Chapter 7 - I Solemnly Swear…

May 15, 1998

Ginny woke to sunlight streaming through her window. It was the kind of morning that might have felt hopeful, if not for the weight pressing on her chest. She stretched and glanced over at the empty space beside her in the bed. Harry wasn't there.

Hermione hadn't left to trade places with him in Ron's room during the midnight hours like they had done the past few nights when they thought no one would notice. Ginny was glad for that. She hadn't slept well, tossing and turning through restless dreams, and the last thing she would have wanted was for Harry to share in her unease.

She slid out of bed and pushed open her bedroom window. The scent of freshly cut grass and blooming wildflowers filled the air, carried on the cool spring breeze. It was such a peaceful contrast to how she felt at that moment, with that pit in her stomach and ache in her chest.

The weather was better than the day before, and for that, Ginny supposed she was grateful. There was something fitting about sending Fred off into the sunset—no rain, no dreary clouds hanging overhead. This was Fred they were honoring, after all. He wouldn't have stood for it. He'd have come up with some wild plan to turn the rain into slime or enchant it to dye everyone's clothes, hair, and skin in blindingly obnoxious colors. Percy would have been livid, and Mum would've screamed loud enough to scare the ghoul in the attic.

Ginny swallowed hard. She would have given anything for it.

The quiet murmur of voices drifted up from the kitchen, and the faint clatter of pots and pans hinted at her mother's ceaseless efforts to keep everyone fed and busy and thinking about anything other than what today meant for them. Ginny sighed, pulled on a jumper over her pajamas, and headed up to the bathroom.

She almost bumped into Harry on the landing as he stepped out of the bathroom, pulling his shirt down over his head. For a brief moment, she caught a flash of the blotchy purple bruise on his chest. It was healing slowly, but it looked better than it had when she'd first seen it two days before—barely. There was something about that bruise—and the other scars that covered her boyfriend's chest and arms—that set her heart racing and aching at the same time. Something wild and warrior-like about them, but something that made him seem so vulnerable all the same.

"Hey. Morning," he said, giving her a quick kiss. His voice was tentative. Careful. But she leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his waist, drawing comfort from him. He smelled clean and earthy, like the fresh air after rain. She could smell the subtle hint of soap from his shower, a bit of mint from brushing his teeth, and something distinctly him—a warm, comforting scent that reminded her of early mornings spent outside playing Quidditch. It was grounding, familiar, and made her feel safe.

"Good morning," she gave him another quick peck on the cheek and sent him on his way downstairs. After a quick shower and brushing her teeth, she changed into fresh clothes and made her way downstairs.

The kitchen was bustling as usual. Mum was already at the stove, her wand waving gracefully through the air as something flipped over on the griddle. Harry was at the counter slicing bread with a knife by hand, while Hermione used magic to pull plates and saucers down from the cabinets to the table. Ron sat absently poking at his eggs.

The sun poured in through the windows, lighting up the room, but the brightness didn't quite reach anyone's eyes.

"Morning," Ginny said, slipping into a seat next to Ron.

Mum turned to her with a quick, practiced smile. "Morning, dear. Sleep all right?"

Ginny shrugged. She hadn't, but that hardly seemed worth mentioning. Instead, she poured herself a cup of tea and stared out the window. Beyond the Burrow's familiar garden, Dad and Percy were setting up the chairs in the orchard where Fred would be…

"Would you bring a plate up to George, dear?" Mum asked. There was a tightness in her voice. "I don't know if he's feeling…"

Ginny nodded and took the plate without asking for Mum to find the words. She knocked once and then cracked the door open. Even in the hardest of times privacy was…rare at the Burrow and George would know that.

She found him sitting on his bed, still in his pajamas, staring down at his dress robes. They were newer—something he and Fred had bought together—and one of the few belongings he'd managed to save when they fled to Aunt Muriel's. The robes looked expensive. She doubted he'd worn them more than once or twice. His thumb traced slowly over the material, his movements almost absent. His expression was fragile, his eyes fixed on the robes as though he could see straight through them. When he finally turned to her, his face held a lost, hollow look that twisted her heart.

"Doesn't seem much like Fred," George murmured, his eyes drifting back to the robes.

"We could trade," Ginny offered, her tone light. If there was one thing that could snap George out of his thoughts, it was someone else attempting humor. "You can have mine, and I'll get Mum to tailor your fancy ones to fit me."

George let out a weak chuckle, his lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. "You've got a posh boyfriend now—what do you need my money for?" he teased, his voice strained.

It was something.

"Famous big-spender, Harry Potter," Ginny rolled her eyes.

"I always wondered why not," George said, looking down at the robes. "Gave us a thousand galleons. First thing he did was tell us to buy Ron some nicer dress robes." His gaze drifted upward. "Harry didn't have clothes that fit him until Sirius went and bought him some. Bloke's minted. But you'd never know it."

"I don't think he always remembers it," Ginny said, allowing the conversation to wander. "He's never had a real sense of worth. He doesn't talk about them much, but I don't think his aunt and uncle treated him great."

"Yeah the bars on the windows might'a hinted at that," George mused ruefully.

Ginny chewed her lip. She'd heard the story, of course, but always wondered how much of it was Ron and the Twins embellishing. He hadn't said a word about his family since the war ended.

"Y'know I always wondered how he did it," George said thoughtfully. Ginny gave him a questioning look. "Sirius, I mean. How'd he get Harry those clothes? He couldn't just walk around London, yeah? And it was mostly muggle stuff so it's not like Mum or Dad would've gotten them."

"Never asked," Ginny admitted. She hadn't even wondered really.

"Clever blokes, those Marauders," George muttered. A heavy silence fell between them as the distraction wore itself out.

"Hungry?" she asked, offering up the plate of food.

"Starved," George admitted. His face fell. "But don't think I can eat anything right now."

Ginny nodded. "Even Ron's just poking at his food."

George sighed. "Fred wouldn't let us get away with being such mopey gits," he said. He gripped the dark robes tightly in his fists. "I keep trying, Ginny, but I just…I don't feel real anymore."

"I think that's okay," Ginny said. At George's shocked look she continued, "Maybe it'd be weird if you did. I think—It's okay for things to feel wrong for a while."

"How long though?" George asked breathlessly. She could see the tears holding in his eyes. "How long until it just…doesn't hurt like this?"

Ginny shrugged and shook her head. "I keep wondering that, too," she admitted. "I thought about asking Mum. About how she managed after Uncle Gideon and Fabian died. But I just…it seems like a lot to bring up right now."

"Merlin, I'm making this all about me, aren't I," George groaned. "It's all I think about. Me, me, me. Fred was your brother, too. He was Mum and Dad's son." He balled up the robes angrily.

"We're all hurting, George," Ginny said. "It's not about which of us hurts more or feels worse. I don't think you should feel guilty about that. We can just all…hurt together."

"When did you get so smart and grownup?" George asked wryly.

"I've always been smarter than you," Ginny said with a smirk.

"How are you all so much stronger than I am?" George sobbed. "He wouldn't want me like this. He'd never let me live it down. And all of you are…holding it all together so much better than I am."

"I don't think we are. We're just…not doing it alone," Ginny said. Her gaze softened and she placed the plate of breakfast on his bed and sat down beside George. "I've got Harry. Ron has Hermione. Bill has Fleur. Mum and Dad. I know it helps having someone else."

"Bully for you lot," George mumbled.

"Charlie's always been…well…Charlie," Ginny said, and George nodded with a knowing roll of his eyes. "And Percy's…I think he's taking it harder than he's let on. He hasn't stopped trying to fix things around here since we left Hogwarts."

"Trying to make up for being such a prat," George said, chewing on his bottom lip.

"I think he blames himself," Ginny said. George's head snapped up. "He hasn't said it, but…I know what it's like to feel that way. After the diary and the Chamber I—and he's got that same look that Harry had after Sirius was killed."

George looked torn for a moment, before he let out a heavy sigh. "I—I wanted to blame him," he admitted. "Because he was gone and he was there with Fred and I just want to…be mad about it instead of…this." He gestured to himself.

"I think we have to just keep trying," Ginny said dejectedly. "And maybe…try not to be so alone about it. Be there with each other…for each other. Whatever. It helps."

"Why do you think Fred wasn't there?" George blurted out suddenly. At Ginny's confused look he continued, "In the forest, with Harry." George looked desperate and lost. "It was just Sirius, Remus, and his mum and dad. Why didn't Fred go? Or Tonks. Or—or Collin. Collin would've given both bollocks, dead or not, to have a deep profound moment with Harry, right? Why wasn't Fred there?"

Ginny didn't know how to answer that.

"I would have been," George said, with all the force he could muster, and there were tears in his eyes. "We love that scrawny git, right?" Ginny's heart caught in her throat. "Why wasn't he there? He should have been."

"I really don't know, George," Ginny said, shaking her head. "You can ask him, but I don't know if Harry knows either, if we're being honest." She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "I think you're focusing on the wrong thing."

"I need to know, Ginny," George insisted. "Because if Fred wasn't there that means I wouldn't have been. And it means everything I think I know about us both is wrong. And I can't—"

"Georgie. Breathe," Ginny said, she squeezed him tighter. "You should ask Harry about that. Maybe he has an idea. But…" She rubbed circles on his back. "I think you should also talk…in general. With me, or Ron, or Mum and Dad. Bill's really good at it. Maybe even Percy."

"Not Charlie?" he reached desperately for a joke.

"Eh," Ginny shrugged dramatically. "You can learn about how dragons grieve I guess." George snorted and wiped away tears. "Just…forcing yourself to be alone I think is only going to make it harder." She gestured to the plate of breakfast. "I'll leave this here, but…if you're up to it, I think we'd all really like for you to come downstairs with us and…I dunno…be sad together."

George had come down not long after, and he'd immediately busied himself with helping around the house. There was something almost manic about it. And Ginny would have been worried if not for the glint in his eyes that somehow assured her things would be alright. It wasn't quite the same, but he looked much closer to the George from before than he had in weeks.

George's energy made the rest of the morning and afternoon go by quicker. Ginny spent most of the time with Mum rearranging chairs or casting decorative charms around the gravesite. It was never quite good enough, and for once Ginny was happy to agree with Mum. It needed to be perfect. Fred deserved perfect.

But why was it so hard to get it right?

An owl came by with a letter for Harry just before lunch. It was a huge, great horned owl with wide wings and fiercely judgmental eyes. It was a bit off putting but Harry seemed relieved to see it. He took the letter quickly and read through it.

"Do you mind giving the owl some of Pig's treats?" he asked Ron. "I'm going to write a quick note back."

"Whose owl is that?" Ron asked, but Harry brushed him off evasively and dashed up the stairs with the letter in hand. Ron turned to her. "Bloody hell was that about?"

Ginny shrugged trying to play it off, but she was concerned. Harry was rarely this evasive; especially after their late night and early morning talks. But before she could express as much Harry came bounding back down the stairs, reply in hand and had sent the owl on its way.

"Just something I had to straighten out," Harry waved off their questioning glances. "We can talk about it later."

"Harry?" she called after him.

He threw her a grin over his shoulder. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

By three in the afternoon they were as ready as they were going to be. Despite all their charming and re-charming it still didn't feel enough for Fred's send-off, but it would have to do. Ginny changed into her black dress robes and joined her family out by the orchard as mourners began to arrive outside the wards.

Lee Jordan, Angelina Johnson, and Alicia Spinnet arrived first, together, and were followed shortly by Oliver Wood and Katie Bell. As soon as the wards let them through, they found George, who immediately broke down into tears. Ginny stepped back, giving them space. These were Fred's closest friends, and her heart twisted at the sight of them supporting George.

She lost count of the people who arrived after that. Neville, Seamus, and Dean came in together, followed by the Patil twins, Jimmy Peakes, Ritchie Coote, Demelza Robins, and finally Luna. A sea of graduated Gryffindors and former Hogwarts students from Fred and George's year filed in, along with a select group from the Ministry—Kingsley and Dad's colleague Perkins leading the way.

Then came the Hogwarts staff, with Professor McGonagall at the head. Hagrid, Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout, Madam Pomfrey, and even Professor Slughorn, who Fred had never been taught by, all made their way to the Burrow.

But the most unexpected arrival was Argus Filch. The Hogwarts caretaker made his way through the field, hunched over and eyeing the crowd nervously, clearly uncomfortable being surrounded by so many Weasleys.

His arrival stopped George in his tracks. He stared at the old man in shock, eyes wide with disbelief.

For a long moment, there was silence between them, with the former Gryffindor Quidditch team watching closely. Finally, Filch offered a tight, watery-eyed smile. He sniffed loudly and patted George on the arm. Then, helplessly, he looked around and shook his head. Ginny was struck by how human he seemed in that moment—not the boogeyman of Hogwarts, but just an old man who had seen too many children die.

"Causing trouble for someone else, I suspect," Filch said, his eyes red and wet. He sniffed loudly. George, bewildered, could only stare and nod in shock. "Good. Good. And you?"

"I... don't know if I have the heart for much trouble right now," George admitted quietly.

"You'll get there. In time," Filch replied with a tight nod. Somehow, George's eyes seemed to widen even further. "Your products are still banned," Filch added quickly, his bottom lip trembling.

"Never stopped us before," George said, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his lips.

Filch nodded, despite himself, and gave George one last pat on the arm before shuffling off to find a seat with the rest of the Hogwarts staff.

George stood there, still looking dazed, before glancing up at the sky. "I hope you were watching that, Freddie."

Ginny took her seat between Mum and Harry and it was then that the reality of the moment struck her. She felt cold, despite the sun in the sky overhead. The one solace was the presence of her family around her.

Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the gathered mourners, her eyes briefly scanning the Weasley family before settling on Fred's casket. She drew in a deep breath, steadying herself as she prepared to speak.

"I knew Fred Weasley since his first—" McGonagall's voice hitched, and she quickly cleared her throat, swallowing hard before continuing. "His first night at Hogwarts. None of us—Professor Dumbledore included—knew what we were getting into. None of his older brothers prepared us for it, or even warned us." She gave a teary, pointed look at Bill, Charlie, and Percy. "Nor have they apologized for that oversight."

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd, mostly from the Hogwarts staff, and Ginny felt her chest tighten. Fred's grin seemed to flicker before her eyes.

"Fred Weasley was, without a doubt, one of the most remarkable students I had the pleasure of teaching during my time at Hogwarts. Incredibly bright. Impossibly mischievous. He brought laughter to a school that, at times, seemed to take itself too seriously."

Ginny's eyes darted to George. She couldn't help but notice the way he stared at Fred's casket, his pain etched into every line of his face. Professor McGonagall's voice faltered slightly, but she pushed on, her gaze softening as she continued.

"Fred was not just a prankster or a schemer, though he certainly excelled at both. He was also loyal, brave, and full of love. A friend to all, who never hesitated to stand up for what was right, no matter the cost." McGonagall smiled faintly, her eyes flickering briefly toward George again. "As those of you who were there for his and George's final year of school can attest."

She thought of the explosions they'd left in their wake and the literal swamp they'd left behind. A wave of laughter, a little louder this time, rippled through the crowd, and Ginny's throat tightened. There was something comforting it.

"He was courageous and loyal, and he stood by those he loved with a fierceness that made all of us who knew him proud. He was—is—a Weasley." McGonagall's gaze shifted to Ginny and the rest of the family, and her composure finally cracked. A tear slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away with a trembling hand. "And though today we mourn his passing, we must also remember that this is not the end of Fred Weasley's story, but the beginning of how we will carry him in our hearts."

Ginny swallowed hard, her chest tight. She tried to focus on McGonagall's next words, but a lump in her throat made it hard to breathe. Her eyes were blurry, and her thoughts scattered.

Professor McGonagall gave a subtle nod, and with a flick of her wand, the somber lectern at the front of the gathering shifted and stretched until it became an enormous purple toadstool covered in glowing polka dots. Its edges undulated as if swaying to some unheard tune, drawing startled gasps and murmurs from the crowd.

At the same moment, Professor Flitwick raised his wand. The mourners' black robes shimmered and transformed, bursting into garish patterns and wild, clashing colors. Stripes, spots, and even dancing butterflies flitted across the fabric, while a few robes sprouted feathered collars that fluttered with every movement.

For a moment, there was only stunned silence. Then, from somewhere in the crowd came the first chortle of laughter—from Filch, of all people. It was shaky and wet, but it broke the dam. It spread like wildfire, rippling through the mourners until the air was filled with laughter.

Her parents and George clung to each other as if holding on was the only thing keeping them afloat. Slowly, one by one, her brothers stepped forward, wrapping their arms around the three of them until they all stood together in a tight, unbreakable circle. Ginny joined them, her hand reaching for Harry, pulling him into the embrace just as Ron tugged Hermione closer.

"That was Fred," Ginny whispered, her voice breaking as she leaned toward George.

George's breath hitched, and he tightened his arms around her. "Thank you," he sobbed.

Most of the mourners had already trickled away, pausing briefly to offer Mum and Dad their condolences—some murmured quietly, while others, like Hagrid, spoke in booming voices that didn't quite fit the solemn mood. Ginny stood off to the side, watching the last few depart. Kingsley had pulled Harry aside for a moment for a private conversation, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder and a hearty handshake, before departing.

The strain of the day pressed down on her, leaving her utterly spent. She eyed the small group still lingering: the old Quidditch team, Lee, Luna, and Professor McGonagall. Though she wasn't upset to see them remain, their presence felt like one more thing demanding her energy. All she wanted was a quiet moment to lie down. Even the idea of food, usually a welcome distraction, barely appealed to her—a rare occurrence for a Weasley.

"So," Oliver said, breaking the silence as he turned toward Harry. "We going to do this then?"

Ginny blinked, her exhaustion giving way to curiosity. She glanced at Harry, trying to gauge what Oliver meant.

"Yeah. I think…" Harry trailed off, his eyes flicking to Professor McGonagall. The professor gave him one of her trademark nods—stiff, precise, and entirely unreadable. He straightened slightly. "Yeah. Let's go."

"What're you on about, mate?" Ron piped up, shifting slightly where he sat. He leaned heavily against Hermione, who rubbed soothing circles on his back. His voice sounded thick, and his red-rimmed eyes mirrored the weariness Ginny felt. He sniffed once, rubbing his nose with his sleeve.

Harry hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden shift in attention. He reached up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous habit Ginny knew well. She tilted her head, watching him, and when his eyes met hers, she caught a flicker of something—an idea, maybe, or just the determination to push through whatever he was about to say. He gave her a faint, sheepish grin, and Ginny felt her curiosity grow.

"Well… I thought…" Harry faltered, glancing briefly at the others before his gaze came back to her. It steadied him somehow; she could see the moment he decided to just say it. "After Sirius died, I was—I was furious. With Dumbledore, with myself, with Voldemort, Bellatrix…everyone, really. And I destroyed half the things in Dumbledore's office."

Ginny remembered the story, but from the quiet murmurs around her, it was clear most of the others hadn't heard it.

"There was this moment," Harry continued, his voice soft but certain, "where smashing things made me feel a little better. Not a lot, but enough." He paused, glancing around at the group. "So, I thought maybe we could do something like that here. But then I realized…" His gaze flicked toward Mum, and a faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Mrs. Weasley would start digging another grave for anyone who just started breaking things around her house."

Dad chuckled knowingly, his eyes crinkling despite the heaviness of the day. Ginny's lips twitched upward, and she wasn't sure if it was at Harry's words or at Dad's reaction. Either way, it felt like the first real smile she'd had in hours.

Ginny watched Harry closely as he shifted on his feet, clearly trying to find the right words. She could tell he was nervous, but there was something warm about the way he was looking at everyone gathered—like he had a plan, and he wanted them all to trust him. She folded her arms, arching an eyebrow as if to silently say, Well, go on then.

"So I figured out a different idea," Harry said at last. "Something a bit more Fred than just smashing up someone's stuff."

"Yeah, not quite subtle enough," George said, his voice rough but managing a ghost of his usual humor.

"Yes, Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall interjected, her voice dry. But her lips twitched upward. "Because a permanent swamp and a storm of fireworks screams subtlety."

George shrugged with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Umbridge was our exception."

Ginny felt a pang in her chest at the exchange, watching George try to summon his old self. But before she could dwell on it, Harry continued, turning to Oliver.

"Well, Fred loved Quidditch and making things explode, so…I thought we could do a little of both." He glanced at Ginny and gave her a small, knowing smile. "We're going to play Quidditch…of sorts."

"Harry," Ginny said, glancing around. "We don't have any brooms."

"Courtesy of Puddlemere United," Oliver announced, grinning as he shrugged a satchel off his shoulder. He began pulling broom after broom from within, the bag clearly under an Extension Charm. Ginny recognized the sleek handles as top-of-the-line Cleansweep models—far better than anything the family had owned before. "Took a bit of convincing, but once I showed management the letter from my good friend and best Seeker to ever fly for Gryffindor, Harry Potter—"

"Hey, c'mon Ollie!" Charlie objected playfully and with mock hurt.

"Merlin's beard," Ron breathed, admiring the growing arrangement of brooms.

Soon, each of her family members, the old Gryffindor Quidditch team, Lee, Luna, and even Professor McGonagall stood holding a broom. Ginny glanced at the headmistress, whose expression was as stern as ever but softened by something…fond.

"So… we're playing Quidditch?" Ron asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Not exactly," Oliver replied. With a flourish, he reached into the bag again and pulled out a single Bludger.

Ginny frowned, her Quidditch instincts kicking in. "One Bludger? For all of us?"

Oliver smirked. "Harry asked me to help devise the most 'Fred Weasley' game of Quidditch ever. So here it is. We'll play with just this Bludger. And—"

"How do you score?" Ginny interrupted, her instincts overriding her skepticism.

"Such a Chaser," Oliver muttered with mock exasperation. "There's no scoring, Ginny. The goal isn't points. The goal is just to…" He paused and looked toward Harry.

"See what happens," Harry finished, grinning. "Yeah?"

Ginny tilted her head, studying him. His grin was infectious, and despite her exhaustion, she felt a flicker of curiosity—and maybe even excitement.

"Professor McGonagall has charmed the Bludger," Oliver continued. "We're going to hit it around to one another. And after each hit—"

"You'll have to hit it to find out," McGonagall finished, her tone dry but tinged with amusement.

Ginny couldn't help but smile as everyone mounted their brooms and kicked off the ground, heading toward the Weasley family Quidditch pitch.

The pitch felt different without Fred, but as Ginny hovered midair, bat in hand, she found herself gripping the handle tightly in anticipation. The Bludger shot into the air, and Oliver reached it first, his practiced swing sending it careening toward George.

George connected with a resounding crack. As the Bludger shot upward, it exploded in a cascade of glittering orange and gold sparks, lighting up the sky. Ginny's breath caught as she watched the sparks fall like a firework.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ron grin for the first time that day. He surged forward to catch the Bludger's trajectory and hit it toward Luna, who swung her bat with an uncharacteristically fierce determination. Another explosion burst in the sky, this one a brilliant, shimmering purple.

The game continued, the Bludger flying between them as it burst into a new display of color with each hit. Ginny felt her heart lift with every explosion, each one seeming to carry a little of their grief into the sky.

As the Bludger shot toward her, Ginny gripped her bat and swung hard. The impact reverberated through her arms as the Bludger soared upward, detonating in a fiery red burst that lingered like a sunset. She laughed—really laughed—for the first time all day.

Ginny glanced skyward and her smile widened. For the first time in weeks, she felt like it was over.

Harry lay on his camp bed in Ron's room, staring up at the slanted ceiling. The house was mostly quiet now, save for the occasional clanging of the family ghoul in the attic and Ron's snores from the bed nearby. Harry shifted onto his side; sleep eluded him.

The day had been a blur of grief and fleeting laughter. The game had been a bright spot, something to hold onto amid the weight of the funeral, but now the silence and the after pressed down on him like a physical thing. He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep, but his thoughts wouldn't stop racing.

Images from the day flashed through his mind—George's fragile smile, McGonagall's voice breaking as she spoke, Ginny's face streaked with tears. He didn't know how they were all still standing.

He turned onto his other side, punching his pillow for the third time, and sighed. Ron muttered something unintelligible in his sleep and rolled over facing the wall away from Harry.

Harry sat up, rubbing his face. His thoughts drifted to Ginny, and the familiar pull toward her steadied him. He tried to remember whether it was his turn or Hermione's to notify the other that it was time to switch rooms and settled on the idea that it was his—Hermione would not have waited quite so long.

He thought, momentarily, that he might just ignore the routine and try to get back to sleep. Wondering if it would be less disruptive, but also considered that Ginny might sleep easier beside him. That knowledge made his chest expand.

And he supposed Ron would find more comfort with Hermione in his arms.

Harry swung his legs off the bed, careful not to wake Ron and climbed out of the attic bedroom. The stairs creaked under his weight as he made his way down toward Ginny's room.

As he neared the first floor, faint voices reached his ears. He froze mid-step, straining to hear. The sound was coming from the kitchen. It was Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. For a moment, he considered heading back upstairs, but curiosity won out. Quietly, he descended the rest of the stairs.

"…just wish I could do more for Georgie," Mrs. Weasley was saying. "For all of them."

"You've done more than enough, Molly," Mr. Weasley replied gently. "You need to take care of yourself, too."

Harry's foot creaked loudly on a floorboard. Mrs. Weasley's head jerked and she quickly wiped her eyes.

"Oh. Harry," she said softly.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, stepping into the kitchen. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. Just…couldn't sleep. Wanted to get a drink of water."

Mrs. Weasley nodded. She wiped her eyes quickly. Mr. Weasley offered Harry a tired but warm smile.

"Help yourself," Mr. Weasley said, gesturing toward the sink.

Harry filled a glass and hesitated by the counter, unsure if he should go back upstairs, But something in Mr. Weasley's gaze kept him rooted to the spot. He turned to leave but Mr. Weasley stopped him.

"That was a beautiful thing you did today," Mr. Weasley said, his tone soft but certain.

Harry paused, then stepped back toward the table, holding the glass in both hands. "It wasn't just me," he admitted. "Hermione helped organize it. And Oliver and Professor McGonagall did most of the work."

Mr. Weasley chuckled. "If you're not going back to Hogwarts, I think she'll insist you start calling her Minerva soon enough."

Harry frowned slightly, testing the name in his head. It felt strange.

"I thought the same thing at your age," Mr. Weasley said with a small smile.

Harry nodded and looked down at his water, unsure how to respond.

"You know," Mr. Weasley said gently, "I think we all sometimes forget that you and Hermione weren't always with us."

Harry felt a sharp stab of guilt. "I'm sorry for the trouble that's caused you," he said quietly.

"Trouble?" Mrs. Weasley gasped, standing suddenly and pulling him toward the table. "Oh, Harry. You've done more for this family than anyone could have ever asked of you."

Harry hesitated, his heart tightening in his chest. He hadn't expected such a quick response, and it made him feel even more determined to say what he'd been holding back for so long. He sat down.

"You've done more for me than…well, than anyone ever has," Harry said softly, staring down at the table. The words came hesitantly. "The first Christmas present I ever remember getting was the jumper you sent during my first year." He looked up at Mrs. Weasley. Her hand had flown to her mouth. "I never—I'm sorry I never told you how much that meant to me. How much it still means to me."

Mrs. Weasley's eyes brimmed with tears. Her hand trembled as she reached across the table to grasp his.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered, her voice on the verge of breaking.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Harry added quickly.

"Upset me?" she said, wiping her eyes. She smiled through her tears. "You don't ever have to apologize to a mother for making her feel like she did something right."

Harry's breath hitched at her words. For a moment, he thought he could leave it there, but something deep inside him—the part that had spent years carrying the weight of unspoken gratitude—pushed him to say more.

"You were the first adults to—to want me," he said, his voice trembling. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to continue. "Who made sure I was fed, who made me feel safe and—and cared for. And frustrated," he added with a small, wobbly smile. He looked down, the words spilling out in a rush. "Everything I ever imagined about how my parents would have treated me…I learned from you."

Before he could say anything else, Mrs. Weasley was on her feet, pulling him into one of her hugs. Harry let himself be held, let himself imagine he was a child again, hoping against all reason that someone would just hug him once. He wished he had the chance to tell the younger him that one day someone would.

When she finally pulled back, her hands cupped his face. She looked up at him with tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh, my dear boy," she whispered.

"I'm sorry," Harry said again, sniffing. "I—I know today was hard, and I didn't mean to upset you. I just couldn't stop thinking, all day, about how thankful I am to be here."

Mr. Weasley stood and placed a firm hand on Harry's shoulder.

"There is nowhere in the world you belong more, Harry," he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes shone.

Harry's gaze flickered between them. "I keep thinking back to that day at King's Cross," he said, his voice thick. "Trying to find the platform. I could've found anyone…but I'm really glad it was you."

Mrs. Weasley broke into fresh tears, but this time her smile lit up her entire face. Mr. Weasley's hand gave Harry's shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"You'll always have a home here. Always," Mr. Weasley said, his voice quiet but resolute. "You have been our son since the day you walked through to the platform with Molly. It just…took us all a little while longer to realize it."

Harry nodded, his throat too tight for words, and let himself believe it. For the first time in a long while; since he'd lost Sirius, he felt like he had somewhere he belonged. The words that had gotten caught in his throat the night he'd first snuck down into Ginny's room came tumbling back to him. And he wondered why he'd felt so nervous telling her when the Weasleys had always treated him like he'd belonged there.

"Now, why don't you head back up to bed. It's been a long day," Mr. Weasley said. There was a twinkle in his eye. "See if Ron needs a glass of water as well."

"Oh—Ron, errr…right," Harry stammered.

"You did your best, young man, but you were found out," Mr. Weasley scolded him good-naturedly with a grin. "I'm sure the girls will understand." Harry felt his face go red and Mr. Weasley laughed. "You may have spent the last seven years sneaking around Hogwarts but you'll find that Molly and I are a bit harder to fool."

"I—I didn't—"

"Off you go, son," Mr. Weasley said, nodding towards the stairs. Harry's heart clenched fondly and he nodded tightly.

He made his way up the stairs, not bothering to quiet his footsteps this time. He stopped briefly on the landing outside Ginny's room, but the silence from downstairs let him know that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were still listening for him. He made his way up to Ron's room—his room? Their room?—and the thought sent a warm feeling flooding through him.

He pushed open the door to find the lamp set low and warm orange light flooding the room. "Hey," Ron said thickly, sliding the covers of his bed back as if to invite him in. He had his shirt off. "I kept your spot warm."

"Hi, Ron," Harry deadpanned.

Ron pulled the blankets back and clutched them to his chest. Even in the low light Harry could see the telltale Weasley flush of his face. "Harry! What are—err—where's—"

"Your mum and dad heard me," he said with a shrug.

Ron's face fell. "Were they mad?" He pulled his shirt back on and eyed the door warily.

Harry shook his head, struggling to wipe the grin from his face. He didn't want to get into everything he'd told Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. "No. Just said I should bring you a glass of water, too." Ron raised an eyebrow at him. "I told them I was down that way for a drink—was the best excuse I could think of."

"Brilliant! I could use a drink." Ron reached out a hand expectantly.

"Oh," Harry stared dumbly at the water in his hand. "No. This one's mine. I…forgot yours."

"Not suspicious at all," Ron grumbled. He flopped back into his bed with a groan. "I can't believe you got caught."

"Me neither," Harry said, still grinning despite himself.

"Why do you look so happy about it?" Ron asked.

"Because your parents are brilliant," Harry said.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Great. Then tomorrow when the girls ask what happened, you can be the one to tell them it's because of my brilliant parents."

Next Time: Chapter 8 — Slow Steps Forward

AN: Fred's funeral was harder for me to write than the Lupin funeral. I always felt that Harry got most of his closure when he saw his mum, dad, Sirius, and Remus called by the Resurrection Stone. But Fred was going to be different. Had to be a Weasley moment, and it was always going to be hard. Once I realized that I wanted McGonagall to speak, it only made sense to have other Hogwarts staff present. And then it made sense to have a humanizing moment with Filch. Don't get me wrong, the man might be awful, but he's not truly evil.

Maybe we'll see more of him later on...

Finally, I got to write the scene that was living in my head for years. Harry telling the Weasleys just how much it meant to him that they wanted him. For a kid who never had that, who had only ever been a burden or a tool, that's a huge deal. And more—realizing that for himself is huge.

I hope you enjoyed the newest chapter! Don't forget to drop a review!