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Chapter Text

'Grindylows are a type of water creature that lives in the water. They stay in groups to hunt and generally manage to capture large prey, such as humans, that the group then devours.'

"Ugh," Harry muttered, marking off points on the side as he continued to read the essay. Mr. Walkim had apparently been paying at least partial attention in class but he seemed more enthusiastic about discussing the devouring of human flesh than the grindylows. Still, he couldn't expect an essay that had been assigned over the winter holiday to be a great example of literature.

Flashing a quick glance at the clock, he forced his attention back on the scroll, wincing as the carnage continued. The grindylow had apparently gotten a lot more bloodthirsty since he'd taught class that day, at least in the mind of one student.

Neatly writing a grade on the top of the scroll, Harry exhaled wearily as he reached for the last essay. Three scrolls long when he had only asked for one. It reminded him distinctly of one of his own classmates when he had been here and while he was usually pleased by his student's enthusiasm, today he just wanted to finish up and go to dinner. Rubbing his eyes, he blinked tiredly and tried to concentrate on grindylows.

A quiet knock on the door saved him from his work and he sighed in relief. As long as they didn't want to talk about grindylows, he could handle it. When he'd agreed to come to Hogwarts as a teacher, Harry had had no idea how tedious it could sometimes be. Still, the moments when one of his students actually learned something more than made up for it and he smiled to think of it.

"Come in," he called absently, his eyes still on the paper. Just a little more and he'd be finished. The door opened and Professor Dumbledore stood there, just inside the room.

"Albus," Harry greeted him, warmly. Dumbledore had been Headmaster of back when Harry had been a student and he was an old friend. It was because of him that Harry was here teaching. "What can I do for you? I'm almost done for the day."

"Enjoying your classes?" Dumbledore asked, smiling.

Harry chuckled. "Mostly. Some of the students are a bit too much like I was when I was younger though." He hesitated, studying the headmaster and then said more seriously, "But that's not why you're here."

"No, I'm afraid it's not," Dumbledore agreed quietly. "Apparently, there have been some rumors of activities concerning Voldemort lately and the Minister of Magic is worried about you."

Finishing up the last scroll and setting it aside, Harry rolled his eyes.  "You mean Hermione is worried about me." Ever since the Minister had made Hermione his aide, she had been using her capacity to keep very careful tabs on Harry. "She worries far too much. I've been taking care of myself since I was a child. I'm sure I can continue to do so."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, she is concerned, and she is sending an Auror out here to help protect you until they can determine if there is any truth to these rumors."

"An Auror?" he said in disbelief. "I doubt that an Auror has the time to spare to sit around here watching me teach. I..." he paused at the expression on Dumbledore's face. "They're already here, aren't they?

Another figure that had been standing back in the shadows behind Dumbledore stepped forward. Dressed all in black, from a long, duster-style coat to his heavy boots, the man was not as imposing as he might have appeared to someone who wasn't gaping at him in shock. The man shoved his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath before he spoke.

"Hello, Harry. It's been a long time."

"Ron?" Harry asked, disbelieving. He hardly noticed when Dumbledore quietly shut the door and left the two of them alone. Ron shifted his feet somewhat uncomfortably and cast a glance around the office.

"Teaching Defense of the Dark Arts? Tempting fate, aren't we?"

"There's no questioning that I'm qualified to teach it," he whispered, still stunned as he looked at his old friend. Gone was the freckle-faced, slightly awkward young man of his memories. This Ron had not a freckle in sight, just the pale creamy skin that only a natural redhead could possess. His hair was long, and tied back in a neat ponytail, and Harry recalled that Ron had been growing it out the last time Harry had seen him. Now it reached nearly the middle of his back.

Ron stepped further into his office, wandering over to a bookcase on the side to study the variety of trinkets inside. Christmas gifts from his students mostly, practical jokes and such that Harry had been touched to receive. He'd kept them all, displaying them so that his students knew how much he appreciated it.

"When I left you were playing Quidditch for England," Ron said, still examining the case. "Why did you quit?"

At the reminder of Ron's leaving, Harry finally snapped out of his daze and he had to fight the almost overwhelming urge to drag Ron away from the bookcase and out of his office completely.

"Dumbledore and Hogwarts needed me, and they've always been there when I needed them," Harry said coldly. "Unlike some people."

Ron finally turned to face him at that, his eyes dark and troubled. "Harry, I..."

"Don't," he cut in, his voice low and furious, "Don't you dare apologize to me. Do you really think that you can just give me a little 'I'm sorry' and I'd welcome you back with open arms?"

"Harry, I know you're upset, but if you just let..."

"Upset!" He laughed then, gathering up the papers on his desk and haphazardly putting them away, barely paying attention to what he was doing. "Upset," he repeated, shaking his head. "You know I'm upset? You don't know anything or you'd know I am far beyond upset."

"Look, just let me explain!" Ron tried, but Harry turned away, slamming drawers before he turned back to the person he'd once called friend.

"You left, Ron. Two days after I announced my engagement, you left. Without a note, without an owl, nothing! Do you have any idea how frantic I was? How your mother was? We thought you were dead!" He was breathing heavily now, remembering the pain of the longest week of his life. Cho, his fiancée, later his wife, had tried to comfort him but at the time he had been completely inconsolable. The loss of his best friend had been too much to handle, especially combined with Mrs. Weasley's hysteria. The entire Weasley family had been in shock from Ron's disappearance in a time when such vanishings usually meant Voldemort and death.

For an entire week he'd thought Voldemort had finally managed to take something else from him and the seeming death of his friend because of him had been almost too much to bear.

"A week later you finally send a note to your mother, but did you send a letter to me? In five years time, did you ever write to me?" he asked bitterly. Ron turned and slammed his hand down on the desk.

"It was part of the job, Harry! You knew that! You knew I couldn't just send you a note from anywhere, it was too dangerous!" Ron snapped, his cheeks flushed with anger.

"In five years you couldn't find time to drop me a note, Ron?" Softly, and Harry shook his head, sinking down into his chair and rubbing his temples tiredly. "Just go. I don't want to deal with this."

"Can't do that," Ron said easily, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "The Minister of Magic himself wants me here and Dumbledore gave his permission. Afraid you're stuck with me, Harry."

He slammed the last book on his desk shut. "Fine. You're here. Stay, do whatever you have to do but keep away from me! I've done fine on my own for five years and the last thing I need is your help." Snatching up the book, Harry stormed out of his office, resisting the childish temptation to slam the door.

Ron stood there a moment longer before flopping down into the chair and propping his booted feet up on the desk.

"That went well," he said aloud to the empty office and he dropped his feet back to the floor, folding his arms on the desk and burying his head in them. "This," he mumbled, the words muffled into his sleeves, "is going to be a lot harder than I thought."

Chapter Text

Wandering down the stairs, Ron slowly made his way to the Great Hall for dinner. It was so strange to be here, walking through the echoing hallways and having familiar portraits waving at him politely.

Nothing at Hogwarts had changed since he'd left. The same ghosts, Dumbledore, everything seemed as if he'd only gone for a moment and then stepped back in right where he had left off. Everything but Harry.

Five years hadn't changed Harry as much as he'd thought it would. Still that untidy black hair, still those glasses that he was always pushing back up on his nose. He was still Harry Potter, just as Ron remembered him. Except for the fact that Harry hated him, he admitted ruefully. That part had changed a tiny bit.

"What am I doing here?" he muttered to himself. He already knew the answer to that question. Because one Hermione Granger had begged, cajoled and, finally, blackmailed him into coming, and he simply hadn't been able to resist an excuse to see Harry again, even if Harry didn't want to see him and with good reason.

He had to admit, somewhat guiltily, that he was glad Harry hadn't let him try to explain why he'd left, since he had no idea what he would have said. Nothing short of someone casting the Cruciatus curse would get the truth from him but he really didn't want to start this out with a lie either.

A wastebasket crashing down inches from his head had him jumping back and he automatically reached for his wand, but a familiar cackle made him sigh in exasperation and walk on.

"Hello, Peeves," he said calmly, and wasn't surprised when the poltergeist drifted over next to him.

"Inkles-finckles-Weasels come back to play with us?" Peeves crowed, flipping over and peering at Ron. Ron ignored him, walking on past and Peeves floated along with him. "Another little ex-student who needs a place to stay?"

"Actually, I have a job, Peeves," Ron said, struggling to keep his voice even. "I'm an Auror."

Peeves nearly fell out of the air he scrambled away so quickly. Casting a horrified look at Ron, he fled through a wall and out of sight. Ron gave in to the laugh that was trying to escape. Being an Auror did have a few benefits and instilling terror in ghosts seemed to be one of them. Of course, he'd never actually expected to live long enough to reap those benefits, so may as well take what he could.

Nearly a quarter of all Aurors died within two years of going into the field. The fact that Ron had made it to over five spoke well for his continuing survival. He hoped.

The hall was already crowded with students when Ron got there, and he walked around the side of the room, studying the different House tables. Again, it was odd how nothing seemed to change. Different faces, true, different people, but the way they seemed it could have so easily been himself, Harry and Hermione sitting and chatting away. Or Draco and his goons sitting at the Slytherin table, watching the hall with beady eyes and condescending smirks.

He paused for a moment, fading back against the wall and studied the Slytherin's, concentrating with something just a little stronger than his eyes. Malevolence, yes, greed, a -thirst-, thirst for wealth, for power, yes, yes...but no evil. Not yet, not in this group of children. Shaking off the Sight, he started off towards the High Table again, hurrying now so he could get something to eat before the meal ended. Harry was seated between Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall, deliberately not watching as Ron approached the table.

There was one seat left open, on the end, next to Professor Snape and Ron sighed. Naturally. This was bound to be awkward. He rounded the table and now he could hear the students whispering as he sat down next to Snape. Already he was regretting using his Sight, even though he knew it was necessary to check for any possible threats. The problem was that he could open up easily, but closing back down was a bit harder. Various emotions, surface thoughts were still fluttering around in his head. *Curiosity/ indifference/ concern...who is that...is he a new teacher...oh, isn't he cute...hope they aren't making a new class...*

Wincing, Ron pulled tighter into himself. He'd forgotten what it was like to be around so many people. Especially children, who didn't have as much control as adults and just blithely tossed their thoughts and
emotions about like rubber balls.

"Hello, Severus," he said quietly when Snape seemed to ignore his presence. He and Snape didn't have the best past together, but Ron was damned if he was going to start this out by being rude.

Snape glanced at him briefly out of the corner of his eye before murmuring just low enough that only Ron could hear him. "Well, well, if it isn't Ron Weasley. Come here to protect our resident celebrity, have we? Did he write you a nice long letter, begging you to come?"

"No," Ron said shortly. If only.

Snape nodded, as if that was exactly what he'd expected Ron to say. Reaching for the potatoes, Ron already regretting opening his mouth, half-heartedly wished Snape would just leave it at that even though he knew it was a futile hope. Snape proved him right almost immediately. "So, you must be here about something else then, his wife, perhaps? Yes, it was a shame about his wife, wasn't it?" Snape's tone clearly indicating he didn't think it was a shame at all. He started when Ron all but dropped the dish, turning in his chair to face him.

"What about his wife?" Ron asked sharply, all thoughts about dinner forgotten and Snape looked at him in surprise.

"You don't know?" Snape was looking at him, slightly taken aback, tapping his fork lightly on the side of his plate. "I'm shocked, I would have thought you were keeping quite close tabs on him the past few years."

"I wasn't exactly in a position to be able to keep up the gossip, as you well know," said Ron dryly.

"Ah, and whose fault is that?"

"What happened to Harry's wife?" he asked impatiently, ignoring Snape's question.

"Why don't you ask him yourself? You're such good friends..."

"Severus," he said warningly and the other man relented.

"She left him," Snape said quietly, the glee in his voice absent for once. "Just before he came here to teach, I believe." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "Such is the life of Harry Potter."

Ron was stunned. He glanced down the table at the same moment that Harry was looking at him and for the briefest of seconds their eyes met and held, before Harry jerked back as if he'd been burned and turned quickly back to his food.

"So you are here to protect him, Weasley." Ron could hear the sneer underneath the words but also faint curiosity. "He hates you now. I don't have to be an Auror to know that. So why are you bothering to protect him?"

Ron had had just about enough of this conversation. His head was already aching from the boisterous energy of the children and arguing with Snape wasn't helping it at all. "I'm protecting him because the Minister of Magic asked me to, Severus," he said quietly, "What's your excuse?"

Dead silence. Snape gave him a particularly ugly look and then turned back to his plate, stabbing at a potato viciously with his fork.

His own appetite lost, Ron picked at his food, feeling faintly guilty for throwing Snape's obsession with protecting Harry in his face. He'd discovered some very interesting things about Snape a few years back that had permanently changed his opinion of the other man. Despite the fact that he was still an annoying git most of the time, Ron knew there was another side to this man that not many people got the chance to see, and Ron did owe him some gratitude for things done. Some.

The meal was starting to die down when Dumbledore stood, and the chattering faded away as the students waited expectantly for their headmaster to speak.

"As I'm sure some of you have already noticed, we have a guest with us today," Dumbledore turned to Ron and smiled and a few hundred pairs of eyes turned to him as well. Ron smiled back weakly. He would rather be back in Zimbabwe again, facing down that pack of dark pygmy wizards, than be here right now.

"This is Ron Weasley. He attended Hogwarts himself as a child, one of our best students," Dumbledore said blandly, and Ron smiled for real this time. "He'll be here for a time at our school and I trust we will all make him feel welcome. Now, let's finish our dinner." Dumbledore sat back down, and slowly the roar of conversation resumed.

Snape stood up suddenly, and leaned over to Ron before he left, one long, white finger tapping Ron's temple lightly. "You might not want to stay long, Auror. I'd bet my wand that you already have a headache." Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Not looking up, Ron poked at his food a moment longer before deciding to take Snape's advice. His head did feel like his brain was trying to pound its way through his forehead, although he didn't believe for one minute that Snape was worried about that. More like he couldn't protect Harry very well if he was ill himself, and since he felt the same way, Ron left the hall as quietly as he had arrived. Perhaps a little sleep and he'd feel better. Tomorrow would be a better day. He glanced at Harry as he left, wincing at the cool expression on his old friend's face.

Or maybe not.

Chapter Text

Someone was watching him; he could feel it, like an itch at the back of his skull. Ron didn't open his eyes, feigning sleep as he waited for the faintest tinge of sensation to tell him where the other was.

There.

Wand in hand, Ron threw back the blankets and whirled towards his attacker. It was only the terrified squeak that froze the spell on his lips and he had the brief sight of a tiny creature tumbling off the bed.

Rubbing his eyes blearily, Ron peered over the edge of the mattress to see a house elf cowering on the floor nearby. The elf might have once been neatly dressed in a Hogwart's tea towel but at the moment it was tangled within the folds of terrycloth, and with its terror-filled eyes fixed on Ron, it seemed to be in no rush to right itself.  

"You all right?" he asked, feeling more than a little foolish. Still, it was these same good reflexes that had saved his life time and again. Better to be embarrassed now than dead later.

"Y-yes, sir, yes, Ricky is all right, sir," it, no, he, stammered out. "Scared Ricky, you did, sir!" Gingerly, he sat up, straightening his towel.

"Don't creep up on me when I'm asleep, right?" Ron said sternly, still feeling a bit guilty for frightening the poor creature. "I'm likely to curse first and ask questions later."

The elf nodded hastily. "Professor Dumbledore is asking me personally to give this to you, sir," Warily, he held out a small scroll of paper.

"Thank you," Ron said politely, taking it but not opening it. Ricky wasted no time leaving, casting one last cautious look at Ron before he scampered out the door. The moment the door closed Ron opened the scroll.

It was a copy of Harry's teaching schedule, Ron saw with some relief. He'd intended to ask Dumbledore about it earlier, since he rather doubted that Harry would offer it up. He glanced at the clock and winced as he saw it read 'late for breakfast'. Which meant if he didn't hurry he was going to be late for Harry's first class as well.

With a sigh, he scrambled out of bed and quickly started to dress, grumbling under his breath, "First time in years I've slept in a comfortable bed and I don't even get to enjoy it."

Going to his first class the next day, Harry was in a dismal mood, making his way through the crowds of students with his satchel underneath one arm and a covered cage under the other. He'd hardly slept the night before, the shock of seeing Ron after all this time keeping him awake.

Five years. Five -years- without even a note to say 'Hi, I'm alive.' And Ron had acted as if nothing between them had changed at all. Well, Ron was in for a rude awakening if he thought he could just come waltzing back into Harry's life like this.

Nothing in Harry's life had hurt him the way Ron's leaving had. Ever. For the week he had thought Ron was dead, he hadn't eaten. He'd barely slept. A part of him had died along with his best friend, and it hadn't resurrected when he'd found out Ron had been alive all along and just hadn't bothered to write. There was still a cold, dead little place in Harry's heart with the name Ron Weasley on it, where he'd buried his best friend. The person he had trusted with his entire being.

This Ron was a pale shadow of that one, and Harry would almost have been happier to go on believing his friend was dead than to be betrayed like that.

Almost.

Walking into the classroom, he came to a dead halt to see the object of his thoughts sitting in the back of the classroom, his boots propped up on the desk. All his students turned from staring and whispering about their new classmate, watching to see their teacher's reaction.

Doubtless, they were disappointed when Harry ignored the latest addition to his class. Inside, he was seething. How dare Ron come in and disrupt his classes like this? They were in Hogwarts, probably the safest place Harry could be in England, and Ron hardly needed to keep Harry in his sight every moment of the day.

Unpacking his satchel as he prepared to begin class, he rested his hand on his wand briefly and murmured "Mobiliarbus!" The desk Ron had his feet on slid forward and Ron's chair wobbled dangerous on two legs before he caught his balance and the chair dropped forward. Harry heard Ron's muttered curse as he hid a smug grin. If Ron wanted to invade his classes then he should be prepared for the consequences.

A titter of laughter went around the room briefly, silenced immediately when Harry looked up and began to speak.

"I finished grading your essays yesterday," he said, leaning against his desk. "I was rather pleased with most of them, however, I think some of you need to be paying better attention in class?" There were a few guilty looks at that. "I also want to remind you that if you are having difficulties with any of this then you should feel free to come see me in my office and we can discuss it."

Pulling the cover from the cage, Harry revealed its contents to his class, appreciative gasps and whispers echoing around the room as his students gawked at the creature within. A lizard-like animal, about the size of a spread hand and it hissed at the class, little wings flapping helplessly as it wrapping its tiny, clawed hands around the bars of its cage.

"This is a grendel. A type of dragon, they are vicious and are known to have killed humans when they are fully grown, although a fully mature grendel is very rare," Harry said, watching his students scribbling down notes furiously. "It takes about four hundred years for them to obtain their full size and during their immature years, grendel have a
lot of predators, including humans because their livers are highly useful in certain spells. The grendel were made famous among Muggles in medieval times due to an attack by a mature grendel on a Muggle settlement..." he trailed off as a hand in the back of the class went up.

Ron waited patiently, hand raised like he was just a regular student. The children had noticed and were looking back and forth between the two wizards uncertainly.

Gritting his teeth, Harry struggled to keep his voice normal as he said, "Yes, Mr. Weasley."

"Where on earth did you find a baby grendel?" There was a touch of awe in Ron's voice.

"A friend of mine sent this one to me," he answered coolly, continuing with his lecture. "As I was saying, a mature grendel..." The hand rose again.

"Yes, Mr. Weasley," he snapped, impatient now and not really caring what his students thought of it.

"But where?" Ron asked persistently. "A baby grendel is almost as difficult to find as an adult and to capture one alive...!" The children looked at Harry and he could see the curiosity their eyes. Harry closed his eyes and counted to ten, slowly. I will not hurt him in front of the students, he told himself. Not in front of the students...I'll wait until after class.

"A friend of mine," he said clearly and calmly, "Caught this one in the country outside of Berkshire. It was tangled in a trap she had set to keep gnomes out of her garden. She didn't want to kill it, and she knew I was teaching Defense of the Dark Arts and she offered it to me for my classes. May I continue my lecture now, Mr. Weasley?" His voice was
slightly raised at the end, sharper than his students were used to hearing. Certainly the children were not making any attempt to draw his attention while he was acting like this.

Ron seemed to realize he was pushing his luck and nodded hastily. "Of course, Harry, I'm sorry."

Harry managed to smile at his students as he began his lecture again, even as he seethed inside. Ron behaved through the rest of his class, sitting quietly and listening to the lecture. He didn't move when the students began to pack up their things, the room buzzing excitedly with conversation about the grendel and minor grumbling about having to write another essay.

The moment the door closed behind the last student, Harry stormed down the aisle to where Ron was sitting.

"Don't you -ever- do that again!" he hissed, so furious he could barely speak. Ron didn't even blink, merely raised his eyebrows.

"Do what? Ask a question?" Ron said calmly. "I would have thought you'd be delighted to have someone asking questions in class."

"Don't," Harry said coldly. "Don't play cute with me. You are not a student. You are a pest who is disrupting my classes."

"Oh, come on, Harry, I asked a bloody question..."

"You may call me Professor Potter," Harry added, turning away but Ron's voice halted him.  

"I might, yeah," Ron said, "but I won't. You can be angry with me all you want, but I refuse to be ridiculous about it."

"I said you could stay," Harry bit out each word, so angry that he was actually shaking, "but if you interrupt my classes like this again I will personally remove you from this school, and bugger what the Minister of Magic wants!"

Ron's pushed his chair back so hard it skittered across the floor as he jumped to his feet. He towered a good ten centimeters above Harry, neither of them backing away as they glared at each other. Ron was the first to turn away, crossing his arms over his chest and lowering his head as he obviously struggled with his temper.

"This has nothing to do with the Minister of Magic, and you know it, Harry!" Ron snapped out, "Bloody hell, I'm here because I am your friend!" Something in Harry's mind finally snapped at Ron's words and he was dimly glad that he wasn't carrying his wand, because he was certain that he would have done something he would have regretted.  

"You are not my friend," he said finally, the words dropping from his lips like a chips of ice. "I don't even know who you are. The Ron Weasley I knew would never have deserted me." He ignored Ron's growing pallor, the anger and pain in his chest driving him. "He was my friend. You are absolutely nothing to me."

His quiet words still hanging between them, Harry turned and walked out the door, leaving Ron alone in the silent room.

Chapter Text

It took Harry about two steps out the door before he began to feel guilty about what he had said. Slowly, he made his way to his office and sat down, threading his fingers through his hair and resting his elbows on the desk.

He'd left all his things in the classroom, he'd have to go back down and retrieve them but there wasn't another class in that room for several hours. Everything would be safe enough for now.

"Stupid, stupid," he muttered under his breath. Not even stupid really, what he'd said had been out and out cruel, and he could hardly believe he had done it.

The sight of Ron's shocked, pale face while he'd spewed a few years worth of venomous words at him was still imprinted in Harry's mind and shame was churning away in Harry's stomach. Certainly Ron deserved some of his anger, but it wasn't as if he was here to try and pester Harry to the point of insanity, no matter how good a job he was doing at it. He'd come here out of his own free will, apparently, to protect an old friend. And while Harry certainly hadn't forgiven Ron for disappearing as he had all those years ago, one thing was certain.

He owed Ron an apology.

Sighing, Harry began digging through his desk drawers. Trick wands, chattering teeth that shrank and regrew, and various other toys that he had taken from his students scattered until as he finally found what he was looking for; an old, worn bit of parchment that he had had since he was a student here.

Tucking it into his robes, Harry went back down to the classroom to retrieve his wand and his satchel, as well as the baby grendel. He wasn't surprised that Ron was gone. Pulling out the parchment, he tapped it lightly with his wand, saying, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Words began to flow across it, as if written by an invisible hand, a delicate calligraphy that declared the parchment The Marauders Map. Web-fine lines in deep green spread over the parchment as the entire grounds of the school appeared, along with tiny moving dots. Searching the map, Harry found the dot he was looking for. Ron Weasley was in the
gymnasium.

Harry blinked. The gymnasium? He could understand his room, perhaps, or even the library but the gymnasium? Ron had never much been one for exercise. Shrugging, he gathered his things, taking them hurriedly back to his office before he went off to see Ron.

The gymnasium was nearly empty, a few students were doing some exercises in one corner, and Ron Weasley was not difficult to find. He was in one corner using a punching bag, his blows particularly vicious as he hit the bag.

Harry stayed back and watched silently as his once-friend attacked the punching bag. Ron had stripped down to nothing but his pants. Even his feet were bare, and he didn't even look in Harry's direction as he continued. A sudden kick at the bag made Harry blink slightly, and he watched as the punches slowly turned into a series of kicks combined with blows. Ron knew how to fight, and quite well from the looks of it. He wondered why that was such a shock to him. Ron was an Auror, a Dark wizard hunter; of course he'd have to know how to fight. Magic was all good and well, but if for some reason you couldn't do magic, you'd better have a back up plan.

Perhaps it was a shock because this was a side of Ron that Harry had never considered. In a way, he had been right. This man was not the Ron Weasley who had been his friend. His Ron had been faintly scrawny, still trying to fill into the extra height that he'd sprouted their seventh year.

This Ron had certainly filled it in. There was some muscle that he had been hiding beneath that coat of his, visible strength that he needed for the job he had taken. This -was- a stranger to Harry, not Ron the Friend, but Ron the Auror. And yet, as painful as that was to realize, Harry could still remember the hurt in the Auror's eyes at his words in the
classroom. His friend was buried beneath this exterior, and perhaps he owed it to the memory of the friend not to hurt the man than Ron had become.  

Ron finally stopped, panting as he gave Harry a long look before he reached for a small towel. Harry stepped forward, feeling horribly awkward.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I had no right to say that to you."

"Yes, you did," Ron replied calmly, wiping his face with towel. "It was true, wasn't it? I did desert you." He dropped the towel and looked straight at Harry, who fought the urge to squirm under the intensity of that gaze. Ron seemed to sense his discomfort and glanced away, shrugging. "It was true so you had every right to say it."

He turned away and Harry took a step towards him, unsure of what he was going to say. The moment he saw Ron's back he instantly forgot about saying anything, gasping aloud. Ron glanced at him over his shoulder, eyebrows knitted in confusion then his face smoothed in dawning awareness.

"Oh, I forgot," Ron said ruefully, glancing down at the scars that twisted their way across the small of his back. "Got those in Brazil," he continued, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head. "I'm on the trail of this Dark wizard, right? Get to where he is hiding out, and I go inside. It's dark, and there is all this junk lying about, and I see this statue of a little cat. Don't think much about it at the time because I'm more worried about the wizard than his little trinkets."

Ron chuckled, shaking his head as he laced up his boots. "Big mistake, that. I no sooner turn around and I hear a growl and this bloody panther leaps on me! Killed it, but not before it took a nice chunk out of me. The wizard was bloody well pissed that I killed his pet."

He grinned up at Harry, the smile fading slightly at Harry's expression. "What?"

"How can you laugh about that? You could have died!" Harry said, his stomach tight with fury and he didn't even understand why. Ron was an adult and if he wanted to prance about trying to get himself killed it certainly wasn't any of Harry's business.

"But I didn't," Ron said, his voice oddly gentle. "I didn't die. I'm here and I'm fine." He sighed heavily, picking up his coat and shrugging into it. "Should I be all grave and serious about it? Harry, this was nothing." He gestured absently at the hidden scars. "Do you have any idea how many times I've nearly died?" He chuckled again, a tinge of bitterness to the sound. "I've got much worse scars than these ones, Harry Potter. The ones you can't see are always worse." He flicked a glance in Harry's direction. "I should think you of all people would know that."

He started to walk out of the gym and paused as he walked past Harry. Without looking at him, Ron said quietly, "I heard that you got divorced. I'm sorry."

"Yes," Harry said distantly, his thoughts still caught on everything Ron had said. "So am I."

Ron hesitated and for a moment it looked as if he was going to lay a hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry waited, the hairs on his neck prickling as he wondered a bit wildly how to react when Ron seemed to change his mind, nodding slightly and walking out of the room without another word.

Chapter Text

Lying on the field below, Ron chewed on a blade of grass while he watched Harry teaching a group of first years about Quidditch. It was an extracurricular course and the class was mostly made up of children from Muggle families, although there were a few from Wizard families that he suspected were here to spend some time with The Harry Potter.

He sighed, watching the children wobble awkwardly on their brooms while Harry flew around them expertly, correcting them. The man really was made to be a teacher, he mused, and how could he blame the children for wanting to spend time with Harry Potter when he wanted to do the same?

He and Harry had come to something of an understanding after the incident in the gymnasium. So long as Ron was fairly quiet in Harry's classes, he was allowed to stay. Ron trailed him carefully, not wanting to upset their fragile cease-fire, but not being able to speak to Harry, really speak to him, was getting more and more frustrating.

Still, he couldn't really blame Harry for being angry with him over his leaving. In Harry's place he certainly would have felt the same. In fact, Harry was probably being more forgiving than he would be, although still not nearly enough for Ron's tastes. If nothing else though it was giving Ron the time to try and catch up with all the gossip.

For all that the wizarding world was eager to talk about Harry Potter, it made it all the more difficult to sort through all the rumors to find the truth, especially if any of the talk concerned his wife.

The general consensus seemed to be that Cho Potter, who had gone back to Cho Chang, was an evil troll who had used poor Harry Potter and broken his little heart. As much as Ron wanted to believe that, he had his doubts. Cho had never been his favorite person but that had been as much his own fault as it was hers.

There was a much smaller faction that believed Harry had gone bonkers from his various dealings with Lord Voldemort and that Cho had finally been chased away by Harry's insanity. Luckily, not many people seemed to believe into that one.

A smaller group yet believed that Harry had never gotten over losing his childhood sweetheart, Hermione, which was so patently ridiculous that Ron had nearly burst out laughing to hear it. It was an interesting theory, considering that he had been the one dating Hermione, not Harry.

Ron winced a little to think of Hermione Granger, rolling over onto his stomach and resting his chin on his folded arms. Another old friend who wasn't speaking to him...well that wasn't exactly true. Hermione had been angry when she had seen him, but she had some idea as to why he'd left, or at least she thought she did and Ron wasn't about to disabuse her of the notion. He didn't want sympathy he knew she offer, sweet as it was. He didn't deserve it.

He'd come to England at the Minister of Magic's request, and had been stunned to find himself faced with a severely angry Hermione. After becoming the Minister's aide, she'd had access to a lot of highly sensitive documents, one of which had had Ron's name on it. After persuading the Minister that Ron was the best man for this job, which really hadn't taken much persuasion, the Minister had called Ron to England.

After venting her rage, Hermione had gotten right down to business with him and had finally all but blackmailed him into coming here. Throw in a little guilt over how much he'd hurt Harry by leaving and Ron had been practically begging to come to Hogwarts.

He had to admit, Hermione was good at her job.

He chewed on his blade of grass thoughtfully. He did wonder why Hermione hadn't mentioned Harry's divorce though. Perhaps she'd thought he already knew. Or more likely she'd been hoping he'd make an ass of himself over it. It wasn't much more than he deserved. Some Seer he was.

Out of all the people he knew, only Dumbledore had been sincerely glad to see him. McGonagall had been rather cool to him the one time they had spoken, and Hagrid was taking a semester off, apparently. Ron was almost grateful for that one. Being around Harry while he was angry was one thing; Ron didn't want to imagine trying to deal with Hagrid's temper. Even Snape was avoiding him more often than not, although Ron wasn't exactly sorry for it.

So that left Dumbledore as the only person in Hogwarts who was actually talking to him. A bit depressing, that, but Dumbledore was also one of the few people who knew the real reason Ron had left. He was as full of sympathy as Hermione would be, but at least Dumbledore kept it to himself, and for that Ron was grateful.

Not for the first time, he wished he could simply tell Harry the truth, instead of hedging around the details. Surely, Harry would understand, no, he knew Harry would understand. A shame life couldn't be that simple. Harry would understand a little -too- well, and that was another thing Ron didn't want to deal with.

No, he couldn't tell Harry so that idea was out, and that left him with trying to think of another way to get back on his former best friend's good side.

A sudden thought occurred to him and he laughed aloud, spitting out the blade of grass and leaping to his feet. He was still grinning as he started running back towards the school. If this didn't get Harry thinking, then he'd eat his wand.

"Keep the front of your broomstick tilted up, Patrice," Harry called, flying over and reaching out to tilt it himself before the girl could slide off her broom. She smiled at him shyly and he nodded, moving back to keep a wary eye on the rest of his students. So far, no one had needed a trip to see Madame Pomfrey during these classes and he wanted to keep it that way.

With a supreme effort, he kept his eyes on children and studiously did not look at the empty field below him. He had seen Ron heading back to the school so it was ridiculous to keep looking for him. It was just as well, he decided, ignoring a faint twinge of disappointment within that Ron hadn't stayed. He should be glad that Ron had left instead of getting used to having him around. He'd done that once and look where it had gotten him.

"Seeker!"

Harry's head shot up automatically and he saw Ron flying towards him, a grin that Harry remembered all-too-well lighting his face. With a mental sigh, he turned towards the Auror, ready for whatever mischief he had in mind.

Ron stopped about ten meters away, hovering in the air and drawing back whenever Harry got closer.

"What are you doing?" Harry finally asked, exasperated. The children had formed something of a small grouping, looking the newcomer warily. Glancing back quickly to make sure his students were fine, Harry looked back at Ron, who was waiting patiently.

"I think maybe you've lost your touch, Seeker," Ron called, stressing the title. All the children were watching raptly and Harry straightened his spine unconsciously, insulted in spite of himself.

"I bet you ten galleons that you can't catch this," Ron continued. He held up something small and silvery for a moment, and then drew back his arm and tossed it as hard as he could.

Harry reacted without even thinking, diving after it. His every thought was focused on the tiny flash of silver plummeting towards the ground and he leaned into his broom hard, wind whipping his hair as he plummeted towards the ground, his eyes never leaving the shining bit of metal. Barely a meter from the ground he reached out and caught it, jerking his broom back up amidst the gleeful shouts of the class.

He flew back up, the object clenched triumphantly in his fist. The students were clapping wildly and trying to hold on to their broomsticks at the same time as Harry flew next to Ron, who was still smiling, if a little oddly.  

"I believe you owe me ten galleons, Mr. Weasley," Harry said, smirking as he opened his hand under Ron's nose. The smile faded when he saw what it was.

Ron's prefect badge.

In their sixth year, they had both been made Gryffindor prefects, much to Ron's dismay. Ron had declared he would be the worst prefect in the history of Hogwarts and Harry had had to persuade him to take the position, insisting that if Ron didn't then he would refuse it as well. Ron had still been reluctant, wary of again trying to follow in his brother's footsteps, but it had turned out to be one of the best times of their lives.

"I suppose you proved me wrong," Ron said softly, his eyes never leaving Harry's. "Ten galleons it is." He plucked the badge from Harry's hand and backed off a bit. "I'll leave you to teach your class then...Seeker."

Harry watched as Ron flew back down, climbing off his broom and flopping back down on the ground. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his students. He'd proved Ron wrong, that was true, but somehow he doubted Ron had meant the bet. And the true meaning of that scene had little to with Quidditch, that much was certain.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was awash with the normal dinner noises, laughter and conversation mingling together. The students were in high spirits with it being a Hogsmead weekend, and even the teachers were particularly good-natured. Most of them anyway, Harry thought, glancing down at the end of the High Table.

Snape was eating in silence, ignoring his dinner companion, and Ron didn't seem particularly chatty either, playing with his food more than he was eating it.

Harry was fidgeted with the food on his own plate, not really feeling like eating much himself. A lack of appetite seemed to be contagious today. Sighing irritably, he stabbed a piece of steak with his fork and ate it, chewing resolutely. His stomach was going to get at least some food, whether it wanted it or not.

Control over his various bodily parts, however, didn't extend to his mind. It was still out on the grounds, wondering about the little game Ron had played with him earlier.

It was ridiculous, really, that a silly little wager had him so distracted. But no, that wasn't really it, and he knew it. The problem was that for just the briefest of moments, it had been just like old times. He and Ron must've played at Quidditch together hundreds of times, here and at the Weasley's house, the both of them laughing and teasing, letting Ron cajole him into trading broomsticks every once in a while.

Had it been so long that he'd actually forgotten how often they'd played that little game. Even on Ron's old Cleansweep Seven, Harry had never missed a catch. No matter how hard or far Ron could throw, small crabapples at the Weasley's or golf balls at Hogwarts, Harry would catch it.

"I'm sure that the kitchen staff makes sure all of the food is deceased before they bring it to the table, Professor Potter. I doubt you need to ensure that it's truly dead."

Blinking, Harry jerked back to the present to discover he was in the process of mangling what was left of his steak. He felt his cheeks heat as he glanced over at Dumbledore's smiling face.

"I'm sorry, my mind is just on something else," Harry mumbled, pushing his plate aside.

Dumbledore nodded towards the end of the table. "I would have thought your bodyguard would want to be sitting next to you rather than Professor Snape."

"Maybe his survival instincts told him that would be a bad idea," Harry muttered, not following the headmaster's gaze. "I don't even know why he bothered to come. It would be better for all of us if he just left." Even as he said it, Harry wondered if it was true.

"I thought it was a bit odd myself. Coming here after all this time," Dumbledore mused.

He didn't sounds particularly concerned one way or another but Harry knew better than that. His eyes were shining with amusement behind his glasses. Well, at least someone was enjoying this, he thought sourly.

"I can't imagine why he came myself," he said brusquely, hoping Dumbledore would take the cue and drop the subject. He should ever be so lucky.

"Well, perpetual silence won't gain you any answers, Harry," said Dumbledore, gently. He patted Harry kindly on the shoulder before he stood up and left the Great Hall.

"Well, thank you, Obi-Wan," Harry muttered, giving his dinner one last poke before giving the whole thing up as a bad job. Maybe a good night's sleep would help a little. Decision made, he stood to follow Dumbledore's example, managing to cast only one last, reluctant glance at Ron before he left.

It was quite late when Ron finally got to his room that night, wearily stripping off his coat and hanging in on a hook by the door as he toed off his boots. Whatever points he'd managed to earn to put himself into Harry's favor today with his little Quidditch game hadn't been enough to revoke his banishment at the end of the dinner table so he'd had the dubious honor of sitting next to Snape. Again.

Harry had actually spoken to him when Ron had walked him to his room tonight, though, so he supposed that was at least a start.

A soft hoot startled him, and he found an owl waiting for him patiently on the window.

Untying the letter from its leg, Ron scratched its head lightly in thanks before it spread its wings and took off into the night. He wasn't surprised that the letter was from Hermione. There wasn't anyone else who would write to him here.

Ron,

I hope that you are doing well. You haven't written
since you got to Hogwarts, but since Professor
Dumbledore has assured me that you are indeed there,
I'm not going to scold you for that.

We're still researching those rumors and so far this
has been little more than a wild goose chase. Still,
if this is what it takes to bring you back to us, Ron,
I can't say that I am unhappy about it.

I know you don't want to talk about your leaving, and
I respect that, but I really think you should tell Harry
the truth. You have no idea how your leaving like you did
affected him. No matter what has happened, I know he still
cares about you and I think he will understand.

I feel that I owe you something of an apology, Ron. I know
how difficult it must have been for you to come home after
all this time, and to have me act the way that I did when
I saw you couldn't have helped. I was hurt that you left
the way you did, I can't deny that, but neither do I want
to drive you away again. I will always be your friend, Ron
Weasley, and if you ever need me, I will be here for you,
always.

Love,

Hermione Granger

He was nearly in tears by the end of the letter, almost wishing Hermione did hate him rather than give him this caring and gentle sympathy. Which of course led her to prying into things that Ron would rather she left alone.

"Nice try, Hermione," he murmured, re-reading the letter. Tell Harry the truth, she'd said.

Right.

In all the time he'd been gone, Ron had managed to come back to England one time a while back. Just long enough to see that the people he cared about didn't really need him. It was only because of Hermione that he was here now. Hermione only had the briefest knowledge of why he'd really left, and she'd all but blackmailed him with it to get him to come here and then wheedled him with the plain and simple fact that he was one of the best Aurors they had, and if Harry truly needed protection, then there was no one else better to give it to him.

No wonder the Minister of Magic wanted her as his aide.

He flopped back on his bed, letting his mind drift as he thought of Hermione Granger.

Hermione, so intelligent and strong, and somehow still so sweet, the girl whose virginity he had so fumblingly taken even as he was losing his own. He had tried so desperately hard to love her, trying to ignore the fact that something was missing, that their relationship had felt -wrong- somehow, until he could no longer stand seeing her bewildered hurt at the way he was acting and he'd finally told her the truth.

She'd been so quietly accepting, to the point where she had practically been comforting him. But he hadn't needed any Sight to see how hurt she was. That they had managed to move past it and remain friends through their Seventh year at Hogwarts spoke of Hermione's strength, and it had turned out that it was his own strength that had been somewhat lacking.

Tugging the band off his ponytail, Ron picked up a brush and started combing out his hair idly. Their Seventh year was when his Sight had first manifested. A shame Professor Trelawney had never mentioned in divination class what a true Seeing could look like. If she had then perhaps his wouldn't have been so dreadfully embarrassing. As it was, it had nearly scared Hermione to death.  

He'd collapsed in the middle of the hallway, convulsing and bleeding from the nose. Hermione had thought he was having some kind of brain hemorrhage, there was so much blood and by the time he'd woken up, she had needed the infirmary more than he had.

In an incident that had taken perhaps one minute, Ron had found his life completely changed, a career all but chosen for him and a lifetime supply of headaches given free of charge.

He'd still been delighted. For once, taking extra classes and going to special training had been a pleasure as he learned to control his newfound powers. He'd finally had something that was his alone, something that none of his brothers had done first and he didn't have to compete with anyone, not even Harry.

Sheer stupidity was what all that had it been, and learning that lesson had almost gotten him killed. It had nearly been too late when he'd finally discovered what this was really all about, and that competing with someone was far less important than simply staying alive. An Auror wanted to stay in the shadows and out of the lights, because a famous Auror was often a dead one.

He didn't regret becoming an Auror, not really, and even if he did he wouldn't take back his choice. What he had lost had been nothing compared to what he could have lost.

A soft whirring sound jerked him from his thoughts, and Ron frowned, walking over to the desk on the far side of the room. It was littered with a variety of things; a sneakascope that he'd had to disable, useless thing around so many children, a small pipe in the shape of a serpent, odds and ends that he'd acquired over the years.

In the middle was a small mirror, the surface scratched and chipped but a faint light was coming from it. Picking it up, Ron looked into the glass. "Visioso!"

Light flared within the mirror, and Ron squinted against it, his eyes widening almost immediately at what he saw in the glass. "Blast him, does he -want- to die?" he exclaimed, tossing the mirror back on the desk. Snatching up his coat, he shrugged into it, stuffing his feet into his boots and grabbed his wand.

"If Voldemort doesn't kill him, I may do it for him," Ron growled, slamming the door shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Hidden within the folds of his invisibility cloak, Harry slipped out the main entrance and down the stairs to the grounds. It was cool outside, the fingernail curve of the moon hovering over the Forbidden Forest. A lovely night, really, and Harry crossed his arms over his chest to ward off the chill.

The fog of his breath in the cold air preceded him he saw with some amusement. An invisibility cloak could only do so much and he wondered how it would look from the outside, vague puffs of steam from nothingness.

It was an odd habit he'd gotten over the years, taking a walk in the late hours of the night when he couldn't sleep and just lately he hadn't been sleeping very much at all. Too much to think about, or too much he was trying not to think about. Voldemort, who somehow always ended up around the fringes of Harry's life, his failed marriage...failed friendships.

Ron.

Better not to think of that. Ron wasn't here out of friendship, and he wasn't staying. The moment they got the all clear from the Ministry, Ron would vanish from his life again. Just like Ron to come in just long enough to give Harry's life a stir and then disappear again, just when Harry got used to having him around...

"Just a walking invitation for trouble, aren't you?"

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin as the object of his thoughts stepped out from the shadows. He sighed in exasperation. Was five minutes alone too much to ask?

"How did you know I was out here?" he asked wearily.

Ron chuckled. "I'm an Auror, I can see through invisibility cloaks. Be pretty poor at my job if that's all it took to throw me off."

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it."

"How did I know you'd be on the grounds?" He shrugged. "It's my job to know these things. Despite your opinion of me, I'm perfectly capable of keeping track of one man."

Harry sighed again. How was it that all their conversations turned into battles? "Ron, I have never accused you of not being good at your job. In fact, as far as I can tell, you're damn good at it."

"What makes you think that?" asked Ron, eyebrows raised.

"You're alive, aren't you?"

"True," Ron conceded. "Now, would you care to explain to me why you are wandering around the grounds at this time of night?"

"I have trouble sleeping. Sometimes taking a walk helps."

"Are you having nightmares," he asked sharply, in a tone Harry hadn't heard from him. Ron the Auror, he realized, doing his job. It was like he was two different people; one the friend he'd had for years, and the other a stranger with a foreign, driving intensity that made Harry faintly uncomfortable.

"No," said Harry slowly. "Just restless, I reckon. I get insomnia sometimes."

Ron relaxed visibly. "I see. Well, better that you don't have nightmares. Yours have a nasty tendency to be true." Harry couldn't argue that, and they walked in silence for a moment before Ron said, "You are aware, I am sure, that if you are up and about that means I have to be up and about?"

"Sorry," Harry said, rather unconvincingly and Ron scowled at him but didn't reply.

They walked for a time and Harry studied Ron out of the corner of his eye. They hadn't actually spent much time in each other's company since Ron had arrived, which was odd since he'd hardly been out of Ron's sight the entire time. Ron was more likely to follow him from a distance, watching him silently and doing whatever it was Aurors did when they were forced to play bodyguard.

Aside from the first time Ron had sat in on his class, this was the closest Harry had gotten to him. Ron must have left his room in a rush, because boots were untied and his hair was loose and hanging. It had gotten quite long in the past few years and it nearly reached the middle of his back. It looked nice enough, Harry supposed, but all it did was remind him of how very long Ron had been gone, long enough for hair to grow, marriages to dissolve, people to change...

He blinked as he realized Ron was looking at him, one eyebrow raised, and he remembered that Ron had said he could see through invisibility cloaks. Caught staring, Harry smiled, a little sheepishly.

"You look a bit different than I expected," he explained, stepping over an exposed root as they wandered closer to the Forbidden Forest, skirting around the edge of the trees. The bare branches looked like skeletal limbs in the faint light and Harry veered away from the forest, not particularly wishing to think of anything about death at that moment.

"Still thinking of freckle-faced little Ronnie, eh?" asked Ron, smiling a little.

"Actually, I thought you might have gotten all gnarled and ugly. Maybe gotten a magic eye like Mad-Eye Moody."

That startled a genuine laugh out of Ron. "Nah. Fortunately, my Sight comes naturally."

"Your mum didn't seem to think it was so fortunate, as I recall."

"Yeah." Ron's voice was subdued and Harry didn't pursue the subject. Mrs. Weasley had been less than pleased with Ron's chosen profession. In fact, she'd cried for days and begged Ron to change his mind. Her son had been horrified at the idea of quitting before he'd even made a go of it and all the tears in the world wouldn't sway him. Five years later Ron had gotten his wish, apparently, and he seemed happy enough with the results.

And why wouldn't he be? Harry thought, faintly bitter. He'd gotten what he wanted and had left behind anything that could hold him back. Life was probably a grand adventure for Auror Ron Weasley.

Or was it? Harry found himself recalling the story Ron had told him about the panther and he shivered slightly. And those were only the scars he had seen, what other ones were hidden beneath that coat Ron always seemed to wear?

His eyes were being drawn back to Ron's face and Harry found himself looking at his old friend as he hadn't since Ron arrived. For the first time he saw the slight hollows in Ron's cheeks, as if he hadn't been eating properly, and the fading purplish circles beneath his eyes. Just a touch too thin for his height, his skin just slightly too pale.

What had Ron been doing for the past few years?

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask. When Ron had brought up the subject, he hadn't wanted to listen, unable to think of a single thing that could excuse Ron's actions. Had he been too hasty? Was there a reason that, if not completely excusable, could be understandable?

Suddenly, he was terrified to ask, though whether he was afraid of being right or wrong he wasn't entirely sure. Never one to let fear stop him, Harry walked beside his old friend silently, working up the nerve and just as he opened his mouth, Ron spoke.

"Can I ask you something very rude that is absolutely none of my business?" Ron asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

Harry smiled a little, both relieved and disappointed at the interruption. "I suppose so."

They walked in silence a few minutes longer, apparently Ron had to work up his nerve as well, and then he finally asked, "What happened with Cho?"

Harry took a painfully deep breath at the mention of his ex-wife's name. They'd gotten married only a few months after graduation, with everyone that Harry had ever cared for there watching. Except one person, his absence made all the more conspicuous by the fact that no one mentioned his name to Harry the entire night. At the time, Harry had still been bewildered by Ron's disappearance, still sure that any day now he'd receive an owl, because Ron wouldn't do that to him. Ron wouldn't just vanish without a word; Ron was his friend, his closest friend...

He shook that memory away. His marriage hadn't been bad, but he could admit now that he'd been far too young, more in love with the idea of love than he had been with Cho. He'd tried, he'd done everything to make it work, and so had Cho, but she hadn't been able to fill the gaping hole that had been left when Ron had disappeared, and perhaps she'd gotten tired of trying.

No, that wasn't fair. He couldn't blame the break-up of his marriage on Ron. That had been his doing. It had happened slowly, beginning at Sirius' re-trial, when he'd finally cleared his name and Cho had refused to stand next to Harry during the trial.

"Sirius is free now," he said abruptly, and Ron blinked, nearly tripping over a protruding rock.

"Yes, I'd heard that," Ron said hesitantly and Harry remembered that he hadn't answered Ron's question and that Ron really couldn't read his thoughts, no matter how much it seemed like he could at times.

It had been odd when Ron's Sight had first begun to awaken years ago, and painful for Ron that he suddenly just -knew- things that he had no business knowing. Just snatches of thoughts sometimes, but Harry could recall more than one time when Ron was still learning to control his talent that he'd discovered things that he'd been better off not knowing. There was a reason that most people couldn't invade the private thoughts of others.

"I suppose," Harry started, slowly, "that we were just too young. Sounds a little trite, I reckon, but..." He shrugged slightly, and focused his eyes on the ground. The divorce had been final for over a year now but just thinking about it still made Harry's stomach tight and his eyes burn. "I really did love her," he said suddenly, as if only just realizing it himself. "But she..."

"She was in love with the idea of Harry Potter, not you," Ron said, as gently as Harry had ever heard him speak, and Harry nodded slightly, for once not upset with Ron's foresight. "I'm sorry," Ron added, quietly, and it seemed he was apologizing for both knowing and for it being true.

"It's all right," said Harry, and he meant it.

"So," Ron started, a note of forced cheerfulness in his voice, "What's been going on with the old crowd, then? I've been out of touch for a bit of a while now, you know."

"Yes, I know," Harry commented dryly, but for the first time he couldn't quite put his resentment over that to voice. This was almost painfully familiar, chatting with Ron like they were old friends. But really, weren't they old friends, anyway? With a jolt, he realized he wanted them to be. Wanted them to be -something- anyway, besides the near enemies they'd been of late.

Taking his cue from Ron, Harry pushed a touch of brightness into his own voice. "Well, you probably know that Hermione's working for the Ministry of Magic now."

"Yeah, I knew that one," said Ron wryly, "She'd be the one who contacted me over this little situation. Hasn't changed much, has she? Still a pain in the arse."

Harry snorted laughter and didn't argue the point. Hermione never had lost her streak of zealousness, and Ron had never properly appreciated it, either. "Let me think now. Neville is working out of Madame Tinsley's Apothecary, if you can believe that."

"Neville? But he was dreadful at Potions!"

Harry shrugged. "Yes, but he did rather well in Herbology and that's what he's doing there, I reckon. And Dean and Seamus both went on extended holiday, last I heard. Doing some kind of research on vampires in the Black Forest. And you've probably heard that Draco Malfoy died a few years back."

A strange expression crossed Ron's face. "Yes, I'd heard," he said curtly.

"Yeah," Harry said slowly. "I should have known you knew about that one. I only heard a little about it; the ministry hushed up most of it. Even Hermione couldn't tell me much."

"As well she shouldn't."

The edge of sharpness in Ron's voice startled Harry and he went quiet, the two of them walking now in silence. Their easy camaraderie was fading as quickly as it had come, and with a faint feeling of desperation, Harry tried to cling to it, wondering if their friendship was so lost that they couldn't even have a conversation anymore without one of them turning nasty.

"Can I ask a rude personal question now?" he blurted, not really wanting to ask anymore but suddenly afraid if he didn't ask now then he never would.

"Sure. Can't promise I'll answer it though," Ron said easily.

"Fair enough." Harry bit his lip, both wanting and not wanting to ask before he finally forced himself to say it. "Where were you? Why didn't you write to me?"

The open expression on Ron's face slammed closed faster than if it were on hinges. "I was busy," he said brusquely, "And that's all you need to know about it."

"You were busy," Harry repeated, disbelieving. "Oh, come on, you can do better than that!"

"Why should I?" Ron shot back. "You certainly didn't bloody well care when I first got here."

"Well, I wasn't even going to ask but Dumbledore..."

"Oh, well, should have known then," Ron snapped. "The mighty Dumbledore gives you a tweak and lights a fire under your pants and then you care about where I might have been."

"Don't you insult him!" Startled by Ron's sudden anger, Harry couldn't stop his own irritability from rising up. When had he become the bad guy in all this?

"Well, then you can stop acting like you're the only person on the bloody planet who's ever spoken to him!"

Now this was familiar to him, Ron's hair matched his temper and more than once during their school days Harry had felt the brunt of it. Anger, Harry could deal with, at least he knew this Ron, not the stranger that he had seen walking around with Ron's face.

"Look, let's just go inside..." Ron started, visibly trying to calm himself but Harry would have none of it. Ron had wanted to talk, so now they were going to talk, whether he liked the topic of conversation or
not.

"That's it? You were just 'busy'. Too busy to let me know you're alive? Too busy to even drop me a note? You managed to send one to your folks, how hard would it have been to write to me?"

"To hell with it." Ron muttered. "You want to stay out here and get yourself killed? Fine, have at it." He turned and walked away, only to whirl around almost immediately and storm back. "I don't have to be here, you know. I could have let someone else come."

"Then why didn't you!"

"I didn't trust anyone else!"

"Well, fat lot of good that does me! Where were you when I needed you? At Sirius' trial, when my wife sent me a stack of papers with the words 'divorced' stamped on the top of them, you were off gallivanting around
the countryside."

"You have no idea where I was or what I was doing," Ron said coldly. "No idea at all."

"Only because you won't tell me! I was your friend!" His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed on, unable to stop the words that had been dammed up inside him for over five years. He wanted Ron to give him excuses, and at the same time, irrationally, he wanted Ron's anger, wanted the friend he remembered to come back to him. "I knew you had to leave, but I didn't expect you to never come back!"

"Maybe I didn't come back because I couldn't stand to see how happy you were with your perfect wife and your perfect job, in your perfect house with its perfect little green shutters!" Without me. He didn't say it, he couldn't, bad enough that he was blaming this on Harry when it had been his own fault. If he hadn't been so weak, so sure of himself...

Harry's eyes narrowed. "How did you know about the house? We got that after you'd already been gone for months."

Ron bit his tongue, too late. "I've got a big mouth," he muttered, walking away but Harry was right behind him.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I shouldn't have said it."

"Well, you did, so tell me what you meant. Are you telling me that you left because you were jealous of me?"

"No!" Ron snapped, "Fuck, were you always this blind or is it something you picked up over the years? I may have had my moments of petty jealousy when I was a kid, but believe me, I've long since left it behind."

"Then what! What are you saying here? Just tell me the truth!"

"You want the truth?" Ron spat. "It wasn't you I was jealous of, Harry."

Abruptly, Harry found himself jerked forward, colliding into Ron's body and a hard mouth captured his startled lips in a nearly brutal kiss.

There was only one word to describe it. Hungry. Ron was devouring his mouth as if he were a starving man, teeth clicking painfully once before his tongue forced its way into Harry's mouth. Not that Harry was actually protesting. His shocked mind could barely accept what was happening, that this was Ron, once his closest friend, holding him tightly with hands feverishly moving over his back before sliding up to cup his cheeks, icy cold against the sudden, stinging heat of his face.

Harry stood there, frozen, as Ron's tongue explored his mouth with startling fierceness, lips cold and mouth furnace-hot, his fingers starting to dig painfully into Harry's face as Ron clung to him, and Harry just let him.

It was Ron who finally pulled away, Harry's shock mirrored on Ron's face as they stared at each other, both panting for breath.

"I...I'm sorry," Ron stammered, backing away, eyes still locked on Harry's face as if he couldn't tear them away.

Harry didn't quite feel capable of thought just yet, staring at Ron wordlessly as the other man raked a hand through his hair roughly.

"Look, I'm just...I'm sorry, all right?" Ron said again, finally pulling his eyes from Harry as he darted a glance towards the school. He took another hesitant step backwards. "I'm going to...I...don't stay outside too long."

He watched as Ron turned on heel and walked quickly away, crossing his arms over his chest as if to ward off a sudden chill, and Harry shivered himself, abruptly feeling the cold as he stood there alone in the mingled shadows of the forest and Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

Ron barely restrained himself from slamming his bedroom door, the knowledge that it would echo through the hallways and very possibly wake the teachers who slept in this wing gave him enough sanity for that.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" he muttered, throwing himself into the armchair next to the window, the wood creaking in protest at his violence. And even after what had just happened, he found himself pathetically looking out the window, hoping foolishly to catch just a glimpse of Harry still out on the grounds.

Nothing. Either Harry was out of view from this window or he'd gone back inside. Hopefully back inside. Ron let his head drop back, wincing as it connected solidly with the back of the chair, and then wishing he'd done it harder. Maybe he could knock some sense into himself.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the throb in his head and wishing very much that he could just flee the country, or, barring that, get very, very drunk, and wasn't he just full of wishes tonight? Get one wish granted and have four more pop in to take its place.

"Bloody hell, I need a drink!" he groaned, adding a shot of something bitter and strong to his list of wishes. Just as well that there was nothing available. Better not to start down that road again. He'd already wasted enough of his life thoroughly pissed because of Harry Potter and that was part of the reason he'd come to this blasted school to begin with.

His head was throbbing harder now, a growing ache that had nothing to do with him hitting it on the chair, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to concentrate. But it was so very easy to remember with his eyes shut, startled lips against his own, cold and dry in the chill of February weather, pliant, willing and the look on Harry's face when he'd pulled away, needing no Sight at all to understand. Shocked, yes, but something underneath it, as if Harry had just been waiting for him to do that all along.

Like he wouldn't say no, if Ron had only had the nerve to ask. And it had been so very wrong.

Ron had always known that if he showed Harry any affection then Harry would melt like ice into water and simple take it, whether he actually loved him or not. Harry was so starved for affection that he'd married the first girl he'd taken a bit of a shine to, and he'd had the chance to regret it, too.

He was never going to have the chance to regret Ron, not ever again. Maybe it was better this way, Ron decided tiredly. Harry was sure to start thinking that this was the reason he'd taken off, and at least this he could deal with. He wondered sourly when it was he'd grown so used to relying on lies. Part and parcel of the job, hovering on the borders between and he knew that some of the worst dark wizards had once been aurors themselves. So easy to pretend that you were actually helping the people, that your way was the best way and Ron's thoughts were unraveling themselves, getting tangled with other thoughts and wisps of dreams that were forcing their way past his wavering barriers.

Too much, so many people around him in such a small place and he lurched out of the chair, already tasting the warm salt of blood streaming from his nose. Half-blinded by the uncontrolled thoughts beating themselves against his brain, he managed to stumble over to his knapsack, fumbled desperately through its contents. The jumbled thoughts already eased as his fingers brushed against the rough wood of the bauble he was looking for. Heaving a sigh of relief, he pulled the small dream catcher out of the bag, feeling it draw everything away from him like it was supposed to and giving him a chance to start rebuilding his mental wall.

Wiping the blood off his face with the back of his hand, Ron sighed wearily. He'd had a bad feeling that this was going to happen eventually, he was so unused to being around so many people at once anymore. Getting shakily to his feet, Ron walked over the bed and tied the dream catcher awkwardly to bed curtains.

It was a small catcher, but it should last through the night. Ron had been avoiding using it because he didn't want to fill it up too quickly, they were quite difficult to find with all the enchantments he wanted, but tonight was definitely a night he wouldn't be sleeping without it. Already the second half of the enchantment was taking effect, making Ron yawn sleepily.

Stripping off his coat, Ron laid his head on the pillow, only just remembering to kick off his boots before he sank into a dreamless sleep, for once, not thinking of Harry Potter at all.

The lamp on his bedside table was dimmed as low as possible, but it didn't matter. Harry had looked at this photo album so many times he could predict the movement of every photograph, every smile and wave from his parents and their friends.

He slowly turned the next page, the whisper-thin sleeve of his invisibility cloak brushing softly against the paper, and he wondered briefly why he hadn't taken it off. It was a useless thing, really. Invisible or not, he still couldn't hide from anything. Not from what had happened with Cho, not from his own thoughts. Not from Ron.

Tracing a finger down the stiff paper backing of the page, Harry wondered what his parents would think of his mess of a life. Divorced already, alone, and apparently blind as well. It hurt to think that in his own self-centeredness he'd apparently ignored what now seemed to be so plainly obvious. Ron still shouldn't have left without saying anything, but could he really blame Ron for leaving when it seemed he was the one who'd driven him away?

Harry snorted quietly, finally shrugging off the robe. Now he was just being maudlin and he wasn't going to add that to his list of stupid things he'd done lately.

This wasn't over with, he decided suddenly. Ron hadn't left the school, as far as he knew, and that meant he still had time to try to repair their friendship, if he wanted, and for the first time in years Harry wanted that more than anything else in the world.

Blowing out the lamp, Harry snuggled into the warm blankets and drifted off to sleep, already planning for what he knew would be an interesting task, indeed.

Chapter Text

Repairing his friendship with Ron was proving to be a slightly more difficult task than Harry had first thought. Difficult, because despite half a night sleeping restlessly, with the other half spent staring at his bed curtains while he thought about it, he couldn't even come up with a good way to start.

Ron had already been at breakfast when Harry had gone down to the Great Hall that morning, sitting in his now-customary seat next to a rather sour-faced Severus Snape. Harry wasn't about to go to Ron then and have a chat. He could just see that; no doubt Snape would have been highly amused by any conversation Harry started with the words, 'About that kiss last night,' and providing Snape with any entertainment ranked right up there with accidentally Apparating himself into two places at once.

In the end, he hadn't done anything more than offer Ron a feeble smile after breakfast before he went off to the library to do some research, Ron trailing behind him like some overgrown puppy who hadn't a home. He seemed perfectly content to pretend that nothing at all had happened, which, Harry supposed, would work for now. At least Ron hadn't run off again.

Seated in the middle of the library, Harry was trying to concentrate on his book while ignoring the person fidgeting across from him. Ron had forsaken his coat today, though he was still dressed completely in black, and he had pulled his hair up into a high ponytail at the back of his head, which should have looked ridiculous but rather made him look like a very tall twelve year old.

Ron didn't seem to enjoy the library any more now than he had when he was actually a student. He fidgeted impatiently; bouncing a leg hard enough to shake the entire table while Harry ignored his blatant sighs and tapping fingers. Several times he had started to put his feet up on the table and when Harry had glared at him he'd frozen, smiling sheepishly as he put his feet back down.

It might have been less annoying if Harry hadn't had to stifle laughter every time. Had he really thought Ron had changed that much?

Ron had apparently had enough when he finally managed to accidentally fling a quill he'd been fiddling with halfway across the room, nearly skewering Madame Pince. He stood up abruptly, casting a shamefaced look at the librarian. "Harry, if you're going to be here a while, I'm going to go walk the grounds. I'll be back in a bit."

Harry nodded absently, watching from beneath his lashes as Ron walked out of the library, nearly running out, really, in his apparent eagerness to be free of anything to with silence and books.  

Leather pants. Ron was wearing leather pants.

The man was odd.

What was worse was that Harry wasn't sure whether to shake his head and just accept that Ron was nutters or to be envious that he actually looked good in them.

Hold it. Rewind thought. Had he just thought that Ron looked good those pants? More to the point, had he just been looking at Ron to actually see that he looked good? Never mind Ron, he was the one that was nutters. Returning his attention to his book, Harry forced himself to concentrate. His students might think the weekend was made solely for slacking off but as a teacher he no longer had that luxury, and there was another solid argument in favor of never growing up.

It was nearly an hour later when he resurfaced enough to realize that Ron hadn't come back. Shutting his book, Harry put it back on the shelf before deciding he'd better go and look for him.

Not that he was worried. It was just that Ron was supposed to be here to protect him and he couldn't exactly do that if he wasn't around.

It only took him a handful of steps out the library doors to find him. Sitting on the bottom of the stairs, Ron was surrounded by a group of students, apparently in the midst of a story of some sort.  

"So there I was," said Ron to his rapt audience. One young girl that Harry recognized as a sixth year Hufflepuff was pressed so closely to Ron's leg that she could have been stitched to his pants, and looking at her, Harry felt a twinge of something in his stomach, a burning as if someone had cast a hex on him. No, not a hex, because even Muggles had to feel this once in a while, and Harry resisted the urge to rip the girl away from Ron and take 20 points from her house for touching.

He groaned to himself. Now he was getting jealous of his own students. Perfect. He was definitely losing his mind.

"I was surrounded on all sides by these dragons, at least ten of them," Ron was saying. "All of them ready to breathe flames and make me an Auror flambé. But I knew if I didn't do something then that dark wizard would get away."

A dozen pair of wide eyes were watching him, leaning in as Ron lowered his voice. "I knew I couldn't let that Wizard escape again. So I pulled out my wand and cast the only spell I could think of that might just work." He gestured with his empty hand, mimicking using his wand and Harry covered his mouth with his own hand, hiding a smile. "In no time at all, I had those dragons purring at my feet like kittens." Harry would have given his left hand to have this kind of attention from his students in class.  

"As fascinating as that was, Mr. Weasley," Harry said dryly, stepping out so the children could see him. "I believe the rest of you have other places to be?" The students hastily gathered their things and scattered, leaving Ron sitting alone on the stairs and looking embarrassed.

"I'm sorry about that, one of them asked me what I did and I just sort of..." Ron shrugged uncomfortably, "I'm sorry."

Harry felt a pang of his own guilt that Ron was watching him so warily, obviously waiting to be scolded as if he were a student as well. Had he really been so nasty to Ron that he expected to be yelled at for every little thing?

He had, Harry realized and he felt even worse to know it, that he'd stolen whatever small amount of joy Ron had had in telling a story to the children.

Forcing a smile, even though his stomach was twisting, Harry asked lightly, "How much of that was actually true?"

Some of Ron's guardedness melted away and he grinned back, much to Harry's relief.

"Well, it may have only been one dragon," Ron admitted, and at Harry's look, "All right, a fledgling dragon. And I might've...er...gotten my eyebrows singed before I got to the purring part."

"And the purring part?" Harry prompted.

Ron grinned unabashedly. "That may have actually been the part where I ran like hell," he confessed.

"Perhaps I should nickname you Lockhart, eh? Going to start curling your hair and wearing pink robes soon?"

Clutching his chest dramatically, Ron sprawled backwards onto stairs, convulsing as if struck with a curse. "Ah! The cruelty! Shot down in the middle of my prime. At least there was really a dragon."

Unable to help himself, Harry laughed hard, leaning against the wall as he tried to catch his breath. It wasn't even that the joke was all that funny, only that this was Ron, his Ron, who knew better how to make him laugh than any person ever had.

Ron watched him from his perch on the stairs, seeming very pleased and that was familiar too. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite as difficult as he'd first thought.

Wiping tears from his eyes, Harry finally held out a hand to Ron and helped him to his feet before moving to walk up the stairs himself.

"Where are we going now?" asked Ron, falling into step next to him

"I thought I'd go upstairs to the Owlery and visit Hedwig."

Ron grinned. "You still have her? She as fast as she used to be?"

"Of course I still have her," Harry said indignantly. "She's a little slower now than she was but she's still a good owl. Don't you still have Pig?"

Some of Ron's good humor seemed to fade and he focused his eyes forward. "No. He died a few years ago."

"Ron, I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "Nah, you couldn't have known. You know, that little bugger spent half his time driving me loony. When I was training him as my Familiar, I thought I was out of my mind, but when it came down to it, he died saving my life. He always tried so hard..."

Harry put a hand on Ron's shoulder and stopped him, and Ron turned to look at him questioningly, his face only inches away, and Harry promptly forgot whatever it was he'd intended to say.

The both of them seemed frozen for a moment, standing so very close; close enough that Harry could see the flecks of gold in Ron's eyes. Odd, in all the years he'd known Ron, he'd never noticed that before. He'd always thought Ron's eyes were just plain blue, but then, when had anything about Ron been plain?

"Ron?" he finally said, his voice cracking, and he cleared his throat. "Ron, about last night..."

It was as if a brick wall had suddenly dropped from the ceiling and fallen between them. Ron nearly stumbled backwards, not stopping until he hit the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest, and Harry got the idea that he was wishing for his absent coat.

"I don't want to talk about it," Ron muttered, seeming to find the stone stairs to be utterly riveting.

"Ron, I..."

"What part of 'Don't want to talk about it' didn't get there? Just forget it, all right? I..."

"If you two are quite finished, there are other people who would like to use the stairs."

Harry whirled so fast he would have fallen down the stairs if Ron hadn't caught his arm, his fingers tightening painfully for a moment before letting him go. Harry wondered absently if he'd have a bruise, and then didn't bother to wonder about anything else as his hackles rose at the sight of the person who'd spoken.

Snape was on the stairs beneath them, looking even more sour than usual, and Harry could have screamed in frustration. Trust Snape to prance on in and spoil what little progress he might have been making. Which wasn't much he'd admit, but you had to start somewhere.

"I beg your pardon," Harry said politely as he took an exaggerated step back. Snape walked on past them, his eyes never leaving Harry and he paused on the step above them.

"And I doubt such scenes are appropriate while in the sight of our students, Professor Potter. Perhaps I could beg of you not to grope each other in hallways where anyone can see you."

"We weren't groping each other, Severus," Ron said quietly. Snape turned to look at Ron as if just noticing him. They locked eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment and then, to Harry's surprise, Snape turned away and continued up the stairs, calling back to them, "Just remember what I said, Potter."

Harry gritted his teeth and said nothing. The moment was lost. "You have to admit, the man knows how to hold a grudge. All this time and he still hates me."

"Maybe you just remind him too much of your father," Ron said, almost absently. "Look, why don't you go visit Hedwig. I've got a few things to do." He darted up the stairs before Harry could say another word, disappearing down a hallway.

Wonderful, Harry thought sourly, when I don't want him around he's walking on my heels and when I do he vanishes every two minutes.

Typical.

Ron walked silently down the hallway, not looking at any of the waving paintings for once as he 'felt' his way along as lightly as he could. At the last classroom, just beyond the statue of the humpbacked witch, he hesitated, and then walked into the classroom, shutting the door behind him.

"What was that all about, Severus?"

Snape stood in the middle of the classroom, arms folded as he studied Ron before finally deciding to answer him. "I was just curious as to whether or not you and Mr. Potter had gotten around to discussing me," he said softly, but the lack of bite in his voice meant nothing to Ron. It didn't take an Auror to see the emotions flashing in those black eyes and Ron fought back a sigh.

"Severus, there are many things I would like to discuss with Harry," Ron said patiently, hoping that he didn't sound too condescending. "Lots of them. You are not one of them. You aren't even on the reserve list."

"Oh, I was just thinking that someday if you were bored you might tell an idle little story about me to amuse him."

"I doubt there is anything I could tell him about you that would amuse him," Ron said dryly, turning to leave.

"I'm sure there is nothing I could tell him about you to amuse him either."

Ron halted, looking at Snape through narrowed eyes. "Is that a threat?"

"Not at all! Only that if you tell him certain things about me, he'll surely wonder where you heard such things and I..."

Before he even knew what he was doing, Ron had knotted his hands into Snape's robes and slammed him against the wall. "I'm not going to play games with you, Snape. I haven't told Harry anything about you and I don't intend to."

Severus smiled thinly. "Good. You keep your secrets and I will keep mine."

"Thank you," he said sardonically. "I think Harry has a poor enough opinion of the both of us without adding to the mix."

"What makes you think I'm concerned about his opinion of me?"

"I don't."

"I just wanted to remind you that you have an oath," said Snape, the faintest edge to his voice.

"I could hardly forget it. I don't need you to remind me of my duties, Severus."

"No, I don't suppose you do," he murmured, and Ron abruptly realized Severus' face was as close as Harry's had been moments earlier, closer even, his own body holding Snape's against the wall. Only Severus wasn't trying to get away. Not at all. And his hands...

"I thought you were against people groping each other?" Ron asked archly, not moving.

"Oh, in the hallways, certainly. But this is a classroom."

"So you'd rather I tried groping Harry in the classrooms?"

"Actually, I was thinking that perhaps you'd be better off focusing on an easier target," Severus said softly, tilting his head just so before he kissed him.

Nothing gentle or tender, kisses much like Snape himself, his tongue forcing Ron's lips apart and sliding inside to toy with Ron's. Tightening his grip on Severus' robe, Ron nipped lightly at that probing tongue, briefly sweeping his own over the dark softness of Snape's mouth before he pulled back, breathing heavily.

Snape's breathing was no more steady than his own, and he tilted his head upward, offering without words.

Silently, Ron let go of his robes, and stepped back, hesitating as uncertainty rose in those dark eyes. He reached out and rested his knuckles against Snape's cheek. "If you'd had the chance to at least try, would you have given up?" Ron asked softly and Snape's mouth twisted. Ron let his hand fall as Severus stepped away, straightening his robes briskly.

"At least try to stay out of the hallways, hmm? I doubt that's the kind of education the students came here to receive, no matter how much they might enjoy it."

Chapter Text

It was rather impressive how often a person could see someone else, and yet not really have a chance to see them at all.

Harry sat at his desk in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, absently shredding the feathers off his quill as he waited for his next class to arrive, wondering where Ron had gotten off to. He was certain Ron was about somewhere nearby, but exactly where he wasn't sure, and digging out the Marauder's Map seemed to be cheating, somehow, in whatever little game Ron was trying to play with him.

In the past week he'd done everything he could think of to corner Ron someplace, and every plan he'd had had been nothing but an exercise in wasted effort. Not that Ron hadn't been around, quite the contrary. He'd been in every one of Harry's classes, being the diligent bodyguard, at every meal in the Great Hall, sitting quietly next to Snape, but any time Harry had tried to get him alone, Ron had always been a few steps away somehow, vanishing whenever Harry worked up the determination to try and talk to him about...what it was they needed to talk about.

Annoying little prat, he thought sourly, as quick as a pixie and as stubborn and prideful as a griffin. Still, he hadn't left Hogwarts to disappear into parts unknown, and Harry had never in his life backed down from a challenge, not even one as odd as this.

One of the students walked into the classroom, followed by several more and Harry straightened up in his chair, putting on his 'teacher' face. The class was half assemble when Ron finally came in, plunking down in his customary desk, far in the back.

Harry glared at him for a moment, the students forgotten as Ron gazed back with a look of utter innocence. A nice try, Weasley, he thought, but you aren't going to be able to hide behind the children forever.

He waited a moment for the last stragglers to dash in and collapse into their seats before he got to his feet, moving to stand in front of his desk and putting Ron out of his mind, for the moment.

This was his Slytherin class, not particularly one he enjoyed, but Harry tried to be as fair as he possible could. He refused to play favorites between the houses, his own school years still close enough in memory for him to recall how much he had disliked it.

"To begin with today, we're going to have a short quiz," Harry announced, ignoring the groans from various parts of the room. "I'd like to see how well all of you are grasping my lectures. Please put your books underneath your desk, all you'll need is a quill and a piece of parchment."

Harry turned around to gather his notes together and heard someone behind him mutter, "If I'd have known we'd be taking a quiz every bloody day, I'd have taken a second Potions class."

Just loud enough for Harry to identify the speaker and he turned back around, moving to stand in front of Leon Alstead's desk. A snobbish boy from a well-to-do family, he reminded Harry rather unpleasantly of Draco Malfoy. Harry fixed him with a glare without saying a word, and Alstead subsided immediately, a sullen expression on his face.

He ignored whatever word it was Alstead mumbled under his breath, reaching again for his notes when another, again familiar, voice spoke up.

"Just shut your gob and take the bloody test," Ron muttered, loudly enough for the entire class to hear, and Harry frowned, opening his mouth to rebuke them both, and then frowning deeper, his brow creasing as he studied Ron. Come to think of it, wasn't he just a touch pale?

The boy's mouth dropped open, cheeks flushing as he turned around to look at Ron. "Do you know who my father is?" he demanded imperiously.

"Yes, I know who he is and I expect he knows me," Ron said, rubbing his temples briefly before glaring back at the boy, "But let me tell you something, child. You won't always have your father's money and influence cutting a path through life for you. Some day you'll wake up and find yourself in the real world with no one to depend on but yourself, and I promise you, on that day you'll be wishing that you'd paid just a little better attention in class."

He stood up slowly, eyes never leaving the increasingly pale Leon as the rest of the class, including Harry, watched him in stunned silence. "Someday, you'll be all alone, watching everyone you ever cared about dying around you one by one, and you'll be standing there by yourself in a cheap little flat, wondering where you went wrong, hating yourself
more and more, hating the world and after that it'll only be a matter of time, just a little time before..."

Ron fell silent, swaying slightly before his eyes rolled back and flashed whites as he abruptly collapsed to the floor, landing hard as he started to convulse.

Harry rudely shoved his way through the crowd of panicking students, nearly pushing one over a desk as he struggled to get to Ron. He'd only seen this once before, and he felt like he was half outside himself, admiring his own calm as he moved chairs and desks aside so that Ron wouldn't hurt himself thrashing against them.

As quickly as his seizure had started, it was over and Ron lay on the floor completely still, eyes vacant and staring. Amidst the various uproar of cries and scuffling around him Harry heard one girl, Patrice Weaberman, he thought, blubbering that he was dead.

"Hush, he isn't dead," Harry said sharply, his gut clenching tight at the very thought. "He's in a trance. Just keep back, he might startle when he comes out of it." He knew it was a trance, had seen Ron do this once before, when he'd first come into his Sight, and yet, he was so very pale, the freckles that Harry had thought vanished sprinkled across his cheeks like flecks of ink on a sheet of parchment. A single droplet of blood trickled down his cheek from his nose, starkly
crimson, and Harry found he couldn't tear his eyes away from that ugly streak of color, watched it slowly creep down Ron's face before disappearing into his hair.

The only sound in the classroom was the unnatural silence of the fearful, all the students watching warily as Ron blinked once, twice, and in unison they fell back with a cry as he scrambled to his feet, staggering slightly as he looked around the room in bewilderment, more droplets of blood spattering the floor in perfect circles of scarlet.

"It's all right," Harry soothed, cursing himself silently for not dismissing the students when he'd had a chance. He stepped closer, reaching towards Ron but not touching. "You're fine. Ron? Look at me now, come on. It's good. It's all right."

Ron blinked again, eyes clearing as if he suddenly recognized who was speaking to him. He wiped a hand over his face, looking at the dark streak of blood on it for a moment before looking back up.

"Harry?" he asked uncertainly.

Harry smiled at him in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. "That's right. You're here, Ron. You're all right."

He blinked again, looking around the room wildly. "I saw something..." said Ron, his bloody hand straying towards his coat pocket.

"No!" Harry shouted, and all the students jumped along with Ron, another cry escaping Patrice before she crammed her hand against her mouth to stifle it. "No, don't do that," he said, softening his tone. The last thing they needed was for Ron to start firing curses about in a classroom of frightened students.

Ron blinked again, as if the light was suddenly too bright, and he shook his head a little, closing his eyes as he pressed the palm of his hand firmly against his forehead.

"I'm fine," he muttered, and then louder. "I'm fine. Just been closing off a little too tight lately."

Harry nodded, more for his students than for Ron. "I know," he said, softly. "Why don't you let me take you to the Infirmary." He reached out, barely touching Ron's arm before he jerked away like Harry's touch stung.

"No," Ron said, taking a step backward. "I just need some fresh air." He turned on heel and strode out of the classroom, leaving Harry with nearly two-dozen panicked students to calm, pushing aside his own worry for the moment while he did his job, even as his eyes strayed back to the door, vainly hoping that Ron would come back.

******

The desk chair was quite uncomfortable, but at that moment, going to bed seemed to be entirely too much effort.

Ron was slumped over his desk, arms over his head to block out the light as he idly passed the time counting the throbs of pain knocking against his skull. He'd feel a bit better with sleep, he knew that, but getting to sleep was the difficult part when he'd had episodes like this.

Of course, he couldn't have had his little incident while he was alone in his room. That would've been too easy.

He recalled with vivid humiliation coming back to himself in the middle of Harry's class, dozens of students staring at him with wet eyes and open mouths. Just lovely.

Ron couldn't even remember what he'd said to the Alstead boy, but he hoped grimly that it'd been something properly horrid. Anything to keep from having to meet him a dozen years later, whatever handsomeness he'd ever had turned twisted and ugly, because using the Dark Powers tended to show on the outside as well as the in.

Anything so he didn't have to watch him die.

Ron sighed deeply, the sound muffled against the wood of the desk. What in blazes was he still doing here anyway? He'd been here weeks now and hadn't been able to find even a hint of Voldemort, not even a tingle of the kind of power he'd emanate. And Harry would probably know if he was about before Ron did. So why was he staying here, with nothing but glimpses of Harry and throbbing headaches to keep him company?

Maybe over the years he'd turned into some kind of masochist.

A sudden, sharp rap on the door made him winced, clenching his fingers into his hair tightly for a moment. Harry, most likely. He'd been trying to avoid Harry all week, so wasn't it just his luck to finally get cornered when he was at his worst? He couldn't even use his Sight to check that it was him.

Dragging himself to his feet, Ron padded quietly across the room, tucking his wand into his back pocket as a precaution as he cautiously cracked open the door.

"Professor McGonagall," he said, somewhat blankly, and then hastily opened the door further. She swept in briskly, pausing in the middle of the room before she turned around to face him.

"Professor Potter told me you had a little incident in one of his classes today," McGonagall stated crisply, not wasting time with anything resembling a greeting.

"Did he now." Ron shut the door and leaning back against it, folding his arms over his chest. Five years out of school and he still felt like a quivering child under McGonagall's penetrating stare. She'd always claimed that she didn't have a single jot or tittle of foresight, but Ron had his doubts.

"Oh, yes. His students were quite, shall we say, affected by it. Most especially a Leon Alstead; he's in the infirmary right now, resting."

"It would do him some good to have a little sense shocked into him," Ron said, rolling his eyes.

"And you?" she asked archly. "Do you need some sense shocked into you as well?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Ron said brusquely, in his best 'I'm-an-Auror-don't-mess-with-me' voice.

"Do not take that tone with me, young man. I taught you most of what you know about shielding. I could have let Trewlawney do it, you know."

Their eyes met briefly and then they quickly looked away, both nearly quivering with suppressed laughter before McGonagall quietly cleared her throat.

"Potter mentioned that you'd had a nosebleed. When was the last time you did a proper letdown in a safe spot?"

Ron rubbed the bridge of his nose ruefully and said nothing. McGonagall sighed in exasperation.

"All right, then, that's only part of the reason I came. Here is the list of students that you wanted, although goodness knows what you want it for."

Ron smiled wryly and he took the rolls of parchment. "Maybe it's because I was a student here not too long ago, but I can clearly recall several students in my time who would have had no qualms about killing someone. I seem to remember that Voldemort killed a student himself while he attended Hogwarts."

She frowned. "That's true, but certainly I'd consider it an isolated incident..."

"Also," Ron cut in, "I can think of two or three wizards just off the top of my head who would gladly sacrifice their own child if they thought they could gain something from it." At McGonagall's expression, he added, softer, "I'm not accusing anyone, Professor, I just don't want to take a chance."

"Oh, really," she said irritably, "I've known you for over a decade, Ronald. Surely we can call each other by our first names."

Ron laughed. "Make it 'Ron' and you've got a deal."

"Well, if there is anything to find I'm sure you'll manage. As many times as you managed to get yourself into trouble while you attended this school, you always managed to find a way back out as well." She hesitated slightly, and then added, "I was always quite fond of you, Ronald Weasley. I knew you'd become someone a little extraordinary."

Ron felt his cheeks redden at the unaccustomed praise. "What makes you say that?"

"With brothers like yours, how could you become anything less?" Some of his pleasure at her words dimmed at that, only to stutter back upwards in surprise as she added blithely. "With five brothers who were nothing short of remarkable, you could either become extraordinary or nothing at all. And I always believed you were far too stubborn to settle for nothing."

They stood silently for hardly a moment when a knock at the door broke their reverie. Ron sighed quietly, steeling himself to answer it. Should have known it wasn't Harry at the door before; even feeling like half his brains were hanging out, he could still feel the unmistakable aura signature of one Harry Potter.

Opening the door a crack, he peered out into the expected set of concerned green eyes, and once again, Ron was astonished at how little Harry had changed.

Looking at him, a person might only see a young man wearing glasses, with messy hair and wearing robes that were just slightly too big on him, a habit he'd gotten into from always being forced to wear his cousin Dudley's hand-me-downs. One might see a quiet, bookish sort of person, at first glance.

Then Harry would tilt his head just so and you would see the scar, and that was the golden ticket, there. People took notice of it, for good or bad. Ron had even paid it far more attention than it deserved, once.

Until he'd really met the person who had to live with that scar, and that part of Harry really hadn't changed much either. Still a little too brave, a little too concerned about certain things, maybe.

Ron blinked, realizing he'd been standing at the door staring for a good long minute now, and Harry was looking distinctly uncomfortable. The slightly vicious streak that Ron had in him took a tiny bit of pleasure at watching him squirm before he silently held open the door.

"I was a bit worried about you, you weren't at dinner and...oh!" He halted, blinking in surprise at McGonagall. "Er, hello, Professor."

"The good Professor was just doing a favor for me," Ron said hurriedly, slanting a warning glance at McGonagall. She arched a brow at him and said nothing.

Harry looked from Ron to McGonagall uncertainly. "Right. Well, I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Oh, I'm just fine," Ron lied with forced cheerfulness, and at McGonagall's look, he amended, "Just a bit of a headache, you know. Nothing that a little sleep won't cure. You know, sleep?" he stressed when neither of them moved.

"Yes, of course," Harry said reluctantly, when it became obvious that McGonagall wasn't going to leave before him. "Well, I suppose I'll see you in class tomorrow?"

Ron opened his mouth to reply but before he could McGonagall did it for him. "I think that Mr. Weasley could probably stand a day off, away from the students?" she said. "I daresay the students may need a day off from you as well, don't you think?"

Both young men scowled at her. McGonagall stood unmoved, years of experience in dealing with impertinent youngsters standing in good stead for her. Finally, they surrendered, bested by a superior force, and both of them mumbled in agreement. She nodded briskly.

"Well, then, I suggest we let Mr. Weasley get some rest." She shooed Harry towards and then out the door, pausing briefly before she followed him to call softly to Ron, "That's the last favor I'm granting you, Ronald. Next time you can deal with him on your own."

Ron could do nothing but stare after them, and wonder exactly when he'd lost control of his life. Perhaps just after he'd left home, or maybe he'd never had control at all. He remembered what McGonagall had said about his brothers, and a sudden, sharp burst of homesickness staggered him; he hadn't seen his mum and dad in as many years as he hadn't seen Harry, hadn't even heard from them for over a year now. He wondered if Ginny had finally decided to marry her young man, whom Ron had never met, if Charlie was still researching the dragons, if Percy had ever even missed him...

Ron forced himself to go lay down, closing his eyes and trying to fall asleep before he ended up sobbed like a little baby. Everything that had happened in his life was his own fault, and in the end, he figured, they were probably better off without him.

But he still missed them.

Chapter Text

Normally the professors of Hogwarts do not creep about the castle. Their profession demanded them to show a certain amount of dignity and poise, even superiority on occasion. The fragile lives of hundreds of students were held within the clasp of their hands, and one slip could not only be fatal to a student, but to others as well. Magic could be a dangerous business and every teacher at Hogwarts had seen that firsthand, at one time or another.

If any person in Hogwarts knew the near-fatal quality magic could possess it was Harry Potter, and he taught his students with care, balancing friendliness and reserve as best he could, knowing that he couldn’t afford to wrap himself up in the intimate personal details of each of his students. He knew the rules.

And yet, Harry Potter had never been a great follower of rules.

Which was why he was skulking outside the doors of the Great Hall, trying to peer inside enough to see if Ron had arrived for breakfast, and yet not so far that Ron might be able to see him looking. It was a pity that Dumbledore had put the High Table so far from the doorway…

“Professor Potter?”

Harry jumped, nearly tripping over the hem of his robe and he whirled around to see one of his students watching him curiously. So much for dignity, he sighed mentally.

“Yes, Miss Erlanger?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“Are you…all right, sir?” Miss Erlanger asked hesitantly, apparently having heard about the incident in his class the day before. Probably waiting to see if Harry would collapse and start moaning nonsense as well.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Harry waved her off impatiently, and then changed his mind as inspiration stuck. “No, wait,” he called, and she walked back, warily. “Be a dear and peek into the hall for me. Just see if Mr. Weasley is there, won’t you?” He gave her his most winning smile, deciding that if professional dignity was already lost, he might as well try a bit of charm instead.

Erlanger smiled back, shyly, and Harry winced mentally as the horrifying thought of having a love struck second year in his class for the next several months came to him. Ah, well, better to deal with the matter at hand and worry about that when and if it happened.

Opening the door, Erlanger peeked inside for a moment before pulling back to whisper, “Yes, sir, Professor, sir. He’s sitting at the end of the table.”

“Thank you, dear,” he said absently, steeling himself for the battle ahead. He and Ron were going to have a talk, even if it killed one of them…and given both their temperaments as of late, it was probably a distinct possibility. Just as well that Madame Pomfrey usually took her breakfast in the Great Hall.

Squaring his shoulders, Harry strolled in as nonchalantly as he could, walking quickly to the High Table before Ron could see him and vanish.

It seemed that all his precautions were hardly necessary. Ron was slumped in his chair looking distinctly pale, and for a moment worry over his friend overshadowed his determination. His day off didn’t seem to have done Ron much good.

Still, the more ruthless part of Harry conscious argued, if he was ill then getting any answers from him would probably be easier, and if he waited much longer Ron might get ill enough to leave, considering that an ill Auror was hardly a very good one…shoving his guilt aside, Harry walked up to the table and stood next to Ron. “Is this seat taken?” he asked, politely.

Ron startled, glancing up at Harry for a moment before his eyes skittered away. He looked next to him as if startled to see there were chairs. “Snape usually sits there,” Ron offered, slowly.

“Well, I don’t see his name written on it.” Harry tapped it lightly with his wand and the words ‘Harry Potter’ gleamed brightly on the back of it. Ron rolled his eyes, and resumed what seemed to be an effort to mangle what might once have been toast.

Harry made a great show of filling his plate with food, watching discreetly as Ron nibbled on his maybe-toast. Harry had had perhaps dozens of ideas of how to begin this conversation, stemming from the most discreet to the positively ridiculous. He’d finally decided to bring the topic up gently and considering Ron’s pallor, perhaps gentle would be the best route to take.

In the end, however, as Harry found himself staring at Ron’s lips, the only spot of color in his otherwise white face, and remembering how soft they had been, how cold in contrast to the burning heat of his mouth, the conversation started itself, perfectly without Harry’s permission as his mouth chose that moment to ask, softly, “Why did you kiss me?”   

Ron nearly choked, coughing painfully on his last bite of toast, and Professor Flitwick patted him on the back helpfully, the effort nearly tumbling the tiny man out of his chair.

Ron gave Flitwick a tightlipped smile and shook him off as politely as he could before taking a drink from his glass. “Harry, I don’t think this is the best place to discuss this,” Ron muttered into his water.

“Well, unless you wanted to talk about it in front of one of my classes, this will have to do,” Harry retorted. “I can’t seem to corner you anywhere else.”

Ron sighed wearily. “Why do we even need to talk about it at all? You’re a teacher, Harry, I’d have guessed you’d be able to puzzle your way through this on your own.”

“I can’t seem to puzzle my way through anything about you.”

“What do you want to hear, Harry? That I haven’t had a good shag in over a year now?” Ron hissed, turning his toast to crumbs as he twisted it agitatedly between his fingers.  

“So, what? You kissed me because you’re horny?”

Flitwick was staring at his plate and chewing so determinedly that Harry was certain he was going to chip a tooth and Harry suddenly realized that most of the table was eating in much the same fashion, with the exclusion of Professor Dumbledore who was instead peering down the table, one eyebrow raised in question. Harry smiled at him weakly.

“Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else,” Harry muttered, feeling his cheeks redden.

“You always had the best ideas,” Ron replied dryly, wiping his hands on his napkin with distaste. Ron dropped his napkin on his plate, pushed away from the table, and Harry followed, determined not to let his chance escape him now.

Ron didn’t seem to be making any attempts at escaping; instead he just walked slowly through the hallways, Harry following him in silent puzzlement. Up the stairs to the Gryffindor tower, then past, wandering with seemingly aimless purpose until Harry dared to ask softly, “Ron?”

Ron stopped abruptly in the middle of the hallway and Harry nearly ran into him. Rubbing his temples with one hand, Ron turned away, facing the wall away from Harry as he spoke with startling calm.

“I kissed you because I love you.”

Harry reeled backwards, finding the wall suddenly solid behind his shoulders as he stared at the man who had once been his closest friend, hardly able to breath in the sudden silence of Ron’s announcement. He could feel the cold bricks of the wall beneath his fingertips, rough stone catching at his skin, the muted colors of the rugs at their feet dazzled in his eyes, the thousand tiny details of this one hallway swamping him, and Harry swallowed hard, trying to force his suddenly reluctant vocal cords to form words, any words to chase away this awful silence.

Yet it was Ron who spoke first, sounding all the worse in the face of Harry’s silence. “Would you rather I’d just lied about it?” he asked, with great weariness. “You want me to leave? Fine. You win. I’ll go.”

Words finally tore free from Harry’s reluctant throat, tiny and lost. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Then what do you want, Harry?” Ron blew out his breath in frustration, finally turning to face him and this Ron didn’t look different to him so much as simply old, exhaustion lining his face with years that didn’t exist. “You want me to sit here and confess all my sins? You keep asking me questions that you don’t want to know the answer to. Just tell me what you want.” Ron held his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. “Please.”

Harry stepped forward without a thought, past the hands and through the arms, and kissed him, clumsily, hands rendered dumb and powerless as they clutched at Ron’s coat. And Ron responded; rescuing him like Ron had always tried to so many times before, gentling Harry’s touch as their mouths met in a sweet, longing kiss that left Harry aching more in his heart than his body. And then Ron pushed him away, one hand cupping Harry’s cheek.  

“No,” Ron said gently. “That’s what I want.”

And he walked away.

Chapter Text

Harry knows about dreams. Once, a few years back, he'd charmed himself to remember his dreams for a night and, as interesting as it was, Harry had learned quickly why people didn't generally remember their dreams. Most of them are nothing more than an odd mishmash of images that mean little and offer nothing but a rotten headache when you tried to interpret them.

But he also knew that there were dreams and then there were dreams; the Other dreams.

He can classify those dreams into three categories. The ones that start with the laughter, the ones that start with the blinding green light, and the worst ones, the ones that always woke him with a unspoken scream on his lips. The ones that start with blood.

Harry always knew the dreams for what they were as they happened; nothing more than a few random pictures in his mind. But he also knew it wouldn't stay a dream and when he woke the pictures would solidify into reality, and it would no longer be a dream of blood but rather a certainty of it. Someone would die. Those were the blood dreams, where no amount of scrubbing could make him feel clean, even though he knew he had never truly been stained with it. Those were the three Other dreams that woke him sometimes in the night.

But his dream this night was something else entirely.

Worse even than the one he'd had only two days before his wedding, when he'd woken with tears still wet on his face and certain, beyond any doubt, that Ron was dead, the very worst of the blood dreams he'd ever had and the shock of learning that Ron hadn't died was almost worse than learning that he'd lived.

This dream, and he never forgot it was a dream even as he was within it, was worse than he'd ever thought possible. Because the blood should be there, a fan of technicolor crimson splattered over his vision. He could hear the screams, hoarse and raw, the sound of someone who had been suffering for hours and had no end in sight. He could hear the screams and knowing the blood should be there made its absence all the more disturbing.

Harry fell to his knees, cold concrete beneath him as he searched the floor like a blind man, chafing his hands against a floor that suddenly seemed made of razorblades and still there was no blood, nothing but torn, empty flesh and someone was screaming, endlessly, mirroring back at him in a hollow echo and if they would just shut up for a moment perhaps he could find it, find the missing blood and there was nothing but the screams and the acidic burning on his forehead and no blood, no...no...

"No!"

Harry woke with all his blankets kicked aside, his forehead burning like the scar was on fire and he pressed a closed fist against it as hard as he could, eyes squeezed shut as he waited for the pain to fade into something tolerable. Sometimes he wondered if the scar didn't end on his forehead; that if someone were to peek inside his skull, there would be a lightning bolt emblazoned on his brain, throbbing in time to his heartbeat.

Little by little, the pain faded, though the skin was still strangely hot to the touch. Carefully, Harry pushed up to a sitting position, fumbling at the side table for his glasses before he turned on the bedside lamp. He flinched at the sudden brightness but there was a certain relief in the light as well, easing the horror of the dream.

His pajamas clung to him, damp with perspiration, and Harry stumbled out of bed, shoving aside the blankets wreathed around his ankles and padded over to the loo. He let the water run cold, taking off his glasses to splash it on his overheated skin. Face dripping, he looked at his reflection, blurred a little to his eyes without his glasses. The scar, looking perfectly innocent in his reflection, still throbbed slightly, a little bit of proof that his dream hadn't quite been a dream, as if he needed any.

After all this time, he knew his dreams, and knew that this was an Other dream, that was certain, and worse, a dream that should have been blood, and yet somehow wasn't.

He'd always told Dumbledore about the dreams, ever since his fourth year when he'd learned the truth about them. He was already pulling on his robe, going over the details he could remember in his mind, thinking absently of a quill and parchment even as he walked out the door without them, the floor hard and cold beneath his bare feet. Harry walked quietly through the darkened hallways, knowing the layout of Hogwarts as well as anyone could, except perhaps its architects. Which was why he wasn't certain exactly how he ended up standing outside the guest quarters rather than Dumbledore's.

He didn't let it worry him. However he had ended up here, he somehow knew the person inside would let him in. Harry raised a hand, intending to knock, perhaps, or maybe to just open the door when it opened on its own and a decidedly tousled Ron Weasley looked out at him from behind the edge of the door, wariness melting instantly into concern.

"Harry?" Ron asked carefully. "Are you all right?"

This could only be a bad idea. From the second he stepped back to let Harry into his bedroom, his bedroom for pity's sake, he knew it and he didn't need an ounce of precognition for that.

He did it anyway, had known he would since the second he opened the door to see Harry standing there, paler even than normal, eyes a little too wide, haunted even, and more handsome in an ratty old bathrobe than any man should ever be. Ron didn't know what the Universe had against him, but whatever it was, they were certainly giving it their all the past few days.

Everything he'd been trying to escape from for years now was taking a headlong tumble right into his lap, and Ron wondered sardonically just how much of a masochist he was, that the other shoe was hovering in the air, just waiting to drop down on him and Ron hadn't had the sense to move out of the way.

Then again, he'd never had much in the way of sense when it came to Harry.

The person in question seemed a little steadier now that he was here, and Harry was giving the room a good look, pausing over the decidedly few items that obviously belonged to Ron. When he finally turned back, eyebrows raised, Ron shrugged at the unasked question in his eyes. "Well, an Auror doesn't need much but a wand and some good luck, does he now?"

"Is that all you are now, Ron? Just an Auror?" It could have hurt, coming from Harry like that and somehow Ron couldn't seem to get used to the little jabs, even if he might deserve them. But it was said so dully, with none of the usual, well, savor that Harry usually took in tossing his little -wish-it-was-a-hex remarks into the air. that Ron felt nothing more than a little pang and that was quickly lost in his concern.

"I don't know," Ron answered carefully, a moment later. "I don't suppose I'm in much of a position to say, am I?"

"I suppose not." Subdued and still so very pale, and Ron watched warily as Harry wandered over to the desk, one hand moving over it dreamily as if searching for something to touch, only to settle on the back of the chair, clenching so hard that the skin bleached white.

"I had a dream," Harry said abruptly. "I thought I saw...but..." He shook his head, obviously frustrated and his fingers loosened, almost stroking the wooden rail of the chair back before he pushed away. "I don't know why I'm here. I'm sorry." He started back towards the door, staggering a little and Ron caught his arm, hauling him back up before he could fall then almost staggering himself as Harry leaned on him heavily.

Carefully, Ron eased them both to the floor, letting Harry sag against him, his face buried ticklishly into Ron's neck as he sat trembling, hands resting limply in his lap. Ron raised a hesitant hand and let it rest on the back of Harry's head, trying not to notice how soft the dark strands were while he silently tried to coax any coherence from Harry.

The cold of the floor was starting to nibble its way through Ron's trousers and he was just starting wonder if pulling away long enough to start a fire would be a good idea when Harry finally spoke again, words muffled against Ron's skin. "Someone's going to die," Harry said thickly. "I don't know who or why, but I know."

Ron exhaled slowly and nodded, still petting Harry gently. "All right."

"No, it isn't all right!" Harry yelled, loud enough that Ron's ears were ringing and Harry jerked away, stumbling to his feet. "It isn't all right, and I'm tired of it! I'm tired of it all! I'm tired of not being able to do anything about it, I'm tired of being the one who always knows when this is going to happen, like I'm some kind of...of damned weathervane that points the direction that Voldemort is blowing in! I'm just..." he trailed off, sinking down into the chair close to the window as he rested his face in his hands.

"I'm tired, Ron," he whispered. "I'm so tired."

Climbing slowly to his feet, Ron dusted his pants off a little awkwardly, feeling a pang of predictable guilt that he couldn't really help with this. When it came to the more intangible ghosts that haunted the mind, Ron couldn't fight his own damn battles, much less Harry's, wouldn't even know how to begin.

There was one thing he understood, though, understood it all too well. The past few years had been coldly proficient teachers in a lot of matters, and Ron had learned very well the meaning of the word tired.

Moving to crouch next to the chair, Ron reached out and rested his hand on Harry's knee, squeezing reassuringly. He was more than a little startled when Harry's hand covered his own, his thumb sweeping lightly over the inside of Ron's wrist as he lifted his head to look solemnly at Ron, eyes eerily hidden in the darkness of the room.

"Can I stay here tonight?"

"I think," Ron began, wetting his lips, "That would be a phenomenally bad idea."

"Would it?"

Ron gave short bark of laughter, pulling his hand forcibly from Harry's tightening grasp. "I think the fact you could even ask that demonstrates pretty clearly that you aren't in your right mind," and at Harry's darkening expression he added hastily, "I only mean that you're upset, don't go putting words in my mouth."

"I'm upset but that doesn't mean I don't know what I want."

"Yeah, well, you seemed to have a lot of trouble figuring out what you want lately.

"Please," Harry said, softly, eyes flicking from Ron and to the floor, and then back again. Nervous, a little embarrassed but that was only what Ron could see because he didn't dare feel, couldn't take the chance because he was still backing away and Harry had stood up and was moving closer, every mingled wet dream and nightmare Ron had ever had on two legs in front of him.

"Please," Harry repeated. "Please, I don't want to be alone tonight."

"And you want me to help you with that, eh?" Ron said, a little wildly because he was running out of space to back into, and when it came down to it...

Harry was so close now, his eyes a liquid gleam in the darkness. "You told me you loved me."

...when it really came down to it...

"And that gives you the right to do whatever you want with it? I've managed to live without you for five years. The last thing I want from you now is a pity fuck and you don't even know what you want," Ron said derisively, and this was nothing short of blackmail and Ron knew it, even if Harry didn't.

But Harry was reaching out to him, and that was something Ron had never been able to resist, because when it really, really came down to it...

Close enough he could feel Harry's breath on his cheek, "You have the Sight, don't you know what I want?"

"No," Ron said hoarsely, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see, but he couldn't stop feeling, hadn't been able to stop years ago and he certainly couldn't stop it now, because when it really came down to it... "No, I can't read you, I never could. Too close, too..." Harry's lips brushed over his own, too lightly to even call it a kiss. 'Don't use me like this,' Ron screamed silently, but in the end, even Ron only had so much control.

Because when it really came down to it, Ron didn't want to run anymore.

"Oh, fuck it," Ron muttered, his hands reaching out to pull Harry against him, and he was lost.

Chapter Text

The first touch of Ron's lips against his own was like getting stunned with a hex, and all Harry could think of was the heat. Sharp, searing heat burning lips that had seemed cold for far too long, and he clutched Ron against him desperately, wondering for a dizzying moment if this was what it felt like to finally go insane, if he was finally living up to his rumors. Dumbledore had had a flurry of owls when he had been hired, mostly because no one cared if a crazy person played on your Quidditch team but no one wanted one teaching their children.

There was no room to think about that right now, no room for anything in his head with Ron fumbling at the tie to his robe, pulling it in painfully tight for a second before it finally fell away. Ron slid his arms underneath it, his hands moving anxiously over Harry's pajama-clad back, tongue moving slickly against Harry's lips and somewhere else, somewhere in the world where the people weren't insane this wasn't right.

His friend, his friend, his best friend, words jabbering through his head while Ron's, his friend, his friend's fingers tugged his pajama top up, cool fingertips stroking upward, feathering out under his shoulder blades. Harry's heart was beating painfully hard; it seemed impossible that Ron couldn't feel it, hear it, and God, but he was terrified, panting for air in between kisses and Ron had barely touched him.

Pathetic was all, so very pathetic. He could face Voldemort with foolhardy audacity but was terrified of a roll between the sheets with someone.

Only it wasn't just someone, it was his best friend who was pushing him backwards, stumbling towards some destination that Harry couldn't see and how could he not have known about this? Just how blind did you have to be not to see this kind of want?

It was the blanket that finally broke him, the startling softness of the bed beneath him that had Harry tearing his mouth away as cold reality abruptly intruding where it most certainly wasn't wanted.

Ron was breathing heavily over him, a few strands of his hair had escaped from the ponytail and were tickling Harry's cheeks, a foreign, strange feeling, a stranger above him in dark clothes and leather pants that creaked a little when he shifted back, just enough that Harry could see his face from the moonlight seeping through the window. The face of someone he barely knew. His Ron had been gone for ages, and Harry hadn't even thought about him like this for more than a week. Not that that was bad, not at all. He couldn't imagine anyone objecting to being kissed the way Ron had been kissing him.

And yet an uncomfortable feeling was rising in Harry's chest, an urge to push himself away, to go back to his quiet room, or better yet, to see Dumbledore like he'd intended, and why exactly had he come here, anyway?

"Harry?"

Softly said, a single word dropped into the space between them, and the quiet uncertainty in Ron's voice made something sharp and painful break loose inside Harry. Whatever spell had been weaving itself between them was shattered, pushing through whatever terror had been growing inside him.

No. This wasn't wrong. The only person he saw above him was Ron, his Ron, behind the hair and the dark clothes, behind those tired, too wary eyes was Ron, his very best friend and hadn't Ron had been playing second fiddle long enough. Wasn't it time for him to move up to the first chair? Besides, he was so very warm; Harry could feel it even through all their clothes, and it would be so nice to not sleep alone tonight.

Harry immediately quashed that thought before Ron got an inkling of it and ended this very quickly. He didn't mean it like that, anyway. Wasn't quite sure what he meant, or what he wanted, but he knew he didn't want Ron to leave.

Not again.

Unfortunately, Ron seemed to be taking his silence to mean something else and he started to push away, shaking his head and a soft, wordless sound of distress escaped him, one that Harry recognized with a startled pain of his own.

Harry moved without thinking, wrapping his arms and legs around Ron, holding him tightly as Ron tried to move. Tremblingly, and it wasn't wrong, was not wrong, he whispered, quickly, before he lost his nerve, "Please. Don't stop."

At his words Ron shuddered, relaxing back against him, arms sliding up to support him before he lowered his head again, guiding his mouth to Harry's and it wasn't even quite a kiss, not like one Harry had ever had before, lips and teeth bruising, demanding something from him and he realized in a sort of hazy way that if he had broken before, then something in Ron had broken now. There was a certain peculiar smugness in that, the stranger-Ron, Auror-Ron had vanished, tattered away with nothing more impressive than a softly spoken 'please'.

"Please," Harry said again just to hear it and got a muffled moan in response. Ron's mouth was hot against his chest, kisses moving into sharp bites as Ron tasted his skin and Harry arched up into it artlessly, wanting nothing else but more and Ron obligingly did it again.

His pajama top was pooled around his elbows, trapping his arms when Harry would have clutched Ron's head against him, and he struggled to sit up, pushing against Ron until he finally pulled back, looking at him with terror brilliant in his eyes, until Harry quickly stripped his shirt away, not wasting time with useless explanations when he saw Ron understood. Ron quickly unbuttoned his own shirt, tugging almost violently at the cuffs until his chest was bared.

Smooth, pale skin, muscles shifting beneath as Ron flung his shirt aside and wonderingly, Harry reached out to touch, his fingertips bare centimeters away when Ron caught his hand and held him back. Startled and confused, Harry looked up at him, at his eyes glittering black in the dim light.

"Tell me you want this," Ron said, his voice low and fierce, "Tell me that I won't wake up tomorrow and see you hating me again."

Harry would have flinched from those words, would have closed his eyes against the twist of guilt they caused if he hadn't known perfectly well what Ron would do if he did. Picture-perfect in his head, Ron walking away from him in the hall, and yes, Harry would bet Ron was strong enough to do it again. He'd gotten past Ron's barriers once; there was no guarantee of success on a second attempt.

"I want this," Harry replied, heard the slightest waver to his voice, but the words were said and apparently that was enough, enough for Ron's breath to hiss softly between his teeth, enough for him to scrabble clumsily between them, loosening clothes and stripped them away with almost unseemly haste, but that was forgivable, a justifiable slight, because Harry had seen the want, could feel it in the suddenly bare skin against his. The chill of the room vanished in a rush of body heat, and oh, God, hard heat, Ron's cock trapped between them, hard and hot and wet, and Harry would be lying if he said he didn't like it, wasn't hard himself but this was another slap in the face of reality, Ron over him, Ron naked.

"Oh, God." Above him, Ron's voice echoing his thoughts, tight, choked words, and it was just Ron, Ron touching him, the smooth slide of his hips rocking them together, so terribly simple to feel so very, very good.

Damp heat between them, and Harry could smell it, them, his hands clutching Ron closer as he arched up himself, tearing a startled gasp from Ron, and yeah, maybe he hadn't done this with a guy before but aside from the various guy-parts, it felt the same. Better, even, and if he was going to admit that he wanted to be here, he could at least admit how good it felt, the weird, hot slide of another man's, Ron's, cock against his own, hot, sticky wet, just good and he wanted it. Wanted Ron and that was all right, too.

Strong fingers curled fiercely into his hair, Ron's breath hot blurts of air against his ear that shaped itself into words.

"Can't stop, oh, oh, please oh fuck, Harry, I can't...

It's ok, he wanted to say, ok because Harry didn't want him to stop, to ever stop, but his tongue seemed to have been rendered stupid, by kisses, by want, and he couldn't tell whose want it was anymore. Didn't care, either.

Reality finally gave up, burning away in the heat and the surreal surge of wetness between them. Ron came with a distressed sound, like a sob, hips moving frantically and Harry met it with his own frenzy, so very good, good enough to leave him shaking, burying his face into the curve between Ron's neck and shoulder and just...holding on.

A moment passed, long enough for Harry to get his breathing closer to normal, before gentle fingers slid up to gently stroke the side of his face. Harry pulled back, far enough to look at Ron's face, at his eyes, shadowed and thoughtful, and Harry gave reality a rude shove into the back of his head before it could make an unwelcome intrusion.

Ron looked at him silently, long enough for sweat to dry uncomfortable and prickly on the skin, and Harry shifted a little beneath him, opening his mouth to say something, anything to make the silence go away but a hard kiss stifled the words, bruising pressure that Harry couldn't help but press into.

Slowly, it gentled into something else, a careful exploration of tongue and teeth before Ron pulled away, smiling down at Harry with a rueful expression, and Harry blinked in surprise as Ron suddenly plucked his glasses away, throwing what little he could see of the room into a blur.

One of the blurs leaned forward and kissed him again, softly, before urging him to climb between the sheets. When Ron didn't join him, he squinted into the darkness, watching in confusion as Ron stuck his wand into the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Ron turned and saw him looking, shrugged a little.

"Just in case you wake up sane," he muttered, sliding into the bed with a sigh, fitting himself against Harry carefully. Harry resisted the urge to smack him, less worried about his sanity than he had been early that night and more ready to sleep than he'd have guessed he'd be for a year. Cautiously, he pressed a kiss against Ron's forehead and got a pleased sound in response. Good enough, he decided, closing his eyes, content to simply be with someone tonight.

With Ron.

Chapter Text

In a world where things never seemed to be fair, it only seemed appropriate that a horrid thock thock thock noise was intruding on the best sleep Ron had had in years. He buried his head into the pillow to the point of suffocation as his internal clock informed him that it was not yet sunrise, and unless it was a fleet of evil pixies hovering over the bed with miniature pickaxes, whoever or whatever was making the noise could rightly go fuck off, thank you much.

Then again, if the world wasn't fair then there was really no reason for him to play fair either. Ron reached under his pillow for his wand, the silence spell already on his lips waiting eagerly to be spoken but apparently something odd had happened in the night. Somehow his wand seemed to have gotten a lot bigger, and warmer, and was oddly wrist-shaped. Mysteries of that type weren't easily solved with your eyes closed, and with a last wistful mental wave at sleep, Ron opened his eyes.

And saw Harry Potter, sound asleep, one lock of hair attempting to defy gravity as it wavered over his forehead, just over the scar. Naturally, Harry would look tasty even in the early hours of the morning, Ron decided with sleepy resentment, and he had a brief moment to be jealous of that while the gears in his brain warmed up before it finally clicked that yes, Harry was sleeping comfy and quiet, only in Ron's bed.

Oh. Right. So much for keeping his distance.

Ron sat up, slowly, not really wanting to wake Harry just yet. It was too early to deal with regrets, and aside from that, Harry just looked really good. Untidy hair and sleep-puffy lips, and the room smelled a little too strongly of two guys who'd gotten messy the night before and hadn't cleaned up afterward. Not something Ron had smelled often, but a time or two, yeah, and the memory of how they'd gotten messy was too close and too tempting to resist thinking about, especially with the curve of Harry's back just visible, smooth white skin and...

The return of the thock thock sound reminded Ron of why he was awake to begin with. The sky was only just graying with the coming of the sun, but there was more than enough light to see the large brown owl tapping impatiently on the window.

Ron climbed out of bed, hissing softly at the coolness of the room and froze as he felt Harry move behind him. He glanced fearfully over his shoulder, his throat already tightening with words he might have to say, and saw Harry had only moved into his place, sighing sleepily as he curled into the warm spot. It was a relief and a regret, because that conversation was going to come eventually and at least if it were now it'd be over with.

Just once in his life it would be nice to know what was going to happen next to him before it happened. At any given time he could see the possibilities of someone else's life laid out in front of him like a roadmap, but when it came to his own life trying to peer ahead was as useless as picking thistles with your bare hands and twice as painful.

The owl rapped at the window again and Ron hurried to open it before it did wake Harry, letting in the owl along with a puff of positively icy air that made him sincerely regret not putting on trousers first.

The owl hooted disdainfully as it settled on the back of a chair, apparently unimpressed with his sleeping habits. It allowed Ron to untie the letter attached to its leg, but not without nipping a finger for his trouble.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I should be taking more care," said Ron, absently, shaking his hand. He glanced warily at the bed as he slipped quietly into his trousers. Harry was still sleeping, or at least Ron assumed he was, since all he could see was a human-shaped mound buried in the blankets.

Not bothering to fasten his pants, Ron untied the scroll and opened it, leaning against the table while he read it with growing concern. One of his contacts had information for him, but they weren't about to bring it to him directly, no matter how much Ron paid. Which meant he was going to have to leave the school grounds to meet him.

The owl ruffled its wings, apparently waiting for a reply and Ron hastily snatched his quill from the desk, wincing as he knocked a handful of knuts to the floor in the process. Harry didn't so much as twitch and if it hadn't been for the fact he could hear him breathing, Ron might have gotten a little concerned. As it was a troll could have tromped into the room and have killed him by the time Harry stopped snoring, and Rob made a mental note to teach Harry a waking spell to cast before he went to bed at night.

He scribbled a reply on the back of the parchment and reattached it carefully to the owl's leg. It clicked its beak importantly and sailed back out the window when Ron opened it, flapping wings carrying it in the direction of the South Tower before it veered off and disappeared into the sky.

Ron shut the window and latched it. He turned back towards the desk to gather his things and stopped dead when he caught sight of the bed, where Harry was still sound asleep.

There were a dozen things he needed to do, find someone else to keep an eye on Harry while he was gone, for starters. And he really had to go someplace quiet and let down his barriers or his brains were going to start leaking out his ears if he even thought of opening up near anyone, and in that case any information he got would be useless. He paid his informants well enough, and they knew he had the Sight, so they didn't lie, but that didn't mean the information was accurate, so it was better to listen with an open mind, so to speak.

Every single thing he needed to do was of the life and death variety of importance, and years of experience had taught him that skipping any steps could have very bad results. He needed to get on it right now, and get going.

So why was he standing here, remembering how very green Harry's eyes were, and the soft little sounds he'd made last night, almost whimpering towards the end, and how he'd bitten his lip when he came, face tight and, God, beautiful, and...

Enough. Ron shook his head, hard enough that he staggered before his Sight could take over and he came in his pants just from the memory. Their conversation was just going to have to wait until he got back, and by then, maybe he'd have thought of something to say, aside from, 'Wanna go again?'.

Snatching his cleanest shirt off the back of a chair, Ron slipped it on, letting it hang unbuttoned as he forced on one of his boots. In the manner of all inanimate objects when you're hurrying, it got stuck halfway on and Ron ended up bouncing on one foot, biting his tongue on a yelp of pain as it finally gave and took half the skin off his foot in the process.

"Where are you going?"

The sudden near shout in the previously silent room was more of a shock than Ron was prepared for at the moment, and he jumped wildly, nearly biting his tongue off in the process as he tripped over his other boot and only through sheer force of will did he manage to not fall on his arse.

Harry was sitting up in the bed, still swaddled in the sheets and blankets and not looking particularly pleased.

Oh, not good.

"I...it's..." Ron stammered, all the words he'd had prepared early lodging themselves in his throat. Displeased, hell, Harry looked seriously pissed, and this was the one reaction Ron hadn't been prepared for. The vague pounding that had been in the back of his head for the past week was pushing towards the front again and Ron sank down into a chair tiredly, resting his head in one hand.

"Ron?" Quieter than before, not angry this time but sounding hurt, and that was exactly the thing Ron hadn't wanted to do. Harry had been hurt enough, by him and by every other person in his life, and Ron forced himself to look into those accusing eyes. This was his fault, for allowing Harry to stay last night and he would face it.

"I got a letter from one of my contacts," he said truthfully. "I have to go meet him."

"That's what the owl brought?" asked Harry, eyebrows raised and Ron blinked.

"You were awake?" Ron blurted and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Of course I was awake! I don't see how you manage to sneak up on anyone with the amount of noise you make," he said, waving a hand impatiently. "That doesn't matter. What I'm wondering is whether or not you were going to try sneaking out of here without saying anything to me. Again," he added, his expression moving back into the 'pissed off' category.

There wasn't much of an answer Ron could give to that, not without making things worse. He hesitated, the word 'no' longing to be spoken, but he was so very tired of lying, knew Harry wouldn't be fooled, not this time. His condemning eyes were filled with scorn, the hate that Harry had promised wouldn't be there, but that was Ron's fault too, for believing him in those circumstances.

"I didn't know what to say," he said finally, softly. "I'm sorry. Look, we both know you weren't yourself last night and I took advantage of that..." he trailed off as Harry started laughing, falling heavily back against the sheets.

"Ron, please. Is that what's bothering you? Unless I'm having a memory blank in which I was tied to the bed and screaming for help, I don't see how you could think you 'took advantage of me.'" Harry chuckled again, shaking his head. "Have you actually been reading books while you've been gone? Because you sound a lot like an Emily Bronte novel."

Ron sat stiffly, hands clenched in his lap and wishing he had lied. Pissed off was better than this, better than being laughed at, and maybe he had hurt Harry, more than once but his crimes against his friend couldn't have been so terrible to deserve this. "This isn't a game," he said coldly, and the headache was growing, pain thudding against his temples. He reached out for his other boot, struggling with the laces and he could hear Harry moving, wasn't surprised to see a hand catch his own, stilling him.

He looked up at Harry, wrapped in the sheet and crouched in front of him, his expression unexpectedly gentle.

"I know. I'm sorry," he said, earnestly. "It's just...I'm at a loss here. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say and you apologizing for your terrible assault on my person is a bit much to take in..." he laughed a little again, at himself this time. "I have no idea what I'm doing, I really don't." Harry shrugged. It almost looked erotic on bare shoulders, the delicate shift of muscles beneath smooth skin, and Ron blinked, reeling his thoughts back in before they could get too interesting.

"I can't...I can't do this right now. I've got a job to do." He shook Harry's hand away and attacked the knotted laces again with trembling fingers. He should be gone already, past the gates and apparating to a safe house, not dealing with this, with his brain halfway to meltdown. Harry watched him silently as he finished dressing, waiting until Ron was reaching for his coat before he spoke again.

"I'm going with you."

That stopped him quickly, his coat hanging half on while he stared at Harry who was still sitting calmly on the floor. "Are you mad? You'll do no such thing! You," he said, jabbing a finger in Harry's direction, "Are going to stay right here, at Hogwart's, where I know you'll be at least reasonably safe."

"And you're going to keep me here?" asked Harry archly.

"You think I can't?" Ron snapped, and Harry just looked at him, eyes never wavering. "I will tie you to the bed if I have to. You may have the rest of the world fooled into thinking you're some kind of superhero, but I know better, Harry, and so does Hermione. Why do you think she sent me here? Let me be the hero this time. You're out of practice."

Harry already had his mouth open to protest and Ron reacted without thinking, pressing his hand over Harry's lips. "Don't," he pleaded, "It's not something you can really help with, anyway. Just let me handle it. I should be back by tomorrow and we can talk then."

The eyes above his hand were clearly skeptical and Ron smiled, a little helplessly. "I will," he repeated firmly, and meant it. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

The feel of a tongue against his hand was his only answer and Ron started, trying to pull away only to have Harry grab his hand and lick him again, leaving a wet stripe on his palm before he sucked a finger into his mouth, flicking his tongue against the tip. Ron swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the sudden flood of wetness in his own mouth.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, trying to sound disapproving, and would have done a fine job if his voice hadn't decided to waver right at the end.

Harry bit him, teeth scraping lightly before he pulled off and smiled with another little shrug. "I have no idea, remember?"

"Right."

Silence.

"This isn't just about sex, Harry."

"I know."

Carefully, Ron shifted down to sit on the floor in front of Harry, tracing his lips with one shaking finger. "I don't have to leave just yet," Ron said, slowly and got another smile, edged with heat.

"Then don't."

Chapter Text

Wednesday morning classes in Defense of the Dark Arts were for the first year students, four hours straight, one hour per House. On this particular Wednesday, the classroom was utterly silent except for the scratching of quills on parchment and the occasional thoughtful sound of tapping against a desk, which wasn’t helping the teacher stay awake.

Harry stifled a yawn, wishing he’d taken the time to at least get a cup of coffee before he’d staggered off to class. Most energy boosting spells he knew were short-lived, and only sidestepped the exhaustion, anyway. He had more important things to do this evening than be comatose.

He was doodling on a scrap of parchment, trying to give at least the impression of busyness to his students, using a bottle of silvery ink that he’d found on the bottom of his rucksack that he didn’t remember buying. Droplets that he’d shaken carelessly from his quill were shining wetly on the edge of the parchment like beads of mercury from a broken thermometer.

Most of his skill at drawing had come from repetitive sketching, occasional boredom making an amateur artist out of him. With a few careful lines he’d managed to make a decent representation of a wyvern. He blew softly on it to dry the ink, casting a guilty look at his students, who were still absorbed in their essays, before tapping it lightly with his wand and whispering, "Addolacer!"

The parchment shimmered lightly, the tiny wyvern slowly unfurling its wings as it woke. A many times as he had done this little magic, it never ceased to fill him with a moment of wonderment. The tiniest magics were so often taken for granted; Harry never wanted to forget how fortunate he was to be here, no matter how many turns his life was taking.

The silence of his classroom was reminding him rather unpleasantly of the newest kink in his life who wasn’t here. No tapping boots, no scraping chair as a person who was really too big for the desk tried to find some way to be comfortable. No rustle of a jacket when someone tried to shrug a cramp out of tired shoulders, and, really, that sound had almost been the same as leather pants whispering across a stone floor, crawling towards him...

A sudden irritated squeak startled Harry from his thoughts, and he looked down at the wyvern, fluttering angrily over the otherwise bare parchment, and Harry hastily sketched some mountains in the background. It soared over its new domain happily, landing on an outcropping and crowing in what would probably be a fearsome manner for a real wyvern.

A simple change, really, a few strokes of his quill and his little ‘pet’ was instantly content. He doubted that anyone else was going to be as pleased at the end of the day. Not his students, who were worrying a little too long over their answers on what should have been a fairly straightforward exam, not Harry, and, if he came back, probably not Ron.

Harry closed his eyes briefly, overcome by weariness that wasn’t entirely from lack of sleep as he remembered the look in Ron’s eyes when he begged Harry to promise not to hate him again.

At the very least, Harry could still promise that. For whatever reason Ron had cut him out of his life all those years ago, whether or not he ever learned the complete truth, Harry had forgiven him. It still irritated him to think about it, itching at the back of his head in a mixture of partial truths and unintentional resentment on both their parts.

Harry rested his chin on one hand, sketching a passable facsimile of a tree as he allowed himself a moment to brood. Something very wrong was going on with Ron, of that Harry was sure, and if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own selfish needs, he might have noticed it before. Instead, he’d passed it off as Ron simply being ill, trusting Ron to know what was best for himself.

The very idea was absurd and surely Harry had had enough experience with Ron’s brand of taking care of himself to know better. Harry stabbed his quill into its holder so hard he almost broke off the tip, frustrated with his own stupidity over the past few weeks. And then he’d gone off and made things between them even worse.

Early this morning he’d been so caught up in the giddiness of it all, the novelty of a new relationship, of any relationship and maybe he was being a bit hard on himself. It had been simply brilliant, all of it, and it wasn't that sex with Cho had been bad; in fact that was probably the only way they'd really been compatible.

This had been nothing so pale as compatible.

The sight of Ron crawling across the floor to him, the whisper of his knees against the stone, the look in his eyes, of someone who was finally getting something they’d wanted for so long that they couldn’t quite believe it was true.

To be wanted that much by someone, someone he knew, someone he cared for...he would have done anything Ron asked of him at that moment, just so long as he didn’t leave.

He hadn’t, had instead crawled right into Harry’s lap, straddled him and pressed his face against Harry’s neck, breathed against his skin before suddenly biting him. Teeth worrying Harry’s shoulder, hard enough to draw a gasp of pain before Ron relented, sucking and mouthing the abused skin, scraping it raw with morning stubble, leaving a bruise that Harry would see hours later in the mirror and afterward have to turn his morning shower to cold.

Harry bit his lip, hard, trying to distract himself from his memories before he was forced to teach his classes the rest of the day without standing up. He was already squirming a little in his chair, unable to stop remembering how cold the floor had been, rough and uncomfortable and completely forgotten with the heat of Ron’s mouth, rougher than the floor. The night before had been an exercise in desperation for both of them, but this...this had been Ron taking what had wanted, what had been offered, thoroughly and with something almost like cruelty, would have been if Harry hadn’t wanted it so much. If Ron hadn’t revealed with every touch how terrified he was.

It was only afterward that Harry had seen that. The look on Ron’s face that said he knew what was really happening. No one else had ever be as utterly available as Ron was to Harry, and they both knew it without a single word. Utterly available and reluctantly willing to be used, and Harry couldn’t even tell him he was wrong. Five years ago he would have said he knew Ron better than anyone but now he wasn’t even sure he knew himself. He didn’t hate Ron, wasn’t sure that he’d ever hated him, but Harry couldn’t blame Ron if he hated him now for what he’d done.

"Clausulae," Harry murmured distractedly, pointing his wand at the paper again, and the wyvern shimmered to a halt and returned to its original position, again nothing more than a creature of ink. He stared at it for a long time as he listened to the quills and his own breathing; it was nothing more than a paper dragon, a creature that was only alive when someone else allowed it, just a borrowed lie of a life.

He picked up the parchment and ripped it in half, ignoring the startled looks from his students as he shredded it, wadded it into a ball and threw it in the can next to his desk. Enough of this, enough of maudlin sulking and if he were brave enough to admit it, Harry knew he’d been doing it since his divorce. Ron had shaken him out of it somewhat when he'd arrived, and now Harry was going to face the rest on his own. He couldn’t change that he’d made a mistake and if Ron was going to hate him then they could deal with that later.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted from Ron but he knew he was tired of not knowing what was going on, and he’d had more than enough of being told to sit on the sidelines of his own life. More than that, he was tired of being Harry Potter and all that entailed.

Time to just be himself then, and he wasn’t about to let Ron run off alone and get himself killed. If he’d been any kind of friend that’s what he would have done the first time Ron had left, instead of sitting back and letting his anger hold him. Time to stop blaming this on Ron, when anyone with eyes could see it was just as much his fault. Ron may had left, but Harry had let him go.

Time to be more than just a paper dragon.

Chapter Text

It was amazing how much crap someone could force into one knapsack.

Sitting in the middle of Ron’s bed, Harry carefully extracted yet another strange apparatus from Ron’s knapsack, studying it in perplexed amusement. The bed was littered with a jumble of other things, some brightly colored plastic-like orbs, some looking almost like rocks but giving off a dim glow in the candlelit room; dozens of little things that Harry had never seen before and couldn’t begin to guess at what they did.

The latest item was a small, battered mirror, unfamiliar runes carved around the outside, and Harry studied it carefully. All he saw was his own refection and he was about set it aside when the surface rippled gently, like water, his own face blurring. Hastily, he dropped it on the other side of the bed. The glow slowly faded.

With a sigh, Harry resumed his task, warily searching through Ron’s things in the hopes of finding out some clue as to where he had gone. Probably not the best plan he’d had; Ron had had some very impressive hexes on the knapsack, cast in a fairly intricate manner, and if Harry had been just a little slower he would have been waiting for Ron to come back in a full body-bind.

Still, there weren’t many other options to try. There wasn’t a search spell available that an Auror wasn’t guarded against; Harry had tried them all years ago when Ron had first vanished. Even if he thought Hermione knew, Harry was certain she wouldn’t give the information to him. Probably just a speech like the one Ron had used, about how much safer it was here in Hogwarts. True enough, but really, what use was it to be safe when no one you cared for was?

His arm was shoulder-deep in the knapsack now, and his fingertips were brushing something cool and glass. Gently, Harry pulled out what appeared to be some kind of glass ball. A glob of what looked like grayish gelatin was inside it, sloshing around apparently of it’s own will.

As Harry watched, the colors started shifting, turning into a kaleidoscope of colors, churning gently into each other yet never mixing, amazingly lovely, really, and...

"What are you doing?"

Harry gasped and jumped, only just managing not to drop the orb. A fearful glance behind him showed Ron was leaning against the door, looking amused.

"I was...I..." Harry stammered, feeling very much like the prat Ron often accused him of being.

"Yes?" Ron asked, raising his eyebrows. "By the way, you might want to put that down. Gently."

Harry looked at the small orb in his hand. The colors were shifting almost frantically now, like a miniature storm caught in glass. "What is it?"

"Just trust me."

That was good enough for him. Harry found a place for it on the bed and hastily set it down. Immediately, the storm within it stopped, the colors swirling slowly down until they returned to gray.

"Good. Rather you kept both your arms," he said, almost absently as he stripped off his coat. He flung it over the back of a chair before returning his focus to Harry, who was cringing awkwardly in the midst of the evidence of his crime. "Now back to my first question. What are you doing?"

Harry spread his hands in an uncomfortable shrug. "I was trying to figure out where you went," Harry said, with defeated honesty. "I thought maybe I could help."

"I was going out to talk to an informant, not to fight the combined forces of all evil," said Ron dryly. He leaned against one of the bedposts and crossed his arms over his chest and his posture might have been a little fierce but his expression was...

Harry swallowed hard and the tightness in his chest slid a little lower. Ron looked...really good. The circles under his eyes were gone, and he was wearing those leather pants again that were tight in all the right places and...Ron was grinning.

"Glad you like them," Ron said, laughing and he shook his head. "I’m sorry, I’m still a little loose up here." He tapped his temple with one finger.

"I think you always were," Harry muttered and Ron laughed again. "Did your informant tell you anything?" he asked hastily, eager to change the subject. Carefully, he started replacing Ron's weird artifact collection into his knapsack.

"Actually, they weren't able to meet me. I'm going back out tomor...Don't touch that!!"

Harry blinked in surprise as Ron snatched the small mirror out of his hands. Bewildered, he watched as Ron shoved it into the knapsack himself, tossing the other items on top of it haphazardly.

"Sorry," Harry said awkwardly and he felt even more like a prat when Ron glared at him. "Did I break it or something?"

"I'm worried about YOU getting broken, not it, you wanker," Ron snapped, and he dragged the knapsack off the edge of the bed and dropped it to the floor. "Just...don't touch any of my things again, all right? Some of them are tuned into me and they don't like it when other people play with them."

"All right." He tried very hard to mean it. Ron gave him a suspicious look but didn't say anything, just closed his eyes and groaned.

"Harry, stop it," he moaned and Harry blinked.

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me! I can't help it, you're..." Ron swallowed and looked at him, his eyes dark and hot. "I can feel you. In my head"

"Oh," Harry said, a little helplessly, and yeah, he had been looking. Ron was right in front of him, his hair loose and hanging over his shoulders and Harry knew how soft it had felt, clenched in his hands while Ron was on his knees and his mouth...

"Dammit, Harry!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Harry scooted backwards on the bed until he was on the far edge and gave Ron an apologetic smile.

Ron snorted and shook his head. "Fine. Stay over there." He ran a hand through his hair, wincing as he tugged through the tangles. "Look, I've been thinking..."

"That sounds rather ominous."

"Harry!" Ron glared at him. "Would you listen for half a minute?" He dropped down on his knees next to the bed and rested his elbows on the mattress. "Harry," he started slowly. "Look, I..." Ron hesitated and sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face tiredly, and Harry was filled with the temptation to touch him, to stroke his hair away from his face and reassure him.

"Don't you dare," Ron said automatically, his words muffled by his hand. He took another deep breath and met Harry's eyes again seriously. "Harry, after this mission is finished, you know I can't stay here. This," he gestured vaguely at the walls around them, "Isn't what I am. I have other obligations, and when this is over, I'm going to leave."

"Ron," Harry interrupted him quietly. "Are you trying to tell me you're going to vanish on me again?" The thought made something in Harry's chest tighten painfully, the feeling, if not the entrapment, of a full body bind.

Ron actually laughed, a short bark of sound wrenched from his throat. "No. I don't think I could do that again. Would be better for you if I did. Harry, I don't know what you want," Ron said urgently. "I can't see past the sex right now but..." He sighed again, impatiently. "I never was any good at talking things out. All right then, this mission might last another week or two or even a damned month. Whatever you want from me, you've got, except," Ron raised a single finger warningly, "When it comes to your safety, I've got final say. Agreed?"

Harry blinked. Had Ron just made an offer to have sex with him as long as he was here? No strings attached was implied; he was offering to let Harry use him so long as he was here. For sex. Harry sat there silently, wavering. Ron's eyes were brilliantly blue, almost unreal as they glittered on the other side of the bed, and damn, he couldn't just use Ron like that, even if he had offered. It was cruel beyond measure, cold and selfish, and he could never...

Ron's mouth twisted into a smile and he levered himself onto the bed, crawling sinuously towards Harry, "Quit over thinking it," Ron chided. "It's not selfish. I want it too." Ron cut off whatever protests Harry had been about to stammer out with his own mouth, shoving him backwards on the bed and crawling on top of him.

His mouth was slick and hot, Ron's tongue coaxing a reply from Harry's as slipped inside, and suddenly Harry was learning Ron's taste all over again, sweet and dark, and so easy to want.

Desperately, Harry pulled his mouth away, wrenching his head to the side only to have Ron's mouth move lower, ticklishly soft against his neck. "Ron, we aren't done talking," he tried.

"Mmmhmm," Ron murmured distractedly, moving up to suck and nibble at Harry's earlobe. "I wanna fuck you."

"Ron!"

"What? I'm talking. I want to fuck you. Let me?" he coaxed, pressing his knee tightly against Harry's crotch, and it was incredibly hot, the sweet slide of Ron's knee, the cloth of his pants abrading his aching cock and Ron still talking, frantic words, almost a whimper. "I can feel you! I can feel you wanting me, please, please, you feel so fucking good!"

So damned hot that he couldn't say stop, didn't want to anyway, and Ron seemed to know a few tricks Harry didn't, shocking heat of bare skin against bare skin as their clothes seemed to just melt away. He distantly hoped it wasn't permanent as he rather liked that shirt, and then stopped thinking completely when Ron slid lower and did wickedly perverse things that Harry had never dreamed of, not in his cruelest of dreams. Pushed his knees up and dipped his head between Harry's legs, his tongue wetting the small strip of skin behind Harry's balls before moving lower, sliding between his cheeks.

"Ah..ah, fuck, Ron!" he gasped. Ron paused, looking up at Harry from beneath his lashes, a smile curving his lips.

"Such language, Professor," he mocked, lowering his head again. A peculiar little swirl of his tongue dragged another startled curse from Harry, and never, never, no one had ever done anything like that to him before. Soft laughter drifted up to him, making Harry both frown and then squirm at the sudden vibration."I’d forgotten about that tattoo," Ron chuckled, tracing the bold lines of color with his tongue.

"Don't see how you could," Harry replied, somewhat huffily. "Since you’re the reason I have it..."

"Hey, I was just as drunk as you were. I bet if your students knew you had a tattoo of a phoenix on your arse it would ruin your staid image of Professor Potter."

"Then I suppose it’s a good thing that I’m not in the habit of letting my students see me naked." Harry replied dryly, then spoiling it by moaning softly, Ron's clever little tongue pushing against him.

"Probably a good thing all the way around," Ron said agreeably, and the sudden pressure of his finger pushing inside him stole Harry's breath. Ron shifted upward and let Harry's legs slide over his shoulders. "Have you ever done this?" he whispered, pressing his mouth to Harry's and Harry didn't give a thought as to where that mouth had just been, kissing him back feverishly and murmuring that he hadn't. Ron breathed a word against his lips, so softly, "Good."

Two fingers, slippery warm and sliding into him far too slowly, Ron ignoring his pleas and wriggling, and he hadn't had this done to him but he knew the way of it, and it felt incredible and full. Ron was shaking now, he could feel it, faint tremors rocking him and it didn't take much more persuasion to get him lining up, his cock nudging against Harry, pressing gently and then more firmly, prying its way inside.

A sharp burn, all the worse for it being expected and Ron paused, soothing him. "Just hurts a little, shh, easy," he crooned, his hips flexing softly as he pushed a fraction deeper. "Fuck me, Harry, this feels so good..."

"No, you're fucking me," Harry managed, before his thoughts scattered like so much confetti, the edge of pain dulling into something he'd never expected, something hot and decadent, Ron inside him, moving almost leisurely, like he wanted to enjoy every centimeter of this, memorize Harry's body inside and out, each shift in speed and angle changing everything, a swirling kaleidoscope of sensation until it finally clung to the red spectrum, flaring behind his eyes and Ron was choking nonsense words against Harry's ear, their cheeks wet and clinging and when it was over, the last tremors of orgasm replaced with something else, Harry rubbed Ron's back with long, sweeping motions, his palms massaging and soothing.

Both relief and shame flowered in Harry's chest, that whatever other words Ron was thinking went unspoken, and whether that was because Ron could feel him thinking it or because he simply knew better, Harry couldn't tell.

Instead, he pressed soft kisses against Ron's temples, tasting warm salt and pretending it was sweat. Because he knew Ron would want him to.

Chapter Text

One thing that Ron had always hated about himself was that he was a drooler. Not out in public, of course, like some kind of animate red-headed water fountain. Just during the night when he didn't have an option in the matter. It was his pillow that took the soggy brunt of the punishment.

He had cause to regret it this morning, when he woke to the feeling of his pillow clinging rather disgustingly to his cheek. His internal clock was squawking that it was far too early to even consider creeping out from beneath sheets as nice as these so instead, Ron rolled over and sleepily sought a drier spot for his head. Only to find the other side of his pillow was damp as well.

Just lovely, that. He'd managed to soak an entire pillow in one night. He'd always known he'd do something special in life and now he'd discovered it was to be a champion producer of saliva. Probably be able to drench a whole bed by the time he was thirty. As if to protest his too-loud thinking, a large shape next to him made a noise of distress and shifted closer. Ron sighed in appreciation of the happy warmth, wrapping an arm around it to keep it close. His brain was just starting to percolate enough for him to remember that it wasn't just someone who wasn't a threat and therefore, allowed to touch him in his sleep.

"Harry," he mouthed silently against that same person's shoulder. Not to wake him, just to be able to say the name while they were sharing the same sheets. Him and Harry Potter. Ron and Harry, in bed together. And they'd had sex.

This was probably the better part of insanity although at this particular moment Ron was having a hard time remembering why it was such a terrible idea. Certainly he'd had worse ones and if a little sex was too much to ask out of life, then he wanted a refund. He wasn't asking for more than that, just a little something to take with him, a memory to think about sometimes when he was cold or alone. Or wanking.

The only dent in the morning was the stickiness of his pillow clinging to his cheek and the low rumble of his belly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten yesterday when he'd gotten back to Hogwarts. He scrunched deeper into the blankets, trying to hold onto the sleepy contentment of early morning. Yesterday had been a disappointment that he didn't want to remember. He'd spent the whole day in the wooded outskirts of Hogsmeade on his guard waiting for the contact, only to have him send a late owl to cancel their meeting. And all right, it wasn't that he didn't understand that this was life and death but after spending a day in the bloody cold weather with his brains all but hanging out trying to keep track of anyone who might come close he thought he was entitled to a little irritation.

At this rate, his brain was going to crawl out of his skull and make a go of it on its own if he didn't stop. Somehow though, seeing Harry on his bed last night, even surrounded with a pile of charms that he shouldn't have ever seen much less touched, had eased his headache in a way not much else had. Good thing he'd come back when he had though. If he'd held on to the hypnos ball much longer the theft charm would have kicked in and Harry would've had to carry what was left of his arm to the infirmary, the prat.

Sleep didn't seem as eager to return as Ron would have hoped, not with his thoughts churning around in his head like so much butter. With a wistful sigh, Ron carefully extracted his arms from around Harry and sat up, wondering if he could coax an early breakfast out of the house elves.

He sat on the edge of the bed, faintly dizzy, and imagined what Harry might do to him if he vanished again even if it were just for breakfast. Just the mental image made him wince. Right then, probably better to wake him up and let him know what was what. Yawning, Ron turned back towards the bed and hoped Harry was more a morning person now than he had been years ago.

The amount of blood on the sheets slapped shock into him like a blow, damp, crimson puddles of it covering the pillow and trailing into long, distended arms like some sort of blown up picture of an amoeba. Ron crammed a hand against his mouth to stifle the shriek that nearly escaped, biting down hard on the knuckle of his first finger to keep quiet and fucking hell there was so much of it. Hysteria was a thin squeal in his thoughts warbling that Harry was dead, had to be dead with that much blood, so much blood, and how, how could they have gotten through Hogwarts defenses it was fucking impossible, please, no.

He scrambled off the bed and fell hard, dizziness and nausea fighting for control, and Ron struggled to swallow it back, resting his forehead against the icy stone floor. The first violent tide of terror ebbed enough for him to feel the grittiness against his face, the dull ache in his sinuses. His blood, he realized, his relief so great it was almost sickening. Just another nosebleed, then, nobody dead. Not yet, anyway.

Ron stayed on the floor a bit long, breathing slowly as he waited for the dizziness to pass before carefully getting to his feet. He considered the amount of blood on the bed soberly. This was getting serious. If this was the result of one day on guard he was worse off than he'd thought. Harry was still asleep, breathing deeply and evenly, and just the sound of it eased the last of Ron's panic. Just the thought of Harry laying there dead...he shuddered silently. It was a tiny stroke of luck that Harry hadn't woken up during his impromptu calisthenics, Ron thought grimly as he carefully pulled his wand out from under the pillow.

The outer edges were already drying to a sickening maroon, flecks of blood that must have fallen when he'd sat up gleaming wetly on the lower portion of the sheet. It was just as well that he was well acquainted with how to cast spells when the inside of his skull felt like it was filled with old oatmeal and the knowledge served him in good stead today. A silence spell first, better not to take his chances with how deeply Harry slept. The cleaning spell took a bit more out of him and Ron leaned heavily against one of the bedposts, eyes closed as he concentrated on breathing until the dizziness passed again. When he finally managed to look at the bed he saw it hadn't worked perfectly; there was still a pinkish tinge to the sheets, faintly darker in the middle of the pillow.

Fuck it. He couldn't work up the energy to care. Instead, he flipped the pillow over so the clean side was up and decided to count on Harry's lack of glasses to hide the light stains on the sheets. Ron tugged the blankets up just a little further and froze as Harry murmured in his sleep. He rolled over onto his back and flung an arm over his eyes, blocking out whatever grayish light had managed to creep in from the window.

Looking at Harry now, his hair in sweaty clumps and a thin layer of stubble dusting his cheeks made an ache climb up from Ron's gut into his chest. He suddenly realized he couldn't feel him anymore, their connection from the night before callously severed by his mental shields. That hurt as much as the growing ache in his head. It hadn't been much of a connection but it had been more of one than he'd ever been able to get from Harry before. Something about Harry always blocked him out, whether Harry was just good at keeping other people from prying into his thoughts or if he was just too nervous about touching Harry's mind to be able to do it well, Ron wasn't sure. He just knew that last night he'd been able to feel Harry wanting him, could see it sitting there right behind his eyes. The prickly sense of nervousness with just plain horny thrown in like a whiskey chaser and it was a sensation he'd wanted to keep for a long, long time.

Well, he'd learned a long time ago how it felt to want.

His headache was steadily growing worse, a brutal throb that radiated from his forehead and settled down into his sinuses. Ron managed to sit carefully on the chair by the desk and pressed the knuckles of his first fingers against his eyes, still not entirely sure he wasn't going to vomit into his own lap. This couldn't continue. Ron rubbed a tired hand over his face and it came away wet. He looked at it with some disgust, a combination of blood and snot. The bed was clean but he still looked like he'd stepped out of an accident in which three people and a broomstick had plowed into a very large tree. Chances were that Harry would notice that when he woke up. With some effort, he shuffled off in the direction of the toilet and was very grateful that he never bothered to sleep in a nightshirt. Just the thought of cleaning anything else magically this morning made his stomach turn over again.

The shower in the Hogwarts guestroom was just about half the size of Ron's old room back at the Burrow and he had every intention of using all of it. When he'd first arrived he'd spent nearly an hour in it, turning on each of the gold-handled knobs and delighting like a child in the various soapy waters that poured out, so he knew exactly which tap would spout clouds of warm, bubbly-white suds. It was a pure pleasure to stand beneath the thick spray and let it sluice away the drying streaks of blood. The comforting warmth eased his growing headache into something bearable and made it easier for him to think. He scrubbed his hair briskly, trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do.

This couldn't go on and not just because he couldn't keep counting on waking up before Harry to clean the sheets. Even if he had remembered to use his dream catcher last night he doubted it would have helped very much; the once-glossy black beads had already faded into a dull gray and those things were bloody hard to find. The one he'd had should have lasted years and it probably would have if he'd been anywhere but it this school with literally thousands of thoughts trying to creep in when he wasn't prepared. A brand new one probably wouldn't do much to help him now. He was too sensitive from shutting his Sight down for long periods of time. Wasn't supposed to work like that and he bloody well knew it which was why he took assignments that put him out of the country so often.

Plus, he was virtually useless to Harry like this. Ron couldn't help a mental smirk. Except for the obvious purposes, of course, but he wasn't actually here to keep Harry Potter well shagged, no matter what either of them thought about it. Some protector he was turning out to be. It wasn't completely his fault, he supposed, the Minister of Magic and Hermione were the ones who'd sent him here.

Of course, they hadn't known that his brains were going to start leaking out of his nose when he arrived so sending blame in their direction wasn't quite useful.

Ron snorted bitterly and winced at the sharp pain that reward him. Just how stupid are we going to play this morning, he thought, tiredly. This wasn't just about keeping secrets from Harry or nosebleeds. Bit by bit, this was slowly killing him. One of these nights some overstressed vein inside his head was finally going to break with a wet little snap and he'd bleed out everything he had on those nice, white sheets. He wondered if the house elves would have to clean it up. He wondered if they would tell his family, if his mother would cry.

"Oh, stop it, you moron," he muttered to himself. Soon he'd be writing out wills and weeping for his poor, pathetic life. As if dying were the only option available.

He stiffened automatically when he heard soft footsteps outside the curtain, already reaching for his wand before he stifled the urge. The only ones it could be were Harry or one of the house elves and he doubted they would have any urge to sneak into the shower with him.

His nerves were still jangling angrily at him and Ron finally gave in and peeked around the curtain to see Harry leaning sleepily against the wall while he pissed into the toilet. Ron watched a moment longer, the curve of Harry's arse undeniably tempting, before he decided getting caught staring while Harry took a piss would probably not be his best moment.

Ron turned the faucet to plain water and rinsed his hair, already smiling by the time a shadow fell across the curtain. "Ron?"

"You were expecting maybe the queen?" he called cheerfully, wiping water out of his eyes.

"Something like that," Harry agreed, twitching aside the curtain to peer inside. He stood there, watching, until Ron shifted uncomfortably, very aware that he was quite naked and getting rather happy to see Harry. Even without glasses, he was quite sure Harry would notice that.

"You could step in, you know. I don't really bite."

Harry's lips twitched into a smile. "What a pity."

Having a wealth of sleek, damp skin pressing against his own while warm water poured down on them from above had to be one of the closest things to bliss that Ron Weasley had ever felt, especially when it was Harry Potter's naked skin. Not that he'd had much of an opportunity to shower with anyone else; he could count the number of relationships he'd had on one hand, even if he'd had two of his fingers cut off.

The incessant jabbering in his head was cut off abruptly as Harry slithered down his body to kneel on the hard tiles. His mouth was sweet and clumsy as he carefully wrapped it around Ron's cock, and all fucking hell, he couldn't look away from it, the sight of Harry's mouth on him and when he started to suck he felt it like a shock straight to his spine. Even better when he slid his fingers into Harry's dripping hair and rocked into that silky-wet heat, felt Harry moan around him and he only sucked harder, his tongue sliding insistently over the tip in a way that drained the strength from Ron's knees. He leaned against the cool tiles and tilted his head up into the spray while Harry sucked him off and wondered how he was going to tell him he had to leave.

Chapter Text

Not long before the bathroom mirror would have begun to complain about the amount of water they were using, Harry stepped out of the shower. He snagged a towel from the neat stack on the dressing table and wiped it over his face to clear the water from his eyes. As showers went, that was one he would be delighted to have every morning before his classes.

"Shove over, will you? Gets a little brisk out of the hot water." Ron gave him a good-natured push and stepped out beside him, carelessly wrapping a clean towel around his hips. He slipped out the door without bothering to dry off and took most of the steamy heat with him. Shivering, Harry dried off quickly and followed him.

His robes were crumpled on the floor where he'd left them the night before and Harry shook them out guiltily before scrambling into them. He didn't particularly care for wearing the same clothes two days in a row but it was either that or wear something of Ron's and from what he'd seen of Ron's limited wardrobe, he thought perhaps his students would die of shock to see him in Ron's clothes. Either that or laugh themselves into hysterics.

One of the problems of being a Professor, he decided, was that it was serious lacking in the area of wardrobe. Leather certainly didn't feature anywhere into the list except in the area of shoes.

Speaking of which--he paused with one sock still in his hand to watch Ron squirming into his clothes. His shirt clung damply to the places Ron had missed with the towel and after a few moments of wrestling, his pants were also in the proper position. What a pity; it had been such a nice view, although Harry wasn't quite sure how leather pants were useful to an Auror.

"They aren't," Ron said absently, stamping into his boots. "I just like them." He glanced up at Harry slyly. "And thanks."

Harry felt his cheeks redden and ducked down to put on his other sock. How was it that Ron didn't catch anything he ever thought unless it was embarrassing? He sat down to put on his shoes, only to have Ron lean down in front of him and stop him with an odd kiss on the nose.

"I'm going down. I'll meet you at breakfast, all right?"

Harry blinked in surprise. "You can't wait long enough for me to put on my shoes."

"Wait?" Ron looked aghast. "I haven't eaten in over a day and you want me to wait?" Ron's expression was so crestfallen that Harry rolled his eyes and waved a hand at him in a gesture of permission.

"I'm sure that five more minutes would simply be too much for you to bear," he said dryly. Ron grinned at him and trotted out of the room in search of breakfast. But not, Harry noticed, without grabbing his wand and tucking it almost casually into a small pocket on the side of his pants. At hand level, Harry realized, and it certainly had to be a modification on the original design.

For just a little while he'd almost forgotten why Ron was here. That tiny gesture was a glaring reminder that it wasn't for him, or it was but not in the more traditional sense. Somehow, it didn't quite dim the warm glow that he still had from the shower. Harry wondered exactly how long he'd been grinning foolishly and decided he didn't care. Ron had looked very much the same when he'd left and he supposed that made it all right. He felt particularly good this morning and didn't care if the whole school knew, so long as the students weren't guessing why.

Could it really be this easy? To go from friends to nearly enemies to lovers like they had with barely a gray spot between. Harry chewed his lower lip, not liking the obvious answer. He expected that was too much to ask that things just go smoothly. He still wasn't quite sure what he wanted out of all of this but he knew what he didn't want. Ron had said he would only be staying until they knew Harry was safe and then he'd be off again.

"But you're here now," Harry murmured, tying his shoes. He cast a quick charm to shake the last of the wrinkles out of his robes. Whether he and Ron stayed on as friends or as...as whatever else they wanted to be didn't seem to matter. He just wanted to make sure Ron stayed on as something.

The Great Hall was still mostly empty, with only a few students quietly eating breakfast, surrounded by their books. The staff table held a few more people as Professors didn't have the same luxury of snatching a bun off the tables before darting off to class as the students did. To Harry's surprise, Ron wasn't one of them. Perplexed, Harry searched the hall for a splotch of bright red hair, although he couldn't imagine why Ron wouldn't be sitting in his customary chair.

He was more shocked when he finally saw him in one of the far corners talking to...Snape? No, not talking, they were arguing about something. Discreetly enough, he supposed, since their voices weren't carrying but they were certainly getting their share of curious looks from staff members and students alike. He wondered if Snape was still getting into a twist over the incident in the stairwell and scowled. He'd happily tell the bastard to sit on a splintered broomstick and to mind his own blasted business. Snape was not the Headmaster of this school and Harry's personal life was certainly no concern of his.

Neither of them seemed to even notice him walking their way at first. "Weasley, if you think I..." Snape was saying before he suddenly saw Harry and stopped abruptly. Ron turned to look at him and flashed him a quick smile that melted instantly back into seriousness when he looked back at Snape.

"Severus," Ron said, quietly. The word seemed to hold a wealth of meaning and apparently, none of it was meant for Harry. For the second time in as many minutes, Harry was completely shocked as Snape actually seem to flinch.

He watched in bewildered amazement as Snape glared icily at him before looking back at Ron. "I'll thank you not to bring this up again."

"Dammit, I just..." Ron started and let the sentence hang as Snape shook his head and stormed out of the hall in a rustling swirl of black robes.

"What was that all about?" asked Harry, still bewildered.

Ron shrugged. "Nothing important."

"Really?" Harry asked skeptically. "Then you'll be able to tell me all about it."

"Nope." He cut off Harry's indignant protests before he could even begin them, sharply. "I told you, I won't compromise when it comes to your safety."

"And somehow that justifies you keeping secrets from me?"

"Yes," Ron said shortly.

Harry glared at Ron, too utterly furious to even speak. Keeping secrets was one thing and while he wasn't particularly happy with it, he did try to understand. But for him to be able to discuss it with Snape of all people and not him hurt.

Ron seemed to realize that as well and some of his stern expression faded. He sighed deeply and scrubbed a hand over his face in a weary gesture. "Look, I promise it really wasn't that important. I just can't tell you."

All right, fair enough. He had other questions he could try. "Can you tell me when you got so friendly with Snape, then?" Harry asked, pleased with how calm he sounded, barely even a tremor in his voice. Maybe it was a bit presumptuous for him to be so upset about Ron speaking to Snape but Harry found that he cared less than a jot whether it was presumptuous or rude or whatever, he just needed to know something about all this. "When we left school together you would have been happy to see him buried neck-deep in a tub of horned toad guts and now it's all 'Severus'."

Ron hesitated and looked away, and Harry's heart sank at the same time a particularly large lump rose up in his throat.

"I met up with him a couple years ago," Ron muttered, studying the floor. "We...had a long talk. I can't say any more than that, I promised him then I wouldn't tell anyone about it." He looked up at Harry and his eyes begged for him to understand.

Part of Harry wanted to force it, to demand Ron tell him what the sodding hell was going on. But he reluctantly admitted that he did understand. Ron had made the promise years before he'd fallen back in with Harry. That almost made it worse. He didn't really want to understand and wished he could demand Ron tell him everything.

But if he did...then what? It wasn't like they didn't have their own set of rules they were going by. Some of his easy pleasure in the morning faded at that memory. Ron wasn't really a boyfriend or a lover, just someone who was here for a little while.

"Harry," Ron said urgently, "Please, I didn't mean to..."

"Professor Potter and Mr. Weasley! I'm so happy to have caught you before you sat down."

Harry nearly leapt out of his own skin, whirling to face the Headmaster with his heart pounding fiercely. Dumbledore's usual cheery smile greeted him and he managed a feeble smile in return, not very pleased at all to be interrupted just then.

"I was afraid the two of you might have eaten before I had a chance to catch you," Dumbledore said. He seemed completely unaware of the row he'd just managed to cut short. Harry supposed it was just as well. "Could the two of you please join me for a moment in my office? Much as I hate to disturb your breakfast, I'm afraid this is quite important." Harry was sure he saw a hint of sparkling amusement in Dumbledore's eyes and he fought down a guilty blush. Barely a few days since he and Ron had started sleeping together and they'd already been caught quarreling, in front of students, no less.

He was starting to wonder when exactly he'd lost his mind, though he suspected that it had begun the moment Ron had stepped into his office a few weeks ago.

Harry felt more like a recalcitrant student than a Professor as he and Ron followed Dumbledore meekly to his office. At the stone gargoyle, Dumbledore murmured, "Twizzlers," and gestured for them to go before him on the stairs. Somewhat baffled, they both did so.

"It would appear that the two of you have an unexpected guest for breakfast," Dumbledore said gravely. Harry's stomach twisted uncomfortably. "I thought it might be best if you met privately." Harry was the first through the oak door and Ron collided into his back when he stopped abruptly at seeing who was waiting for them.

"Hermione!"

Even if she hadn't already looked lovely to Harry's eyes, her radiant smile at seeing the two of them would have certainly made her so. In an instant, she was out of her chair in a flurry of blue and white robes, flinging her arms around the two of them. Harry buried his face into her hair and hugged her tightly. It was like the years were melting away and it was just the three of them again.

Then Ron wrapped his arms around the two of them, with his chin on top of Harry's head. Harry smiled ruefully; a few things had changed since their first year at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore cleared his throat behind them and they broke apart awkwardly. "I'll just leave the three of you to chat, then," he said smilingly, "I'm sure I can handle your classes for just this morning, Professor," and went back out the door.

The moment the door closed, Hermione was back in Harry's arms, hugging him tightly. When she pulled back he was startled to see a shimmer of tears in her eyes. "It's been so long. We really must make more time to see one another."

"Yes," Harry agreed, as well as he could through the sudden lump in his throat.

She pulled back suddenly to frown at Ron as though she'd only just seen him and he managed a weak smile. "And you!" she said severely, but his hug was no less enthusiastic and she didn't say anything else. Harry suspected Ron's eyes were just as damp as his own and he swept a rough hand over them self-consciously.

"Well," Hermione said when she finally let Ron go. "It's a long way to get here, even if you do Apparate into Hogsmeade. I do believe we should take advantage of the lovely breakfast the house elves provided for us."

For the first time Harry noticed that Dumbledore's desk had been cleared from the room and in place of it was a small table, laden with silver-covered platters. The smell of sausages drifted over to him and his mouth began watering instantly. Ron, who'd looked a bit dazed by Hermione's appearance, seemed to abruptly remember that he'd been ravenous early that morning and he quickly took one of the seats, lifting the lids and inspecting their delectable contents.

Hermione's expression was one of fond indulgence as she watched Ron happily fill his plate. Again, Harry felt that lump in his throat that threatened to choke him. It had been so long since the three of them had been together like this, longer even than Ron's disappearance.

"I really have missed you, Hermione," Harry said quietly. She looked up and smiled, her eyes misty, and she dabbed at them unashamedly with a hankie.

"I've missed you, too. Now, let's get something to eat before our Mr. Weasley finishes the lot of it." Harry laughed and the two of them sat down. Ron could only glare at them, chewing fiercely and it made Harry laugh again.

Our Mr. Weasley. Yeah, he could handle that.
 

It took far too short a time for the three of them to nearly relieve the array of platters of their burdens. Even Hermione ate hugely, dabbing at her lips with her napkin and declaring with laughing embarrassment that she never ate this way. It seemed so much like old times that Harry had nearly forgotten there had been any distance between them at all.

Until they were finished and were down to the last bit of tea. Ron had grown quieter, dropping cubes of sugar into his teacup and stirring it slowly until he finally said abruptly, "All right, we're alone and the food is gone. Cough it up, Hermione."

She gave him an outraged look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're not here just to have kippers with a couple of old friends. Are you?" The way Ron said it made it clear that it wasn't a question.

Hermione looked sad but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she turned and pulled an envelope from her satchel. Harry recognized the seal on it as from the Minister of Magic.

His lips curled as though he smelled something terrible, Ron took the envelope. He walked over to lean against the window, pulling out his wand and tapping it against the seal. It vanished in a hiss of greenish smoke that curled in on itself and disappeared. The letter inside was pages long and Harry watched as Ron's expression darkened while he read.

"Fucking hell!" He flung the letter and envelope across the room where they fluttered harmlessly to the ground. "How could they have gone on that raid without me! I should have been there!"

"It's not as bad as all that, Ron," Hermione tried and he gave her a scathing look.

"The hell it isn't!" He snatched the letter from the floor and held the crumpled papers in front of Hermione's face. "I suppose that Halfshaw being out for at least six months, if he ever comes back, isn't all that bad?"

"Of course not," she said irritably. "But it's hardly your fault. And do watch your language, Ron, we are in a school," she finished primly.

Ron gaped at her and then laughed, tiredly, as he sank into his chair. "I did notice that. But I should have been there. I've tangled with those bastards before. I know what kind of tricks they can pull."

"And we weren't certain that it was the same cult. It could have very well been a ploy to get you out of this school and away from Harry." At Ron's scowl, she continued, "You knew this would be constant surveillance when you took it on," she reminded him. "Would you prefer if we assigned someone else?"

Ron stood and moved back over to the window, staring out at the Hogwarts grounds. He was silent for a long time and Harry's heart froze. The lake was within view, reflecting a shimmer of the new sunlight and Ron seemed entranced by it. "No," he said quietly, his voice a dry croak.

"This is ridiculous," Harry burst out, unable to be a silent audience to this any longer. "I didn't need an Auror's protection to begin with. Ron's been here nearly a month now and the only excitement we've seen has been..." From him. Harry didn't say it but Ron flinched and hunched in on himself as though trying to be smaller than he was.

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Look," he tried for a reasonable tone and was pleased enough with the result. "If they need Ron somewhere else, it's not like I'm not safe here. I can stay at Hogwarts, I can even stay off the grounds." From the doubtful looks he was getting, it didn't seem like this was working very well. He persisted, desperately, "I mean, what kind of information did you get about Voldemort that seemed so important?"

Ron started to say something and was cut off by Hermione's raised hand. "I'm sorry, Harry, but that's confidential."

"Yeah, confidentially about me," Harry said bitterly and Hermione looked away. "Look, we all know Ron can't stay here forever. He wouldn't even be here if I were someone else. If he has to...if they need him to..." Harry couldn't force himself to say the word leave. There hadn't been enough time for the two of them, the wounds had barely started to scab over and he might already have to say goodbye for however long Ron would be gone. It wouldn't be as bad this time, he told himself. This time he knew he'd seen Ron again and if it made his chest ache to think about it, well. It would get better. He knew that from experience.

"No." Harry blinked as Ron whirled around and swooped down in front of him. He braced his arms against the chair on either side of Harry's head and his long coat hung down like a dark curtain around them. "No, listen to me," Ron said, his eyes wild and urgent, so close to Harry's face he could feel the quick, panicked blurt of his breath. "Something is going to happen and it's going to happen soon. I can't figure out what but it's going to happen, I can feel it and I am not going to leave you here alone to wait for it!"

The chair was shaking with the force of Ron's grip and Harry couldn't look away from the frantic light in his eyes. Carefully, he reached up and took one of Ron's hands in his own. It was icy-cold and Harry chafed it lightly between his own, trying to offer some small amount of warmth.

Ron shuddered and closed his eyes, sinking down to kneel in front of Harry's chair. He slid his arms around Harry's waist and buried his face against his belly, his hair spilling down over Harry's lap. A little embarrassed, Harry stroked the back of his head lightly and looked helplessly at Hermione.

She was cleaning up the table, stacking the dishes neatly and very carefully not looking at them. Her face was so very calm, white and perfect. Only her hands betrayed her, trembling badly enough to rattle the china. She knew, Harry realized. She knew exactly how Ron felt about him and had probably known for some time. Resentment flared in him, as hot and bitter as coals, and he couldn't help but wonder what else they were keeping from him.

It was so tempting to say something, to open his mouth and just let the words that were boiling inside him spill out like lava, to ask they could do this to him so blithely, these people he called friends. Then he felt the soft strands of hair between his fingers, Ron's warmth soaking into him through his shirt.

Harry closed his eyes miserably. And he was sleeping with his friend and couldn't seem to offer more than a little sex while he wanted everything in return.

"Ron," he said, swallowing against the huskiness in his voice. A last squeeze, and Ron finally lifted his head with a sigh. The sight of his face made Harry gasp in shock, his hands tightening convulsively on Ron's shoulders. Two thin ribbons of blood were trickling from Ron's nose and over his pinched lips, a larger stain of it on the front of Harry's shirt. "Ron, you're bleeding." he whispered.

Automatically, Ron's hand flew to his nose, smearing the blood on his face. "Shite," he muttered, snatching a napkin from the table and pressing the wadded cloth against his nose.

"Are you all right?" Hermione's voice was unexpectedly sharp and Harry glared at her.

"Yes, yes," Ron snapped, his voice muffled against the napkin. "It's just so dry in the castle. No humidity in this weather, just dries up the whole works."

Hermione didn't look particularly convinced and Harry wasn't sure he was either. This wasn't the first nosebleed he'd seen Ron have. "Maybe you should see Madame Pomfrey about it?" he suggested doubtfully.

To his surprise, Ron seized on the idea. "Yes, you're probably right. She might be able to give me a bit of a hand with it." He gave Hermione a feeble smile. "Don't leave without saying goodbye?"

"I promise." Hermione smiled at him warmly although it faded after the door shut behind Ron. She turned back to Harry, an oddly sad look in her eyes. "Harry, I'm sorry about all this," she said heavily. "I don't mind saying I was of two minds about sending Ron here, but he is truly one of our best Aurors, in spite of everything, and..."

"What do you mean, in spite of everything," Harry frowned.

Hermione's eyes widened and she went very pink. "Do you mean to say he hasn't told you anything?" and then louder, "He didn't tell you? Has he told you anything at all? Has he? That selfish, self-centered little..."

"Hermione," Harry tried, and it didn't even dent in her rising indignation.

"I knew I shouldn't have sent him! I should have known when he didn't answer any of my owls. Why, I wouldn't even know the two of you were still alive if Dumbledore didn't keep me updated." She banged a fist on the table hard enough to rattle the dishes ominously.

"Hermione," Harry repeated, louder. Her voice rose over his again, ringing in the small room.

"I should have come here sooner. I should have made him come here sooner and ended all this nonsense."

"Hermione!" Harry shouted and she finally stopped, her mouth snapping shut in surprise. He looked pointedly at her hand, still fisted on the table and it relaxed guiltily. "Honestly, Hermione, it's not his fault. I wasn't much in the mood for talking when he first got here."

Hermione looked at him skeptically and Harry flushed. They had been friends for too long for him not to know what she was thinking, that they had apparently been in the mood for enough.

He suddenly remembered that Hermione and Ron had dated back when they were still in school and how terribly awkward he'd felt about the whole thing, how relieved he'd been when it had all ended and they'd gone back to being just friends. He wondered if that was how Hermione felt about all this now and felt a rush of guilty sympathy.

"So," he began awkwardly. "What was Ron supposed to be telling me, anyway?"

Hermione looked concerned. "Oh, I don't know, Harry, it's really not my place."

"Oh, come on," Harry said impatiently. "All I've heard all day is about what people can't tell me. There has to be something I'm allowed to know about."

She chewed her lower lip indecisively and Harry tried again. "Can't you just tell me a bit about where he's been?" he coaxed. Why he left like he did, why he didn't tell me.

"All right," Hermione sighed. "I suppose that can't hurt. I don't know everything," she admitted. "I've only had security clearance at the Ministry for a little while now and most of his files are at a higher level than I can access." Her mouth twisted. "Even the Minister can't access all the files. I do know that about three years ago Ron returned from an extended mission, something very secretive, and..." She hesitated, seeming unsure of what she was saying. Harry willed her silently to continue, eager for any information he could get. "He spent the next few months on unofficial leave and from what I can gather, he spent most of it inside a liquor bottle."

She paused, trying to gather herself, and Harry gave what he hoped was an encouraging look. "They don't talk about this much," she burst out, wringing her hands. "These Aurors, they go out time and time again to keep everyone safe, to keep us safe and it wears on them. I've seen it so often and..." Hermione took a deep breath and visibly calmed herself, rubbing at her temples like they ached. "Anyway, he was sent on another mission not long after and seemed to clean up for a time. I suppose he kept on like that for awhile. I'm not quite sure, I only know about it from reading his files." She gave Harry a wan smile. "I did try to keep track of him as best I could."

"I was in the higher levels of the Ministry by then but as long as it didn't affect his work, there really wasn't much I could do for him. He can be so stubborn sometimes." Harry nodded in sour agreement of that. "I only saw him once or twice over the next few years and never in England. And then early last year it just...stopped. He used to take time off after every mission and just get completely soused and ever since that one assignment, he stopped."

Hermione stopped, her eyes pleading with Harry for understanding. "I've talked about you with him before," she admitted. "I hated the position he was putting me in, knowing where he was and not being able to tell you. I'd see you and not be able to breathe a word because of the security clearance." She smiled a little. "I expect you're getting tired of hearing that."

"You have no idea," Harry muttered and she laughed.

"Yes, well, then we got our...information..." she said with careful deliberation, "And I knew. I could recall him and give him this assignment and then--" Suddenly, all the poise of being the Minister of Magic's assistant seemed to drain out of her and she was simply Hermione, looking dreadfully anxious.

"Tell me I did the right thing?" she said, her voice small and worried. "I didn't mean to tear everything open for both of you again but the way he left was just so wrong and I couldn't bear to have this emptiness between you and..."

"Hermione," he interrupted gently. "It's all right. We're all right." Her sigh of relief echoed within him and Harry promised himself fiercely that it would be all right, all of it. He wasn't about to lose Ron again.

Chapter Text

Ron made his way down the stairs as quickly as he could, trying to compose his thoughts. The staircase spiraled downward dizzily, the tapestries and paintings all watching him with shifting, curious eyes. Ron ignored them all and swiped a hand over his nose to check for any signs of blood. His fingers came away clean and he tossed the bloody napkin aside, muttering a charm. He didn't pause to watch it vanish.

There wasn't very much time. Students were starting to appear, hustling through in clumps and bunches like little clusters of uniformed grapes, on their way to the Great Hall or their classrooms. Ron walked faster, brushing past the children impatiently. One boy collided with him and nearly fell, books and papers cascading from his arms with a loud clatter. Ron didn't even pause and the boy's muttered curses faded from his ears as he quickly went down another set of stairs.

Even with the fireplaces blazing the dungeons had always been cooler than the rest of the castle, smelling dankly and reminding Ron of old socks. It grew stronger, sharper as he walked further in, steeling himself for what he was about to see. Or rather, whom.

It was like stepping back in time, only to find that had someone had managed to cast a shrinking charm on the entire world. The tables and chairs were so much smaller than he remembered, the bottle-lined shelves that still groaned under their burden, yellowish, frothing potions and ones that glowed thickly, potions as dark as old blood and some he recognized enough to call by name.

At the head of the room, watching him with dark, cold eyes was the Potions Master and Ron was reminded forcibly that he was no longer a student here. And Snape was very much not his teacher.

"Mr. Weasley, I was under the distinct impression that our conversation was finished." Snape flicked his eyes back down to the parchment he was writing on dismissively. Ron stepped further into the room and ran a hand over one of the smooth table that served as desks for the students, feeling very much as if he hadn't quite woken up that morning. This all seemed a little too much like a dream about his past, he and his friends at Hogwarts together, dreading Potions class.

"Well?" Snape snapped, slapping down his quill so hard that spatters of ink dotted his desk. "I trust you aren't simply here to disrupt my classes like you do Potter's."

No, he wasn't a child and he met Snape's angry gaze evenly. "You know why I'm here, Severus. I told you before, I need your help." At Snape's snort of disgust, Ron leaned against the desk and studied his nails in a mockery of carelessness. "Call it a favor."

"A favor," Snape repeated, slowly. It was truly an incredible sight, to see those black eyes turn colder still. Ron was quite certain that at that moment Snape could have hexed him without the benefit of a wand, and probably done a good job of it, too.

"For an old friend," Ron encouraged, mercilessly. If he had been a child he would have enjoyed Snape's whitened face, his helpless anger. He would have gone back to the Gryffindor common room bursting with vicious pleasure. As it was, a crueler bit of him was chortling in delight. It would have been a simple matter to press it deeper, to twist the insults in like a blade; he knew very well how to do it. A favor for a favor, and he had learned about that years ago.

But the rest of him ached as Snape's lips thinned into a familiar sneer. "Weasley, of the few things we have been to each other, I don't believe the word friend ever entered into it."

"No, I suppose not," Ron said glumly. Pathetic, really, how that made him feel, to hear that not even Snape wanted to call him a friend. Not much of a surprise though; friend was far too gentle a word to ever apply to Severus Snape.

"It seems to me that it's more of you trying to get a good turn from someone you slept with once," Snape said silkily, and Ron winced. His turn to cut out bloody pieces with sharp words, then. "And worse, you want the favor for the person you're sleeping with now." It made Ron wince again, to hear it like that. Not that it wasn't true or anything but saying it aloud made it sound amazingly tawdry. Well, if the worse he managed today was simply tawdry, he'd call it a fair price.

"What do you want then," Ron asked, reluctantly. He should have known from the start he'd be paying through the arse for this.

Snape's eyebrows swept upward into elegant arches. "Offering a favor in return then, well, this is a change." To his dismay, Snape took his time considering it, rearranging his perfectly neat desk in the pretense of tidying it, straightening quills and re-rolling parchment, until Ron could have screamed for him to bloody well get on with it. He'd already known Snape didn't have a class at this hour which was why he'd escaped down here but while Snape might have time to spare, Ron certainly didn't.

Just as Ron was nearly bouncing on his toes in impatience, Snape finally looked at him again. "I'm afraid I can only think of one thing you could offer me that might be acceptable," he said, smoothly. Ron had barely sighed his relief and nearly asked what it was when he realized exactly how Snape was looking at him. Or rather, exactly where Snape was looking at him.

Paying through the arse, indeed.

"You want me to have sex with you as a favor?" Ron blurted out. This was just not his day. He'd argued with his lover, his boss, and now he was apparently being mistaken for a Knockturn Alley two-knut. Honestly, he couldn't have been more shocked than if he'd discovered Snape had taken up nose-picking and belching as hobbies. It was all well and good to make a bit of an offer, but this!

"To pay for your favor," Snape corrected him. Ron scowled, unable to think of a way around that. It was true, he had asked for a favor first.

"So you want me to whore myself to you," he said flatly. One of the bottles in the corner of Snape's desk started rocking violently and tipped off the side. Snape caught it without even looking, setting it back in its place.

"Why not?" Snape inhaled slowly, hooding his eyes. He rested his chin on his folded hands, his voice lowering dangerously. "I did it once for you, didn't I."

"I rather thought that was a mutual favor," Ron said crossly. He should have known better than to come here. Hadn't he learned years ago that Snape had a different idea about fulfilling obligations than he did? It was the Slytherin in him that made him so bloody annoying, of that Ron was sure, but Snape had always managed to be a bastard on his own.

"Then perhaps you should ask Dumbledore for help." He plucked another quill from a stand and unrolled the parchment again, ignoring the speckles of ink that dotted it. A list of ingredients for some potion, Ron guessed, and he watched as Snape added, 'tuberworm warts' to the bottom. His slight smile was so utterly false Ron was sure he could take it off and tuck it into his pocket for another time. "I'm sure he'd be quite willing," Snape said airily.

"I know he would be," Ron snapped. But he couldn't trust Dumbledore to keep his mouth shut in the same way he could Severus. Oh, he was sure the headmaster was quite good at keeping a secret, but only when he thought the secret was one that should be kept. Snape would let someone die if he thought there was cause for it. Or he would keep someone from dying for the same reason, even to the point of his own death if it came to that. It was something Ron had learned to respect about him; if nothing else, Snape did what he believed was right and would not waver from that path.

It was a shame that his definition of right didn't cross paths with Ron's quite often enough, and he knew that the blasted git meant what he'd said, and it made the comfortably full feeling in his stomach from breakfast turn over into bloated sickness. This was so blasted important and it was just for this one night, just one more night and he could leave Hogwarts and there would be no more exams, not until the summer was over and...

Ron blinked and shook his head, no, he didn't have exams, he wasn't a student, and he wasn't going to be late to Transfigurations, not if he hurried, Professor McGonagall wouldn't give him detention if he came in only a few minutes past. He took a stumbling step backwards, Snape's face swimming in his vision and he could taste copper, wetness flowing down his face in a rush of warmth, the constant low hum in the back of his mind swelled into a roar, a shriek, and he couldn't hear, couldn't breathe and they were on him now, thousands of idle thoughts blurring into hideous, clawed shadows that tore into him.

His palms were damp and Ron dimly hated the feeling, squeezing his hands into fists as the world seemed to curdle around him. Something jerked him around, more pain cushioned into the rest of it, an echo that fell away only to have a hundred others rushing into the vacant place and, it must be like dying or being born, surrounded by explosions in a rushing sea of nothingness and suddenly there was nothing, nothing but blessed darkness and Ron sank into it gratefully.
 

He woke slowly, his Sight already curled within him like a fetus, trying to offer whatever feeble strength he still possessed as some kind of protection and he pushed out instinctively, flailing desperately to keep everything out and touched...nothing. Swallowed for a moment in pure emptiness and it ached, strangely, like a lost limb might but it was also a relief because emptiness wasn't pain and for right now, that was good enough.

Ron carefully moved his head, just enough to make sure it was still attached. Nothing fell off that he could tell so he opened his eyes warily, blinking in surprise at the darkness around him. His eyes slowly adjusted and Ron realized he was in a room, lying on a bed. Gingerly, still half expecting the terrible noise to rise inside his head again, Ron pulled back the bed curtains and looked straight into the face of Severus Snape.

He was sitting in a large, cushioned chair next to the bed, his back to the fireplace where the only light in the room flowed out gently. It was hard to speak, Ron's throat clicked dryly as he tried to swallow, staring into Snape's white, still face, his glittering eyes the only sign of life in the man.

"Wha...wha happened," Ron slurred out. He tried to sift though his memories, wincing as he touched a spot where they were cut off raggedly inside his head and he lingered over it like one might run their tongue over a sore tooth. No, he was alone in his head. He tried to focus just a little and winced at the sudden heat that washed over him.

Slowly, Snape stood and Ron couldn't stop himself from cringing as he rose over him, his anger lending him height until he seemed more like Hagrid's size than his own. "You fool!" Snape whispered harshly through bloodless lips. "You blithering, half-witted, incompetent..."

"Quit flirting and just tell me," Ron interrupted before he really began his tirade. There was so much venom in Snape's glare it was a wonder he didn't collapse again, stricken dead from pure hatred.

"I believe you know exactly what happened, Weasley," Snape said coldly. He whirled away, his cloak fluttering behind him and for a moment Ron thought he was leaving him alone. Then he heard the sound of water being poured and a glass was shoved unceremoniously into his hand. Hastily, he drank from it while Snape watched him grimly. "I'm more curious as to why it happened. Did you really think there weren't any secured places in Hogwarts?" he asked scathingly.

"I..." Ron blinked, still trying to gather his wits together into a manageable parcel. "I know McGonagall had one made in one of the classrooms for me while they trained me, but they dispersed that after I left. Too difficult to keep the wards from degrading..." Ron let it trail away when Snape's expression darkened further, his eyes stony.

When Snape spoke again, each word dropped precisely from his lips like a chip of ice. "Perhaps if you were intelligent enough to simply think, you would realize that I require similar wards. Moronic imbecile," he added, not quite under his breath.

Ron closed his eyes at his own stupidity. Of course Snape would need wards to rest properly, though his problem was more a reverse of Ron's. It wouldn't matter to the magic what the exact problem was; all that matter was that it would be a barrier to keep away unwanted things. He shrugged, unwilling to admit to his own idiocy. "You didn't seem to be in much of a mood to answer questions."

The last of the water finally eased his parched throat and Snape took the glass away and set it on a small table near the bed. "Can you feel anything at all?" Snape asked. He pushed up one of Ron's eyelids and peered inside thoughtfully

"Just you," Ron said irritably, batting his hands away. He thought that much should be obvious. Snape would know the wards better than he did.
Now that he was looking he could see them on the walls, large twisting shapes that shimmered faintly, cutting through the gloom. This must be Snape's private room, he realized. Aside from the bed, which was curtained with dark swathes of velvet, he could see bookshelves crowded into the room, their shelves cluttered with haphazard stacks of books and the odd scroll of parchment. An armoire squatted in one corner, the wood dark and heavy and a ratty armchair sat comfortably in front of the fireplace. Odd, he'd always thought Snape would be quite a tidy person.

He sat up further, trying to get a better look at the room and the coverlet slipped down to his hips. With a yelp, he yanked it back up to his chin. "Why am I naked?" he asked furiously, further humiliated to feel himself redden and he cursed his fair skin.

Far from looking angry, Snape was watching him with great interest. He asked, lazily, "You didn't really think I was going to put you in my bed in those bloody clothes?"

"I didn't think you were going to put me in your bed at all!"

"Whyever not? You've certainly been there before."

Ron startled at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, long fingers leaving trails of coolness against his bare skin. A protest lodged on the back of his tongue, the sudden visceral wash of lust/need overwhelmed him, demanding something from him. The startling feel of lips against his own, a cool, slick tongue pressing into his mouth and he dizzily allowed it. He shuddered, unable to pull away, webbed inside by desire that wasn't entirely his own. Fingers slid into the untidy mass of his hair, holding his head still for harsh kisses, crushing his lips against his teeth until he parted them again and was devoured.

The heavy sense of gloating swam thickly in his senses, maliciously sweet triumph and he sank back against the sheets, dimly aware of the pressure of a body above him. Salt-warm skin brushed his cheek and Ron mouthed it blindly, down the line of the neck to taste the jutting edge of a collarbone through heavy cloth. A low moan that wasn't his own and a hand swept over his chest, cool fingers lingering over his nipple until they twisted into a cruel pinch. He cried out, instinctively arching his back in a plea for more. His own hands were clumsy, tugging stupidly at buttons that refused to part and Ron whimpered helplessly, begging without words for help. The hand against his chest moved and caught his own hands, stilling them.

"Let me," whispered against his mouth, Severus, he remembered faintly, he was in Severus's room, in his bed and..wait..wait...the cloth parting beneath his hands and he was suddenly touching bare skin, pale and smooth.

"Stop," he tried to say, his mouth barely forming the word, weakly trying to draw up his mental shields. They were too worn, tattered to gossamer from their earlier battering and that desire swarmed him again. The coverlet had shifted, sliding down past his hips and Ron gasped at the feel of Severus's mouth against his belly, his teeth sharp against tender skin.

"No," Ron pleaded, shaking his head against the pillow, his hair shifting loudly against his ears. He caught at Snape's shoulders, trying not to clutch him closer, trying to find a way to push. Desire as hot as bluebell flames licked at him, hotter even than Snape's tongue investigating his navel and had it really been so long, the last time they were together like this, so terribly easy to lay back and feel the harsh triumph of desire, to watch Snape's spit-shiny lips sink lower still, just like Harry had that morning in the...

Harry's eyes, hating him, deep, bleeding pain and he knew, all his secrets skinned and laid bare before him, and there was only hate, only for Ron, blackened, charred emotions and Ron could feel nothing, nothing for him but rage.

"I thought you told me you didn't get off on rape," Ron spat, forcing himself to stop feeling that sweet burn because all fucking hell, it wasn't his.

Snape froze above him and lifted his head, meeting Ron's cold stare. With remarkable poise, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pulling deliberately away from Ron. It carried him up to the edge of the bed and Snape sat there for a long time, struggling to compose himself. Ron said nothing, trying desperately not to feel what he knew Snape was feeling, more than a little terrified he'd drag Severus back to him and just wallow in mindless forgetfulness.

"Do you know," Snape grated, his voice as jagged as broken glass. "How galling it is for me to know you're upstairs bedding him like the little slut you are, only to come prancing down here to beg favors of me?" His sudden laugh was a bitter draught, tainted with something like hatred. "Your whorish nature would seem to be the only family trait you have left, Weasley. Tell me, how does it feel to have him fuck you?" He turned to look at Ron, his clothes still opened, exposing a tempting line of skin. Snape's voice changed sinuously, low and dangerous. "Is he shy and nervous, our Mr. Potter? Does he make you beg for it before he gives it to you? Does he make you scream?"

"I love him," Ron whispered, helplessly. Snape reeled back as if slapped, so pale that he seemed to fade into the darkness. Abruptly, he stood, straightening his clothing briskly.

"Rest here for awhile," he said shortly. "The wards will help you. I have classes to attend to."

"Severus..." At the sound of his name, Snape seemed to explode, deep color blossoming in his cheeks and Ron hissed in pain at the pure, clean rage of it, untainted by any gentler emotions.

"You no longer have a right to the usage of my name," Snape hissed. His thin lips curved suddenly into a cruel smile. "You wanted a favor from an old friend? You shall have it. And in exchange, I'd ask that you never approach me again, certainly never call me friend and when he leaves you alone," The smile deepened, edge with something Ron didn't dare name, "And he will. You shall do the same for me."

"I..." Ron started, halting as Snape's glaring eyes warned him against protests even as his own triumph rose sickly within. He'd known Snape would do it. He'd always known.

"Do we have a deal?"

"Yes," Ron said, resigned. Snape nodded curtly and walked towards the door.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Ron whispered and Snape stopped stiffly, his hand on the doorknob.

"Hurt me?" he said, his voice low, then louder, "Hurt me?" Ron had the distinct impression that Snape was stifling a laugh. "My dear Mr. Weasley, hurting me should be the least of your worries. It should be--how did you phrase it? Not even on your reserve list. There is very little you could do that would hurt me." The door closed behind him softly.

"Liar," Ron told the empty room. It didn't answer, and only the light of the fireplace spoke to him, of familiarity and hominess, and Ron hated it for that, irrationally, even as he craved the warmth, bitterly envious because sometimes he didn't recognize himself.

He sank back into the bed, dimly hoping that Hermione and Harry weren't missing him yet because the chance to sleep with no thoughts in his head but his own was far too tempting. Even the taste of his own guilt wasn't enough to distract him from the gentle call of peacefulness.

Chapter Text

"Miss Pontner, if what you're telling Miss Pritchard is so amusing, I'm sure you'd like to share it with the rest of the class?" The expression of horror on Olga Pontner's face said clearly that she would prefer it to be otherwise and after a few tense moments, Harry relented and went back to his lecture on Second Level Hexes, trying to ignore the empty seat in the back of his classroom.

Much as he had adored his breakfast with Hermione he simply hadn't been able to neglect his classes any longer, and when Ron failed to reappear after some time he'd finally left her in Dumbledore's office. She had assured him that she would return for a visit again soon on a weekend and then perhaps the three of them could make a trip to Hogsmeade. It never seemed to occur to her that Ron might not be here.

The bell rang and his students clamored eagerly to their feet, already gathering their books before he could dismiss them. This was the problem with having a class directly before lunch, Harry thought wryly.

"You're dismissed," he called loudly over the din, even though it wasn't strictly necessary. He'd learned quickly that it wasn't wise to give the students any sign of weakness or soft-heartedness.

"They would go directly for the soft underbelly, wouldn't they," Harry said to the only other occupant in the room. The baby grendel, having outgrown his small cage and therefore Harry's office, was now in a large, ornate one that had been dug out of one of the castle's storerooms. It filled the entire corner and the desks had been rearranged to accommodate it.

It cooed when Harry walked over to the cage, fluttering its tiny webbed wings in delight. Already it had nearly doubled in size and soon this cage would be too small for it. When it pressed its ugly scaled head against the bars hopefully, Harry obligingly scratched and he couldn't help a smile when it rumbled out something like a purr.

He'd never quite understood Hagrid's obsession with hideous creatures but he had to admit, this one certainly had its charm. In another month he would have to send it to the dragon preserve in Romania and he knew he was going to miss the little creature. It was a shame Hagrid wouldn't get to see it, as he was teaching a semester at Beauxbaton. It had been a wonderful opportunity, he had to admit, and after eight years of courtship he could hardly blame Hagrid for wanting to spend some time with Madame Maxime, even if it was hard not to miss him.

He filled a small bowl at the bowl at the bottom with Old Man Krinkle's All-Purpose Dog and Dragon food and the grendel fluttered down to it and began to crunch happily. Hagrid probably wouldn't get to see Ron either, he realized and then shook his head in disgust. Ron had only been gone a handful of hours and he couldn't seem to stop thinking about him. How exactly did he think he was going to manage when Ron moved on to the next assignment?

You'll see Ron again, he told himself sternly, and as for later, well, that would have to wait until it came. Ron had said that he wouldn't be leaving like he had again and despite everything, Harry found that he believed it. It was interesting how seeing a person naked changed your perspective on things.

He had a sudden image of himself at Hogwarts, teaching Defense of the Dark Arts day after day and spending his nights pining for Ron, listening to the student's gossip about his love life or lack thereof, watching them thrill over Ron whenever he was here and Ron...Harry reeled his thoughts in with a snort. This was just pathetic. It was just as well Ron wasn't here to find him thinking like this. Ron was here now and he'd better damn well enjoy it while he could.

Harry sat down in his chair and gave into a long unsatisfied urge to prop his feet on the desk. Twenty three years old and already he was acting like a stuffy old professor, he thought glumly. It served its purpose during class yet afterward, it seemed to linger with him, sagging down his spirit with dullness. Maybe he should get a pair of those leather pants for himself. At the very least he could wear them to Hogsmeade or perhaps under his robes....

"You should, you'd look good in them." At the sound of a voice, Harry jerked guiltily and nearly fell backwards. There was the sensation of a cushion against his shoulders pushed him back upright and he saw Ron in the doorway, pointing his wand at him.

"Ron, you scared the life out of me! Where have you been?" Ron didn't answer and what lay behind his eyes made Harry shiver suddenly. It seemed to be forever before he lowered his wand and let it dangle loosely from his fingers by his side. "Ron?" he asked slowly, concern filling him. "Are you all right?"

Ron stepped into the room, the door closing behind him with a loud slam and Harry flinched from the sudden rush of magic in the room, enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He watched in stunned silence as Ron walked swiftly towards him, papers and books fluttering on the desks as if he carried a gust of wind with him and there wasn't enough left in Harry to be shocked when Ron yanked him out of the chair and shoved him up against the desk.

"Please, don't tell me no," he whispered harshly and then Ron was on him. Strong hands held his head still for a brutal kiss, mashing his lips against his teeth until he tasted the faint tang of blood. His glasses were pressing painfully hard against the bridge of his nose and Ron pulled away long enough to yank them off, one of the bows snapping off in his hand before he tossed them aside.

He couldn't respond, couldn't feel anything but Ron's mouth on his, rough and wet, and possessive in a way that Harry wasn't sure he could understand. For a moment he wasn't even sure if this was Ron, this stranger who was grinding himself against Harry, actually hoisting him up on the desk so he could step between his legs and force them apart. And then he made a noise, low and deep in his throat and Harry was suddenly certain that this could be no one but Ron, who sank his fingers into Harry's hair and yanked his head back.

Harry gasped in something near pain, digging his nails into the fabric of Ron's long coat as he licked at the hard line of his jugular, biting hard enough to leave the indent of teeth in the smooth skin. He could feel the hard wood of the desk beneath his shoulders and wondered how he got like that, one of Ron's knees hard against his hip. The other foot must have been braced against the floor because Ron pushed against him and sparks flew behind Harry's eyes.

"Ron--" he managed to gasp, "The door, I--" It never occurred to him to say no, only that God, the students could not see them like this.

Ron cursed against his neck, fumbling for his wand. He pointed it at the door and hissed, "Fervefacio!" and Harry couldn't even blink as the doorknob actually melted, molten metal streaming down the door like candle wax and hardening in brassy streaks.

And then it was just the two of them, Ron's hands peeling his clothes away and exposing long, white limbs and he could actually feel Ron's lust in a way he'd never felt anything, wavering around him like the air above a fire. Something inside him surged to meet it, a hunger that he'd never knew existed and Ron moaned, falling to his knees in front of the desk.

His hands slid under Harry's arse, holding him still and he was dimly grateful for that strength because Ron's mouth was on him, hot and messily wet, licking just behind his balls and lower, and Harry's pants were still in a tangle around his ankles, hindering him as he tried to curl instinctively around Ron's head. Not quite a protest but he couldn't...he couldn't bite back a wail as he collapsed back on the desk, hitting his head hard enough to see stars dance in his vision.

"Ron...God...please," Harry could only hope he was actually speaking, trying to push back into the wet heat of Ron's tongue, licking at him in ways Harry couldn't believe were real, like the hottest wet dream in the universe and he didn't understand how he couldn't have known Ron wanted this before, why they hadn't been doing it every damned day.

The room swam in his vision as he was jerked back upright, Ron's mouth on his again and he tasted dark and powerful, the briefest harsh pressure against his mouth and then the desk was cool beneath him again, pressed against his cheek this time as Ron bent him over the desk and just...

"Take a deep breath," Whispered in his ear, hardly even a warning and there was pressure. A slick finger pushing inside him, twisting pleasure into him and Harry crammed his fist against his mouth, stifling a spill of pleading words.

He wasn't sore from the night before, not really, and he bit down on a knuckle as Ron pushed another finger into him. Good, really, amazingly good and he tried to rock back into them, to take a little more. The hard pressure of a hand in the middle of his back stilled him and Harry craned his head around, trying to see Ron, wanting to say something.

Words died unspoken at Ron's expression, his eyes avidly watching the stroke of his fingers into Harry's body. His free hand was still on Harry's back, not quite holding down anymore as much as simply touching. It was absolutely amazing to see Ron like that, his face flushed, gulping breaths and then he pushed his fingers in again and Harry nearly screamed.

"God, stop," he begged, pressing his forehead against the dwindling coolness of the desk. "Please, stop and just--"

"Just what?" And Harry remembered Ron telling him not to say no.

"Just fuck me," he whispered and there was no air in his lungs to scream when Ron did. A single hard thrust inside him and Harry could feel the stretch of it to his fingertips, savagely deep and so entirely perfect.

There was cold, smooth leather against his hips and he realized Ron hadn't even taken his pants off. It made him want to laugh, the sound escaping as a strangled cry as Ron pulled out, so slowly, hesitating just like that. Harry felt the wet plink of a drop of sweat on his back, imagined Ron's face twisted with need and he suddenly knew exactly what Ron was waiting for, whispered directly into his thoughts.

"Please. Do it."

Ron made a soft, broken sound, artless and sincere and God, plowed into him, grinding Harry into the desk and the cold wood was rough against his cock, slicked with his own sweat. The desk rocked violently as Ron rammed into him, again and again, one hand sliding into the hollow behind Harry's knee and forcing it up so he could, oh, God, get deeper still.

He can hear the whine in his breathing, low and pleading beneath each gasp for air and for just a moment, everything in front of his eyes flashed white and he could feel, all of it, Ron's desperation, his need, twined around them both with tentacled arms, a near meaningless snarl of visceral pleasure that meant nothing more to Harry than one terrifyingly important thing.

Desire.

Harry came back to himself to the feel of frantic kisses on his face, Ron's hands cupped around the back of his head with stunning tenderness. "I'm sorry," Ron was babbling, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean..."

"I'm all right," Harry said, faintly. Ron didn't hear him, words of apology still rushing out and for a horrifying moment Harry thought Ron might scoop him up and drag him to see Madame Pomfrey. Just the thought of what that conversation would consist of filled Harry with terror. He pushed Ron's hands away firmly and Ron fell silent.

"Ron, I'm fine," he repeated loudly. He sat up to prove it was true and blinked against a rush of dizziness. When Ron stopped spinning in his vision, Harry saw he was watching anxiously, twisting his hands together as if to stop them from grabbing Harry again.

"I'm sorry," Ron looked distinctly embarrassed. "I didn't mean to -- I just wanted --yeah," he finished lamely.

"Yeah, I guess so." They stared at each other a while longer and then a slow grin spread over Harry's face. "That," he said fervently, "Was absolutely bloody brilliant."

A matching grin broke over Ron's face and Harry could practically feel his relief. No, he could feel it, and he blinked, turning the cool sensation of it over in his head.

"Oh, sorry." Another flush of embarrassment and the feeling faded. "I didn't mean to be projecting," Ron muttered, ducking his head. "It's just..." Another grin, and Ron said, slyly, "You're good."

It was only with the slimmest of margins that Harry managed to keep a blush from creeping up his cheeks. Unable to meet Ron's gaze, he glanced around the room, his eyes widening in horror. It was a wreck, books and papers scattered about the room as though the force of their sex had sent a whirlwind through it. Lady Miomosa's painting in the back of the room had her eyes covered, the poor woman blushing nearly purple from her cheeks down to the neckline of her dress.

Not to mention that Harry was sitting mostly naked on his desk.

"I have a class in ten minutes!" he hissed, horrified, and had to stifle a sincere urge to hit Ron when he laughed.

"Don't fret, Professor," Ron chuckled, "You straighten yourself out and I'll worry about the classroom."

With a last glare, Harry hopped off the desk and started putting his clothes to rights. He watched as Ron charmed the books and papers into neat piles. He certainly seemed to be in a better mood than he had been of late, Harry reflected as he searched somewhat blindly for his own wand. He finally found it beneath his desk where it had rolled sometime during their little tryst. A very good mood, although it was hard to say if it was because of sex or something else. Very good sex, Harry corrected with a mental smirk.

Ron had finished with the room and was sitting on one of the desks, watching him with great interest and probably had been watching for some time, damn him. He hoped at least Ron had gotten some enjoyment out of him crawling about on the floor.

"You forgot the door," Harry reminded him, tapping his wand against his glasses and mending the damage Ron had done to them. When Ron didn't move, he shoved them on his face quickly and looked at him in horror. "You can fix the door, can't you?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Of course I can. I just--" He ran his fingers through his hair in an oddly nervous gesture. "I didn’t actually come here to do this. No, really, I didn't," he insisted at Harry's disbelieving look. "I needed to tell you that I'm leaving."

All the strength seemed to drain out of Harry's knees and he caught the edge of the desk, gripping it painfully. His face must've spoken of exactly how he felt because Ron swore suddenly.

"No, no, not permanently, Harry! Just for tonight," he exclaimed. "Remember? I'm meeting my contact?"

"Oh, right." Harry was immensely grateful that Ron couldn't feel exactly how relieved he was. Slowly, realization came, something in Ron's eyes that made him see the truth of it. Ron was never going to leave him again, not like he had before. He couldn't, and Harry wasn't quite sure if it was love like Ron claimed or some kind of deeply wrong obsession, and it filled him with shame how much he didn't care.

"I just wanted to, you know, say goodbye." Ron shifted uncertainly, his eyes oddly hopeful. It took a moment to sink in, dawning on him what Ron was waiting for. Stepping close, Harry gave him a chaste kiss on the mouth.

"Is that what you call that?" he murmured. "Goodbye?"

"Yeah," Ron breathed against his mouth and this time the kiss was deeper, stunningly tender and considerate of bruised lips. A sudden knock on the door startled them and they sprang apart.

"Have fun teaching, Professor." Ron smiled, backing away. "Retrorsum!" The hardened streaks of metal against the door slid back upward, molding back into a perfect doorknob. Ron used it first, walking past the equally curious and suspicious looks of the students. Harry arranged his face in his blandest expression and concentrated on sorting out his notes.

Well, that certainly hadn't been dull or stuffy. He ached in more places than he could count and certainly had reason to be grateful that his robes covered him from his neck to his ankles. He was happy, Harry realized, really and truly happy in a way he hadn't been for what felt like a really long time. And it was all because of Ron. He had to resist the urge to whistle or something equally as foolish, not even upset that Ron wasn't going to be here tonight because surely he'd be back in the morning.

Unless his contact told him something important.

It punctured his newfound happiness like a balloon, and Harry deflated with it, sinking into his chair. It came back to the same thing, no matter how he turned it around in his head. Ron was going to leave, he had to leave and Harry would have to stay here at Hogwarts and--

Something niggled in his brain and Harry stopped.

He didn't have to stay. Harry sat up straight in the chair, his notes forgotten. Of course he didn't have to stay! When the offer to teach at Hogwarts had come, he had been nearly divorced and feeling more than a little lost. He'd snatched up the opportunity gratefully but it didn't mean he could never leave. Dumbledore would never begrudge him for it and he would hardly be the first Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who had only stayed for a single year.

And if Ron had a problem with it, well, he was just going to have to get over it. He wasn’t the only person who had a stake in this, not anymore.

Chapter Text

Ron wrapped his coat tighter around him, trying to keep out the chill February wind. His own bloody fault for forgetting to reinforce the heating charm on it and he couldn't do it now. His senses were as open as he dared, searching for anyone approaching. The woods surrounding Hogsmeade were no Forbidden Forest but they still weren't a friendly place to be in the wee hours of the morning. The small clearing he was in was surrounded by scrubby trees and snarled, tangled brambles and it lacked for something in welcome.

It didn't matter. He'd be perfectly happy to wait here as long as it took until his contact got here so long as he did come. Ron wasn't sure he could take another delay. All he needed was just a little information that would be useful, to let them know what, if anything, was brewing.

Anything to get him out of here.

The moon was only in half her grace, just enough to thicken the shadows in the woods where even the faintest sounds had faded into nothingness. Sinking down to crouch at the base of the tree, Ron blew absently on his clasped hands, offering pathetic warmth. He'd been in the warmer climates for too long. It was making a tropical bird out of him, shivering in the cold so quickly.

Digging through his inner pocket, he found a crumpled bag of Mim's Calming Mints and popped one into his mouth. He bit down and cool gel oozed over his tongue, sending a tingle of soothing tranquility over his raw nerves. How ironic that a simple bodyguard assignment was more stressful than hunting dark wizards in the foulest corners of the world.

Nothing prickled in his senses, no sense of anyone coming, and Ron scooted further down to sit. There had been little snow this year and only the faintest coating of frost was layered over ground laden with decades of dead leaves and twigs. The iciness seeped through his worn coat lining even if the dampness didn't and Ron shivered again, tucking his hands under his armpits.

He wondered resignedly what he might do if it became clear Harry really did need his protection. Ron rubbed his temples hard enough to slant his eyes, trying to massage away a dull ache that was deep inside his head. There was no way he could leave and give the assignment to another Auror; he'd be insane by the end of the week trying to check on Harry every five minutes. But neither could he stay without wards and the only ones available were in Severus's bedroom.

What a wonderful way that would be to get by, he thought sourly, spending his days sleeping in Snape's bed and his nights shagging Harry in his. Ron shifted uncomfortably, remembering the little incident in Snape's room earlier. It brought a flicker of remembered heat to his groin and Ron quashed it ruthlessly.

Their dealings had never been simple in the best of times. It was a better chance that Severus wouldn't let him anywhere near his bedroom, not anytime soon but so long as Snape kept to their arrangement, he could bloody well deal with that when the time came. The man had brought stubbornness to a level that you couldn't help but admire, on a purely aesthetic level like someone might admire a painting or statue. He'd also been a fairly decent shag, but it didn't make him any less a pain in the arse to deal with.

Incongruously, it made him think of Harry and he had the appalling thought to wonder how he managed to sit through his classes that day, if he'd even managed to do a cleansing spell before being overrun with students or if he'd had to deal with damp and sticky pants the rest of the day. It almost made Ron snicker, half-strangled by near hysteria and he had to choke it back to keep silent. If thinking of Snape made heat flicker through him then his memory of Harry, lying over the desk and pleading with him to just do it sent a flare of pure blue flame up his spine. It was a shame that the heat was internal.

The air was cold enough to make his already raw sinuses ache. Ron covered his mouth with his hands and breathed through them instead. Numbness was settling into his limbs. Ron flexed his muscles as best he could without moving, trying to encourage the blood moving sluggishly through them to pick up the pace a mite.

No matter what happened, he was going to have to eventually look Harry in the eyes and tell him he was leaving. As appealing as the thought of skulking away in the night was, he'd made a promise and he intended to keep it. Unbroken promises were about the only honor he had left and even they were stupid and old and tired, like the rest of him had been lately.

He slouched against the tree, bark scraping the back of his coat. Leaving was going to hurt like hell; he already knew that but he'd known it before he even walked through the main gates. Harry Potter couldn't break his heart; after years of seeing, of doing things that an Auror had to do just to stay alive, he wasn't entirely sure he had one left to break. You could die of the hurt, the shame, or you could choose to live and Ron had always been a survivor.

But, oh, he'd never meant to hurt Harry. Not the first time he'd left and not now, but despite that all his perfectly good intentions were just shite. And this afternoon, he must've lost his mind. Practically pinned him down and forced him, even worse than what Snape had nearly done to him because at least that hadn't been quite intentional. Though he was more than happy to lay some blame on the bastard for what he'd done to Harry.

Hours sleeping in Snape's bed with his shields completely relaxed, his Sight had caught in a sort of internal loop, playing and replaying what had nearly happened in that bed and his blood had practically been boiling by the time he'd woken, hard enough to start chasing the castle knotholes. He was just lucky Snape hadn't been in the room when he'd woken up or he'd have probably fucked the git right down into the floor.

Snape had called him a little slut and it was true enough; sometimes it was even his fault but this time he'd barely had the sense to stumble out of the room, looking for Harry and he'd not been able to stop himself from just using him like that.

How far gone was he that knowing it didn't sour the memory?

It was like everything he knew about control leaked away the moment he saw Harry, the tenuous grip he'd had on it had broken when they'd gotten into bed together. Ron hadn't bothered to even shower and if he closed his eyes, he could still smell their sex, the mingle scent of sweat and something darker and lovely. Of course even the scent of Harry's sex would smell good and it made Ron smile. If there was a way for him to gather that scent into a bottle and take it with him, Ron would have gladly carried it the rest of his life.

No. He had to get away or one of them was going to end up with their wits scrambled permanently. Harry had already been sensing his emotions that afternoon and that was horribly dangerous thing. If Hermione had suspected how thin his control was he'd already have been packed out to the country with strict orders to rest until he was cleared to return to work. Just the thought made his insides gel into queasiness. The poking and prodding he'd have to deal with, all his security clearances denied until they finally allowed him back.

Enough. Ron couldn't think about this anymore, not right now sitting out in the cold. It was easier than he liked to believe to tuck those thoughts away, setting them in a mental box labeled 'Harry's Things.' Time to do his job, instead. The night was starting to wear thin, and Ron put his mind to thinking about the present situation.

What was going on here? Despite Hermione's insistence at silence, all they had was a pitiful collection of rumors and Ron's own sense that something was approaching, a heavy glutinous mass of darkness that was sitting just outside the reach of his Sight. But it was so general a feeling as to be all but useless.

Perhaps this was just Hermione's way of evening the score. As Harry had pointed out, he was in the safest place he could possibly be and he was hardly a babe in arms with no experience. He had faced Voldemort himself more than once and survived, forced him back into the shadow existence he now lived as. Ron drew up his knees and rested his chin on them, the last sugary bit of his mint dissolving on his tongue. But that had been years ago, not too long after Ron had left.

(and, yes, there was guilt, blade-sharp and tearing at a wound that would never, never close)

Ron wasn't certain what had really happened and hadn't thought it prudent to ask, though Hermione had confided in him once that she didn't believe Harry quite remembered. If that was so, it was probably all for the best. Some memories were better forgotten.

But it also meant Harry was years out of practice for any kind of real personal defense. It might be for the best if Ron gave him a bit of a refresher course before he left Hogwarts and--no. He would ask Dumbledore to do it for him. Certainly he could manage it and the sooner he got away from Harry, the sooner they could both start getting over this and maybe the next time they met they could do it as friends. It was better this way, he told himself furiously. Better than waiting for it to wither on its own and forcing Harry to end it. Or worse, Harry might try not telling him at all and he'd stay trapped in a misery.

He'd be damned before he'd let his feelings for Harry become a burden to him, not anymore than they already were. Harry had enough to carry about. As soon as he made sure Harry was safe, he'd go, no matter what it took to get to there.

Ron raked a hand through his hair, tucking loose strands behind his ears impatiently. He lowered his eyes, his lashes trembling softly against his cheeks as he tried to control his rising anger. If anyone hurt Harry, if anyone touched him, he'd kill them and rip their corpse to shreds, and if passion's flames were a fine blue to his eyes then this burning was vermillion, deep as fresh-spilled blood. He hitched in a breath, trying to banish it, closed his eyes but still saw Harry's face etched in crimson behind the lids.

At that moment, Harry Potter, unable to sleep, was creeping warily into Ron's bedroom and into his bed, and he would fall asleep on Ron's pillow, never noticing the faint bloodstains on it but Ron wasn't to know that. The prickling sensation across his nerves told Ron that someone was finally approaching and he scrambled to his feet, wand in hand, and he fumbled into his pocket for a small bottle. He clenched it so tightly that the glass stopper cut into his numb fingers, a hex waiting sourly on the back of his tongue.

It was this he'd been waiting for, the fear to sharpen everything around him into focus. He knew it was fear and it was good; they'd never trained him not to feel fear only how to twist it, force it into the shape of something useful.

Footsteps, moving closer, the heavy, shuffling steps of a large man pushing through sharp-tipped branches. He stepped into the clearing, darkly cloaked. Ron could see the outline of the man against the frost-lined trees and noted the wand in his hand. They stood still for a long time, neither moving as they gauged each other. Ron always hated doing this. Chasing a dark wizard was easy, you knew to be on guard always and even as exhausting as it was at least it was better than uncertainty.

Slowly, he held the bottle in his hand out so the other man could see it. A moment later the man mimicked it, holding out a bottle of his own. With his thumb, Ron pushed off the cap and slowly took a sip, careful to allow the other man actually see the fluid pour into his mouth. Bright, sharp flavor that always made him think of burnt grass. The man mirrored him, each movement slow and deliberate.

Together, they capped the bottles and then exchanged them with a careful toss. Again they drank, and this was the trick, this one moment of almost complete vulnerability. Ron carried a bezoar with him, all aurors did, but it would do him little good against the worst poisons. The same cutting flavor on his tongue and Ron relaxed minutely, watching the other man drink from his bottle.

"My potion was Veritaserum," Ron said clearly. "My name is Ron Weasley and I am here under my own power and will." This wasn't the best way to verify identity but so far it had worked quite well. Veritaserum could combat both Polyjuice transformations and Imperius curses.

"My potion was also Veritaserum," the man said gruffly, his voice a rough explosion of sound that carried easily in the still night air. "I am here under my own power and will, and my name is Gregory Goyle."

Chapter Text

Sitting there amongst the squat, ice-tipped bushes and shrubs, Ron watched as Goyle took a long drink from a hip flask, a dribble of brown liquid trailing over his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and shoved the flask back into his belt without offering it to Ron.

"Been some time, Weasley," he grunted, rolling a cigarette with surprisingly nimbleness between his thick fingers. His eyes were dark and small in his face, piggish and gleaming, never leaving Ron. The years had not been kind to him, too much time spent amongst the darkest magics twisting his already unattractive form grotesquely. Rotten teeth showed between his lips as he took a snorting, congested breath, inhaling smoke. A mass of scars writhed over the left side of his face, almost swelling his eye shut.

"Yes, it has," Ron said softly. "Not since Brazil." He nearly asked about the scars on his face, new enough that they were still pink but stifled it. With the both of them dosed with Veritaserum, Goyle would have no choice but to answer and it wasn’t like it was any of his business. Besides, if he started asking side questions Goyle might start asking a few of his own.

His teeth pinched around the end of his cigarette, Goyle rolled another and offered it to Ron. He took it slowly, lighting the end with a finger snap that made Goyle raise his brows in sardonic approval. The smoke was too yellow, too sweet as it rolled over his tongue to be mere tobacco. Ron didn’t inhale, only held it in his mouth but it was still dizzying, bathing his inner nerves in languor. Very tempting to draw it into his lungs and truly experience the pure wash of it, instead of resting his hand on his knee, away from his face, and breathing instead the sharp, clean air.

"Haven’t seen Potter in longer than that," Goyle coughed faintly, his eye briefly hidden in a greasy fall of hair before he pushed it impatiently back. "How has it been, guarding him?"

"We've been..." Ron clapped a hand over his mouth, muffling his, "Shagging like rabbits." Goyle, not always the brightest of men, didn't seem to catch it. "It’s been fine," he said shortly. "It’s bloody cold out here, did you have some information for me or not?"

"Keep your hair on," Goyle’s voice was as lazy as the curl of smoke rising from the tip of his fag. "You people have been using me for years as your own little pet. Suppose you can stand to chat a bit. Not like there’s much of anyone willing to talk where I usually am. Or don’t you want to be friendly-like?"

Ron bit his tongue and looked away, settling in for a short spell of forced camaraderie. It was true; they had been using him for years. He didn’t know Goyle’s reasons for helping the Ministry and didn’t particularly want to. He felt nothing but disgust and pity for this creature, lumpy and shapeless inside his clothes, scarred inside and out. But it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him for a while. God knew they owed him something, anyway.

Goyle squinted at the smoke curling up from the stub of his cigarette. "Doesn’t look like playing bodyguard agrees with you. You look like shite."

"Thanks."

Goyle waved a hand impatiently. "It’s only the truth." He finally crushed the butt out on the frozen ground, twitching like he wanted another one. He was afraid. No need for Sight to know that; Ron could smell it, the greasy stink of it. But that was all right, if anything, Goyle had earned the right to his fear. He’d be worse than dead if they ever caught him in this little game.

Ron wondered if Goyle had ever had to kill someone to keep up the charade.

"So, how's things?" Ron asked with exaggerated politeness. It was hard not to flinch from Goyle's look, the sudden rush of pained bitterness. He looked away from it, frustrated with his own inability to just pretend for a few minutes that they were just mates sharing a smoke. He'd never been a good actor.

"Was wondering the same about you. All protecting a bloke you can't even stand. You two were thick as thieves during school. Always wondered what happened between you two."

"What the hell are you on about?"

"Come off it, Weasley," he growled. "It was all over the daily prophet. Boy Who Lived snubbed at wedding by his best friend."

"Oh," Ron said weakly. “I was out of the country, I didn’t know." Goyle grunted a reply that Ron didn't hear. All that publicity, all those people goggling at Harry Potter yet again, with his private life splayed open in newsprint for anyone to read. All the wet-eyed pity they'd throw at him. Harry, I'm so sorry...

Goyle coughed again, wetly, rasping out, "Weasley, there's nothing going on with Potter."

It brought him up short, damping any faint guilt. "What do you mean there's nothing--"

“I looked!" he snapped. "I listened. I checked every source I know about. Nothing." He smiled grimly, showing a few gaps in his teeth. "There's plenty out there who'd be happy to see him dead but no one is doing anything much to help him in that direction. Not right now."

Ron stared at him, eyes narrowed. There was nothing coming from him but calm confidence, not even a twitch of nerves. Not lying, then, not that he'd believed Goyle could with the truth serum still working on them both. But how was this possible when all their other sources had reported at the very least rumors, and he knew, he knew something was going to happen, he could bloody well feel it, something was....

Later, Ron couldn’t have said when he realized. Something had felt a little off, true, but he’d felt that way for days upon days, ever since he’d gotten to Hogwarts. Why it would inspire him now to move, scrambling desperately backwards and to his feet in a frantic lunge into the shambling bushes. The surge of heat threw him to his knees, scraping his hands on the twig littered ground.

He swiped a stinging hand over his eyes, obeying the instinctive shriek inside him that ordered him to move, move because it wasn't over yet. He crawled on his hands and knees to the shadowed cover of a tree, peering warily out.

The clearing they'd been sitting in was gone, nothing but a blackened starburst of soot remained.

"You're faster than I expected, Weasley."

Goyle.

"I've had some practice," Ron called back, edging further to the right, away from that voice. Goyle knew where he was, best he could manage was to keep a few trees between them until he could figure out what the fuck was going on.

This didn't make sense. Goyle had had the opportunity to kill him before, a dozen times before. If he'd been a double agent all these years, why attack now? Because Ron was protecting Harry?

"Yes, I suppose you have." The coolness in Goyle's voice, the amusement, made Ron grind his teeth. Bastard. His cheek was stinging and Ron resisted the urge to touch it, keeping as still as possible.

"I don't suppose you want to let me in on what's going on?"

Silence.

Ron strained to hear anything, a boot scraping against the ground, a muttered spell. Nothing but silence greeted him. Oh, this was so not of the good. Time to back the hell off and regroup. He gathered his thoughts, pulling everything inward, into the pit of his stomach and released it, sending everything towards the outside gates of Hogwarts, the closest a wizard could Apparate to the school. It was a cool, tingling sensation, sweet and familiar. Until it tore raggedly within him, every cell in his body struggling to tear itself in half

Ron fell forward, collapsing on the icy ground and gagged, trying to keep quiet. His skin burned, pain sinking its teeth deeply into him as the aborted energy of his failed Apparation struggled to escape. Clenching his teeth against nausea, Ron carefully let go of the excess, trying to, oh fuck, trying to stay quiet because this wasn't just a case of a double agent anymore. Someone had plotted this very carefully if they'd managed to rig a Containment spell in so short an amount of time. They wanted him Sight-blinded, they wanted him vulnerable.

Ron was quite sure he didn't want to know who 'they' were. Not without another dozen Aurors at his back.

"Really, Weasley, I'm surprised you even tried that." Close enough to make Ron flinch as he struggled to his feet, backing slowly away.

"Might have just told me I would be wasting my time," he rasped. Was Goyle even strong enough of a wizard for this type of spell? The thought left him cold and he gingerly probed the area for any other touch of a mind. He got a bare glance before a knife of pain stabbed behind his eyes. A good Containment spell, indeed, he thought grimly. But the only mind he'd felt was Goyle's, the sour/bitter sense of him unmistakable.

"And miss that charming display?"

Closer, and Ron tensed, palming one of the knives he kept handy. The only good thing about the Containment spell is that it meant Goyle wasn't going to be able to hex him either, and when it came to hand to hand combat Ron was sure he was a better fighter than Goyle.

His only worry would be trying to keep Goyle alive. He had no illusions that Goyle might want the same for him.

But it didn't make sense to attack him now. Wasting someone with Goyle's contacts on a single Auror, no matter who he was protecting. Trying to use him as bait for Harry, perhaps? Pathetic and clichéd, and it wouldn't work anyway; he'd seen to that. Ron smiled grimly at the last thought. Harry was perfectly safe for tonight and he was going to stay that way. If it was somehow the Imperius curse, all the better. It was difficult to control another person and Goyle would be clumsier than usual.

Warmth flowed over Ron numb lips, a sudden gush of blood that had Ron stifling curses. Not now, not now, with the comforting heavy weight of a knife in his hand. He took a deep breath to ease his thundering heart, his aching head. He wasn't in top form, barely in half and Goyle was moving, somewhere on the other side of the tree that hid Ron.

He whirled, his mouth filled with the briny taste of blood, and it barely required thought. The dark shape of Goyle's back to him, rippling as he turned, too late to stop the descent of Ron's knife with anything but his own body.

Goyle shrieked, a deep, betrayed sound. More blood on Ron's hands but it was Goyle's, the hilt of the knife protruding obscenely from his shoulder. Sloppy work, much too low. He'd be lucky if Ron hadn't nicked a lung.

Goyle staggered against another tree, the harsh scrape of bark against fabric tearing the silence. Ron stood back, eying him critically as he lumbered around the small clearing, huffing in pain. Goyle was no lightweight. Might take more than just a little prick of a wound to bring him in.

But it didn't. Goyle simply sagged against the tree, sweat pouring down his mangled face and his eyes rolling like those of a frightened horse. It made Ron frown, wary of some other trick even though his aching senses were nothing more than a pained hum in the back of his head. As an attack, this was hardly above the level of pathetic.

"So tell me," Ron said pleasantly. "Was this just an attempt to get a Harry? Because as attempts go, this was weak."

Goyle shook his head, gargling out some sound that melted into a shriek as Ron grabbed the hilt of the knife and held it, barely stopping himself from twisting it deeper into the wound. "Now, now, don't try to talk yet," Ron soothed, petting back sweaty, grimy hair. "We have all night. You'll have plenty of time to tell me everything I want to hear."

The sudden explosion of pain at the back of his head was so overwhelming that Ron couldn't even scream and he knew he was dead, some sort of hex that was powerful enough to get through the containment spell and he should have fucking known Goyle wouldn't be that easy. Stupidly walking into this to begin with when he was so weak, letting his feelings for Harry distract him to uselessness. Such blatant stupidity, death was nothing less than he deserved.

It was a shame Severus was going to miss the opportunity to insult him about it.

His muscles turned to water and he collapsed, dimly hoping he didn't piss himself. This was more than humiliating enough, unable to do anything but hang limply when Goyle picked him up and roughly toss him on his back. It was actually sort of funny, if you thought about it, and the more he did, the funnier it seemed. Outsmarted by Goyle of all people. His laughter was choked, strangled by whatever sort of paralysis had him, but he couldn't seem to stop.

"It doesn't matter," Ron croaked out, trying to breathe through his hysteria. "You won't get to him anyway." It brought the faintest regret to him and he hoped Harry wouldn't think he'd just taken off again.

"Are you speaking about Potter? Really, my dear Mr. Weasley, you hardly give yourself enough credit."

It wasn't Goyle's voice, someone else who seemed strangely familiar. Ron struggled up from the wavering darkness, he knew that voice, it wasn't possible...

Goyle was still standing over him and the dull blankness that Ron had come to associate with the Imperius curse cleared from his eyes for just a moment, stark fear shining through the muddiness.

"You'll have plenty of time to talk to Mr. Goyle when you meet again." There was a muttered curse and bright flash of eerie green. Ron closed his eyes against it but couldn’t help feeling Goyle's body fall heavily next to him. The other man stepped over him, dismissing the dead man as easily as a stray dog laying in the street.

"And I wouldn't worry about Potter, my dear boy. He was merely a means to an ends. We have unfinished business to attend to, you and I." It came to him then and he knew, a stunning rush of pure clarity and he could only wish Goyle had killed him first.

"Yes," Ron whispered, without opening his eyes. "I suppose we do."

"Do you see this?" A hard kick in his ribs made him gasp and Ron wrenched his eyes open to look at the small item held in long white fingers. "Lovely, isn't it? It's called a Taser." He pushed a button on the side and a frisson of electricity arced at the tip. "You aren't really supposed to apply it to the spine, I'm afraid, but I'm sure you've noticed how well it worked. Much as I hate to use Muggle devices, I find that this one does have its charms. Quite effective." A sharp, cold smile. "Shall we see what happens when you put it elsewhere?"

Later, when Ron had run out of screams, when the rushing pendulum of agony had altered its course again and again over his body, he would admit that yes, it was quite an effective little tool, indeed.

Chapter Text

When he thought back on it, after everything was done, Harry was never sure what had woken him. He'd seen the light behind his eyelids, certainly, soft and blue, but he was sure he'd been awake before that, drifting between dreams in that little mental space of waiting for something.

It seemed more like he'd been waiting for the light.

Harry blinked slowly, trying to gather his wits as much as one could in the wee hours of the morning. The blur of the room seemed strange to him and it took him a moment to recall he was sleeping in Ron's bedroom. He wondered if he could just call it their room for the time being; it wasn't as though he had any plans to return to his own for whatever length of time he could manage. Now that they were sleeping together – having sex, he corrected mentally and it felt good just to think it. They were having sex, the good, filthy kind that had him squirming so uncomfortably in his seat the day before that he'd had to slip off between classes for a quick shower.

At least having a leather-clad boyfriend would help diminish the detestable 'staid Professor Potter' image. Days before he wouldn't have believed how pleasing he found the thought of tarnishing the façade he'd tried so hard to create. Now he was simply tired of playing a role, any role. Being Harry Potter might never have brought him much happiness but it was who he was and that would have to be enough.

The faint glow at the side of his vision grew, catching his attention. He squinted at it, fumbling with one hand for his glasses as he slipped out of the bed. With his glasses in place, the blur slipped into focus and he saw it was coming from the desk on the far side of the room.

Off of the rug the stone floor was icy and Harry stifled a wince as he minced his way over, carefully picking up the small oval emitting the bluish glow. It was a mirror, he realized, the one he'd seen before in Ron's backpack. The surface was like looking into the roiling storm clouds of another planet, glowing blue and churning themselves over and into each other. At his touch, they seemed to clear somewhat and Harry nearly dropped it, recalling Ron's admonishment that his little toys didn't like strangers playing with them.

Just as he was setting it back down, the surface cleared and he saw…Ron? It was Ron, his face so swollen as to be barely recognizable. So much blood, it seemed to be seeping from his very pores, crimson rivulets sliding from his eyes, up towards his hairline…up? Like he was lying down, maybe. Another wash of red slipped over the surface, dribbling over the edge and Harry realized he was gripping the mirror so tightly that he'd cut his hand on the edge. He relaxed his hold, laying the mirror back on the desk and immediately the image started to fade, sliding back into clouds.

Quickly, Harry picked it back up and the Ron-face sharpened back into focus. His eyes were closed tightly, his lips pressed into a sharp line like…like he was in pain. A great deal of pain. Harry stared at the image, willing it to change, to show him a different Ron, a safe one.

The image remained stubbornly the same, Ron's face tightening in a flinch before relaxing back into, God, just the blood and the pain.

Magic mirrors came in infinite combinations, Harry knew. He'd spent some time researching them a few years back; after everything that had happened with the Mirror of Erised, he'd found them interesting. This one was only a flat piece of silvered glass with a few crooked symbols etched around the edge. He didn't recognize them as any common magical alphabet or even a few of the obscure ones, which meant this mirror could be showing him any number of things. It could be the future or the past; it could be showing Harry his worst nightmares, his greatest fear. It could be all or none of those things, one of a dozen possible combinations.

One thing was clear to him. He needed to find Ron, now.

He started towards the door, still holding the mirror, and then he hesitated. No, he was wrong, he realized. Finding Ron was the emotional choice and once perhaps he'd have rushed off to do it without considering the consequences. But he wasn't a child any longer; rushing after Ron would probably only get them both killed and he had friends who might be able to help and if they couldn't, then surely Ron had a few who could. He would talk to Dumbledore first, then the two of them could contact Hermione.

At the very least, he and Dumbledore would be able to divine the purpose of the mirror and he wouldn't spoil what could possible be a perfectly innocent meeting of Ron with his contact by blundering into it, wand blazing.

Having a plan managed to dispel some of his panic. He couldn't quite bring himself to put the mirror down and managed to dress as well as possible with only one hand. He shoved his feet into his shoes without untying them and shrugged into a robe as he made his way to the door, already absently recalling the password to Dumbledore's rooms when he…stopped.

Harry stood at the edge of the doorway, his foot poised to step over the threshold and found that he couldn't. He could step back into the room, he could move about but when he tried to step into the hallway it was like invisible hands grabbed him and held him still until he moved backwards again.

"Well, it seems Mr. Weasley managed to be correct about at least one thing." The silky-soft voice came from behind the door where Harry couldn't move to see, but he didn't need a visual to know who it was.

"Snape, what the bloody hell are you doing?" Harry whispered furiously.

"It pains me to see it, although I suspected he might be," Snape continued, stepping into view. "You really can't just stay in your room and behave, can you."

"I don't have time for your games right now!"

"On the contrary, you have nothing but time." Snape nodded to the floor and Harry noticed a pencil-thin line of silvery powder ran across the threshold. "Save yourself the trouble of checking the windows, I assure you, they are equally secure." He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, a mocking pose of relaxation.

"It's a difficult spell, to be sure, binding the powder with the incantation, and an expensive one at that. A lesser wizard might have killed himself trying it." The smirk on Snape's thin lips made Harry's hand itch for his wand. "However, I consider it time and money well spent, just to see your face at this moment, Potter."

The pocket on Harry's robe turned up unexpectedly empty and he frowned inwardly, checking his left side to find it equally barren.

"Missing something?" He glanced up to see Snape twirling Harry's wand between his fingers. "Now, as much as I would enjoy watching you bluster all night, I'd really prefer to get some sleep of my own. Do toddle off to bed, won't you?"

"You can't do this!"

"I assure you, I can. Permission from an Auror holds a certain amount of weight, as I am sure you're well aware. And I was quite careful about breaking any of the school rules. You can't hex the stones or doorways in Hogwarts, of course, but you can put barriers around them. If you know how."

"Have you gone mad?" Harry burst out, close to exploding in frustration. "Permission for what?"

"Suffice to say that I gave my word that you would be kept safe and unharmed in your room tonight." Another thin smile grated across Harry's nerves. "Although unharmed is quite a general term."

"You gave your..." Harry's eyes narrowed. "That's what you and Ron were talking about this morning."

Snape's expression soured but he didn't deny it. But it didn't matter anymore, nothing matter but getting out of this blasted room and helping Ron.

"You don't understand," Harry said urgently, "There's blood. It's…there's blood, I had the dream! He needs help!"

"You're making less sense than usual, Potter."

"It's Ron!" Harry burst out. He could have screamed with frustration, if he'd thought it would do any good. But if he knew one thing about Snape, it was that he was entirely too thorough for that. Probably no one could hear him if he screamed his lungs out. "He needs my help, I know it! It's in the mirror!"

He held it out desperately, the cut on his hand leaving dried flecks of maroon on the edge. Snape barely glanced at it. "And yet, here you'll remain until morning. That is a promise I shall be delighted to keep."

Harry could only stand helplessly, the mirror dangling from his fingers and the tips of his shoes only centimetres from stepping out the door.

Chapter Text

"This one, I believe, I'll send to the Ministry."

Ron forced himself, barely, not to flinch from the pressure of the blade so very close to his scalp.

He wondered vaguely at the time. There was no way of knowing; he'd woken up here some hours before and Merlin only knew how long he'd been unconscious after the beating he'd been handed with that little Muggle pain machine. Next time his father made mention of how delightful Muggle devices were, Ron swore he'd shove that one up his father's arse and let him see up close how it worked. If he ever saw his father again. He had to admit, it was getting increasingly doubtful if he would.

He'd long suspected he'd die like this, oh, yes. Couldn't have a simple hex taking him down, all nice and painless, like. No, Ronald Weasley had to go for torture and agony, that was the ticket. He wondered if he'd been hanging upside down long enough to go insane. The pressure of his own blood was heavy and painful in his head and sinuses and that alone would drive a man nutters. Strung up like a sausage on a string in a dirty old warehouse of some sort. Yes, this was his kind of death, no doubt about it.

Again, cold metal against his skin and this time he cut too close, a slice of pain whinging through his skin. Ron didn't make a sound. He wondered if Harry had noticed him missing yet or perhaps he simply thought Ron had left again. No, he couldn't be thinking that, Ron told himself. He wouldn't. That was only his self-pity having a chat with him, was all.

"Dear me, I must be more careful. Another one for the ministry, perhaps? To the filthy little Mudblood they have sucking cocks down there. Granger, a friend of yours, I believe. I'm sure she'd wish for a little keepsake of her own, to keep under her pillow."

Sucking cocks, that had a nice thought to it. He'd gotten to do that a few times in his life. More than a few, depending on how you counted. Even got to do it a few times with Harry, and he'd known for years what a sweet mouth Harry had but it had only been recently that he'd found out just how true that was. Maybe he could add that to his résumé; Auror, Sighted, and expert finder of good cocksuckers. Had to be a nitch for a person like that in the world, didn't there?

Hair made an awful tearing sound when it was cut with a knife Ron noted, as another section was delicately cut away. "And this one for your mother. You favor her, don't you?"

Not really, Ron thought. He felt oddly detached from the pain and fear of it. All he felt really was a little bored and headachy. Easier to busy his thoughts with other memories than to wait for him to finally get on with it. Dark wizards were all alike, jabbering on and on, boring a fellow to death before they even pulled out the scalpels. And truth was, he favored his dad rather than his mum. Tall and redheaded like all the rest of them.

Trust a Malfoy to get it wrong.

Another lock of hair parted under the knife and was laid very carefully next to the rest of them, lined up like little soldiers on a cutting board. "And this for dear Mr. Potter. Although perhaps I should send him something else, as well. Something a little more…intimate, do you think?"

Ron kept his words to himself. Not much he could say about Harry would upset him, not anymore. Harry was safe, that's what mattered. Locked up like a virgin in a tower and no one and nothing was hurting him today. Why, he might never find out what had happened to Ron. That was a thought worth considering. Probably better that way because it was a certainty he'd be feeling guilty about it. Better if he did think Ron had just slipped off again. He'd rather Harry hated him than feel this mess was his fault.

"Really, it was quite ingenious. When Goyle told me the manner in which you exchange information, I simply put a memory charm on him so that he would forget he was under the Imperius curse."

Now that one irritated him. He'd come up with that exchange process himself, knowing how difficult it was to trick Veritaserum. That was Malfoy for you, all right, slimy and sneaky enough to think of a way to cheat anything. It had worked well for so long, too. He did hope the other Aurors would figure out what happened so that no one else got reeled in by that trick again.

Another bit of hair and that cut was deep enough to have been deliberate, stinging sharply behind his ear. "And to think, you actually believed I wanted Potter. An easy enough mistake for you to make, I suppose, all things considered."

It wasn't the ruler straight segments of hair that bothered him so much as the other things Ron could see from his admittedly poor position. A lot of those tools were bright and shiny and new, and a lot weren't. He'd really rather that none of them come all that close to him. A shame he wasn't going to have a lot of choice in that matter but, well…

"…that's the way of the world these days. True wizards ruled by mudbloods and their murderers get to walk free, to get drunk and fuck their little boytoys."

"I didn't kill your son, Lucius," Ron said clearly. It was the first he'd spoken since they'd left the woods. He hadn't really meant to say a word and thought it was rather like him to not have the dignity to die in silence. But the words had spilled out of him like sand through a child's fingers and the Sight had a hold of him now, showing everything as clear and plain in front of his eyes as looking through a window. The pain only sharpened it, blood overflowing in his nose and sheeting down his face and he could barely breathe but he could speak. "You did. His death is on your hands."

"Don't try to play little word games with me, boy."

"I couldn't have killed him," Ron could hear himself speaking and it was all so perfectly obvious now. "He was dead already. You pushed him to league with Voldemort, you pushed him on and on but he was never good enough for you and with every push, you murdered him again and again. Your son died years ago, a hundred times over." Ron’s voice was rising but he was only dimly aware of it, lost in the Sight. He could taste blood, slick and briny at the back of his mouth. "He was already long gone when he watched his mother die. It doesn't even matter. People aren't born good or bad, they're just people. You birthed evil in your newborn son from the moment he drew a breath and it killed him."

The world swam back into focus and left Ron alone, sick and trembling. Lucius was standing in front of him and Ron cringed away from his face instinctively, away from the cold metal pressed tightly to his throat. Lucius leaned closer to him, his breath smelled rotten and foul even to Ron's blood-clotted nose as he whispered, "Perhaps you're right, Auror. But you're going to suffer for it, regardless."

Ron thought there was a good chance Lucius was right.

Chapter Text

"You could just leave, you know," Harry said dourly. He was sitting on a chair he'd pulled over from the desk, the legs of it precisely as close to the door as he could get. It was little consolation to have a chair when Snape had to either stand or sit on the floor. If he would just leave, the bastard could have a chair or even a bed, hopefully one that was full of pins. Instead, he was just standing there, watching Harry like he was a particularly distasteful bird in a cage while Harry sent hateful looks his way.

That left them here, staring at each other balefully through the open doorway.

"Neither of us are going anywhere, Potter," Snape drawled, tapped Harry's wand idly against his leg. "You should resign yourself to that as I have."

"Don't trust your own spells?"

Snape's glare would have withered a first-year to the floor. Possibly through it. "I trust very little where you are concerned and it would seem that an Auror of our mutual acquaintance doesn't trust you, either."

"Yes, that is interesting," Harry replied, sounding anything but. It was all he could do to keep his growing fear from showing in his voice. "I did wonder how exactly you became acquaintances. Ron didn't seem willing to part with much information on that."

"I'm sure he didn't." Clipped and cool, Snape's expression never wavered.

"Something about a chat you had some years ago?" Harry needled. If only he could get the git to leave.

"A chat?...yes, I suppose you could call it that." Snape's voice was as even as ever but if a person could cast a death spell with their eyes, Harry had little doubt that he'd already be growing cold on the floor. "I doubt it would be of interest to someone like you." The word 'imbecile' was implicit.

This wasn't working. Harry tore a hand through his hair in frustration, wincing as it took a few strands for keeps. Snape was too stubbornly persistent and if the bastard had decided to put himself in Harry's way then nothing he simple said was going to move him. Damn him and damn Ron asking him to do this, and damn himself for agreeing to let Ron go without him the first place.

"Look, could we just set it aside for once? I can't just stay here," he snapped, "Ron's in some kind of trouble."

"And how is it that you know that?" Snape asked boredly. He wasn't even bothering to look at Harry now, studying his nails with idle interest.

"I saw him in this, he was screaming. Just take it and LOOK!" He held out the mirror, his hand stopping at the invisible edge of the door. Take it, he pleaded mentally.

Instead, Snape brought his hands together and made a steeple out of his first fingers, peering at Harry over them. "Really, Potter, you're an imbecile and painfully naive, but you're no fool. I'm sure you've reasoned that if I cross the barrier, the spell will break. Normally, that would be true but I try to foresee problems like that and adapt for them."

"If that's true, then it won't hurt to take this, will it?" Harry challenged.

He touched his forefingers to his pursed lips. "Let me see the mirror."

Snape took it with the tips of his fingers, not getting a centimeter closer to Harry than necessary. It occurred to him that Snape had probably thought that Harry had plans to grab him and drag him into the room or some other such thing. Truthfully, it hadn't even occurred to him in his desperation to get Snape to just look in the mirror.

The oval of glass was resting on Snape's outstretched palm as he studied it, looking at it from every angle before finally peering within. Was it Harry's imagination or had the man actually gone a shade paler?

"Where did you get this?" Snape whispered hoarsely, his eyes never leaving the glass.

"It was on Ron’s desk, I saw him in it," Harry said softly, "He was screaming."

They both stood there for a long moment, Snape still staring at the glass. He didn't even flinch when Harry brought his fist down on the back of the chair, knocking it over with a loud clatter.

"He’s dying," Harry said desperately. He was nearly flattened against the invisible barrier, half-ready to beat on it. "I know it. He’s dying."

Snape said nothing.

He had to see, he had to know that Harry was right but he still just stood there, frozen and silent. "You hated me," Harry said in a low voice. It was the only argument he had left. "You did everything you could to get me expelled, to make me miserable, but you never let me die."

Finally, Snape moved, startling as if out of a trance. He looked at Harry almost wildly before turned away from him, clutching the mirror, and Harry sank to his knees, lost. He stared blankly at the perfect stripe of silver that was keeping him trapped and blinked in surprise as a shoe crossed it, breaking the smooth line of powder.

A strong hand on his arm hauled him roughly to his feet. "Come along, we can't be doing this in the middle of the hallway."

"Where are we..."

"I said come along! You said you saw him screaming, do you want him to die while we argue about it?"

Harry snapped his mouth shut and followed. "But Dumbledore—"

"I'd say it's better we don't involve him. I believe the phrase is 'plausible deniability.'"

"Plaus—what exactly did you have in mind? And why are you suddenly so helpful?" Snape being helpful in any situation was suspicious as far as Harry was concerned, doubly so here.

"I gave my word I'd keep you safe and I plan on trying to keep it," Snape snapped. He looked suddenly amused, as if all of this had suddenly become a horrid sort of joke. "Don't take it so hard, Potter. I thought you always liked an adventure."

"I don’t like them. I just always seem to have them."

"Yes, well, I doubt that tonight is going to be an exception." Rushing after Snape, their footsteps echoing in the empty hallways, Harry barely heard him mutter under his breath, "I always knew you'd be the death of me, Potter."

If only that didn't sound like a sort of grim prophecy.

He followed Snape down the various stairwells to the dungeon, nearly running to keep up with the Potion Master's pace. When he finally led Harry to a door he didn't recognize, he could only blink in surprise as Snape started murmuring unlocking spells.

"Where are we?" he whispered, more than a little irritated. He might not have had much of a plan but following Snape certainly hadn't been part of it. He was more than half-convinced the man was just going to lock him in another room and make sure this time he included a silencing spell in his formula.

"Would you please shut up for a moment?" Snape hissed. Reluctantly, Harry closed his mouth, standing a few wary steps away while Snape continued to spell the door. Finally, after what seemed to be a dozen incantations, the door opened and Snape went inside. He didn't wait to see if Harry followed and after a moment, he did, stepping warily through the open doorway.

Whatever he'd expected to find, this certainly wasn't it.

"All that just to get into your bedroom?" Harry said in disbelief. He barely had a glance around before Snape shoved an armload of books at him that he caught automatically.

"If you would have paused a moment in your ranting and pleading, you might have realized that simply finding Weasley is going to be a challenge, much less getting to him." He glanced at the spine of another book before adding it to the stack in Harry's arms. "If he is in as much trouble as you say, I doubt that whoever it is left an open invitation for anyone to Apparate in. Especially if Weasley didn't sense this coming, something I find difficult to believe." He went on pulling books off the shelves, alternately tossing them to Harry or to the floor. "Someone powerful enough to fool him is certainly going to make preparations for any eventuality."

"Maybe not," Harry murmured. "Ron hasn't been at his best lately. Those nosebleeds…"

To his surprise, Snape nodded in sour agreement. "That's another consideration." He stabbed a book viciously back onto a shelf. "He probably deserves what he's getting for being such a fool by staying here."

Harry stiffened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Snape barked out a short laugh. "Him risking his life playing babysitter for you? He's a true seer. Do you know what that means?"

"I know enough."

"Somehow, I doubt that. Far be it for the great Harry Potter to learn anything about the people he calls his friends."

"Please, could we spare that for later?" It was uncomfortably close to the truth. When Ron's Sight had first manifested, Hermione had done a great deal of research into it but Harry had contented himself with whatever details Ron gave him. It had seemed like a sort of betrayal to gather information on his own when Ron was so eager to share as he learned. Later, of course, he'd had different reasons not to investigate.

Snape gave him a particularly nasty glare but let it drop. "A true seer is actually quite rare, but only if you understand that I'm speaking of the ones who still have a working brain cell rolling about in their heads."

The floor was littered with books now and Harry had to step carefully through them to follow Snape as he rooted through another shelf. "What do you mean?"

"Someone like your Mr. Weasley actually manifested his abilities late. Most children realize them rather earlier. He was lucky in that. He was old enough to learn how to cope with it. They usually don't."

"I don't understa..."

"Could you please be quiet for a moment and listen! As I was saying, most true seers don't make it past the first manifestation. They self-destruct long before anyone even has a chance to help them. It's nothing like the tawdry little trickeries Trewlaney warbles about in her Divinations classes." Snape squinted at the spines of another shelf, gesturing impatiently at the fireplace and it blazed to life, casting the room in light. "They call it Seeing but it's almost more like mind reading which is why they encourage the few Seers who survive to become Aurors. That way, they can protect us from any troublemakers as well as from the Seers themselves. Can you imagine being perhaps seven years old and suddenly the thoughts of the entire town crowd inside your head?"

Harry shook his head numbly.

"Most of them end up catatonic, or worse. It's rare enough that no one's really been able to study it well and what precious little information they do have is mostly about containing it. No one knows what might set off the first vision. And Merlin forbid it happen in a Muggle child. Weasley isn't even all that powerful of a Seer. If he was, I'm sure the first shock of it would have killed him outright, being in the middle of the school as he was. He's powerful enough, though, enough that it could kill him yet. Or drive him mad."

"That must have been quite a chat the two of you had," Harry muttered, trying to balance his load of books enough for Snape to add a handful of parchment rolls.

"For someone how purports to be a Professor, you don’t seem to read much in the way of books, do you?" Snape sneered, skirting around him to make his way to a cupboard. He pulled a cauldron out of it and several bottles, stacking them in the cauldron and when that was full, into the pockets of his robes.

"Is there a point to this lecture?"

"My point," Snape said scathingly, "Is that Weasley should have had plenty of warning of a trap before he even walked into it. Which means whoever managed to block his Sight is certainly prepared to block us. And considering he's an Auror, I'd say whatever spells his possible captors are using to hide him are nothing compared to the ones he is probably using."

Harry was struggling to keep his grip on nearly a dozen books. "What you're saying is that we have our work cut out for us."

"That's precisely what I am saying. And whatever bits of your Gryffindor nature are flaring up, they are better left aside," Snape smiled thinly. "Not all of these spells are considered to be…proper… by the Ministry."

Harry didn't even blink. "Then let's get started."
 

"Damn fucking hell!" Snape snarled, and the deep gonging sound of a cauldron being thrown into a wall echoed mellowly around the room.

Harry slumped down in a chair, too exhausted to even respond to Snape's continued swearing. It was almost interesting, in a dim way, to listen to it. He should have guessed Snape could curse so creatively, what with his knack for inventing insults.

The smell of burning asafetida from their last attempt was still hanging nauseatingly in the air, resistant to even the strongest air cleansing spells. Harry rubbed his arm absently, already feeling bruises rising from the Se Astringo locator spell. The effect had backfired enough to knock both of them off their feet and Harry had had the misfortune to be standing in front of the bookshelf. Snape had fallen on the bed, naturally, although he showed his fair share of wounds as well. A particularly nasty burn stood out in stark relief across his forehead but neither of them paused long enough to heal their growing collection of injuries. Time was not on their side and every time Harry looked in the mirror Ron looked worse. So much blood…

Stacks of books that they'd already used were piled up on one side of the narrow table and Harry picked up a fresh one, paging through it with little hope.

"We could try a Loginquitas spell," Harry suggested.

"We already did, the Finitimus is a variation." Even Snape's biting tone sounded weary.

Slamming the book shut gave little satisfaction and neither did tossing it roughly in the used pile. He sank back in his chair and stared up and the ceiling, blankly wondering at the various wards he could see glowing bluely on the walls. "He could be dead already," Harry murmured hopelessly.

"Have a look in the mirror then," Snape told him crossly, slapping aside another book. "If he's already dead then we can stop this ridiculous charade of trying to rescue a corpse."

Harry set a fingertip on the mirror and pulled it to him, waiting listlessly for the swirling clouds to fade into Ron's swollen face. His face was bisected with lines of blood and seeing it made his gorge rise into his throat. As horrifying as it was to see, Harry couldn't stop himself from looking again and again. Bleeding, yes, badly hurt, yes, but he could also see Ron was breathing yet. Still alive then, that's what matter. Still alive.

He flinched hard when Snape suddenly took the mirror away from him and studied it pensively. "I wonder. You see him in the mirror…"

"Don't you see him as well?"

"Don't be stupid, of course not," Snape said absently. "But you do."

He sat for a long time, stroking the edge of the mirror with long, white fingers. Harry hardly dared to breathe for fear of disrupting his thoughts. Strange as it was to be trusting Snape of all people, he did seem willing enough to help and he knew a remarkable amount of locating spells. Most of these books weren't even in the library and he knew that Hogwarts had an extensive catalogue.

Snape seemed to come to a decision, sighing deeply. "I may know of a way to get to him. But neither you nor I are going to like it."

"What do we need to do?"

He fixed a dark glare at Harry. "How badly do you want to find him?"

"What kind of question is…"

"How badly?" Snape persisted. "How much to you want to get to him? What would you do?"

"Are you asking me if I'd die for him?" Harry asked baldly. "I would, if it would help him."

"Would you kill for him?"

"I'd kill you," Harry muttered.

Snape actually smiled, thin-edge and cruel. "I suppose that will have to do."

He stood up, clearing the table of everything but the mirror. "We've learned that all Aurors have a tracking spell cast on them so that they may be found in the event of an emergency, which is, of course, the first thing one should disable if one captures an Auror."

"Yes, but they use a different one on every Auror, so that's not useful to us," Harry frowned. "I doubt the Ministry would provide us with Ron's."

Snape held up one long finger. "But if you can see someone, you can find them. It's just a matter of finding the proper path. We've been going about this the wrong way." He tapped the surface of the mirror. "This is our path. As a trail of breadcrumbs, it's not particularly the best but we haven't much choice, have we."

"What’s so special about this mirror…"

"Are you going to spend the evening asking foolish questions or do you want to help him?" he snapped. "Even if we did contact the Ministry and somehow avoided a trip to Azkaban after all the spellwork we've been doing, by the time they did anything, I’m quite sure he’ll be dead. They try to avoid interrupting an Auror at work; otherwise, there would probably be several dead instead of just the Auror."

Harry stared at him in disbelief. "They just leave them there, even knowing they’re in trouble?"

"They don’t have much of a choice, Potter. They have no idea what the situation is, and going in blind is tantamount to suicide. Which is probably what this is," Snape added, shortly. "The forbidden curses aren’t the only spells that are forbidden. Now, sit down here."

He pulled his chair closer to the table and Snape set the mirror directly in front of him. "Whatever you do, don't look away from the mirror, do you understand me?"

Harry nodded and when Snape raised an eyebrow, he added, "Yes, I understand." He focused on the mirror and Ron, trying not to let the sight of so much blood and pain distract him. Just Ron, was all he needed to see. Just Ron.

"I'm assuming you have some knowledge of Numerology?" came from behind him. Harry nodded silently and Snape went on, "There's power in the number three, which we'll need and there's power in this." He snatched up Harry's hand and pressed the sharp edge of a knife to his palm. Blood welled immediately from the shallow cut, spilling out of his hand and dripping down onto the mirror.

"Weasley's blood," Snape murmured, "Your blood. My blood." More warmth poured over Harry's hand, doubling the amount on the mirror and he could barely see Ron through the crimson puddles of it."

"Let your mind go blank," Snape murmured and Harry realized he was directly behind him, his bleeding hand clasped over Harry's.

"I don’t feel anything."

"Stop trying to feel it, idiot! Just do it!"

"I…He's screaming," Harry said suddenly. It was like an echo in the back of his head, itching inside it and growing louder.

"That's good, don't let it go."

"He's screaming," Harry repeated, his eyes aching but he couldn't look away, "He's screaming, god, he's screaming."

"Concentrate, you insufferable little bastard! If you can hear him, you're close."

Close didn't seem like the proper word for it. His vision was filling with blood, the crimson wash of it blocking out everything else and Ron was screaming, hoarse and shrill and it felt like his bones were trying to tear through his flesh. His skin was on fire and dimly heard a low moan mingling with the shrieks, couldn't tell if they were his or Snape's only that the tearing pain was growing, blood as thin as paint squelching between his fingers and the fire slipped into his lungs, burning, horrid pain that seemed to go on and on. Nothing, nothing but the screaming and blood.

Chapter Text

It was like swimming through liquid darkness, dragging himself upward through smothering, silvery pain that threatened to drown him. Clinging, sticky blackness surrounded him and he fought against it, trying to struggle away, lungs bursting with a need for air and the darkness was growing, encompassing him with jagged edges.

All at once, Harry found that he could move, dragging in a pained gasp of air that eased his dizziness. He could barely get enough air to satisfy him and after a moment, he realized there was a heavy weight on top of him, suffocating him, and with strength born of panic Harry managed to push it off of him enough that he could sit up. It looked like a bundle of black cloth and Harry blinked at it stupidly, trying to think of how he'd come to be here.

The world around him was a blur that wouldn't be blinked away and his befuddled brain finally grasped that he wasn't wearing his glasses. Wherever he was, he felt a sudden urge to move and be out of here. Every part of him ached like he'd been playing Quidditch for hours straight but it had been some time since he'd done that, not since he'd left the team to teach at Hogwarts. His legs hurt the worst, the weight still on them turning them numb and he reached down to push it off.

The first thing his hand came into contact with was hair, slick and wet, and Harry jerked back with a gasp, staring dumbly at the crimson smear on his hand. There was a cut on it as well, a darker line of dried blood and everything came back to him in a rush, the mirror, the spell, Snape…

"Snape!" he tried to whisper, hardly a croak of sound coming from his aching throat. With a grunt of effort, he rolled the other man off of him, squinting at him as he fumbled at his throat with his unhurt hand. Still a pulse, so at least he was alive, if unconscious. Whatever they were facing, it didn't seem that Snape was going to be much help.

Without his glasses, it was difficult to see much of anything but they seemed to be in a large room of some sort. There was hardly enough light to help and it smelled musty and old, large objects looming out of the murky blur. There was one behind him as well and a touch told him it was cardboard. Packing boxes, he realized, stacked in haphazard piles all about them.

"Ready to join us then, Potter?"

Harry jerked at the voice, looking around him wildly. Nothing but dark blurs, nothing seemed to be moving. Shoving Snape off to the side, he crawled to his hands and knees, searching the floor frantically for his glasses.

His fingertips stumbled over something that moved, skittering away from him and he reached for it, the hoped-for wire frames instead something smooth and rounded. His wand, he realized, some measure of relief melting into him.

Footsteps were coming from the side and Harry backed away from them as best he could, feeling his way along as he slipped behind another stack of boxes. It felt like a betrayal to Snape to leave him there unconscious and helpless but Harry wouldn't be in any condition to help any of them if he were caught.

A soft sound came from his left and he swerved away from it, backing into more boxes and his heart sank as he felt them shift, falling around him in a cascade of cardboard and noise. One of them struck him on the back and Harry gritted his teeth against a groan that tried to escape. Every part of him was aching madly, the cut on his hand pressed firmly against the base of his wand sending little throbs of pain out in time with his heartbeat. He couldn't think about that now, any of it. Ron and Snape were both counting on him now and there was no telling just how many people were against him. Only one voice had spoken, it was true, but that meant little; Voldemort never traveled alone.

"Come now, Mr. Potter, you can hardly expect to escape from me. Won't you come out and play with us?"

There was something in that voice that told him he should recognize it, a strange honeyed persuasiveness in it that slipped in the ear and urged obedience. But it couldn't be Voldemort, he realized; the only part of his body that didn't seem to hurt was the scar on his forehead and this close to him, Harry should be half-blind with pain as well as the lack of glasses.

In any case, he didn't have any trouble ignoring it, sliding on his knees away from the scattered boxes.

"I rather expected you sooner or later. Always the meddler, you are."

Closer now and there was a peculiar sort of smell seeping into the air around him; sweet and nauseating, it was like the breath of a dragon, the odor of rotting meat. He was close to a light, what seemed to be a bare bulb hanging over him. Carefully, Harry eased to his feet, feeling his way backwards, away from that voice. Still only the one and it seemed if there were anyone else, he would have heard them by now, their footsteps or something.

Somewhere to his left, he did hear a sound and turned towards it. The scrape of a shoe on concrete and then a hard thump, like a kick. There was a sound like a moan and Harry knew it must be Snape. He winced in sympathy as he heard another kick land.

"And I see that you brought a gift with you, how thoughtful. Voldemort's greatest enemy as well as his betrayer, both falling right into my hands." Another scrape of shoe, light footsteps on concrete. "Oh, the games we will play tonight."

All he could do just now was think a silent apology in Snape's direction and hope that the other man didn't just kill him outright. Half-blind and barely able to stay upright, Harry wasn't certain he could cast a hex to save his life.

You'd better be ready to try, he told himself fiercely. He was the only one who could help Ron and he'd dragged Snape into this stupidity when all he'd wanted to do was go back to bed.

"Since we both know why you're here, I don't mind telling you that Mr. Weasley is still alive. I could take you to him, if you like. I'm sure the opportunity to die together is more than either of you deserve, but I am, at heart a very generous man."

It was pure, cold anger that finally cleared his thoughts, all the mad aching in his limbs fading back. There wasn't any time for pain or for anything else. Ron was alive and no matter what this bastard thought about it, he was staying that way. He couldn't see clearly but he hardly needed to, so long as he kept back and waited for his moment. It would come, he knew it with a distant sort of calmness. It would.

"I almost can't decide which one of you to kill first," he mused. "If I find you, we may not have a choice, why not come out? Wouldn't you like to see him again? Of course, I'm afraid I won't be able to let him fuck you, he's probably not in the mood."

A strange, coughing laughter came from the other side of the room, nearly making Harry jump. "Awfully obsessed with the thought of us fucking, aren't you, Malfoy?" Ron, he realized, his voice hoarse and choked but it was him. And the name…

Malfoy.

"Guess you must like boys, too," he continued, practically gagging out the words. "Like father, like son, is it?"

"Shut up." Softly, right next to him, Harry held his breath, gripping his wand with a sweat-slick hand. One good curse while he was distracted and…

"I think he bent over for every boy is the school," Ron went on in his raspy, barely there voice. "Especially the Mudbloods. I bet your boy got off on that the most."

"Shut your mouth you filthy, disease-infested whore!"

Fast footsteps and Harry followed them as best he could, towards Ron's harsh laughter.

The maze of boxes suddenly gave way to a clearing in the middle and Harry just caught himself before he blundered out into it. He could make out two figures in the dim light, one seemed to be suspended in the air and the man standing on the floor was shaking him violently like a dog might shake a rat.

They were too close together and the world was too blurred for anything like aim but they had finally run out of time.

"Stupefy!" he shouted, aiming for them both. Both figures rocked backwards in a cloud of red light and a sudden wave of dust, and Harry realized with horror that some of the boards that made up the rafters must have been rotted through. He watched as Ron fell heavily to the ground, a clatter of broken wood falling on top of him.

Harry didn't cry out, barely kept from rushing forward as he tried desperately to see anything, rising dust blocking light and vision. He moved blindly forward, wand out but all he heard with the rushing, raindrop-sound of settling dirt.

The pain bit into him before he even heard the curse, hot and raw, tearing down his already aching nerves. There was laughter as he blinked stupidly up at what he supposed was the ceiling, stupid, stupid…

"Very nice, Potter." Someone was standing at his feet. Malfoy, sinking to his knees and he crawled slowly forward, up towards Harry's face. Harry tried to raise his hands, instinctively trying to ward him off; he could smell the fetid stink of purification. His arms refused to obey him, lying heavily on the ground at his sides.

Malfoy was close enough now that Harry could see his rotting face and he flinched away from it, barely able to process what he was seeing. The man looked and smelled like a week-old corpse. He straddled Harry's waist, damp, mossy hands cupping his face.

"Don't you have a kiss for me?" Cold, stinking breath against his mouth, each inhalation bubbled wetly, the only sound Harry could hear and it echoed in his ears like insanity.

Harry didn't think, strength coming from whatever space that was reserved inside him for raw desperation. Yanking his wand between them, he forced words out of his lungs.

"Stupefy!" he shouted again, just to knock him off and then, it wasn't a choice or a decision, just the deep, unspoken knowledge of what had to be. "Avada Kedavra!"

It echoed, much louder than his own voice and when it faded there was no sound at all.

Painfully, Harry pushed his way to his feet, his shaking hand keeping his wand pointed at the motionless form on the floor in front of him. There was a tap at his shoulder and Harry leapt, a scream strangling in his throat as he jerked his wand towards it. It was a very innocuous looking hand, holding out his glasses. "I believe these are yours? They were underneath me in a very uncomfortable place."

Harry fumbled them on one-handed, always watching the still body on the floor. Aside from being a little bent and smudgy, his glasses worked as they always had.

Snape looked somewhat the worse for wear, his clothes splattered with blood and dirt, and Harry noted with detached bemusement that he had a great deal of blood on his clothes as well. Strange, considering that neither of them had much in the way of injury aside from bruises.

Without the blur of nearsightedness, the body looked worse than Harry would have believed, rotting flesh barely clinging to the bones. "I killed him," Harry murmured, tasting the words. Now that the rush of adrenaline was fading, he could barely stay on his feet and a peculiar sort of numbness was settling in.

"Hardly. It was my spell that hit him."

"But I--

"Potter, I doubt you could manage to cast a simple jelly-legs hex in your condition."

Harry's eyes narrowed on Snape's oddly bland expression. "Fine, then. You killed him."

"Honestly, doubt that's true, either. Lucius Malfoy seems to have been dead for quite some time." He toed the sludgy pile of clothes with distaste. "An ugly bit of magic, that. Regardless, it wouldn’t have mattered if I had. Mr. Weasley here could have given me clearance to use necessary force, something I’m sure he’ll do when he is conscious."

"Ron!" Harry was filled with horrified shame that he'd forgotten Ron for even a moment. He whirled towards the pile of debris, stumbling to his knees as he saw Ron had already been pulled free.

"He's alive and breathing, never fear, Potter." Snape sighed deeply, a sound filled with profound annoyance. "I suppose we will have to contact the Ministry now. The living dead aren't what one would call a trifle."

Harry didn't hear a word of it. He crawled to Ron on shaking limbs, nearly collapsing when he got to his head and saw the raw wounds on his face. His scalp was mostly bare of hair, longish patches here and there between cuts only adding to his horrific appearance. It didn't seem possible that anyone could have suffered so many injuries and still live. With a hand that trembled far too much, Harry touched his throat, just to feel the throb of his heartbeat.

Blue eyes flickered open, landing on him and the faintest curve came to Ron's lips. "Idiot," he croaked out. "What the Hell possessed you to come after me?"

"Sheer stupidity?" Harry tried, horrified at his own shaky voice.

Ron gave a watery chuckle that melted into a soft groan.

"We need to get you to a hospital."

"Better'n a coffin," Ron said, coughing painfully before he settled back with a sigh. "Rather go to Hogsmeade and get pissed."

"Be awhile before you’ll be doing that."

Ron barely managed a nod. His brow creased suddenly, his tongue flickering over chapped lips. "Can' feel...an'thin'."

"That's because I've blocked your Sight, for now," Snape voice came from the side, crisp and tart as ever. That was hardly a shock; that he could stumble through Hell and come out only needing a good cleaning spell. "You hardly need a vision to pop in on top of everything."

"'ll make me feel worse later…"

"We'll worry about later when it comes." Not quite gentle and Harry didn't have time to wonder at Snape's tone before Ron fumbled for his hand and caught it, surely squeezing it as hard as he could.

"Don't go," Ron whispered, voice shattered and low. "Don't go, don't, don't go."

Harry held his hand as tightly as he could, whispering again and again that he wouldn't, that he would stay. That Ron wasn't alone.

Chapter Text

In the end, it was a disaster of generous proportions even for the Ministry of Magic, who had once endured for the better part of a year a Minister who had spent a great portion of his time hiding beneath the desks of the young lady clerks whom he’d fancied.

A prominent Auror captured and brutalized by a Death Eater who’d been supposed dead for some years now, an issue with faulty Intel, and two civilians had gotten involved enough to not only rescue the Auror but also killed his captor. (If one could call Harry Potter a civilian and stopping a dark wizard who’d sold his life for power a death but thinking of the matter that way only made the paperwork unnecessarily complicated.)

As it was, the civilians in question had called the assistant of the Minister of Magic, who had located them at a warehouse once belonging to the Malfoy family. (It was noted in the paperwork that it did, in fact, belong to the Ministry now as it has been seized as payment for war crimes. It was now used for storage.)

The warehouse was located a short distance from Hogsmeade (and it was also worth noting that the civilians had not taken that information well, one of them muttering that after all the effort they'd gone through to find him, he'd been barely ten kilometres away.)

In only a few hours, the Ministry had cleared away the evidence of any crime against magical persons, had performed an inquiry of the civilians in question and had decided that memory charms would not be necessary providing that none of this information was shared with unknowing persons. The Department of Dark Magics and the Department of Magical Removal remained slightly longer than the Aurors themselves, (with the exception of the Auror who had been involved in the incident as he had been transported to Hogwarts to make use of their hospital facilities.) By that afternoon, they had finished as well and the warehouse was once again darkened and still, without even footprints disturbing the layers of dust.

Ron wasn't there for any of it. When he finally woke again, he found he was in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, alone.

It was surprisingly difficult to sit up but he managed, finding that warm sunshine was already streaming in the windows, filling the room to the brim with light. A ginger investigation of his face with his fingertips told him that most of his injuries were already healed, although a few of the deeper cuts were still sore. Ron assumed that his body had been magically healed past the point of being able to accept it and sank back into the blankets with his head on the pillow. Might be here a couple of days then, he mused, feeling oddly blank and more than a bit tired.

Madame Pomfrey appeared before he could drift back to sleep, and in the cruel approach of healers everywhere, forced Ron to gag down a few hideously flavoured potions before she would let him rest.

Her tight pinched expression warned him away from asking any questions, but there was one he couldn’t keep from croaking out, his throat surprisingly sore.

"Where’s Harry?"

For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to answer. Her lips vanished into a pinched white line as she brusquely tucked the blankets around Ron’s feet and legs. "Professor Potter is speaking with the Ministry, no doubt explaining why I had to come in at the wee hours of the morning and perform several highly advanced healing charms to keep you from bleeding to death on the carpets. The House Elves have already had to clean the spots three times."

"But he’s all right?" Ron persisted, breaking into a pained cough. He accepted the glass of water that she conjured for him gratefully but pleaded with his eyes over with rim of the glass. He had to know he’d done some good, that Harry was alive and perfectly well.

"Do you see him lying on a cot next to you?" Pomfrey said sharply. Her tone and glare would have served the school’s Potion Master well, and it left no imaging as to what she thought of fool Aurors who nearly got themselves killed in the middle of the night.

The burst of relief in his chest was so strong that it evaporated whatever willpower was holding the potions at bay. Ron let his head fall back on the pillow, hardly noticing the firm jabs of Pomfrey tucking the blankets around his shoulders.

Next time he nearly died, he’d make sure it was in the afternoon, Ron decided sleepily. And that Harry Potter was far, far away. That one he was counting on.
 

It was nearly two days later when Madame Pomfrey announced he was well enough for visitors. But only briefly, she’d told him with a harsh scowl and Ron had nodded obediently from his chair near the window where she had firmly sat him.

Honestly, he could have gone a few more days, or a month, without the visitors he was expecting. Hermione might be the first but he wasn’t hoping for that. A better chance it’d be an inquiry board checking on how many mistakes he’d made since coming here but perhaps Pomfrey would hold them at bay for a little while more.

That made it all the more surprising when he saw just whom his first visitor was. Severus Snape, sweeping into the room with the same flare of robes and expression that struck fear into his students when he entered his classroom. He looked much the same as he always had, bitingly dark eyes and a sneer lurking on his face, waiting to be needed. But there was no mistaking the soft shine to his forehead, indicating newly healed skin, and he was walking with a very slight limp.

Ron turned away and looked out the window. From this vantage, he could see the lake, the last vestiges of ice floating on it like little white-capped islands. He could hear Snape behind him, the faint rustles of his robe.

"I’d ask how you were feeling but inane politeness has never been a strength of mine."

"I’ve noticed. Heard the two of you had to face an inquiry," Ron said dully, not looking from the window.

"Yes. Sadly, neither Potter nor myself remembered much of the incident," Snape replied smoothly. He moved around to small table near the window, inspecting the untouched breakfast tray that Pomfrey had left for Ron. "It was quite an ordeal, as I'm sure you're well aware."

"Yeah, it's a shame my memory seems better than yours," he muttered. "Where is Harry?"

Snape turned to face him, annoyance flickering into his eyes. "I suppose it’s a bit much to expect it this late in my life, but just once, when I’ve risked my life to save someone's arse, I'd like them to be grateful for it."

"I suppose I might, if I weren’t still in shock about it," Ron said. "I thought you hated me."

Snape’s mouth twisted into nothing like a smile. "Oh, I do. I doubt I could express my hatred with mere words. But I've also come to realize that you aren't half-useless between the sheets and it's enough to keep me from letting anyone else kill you. So far."

He settled himself in the chair nearest the window, prissily smoothing his robes over his knees. "Potter is waiting his turn. A little reminder of my assistance a few evenings past was enough for him to agree to allow me in first. Normally, I wouldn't dream of coming between you and your dear Mr. Potter." He ignored Ron's snort. "However, I have a few things to speak about with you and I'm afraid it can't wait.

"Firstly, since I doubt you’ve heard much at all from our resident healer, I suppose I could give you a few small details that came out during the investigation." He didn’t seem to notice the way Ron’s hands tightened into the folds of his lap quilt. "I would seem that instead of killing himself after the death of his son, as we had assumed, Lucius Malfoy had managed to sacrifice most of his humanity to some exceedingly Dark Magics. Made a poor job of it as well; you may have noticed he was hardly in the peak of health."

A soft noise caught in Ron’s throat and he swallowed it back. Snape ignored it and went on. "According to Miss Granger, he must have spent a great deal of time and effort circulating rumors about the Death Eaters coming for Potter. It would seem he guessed, rightly so, that it was the only thing that would get you back to Britain where he might stand a chance of catching you off-guard."

"He did at that," Ron murmured listlessly, unable to inject even bitterness into his voice.

"Hm," was Snape’s only reply. He folded his hands in his lap almost sedately. "You look quite strange with your hair so short."

It startled a laugh out of Ron. He reached up and ran a hand over the velvety stubble that Pomfrey had trimmed his hair down to. "Madame Pomfrey offered to grow it back for me but I feel a little like never letting someone put a spell on me again."

"Quite. Well, as thrilling as this chat has been, I do have classwork to attend to." Snape stood, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his robe. He paused, half-turned towards the door before adding, "Before I go, I do have one question for you."

He lifted one hand and Ron saw a familiar silvery oval between two of his fingers. His stomach fell down to the floor and Ron looked away from the coolness in Snape’s eyes. His frightful calm was rapidly receding and the panic that was taking it’s place was hardly a welcome change.

"I’m sure you can only imagine my surprise that night when Potter showed me an Eyesou mirror." Snape said between gritted teeth. "Where did you get this? I can’t imagine you were able to charm it yourself."

"I nipped it off someone a few years back," Ron admitted softly.

"Indeed?" A hand slipped beneath Ron’s chin and forced him to look up at Snape’s face. He met the glittering black eyes dully, not even trying to twist away. "You’re aware that these are quite illegal. You could be stripped of your title, even end up in Azkaban with all the others you sent there."

"I know."

There was a long moment of silence. Slowly, Snape drew his hand from Ron’s face, though Ron didn’t look away from his impassive expression.

"Well, then. It would seem that you don’t need this anymore." Snape dropped it on the floor and Ron closed his eyes against the sharp crack of splintered glass.

Bitter laughter welled in his lungs, choking its way out of him in a pained burst. "I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Seems like no matter what I do, I can’t protect him." He looked back out the window. "Certainly can't now."

Snape said nothing, merely gave an impatient wave of his wand to the floor. The glass vanished and Snape tucked his wand back in his robes, turning back to the tray on the table. He poured a small glass of juice and held it out to Ron, who took it absentmindedly, holding the cool glass between his palms.

"I really made a muck of things, didn't I," Ron whispered, watched water drip down the window from slowly melting icicles.

"Oh, I wouldn't know about that. That was how we found you, you know."

"What?"

Snape jerked his chin towards the floor. "The mirror, you twit. We used the mirror."

Horror filled him. "You mean, you saw—"

"No, of course not, don't be ridiculous!" Snape snapped. His mouth twisted and he looked rather like he'd had a taste of a particularly sour lemon. "Potter did."

"That's not funny."

"And you know quite well that I'm not in the habit of making jokes. He looked in the mirror and saw you," Snape told him, venom dripping from every word like the snake Slytherins took to represent them. "I could hardly lie about it; all you need to do is ask him."

Ron looked away first, back out the window. There were specks of black moving across the yard, students in their uniforms. He hadn’t realized that it was the weekend already and it made him tired to wonder at how many days he’d lost. "Even if that is true, it doesn’t explain how you found me."

"Once you find a path, you have only to place your boots upon it."

Ron stared at him, uncomprehending. With an impatient sigh, Snape clarified. "We stepped through."

The first curl of real emotion he’d felt in days coiled into his stomach like a lump of nausea. "You're telling me you did a mirror walkthrough?" He shook his head. "I don’t believe it. You couldn't've done it."

"Not alone," he agreed, "But with Potter helping an incompetent like Longbottom probably could have managed."

"That's impossible; even with Harry, two wizards alone couldn't have done it unless you had a catalyst." Dawning horror only increased his nausea and he remembered how Snape and Harry had looked at the warehouse, hoped dimly that Pomfrey kept her basins close by. "You're mental!" Ron managed to whisper. "You're lucky it didn't kill Harry! Or you!"

"Yes, thank you for adding me in then," Snape said sardonically. "As it is, the only result, aside from taking us to you, was a few bruises and the destruction of a perfectly decent set of clothes. With that, I do believe I've paid back the favor I owed you, thrice over."

"Yes, you did." He gave a tired laugh, wincing at how pathetic it sounded. "Who did you see then, in the mirror?"

Snape never so much as flinched. "What mirror would that be?"

Suddenly, he didn’t want Snape to leave. He knew what was coming next or rather, who, and Ron was torn between the urge to grab Harry and shake him and demand he never do anything as foolish as that again, and the horrid, desperate need to run so far away Harry would never be able to find him.

But he’d already done that once.

"I don’t know what to say to him," Ron said aloud, hating the misery in his voice and that it was Snape hearing it.

Snape stiffened visibly. "If you're seeking a confidant, do let me send Dumbledore in here. I believe he rather enjoys it."

Ron said nothing, only let his eyes drift down to his lap. He fiddled with a frayed thread on the soft quilt over his legs, tracing the star pattern with a fingertip.

Snape made a rude sound and flung himself back in his chair. "Far be it from me to offer you advice, but perhaps you might consider the truth? It seems to me that a great deal of the problems in Mr. Potter's life, aside from poor genes, stem from the plain and simple fact that no one seems to be able to tell him the things he truly needs to know."

"I can’t. I have an oath--"

"Piss on your bloody oath, Weasley," Snape said, his gaze brutally direct. "You wanted to know what to do and I told you. It's been some five years now, don't you think you should let it go?"

"Like you do, right? Never held on to a grudge yourself, have you, Snape?"

"It's Severus; don't compound your sins with stupidity. And I’m sure that the infamous Mr. Potter is capable of keeping yet another secret." Snape looked rather like he felt as sick as Ron did and he shook himself visibly, clearing his throat. "I believe we’ve said everything that needs saying. Let’s see if we can’t keep to our bargain of seeing each other as little as possible from now on, shall we?"

He stood again, the line of his shoulders ruler-straight and stupid as it was, Ron couldn’t help saying, "You know, if…if I could have, I…"

Snape cut him off with a sharp look. "Don’t."

"I would have stayed, if I could," Ron said, simply, and the banked anger that always seemed just at the edges of Snape’s eyes flared to life. In two steps, Snape covered the floor between them and yanked Ron from the chair, smothering his mouth with his own.

The glass in his hands fell from his nerveless fingers and neither of them looked as it shattered on the floor. Ron simple hung in Snape’s fierce grip and let his mouth be devoured, not even wincing as Snape’s teeth dug in his lower lip.

Long moments later, Snape pulled away, his breath an uneven rasp that matched Ron’s. Whatever had been in his eyes before was shuttered away now, closed behind blackness. He set Ron back in the chair, even going so far as to pick up his quilt and tuck it back around his legs.

Snape didn’t look at him again, busying himself with again cleaning broken glass from the floor. "I believe we are even now, Mr. Weasley. Ron," Snape corrected himself, softly.

"I thought you wanted me to sleep with you," Ron said, with a watery chuckle.

Snape’s answering smile was arctic cold but it was a smile. "Call it a discount. You saw how well I protected Potter." With a soft whoosh of his robes, he turned towards the doors, hesitating long enough to call back, "When you’re feeling up to it, you might consider growing your hair back. It looks horrid."

The door shut behind him with a soft click and Ron went back to contemplating the window, letting his thoughts drift amongst the nothingness.

Chapter Text

Harry pushed the door to the hospital wing open gently and stepped into the room. To him, it always felt like a person should be as quiet as possible in here, where the faint scent of cleaning spells melded with chamomile. Unlike some people, who came out and let the doors close behind him with a bang while he brushed past the others who were waiting without even a glare.

Madame Pomfrey sent a glare of her own in Snape's direction and had told Harry brusquely that since Snape had taken so much time, he would only have a few minutes to visit as her patient needed rest more than he needed company. Harry didn't have the time or the inclination to consider Snape, other than sending a mental curse in his direction that would never be received. More's a pity.

The rows of beds were empty and Harry found Ron in his bathrobe, curled up on the window seat and looking outside. A worn quilt was spread haphazardly over his lap, part of it hanging loosely, brushing the floor with tiny little sweeps every time Ron shifted slightly.

Silently, Harry moved to sit across from him. The bathrobe was too small and his wrists were exposed like a child in last year's clothes, bony and hard. Still a touch too pale, then, a touch too thin.

Pomfrey had warned him that Ron wouldn't be looking his best just yet. Potions and spells were all fine and well, but pushing a body past its capacity to heal would do more harm than good and Ron…Ron had needed so much healing.

Half of his face was shadowed in the window and the other still bore signs of his ordeal.

Ordeal? Torture was what it was, Harry thought fiercely. Plain and simple, that. Faint red lines still creased his face, random little blotches that Harry had seen before the potions and knew just how horrid they had been. It was only by some miracle that Ron wasn't dead, or worse.

Only they weren't sure about the worse just yet and Pomfrey had nearly pounded into them that they weren't to get him worked up, not yet. Rest and relaxation were almost as good as a spell, she'd declared, and Ron had not yet had enough of either.

"Ron?" Harry tried. It came out far closer to a whisper than he would have liked and he cleared his throat before trying again. "Ron?"

Ron's eyes didn't so much as flicker from the window. He studied the landscape as if all the answers to the universe were hidden somewhere in it, buried beneath the heavy sod and blooms.

If Snape had said something to upset Ron, Harry knew he was going to kill him. The git had asked him days ago if he could commit a murder and Harry had discovered that yes, in fact, he could and he was going to do it again if that greasy bastard had so much as…

"It was two days after you’d announced your engagement," Ron began softly, gazing out the window. "I got a call for the assignment. One of our insiders informed us of a plot to invade your wedding by a group of Death Eaters, with the main objective being to kill you and anyone else who might be there. They’d got it into their heads that you were the reason Voldemort kept failing, which is true enough, I suppose."

"Can you imagine what it would have been like?" Ron shifted to look at him, his blue eyes distant. After a moment, he turned back to the window and took a shuddering breath. "Everyone was going to be at your wedding, the most powerful wizards on our side against the worst ones of the dark who were on a suicide mission. It would have been a bloodbath."

He chuckled mirthlessly. "My very first assignment. They didn’t want to send me, naturally, but they didn’t really have a choice. They needed every person. Not that I would have let them leave me behind anyway." Harry nearly jumped when Ron moved again suddenly. He'd been listening so raptly, caught in what Ron was telling him in his pained, used voice. Ron leaned forward and caught one of Harry's hands, squeezing it urgently. "I couldn’t tell you I was going, Harry, I couldn’t tell anyone. We couldn’t take a chance of them finding out we were coming."

He sank back into the seat with a sigh, his head dropping back against the wall with a heavy thump. "Bloody hell, I was stupid…or not really stupid, maybe, I was just young. I was so young, only just completed my training. You have no idea what it was like, no one can tell you what it's really like. They gave us permission to ignore the Oath…"

"Oath?" Harry interrupted softly.

"Yeah, when you become an Auror, you make an Oath to capture, not kill. It isn’t just a bunch of wizards running around after the bad guys, you know. We have a society and like any society there are rules. Only in the most extenuating circumstances are we allowed to set aside the Oath."

"So there we are on this raid, my first assignment," Ron fell silent for a moment, struggling for words and managing to say softly, "I was eighteen and all around me there is nothing but flaring lights, hexes and curses. I remember seeing Dumbledore fighting off two Death Eaters at once, and Snape with blood running down his forehead…"

"Snape was there?" Harry asked, stunned.

"Of course. I can’t blame you if you don’t like him, Harry, what with the way he treats you. But he isn't all bad, and he has his reasons for protecting you." Ron had his arms wrapped around himself, rocking slowly as he spoke. "Anyway. All of this is going on around me, the spells so close I could feel how hot they were and suddenly I’m standing there face to face with Draco Malfoy. It was as if everything had gone quiet. All I could hear was my heart beating and I…I froze. Right there with my enemy not a meter away from me and I couldn’t think of one spell."

They both startled at the door opening, Harry reaching out just in time to keep Ron from tumbling to the floor. Madame Pomfrey stood just inside, eyeing them both.

"I think he's had enough excitement for the day," she announced and Harry hated her even as he couldn't help agreeing. Ron was breathing much too fast, his hands clenched on Harry's arms tight enough to bruise. Color had bloomed in his cheeks, stark against his pale face.

"I need another few minutes," Ron said. His eyes were wild and his grip tightened on Harry like he thought Pomfrey would just carry him away.

"You need –"

"I need another few fucking minutes!" Ron shouted.

She pulled herself up short and then left without another word. The sharp slam of the door promised retribution but Ron barely seemed to notice. His hands relaxed their brutal grip as he sank back against the wall and his voice was as soft as before as he continued.

"I should have died, Harry," he whispered hoarsely, urgently. "I should be dead and I would be if it hadn’t been for Pigwidgeon. I’d been training Pig to be my Familiar, but I didn’t have really high hopes for him, you know? Too hyper. But I’d brought him along anyway and while I stood there like a fool, Pig attacked Malfoy and distracted him. He died to save me. "

"Malfoy took off, managed to disapparate somehow and after the battle was over all I could think about was how I’d failed my Familiar, how I’d failed you and that you might die because of me. So I tracked him down."

"Took me the better part of two years to catch up with him and that was the most miserable two years of my life. Slept outside mostly, living off of whatever I could find. I remember teasing Sirius once about eating rat but it’s really not so bad. But I was taking other assignments as well, whenever I could, and I was really getting trained up as an Auror."

Ron took a deep, shuddering breath and didn't move when Harry silently pulled the quilt up higher on his chest. "When I finally managed to catch up with Malfoy, I tried to get him to surrender. He wouldn’t. I tried, I really tried…"

"You killed him?" Harry said, hardly above a whisper.

"No," said Ron softly. "He killed himself. He knew I would win, you see. I was better then, better than he was and he knew I would just stun him, take him in and his stubborn pureblood ego just couldn’t allow that."

"After that, I was just…lost for awhile, I guess. I’d been after Malfoy so long, I didn’t know what to do. It was finally done with, so I came back to England and I went to see you."

Harry started violently, hardly even able to breathe.

If Ron had been entirely too excited moments before, it was as if it had been pulled out of him like water down the drain. His voice dulled, almost too quiet to hear, "By then you’d been married for almost two years. You were the Seeker for England and when I saw you, you looked so happy. I didn’t want to spoil that, Harry. I didn’t belong there anymore, I didn’t deserve to try and make myself a part of that, so I left. I’ve been going after other dark wizards since then and…and that’s all. That’s what happened."

Ron twisted his hands in the quilt, knuckles whitening as he met Harry's stunned eyes. "I’d spent years chasing him, trying to protect you and I realized then that he’d won anyway. I’d already lost you.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I'm going to be sick." He slipped off the bench, stumbling past Harry into the loo and he listened numbly to the sounds of retching. He felt frozen to the seat, his hands clenched into numb fists as he heard splashing water and Ron rinsing his mouth, spitting into the sink.

He turned slowly towards the door, moving like one who was very elderly and ached in his joints. Ron stepped out of the toilet on shaky legs, pausing to lean on a nearby bed post. He seemed to change his mind about the window seat, easing himself into the only unmade bed in the hospital wing.

"Why didn't you tell me when you got here?" Harry said, hating the harshness in his voice.

"How could I tell you I failed you?" Ron said quietly, speaking at the ceiling. "How could I look at you and tell you after all that, after everything he still died?"

Harry exhaled shakily, looking away. Why couldn't he say anything? Why couldn't he feel anything more than a tepid sort of numbness? "So now what?"

"Technically, I'm on leave for the next month but I've got enough paperwork to choke a baby dragon. I need to at least file about the Veritaserum issue before someone else gets—"

"Ron."

He stopped and slowly blew out a breath. "I have to leave, Harry."

"Just like that." It sparked something in him, firecracker-hot, and it was enough to make him move, walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge of it. Ron's eyes darted away from him, and he picked up a water glass on the end table and took a long drink before he answered, and there was some measure of strength in his voice.

"It's not 'just like that'. Look, it's good, I can't deny that! It's really good." He wet his lips, half catching himself making a vaguely obscene gesture. "But I'm just an old habit of yours that you can't quite get rid of because you don't want to be alone. You deserve better than that."

"That's not—"

"No, you listen to me for once, would you! Everyone talks about the great Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived but I've seen you face to face. I didn't need anyone to tell me how great you'd be and I can't stand in the way of it." His hand moved like it wanted to brush Harry's hair off his forehead, only it drifted back down to Ron's side instead.

Harry raised his hand to his temples and rubbed them, already feeling the beginnings of a dreadful headache. This was all so stupid, so wrong, but arguing with Ron now wasn't going to help. "Look, let's talk about this later, all right? You need some rest and I should go."

"That's fine, Harry." The resolution in his voice set off warning bells but Harry was in no position to argue tonight. He felt a little like he would be the next one on his knees in the loo. Instead, he leaned in and brushed his lips over Ron's, felt them tremble slightly against his own before he pulled back and away.

He was nearly to the door, wondering at his chances of getting a headache remedy from Pomfrey when Ron called after him. "Do us a favor, would you?"

"Anything." He said it instantly, as automatic as breathing.

Faint smile. "Don't come see me again. Please."

"Ron—"

"Please!" His voice cracked, just a little and Harry hesitated. "I just need some time, all right? I need – I need to think a bit. I'm not going to vanish on you again. I promise. I just—I don't like you seeing me here. Like this." He gestured distastefully, managing to convey the entire hospital wing as well as his bed and face.

"All right," Harry agreed reluctantly, his stomach twisting. That even now, after all that had happened and all he knew, Ron was still making promises to him to stay. The ache in his temples was moving towards a full throb and if Pomfrey wouldn't get him a potion, he was going to sneak in here later to get it himself.

He could leave Ron alone for as long as he was in the hospital wing, Harry decided. It would only be for a few more days, anyway. He hesitated at the door, watching Ron sink down under the blankets. He seemed to fall asleep in an instant and Harry turned to leave, only a little startled at the soft voice that caught at him again. "Harry?"

He turned back and Ron's eyes were closed, his face half-buried in the pillows.

"Did you really see me in the mirror?" he asked, a little wistfully.

Harry wasn't sure why it matter. He wondered just what kind of mirror it was, but, not now. "Yeah, I did."

The light caught a shimmer of wetness on Ron's cheek and Harry turned away to leave him alone like he'd asked, making sure to close the door softly behind him.

He only had one other visitor, late that evening when he was back at the window, watching the moon rise. He looked up at the soft scuff her shoe and saw her standing in the doorway.

She didn't hug him and he was grateful for it, choosing instead to rest a soft hand on his arm. "Ron," she said softly, lowered her head with a shake. "I'm so sorry."

If the thought of crying in front of Harry appalled him then to cry in front of Hermione was unthinkable. He shook her off as gently as he could and didn't watch her as she stood awkwardly next to him. After a moment, she set down a rolled piece of parchment on the table, the dark green seal of the Ministry holding it closed.

She pressed her hand over his for a long moment before hurrying out without saying another word.

Ron didn't look at the scroll, only watched the drift of the moon as it rose and fell during the night.

Chapter Text

His office was so cold that Harry had taken to warming his hands on his teacup in an almost absent fashion. The fire had died down to the barest embers an hour before. Harry took no notice of it, idly tracing the grain in the wood of his desk with the tip of his quill. The ink lingered in shabby, glistening lines for long moments until it decided this surface wasn't parchment after all and vanishing into the air.

The paper in front of him had a fair amount of spelling errors, intermixed freely with factual ones, and he checked each one slowly, the ink flashing into red. It shifted to green when he added the rare compliment, shining off the paper, remaining a neutral black as he added the score at the bottom. He rolled it up and added it to the pile at his left and selected another from the slowly diminishing pile at his right.

He should have finished these hours ago, he knew. Essays from his first years should hardly take up this much of his time and yet, his thoughts refused to focus, drifting like a leaf downriver. It didn't seem possible that only a week before he'd been kneeling in blood and dirt, holding Ron's head in his lap while they waited for the Ministry to port him to Hogwarts. Not even twenty-four hours since he'd last been to the hospital wing, hovering outside the closed doors for long minutes before finally turning away, leaving them unopened.

Ink had dripped from the tip of his quill, puddling on the corner of the essay and trembling on the verge of a dozen colors. He swore and wiped it away with the edge of his sleeve, sending a mental apology in the direction of the house elves who did the washing as the half-dried ink chose to linger.

A knock on his door startled him from his morose thoughts and he looked up to see Professor Isabella Nosturnma hovering uncertainly in the doorway. She was on temporary duty at Hogwarts as the professor of Care of Magical Creatures until Hagrid returned.

Harry gave her a polite smile. "Yes?"

"May I speak with you a moment, Professor Potter?" she said timidly. Harry groaned mentally. He hadn't spoken to Nosturnma more than a handful of time but well considered them more than enough. He wasn't sure how she managed to teach a class, much less handle any of the magical creatures that Harry had learned about in school. She seemed more timid than Quirrell had been, her eyes doing an constant, and obvious, flicker to his forehead and then back to his face. He could see her doing it even from this distance. Flick. Flick.

"Of course," said Harry heavily, standing. He suddenly realized the room was cold enough that their breath fogged and he absently waved his wand at the fire, bathing it in a rush of heat.

The warmth seemed to embolden her and she stepped into the room, though barely.

"It's about the grendel you have in your keeping," she blurted, hands twisting nervously.

"Yes, what about it?" Harry tried to keep his impatience from his voice. Perhaps she'd decided to teach a class about it and was asking to borrow it.

"Well, I went into that classroom today…I only needed a book, I wasn't trying to impose on your space, Professor…only, I needed a text on kelpies and I was told they were kept in that classroom…" She spoke in a stuttering, nervous rush, her eyes pausing on his scar. "And… I'm sure you do well with him, being that you are the Dark Arts teacher, but…well, look!"

She yanked up the end of her robe and there was a scorched looking hole in it.

"It…it practically attacked me when I was only standing there, half a room away! If I had been closer, why, it might have…it could have…"

Her eyes were a weak, watery sort of blue, nothing at all like the sharp blue of Ron's eyes, looking at a person, occasionally through them. Harry blinked and realized that her eyes were not just watery but also red and he had a sudden horrified thought that she was about to burst into tears. The thought of her flinging herself at him in a fit of crying or rushing out into the halls where all and sundry could see she'd run from his office in tears were equally appalling.

Hoping to forestall it, Harry held up his hands awkwardly. "I see. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, I'll be sure to take care of it."

"Just…just see that you do!" she managed, whirling around to leave Harry staring after her.

He shook his head and waited for her footsteps to fade before sitting back at his desk. The waiting pile of scrolls looked like it had grown in his distraction. He looked at them, at his quill and back.

"Bugger this," Harry muttered, batting the scrolls off his desk. He snatched up wand and stuck it in his back pocket and made for the door, pausing long enough to kick away a scroll that had landed close enough to the fire for a curl of smoke to show on the edge.

The hallways were mostly deserted, the odd student or two appearing occasionally but rarely, and Harry realized it was later than he'd thought. The windows were night-darkened and several of the paintings were already snoring.

His classroom door was locked but opened willingly to his murmured password, and he stepped inside, lighting the tip of his wand rather than those in the room.

The grendel was curled up on the floor of his cage, playing with a small rag doll that one of the Gryffindor girls had made for him. While Harry watched, it happily he chomped the head off and let it roll around the cage before it vanished and reappeared once again attached. Harry had been particularly proud that she had managed that charm.

When it looked up and saw him, the grendel promptly dropped the toy and hopped up, chirruping happily. Harry settled himself on the floor next to the cage and reached inside, obediently patting its ugly scaled head.

"So you’re going to be leaving too now, aren't you?" Harry murmured, scratching behind its eyes. The grendel rumbled out what passed for its purr, pushing up eagerly into his hand.

All his students had been fond of the ugly little thing; they'd squabbled so much about feeding it that he'd had to set up a chart so that each House got an equal chance. Ron had liked it too, had often sat next to it during class and surreptitiously given it little treats or scratched beneath its chin, much like Harry was doing now. Academic interest, he'd claimed. Getting to know the dark creatures when they were small could be handy, it wasn't that he cared for the hideous little thing, oh, no...

"Harry?"

He looked up at the voice and saw Dumbledore standing inside the door. "I thought I saw a light in here," Dumbledore said, smiling.

He walked over to the cage and lowered himself onto the floor next to Harry. The grendel tilted his head at him, pulling away from Harry's stilled hand to inspect this newcomer. A few flicks of its tongue, snakelike, and it decided this person was acceptable. Imperiously, it butted its head against the cage and Dumbledore chuckled, reaching in to pet it.

"I've heard that this little creature is quite popular amongst our students," Dumbledore said, chuckling again as it made its rumbling purr.

"The staff isn't quite as enamored of him," Harry sighed. "I'm afraid it's time to send him off to Romania. It seems he attacked Nosturnma today in a fit of territorialism."

"Yes, she spoke to me earlier today."

"Did she now?" Harry murmured, his dislike of the woman edging up another notch.

They sat in silence for some time on the floor of the darkened classroom, each alternating in petting the ugly little creature in the cage, who delighted in swiveling its head back and forth until all its itchy places had been satisfied.

Dumbledore didn’t seem to have any urge to break the silence, though Harry knew him better. Once, Dumbledore had seemed like a father figure to him and over some time, he had developed into more of a friend. Harry still looked up to him, there was no questioning that, but he was also quite aware that he was a sneaky old bugger and it wasn't a light in a supposedly empty classroom that had brought him here tonight.

"I was thinking about Draco Malfoy, today," Harry said finally. The grendel was nosing towards his pockets hopefully and he drew out one of the small dog biscuits he'd taken to carrying, tossing it and watching it catch the treat with a crunch of powerful teeth.

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "I had hopes once that he would be able to sever ties with his family. I'm afraid that there are some bonds that are nearly impossible to break."

He didn't mention the events that Ron had spoken of to him. He didn't need to, his eyes calm and telling.

"I feel like I should hate him," Harry said honestly. "But I can't really seem to." He drew his knees up like a child and rested his chin on them. "I hadn’t really even thought about him for quite some time. I heard that he’d died, of course. For a long time, most of my life was caught up with Quidditch. And then…" He thought of Cho, and there was still some pain there, a love that had been severed at the root. "And then it wasn’t. I didn’t have much of anything to think about until you contacted me and said you needed me."

"I'm afraid that the Defense Against the Dark Arts position is destined to cause me difficulties." He didn't sound particularly upset about it.

"I'm afraid that it probably is," Harry said, quietly. "I think, maybe, that when I first came, I needed to be here as much as you needed me to teach."

"That’s always possible," Dumbledore said agreeably. The grendel had curled up on the floor nearest to Harry with a sigh, nudging sleepily once last time against his stroking hand.

"I am happy here. You know that. Hogwarts has always been more of a home to me than anywhere else. I have colleagues here, my students, my work. I’d like to believe I’m almost as good of a professor as I am a Seeker. Most of the time," Harry added, thinking of the scrolls scattered on the floor of his office.

"Yes, you are. And you’re always welcome in these halls, Harry, so long as I am Headmaster. But I believe a person should beware of solitude. It can become a difficult habit to break." Dumbledore was never as idle as he often sounded.

"Yes, I suppose it can." Harry patted the warm, scaly snout and climbed slowly to his feet, wincing as blood resumed flowing in his legs. Dumbledore was smiling up at him, a fond and familiar twinkle in his eyes and Harry couldn't help smiling back. "Thank you, Albus. For everything."

"You're quite welcome, my boy. Quite welcome."

Chapter Text

How it could be taking him so long to pack, Ron wasn't sure. His bag was the same size it had always been and he had less to put in it than before. He could still hear the sound of the mirror cracking underneath Snape's heel; it had seemed sharp enough to pierce flesh even from that distance. He supposed he should be grateful to Snape for finally taking the thing away from him but he couldn't, not just yet. Maybe later, when the echo of shattering glass had dimmed in his thoughts he could be. Maybe.

He catalogued each item automatically as he placed it in his bag, mentally adding to a list the things he'd have to purchase in Diagon Alley. The only new things he were taking with him he carried on his skin and in his mind, and they seemed heavier than anything had a right to be. It didn't matter. Nothing really did except for his driving urge to be gone from this place, out of Hogwarts and possible out of the country. Maybe it was time to be somewhere warm again and let his freckles peek out just slightly from the clearing charm he'd bought years back to hide them.

An unfamiliar shirt appeared from beneath the small pile of his own clothes. It made Ron pause, that shirt, and he could see it in the back of his mind, the way it looked rucked up under Harry's arms while Ron licked a path down his belly. In a rush of pathetic need he snatched it up and shoved it into the bottom of his pack, hurriedly piling his own clothes on top of it. It was foolish and pitiable to be sneaking out of this school with a stolen shirt but Ron thought perhaps he could be excused, just this once. It had only taken him four years to begin getting over Harry the first time, and that had been before he'd known the taste of his skin, breathed in the warm scent of him beneath the blankets.

He'd had his time then, Ron told himself roughly. He'd had his share of Harry Potter twice over and that would have to be enough. Time to start the cycle again, though he did wonder how long it would take him this time to leave Harry behind. If he ever would.

One lock of his hair had escaped from his ponytail and kept falling forward across his face to tickle at his nose. Ron pushed it back again impatiently, muttering, "Should've left it short."

"I don't know, I rather like it long."

Ron was moving before he even thought about it, his torn and aching reflexes still serving him well, although the curse dying on his lips was somewhat more brutal than he would have used a short time before.

Harry didn't so much as flinch from the wand suddenly pointed at him, leaning against the doorjamb like it had been made just for his back. "I see you're not in the hospital wing anymore."

Ron lowered his wand and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Pomfrey let me out this morning."

"I know." Harry stepped into the room and Ron watched with a sinking heart as he closed the door. This was exactly what he'd been trying so hard to avoid. Sitting in the hospital wing day after day, watching the world outside his window turning from icy winter to spring. It was a crap metaphor for him, he decided, and if there was to be a rebirth in his life, he'd rather it wasn't delivered by the poor prophecies of the weather.

"Leaving without even a goodbye shag, are we?" Harry asked with deceptive mildness. The ache in his body was nothing like the one taking shape in his gut, twisting in on itself while Ron started tossing in his personal items haphazardly, half-terrified Harry would touch him again. Because Ron wouldn't tell him no, couldn't, every cell in his body betraying him when it came to Harry but he just couldn't bear this, not now, he just couldn't, oh, please.

"Goodbye shags are overrated," he said roughly, cramming his spare boots on the top of everything else and strapping the pack closed. "I wasn't running off on you, if that's what you're thinking."

"No, actually, I wasn't thinking that at all." Ron dared a glance at him and couldn't let it linger. Dark hair, always mussed like he'd just been tumbled out of the sheets, it was so easy to want that, and it was an addiction he was going to have to learn to let go of.

"I expect you were probably going to get all of your things gathered up and tell me goodbye in the Main Hall," Harry continued, some of the calm in his voice betraying him. "Going to give me a handshake and wish me the best, were you?"

"I'm not leaving forever," Ron snapped. "I just need some time away, is all!" He took a deep breath, lowered his voice to something more persuasive. "We're still friends, Harry, that hasn't changed."

"Course it has. You and I haven't been friends in a very long time."

It hurt, unexpectedly harsh, and Ron had to turn away from it, couldn't look at Harry eyes right now and see what was in them.

"We're far past that. Expelliarmus!"

His wand snapped free of his loose hold and Ron barely had a moment to be shocked before another spell overshadowed the disarming one. He blinked up at the ceiling, feeling the softness of the bed beneath him.

"Harry, what are you—" Ron tried to sit up and found he couldn't, his arms and legs attached firmly to the mattress with invisible bonds. His head was free enough and Ron craned it round until he finally saw Harry standing over him.

He was smiling, just a little. "You really are a stubborn prat, do you know that? It's one of the many things I love about you."

Ron closed his eyes. "Harry, don't."

"Don't what? Stand here quietly and let you walk away from me again? That's what I'm supposed to do, isn't it? You've made a life out of protecting me, Ronald Weasley and I'm quite sick of it. If you'd bother to notice, I can take care of myself."

"I know that."

"Do you? Then why are you trying to protect me from you?" Harry challenged. A soft touch of fingertips against his cheek made Ron flinch, but they followed him, tracing a path down the line of his jaw to his ear, circling gently.

Ron bit his lip on a dozen answers wanting to spill out. This was ridiculous and he wasn't about to debate his emotions tied down on a bed. He opened his eyes, jerking his head away from Harry's teasing fingers. "You know, I can get out of here."

Harry gestured with his wand, almost a shrug. "Feel free to try."

He blew out a breath and rolled his eyes. Standard release spells were the first ones they taught to Aurors and Ron could do them easily even without a wand.

"Relevo!" Nothing happened. Ron frowned and tried again. And again, various combinations of every spell he'd ever known to remove a binding spell. With each one, Harry said nothing, only raising an eyebrow at the increasingly loud and creative swearing that Ron was using in between spells.

He was sweating, shivering with exertion by the time he gave up. "What the hell spell did you USE?" Ron gritted out.

"Made it myself," Harry said, a hint of smug pride in his voice. "Works quite well, doesn't it?" The bed jostled as Harry climbed on it, crawling over to Ron. Fresh pain inside and out as Harry straddled him, settling himself comfortably in the general place of Ron's lap. "Someone showed me recently that if there isn't a spell for what you need, it's time to create your own."

"Harry, this isn't funny," Ron said, and his uneven breathing had little to do with the weight on top of him and everything to do with its placement.

A groan escaped him as Harry rolled his hips. "Do I look like I'm laughing?"

There were hands at his head, pulling the band off Ron's ponytail and mussed his hair across the pillow. Carding it out between his fingers until Ron's breath was hissing past clenched teeth.

"I love your hair," Harry muttered. He leaned forward, his cheek brushing Ron's as he buried his face in Ron's hair. "So soft," he breathed, inhaling deeply, ticklish and warm against Ron's ear. He shivered helplessly, more than a little lost. Harry had never needed a spell for this, not with him.

"Harry, I can't stay here," Ron said weakly, trying very hard to keep still. His cock was already painfully hard behind the zip of his pants, and he couldn't help rocking his hips up just a little, the tiny little rhythm something like bliss."

"I know," Soft, wet touch of a tongue against his ear.

"So this is your last fling with me before I go?" Ron tried to keep his voice flat, tried not to let his eagerness leach into it. Just pathetic, he was.

"No!"

Ron gasped as Harry sat up, all of his not inconsiderable weight pressing right where he wanted it most.

"I told you, I love you," There was anger in those green eyes, pure and hot. "And you're not going anywhere until I make you believe me."

"It's not about believing—"

"You're the one with the Sight," Harry interrupted. "You always told me you couldn't read me, that something always held you back. Well, here I am right now in front of you." He held out his arms, offering. "You're always so afraid of seeing what's in my head. Would you just look and see? Tell me what I have to do to help."

"I can't," Ron said softly, meeting the anger in Harry's eyes. Snape had told him to be honest with him and Ron hadn't been able to bear it, not all of it. Time to end all the lies, he supposed; he couldn't carry them again.

"You can't." Harry repeated flatly.

"No, I…Harry," Desperately searching for words to ease it but there was nothing but truth. "I'm burned out."

Harry looked as if someone had hit him in the gut, mouth open and eyes shocked. "What?"

"I'm burned out," Ron said, very gently. "Can't feel a bloody thing other than the inside of my own head," His mouth twisted into a smile, "Right dull if you want to know the truth. I'm just lucky it didn't take half my wits with it."

Part of him wished his hands were free to touch Harry, so still and suddenly pale. "How did…"

"Eh, it's been coming for years. I pushed it too hard, especially since I got here. I suppose that last little fling I had with Lucius finally shorted it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry whispered and Ron tried not to hear the accusation he was so certain was there.

"Because I knew you'd feel just what you are now! I can see it right on your face, the pity and the guilt! You didn't do anything, Harry." Days of sitting in the hospital wing, watching each new, reddened scar vanish beneath Pomfrey's talented hand had given him a sort of peace with it. Inside his head was silence of the likes he hadn't had in a very long time, the edges of his Sight seared raw and painful. But it wasn't Harry's fault, no one's fault but his own and he'd learn to live with it. Preferably without being pissed all the bloody time.

"You're right, all I did was exist." Harry was still so pale, seemed hardly aware that he was speaking.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Malfoy did that too, so you aren't special."

"I've been trying to tell people that for years," Harry said dryly. Some color came back to his cheeks, ruddy and warm. And lovely, everything about Harry made him want to reach for that ragged emptiness, to feel for him like he'd offered. "So far, it hasn't stuck."

No, he was special in an entirely different way but Ron didn't say it.

"You aren't going to the ministry, are you?" Harry asked, shifting a little, an innocent move, probably to ease the flow of blood into his bent legs but it made Ron want to move as well, in an entirely uninnocent fashion.

"Never said I was." Ron murmured, wetting his lips. Harry's eyes followed the little movement and he wet his own, the soft shine catching in the light and doing impossible things to Ron's stomach. And lower.

"Where are you really going?"

"To visit with my folks. Haven't seen them since I left five years ago and I can't really go back to being an Auror like this." He sighed a little, rolling his shoulders against the faint ache of being bound. Twice in as many weeks, although as bindings went this wasn't all that horrible. He didn't want to want this, but it was harder to believe that with Harry leaning in over him, licking softly at his lower lip. "The Ministry sent me my dismissal and I can't blame them." Except how he could, the letter crumbled and burned in a fit of pique that had made Pomfrey sedate him again. "I depended on my Sight. They said I could come back, if I felt like going through the Academy again, but…no. My Sight was who I was as an Auror. I can't do without it."

"I suppose not."

"Probably do me some good to get away from the shrieking brains of a few hundred kids, anyway. Could be that this isn't permanent."

"Could be," Harry feathered his tongue down Ron's jaw, nibbling softly. "I'm coming with you."

"What?!" Ron tried to sit up and came up short against the bind. "You're doing no such thing!"

"Am too. I already gave my notice and my trunk is in the hallway."

"And what about Hogwarts?" Ron sputtered, firmly telling his cock to get over it. There were more important things than a shag, dammit. "You've got a career going on here."

Harry leaned back and gave him a tired smile. "No, I don't really think I do. I like teaching, you know I do. But after my divorce I just—" he frowned thoughtfully. "I did what I always did when I needed a place to be. I came here."

"I'm not letting you do this."

"I'm not giving you a choice. You spent five years of your life writing me a silent love letter. You can prove how much you love me just like that. Seems to me I deserve a chance to do the same. I love you. Tell me what I can do or say to convince you of that?"

"I know you love me," Ron said softly. He looked so fierce, green eyes blazing. Ron had seen this determination so many times before, occasionally even aimed at him.

Harry blinked. "What?"

"I know you love me. Probably as desperately and stupidly as I love you. You’re probably half-mad with it by now."

"Wha—how—why do you believe me now?" he asked suspiciously.

"The mirror," Ron admitted softly. "You saw me in it."

"So it…what, shows people you love?"

"Can't be that simple, most people love more than one other person, you know." Ron let his head fall back, staring up at the bed canopy. "It…it shows the person you want more than anything else in the world."

"That's all?" Harry sounded disappointed.

Ron laughed. It sounded hollow, tired, older than he had any right to be. "Yes, that's all, but you have to understand, wanting isn't as simple as all that. Just now, I think we could fuck until we were both sore and bleeding and still wouldn't have enough."

He didn't understand it and Ron wasn't sure he was up to explaining it.

"Do you even know how much I want you?" Ron asked him fiercely. "You think I don't understand how you feel, but I do."

"You see me in it."

"Yeah," he admitted softly. "I see you."

"So, let me see if I understand this. We love each other, we want each other, and you know it's true, and you're still leaving because…?"

"Just because something is true, doesn’t mean it's right. I want you, I want everything about you, I want to keep you, I could kill your little bitch of an ex-wife just for hurting you." He gave Harry an unpleasant smile. "It's better if I just stay away, I think. For five years it didn't matter and then—" Ron shook his head. "No, this won't work."

"That is the most pathetic shite I have ever heard."

Ron blinked.

"You listen to me, and you listen good." He clenched his fists around Ron's wrists, ties of magic and flesh holding him down. "You don't get to decide what's best for me, do you understand that? I think it's been demonstrated that I'm a grown-up and I can make my own damned choices. And let me tell you something, just because you fell in love with me first and got to mope around about it doesn't mean you did a better job of it!"

"You're not listening, you don't know me anymore, Harry, I'm not a good person!"

"You're good enough for me." It seemed he was giving up on words in favor of something more tangible. One hand slid from Ron's wrist and lower, down to the waist of his trousers to slide beneath his shirt, ghosting it upward.

"No, the…the mirror!" Ron blurted.

"Mmmmm?" Harry lowered his head and hummed against his nipple.

"It shows…people," Ron yelped, tongue turning to teeth on tender flesh.

"That would be the main purpose of mirrors, Ron."

"It’s...they're…they're terribly illegal and I’ve been using it to spy on you for about two years now."

"Were you?" Harry murmured, not seeming particularly interested. He was chasing the fine line of reddish hair leading from Ron's navel to the blockage of his trousers, pinching at them with his lips.

"You can see the person you most want," Ron said desperately, "But you also see them no matter where they are. In the toilet, in the shower or...or... fucking their wives. People have become so addicted to them that they stopped eating and I…I didn't let it get that bad but…"

"Hmm, glad of that. What happened to it?"

"Snape broke it. Harry, I watched you, I--"

"Mm. Yes, I heard."

"Ah!" A cool hand slid past his waistband, leather creaking faintly as Harry curled his hand around Ron's betraying cock. "S-Snape!"

"No, it's still Harry."

"I mean…Snape…I-I slept with him."

That finally pulled him up short. Harry looked up, his hand tightened reflexively in an entirely lovely way. "Really?"

Ron nodded frantically. "Last year. He needed a favor from me terribly and I made him sleep with me for it. I--he was desperate and I used him."

Harry considered that. "Was he any good?"

"I…Harry…" He shook his head helplessly against the pillows, and arched, away from the binding, towards Harry, he didn't even know. "I let someone die," Ron managed, hoarsely.

"And I killed someone." Barely loud enough to be heard over the hissing sound of his zipper. "Which is worse?"

"You didn't….Harry, please!"

"Are you going to recite your sins all night?" His trousers were down around his hips, leaving him naked to Harry's eyes. Warm, moist breath teasing against him, timed with his heartbeat.

Ron was panting in air, shaking badly against his bindings and trying so hard not to want this as much as he did.

"I failed you," he gasped, sweat prickling his skin, trailing down his cheeks.

"You couldn't." Another agonizing puff of breath. "I don't need you to protect me or to guard me or whatever else you have in mind. I've only ever needed one thing from you, Ron."

"And what's that?"

"You."

He cried out weakly, he knew he had, dimly embarrassed but Harry's mouth was like being incased in liquid fire, slickly-wet and wonderful, and he let Ron arch into it, taking him deeply into that lovely darkness before pulled back to lap at the head.

"I don't care, Ron, about any of it," he murmured it against wet skin, dragging his tongue in a way that made Ron curse aloud. "I just don't. I don't care who's touched you or where you've been or what you've done. I know you. You're Ron Weasley and I love you. Nothing short of shagging Voldemort himself would stop me."

He looked up. "You haven't, have you?"

Ron laughed shakily. "Not--not that I know of."

"Good enough." And sucked him in.

Ron threw his head back and thrust up into the temptation he no longer had the will to resist, riding against the rough slide of Harry's tongue and it was all too much to bear, everything that he'd always wanted focused just there and he came gasping, tasting blood from his bitten lip.

He felt the bonds holding him down ease, barely able to respond to it, Harry's lips were too-hot and bitter against his own. "If you have to run away," he whispered, "Take me with you this time."

"I think," Ron swallowed dryly, "I think I might."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ron rolled Harry beneath him, pinning him down by his wrists. "Yeah, I think I might." He nuzzled against Harry's neck and licked at the soft, soft skin, let his hair fall in a red curtain around them as Ron kissed him, again and again, until he began to believe.

Hours later, he was still awake, brushing drowsy fingers against the soft, sweat-damp skin of Harry's back. Harry let out a tired sigh, squirming just a little closer, one arm flopping across Ron's chest.

He felt oddly content, even here in his own mind. It was all right, he decided, sleepily amused at the turn his life had taken. Two unemployed wizards, sex-slick and sleeping in the guest bed at Hogwarts; he hadn't Seen that, not once, and that was just fine. He felt good, he decided, aching and sore in all the best places. He felt wonderful.

More than that; he opened his eyes, brow furrowed and realized he could feel it, just barely. All the warm, pure-white power that was Harry Potter was bottled up in a human form next to him. It brushed tenderly against his thoughts and when he reached out for it, it slipped from his clumsy, wounded mental fingers and away, fading like an early morning dream.

Ron closed his eyes and thought a foolish little smile was probably on his face. Just a second, only that, but he'd Seen it. Touched it, just this once, and he wouldn't trade that to be the most gifted Auror in the world.

Snuggling deeper into the blankets, he pressed a kiss into the still-sweaty mass of Harry's hair and fell asleep, and if there was a single dream that he still needed, it didn't come that night.

-finis-