The week after his visit from Fleur and Ron kept Harry busier than he had been in years. Ron had taken the opportunity to cash in his not-insubstantial backlog of holiday hours and seemed to be taking great pleasure in ensuring that no day went by without an established social calendar.
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The day after their talk, Ron had pounded on his door at half past six to take Harry out for breakfast at a small café he and the other aurors liked to visit. They had run into a few colleagues of Ron's that Harry remembered from his time at Hogwarts, then spent the rest of the day with Hermione and the kids. Rose had taken one look at him and sprinted down the hall to collect an armful of books for him to read to her – despite the fact that she was four years old and had been reading for herself for six months.
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Hugo didn't recognize him.
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Hermione told him that he shouldn't feel bad, because her son was not even two yet and Harry had always had other responsibilities, but he still had to fight down a hot wave of shame at the fact that his best friends' son didn't know him.
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Two days later, Friday, had been an open practice day up in Holyhead, and Ron had dragged him out to Wales to visit Ginny. It had been good to see her, even if she did spend a fair few minutes telling him exactly where she thought he could shove his martyr complex and low self-esteem. Of course then they'd had to cut lunch short, because the fact that Ginny Weasley, star chaser of the top team in the League, was apparently getting cosy again with her ex-boyfriend Harry Potter had drawn out a couple of "journalists" from some tabloid or another.
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Harry had no doubt he'd be receiving a signed copy of whatever rag ended up fabricating the best story any day now.
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Saturday they'd visited George. He was in good spirits, and outright refused to even consider Harry's apologies.
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Sunday he'd joined Ron, Hermione, and the kids at the zoo. Harry thought he'd bring Teddy to visit sometime before he got too old to enjoy it.
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All in all, it had been a good week. He'd visited his friends – family – and had a chance to remember what a normal life looked like. Ron made sure his days were filled with good company, and with things to do the guilt and grief stayed away.
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But even Ron couldn't keep him busy all the time, and at night, back home in his too dark, too empty flat, the thoughts crept back in.
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Bill was dead. He'd made a mistake and his friend – his brother – was dead. He hadn't been able to stop it. Why would the Weasleys want him around?
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He was just a cruel reminder of everything they had lost. Everything he had taken from them. Every moment of happiness he'd felt the last week had come at the cost of their suffering.
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The first night he'd gone and bought a bottle of whisky from the shop on the corner, then drank himself into a comfortable nothingness. When Ron found the evidence he had been…stern.
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After visiting Ginny he'd felt the need to buy another. Ron had been disappointed.
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The day after the zoo, he'd opened a bottle only to find that a charm had been placed on his flat that transfigured liquor into salt water. Dispelling such magic was far beyond his abilities, and he wasn't about to ask Hermione (who would absolutely tell him off and refuse) or Fleur (who had almost certainly been the one to cast it in the first place) to dispel it.
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It had been good to reconnect with Ron, Hermione, and their children, he reminded himself. It had been nice to visit Ginny and spend time with George. No one blamed him, and even their frustration with the way he'd acted the last couple of weeks was understandable.
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And yet he'd still been standing here for ten minutes, hidden amongst the gnarled trees out past the wall of the Weasley's property fighting desperately to resist the urge to just apparate home. A warm summer breeze carried the sound of voices from the yard, and when he closed his eyes he could almost go back to those summers in his Hogwarts years. The Burrow always seemed to stay the same.
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But he had changed.
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They had all changed, because of him.
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The family was celebrating the last week of summer before school started back up at Hogwarts, though in truth Molly Weasley didn't really need much reason to host a gathering anymore. The woman was happiest when she was bustling about entertaining a full house, and so any excuse to throw a party was cause enough.
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With his schedule at the hospital, Harry hadn't come to many of them in the last few years, but he'd always remember how being here was supposed to feel. What if that feeling was gone? What if, instead of the warm, happy feeling he remembered, things were cold and awkward? What if the usual arguments became actual fights? What if Mrs Weasley was distant or Mr Weasley didn't care what his thoughts were on some new type of plug he'd found?
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What if…
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There was a sharp crack, and Harry spun, wand in hand, heart pounding in his ears.
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Percy, to his credit, didn't flinch. He was carrying what looked like a box of crayons that might be used to recreate the Sistine Chapel and a small stack of colouring books that Hermione was sure to love. Only Percy would buy his children a book advertised as having '30 accurate depictions of dragons in their natural habitats!'
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"Hello, Harry," Percy greeted cordially. "It's good to see you."
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"Good to see you as well, Percy," Harry replied easily. It really was good to see Percy these days, after all, even if he was still a bit stiff.
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"Just popped home for a moment to grab something to keep the children entertained. They'll be happy to see you, I'd think."
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"Good to see them as well," Harry answered. Percy nodded and the conversation could have ended there - in fact normally would have ended there – but the older man saw something in his tone, or his posture, or maybe he'd just developed a natural talent for legilimency since Harry'd last had a conversation with him, because it didn't.
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Percy gave him a small, sad smile instead and leaned up against a tree. "It's hard coming back, isn't it?" he asked kindly.
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Harry swallowed thickly. Of all people, Percy would understand.
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"After Fred," he continued, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, "after Fred, I didn't visit as much as I should have. I'd been so blinded by my ambition, so desperate to throw away everything I'd been given and follow my own path, that by the time I realised what I'd given up it felt like it was already too late. Everyone else had been fighting, resisting the evil that tried to destroy us and I'd just been too busy filing reports and taking minutes to notice."
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Harry shuffled awkwardly. He hated when people talked about the war – wars had armies and battles and plans, but all he remembered from those days was fear and confusion and death.
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"How could I even look my father in the eye, when the last time we spoke I told him he had wasted his career? Or my mother, when I had told her that she made a mistake having so many children? And all the rest of you…my whole family are war heroes, except for me. Fred and George were smuggling Muggleborns out of the country, Charlie had been disrupting recruiting drives in Eastern Europe, Ginny led the resistance at Hogwarts and Ron…Ron was with you."
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Harry blinked.
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"My little brother was helping Harry Potter kill Voldemort, and I'd spent that same time kissing some Death Eater bureaucrat's arse," Percy ground out. "How was I supposed to come back home after that? So I just…didn't, for a while. Surely you remember."
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Harry nodded. He hadn't really thought about it before, but Percy hadn't been around much in the weeks after Fred's funeral. But he'd been to the funeral, though. It didn't seem necessary to interrupt him just to point out that detail though.
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"I spent a lot of time thinking about what happened, and what I had done. A lot of time…too much time, honestly. I saw everyone else moving on, saw how happy everyone seemed to be without me ruining things, and I thought that maybe it would be better if I didn't come back at all."
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That sounded familiar, Harry thought,
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"I had actually decided to do it. Had a job lined up with the American Ministry – Bureau, excuse me – sold my flat, had an international portkey booked…all I wanted to do before I went was let family know where I had gone so that they didn't worry. So I went to talk to Bill."
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Bill.
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Harry flinched at the name.
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Bill, who was dead.
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Bill, who his mistakes had killed.
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"Bill was everything I'd always wanted to be," Percy continued. "Successful, established, respected, had a beautiful wife and a great career. I'd always looked up to him, always used him as a measure for myself. So I went to Bill, and I told him what I had planned, do you know what he told me?"
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Harry shook his head.
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"He said that I'd regret leaving for the rest of my life. He told me that it didn't matter whether I thought I deserved to be forgiven or not, because whether or not the family forgave me wasn't my choice. And he told me that no matter what I said or did, no matter where I went, I'd always have a place with them."
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"Bill said that?"
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Percy nodded. "He did."
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"I cancelled my trip, told the blokes over at the American Bureau that I'd changed my plans, and the next morning I was here, like you are now. Hiding in the trees and staring up at the house wondering how I'd ever get up the courage to walk up that path and ask their forgiveness when I didn't deserve it. I don't think I'd ever been so terrified in my life, but do you want to know something amazing?"
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"Bill was right." Harry had never heard Percy say something so surely. "Bill was absolutely right. I did have a place here, even if I got into a fight with Ron within a half hour, or when my father walked out of his own shed to get away from me, or when Ginny hexed me, I had a place here. And you do too."
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A hundred different reasons that Percy was wrong were on the tip of Harry's tongue, but Harry knew they were nothing but excuses. The reality of the situation was that he was scared – scared that the damage he had done was irreparable, that this family that had taken him in would be unwilling to forgive his actions. But Percy was right. Bill had been right.
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It wasn't up to him to decide if he was worthy of forgiveness. He didn't get to make that choice. But he did have a place here.
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"Thanks, Percy, I needed to hear that."
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"Of course you did," Percy agreed. "now let's go. Molly and Rose have been arguing about their depictions of what I am fairly certain is supposed to be a Ukrainian Ironbelly and neither included the characteristic mixed foliage of the Crimean submediterranean forest complex I'd expect, given the proportions between tail length and wing dimensions. I mean, I suppose we could identify some sort of scots pine analog, but there isn't a single juniper anywhere to be seen, and I'd really like to see a better representation of the broadleaf varieties, maybe a beech tree or two, or a hornbeam perhaps."
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Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. Worrying about such an insignificant thing as the types of trees in childrens' drawings was just so very…Percy.
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"Unacceptable."
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"I know! No daughter of mine will misrepresent such basic details in her art."
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"And can you imagine if Charlie found out?"
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It really was nice to hear Percy laugh.
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The walk from the edge of the property to the house was a short one, but somehow by the time they stepped out of the trees and crossed into the yard Harry had gone from anxious to impatient. The Burrow was as crooked as ever, and it looked like a new chimney had been added off the attic at some point. The windows were all open, and a line full of clothes flapped merrily in the breeze. The yard hadn't been weeded and the grass needed cutting, chickens roamed the muddy patch over by Mr Weasley's garage, and it looked like a pair of geese had taken up residence in the pond. He saw Mrs Weasley in the kitchen, humming along to the wireless, and he could hear cheering coming from the back.
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And then they were at the door, and for an instant the nerves returned.
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He knocked – twice. Dry, staccato, firm but not harsh; a knock he had perfected over three years at the Wainwright and five as a resident.
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The wireless clicked off and there was the sudden sound of rushing feet.
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The children - Molly, Rose, and Lucy - arrived first, and clamoured to greet him, followed closely by Percy's wife Audrey, who smiled warmly as she said hello. Hermione poked her head out next and waved cheerily, and then Mrs Weasley stepped out of the kitchen, dusting her hands on the well worn apron he'd bought her with his very first paycheck after Hogwarts.
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An instant later he was swept up and crushed into the woman's chest, struggling to breathe and not caring in the slightest. If someone had taken the time to look at his hand on the old clock sitting in pride of place atop the Weasley mantle they'd have seen it slip quietly from Lost to Home.
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"Daddy!" Molly and Lucy yelled happily, joined by Rose's similarly excited cheer of "Dragon!"
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Mrs Weasley let him go, but only let him escape as far as arms reach. "Oh, Harry," she fussed, "we've been so worried. Let me take a look at you."
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Harry could not help but smile. How many times had he heard that from Molly Weasley?
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As always, she clucked disapprovingly. "You're still much too thin, you know, I'm certain you aren't eating enough. And this hair! I know the look is popular with you young men these days but I really do think it could be a bit shorter."
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It was so good to be back.
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"With the way you cook, Mrs Weasley, I won't be able to fit through my own front door by the time I'm done eating," Harry joked happily.
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Mrs Weasley rolled her eyes, a faint pink dusting her cheeks, and shook her head. "Always the charmer, Harry Potter," she replied, then more sternly added, "and it's Molly or Mum. We've talked about this."
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"Yes…Mrs Weasley."
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Several hours later, Harry had settled into his seat at the long wooden table Ron and Charlie had been 'helping' Mr Weasley set up in the back garden.
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The sun had set and the family was happily chatting in the lull between dinner and dessert necessitated by the sheer amount of food they had all eaten.
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Percy and Hermione were talking in clipped tones about a piece of legislation they both had particularly strong opinions on, though to be fair they had particularly strong opinions on most pieces of legislation, and Charlie was commenting loudly on Rose's new dragon colouring book, which he proclaimed he might steal to use as a field guide for the younger handlers at his reservation in Romania. Molly and Lucy, who had been so obsessed with the same books moments before, were instead entranced by the jar full of fairies that Teddy and Freddie had gone to catch in the field with their Uncle Ron.
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Harry was enjoying a rather in depth discussion with George about a new potion he was developing - something to do with creating an inversion of sensations so that the imbiber saw taste and tasted sound, which honestly did have a number of potential therapeutic possibilities - when the Burrow's back door creaked open and he promptly lost all capability for rational thought.
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The last time he had seen Gabrielle was at Victoire's first birthday party. She had been a snarky 14 year old with a bad attitude and little desire to speak to him or anyone else, and honestly he hadn't thought much about her. Now though…
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Harry had never really believed in the fabled Veela allure, but seeing her made his mouth suddenly go dry and his stomach perform an odd sort of jig.
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And then the moment was lost.
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"Aunt Gabi!" Victoire shouted, sprinting across the yard. Everyone turned to greet her and Harry blinked.
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His cheeks burned in embarrassment, and he suddenly had the distinct desire to be literally anywhere else. Fortunately, everyone was so distracted with saying hello to Gabrielle that no one seemed to notice his reaction to her.
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It didn't take long for the party to return to normal. George picked up the thread of their earlier conversation as soon as he'd waved to Gabrielle, evidently completely unaffected by her presence while Harry did his best to keep up with the topic using what was left of his mental capacity while focusing intensely on the infinitely more difficult task of not staring at her.
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He must have managed it in the end, because George was grinning as they talked, and when they eventually made plans to meet sometime in the next week or so to try out a few new brewing methods, he was practically bursting with excitement. People often thought of him as a mischief maker, but few really appreciated just how passionate George was about his work.
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Angelina came by with little Roxanne shortly after that and plopped the child into her husband's arms. The smell that followed made it abundantly clear why she'd done so an instant later and George excused himself to sort out the issue.
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"So what are you doing the second Saturday of October," she asked bluntly, once her daughter was out of her hair and had become George's problem. Harry had always appreciated the fact that Angelina refused to beat around the bush.
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"My schedule is remarkably clear," he replied dryly, "why do you ask?"
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"Quidditch up at Hogwarts, Gwenog wants me to scout one of the Ravenclaw beaters and Hufflepuff's keeper. Could use an extra set of eyes."
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Harry agreed readily. He truly did enjoy quidditch, and if he could sit with a professional scout he'd avoid the crowds and fanfare - which was the only reason he didn't go to see more matches.
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Having come to an agreement, Harry and Angelina talked a bit more about the Harpies, Hogwarts, and several of the newer broom models to hit the market, until George returned. Gabrielle was at the other end of the table chatting to Fleur and Hermione.
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Harry tried not to notice.
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And that was how the rest of the night seemed to go – someone would come up to him, they'd talk for a bit, some plan would be established to get together sometime relatively soon, and all the while some part of his attention would be tied up with Gabrielle Delacour. Quite frankly, it was getting ridiculous.
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He noticed her yawn while he was talking to Charlie about visiting the new reserve he was looking into up in the Orkneys. She covered her mouth daintily and he appreciated her slender fingers and distinct lack of rings.
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He noticed her smile as she took another cup of coffee from Fleur as he talked to Ron about potentially teaching basic field medicine to his new class of auror trainees.
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She breathed in the rich aroma of the drink and he was completely entranced by the way she half-closed her eyes as she sipped the steaming liquid.
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He noticed the way she idly fussed with her hair when Victoire came up to ask Molly Weasley a question as he talked to Hermione about visiting the London Museum. In the soft light of evening at the Burrow the colour fell closer to honey than snow.
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He hadn't been this distracted by a woman since he was sixteen years old, drooling over Ginny and generally making a fool of himself. Everything she did caught his attention, and even when he was enjoying a conversation with his closest friends - family - he could not keep his eyes off her.
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He didn't even know Gabrielle.
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He hadn't seen her for a decade.
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Sure, she was…what? Pretty? Hot? Stunning? Beautiful? The words didn't matter, and he knew nothing about her except that he was unbelievably attracted to her and that she was Fleur's sister. The fact that he was so interested in her was downright embarrassing.
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More importantly, this wasn't the reason he was there at the Burrow. He was there to see everyone again and celebrate Teddy and Victoire, but he'd been doing a shit job of it. Yes, tonight was about his godson and his more-or-less niece. It was about reconnecting with the Weasleys and trying to move forwards after everything that had happened.
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He wasn't being a good godfather, friend, or anything else, by staring at Gabrielle like an idiot.
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And yet he still couldn't help doing it.
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He drank in the curve of her jaw and the confectioner's dusting of freckles across the delicate bridge of her nose, the pout of her lips, the graceful sweep of a stray wisp of blonde as it traced the length of her slender neck and brushed the silken collar of her blouse. He feasted upon every detail, and still sought more.
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A stolen glance here, a lingering appreciation as she turned towards some conversation or another, in a hundred tiny moments he watched her.
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A hundred tiny moments, and one perfect instant he would remember for the rest of his days.
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He was idly listening to Ron and George talking about the possibility of a new range of joke products inspired by a Muggle toy Ron had seen – some sort of singing cod Harry thought - whilst paying far too much attention to the way Gabrille nibbled at a bakewell tart when she caught him looking at her.
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Their eyes met and Harry turned away, suddenly far more invested in George's musings on the comedic value of halibut, but it was only a heartbeat before he was drawn back like moth to flame.
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She hadn't looked away.
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The world seemed to hold its breath as he held her gaze, marvelling at depths of blue he'd never before seen. There was surprise there, and satisfaction, and then something else that he didn't quite recognize.
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Fleur said something. Gabrielle blinked and turned away. The perfect, electric instant vanished into the warm summer night and Harry returned to Ron and George as they debated the finer details of operatic aquaria.
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He could not have possibly cared any less if they went with a billet Figaro, or a dab Rodolfo, or even a conger Pagliacci.
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In the infinite fraction of a second before their connection had snapped Gabrielle had blushed.