A cool breeze blew in leaves and mist every time the front door opened as Order members began trickling into the temporary headquarters. It was two weeks since the Headmaster died. Two weeks since that traitor Snape raised his wand and sent Professor Dumbledore dead over the railing of the Astronomy Tower. Tension was at an all time high, with everyone still mourning, heartbroken and scared.
Molly Weasley was in the kitchen doing what she always did: cooking for an army. As people entered the dining area, she loaded them down with a plate of too much food and sent them one by one to the large table. Silence reigned supreme through the little house, save the sound of the heavy wooden door closing and cutlery scraping porcelain. The faces around the table were solemn, lost to the pressing fear that being without a leader in wartime brings.
Ron and Hermione were seated on a twin bed in a tiny bedroom, listening to the tense footsteps of one Harry Potter as he paced what little free carpet space there was beside the window. The little room felt stifling, the air thick with the overwhelming need for things to be right again. The three friends, bodies taught and minds whirling, were quiet for a long while. They were all afraid to speak. Afraid of what needed to be said. Finally Hermione, sensing that neither of the boys were going to be the first to break the silence, sighed and stood to approach Harry.
"Harry," she said as she laid her hand on his arm to halt his movement. "You can do this."
"No, I can't! They want me to make decisions," he whispered frantically. "Me! You don't understand. I get overwhelmed picking ice cream flavors! There's no way this is going to work. They need to find someone else. Someone who knows what they're doing!" Harry was slightly breathless as his voice rose to just this side of shouting. He had come to stand face to face with Hermione, a look of agony on his features as the weight of fear gripped him.
Hermione glanced at Ron, who with an ashen face still sat on the bed, before she took a deep breath and locked eyes with the messy haired, green-eyed boy in front of her. "But they need you, Harry. No one else will do, and you know it."
"But—"
"No buts, Harry. I know it's hard to imagine carrying on without him, but Professor Dumbledore prepared you long ago for the possibility that we would have to go forward alone. You have to do this. The Order needs a leader, someone to help us reorganize, if we have any hope of defeating Voldemort."
"Hermione's right, mate," Ron said as he came to stand beside her facing Harry. "People are afraid. They need hope. They need the Chosen One."
"But what if I don't want to be the Chosen One anymore?" Harry whispered, looking lost. "I don't know how to lead people who will more than likely die following me."
Ron gathered Harry into a hug, Hermione looking on with watery eyes. "We will all die anyway if we don't follow you. Every single person in the Order knows what's at stake and has determined that it's worth the risk. You're worth the risk."
"We're with you, Harry," Hermione agreed. "We're with you until the very end."
Harry pulled back from his friends, taking a small comfort from their fierce belief in him and their loyalty to the cause. "Ok. Ok, give me a minute, yeah?" He walked back over to the window and peered out of the foggy glass. He stood there for a few moments after the door closed behind his friends, two of the people he loved more than anything, who would more than likely die by his side. He felt as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders when Dumbledore died, and in a way, it had. The fate of the Wizarding World hinged on the Order's next move, on their ability to face the Dark Lord in a final confrontation and win, and so with a final moment to steel himself and put on a face far braver than he felt, he pulled that arduous weight around him like a warm winter cloak and walked down the hall to the kitchen, prepared to rally his troops for better or for worse, to finally end this war.