(no subject)
Title: Who to Blame
Author: Aces Low
Rating: PG
Challenge: Hermione sets Ron and Harry up
Summary: Harry, Ron, some cursed mistletoe. Ron reminisces.
Warnings (if applicable): First slash fic, but at least I took a stab at it. Blame that horoscope for telling me to try something new.
Notes: Special thanks to highlydoubtful for betaing. Any mistakes left are entirely my own fault.
***
I blame Hermione. I blame her for everything that’s happened so far, and I blame her for everything that’s happening now.
I’ll thank her eventually, but not just yet.
Not when Harry’s standing right before me, running a hand through his hair. His cheeks are flushed from champagne and he’s wearing his annual Christmas jumper my mother knitted for him. It’s green once again, making his eyes look even brighter than normal. He utterly dashing and it’s all Hermione’s fault.
I swallow nervously and look across the room to the where Hermione is standing with her own glass of champagne and wearing that infuriating smirk, I swear she learned from Malfoy.
The cursed mistletoe was her idea, a stroke of brilliant stroke of mischief genius brought to reality by my own dear brothers, Fred and George.
I can see them grinning as well and their very expressive kissing noises making my cheeks burn. They’ve been pairing up party members all evening, maneuvering them to the mistletoe before calling the attention of the room. So far, no one has been stupid enough to try and escape without a kiss.
It wasn’t the twins that got Harry and I into this situation though, that was all Hermione’s doing, and she was going to pay, but first...
I wonder if the effects of the mistletoe curse could really be that bad.
It’s not that Harry and I are the first set of blokes to be paired up, and not that I particularly mind kissing Harry. In fact that is the problem-- I like snogging Harry. I like snogging Harry very much, we just haven’t told anybody about that yet.
Harry is shaking his head ruefully now and smiling. I can feel my ears redden even as the corner of my own mouth twitches with a smile.
Hermione Granger is definitely going to pay.
***
It was Hermione, after all, who threw us together in the first place.
Hermione who repeatedly badgered Harry when he returned for our sixth year quiet and withdrawn, his entire summer spent agonizing over Sirius’ death. If you ever need someone to talk to, Harry... Are you sure you’re doing alright...? If you change your mind...
Hermione did her best, but sixth year saw her swamped with extra classes and with little time to track down depressed wizarding heroes. So when Harry was absent from the common room one evening too many, Hermione just gave a small sigh, handed me the Marauder’s Map and told me two words, “Find him.”
So I did.
Even with the map it can be hard to pinpoint someone, especially if they’re in a crowd. With several hundred students and teachers at Hogwarts, anonymity is easier than you’d suspect. Still, I located him before long. He was standing at the top of the Astronomy tower, which was unusually lacking in the ways of romantic couples due to the colder than normal September weather. His eyes were closed and his head bowed, black hair spilling downward to where his white knuckles gripped the rampart before him.
There was no tug at my heart, no impulsive urge to comfort him, no realization of the feelings I would later have for this boy. I merely saw a friend standing alone in the darkness. I was sixteen and embarrassed, wanting nothing more than to tip toe away and leave him in peace. Only the knowledge that Hermione would simply send me back again if I returned to the common room empty handed made me to him.
I’m not sure what I said, or if I said anything at all. He didn’t seem thrilled to see me, but he didn’t tell me to away, and I figured that was the best I would get.
So I sat down on the cold ground with my back to the wall while he stood in slump-shouldered silence. His cloak hung freely revealing jeans and a tee shirt, his arms exposed to the elements. I myself was wearing several layers and still had to draw my own cloak tightly around me in an attempt to ward off the night wind.
“Aren’t you cold,” I asked.
He shrugged noncommittally, but his shivers answered my question for him. I sighed in exasperation. If Harry wanted to be the dark and silent type that was fine by me, but I wasn’t going to let him stand there and catch pneumonia.
“Sit down,” I said firmly, tugging at his arm. Reluctantly Harry sank down beside me, arms resting on his knees, avoiding looking me in the eye. I didn’t care, and busied myself pulling his cloak more securely around his body. Then after a moment’s consideration, and ignoring his protests, I pulled my own cloak around the both of us as well.
“Want to talk about it?”
He sighed, “Ron, please-”
“Good,” I cut him off, “Neither do I.”
He glanced at me in surprise, but didn’t comment. We sat there in silence again, but it was different this time it was different than the previous one. Slowly both of us ceased shivering and relaxed against each other.
“Ron-” Harry muttered after awhile. I turned to look at him and started when his head drop to rest on my shoulder, “Thanks,” he whispered. I didn’t respond, but rested my own head against the top of his. After a while as I felt his breathing slow and knew he’d fallen asleep.
I sat there a while longer until I was fighting off sleep myself. It was starting to get cold again, telling me it was time to wake up Harry and get back to the dormitory.
Something stopped me when I reached to shake his shoulder however, and instead I cast a lightening charm and picked him up. He was still much smaller than I was, and with the charm I could carry him easily.
The halls were empty on the walk back and so was the common room, save for Hermione working quietly at one table. She glanced up when I came in, raised an eyebrow but didn’t say a word. Instead she gathered up her homework supplies and stood on tiptoe to kiss me on the cheek, “Thanks Ron,” and she was up the stairs.
Harry and I never talked about that night, but his demeanor changed noticeably. He wasn’t as lighthearted or animated as he use to be, but he was more cheerful and involved. Hermione was pleased yet perplexed and questioned me several times, but I never knew what to tell her.
All I know is that night was just the first of the many sessions of companionable silence Harry and I spent during the late hours of our sixth year. Not much more would came of it however, and probably not much more would have except for events just after our graduation from Hogwarts.
Again it started with Hermione.
She and I dated off and on at Hogwarts, but our bickering always got the best of us. This time it seemed we were done for good. Several well-chosen words on her part struck some uncomfortable chords and several ill chosen retorts from me struck too far below the belt.
Hermione went off in a huff and I went off to a pub. Harry found me easily enough, already a long ways toward getting well and properly smashed. He didn’t say a word, not of condolence or admonishment, but simply ordered two more glasses of firewhiskey and set one in front of me.
He let me have two more after that before hauling me up, tipping the barkeep, and taking me home. He stayed the whole night: holding my head while I brought up everything I’d eaten that day (for once not even ridiculing me because I don’t hold my liquor well) and later, patiently pulling off my shoes and bundling me into bed.
I woke up the next morning to see Harry standing in the doorway to my bedroom carrying a cup of tea and a hangover remedy. He handed me both, settling against the headboard on the opposite side of bed as I drank the latter and eyed the former with careful consideration.
“Now then,” he said as I decided I could handle the tea, “Have you cured yourself of this ridiculous desire to make your life miserable?”
I scowled at him and he laughed, “Hermione is your best friend Ron, but that doesn’t mean you have to date her.”
“How would you know?” I said sullenly, “You never tried it.”
Harry looked at me appraisingly. “Date my best friend?” he asked, “You’re right, I’ve never tried it.”
He leaned back against the headboard and stretched, “Now then, want to tell me what happened, or should I just assume that Hermione was right and you didn’t like it?”
I threw my pillow at him.
Those were both simple events, nothing much actually happened, but I remember them all the same. They were the beginning, and they were Hermione’s doing, though we brought the rest upon ourselves.
There is one thing for which I thank Hermione. I may blame her for getting us into this, but I would have been more unhappy it she hadn’t. Besides, she did help us sort it out.
All through our years at Hogwarts, and especially after fourth year, Voldemort’s shadow loomed menacingly over our lives. His threat was always present, and his violent attacks only increased over the years. Harry and I were not directly involved after the Ministry of Magic incident fifth year, but I saw what the news of Death Eater raids did to Harry.
He knew what was to come, but I was not to find out how much it really tortured him until soon after he turned 19.
I’d thought nothing of it at first-- Harry’s short retorts or suddenly distant attitude. When it persisted however, I became irritated and confronted him. His responses were evasive at first: he was worried about Voldemort, he had a headache, he was busy, but after a while I wouldn’t accept his explanations and our disputes became more heated.
Eventually, in a fit of frustration and anger, Harry hit me: One punch, square in the jaw. I’d never seen him hit anyone in his life. He looked lost after for a moment afterward, staring at the hand he’d used to strike me, but he collected himself quickly, set his jaw and told me to leave.
I left.
I went home and stared broodingly into space until a crackle of flames at the fireplace alerted me of a floo arrival. It was Hermione, her mouth in a displeased line. She placed her hands on her hips and regarded me critically. I knew my eye was a mess of color by then and the itch of dried blood told me I’d received a cut on my cheek.
“You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?” She asked as she examined my eye more closely.
I tried to scowl but stopped because it made me face hurt. “Because he’s a bloody prat,” I stated with a wince.
Hermione sighed and went to the sink to get a damp towel. She returned and began blotting my cheek. “Well besides that,” she said.
“I don’t see any reason for him to take a swing at me besides being a complete idiot.”
“Don’t be stupid Ron,” Hermione said in exasperation, “Can’t you see he’s just scared?”
“Scared?” I asked in bewilderment, “What has he got to be scared about?”
“You know as well as I do that Voldemort’s forces are continuously gaining strength, there’ll be a full scale attack very soon. Harry’s got to be prepared to face him.”
I closed my eyes and pulled away from the towel. I hated thinking about that. I liked to live in my happy Land of Denial where the worst thing that I had to worry about was remember to not swear when I visited my mother. “I fail to see what this has to do with anything,” I said mulishly.
“Oh honestly Ron! He’s worried and he doesn’t know what to do about it. He thinks that by pushing you away he can protect you from what’s about to happen.”
“Why didn’t he punch you then?” I persisted stubbornly, “Shouldn’t he be worried about you?”
Hermione gave a small smile, which irritated me all the more. “He is worried about me,” she said, “he’s been very distant and unresponsive lately, but that’s not the same thing. I’m not his best friend, Ron.”
She leaned forward with the towel again but I pushed her hands away and sat up straighter. “Yes, you are,” I said slowly, “We’re all best friends. The three of us together.”
Laughing slightly Hermione set the towel on the table, “You’re really hopeless you know that Ron.” I stared at her, but she only laughed again. “Here,” she said pulling out her wand, “Let me fix that cut so it doesn’t scar.”
I jerked away. “No,” I said, bringing a hand up to my face protectively, “Leave it.”
Hermione eyed me strangely, but she left the cut alone.
After Hermione finished fussing and scolding me she left for her own apartment. I sat a few minutes longer before grabbing my cloak and apparating back to Harry’s place.
Harry was just walking out from the kitchen when I arrived in his living room. He looked up in surprise his hand automatically going for his wand. He relaxed only slightly when he recognized me, a scowl growing on his face.
“What?” He asked shortly.
I didn’t say a word but strode over. Harry’s hand was still on his wand but he didn’t move to draw it. He didn’t move at all, I’m not sure he even knew what was happening until my fist connected with the side of his face.
It hurt more than I expected, the only time I’d ever hit anyone was in the heat of an argument when pain seems unimportant. I was angry now, but it wasn’t the same.
Harry brought a hand to his jaw touching the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. He looked lost standing there with his glasses were askew. I waited there for a moment, breathing heavily. When I finally forced myself, “Now we’re even.”
We both stared at each other until I couldn’t stand it. I leaned over and pulled a startled Harry into a bone-crushing hug.
Neither of us ever been overly paranoid about keeping image with manly back slapping-- still, it was rare for either of us to initiate such displays of emotion. I could feel Harry tensed and started to speak but I cut him off.
“Now then,” I said, leaning back but keeping my hands on his shoulders, “Are you ready to stop being an idiot? Bad things are going to happen soon, I know it and you know it. But they are still going to happen. No one’s dead yet, and damn it, no one’s going to die. Or if they do it’s going to be Voldemort, so you can stop being stupid and-.”
My voice caught and I stopped. I felt my ears going red, but I refused to take my eyes off Harry’s. He stared back at me for several moments, and I wondered it he was going to hit me again. Instead he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around my waist. “M'sorry,” he mumbled into my shirt, “sorry-”
I stared at the dark head buried in the folds of my shirt, but Harry pulled back again before I could react. Biting his lip with sudden uncertainty, he straightened his glasses and stuffed one of his hands into a pocket.
After a beat we both opened our mouths to say something, then shut them simultaneously. Harry grinned, and I snorted.
When Hermione came later, worried we’d killed each other or worse, she found us sitting by the fireplace playing chess.
***
To explain what happened after chess would be telling.
I can say, however, that when Harry faced Voldemort he was not alone. And in these few months afterward, now that Voldemort has been defeated and Harry is finally learning to live without an overhanging threat, he is not alone.
The thing that had been building since the first of that long gone September is finally playing itself out.
Like I said, we just haven’t told anyone yet. (Less for fear of disapproval and more for fear of the rolling eyes and “I-told-you-so” expressions.) Not to mention that it was rather nice being just the two of us.
Here we are though, and every minute we hesitate the more eager our audience is becoming. I smile inwardly. They want a show do they? Well I’ll give them one.
And with that thought I place a hand on the small of Harry’s back and bend over him in a dramatic dip. One final second of hesitation and here, amongst the catcalls and wolf whistles, I demonstrate just what true best mates are for.
On the far side of room, I know Hermione is grinning.
It’s all her fault after all...
***