Author's Note: For Blake (TealPensWithNoireInk), for the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Secret Santa 2020. Containing fluff and Golden Trio friendship, and hopefully some humour. Hope you enjoy!
Warnings: Post-Canon, so some mentions of Canon Character Death, but nothing too bad.
Disclaimer: I do not own the world of Harry Potter, nor its characters.
Word Count: 7290
After the war, Kreacher turns Grimmauld Place into a shining haven. There's always something cooking on the stove, and the rugs beat themselves silly every morning. Under his watchful, bulging eyes, the silverware gleams and the stairs never creak and the letters pile up neatly in the block beside the front door. It becomes a pretty nice place to live, even more than it did while they were hiding out there.
It's why Ron doesn't worry too much when he doesn't hear from Harry all that often. It's a bit weird, not having his best mate around after nearly a whole year spent cramped together in a tent, getting on each other's last nerve and being there for each other when nobody else was. But he tells himself it's a good weird, and that there's no need to worry now that it's all over.
Harry spends the first month after the battle living at the Burrow, weaving between red-haired, freckled pillars of grief, and does chores until his hands are wrinkled from soapy dishwater. Then he follows Ron and Hermione to Australia to try and sort out her parents, and then he moves into that shining haven.
Things sort of bob along quite nicely after that. Ron alternates between days when he feels so heavy with grief that getting out of bed seems pointless, although he makes himself get up anyway, and days when he can't afford to even think about Fred and his teasing grin in case he breaks. He thinks about George instead. He makes George get dressed and brings him Mum's cooking, and he pushes him outside to go for walks when he starts to smell really bad. Ron tries very hard not to think about the skinny, dark-haired absence at his side. Soon George resembles something other than the pale, forlorn creature haunting the upstairs landing. There are a few letters from Harry, and Ron definitely isn't worried. George won't re-open his shop, but he comes down to watch them play Quidditch once, without prompting, although he doesn't go near a broom. Ron can't really blame him for that. Beaters come in pairs, after all.
It's in no way an end to it all, or even the beginning of the end, but it's an improvement.
"You should take a break, love," Mum says one morning, where she's packing the lid tightly on a jar of jam. "You've been working so hard lately. All this running around after us must be getting on your nerves." She wipes her eyes, the way she does every day lately, and carries on as though her voice isn't cracking. "You should call in on Harry too, if you've got time. Have you heard from him?"
"No," Ron says slowly, putting down his mug with a frown. "No, I haven't."
Mum looks up from her jam, concerned. "No? Not at all? I tried to send a care package through the other day, just bread and sausages and some other things, he's so skinny, that boy, but the Floo was all blocked off. And if he's getting my letters, he certainly isn't answering them. Not for a few days now." She tightens her grip on the jar suddenly, white-faced. "Check on him for me, will you? Just to see if everything's okay."
There's a whispery quality to her voice that makes Ron want to curl up and hide. He promises her that he'll check in on his way to the shop, and he eats the rest of his breakfast in silence, but he can't keep his mind off Harry. It's only been a week or so since they last spoke, and Harry seemed fine enough for someone who had been in a war… but maybe that was the haze of stress and grief and exhaustion talking. It had only been a brief conversation. Maybe Ron had missed something.
"I think I'll go in early," Ron says. He eats the last of his toast while putting on his boots, and if it ends in buttery laces, he doesn't really mind. Mum kisses his cheek absently as he leaves, her eyes far away, and Ron leaves for London with a bucketload of destination, and not much determination, twisting on his heel as the Burrow vanishes from sight.
Grimmauld Place is bare and quiet when he calls in. Kreacher isn't there to welcome him at the door, but it opens easily at Ron's touch. He scours the first few floors, but it's clear from a quick spell and a couple of cautious shouts that Harry isn't in. Nobody's in. The house is still clean and shining, and it's still a haven, but it's definitely empty.
He checks the bed and finds the sheets cool to the touch, barely slept in. Then he finds more blankets downstairs on one of the sofas, and deduces that Harry's been sleeping in the study instead of the bed. There are a few signs of life, but nothing recent enough that Ron can pass it off as a missed meeting and go on his way.
"Kreacher?" Ron calls, but his tentative inquiry goes unanswered. "Bugger." Ron runs his hand through his hair and swears again, harsher this time. Anyone he calls is probably going to panic, but he can't deny that he's feeling a little panicked himself. Of course, he knows who he needs to call first. He doesn't really want to call Hermione and drag her away from what she's doing, but it's the best option. She's practical. She always knows what to do.
The Floo Network is still up and running, but it's definitely been blocked at some point. The spell is a fairly ordinary one, used in most Wizarding Houses to stop little kids wandering in and ending up seventeen fireplaces away. He manages to undo it after a bout of fierce cursing and a broken poker. He's reaching for the pot of Floo Powder on the mantelpiece when the fire flares bright green.
"Harry! I've been trying to get hold of you all weekend! Where have you been?"
Ron stares down at Hermione's face, sticking crossly out of the fire, and blinks slowly. She looks good, tanned and bushy-haired, with a few freckles across her nose from the sun. Australia looks good on her. Or it would, if not for the dark circles under her eyes and the tired lines on her face. She looks as lovely as always, but there is no denying that being with her angry, confused parents is taking a toll on her.
The crossness fades, though, when she gets a good look at who she's yelling at.
"Oh," Hermione says, drawing up short, green fire flickering in her eyes. "I thought you were Harry."
"Yeah, I could tell." Ron puts the pot of Floo Powder down and crouches in front of her. "You haven't seen him either then?"
"Oh no," Hermione says, biting her lip harshly. "Oh no, I was hoping it was just a problem with the Floo Network - most old houses have wards in the foundations, and he's only just started living here properly, so there's bound to be some issues, especially in a house that's so determined to focus on bloodlines -"
She cuts herself off when Ron tugs on a lock of her hair.
"Calm down, alright?" Ron says. "I can't think when you're jabbering on like that."
Hermione scowls at him. "I'm not jabbering. I'm worrying. There's a difference! When did you last hear from him?"
"Not for a week, at least, but I don't think he's been gone that long." Guilt sits uncomfortably in his chest, but he pushes it down. "Mum sent me over this morning because she couldn't get hold of him through the Floo. And she said he hasn't replied to her letters in a while either. Kreacher isn't here, so he might have taken Harry somewhere, if he asked." Ron frowns. "That doesn't explain why the Floo was blocked off."
"That might have been to keep the house safe while he was away," Hermione suggests.
"Maybe. But if he knew he was leaving, why not tell us?"
"Oh, I don't know! Maybe he didn't want to bother us, or worry us. He didn't leave a letter or anything?" When he shakes his head, she adds, "You're sure he's not in the house?"
Ron widens his eyes in mock-amazement and glances around. "Oh, yeah! I didn't think to check the house!" He turns back after a beat, levelling a flat look at her, and she huffs. "Give me some credit, Hermione. I know I'm not the most observant person in the world, but I think I'd know if he was hiding behind a curtain somewhere."
"Oh, I know, I know, I'm sorry, it's just - it hasn't been that long since we defeated Voldemort, and there are still supporters out there. And Harry wouldn't tell us if he was getting hate mail or threats in the post, would he?"
"He survived an evil Dark Lord for years," Ron points out. "He's not going to get offed by some second-rate bastard with a grudge." When she only looks at him with those large, dark eyes that make his heart do reluctant somersaults, he sighs. "I'll look around, alright? If there are letters, or more clues, then they're probably still in the house somewhere. Should we get anyone else involved?"
They make a brief list of people to contact, and Ron pulls a face at the reminder of Ginny. He loves his sister, and he loves his best friend, and he doesn't even mind them being together, but he doesn't really want to think about it. Not deeply.
Hermione mentions her parents once, briefly, and Ron can't help but be concerned by the way her expression twists. They left her in Australia after a solid two weeks of spending time with the Grangers, whose memory charms were far trickier than they should have been to unwind. Ron sort of didn't realise how much Hermione had altered before she left, and the magic involved is just as terrifying as it is admirable. She did a lot, just to keep her family safe. Now there are Healers arriving from all corners of the world to take a peek at the spells in place, and undo them at a pace that won't do more damage than good.
"They seem to remember me, at least, although I'm not sure that's a good thing," Hermione admits. "They know there's a lot I'm not telling them. And they haven't even begun to forgive me for erasing their memory in the first place." She grows quiet for a moment, the flames crackling around her ears. "I can't really blame them, if I'm honest. But I wish it was easier."
Ron thinks of George, half-buried on the inside, and Mum, who won't stop crying, and Dad, who looks so lost that it's almost too much to bear, sitting in his shed all day with broken odds and ends all around him, not bothering to fix them. He thinks of Harry, shut away in this house full of ghosts, always thinking he has to do it on his own.
"I wish it was easier too," Ron says. "I reckon it'll get there in the end. We didn't do everything we did and go through everything we've gone through just for it to be all miserable at the end. And we've got each other, haven't we?"
Hermione looks up at him tearfully. One of her hands comes through the fire just to brush away her tears, and then she gets a fistful of Ron's shirt and drags him towards her. He feels the kiss land on the corner of his mouth, and he barely splutters out a noise before she vanishes through the Floo. He kneels on the rug, stunned, no doubt looking like an idiot. His ears feel like they have their own sun.
They haven't really talked about what they are. Distance put a bit of a pin in their relationship, but for once, Ron doesn't mind. For once, he isn't impatiently waiting for something that he wants but can't quite afford. For once, he knows he'll get there in the end.
Grimmauld Place turns up no more clues. Ron leaves a note flickering on the kettle just in case Harry comes home, telling him to call someone as soon as he can. Then he sends a quick Patronus to Ginny, who's probably at Quidditch practice, and lets the happy memories of summers gone past fill him until the hallway fills with silver light.
He makes his way to Diagon Alley, cutting through the Leaky Cauldron and nodding to Tom as he passes.
"Did Harry come through this way?" Ron asks, on a whim.
A few people around the bar perk up at the mere mention of his name. Not even his full name, either. It's oily and quiet in the pub, each noise amplified by the solid wood beams and the heavy walls, but it seems to grow entirely silent as Tom leans over the bar.
"Not since a few days ago. Stopped to say hello and then went right on through. I didn't see him come back, so I figured he must've Apparated." Tom's brows go up. "Not lost the Saviour, 'ave you?"
The whole pub seems to hold its breath.
Ron rolls his eyes. "Have some faith, will you? He was supposed to meet me for lunch, but he must have been waylaid by adoring fans. You know how he is. He doesn't want to disappoint anyone by not giving them pictures or whatever, and nobody seems to want to get out of his business."
He doesn't say it very pointedly, but a few people turn their heads away regardless, mumbling amongst themselves. The thing is, the rumours will come flooding in no matter what he does. Even if he says, right here and now, that Harry Potter was running around the streets of Oxford entirely naked and raving like a lunatic, there will be something in the papers tomorrow that makes him sound even more mad.
"Fair point, fair point," Tom says mildly, retreating to the familiar comforts of bottles of mead and packets of beef jerky. "I'll keep an eye out, anyway. The door's all yours."
Diagon Alley is hardly a busy, bustling place these days. Shops are in a tentative state of repair, and more people have crawled out of the woodwork now that the war is actually over, but the fear isn't gone. The pub's a little busier and the bank still hums with noise and the quiet clink of coins, but the wobbly blue magic scaffolding around the bank proves that things haven't quite gone back to normal, and likely won't for a while.
A Goblin stops chatting to a fellow from Singefeather's Spellwork Scaffolding and sneers at Ron as he draws too near. Stealing from Gringott's had done them no favours. Harry's the only one who can get near enough to withdraw anything, and that's only because Kingsley accompanied him. Ron doesn't linger long, nodding shortly at the Goblin even though he imagines it won't do any good. He can't really blame them for being wary. They did put a massive hole in their ceiling with a dragon.
When he comes to a stop near Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, grief squeezes his heart tightly in a painful, persistent grip. It's funny, how this is the place where Fred feels most alive, and yet he can't come near the doors without thinking solely of his death.
Ron braces himself, and, like he does every day, walks through the door.
A good two hours inside Wheezes does nothing but frustrate him. He's supposed to be sorting out old stock and reorganising the shelves for when they can finally open the doors, for when George is ready to open the doors, but he can't help but let his mind linger on Harry. He feels like he should be doing something, but there's not much he can do. He sends several Patronuses while he wrangles a bunch of Tadpole Taffies back in their box, grimacing when one wiggles up his sleeve. Nobody seems to have much news for him.
"Met Harry for a meeting three weeks ago," says Kingsley's Patronus. "Not seen him since. Keep me posted."
"Came for tea last Sunday," Andromeda's Patronus says crisply. "Seemed a bit down. Cause for concern?"
There are a wave of others, but Ginny's Patronus comes later, and is rather more succinct: "Magical Menagerie. Ten minutes."
It doesn't take long to lock up the shop, sending a small smile to a little girl who stops behind her mother's quick heels to gaze at him in awe. Maybe it's the red hair that matches the figures above the door, or maybe it's his face in the newspaper, or maybe it's simply because he's a man with a key to a shop full of wonders, but either way, she seems stricken. She waves at him, and he waves back, grinning properly now, and only heads off down the street when her mother snaps impatiently.
That kind of attention is nice. He gets why Harry hates the Ministry hanging off him now that he's saved their arses, and the reporters trying to wheedle snippets of his life out of him, but there's pretty much nothing wrong with a kid thinking you're awesome.
The thought of Harry makes a frown form as he ducks down the street. Maybe that's why Harry buggered off. Maybe someone had got in through the Floo, or he'd been followed home one too many times. The truth is, Ron doesn't know what might be going on, and it makes him feel like an idiot for missing it in the first place. A very worried idiot.
Ginny's waiting for him outside the Magical Menagerie. The shop itself is closed for the day, but she doesn't seem bothered. She has an umbrella tucked under one arm and a bag slung over her shoulder, her jacket unbuttoned. Her hair is all swept up in a bun, bits of it trailing all over the place. The first thing Ron does when he gets close enough is pull slightly on the hair-band until the bun comes loose.
"Ron!" Ginny slaps his hand away and then aims a kick at his shin. "You bastard. I thought you wanted my help, but if you're going to be an arse, I can leave you here without answers."
"Sorry, Gin." Ron grins, not at all apologetic. "You said you had news?"
"I never said that. All I said was for you to meet me here."
"Yeah, well, I assumed, but if you're just wasting my time…"
Ginny rolls her eyes and tucks their arms together, setting off down the street at a leisurely stroll. "Calm down," she says. "How many people have you panicked into thinking Harry's dead in a ditch?"
Ron grumbles something under his breath, and Ginny laughs so loudly that he could have grumbled at full-volume, and it wouldn't have been heard. She always laughs loudly when it's at his expense.
"I actually didn't know where he was until about an hour ago," Ginny admits, once she's got her breath back. "Quidditch Practice ended, so I went over to Luna's to see if she wanted to do something, and I found Harry there. Did you know he's got a dog?"
Ron stops in the middle of the street and stares at her. "What?"
"Yeah," Ginny says. "I'll let him tell you, but that's why he disappeared for a bit."
"Because of a dog."
"Mhmm."
"A dog? I got everyone worried because of a dog?"
Ginny peers at him, amused.
"For the love of Merlin," Ron groans, tipping his head back and praying for a convenient stroke of luck, or lightning - whichever comes first. "Hermione's going to kill me."
Ron knocks very lightly on the door. He puts his hands in his pockets and fidgets, shifting his weight around. There's a weird stain on the step below his feet, so he looks at that for a bit. Behind him, the park is full of faint shouts and laughter. There's a bite to the air, but nothing a coat can't handle. He lifts his hand to knock again, and almost knocks right on Harry's nose when the door swings open.
"Hello," Harry says, blinking at him in bemusement from behind his glasses. "Why the hell are you knocking?"
"That's what you do with doors, isn't it?"
"Not with me," Harry says. "You usually just walk right in."
"Right," Ron says. "Right, well."
It's hard to look at the stain when the door's open, but he gives it his best shot. Then a hand comes out and pulls him up the last of the stairs, bringing him inside Grimmauld Place whether he wants to be there or not.
He does want to be there. But he's beginning to realise that Harry might not know that. Ron's been pretty distant lately, even if it's not on purpose. He's been so focused on trying not to focus on anything that might remind him of Fred, and it's made him forget everything else. Not to mention, he doesn't really know how to be around Harry. He doesn't know how to treat him, what to do that's different from what he's always done. After such a huge loss, after so many people died and Harry himself died, he's bound to need something different. Something more. Ron just doesn't really know what.
"You want tea?" Harry asks, breaking him out of his thoughts. "Hermione's making it."
"Hermione's here?"
"Yeah, she arrived in a panic not long before you didn't knock. Wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"
Ron snorts, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "She was already panicking, mate. I just made it worse."
Harry looks at him, all amused. His eyes are still as bright and green as ever, albeit a little tired, and there's a slump to his shoulders, but for once he looks relaxed rather than exhausted. No twitchy fingers reaching for a wand, and no rigid expression as he scours for enemies. Something dislodges quite nicely in Ron's chest, and the cogs move a little smoother.
"You look good," Ron says. "Not dead in a ditch, at least, so that's something."
Harry snorts. "Yeah, that's definitely something."
A soft bark from further in makes Ron jump. He takes off his shoes and shuts the door behind him, and follows Harry through the warmly-lit hall into the kitchen, where Hermione sits cross-legged on the tiles, a bundle of fur in her lap. She still looks just as tired and pretty as she did that morning, but her eyes are all scrunched up happily as she hugs the furball close.
"Oh, it was him then?" Hermione says, when she finally decides to look up at them. "I told you he'd be here soon."
"Don't act like you weren't fretting in the fireplace too," Ron tells her.
Hermione ignores them both, focusing entirely on the furball. It's fur is sort of reddish, and its tail is wagging like crazy. One of its ears is permanently cocked in a little question mark.
"So this is what you were doing then?" Ron says, eyeing the fluffball shrewdly. "Adopting a dog?"
"I was going to let you know once I got it all sorted out," Harry says. "I didn't want to bug you while you were busy."
"Busy," Ron repeats. "You seriously think I was … that I wouldn't want to know why you'd suddenly disappeared? Did you think we wouldn't worry?"
Harry stands up a little straighter, confusion shifting across his expression. But he's always been quick to bark back, and there is no shortage of sharpness in his voice when he replies.
"I didn't know I needed permission. Am I supposed to run it by you every time I go out?"
"Stop it!" Hermione says, frowning up at both of them. "You're both being ridiculous. We've all been anxious all day, and it's not going to … oh, for Merlin's sake. I'm going to make tea. You two go and find somewhere comfortable to sit, and take the dog with you."
She shoos them away before they can say anymore. Ron ends up standing in the hallway before he can do much more than blink, Harry at his side and the dog at their feet, whining. He feels a little bit like whining too. He meets Harry's bewildered eyes and ends up grinning reluctantly, watching the same humour fill Harry's face.
"She doesn't change, does she?" Ron says. Then he looks down at the dog, who looks up at him with wide eyes, tail drooping. "Don't worry, mate. You're not the only one in the doghouse."
They end up commandeering one of the bedrooms. The bed is big enough to take up most of the room, and plenty of the fancy ornaments have been removed, the statues and ugly paintings hidden away. All that's left is a slightly plain, cosy room with a nice view of the park outside.
"You really were worried then," Harry says.
They're curled up on the bed. Ron's taken up half of it, with the crup - because apparently it's a crup, and not a dog - wedged under one of his arms. It seems to have taken a liking to him, and he can't say he minds. Hermione sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed, a book in her lap and her tea cooling steadily on a footstool nearby. And then there's Harry, sprawled in a somewhat exhausted heap on the other half of the bed, somehow managing to make himself small even as he turns on his side and faces Ron, one arm tucked underneath his head, glasses askew.
"Last time you disappeared on us wasn't exactly the nicest time of our lives," Ron says.
Maybe it's not fair to say it, but it's the thing he's been avoiding in his head all day. He's been straddling the line between anxiety and anger, not knowing what might have happened and not really wanting to think about it either. Because the fact is, Harry disappeared while they sat in the Great Hall and cried for each other, while they mourned together in shock, and when he came back, he was limp in Hagrid's arms.
"Worst moment of my life," Ron says, landing somewhere between thoughtful and casual. "I'd already lost Fred, and the Great Hall was just full of bodies. Then we heard them coming, and I saw you lying there, and I just… I'm not making any sense but…"
"Ron," Harry says quietly.
Ron scrubs a hand over his eyes. The crup whines and shifts a little closer.
Hermione lowers her book, gripping it like a lifeline. "It was awful. I agree, it really was the worst moment, I think." She looks at both of them very carefully. "We'd already lost so many people, but I kept thinking that as long as the three of us stuck together, and nothing happened to either of you, somehow everything would be fine in the end."
"I'm sorry," Harry says, and it's not the first time that he's said it, but it is the first time that Ron doesn't need to hear it. They've done the sorries. They can't keep living if they keep revisiting them.
"I get why you did it then," Ron says. "I don't agree with it, but we've already talked about it. No point going over it now." The crup snuffles a little under Ron's arm, and he stays very still, letting it get settled. "I don't need a sorry for today either, because you're allowed to do whatever you want, but I kinda want to know what the hell came over you."
This is enough to break the strange, melancholy atmosphere that seems to have settled over them.
"You do have a track record," Hermione points out, with a smile. "You can't blame us for jumping to the worst conclusion."
Harry laughs, reaching over to ruffle the crup's fur.
"I found him a few days ago," Harry explains. "Someone left him outside the park, all chained up. I waited with him for a while, but he didn't look very well-cared for, and nobody came back for him, so I took him with me."
"You stole a dog?" Hermione says, frowning slightly.
Harry shrugs.
"Doesn't sound like the owner wanted to keep him, so it's fine," Ron says. "Lighten up, Hermione. I thought you'd be all for taking in strays. Any room in your spew campaign for crups?"
She nudges his ankle with her foot, perhaps a little too hard to be playful, and Ron nudges her back, soft enough to show that he's joking. She rolls her eyes, and he knows that he's forgiven.
"You two finished?" Harry says.
Ron cranes his neck slightly to glare at him, ears growing hot at the teasing, part of him delighted by the mischievous light in his eyes.
"I can leave if you like," Harry offers. "I'm taking the crup with me though. He's too young and innocent to be corrupted by you too."
"Oh, hush," Hermione says, though she sounds a little flustered. "Carry on making excuses for why you sent everyone into an uproar."
"Ha."
For a minute they lie there, gently nudging each other with socked feet and bickering quietly. Eventually Harry does explain himself though, and it turns out not to be the rollercoaster of horror and kidnapping and secret death threats that Ron was imagining.
"He's been here for a while, but Kreacher finally put his foot down and said we probably needed to take him to a vet or something. I remembered the Menagerie in Diagon Alley, so I took him there, but they said they didn't really deal with crups." Harry's lips turn up in a grin. "Luckily, Luna was there, picking up an owl. She took us both back to her house and we took care of him, made sure he was alright and didn't have fleas or anything." His grin softens slightly. "She spent half an hour making him a collar out of felt."
Ron wiggles around until he can see the reddish collar tied neatly around the crup's neck. It does have a distinctly homemade air about it.
"I'm surprised there's no radish adornment," Hermione mutters.
"I think she's making a mushroom charm for it," Harry says.
"Better keep an eye on the post then, so Hermione doesn't get there first."
Hermione huffs wordlessly at both of them, disappearing behind her book. They share a grin, settling back against the pillows.
"What about the Floo?" Ron asks, remembering suddenly. "It was blocked off. Mum's been trying to send you a care package."
"She didn't have to do that," Harry murmurs.
The look in Harry's eyes is soft and surprised, like he's shocked that someone might think of him even after all these years of caring for him, and it makes something in Ron boil. He hates the Dursley's for everything they did. He wants to go back in time and scoop up a much smaller Harry and take him home where he can be fussed over. He can't really do that, though. So he just shuffles a bit closer, taking the crup with him, and throws a leg over Harry's.
"Nah, she wants to," Ron says. "Like I said, we've all been worried. You'll have to come around for tea soon, so she knows you haven't starved to death without her cooking."
"I do like her cooking," Harry says.
"The Floo?" Hermione prompts, after a lull. "I've been wondering about that too."
"I didn't want him to just walk in," Harry says, reaching over to scratch one of the crup's ears. "I put squishy stuff on all the corners too. And put spells on all the doors to keep him from running out."
"You baby-proofed Grimmauld Place to keep your crup safe."
Harry tilts his chin up. "Yes."
"Oh, Harry," Hermione says fondly, closing her book. "I don't think he can use the Floo. But if you're that worried about it, I can look up a spell to ward the fireplace, just in case. That way everyone else can still reach you."
"Oh yeah," Ron says, with a sheepish wince. "You might want to give Andromeda a call. And Kingsley. And maybe a few other people too. Ginny's the only one who didn't freak out, and that's because she knew where you were."
"Great," Harry says slowly. "That's just how I wanted to spend my afternoon."
"Happy to help, mate."
The crup gets antsy soon enough. They pack themselves into coats and shoes, and Hermione conjures a leash out of thin air, and they take him across the road to the park. He barks at every single thing, wagging his tail excitedly at the slightest hint of a bird or a breeze. There are a few people scattered around the park, paying no mind to the dewy grass and the chill in the air, laughing and chatting and playing frisbee in the far corner.
"So you're keeping him then?" Ron asks, as the little iron gate oils shut behind them. "You're gonna need a name."
"I think it might be good for you," Hermione agrees, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Some company, and something to focus on. Dogs can make for very good companions. You shouldn't get a dog if you can't look after it, of course, but you've got the finances for it, and enough people around to help if there's a problem."
It doesn't take long for her to get caught up in a muttering spiel, weighing out the pros and cons of adopting the crup. Ron watches her, a tender feeling blooming in his chest. He's pretty sure the lovesick look on his face is obvious, from the way Harry elbows him in the ribs, grinning. But he just shrugs. At this point he's resigned to loving both of them for the rest of his life, and he's pretty alright with that.
"So you're keeping it then?" Ron says again, much louder this time, cutting off Hermione mid-sentence and ignoring her deathly stare.
"Actually," Harry says, "I was hoping you'd keep him."
Ron looks at him blankly. A breeze washes over the park, sending Harry further into his coat, hunched down until his ears are covered by his collar. Hermione glances between them both nervously, and then conjures a few balls for the crup. He perks up immediately, bounding over to her on clumsy feet.
"Me?" Ron says. "You want me to keep him?"
"You don't have to," Harry says, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, though his back is still straight in the way that means he thinks this is for the best. "I'll keep him if you don't want him. I've got the room and the money for it, but I think he'd be better off with you. That's what I was thinking, the whole time I was looking after him."
The crup does a little excited spin and takes off when Hermione throws the tennis ball. It doesn't go very far, landing in a clump of leaves under a nearby tree, but it's enough of a distraction for Ron to find his words.
"Why?" Ron says. "Why do you want me to look after it?"
Because he has a feeling that there's something else under all of this, something more specific.
"I was a git after Sirius died," Harry says quietly, almost out of nowhere. "You didn't blame me for it. You were really nice."
'Really nice,' he says, as though that isn't what friends are for. As though you're not supposed to be nice to your best mate when he's grieving the loss of what very little family he'd only just gained. As though it's some marvellous thing that Ron and Hermione did, giving him space and letting him yell out all the pain even when it hurt to hear.
"Nicer than I deserved," Harry adds, and Ron cuts him off.
"No, not… there's not really anything you can do when someone's going through that kind of thing, so we just tried to give you what you needed." Ron scratches his nose, feeling sheepish and clumsy with his words, but Hermione nods in agreement. "I don't think we did a great job of it, but there's no rules for this stuff, right? Which means there's no rules over what you deserve."
Harry doesn't look like he agrees, but he doesn't press the argument. He just shrugs and picks up a stick, waving it until the crup spots him.
"Yeah, well. Either way, I remember being so mad and hating everything, and wanting to do anything to make it stop. But when I was at your house straight after the battle, you weren't like that. I didn't really know how to help. You got angry, but mostly you just tried to take care of everyone. And you're still doing it."
Ron goes beet-red. "I don't…"
"You do," Hermione cuts in, peering thoughtfully at him as the crup races towards him. "I noticed it too, but I wasn't sure how to bring it up. You've been getting more and more tired lately."
"You're one to talk," Ron snaps. He regrets it pretty much instantly, but neither of them say anything. They just look at him, brows raised. "Look," he says, sighing. "I promise I'm fine. I just don't want to leave Mum alone, and George needs someone around to help him get back on his feet."
Harry sighs too, and chucks the stick across the park, sending the crup racing after it. He faces Ron, looking at him with some sort of sheepishness, which is mostly buried under fondness.
"George sent me a letter the other day," Harry admits, and Ron's whole world comes to a stunned halt. "He wanted me to talk some sense into you. Apparently, you're too busy making everyone else eat that you're forgetting to do it yourself, and you keep nagging him to go for walks, but you spend most of your time indoors, making sure nobody needs anything." After a beat, Harry adds, "Also, he said that if he catches you making piccalilli one more time, he's going to shove the whole lot down your throat. Jar and all."
It provokes a memory of George's haggard face appearing at the bottom of the stairs, crinkled in disgust as Ron stirred a big pot, too distracted to pay much attention to the caution in George's voice when he asked what the smell was. His mouth twitches, and then he finds himself laughing until he's shaking. Harry grins at him, and he can hear Hermione's light giggling too.
"Alright," Ron says, once he gets his breath back, still chuckling slightly. "Alright, so the crup is supposed to stop my brother from going mental, and…?"
"I don't know." Harry shrugs. "I was just trying to think of something that might help. Maybe he can remind you to take care of yourself." He pauses, and grins. "There's no rules for this stuff, is there?"
"Yeah, well, I'm sure someone very wise told you all that, but I don't think…"
Ron trails off, looking down. The crup is sitting right at his feet, looking up at him. His eyes are a light chocolate colour, very round and eager, and one of his ears points downwards, like the folded corner of a page. Dog-earing, Ron realises absently. That's what Hermione always gets mad at him for, dog-earing books. He's just never realised the word came from somewhere.
"I think he likes you," Hermione says slyly.
Ron rolls his eyes and crouches down, running his fingers all over the crup's soft scruff.
"It's basically a dog. Dogs like everyone."
"Yeah, but he really likes you," Harry adds. "You can definitely tell that you're his favourite."
Ron snorts, and the crup shuffles closer easily enough, happy to stick his cold, wet snout into a willing neck. Ron doesn't even care that much. He feels a little overwhelmed, all of a sudden, his chest tight with a bunch of feelings that he can't name, but which all center around his two best friends, watching him without judgement. Taking care of him, the way he's sort of forgotten to do.
"Mum's gonna flip when I bring you home," Ron says, fluffing up the dog's hair as he pulls back. "It might be nice to hear her yelling at someone again, even if it is me."
He gets up and meets Harry's eyes, seeing the bright, relieved look in them. Hermione throws the last tennis ball for the crup, and they watch him race off into the trees when the throw goes wide. He wraps an arm around Harry's shoulders and drags Hermione into his other side. They stumble along the path, following the crup, both of them warm at his side.
"He still needs a name," Hermione points out. "We can't keep calling it the crup."
"I'll think of something," Ron says.
Harry eyes him warily from underneath his arm. "Please don't call the crup Chudley, or Canon. I'll take him back."
"We're co-parenting now," Ron says cheerfully, ignoring their pleas. "Hermione can have him on the weekends when she gets back. Unless you're back now?"
He tries not to sound too hopeful about the answer, since he's pretty sure this is just a flying, anxiety-driven visit, but it must shine through in his voice, because Hermione hesitates.
"Soon, I think," Hermione says. "Mum and Dad don't really want to leave Australia, but McGonagall's helping me set up a Portkey Pass, so I should be able to go back and forth a bit easier. I used my own Portkey this time, but it's not technically legal." She avoids their gleeful gazes. "I'm just lucky that Kingsley approved it."
"Uh-huh," Ron says, squeezing her slightly, and laughing when she grumbles but doesn't move away. "But you'll be back soon?"
"Yes, Ronald." Her voice softens, and she peeks under his arm to smile at both of them. "I'll be back soon. We can decide on a crup name then."
"Shame," Harry says. "I was almost coming around to Chudley."
That sparks a round of gentle bickering between them. Ron holds them both tight and follows the path around the park, his new crup trotting along ahead of them. There's a warmth in his chest that even the cold air can't blow out, and he holds tight to that too.
Mum doesn't flip when he brings the crup home. She fusses over all three of them, drawing Hermione into a hug and pressing a kiss to Harry's forehead, looking at him keenly and declaring him in need of a good meal. The three of them sit around the table, and Ron feeds the crup bits of bacon where Mum won't see. Dad even wanders in at some point, his face lighting up at the furry new addition. He pats Ron on the head as he passes, and kisses Mum gently on the cheek, and feeds the crup an entire bit of bacon where Mum can see. All of them jump when she starts ranting about wasting food and making crups fat, all while Dad smiles sheepishly, but the familiar shouts make Ron grin into his food. It feels like home again, especially when George ventures down to see what all the fuss is about.
Mum doesn't flip when he brings the crup home, but George does flip him off when Ron proudly names the crup Piccalilli, in his honour.