Confused by the turn of events and with nothing but white noise in his ears, Harry helped Mr. Weasley up the steps and down the hall to the living room. Despite his many stays at the Burrow over the past few years, Harry had rarely spent time alone with the Weasley patriarch. Each step away from the others in the kitchen contributed to a growing sense of unease.

They didn't speak as they moved down the hall, nor when they entered the ornate room. Harry lowered Mr. Weasley into the most comfortable chair available and grabbed a nearby throw (a patchwork quilt definitely made by Mrs. Weasley and not a Black family heirloom) to hopefully ward off the winter draft. This earned Harry a soft "thank you" as Mr. Weasley attempted to steady his breathing and settle into his new seat.

Harry hovered nearby, unsure of what to do next.

"You can sit. Despite how I look I promise I don't bite," Mr. Weasley finally joked, gesturing to the couch across from him.

With heat rising in his cheeks, Harry slowly lowered himself back on to the couch, sinking into the moth-eaten cushions. Still uncertain of what was happening, Harry tried to stave off the thought spiral of all the topics that Mr. Weasley could possibly want to talk to him about.

"You looked like you could use some space." "What?"

Arthur smiled kindly as he adjusted himself in the chair. "Back there, in the kitchen. You were looking a little crowded. I thought you could use a breather, away from everyone. Merlin knows my lot can be overwhelming on their own."

Harry couldn't do much but stare back at the man, which clearly amused him as his smile grew a bit crooked.

"I know you likely don't want to talk about what just happened," Mr. Weasley started. "And none of us can force you to."

Harry let out a breath he'd been holding since the kitchen. "Thank you – "

Mr. Weasley held up a hand. "You might not want to thank me just yet. I do believe we need to talk about it tonight. Don't shut me out just yet – "he added, clearly eyeing Harry's tense shoulders, "let me finish before you decide whether you want to snap at me."

Feeling sheepish, Harry turned his head away from Mr. Weasley and fixed his gaze through the doorway on a truly hideous portrait in the hall.

"Thank you. I know that we've asked for quite a bit of your patience this year, so I appreciate you giving me a little more."

While he hadn't said anything remarkable, Harry felt a sense of vindication at his words. They really had been asking for a lot – stay where you are, don't do anything rash, we'll tell you what to do but never why you should do it. It was what Harry had been trying to explain to Ron and Hermione all term and hearing it out loud, from an adult, was honestly more validating than he thought it would be.

"And I know," Mr. Weasley continued, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning towards Harry on the couch. "I know that beyond your patience we have been asking for your trust. And if I know anything about you – and given how often you stay with us I'd like to say I know a fair bit – it is that your trust is not easily earned."

Harry turned sharply back towards the man as a small groan escaped his lips. "Are you hurting? Do you need me to get someone? I can get Mrs. Weasley." Harry's rambling concern was brushed off with a gentle wave.

"I'm alright, the Healer said it would be tender, I just forgot not to lean too heavily in that direction." And he did look alright, Harry thought, as he watched him shift to another new position. "I appreciate the concern, and I will let you know if I need you to go get Molly. I promise."

Harry cautiously leaned back into his seat, hands splayed on his knees and knuckles white from where he had gripped his baggy jeans. He noticed Mr. Weasley's eyes dart to them and he quickly cross his arms, clearly tucking his hands out of view as Mr. Weasley continued to study him silently.

The silence probably only lasted for a minute or so but to Harry it seemed to drag on. Knee bouncing, he spoke in hopes that it would put an end to the calculating stare on the other man's face. "Are we done here? I was hoping to head to bed. I'm tired."

This seemed to be the wrong thing to say, as a frown crossed the older man's face. "I'm sure you are," he stated. "I'd be exhausted if I was you. And frustrated, sad, terrified..."

"I'm not terrified," Harry huffed. Him, terrified? Who was it that faced Voldemort last spring? Not Dumbledore. Not the Order. But Harry. Just Harry.

"I never said you were." Mr. Weasley's tone was as calm as it had been in the kitchen. "I just said that I would be if I was you." He looked at Harry over his glasses, a move that oddly reminded Harry of how Dumbledore used to look at him before this year. "And it would be okay if you were. But it seems to be anger is your primary emotion at the moment."

Harry could once again feel the heat rise in his cheeks, but whether from anger or shame this time he wasn't too sure.

Mr. Weasley continued quickly. "And, again, anger is a logical emotion to feel. But while you are valid in feeling your emotion, you are not excused from the consequences of acting on it."

Harry's confusion prompted Mr. Weasley to elaborate. "My children do write home to me, you know. And you have always featured quite heavily in those letters."

That was too much information to handle face-to-face. Harry stood from the couch, pacing away towards the shelves on the other side of the room. "I'm not – I haven't – er..."

"They worry about you."

"They shouldn't."

"They say you aren't acting like yourself."

"Well, maybe they should focus on themselves."

"I agree with them."

Harry spun on the spot. "How would you know? You don't know me."

If Harry thought his tone would get a response from the man, he was wrong. Mr. Weasley continued to stare at him, gaze calm and open. "I thought we just established that I do? At least more than others." He spread his hands over the blanket on his lap. "And frankly, I think I would be even more concerned about you if you weren't acting differently."

Struggling against the white noise that seemed to have come rushing back, Harry tried to wrap his thoughts around that statement. "Wait, what?" He finally managed to ask.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley started, in an even gentler tone than before, "you went through an incredibly horrible event last spring. That changes a person. Grief changes a person."

Harry could feel that sour, acidic taste growing in the back of his mouth. "It's not grief, I hardly knew Cedric. And I, I've been through worse. It, it sucked," he capitulated with a shrug of a shoulder. "It really sucked, but I'm fine. Really."

Mr. Weasley shook his head. "You aren't fine, Harry. How could you be? You were betrayed by an adult you trusted. You were tortured and you watched a young boy, just a bit older than you, die at the hands of the man who took your parents. How could anyone be fine after that?" Almost as if sensing Harry's protest, Mr. Weasley added, "If it had been Ron who went through that, would you expect him to be fine?"

Stunned, Harry breathed out "No, of course not, but..."

"Of course, you wouldn't!" Mr. Weasley interrupted Harry again. "Of course not, because you know that those events would affect him and he would need time and support to work through it."

"But –"

"No buts. Why would it be different for you?"

"It just is!" Harry shouted, every muscle coiled as he spat his words across the room. "It is different and you know it. I'm not a child!"

"I can understand you don't feel like a child," Mr. Weasley interjected, "But that doesn't mean you aren't affected by this. What, just because someone turns 17 they aren't able to feel?"

"I, wait, no, that's not – stop twisting my words – "

It seemed that Mr. Weasley wasn't done. "I do not care how old you are Harry, you do not deserve the things that have happened to you. But you do deserve to have support as you heal from them – but we cannot help you if we don't know what you need protection from."

Harry scoffed. "I don't need protection – I can take care of myself just fine. I've done it before." "And you never should have had to."

"Stop."

"No." Mr. Weasley had never sounded so firm in all the times Harry had heard him speak and that, more than anything, caused Harry to fall silent. "No, Harry, I cannot stop. Because I care about you as much as I do any of the red-heads in this house. I cannot stop because the adults in your life have continuously stepped aside because you were 'capable' of handling it and that has created a horrible cycle of self-sacrifice that we are only just barely starting to recognize. Because if I stop you will continue to get hurt. Because you deserve protection. You deserve to be 15, Harry, whether you think so now or not. We love you, Harry, and I am done standing to the side for fear of overstepping – it is time our actions matched our words. Please let us help you."

Mr. Weasley leaned as far forward as he could, gaze locked on Harry. And for once Harry couldn't turn away. He couldn't do anything but stare widely back at the man across from him.

"Harry?"

Harry swallowed difficulty. Opened his mouth once, twice, swallowed again. "You...what?"

That seemed to break Mr. Weasley's composure just a bit, the side of his mouth twitching upwards. "After all these years, is it that difficult to believe we care about you?"

"No," Harry forced out. "No, I mean, no. I know you all like me alright. I mean Mrs. Weasley, she, er – "

"Yes," Mr. Weasley chuckled, "she is rather forceful with her love, isn't she?"

Harry's breath caught again. "That." he whispered.

Mr. Weasley's eyes furrowed. "What?"

Harry couldn't feel anything but his heart beating wildly in his chest. "You love me?"

Confusion was quickly replaced with a rather heartbreaking expression, and Harry almost turned away again from the intense emotion.

"Oh," Mr. Weasley sighed. "Oh, Harry, of course I do. We all do."

"Oh." Harry said. "It's just," His voice caught again, causing his eyes to water as he cleared it. "It's just, that, uhm, no one has ever...I can't remember, uhm..." But whatever Harry was trying to say wouldn't come, the words sticking like treacle in his throat. He continued to glance over at Mr. Weasley, unsure of how to proceed but unable to maintain eye contact as his own watered.

Mr. Weasley looked a bit thrown himself, hand brushing through his wispy orange hair. He gestured back at the couch and Harry felt himself fall back on to it with a slight thud.

It took Mr. Weasley a few moments to speak again, which Harry didn't mind as his mind had gone worryingly blank. But when he did, his voice held that firm tone again. "Well we clearly need to say it more often. Because I do love you, Harry. Just as I do Ron and Ginny. As does my wife. As does your godfather, and Hermione, and my children, and – to some extent – every person in this house."

This did nothing to help restart Harry's brain, but he felt a warm flush overtake him, his heart still skipping oddly in his chest.

Mr. Weasley seemed to sense Harry was done talking as he continued. "That's why I can't just let you walk away from this, Harry. That's why everyone was questioning you in the kitchen. It's not a lack of faith in you or your abilities, but a want to protect something, someone, we love. I rather

think you know what that feels like?"

Harry's thoughts jumped to the lake, Ron and Hermione's limp bodies floating in the water as he paddled desperately towards them. "It hurts," he eventually whispered. "It's like I can't fully relax until they're safe. Until I know they aren't hurt."

Mr. Weasley hummed in agreement, "It does hurt, doesn't it?"

The two of them continued to sit in silence as Harry's world titled itself on its axis, as if this new statement of fact (and there was no doubt that Mr. Weasley was telling him the truth) was some strong form of gravity, pulling Harry entirely in a new direction. The grandfather clock dinged in the hall, crashing through the warm silence.

A forlorn sigh seemed to ooze out of the older man. "Okay," he started. "As I said earlier, I can't force you to talk to me, but you do need to tell an adult what was going on at dinner. So here are your options."

At this, Harry straightened in his seat again. Options – what a novel concept.

"One, you can talk to me now. Two, I can floo call Dumbledore or McGonagall and you can speak with them. Or three, you can talk to Sirius and Remus." Mr. Weasley looked over his glasses at Harry again. "What will it be?"

So much for options, Harry thought to himself. But looking at the man across from him, he had to admit that, for the first time in a while, he wanted to talk to someone about this. Something buried deep down in his psyche stirred as he allowed himself to want. Because, he did. He desperately wanted what Mr. Weasley was offering, what he was saying he could have, deserved to have. An out. Someone else to handle at least this one problem weighing on his shoulders.

As much as he liked the Weasleys, there wasn't any hesitation on which option to choose. "I'll talk to Sirius."