And On We Go

Harry was done listening to adults. 

If Professor Lupin wanted to trust The Order’s shitty plans, then he could do it when his own skin was on the line. Harry knew that this was never going to work, but, like always, nobody listened to a word he had to say. Even his parents, who had only been around less than a day, were disregarding him completely.  

The sky was all too reminiscent of the quidditch game against Hufflepuff during his third year. As Fred flew them high above the clouds and the swarm of black closed in, he gripped tightly to the broom with his thighs. 

It wasn’t until they flew forward and the black sea parted that Harry saw the wands and silver masks. 

The flurry of powerful light was instantaneous. Fred swooped down to avoid the death eaters, and he flew so low Harry could have reached down and swept his hand through the tiny purple flowers in the field below. 

A death eater flew up beside them and shoulder-checked Fred, trying to throw him–or well, them–off the broom. Harry leaned to the left, hoping the other man couldn’t feel that he was bumping against two shoulders when only one person sat on the Cleansweep. 

As the other man leaned away to bump into them even harder, Fred leaned back to Harry and yelled, “Reach into my back, right pocket!” 

“What?” Harry yelled back, the loud wind deafening Fred’s voice. 

“My back, right pocket!”

“What about it?” Harry yelled, voice cracking as the other man slammed into them again. 

“Reach into it!”

Harry swore under his breath before uncurling his right hand from around Fred to slide it into his pocket. Harry tried to ignore how he was actively touching his mate’s ass, as he quickly felt around inside the pocket. Harry curled his fingers around the only thing he could feel and pulled it out. 

“What is it?” Harry yelled as Fred pulled up quickly to avoid being slammed into again. 

“Make it bigger!” Fred responded. 

Harry, not caring in the slightest what it actually was, complied. 

“Really?” He yelled to Fred, shaking the object in his hand, “This is what you wanted?”

Fred turned back and saw what Harry was holding and laughed, “Thanks, mate!” 

Harry watched, annoyed but not surprised, as Fred took the handle from Harry and swung Lupin’s frying pan like a beater’s bat right into the death eater’s head. The man fell sideways off his broom and violently tumbled into the field below, flattening the flowers and kicking up dirt as he flailed. 

Harry watched, stunned, from beneath the cloak as Fred let out a battle cry and swung at each and every death eater. He used it like a shield to block spells, as well as his trusty weapon. His wand was now stuck in his back pocket as he brandished his weapon of choice against all of their heads.

“I cannot believe you did that,” Harry said, shaking his head beneath the cloak–despite the fact that Fred couldn’t see that. 

Fred laughed, “What can I say? I was inspired. I learned all my defense techniques from the best teacher."

Harry sarcastically said, “I didn’t know Professor Lupin used a frying pan in his class. Must’ve only been the upper years.” 

“No, it was Professor Potter, actually,” Fred said, looking smug.

Harry laughed at that, “I don’t think I could ever be a teacher.” 

“You’re a great teacher,” Fred said, frowning. 

“Please, I hardly did anything,” Harry insisted, “You guys knew what to do. You would’ve figured it out without me, eventually.” 

Fred scoffed, “That’s not true.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know how to express to Fred that he really wasn’t that important. The only reason he was in this position was because of what happened to him as a baby. 

It was incredibly infuriating, and despite it having been seven years now, Harry didn’t think he’d ever get used to how the wizarding world put him up on a pedestal. Everyone regards him as a great wizard, but Harry always felt like he was clawing to keep up. 

Hermione was the only person he’d met who somewhat understood the complex feelings he struggled to articulate. Early winter their fourth year, Harry had joined Hermione in the library after dinner, when Ron still wasn’t speaking to him. 

Harry didn’t understand the politics around the tournament, or how somebody else put his name in the Goblet, or why they would make it so you couldn’t quit. Normally he would ask Ron–Ron never judged Harry’s lack of wizarding knowledge. More often, his best friend would provide the context unasked, knowing Harry had no understanding of the intricacies of wizarding society. 

Of course, everyone hated him, though, again. And this time, that included his best friend. He always had an inkling in the back of his mind that one day Ron would resent him too. Harry couldn’t stop himself from spiraling into his darkest thoughts. The weight of the tournament, everyone’s hateful gaze, and his tattered friendship dragged him down into the depths of his worst feelings. 

Harry confessed to Hermione that he was struggling. He had wanted to tell Sirius, but he knew his godfather would only feel guilty for Harry’s upbringing once again.

If he was being honest, Harry felt like he was drowning most days. There was so much he didn’t understand about the wizarding world and everything in it. Hogwarts was home, and Harry never questioned that. Every last person in that school could hate him, and walking into those stony halls would feel like a breath of relief. 

Hogwarts was home. But Harry knew, better than anyone, how lonely and calamitous a home could be. 

Hermione had flushed and admitted back that part of the reason she gave so much of herself at school was to have some avenue to understand the world she was unpreparedly thrust into as a child. They all showed up on the first day of classes with the same level of magical knowledge, but some kids knew far more about everything else that mattered. Hermione felt that if she could stay ahead in the part they all began on even footing for, it would make up for all the rest. 

Like Harry, though, she found it hard too 

Harry appreciated Hermione and her steady friendship even more after that day. They never spoke of it again, but Harry knew they both knew from that day forward that they had a fundamental understanding of each other. It appeared in sideways glances when Ron went off on a rant about a wizarding custom they knew nothing about and in forced laughter in the common room when their housemates laughed at a wizarding idiom they had never heard. 

They didn’t need to speak about it. It was there. 

Harry wished, more than anything, that Hermione was here now. And Ron, if he was being honest with himself. He needed his best friends now more than he ever had. He knew he had to leave them behind soon, but he wanted to be selfish. For once, he wanted to do something because he wanted it.  

Hermione would know what to say to Fred right now. 

Ron would help him talk to his dad. 

God, was Harry embarrassed about that. His dad was clearly trying to get to know him, and Harry wanted to talk with him; he really did, but he couldn’t seem to find the words to say when he was in front of him. Sitting on that rocking chair with his father across from him, Harry couldn’t form a single coherent sentence. His tongue was all twisted up in knots.  

His dad even brought up Quidditch. Quidditch was easy for Harry to talk about! Harry wanted to tell him about how flying feels like freedom, and he wanted to ask a million questions about his father’s favorite maneuvers. 

The words died on the tip of his tongue the moment he saw his father push up his glasses with his knuckle.

Aunt Petunia had always yelled at Harry for doing that. 

It was too casual of a gesture, and it made him look like a lazy slob, she would say. The movement reminded Harry starkly of his first year, curled up, knees to his chest, cheek to knees, on the stone floor in the abandoned classroom in front of the Mirror of Erised. Harry had poked at his own knobbly knees as he stared at the knobbly knees of the Potter family. 

James rambled about Quidditch, and Harry rubbed his knees through his oversized jeans. Harry couldn’t help staring at his father’s pajama trousers, wondering if he had the same knobbly knees. He wanted to ask desperately, but he didn’t know how to explain his thought process, so he stayed silent. 

It didn’t help that Harry couldn’t stop seeing her everywhere. Harry knew logically that the mass of curls on the floor around the corner, just out of sight while Harry faced his father, couldn’t be his aunt. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing over every few seconds, though, just to be sure. 

He didn’t know how to talk about Quidditch or his dead aunt, so he kept his words to himself. 

Harry felt that same silence creep into his throat now at Fred’s words. There were countless things he wanted to say to his friend, but none would leave his brain and enter his mouth. 

Harry was incredibly thankful when they dipped lower beneath the clouds, and the Burrow became visible. 

Mrs. Weasley jogged down the porch steps and all but ran over to him and Fred. Harry gave a smile for Mrs. Weasley’s benefit and walked forward to meet her. She hugged Fred tightly before kissing him on the cheek and sending him further up the yard to where Mr. Weasley stood. 

Despite years of experience, Harry was still unprepared for the bone-crushing hug Mrs. Weasley gave him. She rocked them back and forth and attempted to smooth down his hair while she whispered platitudes in his ear. 

She pulled back from him and turned his head in every direction, scanning every inch of his face, “You made it here alright? Yes?” 

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, bringing his hand up to hold her wrist. 

“Good, good,” she said, still holding his face with one hand while the other moved to his shoulder, “You still look thin dear, but that’s alright,” she moved both hands to his shoulders and smoothed up and down his arms, “Supper’s on now, and we’ll get you lots of food and then straight up to bed, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, smiling softly. 

“Good boy,” she said, cupping his face again. 

“You really ‘ought to check first, Molly,” Harry heard Lupin admonish from behind him as he walked up to where they stood. 

“Please, Remus, I’d know this boy anywhere.”

Normally, Harry resented how Mrs. Weasley referred to him as a boy, even now, but he needed the childish comfort after the hell that was the past few days of his life. 

It was hard, especially at first, hearing Mrs. Weasley call him ‘a boy’. It reminded him of how for the first six years of his life–until he began school–he didn’t even know his name was Harry. He was simply ‘Boy,’ as yelled at him by both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. 

He may be a few days shy of seventeen, but Harry reckoned if Aunt Petunia wasn’t dead, she would refer to him as ‘Boy’ for the rest of his life. 

Harry had long since come to terms with the endearing way in which Mrs. Weasley referred to him as a boy. It still stung, just a bit, but he knew that she meant well. 

Harry wasn’t a stranger to Mrs. Weasley’s bouts of yelling, but the yell she let out to Lupin when she finally pulled away from him was startling. 

“How dare you bring two death eaters to our home!” 

“Mum, listen–” George began, walking up to Mrs. Weasley. 

“No! George, go with your father.”

“But, Mum–”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said, pulling out her wand and moving to stand in front of Harry. 

Harry stepped in front of her and put himself between her and his parents, “No, Mrs. Weasley, they aren’t death eaters.” 

“It doesn’t matter who they are. They are leaving,” She said, going to move around him again. 

“Molly, listen for a moment!” Lupin shot back, throwing his own wand out and standing in front of his parents, “There is a perfectly good explanation for all of this.” 

“I don’t see how there could be,” she said. 

“Molly, what’s going on?” Mr. Weasley called out, walking up to them. 

“Arthur, this is all a misunderstanding,” Lupin tried again. 

Mr. Weasley looked from his wife to Harry to Lupin and his parents. He may have looked calm, but Harry didn’t miss how his wand was clutched tightly in his hand by his waist. 

“Harry, why don’t you head up into the house with the boys?” Mr. Weasley suggested, slowly walking to where he and Mrs. Weasley stood. 

“I’m alright here, thanks,” Harry said shortly. 

“Harry,” Mrs. Weasley chastised him. 

“It’s alright, Harry. We’re just going to talk. Head on in,” Mr. Weaslley tried again.

“Brilliant,” Harry said, clenching his jaw, “Let’s stand on the front lawn all night and talk about this.” 

After conceding that he wasn’t about to walk away any time soon, Mr. Weasley gestured to Lupin, “Go on then, Remus, explain.” 

“Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley admonished.

“It’s alright, Molly. Mad-Eye will be here soon, and we’ll get this all sorted out,” He said. “Remus, explain.” 

“This is James and Lily Potter. No, Molly, it is. I tested them myself. Do you think I wouldn’t know the difference?”

“It’s a war, Remus! Who knows what You-Know-Who’s followers are trying these days?” Mrs. Weasly said, not lowering her wand. 

“You-Know-Who did not do this. Albus Dumbledore did!” Remus exclaimed, exasperated. 

“Albus is dead, Remus,” Mr. Weasley said, sharper than Harry had ever heard him. 

“Yes, well, so were they four days ago.” 

“How did this happen?” Mrs. Weasley asked, her wand dropping slightly. 

“Dumbledore did blood magic the night we died,” his dad spoke up, “When he died, it triggered something. A cosmic shift.” 

“Dumbledore died a month ago,” Mrs. Weasley snapped. 

“He spent a month arguing with Death,” his mum said. 

“Arguing with Death,” Mrs. Weasley laughed, “There’s not such a thing.”

“There is,” his mum insisted, a grave look on her face, “We’ve met him.” 

“Merlin,” Mr. Weasley said, dropping his wand, an awe-struck look on his face. 

“I know this all sounds crazy, but I promise. We’re who we say we are,” his mum said. 

“I’ll go get some more beds set up,” Mr. Weasley said with a shaky smile, turning to go back into the house, “Come on, Harry, let’s go inside.” 

Harry stood still, stuck looking between Mr. Weasley and his parents, fearing that this was picking a side. 

Thankfully, Harry didn’t have to sit in his uncertainty long, as Lupin not-so-subtly sent him away so they could talk in private. Harry decided not to look the gift horse in the mouth and hurried over to Mr. Weasley to shake his hand and hug him back. 

"I'm sorry we weren't there to get you, Harry," Mr. Weasley said, "We were going to be. Well, on the thirty-first." 

"It's alright. You've always done so much for me." 

Too much, really, if Harry was being honest with himself. Every minute of summer spent at the Burrow was heaven. The familiar noises of such a large number of people existing in one space were comforting. It reminded him of the boy's dorm in Hogwarts, but something about it felt different. The Burrow felt like a different flavor of home than Hogwarts. 

He was thankful for every minute Mr. and Mrs. Weasley let him spend here. He had tried to pay them back several times–they already had so many mouths to feed–but they always refused. 

Harry was worried about being here. He didn't think he could take it if Death Eaters came here and hurt them because of him. The Weasleys were as good as a family. It made him sick with worry knowing that they were on the front lines because of him. They regarded it as an honor to fight for him, but it made Harry feel incredibly ill. 

Seeing George, his head bandaged, on Lupin's couch stopped him dead in his tracks this morning. He hadn't noticed it the night before, but the white gauze wrapped around his head was impossible to miss in the morning sunlight of Lupin's living room. 

His mum had rubbed up and down his back and whispered to him that George was okay. That she had bandaged his head up, and he was going to be right.

All Harry could see was his failure.

His failure as a friend. His failure to protect the people he cares about. His failure to stop Voldemort sooner. It was days like this when he wished thirteen-year-old Harry had been less stupid and just let Sirius and Professor Lupin kill Pettigrew. 

Harry was reminded this morning, more than ever, why he couldn't afford to be selfish. He had to leave. Hermione and Ron would come to understand, even if they were upset about it. At least if he left them behind, they would still be alive enough to be upset. 

His parents were a wrench in his plan. It made his whole body ache at the thought of walking away from them, but Harry knew they couldn't come with him. Lupin would take good care of them. 

Harry didn't want to get too attached to them. It was already hard enough to cope with the fact that he wouldn't be making it out of this war alive. Dying would be agony, knowing that, as he died, he was losing a life with his parents on the other side. If he kept them at arm's length, he could almost pretend like they weren’t even really here. Almost.  

"Why don't you boys head in?" Mr. Weasley said, patting Harry on the back and gesturing for him to enter the house, "Ron and Hermione are upstairs. They'll be thrilled to see you."

Harry took the easy dismissal for what it was, wanting to see his friends as soon as possible anyway. He followed Fred into the house, trying to swallow back the anxiety creeping into his stomach. 

He had already made up his mind. He had to leave. He had to. 

Climbing up the familiar winding stairs, the twisting in his gut intensified. Harry knocked two short, quiet knocks on Ron's door. The door flung open, and before he knew what to say, he was wrapped up in a hug from one of his best friends. 

"Harry!" Hermione said, hugging him tightly. 

"Hey mate," Ron said, smiling as Hermione stepped back before hugging him too. Seeing his friends smile, he couldn't help but smile back at them.

Maybe he could stay for a few days. 

"We didn't know you were coming. Mum said they were all going on your birthday. 'Mione and I've been trying to convince them to let us come for days," Ron said, moving to sit on the floor. 

Harry sat down beside him, his knees pulled up, "The plan changed."

"Did something happen?" Hermione asked, leaning forward on her elbows, her legs crossed. 

Harry paused for a minute, unsure how to even put everything that happened into words, "The Dursleys are dead." 

"What?" Hermione said, her face pulled in concern. 

"Yeah. Guess the Order doesn't need to ward off a safe house for them anymore," Harry said with a shrug, hoping the heavy thumping of his heart wasn't betraying his attempt at casualty. 

"Are you alright, mate?" Ron asked, pulling his knees up.. 

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine," Harry said, mirroring the movement and setting his chin on his kneecaps; 

They sat in silence for a minute. Hermione looked like she had a million things she wanted to say, but she kept them locked up tight in her mind. The only sounds in the room were the ticking clock and their breathing. A sinking feeling settled in Harry's chest; maybe that hadn't been the way to give the news. 

"Good riddance," Ron said, finally. 

Hermione's eyes widened until Harry started giggling, and she let out a small laugh of her own. 

Fred found them like that, curled up on the floor laughing. 

"Wow, quite a happy reunion in here," He said, joining them in their circle on the floor. “You doing alright, then, mate?" He asked, knocking his shoulder into Harry's, "We didn't get a chance to talk at Lupin's today." 

"You were at Lupin's?" Ron asked, a shocked look on his face before Harry could speak, "Is that why you and George didn't come home last night? Mum's been going mental."

Fred winced, "Yeah. We got…sidetracked in Diagon Alley." 

Harry frowned, not having heard this part of the story. Truth be told, he hadn't put much thought into how his parents had met up with the twins. He was still reeling over the fact that his parents were alive enough to do anything. 

Harry wanted to ask, but he didn't know how to say the phrase 'my parents' without Hermione and Ron thinking he had gone crazy from the shock of his dead relatives. 

"What happened?" Hermione asked. 

Fred glanced sideways at Harry, "We helped some people who death eaters were attacking.” 

Hermione winced, "Were they alright?” 

“Yeah, they held their own pretty well. George and I didn’t do much.” 

“You called Fred?” George said, dramatically sticking his head around the door. 

“What happened to you?” Ron asked. 

“What, this?” George asked, pointing at the bandage on his head as he plopped himself in between Harry and Ron and slung his arms over their shoulders to pull their heads close conspiratorily, “Let’s just say I’m holey now.” 

Fred chuckled, “Oh yeah, a real saint you are, George.” 

“What? Do you have a hole in the side of your head now or something?” Ron asked, slinking out from under his brother’s arm. 

Fred and George looked at each other before both looking at Ron, “Yes,” they said in unison. 

Ron sputtered, “What?”

“One of the death eaters clipped him in the ear,” Fred said, dramatically placing a hand on his chest, “The healers said he might not make it.” 

George flopped over and placed his head in Ron’s lap. He began to fake cry and reached a shaking hand up to Ron’s cheek, “Remember me fondly, Ronnykins.” 

Ron smacked his hand away and scrunched his face up in annoyance, “Stop being stupid. What happened?” 

 George sat up and looked over at Harry before making eye contact with Fred over his head, “We picked up some stragglers.” 

“The people who were attacked in Diagon Alley?” Hermione asked.

George nodded, looking at Harry again. 

“Well, come on then, don’t leave us in suspense. Who was it?” Ron asked, hitting George’s shoulder. 

Harry sighed. Why did his life have to be so difficult? 

He wrapped his arms tightly around his knees and said, “My parents.” 

Hermione’s face softened, and she carefully said, “Harry…your parents are dead.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Harry mumbled into his kneecaps. 

Ron stood up suddenly and headed over to the door. 

“Where are you going?” Hermione hissed at him, her once soft features hardened in anger. 

“To go take care of the people downstairs who think it’s okay to pretend to be my best mate’s dead parents,” Ron said, jaw tight and one hand on the doorknob. 

“Ron,” Fred said, standing to walk over to him. He reached up and shut the door, holding it close with his palm. He met Ron’s eyeline and softly said, “We saw them with our own eyes; we spoke to them. Lupin verified it–they’re real.” 

“Fred, you must be wrong. What you’re saying…it isn’t possible,” Hermione said, face imploring and pitying. 

“They didn’t tell us how it happened, but somehow they’re back,” George said. 

“It isn’t possible,” Hermione insisted. 

“Go downstairs. You can ask them yourself. It’s them,” Fred said, turning to face Hermione. 

“Polyjuice potion?” Hermione asked. 

“Really,” George scoffed, “We spent three days walking across England with them. I think we might’ve noticed them drinking from a flask every hour.” 

“An enchantment, then,” Hermione said, crossing her arms. 

“Really? What disillusionment charm do you know of that can conceal somebody’s face for days?” George rebutted.

“I don’t know, but death eaters are after Harry!” She slumped her shoulders and softened her voice, “They killed his family. Somebody could’ve checked for something,” She said, nose flared. 

 “Lupin did check,” Fred said. 

Hermione looked like she was going to speak again, but Harry unwrapped his arms and moved to sit cross-legged, “Can we stop talking about this, please?” 

They all turned to look at him, and Ron moved to sit back beside him, “Of course.” He glanced up, and at the look on Hermione’s face, he wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulder and said louder, “Of course, we can.” 

Hermione took a deep breath before looking at Harry, “Of course, Harry.” 

The atmosphere in the room was off-kilter the rest of the evening, but his friends–loyal as ever–didn’t comment on it further. Harry listened, his cheek pressed to his kneecaps, as Fred and Ron played chess. Hermione had moved to sit beside Harry, her head on his shoulder. George had migrated over to Ron’s bed, his arm hanging off the edge and his loud snores filling the room. 

Fred grumbled as Ron’s bishop slashed his knight with its sword. Ron laughed and moved his pawn, letting out a yelp when Fred lunged across the chess set to wrestle with him. It was nice to be there. If Harry closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that it was any other summer before the school year. Mrs. Weasley would take them all to Diagon Alley tomorrow to get their school supplies, and they would all play Quidditch in the afternoon sun until they were pink and freckled. 

Like every other summer, the moment ended too quickly. 

Mrs. Weasley pushed open Ron’s door, “Oh, good, you’re all in here. Wash up on your way down. Supper’s ready.” She didn’t wait to see if they were following. Harry could hear her feet stomp down the stairs, and her voice carried up to the top as she stuck her head in Ginny’s room and called her down to dinner as well. 

Harry followed them down the stairs in silence. He planned on eating as quickly as possible so he could go back upstairs to continue hiding in Ron’s room. He couldn’t wait to sleep. Although he wouldn’t be able to escape his dead aunt’s haunting eyes in sleep, unconsciousness still brought a great sense of relief. Harry looked forward to bedtime more and more these days. 

Harry almost ran into Ron’s back when Hermione stopped abruptly at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Oh my god,” Hermione said in disbelief. 

His mum looked up from where she was gathering teacups in the living room, “Hello, I’m Lily, Harry’s mum.” she walked over–teacups gathered in her arms–to introduce herself.

“Oh,” Hermione turned back to glance at Harry awkwardly, “I’m Hermione.” 

Lily nodded and looked over to Ron with a smile, “You must be Ron, then. We’ve heard a lot about you two.” 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Fred said, lightly pushing Harry aside to walk around him. 

“Let’s go eat,” His mum said. 

She allowed the rest of them to file into the tiny kitchen ahead of her. It was a tight fit at the dinner table once they all were seated, but it didn’t bother Harry too much–it always was. 

“Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, smiling and patting Harry’s shoulder as she placed a large plate full of food in front of him. 

“Thank you,” Harry said. 

“Where’s George?” Mrs. Weasley asked Fred, sitting down at the corner of the table beside Mr. Weasley. 

“Asleep upstairs,” Fred said. 

“Should we wake him up?” Ron said, making a move to stand up. 

“No, no, let him rest. I’ll save him a plate. Sit down, Ron.” 

“Any word from Mad-Eye yet?” Mr. Weasley asked Tonks as he passed her a bowl. 

“No, nothing,” She said, taking the bowl with a rather upset look on her face.  

“Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean something happened. Let’s give it a few more hours until we send out a search party,” Lupin said, rubbing Tonks's shoulder soothingly and passing the bowl along to James.

“You know how Mad-Eye is,” James turned his attention to Harry, “Could you pass the chicken, Harry?” And then turned back to Tonks, “His ‘constant vigilance’ and all that,” He did air quotes as he reached across the table for the plate Harry handed to him, “Thanks, Prongslet.” 

Harry reeled at the nickname. 

He knew where it came from, of course, but he hadn’t expected it. It was fitting, though, coming from James. His father was all smiles, shoulder pats, and soft words. He’d called him ‘kid’ several times already. This felt different; something about ‘Prongslet’ was like a knife twisting in his heart. 

He was his father’s son. His father was Prongs. He was Prongslet. 

Except, he didn’t feel like his father’s son. Harry’s middle name was James, and he had the same messy black hair, but that's about the most he had of James. His father had claimed him so easily. He scooped Harry up and kept rolling with the punches. It wasn’t hard for him to show the obvious connection between them, so why was it so hard for Harry to acknowledge that this man was his anything? 

Harry waited until everyone else had picked up their forks to begin eating. He looked down at the mass of food Mrs. Weasley had placed in front of him. As always, Mrs. Weasley’s dinners were second only to the Hogwarts feasts. He picked up his knife and began cutting his chicken up into the tiniest pieces he possibly could. He nibbled on his chicken and listened halfheartedly while everyone spoke, each corner of the table having their own very different conversations. 

Harry couldn’t stop glancing at the puddle of water on the floor beside the sink. When he glanced away, and the light caught it just right, he could’ve sworn there was a red tint to it. 

Ginny scooched her chair over closer to Hermione and further away from Dudley and whispered in the older girl’s ear. Hermione glanced over at Dudley and told Ginny to knock it off. Ginny shrugged and whispered something again. Harry probably could’ve heard what she said if he actually tried to tune out Ron recanting his chess win to his father. 

It was clear his mother cared more about the girls’ conversation a great deal more than he did, “Hey, don’t say that about him,” she tapped the table lightly in front of Ginny. 

Harry blinked, tuned into the conversation now. 

Tonks leaned forward to look around where Lupin and his father were in a deep conversation, “Ginny, you shouldn’t have said that.” 

Ron, no longer focused on chess, turned to Tonks, “Hey, don’t talk to my sister like that.” 

His mum turned to Ron, jaw tight, “It’s not fair to be mad at Tonks. I said it first. Your sister shouldn’t have said that.”

“What do you know about anything?” Ron grumbled.

“Woah,” James said, turning to Ron, “Don’t talk to her like that.” 

“Why? Whatever Ginny said is probably true. Dudley’s always been a right git,” Ron said, standing his ground. 

“Ron,” Mr. Weasley admonished his son gently. 

Dudley’s face was bright red, and he was staring down at his plate, not making eye contact with anyone. 

Harry really wished he had been paying more attention to what Ginny said. 

His mum physically had to hold herself back. Harry watched as she took several deep breaths before responding, “Alright, but that doesn’t mean you should be cruel back, Ron.”  

“Hey, it’s not cruel! It’s the truth,” Fred spoke up from beside Ron. 

Mrs. Weasley stood up sharply and effectively ended the argument, “Well, it’s been good to see everyone.” 

She began walking around the table and picking up plates, refusing when his parents offered to help clean up. She harshly rang out a rag over the sink after placing the dishes in it. Dudley also stood up and thanked Mrs. Weasley for dinner before quickly exiting the room. 

Harry stood up quickly, Ron and Hermione turned to look at him, concerned with how loudly his chair scraped on the floor in the silent room, “Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Weasley.” 

He walked into the living room in search of Dudley. He ignored the lurch in his chest as his eye caught a glimpse of Aunt Petunia on the floor in front of the couch as his head swiveled around the room. Harry stopped himself from looking back to check. 

She wasn’t there, not really. 

 He looked out the window above the couch and saw Dudley on the front lawn. Harry yanked open the front door and followed him out, the warm July air sticky and clinging to his skin. 

“Big D!” He called out, power-walking to keep up with Dudley’s much larger strides. 

Dudley froze at the sound of Harry’s voice. He turned around, his voice wavering, “I don’t think you’re a waste of space.” 

“What?” Harry asked, taking a step back, sure he misheard him. 

“I don’t think you’re a waste of space. You know that, right?” He sighed heavily, “I mean… ‘Course you don’t,” He rubbed a hand aggressively across his face, “I’m sorry.” 

Harry looked at his cousin’s face, waiting for him to start laughing, “Is this a joke?” 

Dudley had never looked so serious, “No, I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean anything, but my parents were wrong. For how they treated you. For how they let me treat you.” 

“Why are you doing this?” Harry asked, his chest incredibly tight and his head pounding. 

“I’ve always hated wizards. Hated you, really. All this,” he gestured loosely at the Burrow, “is terrifying to me. Then, those ‘demon-tore’ things attacked us. I think that was the first time in my life I wasn’t afraid of you.” 

“You were afraid of me?” Harry scoffed. 

“‘Course I was! I used to dread when you’d come home in the summers. I felt like I couldn’t breathe until you went back to your freaky–I mean, your…school.” 

 “Why are you telling me all of this?” 

“I always thought I would have time to make it up to you. Those…things, they made me see all of my worst memories. Every single one of them was how I had treated you. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My parents, I thought they were the best,” He laughed humorlessly, “I finally saw them for what they were after that day.” 

Dudley turned from Harry to look out at the rolling hills of Ottery St. Catchpole, a bitter lilt to his voice, “ It was weird,” he laughed wetly, “I started to hate being around them. I wanted to write to you, but I wasn’t sure how. For the first time ever, I couldn’t wait for you to come home so I could talk to you. But then you were there, and you were so angry all summer. And,” Dudley bit his cheek, looking even more abashed and lowering his voice, “I could hear you crying at night…through the walls.” 

Harry wasn’t sure what to say. His head was spinning. Dudley and Harry’s rivalry had always appeared to be on equal footing to him, seeing as he couldn’t do magic away from school. 

However, with his parents breathing their opinions down his neck, and every encounter, however deserved, with wizards ending up in him being terrorized, he could begin to see the rationale behind the fear. Dudley was awful, Harry would never deny that, but he never thought about what the past few years of his life must’ve looked like from his cousin’s sparsely informed, biased perspective. 

“Then, when I was kneeling…” Dudley paused to cry, “Kneeling on the floor. I knew I was out of time. I couldn’t stop staring at my mum, dead on the floor. I was actually sort of relieved. I’ve never felt so guilty before. I knew I was going to die, and I was okay with that because I’ve only ever been awful. Not only to you but to…everyone. I’m not a good person, and I know that now.” 

Dudley was crying rather loudly now. His back was still turned to Harry in an attempt not to show it. “You don’t have to forgive me,” Dudley said, turning back to Harry, “But I am sorry.” 

Harry ground his teeth, looking back at the Burrow. He wasn’t sure why he even came out here in the first place. He hadn’t expected this, even a little bit. The breeze blew his fringe off his sticky forehead slightly. Harry rubbed slightly at his sore arm. He could still feel the death eater’s fingers digging into his forearm, and if he let his vision unfocus slightly, it was almost as if he could see his Aunt’s dead face, listless and staring at the sky in his periphery. Harry wondered what Dudley had been seeing. 

“You’re right, it doesn’t mean anything,” Harry said, glancing at the reeds swaying in the breeze to double-check that Aunt Petunia wasn’t really there, “But…” Harry really didn’t know what to say, hoping Dudley would interpret what he couldn’t form into words.  

“Mhmm,” Dudley nodded, seeming to understand, also looking at the reeds. Did he see her too? “You don’t ever have to accept it, but I’ll never stop being sorry. Just so you know.” 

Harry nodded. Perhaps now wasn’t the time to ask, the thin truce between them delicate and weary. Harry looked back at the reeds, and she was gone. 

“Thank you, Dudley.”