Chapter 2
Someone knocks on his door.
“Harry, dear, it's Molly.” Her words are slightly muffled by the door between them. “Would you like to come down for breakfast?” she asks tentatively.
Harry rolls, his back facing the door, as he hikes Ron’s Chudley Cannons blanket farther over his head.
“I’ll leave a plate for you,” Molly says gently. She stays quiet for a moment, and Harry assumes she’s walked back downstairs until he hears her say, “Maybe you should take a shower, or go for a walk. It's a lovely day. Please, crack the window, at least.”
She pauses again, waiting for a confirmation of some kind, but Harry does not give her one.
“I’ll call you when it's lunchtime, dear.”
Harry wakes to a knock again.
“Harry, we’re having lunch,” Molly says wearily. “Ginny and George are over. Would you like me to bring you a plate? Or you could come downstairs for a bit.”
Harry doesn’t respond. He hasn’t talked in days. He hasn’t moved from Ron’s bed since he and Hermione arrived here after the war ended, still caked in dirt and tears.
As soon as the dust puffed around Voldemort’s fallen corps, the remaining aurors and fighters rounded up the fleeing Death Eaters and recovered the lifeless bodies of aurors and students. The aurors assured him it was over, but it couldn’t be. There had to be something else.
Hands pulled him into the crowded Great Hall, swaddling him in a blanket and handing him water. He heard the distant echo of voices, though they were drowned out by the ringing in his ear.
Harry’s skin prickled with the presence of danger. His body was taut and restless with anxiety, ready to snap and fight. It was impossible to truly believe this plague that had followed him since childhood was finally dead.
Even as Hermione’s hands soothed his hair, whispering that it was over, Harry couldn’t seem to wake from this dream where he was still fighting; still doing anything to save the people he loved. Even as Ron wept before him, cradling Fred’s dead body, Harry felt trapped underwater, despite his desire to emerge.
At some point, Hermione had apperated them to the Borrow. It was dark and silent. That warmth that clung to walls was gone. The clock ticked; most of its hands still pointing to Hogwarts. Hermione gently pulled him to Ron’s bedroom. Yet, it was but a ghost of the room he remembered.
He stripped from his blood-soiled clothes that had been clinging to his body for over a week and burned them until they were a pile of soot. Harry crawled beneath the dusty blanket on Ron’s floor, and though his mind screamed at him not to, that Voldemort could still be alive, hiding as he regained his strength, his body welcomed the comforting darkness of sleep.
It wasn't until later that night that he woke to the gentle creek of his door, a sliver of orange light cutting through the dark room. Ron walked over and kneeled in front of him, clean and tended to, and told him that Fred was taken care of and a service would be held as soon as he and Hermione returned from Australia.
Harry felt numb at the thought of running off again, fixing another problem dropped into their laps. He was just so tired. So he nodded and reluctantly moved to sit up because that’s what he did, left everything behind to fix the world. It was his second nature. It was expected of him.
Ron regarded him like cracked china, one breath away from shattering.
He placed a freckle on Harry’s chest. “Maybe it’ll be good if you get away from,” Ron gestures, “all this.”
Harry didn’t answer.
“Or you can stay here, recover, heal, pick up where you left off with Ginny, or have another go at the Wizarding World.”
Both options felt equality unappealing, and all Harry could do was stare at his hands. After minutes of silence, Ron stood and left, closing the door with a quiet click.
And Harry cried. He cried for hours, letting the tears he had suppressed since they left Bill’s wedding fall. Maybe tears from years before. In a war, tears don’t invoke change, actions do.
But the war was over.
So, he sobbed for the loss of his childhood, his parents, people who he considers family, the children forced to fight in a war they didn’t start, and the children who died. And when his eyelids were swollen and heavy and his temples were pounding against his skull, he finally rendered his mind silent.
“Ok,” Molly sighs. “I’ll leave the plate by the door, but your breakfast plate is still out here.”
Harry stares at the ceiling, motionless, as the shadows from the afternoon sun dance across them.
“Harry.” Her voice is taut with worry and frustration. Harry’s stomach twists with guilt. He wanted to move, to speak, but he just couldn’t.
“Harry, say something so I know you’re not dead or I’ll break down the door.”
She sighs again.
“Hiding yourself away won’t make you feel better. It won't erase your pain. It will only kill you slowly. Losing Fred is the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced. But my kids need me, you need me, and I—" her voice breaks, “I can’t fall apart. Fred wouldn’t want that. I don’t want that. I’m stronger than my pain, and so are you. So please,” she begs, “say something.”
For the first time in a week, Harry slips from his blanket. His vision wavers from the lack of food, black starbursts dotting his vision, but he walks to the door and opens it.
Molly is holding a plate of lunch and staring at him with so much sadness and love that he has to look away. She took in the sight of him in Ron's old pyjamas, his unwashed hair, his skin—pale and dull.
“You’re right,” he admits, his voice rough from disuse. “I’m sorry.”
Harry shuffles uncomfortably, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. Molly didn’t speak. She places the plate on the floor and engulfs him in a fierce hug. Harry hugs her back tightly. If this woman who has always cared for him like her own child, who stood up to Voldemort’s darkest and most convoluted supporter, all to protect her daughter, and who watched her son die so the rest of his family had a chance to keep living, despite everything, then so could he.
Molly pulls away, resting her palms on the side of his face.
“My sweet boy. The moment I first saw you, I knew you had the kindest heart. You don’t have to apologise for grieving. I want what’s best for you. We all do. Ron has been floo calling me every day, asking about you. You’re our family.”
The last of Harry’s reserves crumbles, and he breaks into sobs. Molly smiles sadly and rubs his back. After Harry manages to calm down, Molly asks quietly, “Do you want to eat something? Maybe a shower would be best.”
Harry gave a watery laugh. “Yeah, a shower sounds good.”
****
Harry is elbow-deep in soil and drenched in sweat when a familiar voice speaks from behind him.
“I never thought I’d see the day when Harry Potter was gardening like my mum.”
Harry leans back onto his knees and squints up, shading his eyes with his dirtied glove, to see a tanned and freckled Ron grinning down at him.
Harry smiles back.
“Yeah, boredom will do that to a guy.”
It had been two weeks since Harry had last seen Ron, and a nagging voice in his head worried how things would be between them—if they would ever be “Harry and Ron, thick as thieves,” like when they were younger. But Harry shrugs off those thoughts and stands to hug his best mate. Ron, like his mother, has a knack for bear hugs, and Harry instantly melts into his friend’s arms.
“How’s Mum been?” Ron asks, his brows knitting. “She said she was fine on floo, but she’s a hard-to-read woman. Always putting up a stone face so you’re not worried, you know.”
“Well, obviously she’s grieving, but she's making the most of everything right now. Been talking loads about you two, wondering when you’d get back,” Harry says, glancing towards the house where Molly was rolling out a dough in front of the kitchen window.
Ron laughs, shaking his head. “Sounds like Mum.” Then he looks down at his hands awkwardly.
Harry braces himself.
“How have you been, mate? When we—me and Mione left you weren’t in the best state. We didn’t want to leave you like that, honest, but we had to find her parents; and finally set things right.”
Harry returns to the flowers he had been tending to and starts ripping out the weeds to give his hands something to do.
Ron plops down onto the ground beside him, watching him as he works.
“I’m doing better. Keeping myself busy. Your mum’s been teaching me some family recipes. I, well I was nervous to get back into cooking, in case it reminded me of when I was younger, but it’s been good so far. Rewarding.”
Harry was initially worried when Molly suggested he try labour as a form of therapy to keep his mind occupied. The hours spent cleaning and cooking for the Dursleys were buried in the depths of his mind, and those memories resurfacing were enough to make Harry want to lock himself back in Ron’s room. But he trusted Molly, and knew she was genuine with her intentions, so he did.
Unsurprisingly, she was right; it did help. So now, Harry spent most of his time doing household chores, welcoming the soreness it brought because his chest filled with pride when he finished something that benefited himself, rather than the Wizarding World.
“So you’re out here learning all the household trades,” Ron teases, nudging Harry with his arm. “Next, I’ll find you quilting.”
Harry rolls his eyes and flings a weed at Ron, who releases a squeal, before returning to his gardening with a smirk.
Ron leans back on his arms, letting the warm sun bathe him.
“You seem better.”
Harry looks up.
“You think?” Harry asks, pushing up his glasses with his elbow to avoid smearing dirt across his lenses.
Ron nods. “Honest.”
“Well, you don’t look so bad yourself. Australia did you some good,” Harry admits.
And he was right. Ron is tan; the purplish hue stained beneath his eyes is gone, and his demeanour is more like his younger self—funny and easygoing, always trying to keep the conversation light. He seems almost at peace with himself. However, Harry can’t imagine the initial lobster-coloured burn Ron must’ve gotten.
Ron grins to himself. “Why thank you, Harry. I tried this muggle cream to enhance my colour. Worked just like magic, I swear. I thought Hermione was pulling one on me at first.”
“Hermione doesn’t pull one on anyone,” Harry chuckles, the idea laughable.
Ron snorts. “Yeah, no, I know.”
After that, they lull into a comfortable silence before Ron stretches onto the sun-sweetened grass and recounts his adventures in Australia while Harry continues gardening.
And for the first time, Harry is glad he left Dumbledore alone in the station.