Waking up beside you still felt like nicking something he shouldn’t have. Not in a bad way—just in the kind of way that made him keep checking to see if it was real. That he got this. You, here, next to him, curled up under his duvet that still smelled vaguely like dust and that awful Muggle detergent he bought on a dare. He never thought he’d live in a flat in London. He never thought he’d live, full stop.

But now he had you. And a kettle that leaked. And a bed that creaked like a bastard if he so much as breathed too loud. And gods, it was perfect.

You had moved in three weeks ago, but Harry already couldn’t remember what the place looked like without your shoes at the door or that ridiculous mug you drank out of—the one with the cat in a wizard hat. The flat was still a mess, barely unpacked. Your books were on top of his books. Your jumper was draped over his chair. He found a hair tie wrapped around his wand the other day, and he didn’t even question it. Just smiled like a bloody idiot and shoved it on his wrist like it belonged there.

Mornings were stupid, mostly. He still wasn’t used to sleeping more than four hours at a time, and nightmares were the sort of houseguests that didn’t know when to bugger off. But when he jolted awake at half-four, sweat-slick and heart thudding, he looked over and you were still there. Breathing soft and slow, fingers curled near your chin. And he let himself be selfish—he touched your back, or your hand, just enough to believe you weren’t going anywhere. That the war had really ended. That he got to have this.

He didn’t wake you. Usually. But sometimes, you stirred anyway and mumbled something that made no sense, like “kitchen’s on fire” or “steal my socks and I’ll hex you.” And he laughed, because how the hell did he get so lucky?

Breakfast was always a disaster. He swore to Merlin he tried. He got up before you, thought he’d surprise you, and then suddenly the toast was black, the eggs were half-liquid and half-rubber, and he’d somehow managed to burn a pot of tea. You walked in, hair sticking up like you’d wrestled a pillow into submission, and just gave him this look—this fond, you’re-a-dunce-but-you’re-my-dunce look—and then you ate the burnt toast anyway.

“I’m a menace,” Harry muttered as you chewed through it like a champ. You smirked. Shrugged. And he pretended like he wasn’t fucking glowing inside because you stayed. You stayed through the war, and through him, and now through his tragic attempts at being domestic.

You spent afternoons doing nothing, and it was the best kind of nothing Harry had ever known. You sat on the couch, legs tucked under you, reading something with a cover he didn’t recognize. He lay with his head on your lap, pretending to nap while really just listening to the quiet sound of you flipping pages. Sometimes you carded your fingers through his hair, slow and absent, and it felt like magic in a way Hogwarts never taught him.

Sometimes, he caught himself staring at your hands. Don’t ask him why. Maybe because they’d patched him up more times than he deserved. Maybe because they looked so damn right pouring tea or digging through the biscuit tin he swore he wouldn’t touch again until Tuesday. Maybe because every time you touched him—even just a pinky grazing his wrist—it felt like proof he was still here.

At night, it was best. The flat creaked around you, the city hummed just outside the cracked window, and your body fit next to his like it was meant to be there. Meant to be his. You tangled your legs with his like it was nothing, like it was habit, like it was safe. And he held you, and he whispered stupid things he’d never say out loud when the lights were on.

“You’re home now,” he said once, forehead pressed to yours, too tired to be clever.