Charlie's room hadn't changed much since he'd left for Romania—dragon scales still decorated the walls like trophies of successful negotiations with temperamental fire-breathers, faded Quidditch posters covered every available surface with the devotion of someone who'd never quite outgrown his Hogwarts obsessions, and everything smelled faintly of smoke, adventure, and the particular brand of reckless courage that seemed to run in Weasley DNA like a dominant gene.
The wardrobe stood open, revealing clothes that had been abandoned when their owner decided that wrestling dragons for a living was more appealing than pursuing any sensible career that didn't involve the constant possibility of being roasted alive by irritated magical creatures. It was, Harry reflected, a very Charlie way to approach life choices.
Harry pulled off his alien superhero ensemble with the kind of relief that came from removing armor that was simultaneously magnificent and completely inappropriate for casual social calls. The suit was everything he could have asked for—sleek, protective, intimidating enough to make Death Eaters reconsider their life choices, and designed with the sort of cosmic engineering that made wizarding tailoring look quaint by comparison. But it wasn't exactly subtle, and he needed something that wouldn't make Andromeda Tonks assume he'd gone completely off his head and developed a superhero complex to match his existing hero complex.
The problem, he discovered as he examined Charlie's leftover wardrobe with growing bewilderment, was that Charlie Weasley had apparently never owned a single article of clothing that wasn't made from the hide of something extremely dangerous and probably magical.
"Dragonhide boots, fair enough," Harry muttered to himself, pulling on the surprisingly comfortable footwear that felt like they could survive a direct confrontation with a volcano. "Dragonhide jacket, absolutely brilliant for protection and looking like you could wrestle a Hungarian Horntail before breakfast and still have energy left for elevenses."
He held up a pair of trousers with the bemused expression of someone trying to solve an unnecessary puzzle that had been designed by someone with far too much time and an unhealthy obsession with over-engineering simple solutions.
"But dragonhide trousers?" Harry continued his one-sided conversation with Charlie's fashion choices. "Who needs that level of protection for their legs? What exactly was Charlie doing in Romania that required armored trousers? Was he planning to tap-dance on a dragon's back? Take up extreme dragon wrestling as a hobby? Use his legs as bait in some sort of elaborate dragon-taming scheme that only makes sense after several pints of butterbeer and a complete disregard for personal safety?"
The answer, Harry suspected with the fond exasperation that came from years of friendship with various Weasleys, was probably something characteristically Weasley—dangerous, well-intentioned, likely to result in spectacular property damage, and guaranteed to produce excellent stories that would be told over dinner for years to come with increasingly dramatic embellishments.
He was halfway through the complex process of figuring out how dragonhide trousers were supposed to work—they appeared to have more buckles than a medieval torture device and twice as many straps—when the door opened and closed with the quiet efficiency of someone who'd had plenty of practice sneaking around the Burrow undetected during years of avoiding chores, parental lectures, and older brothers with questionable ideas about pranks.
Harry turned, still shirtless and holding Charlie's bewildering legwear like it might contain instructions in a language he didn't speak, to find Ginny standing with her back against the closed door. Her eyes went immediately to his transformed torso, and her expression shifted through several very distinct stages—surprise at the changes, appreciation for the aesthetic improvements, and something that looked distinctly predatory in a way that made his enhanced nervous system take immediate and very interested notice.
"Bloody hell, Harry," she said with the kind of frank appreciation that could make lesser men blush and stronger men feel like they'd just won something important. Her gaze traveled across his chest and shoulders with the thoroughness of a professional Quidditch scout evaluating promising new talent. "I mean, I knew you'd filled out since the war ended, but this is..." She gestured vaguely at his torso with the air of someone trying to find words for something that exceeded her expectations by a considerable margin. "This is bloody artwork. Did the alien upgrade package come with a personal trainer and a nutritionist, or is this just what happens when your DNA gets rewritten by cosmic forces with excellent taste in human physiology?"
Harry grinned with the kind of confidence that came from knowing he looked good and having the enhanced senses to detect exactly how good Ginny thought he looked. He held up Charlie's ridiculous protective trousers with mock despair.
"Enhanced metabolism, optimized muscle development, improved bone density, and apparently the universe's considered opinion that I needed better abs," he said with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather rather than cosmic genetic modification. "Though right now I'm more concerned with working out how to wear your brother's absolutely ridiculous protective legwear without looking like I'm cosplaying as a particularly fashion-conscious medieval knight who's never heard of the concept 'proportional response to dragon-related threats.'"
Ginny pushed herself off the door with the kind of predatory grace that reminded Harry exactly why she'd been such a formidable Chaser—she moved like someone who was used to pursuing goals with single-minded determination and usually caught what she was chasing. She crossed the room with focused intent, her eyes never leaving his.
"I can help with that," she said, reaching for him with the same casual confidence she'd always had when they were together, the kind of easy intimacy that came from knowing someone well enough to skip the awkward stages of physical relationships.
But when she tried to pull him down for a kiss—the same move that had worked perfectly when he was seventeen, skinny, and closer to her height—she found herself stretching unsuccessfully toward someone who was now considerably taller and built like he could bench-press the entire Hogwarts castle without breaking a cosmic sweat.
"Well," she said with characteristic Weasley adaptability and the kind of practical problem-solving attitude that had gotten her through six older brothers and a war, "this is a new and interesting problem. One might even call it a pleasant problem, but definitely a problem requiring creative solutions."
Harry solved it by dropping Charlie's bewildering trousers and lifting Ginny by her waist, his enhanced strength making her weight so negligible he could probably hold her there all day without strain. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck with practiced ease, like they'd never stopped being together, like the months apart had been nothing more than an extended Quidditch practice that had finally ended.
When their lips met, it was like coming home to something that had been missing for far too long—familiar and new at the same time, comfortable and exciting, with an edge of hunger that spoke to months of separation and the particular intensity that came with knowing exactly how good they were together.
"Much better," she murmured against his mouth, her fingers threading through his hair with the kind of possessive satisfaction that made his enhanced nervous system sing with approval. "Though I have to say, the height difference is going to require some creative problem-solving in the future. Unless you plan to carry me around like this permanently, which I wouldn't necessarily object to, but might make certain daily activities somewhat impractical."
"I've always been exceptionally good at creative problem-solving," Harry pointed out between kisses, his hands settling on her waist with careful precision—he was still learning to control his enhanced strength, and the last thing he wanted was to accidentally bruise someone he cared about. "Comes with the territory of being Harry Potter. Impossible situations, innovative solutions, occasional dramatic flair, and a disturbing tendency to solve problems through methods that give responsible adults nightmares."
"Mmm," Ginny agreed, kissing him again with the kind of thoroughness that suggested she'd been thinking about this for considerably longer than the past few minutes. Her lips were soft and warm and tasted like home and possibility and everything he'd been missing during his cosmic education abroad. "Speaking of innovative solutions and dramatic flair—what exactly is the plan here, Harry? For us, I mean. Because I've got to say, the mysterious cosmic superhero look is working for you in ways that should probably be illegal, but I'm not entirely sure where that leaves me in the grand scheme of your shiny new destiny."
Harry paused, looking at her with the kind of serious attention that had always made her feel like the most important person in any room, any universe, any cosmic scheme involving alien superpowers and reality-bending responsibilities.
"Honestly?" he said, his voice carrying the particular combination of vulnerability and determination that she'd always found irresistible. "I was hoping you'd tell me. Because I know I hurt you when I ended things before the war really finished. I know disappearing for a month without so much as a 'gone to space, back soon, don't wait up' didn't exactly help matters. And I know showing up as some sort of alien-wizard hybrid with reality-editing privileges and a tendency to accidentally break physics when I get emotional doesn't make me any easier to be with."
Ginny's smile was sharp and warm and entirely, perfectly Ginny—the kind of expression that had gotten her through growing up with six older brothers, a war, and the particular challenges that came with falling in love with Harry Potter.
"You think I care about easy, Harry Potter?" she said with the kind of fierce certainty that had made her a formidable opponent on the Quidditch pitch and an even more formidable ally in everything else. "I'm a Weasley. Easy is boring. Easy doesn't win Quidditch matches against teams with better equipment and more money. Easy doesn't survive wars against dark wizards with superiority complexes and poor personal hygiene. Easy certainly doesn't fall in love with boys who keep saving the world and looking devastatingly attractive while doing it."
"So you're saying the cosmic enhancement package meets with your approval?" Harry asked with that confident grin that somehow managed to be both cocky and self-deprecating, the expression that had gotten him through years of being famous for things he'd rather forget and helped him charm his way out of more trouble than any reasonable person should have survived.
"I'm saying," Ginny replied, punctuating her words with kisses along his jawline that made his enhanced senses buzz with pleasure, "that you've always been worth waiting for. Even when you were a skinny seventeen-year-old with a hero complex, terrible hair, and a disturbing tendency to throw yourself into mortal peril without proper planning. Now you're a gorgeous alien wizard with a hero complex, hair that defies physics in aesthetically pleasing ways, and apparently the same disturbing tendency to throw yourself into mortal peril, except now you're qualified to handle cosmic-level mortal peril. The fundamentals haven't changed."
Harry's expression softened into something warm and genuine, the look that appeared when his cosmic confidence met his very human need for connection and understanding.
"I missed you," he said with quiet honesty. "More than I probably should have, considering I was busy learning not to accidentally break reality every time I got emotional about missing you, which created something of a feedback loop that my cosmic tutor found both amusing and educationally valuable."
"You should have missed me," Ginny said with characteristic bluntness and the kind of straightforward emotional honesty that had always been one of her most attractive qualities. "And I missed you too, even when I was furious with you for disappearing without a word and leaving me to explain to my entire family why Harry Potter had apparently vanished into thin air right when things were getting good between us again."
They kissed again, slower this time, with the kind of careful attention that acknowledged time lost and the possibility of time ahead. It was the kind of kiss that spoke to months of separation, the particular intensity of reunion, and the knowledge that they were both different people than they'd been when he left—older, more experienced, carrying new responsibilities and new capabilities, but still fundamentally themselves underneath all the changes.
"So about Kansas," Ginny said when they broke apart, her tone shifting to something more businesslike though she made no move to unwrap her legs from his waist. "I want to come with you."
Harry raised an eyebrow with the expression of someone who'd expected this conversation and had been preparing his arguments accordingly. "Gin, you've got a year of Hogwarts left. N.E.W.T.s, Quidditch, actual education with proper professors who know things I don't and can teach you magical theory I haven't accidentally acquired through cosmic downloads."
Ginny's laugh was pure wickedness, the sound that had always meant she was about to make an argument he hadn't considered and probably couldn't refute. "Harry, love, you didn't attend your seventh year either. You were off gallivanting around the countryside with Ron and Hermione, hunting Horcruxes and having traumatic camping experiences. And you turned out fine. Better than fine, actually." Her hands traced across his shoulders with obvious appreciation for the improvements. "Besides, Hermione knows more about magical theory than half the Hogwarts faculty, and now you've apparently got cosmic wisdom downloaded directly into that handsome head of yours. Between the two of you, I could get a better education than anything McGonagall's offering, and that's saying something considering McGonagall is brilliant."
Harry paused, considering this with the kind of serious thought he gave to tactical planning and major life decisions. "You know, that's actually a fair point. And you could take your N.E.W.T.s independently when you're ready. The Ministry offers those for special circumstances, and I think they'd be willing to make accommodations for unusual educational experiences."
"Exactly," Ginny said with satisfaction, like someone who'd just won a particularly challenging argument through superior logic and preparation. "Special circumstances. I think 'boyfriend became alien superhero with reality-editing capabilities and needs to travel internationally to help cosmic farm boys learn proper superhero etiquette' qualifies as special circumstances by anyone's standards."
"Plus," Harry said thoughtfully, his strategic mind already working through the implications, "I should probably talk to Ron and Hermione about N.E.W.T.s anyway. They never finished their seventh year either, and if we're going to be gallivanting around America helping cosmic farm boys learn to use their superpowers responsibly without accidentally destroying major agricultural centers, we should probably all have proper educational qualifications. Makes us look more credible when we inevitably have to explain ourselves to confused government officials who want to know why British teenagers are giving advice about alien superpowers."
Ginny grinned with the expression of someone who'd just watched her boyfriend arrive at exactly the conclusion she'd been steering him toward. "See? Practical thinking. Strategic planning. Long-term consideration of political implications. This is why I should come along. Voice of reason, excellent strategic planning capabilities, extensive experience managing Potter sass in high-stress situations, and I promise to help keep you from accidentally offending world leaders with inappropriate sarcasm about American agricultural practices or cosmic parenting techniques."
"That's a tall order," Harry warned with mock seriousness. "I've got a lot of inappropriate sarcasm. Cosmic levels of inappropriate sarcasm. The kind of sarcasm that could probably be classified as a weapon of mass destruction in the wrong circumstances."
"I'm up to the challenge," Ginny assured him with the confidence of someone who'd spent years dealing with Weasley family dynamics and considered herself well-prepared for any level of sass-related crisis management. "I've had years of practice managing Potter sass in all its various forms. I'm practically a professional at this point. I could probably teach courses on it."
Harry kissed her again, thoroughly and with the kind of focused attention that suggested he was memorizing the moment for future reference when he needed to remember exactly why cosmic superpowers were worth having if they came with moments like this. When they broke apart, both slightly breathless and looking at each other with the kind of satisfied expression that came with successful problem-solving and excellent kissing, he set her down carefully.
"Right then," he said, reaching for Charlie's abandoned dragonhide trousers with renewed determination. "Help me work out how to wear your brother's absolutely ridiculous protective legwear without looking like I've never seen trousers before, and then we'll go introduce me to my godson so I can practice being a responsible adult before we attempt international superhero consulting. After that, we can start planning our educational trip to Kansas to meet my cosmic cousin and hopefully avoid any diplomatic incidents involving inappropriate comments about American farming techniques or the relative merits of alien versus wizarding approaches to superhero training."
Ginny picked up the trousers and examined them with the critical eye of someone who'd grown up with six older brothers and their questionable fashion choices, each of whom had developed their own unique approach to protective gear based on their chosen profession and personal tolerance for risk.
"These aren't that complicated, Harry," she said with the air of someone solving a familiar puzzle. "You just... wait, why are there seventeen different buckles? And what's this strap supposed to do? Charlie, what exactly were you doing in Romania that required this much leg armor? Were you planning to use your legs as dragon bait? Take up professional dragon wrestling? Develop some sort of elaborate dragon-related dance that required military-grade protective gear?"
"That's exactly what I was wondering," Harry said with fond exasperation for the absent Charlie and his inexplicable fashion choices. "Though knowing Charlie, it probably made perfect sense at the time and makes excellent dinner conversation afterward, complete with dramatic reenactments and increasingly embellished details about the dragons involved."
"Fair point," Ginny agreed, beginning the complex process of helping Harry into what appeared to be military-grade protective trousers designed by someone who'd never heard of the concept 'overkill' and believed that seventeen buckles were better than sixteen. "Charlie's always been one for practical solutions that happen to be completely over-engineered. Remember his dragon-proof gardening gloves? They could have stopped a Killing Curse, but he used them to repot plants."
"I'm starting to think Charlie might have commitment issues when it comes to appropriate levels of protection," Harry observed as Ginny worked her way through the buckle system with the methodical patience of someone solving a particularly stubborn puzzle. "Either that, or Romanian dragons are significantly more dangerous than anyone's been telling us."
"Both things can be true," Ginny pointed out reasonably. "Charlie's always been cautious about safety, and Romanian dragons have a reputation for being particularly creative about finding ways to injure dragon handlers who aren't properly prepared for all possible contingencies."
"Speaking of being properly prepared," Harry said as she worked on what appeared to be a buckle designed to protect against very specific types of dragon-related leg injuries, "are you sure you want to come to Kansas? I mean, really sure? Because this isn't going to be a holiday. We're talking about helping someone learn to control powers that could accidentally level cities if he sneezes wrong. There's going to be training, probably some sort of cosmic responsibility lecture series, and knowing my luck, at least one situation where we have to save the world from something that shouldn't exist but does anyway."
Ginny looked up from the buckle she was working on with the kind of patient expression she usually reserved for explaining obvious things to people who should have figured them out already.
"Harry," she said with the tone of someone addressing a particularly slow student, "I spent my sixth year at Hogwarts fighting a war. I've been tortured by Death Eaters, possessed by a piece of Voldemort's soul, and I've watched you throw yourself into mortal peril more times than I can count. You think I'm worried about helping a farm boy learn not to accidentally destroy agricultural equipment with his cosmic superpowers?"
"When you put it like that," Harry admitted, "it does sound rather tame by comparison."
"Exactly," Ginny said with satisfaction, moving on to the next buckle in the sequence. "Besides, someone needs to keep you from developing an ego about being the experienced superhero in the relationship. Can't have you getting a big head about your cosmic education and forgetting that you still need help putting on complicated trousers."
"My ego is perfectly manageable, thank you very much," Harry protested with mock indignation. "I've spent years having my ego regularly adjusted by various friends, family members, and hostile magical creatures. It's practically ego-proof at this point."
"Your ego," Ginny said with the kind of fond exasperation that came from years of knowing him, "is many things, but manageable isn't one of them. You once tried to take on a basilisk with a sword and no backup plan."
"That worked out fine," Harry pointed out reasonably.
"You almost died," Ginny reminded him.
"But I didn't," Harry countered. "And I saved you, which was the important part."
"See?" Ginny said triumphantly, finally working out the last buckle and stepping back to admire her handiwork. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You need constant supervision to prevent you from developing delusions of invincibility. Even cosmic superpowers aren't going to change that fundamental aspect of your personality."
Harry looked down at himself, now properly dressed in Charlie's ridiculously over-engineered protective wear, and had to admit it was surprisingly comfortable once you got past the initial confusion about which buckle went where.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "these are actually rather nice once you figure out how they work. Very comfortable. Excellent protection. I can see why Charlie was so fond of them."
"Don't get any ideas," Ginny warned. "I'm not helping you develop your own collection of unnecessarily complicated protective wear. The cosmic armor is quite enough, thank you."
"But think of the possibilities," Harry said with the kind of enthusiasm that usually meant he was about to suggest something that would give responsible adults nightmares. "Dragon-proof everything. We could be the best-dressed superhero consulting team in history."
"We could also look like we're cosplaying as medieval knights with anxiety disorders," Ginny pointed out. "There's a fine line between properly prepared and ridiculously over-prepared, and Charlie's wardrobe is definitely on the ridiculous side of that line."
"Fair enough," Harry conceded. "Though I reserve the right to acquire sensible protective gear if we're going to be doing this professionally. I've learned to appreciate the value of not being injured by things that could easily be prevented with proper equipment."
"Sensible protective gear, yes," Ginny agreed. "Seventeen-buckle trousers designed to withstand dragon wrestling, no."
"Deal," Harry said, offering her his hand with a grin. "Ready to go meet my godson and then start planning our international superhero consulting adventure?"
"International superhero consulting adventure?" Ginny repeated with amusement. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"I'm open to suggestions," Harry said. "Though I reserve the right to veto anything that makes us sound like we're running a summer camp for cosmically enhanced teenagers."
"Camp Superhero does have a certain ring to it," Ginny mused with deliberate mischief.
"Absolutely not," Harry said firmly. "We are not calling it Camp Superhero."
"Fine," Ginny said with mock disappointment. "But I'm keeping that as a backup option for if we need to explain ourselves to particularly dense government officials."
"I can live with that," Harry agreed, pulling her close for another kiss. "As long as you can live with the fact that we're probably going to end up in situations that are equal parts terrifying and completely ridiculous."
"Harry," Ginny said with a smile that was pure wickedness and complete confidence, "I wouldn't have it any other way. Besides, someone needs to be there to document your inevitable moments of cosmic heroic stupidity for posterity."
"That's very thoughtful of you," Harry said solemnly. "Future generations will thank you for your service to historical accuracy."
"Future generations will thank me for keeping you alive long enough to be historically significant," Ginny corrected. "Which, given your track record and new cosmic capabilities, is going to be a full-time job."
Harry's grin was pure happiness and the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly where he belonged and who belonged with him.
"I can think of worse full-time jobs," he said.
"You'd better not be able to," Ginny replied with mock severity. "Because if you can, I'll hex you into next week, alien superpowers or not."
"Duly noted," Harry said solemnly. "No imagining better fates than being supervised by Ginny Weasley for the rest of my cosmically enhanced life."
"Good," she said with satisfaction, straightening his borrowed shirt and checking that all of Charlie's ridiculous buckles were properly secured. "Now let's go introduce you to baby Teddy, and then we can start planning our educational tour of American agricultural superhero training. I have a feeling this is going to be the adventure of a lifetime."
"One of many, I hope," Harry said, offering her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy and cosmic-level charm.
"Oh, definitely," Ginny agreed, taking his arm with the satisfied expression of someone who'd just committed to the best possible version of her future. "After all, we've got the rest of our lives to perfect our superhero consulting technique."
"And our creative problem-solving skills," Harry added with a meaningful look that made her laugh.
"Especially those," she agreed. "Though I think we're off to an excellent start."
As they left Charlie's dragon scale room together, Harry reflected that his life had definitely become stranger than fiction, but it was his life, surrounded by people who mattered, facing adventures that were probably going to be equal parts terrifying and brilliant.
He could definitely live with strange, especially when strange came with this much possibility and this much excellent company.
—
Harry and Ginny made their way down the Burrow's crooked corridor with the practiced stealth of people who'd spent years navigating the house's particular acoustic properties—which floorboards creaked, which doors squeaked, and exactly how much noise you could make before Molly's maternal radar detected unauthorized movement and demanded explanations that nobody wanted to give.
"Right," Harry said quietly, his enhanced hearing already cataloguing the sounds of the house around them with efficiency that was both useful and occasionally overwhelming. "Ron's probably in his room sulking about losing the eating contest. Hermione's likely in the sitting room with a book, pretending she's not worried about our travel plans while simultaneously researching international magical law, American customs regulations, and the political implications of unsanctioned superhero activity."
Ginny raised an eyebrow with the expression of someone who knew her family's behavioral patterns better than anyone should reasonably need to. "You think Hermione's not with Ron?"
"Why would Hermione be with Ron?" Harry asked with the innocent confusion of someone who'd spent months in cosmic education abroad and had apparently missed several important developments in his friends' relationship status.
Ginny gave him a look that could have powered the Ministry's lift system for a week. "Harry, you magnificent alien wizard with the observational skills of a particularly unobservant brick—they've been together since the Battle of Hogwarts. Properly together. As in, together together."
Harry stopped walking so abruptly that his enhanced reflexes had to engage to prevent him from putting a Harry-Potter-shaped hole in the corridor wall. "Together together? As in... romantically together? Ron and Hermione? Our Ron and Hermione? The same Ron and Hermione who've spent seven years bickering about everything from homework assignments to proper pronunciation of magical theory terminology?"
"The very same," Ginny confirmed with amusement that suggested she was thoroughly enjoying his shock. "Turns out that all that arguing was actually unresolved romantic tension, and nearly dying in a war gives people perspective about what's actually important. Who would have thought?"
Harry ran both hands through his cosmically enhanced hair with the expression of someone trying to process information that didn't fit with his established understanding of reality. "But they argue about everything. Everything, Ginny. They can't agree on the proper way to butter toast or the optimal temperature for bath water or whether Quidditch statistics are more accurately analyzed through mathematical modeling or intuitive assessment of team dynamics."
"And now they argue about all those things while snogging afterward," Ginny said with the cheerful brutality that came from growing up with six older brothers and a comprehensive understanding of relationship dynamics. "Very romantic, really, in a completely mental sort of way that makes perfect sense if you know them well enough."
"I need a moment," Harry said faintly, leaning against the corridor wall with the expression of someone whose worldview had just been fundamentally reorganized without his permission. "My two best friends are... romantically involved. With each other. This is... this is going to make everything so complicated."
"Why complicated?" Ginny asked with genuine curiosity. "They're happy, you're happy for them, everyone's happy. Very straightforward, really."
Harry gave her a look that suggested she'd missed something fundamental about the social dynamics of their friend group. "Ginny, I've spent seven years being the diplomatic buffer between their arguments. Seven years of 'Harry, tell Hermione that her study schedule is unreasonable' and 'Harry, please explain to Ron why his approach to homework is academically negligent.' Now they're together, which means I'm going to have to navigate their relationship arguments, their romantic disagreements, and probably hear more about their personal lives than any reasonable friend should be expected to tolerate."
"Oh," Ginny said with dawning understanding and what looked suspiciously like sympathy. "Right. You're going to be the third wheel in your own friend group."
"Exactly," Harry said with the weary tone of someone who'd already foreseen multiple uncomfortable social situations involving couples dynamics and awkward conversations about topics he'd really rather not discuss with people he considered family. "This is going to be a disaster. An absolute disaster. I can already imagine the conversations. 'Harry, don't you think Ron should be more considerate about my need for intellectual stimulation?' and 'Harry, could you please tell Hermione that relationships require compromise and not everything needs to be analyzed through academic frameworks?'"
Ginny patted his arm with mock sympathy. "Poor cosmic superhero, afraid of a little relationship drama. You can face down Dark Lords and alien dimensions, but the thought of your best friends being happy together makes you panic."
"I'm not panicking," Harry protested. "I'm strategically concerned about the social ramifications of changed group dynamics and the potential for uncomfortable personal revelations that I'm not emotionally prepared to handle."
"You're panicking," Ginny said with fond certainty. "It's rather sweet, actually. Very human response to change, even when the change is objectively good for everyone involved."
They had reached Ron's door, which was closed—unusual for Ron, who generally left his door open unless he was either sleeping, changing clothes, or engaged in some activity that required privacy for reasons that didn't bear too much examination.
Harry raised his hand to knock, then paused with the expression of someone who'd just realized they might be about to interrupt something they really didn't want to witness.
"Maybe we should come back later," he suggested hopefully. "Give them some privacy. Let them have their... their couple time without intrusion from friends who might accidentally see things that can't be unseen."
"Don't be ridiculous," Ginny said with the practical attitude of someone who'd grown up in a house with seven children and understood that privacy was a luxury rather than a guarantee. "It's the middle of the afternoon. They're probably just talking. Planning. Maybe looking at maps or discussing travel logistics. Very innocent, very platonic activities that happen to require a closed door for concentration purposes."
Harry's enhanced hearing was already picking up sounds from beyond the door that suggested the activities inside were significantly less platonic than map consultation, but he really didn't want to share this information with Ginny or acknowledge what his superhuman senses were telling him about his best friends' afternoon activities.
"Right," he said weakly. "Innocent planning activities. Map consultation. Very logical explanation."
Ginny knocked briskly on the door with the confidence of someone who'd never been traumatized by accidentally witnessing romantic activities involving people she considered siblings. "Ron? Hermione? Harry wants to talk about the Kansas trip. Are you decent?"
There was a moment of suspicious silence, followed by muffled voices that might have been hasty conversation or might have been the sound of people scrambling to locate clothing that had been discarded in the interests of better access to various anatomical features that Harry really, really didn't want to think about.
"Just a minute!" Hermione's voice called out, sounding slightly breathless and definitely flustered.
"Coming!" Ron added, which under different circumstances might have been an innocent statement but given the context made Harry want to hit something, preferably something that would make a loud enough noise to drown out any further unfortunate word choices.
"This is a mistake," Harry muttered. "This is definitely a mistake. We should go downstairs, have some tea, discuss the weather, maybe debate the relative merits of different gardening techniques. Anything other than this."
"You're being ridiculous," Ginny said, though her voice carried a note of uncertainty that suggested she was beginning to suspect they might be interrupting something more significant than map consultation.
The door opened to reveal Ron, whose hair was disheveled in ways that had nothing to do with sleep and whose shirt was inside-out in a manner that suggested it had been removed and replaced under time pressure and less-than-optimal lighting conditions. His face was flushed, his lips looked suspiciously well-kissed, and his expression carried the particular mixture of satisfaction and mild panic that came from being interrupted during activities that were perfectly natural but not necessarily suitable for public consumption.
"Harry!" Ron said with forced cheer that didn't quite mask the underlying tone of oh God please don't ask questions. "Brilliant timing, mate. We were just... discussing things. Travel plans. Very important travel plans that required extensive consultation and close collaboration."
Behind him, Hermione appeared in the doorway wearing Ron's Quidditch jersey—which was approximately three sizes too large for her and clearly not what she'd been wearing at dinner—and absolutely nothing else that Harry could detect through his enhanced vision, which was providing him with far more information about his best friend's romantic activities than any reasonable person should be forced to process.
Her hair was a riot of curls that suggested recent and enthusiastic physical activity, her cheeks were flushed with what was definitely not academic excitement, and when she moved to step behind Ron for better coverage, Harry caught a glimpse of the edge of her bra—practical, utilitarian, completely unremarkable, and absolutely the last thing in the universe he wanted to know about.
Harry's enhanced senses immediately provided him with detailed analysis of the situation—elevated heart rates consistent with recent physical exertion, flushed skin indicating increased blood flow, the distinct scent patterns associated with... activities he absolutely did not want to think about in connection with people he considered family.
"Oh God," Harry said faintly, his voice carrying the tone of someone who'd just witnessed something that couldn't be unseen, unheard, or forgotten no matter how much he wanted to scrub it from his memory with aggressive application of Obliviate charms. "Oh God, oh God, I can see... I can hear... my enhanced senses are providing me with information I really, really don't want to have."
He closed his eyes tightly and turned away from the door with the desperation of someone trying to escape from a particularly vivid nightmare. "Why did I have to develop superhuman perception? Why couldn't I have just gotten super strength and left it at that? Normal human senses would have been perfectly adequate for this situation. More than adequate. Blissfully inadequate, really."
Ginny looked between Harry's obvious distress and her brother's guilty expression with dawning understanding and what looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter. "Oh. Oh, I see. Right then. Perhaps we should have that conversation later. Much later. After everyone's had a chance to... finish their planning activities."
"We weren't... we were just..." Hermione began, then seemed to realize that her current state of dress made any protestation of innocence completely unconvincing. "Could you possibly give us a few minutes to... conclude our discussion?"
"Please," Ron added with heartfelt sincerity. "Five minutes. Ten at most. Just enough time to... wrap up our strategic consultation and make ourselves presentable for family conversation."
Harry was already backing away from the door with his eyes still tightly closed and his hands over his ears, though his enhanced hearing meant he could still detect every word with crystal clarity. "I'm going downstairs. I'm going to sit in the kitchen and stare at something safe and non-traumatizing. Garden gnomes, perhaps. Nice, simple, politically motivated garden gnomes who don't engage in romantic activities that make my cosmic consciousness want to shut down in self-defense."
"Harry," Hermione called after him, her voice carrying genuine mortification mixed with determination to address the situation with characteristic directness. "This isn't... we're consenting adults engaged in a perfectly natural romantic relationship. There's nothing traumatizing about... about..."
"About seeing you in Ron's jersey and nothing else?" Harry called back without turning around. "About my enhanced senses providing me with detailed information about activities I never, ever wanted to know about? About realizing that my two best friends, who I think of as siblings, are... are..."
"Are happy together?" Ginny supplied helpfully, following Harry down the corridor with obvious amusement at his cosmic-level discomfort with ordinary human relationship dynamics.
"Are providing my supernatural senses with input I'm going to need therapy to forget," Harry corrected with the despair of someone whose cosmic education had apparently failed to include a module on dealing with accidentally witnessing his friends' romantic lives. "I can hear heartbeats, Ginny. I can detect pheromone levels. I can analyze stress patterns and energy signatures. This is not information I want to have about Ron and Hermione."
From behind Ron's hastily closed door came the sound of urgent whispered conversation and what might have been renewed romantic activity, though Harry was trying very hard not to analyze the audio signature too carefully.
"Kitchen," Harry said firmly, his cosmic confidence completely undermined by ordinary human awkwardness. "Tea. Safe conversation about weather patterns and agricultural techniques. Topics that don't involve my best friends' romantic lives and definitely don't require superhuman sensory analysis."
"They're happy, Harry," Ginny said gently, taking his arm as they made their way downstairs. "Really, genuinely happy. Isn't that worth a little social awkwardness?"
Harry sighed with the resignation of someone accepting an uncomfortable truth. "Of course it is. I want them to be happy. I want them to have everything they deserve, including a healthy romantic relationship with someone who understands them and appreciates them and makes them feel loved and valued."
He paused at the bottom of the stairs, running his hands through his cosmically enhanced hair with frustration. "I just wish my alien upgrades had come with some sort of selective perception control. The ability to turn off enhanced senses when they're providing me with information about my friends' private lives that I really don't need to analyze in supernatural detail."
"That would be useful," Ginny agreed solemnly. "Very practical feature for superhero consulting work. Professional discretion through selective sensory engagement."
"Add it to the list of things I need to discuss with my cosmic education consultants," Harry said dryly. "Right between 'how not to accidentally break furniture during casual conversations' and 'appropriate social protocols for dealing with government officials who want to study your alien DNA for national security purposes.'"
"It's a very specialized curriculum," Ginny observed with mock seriousness. "Not many training programs cover both cosmic responsibility and domestic relationship management."
"No," Harry agreed, settling into a kitchen chair with the careful precision of someone still calibrating his enhanced strength around delicate furniture. "Though I suspect that's going to be a recurring theme in my life. Learning to balance cosmic responsibilities with very human concerns about privacy, social dynamics, and the eternal challenge of maintaining appropriate boundaries between friendship and accidentally becoming an unwilling expert on everyone's personal lives through supernatural sensory analysis."
Ginny kissed his temple with the kind of affection that suggested she found his social awkwardness endearing rather than concerning. "Don't worry, love. I'm sure you'll figure out the balance. And if not, at least you'll have excellent stories to tell about the challenges of being a cosmic superhero with enhanced senses and human friends who insist on having romantic relationships in your general vicinity."
Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. "I'm never going to be able to look at them the same way again."
"Sure you will," Ginny said with confidence. "You'll adjust. And eventually, you'll be happy for them without feeling like you need to flee the country every time they look at each other with romantic intent."
"Eventually," Harry agreed weakly. "Though I think I'm going to need some time to develop appropriate coping strategies for dealing with enhanced sensory input regarding my friends' personal lives."
"That's what the Kansas trip is for," Ginny pointed out practically. "Educational experience in managing superhuman abilities in social contexts. Very relevant to your professional development as a cosmic consultant."
"Right," Harry said, straightening up with renewed determination. "Professional development. Learning experience. Character building through uncomfortable social situations involving supernatural senses and human relationship dynamics."
"Exactly," Ginny said with satisfaction. "See? You're already thinking like a superhero consultant. Everything is a learning opportunity."
"I'm not entirely sure that's comforting," Harry admitted.
"It's not meant to be comforting," Ginny replied cheerfully. "It's meant to be accurate. But don't worry—I'll be there to help you navigate the complex social implications of cosmic abilities and human relationships."
Harry smiled despite himself. "That's definitely comforting."
"Good," Ginny said, settling beside him with the satisfied expression of someone who'd successfully managed a crisis situation involving supernatural abilities and ordinary human awkwardness. "Now, shall we discuss travel plans that don't involve accidentally discovering what our friends do behind closed doors?"
"Please," Harry said with heartfelt gratitude. "Let's discuss anything else. Literally anything else."
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