The Corresponding Emotion

"The set of professional Quidditch balls are yours, obviously," said Ron. "And so is the Pensieve we got last year. But the Martin Miggs comics... those would be really hard to divide. Why don't I just keep those?"

"Okay," said Harry.

Ron looked down beside his plate at the list he was making. "But the sofa in the living room... why don't we just do a Severing Charm and bzzt! Right down the middle?"

Harry looked a little ill. "Can we just not talk about this?"

"This is business, Harry. This is the business of breaking up. But if you can't handle it, I reckon I could put an advert in the Prophet and just send you half the cash." Ron looked back down at his list, pretending to be busily listing items when he was in fact just doodling in the margins to keep himself from saying something sentimental.

"You must hate me," said Harry.

Ron shrugged. "No, I don't hate you." He scribbled some more and then looked up at Harry. "Well, okay, I did at first. I really did. But then..." He shrugged again as if to say what's the point?

"Ron... I..." Harry looked completely bewildered.

"Harry, are you all right?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, it's just that... I feel so guilty," Harry said. He picked at the dinner roll on his bread plate, leaving it in shreds. "Just so guilty, like I should have handled this whole thing better than I did. Completely, totally, horribly guilty about that."

Yeah, no kidding, Ron thought. "Oh, don't feel guilty," he said instead. "Because then I'll feel guilty because you feel guilty, and - " Then he shrugged. "Eh, nevermind. Go ahead and feel guilty. Swim in it till your fingers get all pruney." He felt bad about that last remark, because Harry had spent most of his life feeling guilty for various things, but he had to keep up the appearance of someone who really didn't care that the rug had been yanked right out from under him by just one firechat.

"You know, I didn't expect it to be like this," said Harry quietly. "I thought it would be this big ugly thing, but... it isn't. You're just so, I don't know... different."

Ron didn't know what to say to that, so he went back to scribbling on the list. He didn't know what to do; if it was time to drop the act or not. He was so confused.

"Ron." Harry's hand closed over his, stopping his doodling. "Take a walk with me? Just for old time's sake?" Harry's face was earnest, hopeful, and Ron couldn't say no.

He nodded, slipping his fingers between Harry's and following him out of the restaurant.

The beach was mostly empty this time of day; the tide was low and most beachgoers had left to find food and sunburn relief. A hopeful bubble built up in Ron's chest as they walked along the sand barefoot, shoes magically shrunken and stowed away in their pockets. Harry had taken his hand again as they walked, and Ron dared to give it the smallest of squeezes.

Harry squeezed back.

They fell into step together just as they always had. Ron automatically shortened his stride a little to keep right at Harry's side, something that came very naturally to him. And it occurred to him, somewhere in the back of his mind, that maybe he'd adjusted more than his step to stay right beside Harry all these years.

"I don't know what's so different about you now," said Harry, kicking at the sand with his toes. "It's like... I dunno. Like someone said 'Lumos' inside you and lit you up." He stopped, squeezing Ron's hand again, and looked up at him. "I just can't figure out why it wasn't me."

There was a large lump in Ron's throat, blocking anything he could have wanted to say. Harry's free hand slid slowly up Ron's arm, his eyes never leaving Ron's, and half a heartbeat later Harry had leaned up to catch Ron's lips with his.

It was the moment Ron had been waiting for for the last week; he'd thought of nothing else, dreamed for nothing else but having Harry back in his arms. Harry's familiar scent and taste was enough to make Ron believe he was back home at their London flat instead of barefoot on a South Carolina beach, and it made his heart nearly explode with wanting him.

"How could I have been so stupid?" Harry murmured against his lips. "It's always been you, Ron. Always."

Ron's stomach did a mad swooping flip-flop. You will know, he remembered Malfoy telling him, and he decided to risk it. "Come upstairs with me?" he whispered, hooking a finger in one of Harry's belt loops.

He didn't have to beg. They could barely keep their hands off each other on the way to Ron's room; it was only the need to get upstairs as quickly as possible that kept them moving. And even though it had only been just under a week that they'd been apart, once they were there it was like getting to know each other all over again. It was so much like in Ron's dream; the way their bodies twined together, the way Harry's hands slid over Ron's bare skin and how Ron remembered where Harry liked to be touched and how he would moan when he did.

"Ron," breathed Harry, sliding his hands over the hollow of Ron's hipbones, his breath ghosting along Ron's stomach and making his muscles tense and flutter in response. "Could have lost you for good - so stupid - " He nuzzled his nose along Ron's navel, still whispering, though Ron felt his words rather than heard them.

And that was when Ron realised that this really wasn't what he wanted at all.

"Harry -" Ron sat up, abruptly dislodging him.

Harry sat back, and even in the dim light of the room Ron could see he was frowning in confusion. "Ron?"

"I'm sorry, Harry," Ron said, stumbling over his words. "It's just - you keep talking about how different I am, and I'm not. You might think I am tonight, but tomorrow I'll still be the same old me I was yesterday."

"But I shouldn't have left," said Harry, sliding closer to Ron and stroking his cheek. "I want you back."

Ron leaned into his touch, partly out of habit and partly because he was trying to pull together the will to say what he needed to say. "No, Harry. You don't want that me anymore, because you aren't who you were anymore."

"I - Ron, I don't know what to say to that..." Harry started to pull away, but Ron covered Harry's hand with his, curling his fingers around it.

"It's okay," he said. "I don't think any of us are who we used to be, after the war. We've grown, and I think maybe we've grown apart."

"Do you think so?" Harry's voice was soft and a little uncertain. "I mean, we've been friends -"

" - for ages, yeah. And we always will be. But I don't think we can be more than that anymore." It was killing Ron to say this, but he knew it was the right thing to do.

The mattress shifted beneath them a little as Harry slid up beside Ron, putting his head on Ron's shoulder. "No, I don't think we can."

"I'm sorry." Ron pressed his lips to Harry's forehead, breathing him in.

"So am I, Ron."

"It's open," Ron called when he heard the knock on the door.

"Good morning."

Ron didn't even look up at the sound of Malfoy's voice, instead swiping a croissant from the untouched room service tray. "Have a good night?"

"Indeed I did," said Malfoy. He looked a bit dishevelled, and Ron didn't particularly care to think about how he got that way.

"Business as usual?" Ron asked with a bit of a chuckle that he didn't really feel.

Malfoy shrugged. "You could say that." He sat down across the table from Ron, helping himself to a bowl of strawberries. "So... how did it go?"

Ron didn't have the heart to tell Malfoy that after all the trouble he'd gone through to get Harry back, he'd come to the conclusion that he didn't really want to get back with Harry after all. "He wants to come back," he said, plastering a smile on his face.

"Congratulations," Malfoy said, and there was a note in his voice Ron couldn't quite understand. He put the bowl back down, licking strawberry juice from his fingers. "I suppose you'll be going back to England now?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "I got my flight this morning." Along with a few other things. "But first..." He picked up the necklace from where it lay on the table, sliding it through his fingers. "There's still a little business to take care of."

"Well, here you are, Weasley," said Pansy Parkinson, handing Ron the bank draft. "It was transferred from Gringotts' after I talked to you, and the jeweller has agreed to issue this in exchange. The necklace will be returned to Mrs Malfoy immediately. It's a perfect illusion."

Ron stared at the draft. Forty-five thousand, six hundred and forty-one dollars. A bit of mental math worked it out to be about nine thousand, four hundred and sixty-six Galleons, give or take a few Sickles. His entire life savings, accumulated from the time he left school; including the portion of his Auror's salary he'd set aside each month during the war, and the cash portion of the Order of Merlin he was awarded afterward, all invested with goblin advice and carefully tended. Harry had insisted on paying for almost everything when they lived together, and years of growing up poor had made Ron rather frugal.

And this was the result.

"Thanks," he said, tucking the bank draft into his pocket.

"Why are you doing this?" asked Parkinson. "You and Draco aren't friends. You made each other's lives hell in school. Last I checked, you hated him and the feeling was mutual. You don't owe him anything, and I sincerely doubt he'd do this for you if your situations were reversed. When I asked you to help me with him, I didn't expect you to do this!"

"I... I don't know," said Ron. It wasn't entirely true; he suspected that it had to do more than a little bit with the fact that he'd seen a side of Draco Malfoy this past week that he never expected to see before - a side of him that cared about his friends as fiercely as Ron cared about Harry and Hermione. And even though he'd stolen the necklace, he hadn't stolen it entirely for his own benefit. After seeing Malfoy's excitement when he'd discussed his plans for the resort and restoring a bit of dignity to his disenfranchised Slytherin friends, Ron didn't have the heart to ruin it.

"Gryffindors," she said, shaking her head, but there was no malice in her voice. "I don't know whether to think you stupid or generous, but I appreciate you keeping Draco out of trouble, all the same."

"Thanks, I think," said Ron.

"Forty-five thousand dollars!" Malfoy stared at the draft with his mouth hanging open. "That's all? Why did I let you do this? I should have done it myself, what was I thinking?"

"Well, there were some flaws," said Ron quickly, alarmed by Malfoy's outburst.

"Flaws?"

"Yeah, he said it was a beautiful necklace, but officially, there were these flaws. I'm sorry."

Malfoy paced for a few moments, muttering under his breath and staring at the bank draft. "It's okay," he said abruptly, sliding it into his pocket.

"It is?" Ron asked.

"Well, it will take me a little longer to buy the property I'm looking at, and then it will take a while to get it up to full staff, but ... it'll work out." Ron thought he saw the ghost of a smile playing around the edges of Malfoy's mouth. "Nott might have to keep working on the black market for the time being, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, well, as long as he stays away from me," said Ron.

"I think he will," said Malfoy. He looked up at Ron, and this time Ron was certain Malfoy was smiling. "Thank you," he said softly.

"I'm sorry you didn't get as much as you thought you would for the necklace," Ron said.

"I'm not just talking about the necklace," said Malfoy, and in a move that totally surprised Ron, he took Ron's hand and squeezed it briefly before letting go. "I meant for other things, too."

"I have to go," said Ron quickly, even though his flight wasn't until much later in the evening. He liked this simple truce he'd come to with Malfoy, and he didn't want to ruin any of it by blurting out any of the half-formed ideas beginning to take shape inside him. "My flight..."

He hastily gathered up his bag and his jacket and left the room, not looking back.

Even though the airport was crowded with people, Ron felt very much alone. He sat quietly as flights were called, people came and went, and the sun through the airport windows faded and then vanished. It was a numb realisation on his part that he would be returning to an empty flat and a life that would be totally different than the one he'd been used to for as long as he'd been an adult. But it was a necessary realisation.

It was time to move on.

"This is the first boarding call for passengers on flight 62442 to London. Those passengers with Gold Club memberships or those seated in First Class, Business, or Business Express classes may now begin boarding."

Ron sighed, picking up his bag to wait for his boarding call. Even though he had accepted that this was the way things were going to be, he wasn't exactly looking forward to how his family and friends would take the news. He was pretty sure that most of them would be angry with Harry, and he didn't really want to hear anyone badmouthing him. He wasn't angry with Harry; it was just the way things needed to be, and there was no need to be bitter about it.

"Passengers seated in Economy class rows T-Z may now begin boarding."

That was him; row T. He got up and headed for the queue, standing in line as other rows were called.

"And just were do you think you're going?" said a very out of breath Draco Malfoy.

Ron turned around, startled. "Malfoy? What are you doing here?"

"I just talked to Pansy, that's what I'm doing here," he said, punching Ron in the arm. "Of all the stupid, idiotic, foolish-noble-Gryffindor things I've ever heard in my life, this one takes the cake. You're fucking poor, Weasley - what - why - ?" He threw up his hands, obviously unable to ask the seventeen questions that were written all over his face. "Why?"

Ron didn't know how to answer him any more than he'd known how to answer Parkinson. "I don't know," he said simply.

"Ron..."

It was such a shock to hear Malfoy say his first name that he nearly dropped his bag.

The loudspeaker chimed in again. "This is the final boarding call for flight 62442 to London."

"I have to go," said Ron, nodding to the gate. But he couldn't make his feet move; they were somehow frozen to the floor in spite of his urgent need to flee.

Draco's fingers closed around his wrist, tugging gently. "I don't think you should get on that plane," he said.

"You don't?"

"No," said Draco. "I... I want you."

"To do what?" Ron asked warily.

Draco smiled. "Just you. That's all."

And then Draco leaned up with a hesitancy that Ron never would have expected from him, and when Draco kissed him his lips were much softer than Ron ever would have imagined, and he forgot that they were in the middle of an airport with hundreds of strangers all around them, kissing him back like he'd somehow always been meant to kiss him.

A kiss that made him feel that even though he was thousands of miles from England, he'd finally come home.