Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Horcrux’s Fate ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 2 )

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

Harry stood at the entrance of the Burrow, feeling like an intruder rather than a welcomed guest. The vibrant, crooked-roofed house with its sprawling garden was a familiar and comforting sight, yet Harry couldn’t shake his unease.

“Welcome home, Harry!” Mrs. Weasley announced, her words laced with warmth and affection.

Harry offered a shy smile as he tentatively stepped over the threshold, his heart quickening with a mix of anticipation and trepidation.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley began, his tone serious yet kind. “Molly and I have a surprise for you.”

Harry’s interest piqued, but a twinge of nervousness stirred within him as he met the Weasleys’ expectant gazes. “Surprise?” he echoed, unsure if he was ready for whatever news they had to share.

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes shone with unbridled excitement as she clapped her hands together. “Percy has moved out!” she declared, her voice brimming with joy.

“Right,” Harry replied, his brow furrowed in confusion. He noticed Ron’s eyes widen, anticipation etched across his features.

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

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

Mrs. Weasley’s warm, encouraging tone quickly put Harry at ease. “Of course you can!” she insisted. “Percy’s excited to pass it on to you; he believes you deserve a space of your own. Besides, now that he’s off doing his ’ministerial duties.” —Mrs. Weasley made air quotes—“He hardly needs it!”

Harry struggled to find the words, overwhelmed by the thought of having a room of his own—a place to call home. Memories of his cramped cupboard and Dudley’s cluttered second bedroom at Privet Drive flooded back, a stark contrast to this new reality that felt almost surreal.

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

The surprise on Harry’s face gave way to curious anticipation as Mrs. Weasley, her arm around his shoulders, led him up the staircase, chattering excitedly about the room’s details.

As Mrs. Weasley swung open the door, a warm, inviting bedroom came into view. The walls were painted in rich, deep shades of scarlet and gold, creating an atmosphere of comfort and familiarity. Dominating the space was a magnificent banner proudly displayed, bearing the heartfelt message “Welcome home, Harry!” The walls were further adorned with posters of various Quidditch teams—Puddlemere United, the Chudley Cannons, and a particularly large one featuring the fierce Holyhead Harpies, which elicited a chuckle from Harry as he took it all in.

“Ron picked out all the decorations. Since he wasn’t sure which team you supported, he decided to cover every possibility,” she remarked with a playful roll of her eyes.

A wide grin spread across Harry’s face. “Thanks, Ron,” he said. “I certainly can’t complain about having so many options to choose from!”

Ron placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. “If the Gryffindor colours end up being a bit too bold for your taste, just let me know, mate. We can easily tone them down to suit your preferences.”

As Harry ventured deeper into the room, his senses were flooded with the comforts that awaited him. In the corner, a trunk overflowing with his Hogwarts possessions stood as a testament to Mrs. Weasley’s thoughtful magic. The bed, adorned with plush, cosy blankets, beckoned him to sink into its welcoming embrace. With each new discovery, Harry’s heart swelled with a profound sense of gratitude, warming him from within.

Harry’s voice trembled as he spoke, overwhelmed by the warmth and generosity of those around him. “I can’t believe this. Thank you, all of you,” he said, the depth of their kindness weighing heavily yet comfortingly on his heart.

Ron playfully elbowed Harry. “Just wait until you see the closet,” he teased. “It’s got enough space for an entire army of robes. Better hold onto that green one of yours—you never know when you might need it for a fashion emergency!”

Harry’s laughter released the tension that had gripped his shoulders. Surrounded by the vibrant room, he found himself envisioning a future filled with the laughter, friendship, and warmth he had always yearned for.

Harry’s eyes shone with emotion as he gazed at the Weasleys, his voice thick with sincerity. “I’ll cherish this, I promise,” he said, a warm, grateful smile spreading across his face. “You’ve made this place feel more like a true home than I ever could have hoped.”

Mrs. Weasley’s face lit up with a joyful, motherly beam. “You are home, Harry. Welcome to the family.”

Ron’s voice held a hint of playful teasing as he asked Harry, “Climbing up an extra four flights of stairs to your room won’t be too much trouble for you, right?” He paused, then added, “By the way, your stuff is still there. If you want, I can swap rooms with Ginny since hers is right next to yours.”

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

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

Ron’s desperation crept into his tone. “Please, Ginny,” he implored. “Harry needs his best friend.”

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

A deep, burning flush crept up Harry’s neck and across his face as Ginny’s words and gaze effortlessly pierced through the anxious fog shrouding his mind. With an exasperated eye roll, Ginny abruptly turned and marched off to her room, leaving Ron muttering irritably under his breath.

For the next gruelling hour, Harry and Ron lugged heavy items, with each laboured step punctuated by Ron’s exasperated complaints about his stubborn sister. Yet despite the arduous work, Harry couldn’t help but chuckle at his friend’s grumbling. What was once a boisterous, magical hub of Weasley siblings had become a cherished refuge for him.

The world outside the Burrow had settled into a warm, golden twilight as they finally finished their tasks. Soft light spilt from the windows, carrying the mouthwatering scent of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking. Even the daunting tangle of stairs seemed less imposing, beckoning them downward with the promise of a comforting family dinner.

As they made their way down, a deep sense of belonging and acceptance washed over Harry. It struck him as profoundly moving to hear Mrs. Weasley call his name amidst the lively chatter, her voice brimming with warmth and kinship. In that single moment, it felt as though she was embracing him as one of her own, opening up her cherished family to him.

“Harry! Come on, dinner’s ready!” She beckoned; her apron was dusted with flour, and her hair was frizzy from the day’s cooking and spellwork.

As he made his way downstairs, Harry savoured the sounds of family. This was a feeling he had long been deprived of, and it filled him with warmth.

Before joining the Weasleys at the table, Harry stopped by his new room. His library books were tucked neatly under the bed, and the thought of diving into them before drifting off to sleep excited him.

“Harry!” Ron called out, snapping him from his reverie and beckoning him to the dinner table.

The kitchen was a symphony of tantalising scents, where the sharp, roasted aroma of vegetables mingled with the comforting, warm sweetness of freshly baked bread. As Harry settled into his seat at the long, wooden table, the lively chatter and laughter of the Weasley family filled the air around him. Mrs. Weasley, her face alight with energy, placed generous, steaming portions of food on his plate, her radiant smile reflecting the love and care she had poured into each dish.

Harry’s attention momentarily drifted, his mind consumed by the shadows of his estranged relatives. Aunt Petunia’s frigid demeanour chilled him, and he shuddered at the thought. Just then, Mrs. Weasley cast him a sympathetic glance, as if sensing his unease, and gently nudged him to take a bite. He obliged, savouring the vibrant flavours of her cooking, which momentarily drowned out his weighty thoughts.

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

Despite the tension, Ginny’s presence beside him sparked a flicker of warmth in Harry’s chest. Aching to reach out and entwine their fingers, he resisted the urge, settling instead for furtive glances in her direction. When their eyes met, her gentle smile sparked a glimmer of hope—a soothing respite from the pervasive melancholy.

Mr. Weasley paused from carefully carving his steak. “So... Harry,” he said, his voice laced with concern. “Are you adjusting well to your new room? Any plans for tonight?”

Harry’s response felt distant and listless. “Yeah, thank you. I’m still trying to get everything set up, but I think I might just stay in and relax tonight.” A rising tide of anxiety had submerged his thoughts.

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

Harry released a tense, exasperated sigh, shooting a pointed look at Ron. His friend’s playful quips felt more like a stinging barb than the usual light-hearted teasing. All Harry craved was a brief respite, an escape from the relentless pressures weighing heavily upon him. “So what do you propose I do instead?” he asked, struggling to conceal the irritation simmering beneath his weary tone.

Ron’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he raised an eyebrow and shot Harry a playful wink. “I don’t know, maybe something a ‘normal’ seventeen-year-old would do?” he teased.

Harry felt his face flush with embarrassment as he struggled to think of what counted as “normal” these days. “Such as?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Ron puffed out his chest, making a show of his statement. “Definitely not going to bed at nine o’clock,” he declared. Across the table, Ginny rolled her eyes, while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged exasperated glances.

Ron swallowed a hearty mouthful of food, washing it down with a large gulp of pumpkin juice. He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice lowered. “Did Hermione say anything to you about job applications?”

Harry’s stomach twisted with unease. The topic he had been dreading could no longer be ignored. “She might have mentioned it,” he replied, feeling the heavy burden of expectations weighing on him. With the recent news from Professor Slughorn still fresh in his mind, the mere thought of job hunting filled him with a dizzying sense of anxiety.

Ron’s face flushed with irritation. “She’s been constantly harping on me to start sending out job applications,” he vented. A weary sigh escaped his lips. “We just went through a bloody war. Don’t we deserve some time to rest and recover?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Harry replied in a nonchalant tone. “But you know Hermione—she’s not going to let this go until you actually start applying for jobs. I’d just do it if I were you. You know she won’t relent until you do.”

Ron leaned in, his eyes narrowed with curiosity. “What kind of job are you thinking of?” he asked, as if Harry was holding back some secret.

Harry let out an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, Ron, the same thing as before. I want to become an Auror,” he said, his voice sharp with irritation.

Ron nodded, chewing his food at a leisurely pace. “Right, I remember you mentioning that,” he said. “I was thinking of becoming an auror too. We could team up, mate,” he added, a grin spreading across his face.

For a moment, Harry’s heart sank, plunging into a swirling vortex of disappointment. “Then why not go for it?” His voice came out sharper than he’d intended. “Don’t let me hold you back.”

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

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

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

Harry’s insides twisted tighter with each pleading word. “Can’t you just let it go?” he exploded, the words rushed out in a burst of anger. The room fell silent, forks clattering against plates as the laughter died. His heart raced, fuelled by unspoken frustrations. With a nod to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, he shoved his chair back and stormed out, leaving the kitchen’s warm chaos behind.

The thud of Harry’s hurried footsteps echoed through the kitchen, leaving Ron behind, his mouth hanging open and brow furrowed in bewildered concern. An uneasy silence enveloped Ron as he tried to make sense of the emotional turmoil that had just upended their dinner.

As Harry trudged up the winding staircase, he overheard Ron’s anxious plea. “What was that all about? Did I do something wrong?” Ron’s voice quivered, ensnaring Harry in his own web of discomfort.

The once lively kitchen fell silent, save for the scraping of chairs as the occupants shifted uncomfortably. “No, you were simply behaving like a fool,” Ginny snapped, her patience worn thin by Ron’s carefree nature. “Try showing a little empathy for him, won’t you?”

Ron’s indignant outburst collided with a flood of bewilderment. “I was just trying to—”

“It’s clear he wasn’t prepared to talk about it just yet,” Mrs. Weasley reminded, her voice was laced with worry. She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Don’t pressure him. Give him the evening to himself—he needs time to decompress after such an exhausting day.”

Harry reached his room, the muffled voices of the Weasleys drifting up from below. Sinking onto his bed, he felt the familiar weight pressing down, a comforting yet confining barrier from the expectations that loomed beyond.

What would they think if they knew how deeply the war had scarred him? The prospect of becoming an Auror, fighting alongside his friends for what was right, filled him with both determination and dread. How could he face the possibility of his body betraying him in battle?

Perched on the edge of his bed, Harry’s gaze was fixed on the open book, though the words barely registered. It was merely a facade, a feeble attempt to mask the tumult raging within. Yet the truth clung to his heart like a relentless Devil’s Snare, its grip tightening with each strained inhale. The unmistakable patter of Ron’s approaching footsteps sent a jolt through him; this confrontation, he knew, was inescapable.

The knock on his door sent a fresh wave of tension rippling through Harry’s gut.

“Are you still awake, Mate?” Ron’s voice was tinged with worry.

With a deep breath, he steeled himself before cracking it open. Silently, he retreated to his bed, snatching up the book lying there as he went.

The moment Ron strode into the room and took his seat at the desk, he posed the familiar question, “What are you reading?”

Harry’s response was a mumbled, “Nothing much,” as he clutched the book tightly against his chest. The nonchalant answer was a feeble attempt to deflect Ron’s prying, but Harry couldn’t shake the growing heaviness he felt from the world pressing down on his shoulders. This was their same old routine, with the book serving as a shield against the outside.

Ron leaned back, eyebrow raised sceptically. “It must be quite a thrilling read if you can’t even tell me about it,” he remarked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Burying his face in the book, Harry silently turned the pages, feigning interest as Ron’s desperate calls cut through the tense atmosphere of their argument.

”Harry!”

Reluctantly, Harry set the book aside, his frustration boiling over. “What do you want now?” He impatiently demanded. Unable to hide his annoyance, Harry braced himself as Ron approached the sensitive topic they both dreaded.

Ron’s piercing gaze locked onto the book in Harry’s hands. “Why did you storm off earlier?” he pressed, his voice laced with concern.

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “I’m fine, alright?” He snapped back. “Can’t you just leave me be?” His words came out clipped and defensive, betraying the turmoil raging beneath the surface.

Ron’s frustration erupted like a violent storm. “No! I don’t understand any of this! You always act like everything is fine, even when it’s painfully obvious that it’s not!”

“If you would just stop asking such idiotic questions, then I wouldn’t have to pretend!” The words burst from Harry, sharper than he meant them to be.

Ron’s face contorted, shifting from a scowl of anger to a look of bewilderment. “What’s happened to you? You were perfectly fine just a little while ago, but now you’re acting like a completely different person!”

Harry took a deep, shaky breath, desperately trying to calm the raging storm of emotions within. “Everything is okay, really. There’s no need to worry. I just need a little time to myself. Please, can you give me that?” His words came out as a pleading, almost frantic request, masked by an undercurrent of frustration.

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

Harry bristled defensively. “What’s wrong with wanting privacy? You’ve done the same when you needed time alone!”

Ron’s face fell, hurt flashing in his eyes. “Fine! Do whatever you want!” he spat, his voice rising in anger as he tossed the words like daggers. Storming out, he slammed the door hard enough to rattle the walls, leaving Harry engulfed in a suffocating silence.

Crashing waves of emotion swept over Harry, leaving him reeling. He buried his face into the comforting warmth of his pillow, seeking refuge from the turmoil. Yet beneath the surface, his heart raced with a dissatisfaction he couldn’t shake—Ron only wanted to help, but Harry felt trapped and misunderstood. “I don’t need you to fix me,” he thought bitterly. “I just need you to understand.”

Grasping the complexities of the situation felt utterly overwhelming, like scaling an insurmountable peak. Harry, normally the pillar of strength, had perfected a facade of stoicism and false confidence. Yet beneath the surface, cracks had formed, and a cloud of debilitating uncertainty hung heavy, threatening to unleash a torrent of anguish that he dared not reveal to his friend Ron.

The abrupt, thunderous knock at the door jolted Harry, sending a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Frustration mounted with each agonising second that ticked by, building an unbearable tension. “What now?!” he bellowed from the far end of the room, his voice strained and laced with the weight of unspoken truths. His heart raced, each frantic thump echoing his mounting anxiety. He could already envision Ron, arms flailing wildly, barging in with another round of his boisterous, overbearing commentary.

“Harry.”

The soft voice drifted through the door, gently pulling Harry from his spiralling thoughts. Startled, he jumped up, his heart racing, and rushed to answer. When he opened the door, he was met by Ginny’s calm, concerned gaze. “I’m sorry, Ginny,” he murmured, his words laced with regret that spilt out like the moonlight streaming through the window. “I didn’t mean to shout. I thought it was Ron, and my frustration got the better of me.”

Ginny gently reached out, her soft hand caressing his cheek as she guided his gaze to meet her understanding eyes. “It’s alright. We could hear Ron’s booming voice all the way from the kitchen. He’s probably just letting off some steam.”

Harry felt a flush of warmth spread across his cheeks, a surge of embarrassment washing over him. He knew he had overreacted, but a lingering sense of shame clung to him like a second skin. Sighing, he glanced away, uncertainty clouding his expression.

Ginny gazed at him with deep concern, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m really worried about you. I wish you’d trust me enough to share what’s troubling you. I just want to help.”

He turned away, his voice strained with reluctance. “I can’t.” The weight of his unspoken worries pressed heavily on his chest as fear gripped him. What if Ginny couldn’t handle the truth? What if it shattered the fragile peace they had fought so hard to maintain?

Ginny’s tone shifted, her worry giving way to an escalating urgency. “But why? Why is it so hard for you to open up to me?”

Harry’s heart pounded as he struggled to find the right words. “I don’t want to cause you any more pain,” he finally said, his voice heavy with emotion. “You’re already dealing with so much. I don’t want to add to your burdens.”

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

The air grew thick with an oppressive silence between them. Harry’s determination faltered under Ginny’s intense, penetrating stare. He allowed the quiet to linger, knowing full well that she would not back down until she uncovered the truth. After a moment, he gave a slight, resigned nod, conceding to her keen perceptiveness.

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

Harry’s heart felt heavy with the unsaid. He turned away, unable to meet the intensity in Ginny’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I can’t tell you yet. I’m not ready to open up about this, and I don’t expect you to understand. Honestly, I’m having trouble making sense of it all myself. Now is just not the right moment for this conversation.”

Disappointment flickered across Ginny’s delicate features, casting a heavy shadow over them both. Despite her own tumultuous emotions, she reached out, tenderly enveloping his hand in hers. “Whenever you feel ready, I’ll be right here for you,” she murmured, her voice laced with unwavering patience and understanding.

After she spoke, Ginny slowly turned and walked back toward her room, her steps weighted with unspoken sorrow. Harry watched her retreat, feeling an ache deepen within his chest, an ache that mirrored the vast, uncharted horizon of his own roiling emotions.

The sunlight streamed through the curtains of the Burrow, casting a warm, golden glow on the walls. Harry woke up early, a fluttering feeling of excitement in his chest—a sensation he hadn’t experienced in a long time. After the events of the previous night, he was eager to do something special, a gesture to convey his heartfelt gratitude to the Weasleys for their unwavering acceptance and boundless trust.

The shame of his outburst still haunted him, its echo ringing painfully in his mind. Fuelled by deep-seated fears and insecurities, his regrettable actions continued to weigh heavily. Yet, a renewed determination to make things right burnt within. Cautiously stepping into the kitchen, he was enveloped by the comforting familiarity of this space, but this time, he was resolved to demonstrate his genuine belonging to this family.

Harry stood at the threshold of the kitchen, drinking in the cosy, inviting scene before him. The room radiated warmth and comfort, with cheerful, mismatched chairs circling a sturdy wooden table that seemed to beckon him to sit and linger. His heart swelled with fondness as he recalled the countless times they had gathered here, sharing laughter, stories, and love. Though neatly stacked enchanted cookbooks lined the mantel, Harry felt little need to consult them—cooking breakfast had been a familiar routine in the Dursleys’ household, and he was confident he could prepare a meal that would please the Weasleys.

From the well-stocked cupboards, he collected the makings of a hearty breakfast—fresh, farm-fresh eggs, crisp strips of savoury bacon, and the last of the ripe, juicy tomatoes plucked from the bountiful garden. As he gently cracked the first egg into the sizzling pan, the air filled with a comforting, mouthwatering aroma. Gazing out the window, he admired the vibrant colours of the garden, the delicate flowers swaying softly in the gentle morning breeze, and felt a profound sense of gratitude for the simple, natural pleasures this place provided.

As Harry focused intently on his task, a silent hope flickered in his heart that Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t be upset with him for using her cherished kitchen. He wasn’t trying to overstep his bounds, but rather yearned to lighten her load, to repay in some small way the boundless kindness the Weasleys had shown him. For so long, the love and acceptance they offered had been painfully absent from his life. Memories flooded his mind—Mrs. Weasley’s motherly fussing, Ron’s steadfast loyalty in his darkest hours—swelling his chest with profound gratitude. He was determined not to abuse their generosity but to honour it through his actions.

Moments later, the thunderous echo of heavy footsteps reverberated down the stairs, and Harry whirled around to see Mrs. Weasley striding into the kitchen, a floral apron already secured around her waist. Her eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected scene before her, a delighted smile spreading across her face.

“Harry! What on earth are you doing?” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with a mixture of astonishment and delight. Turning back to his culinary endeavour, Harry felt his cheeks flush a warm, rosy shade.

“I, um, I thought I’d try my hand at making breakfast,” he replied, attempting to sound casual, even as his nerves bubbled beneath the surface. “I just wanted to help out, if that’s alright with you.”

Her eyes softened with warmth, and she exchanged a knowing, affectionate smile with him. “It’s more than okay, dear. You’ve always been welcome here.” She paused, her voice laced with tenderness. “Now, let me help you.”

However, the sight before her took her by surprise. The table was adorned with an elaborate spread—plates overflowing with fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, and freshly baked bread. Goblets brimmed with freshly squeezed orange juice, the vibrant liquid almost glowing. She was left in utter disbelief at the impressive display.

“You’ve done a marvellous job, Harry,” she said, her smile radiating with pride.

Mr. Weasley, resplendent in his elegant emerald robes, stepped into the kitchen, his eyes widening in bewildered surprise at the unexpected scene before him. Mrs. Weasley and Harry stood side by side at the counter, passionately engaged in an animated discussion on the finer points of pancake flipping. “Harry?” he breathed, his voice tinged with palpable disbelief.

Mrs. Weasley’s face blossomed into a radiant smile, her expression alight with unbridled excitement. “Arthur, look at all of this!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with undisguised admiration as she proudly gestured to the impressive spread. “Harry took the time to make all of this for us!”

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

“Living with the Dursleys taught me to wake up early and do chores before they even stirred,” Harry confessed. A hint of nostalgia tinged his voice as he momentarily felt vulnerable sharing that part of his past. However, the acceptance radiating from Mr. Weasley’s eyes soothed Harry’s lingering insecurities.

Mrs. Weasley spoke with a warm, motherly tone. “You have a special talent, Harry; that much is clear.” She glanced towards the stairs, her expression softening. “Please, take a seat while I go call Ron and Ginny to join us for breakfast.”

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

Mrs. Weasley chuckled softly, the corners of her mouth curling upwards. “No, dear, there’s no special occasion. It was Harry who prepared all this wonderful food for us this morning.”

Ron’s eyes widened in surprise, the emotion flickering across his features before he quickly averted his gaze to the plate before him. He examined the bacon and eggs intently, as if they held the secrets of an intricate puzzle, his curiosity evident despite his efforts to appear indifferent.

Harry could sense the lingering tension hanging between them, a remnant of their recent argument. He offered a tentative smile, hoping to bridge the gap between them, if only by a small measure.

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

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

Mrs. Weasley paused, considering her response. “He didn’t mention how long he’ll be here, but I’m sure he’ll want to catch up with everyone. You know how busy he’s been running the shop. He hardly has time for anything else these days.” A hint of wistfulness coloured her tone as she spoke of her son’s demanding schedule.

Weary lines creased Ginny’s face as she joined her family at the table, her normally lively brown curls pulled back into a severe ponytail. Across the table, Harry watched her with a keen, guarded gaze. He had witnessed Ginny at her most vulnerable, and the haunted look in her eyes now unsettled him deeply.

Mrs. Weasley’s cheerful voice rang out from the yard as she tended to the chickens, blissfully unaware of the growing tension within the household. While Mr. Weasley had departed for work long ago, Harry, Ron, and Ginny sat in an uneasy silence, the only sounds the quiet clinks of forks against plates as they picked at their breakfast.

The tension in the room was palpable, but Harry knew he couldn’t avoid it any longer. Steeling himself, he finally broke the silence. “May I borrow Pigwidgeon for a moment? I need to deliver a letter,” he asked Ron, striving to sound casual.

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

Harry’s heart raced at the unexpected scrutiny. He hesitated, wishing he could simply bypass the question. “To someone important,” he answered vaguely, his palms growing clammy.

Ron’s brow furrowed in confusion, annoyance creeping into his expression. “Right,” he retorted, his voice heavy with sarcasm, as he resumed eating with an exaggerated nonchalance that only heightened the tension.

“And is that a yes?” Harry pressed, his stomach twisting with nervous anticipation.

Ron’s frown deepened. “No, it’s not,” he said dismissively, his tone sharp.

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

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

Ginny’s patience had worn thin. “Ron, stop!” she snapped, glaring at her older brother.

Ron, however, refused to back down. “It’s important he knows that keeping secrets can hurt those around him! Ginny, you have to see this,” he argued passionately, unwilling to let the matter go.

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

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

The room fell into an oppressive silence, the tension thickening like steam from a boiling kettle. Harry, feeling trapped, buried his face in his plate, the remnants of his breakfast weighing him down like an anchor. He shrank away from the chaotic conversation swirling around him.

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

Ginny’s heart sank as she watched her brother storm off, his anger and disappointment evident. Turning to Harry, his silence was deafening. “Harry, I—” she began, her voice trailing off, the words feeling woefully inadequate compared to the weight of their recent argument.

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

Ginny’s eyes glistened with tears of frustration. “I know... I just... he doesn’t understand,” she whispered.

Anguish twisted Harry’s heart as he watched his friends’ turmoil. He pushed back from the table and stood, facing Ginny. “I never meant to hurt you. Or anyone. I thought you’d trust me,” he admitted, his voice quivering with vulnerability beneath his misplaced anger.

Ginny’s fierce spirit shone through her sadness as she implored, “I do trust you, but you need to trust us too.”

Silence enveloped them, a chasm of misunderstandings and unspoken fears stretching between. The weight of Harry’s choices crashed down, vulnerability trembling in his chest.

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

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

The usually vibrant Burrow had grown cold and lifeless as Harry and Ron aimlessly drifted through its halls, strangers in their own home. Each morning, the boisterous laughter that once echoed through the kitchen had been snuffed out, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. Ron’s bitter resentment hung in the air—an unexplainable and seemingly unbreachable divide. During the sombre breakfast hour, the hollow clatter of silverware against plates reverberated like a mournful toll, a painful reminder of the distance growing between the once inseparable friends.

After hastily scraping together a meagre meal, Harry retreated to the solace of his room, shutting the door on the unsettling world beyond. The familiar scents of old parchment and sunlight filtering through his window offered little comfort as his troubled thoughts fixated on Hedwig’s absence. He gently picked up her empty perch, its cool wooden frame a stark reminder of her missing presence, the once-constant flapping of her wings now deafeningly silent.

The idea of finding another owl felt like a betrayal, a hollow attempt to replace an irreplaceable friend. Each notion of moving forward without Hedwig tightened a heavy, sorrowful knot in the pit of his stomach. She had been far more than just a messenger—Hedwig had listened to his deepest secrets, helped him express fears he could confide in no one else, and remained a steadfast companion through every perilous journey.

Now, without her, an unshakeable emptiness consumed him, one that no new feathers or wings could ever hope to fill. The room fell silent, the fading evening light casting long, mournful shadows against the walls that seemed to echo his profound grief.

The burning ache in Harry’s chest had finally subsided, providing a strange sense of relief, yet lingering doubts continued to plague his mind. Had this been merely a passing phase, or was there a deeper, more troubling issue festering within him?

He glanced at the stack of library books beside him, their spines promising untold knowledge. Harry had poured over them, desperately seeking answers to his gnawing paranoia, but the words felt disjointed and vague. Philosophical musings on the soul offered more questions than solutions, leaving him with a critical truth that seemed just out of reach.

Frustrated, Harry pushed the books aside and rose to pace, hoping the movement would break the spell of anxiety that clung to him. He knew Professor Slughorn could offer more than just dusty academic theories—the professor was full of connections and real-world remedies. But Ron, consumed by his own worries and anger, had stubbornly locked himself away, refusing to make amends.

Mrs. Weasley’s heart swelled with unbridled joy as George Weasley unexpectedly arrived earlier than anticipated. The kitchen fireplace erupted, and George emerged, his soot-streaked face lighting up the small room. Mrs. Weasley rushed to him, arms open wide, and enveloped him in a fierce, loving embrace. She stepped back, her eyes sparkling with adoration as she drank in his familiar features—once so youthful and vibrant, now touched by the gentle maturity of adulthood. “How’s my handsome boy?” she asked, her voice wrapped in the warmth of a comforting quilt.

Despite the serious expression on George’s face, his features softened into a broad smile in response to his mother’s question. “I’m doing great, Mum,” he replied cheerfully.

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

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

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

George caught sight of Harry seated at a small, worn table. Harry cradled a steaming cup of tea, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of memories.

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

George’s reply carried a touch of weariness, the subtle shadows beneath his eyes betraying his fatigue. “I’m managing, thank you.” Harry noted the strain but chose not to press the matter. “And yourself?”

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

George reclined comfortably, a light chuckle escaping his lips as he savoured the moment. “It’s still quite hectic, but I’m not complaining at all. That’s just the way I prefer it. How are you finding Percy’s old room?” He asked, his eyes gleaming with genuine interest.

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

After a pause, George’s expression brightened. “I remember when Fred and I played a prank, painting Percy’s walls a bright, garish pink. He was so embarrassed at the time, but looking back, it was absolutely hilarious.”

Harry laughed heartily, the vivid mental image bringing him great amusement.

“Percy was so annoyed by the pink walls that he never brought up his girlfriend again after that,” George added with a hint of pride. A mischievous twinkle gleamed in his eye as the memory surfaced. “So, we decided to make it even brighter to match his frustration.”

Laughter bubbled up between Harry and George. “It was one of the best pranks we ever pulled,” George concluded, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “Playing pranks adds a little excitement to life, don’t you think? Although Percy may have been irritated at the time, it was all worth it for the fun we had. And he’ll never be able to forget it.”

George’s typically carefree demeanour faltered momentarily, a shadow of unease passing over his features as Percy’s name hung in the air between them.

It had been nearly two weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts, but the worry that gnawed at Harry had not subsided. “How has Percy been?” he asked, his tone laced with genuine concern. “Have you talked to him?”

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

Harry raised a sceptical eyebrow. “He just agreed to it?” he asked in disbelief.

George chuckled, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Yes, he knew I wasn’t joking. I had expected him to refuse, giving me incentive to bewitch his room once more. But to my surprise, he acquiesced without complaint, like an obedient puppy.” George paused, a tinge of sadness crossing his features. “He said it was time for him to move out and start his ‘new life.’ After Fudge resigned, he returned to work for the Ministry.”

Harry nodded solemnly, the weight of Percy’s decisions settling heavily upon him. “So, he’s really moving on then?” he asked, a trace of concern in his tone.

George let out a weary sigh. “I was glad when the wizarding community finally voted for someone worthy to be the next minister—Kingsley Shacklebolt. He can bring about the change and unity we all so desperately need,” he said, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

At that moment, Mr. Weasley came home, his face beaming with delight at the sight of his son George. “My boy!” he exclaimed, pulling George into a heartfelt embrace. “It warms my heart to have you back with us!”

George’s grin broadened as he replied, “I’m elated to be home, Dad. I had begun to long for the lively bustle of this place.”

Ron’s heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs, echoing through the quiet house. Bursting into the kitchen, a wide grin spread across his face as he caught sight of his brother George. “George!” he exclaimed, rushing forward and enveloping George in a tight embrace. “We weren’t expecting you until dinnertime!”

George chuckled warmly, affectionately ruffling Ron’s hair. “I’ve missed my little Ronnie-kins,” he teased. “You’ve grown so tall now. But you’ll always be my baby brother.”

The evening meal was a lively affair, filled with boisterous laughter and playful jesting.

After the table had been cleared, Mrs. Weasley turned to George. “Are you staying longer, dear?” she asked.

“Just for tonight,” George replied. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave early tomorrow morning.”

Mrs. Weasley’s face lit up with delight. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I’ve already put fresh sheets on your bed, so you’ll be all set.”

“Thanks, Mum,” George said gratefully.

The night dragged on endlessly as Harry stared out his window. The stars twinkled overhead like scattered embers, but his thoughts remained a tangled mess. Suddenly, a faint tapping shattered the silence, jolting him from his reverie. Turning, he was greeted by the broad grin of George standing outside, a pair of Butterbeers in hand.

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

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

The smile on George’s face faltered slightly as he noticed the gloom clouding Harry’s expression. Concern tinged his light-hearted tone as he asked, “Trouble in paradise, are we? It can’t be that bad. Maybe a heart-to-heart could help patch things up. What do you think?”

Opening up to George felt unnatural and unsettling for Harry, but he couldn’t ignore the urge to confide in him. “That’s the problem—I’ve been avoiding that conversation,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor as if seeking answers there.

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

Harry’s mouth opened, but the swirl of emotions inside left him struggling to find the right words. Uncertain, he fell silent, avoiding George’s intent gaze.

George gave Harry an encouraging nudge. “Come on, let’s talk. We can sort this out. I think it might help.”

Though reluctance weighed on Harry, George’s sincerity softened his resolve. “Okay, let’s talk,” Harry agreed, releasing a held breath.