Title: Fall Leaves

Author: Lorien_Eve

Pairing: Harry/Ron

Rating: NC-17

Summary: This is the sequel to "Summer Storms".

Warnings: Character death. Yeah, I know. I swore I'd never write it. I'm sorry.

Disclaimer: I love these boys, but I don't own them. They're the sole property of J.K. Rowling.

Ron knows Harry is leaving. Harry’s said so himself. But Ron doesn’t know when, doesn’t know if it’ll be next week or next month, broad daylight or the middle of the night. Ron doesn’t ask, doesn’t really want to know, and Harry doesn’t talk about it.

In fact, Harry doesn’t talk about much these days. Ron doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to talk or because he doesn’t have anything to say. Harry doesn’t smile much, either, but sometimes, when Ron leans in to kiss him, he leaves an imprint of a smile on Harry’s lips. Ron likes to think he leaves an imprint of a hand on Harry’s heart, too.

Harry’s been at the Burrow for two months now, and more importantly than that, he’s been in Ron’s bed every night. Sometimes they kiss until they’re breathless, nothing more than soft lips across warm skin. But sometimes it’s more, eager hands and aching bodies. Ron likes it either way. He likes having Harry in his bed.

****

Ron sits at the kitchen table, the orange-gold light of late afternoon filling the sink and spilling out onto the floor. His mum and Ginny are out shopping, and his dad is working late, so he and Harry have the house to themselves.

Harry’s upstairs, Ron can hear him moving around, hears the floor creak when Harry steps on an old board. It’s a comforting sound, proof that Harry’s still there, just upstairs, not off somewhere where Ron can’t find him. Harry is the only sound in the house, and Ron closes his eyes, listens, imagines, and hopes.

It’s strange, the house being so quiet these days. Ron doesn’t like it. He wonders what happened to all the noise, all the footsteps, all the laughter. Then he remembers there is a war going on and the only noise is whispers of betrayal, the only footsteps are the sound of marching boots, and the only laughter is high-pitched and cold, immediately following the words Avada Kedavra.

But then he hears another creak, followed by another, then another, and then Harry is standing at the bottom of the stairs, one foot on the last step, hand on the rail, looking at Ron.

“Need anything?” Ron asks. He knows it’s a trick question because there are so many things Harry does need, not money or love, he already has those, but other things, like sleep and a life that lasts longer than eighteen years. But Ron knows that Harry will lie because sometimes lies are easier to tell than the truth.

“No,” Harry answers, just like Ron knew he would.

Harry walks past Ron, his shoes scuffing along the floor. Ron is grateful for the noise, the sandpaper sound of Harry’s shoes across the dirt that Mrs. Weasley forgot to sweep up. She forgot to wash the dishes, too, but a full sink means a full house, and Ron thinks maybe she likes it that way.

Harry’s standing in the sunset, and for a minute Ron thinks he looks like a bronzed statue. Like a hero, immortal after death.

“C’mere, Harry,” Ron says, reaching out and closing a hand around Harry’s bony wrist. He’d rather have Harry now, skin and bone, alive, than some gilded image that others will worship long after he’s gone.

“Fall’s coming,” Harry says as he sits on Ron’s knee. But Ron knows that what Harry really means is that the war’s coming.

“But it doesn’t last long,” Ron says, and he rests his cheek on Harry’s shoulder. “Only a few months.” He means the season, because wars never end as quickly as they’re begun.

****

Ron hates for Harry to be unhappy, hates it more than spiders, Draco Malfoy, and being beaten at chess. Ron knows ways to make Harry happy, but he saves those for the night because Harry needs him more in the darkness. But right now it’s the middle of the day, hours of daylight until nightfall, and Ron decides he needs to do something.

Harry is lying on the bed, legs straight, arms resting on his stomach, eyes up at the ceiling. Ron loves looking at Harry, but he hates seeing him this way, laid out, still, like death, only warmer.

Ron thinks for a few minutes, turns a few ideas over in his head, and then he’s got it. He grabs his broom from the closet, swings it over his shoulder and, like a soldier with a bayonet, marches over to the bed.

“Wanna come?” Ron asks, and he wiggles the broom so that Harry gets the idea.

Harry blinks but doesn’t answer right away, and Ron’s worried that he might not want to come. Then Ron holds out his hand and Harry takes it, laces their fingers, and suddenly Ron thinks twice about going anywhere else. But it’s a clear day, perfect flying conditions, and Ron needs to get Harry outside instead of keeping him in the bedroom.

Mrs. Weasley catches them on their way out of the house. She shakes her finger, tells them that they shouldn’t go out without their jackets, that the weather is changing and the air is cooler now. Last year Ron would’ve rolled his eyes and complained. But things are different this year, and without a word, Ron grabs two jackets off the pegs in the hallway.

****

A carpet of leaves, dry and crisp, leads out into the garden, and Ron follows it, kicking up red and orange along the way. Harry walks beside him, their shoulders brushing with every other step, and when they are far enough away from the house, Ron reaches for Harry’s hand.

He doesn’t let go until he has to, until they’ve both mounted their brooms and Ron needs both hands to steer. He kicks off from the ground, sees Harry do the same, and soon they’re both soaring. Above the ground, over the trees, up into the clouds.

Harry brings his broom to a perfect point, stalls, then flips into one of the spectacular dives he was famous for at Hogwarts. He spirals, body stiff, eyes focused on a Snitch only he can see. Ron watches Harry, can’t take his eyes off him. The sky is blue, blue like a robin’s egg or a field of forget-me-nots, and Ron always thought Harry looked brilliant in blue.

Harry pulls up at the last possible second, his toes skimming the grass before he jerks his broom up into the air again, and for a moment, Ron forgets. He forgets that a war is raging, forgets there is a difference between good and evil, forgets there is a world beyond the one that he and Harry share.

Harry’s flying lower, not diving but making wide circles around the trees, scanning the treetops. Maybe he’s looking for holly trees, or even yew trees, but Ron isn’t sure.

Harry is the first to land, with wind-wrecked hair and red cheeks. Ron lands soon after because the sky just isn’t the same without Harry. They dismount and spread out on top of the grass, stretching their legs to get out the kinks.

Harry tilts his head, looks over at Ron and smiles. His eyes say ‘thank you’ and Ron mouths the words ‘you’re welcome.’ Harry’s chest is rising and falling, quick short breaths, and Ron crawls over to lay his head on Harry’s stomach. He listens, just listens, and breathes.

Harry extends his arm, reaches out to pick up a fallen leaf. Ron feels the movement of his body, the shifting of his t-shirt. He lifts his eyes without raising his head, watches Harry twirl the leaf between his fingers, a blur of autumn.

“It’s the color of your hair,” Harry says softly.

Ron doesn’t think his hair is that orange, more of an auburn color, like nutmeg, not orange like the Chudley Cannons. But he doesn’t bother saying this to Harry. Now isn’t the time to talk about Quidditch teams or cooking spices. If Harry thinks Ron’s hair is that color, then Ron will let him keep believing it.

Harry twirls the leaf in the opposite direction, clockwise, before holding it still, pinched between his fingers.

“Bet your mum’ll have dinner ready soon,” he says after a minute, and Ron knows that Harry’s feeling that pull again, the weight and responsibility, being everyone’s hero.

Ron picks up his broom, then Harry’s, because Harry is still holding the leaf, the stem pressed between his thumb and forefinger, and Ron doesn’t want to ask him to put it down. Besides, Harry has enough to carry.

****

When Ginny leaves for Hogwarts, Ron goes with his parents to the station. Harry goes, too, because he’s as much a part of the family as Fred and George. Or even Bill and Charlie. But not Percy. Ron doesn’t talk about Percy.

Platform Nine and three-quarters seems different this year, smaller, like part of a child’s train set. The students look like toys, plastic miniatures with clumsily painted faces. Even the train seems fake, like a model, pieces of tin held together with glue. Ron was here only two months ago, when he and Harry got off the train for the last time, leaving their childish footsteps behind and stepping into adult shoes. It seems like a lifetime ago.

Harry is looking at the train, his wistful eyes following the white plumes of smoke puffing from the black lungs of the engine. His eyes have that far off look to them, a longing, and Ron wonders where Harry goes at times like these. He wishes he could go with him.

Mrs. Weasley is fussing over Ginny, embarrassing her in a way only mums can, asking her if she got the clean stack of underwear and reminding her that boys are not allowed in the girls’ dorms. Ron thinks this is a waste of time because boys couldn’t get into the girls’ dorms even if they wanted to, and a collapsing staircase doesn’t mean girls can’t get into the boys’ dorms.

Ron hugs his sister, holding her for just a second longer than he ever had before.

“Make Fred and George proud,” he says.

“I will,” she says, and Ron knows she means it.

Ginny turns to Harry and wraps her thin arms around his neck. She may have dated half the Gryffindors, and even a few Ravenclaws, but Ron knows she’s still in love with Harry. Harry can’t be replaced so easily. Ron knows that, too.

Ginny starts to say good-bye, but she can’t, she just can’t. She knows that once she gets on the train she won’t see him again, and a simple ‘good-bye’ doesn’t seem big enough for something so permanent.

Harry understands, so he smiles a half-smile and nods. “Good luck on your N.E.W.T.s,” he says.

Ron opens his mouth to say that N.E.W.T.s aren’t until the end of the year, that Ginny still has plenty of time to prepare. But then he realizes that this is all about Harry’s time and has nothing at all to do with Ginny.

Just before Ginny boards the train, she stands on her tiptoes and whispers in Ron’s ear, “Take care of him.”

“I will,” Ron says. But Ginny’s running off, taking the stairs two at a time, and Ron’s afraid she didn’t hear him.

“Wasn’t that long ago, was it?” Harry says as the train starts to pull away. “When we were leaving on the train, I mean.”

“Just last year,” Ron says, loudly, so that Harry can hear him over the grinding gears.

“It’d be nice go to back, wouldn’t it?” Harry says. “Just once,”

But the train has already left the station and disappeared around the first turn, and all that’s left is smoke and the smell of coal.

****

‘Just once,’ Harry said, and Ron finds himself climbing the stairs to the attic at the Burrow. He was always afraid to go up in the attic when he was younger, scared of the ghoul and scared of the spiders. But he isn’t worried about the ghoul today and doesn’t give the spiders a second thought. Some things are worth the trouble, and Harry is one of those things.

Ron’s sorting through decades of Weasley clutter: yellowed stacks of the Daily Prophet, dusty photo albums with old leather bindings, Gryffindor pennants that belonged to his older brothers when they went to Hogwarts, and lastly, in the far corner, under a rusted owl cage, an antique trunk. This is what Ron came for.

Ron flips the latch and opens it. Inside is another photo album, but it’s not dusty like the other ones. A few petals crumble from a dried bouquet as he picks the flowers up and sets them aside. There’s a neatly folded square of white lace, turned to ivory over the years. In between the folds is more newspaper, but not the kind that his father saved to read later. It’s the kind his mother saved, dated some thirty years ago, when she and his father got married.

Wrapped in the newspaper are two silver goblets, the only real silver his family owns. They aren’t exactly like the ones he and Harry drank out of at Hogwarts, but they’re close, and they’re all he’s got.

Licks of tarnish, black smears of age and dampness, fill the otherwise pretty patterns, coating them with dullness. They remind Ron of the dark circles under Harry’s eyes, and he takes the corner of his shirt and tries to rub them off. Harry shouldn’t be drinking from a dirty cup, Ron thinks. Only the best for Harry. But the stains have been there for too many years, have become a part of the design, and after a few minutes, Ron gives up.

He closes the trunk and dashes back down the stairs. He never even saw the ghoul.

****

Ron walks into the kitchen wearing his Hogwarts robes. He’s grown a couple of inches, even in such a short period of time, and the hem of his robes only comes mid-calf. He’s carrying one goblet in each hand, and Harry’s robes are thrown over his shoulder.

“Ron, what are you…” Harry starts, and his forehead wrinkles with confusion.

“You said you wanted to go back to Hogwarts,” Ron says, “so I’m taking you. Here, put your robes on.”

Ron sets the goblets down on the table and throws Harry his robes. Harry catches them but doesn’t put them on, just stands there, clutching them in his fist.

“We’re not kids anymore,” Harry says.

“Today we are,” Ron says. “Just pretend.”

Ron knows that sometimes make-believe is more than your imagination, and while Hermione never put faith in silly things such as that, Ron has nothing else to put his faith in.

Harry doesn’t argue, just slides his arms into the sleeves of his robes while Ron takes a pitcher of pumpkin juice out of the fridge and fills the two goblets.

“Where’d you get those glasses?” Harry asks, pulling back a chair and sitting down.

“They’re my mum and dad’s. From their wedding,” Ron says, and he takes a seat next to Harry. “Now c’mon, Harry, pretend. We’re back at Hogwarts, can you see it? Sitting at the Gryffindor table, Hermione across from us with her nose in a book. Dean and Seamus a few seats down, fumbling with each other under the table.”

“Neville on the other side, pretending not to notice,” Harry says, catching on.

“Then Dumbledore clears his throat and everyone gets quiet.”

“Except for Lavender and Parvati, who’re giggling over that bloke from Ravenclaw.”

“Yeah, and Malfoy’s glaring at us, still mad that we beat Slytherin in the Quidditch finals the year before.”

“And the year before that, and the year before that,” Harry says, laughing.

Ron stops, freezes like he was hit with a spell. Harry hasn’t laughed in months, not since they left school, and it’s strange and wonderful to hear it now, when there’s so little to laugh about. But Ron reckons you can either laugh or cry these days, and he’d much rather hear Harry laugh.

Harry isn’t laughing anymore, but his lips still hold the shape of a laugh, curled up at the ends. Ron can’t help himself when he leans over to kiss Harry, only a little worried that his parents could walk in and start asking questions that he doesn’t know the answers to.

Harry kisses him back, open-mouthed, soft parted lips with a hint of pumpkin juice. Ron lifts his hands to Harry’s face, rubs his thumb across Harry’s cheek while his fingers find the hair at the base of Harry’s neck. They kiss, slowly, because Ron doesn’t want to rush time, just stop it here, with the two of them kissing in the kitchen at the Burrow.

****

Ron wishes the nights would never end, that the sun would never rise, because the days seems so long, full of wanting and waiting and not knowing. But time doesn’t stop, just moves forward. Or backwards, if you have a Time Turner. But Ron doesn’t have one, and Professor McGonagall made Hermione give hers back. So Ron makes the best of the time he’s got, trying to fill every minute, every second, because he knows that once all the sand is at the bottom, time’s up.

That’s why tonight, when Harry comes to bed, Ron grabs him by the waist and pulls him close, catches Harry’s surprised breath in his own mouth and fills his lungs with it. He kisses Harry’s neck, slides a hand underneath his t-shirt so that Harry’s skin is on his fingertips. With his other hand, Ron pushes Harry’s pajamas off his hips and down to his ankles. Harry kicks them off and sighs, releasing a breath he’s held for too long.

Ron kisses Harry’s thighs, takes a breath and holds it, remembering the scent, remembering Harry, because Ron knows a time will come when all he has are memories. Ron wants to remember what Harry tastes like, too, his skin and his sweat and his come and even his tears, so Ron closes his lips around Harry’s cock, hot mouth swallowing hard flesh. Harry grips the sheets, raises his hips, pushing his cock into the back of Ron’s throat. Ron doesn’t cough, doesn’t gag, just keeps sucking, because Harry wants this, needs this.

Soon Harry’s fists leave the sheets and find Ron’s hair, grasping and pulling, and Ron knows Harry is about to come. But then Harry grabs Ron’s shoulders and pulls him up and away, his wet cock slipping from Ron’s lips like a confession.

“I couldn’t see you,” Harry says when their eyes meet. “I wanted to see you.”

It’s funny, Ron thinks, because Harry can’t see anything without his glasses and he never wears them to bed because the nights are about touching and tasting, and you don’t need eyes for that.

Ron lifts Harry’s legs and crawls between them, just as nervous as he was the first time, because this is Harry, and Ron still can’t believe they’re here, tonight, together, like this. He pushes in and they gasp together, equal parts of pain and pleasure. Harry wraps his legs around Ron’s waist, pulls him closer and deeper, and Ron could come right then, the heat surrounding his cock and the pressure of Harry’s thighs around him. But he holds out, holds on, because this is too good and Harry still needs him.

“When it’s all over—” Harry starts, but Ron bends down and covers his mouth, takes the words right out of it, because he doesn’t want to hear about the war, doesn’t want to talk about it. He only wants Harry, here, now, and always.

Ron comes first and Harry soon after, with Ron’s fingers around his cock, and they lie together afterward, damp bodies tangled on twisted sheets. This is how Ron makes Harry forget. This is how Harry makes Ron forget, too.

Ron rests his head on Harry’s chest with his ear over his heart, measuring the beats, the rhythm, trying to match them with his own.

“How will you know?” he asks suddenly, because he’s tired of not knowing, tired of dreading that morning when he wakes up and Harry’s not there.

“He’ll show me,” Harry answers, and there is an impatient tone in his voice that surprises Ron.

At first Ron thinks that Harry is talking about Dumbledore. He’s the one in charge, after all, the one orchestrating this whole thing, war, whatever it is. But then Ron remembers that Harry hasn’t slept in days, refuses to even close his eyes, and now Ron knows that Harry wasn’t talking about Dumbledore at all.

“He doesn’t stand a chance, Harry, not against you,” Ron says.

Harry starts to say something, Ron can hear the wet smack of his lips and the intake of his breath. But in the end Harry doesn’t say anything, just lets out a sigh and wraps his arms around Ron’s shoulders.

****

Harry dresses in the shadows, just a shadow himself, empty, black with grey around the edges. He doesn’t want Ron to see him, doesn’t want Ron to know he’s leaving. Because Ron will try to stop him, try to make him stay, try to make him come back to bed, and Harry’s worried that if Ron asks, he might say yes.

“Harry…” Ron says, a voice and shining eyes in the dark room.

“What?” comes Harry’s answer, just another questions like so many that will go unasked.

“Let me go, too,” Ron says, sitting up. “I wanna go.”

But Harry doesn’t answer this time, not with a question or a statement, just Disapparates and leaves Ron’s words hanging in the air. Harry knows that some things have to be done, and Ron’s name was never mentioned in the prophecy.

****

When it’s all over, Ron is there to pick up the pieces. He’s there to gather up the ashes, too.