The Dursleys Departing

Harry would soon find out that Kingsley's message to him had been correct - the invitation to the Malfoys' hearing had only been the beginning of an endless tirade of visits to the Ministry, and after a fortnight or so, he feared he would never be able to shake off the bitter, metallic taste of the anti-secrecy spells. Harry was tired of the repetitive reports he had to give to the assembled ranks of the Wizengamot, the constant flashing of the many wizarding cameras that accompanied the trials, and the daily headlines they produced. Soon the Weasleys' kitchen table had become an ever-growing mountain of interview requests, formal correspondence and reports of all kinds, and Mrs Weasley sighed each time she had to clear it of its suffocating weight with a sweep of her wand before dinner.

"We really should do something about your hair, Harry dear," she commented as she inspected his picture on the front page of the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, which had narrowly avoided a large pot of soup by sliding off the table and onto the kitchen floor. Harry shrugged and watched as she placed it on a nearby side table instead, where the previous day's editions were already piled high. Somewhere further down the stack, he thought he could see the white-blonde heads of Draco, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy peeking out.

"Last time Hermione cut it," he said, tearing his eyes away from the headlines to sit down in one of the rickety chairs. Mrs Weasley studied him sceptically for a moment, then pursed her lips.

"Perhaps you'll let me try this time?" she suggested cautiously,and when Harry nodded she smiled warmly. 

While they ate, Mr. Weasley shared the latest news from the Ministry: he had just returned to his old job as head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defense Spells and Protective Objects earlier in the week, and they all listened intently as he shared stories of invisibility cloaks that strangled their wearers and snapping signal fires that were still circulating on the black market. At the mention of a series of particularly devious Sneakoscopes, which had made a habit of actually sneaking up on their unfortunate owners and then firing a loud, high-pitched tone directly into their ears, they all had to laugh - and for a moment Harry was painfully reminded of the many mischievous designs of Weasleys Wizards Wheezes, the twins' joke shop. Hermione, who must have had a similar thought, leaned forward in her chair to look at Mr and Mrs Weasley.

"How is George, by the way?" she asked, and watched as both parents sighed deeply. Mr Weasley rubbed at his eyes, leaving his glasses a little lopsided. 

"Percy says he's fine - I saw him at the Ministry this morning, seems to have his hands full now he's working for the Department of Magical Transport - but he checks on George every other night or so." He told them, nodding to himself. "The shop's still closed, of course, but nobody goes to Diagon Alley these days anyway. Everyone's either at home, at the Ministry or still out of the country!" he added and Hermione hummed. Next to her, Mrs Weasley's lips were pressed into a thin line. 

"I'll never understand why he wanted to stay in that flat all by himself in the first place!" she huffed, quickly getting to work piling seconds onto everyone's plates, "It's not like we don't have enough spare rooms with Bill and Fleur in their own place and Charlie back in Romania! Percy's so busy with his work - and if I'm honest, I think he enjoys the solitude of his flat more than this place - but Georgie..." she trailed off and Harry thought he could see her eyes getting a little teary. Ron frowned, an uncomfortable look on his face. 

"I dunno, Mum..." he began gingerly, ignoring his sisters' silent gesturing from the other side of the table. Then he shrugged. "Maybe he just needs some space?"

Mrs Weasley's eyebrows shot up at that and she opened her mouth - probably about to argue once again that there was plenty of space in the house - but Mr Weasley patted her arm gently, half to comfort her, half to stop his plate from overflowing.

"I'm sure George will be all right, Molly. He knows where to come if he ever needs anything," he said reassuringly, before adding with a little more ease: "Besides, Lee and Angelina are with him, so I don't think he'll be lonely." 

For a moment, Mrs Weasley seemed to continue to struggle with herself - then she let out a shaky breath and fell back into her chair, putting the ladle aside. Finally, she nodded.

"I suppose you're right..." she admitted, if somewhat reluctantly, and used the corner of her apron to dab at her cheeks. Silence fell over the kitchen, until Harry, who had spent the last few minutes or so poking around in his food in an effort to disappear, carefully cleared his throat. 

"So Lee and Angelina are staying with George?" he asked curiously, picking up the conversation where they had left it, and Mr Weasley bobbed his head.

"Oh, yes!" he said over a swig of butterbeer, and Harry, Ron and Hermione shared a look of relief. "They've been there for a few weeks now, at least that's what I've heard. Percy says there's talk of co-ownership, but nothing's quite settled yet. Like I said, there's no rush - for now I'm just glad they're keeping him company..." he explained, and finally a smile began to spread across Mr Weasley's face. Harry thought he looked tired but hopeful, and it was enough to at least loosen the grip of guilt and grief around his chest that seemed to tighten each time they spoke of the twin.

Later, after Mrs Weasley had served them each two large slices of summer fruit pudding for dessert - forcing a third one on Harry, who apparently still looked 'far too frail' for her liking - they all felt too full and deliciously sleepy to move, so they sat around the kitchen table and listened to Ginny as she told them about her most recent visit with Luna. She was still living in Shell Cottage after her own house had been destroyed by a blown Erumpent's horn, and Xenophilius Lovegood had joined her there after being rescued from Azkaban. Apparently, the slightly eccentric man had recently taken to growing dirigible plums in Bill and Fleur's garden as a pastime, and they all laughed at Ginny's spectacular impression of a completely bewildered Fleur cursing in French. Her eyes still crinkled at the corners when she met Harry's gaze, and he grinned back at her. 

“And how's Ollivander?” Hermione asked, still wiping her nose after a badly timed sip of her tea had shot out of it from laughter. 

"Ah!" Mrs Weasley chimed in a little happier now, smoothing her apron with a smile, "Muriel informed me that he has left to return to his flat in Diagon Alley. I believe the words 'hasty escape' were used..." she pointed out and Ginny and Ron both huffed. 

"I'd be running too, after weeks in Muriel's company..." the latter muttered to Harry, who - having had the displeasure of meeting Molly Weasley's great-aunt at Bill and Fleur's wedding last year - couldn't help but laugh again. Mrs Weasley gave them both a warning look, but Harry thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch slightly. Hermione sighed, already sobering.

"It would be a shame if he never got back to his wand making..." she mused, nursing her cup of tea, and Mr Weasley nodded in agreement. 

"He's the best in Britain - perhaps the best in Europe. I'm afraid the next generation of witches and wizards don't yet know what they will lose if he does indeed retire - but I'm sure his craft will be sorely missed..." he thought to himself, and Mrs Weasley shook her head, a worried expression suddenly back on her face. 

"With Diagon Alley in such disarray, one can only wonder if the new first years will be able to get all their things together for the school year before the start of September," she wondered, and a sudden question crossed Harry's mind.

"Is there any news about Hogwarts?" he asked, and Hermione and Ron also looked up in curiosity. It was Ginny who answered: "Bill says the repairs are going well. They still can't get down to the dungeons, but apparently they've managed to patch up the south wing," she reported, making room for Crookshanks, who was sitting eagerly at her feet. "Apparently the giant squid is still very upset - it's retreated to the bottom of the lake and is spraying ink everywhere. They're bringing in a specialist from Indonesia to look at it, but Bill thinks they may have to relocate it." she added, and Hermione sighed, looking glum at the mention of the giant friendly creature that lived in the Black Lake outside Hogwarts Castle and was known to the students for its love of burnt toast. Ron frowned. 

"How on earth are they going to move a beast that size?" he asked incredulously, but Ginny just shrugged. 

"I have no idea," she said and began scratching the cat behind its ears.

When they finally turned in for the night hours later, Harry's thoughts kept travelling back to the topic of Hogwarts. The Daily Prophet hadn't given much coverage to anything other than the endless reports of the trials, so the information about the state of the castle from Bill, who was still working there as a curse-breaker, was invaluable. At the same time, however, Harry found that the idea of the castle in ruins sat heavy in his stomach, turning the previously pleasant fullness after a delicious dinner into an uncomfortable weight that seemed to drag him down. Hogwarts - with the possible exception of the Burrow - had always been the only place Harry had ever felt truly at home, and when he finally closed his eyes, with Ron's loud snoring and Hermione's soft breathing in his ear, Harry found himself longing for the Gryffindor dorm room with an intensity that - despite the comforting familiarity of it all - made his heart ache. 

The feeling must have woven into his dreams, for when he fell asleep what seemed like hours later, he found himself standing alone in the Great Hall, its enchanted ceiling lit by a soft, silver moon. Cool light washed over the long tables, casting shadows across the stone floor, and in the centre of the room stood a figure, tall and thin, fair hair gleaming white in the moonlight. Somewhere inside Harry's head the disembodied voice of Severus Snape echoed, distant and strangely muffled: "Occlumency, Potter. The magical defense of the mind against external penetration." 

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but his throat was dry—no words came. The figure turned, and suddenly he was looking into Draco Malfoy’s pale face, his eyes brighter and sharper than he remembered. Harry took a step forward, but the floor gave way beneath him. He stumbled, then fell - and the stone slabs shifted, swallowing them both whole.

In the next moment Harry was flying, his fingers gripping the handle of his broom. Below him, searing heat licked at his heels, flames reaching up as if to pull him down and hands gripped at his sides, holding on for dear life. Someone shouted in his ear—a voice he almost recognized—but it was lost in the chaos around him. The roar of the fire grew, drowning out everything else until the world spun and shuddered yet again, the fiery glow vanishing. 

His feet hit soft earth, and the scent of moss and damp leaves filled his nose. It was quiet here, and despite the lack of light Harry instinctively knew that he was in the Forbidden Forest, face pressed into the dirt. Twigs snapped behind him as someone stepped closer, and a moment later cold fingers ghosted over his chest, warm breath over his cheek. Someone leaned over him, a pale, silvery silhouette against the dark night sky - and Harry jolted awake, tangled in blankets, sweat slick across his skin. 

With his own hands shaking, he reached for his chest and felt the thundering of his heartbeat under his fingertips. Harry sighed, and Pigwidgeon cooed softly from his place up on the dresser. Above him, the full moon had just slipped past the narrow window, casting long, shifting shadows across the room and when Harry glanced over to Ron and Hermione he found them still next to him, sound asleep. 

*

Three days later, on the 27th of June, Harry met Kingsley Shacklebolt in person for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. He had just left another hearing when he spotted the tall, bald-headed Minister of Magic further down the corridor, and as the door to Courtroom Number Four clicked shut behind Harry, he looked up from his conversation with a younger witch and began to smile.

"Ah, Harry!" Kingsley boomed, his deep voice echoing off the walls and his dark eyes crinkled at the corners. Harry gave him a wave and tried to smile, but it came out a little strained, and he watched as the man exchanged a few parting words before nodding his head and excusing himself. The woman turned and hurried down the corridor, disappearing into one of the other rooms - but not before casting one last curious glance at Harry. 

"That's Zetta Tolkins from the Auror Department," Kingsley explained, taking a few steps towards Harry and giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder in greeting. He was dressed in navy blue robes, the silver letter M pinned to his chest, and wore a matching silver-beaded fez on his head. The single earring in his ear shimmered in the flickering light. 

Harry, who found that he had little use for this information, simply hummed in reply, swallowing a few times. Kingsley eyed him sceptically. 

"Everything all right? You look a little green around the gills," he commented, and Harry rubbed at his forehead. 

"Anti-secrecy charms..." he finally managed through his teeth, trying not to spew on the new Minister's robes, and Kingsley hummed in understanding. 

"Nasty aftertaste, those spells. When they swore me in, I had to drink half a bottle of fire whisky before I could taste it again - of course, that was also celebratory," he recalled with a grin, and Harry managed to smile at this. Then the man's expression sobered again as he focused on the door behind them. "The Carrow hearing?" he guessed and Harry gave a nod.

"Third one in two days," he explained, and Kingsley winced sympathetically. 

"Sorry to put you through this. I'm sure none of this is very pleasant for you," he said in an apologetic tone, sighing deeply. "Are Ron and Hermione still in there?" Harry shook his head. 

"They were called in yesterday, but Neville and a few others are still inside. I've just been released from the witness stand," he explained, and Kingsley nodded to himself. 

"I hope they're all right?" he asked and Harry - who couldn't help but think of Neville Longbottom's green face - grimaced slightly.

"They will be." He eventually managed, and Kingsley seemed to understand. 

"Just a few more weeks and hopefully it'll all be over," he mused, staring down the long corridor lined with doors on either side, each leading to a different courtroom. When he turned back to Harry, his eyes were unusually serious. "We're all working hard to bring this to a close, Harry, I promise you that," he said solemnly and Harry swallowed again, this time not because of the charms. The metallic taste in his mouth was slowly fading, but he still felt queasy, so he just hummed in reply. Kingsley seemed to find that sufficient. He smiled again. 

"There's something else I'd like to talk to you about, though..." he changed the subject, leaning towards Harry a little conspiratorially, "Do you have a moment?"

Harry looked at him in surprise. 

"Sure," he said, and Kingsley nodded his chin in the direction of the lifts. 

"Best if we go to my office," he explained vaguely, inviting Harry to follow him, "I don't want the Daily Prophet or anyone else sniffing out a story," he added, and Harry frowned as he looked over at him questioningly, but Kingsley offered no more.

As they approached the stone wall, the golden doors of the lift slid apart with a soft clink and Kingsley motioned for Harry to step inside. He followed, and they both found themselves in the brightly lit cabin - which, to Harry's own surprise, seemed considerably larger than usual. Intrigued, he turned to study the dark panelled walls and the blue light above their heads before his eyes finally fell on the floor. It was covered in a thick, soft carpet with silver stars and a large, ornate M in the centre. As the only button on the door began to glow, Kingsley pressed it with a ringed finger and winked at him.

"Minister's privilege," he remarked somewhat bemusedly, and with a jolt the cabin began to move. 

About half a minute later, the same impassive female voice Harry had come to know quite well sounded from somewhere above them, coolly announcing 'Office of the Minister for Magic', and Harry was surprised again as the lift doors opened into a large circular room. Kingsley stepped out of the cabin and Harry followed with a curious look, turning just in time to see the golden doors disappear into the pattern of the wallpaper, leaving nothing but the same embossed letter M behind.

"Nice," Harry said with a grin, somewhat impressed.

Kingsley Shacklebolt's office reminded Harry of the inside of a jewellery box - heavy beaded curtains of dark purple and violet hung on the walls, and the scattered lamps cast a warm golden light over the room. A desk at the far end of the room was piled high with papers and quills, and on a second, much longer table nearby, Harry could see maps, scrolls and tiny, shimmering measuring instruments. A beautiful golden globe slowly turned on its axis, emitting a low hum, and on a shelf to Harry's left, an elegant tawny owl rustled its feathers expectantly. Some of the portraits on the walls turned to look at them as they entered, whispering softly, and Harry frowned for a moment at the sight of an empty frame with a background that looked vaguely familiar. 

His eyes had just wandered over to what looked very much like a Muggle telephone - an old model with a rotary dial and a separate earpiece - when Kingsley dropped into one of the padded leather armchairs near the fireplace and let out a contented sigh. A little reluctantly, Harry tore his eyes away from the many intriguing objects and followed suit, sinking a good few inches into the cushions as he sat down.  

"So, how are you?" Kingsley asked more seriously this time, handing him a small tin of mints, which Harry gratefully accepted. He placed two on his tongue and hummed as the bitter taste of the anti-secrecy charms finally wore off. Then he shrugged. 

"I'm fine, I guess," he finally replied, running a hand through his hair, which was still sticking out in all directions - he really was in need of a haircut at this point. Harry sighed. "I just wish the hearings were over," he added a little more truthfully, and Kingsley nodded sympathetically.

"I'm with you all the way," he said, pointing his thumb at the overflowing desk behind him. "It's an awful lot of paperwork - not to mention all the other things going on at the Ministry," he added, dropping his hands back on the armrests. Then he studied Harry for a moment, his head tilted, and the pearls on his fez sparkled in the light of the fire. "What you're doing is very brave, Harry. We're all immensely grateful for your reports over the past few weeks. Without you, many of these investigations would probably take us years to complete." Harry nodded, shifting uncomfortably. Kingsley studied him a moment longer. 

"How are things at the Burrow?" he asked kindly and Harry shrugged again. 

"The Weasleys are fine. I'm sure you've heard Mr Weasley's back at work?" 

Kingsley hummed and crossed his arms across his wide chest.

"Ran into him in the Atrium last week. We're glad to have him back in the office - there's still a lot of weird stuff floating around even with Voldemort gone, for both Muggles and magical folk alike - but I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to spend more time with his family after everything that's happened..." he mused, scratching his chin in thought. Harry nodded and cringed at the memory of Mr and Mrs Weasley loudly discussing this very topic about a week ago.

"I think he just wants to feel useful. We all do." He reflected, and Kingsley agreed. They both sat in silence for a moment, watching as a new memo sailed in through the open window, made its way around the room and finally landed on top of the already overflowing desk, pushing a few papers aside in the process. The owl clicked its beak at it, seemingly disapproving. Harry huffed. 

"So how's being the new Minister?" he asked, turning to look at Kingsley again, and the man let out a weary laugh. 

"It doesn't come with much sleep, I can tell you that much!" He chuckled and folded his hands in his lap again before adding a little more seriously: "It's a tough job, Harry - and not just because of the paperwork. I can see now why Dombledore never wanted to do it. Smart man, he was..." he observed, his voice trailing off for a moment as he studied the many paintings on the wall - their owners quickly busying themselves with the most random of things. Then Kingsley sighed deeply. "But I'm glad I'm doing it," he concluded, and when he finally smiled again, Harry couldn't help but return the gesture. 

"I'm glad you are, too." He replied in all sincerity, and Kingsley's eyes crinkled. 

"That means a lot, Harry. Thank you." 

There was silence again and for a moment Harry studied the jumble of maps on a nearby table, taking in the many instruments and quills scattered about. "Is there any news about Hermione's parents?" he eventually asked gently, and Kingsley shook his head, looking defeated.

"Afraid not. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes is working hard to find them - but you know Hermione. Her Memory Charm was good, bloody good - and the New Zealand Ministry of Magic is still a bit shy about working with us. Can't say I blame them, after the mess the last few ministers have made of things..." he admitted somewhat bitterly, shaking his head. "I'll keep at it, Harry. I promise."

Then he leaned forward in his chair.

"I have other news for you, though - good news," Kingsley added when Harry had automatically sat up in alarm. Then he made a slight grimace. "At least I think so... - Daphne Bovin informed me this morning that your aunt, uncle and cousin have been released from their safe house. We've already had them checked at St Mungos, just to be sure. They are due to return to Surrey this afternoon," he explained, and Harry, who had expected to hear anything but this, stared at him, his mouth hanging open. 

"Oh." He finally said after an embarrassingly long pause, closing it again. "And... are they all right?" he added, and Kingsley nodded.

"The location they were taken to last year was safe, though it took a lot more enchantments to guarantee just that. Hestia and Dedalus were thorough. They're perfectly safe - though we're currently waiting for a new Ministry employee to escort them home after the last one... well, let's just say he refused to continue the job after delivering them to London."

Harry gave an involuntary snort. He could only too well imagine Vernon, Dudley and Petunia Dursley's reaction after a year of complete isolation from the Muggle world - in his mind's eye he could almost see the vein in his uncle's forehead bulging with anger and he felt sorry for whoever had had to collect them. 

"I hope the employee you sent is still in one piece?" he asked, and Kingsley's eyes brightened with amusement. 

"I should think so." He allowed himself a grin. Then, with a more serious air, he continued, "Your relatives will be able to return to their old home in Little Whinging. Our Aurors have checked it for dark curses and spells, and put some new protective charms on it - just to be on the safe side. We have also prepared a nice cover story for them. The neighbours will think they won a large sum of money and spent the last year abroad in Spain," Kingsley explained, and now Harry actually chuckled.

"Aunt Petunia will love that," he said, and the Minister smiled.

Once they had wrapped up the matter of the Dursleys, Kingsley studied him for a moment over the top of his clasped hands, the many rings and jewels on his fingers glittering in the light - and the gesture felt strangely familiar to Harry, though he wasn't quite sure where to place it. He let out a breath, suddenly tired and hungry and longing for the familiar comfort of the Burrow, and the other man gave him a knowing look.

"All right then - time to get back to work," he announced, and his robes rustled as he sat up. On his chest the letter M shone again. "We'll tell your aunt and uncle that you're alive and well. I'll leave the rest to you," he confirmed their arrangement once more and Harry nodded in agreement. The thought of one day reuniting with the Dursleys again was odd - it seemed to take him back to that summer evening at 4 Privet Drive one year ago when he had said goodbye to Petunia, Vernon and Dudley Dursley - uncertain if they would ever see each other again; uncertain if he, Harry, would survive - and he decided to push the thought of his only living blood relatives aside for now, glad for the distraction when Kingsley rose to his feet.

"Thank you, Kingsley," Harry managed, but the Minister just shook his head.

"I should be thanking you, Harry," he corrected before nodding his head towards the fireplace. 

"Feel free to use the Floo network - nothing worse than apparating after a whole day of anti-secrecy charms. And give my best to the others, will you?" he added, offering him a friendly pat on the shoulder as a parting gesture. 

Harry nodded, relieved, and grabbed a handful of Floo powder from a silver pot on the mantelpiece. As he stepped into the fire, he took one last look around the room: For a brief moment, everything was bathed in bright light as the flames licked at him, nothing more than a warm tingling down his legs. Harry watched as the golden globe slowly turned, and on the shelf across the room, the owl had just tucked its head under its wing. The portraits on the wall had returned to their quiet whispering, and Kingsley gave him a final wave before turning to the laden desk, humming something that sounded a lot like a song by the Weird Sisters. Harry smiled, and the moment his mouth had formed the words, he was whisked away to the Burrow, emerald embers swirling before his eyes.  

*

"I bet they hated it," Ron said through a mouthful of Chocolate Cauldrons on a Sunday a few days later, as they lay on the half dozen blankets and mattresses in the warm, stuffy room at the top of the Burrow. The afternoon sun was beating down on them through the open window, and Arnold the Pigmy Puff was snapping at bugs on the windowsill. Harry snorted. 

He had told Ron, Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys the news about his aunt and uncle earlier in the week - and although Hermione's hastily concealed look of disappointment at the lack of new information about her parents had stung him with guilt, the subject of Harry's own relatives had come up from time to time since then. By now, the Dursleys had probably returned to their house in Little Whinging - if Kingsley had managed to find another willing Ministry employee - and he wondered if either Aunt or Uncle, or perhaps even Dudley, had bothered to drop by Harry's old room on the first floor and dared to peer through the door, now that it had been cleared of most of his wizarding belongings. Or maybe they would just seal it up - simply lock away all evidence that a boy named Harry Potter had ever lived there.

But it wasn't just the Dursleys who were slowly returning from their hiding places: more and more wizarding and Muggle-born families were trickling back into the country, and even Harry, who had been avoiding the Daily Prophet ever since his name was plastered all over its pages again, had noticed that the number of missing persons reports was getting smaller by the day. Only the night before, Ginny had reported that the families of Hannah Abbott and Dean Thomas had also returned - and Harry tried to ignore the strange feeling in his stomach at the mention of her ex-boyfriend's name. 

He sighed and reached for an orange Bertie Botts bean before dropping his head back into the pillows. Ginny, who was lying on her stomach next to him, grabbed a strand of his freshly cut hair and tugged at it absentmindedly. 

"Not as long as they had a television..." Harry finally replied, faltering slightly at the touch and promptly choking on the bean. It tasted like pumpkin pie. Ginny smiled and warmth crept up his cheeks. 

"Right..." Ron mused, completely oblivious to the whole interaction, and began listlessly rummaging through another packet of chocolates. "What was that again?" He looked sceptically between Harry and Hermione, who frowned for a moment. 

"It's a device that shows moving pictures. Like wizarding photos, except much longer," she finally explained with some thought, pointing to a small photo section in the Prophet where a group of wizards and goblins were shaking hands over and over again, caught forever in the moment. "It's a big black box - I think your dad has a couple of them in the shed!" She added, as Ron still stared at her somewhat questioningly. 

"Huh..." he finally said slowly, letting his eyes wander first over the newspaper and then over the crimson walls of his room, where the players of the Chudley Cannons moved back and forth in their posters. Then he tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Like the Omnioculars at the Quidditch World Cup, where you could rewind and replay the game?" he asked, and Hermione thought for a moment before shrugging her shoulders in apparent satisfaction.

"Something like that," she said, exchanging a brief look with Harry, who still felt unusually warm. He just shrugged, too. 

Finally, a few minutes later, Ron tossed the entire box of chocolates aside without even bothering to put another in his mouth. Sighing heavily, he dropped into Hermione's lap, who just about managed to snatch her newspaper away from him, looking down at him with raised eyebrows.

"I'm bored." He grumbled as an explanation, and Ginny shot him a warning look. 

"Don't let Mum hear you!" She hissed, watching the door with a cautious expression as if Mrs Weasley might fly through it at any moment, and sighed with relief when the handle didn't move after a minute or so. Ron shrugged again, pouting slightly - but Harry thought he could see him relaxing a little too. 

"Let her, it's not like there's anything left to do! The house has never been so clean and there hasn't been a gnome in the garden for weeks! Even the ghoul got a good scrubbing the other day!" He huffed, and Hermione's eyebrows arched even higher, but she didn't say anything. Ron sighed again.

"Man, I miss Quidditch!" he groaned longingly, and both Harry and Ginny agreed with a hum. For a while they all watched in silence as the image of Joey Jenkins, the Chudley Cannons' Beater, kept trying to hit an approaching Bludger with a concentrated look on his face, missing it by almost an arm's length each time. Finally, after nearly falling off his broom, he made a hasty exit from the poster, his ears turning the colour of his crimson robes. In the background, Harry thought he could see the Cannons' club motto on a scarlet banner: Let's all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best!

"Almost had it..." Ron sighed at the same time as Ginny said: "Bloody useless." Harry smiled, and even the corners of Hermione's mouth turned up a little. Then Ginny suddenly sat up - and they all followed, startled. Arnold, who flinched at the sudden movement, toppled from his perch on the windowsill.

"Let's play!" Ginny announced, brushing a strand of hair from her face and looking expectantly between Ron, Hermione and then Harry. The latter just blinked dumbly for a moment. 

"Er..." he finally said, not very intelligently, glancing over at Ron, whose expression seemed uncertain. Hermione frowned, worrying her bottom lip and Ginny sighed in annoyance. 

"Oh, come on," she said, grabbing the latest edition of the Daily Prophet from her hands without much protest and sending it across the room. It sailed through the air and landed in the other corner of the room, where the black and white photograph of Yaxley lay upside down, staring at them out of dark, sunken eyes. 

"It's a Sunday. No trials, no new mail - what difference does it make whether we're in here or out playing?" Ginny challenged, a familiar expression returning to her face for the first time in what seemed like months. Beside her, her brother began to grin, his own eyes wandering longingly to the open window and the blue sky beyond. Harry's gaze followed - but to everyone's surprise, it was neither Harry nor Ron who finally spoke, but Hermione. "'Fine,' she said, and they all turned to look at her. She just shrugged her shoulders before gesturing indifferently. "I think Ginny's right. Besides, I'm tired of reading about the trials," she added, and Ron let out a surprised laugh. Within seconds he was on his feet.

"We'll make it fair!" he announced enthusiastically, "You and Ginny against Harry and me!" And he was already clambering over the sea of blankets towards the door when Ginny tripped him up, indignant.

"What exactly is fair about that?" she demanded, and immediately a heated discussion broke out between the two of them - Ron arguing that Ginny was a much better Chaser than either he or Harry, while she argued that she should play with Harry, who was at best a passable Keeper, for exactly the same reason. Harry, who didn't mind the slight jab, turned from them to Hermione with amusement, and their eyes met. He raised his eyebrows at her, and when he held out his hand to pull her to her feet, she took it with a smile.

"To be honest, I was just a bit bored too," she whispered to him before stretching out her legs with a grin.

Half an hour later, they finally managed to settle the argument by agreeing to play without a score, and strolled out into the garden together, where the Weasleys' dilapidated broom cupboard looked shabbier than ever. Its wooden roof was sagging and spiders had taken up residence in almost every corner, and Ron jerked his hand away from the doorknob as if it had burned him, taking a few extra steps back just in case. He gagged and cursed under his breath and one of the garden gnomes sniggered lightly in a nearby bush. It only stopped when Ron threatened to lock it in the cupboard. 

"All right, all right, Ron - Evanesco!" Hermione chided appeasingly, and with a flick of her wand, the cabinet's occupants disappeared, leaving nothing but a few silver cobwebs behind. 

The Weasleys' brooms were all older models that twitched and shook from time to time, but apart from a particularly bristly Shootingstar with a strong left-hand twist, they all seemed to fly in a straight line. Harry, who couldn't help but miss his Firebolt at the sight of them, finally settled on a Comet 140 and was relieved when he pushed off the ground and rose into the air smoothly and without any problems. 

Ginny, Ron and Hermione followed and for a while they just threw a ball at each other, although Hermione found it slipping through her hands and plummeting to the ground time and time again. Trying to keep her balance on the broomstick - she had never been a good Quidditch player - she darted after it, mumbling and bushy-tailed, but neither Harry nor the others seemed to mind. The air was warm, and this far up above the lawn a light breeze cooled the back of their necks, and fat bumblebees flew by, buzzing curiously. In the distance, Harry thought he could just make out the pitched roofs of the village of Ottery St Catchpole, nestled against the side of a hill, and the surrounding fields glowed in lush shades of yellow and green. He took in a deep breath and when Hermione joined them in the air once again, he caught the ball from her with a broad grin on his face. 

They flew for over an hour, laughing at Ron's attempt at a Sloth Grip Roll - a Quidditch manoeuvre in which the player dangles upside down from his broomstick - but the broom seemed to have a mind of its own, dropping to the ground every time he spun on it. Eventually his face had turned the same bright red colour as his hair and he gave up, huffing and puffing. 

By the time they landed back on the lawn, Hermione sighed with relief, and as she shouldered her broom, her legs seemed a little wobblier than usual after the amount of time they had spent in the air. The sun was well over the horizon and the clatter of pots and pans could be heard through the open kitchen window, bringing with it the faint smell of Mrs Weasley's delicious Sunday roast. Harry could feel his stomach growling in anticipation and he trailed after the others, enjoying the evening breeze.

"All I'm saying is that you need to roll with your shoulder, not your hip - that way you'll have more control over the movement," he heard Ginny suggest to Ron as they headed for the cupboard near the back door, and he could see her brother shaking his head at her. 

"That's a sure way to lose your balance - you risk sliding forward if you do that!" 

"Have you ever seen me slide off a broom?" she asked, her tone challenging, and Ron looked over at her in disbelief.

"What about the year you broke your elbow? Mum banned all flying for the whole summer!" 

"That's because I was eight, Ron!" she shot back, turning to look at the others with a roll of her eyes, as if to say, "Can you believe him?". Ron shrugged. 

"Still counts," he argued, bravely opening the door to the broom cupboard - and then stopped.

Ahead of Harry, Hermione sighed. "Don't tell me there's another spider!" she called in a stern voice as she caught up with them, wand already at the ready - but when she saw the sudden stiffness in Ron's shoulders, she added a little softer, "Oh, it's all right, Ron. Where is it?" - But he just shook his head. A little confused, Harry jogged up to meet them, arriving just in time to see him wordlessly pushing aside some old Quidditch gloves and padding before pulling on what looked like a large wooden stick. It came free after a moment, and with an odd amount of care for something so sturdy, he held it between his hands as if it might break at any moment. Beside him, Ginny let out a breathless 'Oh'. Hermione frowned and moved a little closer.

"What is it? Is that a bat?" she asked and Ron nodded grimly. The colour had drained from his cheeks and suddenly the dark shadows under his eyes seemed to deepen. He sighed heavily and shook his head.

"This used to be Fred's..." he explained in a sullen tone and immediately understanding dawned on Hermione's face. 

"Oh," she breathed, and Ginny nodded, her lips pressed together in a tight line. Harry sighed, and the carefree ease he had felt just a few minutes ago vanished in an instant, replaced by a large lump forming at the back of his throat. He watched them for a moment, guilt and sadness tugging at him once again, before he moved to stand beside Ginny. Their shoulders brushed together and she let out a shaky breath. On the other side of her, Ron sniffed and Hermione put her arm around him. 

They stood like this for a while without saying much, and Harry briefly wondered how strange their small group of mourners must have looked to someone from the outside, their heads bowed over a simple piece of wood - but then Ron tilted the bat just so, and a small carving near the handle caught Harry's eye. He huffed in surprise, then pointed to the spot as a smile suddenly crept across his lips. 

"This is the one he used to break Flint's nose with!" Harry recounted, and the memory of Fred Weasley hurling his bat in the face of the opposing team's captain in the final match against Slytherin in Harry's third year came back to him. It had happened only seconds after Marcus Flint had deliberately crashed into Angelina Johnson in a particularly nasty foul - and while both players had received penalties, Gryffindor had still managed to win the game. Later, during their celebrations in the Gryffindor changing room, Fred had captured the moment by carving an obscene caricature of Flint's face into the wood.

Curiously, Ron spun the bat in his hands and they all stifled a laugh as they spotted the words ‘Marcus flinched’ scrawled into the bat in messy, boyish handwriting - and Ginny shook her head, half amused, half tearful.

"Never thought I'd be so sappy over a piece of wood," she winced, hastily wiping at her cheeks. Harry gave her a sad but knowing smile and Ron sighed again. 

"I remember how he helped me train the summer before my fifth year," he said dully, and they all turned to look at him in surprise. "We used to hang Mum's pots and pans in the branches of the surrounding trees to practise defence - she nearly lost her mind when she realised half the kitchen was missing." he mused, and when Ginny giggled something tugged at the corner of his lips.  

"I think he used this one to launch a Wildfire Whiz-Bang into the Great Hall as well..." he continued with a frown, leaning over to inspect the bat again, and a moment later he grinned as he pointed to a dark spot in the wood that looked suspiciously burnt. “Yep, look!”

They all smiled. Then they were silent again. 

"I miss him," Ginny finally said quietly, and watched as her brother gently placed the keepsake back into the corner of the cupboard, where it stood alongside the many brooms. Harry swallowed.

"Me too," he agreed, and as the breeze picked up the distant sounds from the kitchen once again they all shared one final look, before softly closing the door. Near them, the rose bushes trembled lightly.