Chapter Text
The stairs creaked under Harry’s stocking feet as he made his groggy way down to the kitchen. He couldn’t guess what time it was, as the sun wasn’t even up yet. He had stayed in Ginny’s room last night, as Ginny and Luna were staying at the Shell Cottage for Christmas break. Harry had already climbed the stairs to Ron’s room to listen outside the door, but it was quiet except for Ron’s snores. Not awake yet, then. Nothing from Charlie’s door yet, either.
Walking through the living room now on the soft carpets and coloured rugs, he could hear voices coming from the kitchen. The tree was twinkling cheerily, and a fire was popping and crackling in the fireplace, spreading warmth throughout the whole room. Mrs Weasley’s voice carried back to him, a frantic mumbling he couldn’t make out. Mr Weasley’s soft voice was laced underneath, soothing and loving. The sounds were comforting in their familiarity.
After all, he’d been living at the Burrow for more than two years now, mostly in Ron’s room, and was the only one of them still living at home. Everyone else had already moved out or returned to their jobs. Ron had asked Harry to stay, saying that his parents were not ready to have an empty house: they needed support. Ron would feel much better if Harry were there to keep them secure and happy. Hermione had seemed emphatic, but silent, just nodding along by Ron’s shoulder and squinting her eyes as she studied his face. Her odd behaviour had made Harry suspicious, and he suspected that staying at the Burrow wasn’t just for Ron’s mum and dad. After spending some time at their new Oxford house, Malfoy Manor, Percy’s new Georgian house in Bath, and the Shell Cottage, the Burrow was the only place that felt like home to Harry. And wow, he needed that feeling more than he’d realised when he hadn’t had a home besides Hogwarts.
The hands on the old grandfather clock by the stairs said it was half past seven. Harry pushed the kitchen door open and was met with a depressing scene.
“Good morning, Harry,” Mr Weasley said with false cheer. His hand was on his wife’s shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly.
“Oh,” Mrs Weasley said, trying to wipe her eyes secretly. “Hello, Harry, dear. Did you sleep well?”
“I did,” Harry said, as he watched her struggle to keep her fake smile up. “How are you?”
Mrs Weasley’s smile turned wry, and she tipped her head to the side and fiddled with her jewellery. The silver bangle on her wrist slid up and down her arm over and over, before she started spinning with her wedding ring.
“I suppose I can tell you. I’ve always been a bit sad during the holidays, since my brothers disappeared back when Ron was just a baby. Now I am missing two of my sons, as well, and my children have all moved away from home, save one.”
Mrs Weasley gave him a warm, if small, smile. Though she still looked a bit heartbroken.
“You haven’t lost George,” Mr Weasley emphasised.
“Just as well, he’s being held against his will by those healers,” she said bitterly. “And we very nearly did lose him in October.”
The kettle whistled as Harry sat at the table with them. Mr Weasley stood from his chair with a creak of wood and a soft grunt, rubbing his wife’s back briefly.
“He and I walked in together, willingly, remember?” Harry told her. “He misses home, but he’s also working very hard to be better.”
“Of course you’re right, Harry, dear,” Mrs Weasley conceded.
“Any tea for you, Harry?” Mr Weasley asked. He was taking chipped mugs off the shelf and lining them up, before going to the tea cabinet.
“I suppose I could steal one of Ron’s orange spice tea bags. I can always get him a new box if he complains.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have an English Breakfast tea? More caffeine for what’s sure to be a long day,” Mr Weasley reasoned. “Though I hope yours is a long, good day.”
Mrs Weasley huffed out a breath at the probable understatement. The tears were gathering in her eyes again as she looked down at her hands in her lap.
“Go on then,” Harry relented, smiling at Mr Weasley.
Mrs Weasley reached her hand out to brush Harry’s hair away from his face.
“You’re a good boy, Harry.”
It bothered him, for some reason, to hear that. He wasn’t bad; he had weighed that argument against evidence and come up short. But could he really say he was good? He’d done a few good things, many times out of necessity and not altruism. He’d done some not-so-good things, too, like bank robbing and being the cause of death for so many people, friend and foe. Not to mention that he’d already done a few Unforgivables, and he was only 20 years old!
“Harry, dear, of course you are!” Mrs Weasley said vehemently, and Harry knew his thoughts were likely evident on his face. She leaned across the empty space between their chairs and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She rocked him back and forth a bit. When she let go, she wiped her cheeks from tears again, and Harry understood that the hug was likely for her own sake. Not that he was complaining: she gave great hugs.
“And here is your full English Breakfast!” Mr Weasley jested, setting cups of tea in front of both of them. He was just sitting down with his own tea when Mrs Weasley rose from her chair with a look of horror.
“Oh, no, the feast! I forgot to cook ahead!” Mrs Weasley fretted, fussing with the cotton belt of her pink bathrobe. “This is awful. Oh, this is terrible! It’s as though I chose a favourite child and decided to starve the others! What shall I do?!”
Her voice rose as she spoke and culminated in a squeak. She was leaning heavily on the table, looking like she was about to pass out into her tea. Harry moved the cup away as Mr Weasley stood again and guided her safely back into her seat. Harry shifted the teacup back towards her and turned it so that the handle was touching her hand. She unconsciously gripped it and brought it to her mouth to drink.
“No one could ever think you have a favourite, Molly . We have intelligent children, and they know better than to think that,” Mr Weasley soothed. And then, quieter, “Harry, will you pass me the bottle of brandy?”
“I don’t think I should be getting plastered before going to visit my depressed son, dear,” she defended.
“Just a pony shot, then. Dampen your reactions, maybe knock you out of that worry loop you’re in,” he reasoned. He waited for her agreement, and when she nodded, Mr Weasley took the bottle from the table and tipped the tiniest dash of liquor into her tea. He was true to his word; he’d kept the amount small. She thanked him with a sad smile and took a sip.
“I was thinking,” Harry started. He shifted in his seat, calling on his bravery to ask when he was all but sure he was about to be denied, and started again. “I wonder if you’d let us cook for ourselves. We already have all the ingredients, don’t we? If anything’s missing, we can pop out. I know how to cook, I can make sure nothing burns.”
“You shouldn’t have to cook for others on Christmas!”
“You do. And who cooked your birthday dinner last year? You did. And the year before that, too. It’s a bad argument, try another.”
Mrs Weasley smiled at him, unconvinced, but obviously amused.
“Can you promise me that my kitchen won’t burn down?” she questioned doubtfully. Her tea was almost gone, and her wide eyelids were heavier now. “And when did you learn to cook? I’ve never seen you cook at home.”
“I um… I used to cook for the Dursleys. Since I was about seven.” Harry braced himself for her anger, chiding himself for ruining the mood again. But the anger never came.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” she apologised, patting his arm. “I didn’t mean to bring up those awful people. And on Christmas!”
“That’s alright,” Harry lied. She seemed placated, but Mr Weasley was giving him an understanding look.
“Well, dear,” Mr Weasley said, looking at his watch. “George’s ward opens up in about ten minutes. Shall we get dressed?”
“Yes, I suppose we should,” she said, knocking back the rest of her tea and standing. “Though they already believe I’m a horrible mum, I’m sure. I could dress as a jester, and their opinion couldn’t get any lower.”
Mr Weasley had started guiding her upstairs. They were awkwardly moving through the kitchen doorway when she hooked a hand around the frame.
“You may use my kitchen, Harry, just this once,” she allowed. “As long as you remain the one in charge.”
“And don’t let Charlie near an open flame,” Mr Weasley adds. “That man does love his fire.”
“Thank you, Mrs Weasley,” Harry chuckled.
“Call me ‘mum’!” she called back from the living room, slurring only slightly. “You’d have been adopted by now, but the Ministry won’t let me adopt an adult!”
He then heard her grumbling angrily about current laws and Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Mr Weasley’s answering chortle of good humour. And Harry was alone.
He poured his barely touched black tea down the sink and set to making himself some of Ron’s orange tea.
~*~
Harry had allowed himself a moment of solitude in the chair by the living room fire, sinking into the cushions and savouring his hot chocolate. When the sun had risen, and he’d finished his chocolate, he went upstairs to get dressed for the day. He had just put on jeans, a t-shirt, and Draco’s favourite green ‘H’ sweater and was exiting the bedroom when he saw Charlie in the hallway.
“Crăciun fericit, Harry!” Charlie greeted cheerfully as he walked by Harry towards the stairs. He was fully dressed, with a Christmas sweater and canvas pants. “I hope mum’s started cooking, I am so hungry.”
“Happy Christmas, Charlie,” Harry laughed back. “I’ll do a fry-up in a bit.”
Charlie looked confused for a moment, but he disregarded it and went downstairs. Harry heard him run into his parents on the landing, chatting happily as they continued down together. It was interrupted by Hermione’s laugh, coming down from the highest rooms in the house. Harry smiled and directed his feet up to Ron’s bedroom, where Harry usually lived. He stopped outside the door again, listening to them speak indistinctly to each other through the ash wood door. He knocked lightly.
The voices quieted, and he heard Hermione tell Ron, “You go!” A sigh, a beat of silence, then the door opened a bit to reveal Ron and his wild hair.
“Oh,” Ron grinned. He leaned back to assure Hermione. “It’s just Harry.”
“Yup, just Harry.”
“Oh, thank God,” Hermione deflated.
“You know what I mean, Harry. She was expecting Mum, or Fleur or something,” Ron said as he opened the door for Harry. He heard Ron shut it abruptly behind him.
Hermione let the blanket go from where she’d been clutching it to her chest. She hadn’t been hiding her undress, as Harry had been concerned she was. She was wearing her pajamas and a tank top, with a neckline low enough that it showed her tattoo: a little prefect’s badge on her left clavicle. That was more likely what she’d been hiding.
Ron swatted at his hair, giving him a frown of fake disappointment.
“Oh, leave him alone, you big bully. He was looking at my shoulder,” Hermione scolded.
“And how could you possibly know that for sure?” Ron asked her.
“A person knows these things. Especially those with breasts,” she said with irritation. Turning kinder eyes to Harry, she implored, “Harry, come look at my gift!”
Harry could feel his blush as he sat at the end of the bed facing Hermione. Ron climbed back into bed beside her and stretched his legs out to press his toes against Harry’s knee. It shouldn’t be needed, but it was nice to have the proof that Ron wasn’t actually upset with him, that he was just teasing.
Hermione leaned forward, holding out a necklace Harry had only just noticed with her thumb. Harry saw a pretty purple stone.
“It’s amethyst. Ron gave it to me. Here,” she said proudly, unlatching the chain at the back and handing the necklace to him so he could look closer.
“It’s faceted amethyst and sterling silver. The ivy wiring is made with argentium silver, and the tiny leaves are copper,” she enthused. Harry didn’t understand half of what she’d said, but he could tell that it was likely very fine work, and that she was proud to own it. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“Very fancy, and it’s a colour I know you wear. It’s a very thoughtful gift. And you say Ron got it for you?” he asked with faux disbelief.
“Oi!”
Harry heard the whoosh of a pillow flying through the air. He leaned away, but it still caught him on the chest. He smiled before flinging it back at Ron, who was leaning against the headboard and had no escape. He cried out, his yell quickly becoming muffled by the pillow smacking his face as Harry and Hermione laughed.
“Alright, enough of this childish behaviour,” Ron chided them, as though he hadn’t been the one to start it. “Let’s go have some breakfast.”
Ron stood, holding his hand out to Hermione to help her up. She got out of bed and went to her bag on the floor, throwing on an Oxford shirt over her sleep shirt. Harry stood too, handing back her necklace, and she pulled her hair aside as Ron did the clasp. Harry held the door open, and as Hermione walked by, she gave his arm a short hug. Ron patted his shoulder lightly as he followed her out.
“I’m doing a fry-up. Is there anything specific you want?” Harry asked as they descended to the kitchen.
“Mum always loves cooking for the holidays. Why are you doing it?”
Harry stopped in the living room and waited for them both to turn and look at him. He lowered his voice so as not to be heard by everyone else in the kitchen.
“Because your mum forgot to prep and cook ahead, and she was so stressed, we thought she was going to pass out and smack her head on the table. Your dad gave her a tiny bit of brandy in her tea.”
“Harry,” Hermione started anxiously, her voice nearly a whisper. “I hope you know that liquor is not a good solution to our problems.”
“I do know,” he assured her. “And whenever I’m that bad off, which isn’t often anymore, I’m usually not alone.” He looked her in the eye and emphasised, “I know.”
She smiled, pleased, and nodded. Ron put his arm around her shoulders. As they opened the kitchen door, she gave Ron a strict look.
“Don’t eat too much, Ron. We still have to go to my mother’s for Hanukkah brunch, even on Christmas Day. All week. If we miss it, she’ll hunt us down.”
“I thought you said she didn’t know where we lived,” Ron challenged, as he hugged his mother. Mrs Weasley was sitting at the table again in a lovely maroon dress with lots of ruffles, sipping another cup of tea. Ron let her go, then stole her cup and sniffed it. He gave it back with a smile. No booze in this one, apparently. Mrs Weasley gave an incredulous chuckle.
“I approve, Mum.”
“Oh, good, dear,” she said sarcastically, still smiling. Charlie laughed quietly from across the table.
“And it’s at 9 o’clock. I haven’t forgotten,” Ron lied, as Harry set the kettle on. “It’s only ten past now.”
Hermione was pulling a few boxes of tea from the cabinet.
“No coffee today? For the caffeine and the long day?” Harry asked her, sharing a smile with Mr Weasley.
“My father has an absolute collection of coffee. We will drink well this morning.” She stacked the boxes of tea on the counter near Harry, then bumped her hip against his and smiled winningly. “Will you teach me to cook something today? I promise I’ll try my best not to muck it up,” she begged, holding up her right hand.
“Sure, ‘Mione.”
She beamed at him before bumping her shoulder into his and heading to the shelf to pull down mugs. “Who’s having tea?”
“Molly and I will be taking our leave,” Mr Weasley sighed.
“I’m all set,” Charlie said, raising his glass of ice water.
“Just us, then!” She reached for a third mug before pausing and asking, “Harry?”
“I could have another cuppa.”
Hermione brought three mugs over to the worktop. Harry got the skillet out and started melting butter before going to get his ingredients. She stayed near the stove as they listened to the Weasleys converse at the table.
“It’s really okay, mum,” Charlie was telling her. “We understand.”
“Yeah, go see George,” Ron agreed. “We’ll be fine. Harry said you’ve given him kitchen privileges.”
“Oh, can I help, too?” Charlie asked eagerly.
“No! Absolutely not,” Mrs Weasley said firmly, standing and pointing her finger right at his nose. She had a look of warning on her face.
“Enjoy the day, Charlie. Relax and just eat the good food Harry’s going to make. Alright?” Mr Weasley waited for Charlie’s answering smile before turning to his wife, “Shall we go see our son?”
The kettle whistled, and Hermione poured steaming water over the teabags in each mug. Mr Weasley held out Mrs Weasley’s coat, and she slipped her arms in and smiled lovingly at him. Mr Weasley put his own coat on as Mrs Weasley circled the table and hugged each of her children. She came over to the hob and hugged Harry, who paused in cracking eggs into the sizzling oil, then Hermione, who was steeping the tea. Mrs Weasley was smiling sadly as she prepared to take leave of her family on Christmas morning.
“We may be home late, so don’t anyone wait up, " Mr Weasley said as they started walking out the back door.
“We can celebrate with everyone together tomorrow,” Mrs Weasley said, though it sounded like she was soothing herself more than them. “It’ll all be fine.”
“Harry and I are going to St Mungo’s tomorrow, it’ll be our turn,” Ron put in. “The hours tomorrow are eight to eight, but I doubt we’ll stay the whole time.” He looked at Harry for support.
Harry nodded thoughtfully as he pulled out another skillet and lined the bread up in the pan. “If you plan anything, Mrs Weasley, we’ll make sure to be here,” Harry assured.
She wrinkled her nose at his use of ‘Mrs Weasley’ again, though she was smiling by the time he finished speaking. “Alright. I’ll think something up. Merry Christmas, everyone!” she said as she left the house with Mr Weasley.
The door clapped shut, and Charlie got up to close the heavy door and keep the heat in.
“She hugged me,” Hermione said in breathless wonder.
The first sign that Percy and Audrey had arrived was Maggie, sounding off with eager baying. There was a clatter on the wooden steps outside, and then a mighty ‘THUD!’ of something running into the door, quite low. Charlie jumped up excitedly and opened the door.
“Well, hello, Maggie!” Charlie cooed as he scooped up the beagle. “Did you hurt your fuzzy head? Merlin, that was a loud bang.”
Maggie was whipping her tail at super speeds and licking Charlie’s face as he laughed, delighted. Harry was plating and setting out bacon, fried eggs, fried bread, and baked beans on the table when Percy and his wife, Audrey, entered through the back door.
Harry sipped his tea as he joined the chorus of chaotic shouts of ‘Happy Christmas’ that lobbied around the kitchen. When he pulled the croissants out of the oven where they had been warming up, Percy plated them for him and took them to the table. Audrey was scratching the floppy ears of her upside-down beagle while Charlie held it like a baby.
“She was so excited to see you all today, weren’t you?” she mothers as she pats Maggie's head and lets her lick her chin. “You just wanted to wish everyone a merry Christmas, right? Of course you did, my sweet little puppy! And you already had breakfast, you lucky thing.”
Audrey turned to fill a plate for breakfast, and Charlie set Maggie on the floor. He started trotting excitedly and held the kitchen swing door open.
“Come on, Maggie, I’ll show you the tree, and the stocking with your name on it!” Charlie said, raising his voice into a falsetto. “You’ll be so pleased!”
“Awoowoo!” Maggie howled excitedly, following him into the living room.
“Best decision of the decade, getting that dog,” Percy enthused.
“She certainly seems to like Charlie!” Hermione added.
“Most animals like Charlie. He’s a beast himself,” Ron explained to her.
Harry put a mince pie on the table, then turned back to plate the fried tomatoes and take the pans off the stove. He brought the plate over and sat down.
Ron sighed before standing to get another plate and handing it to Harry.
“Short one plate, Harry. You’re eating, too, remember?”
Harry took it, feeling embarrassed. But no one was paying them any mind but Hermione, who smiled reassuringly.
The food was deemed amazing, and everyone gave their compliments to the chef. If Harry could thank the Dursleys for anything, it was the years of practice and perfectionism. He humbly swatted away their praise, knowing he was quite good by now, but he was no chef.
“Shit, love. We need to get going,” Ron told Hermione. “It’s already quarter to.”
“Oh, alright,” she conceded. She shovelled eggs and tomato into her mouth, following Ron’s lead. Ron loaded his pajama pockets with croissants enough for both of them, and they quickly dashed up the stairs.
Charlie came back in a bit later, looking crestfallen.
“Ron took Maggie upstairs with them,” he said in a sad monotone.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Audrey said sympathetically as she tucked her dark hair behind her ear.
Percy set his fork down to smooth her waves back from her face. “Don’t you have your own dog, Charlie?”
“Cartof is two thousand kilometres away, with Mircea and Ghenadie, having a lovely Christmas without me.”
There was a long pause as Charlie sat down again and loaded his own plate. No one quite knew what to say or how to cheer him up.
“Well, you’re welcome to babysit Maggie anytime you’re in the country,” Audrey told him. “As long as Molly and Arthur are okay with having him. And Harry, of course, lives here too. Right, Percy, darling?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Percy agreed lightly, scooping beans onto his fried bread. “As long as you share her with the actual children today.”
The whole table laughed, and the tension was broken. Even Charlie was giggling, though he tried to hide it.
“Of course I will!” Charlie said with mock offence. “What do you think of me? You think I can’t share, because I’m childish?! I’m extremely mature!”
“HA,” Ron guffawed as he and Hermione entered the kitchen again, beagle in tow. He was wearing a casual navy suit with a crisp white button-down. “You are a giant baby, and everyone knows it.”
Hermione was showing Audrey her new necklace, which matched nicely with her flowy periwinkle dress. She had pinned her hair away from her face, but she still threw it back over her shoulders as Audrey turned the pendant over and admired the details.
“Are you getting your turtle doves and lords a-leaping later, then?” Audrey asked. They laughed together delightedly.
“We should be home in an hour or two,” Ron said, as they collected used dishes to put in the sink. “We’ll both help you cook. You shouldn’t be the only one cooking, even if you are the only one of us who knows how.”
Hermione and Audrey had finished cackling about partridges and milking maids, having been set off again every time a Weasley gave them a questioning look. Now, Harry could hear Hermione whispering to Audrey about keeping an eye on him. Harry closed his eyes against a developing headache for a moment, then put the kettle on again.
Ron switched the burner off and replaced the kettle with a saucepot. He rummaged in the cabinets and through the fridge, and placed cocoa powder and milk on the counter by Harry.
“You’re having chocolate. You look like you need it,” Ron declares. He lowers his voice to a confession. “We just love you, mate. It’s not like we think you’re going to fall apart or, I don’t know, misbehave. We trust you with our lives, I think we’ve both proven that. It’s more about being sure you have someone to talk to if you need it. It makes us worry less.”
“I understand,” Harry sighed unhappily. He didn’t love being watched over, as though he could burst into tears or boil into a rage at the smallest trigger. He was a nuisance and a burden, and he hated it. Ron squeezed his shoulder firmly and shook him a bit, trying to be reassuring.
“Ron, we have to go!” Hermione chastised, as though she hadn’t just finished a full conversation with Audrey.
“Waiting on you, love,” Ron said, looking absolutely smitten over his fiancée.
Hermione put on her long wool coat and a blue scarf peppered with silver stars of David (“to please my mother”). Then she bee-lined to Harry as Ron went to put on his blue peacoat.
“Bye, Harry, we’ll be back soon,” she assures, hugging him tightly.
She walked over to the back door and took Ron’s outstretched hand. She used him for balance as she crouched down to Maggie’s level.
“You be a good puppy dog, okay?” Hermione said, smushing the dog’s face and leaving a dark lipstick mark on her head. “I will sneak you home some blintzes. But I’ll know if you act up. I’m like Santa.”
“‘Mione, come on, the challah!”
“Wish us luck,” Hermione said grimly.
Harry turned back to the stovetop and started warming the chocolate in the pot, readying to take it off the heat when it started steaming. He heard the door close and footsteps fading as Harry’s best friends vanished into the snowy morning and he was left alone.