#another fic thats been hanging in my inbox for months

[dracolucius-abraxusmalfoy]

I would LOVE to read more of the golden trio cuddles, they are so tender💖❤️💖maybe them at grimmauld together?

It gets worse before it gets better.

That is— Grimmauld Place is lovely when it’s just the three of them, and the house, sensing their joy, is joyful too. It is warmer, softer, almost over night. The shifting floorboards and peeling wall paper look brand new, glimmering gilded in the soft late summer evening light that new windows, appearing out of thin air, let into the previous gloomy and lightless interior. All the things that Sirius hated lessen and all the good things, the fond childhood memories he had shared are highlighted. 

Mornings in the kitchen with hot food and hotter coffee— the smell of it permeating the air— the bright sunlight through kitchen sink windows and the French doors that had appeared their third day in the house after Harry’s casual mentioning of their historical presence and currant absence. 

Cozy evenings in front of the crackling parlour fire place, the faint sounds of tripping classical piano echoing through the room (Harry swears, sometimes, that he can hear Sirius’ voice yelling at Regulus to hush up) and the rustling pages of Hermione’s latest book.

Grimmauld place loves them, and it lets them know it. 

When Harry gets anxious by himself in the kitchen, flashes of war torn safe-houses and the eerie silence of the basement grating his nerves, suddenly Hermione’s tuneless humming can be heard all the way from the third floor library and the clang of the pipes— long silent— resume when Ron is in the shower. A mantle clock, much the same as the one in the burrow, appears one day in the sitting room, has a habit of following Harry through the house when Ron and Hermione are out, clanging obnoxiously each time they change location, and chiming a pretty muggle tune Hermione used to sing them on late nights in the common room whenever they arrive back home. 

It’s wondrously domestic, all of it, but their closeness, once necessitated by the vastness of Hogwarts castle, has lessened in the presence of Grimmauld’s determination to please them. 

Harry once again finds himself alone, even when he can hear their breathing, their heart beats, almost synchronous, from his room across the hall, he is still alone, and he hates it, just a little bit. Hates Grimmauld place for allowing it (he tries to be extra kind to the house in his guilt) and hates them, just a little, for having each other (tries to be extra kind to them in return.)

He does want them. Just not the way they want each other. The closest he has every gotten was Ginny, perhaps, and that had faded quickly in the wake of a coming war, in the aftermath of trauma, and even before, when the novelty of someone wanting him had worn off. Or Draco Malfoy, who he loathes with a vehemence that surprises him, but who he sometimes found himself watching, admiring the glint of white gold hair and silver eyes in Scottish highland sunlight. But he did not want them, not really, not even then. He sometimes thinks he is incapable of it, and so he says nothing and stays silent. 

Ron and Hermione represent a different kind of want. He wants their closeness, their friendship, their ever presentness. He likes when they are his as well as each others, when he can claim them, needs their warm thereness to fall asleep. 

He doesn’t… He knows they are together, as much as they try to keep it to a minimum (he suspects Hermione thinks him jealous— he is not) and he is pleased for them, truly. He just did not expect that the togetherness of the three of them, the smooth triangle forged over the course of eight years, burned into shape over the last two, would suddenly shift, that a fourth corner would appear to them where he could not follow. 

He does not want what they have, has frankly always been a little repulsed by the idea of physical intimacy, but he wants what they had before back. 

He misses them. 

It gets worse before it gets better. 

He’s always hated the part of him that can’t seem to get past the sulky teenager-ness of his personality even he still is. Still a teenager, still adolescent by definition even though he is two years past adulthood. No matter what Hermione says about brain formation and the effects of trauma he will never not wince at himself. 

And thats the problem— most of the time he can see it happening, see it coming even and yet can do precious little to stop its rapid advance. The precocious silences that fill the house with drooping ceilings and dirty window panes and the snappy remarks when Hermione gets just a little too close to a problem. The creaking door frames and floor boards this brings out. He feels too seen by it, the vulnerability of having a house too closely tied to his emotions and he knows its normal, for a given value. The burrow shudders violently in Molly Weasley’s anger and has a habit of shaking children loose from hiding spots. He knows that muggle houses, even, have a tendency to absorb magic and emotions, the little bits of it that muggles give off, or the small amount from singular Wizarding children. Knows that if one or two more Wizarding affiliated families happened to pass through their thresholds they may very well develop personalities too, might start adapting in increments to the needs of its muggle residents. Knows that at 4 privet drive the cupboard under the stairs is glued shut now, won’t open anymore for all the misery it absorbed yet in his childhood- he sometimes felt it sigh around him, caress his hair and sing him gentle lullabies, humming in the cover of night, the walls glowing softly with the magic of him. He remembers that now, what he used to think were probably dreams. 

He knows all this, and yet he wishes Grimmauld place would stop. Not because he doesn’t appreciate it. Sometimes he pictures Sirius’ grin at finding his posters still glued to the walls or remembers Remus’ smiles when in the morning, a pot of tea would be waiting, not quite hot enough or sweet enough but Remus would smile and brush the walls gently with his finger tips, like he was thanking it, even while Sirius muttered insults under his breath. 

It’s only that the house is too close to his heart. Wishes it wouldn’t feel his anxiety the way it does. Feel his sadness in it’s creaking stairs. 

He does not explain, because he can’t yet, not quite, doesn’t know how to verbalize what he wants, only knows its a bone deep desire for warmth. But Hermione comes home from the market to peeling paint all the way into the sitting room and curls herself around him without asking. Ron brings home Hermione’s favourite flowers but he also carry a box of fresh pastries, steaming treacle tart front and centre. And when he finds them, too warm but snug in front of a broiling fire that should have brunt out ages ago but that the house keeps adding logs to, he does not frown or go blank, the way he used to the way he did in the tent in the forest. But he smiles instead and slots himself in between Harry and the couch arm, barely enough space. He’s really much too big, but somehow he gets all of himself there with them, arms reaching around to brush Hermione’s shoulder, an ankle hooked between Harrys to keep his legs from sliding off the couch. 

He asks what are we doing? And Hermione only shrugs and nuzzles deeper into Harrys side Rons hand. And Ron rests his other elbow on Harry’s shoulder so he can reach his hair and they sit like that for a long time. Too warm and silent. Unwilling to let go. 

Harry goes to bed by himself that night. 

But he wakes to them, Hermione tucked up against his back, forehead pressed between his shoulder-blades knees curled up by his spine, and Ron sprawled starfish on his back across the rest of the bed, one foot still dangling over the edge. 

The loneliness abates, just a little. 

He wonders if it was the house, or if they’ve maybe missed his warmth too.