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Harry was lying on his back in his bed at Privet Drive with a scalding fever and desperately hungry.
He had been locked in for four weeks now, or at least that was when he stopped counting. The Dursley’s have long given up on feeding him through the cat flap on his door.
He had been locked up with his books, but without his glasses they were useless. Dudley had smashed his glasses and he had been locked up without them anyways.
Harry misses when the hunger pangs were sparse, tight and sharp. Manageable.
Now it was a constant gnawing at his insides. An acidic feeling that crept up his throat. The pain was tight and constant, something inside him eating away. His muscles feel utterly useless.
It hurts to be in most positions. His hips dig into the thin mattress if he lies down, his tailbone aches when he sits. The option of standing has been long ruled out.
He doubts he’ll even be able to stomach food when he’s let out. If he’s let out.
His hair falls out in clumps and his body bruises wherever he rests what little weight he has, He tries to ignore the ringing in his ears.
Harry feels like throwing up. He knows nothing will come up.
He feels so cold. He’s so tired.
Harry wants to sleep for a while.
The bucket in the corner reaks, he tries to ignore it.
He’s burning up and shivering, sinuses packed like someone’s forced cotton in with a wooden dagger.
His head throbs every fourth second and his lungs and nose whistle with every breath.
He’s hungry, so hungry, yet the idea of food makes his stomach churn.
The last thing Harry remembers is Hedwig flying into the room, being able to fit through the bars on the window. She’s carrying a dead field mouse in her beak, eating it in her enclosure. She’s wet from the rain.
Ron was worried. Harry hasn’t responded to a single letter. He sneaks into his brothers’ room
“Psst..” Ron murmurs, tiptoeing into the twins’ room. It’s more of a formality to warn them, He’s coming in whether his brothers like it or not.
The two are frantically shoving things out of sight, panting as they turn to their younger brother.
“Yeah- what?” George pants, jamming a box under his bed.
“Harry… hasn’t been writing back to me.” Ron mutters sheepishly, quietly closing the door behind him.
“..So..?” Fred questions, sharing a look with his twin.
“What do you want us to do about it?” George snickers.
“I think something's wrong. How.. just- what do I do?”
Fred shares a look with his twin, neither misses the deep concern on their younger brother’s face.
“We’ll think about it. Meet us here late tomorrow night.”
Harry vaguely remembered car lights, the smell of rain flooding into his room after a loud crash- someone picking him up. Talking… several voices.. Too kind to be his relatives. Touch too gentle to be a Dursley.
“-ar…r..y- …w- st..i..”
Harry tries to open his eyes, his head aches- he thinks he achieves a little groan.
“W-..e’r.. .. re…s..c.i…wa…n”
And all of a sudden- he’s being pulled, someone is yanking him through… somewhere? Pudgy and calloused, sweaty hands dig carelessly into his ankles and pull him back the way he came. It’s a worse type of touch than the first. The mucus in his lungs is making it hard to get air in…
The ground underneath him shifts, bouncing slightly.
Cool, supple leather was under his body. His eyes start to obey his commands. He’s suddenly aware of just how loud his surroundings are. He shivers, coughing weakly.
Someone’s hand is on his chest, his world swims. He’s sitting upright, he can breathe a little better.
Ron sat nervously in the backseat as Fred drove the car up to Harry’s house, he was beyond worried.
Of course- he wanted Harry to be fine.. But that would mean he was ignoring his letters.. He’s probably just not getting them..
Ron’s pulled out of his thoughts by George quietly approaching what should be Harry’s window. But.. that can’t be the right house, there are bars on the window.
George softens his tone. There's a knowing inflection somewhere in his voice that’s laced with unintentional condescension. “Ron- are Harry’s relatives… did he ever talk about..?”
“Er.. he always changes the subject when I ask.. Maybe we have the wrong house?” Ron suggested hopefully.
“No..” Fred curses under his breath, rolling down the window. “That’s him in there, quickly, help me get the bars off.”
Ron’s heart clenches as he hooks the car hitch to a bar.
Fred starts to rev the engine forward- forcing the throttle, it’s loud- but effective, the car shoots forward with the bars attached after a few tries. The force of the motion sends all three of them flying forward in the vehicle.
Ron groans, pushing his face off of the leather and rolling down the window
Ron climbs into the exceptionally small room. “Oh- bloody hell- ugh Harry, it stinks in here.”
Harry gives a sickly groan, guilt and worry shoot through Ron like he’s eaten a firecracker.
“Harry?” Ron shakes him gently.
George climbs in, panting.
“Harry- where’s your wand?” The oldest in the room pants, searching the room.
“Ron- what are you waiting for? Get him in the car, before they wake up! Get his glasses- Where is his stuff??”
George struggles with the bedroom door locked from the outside. “For merlin’s sake- Alohomora!”
George forces his way through the door, returning with Harry’s trunk. “Go! Go! GO! NOW!” George forces the trunk into the car through the window, along with Hedwig's cage- locking her in it.
George and Ron climb into the car, helping Harry’s knackered body in- “Quickly, They’re coming!”
A burly, purple-faced man barges in shouting, and tries to rip Harry out of the window.
“STUPEFY!” Fred shouts, forcing the man to the floor with the force of the spell, He goes down like a sack of potatoes at the ray of red wandlight.
Harry is yanked into the car- which speeds off with a cough and a sputter.
The siblings pant, racing back to the Burrow. This is more than they thought they would be taking on.
This is a lot. Harry is very sick. He looks skeleton-like, and unresponsive.
It’s worth the underage magic to get him out of there.
“Ron.” George focuses as Fred drives the car, looking back at his terrified younger brother in the backseat with his catatonic, feverish best friend.
“Ron I need you to put your hand on Harry’s chest, make sure he’s breathing. Prop him up against the seat, yeah- just like that, good job.”
He gently praises, knowing the younger is more scared then he is.
Ron does as he’s told, his breathing shaking, his lip quivering. “Harry?”
“Mmh..” Harry groans, scrunching his nose. It’s the best response his body will let him do. His face is colourless.
“Glad to have you back.” Fred laughs dryly, giving a terrified glance into the rearview.
“Oh we’re in a right state we are- Mum is gonna flip her lid..” Ron worries, chewing his thumbnail.
“Not at you.” George reassures, looking back at the two.
“Where are his glasses?” Fred questions. Harry slumps over weakly.
“No idea.” Ron responds, gingerly pushing Harry back into sitting up. He seemed to breathe easier like that.”
“He’s probably overdue for some new ones though, he was constantly squinting to see the potions’ board last year.” Ron thinks aloud, the car softly lands in the meadows in front of the burrow.
Fred goes around the side of the parked car, unbuckles Harry, lifting him gingerly, gentle around his bruised body.
“Ron, get his trunk please.” Fred grunts, closing the car door with his side, cool summer air floods his lungs- no time to swat at the bugs already trying to bite his exposed skin.
George helps Ron with the trunk, anxious to follow behind. Ron pushes open the door.
Harry is really small- short, frail, and thin. Fred effortlessly holds him in a koala hold, cradling him. Harry would have been mortified at the action if not for being deathly ill. “MUM!” He shouts, going into the sitting room to find Molly.
Molly is, as expected- Staying up late, knitting, waiting for the boys to get back so she can ground them.
“WHERE HAV….”
Her words seem to catch and dissipate in her throat as she drops her knitting to the floor- rushing closer to her oldest twin. The two other brothers walk into the room, hauling his trunk.
“Dear Merlin..” Molly searched for words, questions to ask, a possible explanation for all of this.
She finds that there isn’t one question she thinks important enough to ask.
Whoever this emaciated child is, he needs medical attention.
“Hand him here-” Molly rushes forward, gingerly taking the boy.
She smoothes his unruly raven hair back-
Her entire body is overtaken with a deathly chill, like someone has plunged her into a frozen lake. The lightning shaped scar that runs from his forehead down his small face like the flash of a bolt through a stormy night is unmistakable. This dangerously thin tyke was in fact Harry Potter.
“Fred, get me the healing kit. Quickly now.” Molly orders hurriedly, gently carrying Harry over to the couch and lying him on his back.
This was not the time to panic. At least outwardly. Molly sighs, swallowing thickly as she looks over to her other sons, watching the scene anxiously.
“Ron, go wake your father and tell him to owl St Mungo’s for a healer. Then unpack Harry’s belongings in your room.”
Molly orders her youngest son away first, watching as he hesitates, wanting to watch and make sure Harry keeps breathing, she ushers him out with a gesture. She doesn’t want to have him see his friend like this.
“George- go draw a cold bath and get me some.. smaller clothes. Don’t wake your sister.”
Molly orders them around, not wasting a second as she gets a closer look at him. He's filthy, his clothes are comically too large for him, he has no shoes, or his glasses- his hair is matting in the back. The wretched stench of waste is no fault of his own, and is incredibly warm to the touch.
She gently tugs his shirt over his head, grimacing at his ribs jutting out through his skin and the rainbow of bruises from greenish yellow to deep purples and crimson that litter his neck to his small waist.
He’s starving. Not as an expression, not as hyperbole. Harry Potter is dying of malnutrition. The boy who lived has been regarded as so unimportant that he has been left to wither away and let the bacteria in his infected wounds consume him.
Molly decides to not remove anymore clothing, not until he’s awake and willing. She doesn’t know exactly what he’s been through- but Molly figures any sane person would panic at waking up in a strange new location and naked.
Fred comes around the corner with the healing kit, concealing his gasp at the state of Harry’s bare chest with a small cough.
Molly casts a quick temperature gauging charm.. nearly forty..
(40c=104f)
This was grim. Anger surges through her at not only whatever dimwitted relatives that Dumbledore appointed guardian, but the headmaster himself. How could he let this happen?
As far as Molly knows, This summer- His apparent ‘caretakers’ were closer to killing him then Voldemort is.
But there was no time for that, no time for a well-worded howler… to his guardians or otherwise. At least right this second.
Fred was back with a few potions, Molly took the time to double check the labels before tipping the contents down Harry’s throat.
“I know- dear- please humor me, hm?” Molly soothes as Harry gives a weak groan of protest to the sickly sweet taste of a nutrient potion.
“Fred, heat up something light for him.”
Molly lifts up the boy and carries him to the bathroom, Arthur comes flying down the hall- worry plastered on his face. Molly makes a shushing motion at him, whispering.
“It’s Harry, I don’t know what happened- He’s in a right state. Send and owl, St. Mungos and ask for them to floo someone here as soon as they can.” Molly commands in a hushed tone- entering the bathroom and closing the door on her flabbergasted husband.
George has run a bathtub of lukewarm water, not too hot for his fever but not too cold for his small body. A soft towel and some pyjamas that ron must have wore when he was 7 or so.
“Harry? Dear..? Can you hear me?” Molly asked him softly, setting him on the sink counter and holding him up.
Harry gives a weak groan. Blinking slowly. The potion’s effect is helping, but the exhaustion is overwhelming.
Molly tips several salves into the tub, the liquid turning a pale, milky blue.
“I’m Molly, Ron’s mum. You are in my home. You are safe. You are very ill, I am helping you. I need to take your trousers and pants off. Is that okay?”
Molly speaks clearly to the boy, trying to keep her tone slow and calming.
Harry seems to only be getting more scared as he leaves his daze.
He nods slowly, sluggishly moving his head to not meet her gaze.
Harry relaxes in the spellbound water, feeling Molly tip his head back and start to gently wash his hair. He feels his bruises fade and his aching body soothed.
Molly frowns at the way most of his hair sheds in the water.
She gently scrubs him off, trying to stay out of her head as she patches him up.
Harry is forcefed two more potions for his own good and put to rest on the spare bed made up in Ron’s room.
Harry wakes up slowly, his senses coming in one by one.
His mouth feels dry and tastes of something sickly sweet, artificial and syrupy.
He can smell cool summer air, a breeze from an open window.
He can feel soft quilts around him, a plush mattress beneath him. A wet cloth on his forehead, a few pillows propping him up.
He can hear soft talking, muffled through doors.
He opens his eyes slowly, blinking. Too fuzzy to see much
Dread blazes through his body like a wildfire. He has no fucking clue where he is, or how he got here. He can feel his heart pick up pace for the first time in weeks.
His stomach hurts less. Everything hurts less.
The sun is just rising outside. He squints as he looks around the room.
A wave of relief extinguishes his initial panic; Ron is asleep in the bed next to him, there’s quidditch posters plastering the room. The quilt cradling his body is hand-sewed, Ron’s wand is lying on his bedside table.
Harry doesn’t know how- but he’s been taken to the burrow. He sighs softly.
He weakly pulls back the covers and tries to swing his legs over the end of the bed.
Dizziness blooms through his chest, spreading like a fine dust from his head to toes.
“Woah- Harry- Harry.” A voice comes from the doorway- Harry looks up.
His vision, normally fuzzy- is spinning from dizziness and blurred from illness.
It looks like Fred.. no.. Older then Fred- but younger then Mr Weasly. And taller then Percy. Harry squints harder. The man has long orange hair, his ears are pierced. The figure is coming closer.
Without a second thought- Harry is scrambling backwards. He presses himself into the headboard- his muscles ache from being used even slightly after weeks of breaking down.
“Harry, my name is Charlie. I’m Ron’s brother. You’re safe. Please calm down.” The man, now identified as Charlie, explains to Harry like he’s a frightened child.
Harry flushes with embarrassment at the idea of how he looks right now. Twelve years of age- unable to stand up, frail and useless. “..Sorry.”
Charlie stares at him, utterly baffled. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Then he opens it again.
“I- you.. What?” Charlie runs a hand down his face, rubbing his temples. He looks mad. He’s probably mad at Harry. Harry did something wrong he needs to-
“Harry, you have nothing to be sorry about. Just- drink this- slowly, don’t make yourself sick, try to get some rest. Alright?”
Harry sheepishly took the cup of liquid. It looked like a potion of sorts. Deep blue, warm, thick and syrupy.
He downs it, wanting to please the older. It’s gross, tastes of spoiled fruit. He tries to hide his grimace.
Charlie gives him a kind smile, Harry hides under his quilt.
When Harry wakes up, Someone is shaking his shoulder. She speaks softly to him, her voice gentle.
“Harry? Darling, a healer is here to check you over. Can you wake up for a little bit?”
Mrs Weasley is looming over his bedside when Harry pokes his head out from under the quilt. His face flushes at the sight of a stranger in the doorway with a bag of odd bits and bobs. They have long white robes and a parchment scroll.
Harry nods, swallowing thickly. He can feel himself flush as Mrs Weasley helps him sit up. It’s about mid-day.
Mrs Weasley sets down a tray of cheese and cucumber sandwich and orange juice on the bedside table.
The Healer pokes and prods at Harry, takes a few hairs, and pulls Molly out into the hall. Harry strains to hear the conversation even though he knows it’s rude.
“The boy- he’s starved almost to death.. He has almost no body fat. He has bones broken at different stages of healing and healed improperly. He has a lung infection and clearly cannot see properly. I’m required by law to report this to underage wizard welfare. Where does th-”
Harry stopped listening after that, unsure if he wanted to hear any more.
Harry spent the rest of that day in bed. He felt weak, helpless. And useless. He was taken in and he wasn’t even helping out. They’re probably angry with him. Gonna kick him out- Uncle Vernon will be so mad when he’s returned, he’ll lock him back in his cupboard an-
“Harry?”
Harry’s pulled from his thoughts. He’s taken a few naps through the day, staying in bed as he’s still quite weak. Ron is the one talking to him.
His friend looks.. Scared. More scared when the troll got loose from the dungeon. More scared then in that giant chess match. The sun is setting outside the window. Ron clears his throat when Harry neglects to respond and instead stares semi-blankly.
“Uh, mum told me to tell you to eat slowly.” Ron puts a tray on the foot of the spare bed. On the tray is a bowl of beef, carrot, and potato stew, homemade bread with a thick layer of butter, and a mug of tea with a sugar cube dissolved in it.
“Thank you.” Harry mumbles politely, sitting up and trying to not express the dizzy sensation that floats though his head. Ron sits on his own bed, watching Harry eat very slowly.
“So.. um..” Ron stammers. The atmosphere is tense, since Harry’s come here- the silences have been awkward or pitying. Ron seems somewhere in between.
“Thanks… For um.. How- how did you get me here?” Harry asks, trying to keep his tone light.
Ron shrugs, going a little pink at the memory of holding his unconscious and starving best friend upright to make sure he keeps breathing. “My dad bewitched a car to fly. Me, Fred, and George stole it to go see what was going on.”
“Oh. Cool.” Harry responds, ripping a small amount of bread and nibbling on it. There’s a wild cocktail of potions he needs to take on his bedside table.
Ron blurts out. “Where’s your glasses?” He tilts his head to the side, a stray ginger tuft flopping over with the movement.
“Smashed, haven’t had them in weeks.” Harry shrugs, happy to avoid the topic of his health.
“Oh. I’ll tell mum you need new ones-” Before Harry could protest and insist he was fine, Ron had changed the subject.
“My brother Charlie is back from Romania, he’s the big one with long hair and the earrings.”
The blur that is Ron moves his arms up, looking not unlike a chimp.
A blush blooms across Harry’s face at the memory of him first meeting Charlie Weasley. He had managed to embarrass himself sufficiently.
“Er.. yeah, I think I saw him.. Might have been George.” He half-truths, shrugging and gesturing to his eyes.
The conversation gets more casual after that, more like what the two boys are used to, talking about quidditch and such.
Harry heals slowly over the next few days, he mostly sleeps or eats. He throws up a few times- his digestive track unused to proper nutrition. Not to mention the wild concoction of potions, Most of which smell strongly of mandrake, but taste syrupy sweet.
Like the bubblegum cough medicine he used to sneak from the cabinet when he was sick at t
the Dursleys.
Molly and Arther buy Harry clean, soft clothes that fit him properly and get him some proper glasses. The boy has a habit of calling them Mrs Weasley and Mr Weasley, it makes him quite uneasy to call the parents by their first names.
It’s been a week now, Harry could stand- but not on his own, he needed help moving from room to room, bathing, and brushing his teeth.
The whole ordeal was greatly embarrassing for someone who grew up in a house where he had learned independence was not only mandatory, but essential to surviving. But the Weasley family was kind.
Harry was met with confused faces when he apologized for doing things that the Dursley’s might have beaten him half to death for, like getting sick during dinner- or sleeping in.
Harry hated being carried around, he hated feeling so dizzy and weak. But most of all, he hated the pity they felt for him. The weakness he felt perceived.
Harry’s lost in thought one evening, the family is chatting around the fireplace- it’s raining softly outside the Burrow.
A mug of oversweetened tea with cream is in his hands, he hasn’t missed the way the family sneaks sugar cubes in his drinks or pads of butter in his soup. He doesn’t entirely mind.
Harry didn’t notice himself curling up on the couch, or setting his mug down- or Charlie passing him a knitted blanket. Next thing he knew, he was getting woken up by someone gently lifting him up by his armpits.
He doesn’t remember asking his body to make the most pathetic sound he’d ever managed. But the whine of childish annoyance at the disruption in his rest is a noise he didn’t know he was capable of.
Whoever’s holding him, they’re strong, but very gentle. He hesitates for a minute at the babble, then chuckles softly. Harry would guess it was Charlie if not for being half-asleep.
He can feel a blanket wrapping around him, a third, soft hand ruffling his hair- examining the patches that had fallen out previously from starvation. Soft raven hairs are growing in response to the newfound nutrition.
He wakes up late the next morning wrapped in a blanket he could have sworn Mrs Wea- Molly was knitting just last night. It’s an emerald green colour and very soft. A cat has curled up on the edge of his bed. When did they have a cat?
It’s a few days from the start of term- a month from when Harry was brought to the burrow. Harry fully expects to be sent back to the Dursleys’ next summer.
Harry’s mostly able to get around by himself these days. Sometimes he gets dizzy and falls to the floor though. But he’s put on considerable healthy weight, he no longer looks purely skeletal.
But even he’s more than already dreading it. They can’t be happy with him, and twelve years of experience is more than enough proof for Harry that they won’t let this be swept under the rug.
He hasn’t forgotten the hunger, or the fever. Or the beatings.
He doesn’t like it when he’s hanging around Ron and he’s reminded of how much shorter he is than the boy who’s the same age as him.
Harry’s already packed up for school. His trunks neatly packed with folded wizard robes that felt smaller last year. His books, potion ingredients, scales, a bag of pocket money.
He doesn’t want them to think he’s not aware he’s probably just an annoyance.. A little wart who’s overstaying his welcome. Just like the Dursleys’ always said.
It’s late one night. Harry can’t sleep, Ron is snoring like his throat owes him money. He decides to get some water. Maybe a biscuit.
Harry quietly wraps the same knitted green blanket from a week or two ago around his frame and tugs on socks, he creeps down the stairs, skipping a specific step that he notices always creaks.
It’s not that he’s not allowed to be out of bed, but… the fear of what used to happen when he was out of bed is residual. He’d rather avoid the whole thing.He focuses, he can heat the cat prowling
At the end of the stairrail, he sits on the bottom step. Lowering himself slowly as he feels his heart thrum in his ears. He leans into the rail, giving himself the allowance for a small pant. Not too much noise.
Harry grants himself a few moments reprieve, only pulling himself up by the rail when he’s ready. He walks quietly- out of habit, pushing his heels into the air and only walking on the balls of his feet. Careful to not drag his socked feet, moving slowly and not daring to light a candle.
He stops dead in his tracks. The kitchen door is closed, light slips out from under the door. Shadows move around inside, hushed, frustrated whispering. Harry regrets coming downstairs- he’s surely being sent back to Privet Drive. They surely have someone to drag him back by his earlobes.
The panic forces a little whimper out of Harry, he crumples to the floor. His heart was pounding in his ears. They were mad at him. Surely they’ve just been pretending. Just pretending they didn’t want to get rid of him. The other foot was about to drop- they would have him expelled for the nasty little cheat he was- just like Uncle Vernon said; Dropped on the doorstep- stealing their food and costing them money an-
Footsteps. A door creaking open. Harry hides his head “Harry?” It’s a man’s voice- not someone who lives here by the sound of their footsteps.
For what must be the millionth time; Harry finds himself, sniveling on the floor, hiccuping and short of breath, being coaxed out of his own thoughts.
He can feel someone pick him up, he squirms and struggles- hiccuping as he breaks into a cry. His legs kick out, at the hands on him. The moonlight is not nearly
“No!” He cries out, unused to rebelling against what he’s told. The words seem to escape of their own volition. “I don’t want to- Don’t make me!” He panics, he’s only making it worse- he’s making his punishment worse-
“Harry, please calm down.” The man rumbles, taking out his wand and lighting up the room with a wordless charm.
Harry whimpers, he’s overtaken by the unmistakable feeling of a calming charm. He feels his fists unfurl, his nails digging little crescent-moons of crimson into his hands of their own volition .
“Harry. I am not here to harm you, my dear boy.” Harry feels far too much like an upset toddler, rubbing his eyes. The charm makes his limbs feel like he’s moving through sap.
Dumbledore is holding him. Harry feels weak. He struggles, his eyes slip closed..
A few moments earlier, Molly and Arthur were in an argument with Dumbledore, having called him over.
“I don’t care about a stupid Blood Ward!” Molly seethed, their argument had been whispered shouts coming from one side and calm words from the other for the past ten minutes, as to not wake up the children.
“Molly, I understand your emotions- but we have to think of the future, the boy nee-” Dumbledore drawls on, Molly loathes the air of superiority he’s giving off. She goes to stamp her husband’s foot, but finds him cutting off the professor.
“Albus, as far as St Mungo’s is concerned, If he’s sent back to that place- underage wizard welfare will be involved. Harry barely even calls the place home! He was barely 5 stone!”
Arthur seethes, glaring at his former professor. Molly hits the table in frustration.
“Do you even have any idea how much he’s been through?” Molly’s voice falters, her eyes misting. “That boy will stay here. He will be loved here. And he will not be in danger of starving to death here.”
Dumbledore adjusts his glasses, sighing as he siphons the spilled tea back into the cup with a spell.
“If you believe you may keep him safer than the wards put in place, I have no choice but to trust you. I am sorry for the trouble.”
The headmaster sighs, pulling on his coat. “I will see you in due time, I trust?”
Arthur nods curtly and leads him out the kitchen door, Apparating this time of night inside the house would surely wake the children.
All three adults are shocked by the sight.
The light from the kitchen illuminates enough of the room to see Harry crumpled to the floor, hiccuping and whimpering through an anxiety attack. His nails are digging so hard into his palms he’s drawing blood.
Dumbledore mumbles to him, picking him up and holding him firmly. Molly watches as the boy struggles.
She frowns at the use of calming charms and the way the elder holds him down.
Molly gently wraps Harry in his blanket, it’s cute how much he likes the little knitted thing. He’s only about four feet tall, the healer said he was 140 centimeters. He’s much smaller than he should be.
The Weasley children wake up that morning to Harry asleep on the couch. He’s wrapped so tightly in blankets that he couldn’t have done it himself, and he’s sleeping unnaturally deep. He looks peaceful for once.
Molly asks Charlie to take the children out of the house for the day. It’s that day the two parents ask Harry to stay, having to explain that they do want him here. Harry breaks down crying for at least an hour, profusely apologizing. Molly ends up rocking him to sleep. Maybe he’s a little too old for it, so what? Molly doubts his awful relatives ever bothered to do this.
Harry had moved into Ron’s bedroom a few years ago now, neither of them really minded the lack of personal space. Molly transfigured their beds into bunk beds in Harry’s second summer at the burrow, the two are acclimated to sleeping in the same room from the dorms at Hogwarts.
Harry won’t admit it out loud, because it’s weird. But he can’t sleep until he can hear Ron sleeping peacefully. Peacefully as in snoring violently.
It’s late winter and Harry is home for the holidays. He slept terribly last night, riddled with nightmares. Molly seemed to notice and now Harry is being put down for a nap. Like a child. Normally Harry would really hate being treated like this, but it’s different when Molly does it.. And he really is tired..
“I’m really fine.. I said I'd go help Ron practice on his new broom..” Harry finds a whine escaping his mumbled words. A cardigan is wrapped around his body, Harry can feel his limbs getting heavier as his eyes close. Molly is brushing his hair..
Harry likes it here.