Flying once again over London, Harry was faced with a very difficult decision; should he do as he had promised, and arrive at Bill's wedding, or should he immediately begin his pursuit of Severus Snape. He knew which choice made the best sense, which choice was the most sane, but he also realized that his sanity was in a state of great peril at the moment.
His teeth were gritted in a state of divine rage, and the scenery was blurring around him, such was his anger. Snape, the murderer of Albus Dumbledore, the man who's image most thoroughly consumed and drove Harry along his fatal rampages, had sent two men into his home in hopes of killing him. The very idea made Harry tremble with fury. But what kind of a scene would he cause by arriving at the Burrow in such a state, with his grimy, windswept hair, disgruntled looking suit, and shockingly blood shot eyes? Still, he didn't really have much of a choice. How could he possibly explain his absence to his friends; it would be difficult enough explaining his disappearance from their lives for the first weeks of the summer. The air rushing past his ears made Harry relax slightly, and he tried to regulate his breathing, although his heart was still pounding violently against his rib cage.
The wheels of Sirius' motorcycle touched softly upon the pavement of a road about twenty miles from the Burrow. It was the only secluded spot the Harry had been able to find, and he thought that a non magical approach to the wedding would be a safe idea at any rate.
It was very early in the morning, around four or four thirty, and the first hints of steely blue were making themselves noticeable at the furthest reaches of the horizon. A beautiful day looked as though it were looming, although Harry strongly doubted whether he would notice. He hadn't slept in days; the trip back from New York had taken the vast majority of 24 hours, and night had fallen when he had arrived at the pub and had had his encounter with Lee. Now dawn was breaking again, and with it came a feeling of extreme drowsiness for Harry. He hoped he would be able to catch forty winks when he arrived.
The Burrow, as it came into view, looked, as always, distinctly odd; it was dilapidated as per usual, but was surrounded by many elegant cars, all Ministry vehicles, and a great number of smaller bungalows which had not been there before. It became clear to Harry that the guests must all be staying on the Weasley's property, and had decided to simply bring along smaller houses of their own, by magic, instead of imposing themselves upon the Weasley's directly. The property had the air of a small village, centered by a dark, looming castle.
Harry pulled in front of the house, driving as slowly as possible, trying to avoid waking anyone. He killed the motor, and slipped shakily off of the motorcycle, his legs feeling weak beneath him. No lights could be seen in the upper reaches of the house, although a dim, flickering glow was being emitted from the living room. A fire had been lit, no doubt. Harry crept to the door and knocked on it lightly, feeling bad for arriving at such an absurd hour. The knock, he knew, would not be heard in the house (it was barely audible even to him), and, as expected, it was met by no reaction from within. The only option, and it was secretly what Harry had wanted to do the entire time, was to unlock the the door magically. The lock clicked quietly, and Harry slipped inside the house, opening the squeaky door as slightly as possible.
He glided to the kitchen, which was in a state of the most extreme confusion Harry had ever seen it in. The dishes were placed in several stacks, all of which climbed endlessly up to the ceiling, which was stained, in some places, with several mysterious substances. Wedding presents were piled in a mound which completely engulfed the table, and which trailed off into the sitting room, which was filled with witches and wizards in sleeping bags. It looked as though most of them had raided the kitchen cupboards during the night, as nearly every one was left ajar. The bungalows outside had obviously not been sufficient to house all the guests
The stairs groaned as Harry climbed them, looking for a place to sleep. Each room was filled to well beyond it's capacity, with the exception of Ron's room, were he and Hermione lay peacefully. They were in his bed, his arm laced lovingly around the back of her neck, his hand snaking down her side and coming to rest just below her breast. They faced each other, and she had her fingers resting lightly upon his waist. Moonlight washed the room in a cold blue, and his friends looked as though they were locked in a deathly embrace, free to lie together for eternity. Harry stood and watched them as the lay, trying to see whether they were breathing or not, so pale was their complexion in the moonlight.
The ice around his heart thickened as he watched them breath, his blood sending an evil freezing sensation through his limbs, making his fingers twitch and his hands slide involuntarily towards his gun and wand. To protect these people, the people who cared about him and who he cared about, was his only ambition, and he would do it any way he could, be it through murder, or torture, or viciousness.
Harry turned abruptly away from Ron and Hermione, realizing as he did that his left hand was wrapped firmly around his gun, and that he was sweating profusely. The cold he felt suddenly became apparent, and he moved purposely up the stairs, looking to thaw his soul.
He reached Ginny's room, which was packed with people, and stood by the door in perfect stillness. 'How many people must be coming to this wedding,' he thought, but was distracted by a movement near the window. Ginny was sitting there, not having noticed him, watching the brightness in the sky expanding slowly. He moved just in time for her to miss him as she turned her face towards the door.
The kitchen was insufferably warm, but it was really the only place Harry had to go. There was no way he was going to sleep in the same room as Ron and Hermione, and he wasn't about to talk to Ginny as she sat staring lonlily out of the window. He was seated, instead, at the table, watching the same seen as her through the grimy window above the sink, but not really noticing it's splendor. His fatigue was too overwhelming. He slowly nodded off, knowing in the back of his mind that he would soon be awoken as the guests filtered into the kitchen for breakfast.