Safe House

Bang-bang-bang.

"Harry! Open up, Harry! It's us!"

"And it's bloody cold out here!" That has to be Ron. Hermione never swears.

Taking the security charms off the door, Harry yanks it open, and Ron and Hermione burst in with snow-dusted hair and red noses. They dump their packages on the rickety table and shed their heavy cloaks and boots, leaving them by the door.

Ron strips off his gloves and rubs his hands together furiously to warm them. "I didn't think we'd ever find this place. Dumbledore made us take nine different Portkeys to get here. Bit of overkill, if you ask me," he says, clapping Harry on the back with a grin.

"Oh, shush, Ron," says Hermione. She hugs Harry tightly then steps back, holding him at arm's length as a small worry line forms between her eyebrows.

Harry wishes she wouldn't look at him so closely; he knows he looks even skinnier and paler than usual from being cooped up in this tiny cottage Dumbledore insists on using as a safe-house, and he doesn't want to hear her lecture him on how he should be taking care of himself.

"Have you been eating anything?" she asks, eyeing him suspiciously. "Doesn't look like it, does it, Ron?"

"Nope," says Ron, opening one of the packages they'd brought with them. "We'll fix that up, though."

Harry stares at the contents of the package, and then at Ron's amused expression. "You're cooking? You? Ron Weasley?"

"Never underestimate a Weasley," says Ron. He carries everything to the small kitchen at the back of the cottage, lights the stove, and soon the place is filled with mouth-watering smells that make Harry's stomach growl loudly.

"Hm, thought not," says Hermione, as his stomach rumbling betrays him. She smiles a bit as she says this, but her eyes are full of concern. "Harry...."

"I'm fine," he says, more sharply than he means to, and immediately feels like a prat. He is so glad they've managed to find a way to visit, though he knows they won't be able to stay long; and feels a sharp pang of sadness at the thought of them leaving him again.

She hugs him again, more tightly this time. "I'm worried about you. Ron's worried too," she adds quietly, nodding in Ron's direction, "as much as I am, but he won't say so. He thinks he has to be the strong shoulder to cry on and all that. You know how he is."

"Yeah, that's him all right," he mumbles into her hair. Hermione's only hugged him twice that he can remember - once before going after the Philosopher's Stone, and once after the First Task - and awkwardly at that, but as he's been cooped up here alone for weeks on end, it's kind of nice.

"You haven't been sleeping well, have you." It isn't a question, just a statement of fact; Hermione knows she is right and there is no way he can deny it.

He shrugs. "Not really. And it's not nightmares," he says quickly, before she can ask, although it's a lie. "It's just creepy being here...."

"Alone," she finishes for him.

"Yeah," he says, letting go of her reluctantly. He feels bad for lying to her, but there's no sense in telling her or Ron about what he sees when he closes his eyes.

The look she gives him tells him she knows he's lying, but she won't press the issue. He's grateful.

Ron's cooking is surprisingly good; thick, rich soup with a little bit of everything thrown in, and some kind of bread that is crusty on the outside and heavenly-soft on the inside and slathered with plenty of butter. Harry wonders when Ron learned to cook, but his mouth's too full to ask.

They are too busy eating to talk, and though Harry has a wireless, they don't listen to it. He hates to hear about the war he's not allowed to fight, and Hermione and Ron know it, so they don't talk about it either.

Harry doesn't mind the silence. He's just glad they're there.

He eats and eats until he can't possibly eat another bite, then pushes his bowl away with a sigh. Hermione beams approvingly, and Ron rolls his eyes at her when he thinks she isn't looking, as if to say, doesn't take much to make her happy, does it? Hermione sees him though, and swats him in the head with her spoon.

"Help! Help! I'm being oppressed!" yells Ron, ducking and waving his arms wildly to fend off Hermione's assault.

Harry laughs, and it feels good. It's been a long time since he's had anything to laugh at.

"If I were oppressing you, you'd know it," she says primly, whacking him the head one last time and then moving to clear away the dishes. Harry protests and offers to clean up the mess, but Hermione threatens him with her spoon and he desists.

"Go," she says, shooing him over to the other side of the room, where Ron's setting up his chessboard in front of the fire.

"Up for a game?" Ron asks.

"I think I can fit one into my busy schedule," Harry replies.

The first game goes by quickly, and Harry strongly suspects Ron's letting him win, but he doesn't care. The little chessmen screech angrily at Ron every time one of them is taken, and by the end of the game Harry's stomach hurts from laughing at their antics.

Hermione joins them as they begin a second game. She has a stack of books with her, and Harry sees the titles on the spines, lined up neatly. Quidditch Through the Ages. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Flying With the Cannons. Hogwarts, A History is on top of the stack, and she opens it and begins to read to herself as they play.

A lump lodges in Harry's throat as he realizes what they're doing. They're trying to make it seem like old times in the Gryffindor common room, trying to recreate their childhood days of chess and books and Chocolate Frogs and butterbeer and Quidditch, and his chest tightens at the memory of those relatively carefree days.

He can tell they rehearsed this beforehand, and he's grateful for the effort.

Ron trades places with Hermione for the third game, and she scrunches up her face with the effort, as strategy is not really her thing. Ron pretends to read Flying With the Cannons while they play, but he makes remarks about their moves over the top of the book until Hermione tells him to shut up. Back at school, Harry would have been annoyed at them for snapping at each other, but now, it's actually kind of nice. Like old times, after all.

Between his full stomach, the crackling fire, the late hour, and the sound of Ron and Hermione's playful bickering, Harry's eyelids begin to droop, and his attention wanders from the game. He feels pleasantly groggy, and when Hermione takes his king with a little yelp of glee he yawns and rubs his eyes.

"Sorry I'm not much company," he says. "Just tired." He's surprised at how tired he is.

"If you're tired, Harry, you should go on to bed," Hermione tells him.

"No," he says, not wanting to waste their visit by sleeping through it, but almost against his will he leans his head back and closes his eyes.

From what seems like somewhere far away, he hears Hermione make an exasperated tutting noise, and he tries to tell her he's perfectly fine and not the least bit sleepy - I'm just resting my eyes, thank you very much - but nothing comes out but another yawn. And to his very great surprise, he feels two strong arms picking him up.

What the hell is Ron doing, he thinks dazedly, but he doesn't resist. He's too tired. Besides, it's kind of nice. Ron is very warm, and he smells a little like soap.

Ron carries him easily through the cottage and puts him on the bed, mumbling, "Merlin, he's practically skin and bones, Hermione. He hardly weighs anything."

"Hush," she hisses at him, tugging Harry's shoes off. "I can see that, you don't have to say it."

Ron swears viciously under his breath about the necessity of keeping Harry here in this godforsaken place, and follows it with a vivid description of exactly which piece of his mind he's going to give Dumbledore when they get back. Hermione tells him to watch his mouth. Harry feels vaguely insulted that they're discussing him like he isn't even there, but in a way, it's kind of nice.

A small hand gently smoothes his hair, and a larger hand pulls a blanket over him and pats his shoulder. He doesn't want the hands to go away.

"Don't leave yet," he says. At least he thinks he says it; he's not really sure.

"Oh, we're not leaving until in the morning," says Ron, patting his shoulder again.

That's not what I mean, Harry thinks. Or maybe he says it. He's so tired he can't tell the difference between what he says and what he thinks anymore.

Hermione sits on the edge of the bed. "We'll stay with you if you want, Harry."

"Okay," Harry says. He's glad for the darkness, because he's sure his face is as scarlet as his old Quidditch robes.

It takes a bit of shifting about, and Ron gets an elbow in the eye from Hermione in the process, but they manage to get comfortable, with Hermione on one side and Ron on the other. It should seem crowded, it should seem awkward, but it doesn't; and Harry wonders vaguely why they've never done this before. It's actually kind of nice.

"G'night, Harry," says Ron. His breath tickles the back of Harry's neck.

Harry mumbles something in return and gets a mouthful of Hermione's hair, but he doesn't care.

For the first time since Harry walked into this so-called safe house, he actually feels safe.