A/N: I don't know where this came from. I was reading fics and this just, I don't even know, started as a small idea and then just kept snowballing from there. I hope you like it, and reviews/faves/follows are always welcomed and appreciated.

"I want to go back to Godric's Hollow," Harry announced very suddenly at dinner one night. All the Weasleys, except Ginny and George, looked up at him in surprise.

"But, Harry," Hermione began, voicing her concerns before even Mrs. Weasley could start. "Last time -"

"Last time, Riddle was still out there," he cut across her. He had taken to calling Voldemort by his given name, which for some reason made it feel more real, that he was gone. Calling him Tom Riddle made him seem less and less like the immortal Lord Voldemort, and it was easier to believe that he was really and truly dead.

"Are you sure, mate?" Ron asked delicately. "There's not exactly a lot of happy memories there."

"I know," Harry answered, "but I want to go back. Really take my time, maybe sit with my parents for a while."

It was odd - when he and Hermione had seen their grave so many months ago, he had felt as though there was nothing there, no connection to his parents, no way for them to know he was there with them. But after watching the Weasleys grieve for Fred the past few weeks, and after talking to his parents the night of his own (brief) death, he felt more and more like sitting at their graves and talking to them would somehow make him feel better. It wasn't that he missed them, exactly, though he did, every day. It was more that he needed someone to talk to, so he could work things out in his mind, so he could figure out where to go from here, now that his purpose in life had been achieved. And though Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were wonderful at giving him advice, this time he felt it was something he really needed to work through without them (especially as much of his concern had to do with their daughter, and somehow he felt they may not appreciate hearing about his frustrations caused by the spirited redhead who was resolutely not looking at him).

"You'll be careful, dear?" Molly Weasley interjected, uncharacteristically unworried. "Voldemort may be gone, but there are still those out there who wish to repay you for being the cause of his demise." She had been the first one to start using Voldemort's name again, her bravery bolstered by the loss of her son. The man who so ruthlessly murdered her baby did not deserve her fear.

"Of course, Mrs. Weasley," Harry replied with a grin.

"Do you want us to come with you?" Hermione asked, her voice still laced with concern.

"No, thanks though. I think this time I need to go on my own."

Harry wandered aimlessly through the quaint little town after he had spent what he felt was a very beneficial hour and a half leaning against his parents' headstone, chattering away about his thoughts. It looked very different during the day - far less threatening, and abundantly more cheerful. Children ran through the streets and Harry smiled as they passed, enjoying the anonymity that came with seeing children far too young to recognize him.

After a while, he found himself outside the little cottage where it had all started, looking up at the hole blasted through the wall of his nursery. He found himself curious, wondering what this house that he had once lived in looked like. How had his parents decorated? What was their taste in furniture like? Did his mother keep the house as obsessively clean as Aunt Petunia? It was odd, not knowing these little details about his own parents.

Carefully, Harry pushed the little gate open, nervous that it might collapse or that some spell might prevent him from moving closer. But the gate held firm and either no such spell existed, or it recognized him as one of the house's former occupants. He moved up the little path and paused at the door, which was painted a very light blue that had turned somewhat grey with the years. The walls were a dirty white, with brown wooden rafters climbing them every few meters, and on one corner, ivy climbed the wall to nearly the top of the house. After a moment's hesitation, Harry reached down to the little white doorknob and twisted, pushing the door open.

Harry was surprised at how much the inside of the house seemed to just fit his parents. The door opened onto a little hallway, painted a creamy beige color, with a gold trim running around the base. Deep crimson carpeting lay on the floor, leading him further into the house. The first doorway, on his left, led into the living room, and Harry could see his father's influence in every inch of it. The couch was a hideous maroon with gold plaid, and the walls were covered in crimson and gold on just about every inch. A fireplace was set into a wall of bookshelves (the only thing in the room Harry thought his mother might have chosen), and he walked over to it, running his fingers over the spines of all the books, stirring up dust as he did. There were so many volumes - muggle and wizarding books alike - and Harry could almost picture his mother curled up in the gold chair in the corner, reading from one of them with a fire roaring. Another image of him, as a baby, seated in Lily's lap in that same chair as she read aloud to him from a children's book flashed in his mind, and he couldn't help but smile. The thought was darkened, somewhat when he realized that he had no idea what he had even looked like as a baby - the Dursleys had never allowed him to be included in any photos. He moved away from the bookshelf and looked around the room again once more, before moving on through the house.

Just as the living room had been very James, the kitchen was all Lily. It was clean, and prim, and yet, it had a little bit of wildness to it. The walls were the same creamy beige as the rest of the house, but the cabinets and counters were all a deep chocolate color. A window over the sink let light filter into the room, and Harry noticed a vase filled with wildflowers sitting on the table - a lasting preservation spell that must have been placed by someone other than Lily - whoever gave her the flowers, probably. There were paintings on the walls of different scenery - a lot of cliffs and turbulent oceans and windy fields - and when he approached one of them closely, he saw his mother's signature in the bottom corner, and he smiled a little at her skill. He had never known that she could paint, no one ever told him that.

On the other side of the hall was a large dining room, with a nice mahogany dining set (six chairs and space for more should any of the other marauders decide to settle down one day) (it pained Harry a little bit that his parents thought there would be a one day). Along the front wall, near the window, was an old fashioned writing desk, which Harry approached slowly. On the top was a half finished letter to Sirius, and the sight pulled at his heart. He opened one drawer and found a bunch of old letters tied together, and as he pulled them apart, he saw that they were letters between James and Lily - they must have been from their summer apart before their seventh year. He sat down at the desk and read through a few of them, his eyes tearing up a little bit at the first signs of their feelings for each other (well, maybe not the first signs, but the first ones that he picked up on). He put the letters down and stood up, making his way to the stairs, and he walked up.

The first room he saw was obviously a guest room - bed neatly made and hardly any decorations (just a few more of Lily's paintings). Harry supposed the room must have been reserved for the other Marauders, any time they came to visit and felt like staying the night. The next room was his parents', though he couldn't tell who had decorated it. The walls were a light blue grey, very soothing, with coffee and chocolate coloured accents. The bedspread was striped with the same colours, and on the wall was a canvas image of an old globe that was spinning very slowly. Another wall held geometric, interlocking shelves, upon which sat candles and a few framed photographs of Lily and James smiling at each other. On their dresser sat a little metal tree, with various pieces of jewelry hanging off the branches, and Harry touched them lightly. A delicate pair of golden earrings glinted in the light coming through the window, and for some reason he imagined them on Ginny, shining against her flaming red hair. Gently, he lifted them from their branch and wrapped them in a tissue, placing them carefully in his pocket. He shut the door behind him as he left, and paused in front of the last room in the little house - unsure whether or not he wanted to see it. His nursery was the only room he hadn't entered yet, and with his hand resting on the doorknob, Harry decided it was one thing he just didn't need to see, or maybe he wasn't ready. Either way, he turned away from the white door, a little wooden 'H' centered at eye level, and proceeded back down the stairs.

Harry stepped into the living room for one last look, and a little white booklet on the end table caught his attention. He walked over and grabbed it, flipping it open and finding, much to his surprise, a photo of himself, grinning up at the camera and clapping his hands together. He must have been only a few weeks old. He turned the page and saw himself lying on a blanket on the floor, trying to pick his head up. He flipped a few pages earlier and saw Lily rocking a sleeping Harry, grinning over her shoulder at James. She looked gorgeous, and happy. He turned back to the beginning of the album, which had a photo of his mother and father together in the hospital, staring their newborn son. He turned the pages one by one, looking through his childhood, taking in every detail of the pictures the way a dying man downs water.

When Harry apparated back to the living room of the Burrow, the sun was setting and Hermione was pacing the living room while Mrs. Weasley fussed worriedly over the stove.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed when he appeared, sounding half relieved and half furious with him. "What happened? You were supposed to be home hours ago!"

"I know," he answered with a sheepish smile, "but Hermione, look what I found at my parents' house!"

Harry held the photo album out to her and watched as she flipped through the photos.

"You were a really cute baby, Harry, but that still-" she started, but Harry cut across her.

"There was so much stuff there, Hermione, it was like they never left - letters to each other, and photos, and the lot!" he seemed so excited, that Hermione just sighed and let the issue drop, continuing to flick through the photo album.

"Hey, Ginny, can I, er, well, can we go somewhere, to talk?" he asked, gazing hesitantly at the redhead perched on the couch. They hadn't spoken much, in part because he had wanted to give her the space she needed to mourn her brother and friends, but mostly because he couldn't figure out the right words.

"Sure," she said quietly, unfolding her long legs and walking out through the back door, Harry trailing behind. "So, what is it?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper, once they had made it far enough into the yard that they could be sure no one inside was eavesdropping

"I wanted to talk to you about, er," he paused and took a deep breath before forcing himself to continue, "about us. Thing is, Ginny, I really missed you while I was gone, and I know you might have moved on, because it was months, ages, and you never heard from me, but I thought you should know that I didn't - haven't - and if you wanted to, erm, maybe start again, I would like that. I mean, I know you're going back to school, but I could visit on Hogsmeade weekends or something, and, I don't know."

He finally stopped babbling when she placed a finger over his lips, and he wanted so badly to reach for her in that moment, to touch her, run his fingers through her hair...

"Harry James Potter, if you thought for even one moment that I could move on and forget about you while you were off trying to save the entire damn world, then you are a bloody fool," she said boldly, the same blazing look in her eyes as the day he had first kissed her, and he couldn't help but smile. "It doesn't mean that there's not - well, we have some things to talk about, eventually. But, Harry, I know you said that day by the lake that things were over, to keep me safe, but they were never really over for me."

"Me neither," he admitted, and one of his hands found Ginny's, twining their fingers and pulling her a little bit closer. His free hand pulled the earrings from his pocket and he held them out to her. "I found these at the house, they were my mum's, but I thought they would look pretty on you. And I'm sure she wouldn't want them just sitting gathering dust."

"Harry, they're beautiful, and it's very sweet of you," she replied, blushing furiously in the light of the setting sun.

Ginny inched closer to him and reached up on her tiptoes, placing a chaste kiss to his cheek, but Harry's arm had snaked around her waist, holding her close to him, and the damn flowery smell that came off her was intoxicating. He turned his head slightly and caught her lips in his, and he felt her sigh at the rightness of it, at just how much it felt like pieces of a puzzle fitting back together. It was hard, in that moment, with Ginny back in his arms, not to believe that things were perfect, that all was right in the world and that the future wasn't as bright as the sun itself.