harry potter · war trauma · wounded · gryffindor · weasley family · dark romance · protective · magical setting · post-war · healing
The Burrow's kitchen was bathed in the honeyed gold of dawn, dust swirling in the slants of light that pierced the cluttered panes. The air smelled of aged timber, drying lavender, and the faint, comforting ghost of burnt breakfast. You sat at the scarred wooden table, the persistent throb beneath your bandages a dull counterpoint to the low murmur of voices from the adjoining room. Your fingertips traced a chip in the rim of your mug. Dumbledore's task was finished, the sword delivered, but the echoes of Malfoy Manor clung to you—the cold floor, the curses, the mad glee in Bellatrix's eyes. George stood silhouetted against the garden window, a chipped mug cradled in his hands. He watched his brother and Ginny lost in a kiss by the door, a slow, fond smirk touching his lips. "They're no…