FRIDAY, 6 MAY

Harry woke the morning after the funeral some time before dawn. Many of the guests had not departed until close to midnight and even after making his way to bed, Harry had slept poorly and woken several times in the middle of dreams full of shadows and a vague, furtive sense of searching for something.

He should feel grateful, he supposed, for being able to have the normal sort of bad dreams, rather than the kind that used to wake him with his scar burning like his head was cleaving in two. Harry glanced over toward Ron. It was too dark to see his face, but he was still sleeping peacefully and he snored softly.

It was probably not yet 5 o'clock but Harry slid to his bare feet and slipped quietly out of the door and down the stairs, bunching up the excess of the pajamas he'd borrowed from Ron at the waist, trying to prevent himself tripping on their length. Maybe I should have borrowed some of Ginny's, he thought somewhat bitterly. Ron had always been taller than him and it had rarely bothered him in the past, but the last couple of years' growth left Harry not even quite reaching his friend's nose any longer. James Potter had been fairly tall, as far as he could tell from photographs. Maybe his real father had been shorter?

He made his way to the living room where he flopped into the corner of the sofa.

He couldn't think of anyone who had spent time around his mother who was particularly small, except Peter Pettigrew. Bile momentarily rose in the back of Harry's throat but he dismissed the thought out of hand – Pettigrew had been light-haired and rather stocky in build with short, sausage-like fingers. Harry lifted his own long, narrow hands, looking at them for a moment as though some truth might be written on them.

Harry glanced at the clock on the wall. The hands all pointed to "home" at the moment, even Percy's. They'd all been surprised when he'd come back to the Burrow after Fred's funeral, but he'd been surprisingly decent the whole evening. It was a pity that it took such a disastrous loss to get him to reconcile with his family, Harry thought. He couldn't understand anyone taking all of this for granted.

Now, Sirius had been dark haired, hadn't he? He hadn't been short but he was a bit shorter than James had been, maybe? "Hm. Well, if I'm really Sirius's son, that's not so bad, I guess, I nearly was in a way anyhow," he told the empty room.

Neither Hermione nor any of the of the Weasleys were up yet and the house was eerily quiet. Something scratched softly within the wall toward the kitchen and there was the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere. It was cooler downstairs than it had been in Ron's stuffy bedroom and Harry began to doze off despite himself.

A dim light showed red through his closed eyelids and the cushion beside him dipped. He jerked awake and saw Mr. Weasley sitting next to him on the sofa. Pale dawn light filtered in through a window.

"I suppose Ron is snoring again?"

"Wha-?" He pushed his glasses back up his nose as he sat up a little straighter. He really did need to see about getting another pair that fit properly. "Oh, no, Mr. Weasley. Well, yes, but I'm used to it. I just... couldn't sleep." He pushed back against his hair, getting annoyed at the way it always seemed to be in his eyes anymore. It had a slightly tacky, greasy feel next to his scalp despite having been washed just the previous morning. He'd have to borrow more of Ron's shampoo.

Mrs. Weasley appeared and smiled at the two of them before heading toward the kitchen.

"Do you have any plans, Harry? I know you haven't had too much time this year to think about your future..."

Harry snorted. "Yea, been a bit distracted with that whole stopping-Voldemort thing... I dunno, really. I used to think I wanted to be an Auror, but they require N.E.W.T.s to even get into the training program. Didn't really have time for that either."

"Hm, well if you really can't stand the thought of another year at Hogwarts, I think they might be willing to make some exceptions with this autumn's applicants. They're extremely short-handed now, I'm afraid, after... well, I think they'd be foolish not to let you try it out, at least, after everything. I can make a few inquiries when I return to work, if you'd like?"

Harry smiled at that thought. "I'd really like that, yeah."

Mr. Weasley glanced at the hallway toward the stairs on the other side of the room.

"I did want to talk to you about something else, I must confess. Maybe now's a good time before everyone wakes up."

"Er..."

"Harry, Professor McGonagall spoke to Molly and myself before Ron brought you down the other day, filled us in on a few things that have happened in the last few days. I know she talked to you a bit about what this change means, with your appearance?"

Harry struggled to come up with a response. He didn't want to talk about this at all, but running out of the room again like he had at Hogwarts would only buy him some time, not a full reprieve. If McGonagall had been desperate enough to set the Weasleys onto him, she wasn't likely to let it drop.

"Harry, there is something you really do need to know. It's not something that changes who you are, not who you really are, but it may change how you feel about yourself. And, I'm afraid, about your mother."

Harry closed his eyes and pulled nervously at his oversized sleeves.

"Yea, I know, I know. McGonagall told me already, I'm not really James Potter's at all, am I? I get that. I've accepted it. It's okay, it's... it's ancient history."

Mr. Weasley patted his knee. Harry glanced up and saw Mrs. Weasley smiling at him softly from the door to the kitchen with a smudge of flour on her cheek.

"Harry, are you not the least bit curious who your father might be?"

Harry shrugged.

"I figured... well... maybe I'm... I dunno. Sirius had dark hair too, didn't he? I think I'm okay with that, he treated me like his son already anyway."

Harry smiled at Mr. Weasley, not sure if he was trying to convince him or himself more. The thought that his mother... it still made him feel weird, like an itch under his skin, even if it had been Sirius, to think that his mother had been unfaithful, even once.

Mr. Weasley did not return his smile; indeed he suddenly looked troubled. Mrs. Weasley pulled her apron off, throwing it over a chair out of sight and pointed her wand at something in the kitchen before coming to sit in an armchair across from her husband and Harry.

She reached across and took Harry's still-unfamiliar hand into her own. Harry was starting to get nervous for real, now. Did they really have to talk about this at all? He didn't see the point. He didn't care what other people thought about how he looked, anyway, and his parents were dead, whoever they had been.

Mrs. Weasley gave her husband a meaningful look, apparently urging him to get on with it, whatever it was.

"Harry, your father isn't Sirius either. He's..."

Mr. Weasley hesitated and Harry's temper finally snapped under his nerves and exhaustion.

"What? Unless you're going to tell me that I'm Voldemort's secret love-child, I can't possibly think of anything so bad that—"

Mr. Weasley laughed nervously at his outburst, which just annoyed him even more, but finally spoke plainly.

"Sweet Merlin, Harry! No, not at all! I suppose compared to that, nothing is... No, Harry, you most certainly are not related to that... creature. Your father... oh Merlin spit it out, Arthur... Harry, your father is Severus Snape. There, I said it..."

"Oh, Harry—"

Ginny stood in the door from the hallway in her dressing gown, looking at him with a mixture of shock and pity.

What a joke. My entire life is a huge, cosmic joke.

Harry sat at the table next to Mrs. Weasley staring into his cup of tea. Ginny was seated next to her father across from them.

"Harry, I'm sorry, I didn't meant to eavesdrop, but I didn't want to wake up Hermione, and..."

Harry could hear the sizzling of the pan on the stove behind him as more batter poured itself. After a moment, the pan would flip its contents over, then tip the pancake onto a plate with a heating charm. The smell ought to be making him ravenous by now. He was staring to miss having a proper appetite.

"Don't worry about it, Ginny. I'm sure everyone will realize sooner or later."

Except me, the most dense man on Earth, he thought bitterly. The truth had been staring him in the face every time he looked into a mirror for days now. He'd seen Snape as a teenager, not even a full week past, when he'd looked in that pensieve. His eyes were still Lily's, sure, and his nose wasn't quite so oversized, thankfully, but otherwise... How had it happened, though? All new-found respect for the man's bravery aside, if that sorry, greasy sonofabitch had...

Harry suddenly banged a fist down on the table, causing teacups and spoons to rattle on their saucers. Ginny flinched and stared at him.

"He took advantage of my mother, I know he did, he must've—"

Mrs. Weasley took hold of his wrist and squeezed sharply.

"Stop, Harry. Just stop, now."

Mr. Weasley glanced back toward the door and seemed to be listening. Of course, it was still a crowded house after all. Harry's voice might have woken somebody.

"Harry, Professor McGonagall spoke to him well before she told us anything. To make certain, you understand. He's quite ill from the attack, you know. Well, I certainly do. But she did get an answer from him, of sorts. She didn't use Veritaserum but she seemed confident of his honesty. She did not believe that Lily had been... ill-used. If anything, Lily sort of, er, took advantage of him, in a way, from the sound of it."

Harry stared into his tea, anger still licking like little tongues of flame at the edges of his mind.

"But she wouldn't have—"

Mrs. Weasley turned to her daughter. "Ginny, dear, do you mind...?"

Ginny looked at Harry, hesitating.

"I suppose I can go ahead and get a bath in before breakfast..."

Harry watched her slide off her seat and walk away. She glanced back at him before turning the corner. Mr. Weasley waited until her footsteps receded and cast a silencing charm over the kitchen.

"Should have done that a lot sooner, really. Hm, been a hard week, I guess."

He pulled at the collar of his shirt, a blush creeping up in either nervousness or embarrassment or both.

"Harry, you have to understand something. Sometimes people do things they wouldn't normally even think to do when they're, er... upset. And being married to somebody doesn't mean you're always going to get along. Sometimes you just don't think straight and, you do something... ahh..."

Mrs. Weasley smiled her husband, who was now beet-red, and bailed him out.

"Harry, what Arthur is trying to say is that sometimes we end up hurting somebody we love because they hurt us. Professor McGonagall explained that your mother had made a visit to her old neighborhood after having some kind of argument with James and apparently ran into Severus, who still lived in the area. They'd been quite close friends as children, I guess you know more about that than I would now... anyhow I suppose one thing must have led to another. But, Harry, we all make mistakes, sometimes, do you understand? And sometimes when we do, we just have to try and make up and make the best of things afterward."

Harry felt vaguely nauseous. Mrs. Weasley began rubbing slow circles across his shoulders. He wanted to scream, or cry, or maybe run away somewhere, but he seemed rooted to the spot. Somehow it had been easier to face Voldemort. At least then, he'd had an enemy and his path was clear. This, however, was far muddier...

"Harry, dear, I know this is a lot to take in all at once..."

"It's all a mistake... it's just... some sort of mistake."

"Harry, I'm afraid it is true, you really are—"

Mr. Weasley was leaning forward, looking concerned and caring and Harry could hardly stand it at the moment, and that just made him feel even more wretched. He didn't deserve the Weasleys. He was just...

Harry shook his head.

"I'm just a mistake."

"Now Harry, that is simply not true—"

Harry slid off the seat, pulling away from Mrs. Weasley's comforting hold. He turned the corner, dashed across the living room and up the steps, bursting back into Ron's bedroom. He flopped back into his rumpled sheets and pulled them over his head, wishing he could just start the morning over entirely. Ron's snoring had not skipped a beat.

Ron rose immediately when Ginny banged on the door half an hour later, announcing breakfast. Harry pulled the blanket up further over his head.

"C'mon Harry, I smell bacon!"

Ron shook the vaguely Harry-shaped lump of blankets.

"Look, I know yesterday was... really, though Harry, there's nothing you could've done, nobody blames you."

"I'm not... that's..."

He didn't just want to blurt out that he wasn't upset about Fred at the moment. It seemed... insensitive.

"Well, come on then, before Bill and Charlie eat all of it."

Harry finally gave in, dragging the blankets off his head, raising sparks of static from his hair and making it stick to his face. He shoved it to the side. Was it even longer, now? Why was it growing so fast?

Must be some bloody stupid Snape thing, he thought. Even when the man was miles away at Hogwarts, he was making Harry's life a pain. And to think I always wished for my father to be around before. Ha!

The table was already crowded by the time he caught up with Ron. He looked over at George, missing an ear. And his twin. He was starting to become accustomed to the creeping guilty feeling, now.

Mrs. Weasley piled his plate with pancakes and shoved half a dozen slices of bacon on to go with them. Harry squeezed in between Hermione and Ginny, trying not to hit elbows as he set himself to the task of finishing the intimidating volume in front of him.

The family seemed in remarkably good spirits, considering the day before. If it weren't for slight moments where Mrs. Weasely would suddenly seem miles away, and her husband would take her hand and squeeze it under the table, Harry might never have guessed they'd just buried a son.

George seemed to go the other way – becoming louder, ruder and more mischievous than ever at times, as though he could make up for his brother's absence by being doubly obnoxious.

Charlie left after breakfast, begging off that he had to get back to Romania to check up on a sick dragon they'd been tracking for a few days. Some kind of illness was going about in the region and they were trying to keep it from spreading to neighboring populations. Sick dragons had an unfortunate tendency, he said, to stray out of their normal territories, putting them in danger of being seen by Muggles.

They passed the morning throwing an old quaffle around the back yard, swapping off with the old brooms from the shed. Hermione mostly sat on the garden wall watching with Fleur, but Harry managed to badger her into a couple of rounds. She only fell from her broom once, at least, necessitating Harry to execute a swift dive on the battered old Cleansweep to grab her by the wrist. She wasn't inclined to try again. Ah, well. At least the activity let him avoid any pressing questions from his friends.

Harry wondered what had happened to his old Firebolt after he'd dropped it when he'd been pursued while leaving the Dursley's last year. He had half a mind to return to Little Whinging to look for it, to see if it were perhaps still stuck in some Muggle's hedgerow, but he knew the chances were slim to none. It had probably been smashed, or, worse, snatched up by some Death Eater as a trophy. Perhaps he could get to Diagon Alley soon. If nothing else, he needed clothes and borrowing Ron's oversized ones brought back memories of Dudley's castoffs in a less-than-pleasant way.

He just hoped his parents' vault was safe. Well, his mother's and... whatever James Potter was to him. Sirius had left him a key as well, to a Black family vault that was by no means running bare, and it made him feel ill. He had no right to any of it. I'm not James Potter's son. And Sirius would be rolling in his grave, if he had one, to think he'd left all of his earthly possessions to the offspring of Severus Snape.

The quaffle pitched his way by Ginny caught him on the ear, sending him lurching off to the side.

"Ack, Harry! What's wrong?"

He shook his head and rubbed at his stinging ear, then pushed his glasses back up his nose. At least it hadn't been a bludger.

"Er, nothing Ginny. Just... got distracted a moment."

Ginny touched down on the grass and Harry followed her.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Ginny leaned down to pick up the dropped quaffle and threw it straight back up into the air for her brothers. George plucked it from mid-air and launched it at Bill.

"Why don't we put up these brooms and head in, then? You seem tired."

Harry nodded at her and followed her to the broom shed, shoving the old Cleansweep in next to Ginny's broom before following her back inside.

It was blessedly cool in the kitchen when he sat at the table. Ginny pulled a couple glasses from a cabinet and put one in front of him with cold pumpkin juice before filling her own with water.

"Harry, you would tell somebody if you thought you weren't doing okay, right? You don't have to keep everything bottled up, you know."

Harry nodded and gulped down half the glass in one go. Harry looked at Ginny, who was watching him with a soft expression. It hit him just how much he had missed her this last year. He'd broken it off with her after Dumbledore's funeral, and had meant it at the time – he couldn't live with himself thinking he'd make her a target. She had understood at the time, but months had passed.

But the war was over, right? Any words he might say stuck in his throat. Nothing seemed quite right for the moment. He wasn't even sure she'd... He couldn't stomach the thought right now that she might not want to start over. And couldn't blame her if she didn't. I look like him now, after all, he thought glumly as he took another sip of his juice.

Ginny leaned back in her seat and sighed. Whatever she'd expected him to say, he'd let her down, apparently.

"Voldemort's dead, Harry. You don't have to do the Dutiful Soldier thing anymore. You're still seventeen, for Merlin's sake, not seventy-five."

"I know that, Ginny." He shoved his sweat-slicked hair back for the umpteenth time. Maybe Mrs. Weasley could cut it for him later. She probably knew some charms.

"Do you? Really? It's funny... sometimes you sit there staring a million miles away at nothing, and I wonder what you're thinking about. I think I get it, a little bit, maybe, but I'm not fooling myself thinking I understand all of it. But if you want to talk later, I'm willing to listen, just so you know."

Harry smiled at her, nodding again. He scratched at his jawline now too, which in just the last day or two seemed to be gaining a bit of shadow to go along with the odd itch. He'd never had to worry about shaving, before, either. It struck him that after seven years surrounded by magic, he had no idea how Wizards dealt with the problem. Did they use a razor, like Muggles, or was there some sort of spell?

He snorted, laughing to himself. Ginny tilted her head, looking at him again.

"Is something funny?"

"Er, sort of. I'm not laughing at you, though, I promise."

"Well?"

He shook his head, downing the rest of the juice.

"Just... well, nothing. That charm... thing. I never had to cut my hair before. Or, er... shave. Kind of itches, really." He scratched at his chin again, starting to find it genuinely annoying.

Ginny laughed, a light musical sound to Harry's ears. He found himself blushing slightly.

"Good grief, Harry, only Muggles shave. Or idiots who want to look cool brandishing a straight-edge and end up cutting themselves. That one time Charlie tried it, we thought he'd been trying to cut his own throat for a moment... Just have Dad show you how to deal with it later, it's a pretty simple charm. You know, you might not look half bad with a bit of a beard, though. Could be a bit dashing and all, Mister Rugged Hero of the Wizarding World."

She laughed again at her own joke, giving her hair a bit of a flip and grinning at him. He was blushing for real, now. He hadn't really given much thought to the actual appeal of his appearance since the change, other than trying to avoid thinking about it at all. But he realized part of him had sort of been worried about what Ginny would think.

"Er... uh. I'll think about it, I guess."

"What? Oh, well... Harry, I know it's got to be weird looking like, um. Like Snape. But you don't look just like him, you know. You still look a little bit like you did before. Your eyes haven't changed a bit, at least? And your nose isn't quite as big, thank Merlin. It's sort of, er, dignified? On you, anyway."

"Um, thanks. I guess."

Ginny gave him an odd, mischievous smile that made him think of Fred and George. She suddenly leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Everything will work out, okay?"

He was saved having to figure out how to respond by the back door slamming open, everyone else returning from the garden, chatting as they filed in and plopped themselves down around him and Ginny at the table. Mrs. Weasley appeared a moment later, hovering a basket of clean laundry past and around to send it up the stairs before returning.

"You lot clean up and clear out of the kitchen, I need to start lunch, hm?"

After lunch, Bill and Fleur were packing up as well.

"Are you sure you can't stay the weekend, dear?"

"Sorry, mum, got a few things to take care of this weekend, I'm afraid. Gringotts have asked me to come back and I couldn't refuse – they've offered a promotion and a rise, but I have to return on Monday if I want the job. They're shorthanded now. I might be going back to Egypt soon."

Fleur gave her mother-in-law a hug without hesitation. Harry was glad they'd buried the hatchet. Bill also hugged both of his parents before shouldering his and his wife's bags and heading toward the Floo. He glanced back at Harry with apologetic looking smile, maybe for his earlier suspicion, but said nothing. The flames flared green and both of them were gone.