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What Harry found most unusual about life at Ron's, however, wasn't the talking mirrors or the clanking ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to like him.
Going from life with the Dursleys—where the rule was never to ask questions—to life with the Weasleys—where they asked him questions and truly valued his answers—gave Harry a bit of emotional whiplash.
Not in a bad way, of course. Harry loved living with the Weasleys, and for the first time in his life, he dreaded the end of summer vacation.
Was that what having a family felt like?
Harry scolded himself for that train of thought: family wasn't something he was meant to aspire to. His life up to that point had made that quite clear, but surely he could at least indulge in the fantasy of what it might mean for him.
It was a lovely thought—warm and comforting—that glowed inside him just as Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid did.
Yet, even though he loved being there, he knew it wasn't his home—no matter how much he wished it was—and the fact that he couldn't go downstairs without Ron was proof of that.
If it was his home, he could do whatever he pleased—like going up and down the stairs without fearing he’d make too much noise, become a nuisance, and get sent back to the Dursleys.
Harry knew they’d never actually send him back to his relatives—Ron, Fred, and George would fight to keep him there with them—but fear wasn't logical, and he was terrified.
He was also incredibly thirsty, and it was that thirst that drove him to leave Ron’s room and creep silently down the stairs, wondering if he could just turn on the tap and drink—hoping their water was safe, too.
But his plan was thwarted by the presence of someone in the kitchen, busy knitting.
"Harry, my dear boy!" Mrs. Weasley smiled gently at him before standing up and walking over. "Is everything alright, dear? Did you get too much sun out in the yard today?" Mrs. Weasley wore an affectionate smile as she continued. "Merlin only knows how many times I’ve had to look after my own children—spending hours in the scorching sun and then complaining about sunburns."
"It’s not that, I..." Harry hesitated, hating himself for the trouble he was causing the kind woman. "I was just thirsty. I didn't mean to disturb you, though; I'll just go back upstairs and..."
"Absolutely not." Mrs. Weasley shook her head firmly as she ushered Harry—without a moment's delay—to the seat at the table he had used all summer, then brought him a glass of water that refilled itself right before his astonished eyes. "Drink up, dear."
Prompted by her words, Harry drank the water greedily, blinking in surprise when he saw the glass fill up again. "What...?" Harry asked instinctively, forgetting the rule about not asking questions.
"It’s a gift," Mrs. Weasley explained. "It keeps refilling as long as the person holding it is thirsty."
The look in her eyes made it clear that Harry was expected to keep drinking.
So Harry did.
"Are you hungry, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked, pleased to see Harry already starting on his third glass without needing to be told.
"No, I'm fine, I'm not hungry..." Harry trailed off as Mrs. Weasley heaped food onto a plate and set it down in front of him. "Mrs. Weasley, there's no need to..."
"I know." Mrs. Weasley smiled. "Now eat."