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The Burrow sounded different at night.
During the day it was all shouting and clattering and Mrs. Weasley’s voice cutting through everything like a warm bell. At night, it softened. The house creaked gently, like it was settling in around its own heartbeat. Crickets sang outside the open window, and the air smelled like grass and old wood and Ron’s laundry detergent.
Harry lay awake in Ron’s bed, staring at the slanted ceiling.
He’d been doing that a lot lately.
Ron was already half-asleep beside him, sprawled out in a way that suggested he trusted the world to keep spinning without his supervision. They’d pushed the beds together, like they always did when Harry stayed over. It was easier to pretend the space between them didn’t exist.
Harry turned onto his side, careful not to wake him, and tried to breathe.
It didn’t work.
His chest felt tight, like something was lodged there, sharp and immovable. The familiar spiral started, memories pressing in from all sides. Cupboard-dark. Silence. The echo of a voice telling him what he was, over and over again.
“Harry?”
Ron’s voice was thick with sleep, but alert underneath it, like he’d been waiting.
Harry swallowed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Ron shifted closer without thinking, propping himself up on one elbow. “You okay?”
Harry shrugged, which felt like a lie even as he did it. Ron didn’t call him on it. He never did. He just watched, blue eyes soft in the dark.
“You don’t gotta be,” Ron said quietly.
Something in Harry broke open.
“I hate it,” he whispered. “When it gets quiet. Feels like my head gets louder.”
Ron nodded like that made perfect sense. He reached out, hesitated for half a second, then pulled Harry closer until their foreheads nearly touched.
“C’mere,” he said, gentle and sure.
Harry went.
Ron wrapped both arms around him, solid and warm, like an anchor. Harry pressed his face into Ron’s shoulder, breathing him in. Soap. Summer. Home.
They fit together easily, like this was something they’d always known how to do.
Ron’s hand moved in slow, steady circles on Harry’s back. “You’re safe here,” he murmured. “Mum’ll hex anyone who tries anything. Fred and George probably already have.”
Harry huffed a weak laugh.
“An’ me,” Ron added, more serious now. “I’ve got you.”
The words settled into Harry’s bones.
They stayed like that, the world narrowed down to warmth and breath and the quiet reassurance of another person choosing to stay. Harry felt his heartbeat slow, the sharp edges of his thoughts dulling.
After a while, Ron shifted just enough to look at him. “You know,” he said, voice low, “you don’t have to be brave all the time.”
Harry looked up at him. In the dark, Ron’s freckles were shadows, his expression open and earnest in a way that made Harry’s chest ache.
“I don’t know how not to be,” Harry admitted.
Ron leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s temple, barely there, like a secret. “You’ll learn,” he said. “We can learn together.”
Harry’s breath caught. He nodded, unable to trust his voice.
They curled back together, closer than before. Ron’s chin rested on Harry’s hair. Harry’s fingers curled into Ron’s shirt, holding on like he was afraid the moment might slip away.
Outside, the crickets kept singing. Inside, the Burrow held them gently.
Harry slept.