A/N: The wait is over, folks! Here's the new chapter for ya'll.

As always, a tremendous thanks to our wonderful betas, you are angels~

Chapter warnings for; explicit language, implied/referenced suicide and self-harm, violence, war.

Also, keep an eye out this coming week, we have an interlude waiting for you as well! Tune in on the 12th of Feb. Saturday

Next update is on the 19th of Feb.

Chapter Three

...

"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul."

― Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

...

Ron can't sleep.

Well, it's not like he's actually trying, but that's not the point.

Either way, he can't sleep.

There's a fear, acute and sharp, that if he sleeps, he'll wake up to find Harry gone. It'll either all turn out to be a dream fueled by their worry for Harry, or he would actually be gone again, kidnapped by Malfoy or Umbridge or something.

Objectively, he knows it's an irrational fear. Grimmauld Place is under the Fidelius (so was the place Harry had been staying at), and he's also pinched himself enough times to know it's not a dream.

He supposes that the main reason why he can't quite believe Harry is here, is because Harry is so different.

He doesn't know this, Harry. All the carefully constructed rules, structure, order and strategies, built over the past four years, so they could care for Harry like he needed them to have crumbled. He doesn't know this Harry, not really.

Or maybe it's them that's changed, too. He knows that he and Hermione haven't exactly remained idle, that Harry's disappearance- his kidnapping, had left a rather large mark on them both. They'd been a little stupid, too. The moment he'd come out of the floo. They'd gotten overexcited. Of course, he'd reacted, then.

Harry's never done well with too much attention. Or even a little attention, really.

Hermione says it's because of the Dursleys. Ron's inclined to agree.

No, the outburst hadn't been surprising. What's surprising was whose behalf Harry had reacted to.

There is a crack, a fissure between all the worlds that separate Ron and Harry, and much to his dismay, it only seems to be getting larger.

It's not their fault. Either of them. It was rather the parasite's. Draco fucking Malfoy.

And Ron hates him because the guy knows how to play the game.

He wasn't sneering. He was meek, and right away, all Ron could think about was schemes. A facade. Surely this was all an act, because the fucker was a Slytherin. A disowned rich boy. He didn't have anything, so latching onto Harry only made sense. What didn't make sense was the adoration... perhaps the comfort in Harry's eyes when he looked at the bastard.

Ron's blood boils when he thinks of that bastard for manipulating his best friend. Not only succeeding, but also cajoling Harry into reacting negatively.

He admits now, that maybe he and Hermione went on a bit too strongly. Even played it up in Malfoy's favour. But it had been months, and Harry was back, and they were worried sick.

Then, of course, Malfoy has to keep up the fucking act, all through dinner and afterwards.

It's a convoluted mess—all these lies and schemes and shrouds. But the one thing Ron knows for certainty is the fact that Harry almost died again.

Under the claws of a dark curse, one he hadn't heard of before, but as Dumbledore went on to briefly explain, Ron saw the dawning horror appearing on the adults' faces. Then on his own.

The severity of the situation was almost too heavy to hang in the air. That was not a lie. And the fact that Harry didn't know about it and Malfoy did is absolutely nauseating, and Malfoy allegedly saving his best friend and taking a few hits was even worse. Surviving two weeks of starvation.

Ron hates thinking about how fucking ironic it sounds, the patterns of previous self-harm, to be followed by an actual curse that took the decision from Harry's hands.

He never thought too deeply about it, but he knows how careless Harry is with his body. Or was. Maybe still is. He doesn't know this Harry anymore, after all.

Those damn muggles have instilled in him the habit to batter his body for the sake of others, or for the lack of convenience.

Ron knew Harry bit his fist when he slept. He's had countless talks about it with Hermione and Harry alike to no avail. Ron knew Harry didn't eat enough, despite both Ron and Hermione piling up food on his plate. And Ron knew Harry has a lot of self-loathing for every single thing that's gone wrong in his life, and how that loathing manifested in careless activity.

Ron has been so afraid all the time. For Harry to just take it a step too far. By accident. Carelessly. Because bad things kept happening to him, and piling up and adding up to a mound of hate that Ron and Hermione could not dispel.

But to think that Harry did go too far. Every night, unconsciously for two weeks, and didn't even know about it, is just paralysing.

It's an old wound that is now ripped out of proportions because of something out of his control. Ron wants to take Harry, look him in the eyes, just tell him:

"You will not die by your own fucking hand. You will not die by anyone's fucking hand. You will die of old age. Old age. If I have anything to do with it. Okay?"

Though he doesn't confront Harry about it. When he's fresh out of the shower, hunched and wearing Ron's clothes, which look ridiculously huge on him. They don't really talk.

Ron hugs him again, just to make sure he's there. Harry's cold, but he's alive. His bones jut out in sharp angles and dig into Ron, and he hadn't eaten much at dinner before promptly throwing it all up. It's like hugging a skeleton.

It's fucking terrifying.

It's okay. Ron has snacks in the room. Well, he used to have a stash here before leaving for Hogwarts. He would notice if Harry got hungry. Or maybe he wouldn't.

He feels like he doesn't quite know the inner workings of this new Harry yet. It unnerves him.

It's ridiculous to think of him as a whole new person. But Ron can feel Harry's shyness, and he's never been shy around Ron. It's new.

But that's fine. He and Hermione, Sirius, Remus, and everyone else who actually loves Harry would take care of him. Now that he's here, safe again.

He fluffs the pillows, because Harry seems to be having a hard time with his hands, and then they both sit down on the edge of his bed. He's sort of grateful about Hermione's reprimands about tact and whatnot because otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from staring.

Harry's already self-conscious about his scar, and now his hands… A pang goes through Ron's heart. Couldn't the world let him catch a break? Harry deserves so much better.

"I've missed you," Ron tells him, and Harry hugs him again and apologises. Ron apologises too. He's not sure what either of them is apologising for.

Then Hermione comes and sits with them in silence for a while before finally departing to sleep. They have a Charms test tomorrow.

So, of course, when Remus finally comes around to collect Harry- finally an adult with some common sense- Ron protests.

Remus gives him a don't bullshit me look, which Ron has become exceedingly familiar with recently. And he gives it up.

It's okay. Anything and everything is okay as long as Harry is okay and here and safe.

It's probably for the best. For actual adults-however incompetent they may seem-to watch over Harry.

What it doesn't mean, is for Ron to just fucking get in bed and call it a night.

Not again.

He sneaks after them once he's sure they're settled in. He leans against the adjoining wall, because his shadow might fall under the door and botch up the plan if he just leans against the door. He has his wand tightly held in his hands. His knees are drawn to his chest.

Ron can't sleep.

"Not like that," there is a muted cough, "you can't railroad checkmate with an empty row like that,"

The chessboard, a manifestation of his own mind, is plagued with familiar instructions. It's just something he does. Sometimes when he's bored. He imagines a game, doesn't choose any particular side and just plays.

"Be careful. The knight is closing in your Queen,"

I'm the one doing it, Ron thinks and lets his head tilt back against the wall.

It's been two hours since he's been sitting here. Two hours, roughly three games. He's about to checkmate himself.

The voice isn't new. It's just bits and pieces of old memories. Dregs of past games. Relics of the man's deteriorating health before his eyes.

He was the only one who really understood Ron.

Ron's ears are tuned to the subtle shifts coming from the room. The chair creaks, though it stops by the time, Ron starts a new game.

Then the bed shifts. And the chessboard vanishes. Ron silently gets to his feet, steps into the shadows of the corridor as the door groans open, and he sees Harry's shadow, meticulously closing the door again.

Ron resists the urge to roll his eyes. Typical Harry.

But then a tendril of fear wipes the smile off his face because what if Harry isn't awake?

Harry turns, oblivious to Ron's silent panic, and starts walking down the narrow corridor. He passes their room, and Hermione's. Strides right to Malfoy's room.

Ron frowns.

Harry looks over his shoulder before falling down on the doorknob with great care, trying to muffle the sound of the squeaking as he slips inside.

Ron skulks after him and stands by the door again, his face partially pressed to the peeling wallpaper to hear the slow murmurs.

The anticipation before carrying out an ambush is what gives it away. Ron had taken those words to heart and so didn't barge into the room, though he really wanted to.

He lets the scheme unfold.

"Okay, I changed my mind. I really miss your voice. Talk French to me,"

Harry's voice rings out a bit louder than Malfoy's intelligible apologies. And Ron stays rooted to the spot, his heart beating madly against his ribs, as Malfoy's voice starts a nervous row of foreign nonsense.

Ron covers his mouth and gags, riddled with indignation and terrified of making a wrong assumption. He backs away from the door and swallows.

No. It couldn't be.

But could it?

"I care for him,"

That fucking bastard.

Ron's body falls back against the door of his own room. His head mutely slams back on the rusty plaque of the door.

His hand fumbles on the doorknob, and he crashes inside.

That conniving, two-faced ferret, corrupting Harry.

Ron breathes, closes his eyes and tries to calm down.

He won't upset Harry with this. He won't. Not again. He can't go punching and screaming and thrashing the sod. Especially when it looks like a stiff breeze will do him in.

He drops on his bed and rubs his face, his wand tumbling out of his hand and cluttering to the floor as Ron breathes and tries not to think of Malfoy getting his hands on Harry, and Harry willingly reciprocating those advances.

"Keep your head about you. Chess isn't a sentimental game, Ronald,"

Ron sinks down to the floor and fumbles under the bed for his wand, trying to calm the hurricane of thoughts and emotions and unsaid words as his hand brushes against a wooden box.

Ron peers under the bed.

"Lumos," he mutters and shines the crude light toward the ornate box he touched.

He drags it out, wiping the thick layer of dust with his wand as he sits back.

He looks at it. The dark cherry wood is aged, carved with twisted runes and shapes. The lid, also ornate with carvings and stones, frames the letter ' M ', etched in cursive.

Ron stares at it for a moment, tracing the carved letter with one finger. The box feels cold, which should be impossible, really. It's made of wood. It clearly doesn't belong to anyone anymore, not with how long it must have been gathering dust down there. His fingers fumble a little at the latch. There's no lock. He just needs to flip it up.

This is a precious thing, he thinks. No matter how abandoned.

He traces its edges once more, and then opens the lid.

"Stupid," he breathes in relief. He had no idea why he was getting so worked up over a stupid box. It was just filled with letters. Bound with a thin leather strap. Nearly a few dozen of them.

Ron picks up a small stack, unties the strap carefully, but it's mostly a lost cause. The leather has started rotting with age and is stuck to the top and bottom pages. He manages to pry it off with minimal damage, and lets the parchments and envelopes cascade down into the box.

One remains in his hand. Ron points his wand at it, turns it over and his breath hitches.

"You never write to me,"

"I come to visit you. We play chess,"

"But I want a letter! Nobody has sent me one before, uncle Morris. Please!"

Uncle Morris had looked at him for a moment, before crouching to match his height, "let's write one to each other now,"

The letter is old, the parchment yellowing and crinkled. Ron caresses the words. The name.

"You write your 'R's funny!"

"R for Ronald. Peculiar."

R for Ronald.

He always wrote so funnily. The way he looped the letters. Curved. Unlike the way, the letter should actually be written when written in cursive.

Ron opens the folded parchment.

Familiar handwriting, though now containing foreign words, stares back at him, and he thinks, a little distractedly, that his Uncle's handwriting didn't really change over the years:

R, my beloved,

This letter has to find you well.

Hermione's eye twitches as Ron quietly recants last night's events in a murmur as they survey the sitting room from the hallway.

It's awful, what they're doing, she knows. But they can't just stop watching it. First, Ron barged into her room that morning, quickly told her that she should see this.

Then proceeded to take her to the narrow entrance that leads to the sitting room, already equipped and set up with a silencing charm and a disillusionment spell.

"What happened next, though?" She asks as they both watch Harry curl up on the couch in a new jumper, inspecting a few books on his lap.

"I didn't stay long enough to hear what came on after 'Talk French to me'," Ron dryly drawls.

"You don't really think that they-"

Malfoy steps through the other corridor that leads straight to the kitchen, on the other side of the room. The silver breakfast tray is floating behind him. He settles down next to Harry with a smile and grabs the tray.

"Tea?"

Ron and Hermione both go silent to watch the scene unfold. The silver tray has two chipped mugs from the kitchen on it. Hot enough that she can see the steam rising into the air. There's also a little plate with something she can't see. Maybe some biscuits?

Harry scrunches his nose up at him, a little smile lighting up his face. Hermione's heart twists, trying to remember the last time she saw him smile like this, so… genuine.

"Don't mind me if I-" Harry reaches out to grab the mug, and then, seemingly, flings it at the ceiling. "Fuck!"

Malfoy manages to grab the cup and steady it in Harry's hands with impossibly quick reflexes.

Hermione's heart goes to her throat. What if it had spilt on him? He didn't need burns on top of everything else. And just how bad were his muscle spasms to cause such a severe reaction?

Draco is talking, voice low and amused, "Slow your roll, cerise. Jeez,"

"Sorry," Harry nervously chuckles, bringing the steaming mug close to his face, it seems relatively stable in his hand now, although they're still shaking, "I forgot you used to charm them,"

Hermione frowns. Charm them?

Malfoy raises his own mug for a long sip, "Always blind to my advances,"

Harry giggles, actually giggles, into Malfoy's shoulder and then tips the mug upwards, "Oh shut it!" He exclaims, "It's not my fault you're extra,"

She elbows Ron, who seems to be sputtering a little at her side.

Malfoy snorts into his tea, "But are you enjoying the tea?"

Harry stretches his body over the blonde's lap to reach for the flooring tray, "Would love it more with some of those -" Malfoy just drags the tray aside with a roll of his eyes, "-sandwiches," Harry finishes with a flush.

Hermione stares, so does Ron. Harry's never been a tactile person. He'd barely even tolerated their hugs at the start before growing used to them and slowly, slowly coming to like them.

But this? Climbing across Malfoy's lap? Malfoy's lap? Malfoy's lap?

Harry's…a Gryffindor. Of course, unlike the clichéd list of criteria one must possess to be sorted in their house, Harry is not loud, boisterous or gregarious. He doesn't throw himself over a person's lap.

Of course, He's the bravest person Hermione knows. But she had never thought he could be so… bold. And comfortable.

"Didn't charm these weightless, so please don't feed the roof again," Malfoy holds out the plate.

"Oh," she breathes. Weightless. Of course. Harry had trouble with a simple fork yesterday. A full mug of tea would have been near impossible to hold.

It's the level of care Ron and Hermione would have employed themselves, after acclimating to this new Harry, to the new changes. It's an astonishingly thoughtful level of care, which makes Ron and Hermione exchange meaningful looks.

Ron has a frown on his face, but he doesn't look quite so hostile anymore. They're distracted when they hear footsteps, head snapping up to the landing of the stairs, where Mr. Weasley is looking at them, bemused.

Ron makes a shushing gesture with his hand, beckoning him towards where they're standing. Mr. Weasley's eyebrow rises, but he doesn't say anything. The three of them watch.

"Screw you," Harry mutters between the bites, though he's smiling widely, his knees digging into Malfoy's side.

"You just excel at romance, don't you?" Malfoy leans in for a kiss. His face pulled in a teasing smirk.

Mr. Weasley blinks rapidly at the scene, no particular expression on his face.

Harry returns the kiss with fervour, the sandwich still in hand, "You made my favourite,"

Ron makes another choking sound.

"Cheese, cucumbers, bread. You are too frugal," Malfoy sniffs, his pointy chin on top of Harry's head as Harry rolls his eyes up at him.

"Sorry, Mister Caviar-for-breakfast,"

Malfoy snorts, and shakes his head. "How are your fingers?"

"A bit sore," Harry flexes his free hand, "But they're okay,"

Hermione narrows her eyes, trying to deduce whether he's lying or not.

"HARRY, where's Ha-" a panicked shout comes from the stairs, and Hermione's head swivels towards them. Remus and Sirius look wild, hair sticking up in all directions, and gaze manically darting around the house.

"Harry-"

Hermione frowns at them, "Shh, they're in there. Harry and Malfoy." She goes back to watching.

Malfoy's hand grabs onto Harry's, and they silently munch on the sandwiches.

She looks back at the others and winces when she sees that Remus seems to be holding a whining Sirius back.

"What are they doing?" Sirius asks, quite loudly. Hermione's grateful for the silencing wards.

"Just watch and listen, Sirius," Remus whispers, and he looks bone tired. Like how he does after full moons, except Hermione knows the full moon had been more than a week ago.

Harry winces as he reaches for his mug.

"You know that if you asked-"

"You're not hand-feeding me," Harry pushes him over. And takes the mug, slightly shaking in his hold.

"I was going to say you could just levitate them. But anything that rocks your boat," he peers down on Harry's lap, "What's the book?"

"I have no idea," Harry shrugs with a sly smile, "I just took a few-"

"Voluntarily reading books," Malfoy kisses him on the forehead, "It is the apocalypse."

She's not sure if it's Ron choking or Sirius.

Harry shoves the sandwich into Malfoy's face, "Don't you dare,"

"How about you make me?"

Harry arches an eyebrow, "It's like that?"

"I don't fool around,"

Harry watches amusedly as Draco takes the mug and sandwich from him and sets them back on the tray. He then snakes his arm around Harry's waist and pulls him over his lap.

Hermione's own jaw drops as she sees how easily Harry let Draco manhandle him, not even flinching. She's perhaps even more surprised at the amount of care Draco seems to be putting into the simple act of holding Harry.

"This is new," Harry murmurs, sitting sideways on the blond's lap, his arm wound around Malfoy's neck. The tea and sandwiches lay forgotten at the side.

"You love new," Malfoy teases, bending his head down to nuzzle at Harry's neck.

Remus is staring open-mouthed now, as well.

There's a pained pinch on his face that makes Hermione wince. By the looks of it, neither he nor Sirius look all that happy about this, even though she's fairly certain Remus is the more level-headed out of the duo. His grip loosens on Sirius, and Sirius lets out a wordless snarl and dashes towards the door, fully intending to go berserk at the pair.

Thankfully, Remus is fast, and manages to stun Sirius before he can break in. The man slumps down as Remus tersely turns away from the scene and levitates Sirius, walking out of the corridor.

"Love many things," Hermione hears Harry murmur, slightly dazedly, from inside the room. She can see they're pretty much tangled up now, a soft blush staining both their cheeks.

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh," Harry peppers soft kisses across Draco's jaw and Hermione stares and stares and stares.

Then it just starts escalating from there before Arthur Weasely fumbles with his wand, gestures them both away and drops the silencing charm.

"Upstairs," he mutters, glaring at them to scuttle away before he loudly clears his throat, jostling Harry and Malfoy out of their passionate snogging.

The last thing Hermione sees, getting dragged up the stairs, is Harry's vermilion flushed face, scampering to his feet.

This is a nightmare.

Harry sits at the table, awkwardly pursing his lips as he watches Arthur Weasley passively filling up his mug with the tea Draco's brewed, still clad in his sleeping robes, and wearing slippers.

Draco runs his thumb over Harry's clenched hand with a teasing smile. His eyes are amused and narrowed at Harry. He doesn't appear the least bit embarrassed. Harry, still flushed red, envies his pale complexion.

"You boys want some tea?"

"No, thank you," Harry replies, recoiling at the squeakiness of his voice. What is wrong with him? So the man saw them casually kissing. So what? It was fine. Harry and Draco weren't doing anything wrong.

They weren't.

Though, Draco isn't helping. With his teasing smile and smug face and dancing eyebrows when the man's back is turned on them. Harry half-heartedly glares at him, but then Draco just leans and kisses him on the cheek again.

His heart flutters, and Harry flutters with it.

"Stop that," Harry furiously whispers as the man trudges his way to the cabinet, presumably for the sugar tin. Draco pecks his jaw and then quickly pulls away. Despite the bite in his words, Harry really, really wants the other boy to continue. But Mr. Weasley is a glaring presence.

"Sorry, I moved the sugar," Draco tells a disgruntled Arthur, and the man turns, mug in hand. He looks at Draco as if he has no idea how to answer that.

"It's by the toaster," Draco continues helpfully.

"Ah," Arthur turns with the frown still on his face and then sets the mug down.

Harry feels his stomach sinking for no reason. He has no idea why he feels so scared, ashamed, and hesitant of the man's reaction. Mr. Weasley is one of the gentlest and most non-confrontational men Harry knows. He's probably the least scary choice of people who could have caught them. He shudders to think how Sirius would have reacted.

"You've certainly found your way around the kitchen, lad," Mr. Weasley tells Draco with a smile.

"Sorry, it was just too high on the cabinet."

Harry shrinks again. It's for his sake, he knows and usually Draco's thoughtfulness overwhelms him. But this is just embarrassing.

Draco gives him a searching look, and Harry looks away.

What should he even tell Draco? That he has no idea how he is truly feeling?

"So uh…" Arthur takes a large sip from his scalding hot tea, "I know this conversation shouldn't be coming from me...but,"

"Oh my god," Harry breathes in mortification.

Draco opens his mouth, "Sir…."

"But I love Harry like a son, Draco. And I would feel better knowing that you boys have been safe—."

"Please, stop, Mr. Weasely," Harry mutters, burying his face in his hands.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, son,"

Molly Weasley walks in just then, her hair in disarray, much like Hermione's and also clad in her sleeping robes. "Oh, you made breakfast already?"

Arthur looks away from the boys and smiles at her, "Draco only made tea,"

"Good, good. It's only seven! I didn't think you'd be up so early," she immediately pulls out her wand, and the clanging of pots and pans ring out in the kitchen.

Ron and Hermione hesitantly trail after her, holding hands and muttering their good mornings, avidly avoiding everyone's gazes.

Holding hands. Harry's eyes linger.

"Morning," Harry squeezes Draco's hand under the table.

What was it about the act that made it so intimate and reassuring?

"Good morning Harry," Hermione smiles at him, and Ron follows suit. Their eyes linger on his face, and Harry finds it hard to breathe. He has no idea what is wrong with him. These are his friends. He loves them so much. Why can't he just open his mouth and talk to them regardless of the stone wall drawn between them?

"Did you sleep well, dear?" Mrs. Weasely asks them both, and Harry awkwardly nods.

"Oh, we already ate," Draco politely declines the plates, and Molly deposits them in front of Ron and Hermione instead.

"Oh, Harry dear, you should have just woken me up! I could have fixed you boys something to eat and..."

"Draco made us some sandwiches, Mrs. Weasley. We didn't want to trouble you,"

"Oh, you know your way around a kitchen, don't you?" She gives Draco a gentle smile, and Harry feels the boy squeeze his hand back a little too hard, "That's wonderful, Draco,"

"Harry's been teaching me a thing or two," Draco says, giving a brief smile. It looks strained.

"Where's Sirius?" Harry asks after everyone's settled.

Guilt, acrid and twisting, makes its presence known in his stomach. He just ditched his godfather and Remus in the middle of the night like that. He's surprised they haven't raised hell about it yet.

Ron jumps in, "Um- he and Remus got a call. They have a thing,"

So he hasn't seen, Harry thinks, relieved.

He knows he can't keep their relationship so innocent-looking forever, but that doesn't mean he's eager to publicise it either. By the looks Mr. Weasley is giving him, it's obvious that they've crossed and crashed and burnt that bridge long ago.

"Did you sleep well?" Ron asks him, keenly staring into Harry's eyes.

He did. Harry slept like he was dead to the world, with Draco's arms around him.

He nods instead. He didn't think Ron would appreciate his morbid humour.

"I'm glad you're okay," Hermione smiles at him again, a bit too widely.

Oh. Oh, Harry sees it now. He never really apologised for last night. And they're treating him like he's a wounded animal, because he behaved like one last night.

"Um…" Harry nods. "I think an apology is due," he starts.

He can run the routine and be done with it so they can all go back to eating. He hates having this block of awkwardness wrapped around himself. It will be an apology, along with an explanation. It will be quick, not painless. But at least over with.

The routine is fairly simple. He's done it tons of times before, inquire about the trouble he's caused, apologise as profoundly as he can fake it, and stash that action in the naughty box not to be repeated again.

In this case, what he should be apologising for is simple; worrying them all to death with his idiotic decisions, inadvertently cursing them into silence last night, and then acting aloof, quite like an asshole for the rest of that night.

He should also apologise to Remus and Sirius later for sneaking out.

He's just been screwing it all up since last night.

Since a long time ago, really.

"Oh, Harry," Mr. Weasley sighs, "It's not necessary at all, we know how-"

Harry interrupts him before he loses his nerve and just bolts back to his room, "I behaved poorly last night. Excuses or not. I'm sorry. It was just… too much,"

It still is, really. Most of them keep sneaking what they seem to think are subtle glances at his hands. Or Draco's face. Draco's remarkably composed about it, but Harry likes to think he knows him better by now.

They're treating him like he's fragile. They're treating him like a child. And it's… smothering; after weeks of isolation, of taking care of themselves by themselves, of being on the run and alone, this… attention is overwhelming.

"We understand," Ron says quietly, and Harry's surprised at the lack of a glare thrown Draco's way. He doesn't look friendly, not by a long shot, but he doesn't look like he wants to set fire to him either. "We're… I guess we're sorry as well,"

Harry gives him a faint smile, and then looks away, throat working, and the smile slipping. "I walked out of the wards," he says slowly, "I couldn't tell… we had a misunderstanding. And I ran out-"

"Harry," Draco says. His fork is down on his plate now, and he's staring intently at Harry.

He's asking Harry whether he wants to do this. They don't have to. Everyone already knows what happened, because Dumbledore told them. And because Draco told Dumbledore.

Harry meets his eyes, "No, Draco. I have to tell them," my way.

He doesn't even know why. It's just an instinct, to verbalise the shit they went through from his own perspective and hope for the best, "I ran out. I'm not sure how much they told you during the briefing, but you deserve the truth," He looks back at the others, all staring at the two of them now.

Not like they weren't before, but the few who had composed any sort of decorum had lost it by now. Harry continues, he's no stranger to undivided attention, no matter how much he hates it. "And Rosier was waiting for me. He became a bit obsessed after the first time,"

"The first time?" Hermione asks, her eyes wide and face pale.

Harry nods, trying to keep his expression bland and not arranged into a rictus of hate, "The first time he and Umbridge took us. They took us because…" he pauses, looks at the boy beside him, who's now staring down at his plate, "Draco was helping me. And I-it's complicated. But you have to understand. He got kidnapped because of me,"

They can't keep on blaming Draco. Harry has to guide them out of the illusion that Draco's had anything to do with this. Because truth be told, he didn't. Harry wouldn't be able to stomach it if this kept going on, especially because it's all his fault.

"That's a lie," Draco says firmly, "I didn't get kidnapped because of you," he sniffs, face a little haughty.

Harry smiles a little, remembering how Draco had basically blackmailed him into accepting his help.

"Okay, we spoke about this." He turns back to the others, because Draco's stubborn, "Umbridge was torturing me, and he offered to help, and I was desperate. I didn't want to tell you guys because…." He stumbles a little over his words, "I wasn't in a good place, and you were all so busy... that's not the point," he clears his throat, a little nervous.

"We know what she was doing to you," Hermione says, slowly reaching for Ron's hand, and the boy willingly turns it over. Harry's eyes widen.

It's not too bad, especially not as bad as Harry's. But the fact that it's there at all is horrifying in itself.

"Not you too, oh god," Harry says, voice strangled. He remembers the pain, the delirium—the quite literal river of blood that flooded out of his open flesh.

His eyes trail to Ron's face, and then back again. Would it be poisoned like Harry's?

It doesn't seem like it. The words look almost faded over, a pink hue. Merlin, he hopes the poison had been made special just for him, and that she wasn't doing this to others.

Molly Weasley mutters a curse under her breath, and Mr. Weasley pats her on the arm.

"It's fine," Ron dismisses quickly, and then grimaces, looking at his parents and then back at Harry, "It was months ago. Madam Pomfrey had it checked out."

Harry's throat closes, and his hand fumbles across the table to trace the back of Ron's hand. His own hand, scarred as well, drops over Ron's.

Ron's eyes soften, "We wouldn't have judged. If you'd told us."

Harry shakes his head, but doesn't argue. He takes a deep breath and snatches his hand back. He'll get this over with.

"They took us. Draco's father, and Professor Snape, helped us get out. We were safe. And then I ran out of the wards, and we were… it was a rough couple of weeks." Harry is staring at the table. The scorch mark is still there, a tiny trifling groove of blackened wood. He focuses on that, so he doesn't have to see the expression on their faces.

Rough doesn't even begin to cover it.

After a moment, Mrs. Weasley speaks softly, and so goddamn gently that Harry wants to start crying. "We understand, dear. You have no idea how glad we are that you boys are alright," she smiles.

"We called for Poppy to drop in after lunch. Have you lads checked over," Mr. Weasley says when everyone's quiet for a while. The awkward kind of silence no one knows how to fill. No one's eating. Harry's not quite hungry either. The taste of Draco lingers in his mouth.

"That's great," Harry purses his lips. He longingly looks at his friends, and Draco sighs into his mug.

He knows what Harry wants before Harry himself does.

"Hey," he calls Harry, ignoring the others watching them, "I'll be fine," he jerks his head towards Ron and Hermione.

Hermione still hasn't let go of Ron's hand from when she'd turned it over. Harry stares now, just for a moment.

"I won't take long," he says slowly, pushing back his chair and standing up.

"Is everything okay, Harry?" Arthur Weasley narrows his eyes.

"Those two," Harry nods his chin at Ron and Hermione, "and I, we need to talk. Thank you guys for listening. I'll be right back," he shrugs, and walks out, the other two following.

His back prickles with the gaze of the people he ought to love.

"You were holding hands," is the first thing Harry says. "You were holding hands. You never held hands. What is this about?"

They quickly let go of each other's hands, and Ron gives an incredulous laugh, his face as red as his hair, "Really? That's the first thing you say?"

Normalcy. It's such a sweet taste in his mouth as Harry stares at his friends. His dorky, awkward, cheesy friends.

A grin tugs at Harry's lips, "It's been driving me insane. You're at each other's throats all the time. Now you can't stop touching,"

Ron and Hermione exchange a look, and Harry gasps in mock horror, "You son of a- you got together?"

He knew it. The moment they walked into the kitchen with their hands held. It always made sense in his head. Ron was the sun, and Hermione was the sky. It just made sense for them to be together. Of course, Harry would have preferred being there.

Hermione clears her throat but sidles up a little closer to Ron, "Kind of?"

Harry throws up his hands, before placing them on his hips, "Out of all occasions to finally get together, you chose the time I wasn't there? I had so many plans!"

"About Ron and I dating?" Hermione raises an eyebrow.

"Yes! I had bets running," Harry says.

"With who?" Ron's eyes narrow, but the boy's grinning too. And it feels good. Almost normal.

Almost.

He actually did have bets running with imaginary Sirius.

"With- er… me!" Harry forges on before they can laugh, "Who did it first? How… Did you touch my best friend?" He's not particularly staring at any one of them when he says it, but Ron's the one who answers.

Ron shrugs, "I'm your best friend too. Technically we touched each other,"

"That sounds disgusting." Harry lets his hands fall away from his hips, "Oh man. How long has it been?"

"About two months?"

Harry's brows rise, and he stifles the urge to whistle. He doesn't know how to whistle. "Ah well. I'm glad. If you hurt my best friend, both of you, I'm going to kill the other," he says sternly, although he's not sure he paints a very threatening picture.

God, he hopes they don't. He's not sure how he'll handle that.

Hermione snorts, and then the grin slips from her face, "I feel like we have more important issues at hand here-"

"Like you and Malfoy," Ron interjects. He looks a little disgruntled.

"Oh." Harry frowns, "Me and Malfoy?"

"You and Draco." Hermione swiftly rolls her eyes. Both Ron and Harry stare at her, and she huffs.

"Yes. You and 'Draco'. We…" Ron clears his throat, "we kind of saw you guys. How long has that been going on?"

Harry's face heats up and vermilion splashes against his cheeks and his eyes widen in horror. Oh no. So it hadn't been just Mr. Weasley?

Harry blinks very slowly. "Wait. You know?"

Hermione gives him a pitying smile, "We know. We saw. And it's just-"

Ron shrugs both shoulders, "Him? Really?"

A tiny spark of indignation burns up in his chest as Harry fidgets in place, wringing his hands and avoiding his friends' eyes.

"It's not what you think. It's not a trick. I swear." He mutters. He can't believe how self-conscious he's being about this. There's something so vulnerable, about being seen snogging his former rival and current lover. Something that clearly goes over most people's heads.

"Harry, we trust you, but the matter of the fact is-"

Hermione cuts Ron off, "We don't trust him. That much change in only a few months-"

Harry huffs and then finally looks the girl in the eyes, intently watching as the concern on her face falters and morphs into a twist. Her eyes glaze, and Harry sighs.

"Oh, come on." He gently walks up to the girl, and she grips him for dear life, her face dampening the side of Harry's neck.

"I don't want him to hurt you."

Harry holds her back just as tightly, finally feeling the warmth of contentment seep into his bones. He's missed them. He really has. His hand ghosts over her back, and he catches Ron's eyes over her frizzy hair, "It's okay. He's changed. I promise."

Ron steps up and gently lays a hand on Hermione's shoulder, "Are you sure you want it? The way he touches you and-"

Harry flushes and then hesitantly draws back from Hermione, "Yes. Of course. You guys always worry so much." and that makes him feel so guilty. Because it's his fault in a way that they always feel like that. They're young like he is, they shouldn't worry whether Harry's boyfriend is going to do him in, in his sleep. It's tragic, really.

Hermione wipes her face and chuckles, "How long has it been?"

Harry narrows his eyes. "About two weeks? I don't know."

Oh, he doesn't know. He can't really recall the exact passage of time. It could have been weeks, or months or more or less. Maybe Draco does know. Maybe that's a conversation he should have with Draco without alerting his friends. It seems rather triggering to tell them that he can't remember the full extent of a relationship he recently started with his school rival. He quickly continues then, not liking Ron's expression, "But... he's not who you think he is. I swear, he's really gentle and kind-"

"He called Hermione a mudblood,"

Harry winces, "We're working on that. And... he's changed. He really has. His father helped us and his mom, his mom was… she was Argent."

Hermione startles, eyes widening, "What? The informant-"

"The very same." He nods. "I don't think I'm supposed to talk about it. It's complicated. But you don't have to worry about me. Or him. You don't have to love him. I get that, but he's really…" he fumbles for the right word. But how can he encompass what Draco was to him in a single word? He can't.

"… good to me." He finishes, a little lamely. "So, I would appreciate the support,"

Hermione purses her lips, "Has he done anything yet?"

Harry smirks, trying to lighten the mood, "You know I don't kiss and tell,"

"Because you've never kissed anyone," Ron says, and Harry scowls.

"Alright, that's fair. Yes. We've kissed. And snogged. And..." Harry flushes, coughing, "Well, you don't want to know,"

Ron looks confused for a split second before he goes a little green. Hermione hastily speaks over whatever he might have blurted out about it, steering them towards more neutral grounds. "Are you sure about this? About him. What if he's lying?"

Harry nods firmly, "I trust him." It's fragile, but it's there. He can't let these doubts show to Hermione and Ron, though. They'd latch onto them, and never let go. "And I love you guys, but you can't change my mind about him because you don't know him. Just trust me, okay?"

"We won't make you choose between him and us-" Hermione says reasonably, and Harry almost sighs before-

"But rhetorically speaking, you'll choose us, right?" Ron interjects.

"Well…" Harry grimaces, "I- I don't know. Maybe…" He shakes his head a little helplessly, "Don't make me say it!" He continues before they can really process what he's just admitted to, "Just be civil. I made him promise the same thing, and I already have enough with Sirius and Remus breathing down my neck,"

Ron, who'd been sporting a slightly hurt look on his face, pales, "Oh shit, that's going to get worse,"

Harry pauses, "What do you mean?"

His friends exchange another look; this one wary and somewhat tinged with guilt, "They also saw Malfoy and you kissing," Hermione says slowly when Ron winces and shakes his head in sympathy.

Harry gapes, "Also?" Harry says, voice going a little high, like some squeaky mouse, "Is there anyone in the house who didn't?"

"Bill and Charlie weren't there, and mom,"

"Oh no," he whispers, oh dear.

Harry cringes and rubs his forehead. There goes one more disaster added to the pile.

"It wasn't that bad," Ron mutters.

Hermione bluffs, "They didn't even care,"

"I mean," Ron winces at her and she winces back, "maybe they would but not by a large margin,"

"Medium?" Hermione shrugs, both her and Ron seem oblivious to Harry staring at them, "Medium sounds about good,"

"Medium only if Remus is there to damage control, but if we isolate Sirius-"

"Okay, guys," Harry cuts them off, "It's fine. Enough about me."

He'll deal with Sirius later. Currently, his best friend is dating his best friend, and he's got some bets to settle, "Tell me everything."

Remus waits for a moment until the noises from downstairs have faded into the usual chatter of breakfast, the scraping of chairs and tables, of the clinking of plates and cutlery.

He stares at Sirius' prone form on the bed- still too thin, too gaunt- and heaves a sigh, before raising his wand to cast a quiet rennervate.

Sirius stirs, his eyes fluttering open. But before he can get his bearings, Remus starts speaking, "What is wrong with you?"

Sirius blinks and then shoots up in bed. Thankfully, he doesn't try to bolt. He lets out an indignant snarl, "What is wrong with you?! You should have let me get that little fucker instead of stunning me-"

"For what?"

For a moment, Sirius looks taken aback, and then narrows his eyes, "I'm sorry, did you see his fucking tongue down my godson's throat or-"

"What about it?" Remus says with a calm he isn't feeling.

"Moony! My underage godson just snuck out of bed in the middle of the night- " Sirius throws his hands up, spluttering.

Remus sighs again, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Yes, seeing Harry and Draco kissing had been disconcerting, but that had been about the unexpectedness of the situation. Not whatever Sirius must be thinking. In some ways, Harry's just a little kid to Sirius still, who missed 12 years of his life.

"They were kissing. Not shagging on the table. You are overreacting like you always do-"

"I was protecting-"

"Protecting?" Remus cuts him off, incredulous, "What do you think would have happened if I'd let you deck the boy? Hmm? Harry would've flung you into the nearest wall, or petrified you. You saw what he did last night. You can't just treat him like you treated James," and despite it being the truth, it still hurts.

"And Sirius," Remus continues tiredly, as Sirius splutters, "You knew there was something between them last night. I don't know why you're so surprised."

Remus might know Harry better than Sirius, but he still doesn't know him. He hadn't even known Harry liked guys until he'd suspected it last night. He doesn't know his least favourite food. He doesn't know if Draco had been his first kiss or not. They don't know much of anything at all.

James, James hadn't been a private person, not really. His life had been on display. He'd had nothing to hide. Charming, outgoing, loud, brash, James. By the end, Remus had known everything there was to know about a person. All four of them had.

All three, he corrects—all three. Peter doesn't count. He never had. But they'd known each other, in those short moments before the prophecy came to light, before it targeted James and Lily and Harry, before the suspicions and the distrust and the betrayals began. There had been so much love and understanding.

"Stop saying nonsense," Sirius breathes.

"He's not excitable like James," Remus smiles, the upturn of his lips clashing with the look in his eyes, "He will not respond well to violence. He was tortured." Remus takes a deep breath, ignoring Sirius' flinch, "This is the boy who's been with him, the entire time. And let's assume that he didn't kick your ass… why would you react like that at all? They're just boys. They're dating,"

"He was taking advantage-"

"First of all, Harry is fifteen. When you and I were fifteen, we were getting handjobs in broom closets. So I think Harry's doing relatively okay. And I'm sorry, did it look like Harry wasn't enjoying it?" In fact, Harry hadn't looked so at peace since, so content… since the third year, maybe, when he'd mastered the Patronus, finally. After that Quidditch game.

And isn't that a sad realisation? That the happiest he'd seen him for over a decade was when he'd been a toddler when Lily and James had still been alive.

"He's my pup," Sirius whispers. And he sounds so forlorn here, so lost, Remus' heart aches.

Still, he shakes his head. He can't let Sirius make such mistakes and risk alienating Harry further. It'll break both their hearts. "Instead of pushing him away, treat him like an adult. You kept torturing yourself in his absence, and now that he's finally here…."

"He's not like them." Sirius says after a beat, "Like Lily or James… or," he swallows visibly, "or himself."

"You expected him to behave like an infant?" Remus raises an eyebrow.

"He's like a stranger. Of course, you wouldn't think that. You had one whole year with him and-"

"He's human. And he is like them. And like himself. He still chews on his nails when he's nervous, and he has a fiery temper like Lily, and rambles on like Jamie used to… there is so much of them in him. But there's also Harry too,"

"Well," Sirius looks away, "What if he doesn't like me?"

And isn't that the crux of the matter? The insecurity, the uncertainty of their relationship. A fragile sort of bond, which might not exist at all.

"I don't think he would dislike you if you kept your shit about you. You can't just storm in, punching random people and expecting to be loved. Just like you couldn't storm in, manically declare death threats at an asshole and then…."

"Not get thrown in prison for thirteen years," Sirius finishes with a grimace.

"That sounded less fucked up in my head, Padfoot," Remus winces.

"I know. You always had that mean streak in you, and I loved it," there's a faraway look in Sirius's eyes. Something that's become common in the past few months. He goes away in his head sometimes, reminiscing. Remus knows it's the side effects of long term dementor exposure. It still doesn't make it any easier.

Remus clears his throat, "I think you were the only one. Enough of this… Let's go see him,"

Sirius's attention snaps back to him, "Someday I'll make you admit it, Sir Moony,"

"Admit what, Sir Padfoot?"

"That you used to love me too,"

He did. He does. He always will.

"Is that a Goblin made handle?" Bill says, semi casually. He and Draco are the only ones at the table now. Malfoy's waiting for Harry, presumably, and Bill…

Well, Bill's curious.

"I assume so, yes," Draco says absently, looking down at the wand in his hand, which he'd been using to levitate the plates into the sink.

Bill admits he'd been a little impressed. Not because Draco was capable of performing a first-year levitation charm, but because he'd used it for chores.

"You have good taste," but Bill's biassed. He works with goblins, after all.

Draco looks up at that, the plates coming to a rest in the sink with a dull clatter. "This was my mother's," he says quietly.

"Oh shit, sorry." Bill backtracks quickly, "Um, she had good taste," he says.

"Yes, she did," Draco's not looking at him anymore, but rather staring at his wand now.

After a beat of silence, Bill starts again, "I saw how you look at him,"

"I did look at your brother with the intent to murder," Draco says, a faint sneer marring his face. There's a familiar expression. He's not had much contact with Draco personally, of course. But he's more than familiar enough with the Malfoy family. Or was.

"Okay, we're alone. You can cut the bullshit." He says, and sees Malfoy tense a little, "How long has it been?"

"Do you truly have nothing better to do than to interrogate me?" Draco snaps.

Bill shrugs, but watches carefully. He doesn't think the care for Harry is false. He's also seen the way Harry looks at Draco. And their silent conversations.

They seem to have a lot of those.

"A lot of people care about him," he says, "I also care about him. And you don't have a good reputation when it comes to him,"

Malfoy scowls, the expression pulling grotesquely at the gash marring his face, "What do you want from me? I've heard about two shovel talks already. I don't intend to have a third. Harry is old and wise enough to make decisions for himself,"

"You're right." Bill nods. He believes the boy, mostly. He also believes Harry isn't a child, not anymore. He's still curious, though, "How did you do it, though? The spell?"

At Draco's confused look, Bill jerks his head towards the bracelet wrapped around the boy's wrist. He'd seen a similar, tackier one around Harry's wrist too. The magic was so obvious in the two, but not malicious.

It was actually something he'd seen his mum put on Fred and George a few times.

"How the fuck do you know about the spell?"

"Well, I can read the auras surrounding objects. Sort of comes with the job."

Draco's jaw is set, and he's fingering the shell looped around his hand, "My mother taught me the spell," he says at last.

"She's a woman of many talents; it seems," he says. He doesn't know, of course, except that she'd been reported dead along with Lucius Malfoy. But no body had been found. Apparently, it was quite a scandal within the Order. He didn't understand the fuss. Yes, it had been tragic and surprising, Voldemort killing people in his inner circle so casually, but the sheer panic surrounding Narcissa's death…

"She was." A bitter sneer twists his face, "I suppose you would know,"

"How should I? She was your mother," Bill frowns. Is he missing something?

"I would assume you would have a bit more respect for the woman who gave her life for your moronic cause," Malfoy continues, as if Bill hadn't spoken. The boy's eyes are bright, and there's ill-concealed resentment shining through.

"Are you going to keep talking in riddles?" Bill huffs, slightly uneasy now.

Draco stares for a moment, then turns away, shoulders slumping. The bitterness doesn't vanish though, "I suppose you're not high enough in the ranks to know then,"

"There are no ranks here," Bill says promptly, although he's not quite sure. There are so many things that Dumbledore keeps from them all. He's not naive enough to believe that everyone is in on everything.

"Then you're a simpleton," Draco says, his face pinched.

"Was she an informant?" Bill asks slowly. That'd make sense, actually. It'd slot in a lot of missing pieces.

"She was the informant." Draco bursts out, and Bill's horrified to see a tear slipping out of the boy's eye. The boy wipes it away furiously, "The worst mistake of her life. You can't even be bothered to know her name,"

"We have a lot of people working for us. Not all of them have names," Bill says slowly, trying not to aggravate the boy further. Oh, Merlin, this is not going the way he'd thought at all.

"But my mother did." Malfoy takes a deep breath and sits back down on the chair. Bill hadn't even noticed that the boy had gotten up. "Next time you hear the name Argent, think twice about what it cost me,"

"Argent," Bill goes still.

"Please go have your breakdown somewhere else. I'm expecting Black and Lupin to show up with their shovels any moment now," Draco says and rolls one shoulder, wincing. His eyes are dry now, thankfully. But Bill's too busy freaking out just a little.

"Holy… That was her?"

"I wish she weren't," Draco whispers. He sounds so broken, and whatever doubts Bill had had about him crumble away. Merlin, the boy, had lost both his parents in such a short amount of time.

Bill had known that, technically. But looking at Draco now, it becomes glaringly obvious.

"She tipped us," he says, not sure if its the right thing, "About the dementors,"

"What dementors," Draco's face snaps up, eyes narrowing.

"The ones that attacked Harry during the summer. She saved his life," he hopes it's the right thing to say. Draco cares about Harry. At least Bill wants to believe he does.

"What?" Malfoy's pale, eyes wide, "No. She was dead. She died before. Harry was still with the muggles when-"

"We received the letter, not from her, but it was written by her, we'd assumed-"

But Draco's frozen, horror writ upon his face, "That's what Bella saw."

"What?"

"Nothing." The chair screeches as the boy stands up again. He turns around, shoulders shaking,

"Pardon me."

Draco leaves, and Bill's left feeling off-kilter.