𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟-𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝

Kisses And Exploding Stars

Rewritten

The dream - or nightmare - was about to end. Harry knows this. He's about to wake up, he can tell, because Sirius was getting closer and closer to the Veil, and once he's falling through it, as always, his eyes peel open.

He blinks, adjusting his eyes to the brightness of the room. The first rays of dawn, like an unwelcome guest, break in through the window as birds chirp distantly in the background. He breathes in deeply, feeling as though throughout his entire dream his lungs had been blocked. He shifts onto his back, pulling out his stiff arm from under him and leaving it still while the blood rushes back to it again. Harry can barely make out the wood beams in the roof of the room, but common sense tells him that he's still in his makeshift bed in Ron's room.

He stares up ahead of him quietly for a few minutes, his mind still raw from the dream. Ron's snoring indicated that he'd not woken up from any sound Harry had made when he was having the nightmare, which means he either didn't make any or Ron is just an outrageously heavy sleeper.

Harry supposed it was better than waking up in the Dursley's house, where he would be alone to remember the dream throughout the day. No, here at the Burrow, they did their best to keep him busy. Which was the rule at the Weasley's house; no one slacks off.

He reached for his glasses and sat up inside the cocoon of blankets - Mrs Weasley had a habit of covering them with more blankets in the middle of the night. The morning air was brisk and chilly against his skin as he dressed, sparing his best friend a glance before grabbing his wand and shuffling out of the room, closing the door behind him silently. He didn't bother looking at his appearance as he brushed his teeth and washed his face. He knew the bruises under his eyes would stare back at him.

It was rare that the bathroom was empty. There usually was at least one Weasley or two in here while another pounded on the door and shouted at them to hurry. This morning however they'd all decided to have a lie-in. But he was not the first to wake.

This is why Harry loved the Burrow. It was a house filled with warmth and good people, a place of magic and liveliness, a stark contrast to the stiff and unpleasant atmosphere of his aunt's house, where nothing could be out of order to please his aunt's standards.

He could already smell the breakfast Mrs Weasley was preparing, and he felt a stab of guilt for letting her do it all alone. Then again, she usually refused help and she had magic to help her, so maybe feeling obligated to do housework was just a trait engraved in Harry from early childhood years, when he had to wake up every day to make breakfast for his rotten relatives.

Halfway down the stairs, he picked up on mutters and hushed voices from the kitchen. they were trying to keep a conversation quiet.

Hm, wonder why?

As he got closer he realized it was between Hermione and Mrs Weasley.

Harry felt like he had to knock before entering in case they were discussing something he had no reason hearing, but he quickly shook that thought away and made his steps louder to alert them to his oncoming presence.

It worked, the minute he entered the kitchen, their conversation came to a halt.

Mrs Weasley's smile greeted him as he spied Hermione's apprehensive face from the corner of his eye, seeming thoughtful behind the rim of her cup. Mr Weasley was awake too, dressed in his work robes and sipping his coffee behind this morning's issue of the Daily Prophet.