Chapter Text
Harry can't breathe.
The castle walls are closing in, every portrait watching him with badly concealed concern, every professor finding excuses to walk him between classes. Like he's made of glass. Like Sirius Black might leap out from behind any tapestry and finish what he started twelve years ago.
Harry almost wishes he would. At least then all this suffocating attention would have a point.
He's pacing the common room at midnight, counting his steps because it's better than counting the ways everyone's treating him like he might shatter. Seven steps to the window. Turn. Eight steps back. The fire's burning low, casting shadows that dance across the walls like dementors. He tries not to think about the screaming he hears when they're near. Tries not to think about anything at all.
Professor McGonagall had actually suggested he skip Hogsmeade visits entirely. "For your own safety, Potter," she'd said, like he hasn't faced Voldemort twice already. Like he hasn't killed a basilisk. Like he's still some scared little kid in a cupboard under the stairs.
His fingers curl into fists. The urge to break something rises in his chest, hot and sharp as dragon's breath. He wants to shatter every window in Gryffindor Tower. Wants to scream until his throat bleeds. Wants someone - anyone - to treat him like Harry instead of The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-Hunted.
A first year had actually squeaked and run away when he'd rounded a corner too quickly earlier. Like he was the murderer everyone was watching for. The memory makes him want to laugh, but he knows if he starts, it might come out more like sobbing.
The window glass is cool against his forehead. The grounds stretch out below, dark and inviting. Somewhere out there, Sirius Black is supposedly hunting him. Somewhere out there is freedom from these suffocating walls and watchful eyes.
"Just do it already," he whispers to the darkness beyond the glass. To Black, if he's out there watching. "Just try it. I'm not afraid of you."
It's not even a lie. How can he be afraid of Sirius Black when he's too busy being furious? At Black, at the professors, at himself for not being able to handle this better. At the whole bloody wizarding world for never just letting him be normal.
The clock strikes midnight. Each chime feels like another bar in the cage they're all so busy building around him. Protection, they call it. Safety. Security.
Prison, Harry thinks, and presses his palm flat against the glass until it hurts.
The floorboards creak behind him, and Harry tenses before he recognizes the familiar pattern of Ron's footsteps. His best friend's reflection appears in the window glass, sleep-rumpled and squinting in the dim firelight.
"Mate?" Ron's voice is rough with sleep. "Woke up and you weren't there."
Harry doesn't turn around. Can't quite face the concern he knows he'll see in Ron's eyes, even though it's different from everyone else's somehow. Less suffocating. More... Ron.
"Couldn't sleep," Harry says to the window. His breath fogs the glass, obscuring the grounds beyond. "You should go back to bed."
Instead of leaving, Ron drops onto the windowsill beside him. Their shoulders brush, and Harry forces himself not to lean into the warmth. He's not some scared kid who needs comfort. He's not—
"Had that nightmare again?" Ron asks quietly. "The green light one?"
Harry's silence is answer enough. Ron shifts beside him, and for a moment Harry thinks he's going to do something awful like try to hug him or tell him everything will be fine. But Ron just sits there, solid and present, watching the darkness with him.
"You know what Fred and George always say?" Ron finally breaks the silence. "Nothing feels as bad after you've had a proper midnight feast."
Despite himself, Harry feels his lips twitch. "Pretty sure they just say that to justify sneaking out to raid the kitchens."
"Well, yeah." Ron grins, and something in Harry's chest loosens slightly at the familiar sight. "But they're not wrong, are they? And I happen to know exactly how to get there without running into Filch or his bloody cat."
Harry finally turns to look at him properly. Ron's hair is sticking up on one side, his pajamas are wrinkled, and there are pillow creases on his cheek. He looks... safe. Normal. Like this is just another late-night adventure and not part of everyone's endless campaign to Keep Harry Potter Alive.
Except.
"You're not supposed to let me wander around at night," Harry says, unable to keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice. "Supposed to keep me safe in the tower where no mass murderers can get me."
Ron's face does something complicated. "Yeah, well," he scratches his nose, ears going slightly pink. "Reckon you've faced worse than Sirius Black in these halls. And anyway, that's what this is for."
He pulls something from his pocket - the Marauder's Map. Must have grabbed it from Harry's trunk before coming down.
"But—" Harry starts.
"Look," Ron cuts him off, suddenly serious. "I know everyone's being mental about keeping you locked up 'safe.' And I know you hate it. And maybe..." he falters slightly, ears going pinker. "Maybe sometimes I get a bit mental about it too, because you're my best mate and the idea of some nutter trying to kill you is properly terrifying. But that doesn't mean you should have to sit up here alone having nightmares, does it?"
The words hit Harry like a physical blow. Because that's the difference, isn't it? Everyone else wants to protect The Boy Who Lived. Ron just wants his friend to be okay.
"Besides," Ron continues, clearly trying to lighten the mood, "the house elves love you. Bet they'd make those treacle tarts you like."
Harry's stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly. He realizes he'd barely touched dinner, too frustrated by Percy hovering nearby "just happening" to patrol that section of the table.
"Fine," he says, trying not to smile as Ron's face lights up. "But if we get caught, I'm blaming you entirely."
"Fair enough." Ron unfolds the map, tapping it with his wand. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
The familiar lines spread across the parchment. They both lean in close, shoulders pressing together as they check the corridors between here and the kitchens. Filch is up on the fourth floor. Mrs. Norris is prowling near the dungeons. The path to the kitchens looks clear.
"Ready?" Ron whispers, and for the first time all day, Harry feels something like excitement flutter in his chest. This, at least, feels normal. Just him and Ron, breaking rules together like always.
"Ready," he confirms, already moving toward the portrait hole. Behind him, he hears Ron mutter "Mischief managed" and hurry to catch up.
The Fat Lady gives them a disapproving look as they climb out, but Harry finds he doesn't care. The corridor stretches before them, dark and full of possibility. And for the first time in weeks, he's not thinking about Sirius Black at all.
Going to the kitchen in all honestly was a great idea.
It was actually nothing interesting in all honestly getting there. Harry would describe it as cold.
But walking there with Ron beside him listening to both their bare feet tapping alone the stone floor made him feel at peace. Exchanging occasional looks to the map still in Ron's hand holding his hand- and body his mind added close to him so he could see.
"Knuckle for your thoughts?"
Harry almost stumbles at Ron's words, caught off-guard by how the whisper seems to echo in the empty corridor. Their shoulders bump as Ron steadies him, and Harry's suddenly very aware of how close they're standing, both hunched over the dim light of the map.
"It's 'penny,'" Harry whispers back, watching their footsteps appear on the parchment with each step forward. "Muggle saying is 'penny for your thoughts.'"
"Well, I haven't got any pennies, have I?" Ron's grin is barely visible in the wandlight, but Harry can hear it in his voice. "Got a couple Knuts though, if you're selling."
Harry snorts, the sound seeming too loud in the silent castle. But he finds himself answering anyway, voice low: "Just thinking this is... nice. Being able to actually move without someone hovering over my shoulder."
Ron's quiet for a moment, and Harry can feel him choosing his words carefully. "Must be proper awful, having everyone watch you like that."
"Yeah," Harry breathes out, relieved that Ron gets it. Their feet pad softly against the stone as they turn another corner. "Sometimes I think I'd rather face Black than deal with another day of everyone treating me like I might explode."
He feels Ron tense beside him, shoulder going rigid where it presses against Harry's. But then Ron deliberately relaxes, and when he speaks, his voice is determinedly casual. "Well, reckon you'd have a better chance against Black than against Percy when he's in full prefect mode anyway."
It startles a laugh out of Harry, and he has to clap a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. Ron looks pleased with himself, and something warm unfurls in Harry's chest.
They pause at the next intersection, both leaning in closer to study the map. Ron's hair tickles Harry's cheek, and he catches a whiff of that weird fruity shampoo Mrs. Weasley always buys. It's... distracting, somehow.
"Coast is clear," Ron murmurs, his breath warm against Harry's ear. "Just two more corridors to go."
Harry nods, not trusting his voice suddenly. The castle feels different at night, like the rules of the normal world don't quite apply. Like anything could happen in these shadowy corridors where their bare feet make soft shushing sounds against ancient stone.
Or maybe it's just that Ron's still pressed close against his side, map held between them like a shared secret.
He felt himself smile and sneak a look at Ron- a matching smile was on the older boy.
The kitchen explodes into activity the moment they slip through the entrance. House elves appear from every direction, eager to serve despite the late hour. Harry's momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden shift from quiet corridors to bustling warmth, but Ron's steady presence at his side keeps him grounded.
"Harry Potter sir!" Dobby's voice rings out above the general commotion. The elf bounds forward, wearing what appears to be three different knitted hats stacked on top of each other. "And Harry Potter's Wheezy! What can Dobby be doing for you?"
Before either of them can answer, a small army of elves has already guided them to a corner table that Harry swears wasn't there a moment ago. It's tucked away from the main bustle of the kitchen, surprisingly cozy with its worn wooden surface and two chairs that look suspiciously like they've been borrowed from the Gryffindor common room.
"Er," Harry starts, but he's cut off by the arrival of steaming mugs of hot chocolate.
"Brilliant," Ron sighs, wrapping his hands around his mug. The firelight catches his hair, turning it to burnished copper, and Harry finds himself staring longer than strictly necessary. "Thanks Dobby."
Dobby beams, snapping his fingers. Suddenly the space around their table is filled with floating candles, casting a warm glow that makes everything feel oddly intimate. "Is Harry Potter and his Wheezy wanting anything else? Sandwiches? Cakes? Treacle tart?"
Harry's about to decline - it's enough just being here, away from watchful eyes but his stomach growls traitorously. Ron laughs, the sound warm and familiar.
"Maybe just some snacks?" Ron suggests, and immediately platters begin appearing on their table. "Blimey, they don't do anything by halves, do they?"
Harry grins, reaching for a chocolate biscuit at the same moment Ron does. Their fingers brush, and Harry feels a weird jolt in his stomach that he decides to blame on hunger. Ron's ears go pink as they both pull back.
"You have it," they say in unison, then laugh.
"Split it?" Ron suggests, breaking the biscuit in half. Their fingers brush again as he hands Harry his share, and this time Harry can't blame the flutter in his stomach on anything but the way Ron's smile looks in the candlelight.
The kitchen settles into a comfortable buzz around them, house elves going about their work while occasionally sneaking more treats onto their table. It feels like being in a bubble, separated from all the worry and fear that's been suffocating Harry for weeks.
"Thanks," Harry says quietly, after they've worked their way through several biscuits and half a treacle tart. "For this. For not treating me like I might break if someone looks at me wrong."
Ron looks up from where he's been contemplating the remains of his hot chocolate. There's a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth that Harry has a sudden, inexplicable urge to wipe away.
"You're the strongest person I know, mate," Ron says, with a simplicity that makes Harry's throat tight. "Reckon everyone else just forgets that sometimes."
Harry has to look away from the earnestness in Ron's eyes, focusing instead on the way the floating candles cast dancing shadows across the table. Dobby must have added more when they weren't looking - the light seems softer now, more golden.
"Still," Harry manages. "Thanks for remembering."
When he glances back, Ron's watching him with an expression Harry can't quite read. The chocolate smudge is still there, and Harry's hand twitches with that same strange urge to reach out.
Instead, he grabs another biscuit, trying to ignore the way his heart seems to be doing something complicated in his chest. Must be the sugar, he decides firmly. Or the late hour. Or the relief of finally feeling like he can breathe properly.
It's definitely not the way Ron's knee is pressed against his under the small table, or how the candlelight makes his best friend's eyes look impossibly blue.
Definitely not that.
Time seems to blur in their cozy corner of the kitchen. Harry's not sure how long they've been sitting there, trading stories and snacks, but he feels the tension of the past weeks slowly unraveling with each of Ron's laughs.
"—and then Fred actually tried to convince Mum that the gnome had cursed him to only be able to speak in limericks," Ron's saying, gesturing with half a cream puff. "Kept it up for three whole days until George accidentally made him laugh during dinner."
Harry grins, watching crumbs fall onto Ron's pajama top. "Bet your mum wasn't impressed."
"Made them de-gnome the garden twice a day for a week." Ron pauses, something softening in his expression. "You know, it's good to see you smiling properly again. You've been... I dunno, different lately."
The words catch Harry off guard. He stares down at his empty mug, suddenly fascinated by the chocolate residue at the bottom. "Have I?"
"Well yeah," Ron shifts in his chair, their knees bumping again under the table. Neither moves away. "Not that I blame you, with everything that's happening. Just... missed this, I suppose. Just us, you know?"
Harry does know. Realizes with a start how much he's missed it too - these moments when he gets to just be Harry, not The Boy Who Lived or The Target or The One We Must Protect. Just Harry, sitting in a warm kitchen with his best friend, surrounded by floating candles that make everything feel dream-like and possible.
A house elf - not Dobby this time - appears to refill their mugs. The movement breaks whatever strange spell had fallen over their corner, and Harry realizes with a start how late it must be.
"We should probably head back," he says reluctantly, even though the thought of returning to his nightmare-haunted bed makes something in his chest tighten.
Ron seems equally reluctant to move, but he nods, stretching in a way that makes his spine crack. "Yeah, suppose we should. Before Percy realizes we're gone and has a complete breakdown."
They stand, and Harry's surprised by how stiff his legs feel. Must have been sitting longer than he thought. He sways slightly, tired and sugar-drunk, and Ron's hand catches his elbow to steady him. The touch feels electric in the quiet kitchen.
"Alright there?" Ron asks softly, not moving his hand.
Harry nods, not trusting his voice suddenly. The candles are reflecting in Ron's eyes, creating tiny points of gold that Harry can't seem to look away from.
"Harry Potter sir and his Wheezy be wanting anything else?" Dobby appears beside them, breaking the moment. Ron's hand drops from Harry's elbow, and Harry tells himself he doesn't miss the warmth.
"No, thanks Dobby," Harry manages. "This was perfect."
They gather the map and make their way to the entrance, house elves bowing them out with promises to visit again. The corridor feels colder after the warmth of the kitchen, and Harry shivers slightly in his thin pajamas.
"Here," Ron mutters, stepping closer so they can both see the map properly. His warmth seeps into Harry's side, and Harry finds himself leaning into it without meaning to.
They make their way back in comfortable silence, stopping occasionally to check the map or listen for sounds of patrolling teachers. It feels different from their journey down - less tense, more... something else Harry can't quite name.
The common room is exactly as they left it, fire burned down to embers. They stand at the bottom of the dormitory stairs, neither quite ready to end whatever this night has been.
"Thanks," Harry says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "For... you know."
Ron's smile is soft in the dim light. "Anytime, mate. Really."
They climb the stairs quietly, careful not to wake their dormmates. As Harry slides back into bed, he catches Ron watching him from across the room, expression unreadable in the darkness.
"Night, Harry," Ron whispers.
"Night, Ron," Harry whispers back, and for the first time in weeks, when he closes his eyes, he doesn't see green light or imagine footsteps in dark corridors. Instead, he sees floating candles and Ron's smile in firelight, and somehow, that makes all the difference.
He falls asleep to the sound of Ron's breathing across the room, and if he dreams, he doesn't remember it in the morning.