and died.
Outside, Mrs. Weasley's humming floated in from the garden, light and peaceful. She had no idea of the pressure building inside the house.
The silence was unbearable.
"I need to borrow Pigwidgeon," Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I've got a letter I need to send."
Ron froze. The scrape of his fork stopped.
"Who're you sending it to?" he asked flatly.
Harry's heart jumped. He wasn't expecting the question to hit so hard. He hesitated. "Someone important."
Ron turned to him slowly, eyebrows drawing together. "That's not an answer."
Harry shifted uncomfortably, his palms sweating. "I can't explain right now."
Ron let out a sharp breath and sat back in his chair. "So that's it, then? We just go back to pretending you don't hide things from us?"
"I'm not pretending—" Harry started, but his voice cracked. He felt raw and exposed.
"So is that a yes or a no?" he asked, desperate to move on.
"It's a no," Ron snapped. "And you know why."
Harry's chest tightened. "I don't understand—why are you doing this?"
"Because I'm tired of being shut out!" Ron's voice rose, finally looking him dead in the eye. "You think you're the only one who's scared? You think you're the only one who lost something?"
Harry's stomach turned. The guilt hit him like a wave.
Ginny slammed her hand on the table. "Ron, stop it."
"No," Ron shot back, voice shaking with fury. "He needs to hear it! He needs to stop acting like we don't matter. Like we're just… background noise."
Harry looked down at his plate, vision blurring. His appetite was gone. Every bite felt like it had turned to ash in his mouth. Shame curled through him, cold and sharp.
"Maybe he has a reason," Ginny said quietly. "We're all trying to survive in our own way."
Ron let out a bitter laugh. "Some way. Secrets. Lies. Silence. That's not surviving, Ginny."
Harry's hands were clenched in his lap. His chest ached. He didn't want to be having this conversation. Not now. Not like this.
Then Ron slammed his fist on the table, loud and sudden.
Harry flinched hard.
"This isn't just about you, Harry!" Ron shouted. "You're not the only one hurting!"
The room seemed to shrink. Harry couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
Ron shoved back his chair and stormed out, leaving the kitchen in ringing silence.
Ginny's eyes followed him, wide and wet.
Harry sat still, cold creeping through his limbs. He felt like his whole body was about to crack open.
"I don't want things to be like this," he said, barely above a whisper.
Ginny turned to him, her eyes full of hurt. "I know. But he's angry. And he's scared."
"I never wanted to shut anyone out," Harry whispered. "I just… I thought if I said it out loud, it would break something. I didn't mean to make anyone feel small."
"I trust you," she said softly. "But you need to let us in. Even when it's hard."
Harry met her eyes. The weight of her words settled into his chest like a stone. For a moment, he didn't say anything. He couldn't.
Then he stood.
"I'll fix it," he said quietly.
Ginny nodded, brushing away a tear. "Promise me you'll try."
He did. He meant it.
The Burrow, once full of warmth and noise, now felt cold and empty. Harry wandered through its narrow halls with Ron trailing somewhere behind, neither of them speaking. It was strange—this had always felt like home, but now it was like walking through someone else's house. Every room seemed to echo with the absence of laughter. The kitchen, usually filled with cheerful chaos each morning, had gone quiet. Just the clink of cutlery against plates now, sharp and hollow. Ron barely looked at him. Whatever had come between them, Harry didn't know how to fix it.
They ate in silence. The kind that presses down on your chest and makes even swallowing hard. After forcing down a few bites of toast, Harry stood up without a word and went back to his room.
He shut the door behind him, not with a slam, just quietly, like he wanted to block out the whole world. The air smelt of old parchment and dust warmed by sunlight, a scent that usually calmed him. But not today. His eyes drifted to the corner—Hedwig's cage sat empty. He walked over and touched it. The smooth, cool metal under his fingers only made the silence louder.
She should've been here. She always was.
Trying to find another owl felt wrong. Like replacing her would somehow erase what she'd meant to him. But she wasn't just an owl. She'd been there when no one else was. She knew things no one else did because he'd told her. Things he couldn't even say to Ron or Hermione. When everything else felt uncertain, she had always been there—steady, loyal, and quiet.
Now she was gone, and the ache that had settled in his chest wouldn't go away. It didn't hurt the same way anymore—more of a dull, constant weight than a sharp pain. But it was still there. And it made him wonder… Was this just grief? Or was something worse happening to him?
He looked at the stack of books beside his bed—thick volumes from the library on souls. He'd read through them all, hoping for answers, hoping for something that would make sense of the feeling that he was… wrong, somehow. That something inside him had cracked. But the books just made it worse. Big words, long theories, page after page of maybes and what-ifs.
None of it helped.
He shoved the top book aside, its spine thudding softly against the others. Pacing helped a little. At least it made him feel like he was doing something. But his thoughts still spun in circles.
Maybe Slughorn would know something. He'd been around. He had stories, real knowledge—not just the kind found in books. But asking meant going to Ron. And Ron hadn't spoken to him properly in days. He just sat in his room, bitter and closed off.
Harry paused, staring out the window as the sun dipped lower in the sky.
He missed Hedwig. He missed Ron. He missed feeling like he wasn't alone in all of this.
The kitchen fireplace flared with green flames, and a second later, George Weasley stepped out, face streaked with soot and a grin already forming.
Harry barely had time to react before Mrs. Weasley flew past him, arms wide. She wrapped George in a fierce hug, her whole body practically glowing with joy.
"There you are!" she cried, pulling back to beam at him. "My handsome boy—how are you?"
Harry watched her with a strange twist in his chest. He couldn't remember the last time someone looked at him like that—like just seeing him made everything better.
George gave her a sheepish smile. "I'm good, Mum."
"You're early!" she said, eyes already scanning the pantry. "Do you fancy anything special for dinner?"
George shook his head. "Anything you make is brilliant."
Mrs. Weasley beamed, gave his shoulder a fond pat, and bustled toward the counter. She started humming as she pulled out ingredients, already lost in her happy little world of pots and pans.
Harry lifted his teacup to his lips again, only for George to spot him and stride over with a grin.
"Harry."
"George." Harry stood and gave him a proper hug. It felt solid. Familiar. Like something he hadn't realised he'd missed until just now. "You look like hell," he said lightly.
"Thanks, mate. You're glowing yourself," George replied with a smirk. "How've you been?"
"Alive," Harry said honestly. "Which is more than I expected a few weeks ago."
George chuckled, but the tired look in his eyes didn't quite leave. "Yeah. Same here."
Harry motioned to the seat beside him. "Shop still running?"
"Barely, but yeah. I think it's loud enough to count as alive. Noise equals success, right?" He flopped into the chair and ran a hand through his hair. "Anyway, how's Percy's old room treating you?"
Harry gave a small smile. "Surprisingly comfy. I keep waiting for a self-updating rule list to appear on the wall, though."
George laughed. "You're lucky we didn't leave the pink paint."
Harry blinked. "Pink?"
"Oh yeah," George said, eyes glinting. "Fred and I repainted Percy's room hot pink once when he had a girlfriend. Claimed it was a 'creative decision'. He was mortified. Didn't bring her up again after that."
Harry snorted. "That's evil."
George looked pleased. "The best kind of evil. We added glitter the next day. Percy threatened to hex us both bald."
Their laughter bounced off the kitchen walls, and for a moment, things felt light again.
Then Percy's name settled in the air, and the mood shifted. Harry felt it. The way George's smile faded just a bit. The way he glanced down at his tea.
Harry hesitated, then asked, "Have you… talked to him?"
George nodded slowly. "Yeah. Actually, he gave up his room willingly. I told him if he didn't, I'd repaint it pink again."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "He didn't fight you on that?"
"Nope. Which is how I knew something was off. Said he was ready to move on. Start a 'new chapter.'" George made air quotes. "He's back at the Ministry. Quiet about it, but… yeah."
Harry frowned. He knew what "moving on" looked like when it was just a mask for guilt. "Is he okay?"
George didn't answer right away. Then: "Honestly, I don't know. But I'm trying to let him figure it out."
Harry nodded. That was all anyone could do these days.
"Kingsley got the minister job, though," George added. "That's something to feel good about."
"Yeah," Harry said and meant it. "He's the right one."
Before they could say more, the front door opened, and in came Mr. Weasley, brushing soot from his coat.
"George!" he cried, eyes lighting up as he pulled his son into a hug. "You're a sight for sore eyes, my boy!"
"Good to be back, Dad," George said, grinning. "Missed the chaos around here."
Harry barely had time to smile before heavy footsteps pounded overhead. A moment later, Ron came skidding into the kitchen.
"George!" he shouted, tackling his brother in a hug. "You're early!"
George ruffled Ron's hair. "Missed you too, Ronnie-kins. You've grown. Almost respectable now."
"Shove off," Ron muttered, grinning.
Dinner that night was noisy and comforting. Laughter bounced between them like a quaffle. Mrs. Weasley kept dishing out seconds like it was her job. Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten so much and actually wanted to.
Afterward, while plates vanished into the sink and Mrs. Weasley hummed again, she turned to George.
"You're staying the night, aren't you, dear?"
"Just tonight," George said. "I've got to head back early tomorrow."
"Well, your bed's ready—clean sheets and all."
George smiled. "Thanks, Mum."
Harry leaned back in his chair, watching the Weasleys around him, and for a moment, felt something like peace.
He didn't know how long it would last—but he'd take it.
The night dragged on like a bad History of Magic lecture. Harry stared out the window, watching stars blink in and out of sight—like they were winking at some joke he didn't get. His mind, however, wasn't laughing. It was a tangled knot of thoughts that refused to come undone.
Then—tap tap tap.
Harry flinched. Not like a Death Eater had burst in, but close. He turned sharply, only to see George grinning like he'd just invented a new prank. In one hand, he held two bottles of Butterbeer, condensation running down the glass.
"Care for a drink in my secret hideout?" George asked, waggling the bottles like a bribe. "I've even got one for Ron, if he decides to stop sulking."
Harry blinked at him. "You have a secret hideout?"
George's grin widened. "Doesn't everyone? Mine just happens to have stolen cushions, suspicious snacks, and a suspiciously large collection of extendable ears."
Harry tried to smirk, but the weight in his chest didn't budge. "Ron's not coming," he muttered. "He's… mad at me. We had a row. He's not speaking to me."
That wiped a bit of the cheek off George's smile. He tilted his head, tone still light but eyes sharper now. "Oof. Trouble in paradise, eh? What was it—quidditch, homework, or a tragic love triangle?"
Harry sighed. "None of the above. Just… stuff."
George nodded slowly, then held out the Butterbeer again. "Stuff is the worst. Come on. You talk, I listen. Worst case scenario, we cry and hug, and I forever hold it over your head."
Harry gave a small laugh despite himself. He didn't want to talk. But he didn't want to sit alone in the dark either, chewing on guilt and silence. And George—George wasn't the worst person to talk to. He was like Fred, only slightly less chaotic.
"I've been avoiding the conversation," Harry admitted quietly. "With Ron, I mean. I know I should fix things. I just… don't know how."
George leaned against the windowsill, his smile fading into something softer. "You don't have to know how. You just have to try."
Harry stared at the Butterbeer in his hand. Try. That word again. The one Dumbledore always said was supposed to be easy.
Still, he gave a small nod. "Alright. Let's talk."
George raised his bottle in mock salute. "To awkward conversations and secret hideouts."
Harry clinked his bottle against George's and followed him into the hallway, not entirely sure if this was a terrible idea—or the best one he'd had all week.