With a silent, seamless flicker, Harry materialized at the edge of the sprawling stone patio behind the mansion. The warm afternoon heat hung over the gardens, and the crystal-clear water of the swimming pool shimmered invitingly under the sun.
Petunia was floating gracefully on her back near the deep end, her hair pinned up neatly, while Abigail was currently executing a sharp, aggressive underwater dolphin kick, gliding through the water with effortless precision. Nearby, Vernon sat in the shade of a wide parasol, a cool glass of iced tea beside him while he scanned through a financial periodical.
"Dessert has arrived," Harry called out, stepping under the shaded awning.
He unlatched his subspace satchel and drew out a heavy, frost-enchanted silver container.
Abigail broke the surface of the water with a clean, sudden splash, pushing her hair out of her eyes. Her gaze locked onto the container in Harry's hands. "Tell me you brought the blueberry swirl," she demanded, pulling herself out of the pool in one smooth, athletic motion and grabbing her towel. "If it's just vanilla, you're taking it back."
"When have I ever brought back basic vanilla?" Harry countered smoothly, unlatching the top. A cool, fragrant vapor spilled over the silver rim. "Florean's special: salted caramel, dark chocolate, and the blue charm swirl."
Petunia glided to the steps and walked over, dabbing her shoulders with a towel. "You spoil us, Harry," she said with a warm, indulgent smile. "I thought you were only stepping out for a quick stroll."
"Consider it a reward for surviving four straight hours of arithmancy theory this morning," Harry replied, taking a seat while Petunia scooped generous helpings into glass bowls and handed it out.
Vernon set his paper down, adjusting his glasses as he took a bowl. "Did you manage to find that specialized drafting ink you were looking for in the alley?"
"I did," Harry said, taking a bite of his ice cream. "And I had a rather unexpected run-in at Flourish and Blotts. The entire Weasley family was there."
Vernon paused, a look of thoughtful recollection crossing his face. "Weasley... Ah, yes. Old Pureblood lineage, the Weasleys. Arthur and Molly's branch, I presume?" He took a slow bite before continuing. "Arthur's line had quite a falling out with the old guard decades ago. Arthur and Molly eloped against his family's wishes, which effectively stripped him of the main inheritance. Not that Arthur ever cared much for corporate ventures anyway. He's always preferred his quiet post at the Ministry."
Petunia nodded gently, setting her spoon down. "They may not hold massive industrial clout, Vernon, but the Weasleys are known to be fierce, genuinely good people. Molly's family, the Prewetts, were exceptionally brave. They might live modestly, but they have a reputation for immense integrity."
Harry felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. His parents' natural assessment confirmed that the core identity of the Weasley family remained completely intact here.
"They were very welcoming," Harry said. "Extremely polite, though the boys nearly lost their minds when I offhandedly mentioned we have a full-sized pitch here."
Abigail, who was already halfway through her bowl, raised an eyebrow with a smirk. "Please tell me you didn't brag about your solo Comet flying. Their heads would fall off if they saw what a real broom handle can actually do."
"Not a very nice thing to say, Abby," Harry smiled. "Though I did mention I haven't played an actual team match yet."
"Which is why you need me on your wing," Abigail stated matter-of-factly, pointing her spoon at him. "Without me, your tactical game is just elevated broom-circling."
"I'll keep that in mind, coach," Harry said dryly. He turned to Petunia and Vernon. "Mrs. Weasley actually invited me over to their home tomorrow morning. The Burrow. She offered to let her boys show me how they run drills on their paddock."
Petunia's eyes lit up with warm encouragement. "That sounds wonderful, Harry. It will do you good to spend a day outside with boys your own age instead of burying yourself in restricted warding texts."
Vernon nodded in firm agreement. "A respectable Pureblood family with solid values is always a connection worth keeping, son. Go, enjoy yourself."
Abigail immediately set her bowl down with a sharp clink, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "And where do I fit into this sudden training session? I'm coming too."
"Not tomorrow, Abby," Harry said smoothly. "I'm going over as an initial guest to get the lay of the land. Once I know how their setup works, I'll bring you along on the next visit."
"You just don't want me outflying their boys on their own turf," Abigail scoffed, crossing her arms and leaning back against her chair with a confident smirk. "They'd probably get embarrassed if a younger girl pulled a dive-turn past their keeper."
"That is entirely possible," Harry grinned, reaching over to toss a light nutrient charm on her damp hair to dry it off. "Which is precisely why you'll hold your grand appearance for round two."
Abigail rolled her eyes at the spell, though a small, satisfied smirk stayed on her face. "Fine. But if they fly like turtles, I'm taking over as team captain when we host them here."
The morning of August fifth arrived with clear skies and a gentle summer breeze filtering through the open windows of the manor's living room. By nine-thirty, Harry was fully dressed in tailored, charcoal-grey t-shirt and dark trousers, his shoes making a crisp sound against the marble floor.
He had spent the early morning double checking his subspace pouch, ensuring it held a few modest gifts for his hosts. A jar of high-grade, cold-pressed preservation oil, a tin of artisan tea leaves and five boxes of Sugarplum's sweets. He knew better than to show up at a family's home empty-handed, pureblood etiquette or not.
As he walked down the grand staircase toward the central parlor, he heard the sharp, rhythmic clack of training broom bristles against the patio stones outside. Abigail was already up, perfecting her grip stances in the courtyard.
When Harry stepped into the parlor, Petunia was standing near the grand hearth, inspecting a pristine silver bowl filled with shimmering, emerald-green Floo powder. Vernon was seated in an armchair nearby, sipping black coffee while reviewing a stack of trade receipts.
"All set for your outing, son?" Vernon asked, looking over the top of his papers.
"Ready as I'll ever be, Dad," Harry replied, adjusting his t-shirt. He looked toward the roaring green flames of the fireplace and suppressed a slight, internal grimace.
Petunia caught the subtle shift in his expression and let out a soft, amused laugh. "Still holding a grudge against the network after the restaurant incident, Harry?"
"The Floo network is an abominable piece of primitive engineering, Mum," Harry said with utter conviction, stepping toward the hearth. "It violates every known principle of graceful spatial transition. If I had the precise coordinates for the Burrow, I would apparate onto their front lawn without a second thought."
"Coordinates require previous physical visits, Harry," Vernon noted with a small chuckle, setting his coffee cup down. "You know the law. Until you've stepped foot on their wards, the chimney is your only legal transit option."
"Regrettably," Harry muttered.
The glass doors to the patio slid open, and Abigail stepped into the room, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. Her Comet broom rested casually over her shoulder.
"If you fall face-first into their fireplace, make sure you blame the powder and not your balance," Abigail said with a wide, mischievous grin. "I told Mum we should send you in a full protective suit."
"Your concern is overwhelming, Abby," Harry replied dryly, turning his head to glare at her without any real heat. "I shall strive to land on my feet purely to spite your expectations."
"I'm keeping track," she retorted, crossing her arms and leaning against the sofa frame. "If you come back with soot on your nose again, I get to pick the flying drills for the rest of the week."
"Deal," Harry said, stepping closer to the hearth.
Petunia stepped forward, her expression turning warm and attentive as she reached out to straighten the collar of his tunic. "Remember your manners, Harry. Mrs. Weasley is a wonderful host, but she has a house full of energetic children. Be patient, be polite, and do not spend the whole morning analyzing their ward structures."
"I will be on my absolute best behavior, Mum," Harry promised, giving her a reassuring smile.
"And Arthur may bore you about muggle manufacturing processes," Vernon added, a glint of amusement in his eye, "keep it simple. The man has a brilliant heart, but his obsession with muggle stuff… is dangerously creative."
"I'll steer the conversation toward Quidditch and potion ingredients, Dad," Harry chuckled.
Harry reached into the silver bowl, scooping up a generous handful of the fine, green Floo powder. He took a slow, deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the violent, spinning chaos that was about to overtake his senses. He stepped into the hearth, standing tall in the center of the flames.
Abigail gave him a dramatic, mock-salute from the doorway. "Don't break a leg, brother!"
Harry rolled his eyes, raised his arm, and threw the powder downward with decisive force. The emerald flames roared upward, engulfing his vision in a blinding flash of green light.
"The Burrow!" Harry announced clearly, his voice carrying firm and loud through the roaring fire.
In an instant, the parlor of the Dursley Mansion vanished. The world dissolved into a sickening, high-speed whirlwind of roaring heat, rushing air, and blurred brick chimneys. Harry kept his elbows tucked tightly against his ribs and his knees slightly bent, fighting with every ounce of his physical coordination to maintain a straight vertical center amidst the spinning vortex.
Grate after grate flashed past in a dizzying streak of orange and green light. He could feel the familiar, chaotic pull of the network trying to toss him off balance, but he locked his core, refusing to give Abigail the satisfaction of another comical crash landing.
Ahead, the frantic rushing noise began to alter its pitch, the fiery tunnel narrowing down toward a bright, sunlit exit. Harry prepared his stance, bracing his legs for the transition from spatial momentum back to solid ground.
With a sharp, deafening BANG, the roaring green flames erupted inside the Burrow's cozy living room.
Harry's valiant attempt to keep his balance failed completely. The spatial momentum launched him out of the narrow grate like a human cannonball. He shot through the air, hit the worn wooden floorboards face-first, and skidded four full feet across the rug before coming to a dead stop against the base of an overstuffed armchair.
A thick, billowy mushroom cloud of jet-black soot expanded outward, filling the living room with the smell of burnt wood and instant regret.
For three long seconds, complete silence hung over the room, save for the slow, soft puff of ash drifting out of Harry's nose as he exhaled.
Sitting on the rug right in front of him were Ron, Fred, and George, who had been lazily sorting through a set of rusty Quidditch gloves. All three of them were completely frozen, staring at the motionless, soot-covered heap at their feet.
Slowly, painfully, a pale, white-gloved hand pushed out from under the cloud of ash.
Harry pushed himself up onto his knees, coughing up a small puff of dark smoke. Every single inch of his dark tunic, trousers, and pristine skin was coated in a thick layer of grey and black soot. The only visible parts of his face were his bright green eyes, wide with absolute fury, and two stark white circles around them where his eyelashes had protected his skin.
Harry glared directly back into the hearth, pointing a shaking, soot-blackened finger at the flickering green embers.
"I know you did that on purpose, you sentient, malicious pile of bricks!" Harry bellowed, his voice cracking slightly as he coughed out another cloud of ash. He began violently slapping at his sleeves, sending a fresh wave of soot into his own face. "What is your problem with me?! Why do you hate me?! You let Mum walk through smooth as silk! You let Abby slide through like a bloody swan! But the moment I step in, you turn into a paint mixer and launch me out like a mortar shell!"
Fred was the first to break.
A choked, squeaking sound escaped his throat, and then he burst into a volley of hysterical, floor-shaking laughter. George collapsed backward onto the rug, clutching his stomach and kicking his legs in the air as he wheezed for breath.
"Blimey, Harry!" Fred gasped through tears of laughter, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "We asked you to visit, not to declare war on our fireplace!"
"You're arguing with the brickwork, mate!" George howled, pointing at Harry's chest. "And losing!"
Ron was staring with his mouth wide open, torn between sheer shock and uncontrollable amusement. "Mate… are you alright? You came out of there like a misplaced Bludger!"
Harry slowly sat back on his heels, crossing his arms and glaring at the laughing twins through his white-ringed eyes. "It is a personal vendetta, Ron. The Floo network has a targeted, systematically calculated agenda against my dignity. I am convinced it recalculates its speed the exact millisecond my boots touch the ash just to see how far it can hurl me."
"It's got good aim, though!" Fred snickered, hauling himself up onto his elbows. "Right at the armchair! Ten points to the hearth!"
"I am walking back to the manor tonight," Harry declared with absolute, stone-cold conviction. "I don't care if it takes three days. I don't care if I have to climb over two mountain ranges. I am never stepping into a chimney again. I will ride a wild Hippogriff before I give this brick-lined death trap another chance."
"Walk?" George added, wiping away a tear of laughter. "Mate, with that much soot on you, if you walk outside, the local muggles are going to assume a chimney sweep had a catastrophic explosion!"
Right on cue, the kitchen door swung open, and Molly Weasley bustled into the room holding a wooden spoon. "What on earth is all that noise-"
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Molly looked at the ruined, soot-covered rug. She looked at the cloud of black dust hanging in the air. Finally, she looked down at the dark, human-shaped shadow sitting in the middle of her living room floor.
Harry looked up at her, blinked once through his pale eye-circles, and offered a remarkably calm, dignified nod.
"Good morning, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said smoothly, his voice entirely polite despite looking like he had just survived a cannon blast. "Thank you for having me over. I apologize for the soot... the Floo network and I have an ongoing disagreement."
Molly snapped out of her shock, lowering her hands and immediately pulling her wand from her apron pocket.
"Oh, you poor dear! Sit still, don't move a muscle," she fretted, stepping around the cloud of ash. With a practiced flourish of her wand, she cast a series of brisk, energetic cleaning charms.
A sharp, whistling gust of air swept over Harry, lifting every speck of black grime from his skin, hair, and clothes. The soot vanishing revealed his clean, pale features and bright green eyes, though his hair was left sticking up in wild, static-charged spikes. Molly flicked her wand toward the floor, sending the thick blanket of ash on the rug spiraling straight back into the fireplace grate before rounding on her sons.
"Fred! George! Stop rolling around on the floor like hooligans and help our guest up!" she scolded sharply.
The twins hauled themselves up, still snickering and wiping tears from their eyes, while Ron offered Harry a hand to pull him to his feet.
"Thanks," Harry said, dusting off his sleeves out of pure reflex. He ran a quick hand through his messy hair to flatten it, then pulled out the items he had kept tucked safely in his subspace pouch.
He stepped toward Molly and held out the two items he had brought for her and Arthur. "These are for you and Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley."
Molly blinked, looking down at the heavy glass jar filled with amber liquid and the beautifully decorated tin of tea leaves resting in Harry's hands. "Oh... oh, Harry, what on earth is all this?"
"A jar of high-grade, cold-pressed preservation oil for Mr. Weasley's workbench, and a tin of artisan tea leaves for you," Harry explained smoothly.
Molly looked between the gifts and Harry, her expression shifting from confusion to deep awkwardness. She wrung her hands slightly, making no move to take them. "Harry, dear, this is far too much. We couldn't possibly accept this. You're a child, and a guest in our home! You don't need to be bringing us expensive things."
"Please accept them, Mrs. Weasley," Harry insisted softly, keeping his hands extended. "Before I left, my mum reminded me that it is considered proper manners to bring a gesture of respect when visiting a household for the first time. It isn't meant to be grand, just a courtesy."
Molly's eyes softened, her maternal instinct melting at his earnest tone, though she still looked hesitant. "Your mother is very kind, Harry, but truly..."
"Besides," Harry added with a small, polite smile, "my dad mentioned that Mr. Weasley maintains a lot of delicate equipment in his spare time. The oil keeps brass and iron from rusting under humidity. It would be a waste if it just sat in our pantry."
Molly let out a soft sigh, her resistance crumbling. She carefully took the jar and the tea, holding them gently. "Well... when you put it like that, it would be rude of me to refuse your mother's thoughtfulness. Thank you, Harry. This is remarkably polite of you."
"Is Dad even back from the Ministry yet?" Fred asked, peering over from the rug with an eyebrow raised.
"No, your father was called in early for an emergency inspection in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office," Molly said, turning to set the tea and oil carefully on the mantlepiece. "He won't be back until dinner, I'm afraid. He was terribly disappointed to miss you this morning, Harry."
"That's completely understandable, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said smoothly. "Work comes first."
He reached into his subspace pouch, pulling out five brightly wrapped, ribbon-tied boxes adorned with the silver crest of Sugarplum's Sweetshop. He set three of them down on the coffee table, keeping two in his arms.
The three Weasley boys on the floor froze. Ron's eyes darted from the silver crest on the boxes to Harry, his cheeks instantly flushing a faint red.
"Er... Harry?" Ron mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and looking uncomfortable. "What are those?"
"They're for you, Fred, George, Percy, and Ginny," Harry said, pointing to the stack.
"Harry, no," Ron blurted out, shaking his head quickly. "Sugarplum's is... mate, those are really expensive. We can't take those."
Fred and George exchanged a quick, surprisingly subdued glance. For once, the twins weren't grinning or cracking jokes. They looked distinctly awkward, shifting their weight on the floorboards.
"Ron's right, mate," Fred said, his voice unusually tame. "It's brilliant of you, really, but you don't need to do that."
"Yeah," George agreed, crossing his arms. "We're just going out to the paddock to throw a Quaffle around. You don't owe us sweets for that."
Harry looked at the three of them, understanding the sudden tension immediately. Their pride was prickling. They were used to people looking down on them or offering hand-me-downs, and a rich kid dumping high-end confectionery on their table felt uncomfortably close to charity.
Harry kept his expression completely neutral, adjusting his grip on the boxes in his arms.
"I didn't buy them to impress anyone," Harry said calmly, meeting Ron's eyes first, then the twins'. "It's a new pre-packaged variety line Sugarplum's launched this week. The shopkeeper said each box has a random mix of five or six different sweets, with anywhere from three to ten of each item inside. And they are running a sale so it was quite the bargain."
He gestured to the table with a light shrug.
"My mum told me that if I went to someone's house and didn't bring something for the other kids, she'd make me spend the rest of the week reviewing social etiquette texts," Harry lied smoothly, letting a subtle, self-deprecating grin cross his face. "So really, you're doing me a massive favor by taking them off my hands. Otherwise, I'm stuck eating licorice wands until Christmas."
Fred stared at Harry for two seconds, searching his face for any sign of condescension. Finding none, the corner of Fred's mouth twitched upward.
"Well," Fred drawled, leaning back on his hands. "We wouldn't want you suffering through forced reading on our account."
"Purely a rescue mission, then," George chimed in, the familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "We're practically doing public service."
Molly clicked her tongue, though her expression was fond as she looked at Harry's clever handling of her sons' pride. "You boys say thank you properly."
"Thanks, Harry," Ron said, his shoulders visibly relaxing as the flush left his face. He reached out and picked up one of the boxes, turning it over in his hands with genuine curiosity. "What did you say was in here again?"
"I honestly have no idea," Harry admitted, taking a seat on the edge of the armchair. "The boxes are sealed and each one is random, so it's a surprise. The shopkeeper just promised a mix."
Molly turned toward the hallway. "Percy! Ginny! Come downstairs, please! We have a guest!"
A moment later, quick, measured footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs, and Percy descended into the living room. He was wearing his cleanest robes, his Gryffindor Prefect badge pinned so neatly to his chest that it caught the morning light.
"Good morning," Percy said formally, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and smoothing his front. "Welcome to the Burrow, Harry. I trust your transit via the Floo network was smooth and without incident?"
Fred smothered a snort into his hand, while George bit his lip fiercely to keep from laughing.
Harry stood up, keeping a perfectly straight face. "It was... an memorable ride, Percy. Thank you." Harry held out one of the remaining Sugarplum boxes. "This is for you."
Percy stopped dead, staring at the silver-ribboned box. His brows furrowed in immediate suspicion, his eyes flicking sharply toward Fred and George. "Is this a prank? Did you two put something in this?"
"Oi!" Fred protested, putting his hands up. "We haven't even touched ours yet!"
"It's completely sealed, Percy," Harry assured him politely. "I brought one for everyone. It's just a courtesy gift."
Percy looked back at Harry, his cheeks coloring slightly with embarrassment at his own suspicion. He carefully took the box, holding it with two hands as if it were an official Ministry document. "Oh. Well... that is remarkably thoughtful of you, Harry. I... I appreciate the gesture. It is very proper of you."
From behind the stair rail, a small head with bright red hair peeked out. Ginny was hovering on the second step, clutching the wooden banister so tightly her knuckles were white.
Harry walked over slowly, keeping his posture entirely relaxed, and held out the final box toward her. "And this one is for you, Ginny. I hope you like sweets."
Ginny's eyes went wide. She looked from the box to Harry's face, her entire head turning the exact color of a ripe tomato in under two seconds. She let out a high-pitched, squeaking sound, snatched the box from his hands with blinding speed, and fled back up the stairs, her feet slapping loudly against the wood until her bedroom door slammed shut above.
Harry blinked, staring up at the empty staircase. He turned back to the room, raising an eyebrow. "Is it something I said?"
Fred clapped a hand over his mouth, while George finally lost his struggle and burst into laughter. "Fastest hands in Ottery St. Catchpole , that one!"
"Ignore them, Harry," Molly said with a heavy sigh, waving a dismissive hand toward the stairs. "She's just overwhelmed. She'll come down once she regains her senses."
Down on the rug, Ron had finally pulled the silver ribbon off his box and popped the seal. He pulled the lid back and gasped softly.
Inside were ten licorice wands neatly stacked, ten sugar quills, seven chocolate cauldrons, five pumpkin pasties, three boxes of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, and three classic Chocolate Frogs.
"Blimey," Ron breathed, his eyes wide as he looked at the spread. "Look at all this!"
Fred and George immediately leaned over his shoulder, their curiosity breaking through their earlier restraint.
"Hold on, mine's different!" Fred said, hastily tearing open his own box. He pulled out a dark glass jar. "Peppermint Toads! And a massive block of Butterbeer-flavoured fudge!"
"I got Ice Mice!" George announced, rummaging through his box with an eager grin. "And Drooble's Best Blowing Gum! And a whole pack of Jelly Slugs! Brilliant!"
Percy carefully untied his ribbon, lifting the lid with quiet precision. He picked up a wrapped item, inspecting the label with a small, approving nod. "Cauldron Cakes and Sugar Quills... quite a sensible selection." He looked up at Harry, his tone refined and serious. "Thank you, Harry. Sugar quills are remarkably efficient for taking notes during long lectures. You can hide them in your hand without drawing attention."
Fred looked up from his Butterbeer fudge, staring at Percy in disbelief. "Did you seriously just figure out a way to turn sweets into a study aid?"
"It is a practical observation, Frederick," Percy replied loftily, tucking the box securely under his arm. "Some of us value academic discipline."
"You are unbelievable," George chuckled, shaking his head.
"Right then," Molly said, turning toward the stove and reaching for her apron. "It's barely half-past ten, but I can whip up a full plate of eggs, sausages, and fresh scones for you in five minutes, Harry. You look like a growing boy who needs a proper meal."
Harry put up his hands with a polite, slightly terrified look. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Weasley, but I honestly couldn't eat a single bite. My sister Abigail force-fed me two plates of eggs and an entire plate of sausages during breakfast."
Fred raised an eyebrow, looking amused. "Force-fed you?"
"She claims I have the structural build of a coat hanger," Harry said dryly, keeping a completely straight face. "She threatened to lock my broom in the cellar if I didn't finish every crumb. If I eat anything else right now, I won't be able to stay on a broom, let alone fly one."
The living room exploded into snickers.
Fred clapped a hand over his mouth, while George snorted so hard he had to turn away. "A coat hanger!" George wheezed. "Blimey, Harry, your sister sounds terrifying!"
"She's nine and operates entirely on spite and Quidditch tactics," Harry replied smoothly, letting a small grin show. "So please, Mrs. Weasley, spare me. I'm currently running on pure survival."
Molly looked between Harry's slight frame and his earnest expression, letting out a fond, gentle laugh. "Well, if your sister went to all that trouble, I suppose I shouldn't ruin her hard work. But you're taking a proper plate before you leave today, young man!"
"Deal," Harry agreed politely.
Molly turned her stern gaze back to her sons. "Alright, you lot. Don't go dragging him straight out to the mud just yet. Show him around the house first. Let him get his bearings properly."
"Starting with the top, obviously," George added, stepping toward the crooked wooden staircase. "If we're going to introduce you to the place, you've got to see where Ron sleeps. It's practically an endurance test."
Ron flushed slightly, crossing his arms. "Hey! My room's fine! It's just... orange!"
"Orange is an understatement, mate," Fred snickered, slapping Ron on the back as they began heading up the stairs. "It looks like a Chudley Cannons factory exploded in his wardrobe."
Harry followed closely behind the boys, his eyes carefully taking in every odd nook, crooked beam, and magical quirk of the house. The stair treads creaked softly under their boots, and the walls were lined with strange, ticking clocks and moving family photographs.
"Mind the third step on the second landing," Fred warned, stepping over a slightly uneven wooden plank. "It likes to sink into the floorboards if you put your full weight on it."
"Though if you ever want to surprise Percy, stepping on it drops a loud squeak right outside his door," George added with a mischievous wink.
Percy's door was tightly shut, a neatly hand-written sign hanging from the knob reading: Do Not Disturb - Private Study. Fred made a silent face at the door as they passed, making Ron snicker softly under his breath.
They continued up the narrowing, twisting staircase until they reached the top landing, right under the sloping roof. Ron pushed open a small wooden door, revealing a room bathed in a blinding, aggressive shade of bright orange. Chudley Cannons posters covered practically every inch of the peeling wallpaper, depicting flying players in orange robes zooming around moving frames.
"Told you," Fred grinned, leaning against the doorframe. "It's a hazard to human eyes."
"It's bright, but it's got character," Harry said smoothly, looking around the small space.
His eyes scanned the room, passing over the lumpy bed, the cluttered desk, and settling directly on a small, worn wicker basket tucked into the corner near the window. Curled up inside on a faded flannel blanket was a fat, sleeping grey rat.
Harry walked over casually, hands in his pockets, as if simply inspecting the room's decor. "Is that a pet rat?"
Ron walked over, looking down at the sleeping creature. "Yeah, that's Scabbers. He doesn't do much besides sleep and eat, honestly. He used to belong to Percy, but Mum and Dad are getting Percy an owl for becoming a Prefect, so Scabbers got handed down to me."
"He looks quite old," Harry noted, leaning down slightly to look closer. The rat didn't even stir at the sound of their voices, breathing heavily in his sleep.
"He's been in the family for ages," Ron said, reaching down to nudge the rat gently with his finger. Scabbers merely let out a soft squeak and rolled onto his side. "Percy had him for years before me."
Harry stared at the rat's right front paw. The inner toe was completely missing, leaving a small, healed stub of pink skin where the digit should have been.
"Looks like he lost a toe there," Harry observed casually, keeping his voice entirely conversational. "Did he get into a fight with a garden gnome?"
"Nah, he was already like that when Percy got him," Ron explained, shaking his head. "Percy brought him home roughly nine years ago. Said he got him from a friend who couldn't keep him anymore. He's always been missing that toe as long as I can remember."
"Nine years is an impressive lifespan for a garden rat," Harry said lightly, straightening back up with an easy, unreadable smile. "He must be living the absolute luxury life in this basket."
"Luxury?" Fred scoffed, popping his head into the room. "The thing sleeps twenty-two hours a day! If he was any more relaxed, he'd be legally dead!"
"Hey! He's just saving his energy," Ron defended, though he looked at the rat with a fond expression. "Not all of us can be energetic useless pranksters like you two."
"Useless?" George gasped in mock horror, clutching his chest. "After we gave you our second-best Quidditch gloves? The disrespect in this household is staggering."
Harry let out a light laugh, turning away from the basket and walking back toward the door without giving the sleeping rat a second glance. "Lead the way to the rest of the estate then."
The boys filed back out onto the landing, their voices echoing down the narrow staircase as they continued showing Harry around the rest of the eccentric, leaning house.
After a thorough tour that included a terrifying glimpse into the dark, web-draped attic where the ghoul obligingly banged on a water pipe right on cue, the boys clattered back down the creaking wooden stairs into the living room.
They settled onto the worn armchairs and the rug, pulling their respective Sugarplum's boxes toward them.
"Right," Fred declared, cracking his knuckles. "Time to inspect the goods properly."
Ron was already systematically organizing his stash into neat piles on the coffee table, carefully setting aside his licorice wands. George popped a Peppermint Toad into his mouth, letting out a satisfied puff of actual frost that drifted lazily toward the ceiling.
"Here, Harry," Ron offered, gesturing toward his opened box. "Take whatever you want. You paid for the lot anyway."
"Appreciated, but I brought my own stash," Harry said with a small, relaxed smile.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh, unopened box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Sitting down on the edge of a wooden stool near the doorway leading to the kitchen, he unsealed the top with quiet precision.
His eyes scanned the colorful array of tiny beans sitting inside the cardboard box. His gaze locked onto a speckled, dull brown bean tucked near the back corner. Without breaking stride, he reached in, pinched that exact bean between his fingers, and tossed it into his mouth.
He chewed once.
His face instantly went pale, his eyes widening in absolute, horrified revulsion.
"Oh, sweet Merlin," Harry choked out, his hand flying over his mouth as his face contorted in sheer disgust.
Fred and George froze mid-chew, their eyes lighting up with instant, predatory glee.
"What did you get?" George cheered, leaning forward. "Boogers? Earwax?"
"Farm dirt," Harry gagged out, his voice muffled behind his hand. "Fresh... unrefined... manure-flavored farm dirt."
The living room exploded into roaring laughter. Ron practically doubled over, slapping his knee, while Fred cackled so hard he nearly dropped his block of Butterbeer fudge. "Welcome to Bertie Bott's, mate! It builds character!"
"Water," Harry gasped, pushing himself off the stool in a hurry and making a bee-line for the kitchen. "I need water right now."
He rushed around the doorframe into the warm, sunlit kitchen, leaving the boys' hysterical laughter behind him in the living room.
Molly was standing by the large wooden table, surrounded by floating peeling knives, chopping boards, and a massive pot of stew simmering gently over the stove. She turned around in surprise at the sudden intrusion.
"Harry, dear? What's wrong?"
Harry quickly snatched a glass from the drying rack, filled it with cold water from the tap, and downed the entire glass in three frantic gulps. He let out a long, dramatic sigh of relief, leaning against the counter as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Bertie Bott's," Harry explained, giving her a rueful, slightly pained smile. "I took a gamble on a brown one. It was a mistake."
Molly let out a fond, sympathetic chuckle, waving her wand to send a clean dish towel floating over to him. "Oh, you poor boy! Those beans are an absolute menace. I don't know why they keep making those awful flavors."
"Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, his voice dropping slightly, though still keeping an easy smile on his face in case one of the twins glanced into the kitchen. "My mum asked me to ask you something in private while I was here. A small favor regarding a local charity drive she's organizing. Could we step outside into the garden for a second? The herbs near the fence, perhaps?"
Molly blinked, caught off guard, but smiled warmly. "Oh! Of course, dear. Lady Petunia is always so thoughtful."
She wiped her hands on her apron and followed Harry out the side kitchen door, letting it click shut behind them. They walked past the laundry line and toward the edge of the vegetable patch, well out of earshot of the house.
The moment they stopped beside the tall wooden fence, the relaxed, easygoing smile vanished from Harry's face completely.
His shoulders set, his posture straightened, and his bright green eyes locked onto Molly's with an icy, razor-sharp intensity. The playful, well-mannered boy who had just choked on a bad sweet was gone, replaced by a cold, commanding presence that made Molly pause mid-step.
"Harry?" Molly asked, her brows knitting together in sudden confusion. "Is everything alright?"
"Listen to me very carefully, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, his voice low, measured, and stripped of any lightheartedness. "I need you to call Mr. Weasley, Headmaster Dumbledore, and an Auror to the Burrow. Immediately."
Molly stared at him, her mouth opening slightly in utter astonishment. "What? Harry, what are you talking about?"
"If Dumbledore can bring Remus Lupin with him, that would be ideal, though I don't know if they are currently in contact," Harry continued smoothly, ignoring her shock. "But Dumbledore, an Auror, and your husband must be here as fast as possible."
Molly's hands flew to her apron, her face paling slightly as she looked at the young boy standing before her with such heavy, chilling gravity. "Harry... this is ridiculous. What is going on? Did something happen? Is this a joke the twins told you to…"
"This is not a joke," Harry interrupted firmly, stepping half an inch closer. His gaze did not waver for a single second. "An innocent man's life depends on what happens in the next hour. A man who has been wrongfully condemned for over a decade."
Molly gasped softly, her hand pressing against her chest. "An innocent... Harry, you're eleven years old, what could you possibly-"
"I need you to trust me," Harry said, his tone striking with absolute authority. "I cannot explain the details to you right now, because if the culprit realizes what is happening, they will run. And if they run, justice will never be served."
He glanced subtly back toward the leaning wooden structure of the Burrow before locking eyes with her again.
"You must make an excuse to leave the house right now," Harry instructed, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. "Walk down to the village. Do not use the Floo inside the house, do not send an owl from your window, and do not say a single word to the boys. If you cast a patronus or use the network here, the culprit will know, and they will vanish into the countryside."
Molly stood frozen on the garden path, completely bewildered by the sudden shift. Looking into Harry's solemn green eyes, she didn't see the exaggerated pride of a rich pureblood heir or the silliness of a child playing games. She saw absolute, unshakeable certainty.
"Harry," Molly whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "You're asking me to call the Ministry and the Headmaster to my home without telling me why..."
"I am asking you to trust me to save a life," Harry insisted softly, the intensity in his gaze softening just enough to show genuine pleading. "Please, Mrs. Weasley. Go to the village. Make the calls. Bring them here. I will handle the rest inside until they arrive."