Title: Times Like These

Author: Lorien_Eve

Pairing: Harry/Ron

Rating: NC-17

Genre: Drama, Romance

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They’re all J.K. Rowling’s.

Summary: There are events that define Harry and Ron’s relationship, some happy and some sad. And those are the things that Ron never wants to forget.

Author’s Note: A big thanks to Lena for beta-ing my story for me.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ indicates flashback.

**** indicates shift in scene.

“Here, love,” Ron said, crouching low so that his head would fit under the low ceiling of the cave. Though his arms shook from the burden, he didn’t lay Harry down until he reached the safety of the back of the cave.

Harry groaned as Ron lowered him carefully to the dirt floor. Ron rubbed over Harry’s arms with his hands, trying to get him warm, then slid his own robes off and covered Harry with them.

“There aren’t any blankets,” Ron apologized, though he didn’t think Harry could hear him.

With his wand lost during the scramble to grab Harry before he was further attacked, Ron’s eyes scanned the cave for dry sticks, or straw, or anything with which he could build a fire. Starting a fire would risk exposing his and Harry’s location, but Ron would’ve done it without hesitation if it benefited Harry.

Though there had been no dementors at the battle, the effects of the curse seemed to be identical to the effects of a dementor’s presence. Ron wasn’t familiar with this particular curse, but he could tell Harry was delirious, probably seeing his most painful memories behind his closed eyes. And he was cold. So cold that Ron was again thinking about how he could start a fire without his wand.

“Harry? Harry?” Ron whispered as he tucked his robes around Harry’s shoulders. The only response was the rapid flickering of Harry’s eyelids and a few twitches of his legs. “You’re alright, love, you’re alright.” Harry’s jerking stilled, and even though Ron thought it was doubtful, he hoped Harry had heard him.

Ron sat back and watched Harry until his body relaxed and he seemed to drift off to sleep. There were very few markings on Harry’s body, just the random bruise or shallow cut, but his face was ashen, the hollows of his eyes dark, and his lips pale. In his nightmares, Ron had seen Harry this way - cold and unmoving, white as death, eyes hidden beneath lids that would never open again.

At the beginning of their friendship, Harry was the one having the nightmares. Ron would hear him cry out into the dark silence of their dorms, but Ron would stuff his pillow over his head and pretend he was asleep. This went on through their second year, but by third year, Ron was exhausted and unable to ignore the almost nightly awakenings and ensuing worries.

Worried after not seeing Harry move for some time, Ron bent his ear close to Harry’s mouth. A warm breath told Ron that Harry was alive, still breathing, and he sighed in relief before he kissed Harry’s cheek.

Ron stood up and paced between the rocky walls of the cave, willing his reeling mind to slow down and concentrate on their situation. He suddenly found himself wishing Hermione were here, though it seemed very odd because he’d been jealous of her only a few years ago and was always grateful when she made herself scarce. In circumstances like the present, she would’ve been invaluable. She would’ve known exactly what to do, the exact curse that Harry had been hit with, the exact remedy to the curse, and the exact way to get all of them out of the cave alive. While pacing, Ron tried to think like Hermione, think back to everything he’d learned as an Auror and everything he’d been taught at school. But he’d never been in a situation like this, alone, with Harry nearly lifeless and a battle raging at the foot of the mountain.

A curtain of rain fell in heavy sheets over the mouth of the cave, splattering against the dirt in great drops and turning it to mud. Ron walked over and leaned against the jutting rocks, not caring that his boots and the hem of his jeans were getting soaked through. He stared out at the downpour to the gray horizon, wishing for light and daybreak but unable to determine how far away either was.

He shivered in the cold breeze that blew in off the rain, and drew his arms up to his chest. For the first time, Ron noticed his own wounds. It was nothing that wouldn’t heal soon enough - some burns on his hands, a few blisters on his fingers, and a mixture of dirt and blood in the cuts on his arms. Aurors were schooled and trained for this. It was part of his job, another forgettable moment in his daily routine. Superficial scrapes were nothing compared to what Harry was going through.

Ron looked over his shoulder at the small lump lying at the back of the cave under his robes. Harry still seemed to be sleeping, his body motionless except for the nearly imperceptible rising and falling of his chest. At least Harry was safe, for now, and Ron would rather die of cold, starvation, and dehydration than to leave Harry unattended for even the briefest moment. Kicking up small clouds of dust in his haste, Ron crossed the space between him and Harry, lifted the makeshift covers, and crawled beneath them. He snuggled against Harry, folding his arms tightly across Harry’s shoulders and resting his cheek against the back of Harry’s head.

Harry stirred, shifting slightly between Ron’s arms. Ron lifted his head and looked at Harry’s face. His eyes were open.

Ron could’ve shouted and smothered Harry in enough kisses to drown him, but he suppressed his relief and whispered, “’Morning, love” like he did each morning, acting as though Harry had only been sleeping in the safety of their bed and flat. He thought he saw Harry smile, a small smile, indistinct in the poor lighting. Harry rolled over so that he was facing Ron, legs hooked, hiding his face in Ron’s neck. Ron ran his hand over Harry’s hair and down his back, trying to comfort and reassure him.

Harry’s smaller form molded perfectly to Ron’s slightly larger one, and even after all the years of holding him, Ron still marveled at how right they were for each other. Ron had loved Harry for so long that he couldn’t remember not loving him. Had it started in fourth year, after the Second Task, or during first year, like Hermione always professed? Begrudgingly, Ron agreed with Hermione’s claim. It had been love that forced Ron to play McGonagall’s chess game and love that forced him to stand up to a known murderer and concealed werewolf, though he hadn’t yet recognized or taken the time to label his feelings. His definitive awareness came after the Second Task, when he realized that not only was he the thing Harry would miss most, but that Harry was the thing he would miss most. It was his ever-present insecurities, though, that urged him to keep his feelings a secret, and if it hadn’t been for Harry’s infamous bravery, Ron wondered just how long it would’ve taken them to move past friendship and onto something so much better.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Great Hall was just as festive as it always was on special occasions, though this time there were no black bats and giant pumpkins or garlands and towering trees. Instead, there were banners and streamers in all the house colors, waving proudly, stirred by some invisible breeze.

It was the Leaving Feast, and though Harry’s year was only in sixth, they seemed just as anxious and excited as the departing seventh years. The scene looked more like a modified social function than the usual feasts where everyone kept their seats and mixed only with their peers. The long tables were set with tablecloths of the respective house colors, but very few students were using them, choosing instead to mingle with each other, regardless of the house divisions.

Mugs of butterbeer, which replenished themselves once they were half empty, were served to the younger students, but the older students were allowed to sample some of the stronger stuff. In theory, this was against Hogwarts’ rules, but as Dumbledore told them in his parting speech, “I can’t confiscate or punish what I’m not aware of.” So bottles of Odgen’s were passed around under Dumbledore’s gleaming eyes without the smallest notice, and as the night settled in, the gathering grew louder and more animated.

There were shouts, and even a few curses, as the Hall buzzed with the excitement and anticipation of the students who were no longer students, but adults. Harry wished he could share in the enthusiasm that seemed to be rubbing off on even the fourth years, but the future was uncertain and somewhat intimidating. Especially for him. It was with surprise and relief that he had managed to live through six years at Hogwarts. Seventh year wasn’t guaranteed, and beyond that, well…Harry was afraid there wasn’t anything beyond that.

It was impossible to tell whom, but someone started the Sorting Hat’s song, then another took it up, then another, and soon the entire Hall was singing. The vocals were off-key and the verses were jumbled because the Hat never sang the same song twice. Harry took advantage of the diversion and snuck out, leaving the noisy festivities behind.

Being outside the castle was an unmistakable contrast from being inside. Instead of colorful, waving banners, there were shimmering white stars suspended in a clear, cloudless sky. Though the doors to the castle were left open and muffled sounds from the Great Hall winded their way outside, the grounds were quiet and thoughtful.

Harry took a seat on the front steps. One more year. If Voldemort really wanted to get to him, it would be next year. Harry would start his Auror training after that, and though Voldemort’s past attempts on his life had been fruitless, Harry knew the Dark Lord wasn’t so ill prepared as to let Harry gain the full knowledge of seven years at Hogwarts and the ensuing Auror training. Next year would be his toughest one yet, and not because of the formidable N.E.W.T.s.

Harry felt old, though he was still young - not quite seventeen. To many, he may have seemed the hero of the Wizarding World, surviving the killing curse when he was baby and somehow managing to survive four other potentially deadly pursuits, but Harry felt there were more fulfilling adventures out there. He wanted a real job, nine to five, like everybody else; he wanted a place of his own - a flat or a house, he didn’t care - just a place he could call home. But most of all, Harry wanted a future. He wanted a future, and he wanted time, and he wanted the chances to do so many things.

The sound of footsteps from inside the castle broke him from his thoughts. Irritated by the disruption, Harry got up quickly and went around to the side of the castle, hoping that whoever the intruder was hadn’t seen him. After a few tense moments, a head of red hair, vaguely visible in the darkness, popped around the corner where Harry was hiding. Harry was momentarily startled, originally thinking that his poor excuse for a hiding place would be sufficient, and feeling silly now that he had been discovered.

“Who’re you hiding from?” Ron asked as he walked up to Harry.

“Nobody,” Harry said, though what he felt like saying was, “everybody.”

“Want me to get you a drink?” Ron rattled the ice in his own glass.

“No,” Harry said. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, Harry,” Ron said. “Even Professor Trelawney could see that. C’mon, spill it.”

Suddenly deciding that having a drink sounded like a good idea, Harry took Ron’s glass out of his hand and swallowed a mouthful. It burned his throat on the way down, but soon the fire mellowed out and was replaced by a warming sensation that spread through his arms and down to his legs.

“It’s not so bad,” Harry winced, “once it goes down.”

“After a few, your mouth goes numb,” Ron added helpfully, “and you don’t even feel it.”

Ron stood still and waited for Harry to take up the conversation. When he didn’t, Ron spoke again. “So, c’mon, tell me what’s wrong.”

Harry took another drink before handing the glass back to Ron. Ron was right - it didn’t burn so much the second time.

“It’s nothing, Ron, really,” he shrugged. “Go back in and enjoy the party.”

“I’d rather stay out here with you,” Ron said, and Harry thought he sounded a little embarrassed.

“If you want,” Harry said. He slid down the castle wall and took a seat in the grass. Ron sat down next to him.

“You’re staying at the Burrow for the summer, aren’t you?” Ron asked in an attempt to lighten Harry’s mood by talking about less troublesome topics.

“I’ve got to spend two weeks at Privet Drive,” Harry told him dryly. “Dumbledore’s orders. But after that, if you want, I could come stay.”

“Yeah, I want. I mean, yeah, I’d like that,” Ron blushed.

“You’ll write, won’t you? While I’m at my aunt and uncle’s?” Harry asked, promptly chiding himself for sounding so desperate to stay in touch with his best friend.

“Sure,” said Ron, his face brightening into a smile. “Everyday. And I’ll get Dad to send a Portkey as soon as it’s safe for you to leave.”

“It’s just two weeks,” Harry repeated, more to console himself than to remind Ron when to send the Portkey.

“Yeah, just two weeks,” Ron said. “Won’t be too bad, will it?”

Harry could tell by the sad tone in Ron’s voice that he knew just how bad it was staying with the Dursleys. But Harry just said quietly, “No, not too bad.”

Harry reached for Ron’s glass again, deciding that now was a good time for another drink. Their fingers brushed, and Ron cleared his throat as Harry took the glass. When Harry handed the glass back, their fingers brushed again, only this time the touch was longer and neither seemed in an hurry to break it.

Then Harry took a chance. He did something he wasn’t sure he’d get the opportunity to do again. He leaned in and kissed Ron.

Ron froze and Harry pulled away. A few seconds later, Ron licked his lips and said, “You taste like firewhiskey.”

Harry laughed. “So do you.”

Ron reached over and slid his fingers around the back of Harry’s head and pulled him into another kiss.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That night was the inauguration of their relationship, and still one of Ron’s most favorite memories. He pulled Harry closer and hugged him tightly.

The sky had gone darker and the wind had picked up considerably. Ron assumed night was approaching, but with the rain still coming down as hard as ever, it was nearly impossible to determine what time of day it was. He shivered as the wind blew in off the rain. Even curled up beside Harry, it was cold. Harry was still wrapped in Ron’s robes, and though Ron never considered taking them back, he knew that the night was only going to get colder and a thin set of robes wasn’t enough for either one of them.

He kissed Harry quickly and got up. He’d heard about Muggles using sticks to build fires. Or was it rocks? Perhaps it was both. He couldn’t remember. Maybe Hermione wasn’t so far off with that Muggle Studies class she took at Hogwarts.

He knew there were sticks and rocks and leaves in the cave. The only problem was finding them, and with no wand, he couldn’t cast a Lumos spell. He groped blindly around the hard dirt floor, first in the center of the cave where there was slightly more light, then back into the dark corners. He found some crooked, brittle sticks and got busy arranging them in a pile in the middle of the cave. He feared smoke inhalation, but he feared Death Eaters more. Besides, smoke would only come with fire, and Ron was having serious doubts about his knowledge of fire building.

He felt something crawl over the back of his hand; he shrieked and jerked away. Though he couldn’t see it, Ron knew it was a spider. Only spiders, with their long, hairy legs and round, fat bodies, were that creepy. Once the rapid beating of his heart slowed and he caught his breath, Ron shook his head. He fought Death Eaters almost on a daily basis, and now, he was hiding a near unconscious Harry, unarmed, in some hole in a rock. Now was not the time to get scared over something as small as a spider.

Of course, it was Fred and George who were to blame for Ron’s fear of spiders. As a child, Ron went running to his mum, who grounded the twins for a week, despite Ron crying and saying that a week wasn’t nearly long enough for the trauma they had put him through.

Ron sighed and sat back, not quite so concerned with lurking spiders anymore. He wished his mum were here now. Like Hermione, she would know what to do to make Harry well and how to make Ron feel protected. Ron may have been a grown man, but he wasn’t resourceful in a pinch. He knew his family must be worried about them. Working in the Ministry, Mr. Weasley was always among the first to hear when a group of Aurors were dispatched, and other Ministry members were particularly courteous about giving him information once Harry and Ron became Aurors. In turn, Mr. Weasley was quick to inform the rest of his family, though he often waited to tell his wife until he knew the outcome had been favorable.

Everyone, including the Weasleys, knew that Ron only became an Auror because of Harry. Ron had always done his best and fought hard to protect Harry, and his dedication only increased after he and Harry started their relationship. As Ron found out later, their close friendship had been questioned for some time, though he and Harry had managed to keep it hidden for an entire summer and the first half of the following school year. Unfortunately for Ron, when the truth came out, it wasn’t quite the way he had planned.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Yes…yes! Oh…oh, Ron!” Harry moaned as Ron thrust into him.

It was Christmas, their first together, and instead of spending it at Hogwarts, Ron wanted them to spend it at the Burrow with his family. What Ron hadn’t counted on was the contagious holiday spirit that made it nearly impossible for them to keep their hands off each other. This made matters particularly difficult, because though everyone at school knew about their relationship, and therefore so did Ginny, they hadn’t told the rest of the Weasleys yet. A sprig of mistletoe, magicked to hover over their heads wherever they went, certainly didn’t help things. Ron blamed the prank on Fred and George, though they boldly denied having any association with it.

“Harry…you’re gonna…have to be…quiet,” Ron grunted, though a loud “Oh, Merlin!” of his own made his warning ineffectual.

“More…God, please, more…Oh, Ron!” Harry moaned between heavy breaths.

Ever the ambitious lover, Ron thrust harder and deeper and faster. The old, rickety bed squeaked and jostled beneath them while the headboard kept time with the wall.

“Yes!” Harry squealed. “That’s it! Don’t stop!”

“You like that, don’t you, Harry?” Ron gloated, feeling uncharacteristically brave at Harry’s vocal response.

The door to the bedroom suddenly burst open.

“Jesus, Ron, what in the hell-” George stopped short when he saw just what in the hell it was.

Ron froze, mid thrust, and both his and Harry’s heads jerked directly to the doorway.

“Oh, fuck,” said Ron.

“Fuck, indeed,” George said, a wicked grin plastered across his face.

This was more humiliation than Ron thought was possible for a single person to endure. Utter embarrassment and complete shock. Those were the only words for it.

George, however, was less stunned and more amused. What a blazingly hysterical scene! Ron crouching between Harry’s spread legs, both completely naked, the sheet having been thrown to the floor, Ron holding Harry’s cock tightly in his hand while his own was partially buried inside his hero boyfriend.

“Fred!” George called over his shoulder, “getta look at this! Our baby brother’s become a man!”

Coming back to his senses, Ron quickly crawled off Harry with an apologetic look. He grabbed the sheet off the floor and covered himself with it while he scampered around trying to collect his and Harry’s pajamas. He felt a determined tug at the sheet and spun around.

“Give me that,” Harry hissed, feeling very…well, naked and exposed.

“No,” Ron hissed back, tugging the sheet away from Harry.

“Ron, come here,” Harry demanded. “You’re not going to just leave me like this!”

Ron was ignoring him, too preoccupied with gathering their discarded clothing. Harry darted from the bed, thankful for the quick reflexes that were a byproduct of playing Quidditch. He ran up behind Ron, grabbed the free end of the sheet, and wrapped it tightly around his waist.

“Harry!” Ron protested, as his portion of the sheet was almost wrenched off him.

“Well, I’m not going to just lay there and wait on you!” Harry retorted.

“Fine,” Ron muttered, deciding that there were very few things that could possibly make this night any worse.

Ron bent over to pick up his shirt, which left Harry standing behind him, huddled as close as possible to ensure sufficient coverage with his meager amount of the sheet.

“Oi!” Fred said, skidding into the room. “In front of an audience, too! Do you boys have no shame?” he said in mock horror.

“Fred!” Ron yelled, going crimson.

“From the looks of things, it’s Harry’s name you ought to be saying, not mine.”

“Get out, would you?” Ron cried. “Here,” he said to Harry, stuffing the pajamas into his arms. Then turning back to Fred and George, “The fun’s over with. You can both go back to your beds now.”

“How do we know you won’t debauch our Wizarding hero again as soon as our backs are turned?” asked George.

Ron rolled his eyes and let out a loud sigh. “I think the two of you have fairly killed the mood,” he said dryly.

“Alright, fine, we’re leaving. Happy now?” George asked as he and Fred turned to leave.

“Oh, Harry?” Fred paused just before closing the door. “If you need any pointers, you know where to find me.”

Fred had just enough time to shut the door before a well-aimed shoe came flying in his direction.

“Bollocks!” Ron grumbled as he slid back into his pajamas. “What’re we going to do, Harry? They’ll tell Mum and Dad for sure.”

Harry shrugged. “I guess we’ll just have to beat them to it.” Harry didn’t seem nearly as distraught now that there were no witnesses.

“Why do these things always happen to me?” Ron whined miserably as he buried his face in the pillow.

****

Ron wasn’t mistaken when he said Fred and George would tell their parents. What made it even worse was that the twins decided to torture Ron before divulging the truth about his and Harry’s friendship. They made crass comments all morning, saying things such as “Ron got his present last night,” and “Harry claims Ron’s is bigger” when Ginny unwrapped the new wand her parents bought her. But it was after all the presents were opened and the family was sitting at the kitchen table for breakfast when the twins became merciless.

Harry and Ron had barely taken their seats when Fred started in on them again.

“Sitting a bit close, aren’t you? Is there something going on under the table that we don’t know about?” he snickered.

“Fred, leave Harry and your brother alone,” Mrs. Weasley said sternly. “You know perfectly well how little room we have when company comes.”

“So, did you sleep well, Ron?” George asked, ignoring his mum’s scolding.

“Yes,” Ron said through gritted teeth. He could feel the color in his face rising along with the steam from his breakfast.

“And you, Harry?” Fred asked.

“Suppose so,” Harry said lightly, seemingly unaffected by their heckling.

“Glad someone did,” Fred continued with an exaggerated yawn. “George and I heard strange noises all night, didn’t we, George?”

“We did,” agreed George. “The loudest racket you’ve ever heard. Coming from right upstairs, too.”

“Now that you mention it,” Bill said as he speared a sausage link, “something woke me up late last night, but I didn’t pay it any mind.”

“Must’ve been the ghoul in the attic,” Ron supplied quickly. He glanced nervously at Harry, who didn’t seem the least bit affected by the twins’ accusations.

Fred pretended to think for a minute. “No…it was more like grunting and groaning and - ouch!”

Ron smiled to himself as his foot connected with Fred’s shin. Percy’s disapproving eyes darted between his two brothers, clearly irritated at such immaturity and lack of manners.

“But ghouls rattle,” Charlie argued. “They don’t grunt.”

“You’re right,” said Bill. “It was definitely grunting.”

Ron chewed quickly, hoping to finish his breakfast as soon as possible and get out of this very uncomfortable, very embarrassing situation. Harry had always been vocal, as Seamus and Dean reminded them almost every morning, but Ron didn’t think he was that loud. Evidently, it was just something Ron had gotten used to, and was particularly proud of, because it seemed as though the rest of his family had no doubt heard what went on in his bedroom last night.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Ginny said suddenly, coming to Ron’s rescue. He shot her a grateful look from across the table.

Fred and George, however, were undaunted.

“What about you, Perce? Did any odd sounds keep you up?” asked George.

“Well…yes” Percy said slowly, reluctantly joining the conversation, “I thought I heard a few squeaks and thumps.”

Ron cringed and made a mental note to fix those rusty bedsprings.

Mr. Weasley showed great interest in the orange marmalade he was spreading on his toast. “The house shifts on it’s own, you know. I’m sure it’s nothing a proper Stabilizing spell wouldn’t take care of.”

“So you don’t think it was the ghoul, Dad?” Fred asked.

“Um…no, I don’t,” said Mr. Weasley.

“See, Ron,” George said, turning to his brother, “it wasn’t the ghoul.”

Ron glared daggers at him while Harry ate casually.

“George, what did I tell you about harassing Ron?” Mrs. Weasley.

“Yes, Mum,” George said, though there was mischief in his tone.

Harry chanced a sideways glance at Ron as if to say, You better tell them now before it gets any worse. Ron looked uneasy, but he nodded his head in agreement.

Clearing his throat, Ron said, “Um…there’s…there’s something Harry and I need to tell you.”

He looked nervously around the table. All eyes were on him, some interested, some suspicious, and some amused. He glanced quickly at Harry, who silently encouraged him.

“Harry and I,” Ron continued after a pause, “are…well, we’re a couple.”

“A couple of prats,” said Fred.

Mrs. Weasley gave him a deadly look, then turned to Ron. “Yes, dear, we know. More porridge?”

“Listen, Mum,” Ron charged ahead quickly, “before you say anything, Harry and I have thought a lot about this and we - what did you say?”

“I asked if you wanted more porridge.”

“No, before that.”

“We know about you and Harry?” Mrs. Weasley scooped up a helping of porridge and deposited it in Ron’s bowl.

“Yeah, that part. I…we…wanted to be the ones to tell you,” he glared at Fred and George, “but my ruddy brothers can’t keep secrets.”

“We didn’t tell them,” said Fred with a strangely innocent look on his face.

“Honest,” George chimed in when he saw Ron’s doubtful expression.

“Fred and George weren’t involved, if you’ll believe that,” Mrs. Weasley said. Then she turned to her husband. “Tell them, Arthur.”

“Yes, well,” said Mr. Weasley, going slightly pink. “The mistletoe…it was my idea, thought it would be fun for Molly and me, you see. But then it followed you and Harry around, completely ignoring Molly and I, and well…”

Ron went even redder than the maroon jumper his mum knitted him for Christmas.

“Bloody mistletoe,” he muttered.

“Though to be honest,” Mrs. Weasley said, “we’ve had our suspicions for some time now. You and Harry were always closer than most boys.”

Fred giggled but Ron ignored him, still not quite believing that he was having this conversation with his parents over breakfast.

“Next time, do try to be quieter, dears,” Mrs. Weasley said gently. “The rest of us would like a bit of sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Ron quietly as he bowed his head and contemplated drowning himself in his porridge.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Fred and George still teased them about the events of that Christmas, though afterward Ron always remembered to lock the bedroom door and cast a Privacy spell whenever he and Harry spent the night at his parents’ house. Ron’s “coming out,” as he’d heard Muggles call it, could’ve gone a lot worse, and he was even more appreciative of his family’s support after that.

When Ron heard Harry cry out, he immediately gave up his attempts at starting a fire. He stumbled and almost fell in his hurry to get to Harry. Harry was looking up at him with terrified eyes, and without a word, Ron knew Harry had had another horrible dream. Ron had seen that look too many times over the years. He couldn’t erase Harry’s memories or make the nightmares go away, but he would do the best he could. Ron lay back down next to Harry, discovering once again that holding him was warmer than any fire he could ever conjure.

“It’s okay now,” Ron murmured into Harry’s hair. “It’s okay.”

Harry groaned loudly, and Ron jerked his head away, trying to look down at him to see what was wrong. “What is it?” he asked.

“Ron…” Harry’s voice was slurred and sloppy.

“I’m here,” Ron said, trying to hide the unease in his voice. “What is it?”

“Don’t leave me.” Harry buried his face in Ron’s shirt as he spoke. “Please, don’t ever leave me.”

“Never,” Ron said, pulling Harry closer.

“There’s…there’s something I need to tell you,” Harry said. Then without preamble, “I slept with Malfoy.”

Ron’s eyes grew wide and his body froze. Harry was still delirious from the curse. He didn’t know what he was saying. Then Harry continued.

“It was that night in seventh year when we had that fight. Remember? I was scared of the commitment and when you pressed the issue, I ran. I ran out to the Quidditch pitch and Malfoy was there. He was nice, Ron, nicer than you’d ever think he could be. I kissed him, right on the field, and then we-”

Ron cut him off with a quick kiss. “Don’t talk about that right now, okay?” he said as he pulled away.

“But I wanted you to know, in case…well, in case we don’t make it out of here.”

“We’ll make it out, don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry, Ron. I never meant to hurt you. It was just once, just that one time. I never looked at Malfoy again after that.”

Harry pressed his face into Ron’s chest, and Ron could feel the damp tears through his shirt. “Forget it,” he said. “No harm done, right?” He couldn’t stand for Harry to cry.

“Really?” Harry lifted his head, and even though the light was gray and foggy from the rain, Ron could see Harry’s eyes clearly through his glasses. Tears shimmered along the bottom rim, ready to spill over and slide down Harry’s cheeks.

He couldn’t think about Harry’s confession. Not now. And though the images played through his head - of Harry kissing Malfoy, of Malfoy kissing back, of them falling helplessly to the grass, lips never breaking contact, of the grass stains on their knees and elbows, both fighting passion and the need to be dominant, then of the two of them lying together under one robe, like he and Harry were doing right now - Ron tried desperately not to think about it.

“Really. Forget it,” Ron said at last, staring blankly into the dark, sharp angles of the cave wall.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry stood up and looked down at his trunk. He needed his Quidditch playbook, but after throwing out every single object in the entire trunk, it was still refusing to be found.

Ron walked up from behind and wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

“Uh, Ron…we’ve got company,” Harry said slowly, nodding to Seamus and Dean.

“Don’t mind us,” Seamus teased. “We were just leaving.”

Dean followed Seamus out of the dorm, closing the door firmly behind him and ensuring Harry and Ron some privacy.

The other boys handled Harry and Ron’s relationship admirably, opting to do homework in the common room and always giving adequate warnings, such as stomping up the stairs or pounding on the door, before re-entering the dorms. The warnings were mutually instated after an unsuspecting Neville came back early from a Hogsmeade trip. He had seemed even more embarrassed than Harry or Ron, eyes bulging like an owl and mouth gaping like a fish. After several awkward moments of fumbling with the doorknob, he bolted out, backtracking to the safety of the common room.

“I can’t find that bloody playbook anywhere,” Harry complained, shrugging off Ron’s embrace.

“Where’d you have it last?” Ron asked, acting more concerned than he actually felt.

“That’s the problem! I can’t remember!” Harry threw his hands in the air in exasperation. He slumped over to the bed and sank into the edge of the mattress, shaking his head helplessly.

The bed dipped as Ron sat carefully next to Harry. He laid a hand on Harry’s knee and massaged it gently while his eyes stared down at the floor. Harry often acted like this, throwing little angry fits with no real provocation.

Ron waited, but after several minutes of Harry all but ignoring him, he pulled his hand away. “Can’t you forget about that playbook, just for tonight?” he whispered.

“No, Ron, I can’t,” Harry snapped. He fell back onto the bed, resting his hands on his stomach and looking up at the curtains.

Ron sat still for a moment, watching Harry. Either Harry didn’t notice him, or he was avoiding him. Ron was afraid it was the latter. At last, Ron lay down on his side, facing Harry. Ron wanted to be close to him, to hold him, to show him that there were things more important than Quidditch and playbooks.

He reached for Harry’s hand with his own and laced their fingers together. Resting his head next to Harry’s shoulder, Ron curled a leg over Harry’s knee. Harry let out a small sigh, and Ron hoped he’d nestle closer but he remained still. Even after Ron nudged Harry’s hip lightly, Harry didn’t react.

For some reason, Harry was moodier today than usual. Ron had learned to deal with Harry’s mood swings over the years, and recently, he had found certain ways to combat them. But Harry was more distant and distracted today, and even in Ron’s presence, he couldn’t seem to relax.

“It’s only Saturday,” Ron reasoned, breaking the strangely awkward silence. “We don’t have practice until Tuesday. Besides, it’s nearly dark out. We couldn’t practice, anyway.”

Extra days and approaching darkness didn’t appease Harry or lessen his frustration. “I need that playbook, Ron! We’re playing Slytherin in a week and if we don’t practice, they’ve got a good chance of beating us.” Harry sat up suddenly, knocking Ron away. “I don’t have time for this right now,” he said angrily.

“But Dean, Seamus, and Neville are gone. We’ve got the dorm to ourselves-”

Harry’s sharp tone cut him off. “I said not now, Ron.”

Harry pushed off from the bed and stood with his back to Ron. He needed some space, some time by himself to sort things out. Being with Ron was great, wonderful, exhilarating, and all the other clichéd romantic terms Muggles read about in pointless, plotless books, but Harry felt smothered. No one had ever cared about him this much before, and not only did it frighten him, it made him uncomfortable.

“I’m going out,” Harry said at last.

He walked out of the room, leaving a very discouraged Ron staring after him.

****

The sun had dipped behind the edge of the world, leaving only a residue of its glow to provide a subtle light until the moon could rise and extinguish it. All along the grounds and to the very edge of the forest, everything was washed in the purple colors of twilight. Small sounds of lapping water made by the giant squid swimming far below the surface of the lake sang along with the rustling trees in the forest, but the grounds were empty as far as Harry could tell.

He strolled lazily down to the Quidditch pitch, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, almost completely detached by his thoughts. He needed to think, to reflect on what was happening between Ron and him. Harry loved Ron - he was sure of that. He’d probably always loved him. But was he in love with him? Harry wasn’t sure about that.

Though he knew it wasn’t deliberate, Harry felt Ron was pressuring him, that Ron had high expectations of him. Just like everyone else in the Wizarding World. His and Ron’s relationship was supposed to be certain and guaranteed. To last forever. But how long, really, was forever? And was Harry ready to spend it with Ron? Things had moved quickly since that night last year at the Leaving Feast, and now Harry didn’t know if he was ready for the kind of commitment Ron was hoping for.

He took a seat on the bottom row of the nearest set of risers and stared out over the empty playing field. Hurting Ron was the last thing Harry wanted to do, but he was feeling trapped. How could he explain this to Ron without upsetting him? How could he suggest that they spend some time apart without causing Ron to have doubts about their future? Harry wanted to be alone, yet he needed someone to talk to, someone who would understand what he was feeling. This wasn’t the first time he found himself missing Sirius.

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry muttered to himself, hopelessly wishing that something somewhere on the empty pitch would give him an answer.

Then an answer came. “For starters,” came a slow drawl, “you should learn not to infringe on other people’s privacy.”

Harry spun around. There, coming out from under the risers, was the last person Harry needed to see right now: Draco Malfoy.

“You don’t own the Quidditch field, Malfoy. Anyone can come out here.”

“You’re out of bounds,” Draco replied. “You know students aren’t allowed down here at night unaccompanied.”

“You’re down here.”

Draco cocked an eyebrow. “I’m a prefect. I can go wherever I choose.”

Not having a quick comeback, and not really in the mood to argue with Malfoy, Harry was silent for some minutes. Then something occurred to him.

“Why are you down here, anyway? Alone. Hadn’t you rather be in the glowing admiration of the other Slytherins?”

Draco looked at Harry, then quickly raised his eyes to the nearest goal post. “You may think you’re special, Potter, and this may come as a surprise, but you’re not the only one with troubles.”

Harry stared at Malfoy, his profile lit up from behind by the rising moon. While Harry was most certainly aware that he wasn’t the only person with troubles, seeing Malfoy drop the icy façade, however fleeting the moment was, took Harry by surprise. Malfoy ruled the school, though it was more because of his militancy than popularity. He was nice-looking, if you went in for the blonde, pale look (which Harry didn’t), and he was heir to one of the biggest fortunes in the Wizarding World. What could possibly have Malfoy so bothered that he hid under the Quidditch stands at night?

“What happened, Malfoy? Did you find out that one of your relatives was really a half-blood?” It came out as more of a scoff than Harry intended. Some habits were hard to break.

Draco snorted. “It would be just like you to assume such a thing, Potter. This has nothing to do with my ancestors. It’s more about my descendants.”

Harry’s forehead crinkled. “Why are you worrying about children? We’re not even out of school yet.” Harry paused. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some brats running around that no one knows about.”

Draco grunted, feinting humor. “Of course not. I don’t sleep with women.”

“You-” Harry’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “Oh.”

So the only child to the Malfoy legacy was a poof. That was rich. Strange, though, that Malfoy would come out to Harry, of all people. Harry had honestly never suspected it. There had been a few rumors in fifth year about Malfoy and Zambini, but those were mostly passed around by the Hufflepuffs, who were notorious for their gossip. The rest of the school paid little mind to it, and soon the rumors died out completely.

“It’s Father, you see,” Draco started as he took a seat next to Harry. “He won’t stand for me not having an heir.”

“So he knows, then? That you’re gay?”

“He knows, but just recently. After years of having arranged marriages to various cousins shoved down my throat, I couldn’t take it anymore. So I told him.”

Harry laughed inwardly at what was actually being shoved down Malfoy’s throat, but instead he said, “I’m guessing he didn’t take the news very well.”

Draco shook his head, but didn’t speak.

After several moments of an uncomfortable silence, Harry spoke again. “Couldn’t you have a child, anyway? I mean, sleeping with women can’t be that bad, right? You could keep a bloke on the side if you wanted.”

“Are you bloody serious?” Draco yelled, showing more emotion than Harry had seen from him all evening. “What a suggestion, Potter! Now I understand why some wizards think you should’ve been in Slytherin.”

Harry took offense. “I was never supposed to be in Slytherin!”

“I don’t care whether you believe it or not, but a few of us have morals and a conscience. I happen to be one of them. I refuse to compromise my integrity for my father’s sordid agenda.” Harry snorted, but Draco turned on him quickly with blazing eyes. “How well do you know me, Potter? You don’t. You see what I choose to show you, and from that, you choose what you want to see.”

“What do you want me to see, then?” Harry snapped back. “You go on about how I don’t really know you, but you’re the one with all the pretenses, always hiding-”

Draco silenced him with a kiss.

Harry immediately jerked away. The objection was fleeting, however, and Harry suddenly leaned in and pushed his lips into Draco’s. Draco opened his mouth to accommodate Harry’s tongue, and soon both sets of hands were roaming and both pairs of lips were searching. Harry put his hand under Draco’s thigh and shifted him so that he was straddling the bench, then Harry moved his hand to the rise between Draco’s legs and began stroking him through his trousers. Draco’s breathing sped up, and he grabbed Harry’s hips to pull him closer. With fierce determination, Harry thrust against him, but it wasn’t enough for either of them.

Years later, whenever Harry thought back to this night, he was convinced that Draco was the one who prompted them on to next step. Ironically, when Draco thought back to the very same night, he would’ve bet his best designer dress robes that it had been Harry. Regardless of whom the blame accurately fell on, before the night was over Harry found himself lying on top of Draco, both of them naked, sweating, and exhausted.

The moon was high in the sky now, a huge white sphere casting its pale beams down on the two boys as they tried to catch their breaths and recover from post-orgasm lethargy. It was late, and Harry knew he had to get back to the castle. Ron would be waiting for him, and Harry readied himself for a long night of excuses and explanations.

Draco stirred underneath him, and Harry rose to collect the dark piles that were his clothes. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?” Harry asked as he shrugged his robes over his shoulders.

Draco smiled that arrogant smile that Harry absolutely loathed. “Why should I keep this to myself? I got fucked by the famous Harry Potter. We’d make the front page of the Daily Prophet.”

Harry tensed his fists up and scowled, ready to beat Malfoy to a pulp if he breathed one word of what had happened between them. Then Draco’s features relaxed and his smirk vanished.

“Don’t worry, Potter. I won’t tell anyone.”

Harry left Draco with a small smile, more out of relief than friendliness, and disappeared between the curtains of the night.

****

When Harry got back up to the dorms and found Ron, awake but lying in bed, Harry decided to be honest with him. He said that he’d gone down to the Quidditch pitch to look for his lost playbook, but after searching the field, stands, and locker room, he still hadn’t found it. Really, that was the truth.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ron remembered that night, even now. He remembered Harry’s alibi and how readily he had bought it, no questions asked, just grateful to have Harry in his bed again. The recent strains on their relationship loosened that night, and the following day, Harry was as affectionate and committed as ever. Now Ron knew the reason for it. Harry had never given Ron reason to doubt his fidelity, but even so, Ron never would’ve suspected Malfoy as his competition. Not when it came to Quidditch, and definitely not when it came to Harry.

Needing some air to help clear his head, Ron pulled his arm out from under Harry’s neck, still careful not to disrupt him, and walked over to the mouth of the cave. The rain was cool and sobering, but still too heavy to allow even the briefest glimpse on what was going on down below. On a clear day, Ron might have been able to hear, or even see, indications of the battle.

Feeling restless, he went back over to where Harry was laying and crouched down next to him. When all of this was over, he’d talk to Harry about Malfoy. Ron wasn’t angry - he didn’t have the strength to be angry - but he wanted to understand why Harry, instead of talking to him about it, welcomed Malfoy as a distraction and temporary replacement.

Ron would forgive Harry, of course. He wasn’t going to let an old mistake, made when they were young and impulsive, ruin what he and Harry had spent so many years perfecting. It would take work and understanding, but Ron knew they’d get through it. He loved Harry - past, present, and future - and there wasn’t anything that could change that.

Through the steady sound of falling rain, Ron heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps. The Death Eaters were coming. They had seen the cave and knew he and Harry were hiding in it. Ron stayed crouched at Harry’s side, allowing a nervous glance at quick intervals to the mouth of the cave. It was nearly impossible to see anything other than what was visible immediately outside.

“Harry, I need you to wake up,” Ron whispered, shaking Harry’s shoulders. “Please, wake up. The Death Eaters are coming.”

The sounds of boots climbing nearby rocks let Ron know that the enemy was getting closer.

The curtain of rain parted as one Death Eater, then another, then three more, then five more stepped into the cave. Ron rose to his feet and instinctively reached in his back pocket for his wand before he remembered he’d lost it. He stood over Harry, who was still sleeping, unaware that they were both either about to be killed or captured. Even with his wand, Ron would’ve provided very little competition for such a crowd of Death Eaters.

Ron looked down again, hoping to see an empty space where Harry had been laying, willing him to find the strength to stand and fight. But Harry lay still, like death or deep sleep, not knowing that Death Eaters were filling the cave, closing in, leaving Ron with no option other than fighting or dying.

Ron took a step over Harry’s sleeping form, blocking him from the Death Eaters with flaring eyes and raised wands. He didn’t stand a chance, he knew, but if an accurately aimed spell hit him in just the right place, he would fall protectively over Harry. Protecting Harry was natural, innate, and automatic. He’d sacrificed himself at frequent intervals during the whole time he had known Harry, starting in their first year at Hogwarts. This was no different. A horde of vengeful Death Eaters with practiced curses bubbling at their mouths was hardly different from a life-sized animated chess set, being taken captive by Merpeople, or having pickled brains with long tentacles attached to your chest.

Ron pushed up his sleeves, planting himself in front of Harry, prepared for a fight he knew neither one of them would survive.