Who Could Be Blue?

Who could be blue?

Just as always, the one constant thing in Harry's life made himself known with a joyous yell and a fierce hug, the crowd parting to allow the shorter man to be enveloped by a red blur.

"Harry!" Ron cried, and Harry did his best to return the fervour in his tone, holding Ron's face in his hands and covering him in kisses.

"Merlin, I've missed you," he whispered into Ron's ear, although the look in Ron's eyes told him that some things didn't need to be said. Letting his arms slide down Ron's, Harry tucked them around Ron's waist, and grinned in a way that wasn't quite appropriate for the savour of the wizarding world, even if he was only a spritely twenty-five years of age, and therefore entitled to some youthful enthusiasm.

"Harry," chuckled Ron, looking around him, "You're beginning to make a scene. I'm sure the Daily Prophet is skulking around, just asking for a photo opportunity."

Harry turned and stuck his tongue out at some of the gathered crowd, one hand still lightly cupping Ron's arse. An elderly lady who'd been watching turned her nose in the air, sniffed and moved her shopping cart on. Deftly getting Ron moving with a tug, Harry walked by his side through the crowd, occasionally stopping to sign autographs with a humble air. "Let them," he said, unconcerned. "My husband has just arrived in the country for the first time in three months and I'm not going to stop touching him." He flashed one of those famous smiles at a gaggle of giggling girls in Hogwarts uniforms - Hufflepuffs, judging by their house colours, and took the proferred quill to scrawl his name on their parchment.

"Fourth year, are you?" Harry asked the girl whose quill he'd taken, whilst Ron looked on, grinning widely.

The girl nodded, unable to speak, and Harry passed back quill and parchment, arm snaking out to wrap itself familiarly around Ron's waist, and leading him through the crowd to make their way out of Kings Cross Station, the gaggle of girls hugging and squealing at each other behind them, between staring amazed at the parchment in one outstretched hand.

"So," Harry asked, nuzzling against Ron's neck, lips pressed against the flaming red hair, somewhat ragged and overgrown, "did the training camp go well?"

Ron laughed, and mocked pushed him away, eyes twinkling with humour. "Now, you know I can't tell you that," he chided. "O'Reilly would have my head on a spike, and no mistake."

"If he tried, he'd have me to deal with." Harry promised. "Of course, you did have to go and get a job as strategist for the Irish Quidditch team," an old sing-song of mockery in his tone.

"And who's too busy teaching to come visit me, even on weekends, hmm?"

Harry coughed. "Well, I can't exactly leave - the students might need me to help them with study, and I am Head of House now and-"

Ron silenced him with a kiss. "You, Harry Potter, take things far too seriously. I have decided this."

"Oh you have?", Harry asked, his green eyes dancing with fond humour. "And only just now? Merlin, you don't know me very well at all, do you?"

Ron snorted, his smile fading somewhat as he reached down to squeeze Harry's hand, the two walking comfortably amongst Muggle London. "Any luck with getting me the Quidditch job here?"

Harry shook his head. "No luck, I'm afraid. The board is still in Malfoy's pockets."

"Bugger," Ron cursed, growling slightly. "He's hated me even more I think, since we got married. Probably doesn't like the idea of anyone being happy."

"I can understand why," Harry remarked wryly and attempted to explain when Ron gave him a questioning look. "I saw him the other day, you know. I was shopping - well, window shopping in Diagon Alley, just something to welcome you back, seeing as I was in London for the weekend - and all right, I'll get on with the story!", he continued, laughing at Ron's exasperated expression. "I saw him and Pansy in the Prada robes store - well, it was really Pansy doing the looking, and Draco was just...there."

"They deserve each other," Ron declared with a satisfied grin. "Ferret-boy and whippet-girl."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "I dunno. He looked...well, really miserable, and Pansy clearly either didn't care or didn't notice. I'd probably suggest the latter. From what I've heard, all she does is throw parties and buy new clothes to wear at 'em. Which, you know, might have been what he thought he wanted, but it's not turned out to be what he needed. Obviously. I always thought he needed someone to grab him, someone he couldn't ignore; someone to show him exactly what kind of selfish shallow existence he was leading, and force him to change." Harry shrugged his shoulders, uncertain how to continue.

Ron looked at him, disbelieving, before ruffling the already messy black hair, causing Harry's face to split into a grin. "That's my Harry," he declared. "Even concerned for the people who hate him. Typical bloody martyr, you are," he added, laughing. "Never mind he's kept us apart by making sure no-one in the fucking UK will employ me, oh no, let's feel sorry for him cause he married Pansy Parkinson. Actually," he added in an undertone, "that probably is a fate even worse than ferret-boy deserved. Besides, at least he hasn't tried to fuck you over, so to speak."

"No," admitted Harry, "he's always been rather polite, whenever we've met. Besides, he didn't fight on the opposite side during the War, despite the fact that everyone expected him to. And yesterday, he caught me glancing over at him, and he gave me this look, and it was the look that really got to me..." He trailed off, and Ron elbowed him gently in the ribs.

"What look?"

"Like a condemned man," Harry said, finally. "And he wanted me to save him, but - and this is the weird part - he knew I wouldn't."