Chapter IV: Hold Back

We're lying on your bed now: books strewn across the floor, frogs in your tank blissfully croaking, flushed after playing around on our brooms earlier.

I'm so happy I can barely breathe, Ron—being back here, it's wonderful. I never told you this, but the stifling feeling I get at the Dursleys completely fades away when I see you, and everything feels a lot brighter now. It doesn't even bother me when I have to push away the urge to touch your hand gently. As long as I'm here with you, I don't care about the nightmares or Voldemort.

"Harry," you begin, a bit breathlessly. We were out for quite awhile, after all. Not that it makes any difference; the edge of huskiness on your voice still makes me shiver.

"Mmm?" I reply, mildly curious and trying to think of something other than you.

"You've never been down to the orchard, right?"

"No, I don't think so." I think carefully, then shake my head. "No."

"Let's go tomorrow, then. There's something . . . well." You trail off, and even though I'm curious, I know you too well to pry: you're awfully closed-mouth about some things. Only one of the things I love about you.

Of course, I say yes, because it will make you happy. We lie there in the silence, letting the breeze play over us, and I bask in your presence.

"Oh!" I suddenly remember your earlier letter. "Sorry about you not being able to send letters to me anymore. I don't really think you need to improve your writing much, though. It was a perfectly good letter."

I can hear the smile in your voice when you say, "Thanks," and it brings one of my own to my face. You'll never know how happy you make me feel, just being here with you—even the tiny, twisted knot of bitterness and mangled hope that reminds me I'll never be yours can't stop that, Ron.

"So, what next?" you finally ask, happy tone radiating through me. The huge grin I'm wearing fades a bit.

"I've still got homework to do," I mumble reluctantly.

"Rough luck, but it's not too bad," you say back. You sound faintly disappointed.

"Easy for you to say, Mr Scholar," I grumble good-naturedly, trying to lighten the mood. "What will become of me, left behind in the dust by my two brilliant friends?" I moan dramatically, throwing a hand against my forehead like a damsel in distress.

You roar with laughter—the sound sends a rush of warmth through me—and push me off the bed. It doesn't hurt very much, especially not when your wonderful laugh distracts me. I'm grinning hopelessly again; I really missed you.

You sit up, challenging me with sparkling blue eyes and a smile that makes my breath catch. I clear my throat to cover it, and in the lull you say, "How about the library, then?" You still seem a little—reserved? awkward, maybe—about your newfound interest in books. I wish you weren't; I like to read and it's only one more thing we share.

I nod, giving you what I hope is a reassuring smile.

You hop of the bed with a spryness I know you don't realize you own and I slowly push off the ground and follow you downstairs. You turn back to smile at me and once again I have to stop myself from reaching out to grasp your hand between mine. It wold be so simple—your fingers, warm and callused, twined with—

I cut that thought off by biting my lip.

Your steps on the gravel fall into a nice rhythm with mine as we head to the library. I ask which homework assignment was the hardest, and with a scowl, you break into a tirade about Snape.

This lasts us until town—you come up with some really creative insults that have me in stitches—and with a peaceful silence between us, you lead me to the tiny library.

The shelves are crammed with books in a way that makes me laugh quietly. It reminds me of Flourish and Blotts, which is a comforting thought. You wind through the bookcases to a small study table at the back, and I slowly set my stuff down around it.

"I'm going to go look, 'kay?" you ask suddenly, startling me out of my careful preparation. I nod slightly and you disappear into the murky back of the shop. For a moment I feel a total and irrational panic sweep through me like a tornado—I breathe in sharply; this almost hurts—I don't know where you are, what if you're in trouble, Ron—I can't find you—

I close my eyes and force myself to calm down. This isn't my nightmare, you'd say if you knew all this. This is real, you would tell me, and you can fend for yourself.

It's not my nightmare and you can protect yourself, but, Ron—

Calm down, Harry you idiot, calm down.

I massage my scar lightly, ignoring the writhing mass that is my stomach, and try to start on Potions. At least that takes my whole concentration; I won't be able to panic that you've gone out of my sight like a toddler and his mum.

You come back in a minute or two, and God, Ron, I'm sorry, but I can't help it—I'm so relieved you're back I almost leap up to hold you. I'm managing all right, but I didn't think it'd be so hard to stop myself. I love you . . .

You must have noticed by my expression, because you frown a little, and mutter, "All right, Harry?"

I bite my lip and draw in a big breath. "Fine," I whisper back.

At least the stupid Potions are cooperating now I'm not so worried about you. I glance up every few minutes anyway—your hair if falling softly into your face and your bright eyes are focused on your book so intently it makes me smile. I'm glad I'm back with you, Ron, so glad. With a silent sigh, I force myself to head back to my Potions essay.

Essay finished and Transfiguration conquered, I come out of my homework daze to find you staring at me, a half-smile playing on your lips. I flush—if only you would look at me like that every day—"What is it, Ron? Something on my face?"

You shake your head gently, something I can't make out written subtly on your face. Your eyes are shining and I wish desperately that—no, better not finish that thought.

"No, nothing."

I stare at your cheek because can't bare to meet your blue blue eyes, not risking speech. I know what I want that to mean and it aches that it's not your want, too.

Not that I'm angry. I don't think I could ever really be mad at you, not after how horribly it turned out last year.

You unfurl out of your seat with sudden fluid motion, and blinking, I follow you more slowly. "It's getting late; Mum'll want us back," you offer as an explanation, a funny flat taste to your words. Trying to contain a slight twinge of worry (sorry, I can't seem to help it now that I've got your lovely eyes within my sight to protect), I pack up my books and we wend our way back.

Dinner is delicious, but it is awfully quiet without anyone but us here. Your Mum prods a conversation into the air, so I listen happily as you two debate Wizard bands. While you're telling your mum fiercely that "Weird Sisters is as good a name as any!" I quietly slip in the living room to start on my homework again.

I want as much time alone with you as I can get, even if it is agonizing—

"Hey."

I'm drawn fuzzily from my work (how long have I been in here?) to see you sitting on the couch next to me, grinning slightly. My eyes soften at the sight of you before I slam a friendly smile over my features.

"Hey. Sorry, thought I'd get this done so I won't bog us down," I say, rubbing my quill a little between my fingers.

"Harry," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "You're not 'bogging us down'. Prat." I feel a shiver of warmth at the fondness of your tone. "Anyway, I renewed this for you—" you hold out a paperback "—I hope you don't mind, but it's really good, and I think you'd like it," you hurry on, uncertainty on your face again.

You can't possibly know how much I love you right now—my hands are trembling and I shove them under my legs to stop them; my heart is beating so loudly I can't believe you don't hear it; my face must be as red as a tomato.

Ron, I can't believe you . . . well, maybe it doesn't seem like much to you, but the fact that you even thought of me at all when you were reading makes me . . . makes me almost sure that I have a place in your heart. Even if it's just as a friend, I don't think knowledge of much else could make me this happy. How to kill Voldemort, maybe, but, Ron . . .

I will my hand steady and reach to take it from you. Magic's Pawn it reads in faded letters. I look straight into your eyes and let as much of my happiness as I dare show shine in my own.

Your smile after that is enough to keep me alive forever.