Omg another fic. I'm really doing myself in, aren't I?

One: Return to Godric's Hollow

In any normal situation, such as rescuing a small rock from a two-headed Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher or ridding the girl's bathroom of a deadly snake the length of the Quidditch grounds, the buzz and excitement over his heroic deeds died down within the month, perhaps a little into the next. However, despite six whole years having passed since the fateful duel in the Great Hall, Harry still found himself trudging to his front door at all hours of the day to greet packs of witches and wizards who all cheered at his appearance (meaning his arrival, rather than the sight of an unshaved underside of his chin or at his unruly black hair before being combed).

The crowds were thinning, ever slowly, and Harry couldn't help rejoicing slightly, but cursing himself for having chosen to live in the newly visible number twelve Grimmauld Place. Eventually he just stopped coming to the door, only to find that the pounding traveled to windows and to walls and became a continuous sound until finally he was forced to throw open the door, show himself, then throw it shut again and return to the Daily Prophet.

Finally, a two and a half weeks before his twenty-third birthday, he figured he'd given enough publicity to the people of the wizarding world. As the knocking began at the early hour of seven, he closed his trunk and waved his wand lazily before apparating with a loud crack. Upon his departure, and much to the dismay of the people grouped in front of his house, a small sign appeared just below the metal numbers on his front door: "Mr. Potter has taken a sudden, secluded, and silent vacation".

All such sudden events lead him to a very leisurely lifestyle. He was never one to enjoy such grandeur as pictures in the Prophet or award ceremonies or ribbon cuttings or any of that. He'd rather just remain a normal wizard in a normal life. But, of course, because he was "The Boy Who Lived" or "The Chosen One" or whatever it was they were calling him these days, he could only dream of a life in solitude.

Perhaps in a few more years.

He stood silently, catching his breath from the suffocation that was Apparition, staring up the gated path of his first home in Godric's Hollow. Yes, it was obvious. That's what he was going for. The best hiding place is directly under the pursuer's nose, he figured. Besides, the Potter house was destroyed. No one would expect for him to have chosen it for his new home.

He checked around the neighborhood, watching as a couple walked out of sight down a nearby alley and made sure all nearby curtains were drawn. Then with as much silence as he could muster, he began repairing the house before him. Wood flew from the ground, soot and dirt fell from chunks of the roof and each piece fell perfectly in place where it had once lived. Standing back he admired his handiwork. The house and, from what he could see, all in it were repaired and set in something of an order.

And then, in an instant, the house reverted to its destroyed appearance.

Any wizard ignorant of Harry's plan would immediately think the house was under some form of spell placed by the people who inserted the memorial sign just behind the gate. However, Harry's expression did not change. In fact, he seemed pleased. He was now the secret keeper to his own home in Godric's Hollow.

Pulling his trunk behind him he approached the door which hung loosely from the hinges. He wasn't two steps away from the porch before the house seemed to straighten out, returning to the repaired version he'd just created moments ago. He pushed open the door, looking around the house he'd never known. The front room was dressed with a fine white couch and a matching love seat, and all around the floor toys were strewn, one of which was a small broom. In the kitchen plates sat cleaned on one side of the sink, waiting patiently to finally be returned to their home even after 22 years of idling.

Only one remained broken on the floor.

As he moved to the stairs he could see a pair of glasses, much like his own, shattered on the third step up. And in the room adjacent he could see shelves of books and, from having rolled, a wand on the floor. He'd return for that later.

As he approached the top of the stairs he could see four rooms. Though it was impossible for him to remember anything about this house, he seemed intent on picking his room out before even glancing at the other three. Inside was a crib, the bedding still neatly folded as it would've been before use. A mobile hung limply above the crib, and on the window and the mirrors on the closet doors there were stickers of little wizards on brooms. Harry stood in silence as he stared at the spot where his mother would have stood.

The entire house seemed to yawn around him. It was as if it were grateful to have a Potter back within its confines. Harry walked silently around the rooms and halls for a while, taking in the entire situation smoothly. It'd take some getting used to, living in this house.

He did miss seeing the Weasleys, and he did miss Hermione. But the burden of all the wizarding community appearing at the door was enough for him to handle. He didn't want to burden them with it as well.

It wasn't an easy job, cleaning the cottage; dust coated everything and paint crumbled from the walls. Door jambs were loose and the stairs creaked. It took him a good two weeks and two days to finish all the work. He had the house looking good as new and, despite knowing he couldn't show it off, he was rather proud of his work.

Up until that point he'd been sleeping downstairs on the couch. The only available bed was in the guest room, and the frame was so rickety he didn't trust even sitting on it. The bed in his parents' room was neatly folded and tempting, but he couldn't let himself sleep there.

He entered his kitchen set a pot of water to the stove. He'd become used to guests of all kinds visiting on his birthday, so being alone on the eve was something of a culture shock. By the time this thought crossed his mind something caught his ears—the water in the pot hadn't even begun to boil before crunching footsteps could be heard outside on the dead grass. Figuring it was just a mourner, or one of the neighbors passing outside the front gate, he moved in to the pantry to begin emptying one of the many bags he'd filled back at Grimmauld Place.

He only came to a stop when the crunching resumed, seemingly growing louder. Someone seemed to have bypassed the gate.

Frantic, he reached for his wand. He approached the door slowly, careful to stay back within the house far enough to avoid being seen—this all considering the intruder figured out the spell on the Potter's cottage. He watched silently as the shadowed figure wandered around the yard, moving to random places and stopping as if to look at something. More than once the person tilted sideways as if looking upward at the damaged house.

Then, much to Harry's dismay, the cloaked figure moved to the door. They more likely weren't aware of the spell, but they seemed intent on reaching the front porch. Feeling slightly disheartened, Harry rushed to turn off all the lights he'd ignited before returning to the well hidden viewpoint he'd found. The person had reached the door and, from what he could see, was staring through their hood almost sympathetically at the door he was sure still appeared lopsided.

The figure moved calculatedly. With certain ease they reached their hand from under their cloak and placed it gently against the doorjamb. Judging by the petit shape of the hand and the well-trimmed nails, the guest was a woman. She seemed to be taking in the sight of the destroyed home when something bizarre happened—in a single, swift movement, she retracted her hand, then thrust it at the door.

Harry stumbled backward, wand extended, gaping at the sight before him. There seemed to be a tear around the door; the fabric of the secret surrounding the house had been torn when the guest pressed open the door. She stepped through the hole, repairing it graciously before she turned and stopped in front of Harry, silent.

Had he not seen the flash of an excited grin he wouldn't have known this woman was trustworthy.

"You might've knocked," he started through a grin, only just managing to brace himself before being tackled into a hug.

"Oh, Harry, we've all been worried sick!" Hermione squealed, throwing back her hood and taking Harry's shadowed cheeks in her hands. "How long have you been here? You look ill!"

"Thank you, Hermione," Harry said, not sure whether or not he should be offended or relieved that someone noticed. Without answering her question he turned to the kitchen, letting the hiss of the teapot serve as an invitation for her to join him for tea.

He motioned for her to sit at his newly finished table and moved toward a cake he'd been saving for his birthday. It was a rather pathetic cake; the frosting was lopsided and the cake itself seemed to have shrunk on one side. It was a lumpy mass of yellow and white, and a single, previously burned candle sat at an awkward angle on top. If one had never seen his Gringotts vault they'd think the man was impoverished.

Hermione sat in an awkward silence, obviously displeased with her surroundings. She was desperate to start conversation but, knowing how sentimental Harry was about his parents and their belongings, figured a comment on the house wouldn't be the wisest outlet. And, of course, she spoke before she realized that her second option was just as awkward: "Ginny's been worried about you," she realized what she'd said far too late.

A cup and saucer clinked loudly and a teaspoon spun to the floor. A nearly inaudible, "So sorry," could be heard as he knelt down to pick up the spoon and wipe up the small puddle of tea.

Hermione tilted her head sympathetically but Harry gave her no reaction. "Harry, we've—"

Her cup clinked down in front of her. A small splash of tea landed on the table but it went unnoticed. Harry sat down with a loud thump and he leaned onto the table, eyes locked with Hermione's. "For six years I've dealt with armies of witches and wizards arriving at my door."

"Yes, Harry, I know," Hermione cut in, ignoring Harry's frustrated glare. "But in those six years you've ignored every letter sent to you. Ron and I've sent you letters, Ginny's probably sent you a novel, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley have been threatening to send howlers…we worry about you, Harry."

"What is there to worry about? I've killed Voldemort. I've got practically no danger left to worry about."

Hermione broke into vicious laughter and Harry had to hit the table with his palm to make her stop. "I'm sorry, but don't you think you're being a bit naïve?" Harry was not amused. "All the Death Eaters and their supporters, and people who just want the glory of killing Harry Potter?" Still unaffected.

"Nothing's going to happen to me."

"I don't doubt that. But you're looking past the obvious," she said after a short sip of tea. "Danger isn't all we're worried about. We're worried about your health, Harry." This seemed to take him by surprise. "You've been living alone for six years, you haven't contacted any of us, you're barely eating," at the look she received she merely glared back. Harry was so obviously malnourished, denying it could be leveled with a criminal offense. "You're dirty," again, she glared. "You're just not taking care of yourself."

"I'm doing fine." He said, now officially offended. "I've just been preoccupied—fixing this place up, you know."

"At least clean yourself up and come to the Burrow for your birthday," She said, hushing him before he could interrupt. "The Weasley's would be glad to know you're…alright." The last word was so calculated Harry couldn't help but snort angrily.

It took him a moment and exchanged awkward glances before he heaved a sigh and stood. Scratching at the stubble under his chin he watched Hermione's eyes scatter across his face before speaking. "I'll be down in ten minutes." The look of excitement on Hermione's face was both amazing and still offensive in a way. But, nevertheless, Harry retreated to the upstairs portion of the house.

They arrived at the Burrow late enough that their appearance was a surprise. Even in the wizarding world it was strange to arrive on someone's doorstep at 10 o'clock.

"Oh, Harry!" Mrs. Weasley howled, attacking the door when she saw him through the window. "We've been worried sick! Where have you been? You must be so hungry, do you even remember how to eat?"

Not quite sure whether he was being reprimanded or not, he stammered. "Er…Hello…" Before his six years of absence, Mrs. Weasley had insisted that he was only a part of the family now, and that he was to call her Molly and Mr. Weasley, Arthur. However, this task proved harder than imagined, especially now after such a long absence.

Ignoring his hesitance Molly pulled him into the house and threw him into the kitchen. "My dear, I'll get some soup on for you…and some firewhiskey…do you like garlic bread, dear?"

Molly's words were lost on Harry's ears as he stared in to the empty kitchen just beyond the door. He wasn't sure whether or not he should be honored or offended—had the Weasley's all gone looking for him? Or had Hermione just up and left on a whim, unaware that no one else would follow and would prefer to retire to their bedrooms? His thoughts were quickly interrupted, however, by a swift yanking of his arm and a harsh thrust against his chest. He fell back into the chair pulled out for him and found himself facing a large round bowl of onion soup.

He'd hardly opened his mouth to thank Molly before a bottle of firewhiskey and a plate of steaming garlic bread landed just behind the bowl. "Eat up, dear, we can't have you starving."

Nodding he shoveled a spoonful of soup into his mouth. Hermione sat across from him. Just barely audible over his chewing noises, she said, "I'm so glad to see you again, Harry." As if this point hadn't been made clear in Godric's Hollow with all the hints toward his poor hygiene. "Curious…why were you so distant?"

He heaved a boiling swallow, regretting not having blown on that particular spoonful. "Distant?"

"Don't act like you don't know. You ignored our letters, never sent one of your own—"

"I don't have an owl."

Hermione retracted, knowing she'd hit a vulnerable point. In all the years since Hedwig's death, Harry refused to buy another owl. Childish as it may seem, he just couldn't see himself befriending any owl as much as he had with Hedwig.

Not enjoying the awkward silence anymore than the others, Molly decided to enter with a new, more easily accepted subject. Setting a bowl of soup in front of Hermione, who, even at this late hour, seemed accepting, she sat down and smiled. "I don't suppose you've heard," she began, smiling all the brighter.

Hermione turned an amazing shade of red.

"Please, I'd really rather tell him myself," she did not look happy that the subject was brought up by anyone other than herself. "And I'd like to have Ron here, to catch him should he feel faint."

"My dear, I doubt he'll faint. The signs were plain as day! It was bound to happen sometime."

"Yes, but I'd prefer…"

"Fine. We'll wait for Ronald and the others."

Harry, mouth full of soup, looked at the others confused (though this was hard to make out through his bulging, red cheeks). They didn't seem, to notice, however, so he chose to voice his confusion. "What's the matter? Are you alright, Hermione?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine." She said bluntly.

"Where are the others?"

"Out looking for you, dear." Said Molly. This answer did not please him, but he chose not to press further. Molly just continued of her own free will. "They've been out since noon. They do this everyday, you know," Harry wasn't sure if he was being made to feel bad or if she was just stating a fact. "They usually come home around now. Perhaps in a few more minutes."

And, as always, their cue had been met perfectly. With four loud cracks Arthur, George, Ron, and Bill all appeared in the kitchen. Like the polite women they were, Ginny and Fleur chose to appear in the front room. The kitchen was cramped enough without all of them appearing there at once. Without hesitation, Ginny, Fleur, and Ron all chimed, "Harry!" and attacked him, nearly knocking him off his chair.

Ron mussed his friend's dark hair, despite its obvious greasy dirtiness. He'd brushed it, yes, but in the ten allotted minutes that's all he was able to do. "Where have you been, mate?"

"We've been—"

"Worried sick." Harry said, cutting Ginny off. She huffed slightly but said nothing.

"Oh, 'Arry! Eet is so goot to zee you!" Fleur pushed the others aside, coating Harry's face in kisses. Ginny's expression quickly turned to anger. "You are…alright?" She said with the same disgust as Hermione. She'd apparently gotten a better look at the dark haired wizard before her.

"I'm fine, thanks." He was becoming slightly annoyed by all these implications, but was fully aware that he needed a shower. One can't so easily shower in a house that's supposed to be deserted. Steam escaping the windows could easily be seen, even with a protective spell.

Arthur approached the table and took his seat at the head. A bowl of soup did not hesitate to appear before him. "So, where were you hiding?"

"Godric's Hollow."

"Godric's Hollow? In your old house, no doubt. But how'd you get in? That cottage surely isn't fit to house anyone." Arthur took a spoonful of soup and, like Harry, immediately regretted not blowing on it.

"I repaired it, then made myself secret keeper."

Arthur smiled endearingly. It was a look one usually only sees between a proud father and his son. "Good plan, my boy!"

The room silenced quickly. Apparently no one wanted to step on Harry's toes—he wasn't open to hear that they were worried, he was already aware of his hygiene, no one dared venture out and ask him a direct question about his distancing himself…

Molly was not one to let a silence last too long. And she wasn't about to let Hermione forget her promise. So, feeling that all who were eating should be done, she waved her wand and all the dishes floated lazily into the sink. Somewhat angered and somewhat unsure of what was going on, Arthur and Harry, still hungry, looked up and stared at her. "Sitting room."

Harry was surprised to see what he saw: the sitting room was clean. George, who'd been silent to this point, noticed Harry's astonishment. "Mum gets bored at home alone. Cleaned the whole upstairs, too."

The men all stood, watching as the women chose their seats. Molly, however, refused to let Hermione or Ron sit. "Harry, dear, you sit right here. In the middle. And—no, no, Hermione, you'll be standing here with Ronald." Harry sat between Fleur and Ginny, and Bill sat in his own chair just close enough to hold Fleur's hand. George and Arthur sat on the loveseat next to Ginny's side of the main couch, and Molly found herself a nice leaning position against Arthur's armrest. "Well go on, you two. Harry needs to hear the news."

With heaving sighs and a deep look into each other's eyes, the two turned to face Harry despite the others in the room. "Well…as most of you know, Ronald and I have been…together…for the past three years…" Harry did not find this shocking at all. He was just surprised that they hadn't gotten together sooner. "And, well…we'll be getting married."

At first, Harry wasn't shocked. His expression didn't even change. But then, after a moments time, he realized that Hermione had said it. That she and Ron were getting married. Had it been any other couple he wouldn't have faltered in the least. Suddenly he found himself mouthing things, not sure of what to say, mumbling wildly…

"Oh, wow," he finally said, eyes shooting from Ron to Hermione then back. "Oh…this is wonderful." He couldn't say he was happy yet…and God knows he wouldn't admit his sudden jealousy. "Congratulations, you two."

They smiled, happy that their best friend seemed happy for them. Harry could feel Ginny writhing next to him, but it subsided when he looked over at her. And, without warning, Harry was pulled up from his seat and yanked over into a corner by Ron. Conversation broke out behind them, most of which was between Molly and Hermione about colors and invitations. "So, Harry…" he turned his attention back to Ron. "I was wondering, would you be my best man?"

"What kind of question is that?" Ron looked somewhat taken aback by Harry's response. "Of course I'll be your best man, you git!" Ron's expression morphed and, however awkward it was for them, the two men hugged each other. Realizing that they had both put their pride on the line, they quickly pulled off one another and entered the crowded sitting room.

Amazed at how long he'd taken in the shower, Harry found himself exiting the bathroom an hour and a half later than he'd entered. He moved silently through the hall—since Ron and Hermione felt the sudden need to share a room, he'd be staying in the room he and Ron usually shared alone. However, when he pushed open the door he found that he was not, in fact, alone. Feeling somewhat conscious of the fact that he was only wearing pajama bottoms, he gripped his towel tightly with both hands, letting it hang limply in front of his stomach. "Ginny, hello."

The red-head spun around at the sound of his voice. Her face nearly matched her hair. "Oh, hello Harry."

The two stared.

Harry, trying not to sound rude while maintaining a firm approach, said finally, "Why are you in my room?"

She seemed to be searching for an answer, which also seemed to be eluding her. She looked over at the bed, where a trunk sat open. "I was…going to collect your clothes. Laundry tomorrow."

"I've only just arrived. Only one of my outfits is dirty."

"Are you certain?" She said with a loud sarcasm. "Not to be rude, but until you took that shower I wasn't convinced that any bit of you was clean!" She laughed uncomfortably. Harry did not comply. "Er…right. Well…"

Harry tossed the towel onto his bed and, in one movement, scooped all of the clothes in his trunk into a white bag at the bottom. He pulled the drawstring, looped it together, then held out the bag to Ginny. She was awestruck, but took the bag nonetheless. She looked over to the trunk to see a jacket limply hanging just off the side. "Do you want that washed, as well?"

Glancing over at it, Harry moved to pick it up and held it out to Ginny so that the entirety of the jacket could be seen. The front pocket was torn off somewhat, and the drawstring was missing. The ends of the sleeves where frayed and the hood had a hole toward the collarbone of the left side. There was a large, red-brown stain running from just below the armpit to the very bottom of the right side. "I should probably get rid of it."

"No!" Ginny said all too suddenly. Both were surprised. "I could get the stain out, if you'd like. And I could mend it."

Harry wasn't sure why she was so set on fixing this jacket, but he didn't really care either. "I don't think it fits me anymore, anyway. It might." She seemed dejected. He felt bad. "Why don't you have it? I mean…it's not in any good state, but if you think you could mend it I don't see why you shouldn't keep it." The girl standing before him seemed to beam brighter than the sun itself.

Realizing that she must look overly excited she took in a deep breath and flattened her expression. "Yes. Well…thank you." By this time, Ginny was dangerously close to Harry. So close, in fact, that she could feel his breath coming down onto her face as they stared each other directly in the eyes. It was all she could do not to reach out and touch his bare chest.

Harry could feel something in the air change slightly, but couldn't put his finger on it before saying, "Well, goodnight."

Ginny, relieved, nodded. "Yes…goodnight." Swiftly she moved around him, leaving him to stare at the floor where she'd once stood. Having become so lost in the moment, he didn't even hear the light thump of her back hitting the door as she leaned against it, clutching her new jacket against her chest with a heartfelt smile.

Thanks again to Nighty for pre-reading this for me. Without her opinion, I probably wouldn't have the guts to upload this lovely piece of… "writing".