When Harry looks out of the window this time, he can see the sun glimmering in the distance and streaks of light on the horizon like faded shooting star trails. He smiles at the thought and turns over in his covers, tired and fully deprived of a good night's sleep. He'd been called in a shift extra to cover for Roberto, whose wife had the baby last night (he has no time to even dwell on the irony of him visiting the hospital he works at, as a patient) and while Harry's proud of him – he really is – did the guy have to have the baby on a Friday? It's one of the only days he gets to see Ron and Hermione, sometimes Neville and Ginny as well, besides Sundays and an occasional Wednesday if he's lucky; he sometimes honestly believes they're the only things he looks forward to in the week.
It's far too early for this, but he's up, and he doesn't suppose he'll be able to go to sleep for a while after this. Sighing, he scrubs his face wearily with a calloused palm and attempts a glance at the alarm clock, but he doesn't realize how far over he's scooted until he's too far – and he's crashing to the floor, dragging the nightside table with him. He winces as the lamp hits him square in the jaw (which is surely going to bruise) and he's hurrying to right himself and untangle all the wires, before –
He grunts as a giant furry thing attacks his face with giant licks and excited barks, which his very grumpy downstairs neighbour is definitely going to complain about. Harry can't help it. He laughs and shoves the shitzu off before it starts testing out its new teeth on his face.
"Moose get off, you big lug – I've got work today, and them I'm meeting Ron and Hermione for Rose's birthday. She's six can you believe it?"
Moose answers with a delighted yap, and before he can contemplate just how far he has sunk – waking up at ungodly hours and talking to frenzied pups – he rises unsteadily and kicks on a pair of fluffy carrot slippers (don't ask) and walks to the bathroom with Moose at his heels.
The deep circles under his eyes are alarming, and his chin stubble, coupled with wild black locks – which seem to have grown unchecked all over his head like his neighbour's hedges – make him look like some scruffy mutt. He is reminded of how Sirius had looked when he'd first met him, and swallows back the groan. He needs a haircut. No, strike that, he needs a break.
"Like what you see?" The mirror's teasing pulls a sigh from him.
"Hardly." He wonders when he'd stopped noticing just how exhausted he looks.
"Ahh, the daily strains of a workaholic", the mirror's tone is reminiscent, and Harry quickly turns around and picks up the tube of toothpaste so he doesn't have to reply. He glances at the reflection of the room in the mirror, the dishevelled interiors and peeling walls so normal, so ordinary, that he has to take a second before realizing that it hadn't come this way, that it is (ironically) a reflection of his weary self. He doesn't know how he's allowed it to escape his notice for so long, but then he's always been good at ignoring things – particularly his emotions, if he takes Hermione's word on it (which he always does; really, everyone should –she's never wrong).
He hears a whoosh from the living room as he is towelling off his hair and then an exasperated groan which sounds suspiciously like Ron. Pulling on some jeans and a baggy tee, he walks in to find the second-youngest-Weasley's head in the flames being thoroughly and warmly greeted by Moose who darts towards Harry at the sound of footsteps on old hardwood floors. Harry settles, cross-legged, in front of the fireplace, picking at the worn sleeve of his sweater as Moose proceeds to bite his jeans and cover it with slobber.
"Hey," Harry says, "Moose is a bit jumpy in the mornings, sorry about that."
Ron waves away his apology and Harry guesses by the frenzied look on his face that it's urgent.
"Sorry to pop in so early, but Hermione's got a work meeting early, and I'm needed at the office – some sort of silly emergency – but anyway Ginny's out too, I tried to reach her, so I was hoping you could watch Rose for twenty minutes or so before Mum gets here?" Ron's eyebrows are furrowed, and his eyes are anxious as he regards Harry, absently nibbling the corner of some toast.
"Yeah, of course -"
Harry has barely finished speaking as Rose is thrust into his arms along with an assortment of items – toys and things – and he quickly receives her, laying a commanding hand on Moose so he doesn't jump on Harry's timid niece.
"And where's Hugo?" Harry supposes this isn't the first time Ron has forgotten the existence of a family member, and it certainly won't be the last. He imagines Hermione's disapproving stare and barely stifles an undignified snort of laughter.
"Right – Hugo too, if you don't mind."
Hugo comes through too and there is dribble on his cheek from the half-bitten apple he's holding.
"Har uncle," he warbles, shaking a tiny fist, and Harry is caught up in a rush of affection for his nephew.
"Thank you so much, Harry, seriously." Ron reaches over to clap Harry on the shoulder, and whisper conspiratorially, "Keep this to yourself, would you? Hermione hates making Mum watch the kids, and I told her I would do it."
Harry nods, amused, and Ron draws himself up. Just before the fire pops he can hear Hermione's worried, "Ronald Weasley, what have you done with the kids?!", and his amusement turns into laughter as he mentally wishes Ron good luck.
"Right," he says, turning to the kids to see that Moose's tail is emitting bright red sparks which has him jumping everywhere like a bucking bronco (he smiles at the mental image) while Rose runs after him and hurriedly tries to vanish them without success. He doesn't have to look far for the culprit – Hugo's sheepish face peeks out from under the couch cushions, his toy wand stuck inside the apple and juice running down his wrist.
Harry tempers a smile as he surveys the wreckage. Despite the mess, the place feels more alive than it did five minutes ago.
"Right," he repeats, dazed, "Let's get you guys cleaned up."
By the time he's finished mopping up Moose and Hugo and Rose, Molly's arrived, and Harry is equal parts disappointed and relieved. He hands them over quickly, with a hand on Moose, who whimpers so convincingly that Harry is almost sorry for the daft little bugger. The emotion is replaced by irritation as said dog proceeds to shred a pillow as revenge for taking Hugo and Rose away, and then urinate on the rug - which Harry knows he did on purpose because he's almost fully trained to go in the bathroom by now.
He repairs the pillow with a flick of his wand and vanishes the pee, but he's always been bad at cleaning charms, so he decides to just leave the rug and clear the smell. He's tucking his wand away into the charmed drawer where he keeps it (so it won't attract any unwanted Muggle attention) just as he hears three sharp raps on the door.
He tugs it open wearily. Not many people from the wizarding world know he lives here, and while that is why he'd decided to rent a place in Muggle London (he couldn't stand a single more newspaper article saying his breakup with Ginny meant he was having a midlife crisis, or that his decision not to become an auror was based on his diabetic nature, or some other ridiculous justification of every one of his decisions), Harry couldn't help but wonder what it might've been like if he'd stayed, and ignored the critics. If he'd taken the auror job, instead of leaving. If, instead of wallowing in magical suburbia, he'd moved to Ron and Hermione's neighborhood, like they'd asked - continuously - and maybe even if he hadn't broken it off with Ginny.
He's so caught up in his thoughts it takes him a couple of moments and the clearing of a throat to realize that it's his neighbor, Mr. Miller. He closes the door behind him, and steps onto the porch, unwilling both to ask the deaf and senile man in, and knowing all too well what'll happen if he lets Moose anywhere near the man.
"Your cat ate my grass," Mr. Miller's anger has the effect of landing a generous amount of spit droplets in Harry's face.
Wiping them away disgustedly, he says, "I'm sorry, Mr. Miller, but my cat - my dog - doesn't chew other people's lawns." Harry peers around the man for a couple of seconds to see what he's talking about, and sure enough, a couple of feet of grass have been cleaned away neatly. The man hasn't even bothered to put the lawnmower away.
"He did it, I saw him."
"I think your lawnmower was the one that cleared the grass, Mr. Miller. I'm very sorry that you've lost some of your lawn, but I'm afraid I cannot help you," Harry says firmly, stepping inside and shutting the door before he can land any more accusations.
He locks it for good measure, then turns, ignoring the frustrated knocks and bellows emanating from outside the door, a little concerned when there is no mop of fur bounding at him. He glances into the other bedroom where Moose likes to play with his chew toys sometimes (there is also a window there which Harry spells opaque from the outside, so Moose can look outside if he wants), and that's when he hears Moose's whimpers. They're coming from his room, and he rushes back to the living room, darting to the wand drawer, but before he can pull it out, he feels binding chains encasing him so he's pulled back with a yell and thrown awkwardly on the sofa. He tries to shout, but it's unlikely that anyone will hear him anyway - the chains are surely magical, and - as he experimentally tugs at one - Harry realizes they're exactly like chinese handcuffs; his attackers are most certainly wizards, which means any and all wandless, magic-less action is futile. He might as well conserve his energy for any wandless magic that might be helpful later. He's only seen such spells performed a few times by Hermione, and he's only done it once or twice, and he's not even sure if he can do it with his heart knocking in his ribs and his breath coming in shallow bursts like it is now.
Right now, he needs to know Moose is okay. As much as he annoys Harry, the little bugger means a lot to him. He hurriedly twists around from his awkward position on the sofa, and tries to listen for Moose's whimpers - signs, at least, that he's still alive. The blindfold is almost too tight, and the angle makes it worse. He turns away quickly, having heard a cry that is both terrifying and relieving.
"Don't hurt my dog!" The words are out before he can stop himself, and he can't even be sure someone has heard them, much less that they'll even be heeded.
He tries to still the furious shudders of his heart, to slow his racing pulse. It's been a long time since he's been in such a situation, and the adrenaline, when it kicks in, makes his mouth dry and his palms sweat. He's not a seventeen year old anymore, and he's scared. Black spots dance in front of his vision, and someone grabs his arm. Before he can do anything, the pull of apparition whisks wind in his ears, and he is gone.