Ambling into the kitchen, Ron watched Harry as he flicked his wand; the stove lit up with a small blue burst.
"Hey," Ron said distractedly, running a hand through his russet hair. He was dressed plainly in a grey Muggle's shirt and red boxers that clashed slightly with his hair. "Have you seen Hermione?"
Now that they were all shortly out of school and falling head-long into their own careers, it was harder for Ron to keep tabs on Hermione, lovers though they may be. Living in the same apartment helped, but Harry lived there too; which made rendezvous if not difficult--rather awkward.
"She went out for milk," Harry said lightly, running a hand through his messy hair. Crookshanks jumped onto the counter; Ron patted him absentmindedly. He watched as Harry's glasses fogged up slightly as heat rose off the stove. Harry took them off and snapped them into the pocket of his black trousers with a click.
Ron shook his head. Why was he watching Harry so closely? His eyes strayed across the kitchen and found a picture of Ginny. Guiltily, he looked away.
"You don't think you'll get back together?" Ron said, keeping his tone easy.
"Er, I don't really know at the moment," Harry said, turning away from the eggs and leaning against the counter, folding his arms. "Why don't you ever ask her?"
"But why not?" Ron protested. He had noticed Ginny's melancholy manner lately, he couldn't help feeling a prickle of anger at Harry for causing it.
"Are you asking why we broke up? I'm not at liberty to discuss it." Harry's voice was even, but his arms folded tighter across his chest. His green eyes turned steely.
"I'm not... Just... She was so happy, mate, when she was with you," Ron said softly. He ran his hand over Crookshanks roughly--the cat mewled and leapt off the counter.
A flicker of heat went between the two.
"Maybe I wasn't happy," Harry said, his octave dropping.
"Why not?" Ron said, folding his arms.
Harry drummed his finger on the countertop. He did not answer, but instead moved closer to Ron.
"Why do you think?" Harry breathed, and Ron's mind went black and blank. What did he think? More precisely, why did it feel good to have Harry advance on him this way?
"I don't think," Ron stuttered. Was he moving forward or backward? He felt himself sway in place. No, Ron! his brain shouted. Move BACKWARD!
Harry's hand was in Ron's hair, and then his lips were on his, together, hot and cold.
Ron moaned aloud. Someone was saying no, but someone was saying yes, and he didn't know who these people were, anyway, so he hovered--kissing and being kissed and being known.
And then Ron let himself into it, and it really did feel wonderful. Harry was handling him so gently; his hands were on Ron's waist, and they were slow dancing, and he smelled eggs burning (was he having a stroke?!) and was any of this real?
But lips--and then there were tongues--hot tongues, both of them, two or three of them it must have been. And they were HOT and THERE and REAL and this was Harry--he had known him so long, so well and so long--Hermione!
Ron staggered backward, panting, shaking his head.
And then he heard a key in the lock.
"Hey," he heard a chipper voice, a very familiar one.
Ron turned around and stared at Hermione like he had never seen her before in his life.
"H-hi..." he said, touching his hair. It was messy, and Harry had bitten his lip; he felt it burning.
Harry stepped out from behind Ron, looking guilty as hell, his green eyes dark and smoky. "Hi, Hermione," came from his traitorous lips.
"Help me with these bags," Hermione said, kissing Ron on the cheek and entering the kitchen, handing him a bag. There was lettuce in it.
Ron stared at the head of lettuce. Something about it made him feel guilty. Did the lettuce know he had just kissed Harry Potter and liked it very much?
Thank God lettuce can't talk, he thought.