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Chapter Text

Two weeks into September, Arthur's paperwork had grown to alarming heights in a pile next to his desk, the exotic plant in the corner of his tiny office had been coaxed back to life, and interdepartmental memos resumed flying into the room at unpredictable intervals, making him jump if his nose was in his work.

It was strange being back in his old office. It had been his colleague Perkins' disappearance—and later, declaration of his death—that had necessitated Arthur's return to the Muggle Artifacts Office. It was meant to be a temporary reassignment until the position was filled, but if Arthur was honest with himself, he was more than a bit relieved to be back in the department. There was something reassuring about the chance to return to work that he knew how to do well, given how slowly everything else was shifting back to normalcy.

Still, he could do without the reminders of Perkins that surfaced often, from the scribbled notes that he sometimes found inside the warlock's desk, to the photograph of Perkins' great niece found sitting under a stack of old papers. Perkins had been a kind man, and Arthur had worked with him for many years. It was like losing a friend.

Arthur did not like to dwell on it, but he had become quite acquainted with loss in the past year.

The clock above his desk had just reached eleven when Arthur's current reading was interrupted by a sharp knock on his office door. "Yes," he invited, swiveling in his chair and looking up from the papers in his hand.

The visitor, a young man in black robes and probably close to George's age, met Arthur's eyes across the room. "Mr. Weasley?" he questioned. When Arthur nodded, he said, "I've been asked to fetch you, sir. There's been an incident in our training session, with Harry Potter."

Arthur's eyes widened. He dropped his papers unceremoniously onto his desk and stood. "Is he all right?"

"Yes, I think so," replied the young man, who Arthur now recognized as an Auror trainee. "It was Robards who requested that I fetch you."

Arthur nodded sharply, his heart beginning to race. He grabbed his wand and pulled on his cloak. "I'll follow you."

As the trainee led the way to the Magical Law Enforcement wing, Arthur's worry grew unchecked. Harry wasn't ready for this, his mind kept repeating, unhelpfully. You knew that.

When they reached a heavy black door at the end of the corridor, Gawain Robards was just appearing from behind it. Arthur had worked with the man during his first few years at the Ministry, long before Robards was promoted to Head of the Auror Department. He knew him as a man of few words, highly competent at whatever he attempted inside the Ministry.

Robards adjusted his rust-colored robes and stepped over to them. His face was grave. "Arthur," he greeted in his low voice. "There's been some trouble—"

"Is Harry all right?"

"Yes, yes, he's fine," Robards replied. He turned to the trainee, who was still standing next to them. "Davies, you can go. Thank you." The young man nodded and disappeared down the corridor.

"What happened?" Arthur asked urgently. He found that his concern over Harry was still mounting, despite evidence that the situation wasn't dire.

Robards confirmed that no one was walking by them before speaking. "Potter had a panic attack."

"What?" Arthur's mind struggled to catch up. Harry? How was that possible?

"It happened during one of the training drills. I heard it secondhand, and he isn't being particularly forthcoming about what might have triggered it. We've asked him to take the rest of the day off, which is standard procedure. Given that he is staying with you, I thought—"

Arthur interrupted without really thinking about it. "He was, but not anymore. He moved into his own place."

Robards' eyes narrowed, and Arthur was given the distinct impression that he had said the wrong thing. "When was this?"

"Around a month ago—"

Robards' expression grew very sharp. "He lied to our office, then."

"Pardon?"

"Just a week ago, he told us that he was living with you. There were some questions regarding the results from his physical. His weigh-in placed him in the underweight category for his height. He assured us that he was getting help for that."

Oh, Harry.

"Given his age, we would have been more concerned if we'd known he was living on his own."

Arthur reached up and rubbed his forehead. "Merlin— Thanks for letting me know," he said painfully. "I had no idea."

"I'm sure you know he's not considered an average trainee inside this department. But if we can't trust that he's taking care of himself, he becomes a liability, Destroyer of You-Know-Who or not."

"Of course."

Robards crossed his arms. "I need to have a quick meeting with the trainers, to discuss whether he needs to be placed on a temporary health leave. Would you like to wait with him until I return?"

Arthur nodded, his heart still thudding fast in his chest.

Robards sighed, and his expression softened slightly. "I have to be honest, Arthur. If his health doesn't improve, we'll have to eject him from the program. Personally, I don't want to see that happen. He has a lot of potential."

Arthur swallowed, feeling the weight of a new burden on his chest. "I understand."

"I'll take you to him, then."

Arthur followed Robards through the heavy door, which led to more corridors and a small room with a glass window that looked like it might be used for questioning. Through the window, Arthur could see Harry in his black training robes and sitting on a folding chair, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees.

"The door is unlocked," explained Robards. "I'll return momentarily."

"Thank you, Gawain. I appreciate you calling me."

Robards acknowledged him with a nod and slipped away.

Taking a breath, Arthur slowly opened the door. Once he had stepped into the room, Harry sat up immediately. Arthur hadn't seen him in three weeks, and he couldn't help but think that Harry appeared considerably thinner and paler than he remembered.

"Mr. Weasley," said Harry breathlessly. "What are you—"

"Robards called me," Arthur explained. He walked over to Harry and sat in the adjacent chair. "He told me what happened in training this morning..."

The small bit of color that remained in Harry's face drained immediately. "He did?" A flash of shame crossed over his eyes. "Gods... I'm so embarrassed."

"Oh, Harry, don't be," said Arthur, trying to sound casual, though he felt anything but.

Harry scrubbed his hand over his face and didn't acknowledge Arthur's words. "What else did he say?"

Arthur paused, wondering what Robards had already told Harry. "He's with the trainers right now, discussing your situation. They may be placing you on a temporary leave."

"What! Why?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "They're concerned about your health, Harry. And not just about today. He explained that you came in underweight on your last physical…"

Harry was staring off into the corner of the room. His expression, from what Arthur could see of it, looked indignant. "Mr. Weasley, I was right on the threshold—"

Arthur sighed. "Well, it was enough to trigger their concern. And I'm sorry, Harry, but I put my foot in it and mentioned that you're living on your own now. So they're discussing that, too."

Harry let out a quiet groan. "Merlin. And I thought today couldn't get any worse..."

"I'm sorry."

Harry shook his head. "I didn't intend to lie about that, you know," he explained. "I suppose I panicked. They weren't accepting what I was saying. It was stupid."

"You've been under a lot of pressure—"

"No, I haven't," said Harry angrily. But the anger faded from his face in a short moment, leaving a dejected expression in its wake. "Not enough to be like this," he added, almost to himself. He let out a frustrated sigh. "Sorry. I shouldn't be snapping at you." He rubbed his forehead.

"It's okay," said Arthur calmly. "I'm not taking it personally."

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of Harry's foot bouncing on the floor.

Arthur learned forward in his chair. "Harry?" Their eyes met. "I think you know that I was never a big fan of you moving out so soon. It's why we had that conversation before you left. I wanted to be sure that you would reach out to us if you experienced difficulty."

Harry cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "I know."

"It worries me that you didn't." He paused, waiting to see if Harry would react, but he didn't. "I'd like to see you move back in."

Harry scratched his head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

Harry sighed, looking up at the ceiling as if it held the answers. "I know I need to... get it together. Or something. But I can do that from Grimmauld Place."

Arthur watched Harry for a long moment, trying very hard to read him, but he could only sense his obvious frustration, not what was behind it. "How can I change your mind? Molly's worried sick when you're gone, and frankly, I'd also be more comfortable with you home. You have the rest of your life to be fully independent. There's no rush."

Harry looked away. "I don't understand why you want me there."

Ah, there it was.

"Well, we do," countered Arthur, as forcefully as he could.

"I'm not with Ginny anymore."

"So what? Harry—" Arthur rubbed his forehead. He felt a headache coming on, and he wished they had more time, but Robards would be returning soon. "I just want you to promise me that you'll give it some thought. If you're having panic attacks, now, as well—"

"That only happened this morning, Mr. Weasley."

"Well, even so. I'm not trying to get on your case, Harry. All right? I just want to see you doing well."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but the next moment the door opened, and Robards stepped into the room.

"Potter," he greeted, his expression still grave. "Would you like to speak in private, or—?" He gestured around the room.

Harry swallowed and glanced over at Arthur briefly, then back at the Head Auror. "Here is fine."

Robards nodded and sat in the remaining chair as he explained the department's decision: a mandatory leave, two weeks minimum, at which point there would be another physical to assess Harry's health. They would bring Harry back to the training level of his peers, who had been asked not to share what they had observed that morning, upon his return. There would be no disciplinary write-up in Harry's file regarding his lie to the department. On the whole, Arthur felt that things had turned out as well as they could have.

As Robards stood to leave, he leveled his gaze at Harry once more. "Potter, this is not a punishment. This time off is for you to bring your health back to acceptable standards so that you can perform at the level we know you to be capable of. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll see you in my office at nine on the twenty-ninth. I recommend you keep up with your required reading while you're out. Good day to the both of you." Then he left the room abruptly.

Harry let out a breath as the door swung closed. Arthur sat quietly while the young man absorbed the news, his eyes staring into the floor. After a minute had passed, Harry looked up with a face that seemed to say, What next?

Arthur took pity on him. "How about some lunch? I promise I won't ask you to decide anything just now."

Harry nodded. He stood up slowly, his expression distant.

"We'll take the Floo," said Arthur.

It wasn't long before they appeared in the Burrow fireplace, Harry tumbling through after Arthur. Arthur watched Harry dust off his robes the Muggle way, smiling fondly after him.

"Oh, Arthur, you're home for lunch?" Molly sounded very pleased as she stepped into the kitchen. A moment later, she spotted Harry. "Oh, Harry, dear! What a wonderful surprise!"

"Hi, Mrs. Weasley." Harry stopped patting his robes and looked up at her, not quite smiling.

"Dear, you look peaked," said Mrs. Weasley. She stepped over and patted Harry's cheeks kindly. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Harry had a trying morning," explained Arthur, despite the warning look that Harry had given him when he'd opened his mouth. "We thought we'd break for some lunch."

"Wonderful! I have soup warming right now." Molly stepped over to stir the large pot. "Sit, sit." She waved at them, and they did.

"What's new, Harry?" said Molly. "We don't see you nearly enough!"

See? Arthur mouthed to Harry.

Harry cleared his throat. "Well, I saw Ron last week."

"Oh, that's wonderful, Harry! And how are things at the house?"

"Oh, good. I'm still moving things around."

Molly joined them at the table, frowning slightly. "I don't like to think of you in that big house all by yourself. Is it comfortable enough?"

"Yeah, it's just fine."

"And how is work, dear?"

Harry shifted in his seat. "All right, until today." He glanced over at Arthur, as if hoping to be rescued from this turn in the conversation. When he wasn't, he continued, "I've been put on mandatory leave for two weeks."

Molly's hand moved up to cover her mouth. "Oh— What happened?"

Harry cleared his throat again, avoiding her eyes. "I had a bad reaction to one of the training drills."

Molly's eyebrows knitted together. "Why on earth would they place you on leave for that?"

There was a long silence, in which Harry appeared to be having some sort of internal struggle. "I also failed my health screening."

"Oh, Harry."

"It's all right," said Harry urgently. "I'm going to fix it."

Molly's eyes were welling. "Dear, we were worried about you already…"

"I know," said Harry, looking incredibly uncomfortable. He scratched the side of his head and continued to avoid their eyes. "Erm... I'm going to stop in the loo before we eat," he announced, standing abruptly and heading for the doorway.

Molly's tears spilled over. She watched the tail of Harry's robe as it whipped around the corner. "Arthur..."

Arthur reached over and clasped her hand. "I know."

Chapter Text

Once they had finished lunch and Mr. Weasley had returned to the Ministry, Mrs. Weasley spared no time in cornering Harry with a series of chores inside and outside the house, insisting—quite unconvincingly—that she needed his help clearing out old spices from the cupboards, dusting the bookshelves, and sweeping out the chicken coop.

Harry, who had been on the receiving end of this approach from Mrs. Weasley before, was fully aware that she was trying to rob him of a natural moment to slip away to Grimmauld Place. He went along with it anyway, too exhausted to make any strong excuses and unwilling to be a source of Mrs. Weasley's disappointment. He supposed that even Mrs. Weasley would run out of work for him within a few hours, and he would be able to steal away then.

However, later that afternoon, with his back aching from a combination of Mrs. Weasley's odd jobs and Auror training, Harry knew he had underestimated her level of determination. He was carrying a box of Ron's old school things from the attic and into his best friend's bedroom—"I want him to go through them next time he's here. That attic is getting too crowded."—when he glanced at his watch and saw it was nearing dinnertime.

Sighing, he placed the box next to Ron's bed, below the small bookshelf of wizarding children's fables and old Martin Miggs comics. He straightened to the familiar sight of the Chudley Cannons mural above Ron's bed and the handmade paper cosmic mobiles that hung in the far corner of the room. Feeling a bit overwhelmed by the memories that these brought up, Harry rubbed his forehead and sat on the edge of the bed, trying very hard to remember the happier times spent in this room before their second year, and playing Quidditch in the orchard that was visible from Ron's window.

He wanted to recapture those feelings, experience something outside the hollowness that consumed him most often these days. He only wished he knew how. He'd found that the next best thing was to keep himself occupied. Only then was he able to switch off his brain and the thoughts that seemed to circle persistently inside it. It was the main reason why a mandatory leave from training was starting to feel impossible.

Harry was startled from his thoughts when Mrs. Weasley appeared in the doorway, her arms full of folded laundry. She smiled at him. "You're a dear, Harry. What shall I make for dinner?"

It was another maneuver, but just like the chores, he had to go along. "Oh, I like everything you make, Mrs. Weasley."

She beamed at him. "I'll do a steak and kidney pie, then. Should be ready soon." Then she started down the stairs, humming a tune to herself.

Harry shifted on the bed, and his eyes fell to an open box of owl treats on Ron's writing desk. Ron was probably finishing up his day at George's shop. Their last conversation played in Harry's mind. "I'll join you in training eventually, if they'll have me," Ron had explained. The timeline had grown more vague over time. "It's just that I'm needed at the store… for now, at least."

Harry, who had recognized the hidden meaning that George still needed Ron around, definitely in the store and maybe even at the flat that the two shared, had simply nodded. Still, he hadn't been able to stop himself wondering—selfishly, of course—whether he, Harry, would be having an easier time now if Ron was at the Ministry with him instead.

Thoughts of Ron led naturally to thoughts of Hermione. He had hardly seen her, really, since she had returned from Australia in summer with Ron, but there had been a few essential afternoons where the three of them had lain on the grass in the back garden of the Burrow, alternating between talking and just being. Trying to get their bearings. Now Hermione was back at Hogwarts, eager to complete her N.E.W.T.s, and Harry didn't expect to see her until Christmas, although she wrote often. He missed her.

It was probably the most difficult to think of Ginny. He felt like a failure whenever he thought about how incapable he'd been over the summer of connecting with her, even when they'd been in the same room; how his mind had frozen, leaving him frozen, helpless to make conversation with her. And she was different, which wasn’t entirely unexpected. He supposed he was probably different, too.

What hadn't changed at all was his desire to have her around him. But now she was gone—to Wales, in her second week of the Harpies' training program, only made possible after several loud rows with her mother ("You are not quitting school, Ginevra!") during which Mr. Weasley played the role of patient mediator and the rest of the Weasleys retreated to their rooms and cast Imperturbable Charms to block out the sound.

Eventually, Harry heard his name being called up the stairs for dinner. Mr. Weasley was already seated at the table when he entered the kitchen. The man smiled up at him. "You're still wearing the watch, I see," he commented.

It took a moment for Harry to realize that Mr. Weasley was referring to the watch that he and Mrs. Weasley had given him for his seventeenth.

"Oh, yeah—" Harry smiled. "Of course. I wear it all the time."

Mrs. Weasley's eyes were teary as she brought over a large platter of food to the table. "My brother would be so pleased to see you wearing it, Harry." She patted him on the shoulder, and Harry took his seat across from Mr. Weasley.

It felt very strange to be sitting at dinner with the Weasley parents with none of the Weasley children around. Harry tried hard to shove down the awkward feeling as he listened to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley talk, the most popular topics being Charlie, who was going to be in town the next week, Mr. Weasley's work, and Mrs. Weasley's next day gardening plans.

Several times, Harry thought he saw one of them glance over at his plate, but mostly he tried to keep his eyes down and focus on the mechanical process of chewing. It was a strategy to avoid dwelling too much on the difficult texture of the steak and kidney pie, or on the fact that he probably would have found the same pie delicious just a few months ago.

As dinner was winding down, Mr. Weasley cleared his throat in a manner that made Harry's stomach jump with nerves. Harry immediately stopped trying to eat, his fork hovering in the air.

Mr. Weasley looked guilty. "Harry, I'm sorry, but I feel like it's my job to ask… How much weight do you have to gain, according to the Ministry?"

Harry stared at the corner of his plate, trying to determine if he could successfully deflect the question. It didn't seem possible.

He quickly said, "About a stone."

"Oh." Mr. Weasley sounded surprised. Harry couldn't tell if this was because the number was higher or lower than he had expected. "Okay, then. How many are you now?"

Harry reached up and rubbed his forehead, every inch of his body itching to leave the room, but he was an adult, dammit. He forced himself to stay put.

"Er... nine."

Mrs. Weasley gasped, then covered her mouth as if she could take back her reaction.

Mr. Weasley just looked worried. He stared down at his hands. "Well—" Mr. Weasley said after a long silence. He opened his mouth again. "All right. I doubt they expect you to gain all of it in two weeks. They'll probably just want to see progress."

Harry simply nodded, continuing to rub his forehead so that he wouldn't have to see their concerned faces.

"Dear, I'll cook all sorts of good things," said Mrs. Weasley, once some of her shock seemed to have cleared. "All your favorites."

Harry couldn't bring himself to correct her. He set his fork down slowly on his plate, which was still mostly full.

"Do you have a headache, dear?" Mrs. Weasley had noticed Harry rubbing his forehead. "I can get you a potion—"

"No, that's all right," said Harry. "It's just a small one."

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while after that, until Harry offered to do the dishes.

Sometime after dinner, Harry approached Mrs. Weasley in the sitting room and told her that he would like to stay at the Burrow, for a little while. But since he couldn't remember having made the decision, it felt as if someone other than himself was playing his role in the conversation, and the only explanation for it all seemed to be the weariness that had been settling around him for months.

Mrs. Weasley's hug at the end of their conversation was warm but stifling, and Harry was relieved when he was again able to slip away to Ron’s room.

He plopped down on Ron's bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying not to think. The springs of the mattress creaked as he shifted onto his side, and a familiar floral scent drifted in through the open window.

He had only closed his eyes for a minute before he started to drift off.

Harry was fully asleep when a soft knock jolted him awake. He sat up abruptly and grabbed his wand from under his pillow.

"Oh, sorry, Harry," said Mr. Weasley. "I didn't realize—"

"It's okay. I wasn't sleeping," he lied, since it was honestly too early to be asleep. He dropped his wand, sat back against the headboard, and waited for his heart to stop racing.

Mr. Weasley nodded and leaned in the doorway, his hand curled around the frame. "In that case... Mind if I come in?"

Harry shook his head and watched as Mr. Weasley walked fully into the room and sat in Ron's desk chair. He felt a distinct wariness that was probably intensified by his still-rapidly beating heart.

"Anything you need?" asked Mr. Weasley. "I can fetch your things from London if you're not feeling up to it."

Harry shook his head again. He noticed that Mr. Weasley had changed out of his work cloak. He also appeared several times more comfortable than Harry felt to be in this conversation.

"Thanks, but I think I'm good. I'll just go tomorrow and grab some things."

Mr. Weasley nodded. He was quiet for a long moment, then looked at his hands. "Need to talk about anything?"

Harry shook his head immediately, more vigorously than he had intended.

"All right." Mr. Weasley watched him with an expression that was too knowing, and Harry was reminded uncomfortably of Dumbledore's past scrutiny. "Glad to have you with us, Harry."

"Thanks," said Harry weakly, unsure what else there was for him to say. If he was being honest, Mr. Weasley's continued attention was becoming difficult to bear, especially after the day he'd had.

"How are you sleeping?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Oh. Good." No need to get into that.

"Drinking at all?"

Harry swallowed. He knew that Mr. Weasley was remembering the night a couple of months ago when he'd had to support Harry up to the house after finding him drunk in the garden. Harry had been so mortified that he'd avoided Mr. Weasley for days afterward. They hadn't spoken of it since.

"No," said Harry eventually. "Well, just a little. Nothing like before."

Mr. Weasley's eyes met Harry's. He looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Harry, really. I just don't know of any other way to talk about these things."

Harry nodded, eyes cast down. He knew Mr. Weasley meant well, but the room felt suffocating and he just wanted to go back to sleep.

"All right." Mr. Weasley stood. Once he was halfway to the door, he smiled at Harry and in a lighter manner, said, "Molly says she'd love your help in the garden tomorrow. She was over the moon about the results the last time. Said you have quite the green thumb."

Harry blushed, scratching his head. "I didn't do anything special."

Mr. Weasley's smile remained. "Oh, I don't think so. She gets those same flowers every year and they never looked so good." His hand curled around the door frame again. "Don't hesitate if you need something from Molly or me, all right? You know where to find us."

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Okay. Sleep well, Harry."

"Night, Mr. Weasley."

Harry rolled over onto his side. He tried to fall asleep, but this time his mind was swirling with an ocean of thoughts begging to be examined. He wondered why he felt regretful, or why his heart was still beating like he'd run a race. As he lay there, one thought rose above the rest: When had things gotten so much harder?

Chapter Text

The day after Harry's panic attack at the Ministry, Arthur worked slowly through the second heavy stack of paperwork on his desk, his eyes glazing over more than usual at the legalese. As he flicked through from one page to the next, trying in vain to focus, his mind kept drifting back to how Harry had looked and acted the day before.

Arthur had left home so early that morning that he hadn't had a chance to see Harry, but he sure hoped that Harry was having a lie-in. For a moment, he tried to tell himself that maybe this break would be good for Harry, that he'd get some time to rest, to eat, to heal, but he had a strong, troubling feeling that it was much, much more complicated than that.

Leaning forward to sign a document with his quill, he sighed and considered that he'd probably spent most of his adult life worrying about his kids. Of course, with as many as there were, there was always one struggling at any given time. But he knew that he'd signed up for all that, and especially with Harry, who would just as soon disappear and take care of himself, no surrogate parent needed, just as he had always done.

And that was what Arthur was the most worried about, wasn't he?

Transferring the document to the third stack, he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. He hadn't gotten enough sleep, he realized. But of course, he and Molly had lain awake until past midnight, Molly whispering her worries into the still, early-autumn air of their bedroom. Asking for reassurance, or for answers. Arthur had tried to give her what she needed. He didn't know if he'd been successful.

"His wrists," Molly had whispered. "Did you see how bony they are? Arthur, dear..."

Of course, Arthur had. He'd seen the thinness of his face, too, and the dark rings under his eyes. They'd been impossible to ignore.

Arthur was jerked out of his thoughts by an Interdepartmental memo that flew in like a shot and hovered next to his chair. He reached up to grab it, then opened it, reading through it carefully.

Enchanted bins in Bath. Lovely.

He grabbed his wand and headed for the Floo.

After successfully dispatching the bins (right before the bin men turned the corner, he would be sure to mention in his report), Arthur Apparated back to the Ministry, a bit sweatier than before. He entered the lifts, and a few memos streamed in behind him, but he was alone in the lift until Kingsley stepped in on the next floor.

"Arthur," Kingsley greeted, and then when the lift doors closed, he turned to him. "I spoke to Robards this morning," he said. He paused for a moment. "He told me about Harry."

Arthur nodded, not exactly sure what to say in response. He felt uncomfortable commenting publicly on Harry, lest he betray his privacy.

"I was sorry to hear it," Kingsley continued, and he did sound it. "You'll let me know if there's anything I can do to help?"

"Thank you, Kingsley. I will."

Kingsley nodded, reaching over and clasping Arthur's shoulder for a moment. They were friends since the war, Arthur realized. Then the lift doors opened, and Kingsley exited down the hall.

Arthur watched the doors close, considering how mortified Harry would be to know that the Minister of Magic knew the truth of what had happened.

He only hoped that those who did know would keep it well under wraps, for Harry's sake.

Arthur had planned to eat lunch in his office, but around noon he was hit with a restless feeling and decided to pay his son a visit instead.

He Flooed to Diagon Alley and took the familiar path to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, which was already decorated for Halloween. Orange and black bat-like figures, animated with magic, flew around the building, and silent fireworks in the color and form of black cats exploded every few seconds through the second level window.

Arthur stepped over the threshold and walked to the main counter, where the top of Ron's head could barely be seen above a tower of stock boxes. Arthur poked his head around them, and Ron jumped, clearly startled.

A moment later, though, he'd recovered. "Dad, give a warning," he said, but Arthur thought he sounded pleased to see him.

Ron picked up a couple of the boxes and set them on the ground. "What's up?"

"Just stopping by," said Arthur. "Hadn't seen you in a little while."

Ron nodded. "Yeah, I've been pretty busy," he said. He leaned on the counter and looked over when the shop door opened and a woman walked in. "Hello," he greeted.

He turned back to Arthur. "Sorry, but George isn't here. Just me today."

Arthur nodded. "I thought that might be the case. Visiting vendors?"

"Yeah. Every Wednesday." Ron looked him in the eyes for a minute. "What's actually going on? You seem distracted."

Arthur managed to shrug off the question by asking about George.

A few minutes later, the woman stepped up to the counter to check out, and Arthur backed away, taking a moment to examine a new display of joke wands along the back wall.

"Did you find everything you were looking for?" he heard Ron say. "One second, I'll get you a bag."

Arthur returned to the counter as Ron was saying, "Thanks for stopping in." Then they were alone in the shop again.

"You're usually busier than this," Arthur observed.

"Yeah," said Ron. "The school rush is basically done, and we won't get the Halloween rush for a couple of weeks, according to George." He wrote something down in a ledger sitting on the counter. "It's good, though. I'm getting caught up on some things. Stock and advertising and stuff like that."

Arthur smiled at his son. "It's fun to see you in your element." He caught Ron's eyes when he looked up from his ledger. "I'm proud of you."

Ron grinned back, looking pleased. "Thanks, Dad."

There was silence for a moment, and then Arthur sighed.

"I knew there was something," said Ron. "Just tell me, will you?"

Arthur saw how concerned Ron looked. So he made a decision, but not before he'd glanced around one final time to make certain that there was no one else in the shop. "Ron, does Harry have panic attacks?"

"What?" Ron dropped the quill that he was holding and stared at him with wide eyes. "Why..." He gulped, his face getting pale behind his freckles. "You mean, like Percy's?"

Arthur nodded slowly, feeling not a small amount of guilt at having this conversation without Harry knowing. "Did he ever have them at school, or last year when you were all on the move?"

Ron shook his head vigorously. "No. Never. I never saw that." He watched Arthur's face closely. "What's going on?"

Arthur sighed again. "At the risk of sharing too much, Harry's having some trouble right now."

At that, Ron's face was pinched with worry. "Come on, Dad." He sighed. "You have to tell me. This is Harry."

Arthur nodded, having to admit that Ron was right.

"The Auror program placed him on a health leave," he admitted. "He's underweight, and not by a small amount. And he had a panic attack during a training drill yesterday."

Ron's jaw dropped. "You're sure you're talking about Harry? Not someone else?"

Arthur nodded grimly.

Ron stared ahead blankly. A moment later, his questions were picking up in tempo. "Did you talk to him? Where is he now?"

"He came home with me yesterday. He's going to stay with your mum and me for a while."

Ron nodded. "He's okay?"

"I don't know, Ron. I have to be honest, he doesn't look good."

Ron rested his forehead on his hand. "I wonder what I should do," he mused aloud.

"Well, I do have an idea for that," said Arthur. "Charlie's coming over for dinner Monday night. If you're not too busy, maybe you could come, too? That would give you a chance to talk to him a bit while your mum and I catch up with Charlie."

"Yeah," said Ron. "Yeah, I can do that."

They stood in silence.

"Merlin," Ron breathed a moment later.

"I know."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Of course," said Arthur. "But I have to be honest, I still wonder if I should have waited for him to tell you himself."

Ron scoffed. "Harry could be bleeding out and he wouldn't tell anyone about it."

"Hmm," said Arthur.

"You think I'm exaggerating. I'm not."

"Oh, I know," breathed Arthur. He met Ron's eyes over the counter. "I just wish you weren't."

Ron sighed. "Yeah, me too."

It was almost six o'clock when Arthur arrived home. He Apparated beyond the wards and then stepped through the garden gate, closing it behind him. What he didn't expect to see was Harry, leaning over in the soil with a trowel and digging. His shirt was stuck to his back, soaked in sweat, and Arthur could clearly see his shoulder blades, and every vertebrae... The sight made his stomach drop.

Harry looked so intent on his work that he didn't realize Arthur was there until Arthur was almost behind him.

Then he twisted around, looking up. His glasses were dusty with dirt. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," said Arthur, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. "You're working hard, I see."

Harry nodded, looking dazed and more than exhausted. "What time is it?"

"Six," said Arthur. He stood watching Harry for a moment. "Was Molly out here with you?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. His response time was a bit slow, Arthur noticed. "I think she went inside."

Arthur nodded, swinging his briefcase and trying to stifle the alarm he felt at Harry working so hard outside while being so underweight. "I'll go in and see about dinner," he said. "Did you have a good day?"

Harry wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Yeah," he said, digging the trowel into the earth again. "You?"

"Yeah, it was good," said Arthur. It was hard to have a conversation with Harry, he'd learned. A man of few words, he was. "I'll see you inside, then?"

Harry simply nodded, reaching for a pile of seeds next to him.

Arthur stepped into the house. After he'd dropped his briefcase by the door, Molly walked into the kitchen and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Arthur was still thinking about the terrifying angles of Harry's skeletal frame, and didn't answer her when she asked how his day was.

"Harry looked like he was about to collapse out there," he said, gesturing at the door. "Why is he out there at all?"

Molly looked distraught. "I couldn't get him to come inside, Arthur," she said. "Once he gets started, it's like he's obsessed."

Arthur started to remove his tie, peering through the window, where he could still see Harry leaning over the flowerbed. "What's he planting anyway?"

"Chrysanthemums."

Arthur sighed. Throwing his tie over a chair, he turned to Molly and hugged her. He decided to share the only good news he had. "Ron's coming for dinner on Monday."

"Oh," said Molly, looking relieved. She placed her hands on the nearest chair. "I have chicken in the oven. He hardly ate anything for lunch."

"We can't have him fainting in the garden," said Arthur, still looking out the window.

"I know," said Molly. "What do you think we should do?"

Arthur didn't know.

"We should call him in for dinner," he said.

Ten minutes later, Harry had gone upstairs to wash up before dinner, so Arthur and Molly sat anxiously at the kitchen table until the chicken was ready to be taken out of the oven.

Arthur was dishing out servings when Harry appeared again, hair wet from the shower and dressed in oversized clothes.

"Peas, carrots, or both, Harry?" asked Arthur.

"Oh," said Harry, pulling out his usual chair. "Erm... carrots, please."

Molly talked about the new garden shop in town, while they both tried not to watch Harry or his progress with his dinner.

When Arthur announced that Charlie and Ron were coming to dinner on Monday, Harry looked up from his plate but didn't comment. Arthur would have given anything to know what was on his mind then.

As Arthur and Molly were finishing up their dinner, Arthur glanced at Harry's and saw a chicken piece with only a few bites taken out of it. A moment later, Molly said, "Harry, dear, do you not like the seasoning on the chicken? It's different from what I usually use."

Harry looked up quickly. "No, it's really good," he said. "I'm just... not very hungry." He set down his fork. "You know, from lunch."

Arthur held his breath as Molly reached over and clasped Harry's wrist very gently. He watched her take a deep, bracing breath. "Harry," she said. Harry looked up and met her eyes. "I don't want to pretend that everything's all right here. We can't, if things are going to get better for you. Do you understand?"

Harry looked down, then looked up again. He gulped, then nodded.

Arthur let out his breath.

Merlin, this was going to be hard.