A/N: Thank you to mith, redhorse and miraculous for the beta, and to all of you for the lovely comments so far! To the commenter who asked, this fic typically updates once every two weeks or so, but I don't have a fixed update schedule

Warnings for internalised homophobia and 1996-era teens without access to wikipedia.


"You haven't been sleeping here," Harry said.

Ron went still. He was on his own bed with his broomstick across his lap and a polishing rag in his right hand. Harry, who had followed him up the stairs after lunch, was standing in the doorway of their shared room.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked. He didn't look up, but Harry could still see the flush climbing up his freckled neck. "Where else would I be sleeping?"

Harry folded his arms, waiting. Finally, Ron lifted his head.

"Er . . ."

"Are you dating Hermione?"

Ron leapt to his feet, uncaring as his beloved Cleansweep Eleven clattered to the floor. He hurried over to Harry and poked his nose out into the hallway. He looked left and right, then, satisfied that there were no eavesdroppers, closed the door firmly.

"You are, aren't you?" Harry said to his shoulder. Tom had been right. How annoying that he had guessed it first.

"It's not like that."

"What is it like then?"

"It's not—we're not dating. We're just—"

Oh. Fucking. Like Harry and Tom.

"Not that I don't want that!" Ron said quickly, misinterpreting Harry's raised eyebrow. "I do, but it just happened, and I don't know how to bring it up with her."

Harry grinned. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Ron said gruffly. He rubbed the back of his neck. "You aren't angry?"

"Why would I be?"

Ron turned fully to face him and briefly met his eyes. "I was worried that you . . . maybe liked her too."

Harry laughed in surprise. "Why would you think that? I dated Cho last year, didn't I? I even asked Hermione for advice. I wouldn't do that if I fancied her."

"Yeah, you did," Ron muttered. He picked up his broom and stowed it under his bed. "That was pretty silly of me, huh?"

Harry understood what he was feeling. He knew Ron felt inadequate a lot, what with all his talented older brothers.

"You're mental sometimes," he said gently. "I think it's great."

Ron shot him a shy grin. He sat down on his bed and Harry did likewise.

"Did you know I liked her?"

Harry had been asking himself that too. He'd never thought about Ron and Hermione getting together, but when Tom had mentioned it, it felt natural, like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

"Maybe not consciously. But it makes sense. You kind of suit each other."

"Really?" Ron asked hopefully.

"Well, you get on, don't you?"

Ron shrugged. And actually, now that Harry thought about it, maybe they didn't—Ron and Hermione's friendship was largely built on mutual exasperation. But some people liked that, didn't they? Harry bickered with Tom all the time, but both of them enjoyed it.

"Does anyone else know?" he asked.

Ron nodded. "Ginny does; she figured it out when she came to stay a few weeks ago. But other than that, no. Who would I tell? Fred and George would take the piss. Dad would tell Mum—he doesn't look it but he's actually a terrible gossip. And Mum . . ." Ron shuddered.

"Would she mind?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Are you kidding? She's old fashioned; doesn't think any of us is old enough to date, even Bill and he's twenty-five. She thinks that because she and Dad waited until marriage, that should be good enough for us too."

"I'm sure it wouldn't be that bad . . ."

"She's nice to you," Ron said flatly. "No offence Harry, but you're not her direct responsibility. It's different. You won't tell her, will you?"

The last words were a plea.

"I won't, don't worry."

"Good," Ron said, with pathetic relief. "That's good. Not that I thought you would, obviously, but it's just . . . I keep thinking that it's going to get out eventually. There are so many people around."

Harry nodded, suddenly worried. Was Ron right? Could he keep his own relationship secret for the next two weeks?

"So, er, how did you and Hermione get together?" he asked, not ready to dwell on that line of thought.

"It was July," Ron said. "Um, after . . . well, during the time we all thought you were dead. We'd been staying here with Sirius, hoping for news. One night, Hermione came up here, and she was crying, really crying—sorry," he said, noticing Harry's expression, "didn't mean to make you feel bad—and anyway, I hugged her, like, rocking her in my arms."

He rocked on the bed to demonstrate, arms out, cuddling an imaginary Hermione.

"And then?" Harry prompted.

"And then she kissed me," Ron said, with wonder. "I couldn't believe it. I hadn't been thinking about that at all, even though I'd liked her for ages, ever since the Yule Ball. Remember? That blue dress? She says she liked me before too, but she won't say when."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Ron gave him a guilty look. "I was going to. I thought we'd talk about it when you first got here—I kept waiting for Hermione to bring it up. Turns out she was waiting for me. Then Fred and George butted in and it kind of felt like I'd missed my chance, like it would be weird to say it."

Harry couldn't help but smile at his mournful expression.

"It's okay."

"Really? You forgive me?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Thanks," Ron said with relief. "Really, thanks. I've been feeling shit about keeping it from you, but I could never think of what to say." He stood up. "I should go tell Hermione. You know, just to tell her that you know. Just so we're all on the same page."

Harry nodded again. Ron grinned, then spontaneously pulled him to his feet and hugged him. Harry smiled weakly into his shoulder—there was a growing sense of unease in the pit of his stomach.

How could he accept Ron's apologies, Harry thought, as Ron left the room, while keeping something so huge from him? Didn't that make him the worst kind of hypocrite?

And anyway, how long would it be before someone noticed? Ron's comment about this being a small house echoed in his mind. Tom had seen what was going on between Ron and Hermione after he'd been out of his room for no more than a week. Hermione was perceptive too—she couldn't be far behind.

And . . .

Harry touched the Gryffindor scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. Tom wasn't being careful, and he, Harry, wasn't either. He'd been increasingly lazy about coming back to the room in the morning. Ron had probably only failed to notice because he hadn't been there either.

What would Ron think when he realised Harry had accepted his apology while keeping such a huge secret? Wouldn't he feel betrayed?

Harry's stomach squirmed. Yes. Yes he would.

He walked over to the window, taut with indecision. Then back to the open door. Then the window again. He stopped in the middle of the room, fighting his impulse.

No, he was going to do it.

Harry turned and hurried down the stairs before he could second-guess himself. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, then rapped on the door to Hermione's room.

"Hello?" a voice said. Harry opened the door to see the two of them, sat on Hermione's bed, heads close together.

"Harry?" Hermione said, surprised. "Ron was just telling me that you'd talked."

Harry closed the door behind him and looked around, noting that Hermione had done more with her room than Ron had. There were books neatly stacked on the spare bed, and a small potted plant sat on a saucer on the windowsill. The window itself was open. Harry pushed the books out of the way and sat down.

For the longest time he couldn't speak. He sat there awkwardly, trying to figure out what to say.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, shuffling forwards. She now looked concerned. "Harry?"

"I need to talk to you about something," Harry said, then stopped.

"Oh?" Hermione prompted. "What is it?"

Harry swallowed. "It's about Riddle."

"Oh," Hermione said, in a completely different voice. "What's he done now?"

"It's not so much something he's done. Well, I mean, I guess it is, but . . ."

Hermione now looked gravely concerned. "Whatever it is, you can tell us," she said, moving to sit on the bed beside him. She gazed soulfully into his eyes. "Harry, don't worry, we won't judge you."

"Really?"

"Of course not. To be honest, I've been expecting something like this ever since you got back."

"You have?" Harry asked, puzzled. He'd expected her to be much more upset than this.

Hermione nodded. "I've been reading about post-traumatic stress disorder—I even had my parents send me some books." She gestured, and to Harry's horror, there were indeed a number of hefty Muggle books stacked at the far end of the bed. Dozens of little post-it notes protruded from between their pages, marking passages that Hermione had found especially helpful. "They all say you need to talk about it in order to be able to heal. Now you've had a chance to process it, you shouldn't hold it in, not in front of us."

Harry buried his head in his hands.

"There there," Hermione said, as she rubbed a soothing circle on his back. "There there. It's okay, Harry. Just tell us. Nothing is so terrible that you can't talk about it, I promise."

Harry needed to get this over with.

"I'vebeenhavingsexwithRiddle," he said in one breath.

"Eh?" Ron said. "What was that mate?"

When Harry didn't answer, he looked at Hermione. "Did you hear what he said?"

But Hermione's hand had stilled mid-circle.

On reflection, this was a terrible idea.

Harry stood, intending to flee. But before he could, Hermione yanked him back down by the sleeve. Her small hands were surprisingly strong.

"What did you just say?"

"I said I needed to go to the bathroom."

"No you didn't!"

"Yes I did."

"You said—" Hermione swallowed. "—I heard you say something about sex."

"What?" Harry could feel a flush creeping up his face. "No, of course not."

Ron looked utterly mystified.

"Sex? Sex with who?"

"He's been having sex with Riddle," Hermione said grimly. She was shaking. "That's what you said, Harry."

Ron's jaw dropped.

"Um," Harry said, cursing himself for having not taken the time to think about how this scene might go. Had he really expected Hermione to say 'that's alright then,' and let him go? "Um, I lied when I told you about the cottage. There was actually just the one bed, and, um, we—"

"I'm going to kill him," Hermione said, searching her pockets for her wand. She found it and held it in front of herself like a sword.

Harry gaped.

"What? Why?"

"WHY?" Hermione stared at Harry, amazed. "Harry, he r—sexually assaulted you!"

"It wasn't like that," Harry said quickly. He looked at Ron and immediately wished he hadn't: he had frozen like Dudley's computer. "I mean . . . I didn't mind."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU DIDN'T MIND?"

"Can we forget I said anything?" Harry said plaintively. "Can I just say that I'm happy you two got together? I think it's great."

"Don't change the subject!"

Harry tried to smile. "Look, Hermione, it happened months ago. It's not a big deal."

"Months ago?" she asked suspiciously. Her eyes roved over him until they landed on his neck. "Why are you wearing a scarf?"

Harry gulped. "I told you this morning, didn't I? I miss Hogwarts."

Hermione made a grab for it. Harry gave up all pretence and wrestled with her.

"Harry!"

"What?"

"Show me!"

Harry, seized the ends and held them firmly. "No! I don't want to."

"Oh my god," Hermione said. "You have a hickey, don't you? You're still doing it."

Harry winced. Hermione turned to glare at Ron. "Say something!"

Ron seemed to come back to life. "Eh?" he said. "Oh. Oh right."

Hermione waited impatiently. Ron looked at her, then at Harry.

"So . . ." he began. "You've been sleeping with baby You-Know-Who?"

Harry was red-faced and still holding his scarf. He nodded reluctantly.

"And you're still sleeping with him?"

"Y-Yeah."

"That's great," Ron breathed.

"What?" Harry said.

"WHAT?" Hermione cried.

He turned to her, eyes wild, an expression of terrible wonder on his face. "Hermione, don't you see? Don't you understand what this means?"

Hermione and Harry shared a bewildered glance, driven briefly to the same side by Ron's sudden insanity.

"Ron, what—"

"Mum isn't going to care about us! This is so much worse!"

"RONALD WEASLEY!"

But Ron was lost in his own world. "I've been so worried," he breathed. "Can you imagine the Howlers she'd send? But now she'll probably hardly even notice."

"You are the most selfish person I have ever met!" Hermione cried, absolutely furious. "Your friend has been attacked and you're worrying about being sent a Howler?"

Ron seemed to come back to himself a little. He looked Harry up and down, as if just noticing him.

"He's fine, isn't he? You're fine, aren't you, Harry?"

Harry nodded.

"He is not fine! He's obviously been brainwashed! Maybe even Confunded!"

"I'm not Confunded!" Harry protested. He was growing a little annoyed with Hermione. "Why is it fine when you have sex, but not me?"

"You've only just turned sixteen!"

"Ron's only four months older; what does that make you?"

"What about Riddle then?" Hermione demanded. "How old is he?"

"He's sixteen too! Is it because he's a boy? Is that why you're so angry?"

Hermione looked genuinely shocked.

"No! How could you think that, Harry? I don't care that he's a boy. I'm angry because you were a prisoner! You didn't have a choice!"

"Yes I did! He couldn't have forced me, Hermione, he wanted me to cooperate."

"Oh, so he always asked?"

Harry hesitated.

Hermione read it on his face. "I'm telling Sirius," she snapped. "No, Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore knows."

Hermione gaped at him.

"And anyway," Harry continued, deciding to tell a little white lie. "It's not a big deal—we're just doing . . . you know . . . hand stuff."

"Oh hand stuff," Ron said, nodding sagely.

Hermione glared at him. "That doesn't make it okay! That's still sexual assault, Harry."

"No it isn't!" Harry said. He thought back to what Tom had told him, that first time he'd tried to touch Harry's cock. "No, Hermione, that's normal for boys."

"Is that so?" Hermione asked coolly. She turned to Ron. "I suppose you've been jacking off Dean all this time?"

"Um," Ron said.

Hermione turned back to Harry.

"DO YOU THINK I'M AN IDIOT?" she shouted, while Ron tried to shush her, casting worried glances towards the door. "THAT'S STILL SEX!"

"It is?" Harry asked. He'd thought it might be, but hadn't been sure. Tom certainly didn't seem to count it, what with all his snide remarks about Harry being a virgin, weeks after they'd started putting their hands into each other's underwear. When had he lost his virginity then? Part of him hoped it was before Ron had lost his.

"Yes. Harry, oh my god."

"Tom said it was normal."

"Oh, he did, did he?" Hermione said, fingering the handle of her wand.

"But you can't attack him!"

"Why not? I thought everyone already knew."

"Only Dumbledore and Snape."

Ron took a sharp breath. Their eyes met, and in them Harry saw unspoken sympathy for that unspeakable horror.

Hermione paced up and down the room. "I can't believe Dumbledore is allowing this," she said to nobody in particular. "I thought he was irresponsible before, but this is just terrible."

Harry shrugged, not wanting to say Snape had banned it. Hermione would go straight to him. "Just don't mention it, okay? I don't want Sirius to know."

Hermione breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring, then turned to Harry.

"You know how I've always supported you in everything, Harry?"

"Yes?"

"Well I don't support you in this! He's absolutely vile!"

What followed was a certain amount of shouting. Harry sat through it all glumly, as Hermione flicked through her books and read passages to him, growing steadily more frustrated at Harry's lack of response. Finally, she ran out of steam and sat down on her bed with her head in her hands.

Ron sat silently through it all, trying not to draw her ire. Harry had the feeling that he actually had been shocked when Harry had revealed his secret, but had pushed it down out of loyalty. Harry felt a sudden flood of gratitude towards him.

"You really don't mind that he's a boy?" Harry asked, when the room had been quiet for a few minutes.

"Nah," Ron said, utterly unbothered. "Happens, doesn't it?"

"It does?" Harry asked. Even Hermione looked up from her hands.

"Yeah . . . though maybe it's more common with wizards than Muggles. There's not so many of us, see? We don't have so much choice, particularly if you're being fussy about . . ." he coughed, and Harry knew he was avoiding the words 'blood status'. "Anyway, no one says anything if two witches or two wizards decide to shack up together."

"Oh."

"I did think you liked girls though," Ron said thoughtfully.

"I do. Or, I think I do."

"You might be bisexual," Hermione said.

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"Someone who likes both men and women. It's common." She frowned. "Or, perhaps not common, but at least a small fraction of the population. Some scientists even think that most people are bisexual, just to different extents."

Harry was stunned by this new information. There was a name for it? There were other people like him?

"Really?" Harry asked, stunned by this new information. There was a name for it? There were other people like him? "I was worried I might be gay."

"There's nothing wrong with being gay!"

Harry shrugged. No one ever seemed to say anything nice about it, at least not around him. Uncle Vernon had always been particularly scathing when it was mentioned on the news. Even Tom insisted that he wasn't gay, and Tom was shameless.

"I'll get you some leaflets," Hermione decided. "My parents gave me a load when I turned sixteen, just in case. You should read about it."

Harry nodded and got to his feet. Hermione seemed suddenly to recall her anger.

"No, wait, Harry—"

But Harry was already gone.


He found Tom downstairs, chopping vegetables for dinner. It was part of his campaign of normality, Harry knew. Hearts and minds.

"What are you making?"

"I'm not sure yet, do you have any suggestions?"

Harry looked through the shelves. He found an unopened box of spaghetti in the back of one of the cabinets and a packet of minced beef under a Cooling Charm in the pantry.

"How about spaghetti bolognaise?" he asked. Tom shrugged his assent, and Harry readied a pan over the stove.

They worked in silence for a few minutes, Harry cooking mince, Tom chopping onions. It was nice. Harry liked frying things—it was exciting and made an interesting sound. He added several cloves of garlic and batted them around the pan with his spatula.

"This is very exotic," Tom commented.

"It's Italian food, how is that exotic?"

"Well, it's not British, is it?" Tom leant over and tipped his onions into the frying pan. They were a particularly strong batch; Harry had to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. By contrast, Tom seemed unaffected. Did he not have tear ducts?

"Did you really not have pasta in the forties?"

"In restaurants, maybe. I wouldn't know."

There was a noise on the stairs. Harry looked around to see Hermione, two of her books under her arm. She saw them and froze, a frosty expression appearing on her face.

"Did you tell her?" Tom whispered, with delighted amazement.

Harry nodded.

"Oh," Tom said. He wiped his hand on a tea-towel, smiled at Hermione and then put it on Harry's bum. Hermione's nostrils flared, then she turned on her heel and rushed back up the stairs.

Harry grabbed Tom's wrist, annoyed.

"I said no winding Hermione up! You promised!"

"Oh right," Tom said, as if just remembering.

Harry frowned and turned back to the pan before anything could burn. "You really don't have a good understanding of consequences, do you? Between that and what you did to my neck . . . what if Snape finds out? Are you happy to be locked up in your room again? Don't think I'll argue; you deserve it."

Tom flicked the end of Harry's scarf. "Fix your bruises with magic."

"You know I can't."

"I know you can. You're being a coward, Harry."

"Are you goading me?" Harry asked. "Hang on . . . was all this about trying to get me to use magic? Is that why you bit me?"

Tom shrugged.

"Why?" Harry asked, baffled. "What's the point? It doesn't help you if I'm arrested."

"You aren't going to be arrested," Tom scoffed. "I already explained that there's no way the Ministry could detect it here. And yes. If I can't use my wand, you had better be using yours. We're helpless otherwise."

"We, is it?"

Tom shrugged and began slicing carrots. Harry stood there, watching him. He almost wished he hadn't said no kissing; otherwise he could use the bond to find out what Tom was feeling. He had been more and more possessive lately. It had started with the incident at the stream—that's when all of Tom's little comments about "keeping him" had begun—but it had exploded after Harry had refused to break the bond. There was a new, dark undercurrent to all their interactions, as if Tom had turned this into a permanent arrangement in his head and neglected to tell him.

To his surprise, Harry didn't hate it. No one had ever been possessive of him before, that he could remember. There was something oddly flattering about it, which was dumb, because it was likely to become extremely inconvenient.

"I'm not your minion," he said carefully.

Tom flashed him a dazzling smile. "Of course not."


That evening, Harry was up in his room with Ron again. It was dark outside, and between them lay the unspoken understanding that neither of them would be sleeping there that night. Ron paced while Harry reclined against his headboard, ostensibly reading, but in truth just waiting for the rest of the house to fall asleep so he could slip out.

"Thanks," Harry said quietly.

"For what?"

"For not . . . for just accepting it. I know it's a lot to take in."

Ron gave him a crooked grin and stretched his arms over his head.

"I wasn't lying—I am glad that Mum will have someone else to shout at. And it's a bit of a relief anyway, to be honest, because I was worried you'd feel like a third wheel around me and Hermione. I guess that's not a problem now."

"I guess not."

"And it's good not to have to keep sneaking up here at a miserable hour of the morning. When did you notice? I was a bit lazy recently."

"I didn't—Tom noticed."

Ron blanched. "Oh god."

"He's going to be so smug when I go down there," Harry said glumly. "He's always smug when he's right about something."

"Hermione's going to rant about you," Ron said, in the exact same tone. They shared a moment of silent camaraderie.

"Still, must be nice to date someone who's actually your friend. Someone who's not constantly looking for an advantage."

Ron shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it would be easier if we weren't friends. It's so awkward sometimes."

"Really?"

"We argue a lot. She's always getting offended about stuff and I never know what I did wrong. And it's no better when she explains it either, because I'm dumb and don't get it. And then, when we're in bed—"

Ron paused and glanced at Harry, as if suddenly doubting that he should share. But Harry put his book to one side and sat up further in the bed, interested. It wasn't sexy to imagine his friends in bed together, but he was desperately curious, he realised, to know what Ron thought of sex. He'd not had a chance to speak to anyone about it before.

Ron must have had the same thought. They eyed each other for a few moments.

"You first," Ron said.

"No, you."

Ron grimaced. "You won't tell Hermione I said anything? She can't know."

"I promise."

Ron sat down on his bed. "She's a bit of a backseat driver," he confessed. "Is that the Muggle phrase? Seems like whenever I do something, it's wrong. But when I say, 'so you be in charge then, if that's what you want', she gets all embarrassed."

"Oh," Harry said. He could see that happening. "Like when she set up the D.A. and then forced me to lead it?"

"Exactly like that!" Ron said, with delight. Then he flushed, and looked furtively from side to side, even though there was no one else in the room. "And . . . er . . . she keeps making me wear something on my . . . you-know-what."

"You mean your dick?"

Ron frowned at his tone. "Don't make fun of me—it's weird saying this stuff out loud."

"You've said dick before," Harry said. He was starting to enjoy himself; there was something thrilling about talking to someone who was more flustered that he was. Was this how Tom felt?

"Yes, when I'm talking about your personality! This is different."

"So what's she making you wear on it then? Has she knitted you a little bobble hat?"

"No," Ron said shortly. "No, it's some Muggle thing. It comes in a shiny wrapper and she rolls it on—won't let me touch it, says I'll do it wrong. I don't want to tell her that I don't know what it is."

"That's a condom," Harry said wisely. He'd seen them discarded in the park. "It's so she doesn't get pregnant."

Ron's face drained of all colour.

"Is that the first time you've thought of that?" Harry asked, unimpressed. "She's a girl, idiot."

Ron took a great gulp of air, then another. He looked like he was going to be sick.

"Hey, calm down. You wore it, didn't you? You're fine."

"Don't scare me like that!" Ron said, hand on heart. "Mum would actually kill me."

"I still don't believe you about that. Your mum is so nice."

"Fred caught hell from her when she found out he was fucking the girl from the corner shop in the village. Me and Ginny heard her shouting."

Harry shook his head.

"Speaking of," Ron continued, with a voice that was almost normal, "do you remember what he and George told us at the Quidditch World Cup? It was all rubbish, turns out girls don't like that at all."

Harry thought back. There had been a lot of advice, and Fred and George had kept pausing to laugh hysterically and fall off their camping chairs. "Which bit?"

"You know, about suckling on their belly buttons?"

"That one was obviously a joke. Why would you think it was a good idea?"

"Hey!" Ron complained. "I'm not the one having to wear a scarf in the middle of summer. I can't believe you have a hickey."

It was Harry's turn to flush.

"He wasn't supposed to do that," he said, straightening his scarf self-consciously. Ron's eyes were drawn to the movement.

"Can I see?" Ron asked.

Harry bit his lip and slowly unwound the scarf. The bruises weren't so bad—he'd looked at them in the bathroom mirror that morning—a neat trail of red marks marching up his pulse point.

Ron whistled quietly.

"What did it feel like?" he asked as Harry rewound the scarf.

"Ask Hermione to give you one, if you're so curious."

Ron looked startled. "I can't just ask for things!"

"Why not?"

"Well, do you?"

"Uh," Harry said. The honest answer was, not really. Harry tried to imagine it, asking Tom for something in particular that he wanted. Waking Tom up in the morning and asking for a hand on his dick, like Tom was always doing to him.

"He just . . . does stuff. If I don't like it, I hit him. That seems to be working."

"Wow," Ron said, without judgement. "I almost wish Hermione was like that. Except, you know. Not homicidal."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Harry kicked him on the shin, not hard. Ron laughed, then waggled his eyebrows at him.

"When you said it was all hands . . ." he said.

"What are you asking?"

"I won't tell Hermione, I promise. But do you and . . . you know . . ."

"You-Know-Who?"

"No! I mean, you and Riddle, have you . . ."

Harry grinned. "Have we what?"

"Damn it Harry, you know what I'm asking! You never used to be such a troll; Riddle's rubbing off on you."

"He does that sometimes."

Ron groaned. "No, I mean—"

"You mean, have I let You-Know-Who put his you-know-what in my you-know-where?" Harry finished dryly.

Ron made an anguished sound and rocked forwards on the bed. "I don't want to know—"

"Oh, I thought you did . . ."

"Not if you're going to laugh at me."

Harry did. Ron scowled, but waited until Harry stilled, fingers twisting the edge of the quilt.

"Um, no," he said finally. "We haven't . . . fucked."

After all, it was only one time.

Ron looked both relieved and disappointed. His expression gave Harry the sudden powerful urge to show off.

"Okay," he said, shuffling forwards on the bed. "Don't tell Hermione this, but I kind of . . . sucked him off once. And he did the same for me."

"Oh my god." Ron stood and paced back and forth across the length of the room. Then he whirled to face Harry. "Was it good?"

Harry's smile said it all.

"Wow," Ron said, so impressed that it brought warmth to Harry's chest. "That's . . . wow."

"So Hermione hasn't . . . ?"

Ron shook his head. "I wouldn't dare. I have no idea why she's willing to be with me anyway. She's incredible. Everything about her is incredible." A dreamy look came over his face. "She's got tiny fucking feet, did you ever notice?"

"Er . . ."

"And the way she tucks her quill behind her ear? And the ink that's always on her fingers? She even smells good when she wakes up, which I didn't think was possible. And I love her laugh, it's just so . . . ahhh . . ."

Ron trailed off, staring out of the dark window as if looking at her face. Harry shook his head. Poor Ron.

The clock struck eleven outside. Ron stood up.

"I'll go down first," he said, shoving a pillow under his quilt to imitate a human form. "How about you wait ten minutes?"

Harry nodded, and Ron left quietly. His socked footsteps were just audible as he crept down the stairs.

Harry sat there on the bed, waiting. His eyes were drawn to his own wand, sat innocently on his bedside table.

Would it matter if he fixed his bruise? The idea of using magic was immensely tempting; Harry had been casting spells all summer without a break, and it was almost painful to go without. He wanted the feel of his wand in his fingers, the power racing through him, eager to leap out into the world. Healing too, was something he was quietly proud of. He was probably even better at it than Hermione by this point, which was both rare and wonderful.

Harry looked at the closed door, then picked it up. He swallowed, unwrapped his scarf for the second time that evening and pressed the wand to his own neck.

"Episkey."