Small Fires: A Bedtime Story for SoftObsidian74

6.

~ instinct ~



Too many questions run through Ron's mind, as he leans on Harry's shoulder, staring grimly at the death-peppered field.



How did the Thestrals die? Why wouldn't Remus and Tonks clear the bodies away from the field? For that matter, why aren't Remus and Tonks running out to greet them? They're right on schedule. Remus and Tonks should have been expecting them, they must have noticed their approach by now.



Deep down, Ron already knows the answer to that, but he refuses to accept it.



He can't help but wonder if whatever calamity had befallen their comrades happened only hours ago. Maybe if they had made it back sooner, they could have prevented it. Maybe it's his fault. Fuck.



He casts Harry a quick glance. Harry seems to read his thoughts.



“Looks like they died about a week ago,” Harry says calmly.



“Let's go to the cabin,” Ron cuts him off.



They walk together, carefully avoiding the corpses of the winged horses that litter the ground. They don't smell. The Thestral flesh simply withers away with time, until nothing is left but bones.



Hermione sobs quietly and bitterly as she walks. Her shoulders shake.



“Hermione,” Ron says.



“What?”



Shut the fuck up, he wants to say. Her tears are enough to drive him into a fit of senseless, helpless fury, because he knows there's nothing, absolutely nothing he can do to make this easier for her.



“It'll be all right,” he hears himself say. What the fuck? Did he just say that?



Hermione's sobbing subsides, and she turns around, smiling at him through the tears, giving him a brief nod.



“Yeah,” she says in a shaken voice.



The field is now behind them, and they push through the wild growing bushes, revealing the cabin. The stench and the sight that greet them are too much to take in.



Tonks, or rather what's left of her, a mangled, decomposing torso, is lying across their path. Her hair, where it's free of dried blood, is blindingly white, almost luminescent. White. The color of grief.



“Did he run out of Wolfsbane?” Ron voices a question that he instantly knows to be ridiculous. He couldn't have. Before he died, Snape had brewed enough of the new formula to last Lupin a hundred years.



“There he is,” Harry says quietly, pointing to the wall of the cabin. The werewolf's dead body is nailed to it, half-suspended, in a grotesque imitation of the crucifixion. Flies swarm around him, some crawling on his face, others, in his fur.



“They must have killed him at full moon,” Harry whispers and the words catch in his throat. “Nine days ago.”



Ron shudders silently. A part of him knows they need to get away from the compromised outpost, and get the fuck out of there, but … the simple, stupid truth is that they can't. It's at least another forty kilometers to the boundary of the forest. They can't walk any further tonight.



He looks at Harry, who seems to be paralyzed. Harry's face is shed with tears that stream from his rapidly blinking eyes. Ron winces. More than anything, he wants to hug his mate and hold him, and rock him soothingly, letting him cry. But he knows better than to do something like that. There is a time for everything, including a time for grief... but now is not that time.



“All right,” Ron says quickly instead. “Let's go inside. We'll survey the cabin, scavenge what we can, sleep, and head out tomorrow morning.”



“Right,” Harry says in a quiet voice. They step over Tonks's body and head to the cabin, with Hermione leading the way.



Once they're inside, the smell is barely noticeable. Maybe they can pretend that their fallen comrades aren't decomposing right outside, Ron thinks.



They shut the door and look around. The cabin shows signs of struggle, but is clearly habitable. There's a water tank which is half-full, enough for all of them to shower more than once. Hermione walks to the kitchen cupboard and rummages through it.



“We've got food,” she declares. “Plenty of it. And guess what else?”



“What?” Harry asks.



“Healing potions. Skele-Gro, skin and muscle regeneration ointment, and blood-replenishing potion.”



Skele-Gro. Suddenly, a brief image of Tonks's mutilated torso flashes through Ron's mind, but he banishes it from his awareness.



They take their time to mend themselves. Ron drinks the healing potions one by one, and allows Hermione to clean his wound and apply the ointment to it. Half an hour later, his ankle feels still tender, but is clearly on the mend.



While Hermione fusses over Ron's injuries, Harry raids the kitchen cupboards, and turns the propane cooker on.



“Noodles and chicken,” Harry declares. “And canned corn.”



“Sounds good,” Ron says.



Their voices are back to normal. The survival instinct has kicked in for all of them. There's no guilt or hesitation about raiding their dead friends' cabin, taking what they need. They had done it many times by now. Taken jackets, boots, weapons, wands from the bodies of the dead in order to keep going. The only difference really, is that this is Remus and Tonks who are dead, fucking dead, right outside the door, surrounded by a field of dead Thestrals...



“Food,” Harry announces.



They eat in silence, forcing themselves not to rush through the meal.



“Your cooking sucks,” Ron says between bites.



“Mmhhm,” Harry agrees. “More?”



“Yes, please.”



They finish eating, and head to the shower together. They strip, toss their disgusting, filthy clothes into a single pile, and stand together under the streams of lukewearm water. It feels so good. So fucking good.



Ron shuts his eyes, and he feels Hermione's hands on his chest, her palms brushing against his nipples.



He feels Harry's fingers on his back, sliding down, half-washing him, half-soothing him. A part of him knows he should reciprocate their attentions, but he just can't. Neither Harry nor Hermione seem to be offended that he's just standing there, rigid as a stick, while they kiss him together. They emerge from the shower together, and head towards the large, double bed.



There's something morbid and perverse about climbing together into the bed where Remus and Tonks used to sleep, but it's kind of comforting as well. Ron crawls under the covers and hugs the pillow tightly. Hermione lies next to him. Harry pokes his side. “Move over,” Harry demands.



Ron moves slightly, and Harry climbs in next to him. Harry's knee presses to his thighs.



“Tired?” Harry asks, nuzzling his neck.



“Just a little,” Ron says. His entire body feels like it's made out of cotton. His eyelids are heavy. He is about to pass out any moment.



“We'd better take it easy on him then,” Hermione murmurs, and her hand reaches down for Ron's cock. Harry chuckles slightly, as his erect member presses to Ron's backside.



“Harry,” Ron mutters. “What the fuck?”



“Yes,” Harry says.



“But, come on! In their bed?”



“I don't think they mind,” Harry says with shocking calm, stroking Ron's thigh.



Mind. Not would mind. Still speaking of them in present tense, are we, Harry?



This is almost too macabre for words. Ron knows he should put an end to this, and say no, and go to sleep, but he also knows he won't refuse. Not when Hermione's hand strokes his erection, and not when Harry's tongue laps at his neck. Besides, Ron thinks grimly, for all they know, this might be their last time. Their last night together. If that's the case, they should probably make the best of it.



“Fuckitall,” Ron mumbles.



Harry slides down, and his tongue flicks against the small of Ron's back, and then proceeds to insinuate itself between his butt-cheeks. Hermione presses her body against Ron's and rubs her sex against his briefly, before sliding down as well, and taking him into her mouth. Ron mutters another obscenity, as the tender ministrations brings him from half-interested to raging hard in a blink of an eye. Hermione's tongue licks the head of his cock, and Ron issues a quiet gasp. Meanwhile, Harry's tongue delves deeper, and makes a connection with Ron's opening.



“God,” Ron mumbles, and his hand grabs Hermione's hair. She shakes him off, and continues to tease him relentlessly and remorselessly.



“You're killing me,” Ron says.



“But what a way to go, ey?” Hermione says between the licks.



“Stupid. Pointless,” Ron complains breathlessly.



Hermione laughs, stroking his cock with her fingers. “Epic. Heroic.”



Harry pulls away, and Ron issues a small, protesting grunt.



Harry turns around, and searches through Remus's nightstand, looking for something.



“Got it,” he says finally.



“Got what?” Ron asks.



“Personal lubricant.”



Personal lubricant that belongs to Tonks and Remus. Ron shudders slightly. Why the fuck do those two have personal lubricant? Does Remus not know how to make a woman wet, or does he take it in the butt? And more to the point, why is he still thinking about them in present tense?



Images of death and blood and decay flash before his eyes. He shakes his head and pushes them away. They'll face the bodies of the dead tomorrow. But not now. Not tonight. Whatever may come tomorrow, the night is theirs. The night belongs to them, as they do to each other.



Harry's lubricated fingers reach between his butt-cheeks, and push into him. Ron grunts slightly, pushing back against them, while Hermione's fingers stroke the underside of his throbbing cock.



Harry's fingertips connect with that small pleasure gland, and Ron groans loudly, pushing back. Harry's moist lips press to his back, even as Harry continues to work him and stretch him.



Ron knows it was no small surprise to Harry to find out that Ron didn't particularly want to top once they got involved. As well as Harry knew him, like everyone else, he likely imagined that Ron would be as much of a control freak in the bedroom as he was in the Order's boardroom, barking out orders, making quick decisions, pulling rank. Nothing could be further from the truth. He didn't want to bark orders at his lovers. All he wanted to do was just relax and be shagged through the mattress, a desire that Harry accommodated with remarkable ease.



“Now,” Harry says, withdrawing his fingers.



Ron lifts his leg and drapes it around Hermione's shoulder, as she deepthroats him again, just when Harry's thick cock pushes into him. It aches some, but it's not unpleasant. Besides, nothing could feel unpleasant when his own erection is surrounded by the moist heat of Hermione's mouth.



Harry pulls back slightly, and thrusts back into him, hard, nailing his prostate and driving him deeper into Hermione's throat.



“Fuck,” Ron gasps. “Do it again.”



Harry pulls back, thrusts. Hermione accepts him. The tip of his penis is so deep inside her, it should be anatomically impossible, but she doesn't seem to mind. The two of them set a fast pace, Harry thrusting, pushing into him, Hermione sucking.



He doesn't last long. How can he? Hermione swallows ever drop, and pulls away, stretching to lie on her back. Ron turns to lie face down, and parts his legs. Harry straddles his hips. The thrusting is deeper now, and each thrust nails that sweet, treacherous nub of pleasure deep within him, the pleasure that doesn't subside any even now that his arousal is gone. He turns his head, and sees in the shadows that Harry's hand makes it to Hermione's sex, and rubs it, the thumb flicking against her clit, even as Harry continues to fuck him.



She cries out. Harry is done with her now. Harry's thrusts become faster, harder. Eventually, Harry comes as well, but Ron can barely feel it when Harry's release floods him. Harry dismounts and lies next to him, pulling the covers up.



Ron turns to lie on his back, exhausted, satisfied, and slightly bewildered.



The room is dark. There's death at the doorstep. But here, inside, there's no grief, no pain, no terror, no guilt, and no regret. There's nothing but instinct bringing those who are alive together. There's nothing but love seeking to fulfill itself.



Maybe Harry's right, he thinks. He wants to ask Harry something. Something serious. Something about the meaning of life. Something about being human mattering more than winning the war...



“Harry,” he says.



“Mmhm.”



“So whose arse do you like better, mine, or 'Mione's,” Ron says.



Well. That wasn't quite the profound question he'd intended to ask.



“I'm not answering that,” Harry says.



“Oh come on,” Ron mutters. “She's passed out. She'll never know.”



“Go to sleep, Ron,” Harry says.



“Ok, then what's better, her cunt, or my arse?”



“I'm not answering that either.”



“Well you know what? Fuck you.”



“Good night, Ron.”



He begins to drift, and he feels that Harry draws him into a tight embrace, holding him, running his fingers over his ridiculously short hair, kissing his forehead. Hermione shifts next to him and hugs him as well, her breasts pressing to his back. It feels good, so bloody good, that he doesn't care that this may be the last night of the world. How can he? His friends are with him.



To Be Continued...