Harry Potter: Forging the Flame

The Portkey deposited them into the dim corridor of Grimmauld Place with an abrupt thud. Harry stumbled, steadying himself on a battered table, while Sirius landed with practiced ease, brushing imaginary dust from his coat like it was all routine.

"Home again," Sirius declared, gesturing grandly at the gloomy hallway. "Grim and old as ever."

Harry laughed, light and unguarded. The oppressive weight of the house felt less suffocating, as though the cheer of last night had followed them across the miles. He leaned back against the wall, grinning.

"You know, nothing here will ever top the sight of you trying to polka with that Latvian grandmother."

"She was the superior dancer," Sirius quipped without missing a beat. "Better partner than you, that's for sure. At least she didn't stomp on my feet half a dozen times."

"Twice. And I wasn't that bad."

"Worse," he teased, starting toward the kitchen. "But you get points for enthusiasm. I've never seen anyone turn a waltz into a sprint quite like you."

"It wasn't a waltz. And whatever that spinning thing was, it wasn't my fault."

"Freeform brilliance," Sirius threw over his shoulder. "Truly ahead of its time. Though I'd say the conga line sealed our legacy."

Harry followed, still chuckling. Sirius snapped his fingers.

"Kreacher!"

The house-elf materialized with a faint pop, his scowl deeper than usual as he eyed the pair. "Master summons Kreacher?"

"Dinner. Something decent. None of that boiled cabbage nonsense." Sirius leaned casually against the counter. "We've earned a proper meal."

"Kreacher will prepare food," the elf muttered, disappearing in a swirl of reluctant obedience.

"You think he's finally warming up to you?"

"Warming up? At this rate, he'll only fantasize about poisoning me instead of planning it."

Harry snorted as they settled into the chairs by the fireplace. Harry stretched his legs out, staring at the ceiling for a moment before glancing at Sirius.

"Last night was brilliant."

"You mean my flawless dance moves?"

"No, not that," Harry replied with a grin. "I mean the music, the people… everything. It was fun."

"Fun? With me? Shocking." Sirius gave a mock gasp. "But I told you it would be worth it."

"You did. It felt normal. No trials, no ancient reflections trying to mess with my head. Just… normal."

"That's what it's supposed to be, Harry. Fun. The good moments are what keep us going through the bad. You needed it."

"I really did."

"And don't forget the laughter. That was as much a part of it as the terrible dancing. Merlin, I haven't laughed that hard in ages."

"Me neither." Harry's voice softened. "For once, I wasn't the Boy Who Lived. I was just me."

"You're allowed to be just you. Remember that."

Before Harry could respond, Kreacher returned, balancing a tray piled high with roasted meat, bread, and vegetables. The delicious aroma filled the kitchen as the elf set the dishes on the table, his nose firmly in the air.

"Dinner is served," he intoned, vanishing before either could thank him.

"Such flair," Sirius remarked, pulling a plate toward him. "He's a natural showman."

Harry grinned, loading his own plate. The warm food and shared company seemed to chase away the last of Grimmauld's shadows, leaving only the comfort of the moment.

As they ate, Sirius spoke again. "So, what's next for you, Mr. Potter? More dancing? Another adventure?"

Harry hesitated, setting down his fork, his expression turning thoughtful. "I've been thinking," he began, leaning back in his chair. "I need new clothes. Proper ones. And books—loads of them. I'm done with this whole 'barely scraping by' thing. I'm tired of feeling… mediocre."

Sirius arched an eyebrow.

"Mediocre, huh? This coming from the bloke who mastered a Patronus charm at thirteen?"

Harry waved off the comment. "You know what I mean. It's time to step up. I want to be ready for whatever comes next. And… I want to be someone who deserves it."

"That's the spirit," Sirius said, raising his glass in mock toast. "Though you do realize shopping with you might just be the highlight of my summer."

Harry chuckled, but the laughter didn't linger. His gaze dropped to the table. "There's one more thing. I've been thinking about visiting Tracey. At St. Mungo's."

Sirius set his glass down. "Alone?"

"Yeah," Harry said firmly. "She deserves that much. I was there when it happened. I know what she went through. It feels… right to go on my own."

"That's a tough thing to face."

Harry nodded. "I know. But it's something I have to do."

Sirius studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then he leaned back, crossing his arms with an easy shrug. "Okay."

Harry blinked, caught off guard. "That's it? Just… okay?"

"You're a smart kid, Harry," Sirius said, "Besides, I'm not going to tell you what you have to do. I can only tell you what you need to know."

Harry stared at him, surprised by the unexpected trust in those words. "And what's that?"

"That it's going to be hard. But you already know that." Sirius leaned forward slightly, his grin softening into something more serious. "And that you don't have to do it alone if you don't want to. You've got people, Harry. I'm one of them."

Harry nodded. "Thanks."

Sirius smirked. "About those clothes. Let's make sure you don't look like you've just escaped Aunt Petunia's laundry pile."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I was thinking of stopping by Madam Malkin's."

Sirius burst out laughing. Harry frowned.

"What?"

"Madam Malkin's? Really?" Sirius shook his head, grinning. "Did no one tell you about Astrith's Atelier?"

"Astrith's what?"

"The Potter family's tailor. The finest in Britain. Every proper pure-blood family shops there."

Harry blinked. "Wait—it's ours?"

"Of course. Astrith Potter started it centuries ago. Wanted wizards to dress with more flair than Muggles. It's still running, managed by some long-standing staff, and all the profits go straight to the Potter vaults."

"And I've been going to Madam Malkin's?" Harry muttered.

"You have," Sirius said, clearly enjoying himself. "But that's about to change. Mention your name next time you're in Diagon Alley—they'll treat you like royalty."

Harry huffed. "It sounds… posh."

"It is," Sirius said, leaning back. "So were your parents. Lily could outshine anyone at a formal event, and James? He made an entrance like no one else."

Harry nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Alright, I'll check it out."

"If I see you in one more baggy Dudley hand-me-down," Sirius said with a smirk, "I might just stage an intervention. By the way, I'm not going with you to Diagon Alley."

Harry paused mid-bite. "Why not?"

"I need time for myself. Kreacher and I have a house to sort out, and I've got another therapy session lined up."

"Therapy?" Harry looked up, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah. Been seeing someone for a while now. Helps me not lose my mind entirely." Sirius gave a crooked grin. "Figured you might've guessed."

"I did. Sort of. Just didn't want to assume."

"Well, now you know. And don't look so worried—it's a good thing."

"I wasn't worried," Harry said, though he smiled. "I'm glad, actually."

"Good, because you're on your own for shopping. Write to Ron. I'm sure Molly would jump at the chance to take you along."

Harry shrugged. "Fine. I've got two days before school starts. I'll send him a letter and see what they say."

Sirius stretched as he stood. "Perfect. I'll be busy convincing Kreacher that cleaning doesn't violate some ancient elf law."

Harry laughed. "Good luck with that."

Harry stumbled out of the Floo at the Burrow, coughing out soot as he tried to steady himself. The familiar chaos of the Weasley household greeted him—clanging pans in the kitchen, chatter from somewhere upstairs, and the distinct scent of Molly Weasley's cooking.

"Harry!" Molly's warm voice carried from the kitchen as she rushed into the sitting room, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, you poor dear! Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said with a grin, brushing ash off his sleeves. "Still not used to these graceful landings."

Ron appeared from the stairs, grinning as he leaned over the railing. "Took you long enough. Thought Sirius was keeping you hostage or something."

"Very funny." Harry stepped forward, clasping Ron's hand in a quick shake before looking around. "Where's everyone?"

"Fred and George are in the shed with Dad, tinkering with something explosive, I bet," Ron replied. "Ginny's upstairs. Hermione just got here too."

Hermione's arrival was timely as she descended the stairs, her arms laden with books, her expression as warm as ever when she saw Harry. "Harry! It's good to see you."

"You too, Hermione. Didn't expect to see you here so soon."

"I came early to help Ginny pack," she said with a shrug before giving him a quick once-over. "You look… different. Did something happen?"

Ron squinted at him, frowning. "Yeah. You've got that… glowy thing going on. And your scar—it's practically invisible."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. "I've just been spending time with Sirius. He had me on a proper routine, I guess."

Ron snorted. "What, like workouts? You've got muscles now?"

"More like a break from constant chaos," Harry said with a smirk. "Though there might've been a bit of sparring here and there."

"Whatever it is, it suits you," Hermione said with a smile. "You look… healthier."

Before Harry could respond, Molly clapped her hands. "Right, then! Dinner will be ready soon, but you lot better get to bed early. We're heading to Diagon Alley bright and early tomorrow."

The bustling streets of Diagon Alley felt alive with energy as the Weasleys and Harry wove through the crowd. Children darted around, excitedly pointing at the shop windows, while parents carried stacks of books and bags brimming with supplies.

Their first stop was Flourish and Blotts. Harry picked out his school books and wandered to the charm and spellcraft section, his fingers brushing over titles that piqued his interest. Finally, he grabbed a handful of books about advanced charmwork and dueling.

Ron raised an eyebrow as Harry carried his stack to the counter. "You've got enough books to start your own library."

Harry shrugged. "I don't want to be as unprepared as I was with Selwyn. Besides, I could use the practice."

Ron hesitated, then turned to browse the shelves himself. Moments later, he added a book titled Offensive Tactics for the Wizarding Duelistto his own pile. Harry noticed and smiled but said nothing.

As they exited the shop, Ron gave a sidelong glance at Harry. "Don't get smug about it."

"Never crossed my mind," Harry grinned.

As the group neared Madam Malkin's familiar storefront, Harry hesitated, then turned to Mr. Weasley with a question that stopped them in their tracks.

"Mr. Weasley, do you know where Astrith's Atelier is?"

Arthur blinked, adjusting his glasses. "Astrith's? That's… Well, yes, I know it. It's just a bit farther down the Alley, but why do you ask?"

"I've been told it's owned by my family," Harry replied "I think I'd rather go there."

Molly frowned, her brow furrowing in concern.

"Harry, that place is… It's not the kind of shop we usually—"

"I'm a Potter," Harry interrupted with a soft smile. "Let's go. I'll take care of everything."

Ron opened his mouth to object, but Hermione laid a hand on his arm, her expression curious but supportive. Mr. Weasley exchanged a glance with his wife before giving Harry a hesitant nod. "Alright then, but don't say we didn't warn you."

The group continued down Diagon Alley until they reached a grand shopfront that seemed to exude an understated power. The sign above the door read Astrith's Atelierin elegant silver script, and the windows gleamed with enchanting displays of robes that shimmered as if woven from starlight.

"Blimey," Ron muttered under his breath. "It looks… posh."

Harry stepped forward, pushing the door open with a quiet chime that resonated like a musical note. Inside, the shop was unlike anything he'd ever seen. The air carried the faint scent of lavender and parchment. Shelves lined with bolts of fabric shifted and rearranged themselves as though deciding which to display. Mannequins draped in breathtaking garments turned slowly to show off their intricate designs.

The witch who approached them was tall and striking, with eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. Her dark robes were simple yet elegant, and she moved with a grace that suggested she belonged in the same room as the exquisite clothing.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying both authority and warmth. "Mr. Potter, where have you been? I expected you before the term of your first year!"

Harry blinked, startled by her directness. "Er… I didn't know this place existed until today."

The witch's expression softened slightly, though her tone remained brisk. "Well, better late than never. Astrith's Atelier has been outfitting the Potter family for generations. I'm Calista Travers, current owner and head designer. Welcome home, Mr. Potter."

Harry felt an odd mixture of pride and awkwardness at her words. "Thank you. And, um, I've brought my friends along. They'll need school robes too."

Calista's eyes flickered to the Weasleys and Hermione. "Of course. We'll see to it that you're all outfitted properly. This way, please."

The group followed her into a fitting room that felt more like a grand salon. Soft chairs surrounded a low platform with mirrors that stretched to the ceiling, enchanted to show every angle. Wands of measuring tape floated in a neat row along the wall, quivering in anticipation.

Calista clapped her hands, and the measuring tapes sprang to life. "Stand still, everyone," she instructed, and the tapes began their work, zipping around each person with startling precision.

"Potter proportions," one tape muttered to itself as it worked on Harry, its tone almost reverent. "Broad shoulders. Excellent symmetry. Hmm, a slight growth spurt ahead—best plan for it."

Harry glanced at Ron, who stood rigid as a tape spiraled around his arms. "This feels… weird."

"You'll survive," Harry said, amused.

As Calista directed the tapes, she turned back to Harry. "Now, for you, Mr. Potter, we'll need not just school robes but also formalwear. You've inherited your father's build—it would be a shame not to showcase it properly."

Before Harry could respond, Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Formalwear? Is that really necessary?"

"It is," Calista replied without missing a beat. "Every wizard of standing requires proper attire for events, galas, and emergencies. Besides, we Potters"—she smiled knowingly at Harry—"have a certain reputation to maintain."

Harry nodded, trying to look like he knew what she was talking about. As the measuring tapes moved on to the others, he leaned closer to Calista. "Actually, there's something else. I want full wardrobes for the Weasley family—all of them. Everyday wear, special occasion robes, everything. Can that be done?"

Calista's smiled softly and inclined her head. "It will be done, Mr. Potter. Shall I charge the expenses to the family vault?"

"Yes," Harry said firmly. "And I'd like it all delivered to their home tonight. Quietly."

"Understood," she said. "You have your mother's heart."

Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he simply nodded. Meanwhile, the others were stepping down from the fitting platform, their faces a mix of awe and self-consciousness.

"This is ridiculous," Ron muttered, smoothing his new school robe. "It's so… nice."

"You look great," Hermione assured him. Ginny, standing beside her, twirled in her robes, her face alight with delight. Even Mrs. Weasley seemed momentarily lost for words as she admired Arthur's elegant new cloak.

Harry turned back to Calista. "Thank you. And, uh, send some formal robes to Hermione as well. She shouldn't miss out."

Calista inclined her head. "Of course."

The group exited Astrith's Atelier in high spirits, the Weasleys still marveling at their new robes. Ron and Ginny were teasing each other about whose dress robes were more "ridiculously posh," while Mrs. Weasley fretted over whether the fabric was practical for a growing boy.

Harry, however, lagged behind, his thoughts elsewhere. He glanced toward the bustling street ahead and made a decision.

"Mrs. Weasley," he said, stepping closer. "Would it be alright if I took a detour? I need to visit someone at St. Mungo's."

The Weasley matriarch turned to him, her brow furrowing. "St. Mungo's? Is everything alright, dear?"

Harry nodded, his expression steady but earnest. "Yeah. There's just… someone I need to see. Tracey Davis. She was hurt—during the summer."

Recognition flickered in Hermione's eyes. "The girl Selwyn—" she began, but cut herself off when Ron gave her a warning nudge.

"Tracey," Mrs. Weasley said softly, her tone tinged with understanding. "Of course, Harry. You go ahead. We'll be at the Leaky Cauldron later."

Harry gave her a grateful smile. "Thanks."

"Be careful, Harry," Hermione added.

He nodded and turned away, weaving through the throngs of witches and wizards toward the nondescript visitor's entrance to St. Mungo's.

The reception at St. Mungo's was bustling, yet the witch at the front desk barely glanced up as Harry approached. The clatter of quills and parchment mixed with murmured conversations from the nearby waiting area.

"I'm here to see Tracey Davis," Harry said, leaning forward slightly.

The receptionist, a middle-aged witch paused her writing. She looked up, her gaze flicking briefly to the faint scar on Harry's forehead before returning to her ledger. "Tracey Davis? Room three, Cruciatus Curse Ward. Third floor, west wing."

Harry's breath caught at the words, but he nodded. "Thank you."

The lift doors slid open with a soft hiss. Harry stepped out onto a corridor lined with polished stone floors that reflected his footsteps. Pale sconces along the walls gave off a steady light, bright enough to see but muted enough to feel distant. The hallway stretched long and straight, doors marked with brass plaques glinting faintly under the glow.

He walked slowly, counting the numbers as he passed. A cart leaned against the wall, its shelves holding stacks of vials and folded blankets. Further down, he noticed a healer stepping briskly into a room, their robes fluttering before the door clicked shut. Everything seemed orderly, functional, but it carried a quietness that made him uneasy.

When he reached Room Three, Harry paused. The door was slightly ajar, and warm candlelight flickered from within. For a moment, he stood there, his hand brushing the frame, before he pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room felt suspended in time, as if the clock had decided to hold its breath. Tracey lay motionless, her blonde hair fanning out on the pillow like a pale halo. The stark white linens around her only made her stillness seem more absolute, more final.

Her face was serene, but not in the way that brought peace. It was the stillness of something emptied out, like a house abandoned mid-conversation. Only the faint rise and fall of her chest betrayed the fact that some small piece of her was still fighting.

Harry's knees creaked as he lowered himself into the chair by the bed. His hands hovered in the space between them, caught in some silent debate, before finally settling on the edge of the mattress. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and brushed her hand with his fingertips. Her skin was cold—not the kind of cold that made you shiver but the kind that made you wonder if warmth had ever lived there at all.

And then he felt it—a tremor, faint but unmistakable, rippling beneath her skin. His fingers froze mid-touch, and his breath caught somewhere in his throat. The movement wasn't smooth or gentle; it was raw, frantic, as though her nerves had become an orchestra playing out of tune, each note shrieking its own unbearable dissonance.

Tracey on the ground. Her body arcing in ways no body should, the Cruciatus Curse ripping through her. Harry closed his eyes against the image, but it burned brighter in the dark, refusing to be shut out.

The tremors didn't stop. They weren't hers, not anymore—they were what had been left behind. Harry didn't understand how it worked, not really, but he didn't need to. He could feel it, as surely as he could feel his own heartbeat.

He pulled his hand back, the ghost of her cold skin still clinging to his fingertips. He sat there, staring at her hand, the delicate curve of her fingers. He wasn't sure what he was hoping to see—life, maybe, or some kind of permission to stay. But the only thing he found was the weight of his own helplessness.

When he finally stood, his legs were stiff, unfamiliar, like they'd been borrowed from someone else. He turned toward the door, ready to leave, but then he stopped.

There they were. Standing in the doorway were the people who had been waiting for him all along, even when he didn't know he needed them. Their faces were soft with something that could have been understanding, or maybe just love dressed up as silence.

A man and a woman. The man was tall, with a ruggedness that suggested hard work and long days. His face was pale, his eyes darting between Harry and the girl in the bed, trying to piece together the story he'd just walked into. Beside him, the woman's features were softer, but her grief made her sharp in other ways. She clutched a bag tightly to her chest, as though it might shatter if she let it go.

Behind them stood a girl, quiet and still. Her blue eyes met his, and Harry's breath caught. They were filled with a sadness that made his chest tighten, and he couldn't look away. His eyes flicked to her lips—perfectly still—and a flush crept up his neck.

She was beautiful in a way that made his throat dry and his thoughts scatter. For a moment, the room around them faded—the stillness of Tracey, the presence of her parents. There was only her, and the way she looked at him without saying a word.

The man stepped forward first, his brow furrowed. "Who are you?" he asked.

Harry straightened instinctively, his hands awkwardly hanging at his sides. "I… I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

The man's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing briefly in recognition before softening. "You're the boy," he said, "The one who saved her."

Harry nodded, unsure what else to do. The woman stepped forward, her movements deliberate but trembling, and without a word, she wrapped her arms around him. Harry stiffened, caught off guard by the sudden embrace.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Her grip lingered for a moment before she stepped back, her hands still hovering as if she wasn't ready to let go entirely.

Harry said nothing as Tracey's mother let him go and stepped back.

He glanced at the girl behind them, her blue eyes meeting his. He couldn't focus, couldn't think. She seemed to have an effect on him, scattering his thoughts until he had to look away.

Harry cleared his throat, forcing himself to meet the father's eyes. "She's… still suffering. I felt it. Her nerves, they're trembling."

The man's jaw tightened. "No known magic can undo what that curse does. It wasn't made to hurt for a moment, Mr. Potter. It was made to last."

"There has to be something. A potion, a spell…"

The man shook his head. "We've tried. They've all tried."

Harry's eyes flicked back to Tracey. "So… nothing?"

"All we can do is hope," the man said.

Harry nodded slowly, though it didn't feel like enough.

"I'm sorry,"

The man's expression softened, the lines of exhaustion etched deeper into his face. "You gave her a chance, Mr. Potter. That's more than we thought we'd ever have."

Harry took a small step back.

"I should go. The Weasleys are waiting for me."

Tracey's father gave a short nod, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Potter. It means… a great deal."

Her mother didn't speak this time, only inclining her head, her expression filled with gratitude that didn't need words.

Harry turned toward the door. As he approached, the girl with blue eyes stood in his path, watching him. Her eyes held him for a moment. His stomach twisted.

When he passed her, their shoulders brushed lightly. She smiled—soft, faint, but enough to send warmth rushing to his cheeks.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded, unable to speak, offering a small, awkward smile before slipping past her. As he walked down the corridor, her image stayed with him, etched into his thoughts like an unanswered question.

Harry sat at the long table in the corner of the Leaky Cauldron. Around him, the Weasleys were in their element, voices overlapping as they talked over one another in a lively, familiar chaos. Ron leaned forward, describing his new broom in painstaking detail, and Ginny kept interrupting with teasing comments. Fred and George were hatching some sort of plan that involved suspiciously large amounts of glitter, while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a quiet word at the far end of the table.

A steaming cup of tea rested in Harry's hands, its warmth spreading through his fingers. His plate, once piled with salmon and rice, sat empty before him, but the satisfaction of a good meal barely registered. He wasn't paying attention to the laughter or the friendly chatter. His mind was elsewhere, circling the same thoughts over and over. The Cruciatus Curse.

There had to be a way. Magic was vast, endlessly complex—someone had to have tried to reverse it, to counter it. But Tracey's father's words echoed in his mind, cold and final: No known magic can undo what that curse does.

"Harry?" Ron's voice broke through his thoughts.

He blinked, realizing everyone was looking at him. Hermione had even lowered her book, her brows drawn together in concern.

"You alright?" Ron asked, his brow furrowed.

Harry nodded quickly, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."

Ron shrugged and turned back to his new broom, but Hermione didn't look away. Harry shifted uncomfortably, taking a sip of his tea to avoid her look.

The Weasleys' voices swirled around him again, a comforting backdrop of warmth and normalcy. Mrs. Weasley leaned her head on Mr. Weasley's shoulder, smiling faintly as she rested. Fred and George burst into laughter over some joke that only they seemed to understand, and Ginny shoved Ron lightly when he protested her latest quip.

Harry glanced at Hermione again. She had returned to her book, but her eyes flicked up briefly, catching his for a second before dropping back to the pages. She didn't press him, but her silence spoke louder than words.

Harry sighed, letting the warmth of the tea soothe him. The Cruciatus Curse wasn't something he could solve here, at a table full of laughter and family. But Harry knew—he will try his best to solve it. Soon after that, they all decided to come back home.

The evening at the Burrow was warm and lively, with the smell of Molly's cooking filling the kitchen as the family gathered around. Harry felt a quiet comfort, a sense of belonging, even as he tucked away his secret about the delivery he'd arranged.

A sudden knock at the door interrupted the flow of conversation. Arthur exchanged a puzzled glance with Molly before rising to answer it. Moments later, he returned, followed by a tall wizard in an impeccably tailored uniform bearing the insignia of Astrith's Atelier. The delivery man levitated a stack of elegantly wrapped boxes into the kitchen, each one tied with silver ribbon.

"Special delivery for the Weasley family," the wizard announced crisply, lowering the packages gently onto the floor before giving a short bow. Without another word, he disappeared with a sharp crackof Apparition.

The room fell silent, all eyes fixed on the stack of boxes. Molly's brow furrowed as she glanced suspiciously at Harry, who merely offered a knowing smile.

Arthur crouched down and hesitantly untied the ribbon on the largest box. As the lid was lifted, the room collectively leaned in. Inside was an impeccably arranged wardrobe labeled in elegant script: Ronald Weasley: Complete Wardrobe.

Ron was the first to react. "What the…" He pulled out a thick, soft jumper, holding it up to inspect it. It was deep maroon, but the fabric shimmered faintly under the light, clearly enchanted for warmth and durability.

"Try it on," Harry urged with a grin.

Ron slipped it on over his head, his expression still skeptical. But as the jumper settled over his shoulders, his face changed. He tugged at the sleeves, his fingers brushing the fine stitching. "It's… nice. Really nice."

"Harry, what the bloody hell is going on?" he demanded, though his voice carried more disbelief than anger.

"Ronald!" Molly scolded automatically, but her curiosity was plain.

Harry's laughter bubbled up, light and infectious. He leaned back in his chair, wiping at his eyes as he caught his breath. "Relax. It's just clothes."

"Just clothes?" Fred echoed, his eyes darting between the boxes. "Are all these…?"

"Yours, too," Harry said, gesturing toward the other labels: Ginevra Weasley: Complete Wardrobe, Arthur Weasley: Complete Wardrobe, and so on. "Everything you'll need—school robes, everyday wear, special occasion outfits. All measured perfectly, courtesy of Astrith's."

"You did this?" Molly's voice was soft, tinged with a mix of surprise and disbelief.

Harry stood, moving to her side. He met her eyes and smiled warmly.

"You've been so important to me. You've given me a family when I needed it most. It broke my heart to see you worrying about something as basic as clothes when you deserve so much more."

Molly's eyes glistened, but she held herself together as Harry continued. "I've got money—more than I know what to do with. And Sirius reminded me recently that money's worthless if it isn't helping the people you care about. So, this is for you. For all of you."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, ornate wallet. It shimmered faintly with enchantments. He placed it gently into Molly's hands. "This is a magical wallet. Inside, there's five thousand Galleons. It'll replenish itself every year. Use it for whatever you need—tuition, books, brooms, holidays… anything."

The room was deathly silent. Molly stared at the wallet, her lips trembling. Arthur rested a hand on her shoulder.

"You gave me love and family," Harry added softly. "This is just my way of saying thank you."

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Molly stepped forward and wrapped Harry in a fierce hug, her tears dampening his shoulder. "Oh, Harry… you didn't have to…"

"I wanted to," Harry whispered, hugging her back tightly.

Ron broke the moment with a muttered, "Bloody brilliant," as he rummaged through another box, pulling out an impeccably tailored cloak. Fred and George exchanged glances, grinning.

"Well," George said, holding up a fine waistcoat. "I suppose we'll have to dress like proper gentlemen now."

"Tragic," Fred agreed, pulling out a pair of stylish boots. "But sacrifices must be made."

As the laughter and excitement filled the kitchen, Harry felt a deep warmth in his chest. The joy of giving, of seeing the people he loved so happy, was unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

Chapters 9, 10, and 11 are available. Check my Patreon for more information.