AN: QLFC Season 5 Round 9. Prompts used are gumboot, the restriction of no '?,' and grass-stain (3, 6, and 11). The main prompt was glove.

The title of this story comes from the song 'Fireside' by Arctic Monkeys.

Word count: 2,060

Ron goes home after the war.

It's, in a word, anticlimactic. After so long running and fighting for his life, the Burrow feels like another world from the reality lurking outside its door. More often than not the quiet gets to him, grating on every last nerve. Funny, how he missed home so much during the war but now can't stand to be in it.

He stays, anyway, alone in his room as he listens to his mother and father putter around upstairs. They're getting ready for bed. He's already in it, waiting for sleep to come. He stares into the poster of the Chudley Cannon's star chaser, still pasted to the ceiling up above his bed, until the figure in it ducks his head awkwardly and slowly shuffles his way out of the poster's frame.

Ron digs the phone that Hermione gave him out of his pocket and clicks his ways through the menus until he can select the one of two numbers on it.

Hermione picks up.

"Ron," she says. Her voice is sharpened by the sounds of static, and there are noises like the sound of someone repeating a complicated order. "You should be asleep."

Ron sinks back into his bed, sprawling over his covers. Slowly, he relaxes each muscle in his body. "You're up early," he says, which is fairly hypocritical of him. Hermione snorts, and Ron can imagine her shaking his head at him, her wild curls moving with her and falling into her eyes, because she doesn't tie her hair in the mornings unless she needs to. Ron squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on her voice. He ignores the way his heart clenches.

"Not very," Hermione says, then to someone on her side, "thank you, have a good day!"

Ron hums.

"It's not Wednesday," she says to him, and the words are muffled. She must be eating. Ron almost laughs, remembering a time when Hermione would self-consciously hide her mouth behind her hands if she was chewing and Harry or Ron talked to her. These days Hermione talked with her mouth full around them. Living in a tent together for days on end inured them to unpleasant habits. "And I don't think is an emergency."

"I just missed you," Ron answers. "And I think I might go crazy if I stay in the Burrow any longer, but I don't know what I want to do."

"I hope you're ready for the international phone bill," she says, but she doesn't hang up. Ron shifts so that he can lay on his side, facing the open window. He smiles, even though she can't see him.

"I know," he says.

Hermione huffs. "Harry's been antsy as well. I'm sorry, I should have taken you two with me, not just Ginny."

"No, no, we'll be okay. And we talked about this - Harry had to stay, and one of us would have to keep an eye on him. The Wizarding World would have thrown a fit if we all left so soon after the war."

"I should have taken you two with me anyway," Hermione says, laughing. Her tone shifts, becoming more serious, "I really am worried about Harry, though. You saw him last week - is he - is he - "

"He's okay. Just looks really tired," Ron cuts her off. He closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again to inspect the way the way the shadow of the tree outside creeped across the windowsill. "We're alright, Hermione."

"Exhausted," she repeats. "I don't - I think there's something going on, Ron. I don't think it's nightmares like he's been saying. He said something in our weekly call, yesterday. He said that he's being followed."

Ron sits up. "Wha - he hasn't said anything about to me!" He hears a thump from the other room and winces. With a quiet curse, he scoops up his wand from underneath his pillow and casts Muffliato around his bed.

Hermione waits until he's done before continuing. "You should have cast that sooner," she scolds, "you're brothers and parents are sleeping." She heaves out a deep sigh before getting back on topic. "And, well, Harry hadn't intended to tell me, I think. He brushed it off as soon as I asked him about it."

Ron chews his lower lip. He crosses his legs and scrubs his face with his spare hand with a groan. "He's being dumb again," he says. "Alright, alright, I'll talk to him tomorrow."

"Thanks," Hermione says. "You two better look out for each other."

"Always," Ron says. Without seeing her, Ron knows that she's smiling.

"Right, I need to go. Ginny and I found a clue yesterday. We think my parents might be in Hobart, so we're flying over there in a few hours. I'll talk to you on Wednesday."

"Say hi to Ginny for me," Ron says, shoulders sagging. "And have a safe flight. You two take care of each other."

"Always," Hermione laughs. "Good night, Ron."

She hangs up.

Ron looks at the calendar tacked up on the wall next to his door. Then he looks at his ceiling again, just as the chaser tries to sneak back into the picture. The figure in the poster freezes, looking alarmed, and tries to casually leave the poster again. He fails at looking casual, anyway. Ron stares up even after the poster empties out again, just looks at it absentmindedly as le lays lax on his bed. The chill of the cool night air makes his skin pebble, but he doesn't crawl under the covers.

It's only Saturday.

"Don't bother saying you're fine, Hermione and I talked about you behind your back and we're pretty sure you're not." Ron opens up with on Sunday. He stirs his mug of cocoa and takes a sip. It warms him front the inside out, sweet on his tongue.

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. "I should have known," he says ruefully. He shrugs off his coat properly, laying it on the back of his chair, then tries to wipe away the rain droplets on it with a hand.

Ron snorts, pulling out his wand and casting a drying charm on the coat and Harry. There's a grass-stain on the coat, so he cleans that with a charm too. "You and Hermione," Ron says, "you two alway forget to use magic for the small stuff."

Harry grins sheepishly. "Thanks," he says in lieu of responding to the fond jab. He takes the cup of hot chocolate Ron ordered for him earlier in his hand and sips, sighing happily when he comes back up for air. He takes a croissant from the plate in the middle next, biting into it and making a surprised but delighted noise when he tastes chocolate, just like Ron knew he would.

Ron can already feel a part of him relax seeing Harry in front of him, enjoying his food. That little ball of anxiety loosens at the same pace his shoulders slump tiredly. There's something to be said, Ron supposes, for living with people so closely and for so long during trying times. It makes you scream and fight, but it also brings you closer. Ron doesn't think he'll ever be entirely relaxed unless both Harry and Hermione are safe and content in front of him. Not ever again.

Ron grabs a croissant for himself and leans back in his chair. He waits.

"It's probably nothing," Harry begins. He's quiet underneath the bustle of the small cafe on Diagon Alley they've chosen to meet up in. Someone whispers at a table close to theirs about how 'that's Harry Potter over there!' and Ron doesn't hesitate in casting privacy charms around them.

Harry has never flinched when Ron does spells without warning him. He doesn't do that now - he continues on blithely, like Ron wasn't aggressively jabbing his wands into spell patterns and glaring at other patrons.

Maybe he doesn't see it. The steam from his hot chocolate fogs up his glasses.

"It's just - I've been getting letters. Threats, really. And I think someone's been following me."

Ron looks back to Harry, and looks closely.

Harry looks exhausted, like he hasn't slept since the war ended months ago. He's thinner than Ron remembers, and very pale. He has that same haunted look that he did when they were on the run from Voldemort, with a quiet kind of panic lurking in the depths of his eyes. Hunched into himself like he's cold, Harry Potter looks less like the man who defeated Voldemort after months on the run stubbornly chasing shadows, and more like a boy. The gumboots that Harry scuffs self-consciously against the hardwood floor don't help alleviate that image. They're bright red.

"I can handle it. I'm ready for him." Harry says a moment later.

"You don't have to do it alone," Ron retorts. He bites into his croissant before he can say something dumb, or yell, which would perhaps be even dumber than saying something insensitive.

Harry rolls his eyes. "This isn't the first time, or even the fifth time, that someone's been out to kill me." He pauses. "This is the first time that someone sent me letters saying that they were going to avenge their son and Voldemort, though."

Ron pauses in his chewing. "What, like he thinks Voldemort is his - "

Harry shakes his head. "No, I think that the guy's son was a Death Eater, and the guy is a Death Eater as well. I'm not really sure - he wasn't very coherent."

Ron gives Harry a flat look. "Because coherence is the real concern here."

Harry shrugs.

Ron sighs. "Well, whatever. This guy won't get past me," he assures Harry.

Harry shakes his head. "I'm ready for him," he repeats.

Ron eats his words not even ten minutes later, when someone tries to blast Harry into itty-bitty pieces and misses. They hit the table instead, causing the table to explode into sharp, wooden pieces. Ron stumbles back in surprise, fumbling for his wand, but Harry is already up and ready. He steps in front of Ron and casts Protego just in time to block the Diffindo sent their way.

People scream, rushing out of the cafe. A man stands just on the other side of the room, smiling grimly at Harry with his wand out. He looks just like any other customer of the cafe, but Ron supposes that's the point. It's not like Umbridge looked like an evil crone, despite being one.

Harry's shield goes down as Harry makes to move forward. The man whips out another Diffindo, but Harry deflects it with a flick of his wand, sending the spell careening into the ceiling. Plaster rains down onto Ron. He sneezes.

With a curse, he throws the croissant to the floor, since there is no table, and readies his wand. When he turns Harry's already darting forward, shouting "Cover me!" as he leaps over an overturned table.

"Harry!" Ron yells, rushing after him. He feels a sense of deja vu, all of a sudden, like he's suddenly back to six months ago, when the war seemed at its thickest - no, not even that, just two months ago, during the Final Battle.

Ron remembers how those moments were, and suddenly he feels small and scared again. He can't remember the listlessness, but he wants it back. It's amazing, how drudgery eases over the memories of terror. "Harry, you idiot!" Ron yells again. He crashes into a customer and pushes them aside.

By the time he reaches Harry and the strange man, Harry is laying into the man with a vicious left hook.

Something that the war taught them was that most wizards always forgot about doing things the Muggle way. Harry and Hermione never did.

The man goes down like a sack of bricks.

Ron quickly binds the man with a curse.

For a moment, they both stare at the bound man who just attacked them in broad daylight and in public. Ron can't believe they're still dealing with death threats and attacks when it's supposed to be peace time. What is wrong with Britain?

"I hear Hobart's nice this time of year," Harry says flatly.

"Yeah," Ron says. "Let's book some tickets.

The man groans.