Into This Night I Wander by Geekwriter143, R

Title: Into This Night I Wander
Author: geekwriter143
Fandom and Pairing: Harry Potter; Harry/Ron
Rating: R
Prompt: Dark!fic (serendipity)
Warnings: spoilers up through Half-Blood Prince; no character deaths happen in the story itself, but it's post-war so there will be mentions of previous deaths and all sorts of nasty, war-type things.
Notes: This started out as a fluffy ficlet (no, really, it did) and ended up as 10,000 words of very un-fluffiness. Such is my brain. Also, constructive criticism is welcome since this is my first time writing in this fandom and I don't have a beta, so there are probably ginormous mistakes that I've missed.
Summary: In which Harry's confused, Hermione's happy, and Ron's pretty fucked up.


Ron was standing by the new fountain, the Fountain of Remembrance, when Harry passed by security with a wave and came into the Atrium. The Fountain of Magical Brethren had been destroyed during the war, when for three long days, the Death Eaters had taken over the Ministry and held everyone within it captive. The new fountain was a large block of black granite, names etched in long columns down each of its seven sides. Harry knew without looking that Ron would be standing by the side nearest the golden gates, because that was where Ron always stood, gazing at the water that rippled over the names as if it cast a spell over him. Harry supposed it did, in a way.

As Harry approached, Ron snapped out of his reverie and turned to face him. "Fancy a bite to eat?" he asked. He always asked, and Harry always said yes.

They didn't use the Floo Network, instead left the ministry through the telephone box and entered Muggle London where no one gave Harry a second glance, and if they looked twice at Ron it was only to wonder why someone so young needed a cane. There were no whispers about all that Ron had endured, how no amount of magic could ever fix his leg, how he'd endured weeks of torture at the hands of the Death Eaters but still never broke.

Harry may have been the one to end it all, to finally collect the last Horcrux, destroy it, and duel Voldemort to the death, but the Weasleys had become famous during the war for more than just being poor and plentiful, and Ron was the most famous Weasley of all. Harry wasn't sure what Ron liked most about Muggle London, but he couldn't deny that it always seemed to calm him. Perhaps it was all the artifacts that reminded Ron of his father. Perhaps it was the way no one knew his name. Perhaps it was that if people looked at him with pity, it was for his cane and his crippled right leg and not because of how he'd suffered during the war.

The Muggles didn't even know there had been a war. They walked right past Ron and Harry, unaware that they owed the young men their very lives. Harry liked that. He suspected Ron did, too.

They ate curry and talked about work. Despite the fact that they only worked one floor apart, they rarely ran into one another in the Ministry. Ron told Harry about everything he'd had to deal with that day as a member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, causing Harry to laugh so hard and so long that the people at the next table turned to glare at him, making him laugh even harder. Harry was an Auror, as he'd always known he'd be. His stories weren't half as funny as Ron's, and he was always careful about what he said, partly to protect the division and partly to protect Ron.

They headed home on foot. Ron never tired of riding the Underground, gawking at the unmoving posters on the wall and the buskers and the crush of people as if he'd never seen any of it before. Harry wanted to ask how Ron's leg felt, but he didn't. He knew Ron would never tell him even if it did hurt, and it would just make him push himself harder.

"Had lunch with Neville," Ron said as they entered the flat. It had originally been Harry's alone, but it became theirs almost by accident. Ron never stayed at The Burrow after the war, and he'd never bothered getting a flat of his own. Harry didn't mind.

Harry smiled at the mention of Neville's name. "Yeah? What brought him into the city?"

"He bought a ring." Despite the fact that they'd just eaten, Ron opened the cabinets looking for something to snack on. He settled on a package of spicy dragon-barbecue flavored crisps.

"A ring?" Harry asked, not sure why Neville's choices in jewelry should matter to him. Then, "Oh. Oh! A ring."

Ron nodded as he stuffed his mouth full of crisps. Harry studied him for a moment, tried to see if Ron was upset about it. It was hard to read Ron anymore. He'd put up a wall during his torture that even he didn't know how to take down.

"I'm happy for them, mate," Ron said after he'd swallowed. Sometimes Hermione teased that the only proof that Ron had matured was that he'd stopped talking with his mouth full—most of the time, anyway.

"Yeah?" Harry asked.

Ron nodded and smiled, and it was a genuine smile, if a little weary. "Can you imagine, it? Hermione Longbottom."

"She hasn't said yes, yet," Harry said.

"She will." Ron seemed both sure and unconcerned. "I'm going down to the pub for a round. Coming?"

Harry shook his head and leaned against the counter. He'd spent the entire afternoon teaching the newest Aurors-in-training how to resist the Imperius curse and was exhausted. "No. But tell everyone hello for me."

Ron said he would, and with a pinch of floo powder, he was gone.

Harry turned on the Wizarding Wireless Network and listened for a while, turned it off after he nearly fell asleep on the couch. He dragged himself to bed and fell in willingly. He could have slept half a day, but a little after midnight the small nail clippers on his night stand began to flash and buzz. It was something he'd learned from Arthur Weasley, and he'd turned it into the signal for when Mabel, the barkeep at The Boar's Tooth, needed him to come get Ron. He pulled his robes on sleepily and stumbled towards the fireplace. He used the Floo Network to get to The Boar's Tooth and scratched at the back of his neck as he headed for Ron's usual barstool.

"Hey, Ron," he said, touching Ron's shoulder softly.

Ron looked up from his firewhisky, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "Harry," was all he said.

Harry smiled and rubbed the back of Ron's neck. "Time to go, mate."

Ron shook his head slowly. "I'm drinking a toast," he said. "I can't leave until I'm done." He held up his glass and said in a slur, "A toast…to the dead." He downed the rest of his firewhisky, then stood up and faltered a bit. He often forgot he needed his cane when he was drunk.

Harry reached to help him, but Ron slapped his hands away. "I'm not a bloody cripple," he snarled.

"No, but you are drunk off your nut." Harry kept his voice kind. He wanted to yell, but it only made Ron yell back.

Ron didn't argue with that, finally let Harry sling an arm around his back for support. He sagged against Harry all the way from the bar stool to the fireplace, out of the fireplace in their flat and into his room.

Harry knelt down to take off Ron's shoes, swung his legs up into his bed, pulled the covers over him. He thought Ron was asleep until he turned to go and felt Ron grab his hand suddenly. "Harry," Ron whispered, his eyes wild and frightened. "Harry." It sounded like a plea.

"It's all right," Harry said, smoothing Ron's hair off his forehead. He wanted to distract Ron, make him think of something else, but the only think he could think of to say was, Remember the Yule Ball, those horrid dress robes your mum made you wear? but he didn't say that, because if he had, it would have been as good as saying, Remember when all our friends were still alive?

So he did what he always did; he laid down next to Ron and stroked his hair and whispered that it would be all right and held Ron against him as he cried. And later, when Ron rocked against him, Harry murmured soft words and kissed him and held him as he came.

**********

Neville and Hermione held their engagement party nearly a month later, at the end of September, on the grounds of Hogwarts. There were rows and rows of tables set up near the greenhouses, each table covered in lacy white cloths and vases overflowing with frilly white and purple flowers.

"Think Neville grew these himself?" Ron asked, touching the bloom closest to him. It pulled away from his touch and stretched up towards the sun.

"Most likely," Harry said. His stomach growled. They'd had finger sandwiches and tea and petit fours, nothing to really fill them up at all. "I'd have eaten at home if I knew they wouldn't be serving real food," he said grumpily.

"I told you to have an extra helping of porridge this morning."

"Yes, well, she said there'd be food here."

"Oh, come on, engagement parties never have real food. Don't you remember the one Mum threw for Fleur and…" Ron pursed his lips and looked away for a long moment. "I'm going to talk to Hagrid," he said, before pushing his chair back and limping steadily to the far table where Hagrid was enthusiastically explaining something to a rather terrified looking Mr. Granger.

Harry sipped the last of his tea, which had gone cold, and stood up. He waved at Hagrid, who looked ridiculously large in one of the dainty chairs set up for the party. Hagrid waved in return, then turned back to Hermione's father and laughed, clapping the poor man on the back hard enough to scoot him and his chair a foot closer to the table. Harry shook his head and smiled to himself as walked along, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He noticed that Ron hadn't gone to talk to Hagrid at all, that instead he had walked to the edge of the vegetable patch where he stared blankly at the cabbages. Harry didn't follow him. Sometimes Ron just needed time by himself.

The party really was quite lovely, with enchanted willow boughs woven together to form a bower beneath which the tables were set up. The branches were intertwined with flowering vines and sparkling silver baubles and birds that sang in harmony.

Harry eyed the buffet table, wondering how many finger sandwiches he could load up on without seeming rude.

"Oh, there you are!" Hermione sounded flustered. When he turned to look at her, he saw that her cheeks were flushed. They were pink with excitement, though, not frustration. Her hair was swept up in a twist, a few tendrils curling around her face and at the nape of her neck. The sleeves of her pale blue dress fluttered as she surged forward to hug him. "I've been trying to get to you for ages, but I kept getting pulled into conversations and when I finally got to where you'd been, both you and Ron were gone. I was afraid you'd left without saying goodbye," she said against his neck.

Harry kissed her cheek as he pulled back. "Would we do that?"

"Not on purpose, but if he…well…you know. If he had to leave, I thought perhaps…"

"No," Harry said. "We're just walking around. I think he went to save your father from Hagrid."

Hermione laughed. "That should teach my father to ask about dragon dentistry, shouldn't it?"

"I should think so."

"Can you even believe it?" she asked, waving her hand to indicate the bower above them. "Neville did this all on his own, as a surprise for me." She leaned in close as if to whisper a secret. "I suspect, however, that he had some help from McGonagall with the weaving charm."

Harry had actually found the weaving charm for Neville, but he wasn't going to tell her that. "Have you set a date?"

"Christmastime," she said. "You know how much I love the snow, and school will be on break, and Neville looks so handsome in red…" She trailed off and gazed lovingly over Harry's shoulder. He turned to see where she was looking and smiled. Neville was holding Katie Bell's youngest on his knee, trying very hard not to show how afraid he was of dropping him.

"He's never been around children," she said softly, "but he wants a whole house full. Filled to the rafters with children, seams bursting, just like…"

"Just like the Weasleys," Harry said.

She nodded and slipped her hand into his, pulling him away from the rest of the party. "How is he?"

Harry looked at the closest tablecloth and followed its intricate design with his eyes. Hermione had become a fierce Legilimens and he knew that while she wouldn't do it on purpose, she'd be able to read his lie plainly in his eyes. "He's better," he said.

Hermione squeezed his hand and sighed. "I just…I couldn't…you know I tried."

"It's not your fault," he told her. He looked her in the eye because it was true.

"You don't think I'm awful for leaving him?"

Harry knew Ron had been gone long before Hermione had ended things between them. "No. Neither does he."

Hermione spared a quick glance at where Ron was standing by himself, looking almost as uncomfortable as Hermione's father.

"I didn't know how to reach him," she whispered, and he could hear the tears in her voice. "I tried everything I could."

"I know you did. It's not your fault."

"But he is better? He really is?"

Harry sighed. He hated lying to her. "Some days," he said honestly. "Some days are better."

Katie's baby had begun to fuss, so she'd taken him from Neville, freeing him to come clap Harry on the back. "Glad to see you," Neville said. He let out a little surprised noise when Harry hugged him, but he recovered quickly and hugged Harry back warmly.

It wasn't just that he made Hermione so happy or that they'd been friends for fifteen years or that they'd fought shoulder to shoulder through the darkest days of the war that made Harry love Neville. Neville was the only one of their old friends that treated Ron as if he wasn't breakable. He never looked at Ron as if he might crack at any moment, never withheld anything from him, never glanced at him in fear.

"Can you believe it?" Neville asked. It was nearly the same question that Hermione had asked him, but Neville wasn't talking about the bower. He was gazing right at Hermione, who flushed and looked away shyly. She could disembowel an Erkling at twenty paces without flinching, but Neville looking at her as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world made her blush.

"I'm the luckiest wizard alive," Neville said as he reached out to take Hermione's hand in his.

"Nah," said Harry, "it's not luck. You deserve this, both of you."

Neville smiled and thanked him, while Hermione punched him on the arm and accused him of trying to make her cry. At the far end of the tent, Hagrid had his mouth wide open and was pointing to one of his back molars, trying to make Hermione's father look at it. Hermione laughed and rubbed Neville's arm, "Looks like I'm the one who needs to rescue my father," she said. She kissed Harry's cheek quickly. "We'll talk more later."

Harry nodded as she hurried off to stop Hagrid from putting her father's entire head in his mouth.

"Do you know how I got her?' Neville asked as he watched Hermione walk away.

"By being the best Herbologist this side of the Atlantic?" Harry asked.

Neville smiled at the compliment but shook his head. "I waited, that's all. If it's meant to be, it will be. All you have to do is wait." With that he clapped Harry on the back once more and hurried off to where his grandmother was staunchly telling one of the other guests to stand up straight and get her hair out of her eyes.

Harry felt like Neville had meant something by that, that he'd been trying to tell him something, but Harry didn't know what. He saw Luna Lovegood and waved, smiling at her hat made of willow branches and dancing hearts, but didn't go to speak to her. He headed towards the vegetable patch, instead.

"Walk with me," Harry said, coming up next to Ron and bumping their shoulders together. "I think I saw some flashes of red and gold over on the Quidditch pitch. We could take a look, maybe stop into the castle on the way back, see if the house elves have any food they'd be willing to spare."

Ron smiled. "I should have known this was about your stomach." He didn't argue about the walk, though, so he and Harry started towards the pitch at a leisurely stroll. Ron's leg didn't seem to be bothering him; it didn't if he took his pain potion, which he often forgot.

Neville had called himself the luckiest wizard alive, but Harry disagreed. Sure, he was happy that Neville and Hermione had found happiness with one another, but he'd meant it when he said it was deserved. As for luck, either he or Ron had to be the luckiest wizard alive. He could never really decide which one of them was the luckiest; it changed from day to day.

The final battle had taken place a year to the day after Ron had escaped from the Death Eaters. He'd spent several months in St. Mungo's after that, before his mind had repaired itself enough that he could be released, but by the time of the final battle he was ready to stand beside Harry as he always had.

Harry had chased Voldemort to the cliffs of northern Devon, to a rocky outcrop rolling with fog, and there they had fought their last duel. When Ron had attempted to help, Voldemort had turned and cursed him, laughed as Ron disappeared in a cloud of dust and falling rocks.

It was with that heartbreak—the loss of the best of all his friends after so many losses, the fierce and aching love that he was afraid would undo him—that Harry fought Voldemort and, in the end, triumphed.

After Voldemort's corpse had been turned to ashes, Harry apparated to the coastline, hoping to recover Ron's body before the tide pulled it to sea. What he found instead was Ron, badly hurt but still alive.

"You get him, mate?" Ron had asked, his voice weak.

Harry couldn't even speak, just nodded and cried and pulled Ron into his arms.

The cliff Ron had been standing on had crumbled just before Voldemort had cast his curse. That was the only reason he was alive. If it hadn't crumbled at that precise moment, Ron would have been hit with the full force of the spell, would have been dead instantly. Harry was never quite sure how he felt when he realized that his best friend's life was the result of dumb luck.

Ron had recuperated, once again, in St. Mungo's. He'd gone back to the flat he shared with Hermione once he was well. He'd refused to use the cane for months, once even throwing it at Hermione with enough force to crack their bedroom door. That was the first time Hermione had kicked him out, but not the last. He'd eventually gotten used to the cane; it was surviving that Ron didn't seem so sure about.

"Think we could give them a run for their money?" Ron asked as they neared the pitch. The Gryffindor team was playing a scrimmage against Hufflepuff, if the players' robes were anything to go by.

"I think we'd wipe the floor with them," Harry said as he followed Ron into the stands. They sat on the far end and watched, noting each team's strategy and the Hufflepuff chasers' good use of the Hawkshead Attacking Formation.

"Oh," Ron said pointing. "There, there, I think she's…" He trailed off as the Gryffindor seeker dove towards the ground at an impossibly steep angle. She pulled up at the last second, the Hufflepuff seeker behind her hitting the ground. Ron hooted and clapped his hands. "I haven't seen a Wronski Defensive Feint like that since Ireland played Bulgaria."

Harry laughed and pressed his shoulder to Ron's. He hadn't seen his best friend in such a good mood since the very start of the war.

They watched the scrimmage for a long time, until Harry's stomach growled so loudly even Ron could hear it.

"Off to the kitchens, then?" Ron asked, tapping Harry's thigh with his knobby wooden cane. "Ooooh, maybe they'll have treacle tarts."

"I thought you weren't hungry," Harry said as they left the stands.

"I never said I wasn't hungry, I just said you should have had an extra helping of porridge like I told you to. I'm always hungry, you know that."

"Treacle tarts," Harry said, longingly. No one made treacle tarts like the Hogwarts house-elves.

"Chocolate gateau, chocolate éclairs, chocolate pudding, chocolate pie…" Ron gripped his cane tighter and stepped up the pace quite a bit, making Harry laugh. "Do you think we can stop at Honeydukes on our way home? Pick up some fudge?"

"We'll buy the biggest pan of fudge they sell," Harry said, "and we'll eat it all tonight."

They'd gotten to the arched breezeway around the courtyard and were heading towards the entrance hall when they heard Ron's name, whispered furiously.

"You did not see Ron Weasley!" a young witch squealed. She and her companion, a blonde boy, were sitting against the other side of the breezeway, whispering to one another.

"I did too. He was on the Quidditch pitch. I saw him with my own eyes. No one has hair that red. It had to have been him."

"But why would he be at Hogwarts?"

"For the party, of course. Don't you know that he and Professor Granger were at school together?"

"Well, yes, but…they're not friends, are they? She's really friends with…with him?"

"I heard he killed them all," the tiny blonde boy whispered. "Thirty Death Eaters, all by himself."

"I heard it was fifty," the girl whispered back.

Harry wondered when the students at Hogwarts had all gotten so young.

"My mum said thirty," the boy insisted. "Said he did it all with one charm, too. Said he didn't even use his wand. Said he did it with his mind."

Harry looked over at Ron nervously, afraid of what he'd see on his friend's face. Instead of the usual sick pallor that came over him when people gossiped about him, he looked amused, even mischievous. Ron grinned at Harry, and Harry couldn't help but smile back since he was suddenly reminded of the Ron he'd known before the war, the Ron that could find humor in anything.

"Actually," Ron said as he leaned through the arch, "it was only seventeen."

The two young wizards looked up at Ron with wide eyes. Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at their expressions of shock mixed with terror. He'd never understand how people could think Ron, of all people, was someone to be afraid of. Of course, he had killed seventeen Death Eaters with his mind, but still. He was just Ron, just as he'd always been, though perhaps a little worse for wear.

"Y-you're Ron Weasley," the young witch whispered as she gazed up at them. "A-and Harry P-p-potter."

"Harry!" Hermione's voice was sharp as she came up the path. "Ron! Are you tormenting my students?"

"Yes," Ron said easily. He flashed her a wicked grin. "I'm tormenting them with the power of my mind."

Harry did laugh at that, and Hermione tried to look stern but she couldn't help but laugh when Ron pulled a ridiculous face. "You're horrid, the both of you," she said, struggling for sternness again. "And as for you Blotwell, Jamison, I assume your homework for Monday is already in order? Two scrolls each?"

"Yes, Professor Granger," said the young witch. The boy next to her didn't speak, but nodded quickly and swallowed hard.

Hermione squinted at them and clucked her tongue. "Fine then. Off with the both of you." They got to their feet and scrambled away as fast as they could. "And Jamison!" Hermione called after them. "Cutting a scroll in half does not, in fact, make it into two scrolls. I expect your essay to be full length come Monday morning."

"Were we ever that small?" Harry asked as he watched the two children run full speed back to the castle.

"Cutting a scroll in half to make two scrolls," Ron said, shaking his head. "Why didn't I ever think of that?"

"Because you had me around to remind you it was daft," Hermione said, ruffling his hair affectionately. "You look good, Ron."

He smiled at her. "You, too. Neville's good for you."

"Do you really think so?"

Ron nodded. "Yeah."

Hermione's smile was brilliant, her eyes shiny with tears. "Yeah, I think so, too."

Harry began to back up, not wanting to get in the way of whatever moment Ron and Hermione were about to have.

"Oh," Hermione said, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. "Honestly. I am such a girl sometimes."

Ron was still smiling at her. "Yeah, I noticed that."

"Took you long enough."

Harry was still backing away slowly as Ron and Hermione gazed at one another.

"Oh," Hermione said, as if responding to something Ron had said, though Harry knew he hadn't said a word. "Oh, Ron," she said softly. The moment was broken when a Remembrall came sailing at the back of Hermione's head. She turned and caught it deftly, then stalked up the path, shouting, "Hopkins! What have I told you about improper focus when using banishing charms?"

"Blimey," Ron muttered. "I'm glad she wasn't one of our professors when we were here. Could you imagine? We'd never have gotten away with anything. She's got eyes in the back of her head, that one."

"Think she'll mind us nicking things from the kitchen?" Harry asked.

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her," Ron said, and with that they set off across the courtyard, through the entrance hall, and down the stairs to the kitchens.

Three quarters of an hour later, Harry and Ron left the kitchen stuffed to the gills on fried chicken, shepherd's pie, ham sandwiches, chocolate éclairs, and trifle. In one of the pockets of Harry's robe were treacle tarts that the house elves had carefully wrapped in butcher's paper for his journey home. In his free hand, Ron carried a basket filled with chocolate muffins, slices of cake, and ripe, red strawberries.

"I think they missed us," Ron remarked as they dodged a group of Hufflepuffs hurrying towards their common room. "It was like no one had gone in and asked for food in ages."

"Maybe no one has," Harry said. "After all, Hogwarts was closed all through the war, so they didn't have older students to pass that sort of thing down to them. Perhaps the current students don't know about the house-elves at all, or if they do, they don't know how willing they are to give out food."

"Their loss," Ron said. "We should write a primer with all the important things in it. How to get food at all hours, how to find the room of requirement, that sort of thing."

"Who Moaning Myrtle is," Harry said.

"Oooh, exactly, and the fact that she likes to spy on prefects during their baths. I always made sure I had the pipes blocked before I took my robes off. Cheekiest ghost in all of wizardom. How to get to the Shrieking Shack from the Whomping Willow, what knot to press to keep it from smashing you to bits."

"Where the door to the Slytherin common room is hidden," Harry said.

"The little room on the sixth floor behind the statue of Raul the Reticent," Ron said, nodding. "With the pillows on the floor and the cozy little fireplace that was always lit."

They'd reached the entrance hall by then, and Harry stopped to look at Ron. "What room was that?" he asked.

Ron cleared his throat. "I, uh, I never told you about that room?"

"No, you didn't. Pillows on the floor? What for?"

Ron blushed and hurried towards the marble steps. "Er, never mind," he said quickly. "Hermione will wonder where we've gone. We should hurry back."

Harry followed with a grin on his face. He could certainly imagine just what kind of mischief Ron had gotten up to in a room like that, either with Lavender Brown or, later, Hermione.

He knew Ron wasn't his, not really. He knew that one day Ron would fall in love with some pretty young witch and marry her and have a houseful of children. He wanted that for Ron, wanted him to have that sort of happiness, but he couldn't help also wanting everything to stay the same. Sometimes he caught himself hoping that Ron would never completely recover, and he hated himself for the selfishness of it.

He knew in his heart that he'd only have Ron for a short time, that he'd never really have him at all, not truly, not the way he really wanted him. He was lucky to have Ron's friendship, was lucky to be able to ease Ron's pain, even if it did leave him longing for more.

The party was winding down when they returned, and several hours and a huge pan of Honeydukes fudge later, they finally returned home, too exhausted to even break into the fudge before they each stumbled to their rooms to sleep.

It was half past two when Harry awoke, Ron's finger's light against his cheek. "What's wrong?" he asked sleepily, squinting in the dim light without the aid of his glasses.

Ron shook his head. "Today was good, wasn't it?" he asked. "It felt…I don't know. It felt like everything could be all right again."

Harry propped himself up on his elbows, about to speak when Ron kissed him. He was so startled that he forgot completely what he was going to say.

It only happened when Ron was upset, when he needed comfort, when he needed distraction. Harry slid his arms around Ron's back and held him close, stroking his hair. He didn't seem upset, but maybe he just didn't want to say anything. Maybe he just didn't want Harry to know that he was still in love with Hermione.

He knew he should say no, but he never said no, not to Ron. He kissed Ron back, arched against him, and when Ron whispered, "Inside you, Harry. Please," Harry said yes like he always did, wrapping his legs around Ron's waist and moaning with the delicious ache of it and coming hard, digging his fingers into the muscles of Ron's arms.

They fell asleep curled together, but when Harry woke the next morning he was alone, the way he always was. Neither of them mentioned it at breakfast—they'd never talked about it at all—and they went off to work as if nothing had ever happened.

**********

A few days into October, Harry received an interdepartmental memo that worried him. It was from Ron and was quite short. "Met Hermione for lunch. Took off early. Meet you at home. Bring takeaway?"

There was nothing sinister about the note itself, but Harry couldn't help but wonder why Ron had left work early. Had he and Hermione reconciled? He didn't doubt that her love for Neville was true, but he knew she and Ron had loved each other fiercely once. Had Ron asked Hermione to leave Neville and been rebuffed? Had they quarreled? Had they run off together? He quickly struck that last idea from his mind, if for no other reason than if they had run off together, Ron would have had no reason to ask Harry to bring dinner home.

He knew he should finish up his report on the recent discovery of a darkly enchanted perfume bottle, but his mind was so focused on what was wrong with Ron that he couldn't concentrate and he packed it in at a quarter to six. He hurried home, getting food on the way, and found Ron at their kitchen table, fussing over a barn owl.

"What's that?" Harry asked as he hung his robes in the closet.

"Owl," Ron said, brushing his finger gently down the bird's wing.

"I can see that. I just…you left work early to buy an owl? I didn't know you wanted an owl."

"Hermione bought her for me," Ron said as he caressed the edge of the owl's heart-shaped face. He seemed quite fond of her, and he kept stroking her feathers even as he opened a new tin of owl treats. "She thought I needed a pet."

"Oh," Harry said. He wasn't sure what to say about that. "I brought burgers and chips."

"Brilliant," said Ron. "I'm starving. Her name's Bernice."

Harry nodded at her as he set the bag containing their dinner on the table. "Why'd Hermione think you needed a pet?"

"She didn't say. But if you'll look, you'll see that Bernice and I have something in common."

Harry looked at the bird for a moment before he noticed that one of her claws was small and misshapen.

"You see, even though Bernice's leg is useless, Bernice herself is not useless. I can't imagine the message Hermione is trying to send. I've a feeling the gift was supposed to be symbolic, but I'm stymied."

Harry laughed and leaned over to stroke Bernice's wing. "She's a tricky one, that Hermione," he said. "Her motives are completely opaque." He laughed and kissed Ron quickly before straightening up to summon plates for dinner. He had his wand in his hand before he realized what he'd done, and he froze for a moment. When he looked back, though, Ron didn't seem upset by the kiss. He seemed too involved in listening to Bernice's soft twittering to have even noticed. Harry shook himself for the mistake, then sent plates and silverware and two bottles of butterbeer flying towards the table.

The next day he received a note from Hermione, asking if he could join her for lunch that weekend in Hogsmeade. He hoped she didn't plan to buy him an owl with a scar on its forehead and a hopeless crush on its best friend.

He met her on Saturday afternoon at a new restaurant called Twiddle's Bites and Trifles that stood in the same place Zonko's had been during his time at Hogwarts. It was filled with students, though each booth was separated from the ones beside it with tall wooden partitions, giving the inhabitants at least a semblance of privacy.

Hermione prattled on during most of the lunch, about her students and the horrors of grading papers and how she'd had to practically wrestle Augusta Longbottom for the right to plan her own wedding.

"Ron seemed quite good when I saw him this week," she said as she poured herself another cup of tea. "Do you think he liked the owl? I saw her and thought immediately of him, and then thought perhaps I shouldn't. I don't want to be overbearing, you know. Neville's gran can quite often be overbearing, though I do believe she does it with the best of intentions."

"Ron's quite fond of her," Harry said. "Bernice, I mean. He won't admit it, of course, but I can tell. He dotes on her."

Hermione smiled as she stirred her tea. She was about to say something when a riot of foul language erupted from the other side of the partition. Hermione heaved a weary sigh and propped herself up so that she could see into the neighboring booth. "Good afternoon, Hopkins," she said. "That will be twenty points from Ravenclaw for language. Honestly. Since you're so clever, can't you think of a better way to express yourself?" She sat back down and rolled her eyes.

"I can't believe you're really a professor," Harry said. "I mean, you really are, aren't you? You've got an office and everything."

She laughed brightly and nodded. "Yes, office and all. The best part? They're terrified of me. All of them."

"You do hold a cursed position."

She sniffed. "I've taught Defense Against the Dark Arts for over two years now with no ill effects."

"Except that horn growing out of your chin," Harry said, pointing.

She slapped his hand down, laughing. "It's a spot. I'm quite stressed, it being the end of term and all, grading papers and planning the wedding. Neville has asked you to stand up for him, hasn't he?"

"Stand up for him?"

"At the wedding, as one of his groomsmen." She sighed when Harry shook his head. "He's lovely, I adore him, but he's quite forgetful."

"I know," Harry said.

"He was supposed to ask you and Ron both, but he gets into one of his greenhouses and the rest of the world disappears. You know how he is."

Harry nodded. "I do."

"He's quite—"

"Hermione," Harry cut her off. "Ron and I, we're…that is, sometimes we…"

"I know," she said gently, laying her hand over his.

"You do? How?"

"I saw it in his eyes." Her expression wasn't one of pity, but kindness. It made Harry look away regardless. "And in yours. Accio Extendable Ears," she said suddenly, and a long, flesh-colored piece of string flew into her hands. "Honestly, Worthington, I was there when Extendable Ears were being invented; you're hardly going to be able to use them to spy on me. And if you're so desperate to find out what's being said at my table, the least you can do is join us for tea."

A sheepish looking third-year shuffled up to the table and looked from the seat near Hermione to the seat near Harry and back again. It was clear from his expression that he couldn't decide which was worse, sitting next to Hogwarts' most feared professor, or sitting next to the savior of the free world. Hermione patted the spot next to her, taking the choice out of his hands, and Harry grinned as he bit into an éclair, imagining how horrified he would have been if he'd had to take tea with Severus Snape.

**********

Ron disappeared in the middle of November. Harry worried about him, but he was used to Ron going missing. He'd taken his warmest cloak, his broom, and his wand, after all. He'd be all right. He'd left Bernice behind. Harry took care of her as well as he took care of Hedwig. The two got along remarkably well, considering how picky Hedwig could be about her fellow owls. They went out to hunt together, cooed and twittered in conversation, and during the day they slept huddled up together on the same perch.

After two weeks with no word, Harry started to worry. It wasn't that Ron was at risk of losing his job, because he wasn't. When he was there, he was the best wizard they had in the whole of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Even if he hadn't been, they wouldn't have sacked him even if he'd failed to show up for months at a time. His bosses would never fire him; they were afraid of making him angry since no one, not even Ron, knew how he'd done it, how he'd killed seventeen Death Eaters without a wand to assist him.

Ron had tried to explain it one night, though words had largely escaped him. "It was just…everything I felt, all the rage and pain and terror balled up, condensed into a tiny point inside of me and then exploded. They were dead after that. I don't know why."

After two weeks, Harry began to worry because it was the longest Ron had been gone in years. Right after he and Hermione had broken up he'd disappeared for nearly a month and a half, but it had been a long time since then.

After three weeks, Harry wrapped up a parcel filled with warm woolen socks, a copy of a new book on the history of the Chudley Cannons, a loaf of bread and some cheese, a large block of Honeydukes chocolate, and 20 Galleons. He took Bernice out of her cage and stroked her feathers. "Can you take this to Ron for me?" he asked her. She hooted her assent and nipped gently at his fingers before taking the parcel string in her beak and flying off into the darkness.

Harry slept in Ron's bed that night, pulling the covers close around him, holding Ron's pillow to his chest and breathing in his scent.

Bernice returned several days later without a note from Ron. She didn't seem worried about him, though, a fact that Harry tried to calm himself with.

A week after that, after rounding up a rogue group of dark wizards, a Druid Harry had seen before but had never known well stopped him on his way towards the interrogation rooms to tell him that he'd seen Ron wandering across Westray in the Orkney Islands a week before. Of course everyone in the Ministry knew Ron hadn't shown up for work in weeks. Of course everyone knew Harry was looking for him. The Ministry may have been filled with red tape, but if the people there were efficient at one thing, it was gossip.

Harry thanked the Druid and the next morning, once the interrogations were finished, he apparated to Westray and spent nearly three days looking there, on Papay, Eday, Egilsay, Wyre, Rousay, and Shapinsay before he finally found Ron on The Mainland, almost within sight of the main Stromness to Kirkwall road.

It was just after dawn and spitting freezing rain when he came across Ron sitting on the ground with his back against the Deepdale stone, gazing out at the half-frozen Stenness Loch.

"Bit nippy out," Harry said, sitting next to him and pulling his cloak tightly around him.

Ron nodded and took a sip from his flask. Harry didn't ask what was in it. He'd been able to smell firewhisky from five paces away.

"Ah'm fair blide ta see thee," Harry said, in a decent replication of the Orcadian dialect.

"Glad to see you, too," Ron whispered. His nose was very cold when he pressed it to Harry's neck.

"Coming home any time soon?" Harry opened his cloak and wrapped Ron in it, pulling him against his chest. Ron was shivering and Harry worried that his fingers showed the beginning of frostnip.

Ron didn't answer him, just burrowed into Harry's warmth.

"It's time for you to come home," Harry whispered as he used his wand to apply a warming spell to Ron's skin.

"I like the people here," Ron said softly as he relaxed into Harry's embrace. "Even the Muggles are tough, bent but never broken."

"We should go home. Hermione's wedding is in less than a week. You don't want to miss it, do you?"

Ron didn't answer that question, either. "I've got a room at Cubbie Roo," he said. "It's quite lovely."

Sometimes, Ron wasn't really there at all. He walked around the world with his mind somewhere else entirely. It had been that way ever since he'd escaped from the Death Eaters who'd held him captive for three weeks after the battle of Hawthorne Hill.

Harry nodded and held Ron close as they side-along apparated to Wyre, to the elegant and ancient Cubbie Roo's Castle and Inn, built in 1142 by the famous Norse wizard, Kolbein Hruga. It appeared as nothing but a ruin of stone to Muggles, but it was a quite popular destination for Wizard tourists during the summer months, when they flocked to Orkney for bird watching and nature photography.

The Inn's proprietress was just sweeping out the hearth to light the morning fire when they entered. She smiled when she saw them, and asked in her thick, lilting accent if they'd like breakfast brought up to the room.

The room, on the third floor of the tower, was warm and dry, a new fire crackling brightly in the hearth. Harry had just finished the spell to dry Ron's clothes when the proprietress rapped quickly on the door before pushing it open. She was carrying a tray laden with poached eggs, bacon, sausages, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, kippers, and fried bread.

"I've left out the black pudding, as he's not at all fond of it," she said as she set the tray on a table that rolled out from the wall to meet her. "You Southerners don't appreciate the importance of a good pudding to start off the day. Come now, boy," she said, taking Ron gently by the shoulders and leading him to a chair by the window. "Sit you down, time to eat." She seemed quite used to dealing with him, and Harry wondered how many times Ron had stayed at the Inn during his disappearances.

She took the flask from Ron's hand and slipped it into her pocket, giving him a cup of hot tea instead with several squares of chocolate perched on the rim of the saucer.

"Thank you," Harry said. He didn't mean just for the breakfast, and she seemed to understand that as she smiled kindly at him.

"My nephew fought with you during the war," she said. "I don't suppose you know him. Alistair Unysbister?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, of course. He plays Keeper for the Prides now, doesn't he?"

She beamed, clearly delighted that he recognized the name. "Yes, yes he does." She looked over at Ron, who was gazing at the piece of chocolate in his hand as if it was speaking to him. "Alistair's never said a word but good about you, either of you. I don't care how many articles those useless gossips at the Daily Prophet write, I trust my Alistair and I know there's no way Mr. Weasley could be a dark wizard in his soul, wandless curse or no. Just a boy, that one, wouldn't harm an ettercap. Go on now, Mr. Weasley, drink your tea. You need a cup of warmth after your night of roaming. You too, Mr. Potter." She motioned Harry into the chair across from Ron's and poured him a cup of tea before surveying the room. Convinced that everything was in order, she turned to go.

"Thank you," Harry said again. "Mrs…?"

"Quoynamuckle," she said as she opened the door. "Janet Quoynamuckle."

"Thank you, Mrs. Quoynamuckle," he said sincerely. "If there's ever anything I can do for you, anything at all, just send me an owl."

She grinned and shook her head at him before she left the room. When she went, Harry could tell that he'd made her blush.

Ron didn't seem to want to eat at first, but once Harry got him started he ate several helpings, finishing off the mound of bacon entirely on his own. The parcel Harry'd sent was sitting open next to the bed. The bread and cheese were gone, as were the socks, though the book on the Cannons didn't look as if it had been touched.

"I'm taking you home today," Harry said softly. "Back to the flat, back to your own room, your own bed. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Bernice misses you terribly."

Ron, who had gotten into a one-sided conversation with his teacup, didn't seem to hear Harry at all.

**********

The Healer in the Janus Thickey ward of St. Mungo's released Ron only on Harry's solemn promise that he'd bring Ron back immediately if the wedding seemed to upset him in any way. Harry didn't think it would. Ron was already loads better, and he seemed to be completely present, if somewhat tired.

"Did you tell her?" Ron asked as Harry straightened the tie on his new set of formal dress robes.

"Did I tell who what?" Harry asked, ignoring the mirror when it suggested that he'd look better with a purple cummerbund instead of red.

"Hermione. Did you tell her that I, that is that I was in…?" He flushed and looked away from Harry, ashamed to even say that he'd been in St. Mungo's again.

"I didn't think to," Harry said. "It's not my place to tell her, anyway. You'll tell her if you want to."

"Or if she looks into my eyes," Ron said glumly.

"You know she doesn't do it on purpose."

"In the courtyard, at the engagement party, I was trying not to think it, but as soon as I do that, I think what I'm trying not to think and she…that is, she may have figured out…"

"She knows," Harry said, much more calmly than he felt. His blood seemed to be rushing through his veins much too quickly and he found it hard to catch his breath. "I think she understands, Ron. She knows it's not…that we're not…that's it's just…comfort."

Ron nodded and yanked at his own tie, cursing when he ended up getting his finger caught in the knot.

"Here, let me," Harry said, freeing Ron's finger and working on the bow tie himself.

"I wish we didn't have to wear red," Ron said sulkily. "I know Hermione thinks Neville looks good in it, but I look awful."

"You don't," Harry said.

"I do. It clashes with my hair."

Harry laughed and shook his head. "You look positively dashing."

"I don't."

"You do. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if every witch in the room threw herself at you tonight." He finished tying Ron's tie and stepped back to make sure it was straight. "You'll have to fight them all off with your cane."

Ron didn't seem thrilled by that prospect at all.

The Great Hall was more beautiful than Harry had ever seen it. The walls were lined with crimson silk, the ceiling glittering with stars, white and silver opalescent baubles floating above everyone's heads. The house tables were gone, replaced with comfortable red velvet chairs on either side of a wide aisle. A small grove of fir trees stood where the high table usually was, each tree decorated in shimmering silver and red ribbons and baubles, swarming with fairies. Candles floated among them and along the aisles, casting everything in a warm, golden glow.

Neville was trembling with excitement, but he managed not to faint during the entire service. Hermione looked resplendent in heavily embroidered silver robes, her hair flowing down her back in waves, crowned with a garland of paperwhites.

Hagrid cried like a baby, of course, and Harry comforted him during the reception, supplying him with tissue after tissue.

"She was just a wee little thing when I first saw 'er," Hagrid wailed. "Small enough I could pick 'er up with one hand!"

"Hagrid," he said, trying to be sensible. "You can still pick her up with one hand."

"Aye, but she's a grown woman now, married, bound to have little witches and wizards of 'er own."

"That's not a bad thing, Hagrid."

"Of course it's not! I'm not cryin' cuz I think it's bad, 'Arry, I'm cryin' cuz this is the 'appiest day of my life, my little girl all grown up and on 'er own now!"

Harry nodded and clapped Hagrid on the shoulder, speaking soothing words to him until, eventually, he calmed down. Harry was pointedly not noticing the way that Ron, who had apparently taken his words to heart, was flirting with every single witch in the room, even dancing with a few of them to the fast songs, where he didn't have to worry about footwork. He did notice that Ron avoided the champagne entirely, sticking to water and the sickly sweet pomegranate punch that flowed in a gleaming fountain out of an enchanted crystal punch bowl.

Harry didn't ask anyone to dance, even though there were more than a few witches who elbowed one another and smiled coquettishly at him as he passed by. Instead he stuck close to Hagrid, chatted politely with the professors, listened to Hermione's mother tell him, in detail, just which factors came into play when it was time for one to consider orthodontia.

"You must dance with me," Hermione said as she came up behind him. She kissed her mother on the cheek. "You must dance with me, Harry, or I'll be forever heartbroken."

"No, you won't," Harry said with a grin. He danced with her anyway, sweeping her onto the dance floor for a waltz. "You're glowing, you know."

"It's the silver dust in my hair."

"No, it's you. I've never seen a more beautiful bride."

She laughed. "And just how many weddings have you been to, hmm?"

"This is the first, but still. It's fantastic to see you so happy. It makes Ron happy too, you know. He said it makes him feel like things will be all right."

"You care for him a great deal, don't you?"

"Of course I do. He's my best friend."

She snorted and rolled her eyes. "Honestly, the both of you are such boys sometimes."

"What else would you have us be? Porlocks?"

"Oh, no you don't. You don't get to cheek me on my wedding day."

"Cheek you?" he asked. "You've been teaching too long, Professor Granger."

"That's Professor Longbottom now," she said, laughing as he spun her quickly.

"Hard to believe you were once a bossy little straw-haired girl."

"Straw-haired?" she demanded. "I was never straw-haired."

"It was like a haystack when I met you."

"Well, it was quite humid that day. And who says I was bossy?"

"Everyone, and you're just as bossy to this day."

She smiled at that. "About Ron…" she started.

Harry looked away from her. "Don't, Hermione."

"Don't what? I'm only trying to—"

"Remember when you said you didn't want to be overbearing?"

"I'm not being overbearing, I'm being meddlesome."

"Don't you know not to meddle in the affairs of wizards?"

She frowned at that and shook her head, though she couldn't hide the joy that radiated from within her. "I only mean that he—"

"Don't," he said again. "Let's just dance and remember this moment, so you can tell all your grandchildren about how you danced at your wedding with the Boy Who Lived."

"With Uncle Harry, you mean."

"Yes," he said, smiling as they whirled around the dance floor. He'd rather be Uncle Harry than the Boy Who Lived any day of the year.

**********

January 17th was Remembrance Day. It was the anniversary of the day Harry had defeated Voldemort. It was the day everyone in the Wizarding world remembered the people who had died for the cause. It was a holiday celebrated around the world, when all business ground to a halt and everyone returned home to their families to celebrate and politicians gave long, rousing speeches about heroism and valor and the need to remember every single person who had given their life.

Harry didn't disagree with the idea that people had to be remembered, but January 17th was still his least favorite day of the year. He spent a lot of energy avoiding the politicians who wanted him to come out and support their speeches. He spent a lot of time avoiding the stares of those who hadn't fought in the war, the stares of people who thought of him as a hero or a champion or the Boy Who Lived, Twice. He spent a lot of time trying not to remember everyone he'd lost, because he couldn't help but remember them every single day of his life. He didn't need a holiday to see the faces of his lost friends.

What Harry hated most of all was the way, all over Britain, people recited the entire list of the dead. They read every name of every British witch and wizard who had died during the war, fighting the dark forces of Voldemort. He had to walk by the damn fountain listing their names every day at work, he didn't know why anyone would want to spend their time reading those names over and over and over again.

Harry would have ignored Remembrance Day entirely if not for Ron, who lived every day in preparation for the reading of the list, who couldn't seem to escape the guilt that came along with survival.

"I don't know why you listen to that every year," Harry whispered, feeling desperate. "You don't have to listen to it, Ron. You don't have to hear the list of names to remember. Why do you have to do this to yourself?"

Ron didn't respond, just took a sip of firewhisky and closed his eyes as the voice on WWN began to read the names in a solemn drone. Harry sat next to him and flinched with every name of someone he'd cared for, loved. …Hannah Abbott, Sirius Black, Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Cho Chang, Colin Creevey, Fleur Delacour, Amos Diggory, Cederic Diggory, Albus Dumbledore, Marietta Edgecombe, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Seamus Finnigan, Lee Jordan…

"Ron," Harry whispered, reaching for his hand. "Ron, please, we don't—"

Ron hushed him, squeezed Harry's hand. Harry didn't know why Ron had to listen to the list every Remembrance Day, didn't know why he had to punish himself so, listen to the hundreds of names that neither of them could ever forget.

…Remus Lupin, Padma Patil, Parvati Patil, Adrian Pucey, Alicia Spinnet, Dean Thomas, Nymphadora Tonks, Lisa Turpin…

He turned and pulled Ron into his arms, smoothed his hair as Ron's shoulders began to shake.

…Anita Walcombe, Arthur Weasley, Charles Weasley, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Ginerva Weasley, Molly Weasley, Percy Weasley, William Weasley…

Harry reached for his wand to turn off the WWN, but Ron stopped him. Ron had to hear the entire list. Every year, he insisted on listening to it all, from Abigail Abbey all the way to Xerxes Zuko.

It had taken nearly an hour, but finally the list was done. The announcer urged them to stick around to hear brand new radio plays depicting the attack of Death Eaters upon Hogwarts, the battle of Hawthorne Hill, the destruction of Death Eater headquarters, and the final duel.

Harry frowned and turned the WWN off. It was quite common for there to be reenactments of the war's worst battles, something Harry couldn't fathom. If any of the people watching had ever fought in the war they wouldn't want plays and lists of names and radio shows to help them remember. If they'd been there, all they'd want to do was forget.

Harry remembered Hawthorne Hill every time he closed his eyes, remembered the acrid smoke in the air, the fires burning, the earth furrowed and ripped apart from spells gone awry. He remembered the bodies all around him, bodies piled on top of one another, remembered the only other person left standing was Hermione, who staggered under the weight of Ginny's broken body. He remembered that she'd been dazed and that her robe had been badly singed. He remembered that she'd been crying, that she kept saying, "I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry. I tried to protect her. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Why anyone would want to relive that, fictionalize it, turn it into entertainment, Harry would never understand.

Hawthorne Hill was when they'd lost Ron. They searched the entire battlefield, gathering the bodies of their friends and family, Ron nowhere to be found. There were gigantic holes in the earth, craters as large and burnt as if they were meteor hits. Even after reinforcements were sent in and most of those who had managed to survive had been taken away for treatment, Harry and Hermione had searched for Ron. The battlefield was huge, stretching from Harrogate all the way to Lancashire. On the tenth day, Hermione had collapsed next to one of the craters and begun to scream. Harry couldn't get her to stop. He'd taken her to the meditent and then to St. Mungo's but no one could get her to stop. It wasn't a curse making her scream, the Healer had explained to Harry with a sad expression on her face, it was just grief and would eventually pass on its own.

Hermione had stopped screaming after a day. It had terrified Harry at the time, but sometimes he wondered if it was one of the reasons she'd been able to remain so strong through the remainder of the war and afterwards. Ron had never screamed like that, never gotten all of the rage and pain out of his system.

"Come on, now," Harry whispered. "Come on, Ron, let's get you into bed."

Ron let Harry pull him up, leaned on Harry as he hobbled to bed. He probably hadn't taken his pain potion that morning since his leg seemed to be bothering him more than usual. Harry tucked him into bed, smoothing his hair, kissing his tear-damp cheeks.

"Stay with me," Ron whispered. "Harry, please."

"In a moment," Harry assured him. He kissed Ron's mouth sweetly. "I won't be gone a moment."

Ron nodded and turned his face towards the pillow, weeping silently.

Harry hurried to the kitchen, where he poured out a dose of Ron's pain potion into a glass. He added a few drops of sleeping draught and returned to Ron's bedroom, where he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed Ron's arm. "Up you go, Ron. Drink this."

"Don't want it," Ron mumbled.

"I'm not asking you, Ron. You must take care of yourself."

"What's the point? Who for?"

"For me. Take care of yourself for me. Can you do that?"

Ron nodded wearily and sat up just long enough to drink the potion. He lay back down and pulled on Harry's sleeve. "You'll stay?"

"Of course, Ron."

"No, I mean here. You'll stay here with me for good?"

Harry smiled, slightly baffled, as he smoothed Ron's hair off his forehead. "I live here, Ron."

"No," Ron said. His eyes closed as the potion began to take effect. He struggled to open them again. "I mean with me. Forever."

Harry took a deep breath. "Is that what you really want?"

Ron nodded and pulled Harry down to him. "What I've always wanted," he slurred. "Promise me?"

Harry kissed him. "I promise." He stood and disrobed quickly, slipped into bed next to Ron, who was already asleep. They slept curled up together, and when Harry awoke Ron was there, gazing at him with sleepy eyes, smiling as he tried and failed to smooth the stubborn cowlick on the top of Harry's head.

The End