The Burrow

Harry woke as the first few drops of sunlight filtered through the slanted window into the room to tickle his nose. The place was warm and stuffy, and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the glimpse of a mess of bushy hair and a long-limbed, freckle-speckled hand on the pillow beside him. Hermione and Ron were still asleep, their breathing soft and regular, so Harry sat up slowly, careful not to wake them.

His dark T-shirt was sticking uncomfortably clammy to his back and the colourful crocheted blanket under which he had fallen asleep now lay at his feet. Harry dimly recalled kicking it off him in his dreams, but now that he was awake he couldn't quite work out why. In his inner eye, he thought he could vaguely recall fragments of ghostly images that haunted him even now, weeks after Voldemort's death, but the scar on his head—once a bond that connected him to the most dangerous dark wizard of all time—had remained quiet. Harry sighed and stretched, reaching for his glasses.

In the early morning light, Ron's small room at the top of the Burrow looked much as it always had: the walls were plastered with posters of the Chudley Cannons, a Quidditch team in bright orange and crimson robes, and the silhouettes of Gudgeon, Jenkins, and Gorgovich flitted endlessly back and forth on their broomsticks high above the chaos of quills, chocolate frog cards, and colourful socks that all but reminded Harry of his first visit to the Weasleys more than six years ago.

However, on closer inspection, he could also make out several thick books on Arithmancy, ancient runes, and defence spells, as well as the shiny metal of a sneakoscope and the long, jagged shard of a mirror that now reflected a piece of the top edge of the door alongside the usual maroon and red tones—all remnants of the belongings that both Harry and Hermione had brought with them and which were now balanced on top of tables and shelves amidst the chaos.

There was a soft snore coming from nearby, and Harry turned at the sound, glancing at the two figures lying beside him now that he could see them a little clearer: Hermione had pulled the covers all the way up to her nose, but even as she slept, Harry thought he could see the fine line between her bushy eyebrows that seemed to have etched itself into her skin over the course of the last year.

Ron’s bare, scarred arm was wrapped around her body in a tight embrace and when Harry spotted the tangle of their legs, he hastily averted his eyes, feeling warmth crawl up his neck. Another of Ron’s heavy snores rang out as he quietly slid to the end of the old mattress and slowly straightened, stretching his back with a soft pop. Pigwidgeon, who had been sleeping in the open cage across the room, stirred at his movement and croaked softly. He shushed her gently, and the owl peered back at him for a moment longer before closing her big dark eyes again, tucking her head back under her wing.

Harry rummaged through a pile of discarded laundry in search for a clean pair of jeans, then clambered over yet more blankets and pillows towering at the foot of their mattress nest, which took up most of the space in Ron’s room—much to the irritation of Mrs. Weasley, who pointedly reminded them on an almost daily basis that there were plenty of spare bedrooms in the house if they only wanted to use them.

Neither Harry, nor Ron, nor Hermione had been willing to explain the strange comfort they felt in each other’s company after a year of being cooped up together in a dingy old tent, and with the events of the Battle of Hogwarts behind them, no one had felt ready to change that unspoken agreement just yet—although Harry occasionally worried that Ron and Hermione might put aside their privacy for his own need for a sense of familiarity. As a result, every night for the past three weeks, they had climbed the stairs to Ron’s room under the attic, where they would listen to the sound of each other’s breathing in the dark—until the familiar rhythm carried them off to sleep.

Glancing over at the two silhouettes in the tangle of blankets, Harry checked that both Ron and Hermione were still fast asleep before hastily changing out of his pyjamas and into his clothes, tucking his wand into the waistband of his jeans and tiptoeing quietly out of the room.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, plunging him into darkness, and while it was still mostly quiet in the house, there was the faint clatter of dishes and the unmistakable smell of tea and bacon coming from the kitchen. No doubt Mrs. Weasley was already up and preparing breakfast.

One floor down, Harry made a quick trip to the bathroom where he splashed cold water over his face. As he straightened up, he saw a haggard young man with green eyes staring back at him and, as was often the case, it took Harry a moment to get used to the narrow frame of his own reflection.

He had become scrawny—a year on the run from the Death Eaters and the meagre meals of roots and mushrooms that Hermione had prepared for them had left marks that not even three weeks of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking could undo, and his shoulders protruded sharply from under the plain shirt he wore. His hair, still a little uneven at the sides, stuck out from his head in impossible angles, and though Harry had long since given up any attempt to flatten it, it made him look wilder than ever, with his cheeks hollowed out and dark shadows under his eyes.

Aunt Petunia would probably have fainted at the sight of him, Harry thought, running wet fingers through his hair and feeling a mixture of amusement and surprise at the sudden thought of the Dursleys that seemed to have crossed his mind for the first time.

Perhaps it was his thin reflection that reminded him so much of a time before Hogwarts, before magic—back when he had lived in the cupboard under the stairs, dressed in his cousin Dudley’s oversized hand-me-downs and surviving on the scraps of food his aunt and uncle would provide for him. There was a brief moment when Harry allowed himself to wonder about the whereabouts of the Dursleys since they had left their house at Number 4 Privet Drive in the summer of last year: had they returned home as soon as Voldemort had fallen, or were they still hidden away in some strange place somewhere in England, magically protected?

The thought made him feel strange—something between bemusement, intrigue, and a touch of wistfulness—and Harry hastily decided to stop worrying about his aunt and uncle. As far as he was concerned, Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley Dursley would be perfectly content in any part of the world, as long as they had their own television and plenty of neighbours to complain about. As if to confirm this thought, Harry gave a nod to his thin reflection behind the sink—which nodded in return.

When he arrived in the kitchen, Harry’s earlier suspicions were confirmed: Mrs. Weasley was already standing in front of a large pan of bacon cooking on the hob, and the low, solemn voice of Celestina Warbeck came crooning from a small radio by the window. Crookshanks, Hermione’s bow-legged cat, sat on an armchair in the corner, tail twitching and staring blankly at Harry with his yellow eyes.

“Oh, good morning, Harry dear!” Mrs. Weasley greeted him with a warm smile. She was wearing a wide floral apron over her robes, her wand tucked away in one of the front pockets. Harry thought that she looked tired too, with dark rings around her red eyes, but neither her tone nor her smile suggested it.

He returned her smile and tried to sound as cheerful as possible—for although Fred, the Weasleys’ middle child and second half of the twins, had been killed by Death Eaters in the battle against Voldemort only three weeks ago, Mrs. Weasley had tried to act as if nothing had happened since their return to the Burrow.

She kept herself busy in the kitchen from dawn to dusk, tending to the laundry or the chickens outside, and prattling on to the other inhabitants of the house, who followed her endless list of chores, muttering under their breath. In truth, however—and this was the real reason why Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and even Mr. Weasley succumbed to her boundless energy and seemingly cheerful exterior—Mrs. Weasley would burst into tears at the slightest provocation, and it often took a considerable amount of time for her to calm down again, leaving them all in an uncomfortable silence and with heavy lumps in their throats.

Still smiling a little too forcefully, Harry slid into one of the wobbly chairs and watched as the cup in front of him filled with steaming tea and his toast began to butter itself.

“It smells fantastic,” he commented before taking a big sip of tea, only to promptly burn his tongue.

“Thank you, dear,” she replied, already turning her back on him as she busied herself with a second pan, thankfully missing Harry’s silent curse. As if in mockery, Celestina Warbeck belted out the final notes of A Cauldron of Hot, Strong Love .

"Eggs and bacon?" Mrs. Weasley asked, and Harry, still blinking back the tears in his eyes, merely croaked in answer. Before he could stop her, she had piled up a portion of scrambled eggs so large that it covered the toast underneath, and Harry quickly gestured his hands at her.

"That's plenty, thanks," he finally managed to get out, and Mrs. Weasley, who for a moment seemed ready to give one of her famous lectures on Harry's weight—or lack thereof—only offered him a thin smile instead, setting the empty pan back on the hob.

"Is Mr. Weasley not up yet?" Harry asked, trying to make polite conversation as he reached for his fork and knife. The tall, freckled father of the Weasleys had been given an extended leave from his job at the Ministry in the wake of the family's recent loss, and he'd spent every spare moment over the past few weeks that his wife hadn’t tied him up with housework in the old, rickety shed in the front yard of the Burrow, where, Harry knew, he tinkered with Muggle artefacts surrounded by electrical plugs, light bulbs, and batteries.

"Oh no, Arthur's left for the day," Mrs. Weasley said to Harry's surprise before taking a seat across from him, sipping at a cup of tea absentmindedly. "Kingsley sent him an owl before dawn, saying they'd arrested Rookwood. I told him someone else would handle it, but Arthur wanted to be there for the first interrogation, especially as he's..." She caught herself mid-sentence and looked at Harry with big, watery eyes, almost surprised.

Especially since he was the one who killed Fred, Harry finished the sentence in his head, nodding slowly. Her lips trembled slightly.

"So they've started the trials?" Harry asked hastily, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth while keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the plate in front of him. Mrs. Weasley hesitated for a moment, taking a shaky breath before accepting the subtle change of subject with obvious gratitude.

"Oh, yes!" she said loudly, getting up from her chair a little too quickly, as if she had suddenly remembered the batch of bacon on the stove. With her back to him, Harry caught her briefly using a corner of her apron to dab at her nose.

"It was in the Daily Prophet this morning," she explained, pointing to the somewhat crumpled pile of papers to Harry's left before she busied herself with the pots and pans.

"Arthur thinks the Ministry doesn't want to delay the trials. He suspects they're trying to prove that with Kingsley as Minister, they're moving in a new direction. He sends his regards, by the way!" Mrs. Weasley added, addressing Harry, who was already reaching for the newspaper, somewhat sceptically. The Daily Prophet had undoubtedly been delivered by Errol, the Weasley family's ancient owl, and as a result was showing clear signs of wear and tear—the corners were bent, and the front page looked a little creased, but Harry paid it no mind.

He had a rather low opinion of the paper, ever since they had tried to discredit him on more than one occasion, but when he saw the photo of the new Minister of Magic on the front page, he eagerly turned the paper in his hand until he could read the headlines.

‘Kingsley Shackle-bolt's all Death Eaters ’ was written in large, bold letters across the front—and now, with much more interest, Harry's eyes quickly scanned the article next to it.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, former Auror at the Ministry of Magic and newly appointed Minister of Magic after the fall of You-Know-Who on the second of May, has promised a speedy process in the prosecution and sentencing of former Death Eaters and those who sided with You-Know-Who in his rise to power. Shacklebolt, who has been in office for almost three weeks now, has guaranteed victims' families and others affected a "thorough and transparent investigation that will begin in the first week of June."

While well-known Death Eaters such as the Carrow siblings or Antonin Dolohov can be sure of a trial, Shacklebolt's new regime will ensure that even the silent supporters of You-Know-Who—including those within the Ministry itself—must tremble. Indeed, Shacklebolt has promised a comprehensive overhaul of all Ministry employees who occupied positions over the last three years. As a result, Dolores Umbridge, former head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, as well as Corban Yaxley, former head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Lucius Malfoy, long-time benefactor of the Ministry of Magic, have already been taken into custody.

Harry paused briefly when he saw the familiar names, then hastily continued reading.

All three have been dismissed from their posts and stripped of their titles; they are due to stand trial in the first weeks of June. In addition, the Muggle-Born Registration Commission has been disbanded—the Minister for Magic has promised compensation to all those who fell victim to its systematic persecution over the past year. For the time being, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will be under the direction of Alexis Inkwell, who has a long and successful history as a Ministry Auror. It remains to be seen whether all trials conducted before the Wizengamot will be open to the public—in any case, the Daily Prophet vows to keep its loyal readership fully informed of all developments.

Harry finished reading the article, and his attention returned to the familiar face of Kingsley Shacklebolt, looking up at him from the moving image with sincere, warm eyes. Instead of his usual brightly embroidered robes, the broad-shouldered wizard was wearing a simple dark blue cloak, and on his chest Harry could just make out the ends of a small pin forming the silver letter 'M'. There was something odd about his plain look—but then Kingsley from the photograph nodded his head in understanding, and Harry caught sight of a tasseled turquoise fez. He smiled.

Behind Kingsley, Harry could catch a glimpse of the Atrium—the grand entrance hall to the Ministry, lined on either side with fireplaces, where he himself had stood less than a year ago, transformed by the Polyjuice Potion into the menacing, large form of Runcorn—who no doubt expected to face a trial of his own very soon. Harry still remembered the grotesque sculpture in the centre of the hall that had replaced the golden fountain prior to it, but it had disappeared from the photograph.

"Seems like Kingsley's doing a thorough job," he eventually commented after skimming the article for a second time, and Mrs. Weasley nodded in agreement. Then his eyes went back to the headline above the new Minister of Magic.

"I wonder what they're going to do with all the convicts," Harry wondered over the clanging of pots and pans, and Mrs. Weasley tipped her head at him, furrowing her brows.

"Arthur said many of the Death Eaters are still held at the Ministry. They've extended the cells down by the interrogation rooms, but surely they can't remain down there forever. I suppose they’ll take them to Azkaban—as far as I know, it’s still the only wizarding prison in Britain. Though I’m not sure how much of it is left, after everything that’s happened..." she considered, then shrugged. "You should ask him when he gets back from the Ministry, dear. Maybe Arthur’s heard something..." she added, and her eyes instinctively darted to the large family clock above the mantelpiece behind Harry.

It wasn't an ordinary clock—Harry knew that each of the eight hands showed one of the freckled images of the Weasley family, and in place of the numbers were a series of possible locations, including 'home', 'school', 'work', 'travel', 'lost', 'hospital', 'prison', and where the number 12 would be, 'mortal danger'. A ninth hand—the one that until a few weeks ago had shown Fred's broad grinning face—had broken off after his death. It was now safely tucked away in one of Mrs. Weasley's many pockets.

Harry followed her gaze and saw that the golden hand, which marked Mr. Weasley's whereabouts, was pointing to 'work', and she sighed with relief, as if suspecting that one—or even all—of the remaining hands might have moved back to 'mortal peril', where they had stubbornly remained for the past year, as if bewitched by a sticking charm. It was only after Voldemort's death, after they had all returned to the Burrow with tired eyes and heavy hearts, that the clock's hands had once again changed their positions back to 'home'—with the exception of Fred's. Harry swallowed and turned his attention back to his scrambled eggs with somewhat less enthusiasm.

About ten minutes later, heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs to the kitchen, and Ron, with his jumper turned inside out and his hair dishevelled, padded through the door. Above them, more of the Burrow's inhabitants seemed to awaken.

"Morning, Mum," he muttered blearily, swallowing half his words in a yawn, and slumped into the chair next to Harry, who just about managed to save his breakfast from his elbow by pushing it out of the way.

"Morning," Harry hummed, and offered him a friendly nod over his mug. Ron blinked, then smiled and proceeded to pile bacon, eggs, and toast onto his plate. Only a few minutes later, Hermione descended from the stairs, Ginny right behind her. The latter raised her brows as she sat down opposite them.

"Nice jumper, Ron," she said regarding her brother before reaching for a piece of toast. Ron, who seemed a little more awake now, looked down at his chest.

"Oh, I think this is yours, mate," he remarked, looking over at Harry. "I was wondering why the sleeves were so short," he continued, stretching his arms out in front of him, which extended a good few centimetres beyond the sleeves. Then he shrugged and returned to his breakfast. "I thought maybe the ghoul had shrunk them or something..." he added between a fork full of bacon, and Harry - who himself had accidentally worn a pair of Ron's (much too long) jeans at least twice in the last few weeks, and a pair of his (thankfully clean) underpants at least once - simply shrugged in return. 

As Ron, Ginny and Hermione tucked into their breakfast, Harry's eyes were travelling towards the ceiling, as if he could see through the many floors to the attic, which was once again occupied by the Weasley ghoul now - and for a moment he wondered how the strange creature was doing, having left Ron's room rather reluctantly. Hermione, who had followed his gaze, sighed over her porridge. 

"I think he liked it better in your room, Ron," she said sceptically. "I heard him banging on the pipes last night - it sounded kind of sad..." Ron just shrugged again.

"Sure, he liked it better there," he replied without lifting his eyes. "But it's not like we have room for another person in there, is it? Besides, I don't feel like sharing a bed with a ghoul - do you?" Harry, who couldn't help but grimace at the thought, watched as Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but was quickly interrupted by Mrs Weasley from her spot in front of the stove. 

"About that, you three..." she began, and Ron stifled a groan - they had had this conversation with her on more than one occasion in recent weeks - but Mrs Weasley continued, ignoring her sons' obvious objection. "I just don't understand why you all insist on sleeping in that tiny room," she added, stirring the pot in front of her a little more agitatedly than usual. Harry, Hermione and Ron exchanged a quick glance behind her back before Ron opened his mouth to protest. "Mum, that's really not necessary. Harry and Hermione like it in there and I really don't mind -" he started, but his mother cut him off again, now turning her attention away from a sizzling frying pan to fully look at them.

"I'm just saying, we've got plenty of spare beds to sleep in! Hermione dear, you're more than welcome to make yourself at home in Bill and Charlie's old room - I could ask them if you'd prefer that, but I don't think they'd mind." She added with a questioning look at Hermione, who offered a polite smile but remained silent - for she too had had this discussion more than once. "And Harry," Mrs Weasley turned to him, and Harry quickly hid behind his mug. 

"You've slept in Fred and George's room before, remember? We could move one of the beds out of the way to give you more space - maybe Fred could..." Her voice trailed off as she realised her mistake, her spoon halting in mid air, and an uncomfortable silence settled over the kitchen, enveloping them all in a matter of seconds. Suddenly, the only sound was the sizzling of bacon on the stove and Celestina Warbeck's crooning tune crackling over the radio. 

"Oh...I..." Mrs Weasley stammered slightly, and Harry glanced quickly at Ron, who in turn looked up at his mother, half worried, half heartbroken. His own breakfast lay forgotten on his plate. The awkward silence lasted for another ten seconds or so, and then Mrs Weasley, who had been holding back tears all morning, finally broke down in heaving sobs. Ginny, who was sitting closest to her, immediately scrambled to her feet and began to rub her mother's shoulders.

"It's all right, Mum..." she murmured, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, "it's all right." And no one dared say a word as she gently reassured her mother, allowing Mrs Weasley, who had both arms thrown around her daughter now, to shake her with the tremors of her sobs. Harry lowered his eyes to the table - the memory of Fred Weasley left a large lump in his throat that even his tea couldn't wash away. He swallowed, blinked several times and was once again painfully reminded of the funeral that had taken place shortly after Fred's death. It had been a dull, grey spring day when they'd lowered his coffin into the ground not too far from the Burrow, its chestnut wood covered with flowers - as well as a couple of fanged frisbees, firecrackers and trick wands. Besides the Weasley family, the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix and the antiquated old wizard who had given the eulogy, there had been nearly a dozen of their old Hogwarts classmates, including Neville, Luna and Dean Thomas, as well as Angelina Johnson, Oliver Wood and Lee Jordan, who had wept silently. George, usually ready with a joke, had been pale and uncharacteristically quiet, even accepting his brother Percy's awkward but well-meaning hug without comment. 

Whenever Harry saw the younger Weasley twin now, he couldn't help but notice that he looked strangely alone, and he had found himself expecting Fred to appear from around a corner on more than one occasion - only to surprise them all with a crooked grin. 

He swallowed again, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione grab Ron's hand under the table and squeeze it tightly. The uncomfortable silence in the kitchen lasted a few more painful minutes until it was finally broken by Mrs Weasley sniffing heartily into a handkerchief. Then she looked up at Ginny, who was smiling at her through sad eyes, and patted her cheek gently.

“I'm sorry, my dears," she turned to address them all, whilst adjusting her apron. "It's just - with Kingsley's news this morning and Arthur out of the house, I'm a bit shaken up, that's all." Harry nodded, hoping his expression conveyed his sympathy and Mrs Weasley smiled, a little shakily.

"Dad's gone?" Ron asked, sounding more hoarse than usual, then hastily cleared his throat. Ginny and Hermione both blinked at her in surprise as she nodded thoughtfully.

"He's at the Ministry - Kingsley sent word this morning that they have captured Rookwood. Arthur left before sunrise." Mrs. Weasley explained, her eyes once again darting over towards the clock on the mantelpiece, which continued to tick in its steady rhythm.

"Oh." Ron replied, somewhat speechless. "Does this mean that the trials have begun?" Harry, who had asked the same question earlier, simply handed him the latest edition of the Daily Prophet and while Ron and Hermione put their heads together behind the article, he peered over at Ginny. Her eyes met his in a silent return and she gave him a slight nod - though her face remained sad. 

"Wow." Ron remarked a little later, having finished reading the article, and Hermione agreed with him. "I didn't think the Ministry would get this done so quickly. Kingsley's doing a bloody good job." Harry nodded too. 

"I guess he wants to get things done quickly."

Ron grinned, then helped himself to another serving of bacon. "Did you read the bit about Umbridge?" he asked, shoving a forkful into his mouth. "Boy, I hope they make the whole trial public - now that's a hearing I'd like to attend!" Hermione, who had still been staring thoughtfully at the newspaper article, now frowned. "I think our chances are pretty good," she finally commented, and both Harry and Ron looked at her, but she simply continued to study the front page for a second time.

"What do you mean?" Harry finally asked in surprise. Hermione turned towards him and pointedly tapped her fingers on the Daily Prophet. "Well," she explained, her face twisting a little at her next words, "don't you think they'll call on us to speak before the Wizengamot?" Her eyes darted from Ron to Harry and back in uncertainty, and Harry, suddenly feeling his breakfast weigh heavily on his stomach, stared at her blankly. She sighed unhappily and pushed the papers aside as if they made her queasy, too. 

"Just think about it: we were there last year when Umbridge interrogated Mrs Cattermole in that horrible way - not that the whole process of registering Muggle-born witches and wizards isn't a punishable offence in itself - but that had nothing to do with a fair trial!" She explained and shuddered, probably at the thought of the dozen Dementors they had faced on their last trip to the Ministry, before continuing: "I'm sure the Wizengamot will need as many witnesses as possible at her trial. Besides, I don't think Umbridge's methods during her time at Hogwarts will remain unscathed now that Kingsley is the new Minister for Magic - and no one knows better than us what she did in the name of discipline!" She glanced scornfully at the back of Harry's hand, which still bore the words 'I must not tell lies' in his own scarred handwriting. Harry, suddenly feeling a little exposed, hastily slid it off the table and into his lap. Hermione shook her head. "We even saw her try to use an unforgivable curse after we broke into her office!" she added, then sighed heavily.

"And then there's you, Harry," she said hesitantly, looking at him with a pang of sympathy. Something suddenly prickled at the back of his neck and Harry had to resist the urge to touch his forehead out of reflex. "I suppose you're the most important witness of all," she mused, then swallowed hard. "Only you saw who was there to stand by him when Voldemort returned and killed Cedric. You were at the Ministry a year later, and you were there when Dumbledore died. It was you who went into the Forbidden Forest just a few weeks ago - you were there at every step of Voldemort's rise to power". She finished, and even Ron nodded hesitantly. 

"That's true..." he thought aloud, and despite wanting to feel otherwise, Harry knew that Hermione had been right the moment she said it. The fact that he had only received a handful of owls from the Ministry wasn't because Harry had finally been able to fade into the background after defeating Voldemort - quite the opposite. For the first time, it occurred to him that this was merely a temporary reprieve granted in his favour - most likely by Kingsley himself. Harry's stomach churned at the thought and his mouth suddenly felt terribly dry - but when he went to take a sip of his tea, he found his mug empty.

*

The strange feeling that had been awakened in him at breakfast lingered for the rest of the day and could not be shaken off, no matter how hard Harry tried. They had spent the better part of the morning folding mountains of laundry in the increasingly stuffy upstairs bedroom until Mrs Weasley called them all down for a simple lunch and then ordered them to de-gnome the garden.

"I think she just wants us all out of the house," Ron grumbled, squinting sourly into a gaping hole between the rose bushes where the occasional gnome had been poking its head out for the last half hour or so - grinning wickedly. Ginny, with her long red hair tied back, was lying on the soft grass at his feet. She merely shrugged, plucking at a stem. They had been outside for a couple of hours now, with fairly meagre success, but neither she nor Harry or Hermione seemed to mind. It was the first bright sunny day of the summer, and although the air was warm and pleasant, there was a cooling breeze that swept through the lush green leaves of the surrounding trees, causing them to sway gently. Harry sighed. 

"She just wants to keep us all busy, I think," Ginny explained forbearingly as she stretched out her long limbs, causing her shirt to rise just enough to reveal a sliver of pale, freckled skin. Harry quickly averted his gaze and cursed himself for doing so in the very next moment, but when he turned back her arms had fallen into the grass and her bare stomach was no longer visible. 

Ron scoffed. "I'm not a house-elf..." he muttered under his breath, which earned him a sharp look from Hermione who was sitting on the steps of the back door with a thick book - but Ron simply ignored her. She'd refused any help clearing the garden from the start, even after he'd tried in vain to explain that the gnomes would be perfectly fine with it and then demonstrated the point by grabbing one by the ankle and sending it over the garden fence - where it landed giggling and relatively unharmed. As a result, Hermione had spent the last few minutes lecturing him on the responsible treatment of magical creatures.

"They're having fun, Hermione - look!" Ron finally snapped in annoyance, pointing to the other end of the fence where two of the small, grubby gnomes were gleefully scampering back towards the garden.

"This is pointless," he sighed to himself, kicking at a stone and cursing at the kitchen window, where he probably suspected his mother's watchful eyes. Harry, who had witnessed an angry Mrs Weasley on several occasions in the past, silently hoped that she hadn't seen her son's rude gesture.

"She's not wrong, though." Hermione said as she followed his gaze, defending Mrs Weasley generously, even though she too had been complaining for days about the seemingly endless list of chores they'd been doing. "After everything that's happened, we could use the distraction," she added, a little piqued when Ron brought up that very point.

"Don't tell me this isn't enough of a distraction for you!" he grumbled, plucking the volume of Adalbert Archery's Advanced Alchemy from her fingers, which were about as thick as Harry's thigh. "Honestly, you'd think you were preparing for an exam. What are you doing with that, anyway?" Ron asked, pointing to the pile of heavy books by her side that she had willed through the open window and onto the lawn with a flick of her wand earlier, and was now combing through one by one as if looking for something. Of course, Ron hadn't been the only one to notice this strange behaviour - Harry had picked it up as well, though it wasn't the fact that she was hiding behind heavy books day in and day out that puzzled him, but the way she flicked through them, seemingly at random, before sorting them into one of her many piles with a dissatisfied look on her face. It reminded him of her preparations for their Horcrux hunt - though now, of course, there were no more Horcruxes to hunt. 

Hermione hesitated for a moment, shifting her feet awkwardly before glancing cautiously at Ron and then at Harry. Finally she sighed. "Well..." she said, reluctantly putting down another book that had been on her lap before sitting up a little straighter. "I'm trying to figure out where we go from here," she finally announced in a meaningful, if vague, way. Harry and Ron both stared at her. Ginny sat up on her elbows to look at them, biting her lower lip thoughtfully, and something told Harry that she knew where this was going. 

"Come again?" Ron finally managed to ask, wrinkling his nose in confusion. "What do you mean? Voldemort's dead, isn't he?" he added, casting an irritated glance first at Harry and then at Ginny, as if to reassure himself. Harry gave a somewhat ambiguous shrug. "I'm fairly certain ..." he offered in a half-hearted joke that didn't really land, and Hermione sighed again.

"But that's the point, don't you see? Voldemort is dead ," she explained, and when no one spoke she began to run her hands through her hair in a nervous gesture, turning to look at the pile of books at her side. "I don't know..." she continued, a little softer now, "now that the trials have begun, I feel like things are starting to move forward again, don't you?" she asked cautiously, before picking at the frayed hem of her jeans. Harry just blinked at her, trying to understand what she was getting at.

"Well..." he finally offered, uncomfortably reminded once again of the strange unease he had been feeling since that morning, "I guess so...?" he mused, and Hermione nodded sheepishly. Then she took a shaky breath. "I don't want to go home until the Ministry finds Mum and Dad - it would just feel weird without them - so I'll have to find a place for myself eventually. I've got some spare money, but it's never going to be enough for a flat in London, and I don't want to trick anyone by using magic. I suppose I could rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron, but that would cost me a fortune too, so... well..." she paused for a moment, her cheeks fully flushing now, "I suppose I'll have to get a proper job, won't I?”

There was a moment's silence, all of them taken aback by what they had just heard. Finally, it was Ron who spoke first: "But Hermione," he said slowly, worry now written all over his face, "you know you can stay here as long as you like! Mum and Dad won't mind, you heard them yourself - there are plenty of spare rooms in the house! If only you'd said something -" but his sentence was cut short as Hermione hastily reached for his hand with a broad, grateful smile.

"Oh, I know that, Ron, and that's great, really! But that's not what I meant," she argued before turning towards Harry. Her eyes were dark and serious, but there was a familiar, sharp clarity in them. She wrinkled her nose, as if trying to find the right words. "When we left here last year to destroy all those Horcruxes, I didn't think much about anything beyond that - because I had no idea if there would be anything beyond that . We didn't know if we'd be travelling for a few months or a few years. There was no guarantee that we would actually manage it at all!" Hermione pointed out and Ron nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Feeling a familiar sense of guilt creep up on him again, Harry nodded too, and found himself instinctively glancing at Ginny - suddenly understanding what Hermione was trying to say. Hadn't he thought the same thing about a year ago, when he'd broken up with Ginny to protect her - and to protect himself from any hope of a future in which he could somehow survive? Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and as if she had felt his eyes on her, Ginny turned to face him. His fingers twitched, but he didn't dare reach for her hand. Instead, he forced his eyes back to Hermione. 

"I've never really allowed myself to think about it," he admitted after a moment, and she gave him a sad, sympathetic nod. Ron grimaced, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Ginny shift slightly, sitting up to tuck a strand of loose hair behind her ear. 

"I know." Hermione replied softly, smiling at him as she made room for Ron to sit down next to her on the step. "Me neither. Until after... well. Everything." she concluded, and for a few minutes they all sat in silence, quietly watching as one of the gnomes cautiously approached them until he was close enough to tug on the leg of Ron's trousers. "Not now, mate," he said, a little gentler, pushing the small creature away with the toe of his sneaker. Harry watched it disappear between the rose bushes, grumbling softly, before clasping his arms around his knees. 

"So Arithmancy?" He asked curiously, when the silence around them became too awkward, and Hermione's attention flew back to the book at her feet in an instant. She let out a long sigh. 

"No, I don't think so," she admitted, resting her chin on her hands as she studied the silver lettering on its cover. Ron, Harry and Ginny followed her eyes. "It's actually not that easy, if I'm honest - I've always been good at Arithmancy, so I thought I might be able to use it for something. It's quite handy for Cursebreakers, but to be honest I don't think I want to be one," she paused for a moment, thinking, and they all watched as she knitted her bushy eyebrows, deep in thought once again. "I was wondering if I should apply to the Ministry - the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is really exciting and I'm sure they'd be interested to hear about S.P.E.W. in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but both of those departments only offer positions if you've successfully passed your N.E.W.T.S. - and I haven't because we've been travelling with Harry for the last year." She sighed, shrugging a little defeated, then turned to pluck at the frayed hem of her jeans again. Her expression turned a little sour. "My parents always wanted me to become a dentist, but there are lots of great spells for that in the wizarding world, and I honestly haven't read about any particular incident that couldn't be solved by magic, so I don't think that's a real possibility either..." Hermione mused, trailing off, and Harry nodded slowly. 

“I see…” he said, not really saying much at all, and then there was silence once again. Harry studied the grass at his feet for a moment, watching as an ant climbed up the stem of a daisy, pausing every so often before disappearing into the underside of its white petals. A breeze ruffled through his hair, and then he sighed too, resting his chin on his knees as the sun shone warmly down upon his back. 

"What's a dentist?" he heard Ron say, but Harry didn't fully listen to Hermione's explanation of Muggle dentistry - and the unmistakably horrified reaction it would probably provoke in any witch or wizard - as his own mind had begun to wander. It almost felt as if Hermione's words had opened up a door inside of him that Harry hadn't allowed himself to think about ever since he had learned of the Prophecy at fifteen years old, and for the first time in months - maybe years - he found that the little voice in his head that whispered, " What now?" didn't fill him with dread anymore. Instead, there now seemed to be a sheer explosion of possibilities - and his stomach dropped a little at this. The sensation almost reminded him of Quidditch, of the way he felt as he raced across the field at impossible speed, glimpsing the pitch far below him with a mixture of fear and elation coursing through his blood. 

Harry grinned and once again felt the urge to look over at Ginny, but this time he didn't resist. He studied her profile from the side, with her pointed nose and freckled cheeks, noting the dark circles under her eyes and the unusually tight line of her lips. She frowned, clearly confused by Hermione's anecdotes about drills and tilting chairs, and Harry felt a familiar twinge in his chest that he couldn't quite put into words. He shook his head in surprise and decided to focus on the much simpler question Hermione had suggested instead - surprised when the very first thing that came to mind was an idea that had formed years ago, a boyish yet hopeful vision of a future that had felt so right at the time - and before he even realised it, the thought found its way across Harry's tongue.

"I always wanted to be an Auror..." he said softly. Hermione, who was still describing the various tools and equipment used by Muggle dentists to the increasingly confused-looking Weasleys, stopped and blinked in surprise at his words. Then she smiled, wide and warm, and for the first time in a long while she almost looked like her normal self again. Ron grinned too.

"Oh, right!" he said cheerfully, nodding at Harry. " Auror Potter - I bet the Ministry would welcome you with open arms, Harry! They probably wouldn't even put you through any training, you know. Hey, maybe you could put in a good word for me, too - we could be partners!" Ron's grin widened at the thought and his eyes suddenly became very glassy as he stared into the distance. "The dynamic duo - Potter and Weasley," he mused aloud, gesturing with his hands. Then he frowned again. "Or maybe Weasley and Potter? Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?" he asked, and Harry suddenly felt a warmth inside him that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun on his back. His lips twitched, and next to him Ginny chuckled in amusement.

“Idiot.” she muttered, though without any heat, and her eyes crinkled at the corners.

"I don't think it's that simple," Hermione interrupted them all abruptly, pulling them out of their daydream and with it the strange, sudden euphoria in Harry's chest. Her voice had taken on that familiar tone she often used when she was about to lecture them and Ron groaned theatrically, probably suspecting the same. She continued without hesitating.

"Auror training is incredibly difficult! They are highly trained witches and wizards, and only a handful of trainees qualify every century or so. As far as I know, the Ministry hasn't accepted any new candidates for years - Tonks was probably one of the last to actually make it!" Hermione explained, running a hand through her hair. Ron scowled, obviously displeased with what he had just heard. 

"But he's the Chosen One!" he argued, pointing his finger at Harry, who immediately cringed, but Hermione merely shook her head. When she saw his face, her expression softened and became a little more apologetic.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, Harry -" she added quickly, looking at him with serious eyes, "you're a very talented wizard! It's not that I don't think you could do it - it's just that you'd have to meet incredibly high standards," she pointed out, looking a little embarrassed. Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Thanks,” he said dryly, and Hermione sighed in exasperation, letting her hands fall back into her lap. 

"What I meant to say is that I don't think they'd turn a blind eye to you or anyone else who hasn't even finished school..." she spelled out - and both Harry's and Ron's mouths closed shut. Now it was her turn to cringe. Ginny frowned, plucking at a weed beneath her feet, and Harry let out a heavy breath, pondering what he had just heard. The warmth inside him fizzled in an instant and he thought he could hear the door of possibilities fall back into place with a soft click. 

"Huh." he muttered, rubbing the heel of his hand over his forehead, and Hermione nodded, her lips pursed. 

A moment passed and then Ron let out a long sigh. In a dramatic gesture, he bent down to the pile of books at his feet and picked up Adalbert Archery's Advanced Alchemy - only to hurl it determinedly over the garden fence, where it landed with a dull thud in the tall grass. "Spoilsport," he grumbled, his expression somewhat sombre. For a second, Hermione stared at him in disbelief - then, with a flick of her wand and a murderous look on her face, she summoned the book back. 

“Did that help?” she asked sharply and Ron shrugged - the smile now back on his lips. He stretched out his long legs before him, then put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. 

“A little.” he said and grinned. Then he turned to look at Harry, who still had his brows knit tightly.

“So, what now?” he asked - but it was Ginny who answered. She had let go of the leaf between her fingers and brushed some earth off her trousers before looking at them. 

"I think I'll go back to Hogwarts," she said plainly, then shrugged. "I don't think Mum and Dad would mind if I didn't finish my N.E.W.T.s, not after everything that's happened - and I won't need them for the Harpies, since they're doing try-outs for the team, which shouldn't be a problem for me. But I'd like to finish Hogwarts and leave on good terms, if that's possible,” she explained, and there was a fierceness in her eyes that made Harry's heart skip a beat. Finally, after thinking about it all day, he leaned over and took her hand. It was warm and dry and seemed strangely small in his own, with slender fingers and a few freckles here and there.

"I think that sounds great, Ginny," Hermione said, beaming at her, and even Ron seemed strangely touched. "Yeah, that's brilliant!" He chimed in. Harry, who felt as if the words had slipped his mind, said nothing but squeezed her fingers gently. He couldn't help but feel a surge of emotion at the thought - a strange mixture of admiration, pride and something bitter that tasted almost like jealousy - but he pushed it aside as he felt Ginny's fingers squeeze his back. "Brilliant!" he echoed and she smiled. 

*

"How long do you think it will take them to finish the repairs?" Ron asked, hours later. They had moved their conversation to the front yard as the sun passed over the sky, finding cover under the old willow trees there, with their shadows now slowly growing longer and longer. The scattered wellies that the ever-busy Mrs Weasley had instructed them to collect had been neatly lined up outside the front door for nearly an hour now, and the coop had been thoroughly cleaned - but not one of them had bothered to report this to her, dreading the load of the seemingly unending list of household chores that she would no doubt have in store for them. Instead, they were lazing in the warm grass with Ron's old wizard chess set between them. 

The subject of Hogwarts had come up again and again throughout the afternoon, and Harry thought they all seemed to be asking themselves the same question: not just when, but more importantly, if and how the school would reopen its doors to students. The Daily Prophet had been surprisingly quiet on the subject, and apart from a few brief articles about the appointment of Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher and Head of Gryffindor house, as the new Headmistress, the wizarding world had received little news about the current status of the school.

Ginny, who was lying on her stomach next to Harry, shook her head thoughtfully. "I don't think they'll be finished before the summer holidays start," she replied, gently nudging Arnold the Pygmy Puff, who was crawling through the grass to curiously inspect the fragments of Harry's fallen Bishop. "I spoke to Bill the other day and he said there are still whole sections of the castle sealed shut." They all nodded in silence. Bill, the eldest of the Weasley children, normally worked for the wizarding bank known as Gringotts, but had been called in by the Ministry as a curse-breaker to help with the more complex hexes and spells that had hit the castle itself during the Battle of Hogwarts - and were now causing a great deal of trouble. "Apparently the north wing has collapsed in on itself, and they've found some really nasty spells near the viaduct courtyard. Bill reckons there's already been a few lost fingers trying to fix it," she went on, and Ron looked up from the chess board in utter disbelief. "Wow," he said dully. "I really hope the Gryffindor common room survived in one piece. It's quite strange to think that the tower might be gone." Hermione shook her head at him from behind her book - she was now flicking through Dancing with Dragons - A Contemporary Guide.

"The tower is still there, Ron, we saw it ourselves before we left Hogwarts. I was more wondering about what happened to the Room of Requirement after Crabbe set it on fire." She added. Harry paused for a moment to think, then moved his pawn two squares and looked up.

 "I think it probably imploded, don't you? After all, it sealed itself up the moment we got out - I can't imagine it would have survived that," he mused aloud, feeling a slight pang at the thought of the room that had served them so well over the years. Ron sighed, equally wistful.

 "Shame, really. It was almost like a pet or something..." he lamented, but before he could finish his sentence there was a faint popping sound from directly behind them causing the flock of chickens which had been pecking at the dry earth to find worms and insects to scatter in surprise. The sound made them all jump and Harry's hand instinctively shot to the wand in the back pocket of his jeans. Ginny and Ron, who had also bolted to their feet, both shouted in unison: "Dad!"

Mr Weasley, a tall man with thinning red hair and grey travelling robes, had apparated into the Burrows front garden carrying an old, tattered leather bag. He looked tired, but at the sound of his own two children he turned quickly and a grateful smile spread across his face. Harry, who had hastily tucked away his wand, was struck by the dark shadow of his stubble - it was clear that Mr Weasley had left the house in a hurry this morning and hadn't shaved. He raised his hand in greeting and then moved towards the front door, which was flung open by Mrs Weasley in the very same moment. "Arthur!' she exclaimed in surprise and relief, gathering up her skirts as she rushed over to greet him. Mr and Mrs Weasley embraced for a moment, as if they hadn't seen each other for a long time, and then walked off together towards the Burrow. “Come on you lot, supper's almost ready!" Mrs Weasley called over her shoulder, but Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny had already finished gathering their belongings from the grass.

The kitchen was warm and stuffy, but the smell of steak and kidney pie was heavenly, and Harry watched as the long dining table began to magically set itself. He barely managed to dodge an idly floating sauce boat and a pile of plates before deciding to keep a safe distance from the door as a swarm of cutlery flitted through the room like a swarm of shimmering fish. 

"Oh, Arthur!" Mrs Weasley said again at that very moment, pulling her husband into a second embrace as he, unable to remove his robes or put down his bag, gently rubbed circles on her back. "It's all right, Molly," he murmured repeatedly, and Ron and Ginny shared a look that seemed both embarrassed and sympathetic.

A few minutes later, when Mr Weasley had finally managed to disentangle himself from his wife and they were all seated at the table, he took a long sip of pumpkin juice and sighed deeply. "What a day, let me tell you," he began, watching as Mrs Weasley helped him to a hefty portion of mashed potatoes. 

"Kingsley sends his regards to you all - said he would have liked to have come for dinner, but he's being bombarded with requests and letters from all sides at the moment. I suppose that comes with the new territory..." He snorted softly to himself and scratched his stubbled chin. Then he met the group of eyes, all eagerly watching him.

"You can't imagine what's going on at the ministry. I've never seen it so busy - they're overhauling everything, every department is being thoroughly investigated. I can't imagine anyone who's worked for You-Know-Who in the last few years slipping under the radar like this. Kingsley was talking about week-long trials starting as early as next week!” They all nodded their heads. "It was in the Daily Prophet this morning," explained Ginny, who - like the others - had not yet taken a bite of the food in front of her. Mr Weasley pursed his lips.

"That's what I thought. Kingsley informed me himself this morning, before they'd even printed today's edition of the Prophet. I suppose he wanted us to know before it was all over the papers, since we're... personally affected, so to speak," he said, struggling for a moment to find the right words. Mrs Weasley reached for his hand and he gave her a tired smile. Then Ron cleared his throat.

"So... Rookwood?" he asked a little hesitantly and his voice quavered as he looked over at his dad. Mr Weasley nodded again.

"They found him last night. He fled to Albania after it became abundantly clear that You-Know-Who had fallen. Apparently it took them quite a bit of work to get to him - he had barricaded himself in an abandoned house and started casting Unforgivables when they finally managed to get to him. But in the end, they were able to catch him and prove for certain that the exploding spell that hit Fred..." he paused for a moment, staring at the plate in front of him, and Mrs Weasley sniffled again. Ron, whose eyes were still fixed on his father, was clutching his knife and fork with white knuckles, hands hanging mid-air. "Well, it was him - they checked his wand and everything." Mr Weasley concluded with a heavy sigh. 

There was silence at the table for a while - and no one seemed to be moving, the only other sounds being the soft clucking of chickens drifting in through the open kitchen window and the old family clock ticking steadily. Harry, unsure of what to say, stared down at the swirling patterns in the wood. Here and there they were interrupted by the various traces of a misplaced knife or a scorch mark, an ink smudge or a faint wine stain, evidence of every member of the Weasley family who had sat there at one time or another. In the end, it was Hermione who spoke first.

"But that's good news, isn't it?" she asked into the silence, looking back and forth from Mr and Mrs Weasley to Harry, Ron and Ginny. "He'll be held accountable for what he's done - he'll finally get the punishment he rightly deserves!" Her voice was soft but firm, and Mr Weasley gave her a sad smile and nodded.

"Quite right. And I don't think he'll ever be free again. Kingsley isn't part of the Wizengamot, but he has guaranteed me a lifetime sentence for Rookwood - and I believe he will keep his word." Mrs Weasley sighed with gratitude. She and her husband exchanged a brief look, and Harry thought he could guess the silent words they were exchanging - then she squeezed his fingers one last time and let her eyes sweep across the table.

"Eat!" she exclaimed in surprise when she saw their empty plates and cups, and Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny hurriedly began to help themselves to mashed potatoes, kidney pies and green beans.

By the time they had finished their desserts - vanilla ice cream with warm cherries - they were all sitting comfortably full and a little sleepy around the empty table. Ron had his chin in his hands, his eyes almost closed, while Hermione and Ginny were playing with Crookshanks with a balled up page of the Prophet, flicking it across the table as his bright, watchful eyes followed. At the sight of the paper, Harry suddenly remembered the question that had popped into his head earlier that day and he leaned eagerly across the table.

"Mr Weasley?" he asked, watching as the man turned from a quiet conversation with his wife to look at him. His eyes were still tired, but Harry thought he looked a little relieved, the fine lines in his forehead somewhat smoothed. "I was wondering... What are they going to do with the Death Eaters? I mean, they're not going to send them to Azkaban, are they - after everything the Dementors have done?" Ron, Hermione and Ginny perked up at this. 

"Oh no," Mr Weasley said, taking another sip of his butterbeer. "At the moment they're still being held at the Ministry - all the way down by the courtrooms, I'm sure you remember?" Harry nodded, involuntarily reminded of the two times he had been in those lower levels of the Ministry - once when they had almost thrown him out of Hogwarts for casting a Patronus spell in front of Dudley, and then another time during their search for the Slytherin locket, which had led them straight into the arms of Dolores Umbridge and a dozen or so Dementors. He shuddered at the thought of it, but Mr Weasley continued, oblivious.

"The Carrows and Fenrir Greyback are down there, I believe, along with a number of others. Those indirectly involved in the Death Eaters' rise to power are under house arrest, guarded by Ministry officials. I'm told they've confiscated the wands of Lucius Malfoy and his family until further notice - they're expected to stand trial as well, I presume." Harry exchanged a quick glance with Ron and Hermione at this, both of whom had raised an eyebrow at the name Malfoy. Ron shrugged slightly, which probably meant 'serves them right'.

"Anyway, as for Rookwood," Mr Weasley hesitated, returning to the original subject of the evening, and everyone's heads turned back to him, "he'll be facing the whole Wizengamot next Monday. Tiberius Ogden will be leading the prosecution - I spoke to him today and he seems to be quite capable, I think. Percy was there too." He added more to his wife, and this time Mrs Weasley sniffled with joy. 

"Oh, Perce!" she exclaimed, and both parents' smiles grew wider. Harry joined in, though not with quite the same enthusiasm. Percy, Ron's narrow-minded, somewhat priggish older brother, had always been the Weasley Harry had liked least - a loyal supporter of the Ministry under the reign of Cornelius Fudge, who had tried on numerous occasions to condemn both Dumbledore and Harry as either mad, dangerous or both, Percy had spent the last few years estranged from his family, who had in turn shunned his name. It was only when he had chosen to admit his mistakes and return to fight by their side at the Battle of Hogwats that they had forgiven him - though Harry hadn't forgotten that it had been Percy who had once called him 'a threat to his future career' in a long letter to Ron.

"Where's Percy, by the way? Ginny asked, now sitting cross-legged in her chair and petting Crookshanks, who had settled into her lap. Her eyes had wandered to the empty chair to her left, usually occupied by her older brother, who had begun to return to the Burrow more often.

"He went to see George," Mr Weasley explained in a heavy voice, and Ginny grimaced in understanding. "I suppose he wanted to tell him the news straight away. Charlie's there too," he added, and Harry swallowed hard. George, now the sole owner of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the twins' joke shop full of trick wands, fanged frisbees and all sorts of other ingenious products, had looked terrible the last time they had seen him - with deep shadows under his eyes and strangely colourless, and despite his best efforts to appear his usual cheerful self, the crooked grin on George's face never managed to get past his nose. 

Harry knew that Mrs Weasley was desperate for her son to move back into the Burrow, if only for a while - but the twin had brushed off every one of her attempts over the past few weeks with a feeble smile. "Seriously, Mum, you don't think I want to go back to Ron's smelly old socks, do you?" Harry had heard him say that the last time his mother had tried it, but the cheerfulness in his voice sounded a little hollow. "I'm fine staying in the shop! Besides, Percy's always coming round trying to chew my ear off about cauldron thickness and potion rules - which is particularly cruel as I've only got one left!”

"It's good he's not alone," Ron said, pulling Harry out of his own thoughts. His sister nodded in agreement. "I think he'll be pleased to hear they've finally got Rookwood," she mused, her tone hopeful as she scratched Crookshanks behind the fluffy ear. 

It had grown dark beyond the kitchen window and the cool night air was drifting in, bringing with it the sound of crickets and the gentle rustling of leaves. Eventually, the muffled clattering, tapping and creaking of pipes came from the upper floors of the house, and Harry thought of the ghoul that had unmistakably begun its nightly lament. A few minutes later, Mr Weasley rose and disappeared into the sitting room, returning with a bottle of firewhiskey and six glasses, which he filled generously.

"To Fred," he declared, sending them across the table with a flick of his wand, and Harry, Ron, Ginny and Mrs Weasley each grabbed one, raising their hands as they all said in unison, "To Fred".