The kitchen door of the Burrow burst open with the sort of perfectly inconvenient timing that only a Weasley could manage. It wasn't so much an entrance as a declaration of maternal supremacy. If there had been storm clouds overhead, they'd have scattered out of sheer respect for Molly Weasley.
"Harry James Potter!" she thundered, her voice climbing octaves like an approaching banshee choir. Relief, fury, and heart-cracking affection played across her face so quickly it was a miracle she didn't sprain something. Her plump hands trembled as she took in his transformed appearance, and for a moment, the formidable woman who'd once howled at Bellatrix Lestrange looked utterly lost.
Behind her came the rest of the available Weasley contingent. Arthur appeared with his hair standing at angles that suggested he'd been mid-disassembly of something questionably safe when interrupted, his spectacles slightly askew and what looked suspiciously like Muggle battery acid staining his cardigan. Ginny looked equal parts thrilled and personally betrayed, her brown eyes flashing with the kind of fire that had once hexed Zacharias Smith into next week. George trailed last, shoulders stooped, face carved hollow since the funeral, moving like a man who'd forgotten how to take up proper space in the world.
Harry braced himself, rolling his shoulders in a gesture that was pure confidence wrapped in Potter humility. Cosmic powers, alien durability, enhanced reflexes—none of that mattered when confronted with Molly Weasley on a mission.
"You—" Molly jabbed a finger at him with the precision of a trained duelist. "You vanished. Vanished! No word, no sign, no body—Merlin help me, Harry, we thought you'd gone and followed Dumbledore into the afterlife! Do you have any idea what it's been like? The nightmares? The wondering? I've been cooking your favorite treacle tart every Sunday for a month just in case—" Her voice cracked, and she pressed her lips together firmly.
Harry tilted his head, that infuriating Potter-esque smile tugging at his mouth—but now it carried a weight of genuine warmth that could melt glaciers. "Technically, Mrs. Weasley, I went sideways. Very different bureaucratic department. Much better dental plan, though the customer service leaves something to be desired."
Molly blinked rapidly, her maternal fury warring with bewilderment. "Sideways?"
"Other dimension," Harry said with the casual air of someone discussing the weather. "Lovely place, terrible landscaping, absolutely shocking public transport infrastructure. No Floo access whatsoever, owls completely useless—kept trying to deliver mail to corn fields. If it helps," he added, his expression softening with genuine affection, "I missed you too. Quite desperately, actually."
Arthur's eyes lit up like Christmas morning at Diagon Alley. His whole frame practically vibrated with excitement. "Other dimension, you say? Fascinating! Absolutely fascinating! Were there temporal distortions? Shifts in gravitational constants? Did the locals have Muggle technology or perhaps some form of advanced magical theory we haven't discovered yet? Oh, the applications for the Ministry! The research possibilities!"
"Arthur!" Molly snapped, whirling on her husband with the speed of a woman who'd spent decades redirecting his curiosity at inappropriate moments.
He coughed politely, pushing his glasses up his nose in a gesture of sheepish contrition. "Yes, dear. Quite right. Family reunion first. Interdimensional physics later. Though perhaps just a small question about their electrical systems—"
"Arthur!"
"Right, right. Later."
Harry grinned with devastating charm, the kind that made hearts skip beats and mothers forget they were supposed to be furious. "I'll draw you diagrams, Mr. Weasley. Graphs, even. With properly labeled arrows and color-coded subsections. Maybe even a bibliography if you're very good."
"Graphs!" Arthur looked like he'd just been promised front-row Quidditch tickets, a tour of the Ministry's Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office, and Christmas morning all rolled into one magnificent package. "Oh, Harry, you wonderful boy! I've got notebooks! Proper Muggle notebooks with lined paper!"
Ginny, however, was having absolutely none of it. She stepped forward with the predatory grace of a Chaser who'd just spotted an opening, fire dancing in her eyes. "Don't think you can just stroll in here looking like—" She gestured at him furiously, her cheeks reddening in a way that would have been adorable if not for the clear intent to commit bodily harm. "Like someone paid Michelangelo and Da Vinci to collaborate on a bloody Quidditch poster boy! All... all gorgeous and perfect and annoyingly heroic!"
Harry's grin widened, carrying just enough cheek to be dangerous. "Funny thing, that. I was actually going for more of a 'brooding gothic statue with optional shirt' aesthetic. Bit of a classical sculpture vibe, you know? Very renaissance, very—"
"Harry James Potter!" Hermione's voice cut through his sass like a knife through butter. "You can't just joke your way out of—"
"Sure I can," Harry interrupted with the smooth confidence of a man who'd faced down Dark Lords and lived to tell increasingly dramatic tales. "It's my primary coping mechanism, Hermione. Works absolute wonders. Highly recommend it. Very therapeutic. You should try it sometime—bit of light banter, few casual quips, maybe a witty observation or two about the absurdity of existence."
Ron appeared behind Hermione, looking like he'd run the entire way from wherever he'd been, his ears gone redder than his hair and his freckles standing out in sharp relief. He squinted at Harry through slightly narrowed eyes, as if he couldn't quite decide if he was jealous, impressed, or planning to hex him on principle. "Bloody hell, mate. You look like you wrestle mountain trolls for breakfast and bench press hippogriffs for fun."
"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," Harry said with perfect deadpan delivery, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. "I don't wrestle trolls. That's amateur hour. I bench press them. Much better for upper-body development. Hippogriffs are more of a cardio exercise—all that flying around, very aerobic."
Hermione buried her face in her hands with the despair of someone who'd spent years trying to inject sense into impossible situations. "You are absolutely, completely, utterly impossible."
"And yet," Harry said cheerfully, spreading his arms in a gesture of mock grandiosity, "impossibly charming. It's a gift, really. Some would say a curse, but I prefer to think of it as a public service."
Ginny rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't stick permanently. Her hands went to her hips in a gesture that was pure Molly Weasley fury wrapped in teenage indignation. "You vanished without a word, scared us all half to death, worried your friends sick, made your surrogate mother cry herself to sleep, and now you're making jokes? JOKES?"
Harry's expression softened like snow in sunlight, all the teasing confidence melting away to reveal something raw and genuine underneath. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of every battle fought and every friend lost. "Yeah. Because if I don't make jokes, Ginny, I'll think too hard about how much I hurt all of you. And honestly? I'd rather face Voldemort again than see you looking at me like I've broken your heart."
The admission hit the room like a Stunning Spell. Even the ever-present hum of magical appliances seemed to pause in respect.
Molly's face crumpled entirely, tears spilling over despite her best efforts. Without another word, she swept forward and enveloped Harry in a hug that would have crushed his ribs in his old body. Now, he simply stood still as a statue, carefully wrapping his arms around her with the controlled strength of someone who could lift buildings but was terrified of breaking something infinitely more precious.
"You daft, wonderful, impossible boy," she muttered fiercely against his chest, her voice thick with tears and relief and maternal fury all tangled together. "Alien powers or not, cosmic heritage or not, you're still mine to fuss over. Don't you dare vanish on me again. Do you hear me? Not ever again."
"Yes, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said with the meek tone of someone who'd learned that some survival instincts were truly universal. "I promise. Scout's honor."
"You were never a Scout," Ron pointed out helpfully.
"Wizard's honor, then."
"You're barely a wizard anymore."
"Shut up, Ron."
Molly pulled back just far enough to glare up at him, her hands still gripping his arms like she was afraid he might vanish again. "And you're too thin. Much too thin. I can see your ribs!"
Harry raised an eyebrow with the patient air of someone explaining basic physics to a particularly stubborn toddler. "Mrs. Weasley, with all due respect—and I mean that quite sincerely—I currently look like I was personally designed by a Greek god having a particularly inspired day. If this is thin, I'd hate to see what you consider properly fed."
"Still too thin," Molly declared with the sort of maternal certainty that brooked no argument. "Inside. Now. All of you. I'll make dinner. A proper dinner. With vegetables and protein and enough carbohydrates to fuel a Quidditch tournament."
"Mum," Ron complained with the long-suffering air of a son who'd had this conversation before, "it's three in the afternoon."
"It's dinnertime somewhere," Molly retorted with the logic of a woman who'd raised seven children and had no patience for technicalities. "And our Harry needs feeding up. A proper meal. Several proper meals. Possibly a week's worth."
Harry cleared his throat delicately. "Fair warning, Mrs. Weasley—my appetite's been somewhat... enhanced. My metabolism now operates on a cosmic scale. I might need a bit more food than usual."
"How much more?" Ron asked with the suspicious air of someone protecting his territory.
Harry's smirk was pure mischief wrapped in devastating charm. "Remember in fourth year when you tried to out-eat that Durmstrang boy? Big bloke, looked like he could eat a whole pig?"
"Yeah?" Ron's voice carried a note of impending doom.
"I could out-eat both of you. Simultaneously. Mid-flight. While solving arithmancy equations and composing poetry. Without breaking a sweat."
Ron looked torn between profound admiration and existential horror. "Bloody hell. That's... that's beautiful, mate. Absolutely beautiful. Mum, this is brilliant! Someone who actually appreciates proper portions!"
Molly's eyes shone with the light of someone who'd just discovered her life's true calling. "Oh, wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! I've got roasts in the cold store, potatoes for an army, and I baked three treacle tarts yesterday evening in case—" Her voice cracked slightly. "In case you came home."
Harry's teasing smile melted entirely, replaced by something so gentle it was almost painful to witness. He reached down and carefully squeezed her flour-dusted hand. "I'm home now, Mrs. Weasley. Not leaving again without proper notice. And if I do need to vanish mysteriously—" He arched an eyebrow with mock solemnity. "I'll bring snacks for the journey."
"Two packed lunches," Molly corrected fiercely, tears brimming but her voice strong and proud. "With extra sandwiches and fruit and proper biscuits. None of that processed rubbish."
A quiet voice finally broke through the chaos. George. He'd been standing in the doorway like a ghost, barely present, hadn't moved to join the family huddle, hadn't smiled even once.
"So," George said, his tone carrying that familiar Weasley dryness but brittle as old parchment. "Alien heritage. Cosmic powers. Very impressive. Does any of that come with handy reversibility tricks? Time travel, perhaps? Bringing people back from the dead? Asking for a friend."
The gnomes in the garden fell silent, as if the universe itself was holding its breath.
Harry turned to face him fully, his enhanced senses picking up every detail—the way George held himself like he was afraid of taking up too much space, the tremor in his hands, the careful distance he maintained from joy. When Harry spoke, his voice was gentle as snowfall and twice as soft.
"I'm sorry, George. Truly, deeply sorry. I can do quite a lot now. More than I probably should be able to. I can fly faster than sound, see through walls, lift buildings, hear heartbeats from miles away. But bringing back the dead?" Harry shook his head slowly. "That's beyond even cosmic upgrades. Some doors, once closed, stay closed. Even for aliens with delusions of grandeur."
George's face crumpled for just a moment before tightening with the familiar Weasley stubbornness that had seen the family through a dozen crises. "Worth asking, though. Had to try."
"Always worth asking," Harry agreed solemnly. "Always worth hoping. Fred would have asked the same thing if our positions were reversed."
"He'd have asked louder," George said, and for just a moment, the ghost of a smile touched his lips. "With more dramatic gestures."
"Probably would have demanded a demonstration first," Harry said. "Made me prove I could actually fly before he'd believe the alien thing."
"Definitely would have wanted to test the strength," George admitted. "See if you could arm wrestle a dragon."
"I probably could, actually."
"Show off."
The silence that followed was heavy but not unbearable—the weight of shared grief acknowledged but not dwelling.
Molly, who possessed an almost supernatural ability to sense when her family needed rescuing from their own emotions, clapped her hands with the kind of authority that could reorganize reality according to her specifications.
"Right then!" she declared with the brisk efficiency of a general marshaling troops. "Everyone inside this instant. Harry at the table where I can keep an eye on him and make sure he's properly fed. Ron, extend the table—we'll need extra leaves for this feast. Hermione, pantry inventory, if you please—I want to know exactly what we're working with. Arthur, stop looking at Harry like he's a fascinating Muggle contraption and help me with the roasting pans. Bill, Floo Charlie and Percy—tell them Harry's home and if they want dinner, they'd better get here quickly. Ginny—no glaring at Harry while he's eating, it's terrible for digestion."
Harry chuckled, a sound that somehow managed to carry both warmth and mischief in equal measure. "I've fought Dark Lords, survived alien dimensions, faced cosmic entities that could unmake reality with a thought, but I know better than to argue with you, Mrs. Weasley."
"Good lad," she said briskly, already shepherding her family toward the kitchen with the inexorable force of a loving hurricane. "Shows you've retained some sense despite all this cosmic nonsense."
Harry's smirk was pure confidence laced with affectionate cheek. "Still, just so we're all absolutely clear on this point—I am definitely, categorically, without question winning the treacle tart war tonight."
Ron groaned with the despair of a man facing his own mortality. "Oh, this is going to be an absolute nightmare. My reputation, my dignity, my very identity as the Weasley who can eat anything—all gone."
Hermione muttered under her breath, though loud enough for everyone to hear, "He's already completely unbearable. This will only make him worse."
Ginny crossed her arms with the determination of a warrior preparing for battle. "I don't care how cosmically enhanced your appetite is. I'm getting proper answers after pudding. Real answers. With details."
And Molly Weasley, satisfied that one of her boys was home at last, muttered to herself as she vanished into the kitchen, "Four treacle tarts. Just to be absolutely certain."
---
The Burrow's kitchen had always been a miracle of domestic magic, but with Harry's enhanced senses, he could see the miracles now in stunning detail. Extension charms knotted together like threads of golden rope, humming with power that had been maintained so carefully it had become part of the building's fundamental structure. Structural enchantments layered one atop another until they'd fused into something approaching sentience. A sophisticated time-distortion bubble over the stove that allowed Molly Weasley to cook seventeen different meals simultaneously without so much as singeing a sausage.
For the first time in his life, Harry could appreciate the Burrow not just as the warm, chaotic home that had saved his sanity, but as an absolute masterpiece of magical engineering.
"Blimey," he murmured, lowering himself carefully into a chair that squeaked indignantly under his enhanced weight and density. "Mrs. Weasley, this place isn't just a home. It's a bloody architectural marvel. Should qualify as a UNESCO magical heritage site. Possibly its own category entirely."
Arthur's chest swelled with pride so obvious it was practically visible. "All Molly's work, mostly. Brilliant woman, absolutely brilliant. I tinker with the plumbing, fiddle with the Floo connections, sort out the odd magical mishap when I get carried away with Muggle appliances. But the spatial magic, the preservation charms, the structural enhancements—" He gestured around the kitchen with obvious adoration. "That's all her. Pure genius."
"Oh, Arthur," Molly said, her cheeks turning a charming shade of pink as she orchestrated no fewer than fourteen separate pans, six massive roasting trays, something that appeared to be bubbling enthusiastically in a cauldron the size of a small bathtub, and what looked like an entire bakery's worth of desserts with the casual air of a general commanding a perfectly disciplined army. "Don't be ridiculous. It's just practical magic. Common sense spellwork. When you've got seven children and a dangerous habit of adopting strays who attract mortal peril like magnets—" She shot Harry a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated. "—you learn to make do with what you've got."
Harry's lips curved into that new, infuriatingly confident grin that somehow managed to be charming rather than arrogant. "Mrs. Weasley, with the greatest possible respect, this isn't 'making do.' This is master-level enchantment work. Advanced magical theory applied with stunning practical efficiency. You've essentially turned your kitchen into a perpetual motion device that feeds on ambient magic and love. Honestly, you should publish papers. The Department of Mysteries would kill for these spellwork patterns."
Hermione's head snapped up like a Seeker who'd just spotted the Golden Snitch hovering directly overhead, her eyes bright with academic fervor. "Really? What sort of efficiency rating are we talking about?"
"Conservative estimate?" Harry's eyes glowed faintly green as he traced the magical currents flowing through the air with enhanced perception. "Over a hundred and fifteen percent efficiency. Self-sustaining, feeds excess energy back into the local magical environment. I'd bet my Gringotts vault that the ambient magic level in a three-mile radius around the Burrow is at least fifteen percent stronger than the surrounding countryside."
"I knew it!" Hermione practically bounced in her chair, her academic instincts singing with vindication. "I always cast better here, spells always felt more responsive, more precise. I thought it was just the comfortable atmosphere, but it's actually quantifiable magical enhancement! Mrs. Weasley, do you realize the implications? The applications for magical theory? You could revolutionize domestic enchantment!"
Ron groaned with the long-suffering air of a man who'd spent years being dragged into academic discussions against his will. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. The kitchen's magic, Hermione's having theoretical fits, and Harry's gone all cosmic genius. Fantastic discovery, really revolutionary stuff. Can we possibly talk about actual food now before Harry hoovers it all with his fancy new alien appetite?"
"Ronald Bilius Weasley," Molly said with scandalized authority, though her eyes were twinkling with amusement. "There's quite enough food here for everyone, including our newly enhanced Harry. I've been cooking for an army since dawn—" She yanked open an oven that shouldn't have been able to fit in the available space and pulled out a roast so enormous it looked like it properly belonged on a dragon's dining table.
Harry's grin widened to show teeth that were just slightly too perfect. "Challenge absolutely accepted, Mrs. Weasley."
"Don't taunt her, mate," Ron whispered with the urgent tone of someone sharing critical survival information. "She once force-fed me six complete sandwiches, a bowl of soup, and half a shepherd's pie because she thought I looked 'a bit peaky after Quidditch practice.'"
"And you did look peaky," Molly said without turning around, somehow possessing supernatural maternal hearing that could detect whispered conversations through the chaos of active cooking.
The Floo network suddenly flared brilliant green. Bill Weasley stepped through in a dramatic swirl of emerald flames, casually brushed soot off his expensive-looking dragonhide coat with practiced ease, took one look around the kitchen, and promptly froze like he'd been hit with a Full-Body Bind.
"Bloody hell," he said with the tone of a man confronting something that defied rational explanation.
"William Arthur Weasley!" Molly snapped with maternal outrage.
"What? Look at him!" Bill gestured at Harry with the incredulous air of someone trying to explain the impossible. "He looks like someone took our scrappy little Harry, fed him to some kind of divine boot camp, and somehow produced..." He circled Harry with the appraising eye of a professional curse-breaker. "Some sort of supernatural super-soldier with cheekbones that could cut glass. Bloody hell, if my pregnant wife sees you looking like this, I'll be relegated to sleeping on the sofa for a month while she goes on about 'classical masculine perfection' and 'why can't you have shoulders like that.'"
Harry laughed, the sound rich and warm and carrying just enough confidence to be devastating. "Congratulations on the baby, by the way. That's absolutely brilliant news. When's the little one due?"
Bill's expression immediately softened, the curse-breaker's wariness replaced by genuine happiness mixed with barely concealed terror. "Early autumn, if the Healers are right. I'm equal parts absolutely thrilled and completely terrified. Parenthood, right? The ultimate adventure."
"Terrified's completely normal," Harry said with easy, genuine sincerity that somehow carried the weight of hard-won wisdom. "From what I understand, parenthood is essentially the ultimate boss battle. No strategy guide, no practice rounds, and the stakes are everything that matters. At least you've got Fleur to keep you sensible."
"Speaking of family responsibilities," Ginny cut in with the precision of a trained duelist, her arms folded and her eyes sharp as broken glass. "When exactly was the last time you saw your godson?"
Harry blinked, the question hitting him like a Bludger to the head. "My... what now?"
Hermione leaned forward, her voice gentle but carrying an undercurrent of barely suppressed lecture. "Teddy Lupin, Harry. Nymphadora and Remus's son. You're his godfather. Legally appointed, magically bound, officially responsible."
The kitchen fell silent except for the quiet bubbling of stews and, faintly from outside, what sounded suspiciously like organized gnome protest chants.
Harry stared at her with the expression of a man who'd just been told he owned property on the moon. "I have a godson? An actual, legally binding, magically contracted godson? A tiny human being who's depending on me? And absolutely no one thought to mention this rather crucial piece of information while I was... busy saving the world and dying repeatedly?"
"We tried," Ginny said with devastating flatness. "But you had that whole packed schedule. Horcrux hunting, death-defying stunts, apocalyptic battles, dramatic sacrificial death scenes. Rather difficult to squeeze in, 'Oh, by the way, you're now a parent-by-proxy to a metamorphmagus infant.'"
Arthur spoke gently, his voice carrying the careful tone of someone delivering potentially explosive news. "Andromeda's been raising him, of course. Tonks's mother. She's been managing, coping as well as can be expected under the circumstances, but it's been... challenging. She lost her daughter and son-in-law, gained a grandson, all while dealing with her own grief. After dinner, we could arrange a visit, if you'd like."
"Yes." Harry's voice dropped into something deeper, more resolute, carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "Absolutely yes. Immediately yes. He deserves to know me, even if I'm not exactly what anyone would consider normal anymore. Even if I'm more alien than wizard these days."
George's voice cut through the moment like a knife, quiet but carrying a sharp edge that could draw blood. "Normal's completely overrated anyway, Harry. Trust me on that. He'll need someone extraordinary, and ordinary never saved anyone."
Harry met his gaze directly, unflinching. "Extraordinary's the easy part, George. Any cosmic accident can make you extraordinary. Responsible? That's the real challenge. That's what actually matters."
Molly clapped her hands together with the authority of someone accustomed to commanding absolute attention and immediate obedience. "Dinner! Right now! Everyone to the table before everything gets cold!"
The kitchen table groaned audibly under the weight of enough food to feed a small regiment. Roasts that belonged in palace banquets, mountains of perfectly golden potatoes, vegetables that looked like they'd been painted by Renaissance masters, tarts and puddings and pastries that defied both physics and dietary sense—an edible declaration of maternal war against hunger, grief, and any force that dared threaten her family.
Harry looked around the table at the faces surrounding him—Ron already mentally calculating optimal roast-to-tart consumption ratios, Hermione half-composing an academic paper about domestic magical theory in her head, Bill smirking with elder-brother amusement, Ginny watching him with folded arms and barely concealed affection, Arthur practically vibrating with curiosity about interdimensional physics, George holding himself together through sheer stubborn determination, Molly absolutely radiant with purpose and joy.
Family. Home. Everything he'd fought for, everything he'd been willing to die for, everything that made cosmic power worth having.
Harry grinned, rolling up his sleeves with theatrical confidence. "Right then, Weasleys. Let's see if Kryptonian metabolism can actually keep up with proper British cooking."
"Metabo-what?" Ron asked, already reaching for the nearest platter of potatoes with the focused determination of a man preparing for battle.
"Means he's finally going to eat like a proper Weasley," Molly said with such obvious pride it could have powered the Ministry for a week as she deposited what appeared to be half a mountain of perfectly seasoned roast beef onto Harry's plate.
"Careful, Mum," George muttered, but his lips were definitely twitching toward something that might eventually remember how to be a smile. "You might have just found the only bloke in Britain who can actually out-eat Ron. Could be dangerous."
"Impossible," Ron declared through a mouthful of roast beef that would have choked a less experienced eater. "Completely, utterly, mathematically impossible."
Harry raised his fork with mock solemnity and devastating charm. "Prepare to have your title challenged, Ronald Bilius Weasley. And prepare to lose gracefully."
The first treacle tart didn't survive the initial assault. Neither did the second. Or the third.
The war had begun.
---
Three hours later, the Burrow's kitchen looked less like a home and more like a battlefield where food had gone to die gloriously. Platters lay bare as picked bones, serving dishes sat abandoned like the aftermath of a Viking raid, crumbs scattered across every surface like the detritus of some epic culinary conflict. The only survivors were a single, slightly battered treacle tart (saved purely by geographical isolation in a far corner), three lonely roast potatoes (abandoned because no one possessed the energy to fight over them), and what might once have been a dinner roll but now looked like a traumatized carbohydrate.
Harry leaned back in his chair with the satisfied air of a conquering general, his smugly confident expression firmly in place and not even slightly apologetic. Ron, meanwhile, was draped across his seat like a martyred saint, one hand clutched dramatically to his stomach, staring at the ceiling as if personally petitioning Merlin himself for mercy.
"I concede," Ron groaned with the tragic dignity of a man facing his own mortality. "Complete and total surrender. You win, you absolute monster. You win everything. You're officially the only human being—sorry, alien being—in the entirety of Britain who can out-eat me. I hope you're satisfied."
"Not just satisfied," Harry said with devastating charm, flashing that maddeningly perfect grin. "Triumphant. Victorious. Practically glowing with success—though that might just be the alien heritage showing."
George snorted, the sound containing the ghost of genuine amusement. "Careful, Potter. Keep eating like that and you'll put Mum out of the food business entirely. She usually only cooks for armies, not cosmic stomachs with delusions of grandeur."
Arthur was hunched in the corner with a piece of parchment, muttering calculations under his breath with the focused intensity of someone solving the mysteries of the universe. "Seventeen Galleons more per week on flour alone... butter consumption doubled, possibly tripled... Merlin's beard, the jam budget will bankrupt us... might need to negotiate bulk rates with Diagon Alley suppliers..."
"Arthur Septimus Weasley!" Molly barked with fond exasperation, though her cheeks were pink with unmistakable pride. "Honestly, the lot of you acting like feeding Harry properly is some sort of financial catastrophe. He's finally got some decent color back in his cheeks, he's clearly been taking care of himself, and that's all that matters to me."
Harry raised his glass of pumpkin juice in a toast. "Technically, Mrs. Weasley, the improved color is probably due to enhanced circulation and optimized cellular function courtesy of my cosmic makeover. But if you want to take credit for making me look less like a half-starved scarecrow, I'm certainly not going to argue. Your cooking could wake the dead—or at least make them seriously reconsider their life choices."
Bill chuckled, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded and the lazy confidence of someone who'd survived curse-breaking in Egyptian tombs. "Flattery and sass in equal measure. Classic Harry Potter technique. You always did know exactly how to handle Mum's maternal instincts."
"Handle me?" Molly demanded with mock outrage, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon. "Handle me? I'll show you handling, young man!"
Bill very wisely grabbed his drink and took an extremely long, strategic sip while avoiding eye contact.
"Speaking of handling complex situations," Ron said, pushing himself upright with the effort of a man twice his age and three times as injured, "you mentioned Kansas earlier, didn't you? Something about family there? Actual relatives who aren't either dead, in Azkaban, or completely mental?"
Harry nodded, his expression shifting from playful to thoughtful in the space of a heartbeat. "Right. Turns out the Potter family tree branched out rather more extensively than anyone bothered to mention. There was a line of Squibs who left Britain back in the 1800s—fed up with the charming way wizarding society treated non-magical family members, apparently. They emigrated to America, specifically Kansas. Been there ever since, farming, raising families, living completely ordinary Muggle lives."
Arthur's eyes lit up like someone had just handed him the keys to a Muggle electronics store. "Remarkable! Absolutely remarkable! Magical migration patterns across continental boundaries, the preservation of family lines through non-magical descendants, the cultural integration challenges... Did they leave because of active persecution? Social ostracism? Economic pressures?"
"Because British wizarding society was, and let's be honest here, absolute rubbish to Squibs," Harry supplied with dry honesty that could have cut glass. "Shocking revelation, I know. Who could have predicted that our lovely, progressive magical community might have had some issues with inclusivity? Anyway, they've been in Kansas ever since, and now they've got an alien in their area who's learning not to accidentally level barns when he sneezes too enthusiastically."
Ginny folded her arms with the expression of someone who'd spent years watching Harry's life unfold according to the universe's twisted sense of humor. "With your track record? This is definitely destiny having another laugh at your expense. Probably sitting somewhere cosmic, giggling itself sick about the dramatic irony."
"Excellent," Harry said with mock cheerfulness. "Always nice to know my suffering provides entertainment for fundamental forces of reality. Really makes a fellow feel special."
Hermione leaned forward with the frown she always wore before delivering comprehensive lectures on topics everyone else wanted to ignore. "Harry, you do realize that international magical travel isn't remotely simple? The Magical Congress of the United States of America operates under completely different jurisdictional authority than the International Confederation of Wizards. No established Floo connections, no authorized international Portkey services, no diplomatic protocols for civilian travel. It's essentially magical isolationism enforced by bureaucratic nightmare."
"Which means," Arthur added with the weary sigh of someone who'd spent decades battling Ministry paperwork, "that getting proper magical authorization could take months. Possibly years, depending on how many departments decide they need to be involved."
"So we don't bother with magical authorization," Harry said with a casual shrug. "We go the Muggle route. Commercial airline tickets, passports, airport security, questionable airplane food. A perfectly normal holiday with absolutely no magic involved whatsoever."
Ron perked up. "Wait, commercial? You mean first-class? Leg room? Free snacks? Maybe even steak?"
"Could be expensive," Hermione began automatically.
"Not to sound like a snob," Ron cut in, "but hasn't Harry got vaults of money lying around? I'm pretty sure he's richer than Malfoy now."
Harry froze. "Wait, what? Since when am I richer than Malfoy?"
Hermione and Ron exchanged looks. Bill cleared his throat, very deliberately.
"Harry," Bill said, voice calm but carrying that curse-breaker edge, "when you disappeared, Gringotts wanted to declare your vault forfeit. Goblin law, abandoned assets. I… negotiated."
"Negotiated?" Harry repeated warily.
"With great skill," Bill said smoothly. "They saw reason. Eventually."
Hermione coughed. "By 'saw reason,' he means he spent three days in the under-vault chambers arguing case law in Gobbledegook while fending off hexes."
Bill's lips twitched. "Semantics. Point is, they not only preserved your vaults—they expanded them."
Harry blinked. "Expanded. How?"
"Potter vault's been growing untouched for seventeen years," Bill said. "Black vault was far larger than Sirius ever admitted. And then there's the Ministry reward."
"Reward?"
"Order of Merlin, First Class," Ron said proudly. "Comes with a pile of gold. Retroactive back pay for saving the world more times than they can count."
Harry rubbed his temple. "How much money are we talking?"
Hermione checked the parchment she'd brought. "Enough to buy a small country. With decent climate."
Harry deadpanned. "I don't want a country."
"Good," Arthur said cheerfully. "The paperwork would be dreadful."
The table burst into laughter, only for George's voice to cut through, soft but sharp. "Could be worse, Harry. You could be broke, powerless, and alone."
The laughter faded, the weight of Fred's absence pulling the air heavy.
Harry met George's eyes, voice steady. "You're right. I'll take cosmic power, vaults of gold, and a godson who thinks neon hair is a lifestyle choice. That's manageable."
Ginny tilted her head. "You've never actually met him, have you? Teddy."
Harry's smile softened. "No. But I will. First impressions count, right?"
"Don't worry," Ginny said dryly. "Babies think glowing eyes are normal. He'll probably think it's a party trick."
Harry chuckled. "That's… oddly comforting."
Molly, who'd been unusually quiet, finally set down her wand and fixed Harry with her patented no-nonsense stare. "Harry, dear. You're planning to drag Ron and Hermione along?"
"If they want to come," Harry said lightly. "It's always good to have a responsible adult on hand. Which usually means Hermione."
Hermione huffed, but she didn't argue. "We wouldn't miss it."
"And I want to meet your alien cousin," Ron added. "See if he's as good at finding trouble in empty rooms as you are."
"Right," Harry said, clapping his hands together. "First-class tickets to Kansas. Three of them. After I meet my godson and explain why his new guardian occasionally glows like a radioactive lightbulb."
Arthur chuckled. "Sounds like an adventure."
"Sounds like my life," Harry corrected. "Equal parts terrifying and ridiculous."
"Sounds like you," George muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching.
---
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