A/N: I told you I wasn't done! :D I've got something of a plan for this story now. I anticipate it will be about four chapters long, but don't hold me to that. I really enjoy writing it and I hope you all enjoy reading it, too!

Also, this update is for Queen of Crystalopia because I promised an update! Thanks for sticking with me! I know it's a bit late! :)

"It was all your fault."

Harry started at the voice, squinting into the darkness all around him. A rustle from the bed next to him made him whip round. A figure was perched on the edge of the other bed, blurry and issuing a dim, grayish glow.

"What?" Harry gasped, bolting upright in bed as he stared at the smoky image of Cedric Diggory.

"It was all your fault, you know," Cedric repeated, watching Harry steadily. "No matter what they try to tell you, you and I both know it's because of you that this happened to me."

"I'm sorry!" Harry rasped. "I didn't know it was a trap. I couldn't have known!"

"Don't lie," Cedric contradicted evenly, though with a bitter tone in his voice as he regarded Harry. "You knew someone was out to get you in this tournament from the start. You knew You-Know-Who was in this somehow. Don't tell me you expected to just grab that cup and win the tournament without something going wrong. You wanted to push it off on me. I was trying to be a decent person and give you the glory, but you were just trying to push me into the trap instead."

"N-no –" Harry stammered, eyes wide with horror.

"I trusted you, you know?" Cedric went on. "I really wanted you to do well. You were just a kid after all. I thought you were really trying to help me out, but turns out you were just making sure I made it to the end. To my end. If you hadn't pulled Krum off me, I'd still be alive. I'd almost sent up red sparks when you showed up. I'd have spent a few nights in the hospital wing, but I'd still be alive. But you needed me too much, didn't you?"

Harry had gone ice-cold. He could not think of a counter argument to this, could not even move as Cedric fixed him in his gaze.

"I didn't deserve this," Cedric told him mercilessly. "I was innocent. I wasn't marked. I didn't deserve to die. My parents didn't deserve to be ripped apart like your family was. You don't deserve to be comfortable and happy here. You know that. You don't deserve this, Harry. You don't…"

Harry jerked awake with a small whimper, Cedric's words still ringing in his head. He was breathing so hard his lungs rattled, drenched in cold sweat. He lunged for the bedside lamp, clicking it on and squinting around the room, heart pounding, expecting to see Cedric lounging somewhere.

Gradually his heart stopped thudding and Harry relaxed back into his pillows. But he left the lamp on, chasing the shadows away. He barely slept the rest of the night.

OOOOOO

Mrs. Weasley was more satisfied with Harry's temperature the next morning. His cough on the other hand seemed to be getting worse. She gave him more of the horrible-tasting blue potion to at least give his aching chest a break and had him down another goblet-full of icy potion to keep his fever low.

"How do you feel, dear?" she asked about ten times in the few minutes it took to bring him breakfast and check him over.

The answer was 'worse'. Harry's chest ached with every breath, his whole body was sore, he could hardly swallow, the potion made him shiver uncontrollably, and his sinuses were running like crazy, making his head throb and his nose sting. In fact, he felt miserable enough to want to moan about all these things. But then – You don't deserve to be comfortable and happy.

"Much better, Mrs. Weasley!"

She smiled, but there was an anxious pull in her face as she touched the back of her hand gently to his hot cheek. "I hope so. I suppose you can get up today if you feel like it, but take it easy, alright? Or you'll be back in this bed in a flash."

Harry nodded as Mrs. Weasley stood up, taking the empty breakfast tray with her.

"You'll keep an eye on him?" she asked Ron, who was lounging in the doorway.

"Sure," Ron smirked, loping into the room and flinging an arm around Harry's shoulders. "I can babysit."

Harry shoved Ron's arm off, blushing, but grinning, too, and Mrs. Weasley left them, shaking her head.

OOOOOO

"Knight to E-seven."

"Queen to E-seven."

Harry swore under his breath as Ron's queen smashed his knight to bits. Four days of almost-nonstop chess and he was just as lousy as ever.

"Don't worry about it," Ron told him, smirking. "It takes ages to learn how to beat a master. You held out seven moves longer than last time. Maybe in another decade or so…."

Harry rolled his eyes and coughed into his sleeve.

"What're you doing?" he asked as Ron started picking up the pieces and throwing them into the box.

"Packing up," Ron told him. "After eight straight victories, a bloke can get victoried out. Besides, you look about ready to face-plant into the board. Have a kip on the sofa before you pass out."

"I'll go back upstairs," Harry mumbled, reluctant to leave his warm place beside the fire. And reluctant to the point of dreading being isolated in the dim bedroom as he attempted to rest. Each time his eyelids fluttered, he was terrified that Cedric would appear, spectral or as he had looked cold and dead in the graveyard. Both images had haunted his dreams, blurring so much with the night that sometimes Harry wasn't sure if he'd been asleep or not.

"Don't be ridiculous," Ron was saying as he stretched upward to slide the chess set onto a shelf above the fireplace. "You'll be coughing up your insides before you get half-way up, and then Mum'll hear you, and I'll get chewed out for letting you 'over-exert' yourself."

Harry sneezed, his whole upper body jerking forward with the force of it. "I don't wanna infect the whole house."

Ron snorted as he crossed the room. "Like you aren't already doing that just by breathing." He grabbed a blanket draped over the back of the sofa and threw it at Harry. "Don't worry about that. Mum's probably already cast a dozen quarantine charms on you. Only way she stayed sane when we were little, or she'd've had seven sick, clingy munchkins every time one of us sneezed."

Harry fought his way free of the blanket in time to see Ron disappear up the stairs in a few leaps and bounds. He sniffled and tiredly got to his feet to stagger a few feet over to the sofa and crash down onto it, pulling the blanket up over his head.

Ron came back down in a minute or two, carrying a stack of comic books half a foot thick. Listening to the occasional turn of a page, the crackling fire, ticking clock, and Ron's sporadic suppressed laughter as he read about the adventures of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle reassured him that his nightmares could not sneak up on him and lulled Harry into a calm stupor, which quickly fell into much-needed sleep.

OOOOOO

"You lot have been awfully quiet this afternoon," Mrs. Weasley said, coming into the living room and leaning over the back of Ron's chair to drop a kiss on the top of his head.

Ron nodded, not taking his eyes off his comic, and gestured vaguely towards where Harry had fallen asleep on the couch.

Mrs. Weasley nodded in approval and went quietly over to her chair beside the fire, digging out her knitting needles.

"Where've your brothers and sister got to?"

Ron shrugged. "Ginny was down here earlier, writing something, but apparently we aren't suitable company 'cause she went upstairs after about ten seconds."

Mrs. Weasley smiled slightly, sure that her daughter's fleeing had little to do with their company and everything to do with the nature of what she'd been writing. As far as Mrs. Weasley knew, she and Hermione were the only two whom she had confided in about what had happened at the Yule Ball.

The room fell quiet again, Mrs. Weasley's knitting needles adding to the soft orchestra of noises.

Ron had finished his comic book and moved onto another before the peaceful mood was broken. There was a stirring from the sofa. Harry had pulled the blanket up over his head, cocooning himself completely, but now he rolled, seeming to fight with the fabric. His breathing had become labored and rapid. A broken sort of whimper issued from the blanket, and Ron looked swiftly at his mother, who had put down her needles.

As Harry thrashed wildly enough to almost throw himself off the couch, Mrs. Weasley rose to her feet and hurried over to him, Ron leaping out of his chair to follow.

"Wake up, dear," she murmured, shaking Harry gently by the shoulder. "Wake up, you're dreaming."

Harry didn't wake; he thrashed again, turning his head side to side. The blanket had slipped and they could see that his pulse was jumping in his neck, his face beaded in sweat. He was mumbling something, moaning under his breath.

"Stop him. Stop him! Don't let him! He's going to die!"

Icy cold swept over Ron as he wondered if this was like that vision thing Harry had had only a month ago in divination, how he had rolled on the floor, screaming and thrashing.

"Harry! Wake up! You're only dreaming."

Mrs. Weasley shook Harry harder this time and he abruptly jerked awake, eyes popping open with a shuddering gasp. Then he started coughing, struggling to pull himself upright as deep coughs shook his whole body, rough and painful-sounding, and uncontrollable.

"Go grab the cough potion from the cupboard for me," Mrs. Weasley instructed her son, rubbing Harry's back and biting down on the alarm that rose inside her as he struggled.

Ron was gone and back in a flash, holding the blue vial out to his mother. She took it and with obvious practice, managed to tip some into Harry's mouth and get him to swallow it between coughs.

It seemed to work; Harry slowly managed to get control of his breath back. He rubbed his chest, leaning forward to rest his forehead on his drawn up knees and grimacing.

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Weasley asked worriedly, continuing to rub his back.

Harry nodded and Ron snorted with disbelief from his place leaning over the back of the sofa. Mrs. Weasley shot a look at him as Harry leaned back against the arm of the sofa. She clucked anxiously when she got a look at Harry's haggard appearance, though. He looked exhausted, pale and wan with great bags under his eyes.

"You aren't getting any better, are you?" Mrs. Weasley sighed, sliding a hand over his cheek and forehead and feeling the fever that had refused to break in the five days she had been looking after him.

Harry didn't look at her, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket, which had slipped off of him. She pulled it back of to his chin and squeezed his shoulders comfortingly, trying to make him feel just a little bit better. She had a pepper-up potion brewing, but it would take another nine days at least before it was ready, and if Harry wasn't on the mend by then anyway, she was calling a mediwitch. Mrs. Weasley was loathe to do so in this case, with Harry's fame and especially in the current political climate, but they might have to if he was not getting better. She had a sneaking suspicion that he was actually worse than he was letting on.

As she scrutinized the skinny, pale, ill child before her, Mrs. Weasly felt a fresh surge of fury at Fudge and the Ministry. Really, how could they subject a boy to this social flogging just for political reasons, to cover their mistakes?

Sighing heavily, she pushed herself to her feet. "I better get dinner on. Your father'll be home soon. Ron, will you set the table for me and call the others down to help?"

Ron nodded, sliding off the arm of the couch with one last concerned glance towards Harry.

Harry pulled the blanket back up over his head when they'd gone, embarrassed over making such a scene and not wanting anymore glances from the others. He heard Ron bellow up the stairs for his siblings and a moment later they came thundering down, racing towards the kitchen.

Harry drifted, listened to the warm clamor of pots and pans and cutlery. A drizzle had started up outside, an unseasonably chilly wind whipping at the windows. The chill outside pressed inwards, swirling around them, seeming to be looking for a way in…. It would not be much longer now. Surely this bubble of safety and calm must burst soon. Voldemort wouldn't stay circling in silence for long. It had already gone on much longer than Harry had expected, and the longer he lay in wait, the more tense Harry became. Cedric was only the first…. Who else would follow?

Harry had not realized he'd slipped off into dreams until an uproar from the kitchen brought him abruptly back to consciousness.

"…Professor! What're you doing here?"

"It's been ages!"

"If you're looking for my last homework assignment, the gnomes ate it ages ago, but I swear it was done."

Harry pushed himself up curiously as a quiet chuckle issued from the kitchen.

"I'm sure it was, George, but that's not what I'm here for."

A small thrill of excitement shot through Harry as he recognized the voice. That was Professor Lupin, their old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and one of his parents' old school friends. Although Lupin had said they would meet again when he'd left at the end of Harry's third year, he had heard nothing from him since then.

"Would you like to stay for supper, Remus?" Mrs. Weasley inquired over her children's clamor.

"Thank you, but I'd better be getting back. I just wanted to see Harry for a second. I found something I thought he might like…."

Harry sat up properly, leaning forward in an attempt to get a glimpse into the kitchen, completely thrown by this unexpected event, but eager to see Lupin again nonetheless. He just wished he wasn't so sick and pathetic-looking.

"I'm sure he'll be glad to see you," Mrs. Weasley said, sounding rather pleased herself. "He's in the sitting room, just through there. Might be asleep…."

A moment later, Remus Lupin tentatively peered around the doorframe. He caught sight of Harry and smiled.

"Hello, Harry," he said genially, coming over to the sofa. He was holding something wrapped in newspaper in one hand.

"Hi," Harry said back, wincing inwardly when his voice came out quiet and hoarse.

They shook hands, and Lupin sat down on the end of the couch.

"I heard you've been a bit under the weather," he said conversationally and Harry blushed. Were they printing it in the papers or something? He wished everyone would just forget about it.

"It's just a cold. I'm fine really," he managed, clearing his throat.

"I'm glad to hear it," Lupin smiled. He glanced down at what he was holding, seeming to have momentarily forgotten about it. "Well, I found this the other day when I was going through some old things. I'd nearly forgotten about it. I thought it might cheer you up, a bit of an early birthday gift."

He offered the newspaper-covered package, and Harry took it curiously.

"Thanks –" Harry broke off, turning away to sneeze into his elbow.

"Bless you."

"Thanks." Harry rubbed his nose but the tickle wouldn't go away. He sniffled, trying to ignore it, and turned his attention to what Lupin had given him.

"Sorry about the paper," said Lupin as Harry began to tear it away. "It was a bit of a last-minute job."

"I didn't even know the Prophet had comics," Harry admitted, examining the paper more carefully.

But then he caught sight of what was inside the paper and ripped away the rest eagerly. It was a book, and on the deep blue cover, Quidditch players zoomed in and out of sight on brooms beneath the silvery title Take to the skies. It looked old, its pages yellowing, but in good condition otherwise.

"Cool –"

"What's the matter?" Lupin asked, leaning forward in concern as Harry's face froze.

Harry shook his head as his breath began to hitch. Burying his face in his sleeve again, he sneezed four times in rapid succession, paused, then twice more. The book slipped from between his fingers and slid off his lap.

"Sorry – hetchch!"

"Bless you! Seven sneezes, that must be good luck," Lupin smiled, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder as Harry leaned forward precariously to retrieve the book and grabbing it for him.

"Sorry," Harry apologized again, hastily whipping his nose with a crumpled tissue and shoving it back in his pocket. "It looks brilliant. The book I mean. You didn't have to get me anything for my birthday."

"I thought you ought to have it," Lupin told him, setting the book gently in his hands again. "Your dad gave it to me, actually," he said with a wistful sort of smile. "It was his favorite book, so one year he went out and bought half of Flourish and Blotts' stock and that was all he gave anybody for Christmas. Even Lily. Merlin even his mother."

"Really?" Harry asked, grinning slightly. He touched the silvery title with one finger, the book suddenly taking on a whole new gravity. His father had bought this, had loved this book so much he forced a copy on everyone he knew. His father had held this in his hands….

"It's about a famous seeker from when we were kids," Lupin told him, watching his expression. "He was a muggle-born and had been hurt badly in an auto wreck as a kid. He was paralyzed when he came to Hogwarts; not even anyone at St. Mungo's could get him to walk again, but he didn't need to walk to fly. He was brilliant. Played for England for nearly ten years. Of course it wasn't until Bagman that we really won big, but this bloke was a legend when we were in school."

"Wow," Harry murmured, flipping open to the first few pages and skimming a few lines.

Then he looked up at Lupin, but he couldn't find the words to thank him. Lupin seemed to understand anyway.

"I've read it a few times, and James referenced it often enough that I hardly needed to read it at all. But I thought you'd like to have it. And it might keep you busy while you're stuck lying around."

Harry felt himself blush again at the reminder. He hated attracting all this pity and attention like some kind of magnet. He didn't des– There was nothing to fuss over. He was fine.

Lupin was getting to his feet.

"I'm sorry to just drop in and run, but I really have to be getting back," he said, grimacing in apology as he clapped Harry on the shoulder.

"It's fine. Where do you have to get back to?" Harry asked curiously, aware that he was prying but unable to help it. From what Bill and Charlie had consented to tell them, he guessed Lupin was probably working with Dumbledore with the Weasleys, which was probably how he'd heard where Harry was and what had happened.

"Oh, just home," Lupin said lightly, although Harry guessed he was being evasive. "I've been a bit busy lately, but I wanted to give you that in person. I hope you feel better soon, Harry."

And with one more nod and smile, he headed out of the room.

OOOOOO

Despite the potion Mrs. Weasley was giving him twice a day, Harry's temperature had crept up another degree. This, coupled with his cough, which also just kept getting worse despite all Mrs. Weasley's attempts to make it better and Harry's insistence that he was fine, had finally gotten him confined to bed until there was some visible improvement.

Harry didn't mind this as much as he'd expected. He was exhausted and drifted in and out of sleep, though never a very deep one. And when he was awake (night or day) he spent most of his time reading the book Lupin had given him. It was a fascinating story, not least because he knew his dad had loved it, and it somehow made him feel like he was finding a bit of James Potter in the words.

And even if he wasn't allowed to get up, even just to go to the bathroom unless someone was there to help him climb the two flights of stairs (in case he stumbled from light-headedness, which had happened a few times), the rest of the Weasleys made sure he wasn't forgotten about.

Ron spent most of the day in Bill and Charlie's room, too, simply because he said he had nowhere else to go. They played chess off-and-on, and when Harry was sleeping or reading, Ron found plenty of things to occupy his time with (although he said he was doing his homework).

Ginny flitted in and out whenever she was bored, besting Harry and Ron in a few games of exploding snap and bringing with her the gossip of the house. Fred and George turned up regularly too, sometimes trying to bribe Ron or Harry into testing their products, or share their own news from the extendable ears.

Bill and Charlie usually stopped by in the evenings to ferry small bits of information to their siblings, if only to humor them. Mr. Weasley usually checked on Harry after dinner each evening, making conversation about Muggle contraptions, probably in an attempt to take his mind off how miserable he felt.

And, upon discovering that Harry had never heard of Beedle the Bard, Mrs. Weasley consented to tell 'The Tale of the Three Brothers' the second night of Harry's forced bed-rest.

Harry could hardly surpass his laughter when all of her children, save Percy, (who was keeping well away from the Room Harry was staying in in fear of catching 'the plague' as Charlie had said, rolling his eyes) filed into the bedroom, clutching billows to their chests, and crowded around their mother on the second bed or on the floor as if they were all no older than eight.

Mrs. Weasley shook her head at her children's eager, expectant faces, but Harry felt a warm glow inside him beneath his amusement. It was almost like stealing back a portion of his childhood he had been robbed of. Aunt Petunia had certainly never sat down in his cupboard and told him a bedtime story.

"Once there were three brothers traveling along a forest path at midnight…"

OOOOOO

"Thank goodness! I think you're finally on the mend, dear," Mrs. Weasley said happily a couple of days after Lupin's visit, sighing in relief as she examined the glowing numbers that showed his lowered temperature. "I think we better keep you in bed a bit longer though. No need to test our progress just yet."

Harry nodded in reluctant agreement. He was finally feeling a little better today rather than steadily worse. His nose was running like mad and he couldn't stop sneezing, but his head had at least stopped pounding from sinus pressure, and he wasn't coughing until his chest felt like it might implode anymore. But he wanted to be up and about and acting normally again.

As Harry's head jerked forward in another volley of sneezes and Mrs. Weasley hastily grabbed a tissue for him, Ron groaned from the other side of the room, dropping his head into his hands.

"Girls are mental, you know that?" he grumbled.

"Excuse me?" his mother said, raising an eyebrow, but looking amused.

Ron wordlessly held up the letter from Hermione he had received that day and Harry snickered. Ron had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to figure out how he was supposed to respond to it. Apparently Hermione had taken a quiz in some Muggle magazine that would tell her what animal symbol she was. She thought it might give insight into her patronus or animagus form and was therefore quite enthusiastic about discussing it. Ron was utterly baffled, but Harry found it quite entertaining to watch him try to make sense of Hermione's detailed description of her symbol and the symbol she was supposedly compatible with.

Mrs. Weasley took the letter and read through it herself, smiling. "Ooo, Hermione does seem like an otter, doesn't she? I wonder what I would be…."

Ron smacked his forehead with his palm as his mother, laughing, laid the letter on Harry's beside table and rose to leave. But before she did, she took Harry's chin in her hand and gently tipped his head up to look into his face.

"I still want you to take it easy, though, young man. This was on the verge of turning really nasty and we aren't out of the woods just yet."

"Of course, Mrs. Weasley," Harry agreed, unable to nod.

She smiled and patted his cheek.

"You can call us Molly and Arthur if you want," she told him for perhaps the fifth time that week. As always, Harry nodded, but he felt too strange referring to Ron's parents by their first names.

At that moment there was a bang from downstairs as a door slammed, and all three of them jumped, looking towards the door. A moment later heated voices came up the stairs.

Mrs. Weasley frowned. "It must be your father and the boys…."

There was another, more muffled bang, this time as though someone had slammed a fist on something.

"Percy! That's enough!" Mr. Weasley was shouting. He sounded angry. They could not make out the words of Percy's retort, but it was equally angry.

Mrs. Weasley hurried out of the room, and Harry and Ron looked at one another, startled.

"I'm going to go see what's going on," Ron said, vaulting over Harry's bed as Ginny's door opened across the landing and she stuck her head our curiously. They disappeared down the stairs as Mr. Weasley shouted something else.

Harry sat tensely on the edge of the mattress. He wished he could go downstairs as well, figure out what was going on, but at the same time felt like he shouldn't be eavesdropping on a family argument. But he couldn't help but listen.

Mrs. Weasley had arrived on the scene. He could hear her attempting to calm both her son and husband down, asking what had happened.

"I'll tell you what happened, Mother!" Percy shouted. "I've been promoted and Father can't get past his pride to be happy for me!"

"He's been put into Fudge's private office!" Mr. Weasley roared. "Someone barely a year out of Hogwarts, who's already had to go in for an inquiry! Fudge gave him that job to spy on us, not for his own merit."

"You're paranoid!"

"You're an idiot if you don't see that," one of Percy's brothers interjected.

"Charlie!" Mrs. Weasley snapped. She attempted again to diffused the situation, but it seemed far too late for that. Percy and his father must have been discussing this since before they left the Ministry.

Harry had never heard Mr. Weasley shout like this before. He and Percy bellowed at each other, and while Mr. Weasley grew ever more furious and frustrated, Percy seemed to grow ever more bitter. On it went, Harry barely believing the things Percy was hurling at his father. He shouted that his father had no ambition, that he was content to sit twiddling with screws and plugs all day and that they had always been poor because of it. He claimed that Mr. Weasley's lousy reputation had held him back from day one, and that he was not going to let his father stand in his way of succeeding any more.

The argument had turned into a full-on row, rebuttals flying through the air with stinging sharpness, making Harry cringe. He had always liked Percy least of Ron's brothers, but he had never imagined he would say such things to his father, nor that he could be thick enough to not see how Fudge must surely be manipulating him.

And then the argument turned and Harry's own name was dragged up. Harry stared at his knees, still as a statue as he listened to Percy call him a liar and a fraud, back up the Ministry and all they were doing to tear Harry down. He called his parents fools for backing Dumbledore, said that they would go down with him and that Percy wasn't going to sit around while that happened.

"How can you not see what a farce this is?" Percy bellowed after what felt like an interminable amount of time. "That boy is siting here in your own house, acting like he's dying over a case of the sniffles! Can't you see there's a pathological need for attention there? He entered a deadly tournament against the rules, battled a dragon, nearly got Ron drowned just to play the hero! Can't you see that it's far more likely there was an accident in that maze. His need to win took him too far and Diggory ended up dead – No, Mum, listen to me! Listen to sense!"

"He's right up stairs, you prat! He can hear everything you're say –"

"Good! Maybe it'll help him come to terms with the truth! I don't think Harry meant to kill him, but the boy is messed up! He's unbalanced, he always has been, and whatever happened in that maze must have really cracked him! This story – this nonsense about You-Know-Who – can't you see it's just a cover? An excuse to save the famous Harry Potter, Dumbledore's favorite student. And conveniently enough, it gets him in the spotlight again and might just help Dumbledore take Minister Fudge down!"

"Percy!" Mrs. Weasley cut across him, fury roaring in her own words now.

"You honestly are so blinded by whatever lies he's told you – I know you've both tried your best with him and don't want to admit he's too far gone for you, but this – surely you can't uphold this madness?" Percy almost sounded pleading.

There was a beat of silence. Then Percy continued speaking, this time in a much quieter voice. Harry silently slipped out of bed and went over to the door to hear him.

"Fine. Maybe this will make you see clearly. I know where my loyalties lie, and that's with the ministry. You can either follow me, be on the right side, or you can stick with him and Dumbledore. Me or them. But if you choose the deranged kid and the crazy old man, I'm going to make sure everyone knows I'm not part of this family anymore."

Another beat of silence. Then Mrs. Weasley's tearful "Percy…."

No one moved no one spoke, and then Percy said finally, "Fine." And his footsteps came towards the stairs and started to climb. Harry knew he should close the bedroom door, that he should pretend that he was not there and had not heard every word. But he couldn't make himself do it. He wanted Percy to look him in the eye after all of that. And then Percy was halfway up the stairs and he would hear Harry close the door, know he was hiding from him.

Percy didn't mean to look up right into the emerald green eyes of Harry Potter. He meant to shuffle past the door as he always did, but, almost accidentally, his gaze was drawn up and trapped there.

Harry stood in the doorway, barefoot and dressed in a knitted Weasley jumper. He was small and pale, much younger-looking than Percy had come to expect somehow, holding a crumpled tissue in one hand. Just as Percy had seen his own little brothers and sister so many times before….

Percy turned away roughly from Harry's steady gaze and rushed up the next flight of stairs, ignoring the muffled sneeze from behind him as the door clicked shut.

A/N: I hope you liked it! ;D Please let me know your taught! And also, though I have a general plot worked out, if you've got ideas, I'd love to hear them! Don't be shy! Thanks so much!