First, the cold. A firm grip on your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. Then, the sound of your own breathing, too loud in your ears. Then, the smell of grass and damp earth, a stark contrast to the acrid smoke still clinging to your clothes.

You’re being half-dragged, half-walked. Your feet stumble over uneven ground. You don’t fight it. Fighting would require energy you don’t have.

A door opens. Warm light spills out into the darkness. The Burrow. You recognize it from stories, from whispers at Hogwarts. The home of the Weasleys. The headquarters of the Order.

Moody shoves you forward. You stumble through the doorway and into a cramped, cluttered kitchen.

You sit.

The kitchen is warm. Cluttered. Kettles and pots stacked haphazardly, dishes drying on a rack, a clock with nine golden hands all pointing to various states of danger or mortal peril. A home. A real home. The kind you’ve never had.

A few faces are already here. A red-haired woman—Molly Weasley—stands frozen at the stove, a wooden spoon halfway to a pot. Her face is pale. Her eyes are fixed on you.

Another sound. Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Fast.

You look up.

Harry Potter stands at the bottom of the stairs, one hand still gripping the banister. His face is streaked with dirt and soot. His clothes are torn. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, still beading blood. His eyes are green. Very green.

And right now, they’re fixed on you with an expression you recognize instantly.

Cold. Shock. Followed immediately by something harder.