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Harry Potter-Weasley wakes before the sun rises. It’s a habit ingrained in him now, after all those months on the run. His beautiful wife sleeps between him and his husband, her silver-blonde hair loose and spilling across Harry’s chest.
It still feels surreal that he’s allowed to have this. That Bill and Fleur want him is a bloody miracle. That they’ve seen fit to welcome him into their marriage, joining them as a true triad, even taking his name alongside Bill’s is … well, it means a hell of a lot.
Fleur nuzzles her cheek against his bare chest. She wrinkles her nose, which is as adorable as always, and sighs. Bill’s arm, which is stretched across their wife and curled at Harry’s hip, tightens. He unconsciously applies pressure, silently urging Harry closer, which he can’t accomplish with their current configuration.
Even though he isn’t in the middle right now, Harry still feels surrounded by their love. He feels safe and treasured. He’s warm inside and out. Being in bed with his spouses is better than anything he could have imagined. It’s pure bliss.
Reluctantly, several minutes later, Harry gently shifts Bill’s hand to rest against Fleur’s hip and then slowly slides out from under his wife. He doesn’t want to wake them—
“‘Arry?” Fleur asks sleepily.
“Go back to sleep, Fleur. It’s early,” Harry replies as he lovingly brushes her hair over her shoulder. He can do this now. He’s allowed to touch them, to show his love and care. Actions, Harry knows, speak louder than words. He expresses his love by deed, even more than word.
“Stay?” Fleur asks with a yawn he knows she would attempt to hide with her elegant hands if she were more fully awake.
Harry kisses her forehead. As much as he would like to comply with her request and luxuriate in bed with his wife and husband, he’s learned over the past week that his alertness will eventually draw them awake well before it’s time for them to rise for work. It leaves him feeling horribly guilty, even though both Bill and Fleur have told him that they don’t mind at all.
“Sleep, love,” he replies as he slides out of bed.
“Yes, ‘usband,” Fleur replies as Bill curls around her and buries his face in the arch of her neck.
Harry picks his shirt up off the floor and pulls it on. Then, unable to resist the urge, he watches them for several moments, his heart overflowing with love. For the first time since he was left on the Dursleys’ porch like a bottle of milk, he has a family who loves him. He will never take them for granted.
He finally slips out of their bedroom to perform his morning ablutions. The splash of lukewarm water against his face is refreshing. Harry snorts when he looks in the bathroom mirror. His hair is as wild as it was after a Quidditch match at Hogwarts.
“After all the times people described it as looking ‘just shagged’,” Harry says, lips twitching, “it’s finally true.”
He, Bill, and Fleur have been insatiable since their marriage. He’s become accustomed to waking up with love bites on his skin. Sometimes, when his wife and husband are at work, Harry presses on them, just to feel the hint of pain and remind himself he’s theirs, that they love him, that this is real.
The smell of coffee lures him into the kitchen. He warms his hands on the already-filled mug of perfectly brewed coffee. Household charms are so insanely useful.
It’s still dark out when Harry glances through the kitchen window. That makes no difference to him. He’s seen too much evil in the world to be afraid of literal darkness.
Harry exits Shell Cottage through the back door, a cup of coffee in his hands. The sky is just starting to turn from solid black to a deep purplish blue when he walks out to Dobby’s grave, the toes of his bare feet curling in the slight chill coming off the sea. The air, as always, smells briny as spritzes of seawater dance on the breeze.
“Good morning, Dobby,” Harry says.
He sits on the boulder that Bill Levitated over beside the grave after catching Harry out here during the weeks he spent hiding and recovering at Shell Cottage following the hellish nightmare at Malfoy Manor. It has a cushioning charm on it, which wasn’t necessary, but is one of the many reasons that Harry ended up falling in love with Bill. That type of thoughtfulness and consideration is precious to him.
“I miss you, you know,” Harry says, grieving his friend, another courageous, brilliant light lost to the darkness of war.
Steam rises from his cup of coffee, wisping into the air. Unlike the fog that occasionally rolls off the sea, it’s thin and twirls with the wind before vanishing. The heat of the cup against his hands steadies him.
Dobby died a free house-elf. He died saving Harry and the rest of the prisoners from Malfoy Manor. He’s the reason that Harry ended up here at Shell Cottage for those weeks of desperately needed respite and recovery. Without him, Harry might never have fallen in love with Bill and Fleur. Without him, his husband and wife might never have fallen in love with him in return. It’s … not something he wants to dwell on.
Even the thought of not having Bill and Fleur and Shell Cottage in his life—this blessed, treasured sanctuary—is untenable.
“Bill, Fleur, and I have been married for a week now. We, uh”—Harry holds his coffee cup by the bottom, his fingers curled up the sides like claws, and scratches the back of his neck with the other hand—“we’re happy. I’m happy.”
Harry’s smile is small, but it’s there. For a while there during the war, he wondered if he would ever be able to smile again, or if that would be one more casualty of the war caused by a deranged lunatic who split his soul.
He tries not to think about the scar, no longer red or inflamed. It’s so pale now that it’s barely visible. He doesn’t want to think about how part of that monster’s soul was inside him—
The coffee is so hot it burns his tongue when he finally takes a sip. Harry has always been awful about waiting for it to properly cool. The roast is robust. The scent is intense enough to mask the brininess of the sea as he listens to the waves crash against the cliffside.
Paler purples begin to paint the sky.
He absently spins his wedding ring around his finger with his thumb, a newly acquired habit that he doesn’t see vanishing anytime soon. The band is solid gold and plain. He doesn’t like fancy things, never has, and never will. That Bill and Fleur chose something so simple for him proves exactly how well they know him. And that they already had it in their home, well before he ever Apparated to Shell Cottage following that fortifying glass of Firewhisky, tells him exactly how sincerely they hoped he would return to them following the war to accept a place with them as their husband.
Harry feels … too much. It’s been a week, and he still feels overcome by the force of his emotions. They’re so much deeper and more intense than what he felt for Ginny, and Cho Chang before her. At eighteen, he now knows the difference between fancying someone and loving someone.
The pale purples turn into dark shades of pink.
“Is it selfish of me to just want to stay here forever, Dobby?” Harry asks, his voice the softest of whispers.
He doesn’t want to return to Hogwarts for a seventh year. For all that it was once home, now, it’s nothing but a reminder of all the horrible things that happened there. All the schemes, all the lies, all the lives lost … they haunt the halls and grounds.
And for all that Harry and Professor McGonagall discussed the option of becoming an Auror back when he was a fifth-year, he doesn’t want to do that anymore, either. He’s essentially spent his entire life being a soldier fighting against evil because of a prophecy. Now that Harry has a say, now that he has some control over his future, he would really rather not spend it fighting.
Harry wants— Is it too much to ask—? Would it be unforgivably selfish of him to just … not?
Oranges burst across the sky, blending with the brighter shades of pink.
It’s somewhat ironic that he spent the vast majority of his childhood cooking and cleaning for his horrid relatives in the Muggle World, desperate for an adventure, for something exciting to happen. Now, after too many adventures and too much excitement, all he wants is to stay home, to cook for his husband and wife because he loves them and—
“Bill and Fleur work at Gringotts. My parents left me an inheritance vault. It’s enough that I don’t have to work if—” Harry bites his lip.
Even just the thought of working anywhere leaves him feeling queasy. Because no matter what profession he might choose, he knows he’ll never be left alone. Not right now, right after the war, when every witch and wizard in the Wizarding World is so bloody obsessed with him. If Harry accepts a position at a shop, people will come to fawn all over him and try to touch him. If he tries out for a Professional Quidditch Team, odds are high that he’ll be accepted on name and reputation alone, even if someone else is more skilled, because his presence would be an enormous draw for fans and any official merchandise—figures, Quidditch jerseys, posters, etc.—will make a killing.
And that’s … not something he’s comfortable with.
As it is, he’s already dreading how the public will react when news of his marriage breaks. He, Bill, and Fleur had a private ceremony. Harry married them here at Shell Cottage, without even telling the rest of the Weasleys.
Harry loves the Weasleys. He does. They’ve been so good to him. But he was so bloody grateful when Bill and Fleur each squeezed one of his hands and promised to tell no one until he was ready. Their consideration for his feelings—and how much he hates all the times his personal business has been splashed across the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly without his consent—means the world to him.
For him, Bill and Fleur will eventually have to deal with their irate families who will inevitably be both offended and hurt about being excluded from the wedding and not being informed until whenever Harry gives permission.
Their love is a blessing. It’s something he’s determined to return in kind all the days of his life.
The sun crests the horizon, painting a river of gold light across the rippling waves of the sea.
“What a beautiful place … to be with friends.” Harry brushes his empty hand against Dobby’s headstone and tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Harry is happy to be with his friend … Dobby, a free elf.”
Harry drinks the rest of his coffee as he watches the sun fully rise, listening to the gulls cry, to the waves against the rocks, and relaxing into the solace that’s found here. Shell Cottage is truly magical. It’s a balm that soothes all pains, even the sharp edges of grief.
Strong arms wrap around Harry, the heat of them seeping through his thin summer pajamas. A dark red ponytail spills over his shoulder. “Harry?”
“Bill,” he sighs, leaning back against his husband, a safe haven from the outside world.
Bill plucks the empty coffee mug out of Harry’s hands and sets it on the ground. He lifts Harry just long enough so that he can sit on the boulder himself and settle Harry firmly in his lap. He hugs Harry tightly and kisses his neck.
Harry loves Ron and Hermione. They’re his best friends and always will be. All the same, he’s grateful that neither Bill nor Fleur pester Harry to share his most private thoughts as if that’s something they’re entitled to hear. Some things are too painful to speak aloud. Some things are too painful to whisper in your mind.
“It’s a beautiful sunrise,” Bill says after a few minutes, his chin propped on Harry’s shoulder.
“It is,” Harry agrees. Every sunrise at Shell Cottage is beautiful, unique, something worth watching beside his good friend Dobby.
“How did you sleep?” Bill asks, his breath warm as it brushes against Harry’s cheek.
Harry turns his head, his heart flipping in his chest as he realizes that Bill intentionally positioned himself so that the worst of the scars Greyback inflicted on him face Harry. With such a blatant expression of trust, how can Harry feel anything but love? Most people would attempt to cover them, ashamed or self-conscious. Bill bares them, believing that Harry won’t look away in disgust.
He kisses his husband’s cheek. Again. And again. He doesn’t stop until he’s kissed every single scar.
“Very little,” Harry answers once he finishes. “You and Fleur wore me out.”
Bill’s laughter isn’t especially loud, but it carries. It’s full of delight and self-satisfaction and more than an edge of desire. “If you’re waiting for an apology, I’m not offering one.”
Harry snorts. “Who asks for an apology for being loved?”
“You can take a nap later,” Bill teases, his thumbs rubbing against the waistband of Harry’s pajama bottoms.
“Oh, I will.” He’s still worn out, even months later, from the year on the run.
The sun looks like it’s been horizontally cut in half by the sea when Harry finally taps Bill’s hands, silently asking to be released. He immediately withdraws his hands from around Harry’s waist. Harry stands up, stretches, and then scoops the coffee mug off the ground.
“Breakfast?” Harry offers.
It still surprises him, even though it’s been a week, that he actually wants to cook breakfast for his wife and husband. After all of the times that he was forced to cook it for the Dursleys, he truly believed he would never want to cook breakfast for anyone else ever again.
“Only if you want to,” Bill says as he rises from the boulder.
“I do,” Harry replies. He tangles the fingers of his unoccupied hand with Bill’s and tugs him back toward Shell Cottage.
Once they’re inside, Bill kisses Harry. It’s not the type of kiss that leads to anything; it’s the type of kiss that expresses love and affection. He’s only been married for a week and he can already tell the difference between the two. He’s only been married for a week and he’s already lost count of how many times his husband and wife have kissed him, despite his initial efforts to keep track.
“I’ll go take my shower,” Bill says, his blue eyes soft with love.
“See you in a few,” Harry replies.
He sets the empty coffee mug on the kitchen table. He’ll have another cup with breakfast. Fleur will have one, too. Bill, on the other hand, prefers tea in the morning. Harry puts on the kettle and then settles in to make breakfast. It’s nothing fancy, nothing complicated, just pancakes and bacon.
Once the table is set, the drinks are poured, and all the food is on the table beneath warming charms, Harry goes to wake Fleur.
The early morning sunlight leaking through the curtains paints her flaxen hair a light gold. It’s alluring, but no more so than usual. Fleur has always been stunning. Wrapped in the sheets of their bed, it’s tempting as hell to crawl back in them with her since he knows the food won’t cool.
“‘Arry?” Fleur mumbles sleepily.
Harry sits on Bill’s side of the bed and brushes a strand of hair away from her face. He leans down and kisses her awake, his heart overfull. Someday, this magnificent witch will bear children. It doesn’t matter whether he or Bill biologically fathers them. Harry will love them regardless, fiercely, protectively, as his parents loved him.
“Good morning, wife,” he says, still thrilled that he can call her that now. He doesn’t think that thrill will ever fade, even if he lives to be two hundred years old.
“Good morning, ‘usband,” Fleur answers, a tease of a smile on her face as she sits up and stretches, letting the sheets fall. She winks and clambers over his lap to get out of bed.
Harry isn’t weak. He is, however, a newly married eighteen-year-old. If his gorgeous wife wants to wander around their home wearing nothing but a pair of knickers, he’s bloody well going to enjoy every second of it.
“You cooked again?” Fleur asks as she deprives Harry of an excellent view by pulling on the shirt Bill dropped on the floor last night when they all went to bed. “You didn’t ‘ave to do zat, ‘Arry.”
“I wanted to,” he assures her.
“Eef you ever don’t want to, zen don’t,” she says, blue eyes serious as she runs her fingers through his hair. “‘Ow ze Muggles treated you was wrong, ‘Arry.” She cups his face between her hands. “Bill and I only want of you zat which ees freely given, ‘usband.”
“I—” His voice fails him.
“Oh, ‘Arry,” Fleur whispers before hugging him.
Harry has to close his eyes or he’s going to cry. He’s spent his entire life subject to the demands of others—strangers, professors, a prophecy, even his closest and dearest friends. He didn’t realize how desperately he ached to hear these exact words until right now when his wife spoke them into existence.
It’s not long before another pair of arms settle around Harry. Bill is warm and comforting and smells fresh from the shower. Harry feels … too much—wanted, loved, valued. It’s too— He can’t—
Harry clings to his husband and wife, two lights that he will never allow anyone to snuff, and revels in this miracle that’s become his life.
Breakfast will keep.