Chapter Text
Harry leaned against the Burrow's open garden door and watched the sunset. The orange-red fireball was disappearing behind the horizon in the cloudless sky. A wild chorus of insects and birds, undisturbed by the summer heat of the day, filled the air. The Burrow itself was quiet. Harry only knew the house when it was full of life, but now he was alone after everyone else had gradually left in the afternoon.
A soft creak behind him broke the unfamiliar silence. Almost alone. George was pottering about in the kitchen, but without Fred right by his side, he was only a shadow of his former self. Harry ignored him for the moment and tried to collect his thoughts. The glass in his hand, half-full of pumpkin juice, was cool and formed condensation in the warm air, making it damp under his fingers. His shirt was sweaty and under his bare feet he could feel the warm wood of the doorstep, polished smooth by countless years of residents and visitors walking over it day in, day out.
The sudden silence was like a shock after the past few months, during which he had been surrounded by people seemingly non-stop. When he had been with Hermione and Ron searching for the Horcrux, they had been virtually isolated for months. Constantly on guard and under tension. That had changed abruptly after Voldemort's death. Instead of dissipating, the tension had taken on a new form. One meeting had followed another. Too many people at once after the long solitude.
Funerals. Surrounded by friends who dealt with grief and loss in their own way.
Victory celebrations. Surrounded by strangers who did not understand the true cost of victory.
Hearings before the tribunal. Surrounded by enemies and allies who were still pursuing their own agendas.
Visits to St Mungo's, plans for the future, his birthday. It had only been three months, but it felt like an eternity, during which time had passed sometimes at breakneck speed and sometimes at a gruellingly slow pace. And now he felt empty. The constant contact had burned him out and left him with little peace to reflect on all the changes in his life. Nevertheless, he had preferred the hustle and bustle of the Burrow to the oppressive silence of Grimmauld Place. He didn't really know what to do with the place when he was there alone. He didn't even know who was currently staying there. He had left the administration to Mr Weasley – Arthur – for the time being. He would never get used to addressing Ron's parents by their first names.
Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. It had taken a lot of persuasion to convince them to let him stay here while everyone else went away. Ron and Hermione were holidaying in Europe before repeating their final year at Hogwarts. They had insisted that he come with them. Hermione was openly concerned about Harry, even though he had assured her time and again that everything was fine. Obviously not convincing enough. In the end, she had given in, and Harry was sure she was looking forward to spending time alone with Ron.
Arthur and Molly were visiting relatives in the north, but even Molly had needed some persuading to see something different for at least a few days. Ginny was staying with a friend during that time.
A hand rested on Harry's shoulder and he looked up. George had come up to him and was looking at him with tired eyes. The fading light wasn't the only cause for the shadows in his gaze. Some days, Harry could hardly bear to look at him because it was a mirror of himself. One or two concealment charms had helped him hide it from the others, but he would not be able to hide his fatigue for much longer. The superficial injuries from the last fight had long since healed, not even new scars remained, but he knew that his own reflection would show him dark purple shadows under his eyes and sallow skin.
‘You look awful,’ George said quietly.
‘And you look like the picture of health,’ Harry replied without malice. For a moment, he regretted breaking the glamour after everyone had left, but George was the last person he needed to hide from. He hardly looked any better, with the jagged scar running down the right side of his face, along his neck and onto his shoulder, where it disappeared under a worn T-shirt. Despite the efforts of the healers at St Mungo's, even after three months, the scar still looked fresh and inflamed and required constant treatment. The curse that had caused it was supposed to be fatal. So far, no one could say for sure whether the wound would ever heal or whether the curse would still achieve its intended goal, only much more slowly.
For a while, they gazed silently into the garden; the sun had long since disappeared. The pastel-coloured sky turned into a night-time blue, sprinkled with the first stars. The temperature slowly dropped to a tolerable level.
Harry glanced at the bottles in George's hand. Firewhisky and Scotch. Maybe he should get himself a bottle too. The nights were getting longer by the day, and not just because of the sun's path. Staring sleeplessly at the dark ceiling and asking himself questions he couldn't answer contributed to this.
‘Fred is in pain,’ George whispered wearily into the silence, and Harry knew what he meant. The twins had always shared everything, and so it was with this curse. They had been standing back to back when they were hit, and that was probably the only reason they were both still alive. But the outcome had been very uneven. George bore the visible scar, Fred felt the pain that went with it. The force had divided itself and was not enough to kill them both. At least the healers could agree on an explanation for their rare condition, but they were hardly any closer to finding a cure. They could only alleviate the symptoms with a series of potions that were not only expensive but also addictive.
The twins had no choice but to cope with it in their own way when Molly's fussing became too much and the pity and concern of everyone else was of no help.
‘Are you sharing?’ Harry pointed to the alcohol. George looked at him appraisingly, as if searching for something. Whatever it was, he nodded and turned away. ‘Come on.’
Harry drank his pumpkin juice in one gulp, made the glass disappear with a careless wave of his hand, and then followed George up the stairs to their old room in the last light of dusk. The twins' shop and flat had been damaged in a fight. Nothing that couldn't be fixed now that Voldemort was dead, but no one had had time for it since the last battle, and Molly had made moving into the Burrow a condition of her support for their release from St Mungo's. Otherwise, the healers would have been only too happy to keep Fred and George there for research purposes.
When they entered the room, at first glance it looked empty, but then George lit about a dozen candles with a muttered spell, revealing the chaos that reigned in the small, stuffy room. Fred was lying on the large bed that they had conjured up in place of their two small ones. His face was pressed into the pillow and he was clutching his right shoulder with his left hand.
George placed the drinks next to the bed, where there was already a worrying collection of empty bottles, and in the next moment, Harry was forgotten. George carefully sat down next to his brother at the head of the bed. Leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out, he gently stroked his back. As if it were an afterthought, he pointed his wand at the window, which opened with a simple spell, letting in fresh air. The small flames danced wildly for a moment before returning to their calm flickering.
Fred had once said that the pain came in waves. Harry didn't know how many times a day that was the case. Although they had spent the past few weeks under the same roof, Harry had hardly seen the two of them. Fred even less often than George, because he hardly ever left the room. When Fred sensed his twin, he immediately turned to him and buried his face in his side.
Harry, who had sat down on the lonely chair at the twins' old desk, could hear Fred's deep, faltering breaths. He felt like he was intruding, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the room. The silence of the rest of the house, combined with his own looping thoughts, seemed too threatening. He looked at the two of them, feeling a little uncomfortable.
By now, it was no longer difficult to tell them apart. Apart from George's scar, there were other poorly healed wounds that helped distinguish the twins. Fred had also lost weight. They both had, but next to his brother, he looked emaciated and even paler than Harry himself. This was one of the side effects of the potions.
After a while, Fred seemed to be feeling better. Without letting go of George, he turned to Harry.
‘Hello, Harry.’ His voice sounded rough and weak.
‘Hello, Fred,’ Harry replied, trying to smile, even though he knew it barely reached his eyes. ‘It's okay if I join you for a drink, right?’
‘Sure, help yourself.’ Fred grinned crookedly and vaguely patted the bed next to himself. ‘Come join us. Tell us what's going on out there.’
Harry looked questioningly at George, and when he nodded in agreement, Harry hesitantly approached. Finally, he sank down cross-legged on the bed, just a few inches away from Fred, and looked at the twins expectantly. There was something in the air that he couldn't quite place, but he didn't feel it was a threat. These days, he seemed to be the only threat. He energetically pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the welcome distraction that lay before him: booze and trivial conversation.
oOo