Title: Once a Thief
Rating: pg-13
Pairing: harry/ron of course
Summary: ron has a box that he doesn't think harry knows about. Harry
knows.
A/N: this fic goes against some hypotheses and reservations I have about
the characters, but I think I'll use this version of them. forgive this
story, it is a midnight tale. Shivers. Note to self: do not listen to
stairway to heaven backwards in a dark, silent house.
Once a Thief
Like any hormonal boy in the history of forever, Harry Potter spent a lot of time thinking about sex. He thought of it as he passed the more attractive girls in the corridors, a nice little quickie on the stairs. He thought of it at night, and whispered epic tales of romance and passion into his pillow. All his sexual fantasies could be divided into three distinct categories. Category A was girls. So far, he had boffed Hermione, Ginny, Cho, Parvati, Padma, Parvati and Padma, Hannah, Lavender, Angelina, Katie, Alicia, Susan, Luna, and that Slytherin fifth year. You know, the one with the hair. In any case, girls comprised about 10% of Harry's fantasies. Category B was blokes. Harry had ravished an imaginary Seamus, Neville, and even that porphyrogene bastard, Malfoy. Each of these was only a one-night stand. Well, he thought of Neville during tea time one day, but whatever, just the once. So these were about 1% of Harry's total conquests, he wasn't a total...shirt-lifter or something. The rest of his pretend sex was all one Category C, though he may as well call it Category R because it's only one person in Category C, and that's Ronald Weasley.
Harry estimates that he averages about a score of cuddles with Ron a day, twelve make-out sessions, a blowjob or six, and the occasional hardcore in-the-out-door sex. Not to mention the chills that shake Harry's spine whenever Ron laughs, or smiles, or sneezes.
Or exists.
And of course, Ron is with Harry all the time, so he can't hardly get through classes without popping a boner, and Harry recalls at least a gazillion times when he has to walk through the corridors with his books strategically in front of his hips, because robes aren't nearly as concealing as you think. It is thus that we find Harry Potter, walking down to the Gryffindor common room from dinner, after a particularly sweaty and kinky (chocolate frogs galore) bout of mental sex with Ron, who has a knowing grin as Harry keeps his books elevated in front of certain rigid parts of his anatomy. Harry blushes apologetically, and Ron proceeds to transform Harry into a pile of mush by running his hand through his longer than ever hair, something he does several times a day.
You can just see notes written in quill on Ron's left arm (he is right-handed), notes that contain pitiful excuses for phrases, little wordstrings like "full gear", "hammock", and "bedridden, 1 eye open". Harry and Hermione enquire after the notes almost daily, and Ron finds a way to explain that "green bathrobe" is what his father wants for his upcoming birthday, and that's all, okay Hermione?
Harry started noticing these notes-to-self about the same time he found himself wakened by intense scribbling from Ron's bed, followed by three clicking sounds of varying length, and a metallic percussion, and then more clicks. Harry has never asked Ron about this, because he's fairly sure that it concerns the black safe that Ron keeps hidden under his bed where he thinks nobody sees it. But Ron can't fool Harry, who has a lingering Dursley-habit of tidying up the Gryffindor Sixth-year boys' dormitory every other week or so. He never moves the box though, so Ron remains oblivious to Harry's lack of obliviosity. Oblivious-ness. Hmph. Anyway, Harry knows about the box, and the next chance he gets, he's gonna find out what it is.
But the next chance is far from soon, Harry thinks, Hermione has bullied Ron and Harry into doing their Divination homework, although she can't see how they deal with that Trelawney scrud, honestly. Harry is working on his rune-casting, but Ron is stuck on his astrology. He scribbles some numbers and mathematical symbols on what looks like a regular sheet of parchment. Then he taps it with his wand and the parchment acts exactly as a pocket calculator and does whatever operation Ron has written down. He looks at his results and frowns, then announces with a furrowed brow and tired sigh that he shall have to go up to the Astronomy Tower to re-do his readings, sodding wonderful. Unless there really is a second sun in the Solar system, in which case Ron is kicking some starchart ass. Harry offers to go with him but Ron declines, and Hermione wants Harry off to bed anyway, Ron be damned for his ignorance. Harry notes, as Ron saunters off, that Ron is risking running into Dean (who is returning from a clandestine grope-fest with Padma) unless he looks up from writing on his arm. Which he does, just in time.
Obediently, Harry bounds up the stairs and changes into his pyjamas, and almost pulls the covers over himself before he catches himself. This is the next chance he gets, he has to find out.
Feeling a little bit foolish, Harry dons his invisibility cloak, because you can never be too careful. If anyone sees him, or rather, a floating black safe, they'll think that it's just those ghosts fooling around, whatever. Hands trembling, Harry pulls the box out from under Ron's bed, and his heartbeat is traveling somewhere around hummingbird speed, adrenaline turning the thump thump into a bass hum. He twiddles with the turning lock; it goes up to 117, arbitrarily. First, he tries a few random numbers, 13-7-69, not expecting anything to come of them. He tries the Chasers from the Chudley Cannon's numbers, and gives a sigh of exasperation when Ron fails to meet the requirement of having an easily predictable safe combination. He sits there, dumbstruck, and then tries magic. Alohomora doesn't work, so he does a little transfiguration, but the cookie jar is hard to break and has a lock on it also. He turns it back into a safe, miffed. So, he sets up a little systematic spell that quickly tries every combination, starting with 1-1-1, and working its way up. As he watches at the cyclonic wheel spin, he mentally smashes his head in with a hammer.
Birthdays, you flamin' idiot. Harry spins the wheel to the tune of 1- 3-80, Ron's birthday. Nope. 1-4-78 is the twins', but no; failure. He tries the rest of the Weasleys', Hermione's, as well as Ron's first day at Hogwarts (1-9-91) before he remembers that on one July day; his mother had to dilate 10 centimeters too. Harry gives a little gasp as 31-7-80 proves to be the magic matrix that opens up the black box.
The box most certainly has an expanding charm on it; Harry could fit half his school trunk in here if the door was big enough. It's mostly papers, no, wait, drawings. Harry feels guilty; he didn't know Ron could draw. Then he feels even guiltier, because he didn't know that Ron could DRAW!
No exaggeration, these pictures are the best in the entire universe times forever to the infinitieth power, and then some. Crayon landscapes of the Hogwarts grounds, watercolors of the giant squid, pencil sketches of Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry. These pieces of parchment that he could use as a mirror seem to be newer and in much greater number than all the other pictures put together to Harry. In a moment of revelation and epiphany, Harry connects the arm notes with these pictures. The bathrobe is certainly not for Arthur, as Ron claims, because Harry is wearing the emerald garment, and nothing else in this drawing here. Other pictures Harry connects to the arm notes surface. Harry in a hammock wearing swimming trunks. Harry lying on a bed with one green eye open, his ocular orb the only splash of color in a charcoal grey sketch. The next picture, Harry asleep on his homework, spatters of ink on his face.
And this is what Ron's arm meant by full gear, Harry sees himself in formal robes with the Gryffindor sword at his side. 'The sword, for drawing power circles', Harry remembers from a book on magic artifacts. Picture-Harry is also sporting a belt with the black handled knife for defense from evil, and the white handled knife for cutting herbs. He is also wearing a pentacle amulet, and of course he clutches his wand in his right arm.
All these almost innocent pictures were enough for Harry, but then he stumbles upon the part of the box that has far more desirable drawings. Harry arouses as he sees his pencil self lying naked with a certain (similarly unclad) redheaded best friend on a picnic quilt in a field somewhere, neglected sandwiches in the top left corner reflecting Ron's peculiar sense of humor. Harry moans as he comes across a very detailed sketch of Ron and himself covered in the special sheen of sweat that comes (no pun intended), only with the throes of passion. Harry is about to check out a particularly romantic looking one of him and Ron on a beach when his stealthy raiment is pulled off him. Harry looks up, and sees a visibly scared-to-death Ron (back from all the fun with Sinistra) towering above him. Before Harry can get a word out, Ron snatches the pictures from Harry's hands, and Harry does not fail to notice the salty drops of sorrow that fall, smudging pencil, onto the parchment from blue eyes. Harry sits, thunderstruck, like in a coma, as Ron picks up his art and his breathing becomes more and more ragged. Word-silence is broken.
"Sorry." Ron mutters. Oh, Ron, what the fuck are you talking about, this is exactly what Harry wants! Besides, this is still some friggin' amazing art, look, Fuseli drew scary shit but he did it well, he didn't apologize for the theme, the style was too good. Harry wants to voice this to Ron, but his voice is in his stomach, paying his heart a little visit. Ron, on the other hand, finds no problem speaking what he thinks at the moment.
"I know it's sick of me, I mean you don't like me like that or anything and I can't believe I ever did this it was so stupid and I'm sorry but I can't make it stop and if I don't draw it I think I'll fucking kiss you or something and then you'd have the legal fucking right to beat me shitless and if I have to choose...well..." he trails off from his little aria, leaving a silence. Harry has yet to speak. Wait...
"Ron," Harry says like he's been planning this speech his whole life, "the desire isn't one way. I think I want you too, because you're perfect and I love you and I want to show you that I love you. And even though I can't imagine being closer to you, you'd think we've hit the limit, I think I want something else, too. Where you have your pictures, Ron, I have fantasies. I'm addicted to dreams of us."
Ron has released his tension, and looks at Harry with a look of relief, affection and rapture. "If that was any cheesier," he said, enveloping Harry in ginger flecked arms, "we'd have to throw a little fondue party." Harry chuckles and sheds a few tears into Ron's chest. "In any case," Harry's Wheezy says, "I love you, too, so it works out."
That night, they imitated the pictures.
It cuts off rather abruptly, but you like it like that
This is, obviously, a very temperamental piece when it comes to the narration.
Love it? Hate it? Either way, please review it.
Once a Thief
Like any hormonal boy in the history of forever, Harry Potter spent a lot of time thinking about sex. He thought of it as he passed the more attractive girls in the corridors, a nice little quickie on the stairs. He thought of it at night, and whispered epic tales of romance and passion into his pillow. All his sexual fantasies could be divided into three distinct categories. Category A was girls. So far, he had boffed Hermione, Ginny, Cho, Parvati, Padma, Parvati and Padma, Hannah, Lavender, Angelina, Katie, Alicia, Susan, Luna, and that Slytherin fifth year. You know, the one with the hair. In any case, girls comprised about 10% of Harry's fantasies. Category B was blokes. Harry had ravished an imaginary Seamus, Neville, and even that porphyrogene bastard, Malfoy. Each of these was only a one-night stand. Well, he thought of Neville during tea time one day, but whatever, just the once. So these were about 1% of Harry's total conquests, he wasn't a total...shirt-lifter or something. The rest of his pretend sex was all one Category C, though he may as well call it Category R because it's only one person in Category C, and that's Ronald Weasley.
Harry estimates that he averages about a score of cuddles with Ron a day, twelve make-out sessions, a blowjob or six, and the occasional hardcore in-the-out-door sex. Not to mention the chills that shake Harry's spine whenever Ron laughs, or smiles, or sneezes.
Or exists.
And of course, Ron is with Harry all the time, so he can't hardly get through classes without popping a boner, and Harry recalls at least a gazillion times when he has to walk through the corridors with his books strategically in front of his hips, because robes aren't nearly as concealing as you think. It is thus that we find Harry Potter, walking down to the Gryffindor common room from dinner, after a particularly sweaty and kinky (chocolate frogs galore) bout of mental sex with Ron, who has a knowing grin as Harry keeps his books elevated in front of certain rigid parts of his anatomy. Harry blushes apologetically, and Ron proceeds to transform Harry into a pile of mush by running his hand through his longer than ever hair, something he does several times a day.
You can just see notes written in quill on Ron's left arm (he is right-handed), notes that contain pitiful excuses for phrases, little wordstrings like "full gear", "hammock", and "bedridden, 1 eye open". Harry and Hermione enquire after the notes almost daily, and Ron finds a way to explain that "green bathrobe" is what his father wants for his upcoming birthday, and that's all, okay Hermione?
Harry started noticing these notes-to-self about the same time he found himself wakened by intense scribbling from Ron's bed, followed by three clicking sounds of varying length, and a metallic percussion, and then more clicks. Harry has never asked Ron about this, because he's fairly sure that it concerns the black safe that Ron keeps hidden under his bed where he thinks nobody sees it. But Ron can't fool Harry, who has a lingering Dursley-habit of tidying up the Gryffindor Sixth-year boys' dormitory every other week or so. He never moves the box though, so Ron remains oblivious to Harry's lack of obliviosity. Oblivious-ness. Hmph. Anyway, Harry knows about the box, and the next chance he gets, he's gonna find out what it is.
But the next chance is far from soon, Harry thinks, Hermione has bullied Ron and Harry into doing their Divination homework, although she can't see how they deal with that Trelawney scrud, honestly. Harry is working on his rune-casting, but Ron is stuck on his astrology. He scribbles some numbers and mathematical symbols on what looks like a regular sheet of parchment. Then he taps it with his wand and the parchment acts exactly as a pocket calculator and does whatever operation Ron has written down. He looks at his results and frowns, then announces with a furrowed brow and tired sigh that he shall have to go up to the Astronomy Tower to re-do his readings, sodding wonderful. Unless there really is a second sun in the Solar system, in which case Ron is kicking some starchart ass. Harry offers to go with him but Ron declines, and Hermione wants Harry off to bed anyway, Ron be damned for his ignorance. Harry notes, as Ron saunters off, that Ron is risking running into Dean (who is returning from a clandestine grope-fest with Padma) unless he looks up from writing on his arm. Which he does, just in time.
Obediently, Harry bounds up the stairs and changes into his pyjamas, and almost pulls the covers over himself before he catches himself. This is the next chance he gets, he has to find out.
Feeling a little bit foolish, Harry dons his invisibility cloak, because you can never be too careful. If anyone sees him, or rather, a floating black safe, they'll think that it's just those ghosts fooling around, whatever. Hands trembling, Harry pulls the box out from under Ron's bed, and his heartbeat is traveling somewhere around hummingbird speed, adrenaline turning the thump thump into a bass hum. He twiddles with the turning lock; it goes up to 117, arbitrarily. First, he tries a few random numbers, 13-7-69, not expecting anything to come of them. He tries the Chasers from the Chudley Cannon's numbers, and gives a sigh of exasperation when Ron fails to meet the requirement of having an easily predictable safe combination. He sits there, dumbstruck, and then tries magic. Alohomora doesn't work, so he does a little transfiguration, but the cookie jar is hard to break and has a lock on it also. He turns it back into a safe, miffed. So, he sets up a little systematic spell that quickly tries every combination, starting with 1-1-1, and working its way up. As he watches at the cyclonic wheel spin, he mentally smashes his head in with a hammer.
Birthdays, you flamin' idiot. Harry spins the wheel to the tune of 1- 3-80, Ron's birthday. Nope. 1-4-78 is the twins', but no; failure. He tries the rest of the Weasleys', Hermione's, as well as Ron's first day at Hogwarts (1-9-91) before he remembers that on one July day; his mother had to dilate 10 centimeters too. Harry gives a little gasp as 31-7-80 proves to be the magic matrix that opens up the black box.
The box most certainly has an expanding charm on it; Harry could fit half his school trunk in here if the door was big enough. It's mostly papers, no, wait, drawings. Harry feels guilty; he didn't know Ron could draw. Then he feels even guiltier, because he didn't know that Ron could DRAW!
No exaggeration, these pictures are the best in the entire universe times forever to the infinitieth power, and then some. Crayon landscapes of the Hogwarts grounds, watercolors of the giant squid, pencil sketches of Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry. These pieces of parchment that he could use as a mirror seem to be newer and in much greater number than all the other pictures put together to Harry. In a moment of revelation and epiphany, Harry connects the arm notes with these pictures. The bathrobe is certainly not for Arthur, as Ron claims, because Harry is wearing the emerald garment, and nothing else in this drawing here. Other pictures Harry connects to the arm notes surface. Harry in a hammock wearing swimming trunks. Harry lying on a bed with one green eye open, his ocular orb the only splash of color in a charcoal grey sketch. The next picture, Harry asleep on his homework, spatters of ink on his face.
And this is what Ron's arm meant by full gear, Harry sees himself in formal robes with the Gryffindor sword at his side. 'The sword, for drawing power circles', Harry remembers from a book on magic artifacts. Picture-Harry is also sporting a belt with the black handled knife for defense from evil, and the white handled knife for cutting herbs. He is also wearing a pentacle amulet, and of course he clutches his wand in his right arm.
All these almost innocent pictures were enough for Harry, but then he stumbles upon the part of the box that has far more desirable drawings. Harry arouses as he sees his pencil self lying naked with a certain (similarly unclad) redheaded best friend on a picnic quilt in a field somewhere, neglected sandwiches in the top left corner reflecting Ron's peculiar sense of humor. Harry moans as he comes across a very detailed sketch of Ron and himself covered in the special sheen of sweat that comes (no pun intended), only with the throes of passion. Harry is about to check out a particularly romantic looking one of him and Ron on a beach when his stealthy raiment is pulled off him. Harry looks up, and sees a visibly scared-to-death Ron (back from all the fun with Sinistra) towering above him. Before Harry can get a word out, Ron snatches the pictures from Harry's hands, and Harry does not fail to notice the salty drops of sorrow that fall, smudging pencil, onto the parchment from blue eyes. Harry sits, thunderstruck, like in a coma, as Ron picks up his art and his breathing becomes more and more ragged. Word-silence is broken.
"Sorry." Ron mutters. Oh, Ron, what the fuck are you talking about, this is exactly what Harry wants! Besides, this is still some friggin' amazing art, look, Fuseli drew scary shit but he did it well, he didn't apologize for the theme, the style was too good. Harry wants to voice this to Ron, but his voice is in his stomach, paying his heart a little visit. Ron, on the other hand, finds no problem speaking what he thinks at the moment.
"I know it's sick of me, I mean you don't like me like that or anything and I can't believe I ever did this it was so stupid and I'm sorry but I can't make it stop and if I don't draw it I think I'll fucking kiss you or something and then you'd have the legal fucking right to beat me shitless and if I have to choose...well..." he trails off from his little aria, leaving a silence. Harry has yet to speak. Wait...
"Ron," Harry says like he's been planning this speech his whole life, "the desire isn't one way. I think I want you too, because you're perfect and I love you and I want to show you that I love you. And even though I can't imagine being closer to you, you'd think we've hit the limit, I think I want something else, too. Where you have your pictures, Ron, I have fantasies. I'm addicted to dreams of us."
Ron has released his tension, and looks at Harry with a look of relief, affection and rapture. "If that was any cheesier," he said, enveloping Harry in ginger flecked arms, "we'd have to throw a little fondue party." Harry chuckles and sheds a few tears into Ron's chest. "In any case," Harry's Wheezy says, "I love you, too, so it works out."
That night, they imitated the pictures.
It cuts off rather abruptly, but you like it like that
This is, obviously, a very temperamental piece when it comes to the narration.
Love it? Hate it? Either way, please review it.