Bittersweet Symphony

The Daily Prophet              Friday, December 3, 2010             Page 3

HEAD AUROR POTTER TAKES HASTY LEAVE
AMIDST EVIDENCE OF MALFEASANCE
by Contributing Editor Rita Skeeter

London (WPI) – Harry Potter, 30, aging 'Boy Who Lived', homosexual rights activist and so-called Saviour of the Wizarding World, abruptly took an extended leave of absence from his position this morning as Head of Aurors at the Ministry for Magic. Potter's secretary and Media Advisor, Dennis Creevey, 27, initially refused comment, although when repeatedly pressed for details, offered the following: “Harry has been tireless in his services to the Ministry,” Creevey said as he pushed his way through the crowded Atrium earlier today. “He hasn't taken any personal time in years. He's been under tremendous strain as of late, and is still recovering from injuries suffered in last month's raid upon a confirmed Death Eater splinter cell in Plymouth. As a matter of fact,” Creevey added peevishly, “I insisted that he take a month's holiday. He's earned it, and the rest will do him a world of good.” Creevey failed to answer any further questions.

Confidential Prophet sources within the Ministry provide us with a vastly different picture than Creevey's rose-coloured image of Potter as merely an over-worked public servant on a much deserved hiatus. Aside from hints of favouritism and preferential treatment for those of a certain 'bent', as it were, it is also apparently widely known amongst the lower echelons of the Ministerial staff that Potter has made unprofessional and shockingly lewd advances toward many young male workers in the Aurors' offices. Dilbert Dinglebaum, 19, of Diagon West, told this reporter that Potter has made unsolicited advances upon his person on several occasions. “He even felt me up, once,” Dinglebaum stated, tears filling his eyes. “He backed me into a supply closet. I didn't know what to do. I need the job, so I kept quiet, until now.”

Aside from terrorising young male staffers, other sources tell the Prophet that Potter unforgivably bungled the latest sting operation referenced by Creevey, allowing the dangerous Death Eater Vincent Crabbe to escape and causing needless injury not only to himself, but to four others of the strike team in his charge. “This ain't the first time this is 'appened,” a Ministry employee reported under conditions of anonymity. “Everyone always covers up fer his blunders. One 'o these times, someone's gonna get killed, and then what?”

What, indeed.

Yet another unnamed source within the Ministry's General Accounting Office reports that there are more than a few peculiarities surrounding Potter's expense accounts. “We've been investigating the Aurors' offices financials for some time now. We've found several instances where large sums of Ministry funds are missing or otherwise unaccounted for.” When pressed for details, our source indicated that the funds in question could be in “excess of tens of thousands of Galleons.”

Controversy has surrounded Potter's tenure at the Ministry like a Dementor's mist, beginning from the very moment in autumn 1998, when then Auror Head Kingsley Shacklebolt created a 'special position' for Potter within the department. Potter again threw the Ministry into chaos in March 2001, when he not only announced his homosexuality, but also his 'involvement' with none other than long time best mate and fellow Auror, Ronald B. Weasley, who left the Ministry's employ shortly thereafter.

As of press time, Minister for Magic Shacklebolt has refused to speak to the media concerning the developing situation, and Weasley, currently employed as a stocker at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley, has so far been unavailable for comment.

When questioned at his shop this morning, Weasley's older brother George X. Wealsey, 34, proprietor of Wheezes, had no qualms about speaking his mind to this reporter. Unfortunately, his comments cannot be re-printed here.

So once again Harry Potter stirs up the cauldron, his pathological need to be the centre of attention usurping all other concerns. How long civil society must be subjected to this tiresome game, no one knows. And the question on everyone's minds: has Potter gone too far this time? The Prophet will, as always, continue to cover this story as it unfolds.

The Daily Prophet              Friday, December 3, 2010             Page 3


~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Ron Apparated from Wheezes directly to their flat in West Diagon.

He'd known something had been up the instant he'd returned to the shop with his recently procured supply of dragonfly wings, skrewt spleens and toad extract. George had made it abundantly clear that he had something important to impart as he'd literally shoved Lee out of the storeroom so they could talk in private. Ron hadn't been certain at first whether George had been upset over his latest failed experiment, or if something horrible had happened to one of the family. As soon as George had held up the evening edition of the Prophet, however, he'd known that there was more trouble involving Harry.

Ron was upset, of course, probably more than he should have been. After several years as Harry's official partner, this sort of thing was nothing new. He couldn't recall the number of nasty rumours, articles and sundry unpleasantness that had circulated about himself and Harry over the years, especially after they'd come out together.

Every time things seemed to settle down, some arsehole somewhere stirred things up again.

It hadn't been enough that Harry had nearly died defeating Voldemort; there were those who insisted that he actually had died, but Ron wasn't ashamed to admit that he didn't really get what all that was about. Suffice it to say they'd both survived the War, survived the equally harrowing events immediately afterward, and had emerged relatively unscathed.

In a word, they'd been lucky.

Harry'd done his part, more so than anybody could have been expected to.

Yet there was still no shortage of those who thrived on being total, complete wankers towards Harry. Skeeter was a prime example, as she'd had her knickers in a twist over Harry since their Hogwarts years.

Nearly a decade later, she was still at it. Ron found it completely mystifying that a person could be so entirely vapid and hateful. What was the point? It didn't make any sense to him at all.

He shrugged out of his jacket, dropping it on an arm of the sofa. He glanced about, finding the sitting room and adjacent kitchen empty. “Harry? You here?” He stalked down the short hall, following a dreadful noise that sounded as if an angry cat were caught in a Muggle washing machine.

Ron pushed open the door to the smallest bedroom to find Teddy sprawled flat on his back on his bed, eyes closed tight, his head jerking spasmodically in time with the music. Teddy's hands flailed about, and Ron vaguely recalled that it was what Teddy had referred to as playing the 'air guitar'. Large posters for rock bands covered every available wall space, and where only last year they'd been almost exclusively of The Weird Sisters and Dumbledore's Army, there were now more than a few Ron didn't recognise at all, like Slipknot, Incubus, Cruxshadows and Ministry.

“Oi! Turn that racket down, yeah?”

Teddy immediately fell still, cracking open one eye. “What?”

“I said, turn that bloody noise down. Now!”

Rolling his eyes, Teddy flopped off the bed, giving the volume knob on his boom box a savage twist. “Wasn't that loud.”

“It was.”

“Wasn't.”

“It was too loud. I'm amazed your ears aren't bleeding.”

“As if,” Teddy muttered. “That was one of their mellow songs.”

“Mellow? And just what do these people call themselves?”

“Marilyn Manson. They're Muggle. Jimmy McGregor lent it to me for the hols. Awesome, isn't it?”

Ron blew out a breath. “Remind me to thank Jimmy McGregor. Haven't I told you that the walls in this block are paper thin?”

Teddy nodded, folding his arms. “Don't I know it.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Teddy shrugged. “You and Uncle Harry need to work on your silencing charms.”

Ron stepped forward, planting his fists on his hips. He and Harry had never attempted to hide their affections for one another, and Teddy had sorted out the reality of their relationship at an early age. They'd always been careful to engage in their more creative and exotic lovemaking only while Teddy had been away with Andromeda; of course a person couldn't always control themselves while in the middle of a supremely hot shag session, and Ron was what Harry warmly referred to as a “screamer.”

Obviously he and Harry had gotten a bit loud once or twice; even so, it wasn't Teddy's place to point that out, and Ron couldn't imagine that whatever noises they might have made compared in any way with what the kid had been blaring only a few moments ago. He was about to utter a suitable, quasi-parental retort when he noticed something off about Teddy's face. “What's happened to your eyes?”

“Nothing.” Fidgeting, Teddy looked away, his hair changing from jet black to deep blue.

“Let me see.”

“Everybody in Ravenclaw's doing it.”

“Theodore Remus Lupin, I've had a right rotten day, so don't test me, okay?”

Teddy sighed in defeat, turning to face Ron.

“What the...is that...is that make-up?”

“Yeah. I nicked it from Grandromeda's bedroom. It's eyeliner.”

Ron's brain ground to a halt. He prided himself as being an open-minded person, obviously, but somehow the concept of a twelve year-old boy applying make-up failed to make any sort of sense at all.

Teddy had always been a relatively well-behaved child, up until he'd gone off to Hogwarts. He'd earned good marks, better than good, really, but he'd certainly picked up some distressingly odd habits from his Ravenclaw housemates. Ron supposed that his failure to understand was just another sign that he was getting older, that he was getting further and further out of touch with the younger generation.

But he also couldn't imagine a universe in which Minerva McGonagall would allow second year boys at her school to wear eye make-up. Apparently, this was most likely one of those days his mum had warned him about.

He had always felt lucky to be able to help raise Teddy with Harry and Andromeda Black; if anyone had ever told him years ago that he'd actually enjoy raising a kid, he'd have promptly told them they were totally barmy and to have another Firewhiskey.

Or three.

It was hard to believe that Teddy was already into his second year at Hogwarts, and to Ron, there were as many times that he resembled his father as he did his mother. Being a metamorphmagus though, he tended to remind Ron more of Tonks.

Teddy gestured lazily with one hand. “You'll catch flies.”

Ignoring the cheek, Ron drew himself up, hoping to look imposing. “That's enough with the mouth, young man.”

“Sorry, Uncle Ron.”

“You don't do yourself any favours when you talk like that, you know. I'm used to it, but I hate to wonder what others might think about you when you do it to them. You're smarter than that.”

Teddy stared off at a point in space before nodding slowly. “I understand.”

“Good. And just because half of Ravenclaw House decides to leap from the Astronomy Tower doesn't mean you've gotta follow suit, right?”

“No, I guess not.”

“We'll talk about this make-up business later.” Ron leaned in to muss Teddy's now lime green hair. “So, have you seen Harry?”

“Yeah, he came home at lunchtime. Left a few hours ago, right before your mum firecalled.”

“My mum called?”

Teddy nodded as he leaned back against the headboard of his bed. “She was looking for you. Wanted to talk about that thing in the Prophet.” He pulled a magazine from the stack on his bedside table and opened it.

“So you know about the article?”

Teddy nodded. “Yeah. Don't understand what the big deal is. No one reads that rag, anyway. It isn't true, is it?”

“Nah, not a word,” Ron replied quickly, hoping to Hades and back that none of it was. “This sort of thing's happened before. Did he say where he was off to?”

“Godric's Hollow. He took his broomstick. Said he'd be back in a bit.” Teddy shrugged as he raised his magazine.

“Thought so.” Ron nibbled at his bottom lip as he stood up. “Aren't you supposed to be at Grandromeda's right now?”

“She isn't at home. First Friday of every month is some sort of potion's brewing club or something. Remember?”

Now that Teddy mentioned it, Ron did remember. “Right, right. I've got to meet up with Harry at Godric's Hollow, and then we'll both be back here straightaway. I suppose I could ask my mum to pop on over and keep an eye on you until we get back.”

Teddy paled visibly as he dropped his magazine to his lap and his hair faded to a washed out grey. “Oh, c'mon, I don't need a sitter!”

Ron paused, putting on his best contemplative expression. Stroking his chin, he successfully fought the urge to grin as Teddy squirmed in anguished anticipation. Finally, he nodded and cocked his head to one side. “I'll let you mind yourself on two conditions: one, no more cheek for the rest of the weekend.”

Teddy nodded vigourously. “Okay.”

“And two, no loud music. Keep it to a respectable volume. If Mrs. Biddle next door complains to the landlord one more time, this room'll be a music-free zone for the duration.”

“Duration of what?”

Ron pointed a finger at Teddy. “Hey!”

“Okay, okay, I promise,” Teddy replied as his hair turned purple.

“I still don't see why you can't use headphones.”

“I've told you, they hurt my ears.”

Ron sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. “Fine, whatever. Just keep it down, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Teddy answered, looking put out in the extreme.

“Brilliant. I won't be long. You can firecall my mum or George if you need anything. Got it?”

“I'll be fine, ma.” Teddy pulled a face and returned to his magazine.

Ron waited a moment longer before returning to the sitting room, Teddy's question bouncing around inside his head. Of course Skeeter's story was nothing but a pack of lies. It was simply another pathetic attempt to sully Harry's reputation and gain some notoriety for herself.

And there was no way Harry would skive Ministry funds; he didn't need to. He had two vaults at Gringotts overflowing with Galleons. As for the harassment allegations...well, that wasn't like Harry, either.

“Nothing but a load of skrewt dung,” he murmured to the empty room as he pulled on his bomber jacket.

So there was nothing to worry about, he kept telling himself. But Harry could be bloody tight-lipped about things when it came down to it, and why was his stomach insisting on tying itself into knots?

He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and stared at the flames in the hearth. The fire danced and popped in a cheerful conflagration, all chimney red and pulsing orange. “The Silver Doe,” he called out, the powder crackling as the flames flared up to form a shimmering wall of green. As he stepped through it, he heard the unmistakable sound of Marilyn Manson rise up behind him.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Ron stepped out into the rear yard at Godric's Hollow.

A huge meadow spread out behind the cottage, and beyond the low, crumbling rock wall that marked the boundary of the property, nothing but grasses, scattered shrubs, and a few copses of trees dotted the landscape.

The sun hung over the far-off low hills, swatches of bright red and crimson and flaming orange laced with fingers of electric pinks and purples. Dark, swollen clouds of mottled greys and smudgy blacks moved heavily above the sunset, and Ron shivered as he pulled up the zip of his jacket. It was a most breathtaking view, even without the cool sunset, and he could understand why Harry held onto the cottage, although it was unlikely that they'd ever live there.

Too many memories. Too much darkness.

Ron walked through the ankle high grass to stand next to the low wall, shading his eyes from the blazing orb of the setting sun to scan the sky. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for: a small speck, a tiny bit of darker colour against the grey clouds. It moved quickly, smoothly, scribing long, graceful arcs alternately punctuated by either slow ascents or abrupt descents.

Stepping over the jumble of stones, he cast a warming charm before sitting down. He then hiked up the fur collar of his jacket, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets.

Watching Harry glide back and forth across the sky, he slowly lost himself in thought. He could see Harry in his mind's eye, the wind whipping his dark hair back, smiling and laughing as he hunched over his broomstick, free and alive and at one with the wind.

The sun dipped lower and lower, the pinks and purples giving way to rich indigos and achingly deep blues. He sipped from his flask of Oban, and by the time the sun set some time later, he didn't feel the wind any longer.

Whether it was because he'd become accustomed to the chill or due to the scotch, he wasn't sure. Either way, it was all good.

He could watch Harry fly forever.

He looked up just as the first stars sparkled into being. It was all too damn brilliant, and he absently wondered how many more perfect moments like this he'd be able to have.

There was a nearby thud, followed by a crunch of frozen grass. A shadow approached out of the gloaming, and Ron stood up to welcome it. “Hey.”

“I knew you'd find me,” Harry said, a bit winded.

“Short list. Looked good up there. Nice night for it, eh?”

Harry stepped closer, nodding. “Yeah. Perfect. A bit chilly, though.”

Ron embraced him, sliding his hands up and under Harry's heavy woollen jumper. “I know a way to warm you up.”

Harry chuckled and laid his head on Ron's shoulder. “I knew you'd say that.”

“Predictable, that's me.” Ron pressed against Harry, pulling him in tight.

Harry dropped his broomstick, wrapping his arms around Ron's waist. “Teddy's wearing mascara.”

“Eyeliner.”

“Whatever.”

“Andromeda's going to bust a gut.” Ron paused to tilt his head down to try to size up Harry's expression. “You okay?”

“Brilliant, now that you're here.”

“How sweet. A bit poofy, though.”

Harry snorted and looked up. “Predictable, that's me.”

“Yeah,” Ron breathed, leaning down to capture Harry's lips with his own. He ran his hands around Harry's waist, grinding his hips into Harry's.

Harry broke the kiss, quickly leaning down to retrieve his broomstick. “We'd best get back to the flat. Never know what Teddy will get up to.” He trailed the fingers of one hand through one of Ron's, climbing over the wall and heading back toward the cottage.

“Harry, is everything right?” Ron called out after him.

Harry stopped, once again a shadow on shadow. “Why wouldn't it be?” He paused a moment before striding on again.

Ron shivered as he followed Harry into the cottage.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

They'd flooed back to the West Diagon flat to find that Molly had been there and gone.

The sitting room had been dusted and cleaned, the kitchen counters sparkled as the last dishes washed themselves and levitated to the drying rack, and several large bowls and dishes filled with food sat waiting on the stove. Andromeda had apparently flooed in as well, as she'd left behind her stoat-fur muffler on the back of the sofa.

There was a note in Molly's flowing script hovering over the drying dishes, and Ron could easily guess what its contents were. He snatched it from the air, scanning it quickly.

“Well?” Harry asked, smirking.

“Mum says we need to talk about Teddy's, quote, unfortunate affinity, unquote, for eyeliner, as well as his disturbing taste in music.”

“I'll let you handle that one.” Harry set to filling a plate.

Ron checked on Teddy, who'd fallen asleep, his magazine collapsed on his chest and the dreadful music still playing.

He smiled as he turned off the boom box, returned the magazine to the tottering stack on the bedside table, and pulled a quilt up to Teddy's chin. He smoothed Teddy's fringe out of his eyes, which had reverted to its natural deep auburn colour. A pity the kid didn't show it off more often; it was really quite fetching that way.

He left a kiss to Teddy's forehead before turning out the light and re-joining Harry in the kitchen. Harry stood over the sink, finishing off a portion of what looked to be his mum's signature shepherd's pie.

“Merlin bless her. She can be a pain in the arse at times, but she comes through in a pinch.” He grabbed a plate from the drying rack and spooned a huge portion of the pie onto it.

“Ummm-hummm,” Harry agreed around a mouthful.

Ron toyed with his food for a few moments before Harry took notice.

“I know that look, Ron. Out with it.”

“You haven't answered my question.”

“I did,” Harry replied, dropping his plate into the sinkful of soapy water.

Ron shook his head. “Nope. You answered with another question.”

Harry glared back before sighing heavily. “So you think that I've been buggering interns in broom closets, then?”

“No.”

“Or that I've been giving our queer friends special treatment?”

“'Course not.”

Harry pursed his lips and folded his arms. “Ahhh. Must be you believe I've embezzled Ministry funds.”

“You know I don't believe a word of that article.” He set his plate on the counter. “It's all shite concocted by that bitch Skeeter. What I want to know is how you are, okay?”

“How do you think?” Harry pushed past him and into the sitting room, where he poured himself a hefty shot of Firewhiskey.

Ron followed, the familiar heat rising through his collar and up his neck. “I really hate it when you do that.”

“What?”

“You know.” Ron remained silent as he waited for an answer. The scars on his forearms had been bothering him again, and he scratched at them as he waited for Harry to speak.

“We've been through this before,” Harry stated flatly.

“Yeah, we have.”

“And we'll get through it again.”

“Sure we will.”

Harry poured some more whiskey and dropped into the cushy sofa. He stared at Ron a moment before downing the alcohol. “Look, Dinglebaum's a twat. Thinks with his dick, and can't find his arse with both hands, let alone a file folder. He's the one that came on to me, by the way.”

“Thought so,” Ron said, taking a seat next to Harry.

“And this accounting thing; it's only the standard annual audit. I'm missing some expense receipts, that's all. Skeeter's blown it all out of proportion.”

Ron nodded. “I thought it was something like that..”

“You know that 'unnamed source' of hers? The one concerned with my mishandling of the Plymouth project?”

“Yeah?”

“It was Simpswitch.”

“That barmy maintenance bloke? Looks like Filch on a bad day?”

Harry nodded. “That's him, the arse. Like he'd have the slightest clue as to what's entailed in planning and executing a top secret operation. Plymouth went down nearly flawlessly. Crabbe did escape, but we've a line on his whereabouts. We'll get him.”

“I've no doubt.”

“Kingsley's none too pleased with the article, nor the Prophet, for that matter. His policy has always been hands off as far as the media goes, but he feels that Skeeter's crossed the line once too many times. He's mounting an investigation of his own, and he has a meeting with the Prophet's managing editors first thing come Monday.”

“Don't envy them. Kingsley's not one to be trifled with.”

“Too right.” Harry rubbed his right shoulder and groaned.

“Still sore, is it?” Ron slid next to Harry, placing his hands on Harry's shoulders. “Here, let me have it.”

“I'd forgotten how long it takes cursed wounds to heal. Wormwood says it's coming along fine. Must've overdone it flying.”

“He told you rest and relax, not zoom about on a broomstick.”

“It doesn't hurt that—yowch! Careful!”

“See? You should've listened to your Healer.” Ron resumed his massaging. “Now listen to me and quit whinging.”

“Yes, Healer Weasley.” Harry relaxed instantly, sinking lower into the soft cushions. “The holiday was my idea, by the way.”

“Really?” Ron pondered this bit of information, as Harry'd always been the sort to take time off only when forced to do so. “That's a switch.”

“Why not, yeah? I've got plenty of leave time accumulated. This way, I might even enjoy Christmas.”

“Don't you usually?”

Harry made a vague gesture with one hand. “Well, yeah, you know I do. I'm speaking of all the mad rushing about, trying to shop for gifts, posting cards, the endless invites to parties and boring Ministry events...”

“Uh-huh,” Ron agreed.

“A change will be nice,” Harry mused quietly. “Something different. Some time to get things sorted. I think I've earned it.”

“Too right, mate.” Ron worked carefully on a particularly tough knot on Harry's left shoulder.

“I might even use the time to get my N.E.W.T. Equivalence testing out of the way.”

Ron stopped his massaging. “Really? You haven't mentioned that in years.”

“I should do it. I know there are more than a few from our year that never finished the exams; you and Hermione did, though.”

“Yeah, but we weren't working full time as an Auror, like you were then.”

“No, but it wasn't exactly easy for you, either, helping to repair Hogwarts and studying at the same time.”

Ron chuckled. “I suppose you've a point. The repair work was fine, and I'll never forget Minerva or Flitwick holding impromptu classes in the ruins. Bloody unreal, it was.”

“It's just something I need to do.”

Ron stared at Harry, whose eyes had unfocused, as if seeing something from the past, or perhaps the future. A moment later, he cried out again. “Ow! Go easy on me, okay?”

“Don't I always?” Ron replied around a grin.

“With those big paws of yours? Right.”

“I thought you liked my big hands. Glad I've finally learnt the truth,” Ron murmured, trying to sound affronted. He increased pressure steadily, swirling his thumbs in wide circles at the base of Harry's neck.

Harry moaned, closing his eyes and slumping further into Ron. “I do like your big hands. And other things.”

“Yeah?” Ron leaned in, swiping the tip of his tongue across the shell of Harry's ear. “What other things, exactly?” He squeezed a bit harder at the knotted muscles beneath Harry's jumper.

“Ummmmm. This, for starters.” Harry slid his right hand onto Ron's thigh, trailing his fingers along the tight denim to envelop Ron's burgeoning crotch. “Could be my favourite thing, actually.”

“Pervert,” Ron rumbled directly into Harry's ear. “You only love me for my cock, eh?”

"You've a very nice cock." Harry tilted his head slightly, and Ron licked and nibbled his way down to the base of his neck. "Fuck, Ron, I love it when you do that,” he whimpered, shifting on the cushion and turning toward Ron. “That thing you do...with your voice...”

“Oh? You mean this?” Ron growled, returning to his suckling of Harry's neck.

“Gods, yes, that's it.” Harry gasped, turning fully to face Ron and straddling him. He hooked his fingers under the hem of Ron's Chudley sweatshirt, lifting it up and over Ron's head.

Ron slouched down as Harry ran both hands along his belly and up to his chest. His cock was fully hard now, straining against the fabric of his denims. He leaned forward, inhaling deeply and nearly swooning as he drank in the familiar scents that were his Harry: sandalwood and musk, a hint of grass and broom oil, and the unmistakable aroma of the cold embedded in the wool jumper. He sunk further down into the sofa, his hands dropping to grasp Harry by the hips, pulling him closer. He looked up to see Harry towering over him, head back, eyes closed, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. “Fuck, Harry,” he gasped as his fingers fumbled with the snap and zip of Harry's denims.

“That's it, that's it. Suck me. Suck my cock, Ron.”

They shifted about again as Ron shoved Harry's denims and y-fronts down as far as he could. Harry's fat cock bobbed enticingly before him, and Ron grasped it firmly, pulling back the foreskin and swirling his tongue around the swollen head.

Harry started to rock back and forth, slowly at first, one hand on the back of Ron's head. “Bleedin' fuckin' Circe,” he hissed, shuddering as Ron sucked hungrily at the head of his cock. “Yeah...oh, yeah, that's it. Take it...c'mon, c'mon...oh, yeah...” Harry's words slowly dissolved into a stream of gibberish.

Ron dug his fingers into Harry's clenching arse cheeks, taking Harry's entire length and sucking for all he was worth. He loved Harry's cock, all thick and hard and heavy, and Harry was giving it to him now with what was developing into a deliciously reckless abandon.

Harry thrust his hips back and forth with increasing speed, his fingers grasping Ron's hair tightly.

Ron held on as Harry fucked his mouth, his own hard cock aching for release. He focused on Harry, nothing but pleasing his Harry, his tongue swirling around Harry's thrusting cock as a series of images flashed through his buzzy brain: Harry asleep in their bed; on the Hogwarts Express; on his broomstick; in the medical ward at school; playing Quidditch with the twins at the Burrow; dozing in his office; lying face down in the snow, shivering and clutching the sword; smiling at some off colour joke...

“Ron!” Harry's thrusts shuddered to a halt, and he attempted to pull back.

Ron held on tightly, struggling to pull in a breath as Harry's release filled his throat. He relaxed backward, Harry's spent cock slipping out of his mouth.

Panting, Harry slid off of Ron's chest and melted into the cushions, a satiny sheen of sweat covering his forehead. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he smiled at Ron. “You're bloody brilliant, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” Ron replied hoarsely. He pulled at Harry's hyper sensitive cock. “You're not so bad yourself.”

Harry yelped. “Shite, mate!” He reached for Ron's nearest nipple, intending to give it a retaliatory tweak.

Prepared for Harry's counter-attack, Ron pushed away and stretched out on his back, his head at the opposite end of the sofa from Harry. He smiled wickedly, folding his hands behind his head. “My turn.”

Harry licked his lips as he fondled his dick. “No need to ask twice.”

Ron watched as Harry's eyes devoured his naked torso. Aside from being covered in masses of freckles, scars and a coating of fine, ginger fur, he had to admit that he otherwise looked pretty good. A bit taller than Bill, he'd filled out in the few years after Hogwarts, and though not nearly as stocky as Charlie was, he was nothing to sneeze at. As long as Harry found him attractive...well, that was all that mattered.

The fact that he could be desirable to anyone other than Harry hadn't sunk in until he'd participated in a project involving a charity calendar during his last year at the Ministry: “Aurors on the Prowl”. He and eleven other blokes had posed shirtless (he'd been Mr. March) and the calendar had gone through several reprints, raising thousands of Galleons for the War Orphans Support and Education Fund. He'd actually received fan mail, and some of that had been from admiring wizards.

“Knut for 'em,” Harry purred as he leaned down to unbutton Ron's flies.

“Just carry on, Potter,” Ron replied in his rumbly, come-hither voice. He lifted his hips from the cushions to allow Harry to yank his denims and boxer briefs down, exposing his long-neglected erection.

Harry waggled his eyebrows, diving in and licking Ron's cock from root to tip. “So fuckin' gorgeous,” he murmured, licking his way along Ron's belly, following the trail of ginger that lead up to his chest. He slowly worked his way to one of Ron's nipples, teasing it for a moment before shifting to the other side. He nibbled and pulled at the mound of peaked flesh, slowly aligning his re-hardened cock with Ron's.

“C'mon, Harry, don't fucking keep me waiting,” Ron pleaded.

In response, Harry bore down hard on Ron's nipple.

“Fuck!” Ron hissed, a stab of pleasurepain shooting directly to his cock.

“What do you want?” Harry asked innocently.

“You know,” Ron whimpered, pulling his hands from behind his head to clutch at Harry's bare arse.

“Say it,” Harry instructed.

“Fuck me.”

“That's more like it,” Harry growled, pressing himself fully against Ron. He then murmured the charm that every first year boy at Hogwarts learned in their first week at the school.

Ron gasped as the familiar slick warmth surrounded his groin, and he held on for all he was worth as Harry began to grind into him, their lengths sliding together in an impossibly delicious friction. He wouldn't last for long at this rate; he never could. Harry licked and sucked at his collarbone, increasing his pelvic thrusts steadily. He pressed his own hips into his mate's, quickly finding and matching Harry's rhythm. He felt Harry begin to slide downward, preparing to re-position himself for entry, but it was too late.

“Harry--” Ron moaned, his breath shuddering in his chest. The fire flared deep down, and he gave himself up to it, wilfully consumed in the roiling inferno that at once destroyed and created him all at once. He babbled and swore as his release thundered from him, barely aware of Harry's own litany of curses. After a few moments, their sitting room re-coalesced around them, and all was quiet, save for the sound of their breathing and the fire in the grate.

“Merlin's hairy balls,” Ron offered, still a bit breathless.

“I prefer Weasley's, myself,” Harry shot back.

Before Ron could answer, what sounded like glasses clinking echoed from the adjoining kitchen. He watched as Harry's eyes grew comically wide. “What--”

“Eyyeech. Gross.”

Harry tried to pull up his denims without getting up but only succeeded in flopping from the sofa. He bounced off of the edge of the coffee table, landing on the floor most unceremoniously.

Ron hoisted himself up to carefully peer over the back of the sofa.

Teddy stared back at him, glass of pumpkin juice in hand, a completely disgusted expression on his face. His hair was bright pink. “Can'tcha do that in your bedroom?” He wrinkled up his nose, sticking one finger down his throat.

“Brilliant idea. Duly noted. Now, if you don't mind...” Ron grinned sheepishly as Harry grunted and struggled to dress while remaining out of sight.

Teddy snorted. “No worries. Not like I want to see Uncle Harry's bare bum again anytime soon.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The weekend passed in relative quiet, save for continual sniggering from Teddy, and his constant referral to Harry as 'Peach.' Only a handful of media types milled about on the sidewalk outside their building Saturday morning, losing interest in a potential Potter sighting after only a few hours.

They managed to slip out to Diagon Alley late in the afternoon so that Teddy could procure some Christmas presents. They'd nearly completed their shopping when a pair of reporters from the Wizarding News Network spotted them on the street. After a brief bit of excitement attempting to dodge their pursuers amongst the throngs of holiday shoppers, Teddy, Harry and Ron finally ducked into the Apothecary and side-alonged home from the men's loo.

After tea, Hermione firecalled from Durmstrang, looking well and keeping them on the Floo for well over and hour. Only when Viktor's head appeared behind her with a reminder of an early appointment in the morning did she finally say good-bye.

An owl arrived a bit later, with a parchment from Ginny, who was out of the country on an post-season exhibition tour with the Harpies. She sent her best wishes, and hoped to be home sometime after the first of the year.

Sunday morning was spent wrapping presents and writing holiday cards the Muggle way, much to Teddy's chagrin, as he was clearly itching to use magic. Ron finally relented, allowing Teddy to charm the wrapping onto a few gifts. Teddy did quite well until he grew careless and ended up wrapping a table lamp and easy chair by mistake.

Ron attempted to engage everyone in the afternoon's televised Chudley vs. Ballycastle Quidditch match, but met with little success. Teddy announced importantly that Quidditch was 'stupid', and sulked to such a degree that Ron finally allowed him to retreat to his bedroom. He and Harry watched the remainder of the match in relative peace, marred only by the occasional shrieks and thumps of music from Teddy's bedroom.

Both Ron's mum and Andromeda firecalled Sunday evening, more to chat than anything else. Andromeda would collect Teddy first thing Monday morning, taking him with her on a two day jaunt to Paris to visit friends. Teddy's only commentary on the plan involved some quite inventive retching noises.

A fairly typical weekend, all in all, but Ron found that he grew increasingly worried over Harry, who seemed to become more withdrawn as time went on. He knew from experience that it was best to give Harry his space, but he couldn't shake the nattering notion that this situation was different.

Harry wasn't like he was; Ron tended to be something of an open book, wearing his heart on his sleeve. Convincing Harry to be forthcoming concerning his inner most thoughts and feelings was a tricky enterprise at best, but over the years he'd become rather good at getting down to the root of the issue.

He made several attempts to talk to Harry when Teddy was otherwise occupied, but Harry deftly changed the subject each time. At least Harry hadn't totally closed himself off, which was sometimes his fashion, as he allowed Ron to hang close and didn't balk at any of his affectionate advances.

Fortunately, he didn't have long to wait for the current unpleasantness to be resolved.

He'd barely been out of bed for five minutes on Monday morning before George had shot from their fireplace amidst a shower of sparks and clouds of soot. Ron stared at his babbling brother blearily, holding up his droopy boxer shorts and wondering where his coffee mug might have gotten to. It was probably five full minutes before he was able to focus, noting the morning edition of the Prophet that George clutched in one hand.

Kingsley had been busy over the weekend on Harry's behalf, investigating all of Skeeter's sources and allegations, succeeding in refuting each and every one of them. Apparently, he'd roused the publisher of the Prophet at the crack of dawn. By seven, Rita Skeeter had been sacked, while a combination retraction and apology blazed across the front page of the newspaper.

Harry looked more relieved than pleased, and thanked George for letting them know. Andromeda arrived a few moments later, also with a copy of the Prophet. Ron watched in awe as she managed to get Teddy packed, cleaned up and changed in less than ten minutes. He made a mental note to take her to lunch very soon and ply her for some of her secrets.

Shortly after Andromeda left with a unusually docile Teddy, the firecalls and owls started in earnest, and hadn't ceased an hour later when he and George left the flat for Wheezes.

Harry smiled and waved bravely, and he hoped that they were once again out of the rough and in the clear.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“Oi! A pair of Bitter Banshees here, yeah?” Seamus called out to their server, twirling one hand over the table and pointing to their empty glasses. “A body'll die o' thirst around here.” He winked at Ron as he upended his empty glass once more, hoping to drain the last drops of liquid from it. “I think yer makin' too much of it, mate. Harry's always been the broody type.”

Ron shrugged in response. Seamus may have had a point, but it wasn't one that was news to him. All he knew was, it'd had been over two weeks since Shacklebolt had vindicated Harry, and there'd been no improvement in his mood whatsoever.

“I don't know. He says he's fine, but I can't get past the notion that there's something he's not telling me.”

“Bah! Now yer sounding like some heartsick first-year. Given 'im time. He'll snap out of it.” Seamus craned his neck, a feral smile forming on his lips. “Now, there's somethin' that'll stiffen yer wand!” He jerked his head, indicating the direction that Ron should look.

It had been Seamus' idea to meet for drinks and some supper at West Diagon's newest pub and eatery, Hooters. Predictably, stuffed owls and owl memorabilia covered every available space in the pub, and the place reminded Ron of the Owlery at Hogwarts, with, thankfully, one notable exception. Like most of the establishments in the district, it catered to the queer Wizarding community, although more than a few straight wizards and witches apparently patronised the joint.

Ron turned on his stool, quickly finding the object of Seamus' interest: a young fellow, probably barely out of his teens, leaning on the nearby bar. He sported spiky blond hair, taut muscles under a too-small t-shirt, and denims so tight the bloke had to have charmed them on.

Ron turned back to Seamus. “Very nice. Erm, does Dean mind this sort of thing?”

Seamus made a rude noise. “What? That I appreciate a gorgeous bloke? I'm in a committed relationship, not dead, ya know.”

Ron couldn't stifle his laughter.

“What's so funny, then?” Seamus asked as their server, another young muscle boy with the unlikely name of Bjorn, brought their drinks.

“I just never thought I'd live to see the day when Seamus Finnigan would utter the words 'committed relationship' in a sentence.”

“Wanker,” Seamus shot back as he shoved a Galleon into the front pocket of Bjorn's skin-tight dragonhide trousers. “Keep 'em comin' luv, and there's more where that came from, eh?”

Bjorn arched an eyebrow and sauntered off.

“Right. So Harry says he's fine, but ya know better. Why?” He sipped at his drink, and for once, his eyes didn't wander about the pub.

“Like I said, it's just a feeling. I was certain that once this latest business with Skeeter was sorted, things would get back to normal.” Ron sipped at his own drink, the potent green liquid burning its way down his throat. “But he seems so listless, not depressed really, as sometimes he's quite chipper. As if he's pre-occupied, like he's there but isn't. On the surface he looks fine but...I'm not sure if that makes any sense. It's just...well, he's not right, if you know what I mean.”

Seamus shrugged.

“Something's off, that's all. I can't put my finger on it.”

“How's the important stuff, then?”

Ron furrowed his brow.

“Ya know,” Seamus said, pushing his tongue repeatedly against the inside of one cheek..

“Oh, fer Merlin's...yeah, we're fucking, if that's what you mean.”

“Well, if yer fuckin' and suckin', there can't be too much to whinge about.”

Ron sighed, taking another swallow of Banshee. Maybe he was overreacting, but his gut told him otherwise. For the first time since they'd been together, he sensed that Harry was holding something back. Something important. “So this sort of thing never happens with you and Dean?”

“Nah. We're both pretty chatty blokes. Me more so than Dean, of course. We've had our ups and downs, but so does everyone. Not easy, our lot.” He drained his glass and signalled to Bjorn for another round.

Just then, the lights dimmed and the volume of the music increased notably.

“Looks like things are getting ready to heat up around here.” He waggled his eyebrows, but his mischievous expression faded quickly. “Listen, mate, yer boy's had it rough. Can't imagine how he's held together, with all he's been through. Most people would've ended up on the fifth floor of St. Mungo's by now, but Harry hasn't. Ya just gotta trust 'im to tell you what the problem is in his own time. He may have dropped some hints for ya. Think about that.”

Ron nodded as Seamus continued.

“To be honest, I'm more than a bit envious of how ya handled yourselves, when ya both came out.”

“Um, really?” It was rare for Seamus to admit that anyone might have possibly done anything better than he could have; truthfully, Ron couldn't recall another time when it had happened.

“It wasn't pretty when I told me mam 'bout me and Dean. But that was nothin' when I look how ya both had to go about things, Aurors, yer every turn marked and 'membered. Don't think I could've done it if I were in yer shoes.”

Ron reached out to try to feel Seamus' forehead. “Are you well, Shay? Or perhaps just Imperiused?"

Seamus jerked away. “Fek off, ya ginger bastard. I'm tryin' to be serious here.”

Ron held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry."

“Ya better be, 'cause I'm tryin' to help. As I was sayin', ya boys did well. You even left the Ministry because of it.”

“More or less, I guess. Harry was dead set against either one of us quitting because of something that was really no one's business, but then the first of Skeeter's articles showed up in the Prophet...”

Seamus snorted. “I remember that. Foul, it was.”

“Kingsley assured both of us that he'd do his best to prevent anyone, the Prophet included, to make an issue of us working together as Aurors. He always made a point to let us know that he had confidence in us, that we were professionals and wouldn't let our relationship affect our work.” He sipped at his drink. “And if that article had been the only one, maybe things would have gone differently. But you know the rest.”

Seamus nodded gravely. “They never let ya two boys alone.”

“No. It didn't matter how hard we tried to ignore the articles, the slurs, the comments; as time went by, it did start to affect us. I'll never forget the time we blundered right through some Death Eater security wards simply because we were blathering on about Skeeter's latest article instead of paying proper attention. We were lucky.” He absently fingered the long, ragged scar on his left temple. “That's when I knew something had to be done.”

“It's all bollocks. Makes me so mad sometimes I don' know what to do. Dean and me get the same shite, with the racial business besides. Fekkin' ridiculous that people are so backward and hateful, with us being in the new century and all.”

Ron sipped at his Banshee. “I just couldn't see how we'd ever be allowed to perform our jobs properly under that sort of magnifying glass. A few of the guys in the department started referring to us as the queer dynamic duo; not in a mean way, mind, but it kept me thinking. So I resigned. George wasn't with Lee then, and he was in a real bind with the shop, so that's where I went. It was the hardest decision of my life, really. Harry was very put out with me at the time, but one of us had to leave the Ministry, and if I hadn't, he would've. I couldn't let that happen, so it was me that quit.”

Seamus gestured with his glass. “'Cause they made that position just for him, right?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, exactly. I made it through the training program, and I'm pretty proud of that. After two years of dealing with the scum of the Wizarding world, I was ready for a change. Harry, though.”

“What? What about Harry?”

Ron paused, staring into the bottom of his glass. “This is going to sound really off.”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, back then, right after Fred and killing Riddle and the whole bloody thing...Harry was in a right horrible state. You can imagine.”

Seamus nodded.

“Being handed that Auror position was the best thing that could've happened to him. He needed it. Needed the structure, the discipline. If it weren't for that, Merlin knows what'd he'd have gotten up to.”

“So ya quit the Ministry so that Harry could stay. 'Cause he needed to.”

Ron nodded, downing the last bit of his Banshee. “Yeah. And I still think it was the right thing to do, even though I've never told him what I just told you.”

Seamus shook his head in awe. “Now that's what I'm talking about, Ron. Ya made some hard decisions. Ya trusted your instincts, and they were right. So trust them now. Trust 'im, mate. Ya know 'im better than anyone.”

Bjorn finally arrived with two more Bitter Banshees.

“Thanks, gorgeous!” Seamus slurred. Bjorn rolled his eyes and headed back to the bar. “Let's put these down and get you home, eh?” Seamus hefted his glass. “To our men!”

Ron gulped down his drink, turning over Seamus' words in his head and wondering where on earth the proprietors of Hooters had found so many stuffed owls...

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

“Hey, Ron!” Lee's head thrust through the heavy drapes dividing the storeroom from Wheezes sales floor. “We could really use those Extendable Ears and Fanged Frisbees. Both bins are empty, and we're running low on Choco-Chokes, Edible Dark Marks, the Mini-Portable Swamps, and Deluxe Stink Pellets.” His head disappeared only to re-appear a second later. “And best grab a case of the Skiving Snackboxes as well. Oh, and you're on the till at one, remember?” George's rather harried voice carried to them over the din, and Lee nodded and disappeared again.

“Right, I'll get on it. Thanks.” Ron took a deep breath as he squinted at one of the highest shelves in the storage room. He'd been looking for the Nose-Biting Teacups in pastel pink for over a half hour, and even though the inventory indicated two cases in stock, he hadn't found them yet.

While there was no doubt that George was certainly a genius when it came to inventing things, and a right shrewd business man to boot, but when it came to organisation and inventory control, he left a lot to be desired.

Ron scanned the jam packed shelves, pointing at box after box with his wand. “Alright, where are you, you bloody pink teacups?” After several more minutes and a few distressed shouts from Lee upfront, Ron had located and levitated down nearly everything on Lee's list, save the Choco-Chokes and the incredibly elusive teacups.

Business at the shop had been phenomenally brisk, which was certainly good news. The bad news was that it was virtually impossible to find good help. Most new hires didn't last half a day. The last bloke the employment service had sent over had accidentally deployed a full-size Portable Swamp smack in the middle of the lunchtime rush, just after he'd eaten a handful of Puking Pastilles.

The resulting mess had been quite spectacular.

So it was just the three of them at the shop, and with the last minute rush of holiday shoppers, it meant that Ron was putting in long hours and not spending as much time with Harry as he'd have liked.

After his meeting with Seamus, he'd made a concerted effort to read between the lines for any subtle signals that Harry may have been sending his way. In a week's time, he wasn't certain that he'd discovered anything, so he simply did his best to make Harry as happy as possible.

He'd made sure the cupboards were constantly stocked with Harry's favourite foods, which was no easy task considering Teddy's voracious appetite. He'd sent Harry's broomstick out for a complete overhaul and detailing, as well as renewed subscriptions to both Quagmire's Quidditch Quarterly and Quidditch Stars Unrobed!, two of Harry's favourite magazines. Ron wasn't entirely sure that any of it was working, but it sure as Hades couldn't hurt anything.

Another opportunity presented itself while Ron had been on a rare break from the madness that was Wheezes. He'd had WNN on in the store room, barely paying any attention until the sports commentator, a complete twit named Josiah Winthrop, mentioned not only the Holyhead Harpies, but the Chudley Cannons as well. Winthrop had been droning on about the latest Quidditch standings, making note of how well Holyhead had played recently and the apparent positive effects Oliver Wood's fresh coaching ideas had been having on the perpetually hapless Chudley Cannons.

The segment hadn't finished before Ron firecalled the Cannon's head office, leaving a message for Oliver. Less than an hour later, Oliver returned Ron's call, promising box seats and VIP treatment for three to an upcoming quarter-finals match between the Cannons and Tutshill. If that didn't lift Harry's spirits, Ron didn't know what would. He'd have to speak to Teddy, who was notoriously anti-Quidditch, to be on his best behaviour.

He'd also given Harry as much space as he seemed to need, and didn't press Harry to talk unless he seemed like he wanted, which was quite rare. On the bright side, Harry seemed quite randy of late, which Ron took as a good sign.

A very good sign, indeed.

He'd levitated three cases of goods onto a hand cart just as George burst through the drapes and into the storeroom. His bright orange robes were askew and stained with some unidentifiable substance that smelled quite foul. He headed directly to the cold box, opened it, and guzzled down an entire bottle of Nightshade's Pomegranate Pow-R-Aide. He closed the door to the cold box, launching the empty bottle toward the dustbin.

“It's a jungle out there, little brother,” he said around a smile. “I think Lee's about ready for a meltdown. Did you find those damned green teacups? Mrs. Pilliwickle is driving me bats over them.”

“Green? I thought you said pink?”

George stared at the ceiling and rubbed his chin. “Did I say pink? Probably did. Meant green. Sorry.”

“Fine,” Ron snorted. “I know where that case of green teacups is. I'll get it down right after I put this stuff out.”

A large crash followed by the sound of a child crying echoed from the front of the shop. George jerked his head toward the curtains. “Sounds as if we've another clean up out there.”

“Brilliant.” Ron started wheeling his way toward the chaos beyond the drapes.

“Hey, Ron, about that hour you needed off this afternoon...”

“Yeah, Lee already told me I've got the till at one.”

George leaped directly into Ron's path. “Hang on there, little bro; don't get your knickers in a twist. I came back to say that you can have your hour.”

“But how? It's like the Battle of Hogwarts out there.” Ron gestured at the innocent looking curtains.

George folded his arms. “We've had some re-enforcements arrive. Listen.” He cocked his head toward the front of the shop.

Ron's eyes went wide as the sound of their mum's voice cut across the din:

“Right! Attention, everyone! I feel compelled to remind you all that no matter how much we appreciate your business here at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, there's no need whatsoever to behave like a horde of wild savages!”

“Holy shite,” Ron whispered. “You've unleashed Mum? I didn't think you were that desperate.”

“Oh, yeah,” George confirmed with a sly grin. “I am.”

“Very well,” Molly continued in a loud, clear voice. “Please form one line for the till, winding back along the south wall, yes, that's it, just there. No pushing, please! That's the way. Please have your currency ready for Lee here, and mothers! Remember to control the little ones! Should you need any assistance, my son George will be out shortly. Until then, myself and Andromeda here will be at your service!”

“I think Mum missed her calling,” George observed.

“What, as a saleswoman or drill instructor?” Ron mused ruefully.

“Both. Now, get on out of here before I change my mind. Be back by three if you can.”

Ron shrugged out of his Wheezes robes. “Thanks. I really appreciate this.” He draped them over a chair as George waved a hand dismissively.

“No worries, little bro. I know how important it is to work at keeping the other half happy.”

“What? Something must be off with my hearin'.” Ron made a huge show of attempting to clean out both ears with one of his pinky fingers. When he finished, he shook his head vigourously. “Did you mean to let on that you actually must work at keeping Lee happy?”

George rolled his eyes. “Spare me your laboured attempts at humour, Ronniekins. This may be difficult for you to believe, but despite the fact that I'm incredibly charming, innately intelligent, devastatingly handsome, bitingly witty, and a virtuoso between the sheets, I do at times wear Lee's patience thin.”

Ron could barely contain his laughter, but nodded anyway. “Really. I'd never have guessed.”

“So over the years, I've learned to sometimes put Lee's needs over mine, to put him first. He's the saint in our relationship; Merlin knows why he puts up with me, but he does. He's taken the time to really, truly get to know me, and he takes me as I come, which, as you'd be first to point out, isn't always easy.”

“You can be a real arsehole at times.”

George shrugged. “You too.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.” George twirled a hand. “You'd best get going. Don't want to keep the Headmistress waiting.”

“Right. Minerva's schedule is rather full, and I wanted to get this sorted before Christmas. She might have been able to re-schedule, but...”

George smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Not a problem. I think it's a great idea about the equivalency certificates.. Personally, it seems a bit far to go just to get laid, but that's only me.”

“Do you always think with your cock, George?”

“Hasn't failed me yet, little bro.”


~*~ ~*~ ~*~