Disclaimer: I only own the plot.

Thwack!

Harry woke with a jerk, the pillow he'd been hit with slipping of the bed and onto the floor.

"Come on, mate. Mum's got breakfast ready," his best friend Ron informed him through an already full mouth.

Reaching blindly for his glasses that he knew were on the nightstand, he finally located them and rammed them on his face, his movements uncoordinated and jerky to due to sleepiness. Harry acknowledged Ron's announcement with a vague wave and grumble. Satisfied that his message had been delivered, Ron trooped back downstairs to finish his- and probably half of Harry's- breakfast. Groaning, Harry peeled his blankets back and pulled himself to the edge of the bed and sat up.

Forearms resting on his knees, Harry hung his head, absently studying his pale, bare torso and legs. With a last cursory glance at his white toes, which contrasted greatly against the dark wood floor, Harry stood and began rummaging around in his trunk for something to wear. Digging through his trunk, Harry quickly became disgusted with his clothing and the state of them. How had he never noticed how ratty they were? He settled on his least baggy jeans and a red t-shirt that was too faded to make out what had once been adorning its front. Snatching out a pair of socks, Harry closed his trunk and plopped himself onto the floor next to his trainers to dress his feet.

Yawning and having to retie his left shoe twice, he decided he was relatively presentable and heaved himself off the bright orange throw rug and out the door. Once in the bathroom, Harry made quick work of washing his face. He followed this by harshly brushing at his teeth while eyeing himself critically in the mirror. A bit peaky, as always, accentuated by the dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess of inky black feathered strands going in all directions. Harry spat out the toothpaste foam and rinsed his mouth. Baring his teeth, he clacked them together thrice in quick succession. He eyed the hair brush in the cabinet and shrugged. Grabbing it, he ran it through the nest on his head as best he could. He returned the brush to the cabinet with less bristles than when he got it out, and checked in the mirror for any improvement.

"Nope."

Turning off the light in the bathroom Harry went downstairs to join the rest of the Weasley's. He reached the kitchen and sat in the only empty seat between Fred and George and started piling eggs and sausages onto his plate, while a piece of toast was clamped between his teeth. A pale, freckled arm crossed his field of vision and placed the hot sauce next to his plate and retreated. Looking at George, Harry's mouth twitched upwards into a small smile. "Thanks, George."

The red-head responded with a simple, "Mhmm," and returned to his own breakfast.

Hearing Harry's voice, Molly Weasley turned around from her monitoring the food cooking itself on the stove. "Oh, good morning Harry, dear. Did you get enough sleep?"

Harry's insomnia and nightmares were well-known at the Burrow, as he often woke them from their own slumbers with his screaming. That, or the creaking his feet made on the stairs when he walked down the many floors into the family room to read when sleep escaped him.

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Weasley," he replied automatically as he always did when she asked.

Mrs. Weasley nodded her acceptance of his answer and returned her attention to the sizzling sausages. Harry added liberal amounts of the hot sauce to his eggs and took a heaping mouthful, reminiscent of Ron. Another arm shot into view from his other side this time, and deposited a cup of what smelled like strong coffee in front of him. Fred retracted his arm, only to snatch the sugar from its place in front of Charlie ("Hey!") who had been adding some to his tea, and setting it next to Harry's steaming coffee cup. George quickly followed the action by handing Harry a fresh teaspoon to stir with.

Harry's small smile from before returned, a bit wider this time. "Thanks, guys," he said to them.

"You're welcome, Harry," they returned in their customary synchronicity.

Chewing a pleasing combination of eggs, sausage and toast, Harry doctored up his coffee and took a grateful drink, then let out an unconscious hum of contentment. Ron and Charlie across the table, and the twins beside him all glanced up from their plates at the sound, and grinned fondly at him.

The meal continued peacefully with idle chit chat between chews of the delicious food. A quiet combination of softly spoken words, cutlery clinking against dishes and Mr. Weasley's newspaper rustling intermittently, filled the room. Harry was content to simply soak up the familial atmosphere that seemed to exist solely in the Burrow. At some point, George's arm ended up laying along the back of Harry's chair, brushing Harry's back as it rested there. Meanwhile, Fred had slouched enough to comfortably rest his head atop Harry's shoulder and was dozing lightly.

The other Weasley's had long since gotten used to the closeness between the three. After Harry defeated Voldemort for the final time- shortly before which, Harry had died himself- Harry started struggling. The first thing to change was his sleeping habits. While he's never had what one would call a normal sleep pattern, he now either hardly got any rest, or his rest was punctuated by terrible visions of the past and the dead. Because of this Harry's mood was affected, in that his temper was much shorter than usual, which was really saying something as he wasn't the most level-headed person on a good day.

While Ron and Hermione were both wrapped up in their new romance, it was the twins that noticed Harry's altered state and confronted him about it. At ease between the two trouble-makers, Harry thought back to their intervention and the events leading up to it, and shook his head. Thank Merlin for Gred and Forge.