Yay, I'm being productive
Title: Where the Heart is
Pairing: George Weasley/Harry Potter
Warnings: slash, mentions of the death in OoTP
Notes: beta-ed by anyothergirl415
Prompt: 090. Home
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Universe and all it's characters belong to JKR. I'm just playing with it, if it belonged to me Harry would've ended up with a different Weasley. Please don't sue. I have kids to feed. Of course they're cats a snake and a hedgehog, but they need food too!
Harry Potter had never really had a home. Oh, of course he'd lived places. But never really a home. There had been the Dursley's house. He'd never really felt welcome there. It was a place to sleep, to eat, and after starting at Hogwarts, a place to spend the holidays until he could go back.
Hogwarts. That had been damn close to home. A place where he had been with friends and had been safe. Well, as safe as Harry Potter could be. But it still hadn't felt like a home. The closest he had ever had, yes. Not quite though.
The Burrow. Harry loved the Burrow. He was surrounded by warmth and love and friends and people he would come to call his family. It still hadn't been his home though. For as welcome as he felt there, he was still a visitor. It wasn't his.
Grimmauld Place. That had never felt like anything remotely resembling a home. He'd hated that building. From the moldy carpets to the shrieking portraits. Of course he technically owned the place, so it was his. Just not a home. There was no way it could be. That may have been different had Sirius survived, but it was best not to dwell on those things.
The tent. Now that was not a home. For one thing it was portable. It moved with him wherever he went. It was a base of operations, a place to sleep and recharge. Though that didn't happen often. A place to gather with others to plan what to do the next day if and when death eaters attacked. The only thing that likened that tent to a home was the fact that he'd been with his friends Ron and Hermione and most of the other Weasleys. Even if he had spent six months sleeping in it. It had been destroyed anyway.
The cell he'd spent six weeks as a prisoner in he had come to accept as his home. He'd shared the cell with Hermione and Ron and that made it close. Besides, he thought that if a person were to die in a place, it would be the closest thing to home. Now he thanked Merlin every day for the fact that that place hadn't become his home. Now that he had a real home. A home with the person he loved. A home with the person who had drug he and Ron and Hermione out of that cell. A home that was somewhat crowded. And noisy.
So many places Harry had lived, and still hadn't had a home. Not until the flat above number 93 Diagon Alley. The too-small room he shared with George, the library with the mushy couch. The mirror in the loo that always berated him on his hair. The squeaky floorboard outside of Fred's room that always announced the leaving of last night's shag. All of these things made a home. The chipped countertop in the kitchen, the wireless in the living room and the collection of burn marks and scorches and odd smells. These things were home. And Harry finally had a place that he loved enough to call home. For the first time in his life, Harry was home.