A Horcrux's Fate

Chapter 3

Harry felt like he was eleven again as he followed George up the rickety stairs of The Burrow. The old house creaked in all the same places, like it remembered who he was. Each step made his heart beat a little faster—not from the effort, but from the giddy anticipation of mischief. He hadn't felt like this in ages.

At the top landing, George pushed open a door and headed straight for the window like it was the most natural thing in the world. He shoved it open, letting in the evening breeze and the faint scent of summer grass.

"This way, mate," George said, flashing a grin over his shoulder before climbing out with the grace of someone who'd done this a hundred times.

Harry hesitated. For a second, his stomach twisted with that familiar feeling: part excitement, part "this is definitely against some safety rule". But then he shook it off. This was The Burrow. Rules barely applied here.

He hoisted himself up and clambered out the window, nearly smacking his forehead on the eaves. Graceful as ever. Still, he made it out alive and found himself standing on the slanted rooftop. The breeze ruffled his hair, and for a second, everything was still.

The view took his breath away.

Rolling fields stretched into the horizon, painted in golds and greens by the dying light. Trees swayed gently, and the sky above was just beginning to darken, a few stars winking into view.

Harry inhaled deeply. The air smelt like possibility and freedom—and butterbeer, apparently.

"Welcome to my sanctuary," George said, already seated and holding out a bottle with a casual flourish. He looked oddly regal perched there, like a prince of mischief.

Harry took it with a grin and sat beside him, feeling the roof tiles shift slightly under his weight. He tried not to imagine himself sliding off into the pigpen below.

George popped the cap off his own bottle and took a swig before gesturing out at the view. "Fred and I used to sneak up here all the time. Mum would be yelling bloody murder downstairs, and we'd be up here planning pranks or pretending we were dragon hunters or—Merlin, one time we swore we saw a UFO."

Harry laughed. "I do remember your mum chasing you two around. Her hair was practically on fire."

"Yeah," George said fondly. "She was terrifying in the best way."

There was a comfortable pause. The wind rustled the trees, and the last light of day painted the sky in oranges and purples.

"So," George said after a moment, glancing over at him, "how've you really been? Not the 'public hero Harry Potter' version. The actual you."

Harry took a slow sip of his butterbeer and let out a breath. "I'm... trying to figure that out, honestly. It's weird. No battles. No prophecies. No one screaming at me to save the world. I don't have a plan, and for once, that feels kind of okay."

George nodded like he understood. "You're allowed to take a break, you know. Save-the-world quotas should come with a proper holiday. Preferably with no Dark Lords or interviews."

Harry smirked. "Or Rita Skeeter popping up behind a potted plant."

"Exactly!" George exclaimed. "Though rumour has it you're next in line for Minister of Magic. I heard it from Stan Shunpike at the Leaky Cauldron, so obviously it must be true."

Harry snorted into his drink. "Stan? He once told the Veelas that he'd become one."

George raised an eyebrow. "Well, clearly he's qualified for politics."

They both laughed, the sound light and real. It felt good.

"But really," George said, leaning back on his elbows, "you don't want the job?"