Under The Skin
Words: 6,959
Pairing: Fred Weasley/George Weasley/Harry Potter
Beta: None.
Warnings: Mildly angsty? This whole thing is just weird tbh, but please read it anyway.
When he wakes, the sun is low in the sky. He lies still for a second, wondering why he is still asleep when it is so late in the day, wondering why he hadn't been woken up by the bright morning lights, but surmises that he must have been more tired than he'd suspected.
Yawning, he gets out of bed and stretches luxuriously before padding, barefoot, over to the armoire in the corner. It is large and filled to the brim with every type of clothing imaginable, and he frowns for a second. Something seems off, but for the life of him he can't pinpoint it any more than the mild, uneasy feeling inside of him.
He is distracted swiftly by the grumbling of his stomach, so he finds a baby blue t-shirt and some dark jeans, and slips them on hastily before he makes his way out of the room in search of food. The corridor outside is completely different to his room. Where the bedroom had been decorated in creams and pale, pastel colours, the corridor seems more fit for an old manor house. 'And a creepy one at that,' he adds mentally, shivering as he starts on his way down the hall.
All of the doors are closed, but there are windows at both ends of the corridor and lanterns hung on the walls at intervals every so often to light the way. At the very end is a large, sweeping staircase that leads into an open foyer and several entrances, all of which Harry promptly ignores in favour of the delicious scents coming from behind one of the doors. He hurries across the tiled floor and flings open the large double doors to find a dining room - a dining room ready for service, it seems, because the large table in the middle is almost creaking under the weight of all the food piled on top of it.
He doesn't give himself time to reconsider, and immediately sits down. His stomach is positively growling now, and he has never felt hungrier than he does now, so he piles his plate and begins eating. When he has had his fill, all of the food disappears and desert appears in its stead, and then that disappears when he is done too, leaving no evidence of life except for the single, lonely one inside him.
He can think more clearly now that he isn't so intensely focused on his hunger, so he tries to remember the last thing he's done, any clue as to how he has ended up in a manor all alone, but to no avail. His memory seems a blank slate, and yet...
He frowns. "I can speak." He says out loud, just to check. "So I know English." He deliberates on that for a second. He is also able to eat and name things and tell the time, but when he tries to think of yesterday, or even earlier on in the day, he comes up with absolutely nothing. Maybe he's been here his entire life? Maybe he just started existing a few hours ago? But that doesn't make any sense either, because people are born as babies, from two parents. He knows this, just like he knows it is currently evening, going on to night from the sun's position, or how he knows the thing he's sitting on is called a chair.
"So, I must have forgotten something." He tells himself, still out loud. "A lot of somethings." But has he? Maybe he's different. Maybe he doesn't have parents, and he actually was born just a few hours ago, exactly as he is. Who's to say that that isn't possible too? His memory isn't exactly the most reliable thing at the moment.
He sighs, and decides to stop thinking about this and explore the place a little. When he climbs his way up to bed again that night, he is already exhausted from his little excursion. The manor he's in is much bigger than he'd realised, so he's going to have to explore in an orderly way, maybe even make a map or something. He gets under the covers, and promises himself he'll think on it tomorrow. If he remembers.
His life in the manor is lonely, but not boring. There are always new things to play with, new hobbies to try out (Harry finds he's a fair hand at painting - for a newbie) and so many new places to explore Harry could swear the walls move overnight, especially since it doesn't look nearly as big from the exterior.
That's another thing - he can leave the building. Not the land, Harry knows, because he's tried only to find himself walking back in the direction he came, but the grounds are extensive, and the gardens beautiful, so who cares? He's a little curious about what lies outside the gates, but not desperate. He would like to know, but he doesn't need to, so he tells himself to forget about it and move on.
He finds himself reading a lot too. There's a library full of the most fantastical stories, and Harry spends many an evening simply soaking them all up. There are all sorts of genres - horror, fairy tales, adventure - but even though Harry would say he like the tales of heroes on long journeys best, he has a secret soft spot for the romances. Not the grand, sudden ones, like the fairy tales, nor the sweet ones with a teenage girl who falls for someone she shouldn't. No, Harry just can't stop himself from reading the fiery, passionate romances, the ones where there is slow love and real heart ache and bold touches that stay with him for hours afterwards. They make him ache for something like that, but it's not unpleasant. On the contrary, the desire to love and be loved in return even in his lonely situation is sweet in a way that makes him seek out more stories like that. Perhaps he is strange for it, but Harry finds he can't help himself.
When he isn't reading, Harry plays chess. There is a beautiful set in the parlour that is always ready and set out when he wants it, but is gone when he enters the room otherwise. The pieces are all exquisitely crafted from glass, limbs so delicate he's afraid he'll break them if he touches them. Luckily, he doesn't - the pieces move on verbal command, and the opposing side moves in response to an invisible opponent, so that he can play a game all by himself. He's not too brilliant, but it's fun in any case.
And yet, despite all this, Harry sometimes finds himself in a strange lull where he suddenly hears anew the silence, and feels oddly like he's lying to himself.
One morning, he finds a deck of cards by his bed. They are large, almost the length of his hand each, and beautifully intricate. They aren't for playing, he can tell, but they draw him in like a moth to a flame, so after breakfast he sits on a loveseat in front of the empty stone fireplace and looks through them, one by one.
He's not sure what they represent, or, in fact, what the cards are even supposed to be for. the closest he can imagine are tarot cards, but he doesn't think these will tell him the future. They seem, instead, to speak to some part of his mind hidden from his own consciousness. He stops longer on some than others, like The Scholar - a woman with frizzy brown hair and intelligent eyes clasping a pair of books to her chest, or The Oracle - a dirty-blonde girl gazing into a crystal balls like she could see all the secrets of the world in it. There are others, like The Obscenity, that he gets such repulsive shivers from that he skips over as fast as he can, and some like The Handler, that don't peak his interest at all.
The one he spends longest staring at is The Tricksters, which is an image of two foxes forming a circle, one's mouth to the other's tail. They are grinning mischievously, and yet Harry can see a darker, more sadistic gleam in their blue eyes. How such small specks of colour manage to convey all that to him he has no idea, but it does. And it both enthrals him and makes him wary.
However, it is the card right after that invokes the strongest reaction in Harry. It is called The Sacrifice, and the boy looking back at him bears a striking resemblance to him - in fact, Harry thinks it looks exactly like him, down to the small brown mole on the edge of his jaw. The boy on the card is tied to down sort of stone altar, black hair messy and green eyes half closed in pain and exhaustion. He seems completely helpless.
Harry's takes all this in, and then promptly puts the whole deck back into its box without looking through the rest. 'It's not me,' he tells himself. 'It's just a coincidence.'
He wonders what it means when he can't believe himself.
Harry's nights are dreamless and peaceful. He falls asleep at ten like clockwork, and wakes every morning at 7, feeling like he's just closed his eyes and still well-rested. In comparison, his days are like living dreams, where he sees and hears things he knows aren't there. He feels soft touches on his hands and lips, but there is nothing there to cause them, and once or twice he swears he sees two separate apparitions of identical, redheaded boys - the same, and yet different. Despite all this, he can never, ever remember what they say, or what exactly they look like. All he can remember is bright red hair and soft, laughing blue eyes that hide a terrifying fury.
Sometimes, he sees other people too - Brown-haired girl with chocolate skin and worried eyes, and what looks like a sibling to the twins (they must be twins), because he has the same red hair and blue eyes, though they are more terrified, more open in their anger. These people always look upset, looking at him like he's dying and telling him things that he can hear or remember. He can't make head nor tails of it, but it worries him.
The house used to exude a sense of calm to him, enough so that he used to feel like it was enough even without the company. But day by day Harry can feel himself tiring of it, becoming irritated and impatient. He spends more and more time outside, where he can fool himself into thinking he's free even if only for a moment no matter any adverse weather, but even that can only do so much. He zones out a lot more now - there are days when he comes to realise he's whiled away hours doing nothing, reading the same sentence over and over.
There are times, oddly, when it actually feels like he's daydreaming all of this. They are only brief, sudden flashes, but sometimes he gets the strangest feeling that he's not sitting on a couch, but in a bed, and that he's staring with wide eyes at blank walls instead of a chess board. It leaves him uneasy every time, so much so that it usually takes him the rest of the day to calm himself. He doesn't know what to do about them, how to make them stop, but at the same time he's not sure he wants to.
He doesn't know how long he's been there when he starts to notice the changes. They are subtle at first, just a cobwebs in the far corner of the foyer, or a piece of toast just this side of burnt. It's not significant, and therefore unnoticed. But slowly Harry starts to notice that the house becomes less diligent - books aren't put back in the right places, some rooms remain un-cleaned and undusted, and most importantly, the images on the cards shift.
Just like the upkeep of the house, the differences are almost negligible at first, and the changes are gradual - a strand of hair escaping from The Scholar's neat ponytail, a tear in The Warrior's red tunic. They wouldn't be noticeable unless one knew the images inside out, and indeed Harry only notices the changes in the cards that he had scrutinised with care the first time he'd gone through them.
The changes become drastic though, until one day Harry realises he hasn't slept in days, and that the house looks like it has being abandoned for a few months. He is tired, uneasy, and the memory loss that felt so normal before now only feels unnatural - like plastic stretched over a part of his mind, separating it from the rest.
It is perpetually twilight in this world now, and a miserably grey one at that. His moments of phasing out become more frequent, and hallucinating seems more real than the world he sleeps in. The two boys are always there, always touching him softly and always burning with a sadistic, cold anger than sends shivers down Harry's spine. They talk to him, ask him to come back to them and tell him they'll take care of him and Harry's heart clenches in want - desire to touch them and reassure them and make the pain in their cornflower blue eyes go away but he can't move or speak, and then he feels so trapped and helpless his mind chooses to spare him the panic by pulling him back.
He isn't sure what is real anymore.
When he sits down, cards in hand, he goes only through the cards he'd felt a connection to - 5 in total - and leaves the rest to the side.
He starts with The Scholar, who looks harried and desperate, hair escaping her ponytail as more and more books find themselves in her arms. She stands before a table that had started off neat - quills and inkpots lined up with rolls of spare parchment, but now it is cluttered and messy and busy. She is on the verge of breakdown, looking for an answer in the records of knowledge that have yet to fail her, but she finds nothing, and feels all the more useless for it.
The Oracle, in contrast, never once shifts her gaze from the ball before her, but she looks significantly more worried now, the subtle frown and downward tilt to her mouth hinting at a glimpse of a darker future. Her hair remains in place, her clothing just as clean and wrinkle-free as before, but where once she seemed hopeful, now she practically radiates sadness.
He sighs as he looks at her. She had seemed the most reliable - the strongest, in a way, despite the inconsistencies and vagueness associated with reading the future - so seeing her like this makes him feel more than a little hopeless. He shakes his head to rid himself of the unwanted thoughts, and moves the card to the back of the deck.
The Warrior is next, and he has changed as equally drastically as The Scholar, if not more than she. His armour has become dull where it was once beautiful, polished gold, and his sharp blade is now bloody with the defeat of his enemies. His proud white steed hasn't eaten in days, and he is so, so tired - Harry can see it in the dark circles under his eyes. His face is no longer clean, nor smiling - he is not the valiant hero he once was. He has become angrier, more vicious, and less merciful to all those who stand in his way. His eyes are harder, but in them is a desperation like no other.
The Tricksters change the least outwardly, and yet it is they who have the most impact on Harry. They were already darker behind their joking, light-hearted facade, and it doesn't change, only becomes more apparent. They are crueller, less caring, and their grins seem more reminiscent of snarls now, teeth glinting morbidly. Their eyes are filled with rage, a rage that positively terrifies him, but it is directed elsewhere. It is directed outwards at the enemy, at the threat, and such vicious shielding Harry has to admit is reliable.
They are, despite everything, protective, and their pain is the deepest of all the cards. Harry stares at them and he thinks of two twin boys who are always there, who are hurting and crying out silently, and for the first time he wonders if these cards may not be reminiscent of the reality of another world. He thinks of two adults who should have moved on, should have had things to to with their time that wasn't sitting with a useless boy, and somewhere in his chest there is a flutter like affection. Like sadness, but deeper.
He is afraid to look at the last card, just the thought of it setting his slight frame trembling. Over time, he has convinced himself he exaggerated the similarities between him and The Sacrifice, but he is sure that even one glance at it will destroy those illusions, and he isn't sure he wants to let that happen.
Nevertheless, curiosity wins out and Harry moves The Tricksters to the back to reveal the card in question. The boy (still so much like him, why, it is him) is still on his altar, tied down by unforgiving shackles. He doesn't look half as meek though, his wrists and ankles showing sign of struggle and his eyes wide in desperation and confusion and pain.
Harry stares at him for a long time, and thinks about his hallucinations - though he is slowly becoming convinced they are not, in fact, figments of his imagination. There is an intense feeling of irritation and unease, like he feels a snake poised to strike at him but doesn't know when or where from. It makes him uncomfortable in his own skin, makes him want to itch off his skin and dissect his own brain and just cut the feeling out. He won't get any rest like this - not that he has for a long while now.
The card crinkles in his grip, but he does not notice.
He isn't sure how long he's been here, sitting in the gardens. It is at that specific point where it is too dark to read or see properly, but light enough to not be in need of another light source to find your way around. At that point where it is uncomfortably dark, and your eyes can't quite adjust to the grey. It has been in this state for as long as Harry has been here, sitting aimlessly in the frigid air outside.
The flower beds are barren, the hedges taken over by wild weeds and vines. He can't go inside for fear of the house collapsing, and he is so hungry-
But he hasn't moved in what feels like forever. He hasn't slept either, but he's lost so much time he couldn't tell you if it has been a week or a month. His thoughts are frequently with the other him - the one sitting in a hospital bed - even when he is not actually there. Though, he supposes that, technically, he's always there.
He thinks he understands what's wrong now, vaguely. He's trapped in his own head, and this world is not real. The other one is, with the boys that love him (he knows they do, he sees it in their eyes) and the boys he loves. Because he does. He doesn't remember their names, not at all, but he remembers their touch, their words and their support. He remembers needing a shoulder to cry on and getting two, remembers hurting and being healed by two teenage boys who were far more capable of caring than anyone could ever have imagined.
He wants to go back so badly it aches, wants to take away their pain - because they are in pain. They never leave him, though Harry knows it's been a horrendously long time. All the others have, he can tell. He was right about the cards, that they were some sort of reflection of reality. All the people who loved him, who tried to get him back, they'd all given up eventually. He doesn't blame them either.
But these two, his tricksters, they are still here, still hoping, and Harry is both happy and absolutely horrified. They love him so much, it is clear as daylight now - if it wasn't already - but he doesn't want this for them, doesn't want them to constantly hurt themselves. He would prefer they move on than subject themselves to this in between state they're in, where they can't live or carry on. Like him, his mind whispers, and yes, exactly like him.
And now he wants so badly to get up, to greet them and love them, but he doesn't know how! Here he is, sitting in the cold, trying to find a way to make himself move, to reciprocate when they stroke his cheek or kiss them back when they touch their lips to his but he is frozen, limp as a doll, and every time he feels like he may be coming close he finds himself back in this nightmare.
He is so tired.
They read to him sometimes, sappy poetry and angry poetry and sad poetry. It's strange, because they are not the sort to amuse themselves reading fanciful words displaying passionate emotion, but they tell him he is, and that's far more believable. They don't do it much though, telling him jokingly they'd never live it down if someone overheard.
Instead, they talk to him a lot. They don't leave, not unless they need to wash, or unless their mother comes in to drag them out for a walk for half an hour, but they're very up to date with the latest gossip, and they divulge it gleefully. They tell him all about the world, now post-war - though he could not begin to tell you about the war itself - and how it's being rebuilt, how laws are changing and people are moving on as fast as they can to forget the losses they suffered. They tell him about their business, and "it's okay Harry, we've got someone minding it at all times," and in the quietest hours they tell him to come back.
"I'm sorry we couldn't protect you," one of them says. He is the sweeter one, the younger one. Harry doesn't know his name.
"Even though we promised we would," the other one continues, stroking down the cover of the blue duvet. At some point they'd moved him back home, back to where they'd once lived together, happy and in love.
He won't look at Harry as he talks to him, shy in the face of his emotion, because he's supposed to be strong, supposed to be unmoved. Harry would rather he be honest, but he can't tell him that where once, perhaps, he would've.
"Come back Harry, well take such good care of you," the first brother says again, running knuckles down his soft cheek and Harry just watches him sadly, watches him wanting and been left wanting. He wants to tell them to go, and in the same breath ask them to never leave him alone and lonely and trapped and it doesn't matter anyway because he can't do either, no matter how much he would like to.
He is here almost all the time now, unable to move but perfectly able to listen, and the other place seems as much of a hallucination as this place once did. He doesn't know if it had been real or a figment of his imagination, but he knows this is, and so does it really matter?
He wonders how long it's been, how much longer he'll stay here. Weeks, months, years? He thinks, tentatively, hopefully, that he's getting better - after all, isn't it an improvement that he remembers now, when once he didn't? But he doesn't know how much longer he could stand living like this before he goes irreversibly crazy.
He just wants to go home.
It is terrifying to be unable to move, not even an inch. Well, he can breathe and blink, but those movements are still automatic, out of his control, and apart from that even moving a finger seems impossible. Were he not in this situation, he'd have imagined one would grow used to paralysis, but the reality is that whilst he has his brief moments of peace, the fear comes rushing back like a slap to the face at the smallest things.
It is truly unnatural, the way his body feels like a prison. He remembers feeling like wanting to run away many times during his short life, but he's never wanted to escape his own body like he does now - or at least, he doesn't think so. It isn't even a matter of wanting to die, or something equally morbid, but these days it is more like being stuck in a porcelain doll than being unable to move.
He has a lot of nightmares too. It makes sense, he supposes, that the claustrophobia manifests itself as such when he sleeps, but worst part is by far that he can't move even then, can't shake himself out if it by accidentally knocking into something or alerting someone else and being woken up. He remembers, vaguely, the sensation of being cared for after his nightmares, of sleeping in between two strong bodies that keep the bad dreams away like warriors fighting off his demons and he knows that it must be these two, his boys.
His boys.
They are still here, and even though they don't know when he's dreaming they are here for him, and he tries to take comfort in that. He doesn't remember, but already he can't imagine being without them.
They are sleeping when it happens. Usually they take turns staying up through the night almost religiously so that someone is up with him at all times, but today one of them - the older one - had to go deal with a problem at the shop, so they've both fallen into a restless but heavy sleep.
He is awake, staring at the ceiling. It is painted with stars and planets, and sometimes looking at it makes Harry feel a little less... cramped. He thinks he can remember painting it, together with his boys, but he doesn't know if it's a real memory or just his imagination.
He thinks he remembers more now, but it is such a hazy difference he's not sure if it's there at all, or if he's just lying to himself to make himself feel better. It is then, when he's trying his hardest to remember the names of the boys he loves, that it happens.
It's is a little like breaking through the surface of water and breathing fresh air - like he hadn't ever realised he was drowning until he wasn't anymore. He doesn't realise what he's done at first, until his brain slowly catches up and it dawns on him that he just moved! He gasps, staring now straight into the face of one of his lover's, and nearly cries before forcing himself to calm down.
'I wonder if I can move anything else,' he wonders, and attempts to shift his hand. And then his legs. And finally, finally, he tries to sit up. His entire body aches from the effort, and it takes him so long he wonders how it isn't dawn yet, but eventually he's sitting up and panting with exertion and almost giddy with the knowledge that he's not stuck anymore. He's free, and it is just the most blessed feeling.
His gaze comes to rest on the man next to him, tired circles under his eyes and even in sleep he looks exhausted, just like his counterpart across the room. He thinks for a while, but no, he still can't remember. It's okay though, because if he can overcome this, then surely the block in his memories is nothing in comparison? Already he can imagine early memories, hazy with time and forgetfulness but it's there, he's sure now. Everything looks more hopeful now that he's overcome this seemingly impossible obstacle. Where before he thought he was imagining things, he just knows now that these are all the things he's forgotten in their barest shade.
He reaches over tentatively, almost reverently. He's wanted to touch for so long, and now, after so long, he's finally able to. Gently he runs a finger across his lover's bottom lip, and the redheaded man's mouth turns up in a slight smile. He wants to wake them, exclaim that he's okay, but when he looks at how tired they look he decides that their sleep is more important.
He'll tell them come morning, he decides, and lies down again, tucking himself as close to the warm body as he can without waking him, and he can't help but press a kiss to those lips - soft, barely there, but still a kiss. Sleep comes easily that night.
He wakes that morning to hissed, confused demands for explanation.
"...have moved him!" he can hear one of his boys saying, and he thinks it's the older one. Fe- fra- Fred. His name is Fred. And the other...
"And I told you I didn't. Fred, he must've done it himself. What if he's-"
"Shut up." The voice sounds so hurt that, despite the harsh words, Harry can't imagine taking offence at it. The younger brother shuts up. "Don't do that," Fred continues, regardless. "I couldn't take it if-"
There's a heavy sigh, then "I know." The voice is soft and compassionate and equally hurt And it makes Harry want to take them both into his arms. He tries to open his eyes.
"But I really didn't move him," the younger brother insists. "I woke up and, well." It's at this Harry realises he's tucked tightly into his second lover's side, legs entwined and fist resting on a strong chest. He blushes, and finally manages to open his eyes to see Fred's legs - or rather, Fred's pyjama bottoms.
"You might've," Fred is saying now. He sounds so defeated, so tired. Harry tries to move his head. "What if you moved him in your sleep or something, George?"
Aaah, George. Right. He remembers now. Harry tries to move his head a little, just enough to maybe see either man's face, but after a while he decides to try to call out to them instead.
"Good morning," he says, blinking against the sunlight, but to be honest it comes out more as, "guuuuh." Nevertheless, it does it's job, and both brothers fall completely silent as they turn to stare at him.
He stares back and tries to get up again, managing to move his arms down at least, and he doesn't know what to do.
"Harry?" George whispers, almost as if he's convinced he's dreaming. Harry tries to smile, but he's sure it's more of a grimace.
"Hey," he says, and that, at least, comes out intelligible.
"Harry?" Fred repeats, tone incredulous. Harry chuckles, but it comes out a little sad.
"I kept you waiting, didn't I?" he asks. His voice is hoarse with lack of practice talking and his thirst, and it is a rhetorical question, but it doesn't really matter as Fred grabs his face without another word and snogs him hard enough that his lips feel bruised.
Harry gasps, mouth open at the unexpected assault and makes to say something, but then George sticks his tongue between his lips and he's helpless to kiss back. There are arms around his back holding him up, and then Fred wraps himself around Harry too, resting his forehead in the dip between his shoulder blades, tightening his arms around Harry's waist. Their lips part with a smack, and George looks so incredulous Harry has to laugh. It comes out sounding more like a cough though, which makes George's eyes suddenly widen and get up, running out of the room.
He only has time to raise his hand and rest it on Fred's, both of which lie entwined on his stomach, before George is back with a tall glass of water. He rushes to sit down next to Harry, and the next few minutes are spent rehydrating himself. Of course, he is unable to do it by himself, but George holds the glass the entire time, tilting it slowly as Harry drinks more. When finally he is done, George sets the glass down on the bedside table and turns to face him. They look so serious, their faces so straight, that it pulls something in Harry's heart. These two were never meant to be so unhappy, to be without their constant smiles and laughter.
"Don't do that." The words escape, unbidden, from his lips before he can stop them or think twice. George, who sits before him, looks so irrationally worried that he has to say it again, turning so he can face the both of them. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" Fred asks. His voice is strangely hoarse, like he's been screaming for a long while (or like he's holding back tears) and it makes Harry want to push him down and-
"This isn't right," he whispers, reaching up a hand to smooth fingers between his eyebrows. "You're not allowed to frown like this."
His eyes widen, blue skies and blue flowers and Harry never wants to see the sadness in them again. Never again. He leans up, his body trembling with the effort, but he lays the softest kiss he can on Fred's lips, and then George's.
"I'm sorry I made you cry."
George makes an odd sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and clutches Harry to himself like he's fading away. "That's not fair," he whispers, and Harry pretends not to notice the way his shirt becomes wet.
They spend the rest of the day holding each other. Harry is never left alone, but he doesn't care. In fact, he's grateful - he's still afraid of closing his eyes and finding himself back in a breaking house, alone, or being locked in a puppet of a body, unable to do anything but watch.
Fred and George tell them about everything that's happened while he was asleep. They tell him it was a curse in Voldemort's dying moments that locked him inside his mind, and that its been about three months since then - closer to two and a half, George corrects.
"We brought you home after one month," Fred says. "Nobody else agreed, but we thought-"
"We knew," George interrupts. "We knew you'd prefer being home. So we did it anyway."
Fred nods. "You belong here. You- you're most comfortable here."
And Harry smiles, and leans his head on Fred's shoulder. "I am," he says softly. "Thank you."
They talk, but mostly they just lie curled up around each other on the couch, breathing in each other's presence and magic and love. At some point Harry murmurs idly that's they should tell Ron and Hermione and the family that he's awake now, but both of his lovers refuse.
"Tomorrow," they tell him. "Today is for us." And who is Harry to begrudge them that?
It ends up taking several days before either of his lovers feel comfortable letting anyone else near him. And because they just know nothing would Hermione and Ron once they knew he was awake, they didn't bother telling them, opting instead to spend as much time with Harry as they could conceivably afford.
When they finally do send an owl, it takes barely an hour before the couple are standing at their door. Hermione is dressed for work in a smart blazer and plain black pencil skirt, and though Ron wears a comfortable jumper and cotton brown trousers, Harry realises belatedly that his friends are older now. He's been asleep for only a couple of months, but he feels like his friends have aged years in that time.
He hasn't felt that way with the twins, but they'd been working for years now. He looks at Hermione, and at Ron talking so comfortably about his auror training, and feels like he's missed out on something vital. Like he's lost a part of his friendship with them. The thought lies heavy in his throat.
It is morning, and Harry realises belatedly that Hermione (and maybe Ron) missed work to be here. It makes his skin flush in pleasure, and though he tries to hide it, Hermione's soft smile tells him she knows. There are no tears, but Hermione wraps her arms around him as soon as she sees him, and her scent immediately reminds Harry of happy times spent in Gryffindor tower, when Hermione was his comfort in hard times. She was the first person who knew Harry was gay, before even he knew, and the first person he told when he fell in love with Fred and George.
He doesn't release her for a while, tightening his arms around her waist when she whispers 'sorry' in his ear like she's actually done something wrong. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he tells her, and he knows he sounds as incredulous as he feels when Hermione smiles, her eyes suspiciously bright.
"Oh Harry," she says, but before Harry has the chance to reply Ron has his strong arms around his shoulders, and Harry stiffens. Not because he's upset, but because Ron doesn't hug. Not really. Harry's has ever only received pats in the back and a brief arm around the shoulder, because that was just them. Ron must have been so worried, so scared, to hold him like this now and Harry wants to melt at the thought of it. He feels guilty to have troubled his loved ones like this, but deep down he can't deny he's pleased that they were worried, because worry means care, and a part of Harry was afraid that everybody but his lovers had forgotten him and moved on.
But Ron holds him like he's been dying, like he's been afraid that Harry would never wake up again, and it is the image of Ron - headstrong, vocal Ron - crying for fear of Harry's life that makes his eyes sting something fierce.
They sit close, and Harry spends the rest of his day listening to everything that has happened between the battle of Hogwarts and today. He learns that Hermione is interning part-time in the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures whilst studying, which is entirely unsurprising, and that Ron is an auror trainee.
"They're just going over the basics, mostly though. Stuff you'd already taught us back at the DA. You'd be surprised how many people sign up for the aurors unable to throw up a decent shielding spell."
When they leave in the evening, promising to visit soon and insisting that he had better show up to Mrs Weasley's dinner later that week, Harry sighs and smiles up at Fred, who looks at him with a slightly furrowed brow. His face immediately relaxes at the sight of Harry's tired but happy smile, and Harry blushes under the incredibly fond look in his eyes.
"So," George says as he walks back into the room, having waved off his brother and Hermione. "Good?"
Harry nods, opening his arms wide for a hug, which is granted to him to almost immediately. He sighs again as he almost melts into George's strong, reliable arms, and laughs low in his throat. "It was good," he mumbles. He is surprisingly tired, his eyes shutting, but he feels better than he has in a while. "It's like there's a weight off my chest."
"Sleep, Harry," Fred says quietly, and just as George stands with him in his arms, he falls asleep. He doesn't remember reaching the stairs.
It isn't all as easy as that. A lot of nights Harry wakes up gasping and covered in cold sweat, shivering and panicking and barely able to breathe. The day and nights he's spent stuck and helpless in his own body haunt him, and often he hallucinates being back in that old house, large and imposing and just as confining as any prison cell, if not more so.
The worst thing, he tells Fred when the man holds him late at night, is that he was stupid enough to think he was safe. There was a time when he couldn't remember, when his house had been a sanctuary and not a cell, and when it had started breaking ever-so-slowly into the hell it was the most terrifying, lonely thing.
"It felt like I was the only person in the whole wide world," he says one time, and Fred says nothing, but his face is stony as his arms tighten, and Harry knows he is upset.
But, he says at other times, he was not alone. "I had you, didn't I?" he murmurs, and George turns red with the joy the thought gives him, that Harry felt their presence even then.
Their kisses taste sweetest then. And it is in those moments Harry thinks he could spend his entire life in their arms, and want for nothing.