Harry Potter stood in front of the mirror at Grimmauld Place, and honestly? He barely recognized the kid staring back at him. Gone was the walking skeleton who looked like he'd been auditioning for the role of "Tragic Orphan #3" in some depressing Victorian novel. This Harry had actual shoulders. Actual muscles. His face didn't scream "please send donations to help this poor child."
He'd shot up at least three inches in the past few weeks, which was probably Drakor's doing. The dragon had opinions about proper nutrition that mostly involved shoving chocolate down Harry's throat at regular intervals. Combined with Andromeda's militant approach to meal planning—she treated mealtimes like military operations—Harry now looked like he could survive a stiff breeze.
His hair was still doing that thing where it looked like he'd stuck his finger in an electrical socket, but now it seemed intentional. Like he was going for that "effortlessly tousled" look that celebrities probably paid stylists hundreds of galleons to achieve.
"I still can't get used to this," Harry muttered, turning his head side to side like he expected his reflection to start laughing at him. "I mean... I actually look like a normal kid. Not like I'm about to keel over from scurvy."
Drakor, who was currently masquerading as Harry's clothing—because Harry's life had officially entered the realm of "things that would make other people question reality"—gave a low rumble that managed to sound smug despite being produced by fabric.
"Correction, host," Drakor's voice echoed in Harry's mind with all the warmth of a university professor explaining why you'd failed his exam. "You look like a functional human being who won't snap in half if someone looks at you wrong. Proper nutrition and superior magical creature partnership will do that. You're welcome."
"Subtle as always," Harry said, rolling his eyes so hard he probably strained something. "You should write self-help books. 'How to Transform Your Pathetic Human: A Dragon's Guide to Not Being Useless.' I bet it would outsell Lockhart's entire collection."
"Now there's a thought," Drakor mused, and Harry could practically feel him preening. "Though my version would actually contain useful information. Unlike that peacock's literary disasters."
On Harry's bed, Draco Malfoy was sprawled like he owned the place—which, knowing Draco, he probably thought he did. His platinum hair was perfectly styled, his robes were immaculate, and he had that look on his face that suggested the universe owed him a personal apology for existing. Very Draco of him.
"That is completely unfair," Draco announced, gesturing at Harry like he was presenting evidence in a court case. His gray eyes held that particular brand of aristocratic indignation that only came with centuries of pure-blood breeding. "Do you have any idea how long I spend every morning coordinating the perfect ensemble? It's an art form, Potter. A delicate balance of color theory, fabric quality, and seasonal appropriateness."
He sat up straighter, warming to his theme. "I have seventeen different sets of dress robes, each tailored for specific social occasions. My morning routine involves careful consideration of weather patterns, potential social encounters, and the psychological impact of various color combinations. You?" He waved dismissively at Harry. "You just stand there while your dragon-suit does everything for you. It's like having a personal stylist, tailor, and fashion consultant all rolled into one supremely unfair package."
"Jealousy isn't a good look on you, Draco," Harry said with the kind of sweet smile that usually preceded someone getting hexed. "Though I have to admit, watching you have an existential crisis over clothing efficiency is pretty entertaining."
"I am not having an existential crisis," Draco sniffed, but his pale cheeks had gone slightly pink. "I'm expressing legitimate frustration with the inherent unfairness of magical creature partnerships that provide unearned advantages in personal grooming."
"Right," Harry drawled. "And here I thought you were just mad because my morning routine takes thirty seconds and yours takes longer than some Quidditch matches."
Drakor's mental laughter was like sandpaper wrapped in silk. "The Malfoy heir spends more time on hair products than most Aurors spend on combat training. I've seen him adjust his fringe seven times in a single mirror consultation."
"I heard that," Draco said, glaring at Harry's robes like they'd personally insulted his bloodline. "And for your information, proper grooming standards are a sign of civilized society. Some of us take pride in our appearance."
"Some of us," Drakor continued smoothly, "also take forty-seven minutes to achieve what they call 'effortless elegance.' I timed it yesterday."
Draco's mouth fell open. "You were timing me?"
"Knowledge is power," Drakor replied, sounding deeply satisfied. "Also, entertainment. Watching you apply hair serum with the precision of a potions master brewing Veritaserum was fascinating from an anthropological perspective."
"That's—you can't just—" Draco sputtered, his composure finally cracking. "That's an invasion of privacy!"
"You style your hair in a communal bathroom," Harry pointed out reasonably. "It's not exactly a state secret."
Susan Bones, who had been watching this exchange from her perch by the window with the kind of amused patience that suggested she'd already learned to manage boys acting like complete children, finally spoke up. Her brown hair caught the morning light, and her smile had that warm quality that made you feel like she was genuinely happy to see you, even if you were being an idiot.
"Honestly, Malfoy," she said, her voice carrying just enough teasing to take the sting out of it, "you're complaining about Harry having an efficient morning routine? I'm jealous. Do you know how long it takes me to decide between robes and Muggle clothes for different occasions? Yesterday I spent twenty minutes debating whether my blue dress robes were too formal for a casual lunch with Aunt Amelia."
She gestured toward Harry's reflection. "Having Drakor is like having a magical personal stylist who never judges your choices and always makes you look good. Plus, he provides running commentary that's actually entertaining instead of just telling you that 'this color brings out your eyes' or whatever normal stylists say."
"Normal stylists," Drakor observed, "lack my particular combination of fashion sense and creative insult generation. It's a rare skill set."
"See?" Susan grinned. "Entertaining and practical. The rest of us have to settle for regular clothes that don't talk back or offer unsolicited life advice."
"My life advice is always solicited," Drakor said with wounded dignity. "Harry just pretends he doesn't want to hear it."
"That's because your life advice usually involves setting things on fire," Harry pointed out.
"Fire solves most problems," Drakor replied reasonably. "Inefficient clothing? Fire. Annoying people? Fire. Cold rooms? Also fire. It's a very versatile solution."
Draco shook his head, looking like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment. "I can't believe I'm friends with someone whose clothes have opinions about arson."
"My opinions about arson are very well-informed," Drakor said. "Unlike some people's opinions about hair gel necessity."
"Oh, that's rich coming from something that doesn't even have hair," Draco shot back, finally finding his footing again. "At least my grooming routine doesn't involve threatening to eat people who disagree with my fashion choices."
"I don't threaten," Drakor corrected mildly. "I make promises. There's a distinction."
Harry caught Susan's eye in the mirror and saw her trying not to laugh. She had this way of looking at people that made you feel like she was seeing past all your nonsense to whatever was actually important underneath. Very Bones family of her—they were all good at reading people.
"You know what?" Harry said, grinning at his reflection. The kid in the mirror grinned back, and for once, Harry didn't hate what he saw. "I think I'm getting used to looking like someone who won't blow away in a strong wind. It's nice not resembling a poster child for 'Why You Should Report Child Neglect.'"
The room went quiet for a second, the kind of heavy silence that always followed when Harry accidentally referenced his charming childhood. He immediately wanted to take it back, but Draco just rolled his eyes with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned to handle Harry's occasional ventures into dark humor.
"Potter," Draco said, his voice carrying that particular blend of exasperation and affection that had become his default Harry-handling mode, "you do realize that making jokes about your tragic backstory doesn't actually make the rest of us feel less like hexing the Dursleys into next century, right?"
"I'm working on it," Harry said, then paused as something occurred to him. "Actually, no, I'm not. The jokes help me deal with it, and if they make you uncomfortable, you can always leave."
"Please," Draco scoffed. "I didn't survive ten years of Lucius Malfoy's parenting to be scared off by your coping mechanisms. I'm just saying, there are more efficient ways to process childhood trauma than sarcasm."
"Such as?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
"Expensive therapy," Draco said immediately. "Also revenge. Revenge is very therapeutic."
"Revenge is also illegal," Susan pointed out practically.
"Only if you get caught," Draco and Harry said in unison, then looked at each other in surprise.
"See?" Draco said, looking pleased. "We're more alike than you thought."
"That's terrifying," Harry said, but he was smiling.
Drakor made a sound that might have been approval. "Shared homicidal tendencies are an excellent foundation for friendship. Very efficient."
"Right," Susan said, standing up from the window seat with the kind of decisive movement that suggested she was taking charge before the conversation could descend further into discussions of legal revenge strategies. "Harry, you're nervous about today, aren't you?"
Harry's smile faltered just a little. The thing was, he was nervous. Absolutely terrified, actually. He'd never had friends before—real friends, not people who wanted something from him or were afraid of him or thought he was some kind of celebrity. These were kids his own age who'd written him letters because they wanted to be friends, not because he was famous or had survived something terrible or might be useful to their families politically.
What if he didn't know how to act normal? What if they took one look at him in person and decided they'd made a mistake? What if he said something wrong or did something weird or—
"A little," he said, trying for casual and probably missing by several miles. "I mean, this is my first time meeting friends in person. Ever. What if I mess it up? What if they decide they don't actually like me when we're face-to-face?"
The vulnerability in his voice made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. He hated admitting weakness, hated the way it made him feel small and young and scared. But these were his friends—hopefully—and if he was going to mess this up, he might as well start by being honest.
Draco's expression shifted into something softer, more genuine. "Potter," he said, and his voice had lost that aristocratic drawl that usually meant he was performing. "You've been writing to these people for a week. They know who you are. They like your personality. They specifically asked to meet you in person. That doesn't happen unless the friendship foundation is already solid."
He leaned forward, gray eyes serious. "Besides, you're overthinking this. Normal friendship isn't that complicated. You talk about things you're interested in, you ask questions about their experiences, you laugh at their jokes—even when they're not funny—and you enjoy spending time together. You've already proven you can do all of that through your letters."
Susan nodded, her expression warm with the kind of genuine supportive enthusiasm that made Harry understand why Amelia Bones had thought they'd get along. "And remember, they're probably just as nervous as you are. Meeting the famous Harry Potter for the first time is intimidating for normal ten-year-olds too, regardless of how friendly and genuine your letters have been."
She sat down on the edge of the bed, her brown eyes twinkling with something that might have been mischief. "The difference is, you have legitimate reasons to be nervous about normal social interaction, while they're nervous about living up to their own expectations for friendship with someone whose life includes things like 'defeated Dark Lord as a baby' and 'has a dragon for clothing.' You're all in the same boat, just from different angles."
Drakor's presence in Harry's mind felt distinctly approving. "The Bones girl demonstrates superior tactical thinking. Also, she's correct about the intimidation factor. Most humans find dragon partnerships unsettling on a conceptual level."
"Thanks," Harry said dryly. "Very reassuring."
"I aim to please," Drakor replied. "Also to terrify potential enemies into submission, but that's secondary to your current social objectives."
The door to Harry's room swung open with the kind of dramatic timing that suggested Sirius Black had been listening at the keyhole, waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance. Because that was exactly the kind of thing Sirius would do.
"Time to go, everyone," Sirius announced, filling the doorway with the kind of presence that made you understand why he'd been popular at Hogwarts and terrifying as an Auror. His storm-gray eyes took in the scene—Harry staring at himself in the mirror, Draco sprawled on the bed looking like a fashion magazine advertisement, Susan perched between them like a diplomatic mediator—and his grin went wolfish with paternal pride.
"Floo's ready," he continued, his voice carrying that low rumble that made everything sound either like a bedtime story or a battle cry, depending on his mood. "Your friends will be waiting at the designated meeting spot in fifteen minutes. Don't want to keep them wondering if the Boy Who Lived believes in punctuality."
Draco immediately straightened, his aristocratic training kicking in. "Fashionably late is the only proper way to arrive at any social engagement. It demonstrates that your time is valuable and that you're not desperate for their approval."
"No," Drakor cut in smoothly, "fashionably late is code for 'I spent too long obsessing over my appearance and lost track of time.' Which, in your case, would be accurate."
Draco's mouth dropped open in outrage. "Why is your dragon picking on me again?"
"Because it's fun," Harry said, not even trying to hide his grin. "Also because you make it so easy."
"Et tu, Potter?" Draco pressed his hand to his chest like Harry had delivered a mortal wound. "I thought we were friends."
"We are friends," Harry assured him. "That's why I feel comfortable mocking your grooming obsession. It's a sign of affection."
"Your signs of affection need work," Draco muttered, but he was fighting a smile.
Susan laughed, the sound bright and genuinely amused. "You two are going to be absolutely impossible at Hogwarts, aren't you?"
"We're already impossible," Harry pointed out reasonably. "Hogwarts just doesn't know it yet."
"Correction," Drakor added helpfully. "You will be legendarily impossible. I intend to help."
Sirius's grin widened until it was practically splitting his face. "Merlin help me, you sound just like James did at that age. Except James never had quite your talent for verbal warfare. Must be the dragon influence."
"James Potter couldn't handle me," Drakor said with smug satisfaction. "He would have tried to use me for Quidditch equipment or some other mundane purpose. I would have been forced to educate him about proper magical creature relationships."
"By 'educate,' you mean 'terrorize,'" Harry said.
"Potato, po-tah-to."
"Please don't threaten to terrorize my dead father in front of my godfather," Harry requested. "It's awkward."
"Fine," Drakor conceded graciously. "I would have gently corrected his misconceptions through strategic intimidation and possibly minor property damage."
Sirius barked out a laugh that probably rattled windows in the next room. "Oh, I like this one. He's got style."
"He's got something," Harry muttered. "Not sure style is the word I'd use."
"I have panache," Drakor said with wounded dignity. "Also impeccable timing and superior tactical instincts."
"You have an ego the size of Scotland," Harry shot back.
"Scotland is quite large," Drakor agreed. "An appropriate comparison."
Draco groaned and buried his face in his hands. "Please, I'm begging you, stop encouraging your wardrobe. It's already insufferable enough without positive reinforcement."
"I don't need encouragement," Drakor replied. "I am naturally magnificent. The encouragement is merely acknowledgment of obvious facts."
"See what I deal with?" Harry asked Susan, who was watching the entire exchange with the kind of delighted fascination usually reserved for particularly entertaining theater performances.
"You're all completely ridiculous," she said, but her tone was fond rather than critical. "Harry, are you actually ready for this, or are you just going to stand here letting Drakor roast Draco until everyone forgets why we're here?"
Harry looked at his reflection one more time. The kid in the mirror looked healthy, confident, and maybe just a little bit ready to take on the terrifying prospect of normal friendship. His green eyes were bright with something that might have been hope, and his posture suggested someone who wouldn't automatically assume the worst-case scenario.
It was a good look on him.
"As ready as I'll ever be," he said, and was surprised to find he meant it. "I guess the only way to find out if I can handle normal social interaction is to actually try it and see what happens."
"Excellent strategy," Drakor approved. "Though if you do spontaneously combust from social anxiety, I will survive. You're highly flammable. I am not."
"Thanks," Harry said dryly. "Your confidence in my social abilities is overwhelming."
"I have confidence in your ability to adapt and overcome," Drakor corrected. "Your social abilities remain untested but potentially promising."
"That's... actually kind of supportive?" Harry said, surprised.
"I contain multitudes," Drakor replied mysteriously. "Also strategic psychological manipulation techniques."
Draco stood up from the bed, smoothing his already perfect robes with the kind of automatic precision that probably came from years of pure-blood social training. "Come on then, Potter. Let's go see what happens when the Boy Who Lived meets normal friendship head-on. My bet is on chaos."
"That's not very encouraging," Harry pointed out.
"I didn't say it would be bad chaos," Draco clarified with a smirk. "Just chaos. Possibly entertaining chaos. The kind of chaos that makes for good stories later."
"The kind of chaos that gets people detained by Aurors?" Susan asked practically.
"Only if we're very unlucky," Draco said cheerfully. "Or very successful, depending on your perspective."
Sirius clapped his hands together, the sound sharp enough to cut through their banter. "All right, you lot. Enough philosophical discussions about chaos theory. Into the Floo before your friends start thinking the famous Harry Potter is too important to show up on time."
"I'm not too important," Harry protested. "I'm just terrified."
"Terror is healthy," Sirius said with the kind of paternal wisdom that only came from someone who'd spent his own adolescence courting death on a regular basis. "Keeps you sharp. Besides, you've got excellent backup."
He gestured at Draco, who was checking his reflection one last time with the dedication of someone preparing for battle. "Aristocratic social expertise." Then at Susan, who was gathering her things with efficient competence. "Political intelligence and diplomatic skills." Finally, he pointed at Harry's robes. "And whatever Drakor counts as, which I'm guessing is 'strategic psychological warfare support.'"
"I prefer 'comprehensive life enhancement with occasional violence,'" Drakor said. "But your description works too."
Harry felt his stomach doing complicated acrobatic routines, but he also felt something else—something that might have been excitement buried under all the terror. These were his friends, or at least, they wanted to be. Draco with his ridiculous hair obsession and aristocratic dramatics. Susan with her warm smile and practical wisdom. Sirius with his wolf-like grin and unwavering support.
And Drakor, whose idea of encouragement involved pointing out that Harry was flammable but whose presence had become as essential as breathing.
They were all completely insane, obviously. But they were his insane people, and that felt like something worth protecting.
"You know what?" Harry said, straightening his shoulders and meeting his reflection's eyes with something approaching confidence. "Let's go meet some friends. Worst case scenario, I'll have some great stories to tell later."
"That's the spirit," Sirius said, pride evident in every line of his expression. "Lead the way, Pup."
As they headed toward the Floo, Harry caught Draco's eye and saw his own nervous excitement reflected there. Susan was practically glowing with anticipation, and Sirius looked like he was about to watch his favorite Quidditch team win the World Cup.
"Any last-minute advice?" Harry asked as they reached the fireplace.
"Don't set anyone on fire," Susan suggested.
"Unless they deserve it," Draco added helpfully.
"Fire is always an option," Drakor agreed. "Though perhaps save it for second impressions."
"Be yourself," Sirius said simply. "That's been working pretty well so far."
Harry looked around at his collection of completely ridiculous, absolutely loyal, utterly chaotic friends and family, and felt something settle into place in his chest. Maybe he didn't know how to do normal friendship. Maybe he'd mess this up spectacularly.
But he had backup. And honestly? That felt like enough.
"Right then," he said, stepping toward the Floo with the kind of determination usually reserved for facing down Dark Lords. "Let's go make some friends."
After all, how hard could it be?
(Somewhere in the back of his mind, Drakor's laughter suggested that this question would be answered very, very soon.)
—
## Meanwhile, at The Burrow
If there was one thing the Weasley family had mastered over the years, it was the art of controlled chaos. Unfortunately, today's chaos felt significantly less controlled than usual.
"Has anyone seen my good socks?" Ron hollered from somewhere upstairs, his voice carrying the particular note of panic that suggested he was approximately thirty seconds away from a complete meltdown.
"Your good socks are in the wash!" Molly Weasley called back, her voice tight with the kind of maternal stress that came from trying to get four children ready for important social occasions while simultaneously preventing the house from burning down. "Wear your other good socks!"
"I don't have other good socks!" Ron's voice cracked on the last word. "These are my only good socks!"
In the kitchen, Ginny was attempting to eat breakfast while simultaneously braiding her hair, an ambitious multitasking effort that was going about as well as you'd expect. Her porridge was getting cold, her hair looked like she'd been attacked by a particularly vindictive wind sprite, and she had that expression that suggested she was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.
"Mum," she said, trying to sound reasonable while wrestling with a particularly stubborn section of hair, "why couldn't we have planned this better? We've known about meeting Harry Potter for a week."
"We did plan," Molly said, levitating three different breakfast items while simultaneously ironing Fred's robes and keeping one eye on the clock. "Planning and execution are two very different things, dear."
The twins, naturally, were treating the entire situation like it was their personal entertainment. Fred was perched on the kitchen counter, fully dressed and looking annoyingly put-together, while George had claimed the best chair by the fire and was reading the Quidditch section of the Daily Prophet with the air of someone who had all the time in the world.
"You know," Fred said conversationally, swinging his legs like a child, "watching everyone panic is almost more fun than actually meeting Harry Potter."
"Almost," George agreed without looking up from his paper. "Though I reserve the right to change that opinion depending on how spectacular today's chaos becomes."
"You two," Molly said without turning around, "are not helping."
"We're providing moral support," Fred protested. "And entertainment. Entertainment is important for family morale."
"What's important," Molly said, her voice taking on that particular tone that made smart children run for cover, "is getting your brother and sister ready before we're late for the most important social meeting this family has had in years."
Arthur Weasley chose that moment to stumble down the stairs, his hair sticking up at angles that defied both gravity and common sense. He was holding his work robes in one hand and what appeared to be a Muggle rubber duck in the other, because of course he was.
"Has anyone seen my—" he began, then stopped as he took in the scene. Ron's panicked shouting from upstairs. Ginny's increasingly frantic hair situation. Molly's militant breakfast preparation. The twins' smug observation of the chaos.
"Right," he said slowly. "How are we doing on time?"
"We're supposed to leave in twelve minutes," Molly said, her voice carrying the kind of controlled desperation that suggested she was calculating exactly how many Howlers she'd have to send if they were late.
"Twelve minutes," Arthur repeated thoughtfully. "And we still need to...?"
"Get Ron into presentable socks, fix Ginny's hair, make sure the twins actually plan to come with us instead of just sitting there looking entertained, eat something resembling breakfast, and travel to London without anyone getting splinched, lost, or accidentally setting anything on fire."
Arthur nodded like this was a perfectly reasonable to-do list for twelve minutes. "Well, when you put it like that, we're practically ahead of schedule."
Upstairs, Ron had apparently found socks, because his panicked hollering had evolved into the sound of someone attempting to get dressed at superhuman speed while cursing his own existence. There was a crash, followed by some distinctly un-ten-year-old language, followed by what sounded like Ron having a philosophical debate with his wardrobe about the inherent unfairness of the universe.
"Ronald Arthur Weasley," Molly called, "what was that crash?"
"Nothing!" Ron called back, which in Weasley family code translated to "something significant that I'm hoping you'll forget about if I don't draw attention to it."
"Nothing doesn't make that kind of noise," Ginny pointed out reasonably, then yelped as her braid came undone for the third time. "This is hopeless. Maybe I should just wear a hat."
"You are not wearing a hat to meet Harry Potter," Molly said firmly. "First impressions matter."
"So do functioning braids," Ginny muttered, but she started over again with the determination of someone who refused to be defeated by her own hair.
Fred hopped down from the counter with the fluid grace of someone who spent most of his free time dodging his mother's wooden spoon. "Right, I suppose I should actually help instead of just providing color commentary."
"About time," George said, finally looking up from his paper. "Though the color commentary was excellent. Very professional."
"I do try to maintain standards," Fred said solemnly. "Ginny, give me your hair. I'll fix it."
"You?" Ginny looked skeptical. "Since when do you know how to do hair?"
"Since I learned the charm for it last month," Fred said, pulling out his wand with a flourish. "Useful for pranks involving hair color changes, but it works for ordinary styling too."
"If you turn my hair pink, I'm telling Mum about the thing with the—"
"Relax," Fred said, already casting. "I'm not going to sabotage your first meeting with our future best friend. I'm not completely without social awareness."
The spell worked perfectly, transforming Ginny's chaotic hair situation into a neat, practical style that looked like she'd actually spent time on it instead of wrestling with it while eating breakfast.
"There," Fred said with obvious satisfaction. "One crisis down, several dozen to go."
"Thank you," Ginny said, sounding genuinely grateful. "That's actually really helpful."
"Don't sound so surprised," Fred said, wounded. "George and I are capable of being helpful when the situation calls for it."
"The situation rarely calls for it," George pointed out. "Usually it calls for creative property damage and strategic rule violations."
"Today's different," Fred said seriously. "Today we're making first impressions on someone who might become genuinely important to this family. Strategic thinking required."
Arthur, who had been listening to this exchange while attempting to locate matching socks of his own, looked up with parental pride. "That's very mature of you boys."
"Don't get used to it," George said immediately. "We're making an exception for Harry Potter. Tomorrow we go back to our regularly scheduled chaos."
"Naturally," Arthur agreed. "I wouldn't want you to strain yourselves with too much responsibility."
Ron finally thundered down the stairs, looking like he'd gotten dressed in a tornado but wearing what were presumably his acceptable socks. His hair was doing that thing where it stuck up in twelve different directions, his robes were wrinkled, and he had the wild-eyed look of someone who'd just survived a natural disaster.
"I'm ready," he announced breathlessly. "Sort of. Maybe. Are we late? We're late, aren't we? Harry Potter is going to think we don't care about punctuality."
"We're not late," Molly said, though she was eyeing the clock with the kind of attention usually reserved for Snitch-spotting. "We're... efficiently timed."
"Efficiently timed is Mum-speak for 'cutting it very close,'" George translated helpfully.
"It means we're going to arrive exactly when we're supposed to," Molly corrected, though her voice suggested she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.
The kitchen clock chimed ominously, and suddenly everyone was moving at once. Molly thrust the wrapped fudge into Ginny's hands, Arthur grabbed the Floo powder, and the twins appeared on either side of Ron like they were planning to escort him personally to prevent any last-minute panic attacks.
"Final check," Arthur announced with the air of a military commander. "Presentable clothing?"
A chorus of "Yes" went up from around the kitchen, though Ron tugged self-consciously at his robes.
"Acceptable hair?"
"Thanks to Fred," Ginny said, patting her neat braid with relief.
"Everyone remember why we're doing this?"
"To meet Harry Potter and hopefully become his friends instead of just people who sent him a letter," Ron said immediately, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd been rehearsing this answer.
"To provide him with normal social interaction opportunities," Ginny added with the kind of earnest determination that made Arthur's chest swell with pride.
"To assess his potential for educational enhancement through creative rule interpretation," the twins said in perfect unison, which made both parents wince slightly.
"Perhaps phrase that differently when you meet him," Arthur suggested diplomatically.
"We'll be tactful," Fred assured him with a grin that was anything but reassuring. "Relatively speaking."
"Define 'relatively,'" Molly said suspiciously.
"Relatively for us," George clarified, which didn't actually clarify anything.
Molly bustled around the kitchen one last time, gathering the small gifts they'd prepared—nothing fancy, just some of her homemade fudge and a book about Quidditch tactics that Arthur had thought might interest someone new to the magical world.
"Remember," she said, her voice taking on that particular maternal tone that meant she was about to dispense wisdom whether anyone wanted it or not, "Harry Potter may be famous, but he's also just a child who's never had proper friends before. Be yourselves, but be your best selves. No pranks, no showing off, no trying to impress him with stories about rule-breaking."
She fixed the twins with a look that could have stopped a charging dragon. "I mean it. Today is about friendship, not about demonstrating your creative approaches to authority figures."
"We understand, Mum," George said with such perfect sincerity that it was immediately suspicious.
"Today we are paragons of social responsibility," Fred added with matching gravity.
"I don't trust them when they agree with me this easily," Molly muttered to Arthur.
"They'll be fine," Arthur said with the kind of paternal confidence that was either completely justified or completely misplaced. "They understand how important this is."
Ron was practically vibrating with nervous energy, his freckled face cycling through approximately seventeen different emotions per second. "Do you think he'll like us? I mean, really like us, not just be polite because we wrote him letters?"
"Ron," Ginny said gently, her voice carrying the kind of sisterly wisdom that only came from years of managing anxious brothers, "he wrote back. Long letters. Personal letters that answered all our questions and asked new ones. That's not politeness, that's genuine interest."
"Besides," Fred added with his trademark confidence, "anyone who can appreciate our innovative approaches to educational enhancement is clearly a person of excellent judgment."
"You haven't even met him yet," Ron pointed out.
"No," George said with a grin that suggested he was already planning something, "but his letter suggested he has the right attitude toward creative rule interpretation. Quote: 'I'd be interested to hear about your innovative approaches to educational enhancement, assuming they don't involve anything that might result in cosmic complications.' End quote."
"He said 'cosmic complications,'" Fred repeated with obvious delight. "That shows advanced strategic thinking."
"It shows survival instincts," Arthur corrected, but he was fighting a smile.
The kitchen clock gave another ominous chime, and the temperature in the room seemed to rise several degrees as everyone realized they were officially cutting it close.
"Everyone to the fireplace!" Molly commanded with the kind of authority that brooked no argument. "Now!"
The family moved as one toward the sitting room, a coordinated chaos of robes and nervous energy and last-minute adjustments. Ron was muttering what sounded like a pep talk to himself, Ginny was double-checking that her braid was still intact, and the twins were exchanging the kind of significant looks that usually preceded either brilliance or disaster.
"Arthur goes first," Molly decided, taking charge with military efficiency. "Then the twins—together, and no stopping anywhere else on the way—then Ron, then Ginny, then me."
"What if I mess up the Floo?" Ron asked, his voice climbing toward panic territory. "What if I end up in Knockturn Alley? What if Harry Potter thinks we're the kind of family that can't even use basic magical transportation?"
"Ronald," Arthur said gently, placing a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder, "you've used the Floo dozens of times. You'll be fine. And even if something goes wrong, it won't change whether Harry Potter wants to be your friend."
"Besides," George added helpfully, "if you do end up somewhere embarrassing, at least you'll have a good story to tell."
"That's not helpful," Ron said.
"It's a little helpful," Fred disagreed. "Stories build character."
"Stories build therapy bills," Ginny muttered, but she was smiling.
Arthur stepped into the fireplace with the kind of calm confidence that came from twenty years of Floo travel. "Diagon Alley," he said clearly, and disappeared in a swirl of green flames.
The twins went next, stepping into the fireplace together with synchronized precision that was either very impressive or very concerning, depending on your perspective.
"Diagon Alley," they said in unison, and vanished.
Ron approached the fireplace like it might bite him, his hands shaking slightly as he grabbed the Floo powder. "What if—"
"Ron," Ginny interrupted firmly, "you're going to be brilliant. Harry Potter is going to love you. Now go before Mum starts timing us with a stopwatch."
Ron took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and stepped into the flames. "Diagon Alley!" he called, and disappeared.
Ginny went next, her movements quick and efficient. She paused just long enough to give her mother a reassuring smile before calling out, "Diagon Alley," and spinning away.
Molly was left alone in the suddenly quiet sitting room, the echoes of her family's nervous excitement still hanging in the air. She took one last look around, checking for forgotten items or potential disasters, then stepped into the fireplace herself.
"Diagon Alley," she said, and vanished into the green flames.
Behind her, The Burrow settled into peaceful silence, as if gathering its strength for whatever chaos the Weasley family would bring home with them later.
After all, if there was one thing you could count on with the Weasleys, it was that they never came home from important social occasions without at least one spectacular story to tell.
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