Still Waters Run Deep

There were soft grunts coming from Ron’s bed.

“Yeah, fuck, yeah, fuck me, Ron,” someone whispered breathily. Harry twitched in the dark. He hated when this happened. He hated that Ron was terrible at casting silencing charms and that he was forced to listen to Ron fuck some git silly.

And he couldn’t say anything of course, because Ron was his friend; things had been hard since Ron and Hermione had broken up, and Harry didn’t want to make things worse. He figured that Ron was just trying to fuck away the pain or something. He wasn’t sure, he couldn’t claim to be an expert on these things.

He stared up at the canopy, listening to Ron murmur something unintelligible. Was it You're beautiful? Or, even worse, I love you? Something in Harry broke for a moment and he curled into a fetal position, still listening to the noises coming from behind Ron’s closed curtains.

Fucking A. They were really going at it. There was a thunk, thunk, thunk as something, probably somebody’s head, hit the wall, or the headboard. The entire four poster was creaking with each thrust. Harry could practically see Ron behind his closed eyes, moving like water over some faceless person.

——

The last thing Harry had thought before dying was I wish I wasn't a virgin. It wasn’t very noble, or even decent, and it was in fact, rather embarrassing. So he hadn’t told anybody. In fact, he’d just told people that his life has flashed before his eyes, and then he was naked at the train station with Dumbledore. Actually, he’d omitted the naked part, as it was rather awkward and would probably be excellent fodder for the Weasley twins.

Hermione and Ron had done away with their respective virginities over that ill-fated camping trip prior to the Final Battle. At the time he’d wondered how they’d managed to get him away, what with how they’d all been practically inseparable. He’d known instantly that they’d done it. The tent had smelled like mint, but with a layer of sex under it. He’d looked at Hermione, and then at Ron, and closed his eyes. And he could practically see them, writhing on the bed, Hermione arching into him, Ron with his eyes closed, panting her name. He’d turned around and walked out. They’d conferred for a moment, and then came out.

“Harry-”

“Don’t say it,” Harry had warned, smiling grimly. “There are just some things that I don’t want to know.” Perhaps they’d known how much it hurt him, but chose to ignore it. Or maybe they really had no idea. Whatever they’d thought, they’d clasped hands and smiled at him sheepishly. That had broken the tension, and they’d eaten dinner with their usual loving camaraderie, as if Hermione and Ron hadn’t just had sex in their tent, leaving Harry out.

—-

He awoke the next morning, painfully hard and throbbing. His entire lower region felt like he’d been beaten with a baseball bat, repeatedly. He pulled away the covers, half expecting bruises. There was nothing, just his usual porcelain skin, tinged with the blue of his veins. He sighed, pulling his briefs back on. He’d managed to get out of them in the middle of the night, and he almost didn’t want to know how or why.

Ron was still in bed, the curtains drawn back now, his red head smooshed into the cream of his pillow case, breath whistling in the cold morning air. Harry pulled Ron’s covers up over his exposed, pale, freckled back, and watched him for a moment. His bed partner was gone, leaving nothing but his imprint at Ron’s side.

Harry retreated to the bathroom to rid himself of his woody in the cold of the shower. There was nothing worse than waking up with a mammoth erection after Ron had brought someone back to the dorm room. He stared down at his dick, which was only starting to abate, despite the fact that it’d been exposed to frigid water for the last five minutes.

—-

Ron was cheery at the breakfast table, despite the fact that he’d been up all hours. Harry, who’d listened to Ron thrust and sweat himself to sleep, was exhausted. Hermione knew instantly.

“How much did you sleep last night?” she asked gently. They all assumed he still had nightmares. He did, but he didn’t tell them about them. He wasn’t sure how they knew. Maybe he talked in his dreams.

“Not much.” He stared at his oatmeal, wondering if dried fruit might make it more palatable. He pushed it away. Hermione stared at him, and then the oatmeal. She grabbed him a plate, and put a scone on it.

“Here, eat this.” She watched him as he put some clotted cream on the scone and took a reluctant bite. He pushed the plate away as soon as she wasn’t looking.

Ron watched him too, silent, unhelpful. They were all so... Clueless. Some days he wanted to throw things and scream, I died for you. And the best you can do is push food at me and ask me how I slept?

But he knew they were trying. They just didn’t understand. That wasn’t their fault. It was Harry’s, for not knowing the words to help them understand. How to explain? There were so many things that were killing him. The nightmares were only a small fraction of the things that murdered him daily.

—-

They’d decided not to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas. As painful as it was to go home, it was the first Christmas without Fred, Remus, and Tonks, not to mention those who’d died before that, like Mad-Eye and Dumbledore. But Harry figured that they would have wanted them to enjoy Christmas, with family. He’d also assumed that Remus would have wanted them to go back to school, make up for the year they’d missed. He found that a lot of his life was dictated by what the dead would have wanted.

Ron was the worst of the three of them. As hard as it was for Harry to fathom Fred’s death, it was even harder for the Weasleys. Harry felt weird mourning with them, as if his grief weren’t legitimate. As if he couldn’t cry in front of Ginny or Ron, because he wasn’t eally a Weasley. But then Mrs. Weasley would say something about how he was part of the family and then he felt even guiltier, because he wasn’t really.

Even as they packed, Harry could see that Ron wanted to stay. And probably spend the entire break fucking his way through Hogwarts, but that wasn’t the point. They all wanted to pretend that things were fine at home, that nothing had really happened. That everything at the Burrow was perfect and dandy and absolutely normal. And the truth of the matter was that nothing was normal, probably never had been. But the Burrow had been a sanctuary, untouchable.

And now one of its members was missing. Harry wondered if the house itself had noticed. Or the grandfather clock. Or the gnomes. Or the ghoul. He wondered if they, too, mourned for Fred.

—-

The first night back was sombre. Everyone was thinking about it, no one knew how to say it, except maybe Mrs. Weasley, who was reminiscing loudly in the kitchen about Fred. George sat in the living room, listening with a pinched expression on his face. He’d been wan since Fred had died: listless, unmotivated, robotic. Harry didn’t recognise George sometimes, and that scared him more than Molly’s half-drunken ramblings over a cup of hot cocoa.

The others were more subdued, although Harry could feel the tension resting underneath. He half wished Hermione had come along, but she’d wanted to be with her parents. She’d missed them, although she’d never said so during that horrible year. And besides, it was awkward now, between her and Ron. Harry knew they’d get over it with time, but they needed space now. And Hermione was having a hard time letting go, although it’d clearly been a mutual break-up. So now it was just Harry and Ron, and sometimes Ginny.

Ginny was dating some Ravenclaw, Harry didn’t even know his name. But he lived, luckily enough for Ginny, in a village close by Ottery St. Catchpole, and she’d been using him as a bit of an escape. So Harry hadn’t seen much of her, which was just as well, because their breakup had been spectacularly awful. They didn’t blame each other, which was good, but it was still stiff. Harry didn’t think time would mend it.

With Ginny absent, it was just Harry, Ron, and George. Percy, Bill, and Charlie had all promised to come for Christmas, but in the days leading up to it, Harry and Ron found themselves alone much of the time in Ron’s room on the fifth floor. The weather was too beastly for Quidditch and neither of them felt like playing much chess. The two were reduced to sitting in bed, reading, or talking about the Chudley Cannons.

On the third day Harry wasn’t sure how much more of the inanity he could handle. He wanted to be alone, as far away from Ron as possible. As far away from Ron and his stupid lack of communication skills.

They were sitting in Ron’s room, Ron on the bed, and Harry on the cot. There was a stuffy smell in the air, as if they hadn’t opened the window in a long time. Harry was playing with his pillow case edge, fraying to already worn fabric with his fingers. Ron must have noticed Harry’s indifference , because he ceased talk of the Chudley Cannons abruptly and turned to the other with a stiff expression.

“Are you all right, mate?”

Harry wanted to chuck something at him. So he didn’t answer, just kept reading.

“Look, Harry—”

“Ron, just— Just shut it, will you?”

“I didn’t say nuthin’,” Ron replied. Harry could practically hear the resentment bubbling beneath his words. He almost laughed at the irony.

Ron was resentful? Ron? If anything Harry should be the one to be angry. After all, his best mate had ditched him for the nearest arse, and his other best mate was busy burying her grief in books and literature. And he was stuck in the middle, horny as fuck, worried sick about the both of them, and Ron had the nerve to ask if he was all right?

Harry slammed the book shut. “Yeah, Ron, that’s right. You haven’t said anything.” He didn’t mean to mock Ron’s unintentional grammatical error, although he’d infused his words with enough vitriol that Ron certainly took offence.

“Look, mate, I don’t know what crawled up your arse and died-”

“You crawled up someone’s arse, that’s for sure,” Harry snapped.

Ron stopped, shocked. It was unspoken between them, Ron’s affection for other men. It wasn’t something that was necessarily condemned in the Wizarding world, although it was certainly never spoken of. It was one of those things that Harry had always known best let lie, and here he’d gone and dug up something that was no business of his. He felt like a hypocrite, and he flushed red.

“I see how it is,” Ron said slowly.

“Ron, I didn’t mean it like that—”

Ron turned to him, silencing Harry with a look. “Then how’d you mean it, mate?” The word ‘mate,’ usually so affectionate, sounded so bitter that Harry nearly froze.

“I just... I just. Ron, I don’t know what to say! You’ve practically ignored me-”

“Ignored you? What the fuck do you mean, Harry?” Ron was genuinely confused.

Harry growled in frustration, knowing that he made no sense and hating himself for it. “You’ve been... Chasing every piece of tail that comes across your path!” He held his hand up, seeing Ron’s mouth open as if to deny it. “Don’t even, Ron! I know you have. I can fucking hear you every single bloody night. And you flirt with everyone, everyone, Ron. Even in front of Hermione. And you know she still fucking loves you. And what about me? I have to hear that... Every night. It’s not the gay part that bugs me, you shite...”

“Well that’s what it certainly seems like.” Ron’s voice sounded so distant that Harry wondered if the other boy had fallen asleep or something.

“Oh fuck you, Ron,” Harry sighed, no longer angry so much as tired. “It’s got absolutely nothing to do with that. I know it sounded like it... I’m just. I’m just tired of you escaping to other people. If you’re upset, come to me, don’t just fuck your head into a wall or something.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Fuck my head into a wall? Harry—”

“I know, I know, it made no sense, but you know what I mean. Don’t you?” He looked to Ron with a sense of desperation, knowing that perhaps this, this might bend their friendship too far. But when he caught Ron’s blue gaze he knew that everything was going to be fine. But clearly it was going to take a while.

“Harry, I’m glad you’re so protective of me,” Ron snorted, “but I’m not... Escaping. I just like sex, okay? Is there something so wrong with that?” He was still defensive.

“Okay, okay, you’re not escaping.” Harry resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. “But it’s a different person every night. Don’t think I don’t hear things. Not only coming from your bed, but from every batty old witch that thinks they know anything. Everyone knows, Ron. Everyone.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Ron replied stoically.

Harry rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point. You’re not connecting with anyone on a meaningful level. You’re just... forgetting. Forgetting what, I don’t know. Hermione? Fred? Fuck if I know, I can’t read your mind.”

“That’s right, you bloody well can’t,” Ron hissed.

“Oh fuck you,” Harry said, throwing his hands up. “Just stop okay? Settle down with one person, boy or girl, and I don’t care who.” He was lying, of course, but he would do anything to stop the steady parade of people through Ron’s bed. Anything to stop that.

They were both silent for a moment, and Harry wondered what vindictive piece of tripe Ron would throw back at him. It seemed like they had never grown up sometimes. As if they were stuck in the same old bullshitting and silent treatment they’d put each other through all those years.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I... I want to settle down with one person.” Ron’s voice was so soft Harry could barely hear. He scooted closer, so their knees brushed. The knees and crotch of Ron’s jeans were so faded and scuffed they were almost white. “I do. I just... Can’t.”

“Why?”

Ron squirmed. “I’m... Well, I really like this one bloke. But, he obviously doesn’t like me back. I guess you’re right about the forgetting shit. I want to get him out of my head. But it’s hard.” Ron bowed his head and Harry was struck by how thin his shoulders were, far different from the bulk and brawn he’d acquired over the years of their rough-housing and Quidditch playing. He was tempted to brush the red-orange lock off of Ron’s temple, but he held his hands back.

“So, he’s straight?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well, he’s never shown any other inclination otherwise.” Ron shrugged, fingering the patched quilt on his bed. He stuck his finger in one of the holes and twisted it around.

Harry watched him. “But it’s not healthy to... You know. Hermione could probably give you a list of all the illnesses you could get. And I’m sure some of them are incurable.” He tried to remember if there was a cure for HIV in the Wizarding world. Somehow he doubted it. Besides, wouldn’t someone have leaked the potion to the Muggle world, to save all those people in Africa? Although, if anything, he’d learned that wizards could be so horribly selfish. Maybe they did have a cure for AIDS, and just didn’t want to share it.

“Yes, well, I’m safe,” Ron replied shortly, as if this conversation were too crude for Harry’s delicate ears.

Harry blushed slightly. It was true that he really didn’t know much about these things. But he didn’t care, he just wanted Ron safe. He put his hand on Ron’s knee, letting it linger there. “I’m sorry, about the straight bloke. Maybe he’ll come around.” Ron scoffed slightly, but not meanly.

He shrugged. “It’s unlikely. Hope springs eternal, don’t it?” He smiled, a little bitterly, Harry thought.

—-

Harry treasured those silent nights, where Ron wasn’t breathing heavily into someone’s neck or hair, fucking their brains out. And since they’d arrived at the Burrow there’d been no on in Ron’s bed. He felt like a guard dog, keeping strays from his master’s home. It was a poor analogy, and he laughed at it, but still. He liked the sound of Ron’s even breathing, in and out, calm, beautiful. Easy. Ron was easiest when he slept.

Harry stared at Ron while he slept. The red-headed boy’s face went slack with slumber, still angles and planes; all roundness had disappeared with childhood. But despite the angularity of his face there was still something soft about it: innocent, untouched. That disappeared as soon as he awoke, replaced with something harder, something older, maybe deader. Could Harry even consider Ron a boy? No, they’d both grown to be men, old men. Eighteen and so old.

His breath whistled in his mouth, piercing the cold air. Winter at the Burrow was cold now. Harry didn’t remember it ever being this cold. He wondered if it was because of all the grief: the grief seemed to put kilometres between them all. He felt as if he were eons away from the rest of them, on his own island of agony. The others surely felt the same. He didn’t know, he didn’t know how to reach out and grab them and pull them back together, to make sure they didn’t fall apart.

And he could feel them falling apart. He could feel himself fall apart. He was shredding at the seams. He had nothing left to do with his life. He’d faced evil and died. And then was reborn. And now there was nothing left to do.

Except stare at Ron. Make sure Ron made it through. Because Hermione could take care of herself. But Ron, Ron had always needed Harry, and Harry had always needed Ron. And that’s the way things were. It would be selfish for Harry to disappear, or die, because Ron still needed him. After they stopped needing each other, then he could disappear or die, or whatever. But not until then.

—-

Harry awoke to hot breath on his cheekbone. He opened his eyes slowly. He didn’t expect to see Ron, staring at him, big blue eyes fixed on his face.

“Ron?”

Ron looked away suddenly, quiet and pensive. Harry had never known Ron to be such a deep thinker until after the War. Harry knew that still waters ran deep, but he’d never known how deep Ron’s thoughts dipped. Until moments like this, when he caught another glimpse of the desperation, the grief. And he understood.

“Ron?” He repeated, reaching out tentatively, to brush his fingers along Ron’s thin arm. Ron didn’t recoil, just stared at Harry’s extended arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ron replied, finally breaking the tension between them. “Just thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

There was a slight pause before Ron answered, looking back at Harry to meet his eyes. “Nothing.” His generous mouth twisted momentarily. “You know. Just spacing out.”

Harry nodded, but he didn’t really understand. His fingers were still on Ron’s arm, trembling slightly. “Okay.” That was all there was to say.

“Okay,” Ron repeated, smiling dimly.

—-

Mrs Weasley brought them breakfast on a tray. She always seemed to know when they’d been out of sorts. It was as if she had a set of Extendible Ears, and just knew when things had gone wrong and needed patching.

Even though it wasn’t something bacon and kippers could heal, eating with Ron on his bed was something of a peace offering. Harry no longer wanted to thump Ron, and Ron was clearly less defensive about the whole matter. It was something that Ron clearly didn’t expect to be brought up again.

But there was the matter of this mysterious straight boy that Ron was in love with. As he ate his scone Harry couldn’t help but wonder who it was. Who had managed to capture Ron’s clearly elusive heart. It had to be someone decent, so that ruled out a quarter of the school. It probably wasn’t a Hufflepuff, because, for all Ron’s failings, he couldn’t stand thick blokes. So that only left half the school. And Ron wasn’t exactly a studious type, so really, it was down to Gryffindors. He slowly sorted through all the boys in his mind.

Well, it could be Seamus, or Dean. But everyone knew that Seamus was a raving queer, in a good way, and that Dean was his staunch mate. Probably more than mate, Harry surmised, but Seamus had always done a proper silencing spell, so it wasn’t like they all would know. So it couldn’t be one of them, because no one even thought they were straight. Ron wasn’t that thick, clearly. Couldn’t be Neville, because during a game of Spin the Bottle in fifth year, Ron had to kiss Neville, and couldn’t keep the look of horror off his face. Although Neville had matured physically quite a lot, it was clear that Ron and Neville had a very platonic relationship.

It was all very confusing to him. So he decided that he would have to seek the help of a professional: Ginny, of course.

—-

Finding Ginny was more problematic than it first appeared. Of course she was absent from her room. But Mrs. Weasley swore that she was in the house, not gone out to visit the infamous boyfriend. The clock confirmed that Ginny was indeed, in the house.

He found her under the stairwell, listening to the Weird Sisters on her gramophone. When he asked her what she was doing she announced that she’d been “avoiding people.”

“Well, can I talk to you?” She looked at him, askance. “It’s not about me, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She seemed to find this reassuring, and led him to her bedroom.

He passed by Ron in the hallway, who gave him an odd look as he disappeared into Ginny’s room. He wondered if Ron knew that he was busy investigating his love life.

“So, I’m worried about Ron.”

“When are you not worried about Ron?” Ginny asked dryly. “You’re worse than Mum.”

“That’s beside the point, Ginny,” Harry replied, flustered. Although the more he thought about it, the more he realised that she had a point. This bothered him tremendously, although he tried not to let it show. “Well, you see, he’s got this crush on a straight bloke- and well, it’s made him rather... Despondent, is the word, I suppose.”

“And?” She prompted.

“Well, he’s been acting like a right whore.”

“I knew that.” She smirked. “Serves him right for accusing me of being a tramp a couple years ago. He’s a right slut, isn’t he?” She seemed to take more pleasure from this than Harry thought healthy or right. So he frowned at her. “You look like my mum,” she teased.

“Fuck you,” he said, frowning even harder. “I’m worried about Ron’s health. Mental and physical. What if this promiscuity means he catches something?”

Ginny sighed. “Yes, well, isn’t this Ron’s business? Not yours?”

Harry snorted. “Yes, of course, but I think if we figure out who the straight bloke is and sort of play a bit of matchmaking-”

Ginny snickered. “Isn’t the key word here straight?”

“Well, straight is so relative-”

“You did not just say that,” Ginny laughed. “It’s not that relative. We can’t just convince Ron’s crush to turn gay.”

“Well, do you at least know who it is?”

“Well...” She trailed off. “I have an inkling.” Harry scooted closer. She ignored him. “It’s just a theory, mind you, but it’s probably more than you’ve got.” He ignored the jibe.

He motioned for her to continue. She paused, looking at him, lips pursed.

“Are you sure you want to hear this? There’s no going back—”

“I’ll only regret it if it’s Crabbe or Goyle, god forbid.”

“Mhm, well isn’t one of them dead? No, it’s not either of them,” Ginny replied, absent-mindedly, playing with the fringe on her quilt. “Yes, well, you’ve got to promise not to say anything. Nothing at all, Harry.”

“Yes, of course, I promise.”

“Harry, don’t go all apeshit on me here—”

“Just spit out, you’re killing me with the suspense.”

“I think it’s you he likes, Harry.”

—-

Harry had been sitting in the snow for about an hour. He was sure his arse had been frozen to the slick grass. His life had come crashing down around him.

Ron, like him? He knew it was just a theory. But suddenly everything made sense. That morning. When they’d been on the bed, and Ron had given him that look, the one that cut so close to the bone. How had he not noticed? Now it was painfully obvious. He supposed he’d been wrapped up in his own private agony to even notice Ron’s. It had take epic proportions on Ron’s part to even get him to notice. He’d had to fuck half the school before Harry had been drawn out of his shell. He wondered if Ron had been meaning to get his attention, or simply to drown himself. To drown Harry from his mind.

Now every casual touch seemed pregnant meaning. Every time he’d stripped in front of Ron seemed something more. He wondered what everything meant, if it’d had any meaning. He’d always wondered these things, and now, he wondered if Ron thought the same. Those moments had purpose suddenly. Almost a decade of courtship, and neither of them had even known it.

God, how had he been so blind? He’d expected love to come along, sweep him off his feet in a grand passion, maul him with its beauty. And it had, only he’d never had the courage to look it in the eye, much less acknowledge it.

His own failings suddenly flared in his face. He’d loved Ron all along, hadn’t he? He’d never admitted it though. All those nights, listening to Ron make love (no, fuck) all those people, and then staring at him while he slept. Or losing himself easily in the blue of Ron’s eyes, spacing out casually. All those times he’d just stared at the strong curve of Ron’s neck, the strong muscles of his chest and arms. All those times he’d been doing more than staring. He’d been wanting to touch, and never realised it.

How much time had he wasted? It seemed like forever. And there were still kilometres between them. He knew that Ginny was probably fretting about him. But he was far enough from the Burrow that he couldn’t hear them yell his name, even if he wanted to.

Suddenly there was a small popping noise, and there was Ron, standing in front of him, flush faced and angry.

“Harry? We’ve been looking all over for you! Ginny said you ran off—”

Harry leapt to his feet and clapped a chapped, freezing hand over Ron’s mouth. “How’d you find me?” He pulled his and off Ron’s mouth, savouring the feeling of the warmth of his breath.

“I just thought of you and Apparated.”

“What if you’d splinched yourself, arsehole,” Harry muttered.

Ron looked confused. “I had to find you.”

“At risk of your health? Don’t do that.”

Ron looked even more confused. “Why not?”

Harry scuffed his feet in the ice. His arse was blue, he was sure. In fact, he couldn’t feel the individual cheeks. He was sure they were frozen together, and then there wouldn’t be much point in confessing his love to Ron because they would never ever have sex. And suddenly he was so cold that he began to shiver violently, but he wasn’t sure if the cold was from the snow or the fear that had suddenly welled up inside him—

“Harry? Look we need to get you home. You’re going to get sick...”

Harry looked at Ron, and was so relieved that Ron even cared that he passed clean out. And his last realisation was that Ron had caught him.

—-

When he awoke he was in pain. It felt as if someone were stabbing him with a thousand tiny needles. He yelped and tried to squish his eyes closed again, as if going to sleep would lessen the pain.

“He’s awake!” There was a sudden flurry of motion and he opened his eyes slowly. The room was dim, but Mrs. Weasley and Ron were both leaning over him, blue orbs staring at him with a degree of concern that only made him feel guilty.

“What happened?” He managed to stutter out. Mrs. Weasley made a clucking noise and hurried out to get more blankets, muttering about chicken soup and teenagers.

Ron was close to him now, pulling up the blankets to his chin. “You blacked out. I caught you before you hit the ice. But you had, well have, I guess, some pretty bad hypothermia.”

Harry snuggled down into the blankets. He looked over at Ron. “Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“We should talk.”

Ron sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “You know, Ginny told me what you two talked about.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not true.”

Harry closed his eyes and tried to pass out again. It worked.

—-

It was silent when he woke up. He was no longer in pain. At least not physically. It still felt as if someone had stuck their hand in his chest and pulled his heart out. He opened his eyes. Ron was sleeping in a chair next to him. Someone had put him in Ron’s bed. Ron hadn’t even bothered to climb into Harry’s cot.

He watched Ron sleep and wanted to fucking hit him. He’d spent over an hour in the well below zero degrees, worried and elated because he’d been under the seemingly mistaken impression that perhaps Ron liked him like that. And he’d never even considered that before, and it had made him happy.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been truly happy. Everything was tinged with sorrow now-a-days. There were reminders of the dead around every corner, and Harry couldn’t help but feel guilty because he hadn’t saved them. So even joyous moments were ruined by the truth of things. He sighed, curling into the covers.

Ron stirred, opening his eyes slowly. He lurched up when he realised that Harry was awake.

“Hey, Harry? You okay? You need anything?” Ron looked genuinely concerned. Of course, he was a good friend. Harry burrowed his face in his pillow.

“I’m fine,” he told the pillow.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He actually felt like shit. He was freezing and his entire body ached. He didn’t want to say anything though.

Ron made a noise of disbelief. “Harry... Come on, talk to me.”

“No.”

Ron sighed again, and left the room, stomping as he did.

—-

He hadn’t brought much with him. Just his trunk, his clothing. Tonks had taught him to fold his laundry with a flick of a wand, but like her, he wasn’t especially talented at it. He managed to fit all his things in the trunk, but it wasn’t very neat.

He wrote a quick note to Ron.

Dear Ron,

I’ll see you all when we get back from break, at school. Have a lovely holiday. Give my best to the rest of the family.

He considered signing, love, but instead just put his name. He put the letter on the pillow and stared at it for a moment. They all thought he was still sleeping, and he could hear the chatter of Christmas dinner preparations from the kitchen. They’d kept a polite distance, but it was clear that they were all confused.

Fuck, he was confused. Everyone was confused. He supposed he needed even more space than they could give him. Because at night he could still hear Ron breathing, and he just wanted it to stop.

So, he did the next best thing, and left.

—-

Kreacher was rather overjoyed to have Harry home at 12 Grimmauld Place, although he did a rather good job of hiding it, Harry thought.

“Master was visiting the red-head-blood-traitor menaces?” Kreacher grouched, rubbing a silver vase with a cloth. “Master belongs here, at home.” He gave Harry a pointed look. Well, he supposed that Sirius’ ancestral mansion was his home, although he didn’t like it much.

He’d managed to clean up the third floor master bathroom over the summer. Buckbeak had scratched deep gouges in the lovely hardwood floor, which took longer to repair than Harry expected. And of course all the blood stains from his meat took a while to scourge as well. Ron had helped him get rid of the old four poster bed, no doubt used by Sirius’ parents, and replace it with a new one. Molly had made the curtains with a white gauzy material that reminded Harry of this picture he had of Lily in a summer dress.

Surprisingly enough Hermione had a flair for art. None of them had expected it, what with Hermione being better at theoretical concepts than actual magic. But she had a hidden talent for abstract paintings, some of which she’d charmed to move and swirl. The ones in Harry’s room were all bright colours, as if she were trying to lighten the room.

They’d removed all the dour, dark wall paper and whitewashed the walls. He’d kept the windows open all summer, replaced the thick green velvet curtains with the same material they’d used for the bed curtains. The room was brighter now, even in the dark of winter. The rest of the house was still a work in progress, but Kreacher had been a willing participant in the cleaning of the house, surprisingly enough.

He dumped his trunk at the foot of his bed and rifled through it till he found his pyjamas. He climbed into them and hopped into bed. It was only mid morning, but he wanted to sleep through Christmas. He wondered how long it would take them to figure out he was missing, and hoped they wouldn’t come try to find him. He’d made it abundantly clear since the incident in the snow that he hadn’t wanted to talk to any of them, and he hoped that the still got it.

—-

“Harry, what the fuck?” Someone was shaking him awake. He opened his eyes blearily to find Ron standing by the bed, face redder than his hair.

Harry rolled over so he couldn’t see Ron. “Go away. Didn’t you get the note?”

“Of course we got the note, you prat,” Ron snapped. “It didn’t make any sense. What the fuck are you doing here? It’s Christmas eve, you shit.”

Kreacher piped up. “Master is spending Christmas at home, blood-traitor.”

“Kreacher, get the fuck out of here,” Ron exploded, and then added, more agreeably, “please.” He sighed and they both watched Kreacher slouch from the room. He turned back to Harry. “You should be with us... Why are you acting like this?” He no longer sounded sad, just angry. There was a ruffling sound as Ron shed his shoes and climbed onto the bed. He turned Harry over so he was on his back. “Harry?”

Harry stared up at the canopy. “I don’t want to talk, Ron.”

“Are you upset about what Ginny said? Well, it isn’t true—”

“Ron!”

“What?” Ron seemed genuinely confused. “Why are you upset? I don’t understand. I thought you were angry because you thought I liked you, but then I told you I don’t like you—”

“Ron! Just stop, okay?” Harry rolled over again. Ron grabbed him by the shoulder roughly and pulled him over. His hands pinned Harry to the bed. Harry couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Just spit it out, okay? You can’t make me talk about my feelings, and then not do the same. Don’t be a bleeding hypocrite.”

“Fine!” Harry snapped. “Just let go of me, you fucking prat.”

Ron removed his hands reluctantly, sitting back on the bed, folding his arms across his narrow chest. “All right then, just say it.”

“I’m just depressed, I suppose. I don’t want to spend time around people.”

“Are you depressed about Fred? Because we’re all sad about that—”

“No, it’s not about Fred.”

“Then who’s it about? Remus? Sirius?” Ron sighed, relaxing some. This was something he understood. “We miss them too; you’re not alone, you know.”

“It’s not about that!” Harry said, trying not to hiss. “I just— I just like someone,” he said lamely, aware of how stupid it sounded. He wasn’t sure why he was even telling Ron this. Because all he wanted was to be left alone, although it was clear Ron wasn’t going to leave unless he said something. And he didn’t like lying to Ron. So he was going to hedge around the truth as much as possible.

Ron’s eyes widened noticeably. He swallowed. “Well, that’s great, Harry—”

“But he doesn’t like me back.”

“He?” Ron’s eyes got even bigger. “Are you saying—”

“Yes, yes,” Harry muttered, waving away the obvious part of Ron’s statement.

Ron was silent for a moment, processing. “So... Is he straight?”

“Uh, no, well, he likes boys, but he doesn’t like me.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Really? Harry, you’re a good looking bloke. Are you sure he doesn’t like you?”

“Uh yeah, sure. He told me.” Harry played with his coverlet and twisted his mouth slightly.

“Oh.” Ron sat back, looking at Harry oddly. Harry supposed that he was still processing the whole part where Harry had admitted that he liked a boy, and he wondered if Ron was shocked. Or upset. Maybe. He didn’t know. It was bothering him. “So, you didn’t want to stay with us?” Suddenly a look of dawning appeared on his face. Harry squirmed and tried to get up.

Ron pushed him back down.

“Ron, it’s not what you think—”

“You like George, don’t you?” Ron said, his voice filled with something that sounded a little bit like anger. “George? Of all people, Harry—”

“You big fucking idiot!” Harry snarled. “You’re so thick! Of course it’s not George!”

Ron was a bit shocked. “But if it’s not George, then who is it? If it’s Charlie or Bill I might have to kill you—”

“Shut the fuck up Ron!” Harry shoved his head under a pillow. “No, no, no, no!”

“No? Not George, Bill, or Charlie... Good god, you fuck, it isn’t Percy is it? Percy’s a pouf, I knew it—”

“Ron!”

“So not Percy then? Then who the hell is it?”

“You, you giant shit!”

There was a long pause. “Wait—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry amended quickly, withdrawing his head from under the pillow. Ron’s expression was unreadable. “I meant—”

Ron was suddenly on top of him, pushing his shoulders into the mattress again. “I heard it, you stupid git. I heard it.”

“It’s not like that—” Harry was desperate to try and fix the situation now. Because he couldn’t lose Ron completely. He’d been losing Ron bit by bit over the school year, but he wasn’t gone yet, and this would surely drive him away utterly.

Ron shook his head. “Yes it is.” He kept shaking his head, ruefully. “And I went to all that effort to tell you I didn’t like you, because I thought you were flipping a shit over what Ginny said.”

“Of course I flipped a shit!” Harry replied, exasperated. “I’d liked you for years, just didn’t know it, and suddenly there’s a chance, of course I freaked out.” He wanted to curse his big fat mouth, but he figured there was no way of getting out of it now, what with Ron pinning him to the bed. Ron raised his hand and Harry flinched.

“I’m not going to hit you, you prat,” Ron said, somewhat affectionately, brushing the hair off Harry’s forehead. “I was going to say that I lied.” He looked inordinately pleased with himself.

“When?”

“With the whole, I don't like you thing.”

“You mean—”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

They looked at each other and suddenly it was painfully, beautifully awkward.

—-

Harry wasn’t sure how long they’d been lying there on their sides, just talking and staring at each other with a sort of amusing juvenility. Harry had discovered that he giggled a lot around Ron, and had never even realised it until Ron pointed it out. And Ron was a bit embarrassed about his rather loose behaviour.

“Well, you weren’t interested—”

“Was too.”

“You didn’t give me any signs!” Ron protested good-naturedly, draping a long arm over Harry’s waist. Despite the dim light Harry could see the swirling scars across his arms, the twisting of rough tissue across those long pale arms. He traced them, acutely aware of the little distance between their bodies.

“But that didn’t mean you had to sleep with all of Gryffindor...” Harry rolled his eyes, snuggling closer to his bed partner. “That was a bit much, you have to admit.” Ron shrugged, and his t-shirt drew up a bit, exposing his slim, white stomach. Harry felt a lurch in his gut.

Ron laughed a bit, noticing Harry’s expression. He pressed closer. “Mhm, well, I have plenty of experience now, eh?”

Harry squirmed a bit at the idea. It was a bit of a turn on, and yet at the same time, a turn off. He never knew what to think or say. He liked the idea of Ron knowing what to do, but he hated the idea that Ron knew what to do with other people. Ron must have known what he was thinking, because he stroked Harry’s temple gently.

“Hey, you know, I was thinking about you the whole time.”

Harry grinned in spite of himself. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Ron replied easily. “The whole time. Every single one.”

Harry sneaked a hand up the front of Ron’s shirt, surprising Ron, and himself, with his audacity. Ron pushed into his hand, grinning like a loon. Harry snickered and let his hand wander over the topography of Ron’s bony chest. His long fingers brushed up against a hard nipple and Ron sucked in a sharp breath.

Ron played with the bottom of his pyjama shirt, sneaking glances down at Harry’s body, parallel to his own. Finally, after deliberating for a few moments, Harry pulled Ron’s shirt up, watching freckled skin as it was revealed. He could hear his heart in his ears. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. He spread his hands over Ron’s pectorals, and he could feel Ron’s heart under his left hand. That same thump-thump, thump-thump.

“Are you sure?” Ron whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, not sure of what he was sure of. Clearly Ron meant sex, but Harry meant more. He was sure. About everything. And it seemed like the distance that had been growing between them since the final battle was finally vanishing, and there was nothing but physical space separating them, which was going to be remedied soon enough.

Ron helped Harry shimmy out of his own shirt, tossing it at their feet. Harry was cold for a moment, but Ron pulled him closer so that he could feel Ron’s body heat rolling off him. He traced his fingers over the red-head’s lithe body, following the dips and valleys of his light muscling. Ron responded, and his fingers brushing the hollows of Harry’s chest made them both shiver. He snuggled closer and winced when the buckle of Ron’s belt dug into his lower belly. Noticing his discomfort, Ron shucked the belt and then his jeans, and then pulled Harry’s pants off, so they were both in their briefs.

Harry could barely breath. He’d dreamed of this a million times, but he’d never been able to see his partner’s face. Now he recognised those scars, the soft red hair that rippled over white skin. He gasped as Ron’s hand trailed up the inside of his thigh, nearing awfully close to his crotch. His dick stiffened from its half-aroused state, rising in the darkness. The proximity of Ron’s hands only increased the hardness.

“Ron,” he gasped, grabbing his hand as if to push it away. “Are you sure?” He couldn’t help but think of all those men and women before him. Not to mention, he couldn’t help but worry that Ron was just going to have sex with him and then forget about him.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Ron whispered in reply. “I want you Harry.”

“You’re not going to just... You’re not going to leave afterwards, right?” He asked. He knew he sounded like a little boy, all fears and tremulous murmurs.

“No, I’m staying with you, Harry.” Ron’s mouth ghosted over his neck, lips brushing against his adam’s apple. “I want you. As a boyfriend.”

Harry visibly relaxed. “Me too. I mean, I want you as a boyfriend too.”

Ron understood. He kissed the hollow of Harry’s throat, hands playing with the elastic at Harry’s hips. Harry twitched under the slight ministrations, breath already ragged. Harry’s hips bucked as Ron’s agile fingers slipped under the edge of his underwear. Ron pulled them down slowly, eyes fixed between Harry’s legs. The silence was pregnant with anticipation. Harry closed his eyes. He could feel Ron’s breath on his cock, and he thought he might come just from the sight of Ron between his legs.

“God, Harry,” Ron whispered, and Harry’s dick twitched as Ron’s breath ran over it. Harry opened his eyes just in time to watch Ron engulf the tip of his dick with his red mouth.

“Oh fuck!” Harry lurched slightly at the stab of pleasure, almost sitting up. Ron pushed him back down with his spare hand and Harry sprawled back onto the bed, wheezing like the asthmatic boy who’d lived down at the end of Privet Drive, who’d ended up nearly dying from an attack instigated by Dudley and his horrid gang. Harry had almost forgotten about that until the sound of his gasps filled the air between them.

Ron was alternately trailing his tongue along the underside of Harry’s dick and sucking hard. It felt kind of like Harry’s brain was being drained out between his legs. He grabbed Ron’s head, not harshly, he hoped, running his hands through Ron’s soft locks.

“Fuck yeah,” he groaned, aware that his eyes were sort of rolling back in his head. “Jesus, Ron.” Ron pulled off and Harry let out a disappointed yelp. He pouted slightly and Ron laughed, kissing the tip of Harry’s dick before hauling himself up alongside Harry.

“D’you have anything slick? Like oil?”

Harry blushed. “Uh yeah, like olive oil, in the kitchen.”

“Accio olive oil,” Ron said, raising an eyebrow. The bottle zoomed into his hand. “I’m pretty sure that this won’t kill us.” He smirked. Harry looked at his dick and then at the olive oil. Well, it looked fine. Ron opened the top and poured a generous amount into the centre of his palm. Harry watched the golden-green liquid pool in his hand. Ron grabbed him by the dick, and Harry squeaked. He slathered himself afterwards.

“Watch this.” Ron moved over him, and Harry felt his heart beat speed up. Ron grabbed Harry’s dick again, and then his own and pressed them together. The slickness of the olive oil and the heat of Ron’s cock made Harry swoon slightly and Ron pressed his mouth against Harry’s before he began to move.

Harry hadn’t liked kissing Ginny, and especially not Cho, but his heart was in his throat as Ron kissed him, tongue pressing against his. He wanted to swallow Ron’s mouth, but was slightly distracted by the intense, incredible sensation as Ron jacked them both off with his large, Keeper hands. Harry was being pressed into the mattress and he could barely feel his limbs, and he didn’t care because he was kissing Ron, and their bodies were practically one, completely flush, every inch of skin touching.

He threw his arms around Ron’s waist and let out a long moan that started in his belly and seemed to come out of the top of head. Ron seemed to take this as permission to thrust faster, his hips moving in smooth motions as he grasped their cocks together. The friction was too much, and Harry, let his head fall back and the orgasm sweep over him, moaning and moving up into Ron’s hand. Ron followed not much longer, grunting and swearing.

“Oh fuck, fuck Harry, yeah...”

When the orgasm had finally relinquished its control over him, he took a quick glance at his watch. It was midnight.

“Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“Happy Christmas,” Harry whispered, tracing patterns in the sperm on Ron’s stomach.