Playing With Fire

Playing with Fire

By Aidan Lynch

Harry took a moment out, and wondered how they had managed to get to this point without either of them realising it had happened.

Best friend is a much-used phrase, one which implies that it is possible to quantify what someone can bring to a relationship and assess whether it is more or less than that offered by someone else. Harry surmised that it was theoretically possible to have a best friend where Quidditch was concerned, yet that person may or may not make the best friend for Potions, so did that mean that Quidditch friend was a better or worse friend than Potions friend? Or if someone was your friend, did that mean it didn't matter how good at Quidditch or Potions they were? Did you actually need to develop friendships that catered for all the different boxes of your life? Or was it better to open all boxes with the same friends? When he considered the relative merits of Hermione and Ron, the closest companions of his life, he was aware that there were definitely some circumstances in which he would rather have Ron than Hermione at his side, and definitely others when the reverse would be better. But. Did that mean they were both his best friends, as the world in general and Hogwarts in particular believed?

Best friend is a precise phrase, one which implies a distinct singularity. Having two best friends was cheating. If it were the case that two people had different yet equal places in your heart, then you surely couldn't call either of them best. There was no word for 'joint best friend', presumably because nobody had ever needed such a word before. Because if you had two best friends, then surely you were being rather unfair to both of them. But how did you judge which was the best? Was it as easy as defining the candidates' suitability as a companion for, say, either Quidditch or Potions? Or was there not any need to make the difference at all?

Best friend is an emotive phrase, one which implies a certain bond beyond regular friendship. Harry thought for most people the problem didn't exist. You either had a best friend, or you didn't. And it had to be a two-way thing. If someone was your best friend, but they thought that someone else was theirs, did that count? Hmmm. But. Did you ever say to anyone, will you be my best friend? No. These things grow naturally. It's to do with past, and present, and future, with shared experiences and shared dreams. You are lucky, and you have a friend. You are very lucky, and you have two. Both friendships grow naturally. Why pick between them, just for the sake of awarding a crown to one?

Even so. Harry knew one of them meant more to him than the other. And he could feel the soft breathing of that one against his arm as they lay together in their silent dormitory. But, was what they had anything to do with friendship, best or otherwise? Harry had two best friends, but he only shared a bed with one of them. That was telling.

Ron shifted slightly in his usual deep slumber, and Harry sighed gently. This was how it had all started. Friendship.

When Harry had first met Ron, there had been a connection. Instantly. They had talked, and talked, and laughed, and talked some more. Harry had never had a friend before, and to be honest neither had Ron. They had been young. They had in fact been eleven, but they might as well have been much younger. There was nothing clouding the way they got on, there were no social pressures, no emotional debts, no other allegiances or loyalties, no hint of sexuality, nothing other than two boys who could discuss any matter under the sun because they didn't know any different. There had simply been so much that needed talking about, there weren't enough hours in the day. Harry wanted to know everything, and Ron was desperate to tell. So their conversations, silly and serious alike, had naturally continued from the day into the night, and one night, Harry could remember it clearly, one night in their very first term at Hogwarts, they had been chatting quietly as they usually did - that night it was on Harry's bed, but it might equally well have been Ron's - and gradually the conversation had drifted to nothing as Ron was slowly losing consciousness, until his breathing slowed to a peaceful and comforting rhythm, and he had slept, as soundly as he did in his own bed. Harry felt a thrill. This was friendship: Ron was so at ease with him that he had not felt the need to return to his own bed. What a privilege! What an honour! But Harry had never shared a bed with anyone before. He had never been camping with friends, never slept over at a friend's house, never had to bunk down with a brother on a crowded family Christmas. What should he do? Prod Ron gently and tell him to go to his own bed? Or give him some of the covers so he didn't get cold?

As Harry pondered this unexpected dilemma, he found himself smiling. Human warmth was new to him. In falling asleep, it seemed to Harry that Ron had paid him a huge compliment: it said that he trusted him, it said that in his most vulnerable state it was fine by Ron to drop off to sleep somewhere he knew he was safe. And as Harry basked in the wonder of having such a friend, he had himself fallen asleep, as contented and comfortable as Ron, and the pair had passed the night side-by-side, the heavy blankets binding them together in their innocence and their experience. Harry slept so soundly that night, it was like some of Ron's talent at endless slumber had crept into Harry's soul, and when Harry awoke the next morning, the motionless, silent form of his friend was still occupying precisely half his mattress. Harry nudged him and Ron stirred slowly, realised what had happened, grinned sheepishly and a little apologetically, then lightly punched Harry affectionately on the shoulder before returning to his own bed. Something had been sealed. They were best friends now.

It was by no means the only time it happened. Four or five more times before Christmas in that first term they had woken up, both rather surprised but far from distressed, in one or other of their beds. But they never spoke about : it didn't need speaking about. It was a bond. It was harmless. It was comforting. And it was nice. Ron knew that Fred and George had often shared a bed without the slightest quibble when they were younger. It was not an issue. They had no secrets. And now he and Harry had a similar thing. Something that had grown naturally, and which neither of them felt was wrong. But they never spoke about it.

Harry loved Hogwarts; it was his home, and the dormitory in Gryffindor tower was the best and safest place he knew. But Ron missed his home, his parents, his sister, his own small bedroom, and some nights it seemed worse than others. It was slightly shameful to own up to homesickness, particularly as he was better off than most, as there were three other members of his family at Hogwarts he could go to if he wanted to be reminded of the love he had been brought up in. But he would never go to them, they would laugh. Surely the twins had never been homesick? Surely Percy had never wished himself home just for a night? Would they understand? And some nights Ron didn't sleep as soundly as his reputation demanded, and he found himself, with stupid sad tears on his face, wanting to get into Harry's bed long after they had said goodnight, just so he could replace the family he missed with the one he had created. And one night just after that first Christmas but before the rest of the school had returned, he felt the absence of his family too strongly to bear, and he crept out of bed and slid easily in beside Harry, who was already at peace. Harry turned over with the disturbance to the mattress, and Ron found himself with Harry's arm over his side. Sleep came within seconds.

That had been a new stage, thought Harry. That night they hadn't fallen asleep because they were talked out; Ron had actually got into Harry's bed once Harry had been asleep. That said something about friendship. He hadn't even needed to ask. He had simply needed the comfort, and he had come and got it. Harry had another sense of the experience of human warmth when he had woken up that morning; sure that Ron hadn't been there the night before. There was something indefinable about finding Ron there in such a way, with his deep red hair over his closed eyelids, with his gentle breath warming a patch on Harry's arm. It made Harry feel wanted and needed, it made him feel worthy, it made him feel proud. There was nobody else who Ron would have gone to for this, nobody else to whom he would even have confessed the need. That surely was the definition of a best friend.

When Ron woke up that morning, Harry knew he was embarrassed. In the light of a carefree day in the Christmas holidays, his insecurity the previous night seemed childish and his actions self-indulgent. And although Harry had sensed this as much as Ron, neither of them had pushed the issue. Perhaps that was the first time Harry felt he knew how Ron thought as well as he did himself, or perhaps Harry had already reached that stage; it all seemed so long ago now, maybe the details were not as clear as Harry would like to think. Ron and he had dressed and got on with the day as they had every other day. And they never spoke about it.

It was easy to demarcate this tiny and seemingly insignificant area of dependence as part of their special bond that didn't need definition or discussion. There was Hermione, and Quidditch, there was a feud with Snape and a war with Malfoy, there were lessons, there was homework and chess, there was Gryffindor honour, a hatred of the Slytherins, a three-headed dog and a Philosopher's stone; there were so many other things that tied them together that they didn't need to dwell on one small personal comfort. They never spoke about it.

And it had taken years before they got round to speaking about it. Even though it had not really stopped. Well, it had stopped for a while. Not long though.

Quite regularly they dropped into sleep on the same bed from having simply talked too far into the night, and twice more between Christmas and Easter in their first year Harry had woken to find Ron dead to the world beside him on a night when they had definitely at least started the night in separate beds. These times were more special. They were a little piece of private evidence that attested to the strength and trust of their growing bond. And twice more Harry had felt blessed that a friend should need him in this way, and not just need him, but act upon on the need that could so easily be misinterpreted by others. But others didn't know. And Harry liked it that way. He didn't want to explain it. And he didn't want to share it.

Then there was the night Harry had woken in a cold sweat, his mind disturbed by the fading visions of a nightmare, and he had felt more alone than he had ever felt at Hogwarts. There wasn't even any thought involved. As Harry thought later, he was eleven, he was scared, he was alone. What else was there to do? Before he had even questioned his actions he had got out of bed, gently shoved Ron a little aside and climbed in to bathe himself in the warmth of Ron's lanky loyalty. You OK? Ron had murmured, not really waking. Yes, Harry had replied. I am now. Ron had thrown a sleepy arm around him, and they had cuddled, instantly, innocently, intimately.

They were quits. They'd both done it now. Both felt the need, and both acted on it. They were best friends.

Ron moved slightly again, and, like he had done all those years before, threw an arm over Harry's stomach. Ron never lost his warmth. He was like a hot water bottle on a winter night. He radiated comfort and familiarity as much as he did heat. When had it changed? wondered Harry. How did we get from there to here? Harry thought he knew. Or at least he thought he could still remember some of the important moments, but really he was just picking points from a continuum, as there had been no one turning point. It had grown, it had been a natural evolution from dependence to need, from comfort to pleasure, from one sort of love to another. But still certain moments shone in Harry's recall of the previous years.

They had been twelve. Ron had been concerned at Harry's lack of concern at the recent discovery that he was a Parselmouth; Harry had been distressed at Ron's lack of distress about the hissing voice he heard in the walls of the castle. (The same issue, they later discovered; and though both were aware of its importance, neither could yet see the other's view). One long sleepless night, Harry turned a dozen things over in his mind, for once too preoccupied to notice that Ron wasn't sleeping either. Harry's troubles were interrupted by the appearance of a forlorn Ron at his bedside. That had been a new circumstance: neither had yet asked the other for permission, they had just snuck in to share the other's peace. That time, eyes bright in the gloom, still neither of them spoke about it. It was silent, a tacit understanding. Harry budged over a bit and soon they were both drifting into the same fitful sleep. Some hours later Harry knew they were both awake again, but the darkness was so intense and the silence so impenetrable that to acknowledge it would have shattered the security. The usual cuddle was reached out for by both of them, unashamed that they should still need this childish comfort, blessed that they were still able to enjoy it. The cuddle had become close, closer maybe than it had been before. Harry was aware of aspects of Ron he had previously been unconcerned with. They had gently rubbed each other's backs, smoothed each other's arms, run a finger over each other's necks. This time the presence alone was enough, the sleep merely an added luxury. They had been twelve. Perhaps it was not unusual. Perhaps it was the norm for boys of twelve to comfort each other in such a personal way. Harry never knew: they had never spoken about it.

Harry gently ran his finger over Ron's smooth shoulder as he remembered that night, and others. Of course he knew who his best friend was. It was Hermione. Because at some point Ron had ceased to be merely a friend and become something irreplaceable. And Hermione, if she wanted it, was in the clear to take the title if she was bothered. Not that she needed her affection for both of them to be labelled in such a way. And when, in their fifth year, Hermione herself had seen the truth of the natural evolution of Harry and Ron's friendship, she had spoken to Harry, a little worried, a lot anxious. Do you know what you are doing? she had fretted. You're playing with fire. Don't risk what you have by taking it too far. Harry remembered those words sombrely, so important at the time. One day, conversation was to become unavoidable. But in those early years, to speak about it was to risk destroying it, and both relied on it too much for that.

Living in and out of each other's pockets meant that there was nothing that one didn't know about the other. And Harry didn't want it any other way, and he knew Ron felt the same. Mood swings and sleep rhythms, appetites and interests, both could predict them as accurately in the other as they could in themselves. They understood the need for togetherness, and the need for solitude. That year the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. The events surrounding Ginny's disappearance had distressed Ron more than he was prepared to admit to anyone, even Harry. But Harry hadn't needed telling of Ron's anxiety, he could see it for himself. And he'd felt Ron's relief too - once Ginny had been rescued - as strongly as if it had been his own sister who had lain cold on a slab somewhere in the bowels of the castle. But years later he realised that he did not enter the Chamber of Secrets merely to rescue Ginny. He had been doing it for Ron. And also for himself. Because he couldn't bear to think that their very own chamber of secrets was being threatened by anything.

Some time in the euphoric days after Ginny's recovery and Dobby's liberty, Harry and Ron had stayed up talking all night like they used to in their very first term. They had been on Ron's bed, pyjama-clad as usual, excited by adventure and delighted by success. It was entirely natural that as eyelids drooped and they eventually fell silent, Ron peeled back the covers to make room for both of them. Arms linked, and a hug - all sleepy affection and unspoken thanks and exhausted celebration - eased their transition into shared slumber. Some hours later Harry woke before dawn to find Ron clinging to him more closely than he had ever done. Ron was deeply asleep, but Harry was aware of every point at which Ron's body was touching his own. Ron's face against his shoulder. Ron's arm over his side. Ron's knees against the backs of his legs. And. Right there, against the top of his thigh, Harry could feel it. He recoiled from Ron's nocturnal arousal in embarrassment.

It wasn't as if Harry wasn't aware of stuff like that. They'd lived in close quarters for nearly two years, they'd seen each other in the showers and getting dressed, and there was little privacy in a shared dormitory anyway. Seamus had always been shameless in his confidence of his own nudity, and even Ron, brought up in a house of six brothers, was not shy in that respect. That year they'd all at some point made the discovery of the pleasures their own bodies could offer. But Harry was shy, even with Ron, perhaps especially with Ron, and to be able to feel Ron in such a way was awkward, yet, also a little exciting. Another sign of the complete trust between them. Another sign of the friendship that had no secrets, that adopted no falsely prudish attitudes. After a little while Harry relaxed his body back into its previous position, and the warmth they both so relied on flooded between them again. It was a nice feeling. It was private, and therefore to be valued. Harry very gently and very carefully began to comfort himself in that place, and slowly slid back towards sleep. And somehow, neither of them ever really knew how, that's when it happened. In a mixture of sleepy intimacy and warm security and long established trust, Harry and Ron met in some place where Harry was half falling asleep and Ron was half waking up, and the natural evolution of a friendship between two boys who shared a bed without shame and who cuddled each other when one was upset, caused them to acknowledge a different way to comfort each other. In complete silence but with remarkably little awkwardness, they found themselves rubbing themselves in the presence of the other, and then, after a short while, gently rubbing each other through their pyjamas, until with quiet gasps and quivering limbs the tensions were gone, and the pair were swallowed back into sleep as if it had all been a curious dream.

Needless to say, they hadn't spoken about it. And, at the time, it had not seemed that significant, and they had two or three similar moments of harmless pleasure in the following weeks. But as time passed both Harry and Ron felt that what they had was somehow different, neither better nor worse, but different all the same. As if, at the moment that their comfort had taken an adolescent turn, that their very adolescence had now to be acknowledged, and young men did not share beds like young boys did. They did not sleep in the same bed, under any circumstances, for some time after that, yet neither felt any less close. Their friendship grew stronger emotionally and spiritually as the following year they learned of the existence of Harry's godfather and found out more about Harry's parents when they had come face to face with Peter Pettigrew. Ron had warmed to Sirius as much as Harry had, and finally it seemed like Harry had some family to share with Ron in the same way Ron had selflessly made his own family Harry's. To Harry it was as important to have something to share with Ron as it was to enjoy it himself, and with the inclusion of Sirius in his growing family, the bond between him and Ron seemed stronger. That was the point, Harry knew, that they could easily have continued on that path, and grown to adulthood and maturity as inseparable brothers-in-arms, best friends, best man at each other's weddings, godfather to each other's children. How was it that they had chosen a different path? Or had they not chosen it all?

After the draining time at the end of their third year, it was great for Harry to escape to the Burrow for his first real experience of family life, and to enjoy the excitement of the Quidditch world cup final. That time was one of the happiest of Harry's life: he settled into easy domestic existence like he had been born to it, secretly enjoying Molly's maternal worrying. The Burrow was pushed for space at the best of times, but with all the Weasleys in residence, and with Harry and Hermione as well, there was chaos and disorder at every turn. During this time Harry moved naturally into Ron's tiny room at the top of the house, on a mattress on the floor that Molly had dug out of the attic. For Harry, a lumpy mattress on the floor of Ron's room was infinitely preferable to even a whole suite at Privet Drive, but Ron was embarrassed at the level of hospitality, and kept apologising for it. Here they reached a standard impasse, Ron unable to overcome his biggest insecurity, even with Harry; Harry unable to convince even his closest friend that material things like beds meant nothing to him. Ron tried to insist that Harry have his bed while Ron had the floor, but Harry wanted none of it. It was such familiar ground that they didn't really bother having the discussion in full, as they had long learned each other's responses in such a situation. Naturally there had been only one solution, that had not been voiced aloud by either of them, or even really considered; but as it became clear that both wanted to sleep on the mattress for the sake of the other - and as, albeit not since eighteen months previously, they had been quite used to sharing a bed - they ended up on the second night of Harry's stay at the Burrow both in Ron's bed with a pillow at either end. They had been fourteen.

Harry thought of that time now, as he gently stroked Ron's hair in the silent dormitory. Again, it was tempting to see that week at the Burrow as the turning point, but on wider reflection it was not any more significant than any of the steps that had been taken previously. First they had shared a bed accidentally, then deliberately, then they had comforted each other physically, then they had innocently explored some shared pleasure. It was only when you looked at the whole journey that you could see the destination each step approached, and even then the destination wasn't clear until you had taken all the steps. That week at the Burrow, it had not seemed any different to any other week in their friendship. But two hormonally charged fourteen year-olds with the history that Harry and Ron had were hardly likely to ignore their past, and so it proved to be. Never speaking, but sometimes giggling, they indulged in more childish pleasure on four of the six nights of Harry's stay, both reaching boyish climaxes without any real overtones of sexuality, both wondering why they'd ever stopped all those months before at the same time as knowing why. And in the morning, nothing was said, as nothing needed saying. It was fine. It was nice. It was part of their friendship, evidence of their mutual trust.

Back at school after the thrill of the world cup, they were closer than they had ever been. The castle was alive with chatter about the Triwizard Tournament, and both Harry and Ron enjoyed the many plans discussed to get names of underage wizards into the Goblet of Fire. But then Harry's name had ended up in the Goblet, and he had been selected for the Tournament on a technicality that nobody seemed able to undo, and so began the most turbulent period of their friendship. It was inconceivable to Ron that, after the week they had spent at the Burrow, Harry should not have shared his plans and schemes with him. He was deaf to arguments and protestations from Harry that he himself had no knowledge or understanding of how it had happened. Harry knew with hindsight that the person who had been most hurt in that period was Hermione, who had never had to choose between her friends before, and had spent her time skulking between the pair of them trying to bring about a thaw in relations. Hermione did not at that time know of the extent of their closeness, but in that unbearable period she began to sense that this was no ordinary disagreement, and that Ron felt bitterly resentful and somehow spurned. It was no surprise to Harry that in this short period Hermione had got fed up with both of them and gone and found someone else to spend her time with, namely Viktor Krum. Thankfully the dispute lasted only until the conclusion of the first test, and significantly it was only Hermione who showed any real emotion at their eventual reconciliation. For both Ron and Harry the occasion was far too important to be dealt with in a few words and a make-up hug, and it wasn't until the dormitory had retired for sleep that very night that they got round to talking about it properly.

Harry had long been aware that there was something of a paradox surrounding his and Ron's preference for silence regarding the most personal issue of their emotional dependence. After all, they spoke on every other subject imaginable. When they had slept together as boys, it was not significant that they had not talked about it, as it related to only a tiny fraction of their overall friendship. But after the Burrow such territory was far larger in proportion, yet still they adopted the unspoken policy of their earliest days. So when Ron tried to explain exactly why he had felt so hurt, he could say only so much about how he couldn't understand what had happened, because to demand that Harry appreciate how hurt Ron must have felt, Ron would have had to mention the nights they had spent at the Burrow. In mentioning them, they would they then have to acknowledge them (and all the preceding steps), and in doing that, there was the danger that one of them would have said it was time for it to stop, as they were far too old for that sort of behaviour, and should be trying to move away from it. Consequently the conversation that night was notable more for what was left out than what was said, as both boys tried to apologise while ignoring the reason they needed an apology. It was inevitable that they should have slept in the same bed that night, as it was one of the most important non-conversations they had ever had, and this time, the relief of being back together again, and the surprise at the realisation of how much they had both missed it, showed itself in more physically adventurous experiences. For the first time ever, they actually removed their pyjamas in the course of their games, and what could not be said in words was said in actions, actions that mildly surprised both of them in how far they were willing to go and how little shame and guilt were in evidence.

Of course, the next day, they had said nothing about it. It was their secret. It was nobody else's business, not even Hermione's. And slowly but surely Ron and Harry found themselves in a relationship which grew increasingly more physical while, at the same rate, the scrupulously observed silence around it became ever more dense. As Harry had long worked out, there was no one turning point in their relationship, indeed mathematically there cannot be a turning point in a line that leads from one point to another. But that night after the first task was definitely the point at which Ron had ceased to be a best friend and become something far more important. If Harry was going to be true to the feelings he was being bombarded by, he only wanted to be true to them with Ron. Because nobody else matched up. Or even came within a thousand miles.

Hermione logged all the details of that time as she recorded everything: filed away in an orderly fashion in her head. To her it came as no surprise that neither Ron nor Harry had any real success finding a date for the Yule Ball that year. Because she knew, even if the boys themselves didn't, that neither of them really wanted to go to the ball if they couldn't go with each other. She had been mildly pleased by Ron's envious reaction at her decision to go to the ball with Viktor, as it said something for her own increasingly obvious womanhood, but she had also been sad to think that she probably understood more about Harry and Ron's relationship than they did themselves. Perhaps it was not that surprising. Ron had always been immature, and Harry had always been unperceptive of the emotions and feelings of others. Harry found out subsequently that Hermione thought about speaking to them both at that time. But she was in fact not to intervene until over a year later, by which time so many steps on the journey had been taken that to undo them seemed both impossible and wholly undesirable.

Neither was Hermione surprised, after Christmas that year, when the second task demanded that each champion's most precious thing be removed and bound at the bottom of the lake, that Ron was singled out in the eyes of the school as Harry's dearest companion. She had been surprised, and a little flattered, that she should be Viktor's prize, but any novelty in this was easily put into the shade by the high-profile, almost official revelation that Ron and Harry were as close as it was possible for two teenage boys to get. Malfoy had been particularly spiteful, voicing all manner of disgusting and disgraceful suggestions as to what they might get up to in private, but the most surprising thing about the whole issue was that neither Ron nor Harry seemed at all fazed by it, in fact, they actually seemed not to notice it at all. It was just possible, Hermione had concluded, that they had become so close that they didn't even consciously recognize the scandal that was doing the rounds of conversation at that time. Knowing that one day she would have to sort it out, she tried her best to put it out of her mind and enjoy what time she had left with Viktor.

But where Hermione was uncharacteristically a little off target was in assuming that Ron and Harry didn't understand what was happening to them. Harry knew, he knew only too well, and Ron knew too, but their policy of silence on this matter was too entrenched to break. And neither Ron nor Harry, if pushed, would have wanted it any different. As far as they both saw it, the other was indispensable in their life, and if finally opening this can of worms might mean that their friendship suffered, it was not a risk either of them was prepared to take.

I wasn't prepared to risk it, thought Harry, as he looked at Ron in wonder, the first glimmer of day just beginning to light the dormitory.

As day followed night so their fifth year had followed the appalling tragedy of Cedric and the Triwizard debacle, a year that was marked by two more incidents, or steps along the way. The first had been a couple of days after Seamus's sixteenth birthday, in the morning to be precise, when he had come bounding back from the shower shouting and hollering like there was a fire. Harry and Ron, who had passed the night in their own beds, wondered what the fuss was about, as did Dean and Neville. Look! Seamus had yelled. Look! My first hair! Watch out girls, there's a man in town now! Closer inspection did indeed reveal that growing near Seamus's left nipple was a single, lonely, slender fair hair, about one centimetre long. Quite wild with delight, Seamus had become instantly convinced that the attractive girls of Hogwarts were now bound to fall at his feet and offer themselves in any way Seamus chose. Swiftly he and Dean began compiling a catalogue of the girls who were likely to be near the top of the list of imminent conquests. Harry and Ron laughed with the others, but the atmosphere turned sharply in a completely unexpected manner when Seamus said to Neville, who do you reckon then, Nev? No good asking these two of course!

There had been no malice in Seamus's comment. No dig, no judgement, nothing hurtful. But his words cut through Harry and Ron like a knife, and worse, it sent them reeling in opposite directions, in a situation where they seemed unable to go to the other for support. Harry instinctively favoured an ignore-and-proceed approach. But Ron had been incensed, and challenged Seamus to explain exactly what he meant. Seamus, although far more aware than either Ron or Harry gave him credit for, was put on the spot and, for whatever reason, decided to go with as close to the truth as he could without further inflaming the situation. Well, he said carefully. It's just you two spend so much time on your own that you've hardly had time to start looking yet! It was just about neutral enough to diffuse the tension slightly. The crowd parted and the day began, and the dormitory's first chest hair was forgotten for the time being.

In the following days Harry and Ron had made a subconscious effort to be seen to be apart. But as Harry had worked out later, and as he now remembered as Ron stirred again, his lips brushing Harry's arm as he turned again in his sleep, temporary separation, even by unspoken mutual agreement, was the worst possible course of action if they had wanted to resolve the undefined nature of their connection once and for all. But the fact that their response was born out of a desire to deny any strong affection between them spoke volumes about it actually existing. After the event, Harry wondered how he could have been so naïve. He knew, so it was likely that Ron and Neville did too, that Seamus and Dean had slept together a couple of nights in their first term, like Harry and Ron had done. And if he had known that, then it was more than probable that the other members of the dormitory knew that Harry and Ron had done the same, and were still doing it. But somewhere along the line, about four or five steps back from where Harry and Ron were, Seamus and Dean had ceased to rely on this comfort, and, either by design or by natural evolution, their nocturnal secret had been left in the past, perhaps as long ago as before Christmas of their first year. It was this near-shock of near-discovery that caused Harry and Ron to get close to talking about it, and acknowledging the physical nature of their friendship. But it was not quite enough to breach the years of silence, and the conversation never quite took place. It was as if they were waiting for another incident to force their hand, as if they weren't strong enough to initiate this next chapter themselves.

That kick-start was not long in coming, as the second of the two important incidents of their fifth year happened not two weeks after Seamus's comment. News of events in the boys' dormitory reached Hermione before too long, and she knew the time had come to act. One of Hermione's strongest qualities, the one that Harry like the best, was not her dogged determination or her instinctive intelligence, but her rock-solid ense of right and wrong. This manifested itself sometimes in some awkward ways, as Hermione was not averse to stepping into other people's disputes and giving her own services as unwanted arbitrator. This had somewhat unfairly given Hermione something of a reputation of a bossy meddler, but Harry knew she only ever acted with the best intentions in mind. And when her abilities were indeed called for, she was nothing if not a force for stability and understanding. And as she had stored and digested everything that her eyes told her about her two closest friends, she subtly had a word with each of them one Friday afternoon in the slack period between lessons and supper. Harry could remember her words as clearly as anything she had ever said. Do you know what you are doing? she had fretted. You're playing with fire. Don't risk what you have by taking it too far.

How far was too far? Harry had wondered, knowing they had already come too far to avoid the risk. Harry suspected that Hermione had had the same words in Ron's ear, as that night Ron himself sat heavily down on Harry's bed long after the other three were asleep, and the two had looked at each other, the conversation going on in their heads, but, with neither of them willing to start it, not going on in words. Eventually, Harry had murmured did Hermione say anything to you today? and gradually, slowly, tortuously, the whole question of why their friendship was accompanied by an evolving physical relationship began to come out into the open between them. And, after hours of talking, with years of silence to fill, the answer began to become clear: because they liked it. They wanted it, they needed it. And minutes after this conclusion normal business was resumed, and the pair spent the night in Harry's bed in pleasure and in slumber.

But, as the previous night had been different by their talking about it for the first time, so the next morning was also different. Every morning after any intimacy, for the whole of their friendship, they had never mentioned it. Any doubts or shame they felt had gone unremarked. But that morning, Ron had been distant and uncommunicative. At first, Harry had been concerned, but not unduly. But by lunchtime Ron was still obviously nagged by something. By supper he was climbing the walls. And as they had broken the vow of silence they had both taken years before, Ron was now able to talk. And talk he did. That night he told Harry that they were immature boys, and were acting out of insecurity, and should try to grow up, wise up, bury their boyish and unhealthy behaviour in the past and go out and get girlfriends. The Easter holiday was a not more than a week away, and for the first time in their friendship Ron made plans to spend the break away from Harry. For five years they had only ever been parted for a few weeks each year while Harry was incarcerated at the Dursleys'. It was unprecedented for Harry to have time on his hands and not have Ron to help him fill it. As the Easter break passed, Harry thought at length about where they now were. He didn't resent Ron, not one bit. Ron's behaviour was only to be expected. Sure, it had come years later than it otherwise might have done, but secretly Harry thought Ron was right, and admired Ron's strength. Harry knew he would find it harder to let go. But still he was philosophical. Hermione was right, he thought. I played with fire, and I got burned. If the friendship survives, it will be more than I can hope for. Deep within Harry there was even the thought that the friendship might just be made stronger by this break. Deeper still was a burning sense of disappointment and regret.

During the following term, it was Hermione who held things together. On the surface things between Harry and Ron were as casual and caring as they had always been. But there had been a fundamental shift in wind direction that she suspected only she could sense fully. In a term which was naturally dominated by the imminent OWLs, Hermione had more than enough on her plate with exam preparation, but she made it her business to see that the grinding, crushing disagreement and hurt that was festering beneath Ron and Harry's cheery hellos did not get out of hand. She was partially relieved when Ron started seeing a lot of a fourth year Ravenclaw girl, and not at all surprised when Harry looked anew at Cho Chang, but secretly she wondered how long either infatuation would last. As the exam season got underway all emotions were pushed aside and Hermione concentrated on herself. To a lesser extent, so did Harry and Ron. It was with a strange sense of inevitability that they all parted at the end of the year.

As Harry continued reflecting on how they had got to where they were, and where they would go to next, he thought how fitting it was that Hermione, his best friend, had ultimately proved herself the architect of resolution.

That summer Ron went to spend some time with Charlie in Romania and Harry was once more left alone at the house in Privet Drive. During this time Harry had a great deal of opportunity for thought on the matter. To him it was sadder than he could explain to think that his friendship with Ron, leaving aside the physical aspect, was now reduced to a superficial link that both of them felt they had to keep up just so suspicious minds wouldn't probe further into the reasons there had been a complete breakdown of relations. Hermione wrote regularly to Harry, and between them they managed to converse about mundane issues while every letter contained between-the-lines details of far more important feelings. Exam results came and went, Harry had passed all subjects, doing particularly well in DADA and Transfiguration, while Hermione had scored the highest overall set of exam results recorded by any Hogwarts student for a couple of hundred years. Harry itched to ask Hermione if she knew of Ron's results, and fed in a cleverly disguised line to this effect in his next letter. But his subterfuge was unnecessary, as barely had Hedwig been despatched with his latest mail to Hermione, when an exhausted Pig arrived from Romania with about as large a parcel as Ron had evidently thought Pig would have a fair chance with. Opening it revealed some Romanian chocolate and a letter, which was dated nearly two weeks before. Harry swept Pig up and installed him in the soft grass at the bottom of Hedwig's cage, and Pig remained unmoving for three days. But Pig's supreme efforts were not wasted on Harry, who knew that whatever the letter contained, the fact that Ron had risked Pig over such a vast distance said more than any letter could. In fact the letter was, on the surface, rather commonplace. But its existence was not. Harry could still remember the exact words, as he had read it many hundreds of times over the rest of the holiday. He recalled it now as he watched dawn creeping into their secret world.

Dear Harry. I'm not sure whether Pig will make this journey in one piece, so please look after him till I get back to England. I don't want him to have to run a return trip! I know it's your birthday soon, so I hope this chocolate will be enough of a gift till I can give you a better present in person. How did you do in your OWLs? I did fine in the end - passed all subjects, even got a B in Potions. I bet Hermione broke all records with hers. Romania is so cool, and the dragons are excellent. I've had lots of time to talk to Charlie about lots of stuff, and it's been worthwhile coming here just for that. I hope you'll be able to come and stay at the Burrow for a few days before the new term, you must be bored rigid with the Muggles. Love to Hermione, and Happy Birthday. As ever, Ron.

Harry knew from the careful handwriting that this was a letter that had been thought about in detail and probably drafted more than once. Reading it very very closely, Harry felt more hopeful than he had for months. First there was the obvious sacrifice Ron had made with Pig. Pig would only have had one such journey in him, if that, and Ron had elected to send him to Harry rather than to his family. Then there was the trust Ron placed in Harry by asking him to look after Pig after his efforts. Then there was the interest in Harry's own life, included in the enquiry about OWLs, and then the highly intriguing, and Harry thought, deliberately open-ended statement that he had been talking to Charlie about things. Then, almost as a clincher, there was an invitation to the Burrow. Surely neither of them could forget what had happened last time they were there together. It was tempting to think that the invitation had come out of the conversation with Charlie. And, to cap it all, there was his sign-off. As ever, Ron. Ron had never signed a letter like that before. And, Harry mused, was it him, or was the use of the word rigid accidental, Freudian, or intentional?

Harry set about in a frenzy writing a superficially non-committal but fundamentally heartfelt reply to Ron's letter. It took two days, and, although scarcely any longer than Ron's, Harry thought it was innocent enough yet imbued with a great deal more if you looked harder. Impatiently he waited for Hedwig to return from Hermione, and when she did, he had her en route to Romania after only a brief rest and a big feed. She hooted in irritation as she saw Pig enjoying the luxury of rest in her own cage, and swept into the night air in a graceful swoop. Hermione's reply hinted strongly that she had been in communication with Ron herself. It was a busy night for correspondence, as only an hour or so later an unknown postal service owl arrived with a short note from Molly with details of Harry's forthcoming visit to the Burrow. Harry thought about sending Pig with his reply, but wanted to keep something of Ron with him in the interim and looked forward to handing Pig back personally. He sighed and slept happily that night.

As the day drew closer to his escape from Privet Drive and his journey to the Weasleys' home, Harry examined his own feelings with the sharpest and most self-critical eye he had ever subjected them to. He knew he loved Ron. He knew this love was physical as well as emotional. He knew that Ron was far more than a friend or even a brother to him. He knew that he had enjoyed spending time with Cho; her company was rewarding and refreshing. But he had never once had any desire to be as close to Cho as he had been with Ron, and now he dared to hope that Ron had thought the same thoughts and reached the same realisation while talking to his sensible and approachable elder brother in Romania. Perhaps Ron had gone to Romania for this very reason. Harry sincerely hoped so. Hedwig returned from Romania in record time with a tiny, obviously hastily scribbled note from Ron. It said just thanks for your letter, looking forward to seeing you next week. As ever, Ron. There it was again, as ever. He thought about sending Hedwig to Sirius to share a little of his hopes and his happiness. But Hedwig shot him a look that said 'no way', and she settled into her cage while Pig was buzzing around with excitement.

The following week had passed in a blur, and only isolated images came back to Harry now. Ron had been taller and more tanned and more vigorous than he had ever been when they met at the Burrow the next day. His teeth flashed in smiles of healthy happiness, his eyes sparkled and his hair shone in a permanent halo. Harry's stomach lurched. Somehow, Ron had grown up in the couple of months they had been apart. Physical desire raged in Harry all day as they did Burrow-type things; clandestine games of Quidditch with Fred and George, degnoming the garden, eating huge meals, pretending to be bored with Molly's nagging. And then in the evening they had retired to Ron's room, again, even though there were spare rooms aplenty with Bill, Charlie and Percy left home and Ginny staying with Hermione, and saw that Molly had placed the same lumpy mattress on the floor as she had done two years before. They smiled cautiously at each other when they saw it. And in the first half-second of that smile it was clear they were not going to need the mattress.

They had been sixteen. Too old, they thought, for pyjamas now, and they sat and talked on Ron's bed in their boxers. Gone was the embarrassment and unwillingness to talk. Ron was practically gibbering. I can't believe how much I've missed you, he wittered. I can't believe how I thought I could ever do without you. He and Harry had exchanged more and more personal comments until the conversation had just stopped, as if hung in the air, incomplete. A sudden surge of desire ran through the room and Ron gulped. Harry, he had whispered, removing Harry's glasses. May I kiss you? And so it had happened. After years of secretive pleasuring each other with their hands, their first ever kiss blotted out the rest of the world as it filled their minds and hearts with the certainty that something that felt this right couldn't be that wrong. They had been boys the last time they had slept together at the Burrow. Now they were adults. For the first time the closeness between them that had naturally evolved over years showed itself in adult physical desire, acknowledged, wanted, rejoiced in. On all six of the nights of Harry's stay at the Burrow, they explored each other's bodies with an enthusiasm sprung from love and security, from newness and familiarity. As each day passed their faces and bodies glowed more and it was impossible for the other Weasleys to mistake what was happening. When Hermione and Ginny arrived about halfway through the week, Hermione had sensed it immediately. She had smiled at them both in a private moment in the garden, and voiced her approval, even her blessing. Harry's face cracked into an irrepressible grin as he recalled her words. Finally worked things out then?

Harry reached for his glasses, then remembered they were back at his own bed. Still, he didn't really need them, and anyway, Ron preferred him without them. Not because Ron was really concerned with vanity or appearance, but because he knew that only he got to see Harry in this way, and the sight of Harry's face and eyes uncluttered by the metal frames was one that was personal to the two of them in their most intimate moments. Harry turned his head and kissed Ron's glossy auburn hair, remembering that week at the Burrow. That was the point, he knew, that had marked the real beginning. Where there was now really nothing they didn't talk about, where they were honest with each other about their feelings and their desires, and where Hermione, wonderful, reliable, fantastically loving Hermione had proved herself to be their best friend.

For it had soon become clear that Hermione had been carefully coordinating their letters, agitating the curiosity of one with comments of the other, until Ron had cracked first, and written Harry the letter from Romania that nearly cost Pig his life. On the day they were to go back to Hogwarts, Hermione had come into Ron's room before breakfast, and smiled to herself at the sight of the pair of them sleeping wrapped around each other. Budge over, she had groaned, trying to wake them, and sat down on the bed next to them. They had stirred together, secretly delighted by Hermione's presence in their personal world. I don't know what it's going to be like for you two this year, she had mused. But you can count on me if it gets difficult. They had chatted and laughed till it was time to have breakfast and go to Kings Cross, the bond between Ron and Harry cemented completely.

The memories of his sixth year filled Harry with sadness, and he had long known that if it weren't for the presence of Ron in his life that year would have been too difficult to take. Skirmishes between Voldemort's followers and Ministry wizards were a daily occurrence, and all at the castle knew that if something were not done quickly the magical world would fall into another period of terror. After Christmas that year, Dumbledore had forced Voldemort's hand and initiated a showdown, almost like children fighting in the park after school. Voldemort and his entire complement of Death Eaters on one side, Dumbledore and the Aurors on the other, Harry at the sidelines completely uncertain of his role, Sirius and Ron desperate to keep Harry from harm, Arthur and Lucius venomously arguing political compromises, Hermione for once helpless and out of her depth. There had been so much death that day that it had been months before they had all been able to talk about it. But in the end it had simply come down to a powerful Dark Lord and an invincible great wizard trading complex spells well beyond the ken of most assembled, with the ultimate prize at stake. McGonagall had become the obvious field marshal to Dumbledore's colonel, and she had simply removed Harry, Ron and Hermione from the one side, and, to his violent fury, Draco Malfoy from the other, telling them that children had no place in this battle. They had never seen the battle's outcome, and secretly all had been relieved. Harry had never thought of himself as a hero, and Ron was just glad to remove Harry from where he could have been drawn in. But when a broken and exhausted Dumbledore arrived back at the castle two days later, the jubilation in the Wizarding world at large was thrown into perspective when they had realised at what cost Voldemort's defeat had come. Dumbledore had spoken to only three people that night. To the Minister, who had travelled back to Hogwarts with him; to McGonagall, to whom he handed over guardianship of the school; and to Harry, for whom he had some parting words of advice. Voldemort has been defeated, Harry, but there will always be other threats to our world. In future you may have to take command in a situation where you would rather hand responsibility to someone else. But know that you will always be strong enough if you believe in yourself and have the support of those who love you. And then he had gone, into a private and totally deserved retirement. Harry had never seen him again. But he had been one of the six pallbearers at Dumbledore's funeral, which took place in London about three months after Dumbledore's battle with Voldemort. It was a day which had far more emotion attached to it than the day of the battle itself, and it was that day, Harry realised, when Ron's place in his own life had clarified itself as more than that of a lifelong partner, but that of a soulmate companion who understood all that Harry felt on this and every other matter, that of someone who had lived through it with him, that of someone who would never, could never, be replaced. They had spent some days at the Burrow together before going back to school for the end of the Easter Term. During that time Harry told Ron he loved him, the first time either of them had used the words. Another step on the way. Ron had returned the sentiment with the honest simplicity that Harry adored in him.

In the light of the momentous events in the world at large that year, the (by comparison) irrelevant piece of gossip that Harry and Ron were officially a couple made practically no ripples on the surface of Hogwarts life. And here they were now, in their seventh and final year at school, in a relationship that neither could ever see the end of, in each other's arms in a bed in Gryffindor Tower, in love. Bonded together by years of intense emotional dependence, by shared intimate pleasures, by the respect of those that surrounded them, by honesty and loyalty, by love and trust. Ron finally stirred awake, and blinked open his heavy eyes.

'Harry', he yawned, stretching his limbs under the covers, 'I've been thinking. After NEWTs, and school and all that, shall you and I get a flat together somewhere?'

'Sure, Ron', Harry smiled. 'Sounds like a good idea'.