May 11, 1998

Kingsley Shacklebolt, the interim Minister for Magic, arrived at the Burrow early the next morning with the soft pop of Apparition. He looked spent. The normally immaculate robes of deep plum he always favored were creased and dusty, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms smeared with ink and soot. His face, usually so calm and composed, bore the unmistakable signs of exhaustion—his eyes were bloodshot, and the faint stubble on his chin suggested he hadn't spared a moment for himself in days.

Again, Harry was confronted with the cost of victory.

Despite this, Kingsley's presence still carried its usual air of quiet authority, his wand tucked neatly into the waistband of his robes within easy reach. He stepped through the wards that Bill and Mr. Weasley had raised, and nodded to Mr. Weasley standing in the doorway.

"Kingsley, you'll forgive me," Mr. Weasley began, his tone apologetic but firm. "During the first Order meeting after Voldemort returned, we discussed a certain individual's inclusion."

Kingsley, without hesitation, nodded, his deep voice calm but understanding.

"We were in disagreement with Albus regarding Mundungus," he said, a faint smile finding him. "I said we needed to focus on trust. 'Quality over quantity.'"

Mr. Weasley chuckled and the tension in his shoulders eased. "That sounds about right. I seem to recall Molly giving me quite the look at his inclusion."

"She called it daft," Kingsley said with a small smile.

Mr. Weasley stepped aside, clapping Kingsley on the arm. "Come in, come in, Minister," Mr. Weasley said. "And thank you for understanding."

"Caution kept us alive, Arthur," Kingsley said gently as he stepped inside.

As he stepped into the house, his broad shoulders slumped ever so slightly, betraying the weight of the rebuilding efforts he had been orchestrating since Voldemort's defeat. His gaze swept the room, first passing slowly over Harry, before landing firmly on Mrs. Weasley.

"Arthur. Molly," he said, his tone softer now. He extended his hands to them, and the lines around his eyes deepened. "I am so sorry for your loss. Fred was a hero, and—I'm sorry. I feel like I've said these same words a hundred times since…" He sighed deeply and shook his head in frustration. "He was a good man. What a family you have raised."

Mrs. Weasley pressed a handkerchief to her face, nodding as Mr. Weasley gripped Kingsley's hand tightly. His lips were drawn taut and the lines on his face were tight. Kingsley held their gazes, grounding them with his presence and a slow nod of unspoken thanks.

"George?" Kingsley asked cautiously.

Mr. Weasley shut his eyes for a moment and shook his head, before glancing up the stairs. Kingsley nodded his understanding and seemed to blink back a tear before he turned to the rest of the room.

Harry stood with Ron, Hermione, and the remaining Weasley siblings; clustered together, guarded but curious. Kingsley nodded his head to each of them in turn, his voice steady as he said, "I know the past week has been overwhelming for all of you. The Ministry—our world—is still reeling, but we owe so much to what the three of you,"—his eyes settled on Harry, Hermione, and Ron—"managed to accomplish."

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Kingsley's words. It was hard to reconcile the Ministry-that-was with the Kingsley-Ministry; to recognize it as an ally after so long in opposition.

But Ron squared his shoulders proudly, and Hermione, ever the respectful student, gave a small nod and small, "Thank you, Minister." The tension in the room eased just a fraction as Kingsley moved toward the table, his weariness momentarily overtaken by purpose.

"Let's sit," he suggested, his voice still gentle but firm. "I have many questions."

They gathered around the kitchen table, and Mrs. Weasley began setting out tea. There was a moment, where she stared at the two additional cups of tea she'd poured and began to sob. Mr. Weasley was beside her in an instant, pulling her into his embrace, and she buried her face in his shoulder. He murmured soothingly, but the lines of his own grief were carved so deeply into his face as he held her that he seemed ancient beyond words. The rest of the family sat frozen, each of them feeling the same ache in their chests but unable to find the words to ease it.

With what must have been a monstrous effort, Mr. Weasley nodded once to Kingsley, and held his wife.

Harry turned back to Kingsley, trying his best to give Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the privacy of the moment. He couldn't imagine what they were feeling.

What caught him off guard—though, in hindsight, he supposed it shouldn't have—was the sorrow etched into Kingsley's usually composed face. Harry thought back to the work Kingsley had done alongside Fred and George during the war; it was clear now just how close they must have become.

Kingsley cleared his throat, the low rumble breaking through the somber quiet of the Burrow's kitchen. His teacup sat untouched before him, his fingers loosely clasped around it. After a long moment, he looked up at Harry.

"Harry," he began, his voice steady but low. "I know this isn't easy—Merlin knows you've been through more than anyone ever should—but there are gaps we need to fill in. For the sake of the future, for the sake of understanding everything Voldemort left behind."

Harry stiffened, and Kingsley seemed to notice because he immediately softened his tone. "I'd never press you for more than you're ready to share. But…during the battle at Hogwarts, your duel with him—it's clear that you knew things, things no one else did. And before that, when you, Ron, and Hermione disappeared for months… Well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out you were on some mission Dumbledore set for you."

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione, who were seated on either side of him. Hermione had gone pale, her lips pressed together, while Ron avoided looking at either of them, focusing instead on his empty cup.

Kingsley leaned forward and took a breath. "Whatever you can tell me—whatever you feel ready to share—it could help us make sure Voldemort's influence is truly gone. It might help others understand just what you've done for all of us." He glanced around the room. "What so many sacrificed so much for."

Harry's stomach churned. He knew it was coming.

"I think it's important," Hermione began, her voice clear but careful, "that we all agree on something before we go any further. What we're about to discuss—the lengths Voldemort went to in order to try and achieve immortality—none of the specifics can leave this room."

A ripple of surprise passed through the group.

"Why not?" Percy asked, frowning. "Surely people deserve to know what he did, how he got as twisted as he was."

"They do," Hermione said firmly, meeting his eyes. "But only to a point. The specific details—the exact spells, the process, the theory behind it—those things are too dangerous to share widely. Voldemort wasn't the first to try it, and if we're not careful, he won't be the last."

Kingsley leaned forward, his expression grim. "You're saying there's a risk of someone else attempting what he did?"

"Abso-bloody-lutely," Ron said.

"Imagine what could happen if that information were to fall into the wrong hands," Hermione said, her voice sharp. "Someone ambitious—or desperate—might think they can do better than Voldemort, perfect the process, avoid his mistakes. We can't let that happen, not if we're hoping to do better than before."

"But people might argue that knowing the full extent of what he did could be a deterrent," Bill interjected, his brows knit together, "If they understand how monstrous it was—"

"It won't work that way," Hermione interrupted, her voice now urgent. "Knowledge like this has a way of tempting the wrong people. History is full of examples—Dark wizards who read something forbidden, experimented with magic they didn't fully understand, and became something far worse than they ever intended. Voldemort's methods were horrific, but they were also calculated and deliberate. I don't think we can risk giving anyone that roadmap."

There was a silence, heavy with the weight of her words. Mrs. Weasley's hands trembled slightly as she reached for her tea. Ginny's face was pale; of the Weasleys, she was the only one who knew the truth.

Harry cleared his throat. "Hermione's right. It's not just about stopping another Voldemort—it's about stopping anyone from even starting down that path. The best way to do that is to make sure no one knows enough to try."

Kingsley nodded thoughtfully. "I can see the wisdom in that. But we'll need to balance it carefully—some truth will need to be shared, even if it's incomplete. People will want answers."

"Of course," Hermione said, her voice softening. "But we can control the narrative. We tell them enough to understand what Voldemort did—that he found a way to return—but not how he did it. Not the details or the specifics. We focus on the fight to stop him. On the people who fought him."

"I'll support this," Kingsley said at last, his voice resolute. "But you three need to be consistent in what you say. No contradictions, no slipping up."

Hermione nodded, relief flickering in her eyes. "We can do that. Thank you."

As the group began to murmur among themselves, Harry caught Hermione's eye and gave her a small, thankful smile.

The Burrow's kitchen fell into a heavy silence as Harry took a steadying breath. Kingsley sat at the head of the table, his sharp eyes fixed on Harry with a mix of curiosity and quiet concern. Ginny, sitting beside Harry, gave him a reassuring squeeze on the arm.

Harry cleared his throat. "I guess the best place to start is explaining what happened the night Voldemort came after me as a baby," he said. Even as he spoke he wondered whether that was the right place to start. "My mum sacrificed herself for me—she chose not to step aside when he told her to. It created a protection around me so that when Voldemort cursed me it rebounded and destroyed him."

"Why you?" Kingsley asked. "Why would he concern himself with a child?"

"There was a prophecy," Harry answered. Harry quickly reiterated the specifics. "The short of it is that Voldemort ended up believing it referred to me. And doing so set it in motion."

Kingsley and the Weasleys frowned. Harry shifted uncomfortably—he'd hated the "Chosen One" label. He hated it even more because it was technically true.

"He survived though," said Charlie.

Harry nodded. "Voldemort was always obsessed with living forever—immortality," he said. "He was at Hogwarts when he first came across the idea. Learned about Horcruxes."

There was a faint hiss of breath from Kingsley, and Bill's frown deepened.

"A Horcrux is really dark magic. It involves splitting off a piece of your soul and anchoring that part of it to an object," Hermione said grimly. "The idea is that if your body dies, the piece of soul in the Horcrux keeps you alive—sort of."

"Horcrux," Bill mulled the word over with a frown. "I've never heard the term before. But I came across something similar called the…Ka-merut in Egypt when I was working there. Lot of ancient Egyptian wizards made references to it in tombs. They called it the 'Divided Spirit.'"

"How does someone even split their soul?" Mr. Weasley asked, his voice quiet but edged with revulsion.

"You commit murder," Harry answered, his voice steady. "Taking a life rips the soul apart, and then there's some really dark magic to bind that torn piece to an object. It's a violation of magic itself."

Mrs. Weasley gave a horrified gasp, and Charlie muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Ginny's grip on Harry's arm tightened.

"That's how Voldemort survived that night in Godric's Hollow," Harry continued, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. "When the curse rebounded, his body was destroyed, but his soul was still tethered to this world."

"Because he'd made a Horcrux," Percy frowned, testing the word.

"Horcruxes," Harry corrected. "More than one."

"How many?" Bill asked, his voice sharp.

"Seven," Hermione said. "Six objects, and part of his soul still in his body."

"Seven pieces of his soul," Percy muttered. Harry could see his gears turning. "That is a magically powerful number."

Harry nodded. "Professor Dumbledore thought so, too." He was shuffling restlessly; because they were nearing the point that only three other living people knew.

Kingsley leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowed in disbelief. "Seven," he repeated, his deep voice laced with disgust. "He tore his soul into seven pieces?"

"Greedy git, wasn't he?" Ron muttered, earning an incredulous chuckle from Charlie.

"Seven pieces of his soul," Harry said, ignoring the interruption, "spread across different objects he thought would make him immortal. That's what Professor Dumbledore had me doing—had us doing," he corrected, glancing at Ron and Hermione. "Tracking them down. Destroying them."

"What kind of objects?" Bill asked, leaning forward, his Curse Breaker curiosity clearly piqued. "They could have been anything, right?"

"That's what Professor Dumbledore and I were investigating before he died," Harry said. "Professor Dumbledore had these memories, from a lot of people. And we narrowed it down to objects that were significant to the Hogwarts founders and Voldemort himself."

Harry hesitated, glancing at Ron, who gave him a small nod. "The most recent he'd created was in Nagini, his snake, then there was Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem. He had a ring from the Gaunt family, and…" He paused, his jaw tightening. "And his school diary…"

The air seemed to be sucked out of the room. Mrs. Weasley dropped a mug, and it shattered against the floor. "The diary," she whispered.

"And you've spent the last nine months searching for these Horcruxes," Kingsley surmised.

"Well we didn't have much to go on, yeah?" Ron said.

"The diary and the ring were already destroyed," said Hermione. "We tracked down the locket to the Ministry and Umbridge." Kingsley scoffed disdainfully. "And we got the cup when we figured out that there would be one in Bellatrix's vault in Gringotts."

"Ah, I was wondering when we'd get to that," Kingsley admitted. "Quite the scandal. The goblins are demanding your heads, but have said they will settle for nothing less than the seizure of the contents of your accounts."

Harry felt himself deflate.

"I don't want you to worry," Kingsley insisted. He reached a hand towards Harry on the table placatingly. "I believe it will be easy enough to placate the goblin's pride and leave your heads rather attached."

Harry nodded.

"We found out the diadem was at Hogwarts right after we got out of Gringotts," Ron said. "You were all there for the rest."

"How did you destroy them?" Charlie asked.

"Harry destroyed the diary with the basilisk fang, and so Hermione figured out that the Sword of Gryffindor could destroy them. That's why Professor Dumbledore left it to Harry."

"So on that night, you went into the Forbidden Forest to kill the snake," Kingsley guessed.

Harry snapped his jaw shut and shook his head. "That—that I learned I needed to do only that night," he admitted. "Snape—Voldemort wounded him and left him to die. He—he showed me his memories; conversations he'd had with Professor Dumbledore. He'd told Snape that when Voldemort tried to kill me as a baby and his curse backfired, part of his soul latched onto mine. That's why I could hear his thoughts, speak Parseltongue, feel what he was feeling."

"That would—"

"I was a Horcrux, too," Harry said, he couldn't bring himself to meet their gazes. He tried to steady his breathing. He was vividly aware of the pounding of his heart in his bruised and aching chest. "The one he never meant to make."

"You?" Mr. Weasley repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I didn't know until—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "Until the very end." He could feel the eyes on him and the horrible silence in the room. "I had to die to destroy it. And Voldemort had to be the one to do it."

Mrs. Weasley let out a strangled gasp and dropped into an empty chair beside him. He jumped when she reached for him.

"Then—how?" Mr. Weasley asked breathlessly.

"He'd used my blood to come back," Harry explained. "It bonded us further, the protection from my mother—it let me…choose. Whether to come back or not."

"'Back'?" Bill asked. "So you really were dead?"

Harry nodded. "I…I met with Dumbledore when I was…gone," he said. "He told me he thought I might be able to survive if I chose to sacrifice myself. But I couldn't know about that beforehand."

"And then you just…pretended to be dead?" Percy asked disbelievingly.

"I was still surrounded by Death Eaters and the snake was still alive."

"And the Elder Wand?" Kingsley asked suddenly, his sharp gaze locking onto Harry. "You were overheard speaking about it with Voldemort as you dueled."

Harry's expression turned guarded. "Voldemort thought it was real," he said carefully. "Thought Professor Dumbledore had it. That if he had Dumbledore's wand it would make him unbeatable. But it didn't work the way he expected. The wand was more loyal to me than to him. So when we fought that last time…"

"The curse rebounded, just like it did the first time." Kingsley studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You've had a long fight," he said finally, his deep voice tinged with respect. "And it's clear the wizarding world owes you all a great debt."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, but Ron clapped him on the back with a grin. "Yeah, yeah, we'll take a statue. Long as they make sure I'm taller than this git."

"I just did what anyone else would have done," Harry insisted.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of Kingsley's mouth. "The fact you believe that speaks volumes about the men and women you've chosen to stand beside you, Harry." His gaze moved slowly across the room, taking in the faces of those who had fought alongside them. "And, on that particular point, I find myself in full agreement."

The tension in the room eased slightly, and Harry allowed himself a small, weary chuckle. He glanced at Ginny, who was watching him with an expression he'd never really seen before; it was so much like that blazing look of hers, but a thousand times more intense.

"Thank you for trusting me with this," Kingsley said, inclining his head to the three of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Nodding again to Hermione, he said, "and I am inclined to agree with you. Certain portions of this should be forgotten. Some magic should be lost to time."

Kingsley stared down into his tea for a few long moments. "You've given me much to think about. I feel it is only right for me to do the same," he said. "There is much work to do, and I feel strongly that you might play a part in it." He stood and straightened his robes. "I've spoken to Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Office. The ranks were severely depleted during the war; I've decided to relax the requirements for entry into the Auror Academy for anyone that fought in the Battle of Hogwarts."

"I—"

"Think about it. Talk it over," Kingsley said. "I do not need an answer immediately. Training is slated to begin in August. In the meantime I will see what I can do to ease your troubles with Gringotts. It's the least I can do, all things considered."

Harry stood. "Minister, I—"

"Kingsley, please. We are well past formalities," Kingsley said. He offered Harry his hand. "I don't know how—what you've done…what you've all done. "

Harry took his hand. Kingsley moved to Hermione and Ron, then to the rest of the Weasley children before embracing Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

"We'll be in touch."

Once Kingsley had gone, a heavy silence descended over the kitchen. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, acutely aware of the weight of the Weasleys' gazes as they each continued to process what he'd told them.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley whispered. "How…how did you—I can't imagine…"

"And you went…all alone," Mrs. Weasley choked out.

"I—not exactly. I didn't—I think there are parts that even Kingsley doesn't need to know," Harry admitted. He picked nervously at a stray thread on his sleeve. "I wasn't alone. Not—not really."

"Harry," Hermione said, her voice cautious.

He shook his head. "It's okay, Hermione. If we can't tell the Weasleys…" He took a steadying breath. "The Elder Wand…it was real. The Hallows are real. All of them. And Professor Dumbledore…he left me the Resurrection Stone hidden in the Snitch. So that when I—when I had to go…I wasn't really alone."

"Who did…?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"My parents, Remus, and Sirius," Harry said. He felt a strange lack of heartbreak when he thought of them. He'd lost them and they'd still come to him; still taken care to watch over him when he needed them most; as if they'd known.

As if they'd been with him all that time.

He was comforted by the idea that they might still be with him, unseen, but still watching over.

"Did it hurt?" a voice asked. Harry turned as George made himself known from where he sat hunched on the stairs.

Harry shook his head; he remembered how he'd asked the very same question. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep," he repeated Sirius's words.

George seemed to let out a breath he'd been holding for days. It was ragged with grief. His head dropped between his knees as silent sobs shook him. Mrs. Weasley sat down beside him and pulled him against her.

"Were they—were they…upset?" Percy asked, his voice barely a whisper. There was a paleness to him, a tightness. "Angry? Or…"

"No," Harry said. "Even Remus—he said he was sad, but…They all understood."

"And the Stone?" Charlie asked.

"No," Harry said again, this time more forcefully. "I let it drop in the forest. I don't think—it's not right to call them back for long."

"Harry had Professor McGonagall put the Elder Wand back with Professor Dumbledore, too," Ron said. "It's probably better that everyone thinks they're children's stories."

"And the cloak?" Mr. Weasley asked, his fingers tented in front of him. He looked eerily like Professor Dumbledore in that moment, right down to the weary lines on his face.

"Been mine for a while," Harry said, his mind wandering to where he'd stashed his invisibility cloak in Ron's room. "It's been in my family for ages. I think…all the way back to the Three Brothers."

"Hard to believe that such things exist," Mrs. Weasley said with a sniffle. She shook her head in disbelief. "Horcruxes and Deathly Hallows. And before that—Sorcerer's Stones and Chambers of Secrets…it's all too much. You're children, just—"

"I don't think they've been children for quite some time, Molly," Mr. Weasley said proudly, yet with a twinge of sadness. A reluctant look came over him and he glanced at Mrs. Weasley. "Now…that said…"

"Yes. Right. Boys, would you give us a moment with these four," Mrs. Weasley gestured to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Harry's stomach sank. "Would you mind checking the gardens and maybe…"

"Quidditch pitch," Charlie volunteered, standing quickly. He gave Ron a hearty slap on the back. "Good luck, mate."

"Wait. No," Ginny stuttered.

"I think Fleur could use help at Shell Cottage when we're…done with," Bill scrambled for an excuse. "The…shed?"

"Wonderful," Mr. Weasley said with a tight smile. "It shouldn't be more than a few minutes, and please invite Fleur back over for dinner, yeah?" Bill nodded quickly and ushered George out the door.

"Wait, I wanted to stay and watch," George called out before the door shut behind him.

"Well," Mrs. Weasley said, her voice warm but unmistakably firm, "why don't we all get comfortable? I think it's time we had a little talk."

Harry's stomach sank further. A talk. That couldn't be good. He instinctively glanced at Ginny, who sat with her arms crossed. She raised an eyebrow at him, her expression somewhere between bemusement and annoyance. He wasn't sure whether to feel reassured or more nervous.

Ron groaned, flopping into an armchair as though bracing for impact. Hermione, sitting primly on the sofa, looked perfectly composed—but Harry knew her too well to miss the way her fingers twisted together in her lap. She was nervous too.

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat, taking his seat by the fireplace. His tone was calm, almost conversational, but it did little to settle Harry's nerves. "It's nothing to worry about," Mr. Weasley said. "We just…well, we've been meaning to have this discussion for a while now. Things are different, aren't they?"

Harry's eyes flicked to Ginny again. She looked wary but not alarmed, which gave him some comfort. Ron, on the other hand, looked positively mutinous.

"Different how?" Ron muttered, already halfway to a sulk.

Mrs. Weasley shot him a pointed look. "Oh, you know very well what I mean, Ronald. You're not children anymore. You've all been through so much—too much—and come out the other side grown-up in ways your father and I could never have imagined…in ways we'd hoped to avoid."

Harry's gut twisted again. This wasn't just about him and Ginny, then. It was all of them. Somehow, that wasn't as comforting as it should have been.

Ginny uncrossed her arms, her voice light but edged with caution. "We're not exactly on the Hogwarts Express anymore, Mum."

"Exactly," Mrs. Weasley said with a nod. "Which is why it's important we talk about…well, what it means to be living under the same roof now. Things have changed between all of you."

Harry felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He thought about the searing kiss between him and Ginny in the middle of the Great Hall when they reunited. He could only wonder how that had looked to her mother. He wanted to say something, to reassure her, but no words came. His throat felt tight. Mrs. Weasley's gaze softened as she looked at him.

"Harry," she said, her voice warm, "you and Hermione are family to us. You always will be."

Harry blinked, startled. Of all the things he'd expected, that wasn't it. "Mrs. Weasley, I…I hope you know I'd never—"

"Stop right there," Mrs. Weasley interrupted, her tone firm but kind. "You're family. That's not in question. You'll always have a place here, no matter what."

Harry swallowed hard, his chest tightening in a way that wasn't entirely uncomfortable. Hermione, beside him, gave a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," she said softly.

"But," Mr. Weasley added gently, "living together does mean there are certain…expectations. For propriety's sake, and to keep things comfortable for everyone."

Ron groaned audibly, covering his face with his hands. "Oh, Merlin, here we go."

Harry tried not to laugh, even as his face burned hotter. Trust Ron to break the tension. Hermione swatted him on the arm, muttering something Harry didn't quite catch. Ginny shot him an amused look.

Mrs. Weasley sighed, though there was a faint twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "Ronald, we're not here to lecture anyone. We just want to make sure we're all on the same page. You and Hermione, Harry and Ginny—it's not just friendships anymore, is it?"

Ginny exhaled slowly, moving to sit beside Harry. He felt her leg brush against his, and the touch was both comforting and distracting. "No, it's not," she admitted. "But we're not doing anything improper, Mum."

"Of course not," Mrs. Weasley said quickly. "And I trust you. I trust all of you. But it's still a big adjustment for your father and me. You're adults now, and we're learning to navigate this new…dynamic, just like you are."

Mr. Weasley leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. "What your mother means is, we're proud of you—of how far you've all come, and the way you've supported each other through everything. But we do want to make sure you're comfortable here and that we're not overstepping or making things awkward."

"Right," Ron muttered, clearly trying to steer the conversation. "So…what exactly are we talking about here? No sneaking into each other's rooms after dark?"

"Ronald!" Hermoine snapped, swatting him again, but her lips twitched with amusement.

"Well, we all know how strictly you lot adhere to rules," Mr. Weasley chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Let's just say we'd appreciate a little discretion." He paused and took a moment to look purposefully at Harry and Hermione. "But more importantly, we want you to know that this house is always your home, no matter what."

Harry felt something crack open in his chest, a flood of gratitude and relief he didn't know he'd been holding back. He nodded quickly, his voice almost failing him. "Thank you," he managed, looking at both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Ginny reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly, and he felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth. Hermione smiled softly, and even Ron, red-eared and awkward, managed a lopsided grin.

"Thanks, Dad. Mum," Ron said, his voice unusually earnest. "It means a lot to all of us."

Mrs. Weasley wiped at her eyes, her smile broad and unguarded. "Oh, you lot. You've been through so much already. The least we can do is make sure you know you're loved."

"And that we're not sneaking into each other's rooms after dark," Ginny teased, her tone light, though her hand remained firmly in Harry's.

"Let's not make a habit of it," Mr. Weasley said. "I know you and Harry were together at Hogwarts at the end of last year." Harry flushed. "Ron, you and Hermione were alone most of this last year as well."

"We didn't—"

"The point being," Mrs. Weasley cut in. "Your father and I have been where you are, unfortunately in more ways than one. Just…be smart and be safe."

"Mum!" Ginny's face was bright red.

"I was seventeen once myself, Ginerva," Mrs. Weasley said.

"I'm sixteen," Ginny shot back.

"Hardly the words of comfort you intend them to be," Mr. Weasley pointed out.

Harry snorted, earning a quick smack on the shoulder from Ginny. He winced as her hand landed squarely on a fresh bruise.

"Sorry," she said, though her smirk betrayed her lack of remorse.

"That brings me to another point," Mr. Weasley interjected, his tone gentle but firm. "I know you're not particularly keen on the idea, Harry, but we'd really like you to see a healer."

"I'm fine," Harry said quickly, hoping to put the matter to rest.

"That… remains to be seen," Mr. Weasley replied, raising an eyebrow. "You've been through things no one else has—not many people can say they've been struck by the Killing Curse twice and survived. And then there's the small matter of having a piece of a dark wizard's soul removed from you."

Harry looked down, his face burning with discomfort.

"It does warrant some caution," Mrs. Weasley added, her voice softer but no less concerned. "Of course, we can't make you do anything, but…"

"I'll think about it," Harry muttered. "But I'm fine. Really."

He tried to sound convincing, but he could feel Ron's eyes on him, the unspoken skepticism practically radiating across the room. Harry glanced up just in time to catch Ron's exaggerated eye roll, his best friend making no effort to hide it.

Harry sighed, resolving not to look at Ginny, knowing full well she'd have her own version of that look waiting for him.

"Good," Mr. Weasley said with a decisive nod. He slapped his hands on his knees and rose to his feet with purpose. "Now then, let's get you all on your way for the day. It's a lovely one out, and we've got some hard days ahead of us."

Harry snuck down again that night, featherlight charms masking his footfalls and silencing charms hiding the creak of the steps. The Burrow was quiet, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the soft rustle of the wind outside. The house's warmth seemed to breathe around him in the quiet, the glow of moonlight slipping through the crooked windows. When he reached Ginny's door, he knocked softly, and it opened almost instantly.

Hermione slipped out, clutching a book and looking slightly sheepish. "Ron's waiting," Harry whispered, tilting his head toward Ron's room. "If you get caught, I suppose you'll tell them you were just doing late-night revisions with him?" He grinned and nodded to the book in her hand, unable to resist a light jab.

Hermione huffed, though her smile betrayed her. "At least I have an excuse planned. What will you do?" She leaned in closer, lowering her voice.

Harry shrugged. "Suppose I'll wing it," he said. "It's worked so far."

Hermione rolled her eyes but laughed softly. "Goodnight, Harry," she said with a fond smile. "And…thank you. For earlier."

Harry nodded, his throat tightening slightly. "Goodnight, Hermione."

She padded quietly toward Ron's room. Harry opened Ginny's door and slipped inside, releasing the stealth charms with a whispered incantation. She was sitting up in bed, her hair spilling over her shoulders and catching the faint light from her wand on the bedside table.

"Took you long enough," she teased, though her smile softened her words. "I almost thought you weren't coming."

"I almost didn't," Harry admitted as he shut the door softly behind him. He cast a quick Muffliato and turned back to her. "I kept hearing your dad's voice in my head, going on about propriety."

Ginny rolled her eyes, tugging him further into the room. "You mean the talk he gave after Mum left us all pink-faced and muttering into our tea? You can't just shake that off?"

Harry smiled sheepishly, sitting on the edge of her bed. "I feel a bit guilty, sneaking around after all that."

Ginny scooted closer, resting her head against his shoulder. "I don't," she said simply. "Mum and Dad know we're not kids anymore, even if they don't want to admit it." She tilted her head to look up at him. "How are you feeling? After everything today?"

Harry tilted his head to rest against hers, letting out a long breath. "I told everyone about dying," he said quietly, as though the words might shatter the fragile stillness of the room. "And about…all of it. I didn't think I'd feel all that better saying it out loud, but I do. Like it's not all trapped inside me anymore."

Ginny reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "You needed to say it. You've been carrying it alone for too long."

"Yeah," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. He glanced at her, meeting her brown eyes in the dim light. "But even after all that, the only time I really feel…okay is when I'm with you. I slept better last night than I have in…maybe my whole life, Ginny." The words felt thick in his throat, but the feeling of Ginny's hand in his steadied him.

"The nights before—even now that we're not hiding and running," he said, shaking his head in frustration. "It's like all the grief just drowns me. I can't stop thinking about everything we lost."

Ginny squeezed his hand and nodded. "Me too," she admitted, her voice low. "The quiet makes it harder to ignore, like the silence gets too loud."

Harry exhaled again, a flicker of relief breaking through the tightness in his chest. "What if we make a deal?" he said suddenly.

Ginny raised a curious eyebrow. "What kind of deal?"

Harry turned to face her. "When we're here—together, like this—it's just for us. The world outside your door doesn't exist unless we need it to. We're allowed to forget about everything for a while."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "You mean avoid it?"

"No," Harry said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Not avoid. Just…procrastinate. We talk about it again in the morning, anything that we let ourselves ignore at night. But for now, this is our time."

Ginny's lips curved into a smile, her gaze softening. "Procrastinating grief. Sounds ridiculous."

"It's not supposed to make sense," Harry teased gently, pressing a kiss to her temple. "But I'm very good at procrastinating, if you hadn't noticed. I'll teach you."

"I'll hold you to that," Ginny whispered. Her voice was light and teasing, but he caught a desperate edge to it and he resolved to make sure he was as steady for her as she'd been for him that day.

But that was something for Tomorrow's Harry. He slipped off his glasses and set them on her bedside table, letting himself relax as Ginny curled into his side. For now, the world could wait. They had each other, and that was enough.

Next: Chapter 5 - Four of a Kind

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