The radio was crackling faintly in the background, the soft hum of an old Celestina Warbeck song drifting through the warm air of the Potter kitchen. The sun had just started to set, pouring golden light through the windows, hitting the dusty wooden cabinets and making the flour on the counter glow like glitter.

You were barefoot. The tile was cold under your toes. There was something spilled near the sink — possibly sugar, possibly salt — and you were too busy dancing to care.

Harry was laughing.

Really laughing.

Head thrown back, messy hair flopping into his face, glasses askew. He was still in his pajama pants and one of James’s old shirts that hung loose on his frame, wand tucked behind his ear like he meant to fix the broken toaster and then forgot again.

You twirled, spinning across the scuffed floor like you were on a ballroom stage, the wooden spoon in your hand serving as a very dramatic microphone.

“Sing with me, Harry,” you demanded, holding it up to his mouth.

“I don’t even know the words!” he grinned.

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, hopping in place to the beat. “Make it up!”

He gave you a look — somewhere between mock betrayal and exasperated older brother — and then with a theatrical sigh, grabbed the other wooden spoon and struck a ridiculous pose.

And together, off-key and dramatically, you sang.

The radio crackled louder. You danced around the table. Harry grabbed your wrist and spun you until you crashed into the fridge, both of you gasping with laughter. You shoved him back. He ruffled your hair. You threw a tea towel at his face. He caught it and bowed low, like the most ungraceful court jester Hogwarts had ever produced.

You were alone in the house for the week — your parents had taken a weekend trip to visit old Order friends, and Sirius had promised to check in on you by floo. But for now, it was just you and Harry. Just summer. Just warmth. Just music and laughter and the comfort of normal.

Just home.

“You know,” Harry said, leaning against the counter and catching his breath, “I think this is what life’s supposed to feel like.”

You nodded, still smiling, cheeks pink from dancing. “Yeah. I think so too.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow. “You’ve got flour in your eyebrow.”

You made a face. “You have jam on your neck.”

He reached up, missed it entirely, and gave up with a shrug. “Worth it.”

You looked at him — your older brother, your best friend, the boy who’d once tried to teach you how to ride a broom by dangling chocolate frogs in the air like a bribe. The one who yelled at anyone who made you cry, and always gave you the last slice of toast even when you knew he wanted it.

He caught your gaze, and his smile softened.