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Chapter Text

The first time it happened, no one was more surprised than Harry.

He should have been used to it by now. After all, he'd spent his life doing things he ought not be able to, and at the centre of inexplicable occurrences. First, when he'd not known he was a wizard. And then, even when he did know, he'd still managed to do things no one else could explain. Besting a troll. Talking to snakes. Casting a Patronus a fully-fledged wizard couldn't have managed. And that was before he took place in a deadly tournament, broke into the Ministry (twice), faced a Dark Lord (about a million times), and come back from the dead (just once, thankfully).
But Harry had thought - hoped, really - that it had all come to an end with Voldemort's demise.
Clearly, he'd been wrong. He should've been used to that, too.

~*~*~*~

"Harry!" George was somewhat startled by the sudden appearance of his younger brother's best friend in his flat, but given that he'd lived with Fred all his life, it would take much more than an unannounced visit to phase him. "I didn't know you'd be coming today."

"Yeah," Harry muttered, blinking bewilderedly at his new surroundings, "me, either."

As Harry seemed to slowly get his bearings, George noticed how distressed he appeared; far more than could be accounted for by an unexpected apparation. His eyes were rimmed with red, his palms dotted with white crescent moons where his nails had dug in, and his face ashen. His lower lip was bloody, as if it had been bitten through.

“Harry, Merlin, what happened?”

Wild scenarios whirled through his head, each one worse than the one before. A mob of ridiculous “fans” in Diagon Alley. A mob of decidedly not fans. Another assault by a mob of reporters. Death threats from the vigilantes who supported the now-imprisoned Death Eaters... Whoever and whatever it was, George was sure he had a nasty product or prank that would make them think twice about harming a hair on Harry's head.

"Nothing," Harry lied, a fake smile stretching painfully across his face. "Everything's fine. I, ah...." His forehead creased in a frown. "I'm fine. I didn't mean to come here, not while -" He cut himself off abruptly. There were no immediate signs of physical injury, George noted with some relief. But Ron and Hermione had told him enough for him to draw his own conclusions. “Nothing happened. I'm fine. Everything is fine.”

But everything was not fine. They'd been through a bloody war, for Merlin's sake. Most people George knew were suffering the after effects; Post-Traumatic Stress, Hermione had called it, or "feeling bloody awful", in Ron's words. Either way, the Mind Healing department in St Mungo's, with its team of just two healers, was entirely inequipped to handle the fallout from a war that's final battle had been fought within a school housing the majority of the country’s magical children, and had involved a good portion of the adults. The hospital was scrambling to recruit more staff, but in the meantime, many people were left undiagnosed and untreated.

Harry was, unfortunately, one of those people. You'd have thought the Saviour of the bloody Wizarding World would've been shown some preferential treatment, but either Harry was too noble to accept it, or everyone assumed he was fine because, y'know, the whole Saviour thing. People often did that: assumed Harry was indestructible. Even some of his own friends, George had noticed. But he was just as human, just as scarred, just as broken as the rest of them. Maybe more. After all, no one else had had Voldemort living inside them for seventeen years.

"It's okay to be scared."

"I'm not scared." The words came out reflexively, sharp and defensive.

"It's okay if you are. It's okay if you don't know why, or you don't think you should be. Whatever you're feeling, it's okay."

George remembered the first time someone had said those words to him. The simultaneous confusion and tentative relief he'd felt, and how long he'd turned the words over and over in his mind before he'd been able to slowly accept them.

Harry was silent for a long time, his ragged, shaky breaths the only noise filling the space between them. "It doesn't feel okay." His voice was so small, so fearful, George barely caught the admission. He felt his heart splinter painfully, breaking for the boy who had been too strong for too long.

He reached out before his brain had a chance to catch up to his body, wrapping his arms around Harry's trembling shoulders and pulling him close. "I know," he murmured into surprisingly soft, inky curls, "I know."

They sat like that for what could have been minutes or hours, until Harry's trembling subsided; his tense muscles slowly relaxed and his breathing evened out as the panic attack faded. George recognised it for what it was, even if Harry hadn't. He'd had his own fair share of them since the war, and had talked Fred through even more. A near-death experience during the battle had left his twin with more than just physical scars.

They'd both always been close to Harry, accepting him as part of the family and looking out for him as one of their own, and while George wasn't sure what, exactly, had brought Harry to him of all people, he would never turn him away. They were all a bit broken, all in need of comfort from wherever they could get it. And, holding Harry close, George felt more whole, more at peace, than he had in years. He didn't want to examine that too closely.

Suddenly, Harry let out a soft snore. He'd fallen asleep right there on the sofa. Right there, with his head on George's chest. He didn't want to examine that too closely, either.

George pulled back, settling Harry more comfortably on the couch and tucking one of his mum's hand knitted blankets around him. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of many sleepless nights, and he intended to let him sleep while he could.

Chapter Text

The second time it happened, Harry couldn't say for sure which of them was more surprised.

“Harry,” spluttered Fred, hastily wrapping a towel around his dripping body. "I didn't know you'd be coming today."

Harry felt a wave of deja vu as he stared intently at the tiles on the twins' bathroom wall. Not at Fred's naked chest. His muscled, scarred, freckled, wet... The tiles. He was staring at the tiles.

Harry's ill-advised infatuations with Ron's older brothers had spanned the majority of his childhood. First Charlie, who had been muscled and tattooed and oh-so-cool when he'd come to collect Norberta from Hogwarts. Then Bill, the summer of the Quidditch World Cup, with his earring and his long hair.

But the twins. Oh, the twins had been trouble from the start. Only Harry hadn't realised it until it was far, far too late. Looking back, it had started when they had turned up to rescue him from the Dursley's before his second year. And it had grown when they'd refused to take the Heir of Slytherin rumors seriously. When they had given him the Marauder's Map. When they had supported him during the Triwizard Tournament. When they had waged a war against Umbitch. When George had lost an ear and Fred had lost a leg. They had, without fail, been by his side, and given everything to staying there. And it wasn't until he'd been by Fred's bedside in St Mungo's that it had hit him with the force of a tsunami. He was in love with them. He had been for years.

To his shame, he'd fled the hospital room, and he'd not seen Fred since. Not until today.

“I'm s-sorry,” Harry stuttered, eventually. “I didn't mean to-” Harry stopped, unsure of how to continue. Didn't mean to have another panic attack. Didn't mean to come here, of all places. Didn't mean to see Fred mid-shower. Didn't mean to see Fred at all. “I don't know why this keeps happening,” he said, instead. “I'm sorry.”

“Keeps happening?” Fred asked. He was still mostly naked, and didn't seem to have any intention of covering up beyond the towel slung low on his hips, revealing a trail of –

“Never mind. I'll just, ah, wait in the kitchen.” Not waiting for a reply, Harry darted out of the steamy bathroom and down the hallway. He leaned against the kitchen cabinets, heart racing, mind reeling, cheeks burning. Well, Harry supposed, that was one way to stop a panic attack in its tracks. Just get confronted by a wet, naked, muscled man. Apparently, Fred's chest was sufficiently distracting to keep him from hyperventilating and spiralling into self-destruction, so all he needed to do when he felt one coming was appear in the twins' flat again... which apparently was going to happen whether he wanted it to or not.

But... why did it keep happening? Once was an accident. Twice, though...

“Why does what keep happening?”

Harry's head snapped up.

A thankfully-now-dressed Fred was leaning in the doorway, an uncharacteristic frown on his face.

“Appearing,” Harry said. “Here, I mean. I don't know how or why, but it happened last week, too, to George. I just turned up here without meaning to. I think my magic's -” Harry cut himself off again. Ever since the war, his magic had felt off. Less controlled. Almost like having Voldemort back inside his head. Almost like the soul piece inside him wasn't really gone. He hadn't admitted it out loud, not even to himself; if he didn't say it, it couldn't be true.

“Wonky?” Fred asked, taking a casual step into the kitchen. Into Harry's space. “Like it's controlling you, not the other way around?”

Harry nodded slowly, mind reeling. What did Fred know about this? Did he keep appearing in random places, too? Could it be something other than Voldemort's soul piece causing his magic to act out?

“I felt like that for a long time after...” he trailed off, but Harry knew. After the Battle. After being crushed by a wall. After being in a coma for weeks, and waking up with half a leg less than he'd had before. “When I woke up,” he continued, quietly, moving closer to Harry in the small space, “it was like a living thing under my skin, reacting to dangers that weren't really there, doing things without me asking it to. I know we're not still at war. Logically, I know that. But my magic didn't. Still doesn't, sometimes.”

“You - ?” Harry felt relief wash over him in waves, stealing the breath from his lungs with the force of it. If Fred felt the same way, that meant it wasn't Voldemort. There wasn't something wrong with him. He wasn't broken or dangerous or tainted.

Fred seemed to read his thoughts on his face.

“You thought you were the only one?” It wasn't accusatory, or judgemental. It would have been, from most people. But Fred sounded sad. It was never an emotion Harry had ascribed to the more outgoing of the twins, even when he had been laid up in hospital for weeks, recovering from his injuries. To have that uncharacteristic sadness directed at him...

Harry shrugged, uncomfortable under Fred's intense gaze. He felt as if Fred was looking right through him, and it was deeply discomforting. Especially when he had so much to hide. He had thought he was the only one. Of course, he had. Time and time again, experience had taught him that to be true. Why would now be any different?

“You're not alone, Harry.”

He always had been.

“So you've apparated, too? Y'know, by accident? When you were –”

The crease between Fred's eyebrows deepened. “Ah, no, but -”

Disappointment tore through him, burning hot in its intensity, but leaving him frozen in its wake. Harry took a sharp step back, his heart once more pounding in his chest, his lungs once more tightening, his throat once more cutting off his air.

He was. He was the only one. He should've known better than to let himself hope for anything else. Before Fred could finish his sentence, Harry spun on his heel and apparated away.

Chapter Text

The third time, the twins were definitely the most surprised.

Harry appeared, unplanned and unbidden, in their bedroom. At three o'clock in the morning. Naked. Screaming. Still trapped in the grips of a nightmare.

Fred sat bolt upright, wide awake the moment Harry appeared at the end of their beds. He couldn't explain it, but it wasn't the yells that had woken him; he had felt Harry appear in the room. Even now, he could feel his presence like a tangible thing in the back of his mind. Not intrusive, but undeniably there.

It was immediately obvious Harry wasn't fully conscious of his surroundings; he was curled in a ball, dripping with cold sweat and wailing. The sight and sound tore at Fred's chest like nothing he'd ever felt before.

He scrambled to the end of the bed, pulling Harry up off the floor and shaking him gently. “Harry. Harry, c'mon, wake up. It's just a dream. It's just a dream, Harry.”

Harry's screams subsided into sobs which racked his whole body. Fred pulled him closer, rubbing a hand along his spine, willing him to wake up. Harry had run off last time they'd spoken, and all Fred's owls had been returned undelivered. Only Ron and Hermione's reassurances that Harry was safe had kept him from turning up on his doorstep in person.

Harry had run off before, too, when Fred had been laid up in St Mungo's and unable to follow him. He hadn't seen him for nearly a year since then, and having him come bursting back in had woken Fred to how difficult that time had really been. He wasn't going to let Harry run away again. Not if he had anything to say about it.

George, who had always been slower to wake, especially since the loss of one ear had dampened his hearing, eventually joined Fred at the end of his bed.

“Is that Harry?”

Fred nodded, not taking his eyes off the man cradled against his chest for even a moment. “He appeared in the bathroom the other day, too.”

“And in the living room last week,” George muttered, reaching out to run his palm soothingly over Harry's sweat-soaked curls. That must've been the incident Harry had been referring to. Fred didn't know what to think of the fact that George hadn't mentioned it until now.

They'd both missed Harry over the last year... well, three years, really; they'd seen precious little of him since they'd sacked off school before the end of their seventh year. George had seen him, bumped into him a couple of times at the Burrow or Grimmauld, but had never managed to pin him down long enough to talk to him. Fred hadn't seen him at all, and had lived vicariously through his mother and younger brother's stories.

All that time, and now Harry was appearing – apparently unwillingly – in their home. Once was an accident, twice was a coincidence... But three times...

“He's not even awake,” Fred said, instead of voicing his thoughts. “I think he's having a nightmare. His magic must have wanted to bring him somewhere safe.”

He hadn't mean to let that last sentence, that little hope, slip out. But, still sleep-heavy and holding Harry in his arms, it was too easy to let his dreams run away with him.

But he wasn't the only one.

George rested his head on Fred's shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to Harry's forehead. Harry took a deep, shuddering breath and, without waking, curled himself closer to the twins. The lines in his face smoothed, and the tension in his body bled out. His nightmare had passed, and he was now sleeping soundly.

“Animae tectumque,” George whispered, a little bit of awe in his voice. “I wondered, when Harry appeared in the flat last week... He'd been having a panic attack, and his magic had somehow landed him here.”

“I wondered, too,” Fred admitted, quietly, as his arms tightened around Harry's sleeping form. “When Harry turned up the other day, he looked... God, George, he looked awful. And I tried to talk to him, but he ran off, and then he's been ignoring my owls -”

“He's here now,” George interrupted firmly. “He's here now, and that's what matters.”

He was here, and he was safe. George gently lifted Harry from Fred's arms, and tucked him into his own bed, where Harry immediately nestled into the pillow and began to snore softly.

“We'll let him sleep. And in the morning, we can talk.”

Fred slid over to give George room to share his bed, and for the first time since they were children, they cuddled up under the covers together, unable to suppress the small, hopeful smiles on their faces.

They were sure the next morning's discussion would be far from easy, but for now, they drifted off into a dreamless sleep, their soulmate sleeping soundly in the bed beside theirs.