
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/323927.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Ron_Weasley
  Character:
      Ron_Weasley, Harry_Potter
  Stats:
      Published: 2003-10-28 Words: 6566
****** Settling After a Fall ******
by hesychasm_(Jintian)
Summary
     Christmas holiday, during Order of the Phoenix.
Notes
     Thanks to sophiahelix, for the inspiration and the closure.
See the end of the work for more notes

Ron glared at the clock in the Potions dungeon. He could have sworn the minute
hand had been much closer to the twelve just a few moments ago -- now it looked
almost as if it had reversed direction. He wouldn't put such a devious trick
past Snape, especially considering it was their last Potions class of the term,
on a day that had dragged on and on and was already stretched to the breaking
point.
He fidgeted in his seat and pushed at his book, almost knocking over the
cauldron of boiling Sharpening Solution in front of him. Hermione narrowed her
eyes dangerously. "Ron, watch out!"
"Sorry," he muttered. "Blimey, aren't we done yet? Why doesn't he come round to
test everyone's potions so we can get out of here?"
"It's not ready, which you'd know if you'd been paying the slightest bit of
attention to any of the work I've been doing."
"I cut up those dragonfly wings, didn't I?"
"Yes, into pieces that were far too small and none of them the same size!"
Ron knew better than to get into it with Hermione. She'd been short of temper
all winter, what with her typical overload of classes and her new
responsibilities as prefect, and as usual, Ron had received the brunt of it.
Sometimes his envy of Harry had nothing to do with the Boy Who Lived and all of
that rot. Harry never seemed to catch the rough side of Hermione's tongue, not
even when he was acting like an arse and yelling at the top of his voice. When
it came to Harry, Hermione explained, it was necessary to employ diplomacy and
patience and sensitivity -- as if Ron had no need of these himself, apparently.
But then, he supposed, there were reasons why Harry deserved a bit more
gentleness than anyone.
At the table beside them Harry was helping Neville with their Sharpening
Solution, standing well back from the bubbling cauldron as Neville added a drop
of liquid mercury. His hair was tousled and his eyes behind the round glasses
kept straying toward the door. He looked tired and frustrated and ready to
leave, and Ron knew him well enough to know it wasn't just because he had
Neville for a partner. Harry had been looking like that all year.
It was as if over the summer, left to himself with no one but the Dursleys for
comfort, Harry had taken what happened at the Triwizard Tournament and
fashioned it into a private little house, a shelter no one but he could enter.
It hid something pained and lonely, and all one got for knocking on the door
were a lot of sharp edges and corners.
Ron thought for a moment about saying something across the gap between their
tables: a joke, a query about Harry's health, an offering of newt eyes. But
Harry didn't look over at him, hadn't looked over at him once during the entire
endless class, and Ron hesitated.
At the front of the classroom Snape bent over to examine the cauldron Malfoy
was sharing with Blaise Zabini. A second later, Ron heard Seamus hissing at
him.
"Psst! Weasley!"
Ignoring Hermione's exasperated sigh, Ron turned around.
"Quidditch with the other Gryffindors? Soon's Snape lets us out?"
It was like a breath of fresh air to Ron. "Yeah!" he agreed.
Seamus looked at Harry, hesitated, then muttered, "You game as well?"
Only Ron and Hermione caught the tight tenseness of Harry's shoulders, though
his voice was quite casual. "Of course."
"Brilliant." Seamus nodded. "Spread the word."
Hermione handed Ron the wooden ladle. "It's freezing outside," she sniffed.
"You'll all catch your death."
"At least then you'd get a new Potions partner," Ron pointed out.
"In that case," she said irritably, "do try to forget your cloak and gloves."
                                       *
Ron followed the boys out to the Quidditch pitch, carrying his broom. The snow
had piled in great arching drifts overnight, and the group's path wound through
shallower dips and valleys, churning up the pristine surfaces. Behind them
Hogwarts seemed to vanish in the brilliant glare of sunlight. Ron could feel
his heart grow lighter the farther away it got. He quickened his pace, hefting
his broom over his shoulder.
The term was just a few days shy of being well and truly over, and the
Christmas holidays stretched ahead like a vast, endless sea. It had been a long
time in coming. Leaving the school grounds, Ron felt like the world was
suddenly opening up to him after a dark and arduous journey.
Just ahead he could see Harry, walking alone. Ron debated a moment whether to
run up and walk beside him, but his musings from Potions lingered like a gray
cloud, and in the end he kept his pace. Just this once, this one time, Harry
could be by himself. He'd have plenty enough company at the Burrow in a week or
so.
They had reached the Quidditch pitch now. Fred and George busied themselves
directing people to one side or another, their voices ringing out clear and
crisp in the wintry air. "Oy, where's Angelina?" Fred called. "Alicia and Katie
and Ginny?"
"Girls are still up at the school, packing and such." Seamus rolled his eyes.
"Our own captain passed up an opportunity to practice?" George asked,
mystified.
"They said they might be along at some point," Seamus shrugged.
"It's a mysterious thing, how long the other sex can take when clothes are
involved," Lee said, clapping Seamus on the shoulder.
"Not to mention how long it takes to get 'em off 'em." Seamus smirked.
"And what would you know about it?" Dean said archly.
Seamus scooped up a snowball and threw it at him. "Certainly more than any of
you lot." He grinned. "Except maybe Weasley the younger."
Various catcalls followed as Ron blushed furiously. "You're talking out of your
arse, Finnigan."
"Oh, don't act like you and Our Lady Prefect haven't been taking advantage of
some of those special prefect privileges, Weasley. Or maybe she just likes to
practice her discipline tactics on you?" Seamus and Dean roared with laughter.
"We're just friends, you git." Ron sneaked a glance at Harry, who had a strange
look on his face. Did he know about the kissing on Halloween? Hermione had made
Ron promise not to tell on pain of violent and embarrassing hexing, partly
because the experiment had been an abysmal failure, and partly because they'd
agreed that Harry might feel even more excluded if he knew.
He couldn't read Harry's expression now -- perhaps he was just annoyed that
Seamus was being so crass.
"Boys, boys," George was saying. "Prove your manhood on the Quidditch pitch,
eh? Now, we're playing half teams, so you both can take the Chaser position for
each side. Fred and I will take Beater. Ron and Lee, Keeper. That leaves Harry
and -- Colin, is it? -- as Seekers. And, ah, Dennis, why don't you be our
referee?"
The two Creevey brothers looked thunderstruck to even be included.
Everyone hopped onto their brooms and got into formation, Ron on the same side
as Fred, Seamus, and Harry. Flight shook snow from their robes and kicked up a
slight breeze that cut at Ron's face and numbed his nose within seconds. Ten
feet above the ground he could see the lake below the castle, half of it
covered in ice, the other half dark and rippling.
"Should I send up one Bludger or two?" Dennis yelled.
Fred and George grinned at each other. "Two!" they yelled back.
The game was on, then, the boys whizzing past each other on their broomsticks.
Ron circled the area in front of the goal hoops, keeping a close eye on Dean
and the movement of the Quaffle, ducking Bludgers knocked over by George.
Shouts filled the air, teammates calling suggestions to each other, insults to
their opponents, the rules relaxed and followed only by virtue of habit.
Beneath them, the less experienced Dennis Creevey craned his neck as foul after
foul escaped him, but no one really cared.
Ron scanned the pitch. The Chasers and Beaters were involved in a sort of tete-
a-tete near the other side's goal hoops. It looked like a game of interrupt
between Quaffle and Bludgers, as passes got blocked and plays thwarted. The
balls snapped from player to player, and the occasional zinger, shouted at the
top of one of the twins' voices, could be discerned.
Harry had taken to following a slow figure eight around the pitch. Colin had
staked out the exact middle, and seemed to be watching Harry with as much
fervor as he was searching for the Snitch.
Ron waited until Harry drew near, then called out, "Having any luck?"
It was a rather unintelligent thing to say, as Harry would probably have gone
after the Snitch, and caught it, if he'd even gotten a glimpse. But Harry
simply shook his head. "I'm beginning to think one of the Creeveys pocketed it
as a souvenir, not realizing we actually need it to end the game."
Ron grinned, surprised at the show of humor. "I bet they'd be thrilled if the
Great Harry Potter offered to pick their pockets for the Snitch."
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you say that."
Ron's grin spread wider. "They'd want pictures of the event, you know, and your
autograph, of course. 'We Got Groped By The Boy Who Lived, And He Even Signed
Our Underwear!'"
"BAH!" Harry snorted. In a move so sudden it almost made Ron lose his balance,
he dove down to the smooth snow below. Colin started in surprise and descended
as well, scanning the blank white drifts for the Snitch. But Harry was already
speeding back up to Ron, clutching something to his chest.
"You've got it?" Ron shouted excitedly. "You've got the Sni -- mmpf!" An icy
mass of freshly scooped snow smacked into his mouth and Harry darted away,
guffawing.
Ron spat snow, shaking his head and wiping his face. It trickled into his
collar, making goosebumps screech to life up and down his body. Harry circled
from a safe distance, still laughing. "Colin, where's your camera?" he called.
"Potter, you bloody great wanker!" Ron bellowed. He spat again, realized his
lips and tongue were going numb. "Ne'er, e'er get a Weathley into a thnowball
'ight!" Zipping down on his broomstick, he scooped a handful of snow and set
off after Harry, who was already hurtling down the Quidditch pitch.
Five snowballs at once pelted Harry as he neared the other boys, exploding into
glittering white powder with each impact. Fred and George hooted with laughter,
their wands already Summoning more. Ron drew up close, aimed and threw,
catching Harry in the back of his tousled head.
"Oy! Not fair!" Harry shouted, dodging and twisting, trying to dig out his own
wand under the concentrated assault. "I thought we were on teams!"
"Changed the rules," Fred snickered. "Every Gryffindor for himself!" With that,
he Banished a snowball straight at Lee Jordan's ear.
The concerted roar that went up threatened to shake the snow from the trees.
Ron wove through the flying snowballs, Summoning and Banishing as fast as he
could say the words, not even registering who he managed to hit. His lashes
were feathered with snow, and the sides of his robes were drenched. Cold air
sang into his mouth and lifted his hair. The world tilted and pitched as he
darted to and fro, laughing breathlessly.
Harry came up behind him and dumped an armful of snow inside his collar, but
Ron was ready for him. He twisted on his broom and grabbed Harry around the
waist, knocking the both of them off and into a snowdrift immediately below.
They tumbled down the side of it, legs flying.
Moving fast, Ron scooped handfuls of snow into Harry's robes, shouting non-
words at the top of his voice. Harry's glasses had disappeared somewhere, and
when he got up to throw more snow at Ron he missed by a mile. His hair was
completely wet, sticking up on one side and giving him a lopsided, crazed look.
Ron fell over laughing. "You look like a right yeti, you know that?"
"You should talk," Harry replied, flopping down next to him. "Is there even an
inch of you that isn't wet?"
"We'll all catch pneumonia and Hermione can say 'I told you so.' It'll be the
best Christmas present ever."
"I'm a little afraid of what we'll get her next year, then," Harry said. He
pointed his wand at Ron. "Aridus vestis!" Immediately Ron's robes, hair and
skin warmed and dried. It felt just like sliding into his bed at home, when his
mother charmed their bedcovers during the winter to stay heated. He scrambled
to his feet to avoid undoing the effects with more snow.
"Thanks, mate." He returned the favor with his own wand and gave Harry a hand
up.
Looking about at the Quidditch pitch, Harry shouted, "Accio Firebolt! Accio
Cleansweep! Accio glasses!" Immediately the items came zooming toward them.
Harry caught the brooms, and Ron the glasses.
He handed them over, watching as Harry put them back on. They made his face
look smaller, the lenses shading the brilliant green eyes. Strangely, though,
they drew attention to his mouth. Harry licked his lips, chapped from the cold,
and Ron averted his gaze.
"Looks like they're coming to the end, up there," he said, scanning the sky.
The other Gryffindor boys were still goodnaturedly tossing snowballs at each
other, but the fury of the fight had died down. "Want to head back to the
castle?"
Harry nodded. "I need to get ready for the DA meeting tonight, anyway."
As they walked, Ron clutched his robes tighter around him, trying to capture
the last bit of warmth in the folds. He had a sudden bright thought. "Hey, no
more Potions until January! No more Snape!"
He looked over at Harry, expecting to see his own happy expression mirrored on
Harry's face, but instead Harry just shrugged. "January'll be here sooner than
we expect. And then we'll just have months more of him."
The bright thought flickered like a candle blown out. "Next time try not to
bowl me over with all that optimism, mate. I barely managed to stay upright."
"Sorry," Harry said, not sounding sorry at all.
Ron swung around to look at him, his broom tracing a wide swath in the snow. He
opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. He had no idea what he wanted
to say, really. Nowadays, it was hard to know where to even begin.
"What?" Harry said. He kept walking.
Ron shook his head, suppressing a sigh. "Never mind."
                                       *
Hermione always knew what to say. She never seemed to be at a loss for the
right words, to know how to get Harry to tell them what was going on. Later
that night in the Common Room Ron watched, fascinated, as she excavated the
news about Cho with all the precision she employed to disembowel snails in
Potions class. It was almost...exhausting, really. He listened with ever-
growing raptness as the story was poked out of Harry, bit by bit, until finally
he slumped in his chair, feeling as winded as if he'd been out for a run.
For some reason, despite his own part in the line of questioning, he couldn't
meet Harry's eyes. He tried to ignore the strange burn of jealousy that
streaked through him. After all, he'd gotten there first, hadn't he? With
Hermione?
Only somehow, it wasn't the same. What he felt about Hermione was just as wild
and unspeakable as what he felt for -- well, for anyone, of course -- but he
hadn't found kissing her quite as earth-shattering as Harry had apparently
found Cho. He felt as though he'd missed something extremely important.
Despite the unnamed fear in his gut, he asked about the kiss, wanting to know
what about it, exactly, Harry had liked. He watched Harry's mouth as he said,
confused, "Wet," and the memory of him licking his lips earlier that day
floated up unbidden. Wet.
Ron hastily shoved the image back down.
Eventually they headed upstairs for bed. He covered up his uneasiness with a
bit of ragging on Hermione and Krum, conscious of Harry glancing at him out of
the corner of his eye the whole time. It made his heart pound a little. Somehow
it didn't feel as...safe...to talk about Cho right now, as if Ron might say
something stupid and ill-advised without Hermione there to nudge him silent.
So he simply changed into his pajamas and slid beneath the covers, saying only,
"Night." Harry mumbled it back and Ron concentrated on falling asleep. He felt
tingly and weird, as if his very blood had been set alight, and wrestling with
the reasons why meant it was some time before he succeeded.
                                       *
He was awakened by a nightmare.
The other fifth year boys watched fearfully as Ron shouted Harry's name. Harry
twisted beneath his covers, sweating and moaning, thrashing like a fish gasping
for air. "Harry!" Ron called, his voice cracking on the name. There could be
only one reason Harry was so agitated. He tried to avoid looking at the scar,
but Harry's face was all that was visible above the blankets, and the lightning
bolt shone out like a crooked warning.
Ron stretched his hand over Harry's skinny body, about to shake him awake, but
then Harry opened his eyes. There was a wild, crazed look in them, and he
didn't even seem to notice Ron as he leaned over the edge of the bed to vomit.
Ron forced himself to step closer. "Harry! Harry!" he said again.
"Your dad," Harry gasped as he sat up, "your dad's been attacked."
For a moment Ron thought he'd heard wrong. "What?"
"Your dad, he's been bitten, it's serious, there was blood everywhere..."
Neville went for help, and Ron forced himself to keep calm. "Harry, mate, you
were just dreaming..."
"No!" Harry said furiously. "It wasn't a dream...not an ordinary dream...I was
there, I saw it...I did it."
Something in Ron's head went off like a thunderclap at the words, and he stared
at the scar again. For a moment it seemed to be an open wound more than
anything, the skin broken and letting in all manner of unspoken evils. He
looked at his friend's haggard face and saw a stranger.
Then Harry leaned over the side of the bed again and Ron came to his senses.
This was Harry. He bent closer, trying to reassure him that it was just
illness, that help was on the way. The rancid stench of throw-up hung about
Harry, but Ron gripped his thin shoulders anyway and pushed him back against
the mattress so he would lie still. Harry shook in his hands like a branch in
the wind, and it was all Ron could do to hold back his own fear.
Merlin, what if Harry's cracked? What if this is as much as he can take?
Finally, blessedly, just when Ron thought he might crack himself, McGonagall
arrived. Ron wanted to faint with relief. She would know what to do, he
thought. She would help Harry.
Still, as he trailed after them through the cold stone halls to see the
Headmaster, he felt an irrational urge to turn and run back to the warm safety
of the dorm. He had the sudden feeling that the night was far from over.
                                       *
He was right. Again, it seemed that time was moving backwards. They sat around
Sirius's kitchen table, waiting, Ron and his brothers and sister and Harry, and
the dim shadows of the surrounding house made it seem like they were huddling
around the last patch of light in existence. Ron pressed the heels of his palms
against his eyes, trying to press out the grit and weariness. He had no idea
how many hours had passed since they'd left Hogwarts.
At some point he found himself staring blankly at Harry, thinking of what he'd
said when he woke up, what he'd said about Ron's father, about being the one to
--
No. Ron shuddered, fighting the thoughts. No, Harry wasn't, he couldn't be --
Out of the dark swirl in his head, there came another memory. Thestrals. Harry
could see them. He could see them because he'd seen death, because now he
really was different from everyone else, separated from Ron by a gulf neither
of them had even realized could exist.
Fred and George were glaring at Sirius, furious at being kept at home like
children. Ron didn't say anything. He wanted to be with his father, he did -
- Merlin's ghost, he was sure he'd go out of his mind if he had to sit in this
horrible chair in this horrible kitchen for very much longer. But in the back
of his mind was the awful thought that maybe he didn't actually want to see his
father.
Because maybe it really was the worst case scenario. Maybe all of their darkest
fears were true. Maybe if he saw his father now he might -- just might -- come
out of it seeing the same things Harry could.
As soon as his mind voiced the thought he wanted to hit himself. This was his
father, his father, Arthur Weasley, the best of them all. He was not going to
die, damn it, he wasn't, he wasn't, because You-Know-Who would rot in Hades
before Ron would let him take anything of his away, and if Harry had really had
anything to do with it he could just rot there too --
Ron gasped, glancing fearfully at Harry and Sirius in the corner. He was
suddenly afraid they'd heard him, that everyone in the kitchen knew exactly
what had just gone through his head.
But they were all too busy struggling with their own thoughts, and the small
sound hadn't shaken them.
Beneath the table, Ron pinched himself on the thigh, hard, hard enough to break
blood vessels and draw a bruise. The pain made tears start in his eyes, but it
was a welcome pain, because it at least drove all the other thoughts out of his
mind.
                                       *
Close to five in the morning his mother came, bearing good news and the end of
waiting. The relief that washed over Ron seemed to take with it all ability to
stand up straight. He barely made it up the stairs to his and Harry's room,
sinking onto the nearest bed in a puddle of arms and legs and tired brain.
Harry came in after him and shut the door softly. "Are you okay?" he asked.
Ron pressed his face into the worn fabric of the comforter. How could he be? He
felt so empty and dry, a skin of a person with nothing left inside.
Harry edged closer. "Ron?" The bed sank beneath his weight, and his warm hand
touched Ron's shoulder. "I'm glad he's all right. I'm sorry -- what I said
earlier, when you woke me up. I don't know what I was saying."
Something stirred inside Ron. "Didn't you?"
"What?"
With a great effort, Ron turned over onto his back and slid up to prop himself
against the pillows. "I said, didn't you?"
Harry's face was white in the darkness. "What do you mean?"
Ron shrugged. He felt weak and boneless and really, what did it matter, anyway?
His father was all right. Whatever Harry had said, they would both forget it by
morning, forget it as if it had never happened. It was better that way. He
understood now, how there could be things Harry didn't want to talk about,
because there were things now that he didn't want to talk about either. There
were things he knew now it was better to just keep secret.
"I just want to go to sleep," he said finally.
"Okay." Harry's voice was small and distant. He got into his own bed. "Good
night, Ron."
                                       *
Ron closed his eyes and drifted. Any minute now, sleep would claim him -- deep
dreamless sleep, and when he woke in the morning everything would be all right
again. Normal Christmas, normal holidays, nothing to do but relax and play
Quidditch in the snow.
The house creaked and settled, and all in the room was still. But half an hour
later he was still unmistakably awake. He lay there, flat on his back, so tired
he couldn't even rouse himself to change position or get under the covers, yet
sleep, actual sleep, somehow felt like the farthest thing away.
Across the room, the sky through the windows had already lightened to a bluish-
gray. Ron huffed out a frustrated breath.
"I can't manage it either," Harry said quietly.
Ron, surprised, turned his head toward the other bed. It was still too dark
inside the room to make Harry out clearly. "What?"
"I can't get to sleep either. Too worried, I guess."
"You are? But he's not your father."
Harry hesitated. "Well, he's the closest thing to it. Sirius, you know, I love
him, but sometimes he isn't always...well."
Ron sighed. "I dunno what's wrong with me. I'm knackered, I am, but can't
sleep."
Shifting, rustling noises came from Harry's direction. It was a strange sound,
soft and low and intimate in the dim room. "Do you know what I do when that
happens? I mean, when I'm worried about something and it's impossible to
sleep?"
"No, what?"
"I...well, I..." He trailed away, then seemed to steel himself, so that the
rest of it came out in a rush. "Sometimes I pull myself off."
Ron was so shocked his mouth actually fell open. "You mean you -- "
"You never knew? I guess you're a much better sleeper than I am. I've heard all
the other guys doing it at least once." Harry paused. "Not you, though."
A mental image of Neville Longbottom came to mind and -- hurriedly, Ron shook
his head. "I mean, I guess I just...I try not to do it whenever I'm sharing a
room with people. Comes from living with six siblings who really could give a
toss about a guy's dignity, you know."
Harry chuckled. Ron felt goosebumps go up the back of his neck, like a sudden
waft of cold and warm air one after the other.
"Well," Harry said, "you could do it now. I don't mind."
Suddenly it was hard to breathe. Ron thought he must be purple from the force
of blushing so hard. He wondered if he actually had fallen asleep and this was
all just a dream.
"Um, sorry, mate, I just, uh...."
"No, I'm sorry -- " Harry interrupted, and from the strain in his voice Ron
knew he was just as embarrassed. "I don't know why I -- this is just a weird
night -- "
"...I'm just probably too tired to finish, is all," Ron finished.
"Oh." Again, that tantalizing rustle of sheets and bedcovers. Ron found himself
staring harder at the other bed, wondering what exactly was hidden by the
shadows. He was suddenly, acutely conscious that Hermione wasn't with them, and
neither was Cho for that matter, and that they were edging into even more
dangerous territory than before.
Anxious to fill the silence, he babbled, "But I guess it's good to know that
you're okay with it, right? If I ever wanted to, in the future -- "
Harry interrupted him again. "I could help you."
This time Ron was so shocked he couldn't say a word.
"Ron?" Harry sounded less sure of himself. He sounded like an entirely
different person, in fact. It was the same Harry voice, deeper than when they'd
first met on the Hogwarts Express but still the expression of each syllable was
the same, the warmth that couldn't be hidden even by anger or annoyance. It was
just the words themselves that were strange, that seemed to be coming from
someone Ron didn't know at all.
But really, an inner voice whispered at him, if he truly admitted it to
himself, if he let the thoughts and memories simply come without trying to push
them away -- wasn't there something familiar here, too? Didn't he know
something about this new and different Harry? Wasn't there something new and
different like this in himself as well?
"Ron?" Harry said again.
Ron tried to speak. Cleared his throat. "What do you mean exactly?" he rasped.
A short, endlessly long silence. "I mean, if I helped you finish. You could go
to sleep."
"But, why?" Merlin, did his voice have to break like he was a bloody second
year all over again?
"Because..." Harry said. And the breathless pause before he spoke again
threatened to crush Ron beneath its weight. "Because," he said, finally.
Because. Ron, shaking like a feather in the dark, nodded to himself. Because it
had been months since they'd spoken, really spoken. Because they'd once shared
Chocolate Frogs on the train to school, once saved a girl from a troll, once
saved the world from the Dark Lord. Because Ron's father had almost died, and
Harry had dreamed about it. Because they'd been hiding things from each other
all year, and because it probably wasn't going to stop.
"So..." he said. "What would you do?"
The bedcovers rustled and he heard Harry get up, his bare feet slapping soft on
the hardwood floor. Ron took a deep breath and found he was trembling so hard
now he couldn't let the air out in anything but tiny slivers.
Harry was a dim figure, becoming gradually more distinct as he moved closer.
The light outside the window was already enough to allow Ron to see his face as
he came to a stop beside the bed. Harry looked scared, looked exactly the way
Ron thought he himself probably looked. It gave him the strength to slide over
a bit, to give Harry room to do whatever it was he wanted.
"Are you sure?" Harry whispered.
Ron nodded again.
Slowly, so slowly, Harry reached out a hand and touched Ron's hip. His fingers
splayed over the fabric of Ron's robes, following the sharp turn of bone, the
sudden flatness of his belly. Ron sucked in another breath, packing it in tight
until he felt like he was going to burst.
Harry met his eyes, his own shadowed and colorless, and lowered himself onto
the bed beside Ron. The mattress tilted a bit. Then Harry stretched out,
shifting his weight against Ron's body. They sank into each other.
Harry was panting lightly, his breath coming in small bursts over Ron's ear and
the side of his face. It made him shiver. He turned, pressing against the
pillow, and realized Harry's mouth was very close. "What should I do?" Ron
murmured.
"I'm not exactly sure," Harry said. "I don't usually do this with other people,
you know."
That made Ron think of Cho and Hermione again, and his awkward, pained
inquiries in the Common Room. Funny, how it all seemed so long ago.
Harry's hand had gravitated toward Ron's back, his fingers stroking up and down
his spine like he was smoothing a quill. Ron dared to edge a bit closer, all
tiredness forgotten.
"I suppose we could..." he said, but couldn't quite complete the sentence.
Instead, he tilted his chin up a bit until he could feel Harry's breath
mingling with his own.
Harry slid his hand up to cradle Ron's head, edging him forward the last couple
of inches. Are we really, Ron thought, oh, great Merlin's ghost --
Their lips met. And at first it was softer than Ron had expected, more
hesitant. But then Harry lifted up a bit and opened his mouth, and Ron felt the
touch of his tongue and opened his own mouth to allow him in. Tea and toast
from the meal just an hour before, buttery and slightly salty. Harry's arms
slid around him and he felt himself pressed back against the bed by his weight.
It was a sensation he had never felt before, warm and solid and reassuring. He
felt enveloped by strength, by whatever it was in Harry that kept him going, no
matter what new trial he had to face.
Tentatively, Ron let his own hands wander over Harry's body, mapping out
territory he'd only been dimly aware of before, smooth skin under his shirt and
the waistband of his trousers, slope of torso leading up to wiry muscled
shoulders, collarbone deceptively delicate, like a cat's. He found himself
breaking the kiss to tongue the length of Harry's jawline, nuzzling his throat
where heat rose from the collar of his shirt.
They were doing this. They were doing this. He had to keep his eyes open, so
that he had proof of it in the slow-growing light.
Harry pressed his hips into Ron, panting harder. Ron pushed up with his own,
trying to ease the ache that had settled into his groin, the tightness seeking
release. He felt a hard heat pushing against him, an answering one between his
legs. "Um," he breathed. "Um, you -- "
"Ron," Harry moaned. "I -- I don't know what -- "
Ron's hands had been exploring Harry's sides. He pushed them down now, slipped
them inside Harry's waistband, meeting the surprisingly soft flesh of his
buttocks. Harry gasped and pushed against him a little harder. Ron held him
close, skating his fingers over the top of the cleft, not quite sure where he
was going.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
Harry nodded, and suddenly twisted his head to fasten his lips on Ron's throat.
His mouth was hot and wet and oh, oh, Ron arched, writhed, trying to give Harry
better access.
He suddenly needed -- he didn't know if he should ask, especially since Harry
was the one who had offered, but perhaps if he tried it on Harry first --
Carefully, he slipped his hands around from Harry's bottom to the front of his
trousers, working at the zipper and button. Harry stilled at the movements, but
Ron kept going. So strange, to be doing this facing someone, to someone. He
knew where everything was on his own body, but he had no idea about the
possible angles of approach on someone else's.
"Here," Harry whispered. He pushed his trousers down and off of his legs,
taking Ron's hand, guiding him. Ron let Harry show him where to go, curiosity
fueling his excitement. Harry's erection was slightly shorter than his own, but
the weight of it was the same, the smooth, heated feel of it in his hand. He
tried a move that he liked to do to himself, stroking down and then up again,
over the head. Harry made a strangled noise and his hips jerked.
Quickly, Harry pushed Ron's robes aside, and Ron helped him unfasten his
trousers. His erection sprang free, meeting the slightly colder air of the room
before Harry's hand closed around it. Ron gasped at the strong heat of his
fingers, the movement that he had no control over. So different! He'd never
imagined --
"Ron, show me what to do," Harry whispered, his mouth touching Ron's ear. He
licked the place where the lobe attached, down to the corner of Ron's jaw and
then fastening onto his lips for another kiss.
Ron covered Harry's hand with his own, bringing his other hand back to Harry's
erection. Their fingers intermingled, strong and hard, and after a few more
strokes he couldn't tell anymore who was directing whom. He felt heat beginning
to build deep in his belly, white fiery lightning tingling along his spine. It
was nothing, nothing, nothing like anything he had ever done to himself.
After a few more strokes Harry began to buck his hips frantically, breathing
like an erratic storm. Ron lost the rhythm, but Harry was already climaxing,
his cries harsh in Ron's ears. Warm, slick fluid spilled over Ron's fingers.
Harry paused for a moment, recovering himself, but then his motions on Ron
increased in speed and strength, so fast and hard and unrelenting it almost
hurt, but in fact it was exactly what he needed. He was thrusting his hips
along with it, had to, couldn't help it, because Harry, Harry, Harry, and then
finally, there was the edge rushing up like a sudden earthquake and Ron was
falling over it, shouting without words.
He drifted a bit, gasping slackjawed and every limb loose and languid. He
became aware of Harry slumped against him, his head on Ron's chest. Harry's
breath tickled his nipples, tightening them in a not unpleasant way. Ron's hand
wandered up to tangle in Harry's hair.
"Think you can sleep now?" Harry murmured.
Ron was already halfway there. "Yeah," he murmured back. "Think I'm good."
                                       *
He slept hard, like an avalanche settling after a fall. And in the morning
there were things happening, or supposed to be happening. He awoke by himself,
sticky and used-feeling and stretched taffy-like. He looked over and saw that
at some point in the night Harry had retreated back into his clothes and to his
own bed, and though he made a show of rubbing at his eyes when he sat up, Ron
could still tell it was just a show. He knew that much of Harry, at least.
"Did you sleep all right?" Harry said, after a moment of silent sitting and
waiting for the other to speak.
Ron nodded, aware that he was missing his robes and that he was pretty much
naked. They'd changed in front of each other plenty of times, in the dormitory
and for Quidditch and at the Burrow. But he'd never felt like hiding until now,
confronted with Harry all the way across the room, fully clothed and fully
awake for Merlin knew how long.
"I had a smashing good sleep," he said. "And you?"
Harry shrugged. "Mostly I was worried about you. Big day today, and all." His
eyes were shuttered behind his glasses. He was in his little house again, the
tiny shelter where he went to close himself off.
Ron could hear Hermione's voice in his head: diplomacy, patience, sensitivity.
But louder than that was the flash of anger, the frustrated fury with Harry
that had been building up to this for months now. It seemed to come from
nowhere and everywhere, without reason and for every reason.
It needed somewhere to go.
Ron threw the bedcovers back and strode out of the bed. Harry's flinch was
barely discernible, but something flickered in his eyes as Ron drew near. "You
should get dressed," he began. "I think everyone's awa -- "
Ron pushed his mouth against Harry's, cutting him off in mid-sentence. It was
messy, teeth colliding uncomfortably. But eventually Harry stopped trying to
talk, repositioned himself and began kissing back. Ron stepped between his
legs, completely starkers, bending over Harry with his height.
When they finally broke apart, Ron gently took Harry's glasses off and folded
them up on the bedside table. Harry blinked at him, his eyes green and
searching and vulnerable. The morning light blazed through the window and
washed his scar into a series of pale, disconnected lines.
Ron climbed into the bed next to Harry. He was aware that he was blushing
furiously, and he didn't care. "I'll get dressed," he said. "But not just yet."
End Notes
     Aridus vestis as a drying charm for clothes is borrowed with infinite
     respect from Scattergood Moo's book Laundering For Muggles http://
     www.sgmoo.com/
     Comments and criticism welcome.
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