Title: Friday
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Harry and Ron have a secret. A naked secret.
A/N: this story takes place NOW. As in, the date I publish it (June 18, 2004) is the day all this takes place. I though it was a good idea, anyway.
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Friday
Menthol flames eat away at Harry's mouth as plastic cilia tear his pink gums. His teeth ache, his mouth and tongue are marinated in burning ice and freezing flames. With every breath the sensation is strengthened, Harry contemplates never breathing again is this is going to keep up. But then Hermione would send him to her parents, clicking their tongues as only Doctors who know more than you ever will in your life can. He shakes a nightmare common among young children away, banishing the simple terror of the Chair to the recesses of his mind. He pulls up a brass lever with a small "H" engraved on it. An animal moan creaks from within ancient tubes as water comes rushing out of them into a plaster basin. Harry spits out the toothpaste froth just as a yelp is itself spat out from someone in the running shower 180 degrees from Harry's field of view. Rinsing the plastic stick with bristles on the end and regurgitating water from a paper cup mixed with toothpaste residue in his maw, Harry chuckles.
Ron is less than amused. He pulls back the curtain, shying from the frozen ice spear spray of water, and gives Harry a glare from underneath wet copper locks. "Killed you to give me warning, eh?"
Harry stifles a laugh caused by the mental image of his head bursting in blood and gore just as he is about to say, "Watch the water, Ron." It is difficult, because the look on Ron's face would be priceless if he was to explode every time he offered caution to the red-headed man.
Every feature of Ron' face seems to increase is size spasmodically, his eyes bug out, his jaw flies open, and his hair jumps a little. Completely unable to understand this particular facial expression, Harry furrows his brow and forms his mouth into an "o". For emphasis, he holds his palms open inquisitively. Ron rolls his eyes heavenward, shaking his head from side to side.
One large foot, about six feet and four inches from the top of its owner's head, lands on the tiled floor of Harry and Ron's bathroom. The limb's twin soon comes out tot, attached to the rest of a certain freckled someone. The appendages make their way briskly across the floor (which is ridiculous, the sink lies less than a yard from the shower). An extremity akin to feet (but with an opposable digit) reaches past its owner's roommate, who's green eyes are watching it apprehensively, and pushes down the brass lever from about three hundred words ago. With a resigned squeak, the cascade of H20 falters to a drip, and the water behind the curtain gains a little pressure and a lot of heat. Ron, naked and dripping, says to the raven- haired boy "It's no wonder you were never made prefect."
Harry retaliates, with an incredibly vicious and witty, "Shut up."
Ron's eyes grow wide with sarcasm and amusement; he smacks his palms to the sides of his face. "That hurt me Harry..." He points to his head. "Not here..."
His grin broadens; he clutches his bare chest, "But here."
Harry fills his voice with a sappy tone, pushing his bottom lip up into a comically hyperbolized frown. "Oh Ron, I'm sorry...does it need a kissy?"
Ron adopts a face similar to Harry's, nods his head up and down.
Barely inclining his head, which is considerably closer to the ground than Ron's, Harry presses his lips against Ron's moist chest, and sucks on the skin, leaving a noticeable mark on the naked man's sternum. Ron extends dripping arms around Harry, and pulls him into a tight embrace that is designed to do exactly what it does, utterly soak Harry's only current clothing of a pair of Ron's boxers and a t-shirt. Harry makes a little astonished squeal of surprise and pleasure as Ron's warm, wet, bare body aligns with his own. "Gonna take a shower today?" asks Harry's captor.
"Will the shower get me dirty or clean?" the ebony haired man shoots back.
Ron gives Harry one of his exasperated 'You've known me HOW long?' glances before replying "What do you think?'
If possible, Harry's glasses, sitting on the bathroom counter, steam up even more in the next few minutes.
Hermione Granger depresses the buzzer for the third darn time! They're like this though; she thinks she's pretty used to it. She hears the shower whine off, only one door open and close, and pulls her ear off the door as two pairs of synchronized footsteps slap the floor (bare feet, she guesses), one growing louder as it approaches the door. Is she correct? Indeed so, she notes no shoes as the knob turns and the hinges creak ajar. Harry is holding the doorknob, looking vaguely flustered. His other hand is supporting a towel around his waist, and invites her into a flat that is humorously, accidentally registered under Harry Weasley.
Ron comes out of Harry's bedroom, Hermione notes, in the middle of pulling a shirt over his wet bronze hair, and tucking it into his jeans. Hermione finds it awfully suspicious that they both seem to have just come out of the shower. Harry motions for Ron to come hither, thus delegating Hermione to Ron as he goes to change into something more decent. He goes into his own room, Hermione sees; Ron's bedroom must feel neglected.
Before Ron can say a word, Hermione points her wand at Ron's head, and mutters "Secar". Ron's hair, now dry, lightens in tone back to its familiar fiery orange. "Er, thanks Hermione." Ron stammers sheepishly. Hermione rolls her eyes affectionately, and gives him a 'you're welcome' before incanting "Mobilibolso", causing an as of yet unseen bag float from behind her and onto the flat's kitchenette bar.
Hermione calculates her next move, wondering how to get past Ron's defenses and obtain more data to prove (or disprove) her hypothesis. She aligns her vocal cords in a conversational tone. "So how are you and Harry..." Ron blushes, his and Harry's names are so close in syntax they're practically fucking. Hermione smiles inwardly and logs the reaction in her mental notebook. "...eating these days?" she finishes.
Ron restores normal facial blood flow, and says "Well Harry's a good cook, but we get take-out twice a week or so and breakfast we..." He looks away. "nothing." Hermione gives herself a mental flying high-five; she's caught something else here, too.
"You're not eating conjured food for breakfast are you?"
Harry walks up aside her, "Well, sometimes." He says, not looking at her, but instead becoming vastly interested in the classic black-and-white checkered pattern of the kitchenette. Oh God here it comes...
Hermione descends with the approximate wrath of Hell.
"You two know that stuff is trash! Half of it vanishes after a couple of hours, in your stomach! You can't substitute real food with magic food for a whole meal!" Disgusted, she pulls a myriad of standard groceries out of the (magically expanded and lightened) bag, as well as a few pre-made dishes courtesy of Molly.
Harry and Ron's faces revert to those of scolded children, and wordlessly put the food in the cabinets or fridge as slavemistress Hermione extends her sermon with a few choice phrases about responsibility, the importance of breakfast, Molly's foresight, and how she and Neville eat proper meals in their flat. Honestly, Ron, you're twenty-four and Harry will be soon too. Forty-four days, one would know if they took the time to count. You could ask Ron, he knows it on the drop of a hat.
Hearing his name, Neville treks the long and arduous journey across the hall to Harry and Ron's flat. He greets the masters of the house with a small wave and a glance of commiseration; he knows how she can be sometimes.
After Hermione has Harry and Ron put all the food in the proper order (food groups, alphabetically, with a cross reference on overall nutritional value), she has them eat a second breakfast, even though the conjured pancakes were just fine, ok? It's lucky that Neville is there to help, Harry still flinches under Hermione's glare, and he burns the eggs.
What a way to start a Friday!
There are two major types of wizard photographs. First, there is the type that shows a scene and only a scene, repeating itself with little variation forever. Then, there is the type that is more difficult to take, that needs more magic to help it develop properly. This type of photograph has a copy of the person in the picture, and this person can sleep, talk to other people in the picture, and has a somewhat free will. Sometimes, they can leave the picture, but not for long.
Experienced photographers like the Creevey brothers, or magical painters who draw the Hogwarts portraits are even able to make these pictures interactive, give them a greater consciousness outside of the frame, and a voice.
It was of the second type of photograph that Harry had in a cheap plastic frame on his desk, right next to the nameplate that said Auror Potter, but facing the other way. Harry found himself lost in this picture, watching the two inhabitants, himself and Ron, joke and flirt with each other, occasionally giving or receiving a kiss. Harry was glad that picture-him and picture-Ron weren't like that when he, Harry, wasn't around to fill them with thoughts. If Seamus had been around, the boys in the picture would act the way Seamus expected them to, and Seamus didn't know about Harry and Ron, so whatever, it's cool. Nobody did, which was what made it so exciting, sexually and the, uh......whatever else there is besides that.
Harry should be doing his paperwork (he recently had to cast a spell on the job, something that is apparently discouraged), but was immersed in this picture, Ron is giving Harry one of his expert massages. Harry looks up when picture-Harry suddenly starts filling out paperwork. Ah, hello Alastor.
Mad-Eye Moody then shot a tree trunk thick laser beam out of his electric blue eye, causing Harry to turn into a pile of ashes. Metaphorically.
Harry whips out a ballpoint pen because he prefers it to a quill and starts writing. Ron always shakes his head at this. Moody, thinking that Harry's sudden productivity is not enough, decides to have an inquisition. "The tatzlwurm is native to...?"
"Swiss Alps"
"What is 'enemy' in Mermish?"
"Trick question. I don't have enough tongues, but nemesis is," Harry makes a glottal stop/shrieking noise that makes Susan Bones jump as she passes his cubicle to the Training Room. Moody tells her that she better step up on the goddamn constant vigilance.
"A female Lapp shaman is a...?"
"Angel of death"
"Belladonna can only be harvested...?"
"On Walpurgis"
Satisfied, Moody stalks away, but Harry had the feeling that his magical eye was peering at him through the back of his head. Several hours later, he is creating a table useful in planning Ministry raids, and has the efficiency up 16% from the previous edition when the cool, disembodied PA voice announces "Lunch is served.", saving Harry's life.
Several Aurors stay at their desks, brown paper bags acting as paperweights, but Harry is not among them. He uses the single-exit Floo point that always connects the Auror Offices with the Dining Hall. In a burst of emerald flames to rival his eyes, Harry is gone.
Ron is gesticulating animatedly enough to cancel out any inclarity caused by the fact that his mouth is full of mash and pumpkin juice. Harry nods vigorously, he would have understood what Ron was saying if the man was mute. They simply had that level of communication that surpassed words. Which was plainly seen at lunch right now, as "ghahlgfurgit (spit mash across the table onto Hermione's plate)" was most definitely not a word.
With a look of mild disgust, Hermione flicks the orange stained blob of butter marinated vegetable starch onto the tablecloth, where it vanishes. Ron sheepishly mutters "Shawree" as Neville plops down next to Hermione, opposite to Harry. Hermione gives said Herbologist a kiss hello, Ron and Harry make more platonic gestures and expressions of greeting. Muggle Ambassador Granger and Dr. Longbottom talk rapidly about a "Jack-and- the-beanstalk" scenario, and the Muggles who has laid eyes on a particularly incendiary "Verbrennenden Busch". Harry and Ron are discussing getting a new sofa, and Hermione suddenly whips her head around, hair flailing like a freaking Medusa, and says, "Well you should at least put a glamour on it for the dinner party tonight."
Ron wears a mask of utter confusion, before he remembers that Hermione had convinced the Harry Weasley residence to host a gathering of friends and family. Which means that Molly will be there. Fuck. Double Fuck. Fuck to the power of dammit. Mrs. Weasley and Hermione in the same place? No, that's insane, how are Ron and Harry going to get the place ready in time for their scrutinizing eyes? And dinner! There's like a million people coming!
Seeing the look of horror frozen on Harry's face, Ron knows he's thinking the exact same thing.
It is one of life's small miracles that Harry and Ron did not rip their flat's door off it's hinges as the two of them exploded into their apartment, starting up cleaning charms and filling buckets, animating brooms and throwing off work robes at the same time. A small blinking green light over the wood-burning stove they use a Floo point cues Ron to yell to Harry, "Check the messages!"
"Messages?" He looks at a usually forgotten Muggle communication device, "There's none on the phone, Ron."
"Phone?" Ron asks, utterly confused. "You're speaking Greek, Harry; do you have a touch of Hellenitis?"
The two of them stand, staring at each other for a moment while they try to figure out what the other was talking about. At the exact same time, a sigh of understanding slips from both their lips. Harry's face splits in a small smile as he shuffles over to the wood-stove. Ron chuckles mildly as he floats clothes and litter to their appropriate spots, walks into his room to change, and Harry tosses Floo powder into the newly kindled flames. "Messages," He says to the green flames, and Dean's head appears, floating in the inferno. "Harry, Ron, sorry I missed you, uhh...Me n'Parvati'll be over a little bit late, probably sevenish. Our number is..." He trails off, blushing under dark skin. "Ha, sorry, Muggle force of habit. Well, see you then."
"Who was it?" asks Ron, now clad only in the utterly fuckable outfit of a pair of their jeans (clothes tend to be communal), and a blue button- up plaid shirt Harry got for Ron to bring out his eyes. Oh, it brought Ron's eyes out all right, but it also brought out a certain organ from its nest between Harry's thighs. Rendered almost unable to speak by his sudden need for Ron, Harry murmurs, "Dean."
"What was up?"
"Him n'Parvati'll be late."
"How late?"
"Half hour."
There is a silence as Ron's eyes sweep across Harry's form, scanning for something that would cause him to talk in these über-creepy shattered sentences. Harry is also examining Ron, perhaps for a switch that would cause the taller man to throw off all his clothes and do the deed with Harry on their floor. With the window open. Harry is somewhat of an exhibitionist. Their first time was in the Quidditch stands, a viable spotlight even if that light was a gibbous moon instead of the far more incriminating sun. In any case, Harry had always wanted to do it in the open. Almost getting caught was half the fun to him.
"Why are you leering at me, Har?"
"Well...Ronny," says Harry, striving to be seductive for a change, though his erotic strides were awkward waddles, "I am leering at you because I want to nail you right now."
Ahh, bluntness. Harry, you are truly a master at sucking at this, the aggressive part of a relationship. Just stick with doing it when Ron wants to, ok?
Ron gave Harry a bemused and tired expression that said he'd heard that before. "Please, Harry, we have to clean up here. Hermione was right," he throws his hands in the air with resignation, and uses a tone that would seem to imply that this Hermione kid was just lucky, usually she's wrong about everything.
Don't be such a spoilsport Ron! C'mon, just a little 6 and some 9, the rugs got enough shielding charms on it that we won't get the hivvies or whatever. Please? If you could see yourself right now, oh love of my life, you'd be having a downward rush of blood as well.
Ron ignores Harry's looks of sadness and broken lust, probably because Ron Weasley denying sex from his Harry was like other people refusing to breathe, or eat, or do anything that you need to do several times a day. Several times a day, hint, hint, Ron.
Harry, however, was not almost put in Slytherin for nothing. He manages to get a bucket of water intended for a mop spilled on Ron enough that the shirt is pretty much unwearable. No complaints from Harry, who, in his enthusiasm to get it off and help Ron change, pops off the bottom button of said shirt. If Ron had worn the shirt with that button missing, his belly would be just barely visible. Again, no complaints. Reverse complaints, even.
As Ron stands shirtless in the kitchen, Harry in his own room finding a shirt for him to wear, the redhead gives in. He extends one foot slowly across the kitchen tiles, naked left foot landing on a black square. From behind him, his right foot moves over to a white square. In the next step, Ron's left foot is on the wood of the living room, it creaks slowly. Ron winces at the sound; he's trying to be secretive. A couple of paces later, he is at the door to his room, where he can see Harry bent over, rummaging through the floor/clothes deposit zone for that tight orange shirt that he loves to see Ron's spine through.
Ron tiptoes across the honey colored carpet until he is right behind an unsuspecting Harry. In one fluid movement, Ron grabs Harry around the waist and throws him onto the still unmade bed, with Ron himself plunging onto Harry one infinitieth of a second later.
Harry's eyes are wide with surprise, because, if you recall the Snapple caps correctly, your eye dilates when looking at something pleasing. Ron pins him to the mattress, grinding their crotches together knife on a sharpening stone. Ron strips Harry of everything but his glasses; he takes them off last because he thinks they make Harry look even sexier, a naughty librarian or something. Ron sees again that Harry is far to thin, he could count the man's ribs if he wanted to. With most of their belts, Harry pulls the leftover nearly around his waist a whole second time.
Half his work is already done, Harry tugs at the jeans Ron's got hugging his waist, exerting ridiculous energy before undoing the belt clasp. Ron sighs and laughs at his lover, Harry is too sex-glazed to think properly. Ron's boxers slide on his smooth skin down toned legs, the jeans going with them. As nude bodies collide, both men gasp and pull back a bit, it's been hours since they did this last. Then they relax and fall into the old patterns that never get old.
She pushes the buzzer again. Perhaps this is the Hermione Granger curse. She is about to blow the door off its hinges when Ron opens it, wearing a backwards shirt he obviously put on in haste. He looks exactly like he did this morning, and Harry, she notes as he begins cleaning again, does too. Curiouser and curiouser. She walks in without invitation, because she knows Ron forgot how to speak, as he usually does in moments of shock. "Thought you weren't supposed to be here 'til 6:30, you're an hour early."
Ah, perhaps she's wrong, that's Ron talking now. Rounding on him, he is informed she's here to help clean up this...thing...and that they should be thanking her. She starts up a few of the more complex cleaning spells, and sends Ron off to maintain them. Harry helps her cook up the spaghetti they'd be serving tonight; Hermione makes meatballs as he concocts a sauce with Snape-like precision.
Though Harry is distracted with the marinara, Hermione thinks this is an excellent time to interrogate him about her theories, and carve out a sculpture of possibilities with the chisel of logic, the hammer of will, and cut a few finishing touches with Occam's razor. "You and Ron have any plans for the summer?"
She knew full well what they were doing, Harry fancied a trip over to the Mercado de Hecharía in La Paz, Bolivia, and Ron was interested in seeing Macchu Picchu. She took note of any and all facial expressions Harry made, but none were conclusive. She'd have to try later. Their portkey was for July 23-August 1, and Hermione, Neville, and various other friends and family were going to give Harry a surprise party at some Inca temple in the Andes. Twenty-four was a very important number, arithmatically and numerologically. Harry was trusting and gullible to the point of adorable, so while he mentioned these plans to Hermione, he didn't even mention that the trip was during his birthday. Until he turned eleven, his birthday meant nothing, so just saw it as another day.
Hermione completely discarded her philosophical musings on the significance of the anniversary of Harry's birth when Neville came from behind and gave her a soft kiss on the neck. She turned to greet him similarly, and, in a most un-Hermione fashion, managed to knock the meatballs to the ground without noticing. Harry froze most of them in midair, but two of them landed on the ground.
As Neville and Hermione snog, their eyes closed tight, Harry gives Ron a look of sadness, those meatballs looked really good. Ron gives him a look of disbelief; just put them back in the pan. Harry clasps his hands together and shakes them from side to side, indicating sweeping the floor, and then draws a finger across his neck, to indicate that the kitchen floor was not swept. Ron holds up five fingers and taps his watch; the five second rule could be invoked, its power summoned to save this dire emergency. Harry rolls his eyes and drops the chopped up cow muscle nuggets into the pan just as Neville and Hermione release. They both look flushed, and Neville puts a tray of tollhouse cookies he made on the kitchen counter, which Harry thanks him for, he and Ron completely forgot dessert. Really, Harry, it's no problem. Neville gets down on his hands and knees, and starts scrubbing the living room floor with a sponge he summoned. Ron claps him on the back and says he's a good man.
Until 6:32, when Ginny, Molly and Arthur Apparate just inside of Ron and Harry's flat, the only sounds are the pureblood men cleaning and the H's cooking.
By 7:04, when Dean and Parvati make their appearance, there are plenty of noises for them to add to. The Weasley twins are driving poor Lavender mad, bewitching everything poor Mrs. Finnegan-Brown gets near. Seamus finds it too funny to help, and she threatens continually that he'll sleep on the sofa tonight. Percy is boring Neville to death, but Neville will soon exact his revenge, Dr. Longbottom could lecture on plants for hours, and he's had practice at all the consortiums the Ministry sends him off to these days. Harry is hopelessly trying to get everyone organized for dinner, now that our last guests, the Thomas-Patils are here. Ron is playing Ginny at chess, their sibling rivalry is at a breaking point as Ginny's also very good, she and Ron were close when they were young. Well, or Ron could've been the twins lab-rat as a kid, they're the next closest in age. Molly, Parvati, and Hermione discuss cleaning spells as Dean and Ron reminisce. Penelope Clearwater-Weasley is giving Neville a look of sympathy, and rubs her belly, feeling the kick of her and Percy's third child. Arthur is trying to reassemble the telephone, his curiosity got the best of him and he hopes Harry and Ron don't notice, so he better get it done before dinner.
Which begins now, Harry announces. Nobody notices, and the buzz of several conversations swells, even, and would be drowning out any jet engines that were nearby. Harry whispers Ron's name, and the man hears it- crystal clarity. The two of them circulate the room, handing dishes of pasta and goblets out. Soon, everyone has found a seat on the nearest chair, sofa, windowsill or lap, and the dinner begins impromptu. The din that prevailed just moments ago has withered into the all but mute munching and slurping of spaghetti.
While most people are only able to do one thing at a time, Hermione Granger can do fifty-two. She is balancing herself on a rickety ottoman, every now and then needing to redirect her haunches to prevent any embarrassing meetings with the floor. She is also scratching an itch on her foot, something that impedes her balance terribly, but itching while balancing is one of her gifts. She is also talking to Molly about how she was able to get the food in this morning, and that she was sure Ron and Harry would be fine now.
Molly was, no, still is very protective of Ron, more so that any of her other children. She still expects Voldemort, the LATE Voldemort to kill Ron and Harry in their sleep; they were the biggest targets all throughout the war. Harry for obvious reasons and Ron the same. She had countless dreams of finding the Dark Mark over the apartment complex of her two youngest sons. When Neville and Hermione moved in (the third and fourth biggest targets, respectively), it only got worse for the poor dear. She still has these dreams, though she saw Voldemort wither into dust and scattered to the four winds. But Ron doesn't know all that.
And of course, Hermione is also eating. And watching Ron and Harry, who, either by accident, purpose, or some twist of ironic Freudian fate, are sitting (rather closely) on the love seat opposite her. She does not fail to notice the way they do not take their eyes off each other when they speak to each other. She is also the one to notice when Harry automatically and subconsciously wipes a fleck of Alfredo from Ron's chin. The red haired man does not notice either, or he doesn't care, and Hermione thought she was hallucinating when Harry thoughtlessly licks his finger clean of the cheesy goo. She raises her glass with the others as Percy says 'Kan-pei, Ron-kun and Harry-kun," before he launches into the tale of his adventures with cauldron bottoms in Japan.
Later in the night, about quarter to twelve, the fifteen (or sixteen, if you count the unborn Weasley-Clearwater) people in Ron and Harry's apartment are beginning to drift to sleep. They are all woken up when Seamus, Dean, Ginny, and Arthur's exploding snap card castle is obliterated by a chain reaction caused by a white marble chip of Harry's chess queen, that was knocked clear off the table by one of Ron's knights.
Collectively, the party is invigorated, re-energized, and Fred snaps his previously dozing head up, smacking a similarly drowsy George in the nose. This is found to be immensely funny by the party, especially Lavender, perhaps because she spent half the evening a victim to the twins' tricks. It takes her three whole minutes to get under control before she helps herself to a fourth glass of wine. Seamus will marry that girl, and they'll have the cheeriest house on the planet. Arthur can see it happen, just like he could for all of his children. Chewing on the last cookie, he realizes he can't quite see it for Ron. Ron, who is playing chess with Harry, whom he's lived with, in dorm and flat, for over a decade.
Why, there must be a child who was born on the day they met, and, if the Trio was any example, could be saving the world. Snapping back like a rubber band to his nearly derailed train of thought, Arthur plays the percentages.
Seven children. Assuming 10% of the population is homosexual, ignoring the statistical nightmare of identical twins, he has a 70% chance of having a homosexual child. Assuming that reality falls into that 70% (i.e., one child is homosexual); there is a 14.23% it will be any given Weasley child, as there are seven. Bill, Charlie, and Percy are all happily married. Ignoring past or current boyfriends or girlfriends, the remaining children, Fred, George, Ron and Ginny each have a 25% chance of being homosexual. Of course, Fred and George could be treated as less than one person, given that 50% of homosexual people with twins have twins of like orientation. In addition, girls (like Ginny) have greater homosexual tendencies than boys. So, the occurrence of homosexuality in Arthur's children leans either to the twins or to Ginny, Ron has no statistics that make him any more likely to be a homosexual, as the twins and Ginny do. But, Ron is the only one not currently in a relationship (that Arthur knows of), Ginny is in a long-distance relationship with some Assistant Professor from Beauxbatons, Fred is seeing Katie Bell (who's visiting her mother tonight), and George and Angelina are in one of the off stages of their on- off love life. With this data, Ron is now the only Weasley child of unconfirmed orientation. Should the Weasleys have a homosexual child, Ron assumingly bears the full 100% possibility. Treating the Weasley children as one case with only one homosexual, he has a 70% possibility overall of being homosexual. Very high odds. If Harry is homosexual, Harry has the general starting 10% of being homosexual. Ignoring incompatibility (they've known each other forever); there is a 7% that Ron and Harry are in a relationship, or were at some time, or will be.
But of course, Arthur muses as bits of Neville's cookie are wiped from his lips by a doting Molly, it could be love.
Hermione, who Arthur hadn't noticed was missing, he was deep in thought, beckons to the chess playing roomies to enter Ron's room. Which, Arthur notes, has about 5% of the boy's clothes in it, Harry's has most of their possessions, and has an unmade bed, while Ron's looks like it's never been used. He gives his raven-haired son a fraction of a nod before his bushy-haired friend closes the door, sealing the Trio inside.
"Hermione, what were you doing snooping around in my room?" Ron has his arms folded but Hermione gives him a 'yeah, right' scoff.
"This isn't anybody's room."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that it's awfully fishy that yours and Harry's clothes, books, everything, all seem to live in his room."
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing, just pointing out an asymmetry."
"You wouldn't just tell us something if you didn't have a theory. You have to have a theory, or it wouldn't bother you."
"It doesn't bother me!"
"That's a strange thing to say."
"About what?"
"Clothes! If you say it doesn't bother you, it's usually something else."
"Like what?"
"Like something someone does."
"So, the clothes aren't something anyone did, they just appeared there?"
"No need to be nit-picky about something off-topic."
"You brought it up!"
"You brought us in here!"
Hey, barkeep, a round of suspicious glaring all around! Hermione's eyes narrow and Ron's are but blue slits. Harry speaks, gently, voice almost noticeably trembling.
"Hermione, why were you in Ron's room?"
She knows she can't lie about hearing a noise, or seeing something interesting, the three of them can practically read each other's minds. Harry and Ron both know that Hermione either talks a little too loud or cranes her neck to one side whenever she lies. Ron gestures emphatically a lot, and Harry speaks a bit too carefully. He's the best at lying, though. One of Salazar, and thus, Voldemort's, and thus Harry's gifts was/was/is deception.
"I was looking...for. For evidence, ok?" She looks fiercely defiant, yet apologetic. The ferocity is a façade. "Oh Ron, Harry, I'm sorry, but I...I just had to be sure and now I think I am but I don't know if I am but it's important and I found it under the pillow and I just..."
She holds out a small box, covered in green velvet. Ron blushes, blushes, blushes. Harry looks incredulous and a bit scared at this thing that has such power over his two best friends. "I guess it's more than appropriate that you're here, Hermione," says Ron, looking disappointed and relieved. "This was supposed to be for your birthday, Harry, a secret present."
Harry gives him a look, Ron has implied there would be others on his birthday, but it's just the two of them in South America, right? Ron doesn't seem to notice and Harry pushes the idea of other people on his birthday away as Ron continues. "But, in the grand scheme of things, the few weeks between now and then aren't much compared to the last seven years" Hermione's jaw drops, they may have gotten together back at school!
Ron keeps going. "So, Harry, you want the flat to be registered under the right name?"
Realization.
Harry's feels his eyes water as the box opens and he lays eyes on what lies inside. Two silver rings, both of them attached to the same turquoise stone, sit in a velvet indentation. The stone will be separated at the ceremony, but the halves will still be magically bound to each other. Oh God, is this really happening?
Ron's on one knee, Hermione is sobbing. Neville shows up just in time, he should be here too. He look's quizzical for a moment, but then his eyes, like the three other pairs in the room, grow moist.
"Harry Potter, will you bind yourself to me?"
Choking through tears, Harry sobs, "Of course I will, Ron!" They embrace, and Harry adds that it's really only a formality. Ron laughs a choking laugh, and Hermione and Neville hug the two men who are now engaged, the four-way hug is warm and gentle.
There is a fifth sob, Molly's. Neville, clumsy as ever, has left the door to Ron's room wide open. The others saw it all.
There would be time later for explanations. Why Harry wanted to tell everyone that he was a normal person who could be loved, even if it was by a man. Why he wanted to prove himself, like a true Slytherin. Why Ron didn't want to disappoint everyone again, and how he convinced Harry to let them keep it a secret.
There would be time later for Arthur to congratulate himself on his mathematics. There would be time later for 'good luck's, and teary handshakes that transformed into teary 'are you kidding? Just a handshake for my baby brother?' hugs.
Time later for explaining that fateful day in Divination where palmistry forced the two then-boys to hold hands. Time later for Molly to add a hand that read "Harry" to the Weasley family clock. Time later for the twins to make a set of 'His & His' towels, one blue and one green, towels that transfigured into bathrobes by fingering the monogram.
But now, there was only time for Ron and Harry to kiss and turn to the assembled friends and family, and say that they were sure they had some explaining to do. Dean agreed as he wiped tears from his face.
Then the clock struck twelve times and Friday came to a close.
Fín
This was originally only going to be up to the steamy glasses line, but I embellished and made my longest fic yet.
This took me about a week of an-off writing; I did only a few hundred words at a time.
In fact, this was supposed to be posted last Friday.
Anyway, I thought making a "live" story was a cute idea.
And those index cards? Whew, I got a lot of plot bunnies and ideas checked off cause of this story.
As always, I beseech thee for reviews.
And expect a sequel, unless you stop me
Oh, and forgive arthur's/my math, it's summer, by goddess
-HFS
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Harry and Ron have a secret. A naked secret.
A/N: this story takes place NOW. As in, the date I publish it (June 18, 2004) is the day all this takes place. I though it was a good idea, anyway.
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Friday
Menthol flames eat away at Harry's mouth as plastic cilia tear his pink gums. His teeth ache, his mouth and tongue are marinated in burning ice and freezing flames. With every breath the sensation is strengthened, Harry contemplates never breathing again is this is going to keep up. But then Hermione would send him to her parents, clicking their tongues as only Doctors who know more than you ever will in your life can. He shakes a nightmare common among young children away, banishing the simple terror of the Chair to the recesses of his mind. He pulls up a brass lever with a small "H" engraved on it. An animal moan creaks from within ancient tubes as water comes rushing out of them into a plaster basin. Harry spits out the toothpaste froth just as a yelp is itself spat out from someone in the running shower 180 degrees from Harry's field of view. Rinsing the plastic stick with bristles on the end and regurgitating water from a paper cup mixed with toothpaste residue in his maw, Harry chuckles.
Ron is less than amused. He pulls back the curtain, shying from the frozen ice spear spray of water, and gives Harry a glare from underneath wet copper locks. "Killed you to give me warning, eh?"
Harry stifles a laugh caused by the mental image of his head bursting in blood and gore just as he is about to say, "Watch the water, Ron." It is difficult, because the look on Ron's face would be priceless if he was to explode every time he offered caution to the red-headed man.
Every feature of Ron' face seems to increase is size spasmodically, his eyes bug out, his jaw flies open, and his hair jumps a little. Completely unable to understand this particular facial expression, Harry furrows his brow and forms his mouth into an "o". For emphasis, he holds his palms open inquisitively. Ron rolls his eyes heavenward, shaking his head from side to side.
One large foot, about six feet and four inches from the top of its owner's head, lands on the tiled floor of Harry and Ron's bathroom. The limb's twin soon comes out tot, attached to the rest of a certain freckled someone. The appendages make their way briskly across the floor (which is ridiculous, the sink lies less than a yard from the shower). An extremity akin to feet (but with an opposable digit) reaches past its owner's roommate, who's green eyes are watching it apprehensively, and pushes down the brass lever from about three hundred words ago. With a resigned squeak, the cascade of H20 falters to a drip, and the water behind the curtain gains a little pressure and a lot of heat. Ron, naked and dripping, says to the raven- haired boy "It's no wonder you were never made prefect."
Harry retaliates, with an incredibly vicious and witty, "Shut up."
Ron's eyes grow wide with sarcasm and amusement; he smacks his palms to the sides of his face. "That hurt me Harry..." He points to his head. "Not here..."
His grin broadens; he clutches his bare chest, "But here."
Harry fills his voice with a sappy tone, pushing his bottom lip up into a comically hyperbolized frown. "Oh Ron, I'm sorry...does it need a kissy?"
Ron adopts a face similar to Harry's, nods his head up and down.
Barely inclining his head, which is considerably closer to the ground than Ron's, Harry presses his lips against Ron's moist chest, and sucks on the skin, leaving a noticeable mark on the naked man's sternum. Ron extends dripping arms around Harry, and pulls him into a tight embrace that is designed to do exactly what it does, utterly soak Harry's only current clothing of a pair of Ron's boxers and a t-shirt. Harry makes a little astonished squeal of surprise and pleasure as Ron's warm, wet, bare body aligns with his own. "Gonna take a shower today?" asks Harry's captor.
"Will the shower get me dirty or clean?" the ebony haired man shoots back.
Ron gives Harry one of his exasperated 'You've known me HOW long?' glances before replying "What do you think?'
If possible, Harry's glasses, sitting on the bathroom counter, steam up even more in the next few minutes.
Hermione Granger depresses the buzzer for the third darn time! They're like this though; she thinks she's pretty used to it. She hears the shower whine off, only one door open and close, and pulls her ear off the door as two pairs of synchronized footsteps slap the floor (bare feet, she guesses), one growing louder as it approaches the door. Is she correct? Indeed so, she notes no shoes as the knob turns and the hinges creak ajar. Harry is holding the doorknob, looking vaguely flustered. His other hand is supporting a towel around his waist, and invites her into a flat that is humorously, accidentally registered under Harry Weasley.
Ron comes out of Harry's bedroom, Hermione notes, in the middle of pulling a shirt over his wet bronze hair, and tucking it into his jeans. Hermione finds it awfully suspicious that they both seem to have just come out of the shower. Harry motions for Ron to come hither, thus delegating Hermione to Ron as he goes to change into something more decent. He goes into his own room, Hermione sees; Ron's bedroom must feel neglected.
Before Ron can say a word, Hermione points her wand at Ron's head, and mutters "Secar". Ron's hair, now dry, lightens in tone back to its familiar fiery orange. "Er, thanks Hermione." Ron stammers sheepishly. Hermione rolls her eyes affectionately, and gives him a 'you're welcome' before incanting "Mobilibolso", causing an as of yet unseen bag float from behind her and onto the flat's kitchenette bar.
Hermione calculates her next move, wondering how to get past Ron's defenses and obtain more data to prove (or disprove) her hypothesis. She aligns her vocal cords in a conversational tone. "So how are you and Harry..." Ron blushes, his and Harry's names are so close in syntax they're practically fucking. Hermione smiles inwardly and logs the reaction in her mental notebook. "...eating these days?" she finishes.
Ron restores normal facial blood flow, and says "Well Harry's a good cook, but we get take-out twice a week or so and breakfast we..." He looks away. "nothing." Hermione gives herself a mental flying high-five; she's caught something else here, too.
"You're not eating conjured food for breakfast are you?"
Harry walks up aside her, "Well, sometimes." He says, not looking at her, but instead becoming vastly interested in the classic black-and-white checkered pattern of the kitchenette. Oh God here it comes...
Hermione descends with the approximate wrath of Hell.
"You two know that stuff is trash! Half of it vanishes after a couple of hours, in your stomach! You can't substitute real food with magic food for a whole meal!" Disgusted, she pulls a myriad of standard groceries out of the (magically expanded and lightened) bag, as well as a few pre-made dishes courtesy of Molly.
Harry and Ron's faces revert to those of scolded children, and wordlessly put the food in the cabinets or fridge as slavemistress Hermione extends her sermon with a few choice phrases about responsibility, the importance of breakfast, Molly's foresight, and how she and Neville eat proper meals in their flat. Honestly, Ron, you're twenty-four and Harry will be soon too. Forty-four days, one would know if they took the time to count. You could ask Ron, he knows it on the drop of a hat.
Hearing his name, Neville treks the long and arduous journey across the hall to Harry and Ron's flat. He greets the masters of the house with a small wave and a glance of commiseration; he knows how she can be sometimes.
After Hermione has Harry and Ron put all the food in the proper order (food groups, alphabetically, with a cross reference on overall nutritional value), she has them eat a second breakfast, even though the conjured pancakes were just fine, ok? It's lucky that Neville is there to help, Harry still flinches under Hermione's glare, and he burns the eggs.
What a way to start a Friday!
There are two major types of wizard photographs. First, there is the type that shows a scene and only a scene, repeating itself with little variation forever. Then, there is the type that is more difficult to take, that needs more magic to help it develop properly. This type of photograph has a copy of the person in the picture, and this person can sleep, talk to other people in the picture, and has a somewhat free will. Sometimes, they can leave the picture, but not for long.
Experienced photographers like the Creevey brothers, or magical painters who draw the Hogwarts portraits are even able to make these pictures interactive, give them a greater consciousness outside of the frame, and a voice.
It was of the second type of photograph that Harry had in a cheap plastic frame on his desk, right next to the nameplate that said Auror Potter, but facing the other way. Harry found himself lost in this picture, watching the two inhabitants, himself and Ron, joke and flirt with each other, occasionally giving or receiving a kiss. Harry was glad that picture-him and picture-Ron weren't like that when he, Harry, wasn't around to fill them with thoughts. If Seamus had been around, the boys in the picture would act the way Seamus expected them to, and Seamus didn't know about Harry and Ron, so whatever, it's cool. Nobody did, which was what made it so exciting, sexually and the, uh......whatever else there is besides that.
Harry should be doing his paperwork (he recently had to cast a spell on the job, something that is apparently discouraged), but was immersed in this picture, Ron is giving Harry one of his expert massages. Harry looks up when picture-Harry suddenly starts filling out paperwork. Ah, hello Alastor.
Mad-Eye Moody then shot a tree trunk thick laser beam out of his electric blue eye, causing Harry to turn into a pile of ashes. Metaphorically.
Harry whips out a ballpoint pen because he prefers it to a quill and starts writing. Ron always shakes his head at this. Moody, thinking that Harry's sudden productivity is not enough, decides to have an inquisition. "The tatzlwurm is native to...?"
"Swiss Alps"
"What is 'enemy' in Mermish?"
"Trick question. I don't have enough tongues, but nemesis is," Harry makes a glottal stop/shrieking noise that makes Susan Bones jump as she passes his cubicle to the Training Room. Moody tells her that she better step up on the goddamn constant vigilance.
"A female Lapp shaman is a...?"
"Angel of death"
"Belladonna can only be harvested...?"
"On Walpurgis"
Satisfied, Moody stalks away, but Harry had the feeling that his magical eye was peering at him through the back of his head. Several hours later, he is creating a table useful in planning Ministry raids, and has the efficiency up 16% from the previous edition when the cool, disembodied PA voice announces "Lunch is served.", saving Harry's life.
Several Aurors stay at their desks, brown paper bags acting as paperweights, but Harry is not among them. He uses the single-exit Floo point that always connects the Auror Offices with the Dining Hall. In a burst of emerald flames to rival his eyes, Harry is gone.
Ron is gesticulating animatedly enough to cancel out any inclarity caused by the fact that his mouth is full of mash and pumpkin juice. Harry nods vigorously, he would have understood what Ron was saying if the man was mute. They simply had that level of communication that surpassed words. Which was plainly seen at lunch right now, as "ghahlgfurgit (spit mash across the table onto Hermione's plate)" was most definitely not a word.
With a look of mild disgust, Hermione flicks the orange stained blob of butter marinated vegetable starch onto the tablecloth, where it vanishes. Ron sheepishly mutters "Shawree" as Neville plops down next to Hermione, opposite to Harry. Hermione gives said Herbologist a kiss hello, Ron and Harry make more platonic gestures and expressions of greeting. Muggle Ambassador Granger and Dr. Longbottom talk rapidly about a "Jack-and- the-beanstalk" scenario, and the Muggles who has laid eyes on a particularly incendiary "Verbrennenden Busch". Harry and Ron are discussing getting a new sofa, and Hermione suddenly whips her head around, hair flailing like a freaking Medusa, and says, "Well you should at least put a glamour on it for the dinner party tonight."
Ron wears a mask of utter confusion, before he remembers that Hermione had convinced the Harry Weasley residence to host a gathering of friends and family. Which means that Molly will be there. Fuck. Double Fuck. Fuck to the power of dammit. Mrs. Weasley and Hermione in the same place? No, that's insane, how are Ron and Harry going to get the place ready in time for their scrutinizing eyes? And dinner! There's like a million people coming!
Seeing the look of horror frozen on Harry's face, Ron knows he's thinking the exact same thing.
It is one of life's small miracles that Harry and Ron did not rip their flat's door off it's hinges as the two of them exploded into their apartment, starting up cleaning charms and filling buckets, animating brooms and throwing off work robes at the same time. A small blinking green light over the wood-burning stove they use a Floo point cues Ron to yell to Harry, "Check the messages!"
"Messages?" He looks at a usually forgotten Muggle communication device, "There's none on the phone, Ron."
"Phone?" Ron asks, utterly confused. "You're speaking Greek, Harry; do you have a touch of Hellenitis?"
The two of them stand, staring at each other for a moment while they try to figure out what the other was talking about. At the exact same time, a sigh of understanding slips from both their lips. Harry's face splits in a small smile as he shuffles over to the wood-stove. Ron chuckles mildly as he floats clothes and litter to their appropriate spots, walks into his room to change, and Harry tosses Floo powder into the newly kindled flames. "Messages," He says to the green flames, and Dean's head appears, floating in the inferno. "Harry, Ron, sorry I missed you, uhh...Me n'Parvati'll be over a little bit late, probably sevenish. Our number is..." He trails off, blushing under dark skin. "Ha, sorry, Muggle force of habit. Well, see you then."
"Who was it?" asks Ron, now clad only in the utterly fuckable outfit of a pair of their jeans (clothes tend to be communal), and a blue button- up plaid shirt Harry got for Ron to bring out his eyes. Oh, it brought Ron's eyes out all right, but it also brought out a certain organ from its nest between Harry's thighs. Rendered almost unable to speak by his sudden need for Ron, Harry murmurs, "Dean."
"What was up?"
"Him n'Parvati'll be late."
"How late?"
"Half hour."
There is a silence as Ron's eyes sweep across Harry's form, scanning for something that would cause him to talk in these über-creepy shattered sentences. Harry is also examining Ron, perhaps for a switch that would cause the taller man to throw off all his clothes and do the deed with Harry on their floor. With the window open. Harry is somewhat of an exhibitionist. Their first time was in the Quidditch stands, a viable spotlight even if that light was a gibbous moon instead of the far more incriminating sun. In any case, Harry had always wanted to do it in the open. Almost getting caught was half the fun to him.
"Why are you leering at me, Har?"
"Well...Ronny," says Harry, striving to be seductive for a change, though his erotic strides were awkward waddles, "I am leering at you because I want to nail you right now."
Ahh, bluntness. Harry, you are truly a master at sucking at this, the aggressive part of a relationship. Just stick with doing it when Ron wants to, ok?
Ron gave Harry a bemused and tired expression that said he'd heard that before. "Please, Harry, we have to clean up here. Hermione was right," he throws his hands in the air with resignation, and uses a tone that would seem to imply that this Hermione kid was just lucky, usually she's wrong about everything.
Don't be such a spoilsport Ron! C'mon, just a little 6 and some 9, the rugs got enough shielding charms on it that we won't get the hivvies or whatever. Please? If you could see yourself right now, oh love of my life, you'd be having a downward rush of blood as well.
Ron ignores Harry's looks of sadness and broken lust, probably because Ron Weasley denying sex from his Harry was like other people refusing to breathe, or eat, or do anything that you need to do several times a day. Several times a day, hint, hint, Ron.
Harry, however, was not almost put in Slytherin for nothing. He manages to get a bucket of water intended for a mop spilled on Ron enough that the shirt is pretty much unwearable. No complaints from Harry, who, in his enthusiasm to get it off and help Ron change, pops off the bottom button of said shirt. If Ron had worn the shirt with that button missing, his belly would be just barely visible. Again, no complaints. Reverse complaints, even.
As Ron stands shirtless in the kitchen, Harry in his own room finding a shirt for him to wear, the redhead gives in. He extends one foot slowly across the kitchen tiles, naked left foot landing on a black square. From behind him, his right foot moves over to a white square. In the next step, Ron's left foot is on the wood of the living room, it creaks slowly. Ron winces at the sound; he's trying to be secretive. A couple of paces later, he is at the door to his room, where he can see Harry bent over, rummaging through the floor/clothes deposit zone for that tight orange shirt that he loves to see Ron's spine through.
Ron tiptoes across the honey colored carpet until he is right behind an unsuspecting Harry. In one fluid movement, Ron grabs Harry around the waist and throws him onto the still unmade bed, with Ron himself plunging onto Harry one infinitieth of a second later.
Harry's eyes are wide with surprise, because, if you recall the Snapple caps correctly, your eye dilates when looking at something pleasing. Ron pins him to the mattress, grinding their crotches together knife on a sharpening stone. Ron strips Harry of everything but his glasses; he takes them off last because he thinks they make Harry look even sexier, a naughty librarian or something. Ron sees again that Harry is far to thin, he could count the man's ribs if he wanted to. With most of their belts, Harry pulls the leftover nearly around his waist a whole second time.
Half his work is already done, Harry tugs at the jeans Ron's got hugging his waist, exerting ridiculous energy before undoing the belt clasp. Ron sighs and laughs at his lover, Harry is too sex-glazed to think properly. Ron's boxers slide on his smooth skin down toned legs, the jeans going with them. As nude bodies collide, both men gasp and pull back a bit, it's been hours since they did this last. Then they relax and fall into the old patterns that never get old.
She pushes the buzzer again. Perhaps this is the Hermione Granger curse. She is about to blow the door off its hinges when Ron opens it, wearing a backwards shirt he obviously put on in haste. He looks exactly like he did this morning, and Harry, she notes as he begins cleaning again, does too. Curiouser and curiouser. She walks in without invitation, because she knows Ron forgot how to speak, as he usually does in moments of shock. "Thought you weren't supposed to be here 'til 6:30, you're an hour early."
Ah, perhaps she's wrong, that's Ron talking now. Rounding on him, he is informed she's here to help clean up this...thing...and that they should be thanking her. She starts up a few of the more complex cleaning spells, and sends Ron off to maintain them. Harry helps her cook up the spaghetti they'd be serving tonight; Hermione makes meatballs as he concocts a sauce with Snape-like precision.
Though Harry is distracted with the marinara, Hermione thinks this is an excellent time to interrogate him about her theories, and carve out a sculpture of possibilities with the chisel of logic, the hammer of will, and cut a few finishing touches with Occam's razor. "You and Ron have any plans for the summer?"
She knew full well what they were doing, Harry fancied a trip over to the Mercado de Hecharía in La Paz, Bolivia, and Ron was interested in seeing Macchu Picchu. She took note of any and all facial expressions Harry made, but none were conclusive. She'd have to try later. Their portkey was for July 23-August 1, and Hermione, Neville, and various other friends and family were going to give Harry a surprise party at some Inca temple in the Andes. Twenty-four was a very important number, arithmatically and numerologically. Harry was trusting and gullible to the point of adorable, so while he mentioned these plans to Hermione, he didn't even mention that the trip was during his birthday. Until he turned eleven, his birthday meant nothing, so just saw it as another day.
Hermione completely discarded her philosophical musings on the significance of the anniversary of Harry's birth when Neville came from behind and gave her a soft kiss on the neck. She turned to greet him similarly, and, in a most un-Hermione fashion, managed to knock the meatballs to the ground without noticing. Harry froze most of them in midair, but two of them landed on the ground.
As Neville and Hermione snog, their eyes closed tight, Harry gives Ron a look of sadness, those meatballs looked really good. Ron gives him a look of disbelief; just put them back in the pan. Harry clasps his hands together and shakes them from side to side, indicating sweeping the floor, and then draws a finger across his neck, to indicate that the kitchen floor was not swept. Ron holds up five fingers and taps his watch; the five second rule could be invoked, its power summoned to save this dire emergency. Harry rolls his eyes and drops the chopped up cow muscle nuggets into the pan just as Neville and Hermione release. They both look flushed, and Neville puts a tray of tollhouse cookies he made on the kitchen counter, which Harry thanks him for, he and Ron completely forgot dessert. Really, Harry, it's no problem. Neville gets down on his hands and knees, and starts scrubbing the living room floor with a sponge he summoned. Ron claps him on the back and says he's a good man.
Until 6:32, when Ginny, Molly and Arthur Apparate just inside of Ron and Harry's flat, the only sounds are the pureblood men cleaning and the H's cooking.
By 7:04, when Dean and Parvati make their appearance, there are plenty of noises for them to add to. The Weasley twins are driving poor Lavender mad, bewitching everything poor Mrs. Finnegan-Brown gets near. Seamus finds it too funny to help, and she threatens continually that he'll sleep on the sofa tonight. Percy is boring Neville to death, but Neville will soon exact his revenge, Dr. Longbottom could lecture on plants for hours, and he's had practice at all the consortiums the Ministry sends him off to these days. Harry is hopelessly trying to get everyone organized for dinner, now that our last guests, the Thomas-Patils are here. Ron is playing Ginny at chess, their sibling rivalry is at a breaking point as Ginny's also very good, she and Ron were close when they were young. Well, or Ron could've been the twins lab-rat as a kid, they're the next closest in age. Molly, Parvati, and Hermione discuss cleaning spells as Dean and Ron reminisce. Penelope Clearwater-Weasley is giving Neville a look of sympathy, and rubs her belly, feeling the kick of her and Percy's third child. Arthur is trying to reassemble the telephone, his curiosity got the best of him and he hopes Harry and Ron don't notice, so he better get it done before dinner.
Which begins now, Harry announces. Nobody notices, and the buzz of several conversations swells, even, and would be drowning out any jet engines that were nearby. Harry whispers Ron's name, and the man hears it- crystal clarity. The two of them circulate the room, handing dishes of pasta and goblets out. Soon, everyone has found a seat on the nearest chair, sofa, windowsill or lap, and the dinner begins impromptu. The din that prevailed just moments ago has withered into the all but mute munching and slurping of spaghetti.
While most people are only able to do one thing at a time, Hermione Granger can do fifty-two. She is balancing herself on a rickety ottoman, every now and then needing to redirect her haunches to prevent any embarrassing meetings with the floor. She is also scratching an itch on her foot, something that impedes her balance terribly, but itching while balancing is one of her gifts. She is also talking to Molly about how she was able to get the food in this morning, and that she was sure Ron and Harry would be fine now.
Molly was, no, still is very protective of Ron, more so that any of her other children. She still expects Voldemort, the LATE Voldemort to kill Ron and Harry in their sleep; they were the biggest targets all throughout the war. Harry for obvious reasons and Ron the same. She had countless dreams of finding the Dark Mark over the apartment complex of her two youngest sons. When Neville and Hermione moved in (the third and fourth biggest targets, respectively), it only got worse for the poor dear. She still has these dreams, though she saw Voldemort wither into dust and scattered to the four winds. But Ron doesn't know all that.
And of course, Hermione is also eating. And watching Ron and Harry, who, either by accident, purpose, or some twist of ironic Freudian fate, are sitting (rather closely) on the love seat opposite her. She does not fail to notice the way they do not take their eyes off each other when they speak to each other. She is also the one to notice when Harry automatically and subconsciously wipes a fleck of Alfredo from Ron's chin. The red haired man does not notice either, or he doesn't care, and Hermione thought she was hallucinating when Harry thoughtlessly licks his finger clean of the cheesy goo. She raises her glass with the others as Percy says 'Kan-pei, Ron-kun and Harry-kun," before he launches into the tale of his adventures with cauldron bottoms in Japan.
Later in the night, about quarter to twelve, the fifteen (or sixteen, if you count the unborn Weasley-Clearwater) people in Ron and Harry's apartment are beginning to drift to sleep. They are all woken up when Seamus, Dean, Ginny, and Arthur's exploding snap card castle is obliterated by a chain reaction caused by a white marble chip of Harry's chess queen, that was knocked clear off the table by one of Ron's knights.
Collectively, the party is invigorated, re-energized, and Fred snaps his previously dozing head up, smacking a similarly drowsy George in the nose. This is found to be immensely funny by the party, especially Lavender, perhaps because she spent half the evening a victim to the twins' tricks. It takes her three whole minutes to get under control before she helps herself to a fourth glass of wine. Seamus will marry that girl, and they'll have the cheeriest house on the planet. Arthur can see it happen, just like he could for all of his children. Chewing on the last cookie, he realizes he can't quite see it for Ron. Ron, who is playing chess with Harry, whom he's lived with, in dorm and flat, for over a decade.
Why, there must be a child who was born on the day they met, and, if the Trio was any example, could be saving the world. Snapping back like a rubber band to his nearly derailed train of thought, Arthur plays the percentages.
Seven children. Assuming 10% of the population is homosexual, ignoring the statistical nightmare of identical twins, he has a 70% chance of having a homosexual child. Assuming that reality falls into that 70% (i.e., one child is homosexual); there is a 14.23% it will be any given Weasley child, as there are seven. Bill, Charlie, and Percy are all happily married. Ignoring past or current boyfriends or girlfriends, the remaining children, Fred, George, Ron and Ginny each have a 25% chance of being homosexual. Of course, Fred and George could be treated as less than one person, given that 50% of homosexual people with twins have twins of like orientation. In addition, girls (like Ginny) have greater homosexual tendencies than boys. So, the occurrence of homosexuality in Arthur's children leans either to the twins or to Ginny, Ron has no statistics that make him any more likely to be a homosexual, as the twins and Ginny do. But, Ron is the only one not currently in a relationship (that Arthur knows of), Ginny is in a long-distance relationship with some Assistant Professor from Beauxbatons, Fred is seeing Katie Bell (who's visiting her mother tonight), and George and Angelina are in one of the off stages of their on- off love life. With this data, Ron is now the only Weasley child of unconfirmed orientation. Should the Weasleys have a homosexual child, Ron assumingly bears the full 100% possibility. Treating the Weasley children as one case with only one homosexual, he has a 70% possibility overall of being homosexual. Very high odds. If Harry is homosexual, Harry has the general starting 10% of being homosexual. Ignoring incompatibility (they've known each other forever); there is a 7% that Ron and Harry are in a relationship, or were at some time, or will be.
But of course, Arthur muses as bits of Neville's cookie are wiped from his lips by a doting Molly, it could be love.
Hermione, who Arthur hadn't noticed was missing, he was deep in thought, beckons to the chess playing roomies to enter Ron's room. Which, Arthur notes, has about 5% of the boy's clothes in it, Harry's has most of their possessions, and has an unmade bed, while Ron's looks like it's never been used. He gives his raven-haired son a fraction of a nod before his bushy-haired friend closes the door, sealing the Trio inside.
"Hermione, what were you doing snooping around in my room?" Ron has his arms folded but Hermione gives him a 'yeah, right' scoff.
"This isn't anybody's room."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that it's awfully fishy that yours and Harry's clothes, books, everything, all seem to live in his room."
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing, just pointing out an asymmetry."
"You wouldn't just tell us something if you didn't have a theory. You have to have a theory, or it wouldn't bother you."
"It doesn't bother me!"
"That's a strange thing to say."
"About what?"
"Clothes! If you say it doesn't bother you, it's usually something else."
"Like what?"
"Like something someone does."
"So, the clothes aren't something anyone did, they just appeared there?"
"No need to be nit-picky about something off-topic."
"You brought it up!"
"You brought us in here!"
Hey, barkeep, a round of suspicious glaring all around! Hermione's eyes narrow and Ron's are but blue slits. Harry speaks, gently, voice almost noticeably trembling.
"Hermione, why were you in Ron's room?"
She knows she can't lie about hearing a noise, or seeing something interesting, the three of them can practically read each other's minds. Harry and Ron both know that Hermione either talks a little too loud or cranes her neck to one side whenever she lies. Ron gestures emphatically a lot, and Harry speaks a bit too carefully. He's the best at lying, though. One of Salazar, and thus, Voldemort's, and thus Harry's gifts was/was/is deception.
"I was looking...for. For evidence, ok?" She looks fiercely defiant, yet apologetic. The ferocity is a façade. "Oh Ron, Harry, I'm sorry, but I...I just had to be sure and now I think I am but I don't know if I am but it's important and I found it under the pillow and I just..."
She holds out a small box, covered in green velvet. Ron blushes, blushes, blushes. Harry looks incredulous and a bit scared at this thing that has such power over his two best friends. "I guess it's more than appropriate that you're here, Hermione," says Ron, looking disappointed and relieved. "This was supposed to be for your birthday, Harry, a secret present."
Harry gives him a look, Ron has implied there would be others on his birthday, but it's just the two of them in South America, right? Ron doesn't seem to notice and Harry pushes the idea of other people on his birthday away as Ron continues. "But, in the grand scheme of things, the few weeks between now and then aren't much compared to the last seven years" Hermione's jaw drops, they may have gotten together back at school!
Ron keeps going. "So, Harry, you want the flat to be registered under the right name?"
Realization.
Harry's feels his eyes water as the box opens and he lays eyes on what lies inside. Two silver rings, both of them attached to the same turquoise stone, sit in a velvet indentation. The stone will be separated at the ceremony, but the halves will still be magically bound to each other. Oh God, is this really happening?
Ron's on one knee, Hermione is sobbing. Neville shows up just in time, he should be here too. He look's quizzical for a moment, but then his eyes, like the three other pairs in the room, grow moist.
"Harry Potter, will you bind yourself to me?"
Choking through tears, Harry sobs, "Of course I will, Ron!" They embrace, and Harry adds that it's really only a formality. Ron laughs a choking laugh, and Hermione and Neville hug the two men who are now engaged, the four-way hug is warm and gentle.
There is a fifth sob, Molly's. Neville, clumsy as ever, has left the door to Ron's room wide open. The others saw it all.
There would be time later for explanations. Why Harry wanted to tell everyone that he was a normal person who could be loved, even if it was by a man. Why he wanted to prove himself, like a true Slytherin. Why Ron didn't want to disappoint everyone again, and how he convinced Harry to let them keep it a secret.
There would be time later for Arthur to congratulate himself on his mathematics. There would be time later for 'good luck's, and teary handshakes that transformed into teary 'are you kidding? Just a handshake for my baby brother?' hugs.
Time later for explaining that fateful day in Divination where palmistry forced the two then-boys to hold hands. Time later for Molly to add a hand that read "Harry" to the Weasley family clock. Time later for the twins to make a set of 'His & His' towels, one blue and one green, towels that transfigured into bathrobes by fingering the monogram.
But now, there was only time for Ron and Harry to kiss and turn to the assembled friends and family, and say that they were sure they had some explaining to do. Dean agreed as he wiped tears from his face.
Then the clock struck twelve times and Friday came to a close.
Fín
This was originally only going to be up to the steamy glasses line, but I embellished and made my longest fic yet.
This took me about a week of an-off writing; I did only a few hundred words at a time.
In fact, this was supposed to be posted last Friday.
Anyway, I thought making a "live" story was a cute idea.
And those index cards? Whew, I got a lot of plot bunnies and ideas checked off cause of this story.
As always, I beseech thee for reviews.
And expect a sequel, unless you stop me
Oh, and forgive arthur's/my math, it's summer, by goddess
-HFS