Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

Author's Note(s): This piece was written for the Houses Competition on the FFN Forums.

The Houses Competition Information:
House: Hufflepuff
Category: Drabble
Outside Category: SL Forfeit (Shay)
Prompts: Shaking [action]
Word Count: 878

-= LP =-
Losing Homes
-= LP =-
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal.
Love leaves a memory no one can steal.
– A headstone in Ireland
-= LP =-

It came as a shock.

Molly and Arthur had survived both Wars with Voldemort. They had survived raising the twins whose idea of fun had been making things explode. Not even the most vicious of biting toilet seats had done more than give Arthur something to gripe about mildly while Molly plied him with tea and scones. Nagini's bite had nearly killed Arthur, but the man had bounced back with aplomb and excitement over muggle remedies.

In Harry's mind, they had become immortal, undefeatable.

They had opened their home to him as if it didn't matter—no, as if it was the only thing that could have been done, as if to do otherwise was so foreign a concept that it never crossed their minds. Harry was Ron's friend and of course, he was welcomed. Harry needed a place to stay, so of course he was coming home with them. Harry didn't have parents or a family—well, that wouldn't do. Molly had never seen anything wrong with just tucking Harry under her wing, just another of her chicks to be mothered. Arthur had thought nothing of conspiring about bending rules—laws, even—that he himself had set before immediately dissembling the moment Molly turned a frown in his direction. They hadn't pulled away from him, not even when it became clear that he and Ginny weren't working out and there would be no formal way for him to join the family.

And now they were gone.

And there was no one to even blame.

After years of Petunia telling him that his parents died in a car crash, that was how he had lost the closest he had as a replacement. There was no drunk driver or distracted teen out for a joy ride. Arthur hadn't been speeding when the car hydroplaned, slipping out of his careful control and off the road before Molly could react. For years she had been so quick with her wand, capable of separating squabbling children and shielding explosions in half a heartbeat, but the woman who had defeated the toughest of Voldemort's lieutenants hadn't be fast enough to save herself or her husband.

Harry wanted to be angry. He wanted to scream and rage like he had after Sirius' death. He wanted to weep and wail and cry until he could drown in the ocean of tears that he must be carrying around inside himself. Instead, he went through too-familiar motions. He had arranged funerals so many times in the wake of the Final Battle, because so many families had ended completely and there had been no one to do it. The Ministry had been willing to bury them, but services would have been forgone and Harry couldn't let—Molly had beamed at him when she had found out, her first smile since Fred's death.

Remembering that wasn't enough to break the numbness he felt.

Maybe he wouldn't feel anything ever again. Maybe they had taken that with them.

The Will was to be read the day after the funeral and Harry was mildly surprised to be on the list of required attendees. It was a spark of something, but it didn't last long. Maybe Molly had wanted him there to comfort Ginny and Ron—or George, who had had trouble integrating into the world after the War, a world without Fred. If they wanted him there, the reason didn't matter, did it? Of course he would go.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, his lips numb with shock. "Can you repeat that, please?"

"The Burrow, its contents, and all connected lands are bequeathed to our youngest son, Harry James Potter," the goblin repeated obligingly, "so that he will always have a home to return to even after we're gone. I know that he will care for it with the same dedication and love that we always had and that he will always welcome our other children just as we would."

It started with a slight tremble in his hands as he lifted them to cover his face, just a trickle of feeling through the dam that had capped his emotions. Then it had rippled through his entire frame as the dam burst. He choked back the sob trying to escape. Next thing he knew he was shaking with the emotions flying through him.

It was too much.

It was still not enough.

Harry grabbed onto the first lifesaver tossed his way, in the form of a slim feminine form wiggling her way onto his lap—Ginny, judging by the yarrow scent of her hair. He held tight to the woman who was capable of frightening fully trained aurors with no more than a raise of her eyebrow and bullying Ron into doing things even when he had dug deep into his stubborn stupidity. Ginny knew that Harry wouldn't have been able to stand being held—taking comfort was something he just couldn't handle most of the time—but Harry couldn't spare the energy to feel grateful that she had remembered their compromise. He just kept her in his arms as he shook apart with his grief, finally.

His parents had left him their home, so that he would always have one.

He could only feel like he had lost the best one.