Drarry One Shots

Finding Freedom from the Storm

'For fucks sake,' Harry muttered as yet another Postal Owl flew into The Burrow carrying yet another cake box. 'How much cake does Mrs Figg actually think I can eat a day?'

Ron laughed. Mind you, Ron wasn't complaining; he was selflessly sacrificing his waistline to help Harry out of his predicament. Harry, in contrast, was finding it difficult to eat, much to Molly's alarm.

'What's it today?' Ron asked eagerly.

Harry opened the box suspiciously and took a cautious sniff. 'Coffee and Walnut.'

'Shame.' Ron relieved Harry of the box and opened it properly. 'Can't you tell her you prefer carrot cake?'

'I don't prefer carrot cake. I don't like fucking cake at all. Besides, if I say that to anyone, it'll make The Daily Prophet's front page, and there'll be a month of debates and petitions about how the Ministry should bring in a law to rename carrot cakes as Potter cakes, or something utterly fucking ridiculous.'

'Please try to watch your language, Harry dear,' Molly said from near the kitchen sink.

'I keep telling you,' Ron whispered, 'you should escape to Australia with Mione and me. We've nearly got the Portkeys finalised. No cakes, no mum, no Ginny—'

Right on cue, Ginny came rushing into the kitchen, 'Oh hi, Harry,' she gushed. 'Erm, I wondered if we could have a chat this morning—'

Harry stood up hurriedly, 'We're just going to play Quidditch, aren't we, Ron?'

Ron looked torn between Quidditch and leaving a fresh cake that would undoubtedly be devoured once the rest of the family appeared, regardless of the fact that it was only breakfast time.

'I'll bring the cake.' Harry snatched it up.

They escaped just as Ginny was saying forlornly, 'I'll play with you, Harry.'

'We're playing a Seekers game, only room for two,' shouted Ron over his shoulder as the door banged shut behind them.

Harry thanked any listening deity that Charlie wasn't awake yet because he'd turn Ginny's comment into some cringeworthy innuendo and do so without mercy.

The door immediately opened and Molly shouted, 'Harry, don't forget you're expected at the Ministry at 11 am for a meeting about Auror recruitment strategy, you're opening the new ice cream parlour at 12.30, you've got an interview with Witch Weekly at 2 pm, and there's the one-month anniversary ball tonight so back here by five to get ready...'

'How can I forget?' Harry bitterly mounted his broom and kicked off.

'Ron!' she screeched, 'be careful. DON'T FLY SO FAST!'

Harry zoned out all noise and focused on the Seeker Practice-Snitch he'd just released. Unfortunately, there was a reason Ron was a goalie; he didn't provide much of a challenge. Still, it was better than nothing—or Ginny.

The problem was, immediately after the war, Harry barely had a moment to breathe, let alone take stock of what had happened a month before, during the nine months' build-up to it, or even all the events in the seven years since re-entering the magical world. The expectations placed on his shoulders didn't stop as he was still caught up in the storm's whirlwind. There were times when he just wanted to lose his infamous temper and tell everyone to bugger off and leave him alone.

Strangely, and disappointingly, his temper had dissipated. These days, he was hollow, deceived by life or death, or both. Mostly, he felt disbelief—not at the pretence that was being shoved in his face—but because he was finding it hard to accept the numerous deaths of the past few years: friends like Fred and Remus, Lavender and Colin. With that came a realisation that he had never fully accepted the loss of Sirius and Cedric because he'd just had to pick himself up and charge headlong into the next 'adventure'. Alongside that, he needed to deal with Albus Dumbledore's questionable and intrinsically masterful ways of doing things. And then there was the unavoidable fact that he'd killed a man. While the world wanted to celebrate that 'glorious achievement', it left Harry carrying a hideous burden and a plethora of questions. He was exhausted and overwhelmed, and probably needed to see a Mind Healer, though that idea made him cringe as he imagined every tormented detail of his life making it onto The Daily Prophet's front page. Trust didn't come easily these days. Probably something to do with Albus Dumbledore raising him 'like a pig for slaughter'. And yes, thanks, Snape, because it was really hard to shake that phrase from the recesses of his mind.