Harry woke up for his birthday the next day with a sense of apprehension. Though he loved his friends, he always worried that they would overdo things like birthdays. After everything that had happened in the past year, he felt sure that a calm, quiet birthday was what he, and everyone else, needed.

The privacy of the broom shed was doubly a privilege and a curse; though he could stay cooped up in the shed for longer than he could in a shared room, he was dreadfully aware of the silence of his own room and the bustling noise of the Burrow, which was just close enough to lend such noise to his ears, and he was also dreadfully aware of the fact that, no matter how long he put it off, he would still have to go eventually.

Finally, after putting off the inevitable as long as he could stand, Harry dressed and exited his shed. The second he set foot outside the door of his shed, the noise at the Burrow died away, completely.

Very subtle, Harry thought, and smiled.

He pushed open the kitchen door, but instead of people jumping out at him, he was greeted by an eerie, near-complete silence. Harry frowned. The joke surely should have been played by now.

He walked into the kitchen, awaiting the assault of birthday partiers, but they didn't come. Harry drew his wand from his pocket, growing worried quickly. He left the kitchen and entered the living room.

Still nothing.

Harry was beginning to wonder what, exactly, he was going to do, when the entire Weasley family, plus Hermione, appeared out of thin air, yelling "SURPRISE!"

Harry jumped. He nearly cursed Ron before he realized what had happened. "You Apparated out?" he asked, bewildered.

"Sure did," Mr. Weasley said. "We really wanted to surprise you. It was Ginny's idea," he added, as an afterthought.

Harry looked through the crowd and found Ginny clutching Hermione's robes. Harry raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged, trying to keep her grin casual.

"Come on, Harry, the cake should have materialized too," Ron said, leading the way back into the kitchen. Harry took stock of the Weasley clan as they walked.

"Where's Fred and George?" Harry asked.

"They couldn't make it," Mrs. Weasley said, concealing her opinion better than Harry had thought possible for her. "The Ministry is working them nearly to death, having them come up with new things to help fight off Voldemort's forces. They barely have any time for the joke shop anymore." This, Harry was sure, didn't bother Mrs. Weasley much.

"And Charlie?" Harry asked.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged hooded glances. "He's…on assignment," Mr. Weasley said, and left it there.

The Weasley's, Harry, and Hermione sat down around the table. "Think you took enough time coming out this morning, Harry?" Bill asked, poking fun at Harry. "It's past midday."

"Sorry," Harry said, coloring slightly.

Bill shook his head in mock shame. "Don't know what we're going to do with you."

Mrs. Weasley flicked her wand and food appeared on the table. It was, all in all, quite a feast; a large, scrumptious roast took up most of the table, with salad and fruits and pumpkin juice and, even, a bottle of firewhiskey that Mr. Weasley insisted "must have just slipped out".

When Ginny reached for the bottle of firewhiskey, though, Mr. Weasley pulled it back. "Oh no, you don't," he said, pouring a bit more into his own cup. "You're still underage, none for you."

Ginny looked a bit disgruntled. A few minutes later, everyone else at the table already a bit tipsy, Ginny once again reached for the bottle, and her father, deep in conversation with Bill over toadstools, didn't notice. Harry debated, briefly, raising an alarm over this, but decided that he was too intoxicated himself to complain about Ginny having a bit.

Harry rose from the table a little under an hour later, saying that he needed to do some work. All the members of the Weasley clan and Hermione exchanged dubious glances about what Harry could be working on, but none said anything.

Harry had gone perhaps ten paces when Ginny caught up to him. "Hey," she said, leaning herself heavily on his arm; that "bit" of firewhiskey had obviously had a greater effect on her than Harry would have anticipated. "Ron and Hermione just left too…I wonder where they're going…haha…Mom and Dad are pretty drunk, otherwise they'd have probably said something…"

Harry regarded Ginny. She was definitely feeling the effects of the liquor more than he was; of that, Harry was certain. He wasn't drunk; he knew he wasn't drunk. He was…tipsy. Yes, tipsy. Tipsy was a good word.

When Ginny giggled again, Harry realized that what he'd been thinking he'd said out loud. For a moment, he considered the possibility that he, himself, was more intoxicated than he though, but the thought dissipated quickly.

Suddenly, Harry stopped walking. Ginny, who hadn't been expecting it, pitched forward and swayed dangerously. Harry lunged forward and caught her wrist, and, before she fell completely, pulled her up…which had the side effect of pressing Ginny firmly against Harry's chest.

To avoid the discomfort of the moment, Harry voiced the thing that had caused his abrupt stop. "Where's Fleur?" he asked.

Ginny, who seemed bemused in the way someone who has had too much drink seems bemused, looked up at Harry without pulling away. "She's in France," she said. "She'll be here for the wedding, though." Then, realizing that inanity that had just escaped her lips, Ginny laughed raucously, and buried her head into Harry's shoulder.

Harry squirmed but didn't push her away. When she finally looked up, her eyes were glazed. "I'm pretty drunk, aren't I?" she asked. When Harry nodded, she burst out laughing again. "Then I guess I have a pretty good excuse for doing this."

She reached up and kissed Harry.

Harry's first instinct was to pull away; but the feeling of happiness and lightness that Ginny's kiss inspired in him kept him from doing so. Eventually, he relaxed and reciprocated the kiss. Harry's arms folded around Ginny, and she, in return, grasped his back, pulling him closer.

The kiss grew deeper and more frenzied quickly. Ginny's inhibitions were all but gone, and Harry's weren't far behind. If it hadn't been for the necessity of breathing, things might have gotten a bit out of hand.

Eventually, Harry had to break the kiss to breathe. Gasping, he looked down at Ginny, who was grinning hugely. "Whoa," Harry said. "No, no, we didn't just do that…"

"Actually, I think we did," Ginny said, hiccupping.

"No, we didn't," Harry said. "We've broken up, remember?"

Ginny's smile faded. "I don't know if I can handle it!" she burst out, tears appearing on her cheeks with alarming speed. "I waited my whole life – well, the last few years anyway – to get you, and then I had you, and then you had to leave, and I can't stand it, I just want to be with you!" She sucked in a huge breath; somehow, that admission had used up more oxygen than their recent tongue-fest.

The second the word "tongue-fest" entered Harry's mind he blushed furiously.

To mask this, Harry pulled Ginny into what he hoped was a friendly, if a bit stand-offish, hug. "Maybe, someday, we can be together again," he said. "But for now…this is way too melodramatic, but for now, it's too dangerous. Ginny, you know how I feel about you. But for now…uh, Ginny?" Harry prodded her; she'd fallen asleep against his shoulder.

Harry sighed, quite sad. The most he could possibly hope for would be for her not to remember anything of what had transpired since dinner.

A few days later, Harry still wasn't sure where he was going to go once he departed the Burrow; with the wedding the next day, he was a little worried about selecting a destination. He knew that he had to keep to his self-imposed deadline, for if he didn't leave then, he might never bring himself to leave.

Harry sat, alone, in the broom shed, pouring over books and maps. The books he'd procured with Mr. Weasley's help; when Harry had asked for the tomes, Mr. Weasley had simply Summoned them without question. Harry wondered what Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had agreed about him when he wasn't listening, but he didn't think too deeply on the matter. It really wasn't any of his business unless it interfered with his plans.

Harry went over what he already had; his initial plan, to return to Godric's Hollow, came to mind. Still, he couldn't just show up there; the place was not protected at all, and Harry knew that he needed to carry something more threatening than his wand with him when he ventured forth alone into the world. He would go to Godric's Hollow…eventually.

For now…for now, he needed a…something. It ate at him that he didn't know what, exactly, he was looking for. Some sort of weapon, or something…but of course, laying hands on a truly powerful magical weapon would be terrifically difficult.

There were only two very powerful magical weapons left in the world from the days in which enchanted weaponry had been more common; the Maelstone, a black rock that would grant it's holder unlimited strength, and the Claw of the Furies, which was a deeply evil Dark object that was kept sealed at an undisclosed location somewhere inside the Ministry. What, exactly, the Claw of the Furies could do, the books did not say, but that it was dangerous in the extreme was made abundantly clear. The Maelstone was similarly guarded by the American Bureau of Magic.

Harry grimaced at the passages on the two weapons. Both were associated with old, deep evil. Even if he could manage to lay hands on one or the other, he was fairly sure that using them would have disastrous side effects.

Shutting the weapons book, "Magical Weaponry, Past to Present", Harry picked up "Ages of Artifacts", book on relics left over from the past ages of wizarding history. He'd earmarked an entry on a locket once owned by Salazar Slytherin.

He read from the book: "Slytherin was rumored to have created the locket himself, as a gift for one of his daughters. It was said to be filled with the magic of the Slytherin line. The last known owner of the locket was Merope Gaunt, who disappeared in the 1930s after the imprisonment of her insane father and brother."

Harry held up the locket he had gained the day Dumbledore had died. It was not the same locket in the picture on the book, thought the naked eye couldn't have told Harry that. Harry still felt bitter over the discovery that the locket was not even an actual Horcrux; that Dumbledore's death had been needless imbued Harry with a senseless rage.

Harry quashed that rage as quickly as he could. He still had a job to do.

Harry flipped through the book to another page that lay earmarked. "This cup was once owned by Helga Hufflepuff, one of the founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," it read. "The cup was given to Hufflepuff by an unknown suitor during her time teaching at the school. Though, initially, Hufflepuff left the cup at the school as a decoration for the members of her house to admire, the cup was removed somewhere around 1415 by one of Hufflepuff's numerous French descendants. It was last known to be in the care of one Henrietta Gugen in 1924, after which time the cup apparently disappeared."

Harry frowned. He, apparently, had better information than did the book; he knew that the cup had passed from Hepzibah Smith to Voldemort in 1960, after Voldemort apparently killed the old woman.

Harry closed the book. It was well and good to know the history of the objects he sought, that was true; but still, it didn't help him much in figuring out where Voldemort would have hid them.

With that in mind, Harry picked up "The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts". He'd already read it cover to cover; it was, by no means, short, but the information Harry needed was sadly lacking. The problem was that no one ever really knew Voldemort on a personal level; Dumbledore had been the only person who could talk freely and openly about Voldemort's past life. For that matter, Dumbledore was the only one who could talk freely and openly about Voldemort, period.

Not for the first time, Harry felt a deep sense of loss in the pit of his stomach. He felt so…alone. Dumbledore alone had had a plan for defeating Voldemort…Dumbledore alone had seemed to know what steps to take no matter what happened…Dumbledore had always seemed like an unmovable rock, blocking the violent flow of a rapid, dangerous river, sheltering the rest of the magical world from it's ravages.

Now, that rock was gone, and in it's place was Harry, who, glancing around at his books and maps, realized that he didn't have a clue how to go about protecting those left in his care. Harry threw down "The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts" and sat back, leaning against the cold, stone wall of the Burrow's broom shed. His headache had returned.

Harry regarded all of his books with something similar to contempt. So much of what had happened in his own short life couldn't be explained by a millennia of magical knowledge. Prophesies…the magic of love…Horcruxes…none of these things were mentioned anywhere in any books Harry had ever laid hands on. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that what he was looking for probably wasn't written anywhere.

Harry looked out his window. The sun was setting; soon it would be dark, and, soon after that, the sun would rise…and Bill and Fleur (who still hadn't returned from France) would be married. He had set out his dress robes the day before; everything he needed for the wedding was ready.

Finally, well after dark, Harry shut all the books and piled them in the corner of the room. If he had thought that any of them could help him further he would have packed them, too; however, he knew that he had gleaned all he could glean. If the information he sought existed, it existed elsewhere.

Harry struggled off to sleep with frustration in his mind.