Rekindled

New begginings and Old memories

The late summer sun streamed through the windows of the Burrow, casting warm golden rays across the kitchen as Harry, Hermione, and Ron prepared to leave for Diagon Alley. Ron had been practically bouncing with excitement all morning, and Hermione's usual composed demeanor betrayed her own enthusiasm as she smoothed down her skirt for the tenth time. Harry, however, felt a knot of awkwardness tightening in his stomach. Today was the day he would see the apartment Ron and Hermione had chosen for themselves—without him.

"You'll love it, mate," Ron said as they grabbed their traveling cloaks. "Well, maybe not love it, but...you'll think it's okay. Or...uh...anyway, it's got a brilliant view."

Harry gave him a weak smile, trying to summon some enthusiasm. "I'm sure it's great," he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

When they arrived in Diagon Alley, Hermione led the way down a side street that branched off the main thoroughfare. The apartment building was modest but well-kept, with ivy creeping along the edges of the brick facade. They climbed a narrow staircase to the third floor, and Ron proudly unlocked the door to their new home.

"Here it is!" Ron announced, spreading his arms wide as they stepped into a small but cozy living room. The furniture was sparse—just a worn sofa, a small wooden table, and an armchair—but Hermione's meticulous touch was evident in the neatly stacked books on the shelf and the curtains she'd already hung.

"It's...nice," Harry said, looking around. He wasn't lying; it really was nice. But the sight of it, so perfectly suited for two people, left him feeling like an intruder. He wandered over to the window, which offered a view of Diagon Alley's bustling streets below. "Good view," he added, forcing a smile.

Ron beamed, clearly proud of their choice. "Right? You can see the cauldron shop from here. Not to mention the bakery—Hermione's already gone down there twice."

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. "It's practical, Harry. Close to the Ministry for work, and there's a spare room if we ever need it. What do you think?"

Harry hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's great. Perfect for you two," he said finally, though his voice sounded too formal, even to himself. Hermione shot him a curious glance, but before she could ask more, Ron clapped him on the back.

"Come on, we'll show you the kitchen. Hermione's been on a mission to organize it already," Ron said, dragging Harry into the next room.

Though Harry did his best to stay engaged, he couldn't shake the feeling of being an outsider. As they showed him the rest of the apartment, he nodded and smiled in all the right places, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Ginny and the looming uncertainty of his own future.

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A Hard Night at the Shop

Later that week, the Burrow was quiet as dusk fell, but in Diagon Alley, George was closing up Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes after a long day. Business had been steady—busier than he'd expected—but every customer brought a pang of bittersweet memories. Each joke, every laugh, reminded him of Fred, and by the time he locked the door, the weight of it all felt unbearable.

George lingered behind the counter, staring blankly at the shelves. The shop had been their dream, his and Fred's, and now it felt hollow, as if half of its soul had vanished. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles turning white, as the tears he'd been holding back finally broke free.

By morning, Mrs. Weasley found him curled up behind the desk, asleep in a chair with an unfinished bottle of butterbeer beside him. She and Mr. Weasley had come to check on him, as they often did when he stayed at the shop late, and the sight of their son broke her heart.

"Arthur," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Look at him."

Mr. Weasley placed a hand on her shoulder, his face etched with sadness. "He just needs time, Molly. We all do."

When George stirred and woke to see them standing there, he offered a weak smile. "Morning," he mumbled, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

Mrs. Weasley pulled him into a tight hug without a word, her tears dampening his shoulder. George didn't resist. For once, he let himself lean into her comfort.

---

A Golden Anniversary

A few days later, the Burrow was transformed for a rare moment of celebration: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's 50th wedding anniversary. The entire family gathered in the garden, along with a few close friends, to mark the occasion. Lanterns floated above the long tables, and the smell of Mrs. Weasley's famous treacle tart filled the air.

Despite the laughter and warmth of the evening, there was a noticeable gap where Fred should have been. Still, everyone made an effort to celebrate, knowing it was what he would have wanted.

George stood to make a toast, his voice wavering but determined. "To Mum and Dad," he said, raising his glass. "The two of you taught us what it means to stick together, even when things get tough. And...well, I know I'm not great at speeches, but Fred would've wanted me to say this: you're the best parents anyone could ask for. Cheers."

George stood to make a toast, his voice wavering but determined. "To Mum and Dad," he said, raising his glass. "The two of you taught us what it means to stick together, even when things get tough. And...well, I know I'm not great at speeches, but Fred would've wanted me to say this: you're the best parents anyone could ask for. Cheers."

The family raised their glasses, tears shimmering in their eyes. Harry glanced at the empty chair where Ginny would have sat and felt a pang of longing. She was back at Hogwarts now, her letters the only link between them, but her absence was keenly felt tonight. He imagined her laughing at George's toast and could almost hear her voice teasing him about his somber expression. Despite the ache of missing her, Harry felt comforted by the love and laughter that surrounded him. For now, it was enough to carry them all forward, one day at a time.

Later that evening, as the others drifted off to bed, Harry sat at the kitchen table with a piece of parchment and quill, the candlelight flickering softly beside him. He began writing to Ginny, the words flowing easily despite the quiet ache of missing her. He told her about visiting Ron and Hermione's new apartment, describing the cozy rooms and the way Ron beamed with pride while Hermione fussed over every little detail. *"It's nice,"* he wrote, *"but it feels strange, too—like things are shifting, and I'm not sure where I fit yet. I kept thinking how you'd probably laugh at how awkward I was, standing around while they argued about where to put a bookcase. Anyway, I hope Hogwarts is treating you okay. I miss you more than I can say. Write back soon, yeah?"* Signing it simply *Yours, Harry,* he folded the letter with care, determined to send it off first thing in the morning. 

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