Place, that it was a trap, a sinkhole, designed by Fate’s cruel hand to deepen and exacerbate his grief. It only urs to him now to wonder if maybe the house was grieving, too—if, perhaps, it’d been grieving longer than Harry’d even been alive.

“Goddamn it,” Harry says, “I think Malfoy was right.”

Hermione and Ron exchange an apprehensive glance. Harry is getting really sick of that.

“And when,” says Hermione, after a moment, “did you and Malfoy get around to talking about the nature of magical houses?”

“Oh,” Harry says. Heat prickles on the back of his neck. “Well—we kind of—er. Had breakfast this morning.”

Ron chokes on his breath; Hermionees within an inch of dropping her glass. It takes Harry a second, but then he puts together the concept of breakfast with just how drunk he was at the pub last night, not to mention with the fact that if anyone saw him leave, it was with Blaise Zabini.

“Oh my god!” Harry says, loud enough that several nearby Weasleys turn to look. Deeply and desperately unwilling to have this conversation with them, he loudly adds, “I can’t believe I ot to pick up eggs today!” and then remains stock-still, waiting, until they’ve all turned back to what they were doing before.

Harry collapses back into his chair and glares at Ron and Hermione. “Oh my god,” he hisses, barely audible this time, “not—it wasn’t—not that kind of breakfast! I can’t believe you’d even think we’d—that I’d—it’s ridiculous! I mean, as if! I would ever! With Malfoy, you guys, seriously? Are you both crazy? You both must be crazy, because that’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Do you know,” says Hermione, after a long pause, “I think I’m going to have another drink.”

“Mind filling mine up too?” Ron says. “Really appreciate it. Just as full as you like.”

Hermione stands, takes their glasses and then, with a little shake of her head, baby Rose. “Sorry,” she says, “I just—I want her to grow up to be self-actualized,” and walks off without giving any further explanation than that.

“What—” Harry starts.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Ron says quickly, and drains his glass. “So. Uh. Obviously we are—crazy—for drawing the conclusion that we did—”

“Crazy!” Harry repeats, because he feels it needs saying again.

“Real clear about where the crazy’s living in this conversation, mate, thanks,” Ron says. “But—can I ask why you did, uh, end up…having breakfast…with Malfoy this morning?”

“Stop saying it with those significant little pauses,” Harry hisses, horrified. “That makes it sound like—I’m telling you, it was just breakfast! Real breakfast! Eggs, and bacon, and things!”

“'Course it was,” Ron says, clapping him briefly on the shoulder. “Why, now?”

“Oh, well. He came by in a bit of a strop about the thing in the Prophet,” Harry admits.

Ron blinks at him. “You saw today’s Prophet?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have,” Harry says patiently, “except that, like I was telling you, Malfoy came by in a strop about it at 6:30 in the morning. Yelled and kicked at my door until I let him in, too. I’m sure the neighbors are terrified to live next to me now.”

“Oh, right,” Ron says, “because all those times you’vee home covered in blood before have made them feel very safe.” He pauses, then says, “Wait, how does Malfoy even know where you live?”

“Apparently Blaise Zabini’s an Unspeakable.”

“No kidding?” says Ron, leaning back in his chair. “Huh. I can see that, I suppose. 'Mione, did you know Blaise Zabini was an Unspeakable?”

“You know, the point of their being called Unspeakables is that we’re not supposed to speak about it,” Hermione says, returning from the kitchen plus two drinks and minus one baby. “How did we happen across this piece of information?”

“Harry was just explaining to me how Malfoy got his address from Blaise Zabini,” Ron tells her as she sits down, “so he coulde kick at his door and yell at him about this morning’s Prophet.”

Hermione gives Ron a pained look and passes him his drink, which he takes a gulp from in obvious gratitude. To Harry, she says, “You saw this morning’s Prophet?”

“I see the Prophet sometimes, I’m not a hermit,” Harry snaps, needled by hearing the same question twice in less than two minutes.

“Oh, I know that,” Hermione says. “Just—usually—I’m trying to think of a way to phrase this delicately—”

“Usually when you see yourself in the papers you throw a right fit about it,” Ron says cheerfully.

“Ron!” says Hermione.

“Well, he does,” says Ron, unrepentant. “Remember last May? The thing with the Ministry leak?”

“Oh, well, yes,” Hermione says. She gives Harry a long-suffering look. “Even you have to admit: you didn’t exactlyport yourself well.”

“They said I was selling state secrets to fund a Felix addiction!” Harry says, scandalized. “They said I wasmitting treason, Hermione!”

“Yes, but,” Hermione says, “you weren’t. And neither was that tree you punched, Harry.”

“Trees,” says Ron. “There were two. One of them was a bit frail and sickly, as I recall, and cracked sort of pathetically, and you said ‘Too easy,’ and then stomped around until you found that nice oak that broke your hand. And then, at St. Mungo’s, one of the healers said, ‘What happened here, Mr. Potter?’ Totally innocent, medical question. And do you remember what you did?”

“I knocked over the exam cart,” Harry says sheepishly, because: yeah. He did that. He thinks someday he might get over the shame.

“You knocked over the exam cart,” Ron agrees. “So you can see why we might be a little—'Mione, what’s the word I’m looking for here?”

“Incredulous?” Hermione suggests. “Bewildered? Astounded?”

“Astounded’ll play,” Ron says, grinning at her. “So, yes, Harry, you can see why we were a little astounded to learn that you saw yourself on the front page of the Prophet today. I’m not saying they’re all two-trees-and-an-exam-cart blowouts, I understand that was a special circumstance, but you didn’t sulk through dinner or anything!”

Harry would like to protest that he wouldn’t have sulked through dinner, but he knows the evidence is against him on that one. “Yeah, well. I guess I kind of…had it all out with Malfoy? I don’t know.” He thinks about it. “I suppose I wasn’t that bothered, to be honest. I mean, I did at least say what they’re saying I said this time.”

“You…did,” Hermione says.

“Yeah, I did. Didn’t know she was a reporter or I’d never have given her the time of day, but,” Harry shrugs. “I said it, so I suppose it’s fair play. Malfoy’s a lot angrier about the whole thing than I am.”

Hermione stares at him for a long, hard second, her gaze fierce and a little ufortable.

Harry makes a face at her.

“Yep, I can’t do this.” Hermione says, and she stands again, plants a kiss on Ron’s cheek, and adds, “Godspeed, honey,” as she walks off.

“She’s being really weird tonight,” Harry says.

“Oh, sure,” Ron says, nodding, “yeah, mystery, no explanation for it. But look—Harry —I still don’t understand how all this ended in breakfast. He came over to yell at you and so you—what, made him some food?”

“Er,” says Harry. “Well, sort of. Not really!” he adds, bristling defensively at Ron’s raised eyebrows. “He came to yell, and he did yell, for a while. Then I explained that I hadn’t known it was a reporter and had just been trying to, you know, reduce the amount of post-war dickishness in the world, and he calmed down. Well, a bit. I’m not sure he ever really calms down, you know, like normal people.”

Ron says nothing, though at the words “normal people” he does take another large sip from his drink.

“And then,” Harry says, “well, I was really hungover, and I think he wanted to—I don’t know, yell some more or—huh. Actually, I don’t really know why he came back with the hangover potion. He said it was so I wouldn’t tell future reporters he’d left me to die in my own sick or something, but I’m pretty sure he was joking.”

“Joking,” Ron says thinly. “Haha. Yes. Funny stuff.”

“Anyway, then he got after me about the house,” Harry says, “Grimmauld Place, I mean, which why I was even asking about that stuff, before. I guess I wasn’t such a good homeowner.”

“Oh,” Ron says, and winces. “Yeah, that you were not.”

“You might have told me!”

“You don’t know what you were like to be around that year, Harry,” Ron says, “and that’s a mercy and a gift and you should be grateful for it every day. Let’s just say that the thing with the house was towards the bottom of our list of worries, at that point.”

Harry opens his mouth to ask what had been at the top, and then…thinks better of it.

“My point is,” Harry says, steering them hastily away from that unhappy topic, “he was chattering on and on about the house, and I wanted something to eat, so I just sort of started cooking. Only then I had enough food for two and it would’ve been rude to not offer him some, and he epted, so.” Harry shrugs one shoulder. “I gave him some breakfast.”

“How civic-minded of you,” says Ron, in a strangled voice.

It is at this point that Harry’s chair, which he’d finally been beginning to trust, lets out a fart so enormous that it propels Harry out of his seat and almost into the fireplace, covering the room in glittering brown confetti. Everyone laughs, even Harry, and in the ensuing confetti clean-up and reshuffling of seats Ron ends up in a corner with Angelina, Arthur, and Molly, none of whom Harry wants to continue this particular conversation in front of.

Which is fine. It’s not like he wanted to keep talking about Malfoy, anyway. Ron was acting really strange about it.

Still, Harry feels a bit trapped, suddenly, in the close, warm space of the crowded Burrow. He Summons his coat and lets himself out into the back garden, pleased and relieved at the rush of cold air, the soft grey fog of his breath.

Ginny’s sitting on the back stoop, red hair spilling out from underneath a white knitted hat. Harry almost goes back inside, but then he thinks about that odd little conversation with Neville the other day, and the way things seemed to sit a bit easier, afterward. Maybe, Harry thinks, e

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