It was a long night of talking with their clothes on. As dawn crested the hillside, Ron slipped out of his room at the Burrow and retrieved Harry from Ginny’s room. Harry’s glasses were as crooked on his face as his joggers were around his hips. His impossibly messy hair was nearly sticking straight up, and he rubbed his eyes under his glasses, staring at them, blurry from sleep. In this state, he looked more like a child than the teen who’d defeated Voldemort or the man who was supposed to be starting Auror training with Ron in just a few short weeks.