Harry sat by the window of the Burrow watching fat snowflakes drift lazily past the frosty panes. According to Mrs. Weasley, they hadn't had snow at Christmastime for many years before this. The ground was now blanketed in white, covering up the yellowed grass and muddy lane, and giving the illusion of clean and quiet contentment.
Everything inside of Harry bore evidence of just the opposite. He felt dirty inside, and anything but content. He felt tainted and unworthy to stand in the home of such good people who had opened their hearts and home to him, as if he was one of their own. He had blood on his hands now that would never wash off, and it didn't seem to matter that no one else saw him as a murderer. He had taken not only Voldemort's life, but those of his followers with one huge blow, and he didn't think he would ever be able to forget that each of those people had been fighting for what they believed in, just as Harry had.
Had it really only been a month ago?
Knowing that his mask of stoicism was firmly in place, Harry turned from the window to survey the cozy living room, where the family of his heart had settled in to wait for the night.
Ginny sat on the couch, back against the battered arm, and knees drawn up to her chest. Her toes were tucked under Charlie's leg while she turned the page of the book she'd been pretending to be absorbed in for the last hour. Charlie himself was snoring lightly, with his head tilted back and his arms crossed over his chest. He held himself upright and somewhat tensed, even in sleep.
On the other side of Charlie, Bill pushed up the glasses that he used for reading further up his nose, as he used a large book as a lap-desk to scratch out a letter with a battered quill. His hand was lightly flecked with black from the ink that spattered up from the quill's ragged tip, but he didn't seem to mind. The constant, even scratching was practically the only noise in the room, save for the occasional thud of chessmen on the board where Ron and Hermione were silently battling one another. The fire crackled in the grate, and might have been cheerful if the mood of the room weren't so tense, and the quiet ticking of the clock reminding them every second that time was steadily passing without any news.
Harry took a seat in an armchair beside the Christmas tree, and picked up the book that he had been pretending to read earlier. The large, brightly decorated tree obscured his view of the window, but it wasn't through the window that the most welcome sight that any of them had seen in a long time stumbled out of – it was the Floo.
"George!" Ron's shout quickly roused Charlie, and they all shot to their feet at once as the Floo roared to life once more, and Fred stepped out, looking only slightly less ragged and tired than his twin. Molly and Arthur followed in short order, both with strained faces that said more loudly than words that they had been through an ordeal.
"Any luck?" Bill said into the sudden silence that had descended once every one was out of the Floo.
Mrs. Weasley's pinched face gave them the answer they had been waiting for before Mr. Weasley had time to voice it.
"No," he said, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve some of the pressure behind his eyes. "It wasn't Percy. It was some other poor soul…"
There was collective sigh of relief from the assembled group before the tears welled up in Ginny's eyes, and she turned to bury her face in Harry's jumper.
He was sure that she couldn't know that it was him that she was leaning on, and so he ran a comforting hand up and down her slim back, trying not to feel guilty for the small measure of bittersweet pleasure he gained from touching her like this. She had been avoiding him lately - since that last confrontation with Voldemort.
He gave her a gentle squeeze before releasing her, and damned himself when her eyes widened and she took a hasty step backward.
"Don't worry, Mum," Charlie said to Molly, wrapping a strong arm around her shoulders. "We'll find him."
Molly nodded and dabbed at her eyes, and said, "I just can't help thinking that someone else out there might be searching for the boy we found tonight. Hoping that he'll come home, that he'll be alive…" She gave a shuddering sob, and let her husband lead her into the kitchen for some tea.
The others followed sedately behind, but Harry didn't follow them. He went back to the window and stared into nothingness again.
