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“Ginny said not to smoke.”
With an eyeroll, he flicked his cigarette out of the vehicle, not bothering to roll up the window to keep out the sweltering August air. “Don’t know why you got this bloody thing anyway. It’s not like she’s quitting the Harpies any time soon to need this.”
For a moment, all he heard was the wind whipping in from outside.
“We’re trying.” A pause. “For a baby.”
Despite the warm summer heat blowing inside as they drove through the Irish countryside, Ron felt the temperature in the automobile grow frigid. Putting on what he hoped was an approximation of a supportive smile, he replied, “Well, that’s great. ‘Mione and I aren’t in any rush, you know? Just kind of living.”
Ron finally glanced over to where Harry stared forward, his eyes on the road, his face impassive. But the way his knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, the slight tensing of his neck, the way that his one hand tapped a rhythmless tune on his thigh, signified his discomfort at Ron’s statement.
“Good for you and Hermione. Ginny and I would rather not wait any longer.”
“Right.”
Ron observed as Harry ground his teeth, the strained look on his face indicating he had a loaded response to the single-word response before he changed the subject, tugging at an errant string at the edge of his sweater with unnecessary aggression.
“Let’s go back over the details of the case,” Harry began. “It’s important we focus on them. This Rulen woman isn’t an ordinary witch. We have to be extra careful. And we especially need to make sure that we aren’t distracted.”
Protest all he wanted, Ron could intuit that Harry was distracted. It was easy to identify the emotion in the man sitting beside him in the ragged jumper and dark jeans; he knew him better than he knew himself.
For a few minutes, they discussed the boring details of the case. The bleedin’ usual suspect: dark witch, attacking Muggles, undercover, be cautious, Voldemort sympathiser. Boilerplate villain. Harry had become unnervingly careful as he had gotten older, and their superiors had pointedly directed the warning to keep their cool at Ron. The conversation went on until they had exhausted every aspect of the case, the interviews, and the potential raid.
Silence again.
Lighting up his third forbidden cigarette in his sister’s minivan, he glanced down at his horrendous jumper and grimaced. He despised the fact that everyone thought his favourite colour was orange; he secretly loathed the colour.
If anyone had ever asked, he would have told them that his favourite colour—since he was eleven years old—was a particular shade of emerald.
***
“She’s being bloody ridiculous!”
His voice rang around the dormitory as he threw off his hideous dress robes and shrugged on his ratty pyjamas. The whole night had been a lesson in humiliation– almost like his life. The outdated clothing. Padma abandoning him. Hermione with Viktor-Bloody-Krum.
Harry making eyes at Cho every time she danced past them.
But the last thought he couldn’t say out loud. Wouldn’t say out loud. It had crept up on him, what he had categorised as ‘the thoughts.’ Sometime around the end of third year, he realised he didn’t just look at Harry as a friend. Of course, he was his friend. His best friend. Sometimes, when Hermione and Ron were at odds, it felt like Harry was his only friend; even his siblings weren’t as loyal to him as Harry was. But from the moment he met him, something had drawn him to Harry that wasn’t solely friendship. It wasn’t just the hero worship; he had occasionally wondered if that was it, if that was the thing fuelling his obsession. But he also knew it was those simple instances: when he made Harry smile at something stupid to stop those green eyes from clouding with sadness, when he would make him laugh at something he said or did, when Harry had those little moments of awe at Ron’s limited knowledge of the world.
He did have feelings for Hermione; that much was obvious. But something about Harry…
Sitting quietly on the crimson comforter of his four-poster, Harry was once again deep in thought. Something about bloody Snape. But for once, the curiosity Ron had over the next great mystery, the promise of another adventure, was dimmed by the way that Harry’s eyes closed in concentration and how his long, dark lashes rested at the top of his cheeks, under the dull rims of his circular glasses.
He was so pretty.
Ron pushed that thought aside as he plopped down next to Harry.
“The Patil twins were a bust,” Ron mused.
Harry let out a rueful chuckle and replied, rubbing his neck in that way that indicated he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, “Well, it’s not like either of us wanted to go with them. Wasn’t like we were going to end up snogging them in the courtyard or anything.”
“Didn’t want to anyway.”
“Me neither.”
For some reason, the room grew heavy with silence; every breath Harry took seemed amplified in Ron’s mind. Harry stared forward, not speaking, while Ron’s eyes roved over his profile, taking in the set of his jaw…
“Good night, Ron.” Without looking at him, he crawled up his bed and burrowed under the covers.
For a moment, all Ron could do was look at Harry under the blankets, almost too tiny for his age, before he stood and walked to his own four-poster. When he finally closed the crimson curtains around him, he reminded himself that the urge to kiss Harry was just a moment of madness.
***
“Checking in. Evan James, double room.”
The hotel clerk barely glanced at Harry, proclaiming his undercover name as she typed into one of those new-fangled computers, looking up the reservation. “Ah. Mr James. My apologies. All we have left is a room with one bed. There is a huge convention in the region. The Americans have basically booked the place up for the next few weeks.”
Clearly agitated, Harry’s voice began to rise, “We clearly requested–”
“‘S all right, mate.” Giving a charming smile at the Muggle, who finally deemed it necessary to acknowledge their presence, Ron said congenially, “We can sleep head to foot. We’ll be here a week, though. Can you try and see ‘bout getting us a room with two beds or a separate room if someone else leaves…Mindy?”
As he read her name from the tag on her ample chest, the girl in front of him blushed at his attentions, finally truly taking in Harry and Ron. He knew he had grown out of his lanky phase, finally filling in the Auror robes he had once thought would never look right on him. Even with the orange sweater clashing horrifically with his hair, he knew he had finally discovered a proper haircut and accepted that some women found him to be charming simply because of his “good nature” or “humour.” Plus, someone once said that his freckles were lovely. That his hair was like the sunset. And that his eyes were bluer than the perfect sky over a Quidditch pitch.
He may not be the cool one, the dangerous one, the smart one, the outrageous one, or the precious baby girl— but hearing that was something. Especially when it was said by…
Well, it didn’t matter.
When Mindy finally ended her instructions on free breakfast and local attractions, they walked silently to their shared room. The weight of things left unsaid during the ride, if not during the past three years, hung over them like a particularly stubborn cloud– no warmth could be felt in its shadow.
When they entered the sparsely furnished room, Harry took off to the loo to change, while Ron stripped down to his boxers and threw on an old t-shirt. He climbed up to the pillows, putting his hands behind his head, and staring at the watermarked ceiling. He heard Harry emerge minutes later and felt the bed sag as he sat upon it.
The familiar gentle click of Harry folding his glasses before he put them onto the nightstand beside him caused Ron to avert his gaze to the wizard, stiffly getting into bed next to him.
“I put a tempus charm on my wand. We need to get to sleep. We begin interviewing witnesses at seven am tomorrow.” Harry’s voice was muffled as he turned away from him, giving Ron a view of the back of that old grey t-shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms, despite the heat, and the back of his head, where raven strands stood up in numerous directions.
“Harry–”
“Good night, Ron.”
****
Thinking back on it, the whole thing was bloody weird. Being taken and put underwater for the Champions to save didn’t make a lick of sense to him. When he got home that summer, his mum had ranted for a week about the lack of safety at Hogwarts. Of course, at the time, Ron had defended Dumbledore vociferously, but later, he wondered what the old coot was really on about.
Fred and George had mocked him endlessly for being the thing that Harry treasured most; Seamus had made the snide remark that he was surprised it wasn’t Harry’s Firebolt. Hermione had given Harry an odd look that evening but hadn’t commented much.
And Ron had felt as though he had been told he had won the wizarding lottery. Secretly, of course.
When they finally got back to the dorm after the requisite celebrations of Harry’s success, Harry was still riding the high of having such demonstrable ‘moral fibre.’
Opening the door to the dorm and changing into his pyjama bottoms, Harry laughed, “Still can’t believe I didn’t tank that task completely. To be honest, I didn’t prep very hard. Probably should have drowned. Can you believe it?”
Ron began to change into his own pyjamas, “Barking if you ask me. You always manage to come out on top, mate.”
Nodding, the months of tense jealousy between them over the tournament long since passed, Harry added, “Do not know how Krum had Hermione under there. You’d think he didn’t have any other friends. I guess it was just whoever was available in the castle, you know, to keep things easy. Practical.”
Harry’s statement made Ron’s heart feel as though it were plunged into the icy depths of the Black Lake.
“Right. Convenience.”
Shrugging on his t-shirt, Harry ran his hands through his hair after it was back in place. “I mean, obviously, they got two of them right.”
Pausing as he began to pad towards his bed, Ron turned. “Which two?”
Harry tossed his clothes into a pile beside his four-poster and said, “Well, Fleur’s sister. And you. I mean, you are definitely the person I’m—”
Before Harry finished his statement, Ron had walked over, and for some reason, this caused Harry to back into the post behind him.
In a voice he had never heard leave himself before, Ron rasped, “I’m definitely what, Harry?” Without thinking, he reached up and adjusted the smudged spectacles on Harry’s face, staring into those emerald eyes, ensuring that the glasses sat just so to make sure that the lenses magnified every tiny fleck of gold in them.
Harry’s breath hitched. “I mean, you are my best friend. Person I am closest to.”
That was when Harry’s eyes landed on his lips. And every single fear, denial, and insecurity about his feelings towards Harry vanished.
The air felt warmer. He could feel Harry’s breath fan against his lips, his head tilted upwards towards Ron. And his mind seemed to narrow only to the scant centimetres between them.
Ron surged forward and kissed him.
It must have startled Harry, because his hands immediately went to Ron’s chest, while Ron moved his hands from his sides to cup his face. It was awkward. It was clumsy. It was both of their first kisses. They didn’t even bother to open their mouths, but Ron dared to run his thumb along Harry’s cheek, revelling in the soft skin– somehow he’d known Harry would have soft skin– before Harry pulled back, his hands on his chest now pushing Ron away instead of gripping his pyjama top.
“Ron, I don’t…I don’t know why I did that.” Panic was etched over Harry’s face, his skin pale, the way the emerald of his eyes glanced anywhere but his face more effective in killing a small part of Ron than any curse. “I’m not…I like witches.”
Nodding, Ron dug deep into himself, past the place where the thought that Harry’s lips were perfect against his own and that he could kind of taste butterbeer when they kissed ran over and over in his mind, and found the strength to reply, “Same. I like witches, too. Just….we were just…”
Harry grabbed onto the statement like a man clinging to driftwood in a shipwreck. “Emotional. That’s it. Too many emotions. Damned Triwizard Tournament.”
Ron realised Harry wasn’t going to look at him. He looked at every other spot in the homey Gryffindor dorm. But not at Ron.
And it hurt.
“Right. Damned tournament.”
That night, when he lay in bed unable to sleep, all he could think about was how, even while he’d been petrified and underwater, he’d noticed that when the light hit certain parts of the Black Lake, the shade was a stunning green. He couldn’t take his eyes off it in those moments when he was unable to move, and now he felt as though he would drown in emerald, but Harry wouldn’t save him this time.
***
The days were bleeding into one another. They were interviewing the local townspeople, asking about any specific odd things they had noticed, without much luck. The witch, this Rulen woman, had been focusing her particular brand of spellwork on Muggles who were elderly, without family around. It was a curse that slowly dissolved the victim’s insides, causing them to die slowly and painfully while fully aware of every moment of destruction.
Ron observed that as each day passed, Harry grew increasingly frustrated; the furrow of his brow was a frequent sight, and the tension in his neck was evident in the way he rubbed it. The witch they were dealing with was apparently an old follower of Voldemort’s, a fanatic who had never given up hope that her Master would return. These types of cases always bothered Harry more than any other– the feelings of guilt he had for his own survival surpassed the fact that he had once saved the wizarding world. In the past, Ron had been able to coax something out of Harry during these missions: a begrudging laugh, a small smile, a distraction. But that was years ago. That was before.
Sitting in a diner, they were going over paperwork. Three weeks. Three weeks of sharing one bed but barely talking about anything except their Auror work. Three weeks of silent meals and clipped conversations and broken communication.
They were best mates; it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be so strained that when they came back to the hotel room, Harry would immediately go to the loo before climbing into bed and falling asleep, while Ron would stare at the ceiling, wondering where it all went wrong.
As Ron sipped his lukewarm coffee and Harry ran his pale fingers along the rim of his plate, staring at a stack of parchment before him, Ron noticed the premature silver streaks in Harry’s black hair, the marks of time around his eyes, the lines around his mouth from where he frowned daily. He remembered the day when he suggested that maybe Harry play Quidditch, give up chasing dark wizards, and actually enjoy his life. Harry responded that he didn’t know anything but chasing dark wizards, and besides, if they were still out there, it was his duty to protect the world.
The thought had simultaneously made Ron want to shake some sense into the man before him and snog him senseless.
“I’ve got it,” Harry’s low declaration dragged Ron from his thoughts. For a brief moment, that old spark lit up those green eyes, and he fixed his familiar circular spectacles. He pointed to the parchment before him. “See here. A pattern. The Muggles who are being attacked all live along the coast. This establishes the locale. But…I feel like there is another glaring similarity.”
Glancing through his own messily scrawled notes, Ron perused for similarities.
Katherine Calais- Aged 79– Widowed, no children, no living relatives, parents deceased in childhood
Colin Flaherty- Age 82- Widower, no children, no living relatives, parents deceased in childhood
Patrick Moor- Age 80–Widower–parents deceased in childhood
Hattie Berkey- Age 85- parents deceased in childhood
“They are all orphans.” Harry flinched visibly, his green eyes darkening before Ron paused, the moment of clarity hitting him like a curse before saying, “Harry, why do all these orphans live in this particular coastal area?”
When Harry had left to gather more information, Ron had gone to the hotel room.
The sun was fading outside the window, and Ron lay in bed, trying unsuccessfully to engage with the football match on the telly, his mind going to the man downstairs in the lobby, making a series of calls on his mobile.
When the door opened, the light from the hall silhouetted Harry, his face even paler than it had been these past few weeks, and he stated grimly, closing the door behind him. “Reparations. They all lived near each other due to reparations. The church gave homes to those who were abused and mishandled under its care in their childhood: canings and starvation and… sexual abuse…Apparently, it was very common in the time period they lived in.”
Frowning, Ron clicked off the television and asked, “What church?”
Plopping down on the bed and putting his head in his hands, Harry mumbled, “The Catholic Church. They mainly ran orphanages until the late 1940s, when the Children Act was passed, and the government took over. Before that, it was the churches that mostly handled it. And…well…”
“What’s up, Harry?” He moved to the edge of the bed, sitting next to him, daring to put his hand on Harry’s arm, feeling him flinch for a moment before accepting the warmth from the tentative touch. “What else is there?”
With a shuddering sigh, Harry removed his head from his hands and glanced at Ron, his face stark white in the gloom of the hotel room.
“They were all in one orphanage as kids.”
“No…”
“Wool’s Orphanage.”
***
“Ronald Weasley…”
He had lain in the dark, trying to ignore the pulsing in his chest.
“Ronald Weasley…”
If he just ignored it, it would eventually go away, but the pain in his arm, the constant doubt, the hunger, the fear…it was all messing with his mind. He knew Harry and Hermione seemed to feel the same despair he did when he wore the locket, but they didn’t seem as affected by it. It was almost as if the locket knew he was the weak link. That he was the forgotten one. Not brilliant, not chosen. Just there. For what? Moral support. They had each other. For friendship? That was a joke. For his skills? He could see Hermione’s face if he suggested that.
“I can see that you are trying to ignore me. But I am in your mind. I see your thoughts. I know what you crave. You cannot escape me forever.”
He thought about taking off the locket, about tossing it out of the bloody tent. Let the damn thing get buried under foliage or have some animal take a shite on it to hide the fucking thing in excrement. But he couldn’t. Because it wasn’t just taunting him. It was also comforting him. Reminding him that he wasn’t paranoid; that he was never enough to be Harry’s.
As he drifted off to sleep, he entered a dream. The voice became clearer. Not a hissing noise, but a soft baritone. A man, a few years older than him, dressed in just a simple black shirt and trousers, walked up to Ron.
He knew who he was. He knew he should walk away. But the small quirk of the man’s lips melted his resistance. And for some reason, the wizard’s eyes were emerald green. He was aware they shouldn’t be, gathered from Harry’s descriptions that this predator didn’t have eyes that matched the grass after a summer rain, but he couldn’t look away.
“Ronald.”
The moment he said his name in his presence, Ron looked down. He was in his Gryffindor jumper, tie askew, shoes scuffed, not the trainers and jeans he had taken to wearing on the hunt. “I shouldn’t talk to you.”
A small chuckle, and that haunting voice replied, “You are quite right, Ronald. But I do believe you and I have a great deal in common.”
This knocked some of the fear out of him. He dragged his eyes from the ground and glared at the handsome man before him, ignoring that amused look on his face and retorted, “Yeah, right.”
Raising both eyebrows, the man fastidiously fixed the sleeves on his jumper and countered, “We both grew up poor. We both value the things we collect. I collect valuable objects, valuable knowledge. You collect valuable people.”
Scoffing, Ron kicked a rock. Why wasn’t he trying to fight this man? This man who had killed Harry’s parents? Hunted people like Hermione?
Was it because he wanted to hear what he had to say?
“Bloody stupid you are if you think I just collected Harry and Hermione.”
The insolence in Ron’s tone didn’t seem to disturb the attractive wizard before him. Instead, a genuine smile crossed his face. “No, you are right. It is something deeper. Something even I cannot understand. It is love. You love them both. You want them both. Separately. You want to own them. To make them yours. Hermione for her brilliance and her steadfastness. And Harry…”
Ron’s eyes darted away at Harry’s name.
The soul fragment that lived in the locket moved close, grabbing Ron’s chin to stare at him, and he stared in emerald eyes, eyes that looked like a killing curse, as Tom Riddle purred, “And you want all of Harry. You are so devoted to him. So loyal. If you bring him to me, you can have him. He can be yours. No one else’s. Not the Ravenclaw girl. Not your sister’s. Not Hermione Granger’s. But all yours.”
Warmth flooded his cheeks as Ron blurted out, “You’re fucking mad. He’s my best mate. Of course, I care about him. And I wouldn’t hand him over to you. You’d kill him.”
Riddle stroked Ron’s cheek once and stepped back, but the placating smile never faltered. “I wouldn’t. I would give you everything you wanted if you came to me. Gold. Fame. Respect. But more than that, I would give you her, to finally use her brilliance in the way you always wanted. And him. The one you choose above all else. Harry Potter could be yours, Ronald Weasley. If you only just brought them to me.”
He couldn’t look away from the green in Tom Riddle’s eyes, the same shade as Harry’s, his favourite colour.
“I don’t want him like that.”
With a shrug, Riddle took another step back and stated with feigned indifference, “Maybe not. But you must remember, this is all in your mind. I cannot fabricate your wants. And when I said we were alike, I may have been exaggerating. However, we are both obsessed with capturing Harry Potter– albeit in different ways. Do not lie to me, Ronald, for I am you.” He leaned forward and hissed against his cheek, “And I know about the kiss.”
Ron woke with a start in the tent, the smell of cats overwhelming him. He heard murmurings as he registered that his arm still felt like shite. When he glanced over, he saw Harry and Hermione talking in low tones. And then they both smiled at one another.
And all he saw was green.
***
It was nearly four in the morning.
They were still bent over stacks of parchment, parsing through their theories. Harry ground his teeth and stared at the papers as if he were fighting Voldemort all over again. And Ron felt sick. Memories of those whispers from the locket, those taunting promises that Tom Riddle had proposed in front of him, clanged around in his mind. Once again, in both the physical and the abstract, Lord Voldemort was spreading his torment.
Eventually, Harry sighed. He leaned back in the rickety hotel chair, the old metal creaking under his weight. “We need sleep.”
Ron nodded, once again stripping down to his boxers and his faded ‘Auror Trainee’ shirt. Harry’s exhaustion had him not even change out of his own faded t-shirt, some Holyhead Harpies monstrosity from Ginny, and he slid off his wedding ring and placed it on the bedside table. Ron noticed he always took it off at night, and he remembered those days post-war, when Harry’s nightmares were so great that he would thrash in his sleep. Harry must still get those nightmares and was afraid he’d accidentally pummel himself with the ring.
But he hadn’t had one terrible dream next to him these past few weeks.
Crawling under the covers, he felt Harry’s weight indent the mattress beside him. But he could tell he wasn’t asleep. His breathing hadn’t evened out, and he hadn’t twitched violently right before he drifted off. And Ron could see vaguely where his fingers tapped his thigh in the dim light streaming in from the moon outside.
Harry was thinking, and Ron knew sleep wouldn’t come easily.
“Ron?”
Harry’s voice disturbed the relative silence of the room, only broken up by the shoddy window unit attempting to keep the sweltering August heat at bay.
“Hmm?”
Harry shifted his weight, facing him now, and Ron could see where the moonlight danced on his lenses. “I asked not to be paired with you for this mission.”
The words felt like a physical blow, like taking a bludger to the chest. His voice was low as he inquired, “Why?”
“You know why. I love Ginny.”
Another damning blow. “I know you do.”
“And you love Hermione.”
The hits kept coming. “Of course I do.”
“There is a reason why I haven’t been paired with you these past couple of years. I’ve asked not to be. Drinks and family dinners and the stuff we do as a group is one thing, but this–” He gestured to the space between them. “Can’t be the thing that…we can’t hurt other people. You can’t keep things from Hermione. I can’t keep things from Hermione.”
“I don’t keep things from my wife.”
Harry snorted incredulously and rolled on his back to face the ceiling. “Sure. Don’t you ever feel guilty? Betraying them like that all those times?”
What did he feel? Guilt wasn’t the word. Of course, he didn’t like betraying his sister. But he had Harry first. Harry was his in more ways than Ginny could ever claim. And she was lucky that he did love her, even if it wasn’t the same way that…
“I don’t. Because at the end of the day, I’d always choose you or Hermione. Even over my family.”
Harry turned to him slowly, blinking his emerald eyes.
***
His family was in the Great Hall. Mourning. Celebrating. Putting forward consoling words to one another. Comforting friends and wrangling villains. Hermione was with them, maybe not a direct family member, but assisting as if she were already one of them. When he glanced around, hunting for him, she nodded at Ron in acknowledgement. Her eyes told him to find Harry.
His feet took him unbidden, one foot in front of the other, until he reached the familiar Gryffindor Tower. He stepped into the common room over rubble, the battle apparently even reaching this sacred space. Stepping up the stairs carefully, he ignored the wreckage of broken pieces of the wall.
Ignoring the ripped tapestry and a stack of burning textbooks, he entered the dormitory that had been theirs for six years. Harry sat at the edge of the bed, staring into the distance, his face a mixture of horror, yet somehow detached, as if he couldn’t believe what happened— like it wasn’t real.
“Harry?”
He turned his face up towards Ron and started, “Ron, I’m…I’m…” Harry’s voice cracked as he put his head in his hands and choked out, “People died for me.”
The crack that had begun to form in Ron’s psyche ever since they had found Fred— always laughing, always bigger than life, Fred— fissured completely, widening until every emotion he had stood starkly bare. He didn’t feel like crying; he felt like screaming. Fighting. But as he watched the hero who had just obtained victory sitting in defeat, he pushed it aside because the last person he blamed was someone who had always given so much.
Harry needed him, and he’d never screw that up again. Ron sat on the bed beside his best mate and tentatively pulled him into a hug. Harry stiffened at first, a defence mechanism from years of fists and objects thrown at the Dursley residence, before clinging to Ron, burying his head in his chest, sobs wracking his thin frame from all those months on the Horcrux hunt.
“I’m sorry, Ron. I’m so sorry. You lost…I never..I’m sorry.”
Leaning back, he brushed away tears that marred his best friend’s cheeks, staring into verdant eyes, bloodshot from grief, and whispered, “You don’t have to apologise to me, Harry. Ever.”
***
Ron’s breath hitched. There it was. That look. That look that indicated the treacherous thoughts weren’t one-sided. A look he had been afforded for years, whether right or wrong.
Harry’s pupils widened, his cheeks turned slightly pink, but more than that, his expression grew ravenous. As if he couldn’t get enough of Ron. As if Ron were the one he chose instead of everyone else.
Every time he gave him that look, Ron had to pinch himself that Harry Potter looked at him like that. But more than that, that his best mate, his confidante, the person whose existence filled in the pathetic gaps of his own, dared to gaze upon him with hunger, with desire, with…
***
Harry paced the floor of 12 Grimmauld Place, running his hands through his hair in frustration, trodding a path onto the tacky shag rug that Ginny had bestowed upon them as a housewarming gift when they started auror training. Taking off his auror cloak and watching Harry swoop up and down the few metres of space with his own cloak billowing behind him, Ron finally asked, “What’s wrong?”
“She’s not coming. Three months and she’s not coming. I get it, Gin has to focus on training, but you’d think she’d….” Harry plopped down dramatically on the sofa, causing a tiny layer of dust to float before settling. Harry muttered, “I feel like she’s avoiding our relationship because it’s getting serious.”
Ignoring the side of himself torn between wanting to never speak to his sister again and desiring to go to the Harpies' training camp and scream at her for her utter stupidity, Ron carefully replied. “Harry. I mean, you know, she’s been busy with the Harpies. Training and all.”
Picking at the edge of the sofa, where the threading was coming apart, Harry mumbled, “Well, this time was supposed to be special.”
Ron rolled his eyes and walked to the dank kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the grey decor. Kreacher had almost become tolerable, but he still decorated the place like a bloody Muggle ghost story book. He grabbed two beers, some cheap swill that Harry liked and frankly he loved, and called, “Mate. You’ve been saying that the past three times she’s skipped. Ginny is my sister, but she ain’t that special.”
Re-entering the sitting room, he saw the look Harry got on his face when he couldn’t figure out a particularly difficult case.
“Spit it out before I do my veritaserum training on you,” Ron urged. “Can’t have my flatmate being comatose from a potions mishap when we’ve got a huge case to focus on tomorrow.”
“Well,” Harry began. “Never mind. I can’t talk about it.”
“Harry, we talk about everything—”
“We were finally supposed to sleep together this time.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis, and everything turned upside down. He felt an unnatural chill come over him as his fingers began to shake where he held the brown bottles. He wasn’t sure why he felt this way. He knew it was inevitable. It wasn’t like Ginny was some innocent unicorn…Mum and she had rowed about it repeatedly during that summer when she had asked for a contraceptive potion. He’d even vaguely acknowledged in his mind that Ginny might sleep with Harry.
But to hear it out loud as some sort of planned thing she was withholding from Harry made him see red.
“Mate,” Ron began carefully, trying to find the neutrality in the situation. “Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t slept with your girlfriend of over a year?”
Harry’s cheeks turned pink, and he blurted out, “We’ve done stuff! But every time that we get around to that…there is something in the way. You know, wars and funerals and bloody distance! I don’t want it to be some cheap fuck.”
Eyebrows knitting together, Ron mused, “I mean, Hermione is busy, and we’ve managed to have sex, and she is definitely not a cheap fuck.”
“That’s not what I meant. I would never imply Hermione is…we aren’t like you two, okay”, Harry huffed. “I can’t even get her to…”
“Gross! That’s my fucking sister, Harry!” Ron protested loudly over the familial embarrassment, but really, he was terrified of what he would say or do next if Harry kept revealing how his baby sister satisfied— or more often than not, didn’t satisfy– him.
“And I have to listen to you and Hermione breed like horny puffskeins from down the hallway? Hermione is practically my sister.” Harry protested, pointing a finger at Ron’s face.
“First off, you stare at ‘Mione’s arse far too frequently to make the sister claim. Secondly, I’m your roommate.”
“My house!’
This conversation was quickly going off the rails, ending in one of those petty squabbles that all friends experience when they have spent enough time together. In a moment of maturity he didn’t know he possessed, Ron steered the discussion back to safer grounds. “Harry, what’s really bothering you about this? Because, mate, from where I’m sitting, you’ve been doing just fine polishing your own wand for years.”
Sighing and running his hands through his hair, giving him the look of a particularly adorable electrocution victim, Harry relented, “I’m twenty years old. I’ve never…with anyone. I’m the fucking Chosen Virgin.”
Ron kept his face perfectly blank as Harry explained his predicament, but for some reason, his heart beat faster at the revelation.
“And what if I’m bad at it? What if the Chosen One doesn’t live up to the hype? Holy shit, Ron. What if–”
Stepping forward and handing Harry the container now dripping with condensation, Ron’s fingers brushed Harry’s as his friend gripped the bottle. It was an unconscious movement that had happened between the two of them for ages, but this time, when he pulled back, Ron let his thumb trace Harry’s. It wasn’t as soft as his cheek during that one time he had stroked it during that innocent kiss. It was calloused. Wand work and broomstick handling and labour from when he was a kid made his hands rough, even if his touch was always gentle to those around him.
“Maybe you are overthinking it. I have a feeling you’ll be bloody brilliant in that department.”
Harry’s eyes widened. But instead of the laughter or revulsion Ron expected, his pupils seemed to obscure the majority of the enchanting hue of his irises. “Doubt it. I’m a nervous wreck every time we get close…”
And then, an idea formed. An outlandishly stupid idea. But a desperate moment of misplaced hope flooded him. And those emerald eyes pushed him forward.
“Maybe, well, maybe…you need a test run.” Ron carefully moved to lean against the arm of the couch, towering over Harry. When Harry glanced up through those damn long lashes, every single feeling Ron had denied came crashing back.
He wanted Harry.
Not just as a friend.
But as his.
However, if he couldn’t get exactly what he wanted, he would accept whatever tiny part of his world Harry would give him.
“What do you mean, Ron?” Harry’s voice came out an octave lower than its usual pitch, but for some reason, he didn’t seem nervous. In fact, he seemed…intrigued.
“We could try,” Ron shrugged. “It won’t technically be your first real time. I mean, you know, since you wanna save that for…her or something. But…just a bit of stress relief and a reminder that you won’t be terrible. Can’t last for five minutes or more.” Ron punched his arm playfully, undercutting the way that his heart was racing against his ribs.
“Ron, are you suggesting…” Harry rose to his feet as he began, “I thought we agreed that one kiss was a fluke.”
“I lied.”
As soon as Harry dared look up into his face, Ron had crashed their lips together. There was no hesitation this time. Just pure, unbridled desire. And when Harry opened his mouth with a little groan, he felt as though it was all his favourite things in one moment: treacle tart and Quidditch wins and lazy days spent joking in the common room. Boldly, Ron moved his lips down Harry’s jaw before kissing down his neck, muttering, “Let me just take care of you.” The words left his mouth before he could really process them, but they were said with unerring certainty as he dropped to his knees before Harry. Staring down at him with wide green eyes and mouth open in shock, Harry was speechless. But the desire was there, if the way Harry’s hips stuttered towards where Ron was any indication.
He’d never done this before. In fact, he’d only been with witches up until this point, but when Harry needed something, Ron would never again make the mistake of withholding it again. He had made his mistake with that bleedin’ locket whispering evils in his mind, and he’d be damned if he ever let it happen again.
However, in the back of his mind, that little part of him that still sounded more like a hiss reverberated throughout his skull, “I was right.”
Pulling down Harry’s jeans, Ron looked up at him and received the tiniest nod. He slid down Harry’s boxers, grasping his cock in his own large hand, before leaning forward and taking him in his mouth. It was an odd sensation, but for some reason, this act of service to Harry made him harder than he had been before. Because it wasn’t just blowing Harry, it was giving him something no one else had before. He may not fully consider this as losing his virginity, but Ron was giving him a first that no one else could claim.
Before long, he was tentatively bobbing up and down, his tongue swiping along Harry’s cock, his hand gripping him where his gag reflex wouldn’t allow access, his other hand down his own pants stroking, as Harry’s hips jerked forward and he groaned, “Fuck, Ron…”
It didn’t last very long. The secrecy and the anticipation, plus the sheer act of making Harry fall apart, had Ron release into his own fist quickly.
And Harry followed suit moments later, spilling into his mouth. Ron swallowed reflexively before popping off, braving a glance back up at Harry. Harry panted, his eyes closed, taking a hand and fixing his askew glasses before daring to look back down at Ron.
And Harry smiled.
The next few months were filled with the same routine. Once a week, Ron and Harry would snog furiously before one or the other ended up on their knees before the other man. No discussion beforehand and no commentary afterwards.
He was worried, at first, that the change in dynamic would make Harry act strange around him, that fear that he was ruining everything, constantly chanting in the back of his mind. However, nothing really changed for the worse. Instead, it seemed to improve an already great friendship. Harry seemed to laugh more easily; he had fewer panic attacks and nightmares.
And eventually, the couplings grew more intense. Talking before, whispered words after, both ignoring the fact that it was a fleeting moment in their friendship.
Until the day that Harry told Ron it needed to end. He and Ginny were doing it properly. And there was no need to continue.
It crushed him. He’d known it was temporary. As much as others doubted him, he wasn’t stupid. He knew it couldn’t be forever. Harry loved Ginny; he was certain of it.
And it killed him a little inside every day.
***
Ron’s lips ghosted over Harry’s as he whispered, “I thought it was done. After the weddings, I thought we were done. That’s what you said.”
But when Harry’s voice came out cracked, filled with the fear of having to face down the remnants of his past again, Ron’s shaky resolve shattered.
“Ron…”
And he was kissing him again, and the moment their lips met, he discovered the extent to which he missed this. Not just the physical, but being the one that Harry went to for comfort, whom Harry chose to be closest to. His hands threaded firmly through Harry’s messy hair, the premature silver streaks once again reflecting the moonlight as he gripped him closer, his other hand wrapping around Harry’s waist to pull him flush against him, their hard lengths brushing through the thin fabric of their boxers together. He devoured his mouth, his fingers moving to the nape of his neck to bring them impossibly closer, as if pulling him in meant he could never escape again. Never choose anyone else again.
Harry’s hands ran down Ron’s back to the swell of his ass, pulling him in tighter until their hardened cocks were trapped against one another, the slight movement of Harry’s hips causing intoxicating friction.
Flipping Harry onto his back, Ron muttered against his lips, “Let me help you, Harry.”
Wordlessly, Harry reached up and tugged off his t-shirt, revealing the auror-honed planes of his chest, which Ron quickly began pressing warm kisses down. When he reached the waistband of his boxers with his mouth, he dared to stroke Harry up and down through the cotton, feeling how hard he was just from kissing. Harry let out a deep groan as Ron pushed down the trunks and took him into his mouth in one smooth movement.
He hadn’t done this for any other man. Just Harry. Harry was everything.
Ron’s mind was blessedly blank except for thoughts of Harry as he bobbed up and down, Harry’s groans and moans creating music for his ears. He gripped his hips and took him down all the way, pulling back up when Harry rasped, “Come here.”
Crawling back up his body, Harry removed the barrier separating Ron from him and took his hand to wrap around them both, using the spit slick and Ron’s precum to ease the glide. Harry met his lips first; Ron bent over him, bracketing himself with one arm over Harry, tangling his tongue with his best friend’s, their pants against each other's lips and groans into one another’s mouths, obliterating all nervousness.
It reminded him of another time. Harry and Ginny had broken up, and after one of their rendezvous, Harry and he had lain spent and panting against one another. Harry had murmured, falling asleep on his chest, “It’s so easy with you, Ron. If I were braver, I would always choose you.”
But this time, Harry had no trouble being bold, twisting his wrist as he worked them both to their release. He breathed out against Ron’s lips, “Always you, Ron. You’re the only one who can…Fuck…make me feel like… myself.”
And with Harry’s whispered confession, Ron spilt into Harry’s hand, his best mate following suit seconds later. As they lay there, Ron rolled to his side, taking Harry against him. Without speaking, Harry nestled into his embrace before saying almost inaudibly, “The only one who makes me feel safe.”
The millions of things that he wanted to say fizzled in Ron’s brain as Harry fell asleep. What could he say? I only want you? You are the only thing I need? You have been the person I think about most since I was eleven years old?
None of it seemed adequate.
But as Harry slept enveloped in his best friend’s arms, Ron whispered into his thoroughly mussed hair, “I love you, Harry.”
****
They were woken with a start. The charm that Harry had cast to alert them of dark magic in the area went off with a piercing shriek. Neither man spoke as they hurriedly grabbed their wands, Scourgifying themselves, and rushing out the door in their navy blue Auror robes.
When they finally reached the spot, no one was present. They checked the perimeter. They searched the empty houses in the neighbourhood. As Harry tromped out of the final abandoned home, he looked livid.
“It’s all right, mate. We’ll find them next time.”
Harry did not look at him, did not speak; the old signifier of his irritation with the universe manifested in his shoulders tensing and his eyes narrowing. “Sure.”
At Harry’s dismissive tone, Ron turned around, taking each moment slowly, “What was that about?”
“I said sure.”
Snorting, Ron replied, “Okay. Right. And I don’t know you well enough to tell when you are upset.”
Harry glared at him incredulously. “Okay, fine then. You want to know what the problem is? I got distracted. I don’t want you on my fucking cases because you distract me, Ron. You distract me from my job. You distract me from my marriage. You distract me from my life!”
The rain that had been sprinkling all morning began to fall in earnest, matting Ron’s hair to his head, and he angrily brushed the red strands out of his eyes. “Me? Distract you? Are you mad? What do you think you are to me?”
“I don’t know.” Harry narrowed his eyes even further. “I just know that it feels like you are obsessed with me and will do anything to stop me from acting like an adult. We aren’t fucking new aurors or confused teens; we are married men. With wives. And jobs. And instead of doing more research last night, we fucking fooled around! Instead of solving this case, you managed to make this about whatever twisted thing we are doing.”
Ron felt each of Harry’s words sting like a hex as his own temper rose. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks as he growled, “Me? Obsessed with you? Last I checked, Harry, I didn’t stroke my own fucking cock last night.”
Harry didn’t move from where he stood; instead, he tensed, incredibly still. “I’m not like you, Ron. I don’t need this.”
“Not like me? Don’t need this? Seriously…But that’s pretty usual, ain’t it? Your denial.” Ron couldn’t be stopped now. “The good hero gets worshipped by his pathetic sidekick, all the while pretending that he was exactly what society wanted. Do your adoring fans know how you lowered yourself for the least popular Weasley? Does the Prophet know how many times you told me you wanted to run away? Does Ginny know she’s just a substitute for me to keep your straight guy image up in public?”
“Don’t say her name.”
“Why?” Ron bellowed, stepping closer. “You basically just married me in a wig. But she can’t give you everything you want, can she? You don’t give a fuck about having a family and all that. But you do care what everyone thinks. Including my sister, whom you can’t even be honest with about what all has happened. Do you think Ginny would be planning babies if she knew you and I blow each other whenever we can?”
Harry’s restraint snapped. With a shout, he raised his fist, no wand, and pummelled Ron in the face. Staggering backwards, Ron gingerly touched his lip where Harry had made contact, feeling the blood drip, and lost control. Both men rushed at each other, the rain pouring now, making their physical blows so different from the way they would, over the years, crash together in other ways, landing with wet thuds. Harry knocked Ron to the ground and raised his fist above him, gripping Ron’s shirt and snarling, “Take it back. Take it back about Ginny.”
Spitting out blood, Ron snapped, “No.”
With a howl, Harry aimed his fist at Ron’s face again, but the redhead rolled over, pinning Harry to the ground now. He trapped Harry’s arms as he tried to break free, and he hissed, “I’m done with this. I’m done with you. Find another lackey to sing your praises, to stand next to so that you look better. Go find someone else to use when you can’t be happy with your miserable life. Find someone else to cheer for you from the sidelines.”
Lifting an arm, he saw Harry flinch, his wedding-ring-adorned hand covering his face, and Ron stalled, his fist halting in mid-air, standing up and waving his wand to get the mud off his robes. Harry pushed himself from the ground and began to walk away towards where they had parked.
Ron yelled after him, “Fine then! Fucking walk away! Deny reality again, Harry!”
Harry spun around, his wand drawn. But then, Ron saw it. A flash of light from the trees, and without thinking, he ran forward, pushing Harry out of the way, as a burst of yellow light hit Ron square in the chest. He felt everything in his body feel like it was set on fire, his organs pressing against his skin, his bones unbearably heavy, as he collapsed to the ground. Distantly, he heard his name bellowed. Laughter of some sort.
“You could have had him forever.” He tried to silence the voice in his mind, to stop its vicious whispers, but was quickly distracted.
A flash of emerald.
Just like Harry’s eyes.
***
He stood in the hospital room, watching Ron’s pale complexion, every freckle standing out starkly against pallid skin. He took a shuddering breath, his eyes red from sobbing, his glasses cracked and foggy. His body ached from carrying Ron. His heart was breaking for the terrible things he said.
And he couldn’t undo it.
He took Ron’s hand, and he ran his thumb over where his wedding ring sat. He had a thousand things to say, but none would come out. Not when Ron’s clear blue eyes wouldn’t open, and his pale red lashes fluttered against his cheeks as he winced through the pain in the magically induced coma.
The door swung open, and in ran Hermione, in her pressed Ministry robes, her eyes wild with worry as Harry quickly dropped his hand. When she registered Harry, saw the stricken look on his face, the sopping robes, the bruises, her face hardened.
She couldn’t know anything… could she?
Without speaking to Harry, Hermione went to the other side of the bed and pressed a kiss against Ron’s forehead. Finally, after several silent moments, Hermione stated quietly but harshly, “The bloody lip isn’t from the spell. Nor did you record it in the auror report.” Looking at him in a way she never had before, Hermione’s entire face took on the countenance of someone who thoroughly despised his existence, not the supportive friend she had always been. “Go before you hurt him more. That’s all you do– you just take from him because he’ll give it. And he would do anything for you, and either you are too selfish to notice, or you just don’t care.”
For a moment, he thought of protesting and telling her everything. Of coming clean in this sterile room to salvage their friendship. But looking at her narrowed eyes and the way she glanced between Harry’s wedding ring and Ron’s lip, he finally figured it out: she knew.
And this time she was taking Ron’s side.
He could hear the Weasleys starting to amass in the hallways as he walked out of the room and in the opposite direction from where his wife and her family probably stood, worried and heartbroken.
As he walked outside St Mungo’s, he studied his bloodied robes, then stared at his wand hand, the hand that had landed his first killing curse against the woman who had grievously injured his best friend; that brilliant shade of green was not a strong enough curse for the evils she had wrought.
For hurting Ron.
His hand shook as he took out his wand and waved it over the Ministry apparel, cleaning the blood and mud away. Harry removed a package and lighter from his pocket, lit up a cigarette with shaky fingers, before glancing down at his robes. He hated the navy of the robes; it was his least favourite shade of blue because– ever since he was eleven years old– he had always had an obsession with a particular shade of sapphire.