when harry introduces himself, he always says harry weasley-potter with pride radiating from him. he has always loved being a potter, that one last bit of james and lily he always carried with him. but he was the only one left. he grew up a potter in a house full of dursleys, he went to hogwarts a potter and it only brought him pain. sure, he loved being a potter, but he was alone. when harry says he is a weasley-potter, he remembers the sweater molly knit for him on christmas. he remembers playing exploding snap with ron in the empty common room and quidditch in the backyard of the burrow. he remembers the twins sneaking him sugar quills and charlie flying off with a baby dragon, bill making him tea in the evenings at shell cottage. he remembers arthur waiting outside the courtroom anxiously awaiting the results and the kind-hearted man fascinated by rubber ducks. he remembers ginny, her fiery hair like sunshine after rain, her laughter like bells, contagious and pure. her hands wrapping his, her head on his shoulder, a posture that made him think home. yes, harry was a potter, and he loved it, of course! but he was also a weasley, finally part of the first family he had ever known.Â
