Nor Let Me Die Before I Have Begun To Live #3

[callumjames]

Ron would remember the next two days till he died. The sun shone weak but warm and London seemed a lighter, easier, more open place full of energy and fresh breezes. There was a lot of sex. Harry was Ron’s slave, there was no other word for it. If Ron wanted to dump his come into Harry’s mouth in the middle of the day then he simply cast a disillusionment charm on them wherever they were and Harry would fall to his knees and suckle between Ron’s legs until he got his reward, the warm trickling sensation of the spell only adding to the erotic charge. If Ron felt like relaxing, then, under the shelter of the charm, he would lie naked in the park or on the roof of a building and Harry would lick him from head to toe, kiss every inch of him, and massage Ron’s cock between expert fingers. The first day they fucked four times and Ron resorted to casting healing charms on his cock to ease the soreness.

Ron felt like his heart had wings.

But there were other differences between them, beyond the sex. Ron noticed that Harry was calmer; he talked more but in a quieter, less agitated way. When they went into a café or a shop it was Ron who spoke to the waiter or the girl on the till, it was Ron who went through doors first. Ron had taken on all the weight of dealing with the world, he stood between Harry and everything else. It was exactly where he wanted to be: protecting and guarding the man he loved who was still too raw to be touched. Harry seemed to thrive on it: the few smiles which Harry had before were now more numerous and easier.

The second night Ron told Harry to take them to a bar. "You know, for guys like us." While they were there, a young man, handsome and charming, started chatting to Harry at the bar. Ron couldn’t hear all the conversation and for just a minute-and-a-half Ron found himself staring jealousy in the face. Then the man leant in to Harry and whispered in his ear. Harry simply leaned back and said in a bright, cheerful way,

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m his.” And nodded to where Ron was sitting just a few feet away. Ron’s heart definitely had wings!

On the third day, Ron took Harry back to their room in the middle of the afternoon. While Harry asked no questions, Ron could see he was curious. Sitting on the bed and looking over to a slightly uncomfortable Harry by the window, Ron said,

“It’s time for you to start getting well again.”

“What does that mean?” said Harry, slightly wary perhaps.

“It means we need to get you to a healer.” Ron held up his hand immediately when Harry opened his mouth, “Shut up,” he said. Harry closed his mouth. “I’m not asking you Harry, I’m telling you. This is what you signed up for. ‘Anything you want,' remember? The problem is, I don’t want to take you back to our world just yet so we have to get a healer to come here. But, we don’t have an owl and we’re not on the floo network. There’s only one way I can think of to get a message to Neville and I don‘t like it any more than you will.”

“Neville?” said Harry. Ron ignored him.”

“Harry, call Kreacher.”

An titanic mental wrestling match was written across Harry’s face. Ron was suddenly aware of how much was riding on this moment. It wasn’t magic as such to call a house elf. It wasn’t a spell; if anything, it was the house elf’s magic that made it possible, but this was as close as Harry had been to ‘doing’ magic for over a year. The silence went on too long and for a moment Ron thought he could see everything that had happened between them in the last three days slipping away. Finally Harry spoke. Quietly, almost resentfully he said,

“Kreacher!”

There was an almighty crack followed by a wailing noise like Ron hoped he would never have to hear again in his life.

“Noooooo!” screeched the foul and filthy little house elf who had materialised out of nowhere. “No, no, no, no… they said he was dead and buried. They said Potter was blown to bits and bloody pieces. I was happy!” Kreacher’s voice rose to an angry scream, “I was HAPPY! It can‘t be true! Please tell Kreacher it isn't true. Potter isn’t back. Potter isn’t BACK!!”

“Harry!” Ron shouted over the screaming. “Tell him to shut up.”

Harry did and Kreacher fell to the ground sobbing and wailing, clutching his throat as if words were still trying to get out.

“Harry, tell him to do whatever I ask him.” With some difficulty Harry got Kreacher to nod his assent to this. All the while Harry had a look of disgust and pure loathing on his face. Ron worried that he might have pushed Harry too far but this really was the only way.

“Kreacher?!” The house elf had become ominously still. Ron nudged the ball of foul rags on the floor with the tip of his boot, wondering if the shock of seeing Harry again had killed him. Kreacher grunted and made an extremely rude gesture at Ron. “Kreacher. Listen very carefully. You will go from here directly to Neville Longbottom. You tell him, politely, that you have a message from Ron Weasley and give him this piece of paper.” Ron handed over a note he’d written earlier. “Once you’ve done that you can go back to whatever foul hole in the universe you’ve found for yourself. But...”

Kreacher was suddenly, very attentive; Ron knew he was looking for some loophole in his instructions,

“You tell no-one, living or dead, that Harry is alive or about anything you have seen or heard since you arrived here. If you do this, Kreacher, you can come back one month from today and Harry will give you a shirt…” He let the promise hang in the air for a moment, not sure what reaction to expect. It had always been too dangerous to give Kreacher his freedom in the past, he knew too much, but it seemed irrelevant now and so long as Harry wasn’t discovered for a month… Kreacher grunted and disapparated with another frightful crack. ‘Oh well,’ thought Ron, ‘I guess I just have to hope the message gets through’. He was about to try and lighten the mood when he noticed the treacherous look on Harry’s face. Ron could see that at any moment Harry would return to the belligerent and stroppy way he’d had about him when they first met up. Worse, perhaps, there might be another bout of uncontrolled magical phenomena. Ron sighed to himself.

“Strip off!” Ron snapped at Harry. “Kneel down!” Harry did as he was told. “Now stay there and don’t speak.” Harry was kneeling naked under the window. Ron flipped out his cock, stuffed it into Harry’s mouth and opened the window. He leant on the windowsill watching the world go by outside while Harry worked until Ron filled his mouth with his wet reward. While he watched the ordinary muggle world go past below him, he felt the tension rising and twisting in his groin. There was a rising and twisting fear as well, that he was doing the right thing. Ron didn’t move for a while and so Harry stayed where he was, Ron’s deflating cock warm in Harry’s mouth. For the first time in days Ron began to see again the enormity of the task they were facing. In a month, one way or another, everyone would know that The Boy Who Lived, lived.

As light began to filter through the sheets at the window, the slow drumming, early-morning sound of London became louder; as London woke so did Ron. He lay still for a moment, not quite believing yet where he was and with whom. Ron lay on his back and Harry curled into him, the shaved head resting on Ron’s chest, rising and falling. One thin and arm and one thin leg were draped over Ron, holding him, not tightly but somehow clinging, expressing a need. Ron put his arm on Harry’s gleaming white shoulder and slowly stroked Harry awake. They lay talking quietly for some time, neither of them in any hurry to get up. The knock on the door took them both by surprise.

Harry flinched at the noise, then looked at Ron, a question in his eyes. Ron slid out from under Harry’s curled limbs, grabbed a towel from the floor and went to the door. He opened it a crack.

“Neville!” said Ron, genuine happiness in his voice, “Erm… come in. Come in mate.”

Neville stepped into the small room and seemed to take up most of the space inside immediately. He looked around, and saw Harry in the bed, looked back at Ron in his towel and seemed to have the situation summed up in his head at once. He stepped forward and said hello to Harry. Harry said hi back, in a worryingly neutral tone, Ron thought.

“Gods Harry, you already look so much better than the last time I saw you.” There was a smile of genuine and gentle pleasure on Neville’s face.

“He doesn’t remember,” said Ron, feeling the need to protect a clearly agitated Harry. True to form, instead of hiding away or cowering from Neville’s big presence in the room, Harry seemed to be about to challenge it. He had allowed the sheet to slip from his shoulders as he propped himself up. Ron realised with both horror and fascination that Harry was displaying himself, almost trying to seduce Neville. It was a completely unconscious thing but a few more pieces fell into place for Ron.

“May I?” said Neville indicating the small wooden chair by the bed, completely oblivious to Harry’s strange behaviour, or at least seeming to be. Harry looked at Ron. It was one of those looks which Ron was coming to know very well, a look asking permission or asking for a decision about something.

“Of course you can, sorry,” said Ron and he went himself to sit on the edge of the bed while Neville settled himself. It looked now much like a scene from a hospital deathbed thought Ron ruefully. “Listen Neville, I never had a chance to say, you know, thank you. Not properly, after that stuff in the café and the church. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

Neville waved the gratitude aside with a large hand.

“Don’t worry about it, Ron. I’m just glad it looks like I made the right decision. I can’t tell you how glad I was when Kreacher arrived with your note.”

Ron snorted.

“You’ve got to be the first person who's ever been happy to see Kreacher. So, er… where do we start?”

“Well, at the beginning I suppose,” said a more professional sounding Neville, then with a smile which recognised how out of context this all seemed in a small, dirty, muggle room he said to Harry, “So, what appears to be the problem?”

Harry looked to Ron again.

“Go on, Harry, tell him.” And Ron was sure from the way that Neville observed them both that he was making some very astute guesses about the nature of things between Harry and Ron.

“I’m a squib.” Neville raised an eyebrow, “Dumbledore as much as told me so a few years ago but I didn’t understand what he was saying at the time. He said…” There was an expression on Harry’s face, only briefly, that could have been deep thought or a painful memory, or both. “He said that when You Know Who tried to kill me, you know, the first time, he transferred his powers to me. I thought he just meant things like Parseltongue but he meant that He transferred his magic to me. If it hadn’t been for that, I would have grown up a squib, magic parents, no magic myself. So…” And again Harry paused for thought. “I… I appreciate you coming, I really do…” Once more Harry seemed to struggle to admit things to himself. “…And it is good to see you, really, but there’s nothing you can do.”

Neville was quiet for a long moment before speaking.

“And Dumbledore told you this about Voldemort did he? Just like you said?” Ron was sure that Neville couldn’t have missed Harry’s reaction to the name so he said nothing.

“He told me He transferred some of his power to me yes. It makes sense. Now He’s gone.”

“You know there are lots of things that can make a wizard loose his magic.” Harry shrugged. “Unrequited love for example, bereavement, trauma… they all basically boil down to despair. It’s the biggest killer of magic there is.”

Ron and Harry both felt the power of this revelation in different ways. Harry clearly was struck by Neville’s use of the word despair; it had been the one word he had used above all others to describe his encounter with Voldemort to Ron. Ron felt a surge of relief well inside his chest; he had never really believed Harry’s protestations that his magic was gone, he thought the talk of being a squib was stupid, but to hear this connection so quickly and clearly made by Neville seemed to satisfy every lurking fear he had. “And the good news is that it’s treatable Harry,” said Neville finally. “Will you’ll let me heal you?”

Harry’s head fell and he seemed intent on smoothing wrinkles from the sheeting. “Harry?” said Neville.

“He wants to be healed,” said Ron.

“Ron, to be fair I have to hear that from Harry, it’s important that it comes from him.” Neville looked again to Harry for some kind of answer.

“I want what he wants,” Harry said at last, nodding towards Ron.

“Ron wants you to be treated and healed Harry, does that mean you want it too?”

So quietly he could barely be heard Harry nodded and said,

“Yes.”

The sigh inside Ron was soft and long and emptied the tension, finally, from his twisted nerves.

“I need to know what happened Harry, what happened when you found you couldn’t do magic. Would I be right in assuming this happened the night you killed Voldemort?” Harry nodded. “And can I assume you don’t want to tell me about it out loud?” Harry shook his head, still looking down, avoiding their faces.

Ron stretched his arm and placed a hand on Harry’s bare shoulder. Wordlessly Harry tilted his head towards it.

“I understand that, Harry, but I do have to know.”

“I can tell you some of it, he’s told me a bit,” said Ron who wanted nothing more now than to wrap Harry in his arms and rock him gently.

“That would be helpful certainly,” said Neville, “but Harry, I wonder, would you let me into your memories instead of telling it all out loud?”

Harry nodded. Realising that being self-conscious was stupid in the current situation, Ron then scooted up behind Harry and put his arms round him. Neville didn’t seem to be bothered in the slightest, and Harry sank back against Ron’s chest like it was the only firm rock in a storm. Neville brought out a small stone basin from his bag and both Harry and Ron recognised it as a pensieve immediately.

It took only a few minutes for Neville’s wand to draw several strands of silvery-grey memory from Harry’s temple and drop them into the bowl.

“Thank you,” said Neville, “I’m going to go home for a while and study these. I think this morning has been a little stressful for you ,Harry, so I would recommend a good slug of this.” He handed a small brown potion bottle to Harry, who looked at it suspiciously. “It’s just a sleep draft, nothing to worry about, I think after I very rudely woke you up so early I ought to at least do you the favour of a lie-in after all.”

“Drink it Harry,” said Ron firmly, and only then did Harry take the bottle.

It took just a moment and Harry was asleep in Ron’s arms. Ron lowered him gently to the bed and shifted his hands out from under Harry‘s back. Asleep, Harry looked so brittle he might break: beautiful too and Ron felt suddenly close to tears looking at him. He sniffed, then coughed.

“Would you like to walk me out?” asked Neville.

“Oh, yeah sure. Sorry…” said Ron, clearing his throat.

Ron and Neville took a longer walk than simply to the front door. Ron found Neville’s presence a massive reassurance. Walking beside the gentle giant Ron realised again just how much he missed the wizarding world, his friends, his family.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Ron said to Neville as they took a turn around the small park. Neville seemed to have developed an infallible knack for knowing what many paragraphs were behind each sentence actually spoken.

“It won’t be all that much longer, Ron. You know you’re doing an incredible thing. Even finding him. We’d all given up. Well, you know that. I’m ashamed to say I quite believed he was gone forever.”

“Don’t be…” said Ron, but Neville stopped him.

“I should be and I am. But I’m not going to rest now until I’ve put him right. Merlin. Ron, imagine what would’ve happened if you, only you, if you had stopped believing he was out there somewhere. Just imagine what would have happened to him.” Ron shuddered. Not, he realised, at the thought of what might have been, more at the thought of what had been. He couldn’t tell Neville about that, it was Harry’s to tell if he was ever able. He did tell Neville what Harry had told him of the Final Battle. Neville listened intently, shaking his head sadly throughout.

“So you really think you can heal him?” Ron asked when he had finished, perhaps a note of pleading in his voice.

“Oh yes,” said Neville. “It won’t be easy and it will take a long, long time to get him back to where he should be but yes, he’ll be Harry Potter again.”

In the uncomplicated sunshine Ron could have hugged Neville and danced and cried and yelled… Instead he stooped to the ground and picked up a perfect white feather he had seen there, from the tail of a swan.

“So what do I have to do?” asked Ron.

“Well,” said Neville, “his condition really is treatable but not if he’s still despairing. Not if there’s nothing, no reason for him to get well. That’s what you have to do.”

“Give him a reason?”

“Just give him some love. It’s a good enough reason for anything.” Neville paused. “You know, when you do manage to bring him back, there’s going to be a lot of embarrassed faces around and you’ll be quite the hero.”

“I’m not interested in that,” said Ron

“I know. I know.” Neville became thoughtful for a while. “You seem to have his magic under control,” he said eventually, obviously as a leading question.

“It’s kind of complicated,” said Ron, blushing slightly and furious at himself for doing so. “I’ve had to take control of everything about him really.”

“Hmmm,” said Neville. “I had noticed that. It’s not a bad thing at all you know. There are times when we all need to be held by someone else’s strength. He trusts you Ron, probably not in a way that many other people in the world could understand.”

“It’s not a permanent thing you know,” said Ron quickly, thinking he knew where Neville was going with this.

“No, no, I wasn’t going to suggest it was. I just want you to make sure you look after yourself too. I’m sure you’re exhausted and, for a little while at least, being and doing for two people isn’t going to give you much chance to rest.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Ron.

“Well then, I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll make it about midday, I wouldn’t want to drag you from your bed again,” he said and Ron could have sworn Neville winked at him before he turned to go. “Oh!” He turned back, “I almost forgot. I have something for you. I know you’re a bit out of the loop here so, if you ever need me in an emergency I thought this might come in handy.” He fished a small coin out of his pocket. Ron looked at it in amazement, it was an enchanted DA coin. “I enchanted another one to respond if you make a signal with this. I’ll come as quickly as I can if there’s a problem.”

And then Neville was gone.

Ron stayed out a long while in the park and in the lanes of slightly bohemian muggle shops that surrounded it. Ron liked the bright colours, the cloth flapping in the wind from window stays, the scent of patchouli and jasmine from smoking sticks, the flapping of old paperback books on wooden trestles. He felt there might be a world here which was uncomplicated and fun and full of small pleasures; it was a world just out of reach. He watched the Muggles strolling in and out of the shops and cafes and, despite the fact that here in particular they seemed to dress more like wizards than Muggles, he had never felt so distant. He was thinking on Neville’s advice. Ron was tired. He had been tired at the end of the war: tired of making every decision in life knowing it contained the possibility of death, tired of hearing of the death of friends, the atrocities of Death-Eaters. When Harry had gone he had wept so hard and so long he had cried himself to the point of collapse and the sudden, bright burst of brilliant light which had engulfed the wizarding world with Voldemort’s death had washed over him like a grey winter. He was tired of being determined and resolute, tired of being the butt of jokes and the focus of derision. When everyone else had seized hold of the relief that came with the end of the war, Ron felt he had never stopped. He had pushed on past endurance. He realised now that what Neville had said, that he would be a hero, did matter to him. When he thought forward to that moment when he was able to bring Harry home it wasn’t the idea of being ‘heroic’ that filled him with longing, it was the idea of being normal again. Neville had placed a singular and beautiful hope in his head. Realising this Ron smirked, cursing and thanking Neville for bringing it up, for Ron was sure it was on purpose. Even thinking of how things might be…

How ironic that, for a little while at least, when he was exhausted and worn thin, he still had to be the strong one. Sighing, he left the colourful row of shops and turned back to Harry’s room.

All the way, images of Harry played in his head. Tight white sinew straining against black rope. Shoulder-blade-wings flexing in pain and pleasure. The hunching of grooves in a taut stomach as stings and kisses fell in equal measure. Ron was no longer ashamed of these things. Until now, Ron had justified and evaded himself. He did it for Harry he told himself: and that was true. But he knew he also did it for himself. At every turn he and Harry had been, for each other, what they each most needed. Now he, Ron, needed a willing body, someone to exercise his anger and resentment over, someone who would teach him to control and focus the elemental grief and rage that had never gone away after the war. Harry was that person. Ron finally admitted to himself that he didn’t just enjoy Harry’s passive giving: he needed it.

Back in the small room, which was seeming more and more like home each day, Harry was sitting up on the bed, naked. Even though the windows were open the sun shing through them was making an oven of the place. The light fell in two sharp lines across Harry’s chest and neck. When Ron came in Harry smiled.

“Good sleep?”

“Yep, best in ages,” said Harry. “Don’t know how long it was though I’ve only just woken up.”

“About five hours,” said Ron checking his watch. “take this.” Ron held out his own wand. Harry’s smile disappeared, he seemed about to protest. “Just take it,” Ron managed a slightly threatening tone though he didn’t feel like making good on threats at the moment. Nervously, Harry took Ron’s wand in his hand and then looked at Ron, wondering.

Ron took from his back pocket the perfect white feather he had found in the park and let it rest in the outstretched palm of his hand. They both looked at it for some time. Then Ron spoke.

“You know the charm: Winguardium leviosa. Try it.”

“Ron!” Harry began, almost in a whine.

“For me,” said Ron, cutting Harry off. “And don’t just say it, do it as you always used to. Don’t prove you can’t do something by not trying.”

Harry looked over Ron’s wand and nodded slightly to himself, almost steeling himself. He raised the wand and pointed it at the single white feather: breath would have made it fly without magic it was so pure and full of light.

“Winguardium leviosa,” said Harry with the same flick and twist of his wrist that he had learnt at Ron’s side in a classroom in a faraway place, in a long-ago time.

The feather twitched in Ron’s hand.

Both of them stared, wide-eyed.

“Harry,” said Ron suddenly stern and purposeful, “I love you more than I will ever have the words to say. Now make this baby fly.”

“Winguardium leviosa,” said Harry again, not more loudly but with more conviction. The feather shuddered on Ron’s palm and then lifted, slowly, into the air and hung, twisting slightly in the normal breezes of the room. Ron’s whole being floated with it.

Harry’s face was twisted between amazement and shock and triumph. His eyes flicked pleadingly to Ron asking, ‘What does it mean?’ The feather fell softly back onto Ron’s open hand. For a moment Ron looked at the feather and didn’t see whatever might have passed across Harry’s face in the next second. He didn’t read his intentions or motive but simply heard, loudly and clearly,

“Winguardium leviosa!”

There was a flash and a crack. A searing pain ripped across Ron’s hand and he staggered back, hit in the chest by white heat and the feather exploded into a shower of black ash… and Harry wailed.

Hours later Ron was tired again. His hand and chest were burnt and his limited healing charms had only taken the worst of the pain away; the wounds were still red and throbbing. They were lying on the bed, Harry’s back curled into Ron’s long arms. Harry was keening softly. It had taken no small effort to calm him after the feather had exploded, words had not been enough. All Ron had been able to do was wrestle Harry into his arms and hold him tightly while Harry wailed and sobbed, his body wracked with choking noises and wet breath. Even after Ron had coaxed Harry to the bed and laid them both down, Harry continued to weep, holding his hands over his face, refusing to look at Ron. Now Harry just whined softly into the pillow and Ron was desperate for sleep to come to both of them. He’d thought of the coin but something stopped him from calling Neville back so soon, pride maybe. It would be another long night.

Neville came every day as he had promised. His understated confidence and gentle manner was more reassuring to Ron than he could say. Ron looked forward to Neville’s quiet knock on the door every day. Neville had looked into Harry’s darkest memories and pronounced that they could be healed. Ron told Neville about the feather and Neville seemed not at all discouraged.

“Keep him at it if you can. Simple things obviously. Magic is a fluid thing in bodies, it needs to flow.” When he heard this, some of Ron’s guilt that he had make a huge mistake lifted. “It might go wrong from time to time, sure, but there’s no point in letting his magic atrophy inside him if there’s some there to work with.” Ron nodded along but Neville, perceptive as always, added, “Of course there’s no need to make him do it if you aren’t feeling up to it.”

“No, I’ll keep him at it,” said Ron.

Neville’s spell and potion work with Harry went far beyond Ron’s rudimentary understanding of healing and, Ron was sure, Neville was going far beyond the normal in his craft. In many ways Neville was the personification of the mundane. There was nothing refined or extraordinary about his manner or looks, he was as plain in speech and appearance as he had always been, a big presence with big hands and a heart on his sleeve. Yet, at work, moving those thick fingers full of wand and bottle and gesture, there was a dignity and depth to Neville which seemed almost mystical. And Ron was a little in awe of him.

As the days turned into a couple of weeks Harry filled out in himself. He was still thin and looked frail but there was a ’fullness’ to him which spoke of things inside being fixed. Ron kept a protesting Harry working at his magic and despite a very few incidents involving bangs and smoke Harry was lifting, moving, opening and Accio-ing things with reasonable ease. He had the magical skills of a second year Hogwarts student, albeit an average one. It was only when things went wrong with the spells that it was clear that Harry was still, somewhere inside, a very powerful wizard. There had been a couple of near disasters when Harry’s magic had not so much backfired as over-fired. Those occasions were setbacks and Harry’s whole emotional state could be wrecked by them, so Ron was followed Neville’s advice as well as he could and kept it simple.

Things were changing between them in other ways too. For a long while Ron couldn’t put into words what the difference was, until Neville brought him a book as a gift (Bless him, thought Ron he’s more like Hermione than I thought)

“It’s The Passion of Nicholas Flammell,” said Neville.

“Oh,” said Ron. Realising he might sound ungrateful, he went on, “His great drive to make the Philosophers’ Stone?”

“Erm, no,” said Neville, “well of course it is about that yes, but its passion in the old sense of the word.” When Ron looked blank Neville warmed to his subject. Ron couldn’t help but find it endearing how Neville became enthusiastic when he was teaching. “Passion actually means ‘suffering’, that’s the root of the word. It was something my teacher explained to me just after I qualified, that’s why compassion is so important in a healer, it means ‘suffering-with’ someone.” It made perfect sense to Ron and as he wondered again on the new-Neville he also realised with a flutter in his gut what the difference was between him and Harry now. It was passion. There was a passion in Harry now which was both the old and the new meaning of the word. Ron cleared his throat, not sure why he felt suddenly emotional.

“Perhaps one day someone will write The Passion of Harry Potter,’ he said.

“Perhaps,” said Neville.

Ron was still the dominant partner in everything they did. Their sex was still rough and hard and a constant, serious game in which power and control moved between them like currents of air. But there was something more in Harry now. Something deeper in his responses, something more committed. Often Ron would stay dressed and tie Harry to the bed naked, teasing the prone body with his fingers and mouth, bringing Harry again and again to the point of orgasm and then stopping, allowing Harry’s cock to dribble come like a leaky tap but not to find that final release. At times like this Ron was able to indulge in one of his favourite things, taking Harry’s cock into his mouth and losing himself in the exquisite sensations of the sapling-springy cock filling the soft cavity of his mouth. Ron was skilled now at reading the signs in Harry’s face and movement that said he was close; Harry could be taken right to the edge and held there, sobbing and begging, sometimes for a couple of hours. Yet for all the begging, there was real fire behind Harry’s eyes now.

At other times Ron discovered they were developing little rituals and habits. In the morning Harry would wake Ron by kissing him. Harry always woke first, which disturbed Ron a little although he didn’t know why. Then Harry would make himself available. Unfailingly Ron found Harry’s arse already lubed and loose when he rolled sleepily towards Harry, his morning erection guided by Harry’s skilled hands and planted into Harry’s guts. The long, half-sleepy morning fuck that followed, with no exertion on Ron’s part was Harry’s way of setting the scene for every new day. It was Harry who did the work, who gyrated his hips back against Ron’s crotch until Ron flooded him and began to wake properly. Harry was starting each day as he meant to go on: attentive, passive, receptive.

The spectre of what Ron had witnessed that first night still came and went but he was able to redeem it now by making it his own. Several times he held Harry over his knees, feeling the long thin spike of flesh digging between his thighs and bringing his hand down repeatedly on Harry’s upturned backside. He would beat Harry’s arse until it glowed, watching the knuckles of Harry’s spine buck and twist. He would hold Harry’s wrists together behind his back in one hand, gripping so hard that skin slipped over bone. The other hand he used to spank or occasionally to urge fingers into Harry’s arsehole and hook them there, tugging, twisting. Harry cried real tears on these occasions. Without speaking, Harry’s tears and Ron’s deep grief and anger worked themselves together to a point where they became one person: Harry felt his anger in Ron, Ron felt his pain in Harry. And when they flew too close to the darkness Ron would stop and toss Harry onto the bed, lean over him and enter him and they fucked with a passion, a suffering, powerful enough to twist their bones and ring out the juices.

Even though Neville kept his promise and arrived punctually at midday every day, he often arrived now to find Harry and Ron still twisted over each other in bed. Neville seemed to find nothing but joy in knowing that Ron and Harry were lovers, and he didn’t seem phased in the slightest to see one or other of them walking about their room naked and sleepy. Neville’s healing spells were involved and complex and often left Harry dazed and tired. Most days Neville gave Harry a mild sleeping draft to help him recuperate which, coincidentally, gave Neville and Ron time to walk and talk.

“I know he’s getting better,” said Ron on one of those occasions, “but some days all I can think about is going home. I don’t want to force him before he could cope with it but Neville, I miss it so much.” Thoughts of home had been on his mind a lot lately. It was now middle of a gloriously warm and sunny October. There had never been an October yet when he hadn’t at least sent an owl home.

“I’m sorry to have to counsel patience Ron, I know it’s the last thing you want to hear and the first thing you know, but it’s all we have.”

“But I don’t know how I’ll tell when the time’s right”

“Something will happen. I don’t know what but you will, when it does. Don’t worry about it.” Neville put a reassuring hand on Ron’s shoulder and then disappeared behind a tree. There was a loud crack and Ron was on his own again.

As October entered its last fretful, misty and warm days Ron’s mood soured considerably. He couldn’t keep his irritation out of his voice with Harry, the small room seemed to be closing in around him. Their sex became harder and sometimes vicious. They went out less because Ron was now the one who had to make the decisions and he didn’t feel like it.

One morning in the last week of October, Ron woke up and was oddly disconcerted. Harry wasn’t kissing him. The early sunshine was weak and watery across the floor of the room, barely making it to the bed sheets. It was the absence of Harry’s soft lips spiralling slowly down his chest, the absence of his fingers tickling across his thighs… these were the things he noticed and for a second before he opened his eyes, he panicked. But Harry was there. Not naked. Not twisting under the sheets to offer his arse, just sitting in his briefs on the side of the bed staring at Ron.

Their eyes met and Ron was puzzled by something new. There was something quizzical in the green of Harry’s eyes, as though he was as surprised as Ron, but there was something else too. They didn’t speak for a long moment. Harry, seeing that Ron was awake put his hand to Ron’s face, his fingers drew the outline of Ron’s jaw and trailed off down his neck before Harry’s hand fell to his side again.

“Are you okay?” said Harry.

And that was it. Ron knew.

All his feelings for himself became irrelevant; it was the first time in all the weeks since he had found Harry. It was the first time since these strange new things called sex and love had ambushed him. It was the first time Harry had asked Ron about himself, about how he felt. Like a tree finally giving in to the hurricane Ron shuddered, grabbed Harry about the body, buried his face in Harry’s neck and wept. Unstoppable tears poured from Ron. His open mouth looked like a scream but made no sound. He cried so hard his stomach cramped and his breath came in rasping gasps. All the while Harry held him, crooning softly, rocking him, soaking up the tears through his skin. Finally, when Ron could cry no longer Harry eased them both back onto the bed and lay with his arms around Ron, his lips pressed against the back of Ron’s neck, his legs hooked into Ron’s. They lay for a long time without speaking. Into the silence Ron projected the start of a whole new life. Suddenly and miraculously there was a future beyond these peeling walls. Several times Ron formed words to say but couldn’t get them out. Eventually he twisted round in Harry’s arms and saw a few quiet tears at the corners of Harry’s eyes. He kissed them away.

“I love you,” said Ron.

“I love you,” said Harry.

They breathed each others’ air and their lips grazed each other's. The softest of all touches passed between their tongues.

“Things are going to be different now,” said Ron, “and I promise you they’re going to be better.”

Ron got up, slightly unsteady on his feet and with a stomach ache from crying so long and hard, but he brushed the discomfort away and hauled Harry’s mean little case from under the bed. He stacked it together with his broom and the few personal items he’d gathered to himself in the last few weeks. Then Ron stood up. He got dressed and had Harry do the same.

“Come here,” he said. “We’re going to wish someone a happy birthday.”

Harry untangled himself from the bed and looking confused came to stand next to Ron.

“Who?”

“Take my hand,” said Ron and Harry did. Just before the unmistakable cracking noise of Apparition filled their ears, just as the constriction began in their chests, Ron grinned at Harry. “My mum,” he said.

When the world became clear again they were standing at the bottom of the lane which led to The Burrow. The ramshackle house was clearly visible through the trees, it’s unorthodox architecture standing proud in the sunshine. Ron looked at Harry. There was a look of terror on Harry’s face but over the course of some long, long seconds, Ron watched that expression change to confusion and disbelief. At last, a huge grin cracked his face open from one side to the other, an unstoppable grin. Harry laughed out loud, unable to stop smiling.

“Merlin!” said Harry, obviously for lack of any other words.

“Come on,” said Ron, grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him up the lane.

Ron felt the tension rising in him with every step. He thought his chest would burst open before he reached the front door. Every argument and unguarded word, every ounce of resentment and anguish he had felt against his family, all of it was gone like leaves in the wind. He was going home. Every cobble in the path, the flaking paint of the door, the cracked window in the shed and the lean of the spade against the wall, everything smelt of home. A flock of white birds fountained from the trees into the pale blue October sky. Pausing for breath in front of the door, Ron looked to Harry who was still grinning. Harry nodded and they went inside.

"Hi mum! I'm back," said Ron, Harry standing just behind him. "I think you've met my friend."

For the first time since Harry had known her, Mrs Weasley was speechless. Her mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.

The strange-looking clock on the wall chimed into the gasping silence and one hand moved ostentatiously round its face.

"Hello Mrs Weasley," said Harry, slightly embarrassed, but still not able to stop smiling. “Happy Birthday.”

Still no words came but Mrs Weasley's eyes filled and the tears poured down her face as she flew to her two boys and surrounded them in her arms.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she managed finally, pushing them away to look at their faces as if they might not really be there, then grabbing them back into her powerful embrace. “My son,” she said and, “My boy,” but it wasn’t clear who she was talking to. In the middle of the kitchen which, to Ron, said more than anything else about love and home, he was finally able to give up his strength.

Ron collapsed.

“Ron! Ron?” screeched Mrs Weasley.

“Don’t worry,” said Harry, “He’s okay. He’s just exhausted.” Harry’s voice cracked slightly.

Harry and Mrs Weasley had caught him before he slipped to the floor and they carried him to the comfy chair in the corner.

“Oh Harry!” said Mrs Weasley, clearly not knowing where to direct her amazement and her concern, “Harry dear. We thought…” and her eyes filled again. Harry cut her off.

“We should get Ron something hot to drink perhaps?”

“Oh yes,” she said, and with a flick of her wand, which appeared from an apron pocket without her even breaking her gaze at Harry, the huge iron kettle on the stove began to whistle and pour itself into a cracked mug on the sideboard. “Harry, I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell him he’s too thin,” said a feeble voice from the chair. Mrs Weasley laughed and grabbed Ron’s hand and held it tight as if squeezing him back from his faint.

“He’s right, and Harry, your hair! What happened to all that beautiful hair? What happened to you? Harry what happened? Where have you been?” the questions tumbled out and became stronger. It was what Ron had been afraid of. His head was still spinning but he stepped once more between Harry and the world. Ron stretched out his free hand and took Harry’s in such a way that Mrs Weasley stopped her questions for a moment, looking puzzled. She looked from Ron to Harry and back again, along the line of their linked arms.

“Mum, lots of stuff’s happened. It’s not all good either, but please don’t ask Harry about it. Not yet.”

For a moment Mrs Weasley looked shocked but with a little shake of her head she brushed it aside.

“Of course. Harry I’m sorry. It’s just…” her lips tightened around her words and she shook her head, tears threatening again.

“Mum? Mum!” Mrs Weasley looked at him. “I think I’ve lost a bit of weight too,” said Ron with a weak grin.

“Oh Ron, Harry, what was I thinking?” Mrs Weasley pulled herself up straight and smoothed her apron, “Now, what would you boys like to eat?”