A/N: Sorry for the delay in this one. Sporadic internet access, tiredness and working too hard have taken their toll.
Thank you to all of my super-fucking-awesome reviewers. Without you, I am nothing.

Harry refused to be humiliated by needing help to get dressed. The fact of the matter was he couldn't do it alone even if he wanted to, so accepting help wasn't really a choice. It was just his life. What his life had become.

And Charlie was just... well... Charlie, really. He didn't make a big deal out of anything. It was one of the many reasons they got on so well.

"Breakfast?" Charlie asked.

"Please."

It was a struggle to the kitchen, but everything was a struggle. Harry sat up on one of the counters and leaned back against the upper cupboard to watch Charlie cook. He'd learned more than a little from his mother.

"I need to go food shopping," Charlie said as he scrambled eggs.

"I'll be okay for a couple of hours."

"Is there anything you want in particular?"

"KitKats," Harry said with a cheeky smile. Charlie laughed.

"Okay. I'm sure I can do that."

He transferred two plates of scrambled eggs on toast to the kitchen table then helped Harry to sit.

"Do you have any plans?" Harry asked.

"I should check in with my boss at some point," he said. "But she knows… enough… about this that it shouldn't be a problem. Other than that, nothing, really."

"Are you seeing anyone at the moment?" Harry asked bluntly.

Charlie carefully set his knife and fork down. "No, Harry. There's just you."

Harry nodded and chewed the inside of his cheek, feeling like a dick. "Not for me, either."

"I thought we'd sorted this years ago?"

A lone, childish shoulder shrugged petulantly. "I haven't seen you for months and months. You didn't want me earlier, so I thought…"

"Don't think," Charlie said softly. "I'm so fucking scared of hurting you. More than you can know. I really don't want to lose you, either, so please, please don't do this to us."

"I'm going to unpack my bag while you're gone, then," Harry continued as though their little non- argument hadn't happened. "I've got some stuff…"

"We'll find room for all of it."

"Okay. Thank you."

Charlie kissed him in response.

xXx

It was strange – this being alone, for the first time since the accident, no one there to catch him when he fell. If he fell, Harry mentally corrected himself. He had been set the simple task of unpacking his backpack and restoring the items therein to their normal size, then deciding where in the house they should go. Clothes were easy – bedroom, as were things for the bathroom. Little things, that made his flat his home, were harder. Although Charlie had lived in this place for nearly six years, it had always been Charlie's house, in the same way his flat was his. Their lives very rarely merged.

Harry collapsed back into the sofa cushions with a soft grunt and Charlie's cat looked up from where he was napping in front of the fire. The simple task had him leaning over the edge of the sofa again and again to reach into his bag, relying on the muscles in his stomach and back to keep him upright. It was exhausting. But he didn't want Charlie to think he was incapable of even the simplest of tasks, so he continued.

Books could go on the tall bookcase in the corner of the main living space. Photographs of his parents were harder. Bedroom, probably. Harry laughed as he pulled a miniature wok from the backpack and restored it to its regular size. It had been a gift from Hermione one Christmas and he used it all the time. It wasn't on the list they'd compiled back in the hospital, but neither were a stack of Molly's jumpers or his work diary or his Firebolt.

His broomstick.

He didn't need legs to fly.

Harry swallowed back tears a few times, reflexively trying to hold back the tears that pricked at the back of his eyelids. Flying was one of the few things he still kept for himself. He played Quidditch with local kids whenever he had the chance, which was depressingly rare, and even though he'd upgraded his broom several times over the years Sirius' gift remained special to him. Sacred.

Hermione wouldn't have packed it if it wasn't safe for him to fly, would she?

The answer was probably yes, that it was in his bag for sentimental rather than practical reasons, but the temptation to sit side- saddle on the thin piece of wood and loop the room was almost overwhelming. He could stay close to the floor. And go slow. Of course he could.

Very slowly, and very carefully Harry shifted his weight to the edge of the sofa and inelegantly shoved the broomstick under his dead thighs. With one hand either side of his legs he gripped tightly and waited for the broom to respond. He guided the Firebolt an inch off the sofa, then two, then six and he was alive again for the first time since the damn accident; alive and independent and free.

He had never been scared of flying before, not even scared of falling but this was different. The potential for causing further life threatening injury was also much higher than it had been since he was eleven years old.

With his toes dragging along the bare floorboards, Harry made a small circle around the sofa, never venturing far enough away that he wouldn't be able to catch himself if he fell. But there was a reason why he was the youngest Gryffindor Seeker in living memory (no one had yet stolen his title in the years since he'd left Hogwarts). Flying was as natural a process to him as walking was to everyone else. He wasn't going to fall.

Once he was certain of this fact, his loops of the house became bolder and increasingly adventurous. The step down from one living area to another caused his heart to jump to his throat; for those few seconds his toes left the floor. But within moments it was okay again and he manoeuvred himself over to the bookcase to run his fingertips over the worn spines of Charlie's favourite stories, then was struck with inspiration.

He grabbed the edge of a bookshelf for support and wriggled his wand from his back pocket. Taking a deep breath, he directed his wand at the pile of his things and said: "Accio book."

One single paperback flew through the air towards him and landed in his outstretched hand with a satisfying smack. Smiling to himself, Harry set it down on a shelf. He repeated the Summoning charm, over and over until the stack of books had been replaced onto the bookcase.

That done, Harry flew back over to the sofa where his wok still sat on the wide arm and lifted that on to his lap and headed for the kitchen. He was half way back to his sofa again when a stumbling at the door alerted him to Charlie's return. Harry froze.

"Harry?" the warm voice called out.

"Shit, shit, shit," Harry muttered under his breath.

Charlie walked through with an armful of bags and windswept hair and stopped dead at the sight of Harry on his Firebolt.

To Harry's complete shock, Charlie smirked, closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Bloody typical," he said and walked through to the kitchen. Harry decided to be brave and follow him, keeping his pace purposefully slow.

Charlie met him again in the hall before he got all the way across the open living space. He smirked again as he stepped right up close to Harry, ran his fingers through dark hair and leaned in for a soft, slow kiss.

"You're an absolute nightmare," Charlie whispered with his forehead pressed against Harry's.

"I know," Harry whispered back. "Please don't be mad."

"And to think, I bought you your KitKats."