Go-Between - 1/1 - Adult - Harry/Ron
Title: Go-Between (1/1)
Author: silvernatasha
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Some things never changed, horrendously predictable in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist into knots every time that Ron gave the familiar sigh before he declared he had just spotted the man of his dreams. Harry/Ron.
Word Count: 3379.
A/N: Written for the 2007 hprwfqf: Cyrano De Bergerac style, one of the boys tries to help the other court another person, all the while pining for him.
Originally posted: here.
Ron’s fingers tapped on the wooden tabletop. One two three four. Onetwo threefour. Onetwothree four. Onetwothreefour. Onetwothreefour. He raised his eyebrows as Harry approached the table, tapping coming to an abrupt stop. “Well?” he demanded.
Harry said nothing until he was sitting, drink centred on a beer mat that was advertising a new variation on an old beer. He nudged the mat so that it was perpendicular to the edge of the table, all the while aware that Ron still watched him. The only time Ron turned a gaze which was that intense on him was when he wanted something. “Apparently he normally comes in at about nine.”
“Nine?”
“Nine o’clock,” Harry confirmed, holding back a sigh as Ron bounced nervously in his seat.
“It’s quarter to nine now!”
“Really?” Harry raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Maybe you should get your watch mended, then,” Ron suggested, glancing back over his shoulder at the door and, as far as Harry could tell, completely missing the sarcasm in Harry’s words. It was tempting to slap him upside the head and try to knock some sense into him, but if Harry resorted to that on this occasion he wouldn’t be able to do it again when it was far more important.
Ron tapped his fingers again, left knee jigging in nervous anticipation. “What do you think I should do? I mean, a bloke like him is bound to have people with him, isn’t he? Don’t want to embarrass myself. I could just go and talk to him? Say hello?”
Wordlessly, Harry sipped his drink, allowing Ron to continue with his ramble. It wasn’t worth interrupting.
“But I don’t really have anything that I could talk to him about yet. Bugger. Or, I could send a drink over to him. I could do like a sexy wink or something when he looks over after asking the waitress who sent it, then he’ll saunter over and y’know, one thing’ll lead to another…”
Harry waited.
“But I don’t know what he drinks!” Ron wailed a moment later. “If I get him something he doesn’t like then I’ll just fuck it up before I even get to talk to him.”
“He usually drinks screwdrivers,” Harry supplied. Ron looked confused, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows as he tried to remember which drink was which. “Orange juice and vodka. I asked the barman just now. Seems like he makes quite an impression on everyone he meets.”
Ron let out a relieved breath, slumping back into his chair. “You’re a lifesaver, Harry.” He grinned, knee bouncing a little less now. “What would I do without you?”
A sigh finally escaped Harry. “Where do you want me to start?” Ron didn’t hear him, though, as that was the moment that the current object of Ron’s affections, Terry Boot, made his entrance.
*****
Ron was what Ginny affectionately called a manwhore. At least, it was affectionate when she aimed the term at her brother. Towards anyone else it was a barbed comment said with a little feminist spite.
He didn’t mean to be a manwhore, though. It just seemed as though Ron couldn’t stay in relationships for very long, relationships that it usually fell to Harry to set up in the first place. Ron would spot a good-looking bloke, fall head-over-heels in a couple of minutes, leaving it up to Harry to find out who he was and what he liked and when he would be available for a date. Then, Ron would lose interest, dropping the poor bloke who had usually fallen for Ron and his bumbling and slightly insecure ways.
Sometimes, Harry even had to comfort the guy, turning down their rebound advances while Ron, oblivious as he was, moved on to his next target and complained that he couldn’t find any nice men.
Some things like that never changed, horrendously predictable in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist into knots every time that Ron gave the familiar sigh before he declared he had just spotted the man of his dreams.
Hermione knew. Of course Hermione knew. Something like that wasn’t going to escape her notice. Whenever Harry told her that Ron had a date, Hermione would give him a sympathetic smile, pat his arm and tell him that Ron would come to his senses eventually. Yes, he was a little dense, Hermione assured him, but that was all part of his charm. He would realised how Harry felt about him eventually.
It didn’t help Harry’s morale that Ron’s latest obsession was his exact opposite.
Terry Boot had strode into Ron’s life one day, all tall, blond and pouty, casually asking Ron for the time when he stood chatting with Harry in Diagon Alley. They had been waiting for Hermione, Ron complaining that he had a hole in his favourite pair of shoes. When Terry had spoken to him, though, Ron had lost all ability to think clearly, leaving it up to Harry to give Terry the information he wanted. Even as Harry looked at his watch, he knew Ron would want to know everything he could about the other wizard.
Arriving a few moments later, Hermione had thankfully recognised Terry from their school days. Then, she had helped Harry get horrendously drunk that evening.
Today, it didn’t seem that Hermione was going to help him get drunk. Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine that was at least twice as big as the one she gave Harry, chewing nervously on her fingernails between glares. Ron had secured a date with Terry after buying him a drink, and had been practicing his dance moves in front of the mirror all day in preparation. Watching Ron dance had been a bit too much for Harry sometimes, and so he had spent quite a bit of time cleaning the bathroom.
That was what he told Ron, anyway, when Ron eventually noticed that Harry was spending rather a long time in the bathroom.
“Oh, just grow a backbone, Harry,” she snapped finally. “It wouldn’t be so bad if Ron was actually good at flirting and seducing blokes, but he’s really, really not!” Hermione sighed and the way she narrowed her eyes at him made Harry feel as though he were about twelve years old again. “He’s not good at flirting with anyone. I mean, what does he do? Try and look innocent while he sucks beer from his finger and put on a bit of eyeliner?”
“Actually, he’s over the eyeliner phase,” Harry corrected protectively.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, thank Merlin. Hopefully that means no more photos of him in the Prophet looking as though he’s got off with a drag queen.” Harry laughed, though it was a little restrained, making Hermione look carefully at him. “Don’t say you actually liked the eyeliner.”
Harry frowned. “Sometimes it was kind of sexy. Like, when he’d forgotten to take it off the night before and it was all smudgy when he came down to breakfast…”
“Spare me the details, Harry,” Hermione said, taking another large sip of wine.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m bored. My cat died six weeks ago, my job’s even more boring than double History of Magic with Professor Binns and I haven’t had sex with anyone other than myself for seven months.”
Harry could feel his cheeks burning. Hermione didn’t normally talk about sex, let alone masturbation. In fact, Harry didn’t even like to think that Hermione did that sort of thing. Had she already had a glass of wine before he’d got to her place? The bottle had already been open. “I thought you… liked History of Magic,” Harry said weakly.
“The subject matter, not the presentation.” She gave a loud sigh. “Look at us, Harry! It’s Friday night and we’re making our way through a bottle of wine and a tub of hummus while we bemoan being single! When did we get old and pathetic?”
Harry looked at the tub - he hadn’t even noticed it. “Actually, I think you’ve eaten most of the hummus.” He tugged it towards himself and grabbed a carrot stick. “Didn’t you always say that you didn’t need a man to be a complete woman?”
“Just because I don’t need a man doesn’t mean I don’t want one.” Hermione sniffed indignantly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “They’re useful for some things.”
“Like what?” Harry asked, a little teasingly. Hermione had always been one to advocate her independence as a single woman.
“Orgasms.”
Harry nearly choked on a piece of carrot. “Stop talking about sex!” It wasn’t right and Harry gripped his wineglass to stop himself from covering his ears with his hands and humming to keep out the sound of her voice.
“Although, I don’t need someone to give me an orgasm,” Hermione mused. “But it’s always different for me when it’s someone else. Toys just aren’t the same.”
Barely able to look her in the face, Harry glace up, only to see that she was grinning. “Oh, fuck off. That’s not funny.”
“True, though,” she grumbled, picking up a piece of carrot. Finally, she looked up at Harry. “Y’know, if you don’t do something about the Ron situation, I’m going to do it for you. I want to see you both happy.”
“What if he’d be happier with someone else?”
“We’ve been friends for nearly fifteen years. I know you both better than I know my own family!” Hermione leant over to kiss Harry’s cheek. “I’m sure he’d be happiest with you. He just hasn’t figured it out yet.”
As reassuring as the words sounded, Harry still wasn’t completely convinced. He didn’t tell her that, though. If he told Hermione he wanted convincing, she would probably compile half a dozen sources and produce diagrams to prove that Harry and Ron belonged together.
Considering Hermione’s current preoccupation with sex, Harry really didn’t want to see those diagrams.
*****
“Terry. Hi.”
The blond turned around from where he was browsing the bookshelf in Flourish and Blotts. “Oh. Harry. Hi.” He seemed bemused to see Harry there, slipping the volume he had been holding back onto the shelf. “Can I help?”
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing. Ron wanted me to give this to you just in case I saw you today.” Harry handed over the envelope, hoping it didn’t look as though he was lying. He was lying, but that wasn’t the point. Ron hadn’t told him to do it exactly. He certainly hadn’t written the flirty note inviting him out to dinner, though he had asked Harry to write a note because Ron thought there was something a little romantic about it. Harry had long since learnt to mimic Ron’s handwriting to the point where even Ron had difficulty picking out what was a forgery and what wasn’t.
Terry took the envelope, not looking terribly impressed. He didn’t even open it, which made Harry clench his fist inside his cloak pocket. He’d spend ages writing that note and Terry wasn’t even going to read it?
“Was there something else?” Terry asked.
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. “No. That was it. I’ll, uh, see you around, I suppose.”
Running into Terry in the bookshop wasn’t a coincidence. No, Harry had specifically tracked the other wizard down so that he could ask him out for Ron, giving up most of his lunch hour and making him test out his acting skills to the utmost limit as he tried to act casual, as though he had just-so-happened to meet Terry.
Harry left the shop feeling even more frustrated than before. Terry was all wrong for Ron! He went into bookshops on his lunch hour, for fuck’s sake! Ron never did anything like that. The only thing that Ron did at lunchtime was eat and try and attempt the crossword in the Daily Prophet. He usually gave up after ten minutes or so when the cryptic clues stumped him, leaving crumbs from his sandwiches all over the page before attempting to fill in the grid with rude words.
Hermione’s ultimatum prodded at him. Harry wondered whether she actually would do something, wishing that he could just brush it off. Hermione, however, could be scary when she was set on doing something.
When Harry saw him at home, Ron was bouncing excitedly and gave Harry a hug. “He owled me! We’re going out for dinner.”
It wasn’t fair to hate Terry, Harry thought. He didn’t even know the bloke and if he made Ron happy - however briefly - then maybe he wasn’t all bad. Perhaps he’d just been a bit blunt because he hadn’t known how else to talk to Harry? Harry was pretty damn famous, after all, and Harry would always prefer that people clammed up around him rather than become gaping sycophants.
Ron grasped Harry’s hands. “So, what did he say?”
“What did who say?”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Terry. About the note.”
“Oh, yeah.” Harry searched through his stock of noncommittal half-lies. “He was a little surprised, but he was pleased. Yeah.”
Moaning, Ron said, “Oh, I bet he gave you that smile didn’t he? The one with the dimples.”
“Er, yeah.”
“Bastard,” Ron grumbled good-naturedly. He released Harry’s hand and spun away, back to the spaghetti bolognese that he was attempting to cook for dinner. “I mean, doesn’t it just make you melt a little inside, you know?” Ron asked.
Stop it! Harry wanted to screech.
But he didn’t.
*****
Ron was single again. Three weeks since Ron had begun his infatuation with Terry Boot.
And a week since it had come to an end.
It was Friday night, and they had settled down to watch a film. Ron’s obsession with the television was nowhere near as intense as his father’s for all things Muggle, but it was the one constant love in Ron’s life. As Harry stood to see if the tea in the pot was fresh enough for another cup, Ron peered into the biscuit tin he that was settled on his lap. “I’m out of custard creams,” Ron complained, brow furrowing. He glanced over at Harry’s plate of biscuits. “Get me a bourbon, will you, mate?”
“Get it yourself,” Harry retorted, adding sugar to his mug.
Ron huffed. “Fine. Merlin, I’m getting so boring, in on Friday drinking tea and running out of biscuits. I’m young and virile.” He stretched over to Harry’s armchair and snagged the plate, only dropping one biscuit on the carpet, which he thought was pretty good. “I should be out getting laid.”
Harry gritted his teeth.
“That’s what I could do with right now,” Ron said, nibbling on his chocolate bourbon. “Some tall, gorgeous bloke with firm thighs and a good arse. Or maybe someone the opposite of Terry. Short and dark-haired… foreign, maybe? What d’you, Harry.”
“Stop it!” Harry pushed his mug away, setting it skittering over the worktop until it collided with the fruit bowl. “Just stop it, stop it, stop it!”
Ron’s eyes widened, eyebrows nearly disappearing beneath his fringe. “What’s the matter?”
“You!” Harry tore off his glasses, frowning as he polished them with his sleeve, using it as an excuse not to look at Ron. “Stop talking about sex.”
Ron flopped down on the sofa. “Don’t be like that.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s just because you’re not getting any. You should go out and find someone. Just about anyone would have you.”
“But I don’t want just about anyone,” Harry retorted fiercely. “I want you!”
Choking on a couch, Ron’s eyes widened. “You what?”
Harry resigned himself. “You. I want you. You’re the only person I’ve wanted in a long time.”
“But… I didn’t know!”
“Of course you didn’t know.” Harry slipped his glasses back on, blinking owlishly at Ron. “Do you know how difficult it’s been for me to be your go-between for so long? Seducing all these blokes for you when I want to be the one in your bed.”
Ron groaned. “Don’t do this, Harry…”
“No, I’m doing this. Hermione’s right - it’s about time I did something about how I feel.”
“You’ve been talking to Hermione about this?” Ron looked pale at the thought.
“That’s not important.”
“Hermione knew?”
“Ron! Pay attention to me.” Ron jumped a little, surprised by Harry’s tone. “That’s all I’ve wanted for a long time, actually,” Harry added quietly. “Just for you to pay some attention to me.”
Ron looked at him warily. “Are you saying that you’re in love with me?”
“No!” Harry scratched his neck. This was all a bad, bad idea. He wished he had kept his temper in check and not said anything. “I just have… very strong inclinations in that direction.”
Placing the plate of biscuits on the arm of the chair, the plate gave a precarious wobble before Ron stood up. He walked over to Harry; Harry shrank back, wishing that Ron wasn’t so many inches taller than him.
Ron sighed. “Grow a backbone, Harry!”
Harry frowned. “That’s what Hermione said.” He ducked around Ron, hoping to get back to the safety of his armchair and un-pause the film they had been watching. This was the eleventh time that Ron had watched The Empire Strikes Back and so it was a sure-fire way of distracting him.
Grabbing his arm, Ron spun Harry back around to face him. Harry was glad he had forgotten his tea - he would no doubt have spilled it all over Ron. He swallowed, the way Ron was looking at him making him feel about three feet tall. His blue eyes seemed to search Harry’s face before Ron finally said, “Idiot.” A horrible sick feeling began to sink in Harry’s stomach.
Then, Ron kissed Harry, teeth scraping his lips. Harry hissed and Ron murmured, “Sorry,” but didn’t stop kissing him. Ron tasted like tea-with-two-sugars and biscuits, comforting and warm - Harry struggled to remember the last time he had kissed someone like this.
Ron’s hands roamed, just as Harry knew they would. He’d watched Ron too many times in clubs, lithe body entwined with some wizards who wasn’t him.
“You’re an idiot,” Ron said, even as his hand slipped up under Harry’s t-shirt.
“It’s not too late to dislike someone,” Harry retorted, shivering under Ron’s touch.
Ron smirked. “Liar.” He pushed Harry’s arms, pulling his t-shirt off. “Damn,” he murmured; Harry felt completely naked under his gaze. “Don’t be afraid to tell me anything again.”
Harry laughed softly, wanting to get some of Ron’s clothes off now, too. “Stop leaving your dirty socks in the kitchen,” he said. “They stink.”
Growling Ron pushed Harry back onto the sofa, nearly knocking the breath out of him. “Are you really thinking about housework now?”
Looking up at him, seeing Ron tousled from the kiss and getting hard, Harry shook his head. “No.”
“Good.” Ron put his hands either side of Harry’s head, kissing him as he covered Harry’s body with his own.
Then, Ron was grinding against him, making Harry whimper against Ron’s lips. This was real, wasn’t it? He wasn’t just imagining things? Harry gasped, his own body quickly reacting to Ron’s attentions.
Ron’s hand cupped Harry’s growing erection through his jeans, chuckling as Harry gasped. “You should have said something,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t have had throw myself at those other wizards if I’d known.”
Later, Harry would analyse that, but with Ron grinding and grasping and gasping as Harry’s hand slid under his t-shirt, it was a little difficult to think. Ron’s fingers fumbled with his fly and Harry had to wonder again whether this was just some wicked dream.
It wouldn’t be the first time that Harry had ever dreamed about something like this.
Their noses bumped as they kissed and they both groaned as Ron’s hand slipped inside Harry’s boxers and closed around his erection. Harry thrust his hips up, rocking against the perfect feel of Ron’s hand. More than that, it was the fact that it was Ron’s hand made it even better.
“Stop,” Harry rasped, even though every fibre of him was telling him the exact opposite.
Ron looked confused, hand stilling. “Why?”
“Because,” Harry said, “I think we deserve better than the sofa.” He brushed Ron’s hair from his eyes. “This time, anyway.”
A slow grin spread across Ron’s face. “Brilliant.”
Author: silvernatasha
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Some things never changed, horrendously predictable in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist into knots every time that Ron gave the familiar sigh before he declared he had just spotted the man of his dreams. Harry/Ron.
Word Count: 3379.
A/N: Written for the 2007 hprwfqf: Cyrano De Bergerac style, one of the boys tries to help the other court another person, all the while pining for him.
Originally posted: here.
Ron’s fingers tapped on the wooden tabletop. One two three four. Onetwo threefour. Onetwothree four. Onetwothreefour. Onetwothreefour. He raised his eyebrows as Harry approached the table, tapping coming to an abrupt stop. “Well?” he demanded.
Harry said nothing until he was sitting, drink centred on a beer mat that was advertising a new variation on an old beer. He nudged the mat so that it was perpendicular to the edge of the table, all the while aware that Ron still watched him. The only time Ron turned a gaze which was that intense on him was when he wanted something. “Apparently he normally comes in at about nine.”
“Nine?”
“Nine o’clock,” Harry confirmed, holding back a sigh as Ron bounced nervously in his seat.
“It’s quarter to nine now!”
“Really?” Harry raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Maybe you should get your watch mended, then,” Ron suggested, glancing back over his shoulder at the door and, as far as Harry could tell, completely missing the sarcasm in Harry’s words. It was tempting to slap him upside the head and try to knock some sense into him, but if Harry resorted to that on this occasion he wouldn’t be able to do it again when it was far more important.
Ron tapped his fingers again, left knee jigging in nervous anticipation. “What do you think I should do? I mean, a bloke like him is bound to have people with him, isn’t he? Don’t want to embarrass myself. I could just go and talk to him? Say hello?”
Wordlessly, Harry sipped his drink, allowing Ron to continue with his ramble. It wasn’t worth interrupting.
“But I don’t really have anything that I could talk to him about yet. Bugger. Or, I could send a drink over to him. I could do like a sexy wink or something when he looks over after asking the waitress who sent it, then he’ll saunter over and y’know, one thing’ll lead to another…”
Harry waited.
“But I don’t know what he drinks!” Ron wailed a moment later. “If I get him something he doesn’t like then I’ll just fuck it up before I even get to talk to him.”
“He usually drinks screwdrivers,” Harry supplied. Ron looked confused, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows as he tried to remember which drink was which. “Orange juice and vodka. I asked the barman just now. Seems like he makes quite an impression on everyone he meets.”
Ron let out a relieved breath, slumping back into his chair. “You’re a lifesaver, Harry.” He grinned, knee bouncing a little less now. “What would I do without you?”
A sigh finally escaped Harry. “Where do you want me to start?” Ron didn’t hear him, though, as that was the moment that the current object of Ron’s affections, Terry Boot, made his entrance.
*****
Ron was what Ginny affectionately called a manwhore. At least, it was affectionate when she aimed the term at her brother. Towards anyone else it was a barbed comment said with a little feminist spite.
He didn’t mean to be a manwhore, though. It just seemed as though Ron couldn’t stay in relationships for very long, relationships that it usually fell to Harry to set up in the first place. Ron would spot a good-looking bloke, fall head-over-heels in a couple of minutes, leaving it up to Harry to find out who he was and what he liked and when he would be available for a date. Then, Ron would lose interest, dropping the poor bloke who had usually fallen for Ron and his bumbling and slightly insecure ways.
Sometimes, Harry even had to comfort the guy, turning down their rebound advances while Ron, oblivious as he was, moved on to his next target and complained that he couldn’t find any nice men.
Some things like that never changed, horrendously predictable in a way that made Harry’s stomach twist into knots every time that Ron gave the familiar sigh before he declared he had just spotted the man of his dreams.
Hermione knew. Of course Hermione knew. Something like that wasn’t going to escape her notice. Whenever Harry told her that Ron had a date, Hermione would give him a sympathetic smile, pat his arm and tell him that Ron would come to his senses eventually. Yes, he was a little dense, Hermione assured him, but that was all part of his charm. He would realised how Harry felt about him eventually.
It didn’t help Harry’s morale that Ron’s latest obsession was his exact opposite.
Terry Boot had strode into Ron’s life one day, all tall, blond and pouty, casually asking Ron for the time when he stood chatting with Harry in Diagon Alley. They had been waiting for Hermione, Ron complaining that he had a hole in his favourite pair of shoes. When Terry had spoken to him, though, Ron had lost all ability to think clearly, leaving it up to Harry to give Terry the information he wanted. Even as Harry looked at his watch, he knew Ron would want to know everything he could about the other wizard.
Arriving a few moments later, Hermione had thankfully recognised Terry from their school days. Then, she had helped Harry get horrendously drunk that evening.
Today, it didn’t seem that Hermione was going to help him get drunk. Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine that was at least twice as big as the one she gave Harry, chewing nervously on her fingernails between glares. Ron had secured a date with Terry after buying him a drink, and had been practicing his dance moves in front of the mirror all day in preparation. Watching Ron dance had been a bit too much for Harry sometimes, and so he had spent quite a bit of time cleaning the bathroom.
That was what he told Ron, anyway, when Ron eventually noticed that Harry was spending rather a long time in the bathroom.
“Oh, just grow a backbone, Harry,” she snapped finally. “It wouldn’t be so bad if Ron was actually good at flirting and seducing blokes, but he’s really, really not!” Hermione sighed and the way she narrowed her eyes at him made Harry feel as though he were about twelve years old again. “He’s not good at flirting with anyone. I mean, what does he do? Try and look innocent while he sucks beer from his finger and put on a bit of eyeliner?”
“Actually, he’s over the eyeliner phase,” Harry corrected protectively.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, thank Merlin. Hopefully that means no more photos of him in the Prophet looking as though he’s got off with a drag queen.” Harry laughed, though it was a little restrained, making Hermione look carefully at him. “Don’t say you actually liked the eyeliner.”
Harry frowned. “Sometimes it was kind of sexy. Like, when he’d forgotten to take it off the night before and it was all smudgy when he came down to breakfast…”
“Spare me the details, Harry,” Hermione said, taking another large sip of wine.
“Are you alright?”
“I’m bored. My cat died six weeks ago, my job’s even more boring than double History of Magic with Professor Binns and I haven’t had sex with anyone other than myself for seven months.”
Harry could feel his cheeks burning. Hermione didn’t normally talk about sex, let alone masturbation. In fact, Harry didn’t even like to think that Hermione did that sort of thing. Had she already had a glass of wine before he’d got to her place? The bottle had already been open. “I thought you… liked History of Magic,” Harry said weakly.
“The subject matter, not the presentation.” She gave a loud sigh. “Look at us, Harry! It’s Friday night and we’re making our way through a bottle of wine and a tub of hummus while we bemoan being single! When did we get old and pathetic?”
Harry looked at the tub - he hadn’t even noticed it. “Actually, I think you’ve eaten most of the hummus.” He tugged it towards himself and grabbed a carrot stick. “Didn’t you always say that you didn’t need a man to be a complete woman?”
“Just because I don’t need a man doesn’t mean I don’t want one.” Hermione sniffed indignantly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “They’re useful for some things.”
“Like what?” Harry asked, a little teasingly. Hermione had always been one to advocate her independence as a single woman.
“Orgasms.”
Harry nearly choked on a piece of carrot. “Stop talking about sex!” It wasn’t right and Harry gripped his wineglass to stop himself from covering his ears with his hands and humming to keep out the sound of her voice.
“Although, I don’t need someone to give me an orgasm,” Hermione mused. “But it’s always different for me when it’s someone else. Toys just aren’t the same.”
Barely able to look her in the face, Harry glace up, only to see that she was grinning. “Oh, fuck off. That’s not funny.”
“True, though,” she grumbled, picking up a piece of carrot. Finally, she looked up at Harry. “Y’know, if you don’t do something about the Ron situation, I’m going to do it for you. I want to see you both happy.”
“What if he’d be happier with someone else?”
“We’ve been friends for nearly fifteen years. I know you both better than I know my own family!” Hermione leant over to kiss Harry’s cheek. “I’m sure he’d be happiest with you. He just hasn’t figured it out yet.”
As reassuring as the words sounded, Harry still wasn’t completely convinced. He didn’t tell her that, though. If he told Hermione he wanted convincing, she would probably compile half a dozen sources and produce diagrams to prove that Harry and Ron belonged together.
Considering Hermione’s current preoccupation with sex, Harry really didn’t want to see those diagrams.
*****
“Terry. Hi.”
The blond turned around from where he was browsing the bookshelf in Flourish and Blotts. “Oh. Harry. Hi.” He seemed bemused to see Harry there, slipping the volume he had been holding back onto the shelf. “Can I help?”
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing. Ron wanted me to give this to you just in case I saw you today.” Harry handed over the envelope, hoping it didn’t look as though he was lying. He was lying, but that wasn’t the point. Ron hadn’t told him to do it exactly. He certainly hadn’t written the flirty note inviting him out to dinner, though he had asked Harry to write a note because Ron thought there was something a little romantic about it. Harry had long since learnt to mimic Ron’s handwriting to the point where even Ron had difficulty picking out what was a forgery and what wasn’t.
Terry took the envelope, not looking terribly impressed. He didn’t even open it, which made Harry clench his fist inside his cloak pocket. He’d spend ages writing that note and Terry wasn’t even going to read it?
“Was there something else?” Terry asked.
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. “No. That was it. I’ll, uh, see you around, I suppose.”
Running into Terry in the bookshop wasn’t a coincidence. No, Harry had specifically tracked the other wizard down so that he could ask him out for Ron, giving up most of his lunch hour and making him test out his acting skills to the utmost limit as he tried to act casual, as though he had just-so-happened to meet Terry.
Harry left the shop feeling even more frustrated than before. Terry was all wrong for Ron! He went into bookshops on his lunch hour, for fuck’s sake! Ron never did anything like that. The only thing that Ron did at lunchtime was eat and try and attempt the crossword in the Daily Prophet. He usually gave up after ten minutes or so when the cryptic clues stumped him, leaving crumbs from his sandwiches all over the page before attempting to fill in the grid with rude words.
Hermione’s ultimatum prodded at him. Harry wondered whether she actually would do something, wishing that he could just brush it off. Hermione, however, could be scary when she was set on doing something.
When Harry saw him at home, Ron was bouncing excitedly and gave Harry a hug. “He owled me! We’re going out for dinner.”
It wasn’t fair to hate Terry, Harry thought. He didn’t even know the bloke and if he made Ron happy - however briefly - then maybe he wasn’t all bad. Perhaps he’d just been a bit blunt because he hadn’t known how else to talk to Harry? Harry was pretty damn famous, after all, and Harry would always prefer that people clammed up around him rather than become gaping sycophants.
Ron grasped Harry’s hands. “So, what did he say?”
“What did who say?”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Terry. About the note.”
“Oh, yeah.” Harry searched through his stock of noncommittal half-lies. “He was a little surprised, but he was pleased. Yeah.”
Moaning, Ron said, “Oh, I bet he gave you that smile didn’t he? The one with the dimples.”
“Er, yeah.”
“Bastard,” Ron grumbled good-naturedly. He released Harry’s hand and spun away, back to the spaghetti bolognese that he was attempting to cook for dinner. “I mean, doesn’t it just make you melt a little inside, you know?” Ron asked.
Stop it! Harry wanted to screech.
But he didn’t.
*****
Ron was single again. Three weeks since Ron had begun his infatuation with Terry Boot.
And a week since it had come to an end.
It was Friday night, and they had settled down to watch a film. Ron’s obsession with the television was nowhere near as intense as his father’s for all things Muggle, but it was the one constant love in Ron’s life. As Harry stood to see if the tea in the pot was fresh enough for another cup, Ron peered into the biscuit tin he that was settled on his lap. “I’m out of custard creams,” Ron complained, brow furrowing. He glanced over at Harry’s plate of biscuits. “Get me a bourbon, will you, mate?”
“Get it yourself,” Harry retorted, adding sugar to his mug.
Ron huffed. “Fine. Merlin, I’m getting so boring, in on Friday drinking tea and running out of biscuits. I’m young and virile.” He stretched over to Harry’s armchair and snagged the plate, only dropping one biscuit on the carpet, which he thought was pretty good. “I should be out getting laid.”
Harry gritted his teeth.
“That’s what I could do with right now,” Ron said, nibbling on his chocolate bourbon. “Some tall, gorgeous bloke with firm thighs and a good arse. Or maybe someone the opposite of Terry. Short and dark-haired… foreign, maybe? What d’you, Harry.”
“Stop it!” Harry pushed his mug away, setting it skittering over the worktop until it collided with the fruit bowl. “Just stop it, stop it, stop it!”
Ron’s eyes widened, eyebrows nearly disappearing beneath his fringe. “What’s the matter?”
“You!” Harry tore off his glasses, frowning as he polished them with his sleeve, using it as an excuse not to look at Ron. “Stop talking about sex.”
Ron flopped down on the sofa. “Don’t be like that.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s just because you’re not getting any. You should go out and find someone. Just about anyone would have you.”
“But I don’t want just about anyone,” Harry retorted fiercely. “I want you!”
Choking on a couch, Ron’s eyes widened. “You what?”
Harry resigned himself. “You. I want you. You’re the only person I’ve wanted in a long time.”
“But… I didn’t know!”
“Of course you didn’t know.” Harry slipped his glasses back on, blinking owlishly at Ron. “Do you know how difficult it’s been for me to be your go-between for so long? Seducing all these blokes for you when I want to be the one in your bed.”
Ron groaned. “Don’t do this, Harry…”
“No, I’m doing this. Hermione’s right - it’s about time I did something about how I feel.”
“You’ve been talking to Hermione about this?” Ron looked pale at the thought.
“That’s not important.”
“Hermione knew?”
“Ron! Pay attention to me.” Ron jumped a little, surprised by Harry’s tone. “That’s all I’ve wanted for a long time, actually,” Harry added quietly. “Just for you to pay some attention to me.”
Ron looked at him warily. “Are you saying that you’re in love with me?”
“No!” Harry scratched his neck. This was all a bad, bad idea. He wished he had kept his temper in check and not said anything. “I just have… very strong inclinations in that direction.”
Placing the plate of biscuits on the arm of the chair, the plate gave a precarious wobble before Ron stood up. He walked over to Harry; Harry shrank back, wishing that Ron wasn’t so many inches taller than him.
Ron sighed. “Grow a backbone, Harry!”
Harry frowned. “That’s what Hermione said.” He ducked around Ron, hoping to get back to the safety of his armchair and un-pause the film they had been watching. This was the eleventh time that Ron had watched The Empire Strikes Back and so it was a sure-fire way of distracting him.
Grabbing his arm, Ron spun Harry back around to face him. Harry was glad he had forgotten his tea - he would no doubt have spilled it all over Ron. He swallowed, the way Ron was looking at him making him feel about three feet tall. His blue eyes seemed to search Harry’s face before Ron finally said, “Idiot.” A horrible sick feeling began to sink in Harry’s stomach.
Then, Ron kissed Harry, teeth scraping his lips. Harry hissed and Ron murmured, “Sorry,” but didn’t stop kissing him. Ron tasted like tea-with-two-sugars and biscuits, comforting and warm - Harry struggled to remember the last time he had kissed someone like this.
Ron’s hands roamed, just as Harry knew they would. He’d watched Ron too many times in clubs, lithe body entwined with some wizards who wasn’t him.
“You’re an idiot,” Ron said, even as his hand slipped up under Harry’s t-shirt.
“It’s not too late to dislike someone,” Harry retorted, shivering under Ron’s touch.
Ron smirked. “Liar.” He pushed Harry’s arms, pulling his t-shirt off. “Damn,” he murmured; Harry felt completely naked under his gaze. “Don’t be afraid to tell me anything again.”
Harry laughed softly, wanting to get some of Ron’s clothes off now, too. “Stop leaving your dirty socks in the kitchen,” he said. “They stink.”
Growling Ron pushed Harry back onto the sofa, nearly knocking the breath out of him. “Are you really thinking about housework now?”
Looking up at him, seeing Ron tousled from the kiss and getting hard, Harry shook his head. “No.”
“Good.” Ron put his hands either side of Harry’s head, kissing him as he covered Harry’s body with his own.
Then, Ron was grinding against him, making Harry whimper against Ron’s lips. This was real, wasn’t it? He wasn’t just imagining things? Harry gasped, his own body quickly reacting to Ron’s attentions.
Ron’s hand cupped Harry’s growing erection through his jeans, chuckling as Harry gasped. “You should have said something,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t have had throw myself at those other wizards if I’d known.”
Later, Harry would analyse that, but with Ron grinding and grasping and gasping as Harry’s hand slid under his t-shirt, it was a little difficult to think. Ron’s fingers fumbled with his fly and Harry had to wonder again whether this was just some wicked dream.
It wouldn’t be the first time that Harry had ever dreamed about something like this.
Their noses bumped as they kissed and they both groaned as Ron’s hand slipped inside Harry’s boxers and closed around his erection. Harry thrust his hips up, rocking against the perfect feel of Ron’s hand. More than that, it was the fact that it was Ron’s hand made it even better.
“Stop,” Harry rasped, even though every fibre of him was telling him the exact opposite.
Ron looked confused, hand stilling. “Why?”
“Because,” Harry said, “I think we deserve better than the sofa.” He brushed Ron’s hair from his eyes. “This time, anyway.”
A slow grin spread across Ron’s face. “Brilliant.”