Chapter Text
The days immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts could only be described as raucous – in grief, mourning, celebration, enthusiasm – but Harry knew the bubble of joy could only last so long. There was so much work to be done, and yet he didn’t know how to start. It felt like everyone was looking to him to lead, if not politically then patriotically, but he was so tired.
After the battle drew to a close, after the haze of festivities, after the sandwich Kreacher brought him, Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys returned to the Burrow. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley extended an invitation to Hagrid as well, but he insisted on staying at Hogwarts to begin repairs. After all, he gruffly told them, someone had to help Filch make sure they were open for the new bout of students in the fall.
The trip back to the Burrow was a quiet one. The lack of revelry surrounding him left Harry feeling blank. The others seemed to feel the same way. Despite this, however, they all sat gathered in the kitchen well after night fell, just sitting, drinking tea, and letting grief and gratitude wash over them in equal measure. After a while, Harry watched his found-family pick themselves up, one-by-one, and walk up the stairs, until he was alone with Ron and Hermione.
“Your cot’s still set up in my room from the wedding, Harry,” Ron said softly. “I think we should all get some sleep.”
Harry couldn’t respond. Something about these words made the past 24 hours much more real. He had seen Lupin and Tonks the day of the wedding, hadn’t he? He remembered Fred helping to set up the marquee and haggling with him and Ron over which guests they would each seat. The thought of Fred made his chest seize – his absence in the house was a tangible thing, it seeped out of the walls and made itself known in each corner that he should be here, and if only Harry had done something, anything, sooner, everything would be different.
This hot feeling of shame brought a lump to Harry’s throat. He could feel Ron and Hermione’s eyes on him across the kitchen table as he rapidly blinked away tears. How could he sit here, he thought, and feel this loss so acutely when Ron was the one who lost a brother? How could he be so selfish as to break down now and practically demand comfort from someone who’s grief surely far eclipsed his own?
Harry stood from the table abruptly.
“Air,” he muttered, with a vague gesture to what he hoped was the door – he couldn’t see through his haze of grief and guilt.
Harry stumbled outside and almost immediately collapsed to the ground. Some far-off part of his brain reasoned that Ron was right, he hadn’t had a moments rest in over 36 hours and exhaustion must be finally taking over, but a much louder voice screamed that he was to blame for everyone’s losses and pain and he should just lay here to die and how could he be so selfish and how could he do this to his friends and how could he let this happen and-
Harry opened his eyes and was confronted by a riot of orange and a warm hand in his own. Someone had brought him to Ron’s room. He looked over and saw Mrs. Weasley sitting next to him, holding his hand. She looked exhausted. Behind her, he could make out Ron’s worried face in the pale twilight of the room. Obviously, some time had passed since he apparently passed out in the garden.
Harry made to sit up, to apologize, to somehow assuage the guilt he felt, but something in Mrs. Weasley’s expression stopped him. She looked at him for a moment, then turned and motioned to Ron, who slipped out of the room.
“Harry,” she said, “I don’t blame you for anything.”
“You should,” he responded.
“No, I shouldn’t. Everyone lost something, Harry. I’m just glad I didn’t lose you, too.”
These words brought the tears Harry had been fighting back to the surface.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered through the tears that now fell thick and fast, through the lump lodged firmly in his throat. “I couldn’t save him – I saw him and I just – I – I’m so sorry.”
“Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said, with a sudden firmness to her tone that reminded him of his first ill-advised trip in the family Ford Anglia, “Listen to me. You are not to blame. You are as much a victim of this war as anyone else. I will mourn the loss of my son until I die, but you are as good as my son too, Harry, and even if you somehow were able to prevent anything, if it meant putting you in more danger then it wouldn’t be worth it. It’s more than any mother could bear.”
For a long moment, this declaration hung in the air between them. Harry knew that Mrs. Weasley cared for him, maybe even considered him a part of the family, but this – this reassurance, this unwavering love even in the face of his assumed failings – was almost too overwhelming. Harry felt he could burst with the gratitude and admiration he held for her. He worked furiously against the lump in his throat, blocking all he wanted to tell her – that, above all he had found in this world, this family was what he cherished the most, that if he could ease her pain he would in a heartbeat – but found the words wouldn’t come. Though he hadn’t uttered a syllable, Mrs. Weasley seemed to understand. She pressed her hand to his cheek with an expression of such motherly love that Harry hadn’t felt since the Mirror, and with a wan smile that did little to mask the grief etched into her face, she stood and left the room, softly closing the door behind her.