The grand dining hall of the Dursley estate was enveloped in an oppressive, absolute silence. The roasted duck and freshly baked hearth bread sat untouched on silver platters as the faint crackle of the marble fireplace echoed against the high ceilings.
Vernon did not shout. He did not pace. He sat at the head of the table, his broad, manicured hands folded tightly over his plate, his face set in a mask of terrifying, stone-cold stillness. Beside him, Petunia held her crystal wine glass in mid-air, her knuckles pale, her sharp blue eyes fixed on Harry with a quiet, lethal intensity.
Across from them, nine-year-old Abigail sat with her arms crossed over her velvet tunic, her bright green eyes darting between her brother and her mother, her young features hardened into an unnervingly calm expressionless face.
"Ten years," Petunia whispered. Her voice was barely a thread of sound, yet it cut through the room like a silver blade. She set her glass onto the table with a soft, perfectly controlled click. "Ten years Sirius has spent in that pit, while Pettigrew slept in a child's bedroom."
"Nine years at the Weasley residence, to be precise," Harry said calmly, taking a measured sip of water. "I bound his magic, secured him, and delivered him directly to Dumbledore and Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Headmaster gave his word that Pettigrew will be presented before the Wizengamot."
Vernon let out a single, harsh exhale through his nose. The fury in his eyes was not the wild rage of a helpless man, but the cold, predatory focus of an aristocrat who had just identified his target.
"Dumbledore's word is a diplomatic courtesy, Harry, not a legal guarantee," Vernon said, his deep voice dropping an octave into a smooth, dangerous baritone. He pulled a thick leather-bound pocketbook from his suit jacket and uncapped a silver fountain pen. "The Ministry of Magic is a bureaucratic swamp driven by fear and face-saving. If left to their own devices, Fudge and his lapdogs will spend three weeks trying to cover up their initial incompetence before ever signing a release order."
Vernon began writing rapidly across a sheet of heavy parchment, the nib scratching sharply against the paper. "I am drafting an immediate summons to our legal counsel at Gringotts and the chief solicitors of the International Confederation of Wizards. We hold far too much financial leverage over the Ministry's infrastructure to let Cornelius Fudge play politics with family."
Petunia leaned back in her chair, her posture rigid, her sharp features twisting into a cold, triumphant smile. "Your father is right. We spent a decade submitting petitions that those fools filed away in dark corners. Now we hold the physical evidence, and we hold their reputation by the throat." She looked at Harry, her dark eyes gleaming with ruthless pride. "You handled the beast with exceptional efficiency, my dear. You brought him down quietly, without giving the Ministry a chance to claim the credit."
"I ensured Pettigrew remained alive solely because Sirius requires a coherent mind to clear his name beyond doubt," Harry noted smoothly, his tone flat and detached. "Whatever happens to Pettigrew after the trial is of no concern to me."
"It will be of concern to the Wizengamot," Abigail chimed in, her sharp, playful voice breaking the heavy atmosphere as she leaned over her plate. "Mum, can we push for the Dementor's Kiss? It seems only poetic considering where Sirius was kept for a decade."
Petunia offered her daughter a brief, approving glance. "We will ensure the sentence is as permanent as his crime, Abigail." She stood up, smoothing down her tailored silk gown with precise, deliberate movements. "Vernon, contact Amelia Bones and dispatch an urgent owl to Dumbledore immediately. Remind the Chief Warlock of his duty and demand an emergency session of the Wizengamot before midnight. I want those release papers signed before the Daily Prophet hits the streets tomorrow morning."
"Already done, my love," Vernon replied, blotting the ink on the parchment before standing up. He buttoned his suit jacket with a sharp, decisive snap. "If Fudge hesitates for a single second, I will end Fudge's political career by sunrise. Sirius will sleep in a proper bed tonight, or I will dismantle that building brick by brick through the courts."
Vernon turned to Harry, offering his son a firm, proud nod of his head. "You acted with brilliant tactical restraint today, Harry. You secured the target and controlled the narrative. Now, let your mother and me handle the political annihilation."
Harry inclined his head politely as his parents swiftly departed the dining hall, their purposeful footsteps echoing down the marble corridor toward the Floo parlor.
The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving only Harry and Abigail at the table. Abigail picked up a silver butter knife, casually balancing it on the tip of her index finger with practiced precision before looking up at her brother with a sharp smirk.
"So," Abigail said, her eyes glinting with keen curiosity. "While Mum and Dad go bankrupt the Ministry, are you finally going to show me what spell you used on Pettigrew?"
Harry let out a low, genuine chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "Well… nope."
The morning sun filtered through the high glass windows of the kitchen, casting a warm, golden glow across the marble countertops.
Harry moved with quiet, methodical efficiency, placing two plates onto the breakfast table. He had whipped up a crisp spread of fluffy poached eggs, seared smoked salmon, wilted spinach, and warm, flaky croissants. Abigail sat across from him, sipping her fresh orange juice with a sharp, contented hum as she buttered a croissant.
A sudden flutter of wings broke the quiet morning as a sleek barn owl swooped through the open balcony window. It dropped a fresh edition of the Daily Prophet onto the table next to the jam jars before gliding back out into the summer air.
Abigail immediately snatched the paper, unrolling it with a sharp snapping sound. Her eyes widened, a wicked, triumphant smirk instantly spreading across her young face.
"Look at this, Harry," Abigail said, turning the front page toward him.
The bold, towering headline screamed across the top in shimmering silver ink:
INDEPENDENT INVESTIGATION EXPOSES DECADE-LONG TRAVESTY: SIRIUS BLACK FULLY EXONERATED
Below it, a secondary headline read:
Pettigrew Captured Alive; Minister Fudge Issues Public Apology Amid Threats of Heavy Financial Litigation from House Dursley
A large moving photograph showed a gaunt, hollow-cheeked Sirius Black stepping out of the Ministry's private entrance, draped in a fine velvet cloak. Though exhausted, his gray eyes burned with a fierce, reborn vitality as he gave a sharp, mocking salute to the frantic crowd of reporters before being swept away by Gringotts security guards.
Harry scanned the front page with a cool, satisfied smile. "It seems Dad kept his word about making Fudge sweat before sunrise."
Before Abigail could read aloud from the article, the grand marble fireplace in the adjacent parlor roared to life. A brilliant flash of green emerald flames illuminated the hallway, and two figures stepped out onto the hearth.
Vernon and Petunia looked thoroughly exhausted. Vernon's tie was loosened, his pristine suit jacket slightly rumpled, and dark circles shadowed his eyes. Petunia's hair, usually pinned in an immaculate, razor-sharp bun, had a few stray strands hanging loose, her shoulders slumped with the weight of an all-night legal siege. Yet, despite their sheer fatigue, both of them carried an unmistakable air of supreme, absolute satisfaction.
"Good morning, children," Petunia murmured, her voice raspy from hours of intense negotiation. She offered them a tired but triumphant smile. "Sirius is currently resting in a private wing at St. Mungo's under our personal security detail. The Wizengamot signed the full pardon at four in the morning."
"Fudge practically wept when our solicitors brought out the audit threats," Vernon said, letting out a heavy, raspy chuckle as he unbuttoned his collar. "The man signed every document we put in front of him just to keep us from freezing the Department of International Magical Cooperation's budget."
Vernon walked over to the table, leaning heavily against the back of a chair. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a heavy leather pouch, along with a beautifully wrapped, massive velvet box bearing the gilded seal of Sugarplum's Sweetsshop.
He handed the pouch and the box directly to Harry.
"Take these, Harry," Vernon instructed, his deep voice thick with fatigue. "In that pouch, you will find high-grade Dreamless Sleep salves, Calming Draughts, and Nerve-Soothing Elixirs straight from the apothecary. Beside them is a formal letter of apology written by your mother and me, addressed to Arthur and Molly Weasley."
Petunia walked over, gently resting a hand on Harry's shoulder. "What happened in their home yesterday was an unavoidable tragedy, but they suffered a terrible shock having that monster under their roof for nine years. The large box contains treats for their children. We want them to know the Dursley family holds them in high regard for unknowingly keeping Sirius's true killer contained all these years."
Vernon patted Harry's shoulder with a broad, weary hand. "Your mother and I are going to get some much-needed sleep. I want you and Abigail to take the Floo over to the Burrow this morning. Deliver the gifts, pass along our regards, and ensure the Weasleys are managing the aftermath properly."
"And keep an eye on your sister," Petunia added, glancing down at Abigail, who was already eyeing the massive box of Sugarplum treats with calculated interest. "No corrupting the Weasley children with advanced hexes, Abigail."
"No promises, Mum," Abigail replied with a sweet, innocent smile.
With a final, tired nod, Vernon and Petunia made their way up the grand staircase toward the master suite, their steps heavy but victorious.
Harry picked up the pouch and the heavy box of sweets, looking over at his sister. "Finish your breakfast, Abby. We have an apology to deliver."
Abigail set her empty juice glass onto the marble counter, leaving her plate immaculate. She smoothed down her dark green velvet tunic and adjusted her silver belt, her movements quick, precise, and entirely devoid of childish fumble. She picked up the heavy Sugarplum box with an effortless air of casual grace, resting it securely against her hip.
Harry gathered the leather pouch containing the high-grade medicinal potions, tucking it inside his tailored charcoal coat. He checked his cuffs, stepped over to the entry hall mirror, and smoothed down his dark hair.
"The Floo?" Abigail asked, glancing toward the grand parlor fireplace with a slight raise of her brow.
Harry's jaw set slightly, his green eyes flashing with subtle distaste. "You know how I feel about spinning through filthy, soot-filled chimneys. Take my arm, Abby."
Abigail didn't argue. She stepped close and gripped his left forearm tightly, holding the sweetsshop box in her other arm. With a silent, absolute flex of Harry's will, the air around them folded inward. There was no loud bang, no unpleasant wrenching sensation, only a silent, seamless displacement of space that left the Dursley hall completely empty.
They materialised silently on the overgrown grass just beyond the Burrow's front garden gate.
The contrast between the warm, sunny morning and the atmosphere surrounding the Weasley home was immediate and suffocating. The usual cheerful chaos of the Burrow was entirely absent. No flying broomsticks circled the orchard. No enchanted dishwashers clinked rhythmically from the kitchen windows. The house sat under the pale morning light looking hollow, grey, and haunted, as if a thick, invisible shroud had been pulled tight over the entire property.
Harry unlatched the wooden gate, his footsteps soft as he and Abigail walked up the stone path toward the front door. He raised his hand and knocked three measured times against the heavy wood.
Slowly, the door creaked open.
Molly Weasley stood in the doorway, but she looked entirely stripped of her usual warm, bustling vitality. Her face was pale and drawn, hollow dark circles bruised the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and her hair was tied back in a loose, frayed knot. She looked ten years older than she had the previous morning. There was no brisk greeting, no motherly fussing, and no cheerful welcome.
Her eyes met Harry's, and a faint, trembling breath escaped her lips. The gratitude in her gaze was immense, quiet, and painful.
"Harry," Molly whispered, her voice hoarse and brittle from a night of heavy crying. "Come in... please, come in."
Harry and Abigail stepped into the kitchen. The room was cold. The hearth held only dying, grey ashes, and no tea kettle sat on the stove.
Arthur Weasley sat at the head of the long wooden table, his head resting heavily in his broad, calloused hands. His formal Ministry robes were absent; he wore only an old, wrinkled cardigan, his shoulders slumped as if under an unbearable weight. He hadn't gone to work. Next to him sat the twins, Fred and George, sitting side by side in absolute, unnerving silence. Their usual sharp, mischievous spark was completely extinguished. They stared blankly at the rough wood grain of the table, their hands folded tightly between their knees.
In the corner, Percy sat curled into a tight, rigid posture, his arms wrapped around his chest, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared into space. Ron and Ginny were huddled together on the small sofa by the window, sitting so close their shoulders touched, jumping slightly at every soft creak of the floorboards.
No one had slept. The sickening, horrific realization that a full-grown dark wizard, a convicted murderer, had spent nine years living in their home, eating at their table, and sleeping in their children's bedrooms had left a deep, bleeding psychological scar across the entire family.
Arthur lifted his head as Harry approached. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, but when he looked at Harry, a profound, solemn wave of appreciation washed over his weary face.
"Harry," Arthur said, his voice quiet, raspy, and deeply tired. He stood up slowly, extending a hand that trembled slightly before wrapping Harry in a brief, heavy embrace. "We... we don't even know how to begin to thank you. If you hadn't caught him... if you hadn't seen through it..."
Arthur broke off, unable to voice the terrifying thought of what might have happened if Pettigrew had remained in their home any longer.
"You saved us from a nightmare we didn't even know we were living," Molly said softly, wiping a fresh tear from her cheek as she pulled Abigail into a gentle, careful hug.
"There is no need for thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, his voice dropping into a gentle, respectful cadence. "I only regret that you had to bear the burden of his unmasking under your own roof."
Harry reached into his coat and placed the leather pouch onto the wooden table, followed by the letter and the large, elegant box from Sugarplum's.
"My parents sent these," Harry explained smoothly. "In the pouch are high-grade Calming Draughts, Nerve-Soothing Elixirs, and Dreamless Sleep salves from our personal apothecary. There is a letter from my mother and father inside as well. They wanted to extend their deepest sympathies for the ordeal your family has suffered, and to express their immense respect for how you have handled everything."
Molly looked at the pouch, her lower lip trembling as fresh tears pooled in her eyes. "Your parents are far too kind, Harry... far too kind."
Abigail stepped forward, setting the Sugarplum box down next to the potions with a quiet, polite movement. She looked at the twins and then at Ron, her sharp green eyes softening into genuine sympathy.
"The box is for you," Abigail said softly, her usual dry sarcasm entirely absent. "It's full of sweets from Sugarplum's. My dad insisted. I'm Abigail by the way."
George looked up from the table, offering Abigail a faint, ghost of a nod, though he didn't reach for the box. "Thank you, Abigail," he murmured quietly, his voice lacking its usual boisterous energy.
Percy didn't move from his corner, but his shoulders twitched slightly at the mention of the gifts. The thought of the rat he had cared for, carried in his pocket, and passed down to his younger brother was a poison currently tearing through his mind.
Harry stepped toward the table, keeping his posture calm and steady as he looked down at the weary father.
"Sirius Black was fully exonerated early this morning," He said quietly, giving Arthur a firm, grounding update. "The Wizengamot signed the official pardon at four in the morning, and the true culprit is currently locked in a high-security cell awaiting the Dementor's Kiss. The justice that was denied ten years ago is finally being carried out."
Harry didn't wait for Molly to struggle with the cold hearth or attempt to brew tea with trembling hands. Seeing the family paralyzed by the sheer weight of horror, he stepped forward, taking charge with quiet, surgical precision.
He unlaced the leather pouch, drawing out three slender crystal vials filled with pale blue, golden, and silver liquids. Abigail picked up two glass tumblers from the cupboard without asking, setting them quietly beside her brother. She opened the bottle of Nerve-Soothing Elixir, measuring out precise doses into the glasses before topping them off with clear, cold water from a clean pitcher.
"Take this to Fred and George, Abby," Harry murmured softly.
Abigail picked up the first glass of golden liquid, walking over to the twins. She didn't offer a cheerful word or a gentle pat; she simply held the glass out until George raised his hollow eyes and took it. She handed the second to Fred.
"Drink," Abigail said, her voice firm and grounding. "It cools the nervous system. Dad uses it after high-stress board meetings."
The twins, too exhausted to protest, drank in unison. Within seconds, the pale golden liquid took effect. The rigid, unnatural tension locked into their shoulders began to thaw. George let out a long, shuddering breath, his hands finally loosening their white-knuckled grip on his knees.
Harry turned his full attention to the darkest corner of the room, where Percy sat huddled against the wall. Percy was trembling violently, his knees pulled up to his chest, his hands buried deep in his red hair. His skin was a sickly, waxy white, his eyes bloodshot and fixed on the floorboards as if expecting the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
Scabbers had belonged to Percy first. For ten years, Percy had carried that rat in his pocket. He had fed him from his own plate, let him sleep on his pillow, and brushed his fur. The guilt consuming the fourteen-year-old boy was an active, agonizing poison.
Harry walked over, taking a seat on a low wooden stool directly across from Percy.
Harry walked over, taking a seat on a low wooden stool directly across from Percy. He held a glass filled with the blue Calming Draught, but he didn't force it into Percy's hand immediately.
"Percy," Harry said softly. His voice carried no pity, no heavy emotional weight, only absolute, unwavering clarity.
Percy didn't look up. "It was in my room," he choked out, his voice a jagged, broken whisper. "I... I slept three feet away from him, Harry. For years. I took him to Hogwarts. I gave him to Ron. I handed a monster to my little brother..." A harsh sob tore through his throat as he pressed his palms against his face. "It's my fault. I should have known. I should have noticed..."
"Look at me, Percy," Harry commanded smoothly.
The authority in Harry's tone forced Percy to lift his head, his tear-streaked face twisted in agony.
Harry met his gaze, his emerald eyes cold, steady, and entirely free of judgment. "Peter Pettigrew fooled Albus Dumbledore. He fooled the entire wizarding society. He fooled the entire Ministry of Magic, the Wizengamot, and every single Auror who hunted him ten years ago. He was a trained adult wizard who spent a lifetime mastering dark concealment."
Harry leaned in slightly, his tone dropping an octave into an undeniable, logical truth. "You were a child who cared for a helpless animal. You showed kindness to something you thought was small and weak. The betrayal lies entirely on the coward who hid behind a child's innocence to save his own skin. None of it rests on your shoulders."
Percy stared at Harry, his chest heaving as the words pierced through the chaotic noise of his self-blame. For the first time since the previous afternoon, someone had offered him a logical path out of his nightmare.
Harry pressed the cool glass of golden elixir into Percy's shaking hands. "Drink it. Let your mind rest."
Percy looked down at the glass, his fingers tightening around the cold crystal. He lifted it to his lips and drained the entire contents in three heavy gulps.
The reaction was immediate. The blue elixir spread through his system like a gentle wave of warmth, dulling the sharp, agonizing edge of his panic. The violent trembling in his arms died down, his rapid, shallow breathing slowed into a steady rhythm, and the terrifying, manic focus in his eyes softened into weary relief. Percy leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as a long, cleansing sigh escaped him.
From across the kitchen, Molly watched her third son finally stop shaking. She pressed a hand over her mouth, a fresh wave of tears spilling down her cheeks, but this time they were tears of profound, overwhelming relief. The crushing weight that had been suffocating her chest all morning loosened its grip.
"Oh, Percy..." Molly whispered, stepping over to wrap her arms securely around her son's shoulders, pulling his head against her chest. Percy didn't pull away; he let out a quiet sigh and allowed his mother to hold him.
With Percy settled, Harry gave Abigail a subtle nod. She moved to the side counter, deftly unstopping a small crystal flask filled with a pale, luminous blue liquid. She poured two controlled measures of the Calming Draught into clean glasses and carried them over to the sofa where Ron and Ginny sat huddled together.
Ron was staring blankly at his own hands, repeatedly flexing his fingers as if trying to wash off an invisible stain. Beside him, nine-year-old Ginny was curled into a tight ball, her chin resting on her knees, jumping at every minor creak of the floorboards.
Abigail stopped in front of them, holding out the two glasses of cool blue potion.
"Here," Abigail said gently, her usual sharp demeanor replaced by a quiet, grounded presence. "Drink this. It takes away the cold feeling in your chest."
Ginny looked up first, her eyes wide, frightened, and red-rimmed. She reached out with a trembling hand and took the glass, taking a slow, hesitant sip. The luminous blue draught worked almost instantly; as the cooling liquid settled, the frantic, terrified racing of her pulse slowed. The physical tension locking her small frame relaxed, and she leaned back against the cushions, letting out a soft, steadying breath.
Ron stared at the second glass in Abigail's hand, his jaw tight, his skin still pale. "I slept in the same bed with him," Ron croaked out, his voice thick with a sickening blend of horror and disgust. "Every night. He was right there…"
"He was a parasite hiding from the light," Abigail replied smoothly, pressing the glass firmly into his palm. "And now he is in a dark cell waiting for the Dementors. Drink it, Ron. Don't let a coward keep stealing your sleep."
Ron looked at Abigail, swallowed hard, and tipped the glass back, draining the blue draught in a single gulp.
Harry looked around the quiet kitchen. The heavy, suffocating paralysis had broken, replaced by the soft, steady breathing of a family finally resting after a night of pure horror. Yet the air inside the Burrow remained thick, lingering with the bitter memory of what had transpired within those walls.
"It is too quiet in here," Harry said softly, his voice cutting through the stillness. He looked toward the rear window, where the morning sun was casting long, brilliant rays across the overgrown grass of the orchard. "The air inside this house is stale. You all need sunlight and fresh air."
Ron lifted his head from the back of the sofa, his blue eyes blinking as the Calming Draught kept the worst of his panic at bay. "The orchard," Ron muttered, a small, nostalgic flicker returning to his voice. "We always go to the orchard when... well, when things get too loud."
"Then let us go to the orchard," Harry said, standing up and checking his cuffs.
Fred and George exchanged a brief, quiet look. For the first time all morning, a tiny spark of life returned to Fred's eyes. "Our brooms are in the shed," Fred murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. "Shooting Stars. Old, rusty, but they fly."
"I am coming too," Ginny said quickly, her voice small but firm as she sat up on the sofa. She looked at her mother, as if expecting to be told to stay inside, but Molly merely offered a weary, permissive nod.
Percy remained seated in the corner, his back pressed against the wall, staring blankly at the floorboards. The Nerve-Soothing Elixir had stopped his violent shaking, but the dark, suffocating cloud of self-blame still hung heavily over his shoulders.
Harry walked over, stopping right in front of Percy. "You are coming as well, Percy."
Percy shook his head slowly, his voice raspy and devoid of life. "No, Harry. I... I do not think I should. I cannot just go out and play after what I brought into this house."
"You did not bring anything into this house," Harry said, his tone dropping into a firm, unyielding register. "And sitting in the dark feeding your own guilt will fix nothing. Outside, Percy. That is the request of a first year. As a Prefect it's your duty to show me the ropes."
Percy froze, the sudden appeal to his official title striking a sharp chord deep within his sense of identity. He blinked, looking up into Harry's steady, unblinking green eyes. The fog of self-loathing in his mind cleared just enough for his deeply ingrained respect for duty and structure to surface.
He swallowed hard, wiped a hand across his pale face, and slowly pushed himself up from the wall. His shoulders squared slightly as he straightened his posture.
"Right," Percy murmured, his voice gaining a trace of its usual rigid formality. "A... a Prefect must set a proper example. Lead the way, Harry."
The group stepped out through the back door and into the bright, crisp morning air. The sweet scent of damp earth, wild grass, and ripening apples immediately washed over them, cutting through the lingering stench of fear that had trapped them inside.
They walked past the rusty paddock toward the tall, sloping trees of the orchard. High wooden fences enclosed the space, blocking the view from the neighboring Muggle farms and creating a secluded, private haven.
Fred and George sprinted ahead to the small wooden broom shed, dragging out two worn, slightly battered Shooting Stars. The twigs on the tails were frayed, and the mahogany polish had faded years ago, but the brooms carried the familiar, comforting scent of dried wood and flying wax.
"Not bad," George muttered, giving his broom a testing pat. "Still got some life in them."
Harry reached into his tailored coat and pulled out his subspace pouch from his pocket. He reached inside and pulled out two gleaming, polished brooms, setting them gently on the grass. They were Comet 260s. Sleek, high-performance models with pristine hazel brush tails, golden footrests, and streamlined handles that shimmered in the morning sunlight.
Ron's jaw dropped. "Are those... are those Comet 260s?"
"They are," Harry replied smoothly. "Abigail and I brought our personal brooms."
Harry reached back into the pouch and pulled out three more brooms, laying them alongside the 260s. These were Comet 220s. Older models, well-maintained, with comfortable grip-leather and sturdy ash handles.
"These were our backup brooms before we upgraded to the 260s," Harry explained, gesturing to the lineup. "I put them in my pouch yesterday before coming. Good thing I didn't take them out."
Ron stared at the array of high-grade brooms with absolute, wide-eyed awe. The lingering shadow in his mind was momentarily swept away by the sheer beauty of the craftsmanship before him. "Harry... you brought five extra brooms?"
"I prefer to keep options open," Harry said simply. He looked at the group, his green eyes glinting with a sharp, inviting spark. "We have two Comet 260s and five Comet 220s. We will rotate the 260s so everyone gets a turn on a high-speed handle."
"I call first turn on a 260!" Fred yelled, his voice finally cracking into its familiar, energetic pitch as he lunged forward, grabbing one of the sleek hazel handles.
"Not if I get there first, mate!" George laughed, snatching the second Comet 260 right out from under his brother's nose.
Ron eagerly grabbed one of the Comet 220s, running his fingers over the smooth ash wood with a look of pure reverence. Percy, standing straight and holding his head high despite his exhaustion, picked up the second Comet 220 with a steady, formal grip.
Harry picked up his own Comet 260. He did not use a mounting command, nor did he wait for a countdown. He simply stepped over the handle, kicked off the turf with effortless precision, and shot straight up into the pale blue sky like an arrow released from a bow.
The Weasleys gasped as they watched him rise.
Harry moved through the air with a breathtaking, natural grace that defied description. He didn't just ride the broom; he maneuvered as if the wood and air were simple extensions of his own body. He executed a sudden, sharp barrel roll fifty feet in the air, leveling off instantly before dropping into a steep, blinding dive toward the treetops. Just feet above the apple branches, he pulled back, banking hard to the left and carving a sharp, silent arc through the wind.
Up in the air, high above the Burrow, Harry looked down at the farm, his dark hair whipping in the wind, his expression entirely relaxed and free.
"Bloody hell," Ron whispered, his mouth agape as he watched Harry hover effortlessly high above them. "He flies like a bloody professional!"
"He's brilliant," Ginny murmured, her eyes wide as she tracked Harry's seamless movements across the sky.
Abigail walked over to the remaining Comet 220, lifting it with a cool, practiced posture. She didn't launch into wild acrobatics like her brother. Instead, she mounted smoothly, rising twenty feet into the air with sharp, mathematical precision. She hovered near the tree line, watching her brother with a calm, amused expression.
"Go on then," Abigail called down to the boys, her voice carrying clearly over the gentle breeze. "Are you going to stand there admiring the grass, or are you going to show us if Weasleys actually know how to fly?"
That was all the incentive Fred and George needed. With wild whoops, the twins kicked off the ground, test-driving the Comet 260 and their Shooting Star with reckless abandon. They soared through the apple trees, darting between branches and executing sharp, competitive passes that sent dried leaves showering down onto the grass.
Ron kicked off next on his Comet 220. The moment the wind hit his face and the ground dropped away beneath his boots, the last suffocating knot of horror in his chest dissolved completely. He let out a loud, genuine laugh. The first real sound of joy heard around the Burrow in twenty-four hours, as he accelerated across the perimeter of the orchard.
Harry swooped down alongside him, matching Ron's speed inch for inch. "Not bad, Ron! Keep your elbows tucked to cut the drag!"
"Watch this!" Ron yelled, leaning forward into the handle, his hair flying back as the Comet 220 responded instantly to his weight, speeding toward the far fence.
Down on the ground, Ginny stood near the edge of the grass, her hands tucked into her pockets, her eyes tracking every movement in the sky with an intense, burning passion.
Abigail glided her broom down, hovering just three feet above the turf right beside Ginny. She tilted her head, her sharp green eyes examining the younger girl with quiet scrutiny.
"You want to fly," Abigail stated flatly. It wasn't a question.
Ginny flinched slightly, looking around as if afraid her brothers might hear. "I... well, Mum doesn't really like me flying. She says I'm too young."
Abigail touched down and smiled, "Well your mother isn't out here right now. Go ahead." She said holding out the Comet 220 for Ginny.
Ginny looked at the sleek Comet 220, then at Abigail's encouraging smile. She swallowed her hesitation, reached out with a steady hand, and mounted the broom with a smooth, fluid instinct that looked entirely second nature.
She kicked off the ground.
Ginny didn't wobble or hesitate for a single second. The moment her boots left the turf, she pushed the handle into a steep, aggressive climb, shooting straight up toward the canopy before pulling a sharp, tight turn that would have made a professional Chaser proud. She handled the Comet 220 with a fierce, brilliant natural talent, carving effortless arcs through the morning air.
Abigail watched her from the grass, nodding slowly with quiet, genuine approval.
Up above, Fred and George spotted their sister weaving effortlessly through the upper branches of the apple trees.
"Is that Ginny?" Fred shouted, pulling his Comet 260 around in total surprise.
"Blimey, look at her go!" George laughed, diving down toward her. "Where did she learn to handle a turn like that?"
Ginny laughed loudly, diving under George's broom with a swift, confident dip, her bright red hair streaming behind her like a banner of fire. The lingering trauma, the suffocating fear, and the dark memory of the rat that had haunted her home were completely swept away by the roaring wind and the sheer thrill of speed.
Meanwhile, high above the highest apple tree, Percy flew with a steady, dignified composure. As a Prefect fulfilling his self-appointed duty to set an example, he maintained a rigid, formal posture, but the cool, crisp wind rushing past his face evaporated the remaining knots of guilt in his chest.
Harry glided up alongside him, hovering silently a few feet away.
"It feels different up here, doesn't it?" Harry asked softly.
Percy looked over at Harry, his eyes clear, calm, and resolute. "Yes," Percy whispered, his voice holding its true strength for the first time all day. "A clear view helps clear the mind."
"Then keep flying, Prefect," Harry said with a faint, approving smile.
Below them, the orchard buzzed with vibrant sound and rapid movement. Fred, George, and Ron were engaging in a chaotic, high-speed game of tag, darting between the thick branches, while Abigail had taken the second Comet 220 up into the sky to fly alongside Ginny, the two girls executing crisp, synchronized turns over the paddock.
For three full hours, the orchard became a sanctuary. They rotated the Comet 260s continuously, ensuring everyone experienced the unmatched responsiveness and blinding speed of the top-tier brooms. The competitive passes, the boisterous banter, and the absolute freedom of the sky completely blew away the dark, lingering psychological fog that had threatened to destroy the family.
By the time the sun reached its peak in the noon sky, the group glided down to the grass, landing softly near the fence.
They were flushed, windblown, and thoroughly exhausted, but the hollow, haunted look in their eyes was entirely gone.
Ron dismounted his broom, his face bright red from the wind, a massive, genuine grin plastered across his face as he walked over to Harry. "That was... Harry, that was the best flying I've ever done in my life. Those 260s are incredible!"
"You handled the turns very well, Ron," Harry said, accepting the broom back and tucking it neatly into his subspace pouch alongside the others.
Ginny walked over to Abigail, handing back the Comet 220 with a soft, reluctant smile. "Thanks, Abigail. For... you know. Letting me fly."
Abigail offered her a small, respectful nod. "You're a natural, Ginny. The next time I visit, we are going to practice formal Chaser formations. Don't let your brothers keep you on the ground."
Ginny's face lit up with a brilliant, happy smile. "I won't."
Percy stepped forward, his posture upright and proud once more. He looked at Harry, offering a formal, deeply sincere bow of his head. "Thank you, Harry. For the potions, for your guidance... and for reminding me of my duties today."
"We stand together, Percy," Harry replied smoothly, offering a firm, respectful nod in return. "That is what friends do."
Molly stepped down from the porch, wiping her hands on her apron as a warm, tearful smile broke across her face. Seeing her children walking back toward the house flushed, laughing, and bumping shoulders, looking whole and healthy once again, seemed to breathe new life back into her.
"Come inside, all of you!" Molly called out, her voice regaining a touch of its familiar, motherly warmth. "I've put together a warm lunch. Harry, Abigail, please, you must sit with us before you go."
The table inside was filled with plates of hot stew, crusty bread, and fresh butter. The atmosphere around the long wooden table was light, steady, and comfortable, entirely cleansed of the dark panic that had gripped the house only hours before. The twins bantered over the Comet 260s' turning radiuses, Ron enthusiastically recounted his sharpest passes to his father, and Percy sat upright, eating quietly with a restored sense of dignity.
Once lunch was finished, Harry stood up from the table, checking his cuffs with a smooth, deliberate motion.
"Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said politely. "My sister and I must take our leave now. My parents will be waking soon, and we ought to be back home."
Molly walked them to the front door, pulling both Harry and Abigail into a deep, gentle embrace. "Thank you, Harry. Truly. You brought light back into this house today."
"We will see you all later," Arthur added warmly, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder while the children waved goodbye from the porch.
Abigail stepped close to her brother, securely taking his arm. With a quiet, polite nod to the family, Harry willed the space around them to bend, and with a silent, seamless ripple of air, the siblings vanished from the Burrow, heading back to the quiet comfort of the Dursley estate.