Harry rearranged the snacks on the small table for the third time in ten minutes.
Then, after staring at them critically for a few seconds, he moved the crisps half an inch to the left.
The flat was already spotless.
Dobby had made certain of that hours ago; the elf took Harry having a guest over with the same gravity most people reserved for home inspections, but nervous energy still crawled beneath Harry’s skin with nowhere useful to go so he adjusted things that did not need adjusting.
He straightened the stack of magazines near the TV, shifted the bowls slightly apart so they looked less crowded, walked over to the windows, and pulled one curtain just enough to soften the sunlight pouring into the living room so it would not shine directly into their eyes once they sat down.
He checked the clock again: five minutes until eleven.
Harry exhaled slowly and finally sat down on the sofa, elbows on his knees for a moment before leaning back instead.
His leg bounced restlessly against the floor.
This should not have been difficult.
It was Ron.
Ron, who had once sacrificed himself on a giant chessboard without hesitation because Harry needed to keep going.
Ron, who had helped rescue him from Privet Drive in a flying car.
Ron, who had never once cared that Harry was famous or strange or occasionally attracted homicidal Dark Lords.
Harry still felt nervous.
At exactly 11, there was a soft crack from the middle of the room.
Harry straightened just as Dobby appeared beside the coffee table with the pop of elf magic, one hand clutching Ron’s sleeve.
Ron looked a bit dizzy from the apparition but recovered quickly enough.
Both boys froze once their eyes met.
“Uh,” Ron said.
“Hi,” Harry said at the exact same time.
There was a brief, painful silence.
Ron shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck before giving Harry a look that was trying very hard to appear casual and failing horribly.
His eyes flicked over Harry quickly and not remotely discreetly, checking for injuries, Harry supposed.
“Hey mate,” Ron said finally.
“How are you?”
Harry almost laughed at how painfully awkward the entire interaction was.
They had known each other for two years and never had a conversation between them felt this painful.
“Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly.
“Fine.
I’m fine.”
Another silence followed and then both of them snorted at nearly the same time.
“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, grinning now.
“We’re rubbish at this.”
Harry laughed, feeling some of the tightness in his chest loosen.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
“A bit.”
Ron looked around the flat again, this time without the tension from before distracting him and his eyes widened.
“Bloody hell, mate,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed.
“This place is brilliant.”
Harry felt heat crawl up his neck for some reason.
“It’s not that fancy,” he muttered automatically.
Ron stared at him like he had gone insane.
“There’s a television bigger than Malfoy’s ego.”
Harry snorted, and that seemed to break the last of the awkwardness lingering between them.
Ron had only seen TVs in photos and magazines; he is looking forward to seeing his reaction to a movie or a show.
He showed Ron around the flat afterward, though there was not all that much to actually see.
Ron examined nearly everything with open fascination, especially the kitchen appliances.
He spent an alarming amount of time staring cautiously at the microwave as if waiting for it to explode.
Eventually, they settled onto the sofa with several bowls of snacks spread across the table between them alongside a collection of Muggle sodas Harry had bought specifically for Ron to try.
Ron picked up one of the cans cautiously.
“So this is fizzy?”
Harry blinked.
“You’ve had butterbeer.”
“Yeah, but butterbeer’s butterbeer.” Ron shook the can experimentally.
“This looks odd.”
Harry shook the can lightly before opening it, and the instant he cracked it open, foam fizzed out over the rim.
Ron looked alarmed, and Harry burst out laughing while Ron called him a git before taking a sip.
Conversation became easier after that.
Not effortless exactly, there was still something fragile underneath it all, both of them circling around the real reason for this meeting without touching it yet, but it felt normal enough, almost like sitting in the Gryffindor common room talking after classes had ended for the day.
Ron talked about Egypt while trying various snacks.
“It was brilliant,” he said around a mouthful of crisps.
“Hot as hell though.
Bill took us around loads of tombs and curse sites and stuff.
Mum nearly killed Fred and George after they tried touching something Bill specifically told them not to touch.”
“That sounds about right.”
Ron grinned.
“Dad loved it.
Kept asking questions about Egyptian Muggle stuff.”
Harry honestly did not know what else he had expected from Arthur Weasley, the rubber duck incident coming to mind.
Ron told him that the entire trip cost almost all of the 700 galleons Mr.
Weasley had won.
For the Weasleys, that kind of money was a big thing.
Objectively speaking, spending nearly all of it on a family holiday sounded irresponsible.
Harry still remembered Mrs.
Weasley emptying out their vault the previous year to buy school supplies for the children, he remembered the forced brightness in her voice while counting coins carefully, stretching every sickle as far as possible.
Seven hundred galleons could have sat safely in their vault for years, cushioning school expenses, emergency costs, and so on.
Harry could not bring himself to think badly of the decision, not after what happened to Ginny.
People often act as though trauma could be solved through practicality alone, as though stability could fix nightmares.
The Weasleys already knew how to survive while poor; they had spent their entire lives doing exactly that.
What they did not know how to do was help their youngest daughter recover after being possessed by Voldemort and nearly dying at eleven years old.
If taking a reckless family trip helped even a little, then it had been worth every single galleon.
And from what Harry remembered from the lunatic’s memories of the future, Ginny did recover eventually, so it was money well spent.
“How’s Ginny?” Harry asked.
Guilt still curled unpleasantly in his chest when thinking about the whole thing with the diary, even though Harry knew none of it had actually been his fault.
It had been Malfoy’s fault.
And Voldemort’s.
Ron’s expression softened.
“She’s doing better,” he said after a moment.
“Not… fine, exactly.
But better.” He hesitated before continuing.
“Mum and Dad got a healer to talk to her.”
Harry nodded, relieved enough that some of the tension left his shoulders.
“That’s good.”
Ron took another sip of soda before looking at Harry again, and this time the cautiousness from earlier returned.
“So…” he began carefully.
“What’s actually going on with your relatives?”
Harry felt his stomach tighten immediately.
Ron leaned forward slightly, frowning.
“You already told me they’re awful, and I know they locked you in your room last summer but…” He hesitated.
“Did something else happen?”
Harry stayed silent, and Ron’s expression darkened.
“Were they angry because Fred and George and I got you out last year?” he asked.
“Did they hurt you?”
There was real anger building beneath Ron’s words; he sat up straighter without seeming to notice, his blue eyes flashing with the sort of protective fury Harry had only seen a handful of times before, and Harry had the feeling that if he said yes, Ron would march straight to Privet Drive and start hexing people.
Harry looked down at his hands for a few long seconds, then he began talking.
The words came awkwardly at first, uneven and uncomfortable leaving his mouth after being buried for so many years.
He told Ron about the cupboard beneath the stairs.
About never really being fed enough.
About Petunia’s disgust, Vernon’s temper, and Dudley learning very young that Harry was the acceptable target in the house.
He admitted, quietly embarrassed by it even now, that until primary school he had genuinely thought his name might actually be Freak because that was what they called him more often than Harry.
Ron stared at him in horror.
“What?” he said weakly.
Harry shrugged.
“Harry,” Ron said, sounding genuinely shaken, “why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“I don’t know.”
Ron’s gaze drifted for a few moments, and then he began to look angry.
“Did the professors know?”
Harry hesitated.
“I don’t think so.”
“What about Dumbledore?”
That silence answered enough on its own, and Ron’s expression shifted.
“…He knew?”
“I don’t know how much he knew,” Harry said.
“But he’s the one who left me there.”
Ron’s face twisted.
“He’s the one who left you there,” he said, sounding almost confused by the idea.
Harry looked away, muttering that the house had magical blood protections which Ron seemed to have ignored as he asked quickly:
“Did they do something this summer?” His voice hardened again.
“Is that why you’re trying to get emanci—”
“No,” Harry interrupted immediately before Ron could spiral further.
“No, nothing happened this summer.”
Ron did not look convinced.
“After they picked me up from the station,” he said, “they locked my trunk in the cupboard and went out to dinner.”
“What?”
“They left me home alone for several hours.” Harry rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Honestly, that part wasn’t even unusual.”
“You were there alone?
After everything that happened last year?
After the Chamb-”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not!” Ron snapped.
“None of this is fine!”
He pushed a hand through his hair, looking increasingly agitated the longer he thought about it.
“No, seriously.” Ron leaned forward.
“Dumbledore left you in Privet Drive because it was supposed to be the safest place for you, right?
But anyone with Ministry access could’ve found your address anyway!
How does any of that sound safe?
It doesn’t make sense!”
What?
Harry opened his mouth slightly before closing it again.
“You-Know-Who’s followers could’ve found you by checking Ministry records because the Trace literally tracks where underage wizards live—”
Harry blinked; he had not even considered that, and the realization hit like ice water down his spine.
The Trace.
Of course, the Ministry has his address attached to it.
Ever since he got his wand, magical authorities had effectively possessed a direct record of where Harry Potter lived: Privet Drive, number four.
His address was accessible to anyone with the right connections.
The only reason Harry was not currently panicking about the Trace specifically was that after the system awakened, it had stopped functioning on him entirely.
Harry did not know how.
He doubted even the Ministry realized it yet, as far as magical Britain knew, Harry Potter was still monitored underage wizard number whatever.
Ron was still talking, increasingly horrified by his own train of thought.
“And those wards or whatever around the house clearly didn’t stop your relatives from treating you like rubbish, so what’s stopping some Death Eater from using Imperius on a Muggle neighbour?
Or blackmailing someone?
Or just waiting until you stepped outside?”
Harry stared at the floor silently.
Ron was right.
Merlin, he was right.
If Ron could think of this within five minutes, then surely Dumbledore should have thought of it years ago.
“And another thing,” Ron continued furiously.
“Why the hell didn’t Dumbledore ever check on you?”
Harry remained silent.
“Did he think it was normal for a kid to sleep in a cupboard?” Ron demanded.
“Because I’m pretty sure even Snape sleeps in an actual bedroom.”
Harry gave a weak huff of laughter, but it faded quickly.
If Privet Drive had never truly been safe… then what exactly had all of it been for?
What was the point of ten years of loneliness?
What was the point of the hunger, the fear, the constant feeling of being unwanted in his own home?
If he had suffered through all of that and still had not actually been protected, then what was the justification?
Harry realized his breathing had gone uneven.
His hands were shaking, and he stared down at them distantly for a moment, oddly disconnected from the sight, as though they belonged to someone else entirely.
Why was he trembling?
Anger?
Fear?
Sadness?
He genuinely could not tell anymore.
Everything inside him had tangled together into something ugly and overwhelming beneath his ribs, emotions layered so tightly he could no longer separate one from another.
His chest felt so damn tight.
Ron went quiet, and with the sort of awkward determination only Ron could manage, he reached over and placed a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder.
The contact grounded him just enough that Harry finally managed to take a slow breath, then another, and eventually the shaking eased enough for him to speak again
Harry opened his mouth to speak—
And both of them nearly jumped out of their skins when the flat door slammed open hard enough to rattle the walls.
“HARRY!”
A blur of brown curls launched across the room and collided with him at full speed.
Harry barely had time to register Hermione before she was grabbing his shoulders, looking him over frantically like she expected to find missing limbs.
“What were you thinking?” she demanded breathlessly.
“Are you alright?
Did something happen?
Why didn’t you tell us sooner?
Have you eaten properly?
Are you sleeping?
Harry, honestly—”
Both boys stared at her in complete confusion.
Hermione looked absolutely disastrous.
Not truly dirty, because Hermione managed to maintain a baseline level of neatness even though their craziest adventures, but clearly wrecked nonetheless.
Her hair was even more untamable than usual, her clothes looked rumpled, and parts of her sleeves were slightly damp as though she had gotten caught in rain.
There were faint shadows beneath her eyes that suggested she had not slept properly in at least two days.
Harry caught sight of Crowley near the doorway just before the man vanished into thin air with a wink the moment their eyes met.
He also noticed a broom lying abandoned on the floor near the open door of the flat.
Harry blinked.
Then blinked again.
“Hermione?” he said slowly.
“Weren’t you in France?”
Hermione looked very much offended by the question.
“Yes, Harry, I was in France,” she said, exasperated, as if he had just asked something incredibly stupid.
Her expression turned incredulous.
“Did you honestly expect me to stay there doing nothing while my best friend decided to file for emancipation?”
***
Author’s Note: This chapter ended up taking me way longer to write.
It was a delicate scene, and so damn hard to get right.
I don’t know if I succeeded; you decide.
In the earliest drafts, Hermione actually wasn’t in the chapter at all.
The conversation between Ron and Harry had already grown too long.
But after rewriting the second half, I realized there was absolutely no way Hermione Granger would stay in France eating croissants while Harry is wiping up a storm in England.
Yes, Ron knows what a TV is; he has been best friends with two Muggle-raised kids for two years, of course, Harry and Hermione mentioned TVs at some point, or any other Muggleborn or half-blood kid in Hogwarts.
Kids love TV, especially before the internet, so of course, they will tell their wizard friends who have never heard about them.