A/N A nice long chapter, really hope you enjoy reading!

The journey from Hogwarts to King's Cross station had passed pleasantly enough, save for their run in with Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, and Harry wished that it could have gone on all summer. He had not taken Dumbledore up on the offer that he leave Hogwarts before the end of term, for he did not want to spend a minute more at the Dursley's than he absolutely had to. Instead he had stayed on at school, the last week of term passing in a blur that he didn't want to dwell on.

After the first few days passed Harry found his memories of what happened began to grow distant. If asked he could have recited it moment for moment just as he had done for Dumbledore, but his actual recollections of the events felt remote and far away. He was perfectly content with it being this way, the disconnected feeling making it easier to put it all out of his mind.

He had declined to attend any of the final week classes, knowing he would be unable to avoid the stares of both his fellow students and his teachers. The thought of running into other students like Cedric's friends or Malfoy was enough to keep him from moving about the castle as normal, and even worse than that was the prospect of running into Snape. Instead he had largely stuck to Gryffindor Tower or Hagrid's cabin, the latter of which he frequented often upon Hagrid's invitation.

When classes started each day and the corridors emptied he would make his way down to Hagrid's cabin, content to quietly pass the time in Fang's company and Hagrid's too when he was not teaching. Much like he had come to feel about the Burrow, Hagrid's cabin felt like a second home beyond Hogwarts, but particularly where no one stared at or bothered him.

He had avoided the Great Hall almost completely, eating in there only when it was nearly empty, or slipping down to the kitchens where he always found a friendly face from Dobby. And so the final week of term passed without further incident, and despite the prospect of his destination Harry felt a sense of relief to be getting on the Hogwarts Express, glad that he could get away from it all.

When they arrived at King's Cross Station, Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys hung back a little while, letting the rest of the student body depart the train and filter through the platform before following. He knew too well what was going on outside of Hogwarts, that Fudge didn't believe him and Death Eaters like Malfoy were still free and without suspicion. Naturally it occurred to him that he might run in to one of them at the station, that they might be there to pick up their sons for the summer.

Harry had been fully expecting to be greeted by Uncle Vernon's usual expression of disapproval, and so had pre-emptively said his goodbyes to Hermione and the Weasleys so as to not keep his uncle waiting. When they came through the barrier with their trunks they farewelled Hermione, whose parents were reliably standing in the same spot they waited for her every single year.

From there Harry laid eyes on Mr and Mrs Weasley, and after an obligatory glance around for the Dursleys he naturally gravitated towards them. It went beyond his natural inclination to say hello to them, for it was just easier to stay in stride with Ron, Ginny and the twins. As his friends had done all week they acted as a buffer between him and the rest of the student body, who had taken to staring and gawking at him, rarely bothering to hide their whispers.

Mr and Mrs Weasley greeted them all cheerfully, embracing each of them in turn, Harry included. Seeing him again Harry couldn't help but remember that the last time Mr Weasley had seen him was in Dumbledore's office the night he returned, a time when he was practically mute with shock. So he didn't question it when they both hugged him a little longer than normal, but when Mrs Weasley gave him a cheerful smile he took pause.

'We've had a word with Dumbledore,' she said happily. 'He's agreed you can come home with us for a couple of days. Arthur will take you to Surrey on Monday.'

Harry's heart soared, and he looked to Mr Weasley as though for confirmation. 'Thank you,' he said quickly, realising he had said nothing at first, so taken aback by the fortunate turn of events.

'I thought Dumbledore said no?' Fred queried in interest.

'Your mother pitched a fit,' Mr Weasley answered proudly. 'Gave Professor Dumbledore quite the telling off, didn't you dear?'

'Arthur!' she admonished him, looking a little flustered as she turned back to Harry and the others. 'I did no such thing. Professor Dumbledore and I were in complete agreement.'

Harry just grinned, laughing genuinely when Mr Weasley mouthed the words spectacular fit behind his wife. 'Thank you, Mrs Weasley. Seriously.'

'It's our pleasure, dear.'

She ushered them all to get moving, and they loaded their trunks onto trolleys and then set off together while Harry and Ron shared a grin. In no time at all they were back at the Burrow, and the moment Harry set foot there he felt a small part of the weight on his chest beginning to lift. Just as it did at Hogwarts, returning to the Burrow felt like coming home, something he'd never quite associated with life at Privet Drive.

Trying not to think about how short his stay here would be he settled in for his two day stay, grateful to be there at all. But as it usually did when faced with the prospect of something he dreaded, time passed quickly, and before he knew it he was spending his last evening at the Burrow, and Mr Weasley would take him to Surrey the following day.

It was more than the dread of returning to people who so openly looked at him in distaste, for that feeling at least was mutual, it was the looming isolation he dreaded. Harry already knew exactly what it would be like back at the Dursley's. At the Burrow he could keep relatively busy, for there was always someone around or something going on, but he wouldn't have that at the Dursleys.

A few times Harry found himself looking forward to this, feeling like he needed to shut himself away from the world and be alone with his thoughts, needing time to properly process what had happened. But these moments passed quickly, overcome by the memories of isolation and loneliness he associated with Privet Drive.

Mrs Weasley had put him in Bill and Charlie's old room on the first floor. Though he never minded sharing with Ron, this time around he was grateful for the privacy and solitude that sharing a small bedroom wouldn't have afforded him. After a second night in the hospital wing Madam Pomfrey had discharged him back to the dormitory, sending him with some potions he could use at his wish, including more of the dreamless sleep potion.

But the dreamless sleep potion hadn't lasted him more than two nights, and for some reason Harry couldn't bring himself to ask for any more. Instead he had tried going without, but as the nights progressed without anything to guarantee peaceful sleep he was beginning to regret it. He had been alright at first, but the last two nights he had been plagued by peculiar dreams - odd flashes that were not nightmares, but still left him shaken and uneasy.

His last night at the Burrow was proving unsettling. It felt as though he'd not been to sleep at all, but rather had been lingering somewhere between sleep and waking. He roused constantly throughout the night, strange thoughts or sounds jolting him back to consciousness with a small lurch, the bottom dropping out of his stomach.

Pummelling the pillow he would turn over in bed, frustrated with himself that he had been too proud to ask Madam Pomfrey for any more sleeping potion. He didn't imagine that she would deny the request. Why hadn't he asked?

Having roused again Harry had gone downstairs for a glass of water, enjoying the peacefulness of the Burrow in the middle of the night. Yet when he returned to bed he was no better off. He was lightly dozing again when he felt a dream coming on, the images creeping in on the edges of his vision.

Voldemort's voice was somewhere nearby, offering him no reprieve from those awful memories. As he slipped into darkness Voldemort's voice became clearer, even as he tried to pull away. He knew what was happening, that he was dreaming...but he couldn't quite wake himself up.

Voldemort was following him through the Hogwarts corridors, pestering him while Harry tried to get to class. Nagini was slithering alongside them, and though Harry broke into a run to try and lose them he stood no chance.

'The prophecy?' Voldemort asked again, persistent in his questioning. 'Tell me what you know of the prophecy.'

Voldemort was everywhere. All around him - relentless. Ahead of them was Professor Moody...except it wasn't him, not really. Harry knew that now.

'Oh, if there's one thing I hate, it's a Death Eater who walked free.'

Harry's scar was aching. He stumbled, Nagini tripping him up while Voldemort continued to pester him.

Finally Harry somehow managed to rouse himself. Wrenching himself out of the dream he sat up in bed, his chest heaving for breath. Unable to stop himself he hurriedly rubbed his hand over his scar. The phantom pain receding as quickly as it had come on, leaving him shaky.

Are you frightened, Harry?

Having only been half asleep in the first place he calmed quickly, but the cold sweat on his skin and tight chest lingered. For a few minutes he sat perfectly still, listening to the silence of the Burrow, looking around the bedroom as if to reacquaint himself with where he really was. He was not there anymore. Voldemort was nowhere near him.

The prophecy.

Angry with himself Harry swung his feet out of bed and sat on the edge, putting his face in his hands. No, no, no. He was not thinking about any of that, especially the prophecy. Divination was rubbish...there was no reason Voldemort should have asked him something like that.

Turning on the light Harry looked at the time, wondering if he'd be able to get out of bed again without arousing Mrs Weasley's worries. He'd heard her up a few times during the night, going downstairs for something, and when she came back she always seemed to linger outside his room, checking on him.

It was a little after four o'clock in the morning, but Harry couldn't stand it any longer - he was not getting any more sleep that night. Getting out of bed he moved around the room that was his for one more day, getting dressed before beginning to organise and pack his trunk. He worked as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb Ginny who slept in the room next door.

As he packed his trunk the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach only began to grow…he was going back, today. He had to leave the Burrow. He had to go.

Finishing up in his room he made the bed and then slowly opened the bedroom door, peeking out before emerging onto the dark landing. Taking care not to step on any spots that would creak he headed downstairs. It was dark in the Burrow, but this was nothing at all like the darkness he had experienced in the cellar of Malfoy Manor. Here at the Burrow he moved around comfortably, knowing where all the furniture was, anticipating the turns of the staircase and when it would end.

Downstairs he made his way through the living room and into the kitchen, and it was there he stopped for some light. He didn't know why he was keeping this a secret from anyone, but he did this only because he knew he was alone down there.

Just as he had done in the cellar of Malfoy Manor, Harry held his palm open and concentrated as hard as he could, whispering Lumos under his breath. He was seeking that little ball of light, and when it bloomed in the palm of his hand his heart lifted.

He had first tried this a few nights ago at Hogwarts, laying awake in the dormitory and trying to get past how strange it felt to be back there. When he first tried it he came up with nothing, frustrated that he couldn't seem to manage it. In the cellar of Malfoy Manor he had been wandless and tortured, and yet he had successfully conjured light with his bare hands, even if it had come about unintentionally the first time.

It had taken persistence and keeping his wand nearby, but he had finally managed to conjure the little ball of light just as he did in that cellar. Now, days later he had practiced enough that he didn't need his wand at all, and though it wasn't bright enough to illuminate an entire room the light was enough to read by, and he was calling that a success.

In the nights that followed, particularly those in which he struggled to sleep, Harry had conjured the light in the palm of his hand again. It wasn't a case of being afraid of the dark, but simply that he liked it. The little ball of light brought a sense of comfort, though that wasn't something he'd say out loud. In the cellar of Malfoy Manor this little ball of light was the only thing he had with him, the only semblance of power he possessed.

Wandless magic, however he was managing it, had somewhat protected him from Malfoy's cruel torture…even if it's what got him into trouble in the first place. After finding success with the light he had of course tried doing something else, attempting simple charms like levitation or summoning. But despite his efforts nothing else seemed to work for him, and not caring enough to persist he had stopped bothering with it.

While the little ball of light hovered nearby Harry put a kettle of water on the stove to make some tea, taking care to ensure the kettle didn't start whistling and wake anyone upstairs. He brewed some tea and then took it into the living room, and with a little concentration the hovering ball of light followed him.

As he passed it by he looked at the Weasley family clock, noting that Percy's hand was still pointing at Work. Yesterday George had overheard an argument between Mr Weasley and Percy, one that culminated with Percy leaving for work on a Sunday afternoon. He'd not returned for dinner that night, and judging by the clock had opted to sleep in his office.

Harry didn't need to ask what the argument had been about. Percy had been perfectly polite and cordial just as he always was, but Harry could tell he wasn't happy that he had come to the Burrow. It made things hard at first, feeling like he was intruding no matter how warmly the Weasleys had welcomed him

Taking a book from the shelf Harry settled into one of the comfortable armchairs and curled up, sipping at the tea before beginning to read. Reading had never been particularly encouraged by the Dursleys, whereas the Burrow had an enormous bookshelf crammed full of books and novels from the wizarding world. For now at least it was nice to be able to turn his mind off and focus on something, lest his thoughts start to wander…

As he settled in to read he felt peaceful and at ease, for though he hadn't really spent a huge deal of time at the Burrow over the years it felt like home. At this thought he began to dwell on his impending return to Surrey, feeling his stomach clench yet again. At the Burrow silence was a pleasant contrast to the noisy chatter of life, but at the Dursley's the silence was all encompassing. It meant walking on egg shells, making sure he didn't aggravate his aunt and uncle, or provoke Dudley into a row.

By five thirty the sun had fully risen, making the ball of light redundant now that morning light was streaming through the windows. When Harry closed the book and set it aside as he turned to the ball of light and allowed it to fade away into nothing, still getting a kick out of his ability to control it.

By now he had lost interest in the book he'd been reading, and had been sitting quietly for some time, not thinking or dwelling on anything in particular. His mind was comfortably blank and empty, allowing him to rest in a way. It briefly occurred to him that he could go back to bed for a while, but he knew if he got up from this armchair he would break the comfortable reverie.

It was only the sound of a soft tapping that roused him. Deducing what it was given the time of morning he headed into the kitchen to find a brown owl sitting on the window sill outside. Opening the window he allowed the owl in, untying the Daily Prophet from around its leg as it took a drink of water from Errol's dish. He paid the owl from the jar of Knuts kept by the window sill and looked at the folded up newspaper.

Mentally he braced himself, unsure if he really wanted to read the headlines or not. Maybe the Weasley's were right...

Yesterday the absence of the Sunday Prophet had been very conspicuous. He had gone looking for it, having remembered that he needed to subscribe for the summer, but he'd been unable to find it anywhere. It wasn't in the kitchen and nor in the living room where it usually was beside Mr Weasley's preferred armchair. He had looked everywhere for it, trying to avoid the attention of Mrs Weasley as he did so. He got the feeling she had something to do with its absence.

On the pretence of putting the chickens away for the night Harry had continued his search yesterday evening, determined to find the newspaper. He wasn't oblivious to what was going on, he knew that Fudge was in complete denial and that much of the reporting on what happened to him had been incorrect or blatantly false, which in his opinion was all the more reason to keep up with the news.

Harry turned to Mr Weasley's garage, for he almost never failed to read the newspaper and daily crossword, particularly the Fiendishly Difficult one published every Sunday. On a daily basis he would either proudly announce his success or quietly grumble that he hadn't been able to crack it, but yesterday he'd not said a word about the crossword. The newspaper had been delivered Harry was sure of it. If it was anywhere, it would be somewhere Mr Weasley could read it.

He'd been right. The moment he slipped into Mr Weasley's garage he had seen it straight away, sitting on top of an old water heater. The moment Harry looked at the headline he knew why the Weasley's had hidden this from him.

The Boy Who Lies.

It was gut wrenching to see that headline in print, knowing that every witch and wizard across the country who read the Prophet would now think of him as a liar. His hands trembled as he stared at the headline and then read the article, and for a few minutes he felt like he was back there again. Just like a week ago he was standing in that graveyard surrounded by Death Eaters jeering and laughing at him - he was on his knees before Malfoy and Carrow, begging them to stop - except now it was the whole country.

He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Although he knew Voldemort would do everything in his power to keep his return a secret, part of him hadn't actually expected it to work. Rita Skeeter had already inflicted enough damage over the last few months. All week long it had been leading to this, and finally it had happened.

It was as they expected would be the case. Fudge had blamed Barty Crouch Junior for Cedric's death, calling him a lone madman who had terrorised and confused Harry in revenge for his master's downfall. Barty Crouch Junior took the fall, while Fudge got a reasonable explanation that allowed him to disregard Harry's claims. It was perfect, really. Voldemort got it perfect.

What made it worse was they they had waited until he finished school before publishing this headline, leaving him no longer able to publicly defend himself. Harry's only consolation on that front was that his fellow school students had already heard the truth, that Dumbledore himself had told them what happened. This small but important fact gave him hope, that the people at Hogwarts knew the truth.

Today, he braved the Monday morning headline.

He was met with disappointment. It was more of what had been published yesterday, though in a small mercy the headline wasn't quite so confrontational. It was almost a literal 'nothing to see here,' a reassurance to the wizarding community that all was well and there was no truth to Harry Potter's hysterical claims.

Impatient, for people weren't going to take this at face value for long, not when Dumbledore started telling them what really happened, Harry flicked through the pages. He was looking for something about Dumbledore, an article about him or a statement he'd made proclaiming the truth, but there was nothing.

Determined to find something he kept looking, studying the columns one by one…and then his heart stopped. In the bottom corner of the fifth page was a short article about Cedric, stating nothing more than his funeral had been held yesterday. Barely three paragraphs in length, it was crammed in amongst other articles, an afterthought.

Harry hurriedly closed the newspaper, because this was the one thing that had him teetering on the edge of losing it. Admittedly it had taken a few days, but what had happened to Cedric was truly hitting him now. Even the memorial at Hogwarts and speaking to his parents hadn't made it real to him, but in the days that followed the notion that Cedric was actually dead began to settle in his mind.

It wasn't his fault, obviously he knew that…but he just couldn't get it out of his head that he should have never told Cedric to take the Cup with him. It didn't have to be this way. Cedric didn't have to be dead.

Carefully folding the newspaper back into the way it was delivered he retied the string and put it back on the kitchen window sill, making it look as though the Owl had simply delivered it and taken payment from the jar. The Weasleys had made a point of keeping the newspapers away from him, an entire week's worth had been hidden in Mr Weasley's garage along with the one from yesterday. He didn't want them to know that he had seen the headlines. They were worried about him enough.

Feeling anxious and restless, Harry tried to stop thinking about anything at all. To make himself useful he collected a wicker basket and headed out the kitchen door. Outside the fresh morning air soothed him ever so slightly, and he slipped on the rubber boots that were charmed to fit whoever wore them, and then he made his way around the house to the chicken coop out front.

It was hard to properly appreciate the nice summer morning, for the morning sunshine and smell of fresh air only served to remind Harry that this was his last day here. Needless to say he was in a rather deflated mood when he reached the chicken coop, but for now he didn't bother trying to hide it.

The chickens were waiting expectantly at the coop gate, and when he opened it up for them they clucked happily and one by one made their way out into the garden. Counting them as they went he made his way through the enclosure into the coop, ushering one last chicken out of its nesting box before retrieving the eggs that had been laid. Setting them aside he collected the water dishes and empty feeding trays, cleaning them out before replenishing them.

He spent longer out there than necessary, just trying to pass the time, and so he tidied up a little and added some fresh bedding to the nesting boxes. When there was nothing more he could do in the chicken coop he walked through the vegetable gardens, making sure Mrs Weasley's charms were still in place to keep the garden gnomes away. He dragged it out for as long as possible, walking through every row of garden beds to look for evidence that the gnomes had gotten in.

Standing in the lush vegetable garden he looked out towards the nearby creek, listening to the running water. Today marked just over a week since Voldemort had set him free, and this time a week ago he had been waking up in the hospital wing, safe and well. He knew he shouldn't, that doing this only made him feel angry and frustrated, but he let his mind wander to the Malfoys.

He was conscious of the fact that his freedom had not been easily achieved. In imprisoning him Voldemort was acting on a whim, going against his original plan to kill him in order to keep his return a closely kept secret. To that end he hadn't known quite what to do with Harry except keep him somewhere indefinitely, and that place had been Malfoy Manor.

It was to that place his mind often wandered, to the question of what would he be doing were he still there. If he'd been there a whole week by now then he might have settled in, perhaps even having started pushing the boundaries of what he was allowed to do to pass the time. Even Lucius Malfoy wouldn't have bothered with torturing him day and night, and he got the feeling Voldemort wouldn't have permitted it.

So what would he have been doing?

Against his better judgement he wondered what Draco Malfoy was doing, even though he stomach writhed in humiliation every time he thought about him. Lucius Malfoy would have boasted to his son about keeping Harry Potter prisoner in their home. He would have told Draco about the torture he inflicted, about how quickly the Boy Who Lived had broken and pleaded for relief.

If Harry was still there, would he have been used as a subject by which to teach Draco about the way of life for Death Eaters? Would Malfoy have made his son torture him?

Gritting his teeth Harry became furious with himself. He shouldn't have started thinking about these things, there was no point. And now he couldn't stop, his mind was circling back to Cedric again, to what he should have done differently. When his scar began to hurt in the graveyard he should have known straight away…he should have warned Cedric, told him to run…

Trying not to angrily stomp Harry crossed the garden and returned to the house, collecting the basket of fresh eggs along the way. A few deep breaths was all he needed to get his thoughts back on track, and he silently berated himself for letting that happen. What happened, happened. It was over with now, it was done…he never wanted to think about it again.

When he swung the kitchen door open someone inside took fright, making Harry realise he hadn't calmed down as much as he thought. Mr Weasley was inside, bent over the kitchen table reading the newspaper until he jumped in surprise, but he quickly recovered.

'Harry,' he said brightly. 'You're up bright and early. Already done the chooks, I see.'

He couldn't help but think Mr Weasley had the distinct air of someone who had just been caught, a feeling that was validated when he saw Mr Weasley was wearing not his dressing gown or pyjamas, but his travelling cloak.

'Good morning,' he said quietly, closing the kitchen door. 'Are you just getting home?'

Mr Weasley nodded his head, not so subtly stuffing the Daily Prophet into the pocket of his trousers before hanging up his cloak. 'It's been many years since I've come home at this hour of the morning. I daresay Molly will have something to say about it, though I did send Errol with a note.'

'I think she noticed. I heard her up last night.'

'Oh?' Mr Weasley asked, looking at him in concern. 'You didn't sleep well?'

Realising what he had said, Harry hastily backtracked. 'I just heard her up, that's all.'

Mr Weasley didn't quite seem to believe him, but he didn't push it. 'Well, since you're awake I'll tell you right away.' He lowered his voice, casting his eyes up at the ceiling. 'Sirius asked me to give word to you that he's laying low at Lupin's, and he's alright.'

Harry let out a low breath, having not expected an update about Sirius at all. 'Did you see him?'

'Yes, a group of us last night were…discussing things,' he said, choosing his words with care. 'He looks well. Had a shave and a few good meals. Lupin will look after him.'

Nodding, Harry managed a smile. This was good to hear. 'Thanks, Mr Weasley.'

As could be expected he got the sense that Mr and Mrs Weasley were not yet sure how they felt about Sirius not being a mass murderer after all, even though Dumbledore had vouched for him. Still, they seemed to hold reservations for now, but like they always did about the Dursley's they refrained from commenting about Sirius in front of him.

'We'll be off to Surrey tonight after dinner,' Mr Weasley began. 'Though I thought perhaps I might see about having another word with Professor Dumbledore. If you'd like.'

'Do you think he'd let me stay longer?'

'Well, I can only ask. I didn't think he'd let you come at all, yet here you are.'

Agreeing Harry nodded, though he wouldn't let himself get his hopes up. 'Well, it's just…' he hesitated. 'I don't want to make things worse with Percy. George said he overheard an argument.'

For a moment Mr Weasley blinked in surprise, but then he shook his head in exasperation. 'Don't you worry about Percy,' he said reassuringly. 'He's got a lot on his mind at the moment. He's been quite upset about Mr Crouch, but he'll sort himself out. You are very welcome here, Harry.'

It wasn't completely reassuring, for he didn't think things were at all okay with Percy. But he was allowed to be selfish right now. He deserved that much.

'I'd like to stay longer, if I can. Please.'

Mr Weasley smiled, pleased that he was in agreement. 'We'd like that too. I can't promise anything, but I will try.'

'Thank you.'

A sound came from overheard, and Mr Weasley looked towards the stairs with a heavy sigh. 'Merlin, she's up. Make her a cup of tea, won't you Harry? Good lad.'

Clasping him on the shoulder before he left, Mr Weasley hurried upstairs to meet his wife, the Daily Prophet sticking out of his pocket. Obliging, Harry found Mrs Weasleys favourite tea cup and put the kettle on the stove to boil.

The house was perfectly silent, making it impossible not to hear the hushed conversation between Mr and Mrs Weasley when they met on the upstairs landing. Though he crept closer he couldn't make out what they were saying. It was just hushed tones, first reassuring in nature and then worried.

Getting nothing from them Harry turned away from the staircase, glancing at the family clock as he went back into the kitchen. Percy's hand was still pointed at Work.

He finished up with the eggs now, washing them off in the sink before putting them in the basket on the kitchen table, making sure they went to the bottom of the pile beneath the older ones. In only a few minutes time Mrs Weasley came downstairs, pausing in the living room to peer at the clock, no doubt anxious that Percy still had not come home.

When she came into the kitchen she greeted him with a warm smile. 'Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well? I thought I heard you up.'

'Wasn't me,' he said smoothly. 'I slept fine.'

She didn't seem convinced, and even when he passed her tea she lingered a little longer to scrutinise him. From her gaze he knew what she was looking at.

'Your eye is looking much better today. It will be gone in no time.' Still not done with him she reached for his face, brushing her thumb over a faint scar on his cheek. 'Have you put the dittany on this morning?'

'Yes.'

It was another blatant lie, but Mrs Weasley didn't pick up on his deception. Instead she let him be, her withdrawal of attention allowing him to breathe a small sigh of relief. He was glad she hadn't questioned him about it. The scar on his cheek was barely visible anyway, it was the ones on his hand and arm that would have been concerning her, but Harry couldn't bring himself to put the dittany on as liberally as he should have. Doing so felt vain and insensitive...why should he be worried about a scar on his arm when Cedric Diggory was dead?

Sitting at the kitchen table Mrs Weasley had a blank sheet of parchment, and she sipped at her tea while dipping the quill into some ink. 'I'm writing to Professor Dumbledore,' she announced. 'Seeing if we can't convince him to let you stay a little longer. Have you had eaten yet?'

There was only one acceptable answer to this question. 'No, but I will now.'

She nodded approvingly. 'Eat, but don't fill up too much. I'll cook up a feed once the rest of them manage to drag themselves out of bed.'

Obligingly making himself a piece of toast, Harry retreated into the living room to eat as he resumed his place in the book he had been reading earlier. Against his better judgement he began to smile, certain that if Dumbledore had already changed his mind once surely he couldn't decide against just a few more days at the Burrow.

A/N This chapter was part of the big rewrite - I felt so disappointed in my original draft that I never had Harry going to the Burrow, so I put the brakes on new chapters and frantically rewrote!

Hope you enjoyed - please leave a review and let me know what you think of the chapter and Harry's short visit.