Hello everyone! This is a short little fluffy one shot I worte. I hope you enjoy, it's been swimming around in my brain for awhile and it needed to come out!
And as a note, I know in cannon Fred dies, but not in this story. :)
Harry Potter stood alone in the silence of his room, holding a small, corked vial filled with a glowing, silvery liquid. The glistening potion pulled in the dim light around it, casting flickering patterns against the worn pages of an old, handwritten letter. The paper was brittle and slightly faded, the quill strokes done with such precision it could only have been penned by one man: Severus Snape.
It was during a bout of profound despair that the letter had materialized seemingly from nowhere, a vial adorning it like a pendant, secured with a delicate silken ribbon. A somber spectacle, the letter had floated mid-air in his room's quiet confines, casting an eerie shadow that further accentuated the room's worn-out walls.
In the aftermath of the war, life had become a barrage of relentless pain and recurring nightmares. His haunted eyes reflected years of hardship that he shouldn't have to bear. Severus had seen the possibility of this; he had left Harry this potion as a lifeline, a way out of the torment if he had needed it.
The potion would transport him back to a state of innocence, back to being a five-year-old allowed a chance to grow up again. Severus had been thoughtful enough to add a charm, a memory block that would prevent the tumultuous past from leaking into his newfound innocence. Harry could recall the memories if he chose to, but they would no longer torment him without consent.
Reading the last lines of Snape's letter again, Harry clutched the vial tighter, his knuckles paling. "If you reach a point where life's suffering outweighs its joy, and your past overshadows your present, this is your chance for solace, Harry. This is your chance to grow up as a child should."
His thoughts turned back to the day the letter arrived. He had rushed to Molly and Arthur immediately, the parchment clutched tightly in his hand, asking for their advice. Their response had been immediate and unwavering. They had offered to welcome him into their family, to provide the love and care he had been deprived of in his childhood. He was already their son in everything but name, and now was their chance to give him what he had never had.
The warmth of their acceptance was tempting, the prospect of becoming a part of their family both thrilling and daunting. It was a decision that tugged at his heartstrings, filling him with a flurry of conflicting emotions.
As Harry grappled with these thoughts, he realized the decision was far from easy. It was a choice that required courage, introspection, and acceptance. He was, in essence, choosing between holding on to his past or embracing the potential of a brighter, happier future.
In his ponderings, Harry's mind strayed to Ginny. They had given romance a shot after the war, endeavoring to recapture the tender feelings of their youth. But, as the dust settled and the adrenaline waned, they discovered that the bonds that once held them together had frayed. Their relationship, it turned out, was more a product of wartime urgency and youthful passion than a profound, enduring connection. This revelation was hard to swallow at first, but in time, they both came to appreciate that they were better as friends, as allies, rather than lovers. Their shared history and mutual respect still bound them, but the romantic flame had dimmed.
Harry hesitated, his mind a whirlwind of thought. Was it cowardice to desire an escape from the life he had led? Was he dishonouring those who had fought and died in the war by choosing to forget, even temporarily? On the other hand, didn't he owe it to them, and to himself, to seek happiness, to enjoy the peace they had fought so hard for?
He could almost hear Hermione's voice, rational as ever, telling him that it wasn't a question of bravery or honour. It was about healing, about giving himself the chance to be just Harry, not 'the boy who lived,' not the chosen one.
As he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he didn't see a war hero. He saw a tired young man, a survivor, whose eyes held the weight of too many lost lives. Perhaps it was time to lay down that burden, to live the childhood he was denied. The question remained, was he ready to let go?
He turned the vial in his hands, the potion within swirling like a captured galaxy. His heart pounded in his chest as he contemplated the profound potential it held. It was his chance at normalcy, a shot at a second, fear-free childhood without the burden of responsibilities thrust upon him too early. A promising opportunity to heal, to be just Harry, and yet he felt an acute sense of loss. As if he were standing on the precipice of a deep abyss, contemplating a leap without knowing what lay beneath. It was a leap of faith into a future gifted by the most unlikely of sources.
Walking over to the window, he watched the sun set over the landscape, its soft orange glow casting long shadows over the fields. He wondered how it would be to witness this as a child again, to see the world without the lens of war and sacrifice. A world where he was not a marked man, but just another boy.
He thought of the Weasleys and their warm, welcoming home. A stark contrast to the cold cupboards and loveless existence he had known. A sense of longing washed over him. They were willing to offer him a second chance at a family, a home, something he had yearned for his whole life. How ironic it was that he hesitated now when he had always sought exactly this.
Deep in thought, he walked back to the mirror, the potion still in his hand. The man he saw was not the boy he felt. His body bore the scars of battles fought, his eyes held the depth of experiences lived. This was his life, and yet it was one he hadn't chosen. For once, he was given the power to choose, to reshape his life.
It was this power that unnerved him. He had grown used to his life being orchestrated by prophecies and destiny. To have this choice felt overwhelming, like being given the quill to rewrite his story. Was he ready to embrace this responsibility?
Looking at the potion, he remembered Snape's words in the letter. "This is your chance to grow up as a child should. A chance to know joy without accompanying pain, to experience love without impending loss."
A sudden resolve washed over him. He was tired of being a pawn in a game he hadn't signed up for. Of having a destiny to fulfill before he was even born. He was weary of carrying the weight of the world on his young shoulders. Maybe it was time he chose happiness over responsibility, peace over turmoil.
He uncorked the vial, the potion giving off a soft, ethereal glow. He held it to his lips, his heart pounding, his decision made. As he swallowed, he closed his eyes, the world around him blurring. He had chosen to take the chance, to claim the childhood he was denied. It was time to let go.
As the potion worked its magic, Harry's last conscious thought was of the Burrow, its warmth, its chaos, and its undeniable love. A soft smile formed on his lips. It was a new beginning, a second chance. And he was ready to embrace it.
When Harry opened his eyes again, he found himself shorter, his surroundings larger along with his clothing, and his body felt lighter than it had in years. The potion had worked. He was a child again, a five-year-old Harry, standing in the room that was familiar yet seemed different from his new perspective.
Looking down, he saw small hands, unscarred and untouched by war. The room around him seemed vast and intimidating, but there was also an overwhelming sense of newness that filled him with a strange sort of excitement.
Stumbling slightly, he walked towards the mirror. The face that looked back at him was one he hadn't seen for a long time - it was the face of innocence, of childhood. It was him without the scars, without the burdensome history, without the responsibilities.
He tried to remember, pushing at the walls Snape's potion had erected in his mind, but they held firm. He knew he had lived before this, knew there were memories behind the barriers, but he couldn't access them unless he consciously chose to. For now, he didn't. He wanted to soak in this moment of newfound freedom.
The door to his room creaked open, and in walked Mrs. Weasley, her face beaming as she saw him. "Harry, dear," she called softly, and he turned, his heart fluttering with a sense of belonging. This was his family now. This was his home.
The smile she wore was the same kind, warm smile he had seen countless times, but now it felt different – safer, more comforting. Molly Weasley had always been a motherly figure to him, but now she was more than that. She was his guardian, his guide into this new life.
As Molly looked at Harry, she noticed his clothes. They were far too big now, swallowed him whole like the over-sized garments he'd been given at the Dursleys. She decided it was time for another change, one that would make him feel more comfortable in his new form.
"Just a moment, Harry," Molly said, holding his small hand in hers. She quickly withdrew her wand, pointed it at Harry's oversized attire and muttered a spell under her breath. The clothes began to shimmer, then they shrunk and reshaped, altering themselves to perfectly fit his new body. When the magic settled, Harry was wearing a small set of clothes: a cozy pair of jeans and a comfy t-shirt adorned with animated broomsticks that flew across the fabric.
The sight brought a smile to Molly's face. It wasn't just about the clothes, it was about him feeling at home, feeling like himself. Harry looked down at his new clothes, his small hands patting down the fabric, a look of wonder on his face.
"Do they fit alright, dear?" Molly asked, a slight hint of worry lacing her words.
Harry nodded, a wide smile brightening his face. He kicked his little legs, as if testing the new clothes. "Yes, they're perfect, Molly," he responded, his voice filled with childish joy.
She patted his head affectionately. "Come, Harry," she said, reaching out for his small hand. Her touch was gentle, her fingers curling around his with a comforting firmness. He looked up at her, his green eyes wide and curious.
Molly led him to a corner of the room that was marked by an assortment of paint cans, brushes, and wallpapers. "I thought we might give this room a new look, something more you," she explained, her eyes twinkling with excitement.
Harry felt a warm flutter in his chest at her words. He had never been given the liberty to decide how his room should look. Molly's proposition filled him with a sense of autonomy he had never felt before. He was given a chance to choose, a chance to create something that was truly his.
"What do you think, love?" Molly asked, bringing him back from his thoughts.
Harry looked at the array of choices before him. His gaze fell on a wallpaper that had tiny snitches fluttering across a sky blue backdrop. He pointed at it, a small smile playing on his lips.
Molly chuckled, her eyes sparkling with warmth. "Just like I thought, a true Quidditch fan at heart," she said, pulling out the roll of wallpaper.
As they spent the afternoon redecorating his room, Harry couldn't help but marvel at this newfound sense of normalcy. This was a world apart from his old life, a life marked by solitude and battles. Now, he was painting walls and choosing wallpapers, his biggest concern being what color the curtains should be.
It was late evening when they finished. Harry's room was transformed. The sky blue wallpaper adorned the walls, creating an illusion of the sky indoors. Tiny snitches appeared to be darting across the walls, adding a whimsical touch. Molly had conjured a small four-poster bed, just like the one at Hogwarts, complete with a Gryffindor-themed duvet. The room felt warm, it felt safe. It felt like his.
Molly, standing by the door, watched Harry as he walked around the room, touching everything as though to assure himself that it was real. "Do you like it, Harry?" she asked, her voice soft.
Harry turned to look at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He nodded, a simple yet heartfelt gesture. "I love it, Molly," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. For the first time in his life, Harry had a room that was truly his own. A room that held no memories of his tragic past or of people he had lost. A room that represented hope, love, and a new beginning.
Molly's eyes were glassy as she watched Harry bask in his new surroundings. She took a step towards him, squatting down to his level. "Harry," she started, her voice wavering just slightly, "You don't have to call me Molly, dear. If you...if you want to, you can call me... Mum."
There was a pause, Harry's eyes widening slightly. He hadn't considered that, but it wasn't an unwelcome idea. He'd never had a mum to call his own, not one he remembered at least. This was another choice, another chance to experience something he'd always yearned for.
"Can I really?" Harry asked, his voice hushed with uncertainty. Molly nodded, her heart pounding. "If you'd like to, Harry," she confirmed.
A silence fell between them, filled with emotions running high and unsaid words. Harry looked into her eyes, seeing nothing but love and acceptance. A lump formed in his throat, his voice shaky, he tried out the word, "Mum."
It felt strange but also profoundly right. Molly's eyes overflowed with tears, quickly wiped away. She pulled Harry into a hug, whispering in his ear, "That's perfect, Harry. Absolutely perfect."
After a moment, they pulled apart. Molly smoothed Harry's unruly hair fondly. "Now, how about we go downstairs and join the others?" she suggested. Harry nodded eagerly. He had been wondering when he'd see Ron and Hermione, not to mention the rest of the Weasley clan. He felt a twinge of nerves, unsure of how they'd receive him now.
"Alright, love," Molly said, her smile reassuring. Hand in hand, they exited the room that was now distinctly Harry's, and descended the stairs to introduce five-year-old Harry to the rest of his new family.
The warm, comforting smell of Molly's cooking wafted up from the kitchen as they made their way downstairs. Harry's stomach rumbled in response, causing him to giggle. It was a familiar and welcoming scent, the scent of a home, of a family. It was another reminder that he wasn't alone anymore.
Upon reaching the living room, Harry's heart pounded in his chest. The room was filled with familiar faces, all turned towards him. His hand tightened around Molly's as he took in the sight.
Ron and Hermione sat on one of the couches, with Fred, George, and Ginny on the other. Mr. Weasley was seated in his favorite armchair, engrossed in a Muggle artifact. All conversations had halted, and a quiet hush fell over the room as they noticed Molly and Harry standing by the entrance.
"Everyone," Molly began, her voice steady. She squeezed Harry's hand encouragingly. "I want you to meet Harry."
A series of surprised gasps filled the room. They all knew what was happening upstairs, but seeing Harry standing there, so much smaller and younger, was a stark reminder of the transformation he had undergone. A chorus of soft 'hellos' echoed around the room.
Ron was the first to break the silence. He moved forward, dropping onto his knees to be level with Harry. "Blimey, Harry," he exclaimed, a teasing grin on his face, "You're almost as short as me now!"
The tension in the room broke as laughter erupted, even from Harry. Molly watched as the others took turns interacting with Harry, her heart filled with relief at their acceptance.
As the twilight hours stretched on, the Burrow was filled with a convivial hum. The old wooden house, steeped in love and magic, echoed with the sounds of merriment. The walls vibrated with laughter, stories, and well-meant banter, as the Weasley family reveled in their expanded family circle.
Harry found himself in the center of this joyous pandemonium, feeling almost overwhelmed by the outpouring of love. It was a far cry from the cold, indifferent environment he had been accustomed to growing up, and it was both comforting and slightly disorienting.
There was Ron, his best friend, sitting next to him on the sofa, regaling him with tales of their shared adventures at Hogwarts, carefully omitting the more dangerous parts to spare Harry's innocent sensibilities. Hermione joined in occasionally, correcting Ron's exaggerated versions, her eyes twinkling with fondness.
Fred and George were on either side of Harry, their faces animated as they shared stories about their pranks at school. Their laughter was infectious, and Harry found himself chuckling along, his eyes shining with mirth. Ginny sat across from him, her bright smile warm as she joined in the banter, her adoration for her newfound younger brother evident in her tone.
Meanwhile, Arthur, a gentle smile playing on his lips, sat back and watched as his family interacted with Harry. He noticed how Molly doted on the young boy, showering him with the motherly affection he'd been denied for so long. She was always ready with another helping of treacle tart, Harry's favorite, or a comforting arm around his shoulder.
As the night unfolded, the Weasleys took turns sharing anecdotes, engaging Harry in their storytelling, including him in their boisterous camaraderie. To Harry, it felt like he was being read aloud, each family member adding their own chapter to his new story. It was as if he was being passed around like a beloved storybook, each person eager to interact with him, to add to his narrative.
As the evening waned, the energy in the room gradually wound down. The laughter became softer, the conversations more muted. Harry, cradled against Arthur's chest, fought against the tendrils of sleep tugging at his eyelids. It had been a long day, filled with new experiences and warmth, and his small body was beginning to feel the weight of it.
Arthur noticed Harry's drowsy state, his little head drooping against his shoulder. He gently scooped him up into his arms, cradling him against his chest. Harry immediately nestled into him, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips. His small body relaxed against Arthur's warmth, comforted by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
A hush fell over the room as Arthur looked around at his family. His eyes shone with a mixture of contentment and gratitude. "Bedtime for this one," he announced, his voice soft but resonant. The words seemed to reverberate in the cozy living room, and all conversations momentarily ceased.
"Say goodnight, Harry," he encouraged. Harry, roused slightly by Arthur's voice, mustered up a sleepy mumble that sounded vaguely like 'goodnight.' It echoed around the room, and was met with a chorus of heartfelt responses. "Night, Harry," came the warm goodnights, filling the room with affection.
Arthur gently rose from his chair, carefully cradling Harry in his arms. The tiny boy clung to him, his small fingers tangling themselves in the fabric of Arthur's robes. Arthur smiled down at him, warmth radiating from his gaze.
Arthur's steady footsteps echoed softly in the hush of the Burrow as he carried Harry up the stairs. The house felt even more homely in the muted glow of the evening, radiating a comforting warmth that made Harry's eyelids feel heavy. Arthur stepped into the newly decorated room, the tiny snitches on the wallpaper seeming to glow under the dim light of the bedside lamp.
He gently placed Harry on the bed, a small pile of new pajamas appearing out of nowhere by the bed. With care, Arthur began changing Harry into the pajamas, his movements gentle and patient. "There we are, little man," he murmured as he buttoned up the last button, a warm smile lighting up his features.
"Thank you, Arthur," Harry mumbled sleepily, his small hands clutching the soft fabric of his new pajamas. Arthur tucked him in, pulling the Gryffindor-themed duvet up to his chin.
Arthur took a moment to look at the little boy bundled up in the bed, his heart swelling with a tenderness he hadn't felt in years. He reached out to gently smooth down Harry's unruly hair, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
"Harry," he began quietly, his eyes meeting the boy's sleepy green ones. "I heard you call Molly 'Mum' earlier. If you want to, you could call me 'Dad'."
Harry blinked, the suggestion sinking in slowly. He remembered the warmth that had spread through him when he had first called Molly 'Mum'. Could he really call Arthur 'Dad'?
"I...I can?" Harry asked, his voice shaky with a mix of sleepiness and uncertainty.
Arthur nodded, his smile warm and reassuring. "If you want to, Harry," he replied, his hand resting gently on Harry's shoulder.
There was a pause, filled with the soft rustling of the wind outside and the quiet ticking of the clock on the bedside table. Harry took a deep breath, trying the word out in his mind before finally whispering it out loud. "Dad."
The word hung in the air, just a soft whisper, yet holding so much significance. Arthur felt a lump in his throat, tears welling up in his eyes. This was a role he'd long played for his other children, and to now hear Harry call him 'Dad' touched him more deeply than he could express.
"That's perfect, Harry," he managed to say, his voice choked with emotion. "Absolutely perfect."
Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to regain his composure. The room was silent, save for Harry's soft, rhythmic breathing. Finally, he cleared his throat, his gaze falling upon the small bookshelf beside the bed.
"Do you want me to read you a bedtime story?" he asked, picking up a colorful children's book filled with stories of magical creatures and enchanting spells.
Harry gave a small nod, already halfway into the land of dreams. Arthur gently opened the book, beginning to weave the tale of a brave young wizard and his magical adventures. As Arthur's voice filled the room, Harry felt a sense of safety and comfort wash over him. This was his new life, a life filled with love, care, and warmth, something he'd only ever dreamed of.
Slowly, his eyelids grew heavy, the sound of Arthur's voice lulling him into a deep sleep. His dreams were filled with a vision of his new life. He saw himself playing Quidditch in the backyard with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, running around the Burrow with a sense of freedom he had never known, and above all, he was surrounded by the love of his new family.
As the night grew deeper, the last words of the story fell softly upon Harry's sleeping form. Arthur quietly closed the book, his gaze lingering on the peaceful face of the sleeping boy. He leaned over, planting a soft kiss on Harry's forehead.
"Goodnight, Harry," he whispered, before standing up and moving towards the door. As he walked out, he cast a final glance at the little boy sleeping soundly in the bed, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
In the silence of the night, the Burrow was filled with a profound sense of love and warmth. And within its walls, a young boy named Harry was finally finding the home he'd always yearned for. This time around, he was not the boy who lived. He was simply Harry, a loved and cherished member of the Weasley family.