The days after the Battle of Hogwarts were long and awful.
When the dust finally settled - and when the realisation hit that the war was finally, finally won - the noise and fear of the battle was replaced, almost instantaneously, by the silence and grief of the aftermath. In Harry's eyes, it felt as if a bomb had exploded in their world, leaving nothing behind but debris and broken people.
Unable to face it, and unwilling to even gather the energy to try, Harry immediately fled to the Burrow with the Weasleys and Hermione; the cowardly action – in his eyes, at least - of a young man who had been pushed so far beyond his endurance that even he wasn't sure he would ever be able to pull back.
A little more broken, a little less himself, Harry wanted to go to the only other place that had ever felt like home, with the only people still alive who had ever felt like family.
Except, as became apparent after only a few days, they were as broken as he was.
Mrs Weasley slept most of the time, barely ever making the effort to leave her bedroom to see the rest of her family, and certainly not to cook. That task fell largely to Harry, Ron and Hermione, who had become quite adept at fending for themselves over the last year, but who could never hope to match the efforts of the Weasley matriarch. It was another sign that things had changed in the aftermath of the war, and certainly not for the better.
Taking everything into consideration, however, the most worrying change was in George. George was…not coping at all, although truthfully, no one had expected him to. It was like he had lost himself though, as well as his twin. He refused point blank to leave his room, almost as if he simply couldn't find it in himself to care enough to make the short journey downstairs, and he barely spoke to anyone who was brave enough to visit him.
It was as if he simply didn't how to live without Fred.
Harry, for his part, Harry wasn't coping well either. He wasn't sleeping, he was barely eating, and his nightmares woke everyone up more than once in the first few days before he decided to put a silencing charm around his bed. Now, when he inevitably woke up, he would just lie there by himself, staring up at the ceiling until morning came.
And in the mornings, when anyone asked if he was okay, he would lie, and say that he was, because the last thing he wanted was for anyone to worry about him. Even though he wasn't arrogant enough to claim credit for the whole war, Harry couldn't help but feel responsible, at least partly, for the way it had turned out. And the guilt was eating him alive.
During the days, he spent a lot of time with Hermione, Ron and Ginny, but they didn't talk much, even though truthfully there was a lot to talk about. They did what they could to help out around the Burrow, and with the clean-up at Hogwarts, but mostly they just tried to regroup. They made the effort – and it was an effort - to recharge the reserves that had been so thoroughly depleted in the last year.
In contrast, the other Weasley siblings came to and from the Burrow at an alarming rate, almost as if they couldn't stand it to stay in one place too long. Bill particularly seemed to be trying to be everywhere at once, and the strain it was putting him under was clear to everyone. No one tried to get him to slow down though; if working hard was Bill's way of dealing with his grief…well, no one could fault him for it.
No one else was doing any better.
The only one who seemed to be holding it together at all, at least on the outside, was Mr Weasley. He was clearly still grieving, but the older man, with his balding head and kind eyes, seemed to be bearing his grief stoically, taking it on his strong shoulders, and accepting its weight without a second of complaint. He didn't hide away, and he didn't cry; instead of focusing on his own pain, something no one would blame him for, Mr Weasley seemed more concerned about everyone else's.
Without Mr Weasley reassuring them all with his mere presence and keeping them all going - keeping them together - Harry knew that the Weasley family would not have survived the first few weeks after Fred's death; and that they would not still be surviving now.
For every nightmare, Mr Weasley was there. For every sharp word, or harsh cry, Mr Weasley was there. He made sure that everyone had a reason to get up in a morning, even if they didn't always take him up on it. He made sure that they ate, that the house was in a decent state, and that they were looking after themselves and each other.
One day, only a week after Fred's death, he broke up a fight between Ron and Percy so completely and effectively that Ron ended up crying on Percy's shoulder. The release helped Ron, and it seemed to help Percy as well – making him feel more like a big brother again.
On another day, somewhat miraculously, Mr Weasley told a joke – a ridiculous, silly joke – that made Ginny smile. It was small, almost not there at all, but in Harry's eyes, that smile lit up the room. It gave him hope, however fleeting, that maybe all was not lost. That maybe, if they could start to find more things to smile at in the world, things would start to get better.
That maybe, in the end, they'd be okay.
Some weeks later, and in the very early hours of the morning, Harry crept down the creaky stairs of the Burrow as quietly as he could, desperate not to wake anyone up. His t-shirt clung to his thin frame, still a little sticky with sweat, but even in spite of this, he shivered.
Tonight's nightmare had been one of the worst he'd experienced since the end of the war - the sort of nightmare in which no one survived.
Harry ran a tired hand through his messy hair as he tried to gather himself long enough to make it down the rickety stairs unscathed. He still felt shaky and wired, and he knew that he wasn't going to fall asleep again any time soon, but he also knew that there was only so much of Ron's snoring he could take before he snapped.
Since he really didn't want to wake his best friend up at this early hour, Harry decided it would be best for everyone if he went downstairs to revive himself with a cup of tea. Once he had that, he could take some time to gather himself, and he could spend the time alone watching the sun rise slowly over the fields around the Burrow as a way to remind himself that the war really was over.
That despite all the pain, they had won.
Although he knew that the latter of those tasks would be much harder in practice, Harry also knew that the first – to get a cup of tea – was something he could accomplish. And so to that end, Harry crept through the living room and towards the homely kitchen, intent on doing just that.
Until he saw that the door was open, and that the light was already on.
Instincts, honed by a year on the run, gave him pause, and before he even knew why, Harry stopped. Then, as he held his breath, Harry peered around the open door to the kitchen, already bracing himself to flee.
The sight that greeted him, however, was no foe or threat.
Instead, Harry's eyes roamed over the form of Mr Weasley, hunched over the kitchen table, arms out in front of him, and tears streaming down his face.
It was the silence of the tears that struck Harry first; the absolute, unending, devastating silence of them. Mr Weasley was shaking, his body almost curled in on itself and tremoring with emotion, but not one sound escaped his lips; there was no screaming, no gut wrenching cries of how unfair it all was, not one whisper of grief. Instead, the tears simply fell down Mr Weasley's face in a long, unending trail, slowly, as the anguish left him in one huge well of unencumbered, silent well of emotion.
It was overwhelming.
Harry could feel it. He could feel Mr Weasley's grief; his pain and sadness. His anger. Even though by day the man had looked to be coping, to be holding everyone else together, Harry knew this was the real Arthur Weasley. This was the man who had lost his son, the man who didn't know how to cope now that Fred wasn't coming back. The man whose family had been torn apart, left with a gaping hole that could never be filled, no matter how many years passed.
Very suddenly, Harry wanted to leave. He had been frozen up until now, terrified that Mr Weasley would know that he was there, that he had seen, but suddenly he had to get away from the kitchen. He couldn't breathe. It hurt…
"Harry…?"
The voice was hoarse, wavering, and yet despite the grief that was undoubtedly there, it still contained warmth. It was still familiar to Harry, reassuring, and above all, it still gave Harry the very unfamiliar feeling of being safe.
"Mr Weasley," Harry hesitated, fighting the urge to run for the moment. He mustered what little courage he had left and met the older man's tearful gaze. "I'm…sorry. I didn't mean…"
"Harry…"
"I'm sorry," Harry repeated. And he was. He was sorry for so many things…
"You have nothing to apologise for," Mr Weasley told him quietly, wiping the tears from his eyes with no hint of shame.. "It's my….I'm afraid you caught me rather unawares."
"I'll just…" Harry gestured lamely to the door.
Mr Weasley shook his head. "Please, Harry, come in."
Harry couldn't say no; he didn't want to. And yet still, he didn't move.
"Harry," Mr Weasley prompted. "Please. If nothing else, I would appreciate the company."
This time, Harry did as he was told. It was the "please" that made the decision for him in the end. Harry was certain that no matter what the circumstances were, he would never be able to disobey Mr Weasley…
"What are you doing up at this hour, Harry?" Mr Weasley asked kindly as Harry finally settled at the table. Mr Weasleys eyes still rimmed with red from his tears, but his smile, although rather watery, was sincere.
"I…er…" Harry hesitated again. He felt uncomfortable, and more than a little tight-chested. He didn't understand what was happening. How could Mr Weasley be so upset, and then be so kind….
"Nightmare?" Mr Weasley asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Did you have a nightmare?" Mr Weasley asked quietly, no hint of accusation in his eyes. "Is that why you're up so late?"
He glanced at the Weasley clock - almost as if it was a natural reaction - even though the clock had never told the time. Harry watched as Mr Weasley's eyes clouded over, and he could almost pinpoint the exact moment that the older man fixed his gaze on Fred's hand.
"Are you okay?" Harry blurted out. He immediately regretted it, but it was already too late to take it back. It was a stupid question though; the kind of question that Harry himself had always hated. How could anyone answer that? How could anyone describe their utter despair in a few words…?
"No," replied Mr Weasley, returning his gaze to Harry. "No, I'm not. Are you, Harry?"
Harry hesitated, but decided that if anyone deserved his honesty, it was this man.
"Not really," he replied with a sigh, trying to ignore his rapidly beating heart. "Do you think you will be?"
"No," Mr Weasley replied sadly. Then he hesitated as he looked around at his home. "I don't know. I'm not really sure I know much of anything anymore."
Once again, Harry was a little taken aback by Mr Weasley's honesty, so it took a while for him to reply. In the end, and using quite a bit of courage, Harry decided to return the favour.
"Me neither," Harry said quietly, keeping his gaze downwards.
They were both silent for a time then, and Mr Weasley used the time to make them both a cup of tea. The silence dragged on, growing ever more oppressive as the minutes passed, but Harry didn't want to break it. Unfortunately, Mr Weasley seemed to have other ideas.
"I miss him," Mr Weasley said suddenly, eyes fixed on his tea. Harry, for his part, didn't know where to look. He felt as if he was intruding on something private; something between Mr Weasley and his ghosts. "I'm afraid I'm not handling it very well."
"I miss him too," Harry answered finally. "And I don't…I don't think I'm handling it very well either. I don't think I'm handling anything well at the moment."
"It's so unfair," Mr Weasley continued. "It's just so…unfair. He wasn't supposed to…" his voice broke slightly as he trailed off.
"I know," Harry said softly, gaze fixed downwards. And he did. He knew better than anyone. "It shouldn't have been him. I know it's not fair to say, but…I can't help it. Fred and George…"
"It's doesn't work like that, I'm afraid, Harry," Mr Weasley replied sadly.
Harry nodded in reply, but he didn't answer immediately, his thoughts already scattered by his nightmare. He didn't know what to think anymore. The war had changed him, completely and irrevocably, and he didn't even know who he was anymore. He just was so tired of it all.
"I wish it did," Harry replied, fiddling with a thread on his pyjama bottoms. Harry thought back to everyone else he had lost in his young life. Life had never been fair…
"Harry…"
"Fred should never have been fighting in the first place," Harry continued, shaking his head with regret, full of self-loathing. "I should've stopped them…"
"He wanted to fight," Mr Weasley said. "I…I don't suppose there was much anyone could do to stop him and George. Not when they set their minds to something."
"Like their joke shop," Harry said, smiling slightly in spite of himself.
"Precisely," Mr Weasley nodded with a small smile of his own.
"I gave them the money for it," Harry told him suddenly, not even sure himself why he had been compelled to speak. Regardless, he continued. "It was my Triwizard winnings. I didn't want it, and if anyone was going to make good use of it, it was the twins. I….you're not mad, are you?"
"No," Mr Weasley replied, smiling slightly, "Mainly because I already knew. I'm not sure Molly's ever twigged, but I knew the moment they told me about the 'mysterious donation."
"And you didn't mind?" Harry asked, thinking back to Mrs Weasley's reaction to the twins starting a joke shop.
"Of course not," Mr Weasley replied. "Molly wanted the boys to finish school and maybe even join the Ministry eventually, but I knew they'd never be able to do something so…mundane. When they told us about the joke shop idea…it fit them, I suppose. It made sense."
"Yeah," Harry agreed.
"We…we never stop worrying about our children," Mr Weasley began. "I know, Harry, that you don't have much experience in that area but…sometimes a parent's worry takes different forms. Sometimes being upset with our child is our way of showing we care. Molly…she only wanted the best for those boys."
"She's a good mum," Harry said, and even though he had no frame of reference to make that determination, he knew it was true.
"Yes, she is," Mr Weasley agreed. "Molly Weasley has the biggest heart of everyone I know. She always has room for more." Mr Weasley smiled at him. "Like you, Harry."
"Me?"
"I remember when she first told me about you," Mr Weasley continued. "She came home after dropping Ron off for the first time, and all she could talk about was a small, skinny, raven-haired boy, all alone at the train station. She didn't even mention you by name. From the way she talked, I could tell that she cared about you, even then."
"I'm really glad she was the one I spoke to that day," Harry replied.
"So are we," Mr Weasley replied. "Because it gave us the chance to know you."
Mr Weasley smiled, but instead of feeling reassured, Harry felt sick all of a sudden. "But…because of me…you lost a son…"
"Because of you?" Mr Weasley retorted, concern etched across his face. "No, Harry. Fred…he died because of Voldemort. Not you. Never you."
"But if you'd never met me –"
"Then our lives would be worse off for it," Mr Weasley replied. "You saved us, Harry. When you fought him, you saved us. We're glad to know you. Not because you're the Boy Who Lived, but because you're Harry. Because you're Ron's friend. And because you're that small, skinny, raven-haired boy from all those years ago. You're as much a part of this family as anyone."
Harry felt the breath stop in his chest, but it wasn't fear that stilled him. Instead, it was surprise. Complete and utter surprise. He had always felt deeply for the Weasley family, but he had never expected them to return those feelings.
"I…I don't know what to say," Harry told him finally.
"We've never wanted to…replace anyone," Mr Weasley began quietly. "I hope you know that. But this family…there's always been room for you. You have a place here, Harry, for as long as you want it."
"I'm not sure I know how to be part of a family," Harry told him quietly.
"Oh, it's not that hard," Mr Weasley told him with a kind smile. "The thing about families, Harry, is that sometimes they argue, sometimes they fall out, and sometimes they even walk in on you while you're crying in the kitchen alone at 3am."
Harry flushed. "I'm – "
"But," continued Mr Weasley pointedly. "At the end of the day, one thing doesn't change. You always care."
Harry had never known his own father, but in that moment, he was struck by the thought that if he had, he would have liked him to be like Arthur Weasley.
"We'll get through this, Harry," Mr Weasley continued, taking a sip of tea. "I know things are difficult at the moment, but we're all still together, and that's what's important. Together, we'll survive."
Suddenly, Harry saw the Weasleys in an entirely different light. Because yes, individually they were all struggling to cope with the death of one of their own - even Mr Weasley, who had taken to crying alone at night so that no one saw - but together, as a family, they were coping. They hadn't given up yet, and Harry knew that even if faced with insurmountable odds, they never would. Because above all else, they were survivors. They were surviving.
And in being invited to the Burrow, in being accepted into their large, mad, wonderful family, Harry was a part of that.
Because of them, he was surviving too.