Archive of Our Own

Harry doesn’t need anyone to protect him, but, for some reason, Charlie makes it his mission to do so, and Harry can see that he tries, for whatever inexplicable reason. 

But when Harry ends up in St. Mungos for the fifth time in the span of two months, there’s nothing Charlie can do, just like there was nothing he could do the last time or the time before that. 

Harry blinks awake with eyelids so heavy he thinks he might actually still be asleep. Charlie is there by his bedside, looking ragged. 

“Hey, Champ,” Charlie says. A term he probably picked up from some American he'd met on the continent. He’d been back in England for three months now; you would really think he’d be fully reassimilated, but no. 

Charlie offers Harry a heroic smile as Harry stares groggily at him. He has his cheek in his hand where his elbow dents the mattress in his wait for Harry to wake. 

Harry smiles wanly. 

Haven’t they any better way to handle these situations, you might be asking. 

Charlie is turning out to be truly stand-up at being Harry’s emergency contact, actually. As elected by Harry himself upon Charlie’s spontaneous return to England, supposedly having thrown in the towel on things that breathe fire for a more subtle, banal existence. Mainly consisting of tepid tea with Molly and making sure Harry hasn’t gotten himself dismembered. 

Anyway, the decision really came down to Charlie being the only unemployed adult that Harry knows. Add that to the sheer number of times Harry lands himself in St. Mungos on a bi-weekly basis per his perilous Auror career, and the components slotted together nicely. 

And they’ve done this all before, by now. Many, many times. 

“Thanks for being here,” Harry clears his throat and croaks anyway. 

“Oh yes, it’s quite hard to attend to my little brother’s best friend almost dying again on my incredibly busy calendar,” says Charlie. 

Harry’s smile grows authentic with the display of Weasley sarcasm. And from the pioneer himself. 

Also, the little brother’s best friend tripe is such a blatant denial of any evidence that they might be growing a relationship of their own, through these strange encounters and… other events, that Harry doesn’t know what to say, really. 

So changing the subject, he says, “I reckon your family isn’t far behind,” glancing past Charlie’s shoulder at the door. 

Charlie dips his chin minutely. It lands on the mattress as his eyes droop closed. 

“Actually, I didn’t call them,” he says, all sleep weary. 

Harry blinks at him, valiantly trying not to count his freckles. 

“That bad, huh?” He asks, because of all the things Harry Potter is prone to do, it’s get himself into unimaginably bad situations. This, on the whole, seems rather tame. 

Charlie’s lip quirks a little. 

“No worse than last time,” he admits. Finally, he opens his eyes, a bright blue assault on the senses. “It was just really late when I got the call. Around 3am, actually.” He pauses to cast a tempus, a large 7 blinking at them. Charlie sighs and puts his short, light wand in his pocket—probably not a good choice of location for delicate objects. “I came right away and they let me stay overnight,” he continued, “I’ll probably have to leave soon, but the mediwitch said that you’ll probably be released tomorr—er, tonight.”

As Harry listens, he twitches the fingers of his left hand and winces, finding them sore. 

Charlie sits up at that, like he’s about to reach out.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine. I think.”

“You’re not. If you were any less powerful, you’d be toast, they said. So if you were anyone else, essentially.”

Yee. 

“That curse is meant to peel your skin clean off.”

Double yee. 

“That’s…” Harry tries to muster a platitude, but it’s no use. All he can think about is the paperwork waiting in a neat, menacing pile for when he gets back. 

Harry runs a tired, sore hand over his face. Charlie is leaning back against his chair with a creak, his big arms crossed.

“What am I going to do with you?” He asks as he watches Harry.

Harry blinks in surprise at the sentiment, the idea that Harry is anything of Charlie’s to do something with… 

“I don’t know,” Harry says nervously, giving a creaky laugh.

He wonders if this will be more bearable if he pulls the blanket over his head. 

Charlie begins to fiddle idly with the end of said blanket, brows now furrowed. 

“I got permission to take you home with me,” he says, not looking up. “Your healer insisted that you be with someone… and that you’ll have to come back tomorrow for a progress checkup.”

“Sounds good,” Harry says, swallowing. 

“Good,” says Charlie decidedly. “Er. I’ll pop over to your house to pick up some of your clothes. It’ll probably be way better for you to be in a space without so many stairs, anyway, I reckon. And we can floo call my family when we get to my flat.”

Then, Charlie pushes creakily to his feet, like a machine running out of charge. 

“Charlie,” Harry says, looking up at him. Hopefully not like Ron looks at Victor Krum, but probably exactly like that, honestly. 

“Yeah?” Charlie asks. 

“Thanks for… well. Not. Just for this.” Harry says moronically, because how to address all of that now?

Charlie’s assistance when Harry happens to have a panic attack on pub nights—the noise growing too loud all of a sudden. That first time, when Charlie was so utterly clueless about how to handle it, following him blunderingly into the alley, and all of the times afterwards when he came armed with knowledge on how to calm him down, seemingly having done his research. 

Not to mention the incident that Harry still won’t let himself think about, that pub night a week later when Charlie didn’t bother to show, and Harry, stumbling through Charlie’s floo, drunk off his arse. He didn’t know how to explain that next morning that he just couldn’t bring himself to go back to an empty house. He didn’t know how to explain to himself that that might not be all. 

So he left, and Charlie didn’t say anything at Sunday brunch, and still hasn’t at every one since. He just offers silent support when Harry feels drained from work. He’ll just… sit with Harry. Just sit and be quiet for as long as Harry needs, until someone inevitably interrupts their sanctum. 

He stands up for him when Molly is being overbearing. The list goes on. 

Harry can’t quite figure out what he did, to earn the attention of Charlie Weasley, of all people and of all gifts in the universe. He feels clumsy with it.  

Only a little over three months in and the return of Charlie Weasley to England has been… really something.

“Listen,” Charlie says as Harry just stares at him moronically in want of saying something, anything. “I’m happy to give you a hand whenever you need it. As always. It’s not complicated. I’m just… around.”

So that’s reason enough for making me fall in love with you? Harry doesn’t ask, because what the fuck—that would be horrible. 

Instead, he says, “Yeah. Cool,” instead of screaming into the void like he wants to.

Anyway, perhaps he should feel lucky. Minus the love sickness that genuinely feels like a chronic illness, perhaps someone else would be happy to have a new guardian in the form of their best friend’s extremely hot older brother. He should be more grateful. 

The healer comes into the room soon thereafter, commenting immediately and enthusiastically on how good and healthy and dashing Harry looks. 

Charlie's gone in a flash, ducking out and saying he’ll be back later. And then there is only waiting. 

Harry slumps into his nest of St. Mungos issued special pillows, distracted by the sting of his skin and the hum of charms. He’s not worried. The magic thrumming in his veins can already be felt doing its inexplicable mending. 

He can’t seem to keep Charlie’s blue eyes out of his head, however. 

Charlie makes good on his word. 

So later that night, Harry finds himself being ushered into Charlie’s flat with one strong arm around his waist. 

Harry has been temporarily released from St. Mungos, as Charlie expected. 

They enter Charlie’s cozy, open sitting room, where Harry has been before, drunk off of his arse after stumbling through the floo, somehow deciding that this was the best place to come. 

That doesn’t bear thinking about now, though. Not as Charlie helps him settle on the couch, both of them still exhausted. Harry snuggles down between a pillow and a folded throw blanket. Crickey, taking curses bodily never gets easier, he thinks. 

“Right,” Charlie says, probably to himself so Harry only pays it half a mind. He’s already feeling rather drowsy from the pain potions. 

Charlie sets the duffle full of Harry’s things on the floor, which he must have flooed from here to Grimmauld Place to retrieve. The floo is perpetually open to this flat, responding to Charlie’s voice. Because he’s a Weasley. It’s open to all Weasley residences. Not just this one. 

“Damage control,” Charlie announces, walking to the floo grate to Harry’s right. 

“They’re all going to want to come through right away. And your mum is going to go ballistic,” Harry comments. 

“I know,” Charlie says, kneeling. He looks over his shoulder at Harry, wearing the archetypal Charlie look. “It doesn’t feel right not letting them know, though.”

The Charlie Look is only a collection of all of the decency that the world holds, summoned into one expression. Harry never puts up a fight when it appears. He just stares. 

Now, he watches as Charlie stretches a hand up to reach blindly into the ceramic bowl with floo powder on the mantel—courtesy of Fleur, Harry thinks—and throws the handful into the fireplace. When it’s roaring with green flames, Charlie calls, “The Burrow.” 

Charlie looks over his shoulder briefly, asking, “Do you think Ron and Hermione are home right now?”

Harry purses his lips and thinks.

“Hmmm… What time is it?” 

“Around eight.”

“Ah. Then, they’re both still at the office.”

Charlie rolls his eyes and turns back around.

“Best not add them to the mix, then,” he says, and then under his breath, “Someone needs to do a biweekly check on those two, there should never be that much ambition in one relationship.”

Harry laughs, sinking further into the couch.

Soon, the floo connects and Molly’s voice floods the sitting room, her motherly tone in full effect, “Charlie, dear, come through, come through! Oh, I’m so glad you called.”

Harry can’t help but smile at the excitement in her voice. 

“Er, hi,” Charlie says, and Harry knows for a fact that Charlie calls at least thrice a week, so to still be met with this greeting is surely a sign of favoritism, “Actually, I can’t. Harry’s here.”

There’s a brief pause from the fireplace, the flames doing a jig. 

“Oh,” Molly says, and Harry would bet everything on the fact that she’s smiling. “Oh, well. Lovely. Why don’t you bring Harry? Unless…”

Harry winces at the implication.

“Mum. He’s hurt,” says Charlie. He looks pointedly back at Harry as if to say, can you believe this. Harry doesn’t respond, feeling Molly’s romantic speculation sink into his toes, and he wiggles them—somewhat painfully—to get it out. 

Predictably, Charlie telling Molly that Harry got hurt is like a bomb detenating. 

There’s yelling and a flurry of panic and concern, and calling on Arthur, who only reacts with more panic and concern. 

“Charles Weasley!”

Charlie waves his hands appeasingly, which they can’t actually see from the floo, trying to calm them. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine. He was released—obviously, as otherwise he wouldn’t be here—and I’m gonna take him back tomorrow, just so they can check his progress. And—”

“Oh, Charlie, take good care of him or I’m coming over there myself. Do you hear me? In fact, I’m coming in the morning, anyway. I have some broth…”

Molly’s head turns around at that, as if the broth might be stacked up in tins just behind her as they speak, ready to be shipped at a moment’s notice.

“I think we’re okay on the broth, mum,” Charlie replies. Harry thinks he’s smiling. 

“Oh, Charlie, don’t be difficult, now.”

“I’m not being difficult, I just don’t think broth will help with this particular ailment.”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” Harry calls from the couch. “I want the broth.”

Charlie shoots him a look over his shoulder, which would have been expected to be wry, but really it’s just sort of a… softening of his eyes. 

Harry clears his throat as Molly continues her stream of contendments over Charlie’s shoulder. 

Charlie turns back, saying, “Okay, you can come in the morning. But early, because I need to get him to St. Mungos.”

“Wonderful, I’ll see you then. Send Harry best wishes and my love.”

“He can hear you, actually,” Charlie says, possibly smiling again. 

“Oh, Harry dear, I hope you’re better soon!” and then, “Stop jumping into the line of curses—I don’t know how many times I have to tell you before my threats take!”

Charlie looks back at him, grinning conspicuously now. 

“Er, tell her I love her, too?” Harry asks, a little cowed despite himself. 

Charlie nods and does so. They hang up with a final goodbye and one last threat, before the fire dims, absent of Molly’s flare. 

Charlie sits back on his heels as the fire dies completely. 

When he turns to look at Harry again, the flat feels a lot quieter than before. Harry fiddles with the throw blanket beside him, considering pulling it over himself. He doesn’t want to get too comfortable, afterall.

“How you feeling?” Charlie asks. Still on the floor—he’s just one of those people. Luna and Hermione among them. 

“More mobile by the second,” Harry says, moving his arms around to demonstrate.

The corner of Charlie’s lips jerks up. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. 

He clears his throat, because it feels like that thing is happening where their conversation unintentionally veers too close to flirting. 

“Do you want me to sleep here?” Harry asks. The couch is comfortable and he’s spent a night on it already, tucked in by a sleepy Charlie right before the man left off to crawl into his own bed. But Harry doesn’t think the couch will suit the rawness of his skin this time around. 

“Of course not,” Charlie says, brow furrowing. “You get my bed, obviously. That, there, is my home for the night.”

Charlie jerks his chin at where Harry’s sprawled. He’s sunken deeper and deeper into it in the last ten minutes. 

“Hm,” Harry says, snuggling his head into a throw pillow, practically vertical now. “It is quite comfortable.”

“I think that’s the pain potion fully kicking in,” Charlie says. Harry opens one eye to find him smiling. Always smiling —what a billy goat. 

Harry doesn’t have anything more to say; he just lets his eyes fall closed. Just for a moment. The numbing of the pain is having a very curtain being pulled over his eyes effect. 

“Alright, mate,” is said. And then movement, the sounds comforting, like listening to your family scuttle around downstairs in the kitchen as you’re falling asleep in your bed at night. 

Harry reckons Charlie has heard that sound a lot. 

The handful of times Harry has heard it while sleeping over at the Burrow, it always took a while for him to fall asleep for fear of letting go of the safe way it made him feel. 

And now, there’s a warm presence Harry can only just feel at the edge of his consciousness—breath on his face, fingers poking at him until they give up finally, and arms wedging underneath him, pulling him against gravity and away from the couch, right into a warm embrace that only makes him fall further into a trusting, complete sleep. 

He only awakes briefly as he’s lain on a soft mattress and tucked into the downy sheets gently. After his glasses have been plucked from his face, he turns to burrow into the pillow at his head. 

And, oh, he thinks just before he falls asleep again, cinnamon, tinder. He inhales the scent off of the cotton like it’s oxygen, and minutes in, it sends him right back to sleep. 

Harry wakes with a groan and to the sound of familiar, beloved voices, muffled through the walls. If it weren’t for the immediate, dull pain, this would be one of his best mornings yet. Because of the sound of loved ones, but specifically due to the pillowcase he can’t seem to pull his face out of, despite the muddling lack of oxygen. He feels groggy and sore, but it helps. A lot. 

The scent is just dull enough for him to keep trying to chase it, keeping him there. 

It’s Charlie, he knows now unwittingly, though he remembers bathing in it senselessly last night. It’s just, Charlie. 

“Harry, love,” comes a soft voice from the direction of the door—when did it open?—and Harry raises his face just barely enough to see Molly coming, on quiet footsteps, into the room. 

“Hi, dear,” she says, drawing closer, and Harry wants to be embarrassed by her seeing him cuddled up in her son’s blankets, but perhaps he can get a free pass for being unwell. 

“Hi,” he manages to croak.

He really does feel like shit. Like he’s been steam rolled over. 

“Arthur couldn’t get off of work, but I came to bring you some breakfast. It’s in the kitchen when you get up. How are you feeling?”

She looks like she is making a near painful effort to restrain herself from hugging him. Which he appreciates. 

Stretching with a pained wince and a sigh, Harry allows himself to be somewhat mollified by the fact that there is a Molly breakfast waiting for him. Merlin only knows that Charlie hasn’t cooked anything.

“I’m alright, Molly, thank you,” he says sincerely, pillowing his head on his arms as he peers at her, “It’s good to see you.”

Her face lights up with a warm smile and she forsakes her efforts not to rush forward and pecks his cheeks, as if she doesn’t have half a dozen children to shower with affection. Harry smiles. 

Just then, Charlie wanders into the room in a black t-shirt and flannel pyjamas, looking like he very much slept on the couch and won’t complain about it—drowsy, warm eyes and hair tucked behind his ears. Oh, lovely, and he put his tiny cartilage hoop back in at some point. 

Harry blinks at him and then blinks some more, rapidly, when he realises that Molly is watching him and not her son, like Harry was. She might actually be used to the moon eyes by now, which is a horrible thought. 

Charlie sidles up to the side of the bed to join them, clearly not knowing how sleep rumpled and wittlessly handsome he is. 

“Hi,” Charlie says, kneeling next to the bed so he’s at Harry’s eye level. He proffers a vial of clear potion that Harry didn’t notice he’d had in his hand because—arms. 

Harry takes it from him, recognizing the color of the morning pain potion the mediwitch prescribed him. 

“How are you feeling?” Charlie asks after Harry dumps it into his mouth. 

Harry really wishes he wouldn’t be quite so lovely. Molly is a hawk when it comes to details and Harry suddenly feels too aware of the muscles in his face. 

“Good,” he says, handing the vial back, their fingers brushing. “Well, not good, per se. But. Manageable.”

Harry tries sitting up, just to end his rambling. His body just feels sore now, but definitely moveable. Charlie’s fingers twitch as he watches—Harry knows this because his eyes keep falling back to him. The arms really are very distracting. 

Valiantly, Harry struggles stubbornly up and leans against the headboard, already worn out. Molly and Charlie watch painstakingly. Man, that curse was no joke. 

“Make sure he gets breakfast,” Molly says to Charlie as if Harry’s not there. Harry’s surprised she isn’t dreadfully wringing her hands. 

Charlie rolls his eyes in response, but he nods. 

Molly looks back to Harry like she wants to both hug and throttle him. She does neither, instead patting the blankets over his thigh very gently, a featherlike touch so that Harry can barely feel it. She does plant more kisses on his cheek, though. 

“Keep me updated,” she says, to both of them now. It sounds a bit like a threat.

“Will do,” Charlie says. 

With a nod and a big hug for Charlie—compensation—she makes her leave. 

Halfway out of the door, she calls back, “I better see both of you next Sunday.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry says, smiling. 

Harry looks at Charlie covertly as they listen to the sounds of Molly bustling through the flat and then, the floo flaring on a distant ringing of, “The Burrow.”

“Well,” Charlie says, “that wasn’t nearly as eventful as I thought.”

By eventful, Harry thinks Charlie probably means annoying.  

Charlie pulls his wavy, nearly chin length hair through his fingers as though to make it uniform. Pointless; a strand always falls loose to hang in his face. Harry knows this avidly. 

“I missed her,” Harry says idly, trying not to watch him. 

Charlie grins, for some reason. 

“It’s only been, what, a week since you last saw her?” He asks, leaning over to a drawer in his bedside table as he says it, and pulling open the top one. 

“Yeah, about,” Harry responds. 

He watches freely now as Charlie pulls out what looks like a t-shirt. Harry’s t-shirt, to be exact. Under it, are a pair of his jeans. 

As Charlie sets them on the bed beside Harry, he explains, “I put some of your clothes in here last night in case you wanted them. Those Mungos issued pyjamas probably feel awful.”

“They do,” Harry says, smiling somewhat wanly. 

“If you hadn’t fallen asleep so quickly, I would’ve leant you some of mine. I didn’t think to grab any from your house,” Charlie says absently. 

He gets to his feet. 

“I’ll let you change. We should get going in about a half an hour.”

“Okay,” Harry says. 

Charlie points a thumb over his shoulder and then makes his leave, in a display that is frankly adorable for a going on twenty-six year old. 

As soon as the door closes, Harry puts both of his hands over his face. He doesn’t know which feeling to process first so, as is routine, he ignores the whole lot of them. 

He gets painstakingly to his feet in order to change. 

When he finds his pants slotted meticulously between the t-shirt and jeans, he has to close his eyes for a long moment. He could ask himself whether or not Charlie put them there, out of sight, to avoid embarrassing him, but he doesn’t need to because it is the epitome of something that Charlie Weasley would do. 

With a sigh, Harry hardens up his armor a notch more. 

In the kitchen, Charlie sits at the table with a practical buffet spread out in front of him. There is also a basket where the food must have come from. 

He’s not eating any of it, head on his fist as he sits with a steaming cup of tea. 

Harry watches him for a moment, ponderous. 

“Why do your sheets smell like smoke,” is the thing that ends up leaving his mouth. Because he’s an idiot. 

And anyway, it’s a valid question. Sure, Charlie worked on a dragon reserve previously, but… they’re sheets.  

Charlie’s head raises at the question, clearly taken off-guard. Then, he winces apologetically. 

“Oh, er… Yeah. It’s not exactly an easy scent to get rid of, I guess. Living on the reserve, I think everything kind of starts smelling like smoke. I didn’t even realise. Guess you get used to it.”

“I guess no one’s ever pointed it out?” asks Harry cluelessly. The implication of his own question immediately stalls his breath, barely out of his mouth. “I don’t mean—! I mean…”

Charlie blinks. 

“I… yeah, well. I don’t get a lot of visitors…”

“No, that’s not what I meant to imply, I—I mean, I’m sure that’s not true,” he says, putting his foot further in his mouth.

Charlie rolls his eyes.

“Why are you sure?”

Why is Harry sure that Charlie sometimes has people in his bed?

“Are you serious?” Harry asks.

Harry stares at him, incredulous. He still hasn’t sat down, he realises, registering how ridiculous that is. 

Charlie just treats him with a confused look. And now, Harry’s annoyed. 

“You’re, like, the hottest person on Earth,” Harry says adamantly, because he’s decided that Charlie grasping this sentiment is far more important than his dignity.

“Shut up,” Charlie laughs, leaning back in his seat. 

“You have got to be shitting me,” Harry mutters under his breath, shaking his head as he wanders nonsensically to the counter and then back, when he realises he has no reason to be there. Charlie watches him slide into a seat, a copper eyebrow raised.

“You okay?” Charlie asks, voice edged with amusement.

“Yeah, I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Harry says, pulling a basket of bread towards him.   

“Okay,” Charlie says, actually laughing at him now. 

Harry stuffs his bread into his mouth to end the topic on Charlie’s eternal hotness, and Charlie, seemingly deciding it’s best to leave him alone, gets to his feet.

“Eat quickly, we gotta be out of here in fifteen.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Harry says around a full mouth. 

They arrive at St. Mungos in a comfortable silence, mostly. As they meander through the hallways, Charlie checks on him every once in a while with a stray glance, because while Harry is walking perfectly fine on his own, he is starting to feel a little peaky. 

By the time they get to the right room, Harry very much wants to sit down. Charlie seems to sense this in the labor of his breaths. 

“Sit,” he says, gesturing a hand towards the examination table. 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Harry mumbles. 

He goes to climb up onto the stool, dreading the new exertion—they’d taken the lift to the fifth floor where the Curse ward resides, avoiding any staircases at all costs. Harry lifts his foot onto the stool, probably making a put upon face, when Charlie’s suddenly right there with him. 

“Hey, how about I give you a boost?”

Harry sighs.

“Just this once, and we never have to talk about it,” Charlie says.

Harry knows he’s teasing him. He can accept assistance, it’s just—humiliating. Harry turns around to face Charlie, not really certain how the mechanics of that are supposed to work, but this seems to be the right move, as Charlie stoops and takes the back of Harry’s knees in each of his hands, lifting. 

In seconds, Harry is perched comfortably on the examination table, and it really should not be something that needs to be dwelled on and yet Harry can feel his brain saving this information, in accordance with the way Charlie’s biceps look in that black t-shirt that he is still wearing, having not bothered to change, all for him to dwell on later. Even as Charlie is moving away to sit in a chair across the room, having not lingered at all. Harry is an idiot. 

They wait quietly for the healer to come in, Harry kicking his legs to avoid striking up an inane conversation. Whenever he speaks, he finds he inevitably regrets it. 

Then, Healer Benson arrives through the door with a flourish and a burgeoning waft of antiseptic potion. 

“Hello,” she says brightly, smiling broadly. 

“Hi,” Harry says. 

“‘Morning,” she greets Charlie as well, who responds with a jaunty little wave. 

The healer flicks her wand to bring up what looks like a chart of Harry’s records, which is quite cool to watch, even if it’s the fiftieth time Harry’s seen it in the last year. 

“So just about now, your symptoms should be waning slowly with the help of the potions. However, one big thing that you might be experiencing is fatigue. Does that sound right?”

“Too right,” says Harry self-deprecatingly.

“Good! That’s good,” she says, though Harry doesn’t see how, “Your progress is moving steadily, if not far faster than it probably should, had you been a… let’s say, different wizard. We tweaked our prediction of your recovery to correlate with what your magical prowess seems to have applied to the healing process. I’d say you might be good as new by the end of the week, perhaps even pain free by tomorrow.”

“That’s excellent,” Harry says, blinking. He glances over the healer’s shoulder at Charlie, whose chin is in his hand as he listens. Their eyes meet and Charlie smiles a little, endearingly wry. 

“So,” Healer Benson continues, “I can supply you with more potions if you’d like, though the amount we gave you last night should about do, if our predictions are correct. Other than that, we’ll schedule another time for you to come back, in a few days, this time. However, hurry back immediately if your symptoms get any worse from here, even slightly.”

“Okay,” Harry nods.

“In terms of physical exertion, I would suggest that you take it easy. That fatigue is due to your body rapidly trying to heal itself—I would wager that it is also a significant drain on your magic. So if you want to heal as fast as possible, don’t over exert yourself and try to keep casting to the basics—no complicated spells.”

She gives him a look as if this might particularly be a problem for him. As if Harry can tell the difference between spells that are complicated and ones that aren’t—he just does them. 

He sighs. 

“I’ll try. Thank you.”

“Great,” she says. “I suppose this gentleman will be looking after you?”

Harry watches helplessly as she peers over her shoulder at Charlie, who’s sitting there looking like someone’s boyfriend—no one looks at him and thinks that man is single— so assumingly, she thinks he’s Harry’s. 

“Yes,” Harry says, and then reiterates, “I mean, he has, but if I’m good to go now…”

“I would suggest you stay close to company, whoever it may be. It will be good to stay off your feet for the most part. That fatigue certainly won’t let up for at least another day, especially with how quickly your magic seems to be working.”

Charlie rises from his seat now, stepping towards them and saying, “Yeah, that’s no problem. If you wanna stay with me for another night, you’re absolutely welcome.”

He stops by Harry’s side and Harry just nods, feeling mute suddenly. He doesn’t realise that he’s simply looking at Charlie and Charlie looking back, until the healer, unintentionally excluded from this exchange, clears her throat. 

Harry finds her looking between them when he glances back to her. He realises then that she must know who Charlie is, as well, both of them having been made rather famous in the wizarding world after May, 1998. 

He wants to ardently assure her that they’re not dating and keep his mouth sealed tightly all at once, which makes not much sense at all. 

“You’re free to go then,” the healer is saying to them, though, and Harry lets his mouth hang open, tongue drying. 

Unfortunately, she stays in the room, fiddling at the counter, for the ordeal of Charlie pulling Harry gently off of the table, hand warm around his waist and on the underside of one of his knees. 

Harry ducks his head as they leave, saying a last thank you and goodbye. 

Fortunately, the predicted fatigue is back with vengeance enough to distract himself from the increasing doom he feels over one Charlie Weasley. 

Charlie makes Harry a sandwich, which is hot enough to sting his fingers when it’s set down in front of him, fresh off the pan. 

“Hey, maybe wait until it’s cooled off,” Charlie says from the stove as Harry curses passionately and grotesquely at the burn of hot cheese on his sweltering tongue.

“Thanks, dad,” Harry says. And if it comes out a bit crankily then, well, Harry really can’t help it. 

He’s been cranky for the rest of the day, and it seems to be seeping under his skin more like an infection, the concept of being away from work only just clicking in. 

He hears a sigh behind him. Then, Charlie rounds the table and sits down before him, hands spread.

“Alright. Let’s settle this, shall we?”

Harry blinks at him from under his fringe, pausing in poking at the sandwich.

“Settle what?”

“You’ve been in a strop ever since we got back.”

“Have I?”

“Seems like it. So, I figure you’re probably sick of my company. Which is perfectly understandable. I can call someone, if you like, I’m sure someone would call off work for a day—”

“Charlie. What? No.”

“No?”

“Yes, no. Are you kidding? Anyway, that’s not… you’re insane if you think…”

Harry shakes his head and picks a bit of cheese off of his sandwich.

“Oh, now I’m insane?” Charlie asks, but his tone is humorous.

“Yes. Name one person who has ever gotten tired of you in the history of ever,” Harry says.

“Er… why do you think I moved to Romania?”

“Oh, fuck off. That shtick barely even works anymore, I don’t know why your siblings find it so funny. You know your mum would’ve forsaken her leg if it would have made you stay.”

Charlie winces at that. Hard.

“Oh,” Harry says, shifting in his seat, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… Well.”

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to screen the things you say,” Charlie says.

“Oh, excellent. I’ll just be a dick to you, then. Cheers,” Harry says, shaking his head.

Charlie struggles to smother a smile. 

“Cool, glad we settled that.”

Harry worries his lip between his teeth, glancing down at the big, delicious looking sandwich before him, still steaming like it's calling to Harry.

“I’m in your hair.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not sure how I should respond to that. Perhaps you’ll only respond to miming. You clearly ignore verbal affirmations. Should I do an interpretive dance?” 

“Charlie,” Harry mock gasps, aghast at this new level of Weasley Sarcasm. 

Charlie shakes his head and rises from his seat. 

“I’m serious. What will it take to convince you that you’re not a burden?”

Harry considers that carefully as Charlie flips his own sandwich on the pan, a minimal steam rising. 

Harry is sitting in Charlie’s warm kitchen; they’re about to have dinner together. 

“You really don’t mind?” Harry asks, voice quieter than he thought it would be. 

“I really don’t mind, at all. If anything, it’s a pleasure.”

“Hmph,” says Harry, pushing his glasses up.

“I would have told you sooner if I’d known you had a complex about it,” Charlie says and Harry can almost see the curl of his lips, though he’s facing away.

“It’s not a complex,” Harry says. “It’s reasonable to think you wouldn’t want me lazing on your couch for 48 hours.”

He pokes at his sandwich again to check the temperature and then, when he finds it’s cooled off, takes a massive bite. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. Flavors burst on his tongue, just as he was expecting. When Charlie does bother to cook, he proves his undeniably genetic skill at it. 

“Thanks for the toastie,” Harry says though, because it’s only polite.

“You’re welcome,” Charlie huffs.

Harry looks up. He’s leaning against the counter, spatula in hand. They watch each other for a moment. Charlie’s gaze is assessing, Harry notes, but he knows it isn’t in the way that Harry’s is, as he stands there, eyebrows knit, trying to figure out how to make his little brother’s mate feel at home. Harry tears his gaze away from Charlie’s jawline at this thought. 

When the floo chimes, both of them flinch. Hermione’s voice sounds from the sitting room, an obvious worried tinge to it despite how incomprehensible it is from this distance. 

“I’ll go talk to her,” Charlie says.

“If you don’t mind then I’m okay if they come through.”

Charlie nods and leaves the room. 

Harry shakes himself, picking at his sandwich as he listens to Hermione and Charlie talk. Only a few minutes later, Harry’s best friends enter the room, Charlie bringing up the rear.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaims, while Harry sees Ron give a visible exhale of relief behind her bushy head.

“Hey,” Harry smiles, and Hermione rushes to him before he can even attempt to get up.

“No, stay, stay,” Hermions says frantically, gathering him in a very loose hug, though she gives an affectionate pat to the curls on the back of his head. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, yeah,” Harry says humorously, meeting Ron’s eyes and then Charlie’s over her shoulder. They resemble each other the least when they’re standing right next to each other, he muses internally. 

“Hey, guy,” Harry says to Ron. 

“Hallo,” Ron says, smiling back at him, “You sent Hermione into a right fix, making her get the news from mum.” 

“Sorry about that,” Charlie says behind them, rubbing at the back of his neck, “Things have been a bit busy since he was released. I barely managed to keep mum at bay. She was here this morning.”

He came to take a seat at the table, and Hermione and Ron settled around it as well, making Harry’s heart sing. 

“‘Course she was,” Ron snorts. 

“She went ballistic,” Charlie tells him.

“I’m sure she did,” Ron says and smiles at him. Harry wonders idly when the last time they saw each other was. Their relationship fascinates Harry, for some odd reason. 

It takes a moment for him to realise that he’s staring at Charlie. Though, everyone is now, unfortunately, looking at him as the conversation dwindles. 

“Er.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow, but Ron only claps his hands together abruptly and in apparent excitement as he has, in his worry for Harry, reached a world record in how long it takes for him to notice food. A true honor, in Harry’s book. 

“Oh! Toasties,” he says, grinning, “Excellent.”

Charlie rises from his seat with a reluctant smile, at that, saying, “I guess that’s my cue to get to work.”

“Oh, thank you, Charlie, dear,” Hermione says happily to him over her shoulder. 

“Don’t call him dear,” Ron says. 

“It’s a term of endearment, Ron,” says Hermione. 

Charlie’s shoulders shake as he perches at the counter. 

And Harry thinks he’ll be healed in no time if these are the conditions he’s left in. 

“Alright, off to bed,” Charlie says. Ron and Hermione have been gone for an hour and after another pain potion, Harry is engaged in a mean fight to keep his eyes open. 

“You’re taking this babysitting thing to a new level,” Harry comments, too tired to snark well.

“You’re twenty,” Charlie points out. “I’m not babysitting. It’s just that you’re drooling all over my couch.” 

Harry wipes his wrist across his chin with a pout. It comes up dry. Mostly. 

“Whatever,” he says and, much without thinking, raises his arms to Charlie, who stands over him with fondness. He would blame the drowsiness if Charlie’s eyes weren’t so warm with sageness and mirth. 

Harry lowers his arms sheepishly when Charlie blinks at him in surprise. 

“I don’t know why I…” he coughs and clears his throat. “Anyhow.” 

Getting unsteadily to his feet, Harry fights off the impending dizziness spell as he straightens. Charlie reaches out a hand hesitantly, seeming to wait for Harry to bat him away. He doesn’t, obviously. So Charlie guides him to his bedroom with an arm around his waist and Harry tries not to lean too obviously into his chest. Which is a real trial in itself. 

Between that and keeping his eyes open, Harry is dead on his feet by the time he makes it to Charlie’s bedside, Charlie pulling back the blankets for him. 

“In you go. There,” Charlie says. 

“I might have to thank you for forcing me to put my pyjamas on an hour ago.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, but not right now,” Harry says, snuggling in. 

Charlie snickers and his footsteps carry away from the bed. 

“Hey, Charlie,” Harry calls idly.

The footsteps pause.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“No problem, Harry.”

In the morning, Harry feels determined. He can’t quite figure out why until he’s sat across from Charlie at the kitchen table. Charlie, who in his preoccupation with Harry’s stay, hasn’t shaved in a few days and is looking rather stubbly and roguish. Not that this is irregular; Charlie is only clean shaven about fifty percent of the time. 

But Harry can’t help but want to put his lips to Charlie’s jaw, and he isn’t even an extremely physical person. It’s not like Harry wants to jump Charlie’s bones, necessarily, it’s just that he wants to kiss his face and see what his edges feel like and lay all over him while they sleep at night. 

Normal stuff. 

“What are you thinking about?”

“Hm?” says Harry, knocking his spoon out of his cereal so that it clatters onto the table with a trail of milk. 

Charlie looks at him, eyebrows raised. 

“My bad,” Harry admits, plucking the spoon off of the table and vanishing the milk with a lazy flick of his fingers. 

“Hey, no complex spells, remember?”

“What? That was a vanishing spell. That’s like first year stuff.”

“Yeah, and if you want to do it, you should use your wand and say the spell.”  

Harry winces. 

“Noted.”

He fiddles with his cereal, far past the point of eating it, for several reasons. One of them being that he doesn’t particularly like when it gets all soggy. The other being the bloke sitting across from him. Now staring at him. 

“What?” Harry complains. 

“What’s up with you?”

“There’s nothing up with me,” says Harry, exasperated. 

“You’re acting like you did yesterday, but worse. Are you in pain?”

Yes, agonizing pain, because I’m not even a kissing type of bloke and yet your lips are really calling my name.  

“Nope. I feel fine.”

“Okay, well, this should be your last appointment, they said. Then you’re free to heal without checkups.”

Harry sighs, the relief of that sinking in. As much as he has become a regular patron of St. Mungos, he is seriously getting tired of it. 

“You know,” Charlie says, in a tone that suggests he’s about to say something that’s right on the nose and that Harry doesn’t want to hear, “If you were a little more careful in the field, this wouldn’t happen to you so often.”

“More careful?” Harry asks obliviously. “It’s the field.”

“I get that.”

Harry looks at him to find him rubbing idly at a scar on his palm. Harry’s heart spins at the compassion on his face. 

“This isn’t a lecture,” Harry says, realising.

“No, more of a heart to heart.”

“People always tell me I’m reckless,” Harry says, looking Charlie in the eye. “But I don’t think so. Thorough, more like.”

“Who’s gonna do it if you don’t?” Charlie asks rhetorically, smiling a little. Like he’s parroting his own thoughts. 

“That’s exactly it.”

He can’t help but lean forward. 

“Danger is just…” Harry continues, “It’s just a thing in my way from getting the job done.”

Charlie blinks at him. 

“Do you get that?” Harry asks him. 

“Yeah, I get that.” 

Charlie drops his gaze, making Harry realise how prolonged the eye contact was, and he watches as Charlie rubs at the scar again, eyelashes stark in their coloring. 

“But sometimes it’s not worth it.”

“What?”

“Sometimes,” Charlie says, “the cause isn’t worth your sacrifice. A scratch, sure. A limb? No.”

The fact that Charlie’s smile is so sad makes Harry want to agree immediately, if only to fix it. 

“Yeah,” he says, sitting back in his seat, wary of how close he’d gotten. 

They sit for a moment, not knowing what to do with this. 

“Is that why you’re here?” Harry asks finally. 

Charlie shrugs one shoulder, but it’s confirmation if there ever was one. 

“I figured I didn’t need such a dramatic, perilous job,” Charlie says lightly. “Who do I think I am, anyway?”

“But… you love dragons,” Harry says. At one time, it was the only thing he’d known for sure about Charlie, before he found all these other things to love. An impossibly endless list of things. 

“I do. But I also love my hands,” Charlie says.

Harry finds that his smile is humorous now and soft. Harry can’t stand it.

“Charlie,” he says unthinkingly.

“Yeah?” Charlie asks, peering at him. 

“I… I don’t know,” Harry says in frustration, instead of what he wants to because as brave as he is, he’s not that brave. 

“Hey,” Charlie says, and his hand comes across the table to reach for Harry’s. His eyebrows are furrowed at Harry’s, apparently clear, inner struggle. 

Harry, heart not beating at all, picks Charlie’s hand up in his own and presses his lips to Charlie’s fingers before he can chicken out, the touch so brief and light it’s barely even there, but just enough to send a message. 

“Oh,” he hears Charlie say, though he can’t look at him.  

“Yeah,” Harry says, shrugging limply, his confidence on a tight precipice. 

He raises his eyes to meet Charlie’s, who is just looking at him. Not with surprise or judgement or wariness or anything. Just an open gaze. 

Harry nips at one of Charlie’s fingers, just to elicit a response. 

“Ouch,” Charlie huffs. 

He doesn’t say anything else, but he does lean forward on the tables, elbows coming up to support him as his eyebrows furrow, and he says, “Harry,” like it’s a question. 

The only answer Harry can offer is by leaning forward, closing most of the rest of the space between them. Charlie’s gaze drops to his lips. 

“Are you sure?” Charlie asks faintly. 

“Completely.”

But before Charlie can lean the rest of the way in, the floo chimes. Charlie shuts his eyes on a deep sigh. 

“I’ll go get that,” he says upon opening them. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, and clears his throat a few times for good measure. 

When Charlie exits the room, he thinks fuck fuck fuck fuck. What if that was his only opportunity to kiss him, and it was thwarted by some chime-happy floo dweller? 

 He hears Charlie’s voice, a low murmur from here, and slumps in his seat as Charlie, hopefully, shoos the person away. 

When Charlie enters the room again with George in his wake, Harry feels instantly horrid. 

“Oh,” George says, stopping in his tracks at the kitchen’s entrance, “Are you injured, then, Harry?” 

Harry smiles wearily and nods his head, the effects of his healing coming back in the absence of the distraction Charlie had created. Who now settles down across from Harry again, still looking very much caught. Even though they weren’t caught at anything—they didn’t do anything. 

“Okay, well, should’ve been expected I suppose,” George says, sitting down at the table adjacent to them, “So what have you lads been up to?” He asks, looking between them. 

Harry and Charlie both keep their lips pressed firmly shut, seemingly waiting for the other to answer.

“Right…” George trails. “Well, Charlie, dear, you owe me brunch because I missed out the other day.”

Charlie rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, ever the big brother. 

At the table, George shoots Harry a smug, speculative look that Harry pointedly ignores. 

“So, er, thanks for letting me stay here. I really appreciate it. I don’t know what I would… if you weren’t around, things would be—really different. So. Er, yeah,” Harry says as he stands at Charlie’s door later that night, prepared to leave. Well, physically anyway, armed with his bags and a displeased frown.

Charlie doesn’t look any happier, although his mouth tilts upwards as he listens to Harry fumble through his goodbye. 

“Yeah, I…” but Charlie trails off, looking at the floor. When he looks back up, there’s something different in his eyes, but he just says, “Ah. Thanks for coming.” 

He winces soon afterwards and Harry watches him moonily. 

“I mean, not—you’re injured, and obviously that’s not good. I would like it if that happened a little less, actually,” says Charlie, eyebrow raised. “But it’s—I liked having you here.”

Charlie clears his throat and runs an uneasy hand through his hair. 

“You should probably just hug me and leave before this gets any worse,” Charlie says. 

Harry laughs and steps right into him, not needing to be told twice about wrapping his arms around Charlie’s warmth and width. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” Harry mumbles into his shoulder. It smells like Charlie’s sheets. He wants to die. 

“I’ll see you at lunch on Sunday. Otherwise my mum will kill you.”

“Yeah,” Harry amends, though that’s not what he meant. 

Harry allows himself to cling for only a few seconds more before he steps back valiantly, straightening his shoulders. 

“Thanks for everything.”

“Course.”

They watch each other in the time before Harry gets the strength to turn towards the door. He doesn’t know why it feels like a door is already creaking eerily closed before he even gets his hand on the worn metal knob of the door to Charlie’s flat, but it does. 

“Harry,” Charlie says. 

When Harry looks back over his shoulder, it all begins to make sense. It’s the look on Charlie’s face, really, that encompasses everything that Harry’s feeling, in a way that couldn’t really be named. He draws his reaching hand back to his side. He puts both of them in his pockets as he takes a step back from the door, closer to Charlie. 

“Yeah?” He asks, already breathless. 

Charlie walks up to him, stepping right into his space, and his hands come to cradle Harry’s face.

"I'm going to kiss you," Charlie says, the best kind of warning.

"Okay," Harry says dizzily. "Cool, great. I mean—" and thankfully Charlie cuts of that nonsense with the press of his lips to Harry's. 

Harry stops breathing entirely, not realising that he’s reached up with one hand—the same one that was about to open the door to sacrifice this moment—and clutches Charlie’s wrist until he feels warm, softly hairy skin until his fingers. 

Charlie’s lips are warm and almost liquid in how pliable they are. The smell of him invades Harry’s nose and he’s lost. 

“Don’t go,” Charlie murmurs against his lips before Harry can lose his head entirely. 

“What,” Harry begins, voice creaky, “What do you mean.”

But he’s not sure he wants Charlie to answer that just yet so he kisses him soundly again, because apparently he can, and silently confirms his agreement. As if he could even leave now.  

He gets lost in the feel of Charlie’s lips for a few moments, the faintness of his calluses on Harry’s cheeks. When Charlie withdraws, he almost stumbles into him. 

“Usually at night I listen to the wireless until I fall asleep. Do you want to join me?” Charlie asks him. 

Harry blinks, tongue drying up in place of him screaming yes! like he wants too. Probably a good thing. He nods his enthusiastic agreement and Charlie marshals him onto the couch, where he grabs one of the throw blankets and tucks it over both of them. Harry leans into his chest because he thinks he’s supposed to, and also because not doing so feels wrong. When Charlie welcomes him with an arm around his body, his skin sings. The sting is completely gone, now. Funny that. 

Harry obviously falls asleep because when he wakes it’s to Charlie squeezing his arm gently and whispering in his ear. 

“Hey, I’m gonna turn in.”

“Can I stay?” Harry asks immediately, barely awake. 

Charlie blinks at him in surprise for a moment, but Harry wipes a hand over his face and the expression is gone as Charlie gestures with his head towards his room, nodding like he has been all along. 

Harry gets stiffly off of Charlie’s, frankly, very comfortable couch and follows Charlie to his bedroom. On the journey, he wonders if he’s overstepping and hesitates briefly in the doorway upon arrival. 

“C’mon,” Charlie says, beckoning him in. 

“I, er, I can go home if you want. I know I was going to, anyway. It’s no big deal.” 

“Okay. But if you want to, I have no problem sharing my bed for the night,” Charlie says, and then for a moment he seems to be quietly deliberating before he says, “And, also, selfishly, I want to cuddle you. So.”

He clasps his hands in front of him and watches Harry gently as if to give him room to bow out. Obviously, Harry sighs with relief and steps towards him instead. 

“Cool,” Harry says, doing an amazing job of hiding the fact that butterflies are attacking his innards, if he does say so himself. 

“I’ll dig around to find you some pyjamas,” Charlie says and heads to his dresser. 

Harry sits on his bed, eying his back as he does so. When Charlie turns around to find him staring, Harry quickly turns his attention to the clothes in his hands, accepting them quickly with a fast, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Charlie says, not even bothering to hide his smile. “I’ll be right back,” he says then, and leaves the room. 

In his absence, as water runs in the bathroom, Harry puts the pyjamas on—an old band t-shirt and a pair of bottoms that must be old because they probably wouldn’t fit Charlie now—and makes himself comfortable in Charlie’s bed. Again. That same smell calls to him and he allows himself to put his nose to the pillow briefly for a self-indulgent moment. 

Thankfully, he’s gotten his wits about him by the time Charlie comes back into the room, shuts the door, and throws up a lumos before he shuts the light off. 

“You look tired,” Charlie says. 

“Exhausted,” Harry mumbles, realising it as he says it. 

“How do you feel?” Charlie asks, sliding into the bed beside Harry. 

Perfect. Scared. Excited. Content. 

“Better,” is what Harry says. 

He puts his head on the pillow and Charlie does the same on the other, facing him. 

“Good,” Charlie says quietly. 

It’s quiet as they both drift off, but if they end up cuddling not much further into the night, then Harry can just say it’s the final remedy he needs in order to heal fully.