The Apathy

     CHAPTER ONE

Hermione cornered Ron by the stairs a few weeks later, as he was about to head up to bed.

"I'm really worried about him, Ron," she whispered, picking up the argument that they never really put down. She clutched at the sleeve of his robe to keep him from shaking her off, and he rolled his eyes, turning to face her properly.

"You're always worried, Hermione," Ron teased, smiling and tugging on a piece of her unruly hair. "I don't see how this is any sort of news."

She pulled her head back so that the hair slipped from his fingers, staring at him with a subdued sadness that startled Ron and made the smile drop from his face. Hermione looked untidy, he noticed. Her shoes were untied, one of her socks was sloping sloppily on her ankle, and she had a sore on her mouth, as if she'd bitten it too hard.

Oh, Hermione. What are you doing to yourself?

"Haven't you noticed it?" Hermione demanded, then glanced around nervously. "Doesn't Harry seem different to you? You're his best friend, you've had to have noticed. Ron, it's as if he doesn't really even like us anymore."

"Stop," murmured Ron, placing his hands on her shoulders. "You're being silly. Harry's just a bit sad, that's all, and why not?" She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with a gentle shake of his head. "Of course Harry still likes us, Hermione. We're his best friends. He's just," Ron couldn't find any words to describe just what Harry was, and settled for, "tired of it all."

Hermione shrugged his hands off, cheeks flushing with impatience. "Oh, is that right? Then tell me, Ron, when was the last time you heard Harry laugh?"

"Well, the other day, in the library..."

"NO, Ron," she said forcefully, advancing on him a step. "That was you laughing like a big, red buffoon, or don't you remember?"

"I remember just fine," grumbled Ron, at the end of his rope. "I think you're blowing this all out of proportion like you always do. Why don't you go make a button or something?"

Hermione flinched, but she kept her shoulders squared. All in all, she made an imposing picture of herself, considering she barely reached his chin in height, and that only when she was standing on the tips of her toes.

"You may think I'm exaggerating, Ronald Weasley." Hermione tilted her chin up. "But if I'm wrong about him, I'll drop out of Hogwarts and make my living as a dirt dauber. He needs us to help him, and we're not doing anything. He's depressed, he's..." Hermione stopped and blinked back tears, swallowing hard. When she spoke again, her voice was very soft. "He's *my* best friend, too."

"I know." Ron held his hands up, fighting the urge to cover his face and hide how shaken he was by her certainty. "I just don't think Harry's deserting us, is all."

"I never said anything about Harry deserting us." She gave him a solemn look. "That was all from you, Ron, and maybe you better think about that." Hermione tossed her hair over her shoulder and stalked off in a huff, leaving Ron at the bottom of the stairs with a baffled expression on his face.

"Well, you implied it!" he shouted after her, but she was long gone, and he felt stupid for it when a painting of an old man with thick gray whiskers raised his bushy eyebrows. "What are you looking at? At least I'm three-dimensional!"

When Ron climbed the steps to the dormitory and found Harry already in bed, propped against the pillows with the DADA book in his hand, Ron wasn't surprised. That's all Harry ever did anymore, was study that damn book. Harry looked up as Ron entered, but there was nothing familiar or readable in his eyes. After a moment, Harry returned to his book. Ron, suddenly able to move, realized that he had frozen under Harry's stare, and bristled with the anger that he could never quite shake anymore.

Sometimes Ron thought there were two Harry's and the wrong one had come back to Hogwarts. This Harry, whoever he was, treated Ron like an annoyance at the best of times and a stranger at the worst. Ron wasn't sure how long he could stand it before he snapped and pounded a little recognition back into Harry.

Hermione was right. They had to do something, even if it was only knocking Harry's head against a conveniently placed hard surface.

Ron went to bed that night wishing he hadn't packed away the letters Harry'd sent him over the summer, because the thin parchment they were written on somehow contained more possibility than his friend's fading, untouchable face.

     ***

It wasn't a noise that woke him.

Something about the silence of the room changed. It became intrusive and unnatural, the suffocating quiet of someone trying not to breathe, hoping not to be heard. The difference pulled Ron too swiftly from his dreams, and his heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest as if there wasn't room enough for it to fit. He could hardly catch a decent breath.

Ron struggled to accustom himself to the sudden awareness, and when he breathed more easily, began to wonder what had woke him. Then there was a noise, slight really, just a scuffle, unaccountable in the otherwise dense quiet. Ron stilled instinctively, blood frozen as his breath escaped him again. Another scuffling sound, even quieter than the first, made his throat close.

There was someone coming into the dormitory.

Ron's fingers fisted the bed sheets. Behind the protective cover of his eyelashes, he peered through the part in the curtains that hung around his bed. For an endless moment, he had time to fixate on simple, unchangeable facts: he had never truly kissed a girl, his mother would not deal well if he were to die, and Harry was a sitting duck in the bed right next to his, no doubt the target of this nocturnal visitor.

Fight or flight, his brain demanded. Fight or flight!

And then, with the flourish of truly ironic things, there was a twitch of motion right next to his bed. Ron's eyes darted toward the movement nervously, and he prepared to launch himself onto his attacker. All his muscles contracted painfully when he saw his would-be victim.

Harry was removing his invisibility cloak, cutting a swath of himself into the visual world with an effortless tug of cloth from his body. His dark hair was a mixture of midnight black and silver in the moonlight, longer than any of the other boys wore it, hanging nearly to his shoulders, and he wasn't wearing a shirt. The pajama bottoms hung loosely on his hips, held up only by a severely knotted drawstring, and Ron thought, absurdly, that Harry was really too skinny for such a tall boy.

Ron's fear of a attack had vanished like a wisp of smoke, but something else had risen to replace it, and his heart tripped over itself to escape the nameless sensation. He saw only Harry's profile as he folded the cloak, but it struck Ron once more that Harry had changed over the summer, gone through puberty and come out the other side of it, fairing better than most.

While Ron was still stuck with a voice all too ready to crack at an appropriately embarrassing moment, Harry's had smoothed into a rich baritone to match the rest of the physical changes Ron had first glimpsed on the Hogwarts Express. Harry had shot up to nearly Ron's height, and despite the rocking of the train, Ron had stood toe to toe with him, demanding Hermione compare their heights.

"I've only got about half a head on you now," Ron had whined, slapping Harry on the shoulder. He'd felt too awkward to mention any of his friend's other changes, but Ginny, being the irritating twit she was, hadn't held the same reservations.

"Hell, Harry," she'd said, with the devilish little smile that never boded well. "It really isn't fair if you get to be heroic *and* hot. Save some for the rest of the gene pool."

Watching Harry while he wasn't aware gave Ron a thrill he hadn't felt before and wasn't sure he liked that much. He knew it was wrong not to let Harry know he was awake, that Harry wouldn't want to be so vulnerable, but he took advantage of the moment to study Harry unguarded anyway. Couldn't help it, in all honesty. He was caught like that Flobberworm Crabbe and Goyle had tortured in third year, stabbing it and trapping it to the table with a knife.

Harry's chest had thickened, but not overly so. His muscles were lean, lacing together beneath his skin, giving others the impression of a tall, underfed boy until they got close enough to touch. Which was laughable really, because no one but Ron and Hermione ever actually touched Harry.

At first, Ron had thought Harry's new physical measurements might weaken his Quidditch game, because Seekers were notoriously short and thin. But Harry pushed himself harder than ever during practices, cutting through the air with his usual skill and speed, just another part of his broom. If Harry had any trouble, he didn't complain about it, and Ron wasn't seeing it.

What Ron did see was that Harry was beautiful now, like men weren't supposed to be. He felt oddly furtive as he watched Harry put his cloak away and sit down to slide the slippers from his feet. It might have been the way the muscles moved beneath Harry's skin, or the way Harry's hair fell across his face in a veil as he sat forward and pushed his slippers beneath his bed, but Ron's sheets once more found their way bunched between his fingers.

Ron couldn't deny that Harry was something special to look at, boy or not.

It wasn't as if he hadn't seen Harry all but naked plenty of times. He *knew* how Harry looked, how girls looked at him, so thinking Harry was beautiful wasn't much of a revelation, just sort of uncomfortable. What did surprise him was the way he was reacting: he felt funny all over, sort of like a spider had crawled into his stomach. Ron *hated* spiders.

Harry took his glasses off, and it left his face naked somehow, unsettling Ron a degree further as Harry started to crawl under the covers.

"Harry," Ron said, before he realized he had spoken, then bit his tongue.

Harry froze. "Ron? I woke you."

"Yes." Ron swallowed. There was too much saliva in his mouth. "I should warn you, you wouldn't make a very good thief. You're as loud as Fred and George when they're up to one of their experiments."

Harry relaxed and slid fully into bed, turning on his side facing Ron. "Then it's a good thing I've given up my career in crime, isn't it?"

"Less profitable, though."

Harry yawned and shut his eyes. "Hmm."

Ron turned onto his side as well, slipping his hand beneath the pillow to cup it against his head as he studied his friend intently. "Harry?"

Harry sighed, opening his eyes. "Yes, Ron?"

"Are you having trouble sleeping again?"

"I don't recall a time when I haven't," admitted Harry wryly. "But yes, I'm having trouble sleeping."

Ron wished Harry's voice wasn't so toneless, so hard in places Ron was still unforgivably soft, despite his own experiences in actual battle. He felt himself scrambling to keep up, desperately aware that he was bound to be left behind, no matter how much of himself he offered, how many stays in the hospital he acquired.

"Harry?"

"Yes, Ron?" asked Harry testily.

"Where did you go tonight?"

And why hadn't Harry brought *him*?

Harry was palpably quiet. Finally, he said, "Nowhere important. Goodnight, Ron."

Ron winced as Harry rolled over, showing his back to Ron and physically putting an end to their discussion. Ron's stomach hurt as he waited to see if Harry would guiltily turn back over and tell Ron everything, but it didn't happen. Angry yet again at being shut out so abruptly by his best mate, Ron gave in, moving onto his stomach and burying his face in his pillow. It smelled like his own sweaty hair, and certainly no one else's.

     ***

"You look sick," said Hermione bluntly at breakfast the next morning. She'd taken to wearing her hair in one long braid down her back, and it left her face clear and worried as she examined him.

"Yes, you do, Ron," agreed Harry. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

Ron grimaced pointedly at him. "Before or after you were running around Hogwarts all night alone?"

Harry shrunk in his seat, and Hermione's concerned glare swivelled away from Ron, spotlighting Harry's rose-tinged face. Ron smiled at him smugly as Hermione launched into a speech about the dangers of wandering around Hogwarts alone in the middle of the night. Once a Prefect, always a Prefect. Of course, he couldn't really talk when it came to that.

"It isn't as though we all haven't done it before," said Harry sulkily, resembling the child he'd once been so much that Ron expected him to shrink in size at any moment.

"Why were you wandering about at night anyhow?" asked Hermione, still worried.

Harry shrugged, picking at his food. "I couldn't sleep, Hermione. And I couldn't just stay in bed and count sheep."

Ron swallowed down a piece of dry, crisp bread. "Why would you count sheep? That doesn't sound very interesting."

"Exactly." Harry made a gesture with his hand, a misshapen figure in the air that Ron couldn't read, and his fringe swept aside to reveal the famous lightning bolt shaped scar distorted with a frown. "It's supposed to help you sleep."

"Ah, I see," Ron said, but really had no idea.

They chatted idly through breakfast, but Ron was too distracted to pay any attention to what was actually said. Harry kept tapping his fingers impatiently, as if he had somewhere else to be and couldn't be bothered to hold up his end of the conversation. Hermione talked even more than usual, filling in the gaps Ron and Harry left, but every now and then she would stop talking and chew some more on her already raw and torn lips.

Every time Harry fidgeted or cleared his throat, Ron's annoyance grew, until he really did feel sick, but not in the normal way. Not only was his stomach twisting, making him regret all the food he'd shoveled down, but his fingertips hurt, throbbing like he'd bruised them.

"You two better hurry and finish your breakfast." Hermione gathered up her many books, almost toppling over as she stood. "Really. You'll be late for class again."

With a grunt, she scurried off, robes whipping the air behind her, helpless in her back draft. It reminded Ron of their third year, when she'd been so determined to take as many classes as possible that she'd resorted to time travel. She'd all but fallen apart from wand to shoes while making the attempt.

"She's the one that was running her mouth like she'd never speak again, and she scolds us for it?" Ron wrinkled his nose at Harry. "Doesn't seem fair to me."

But Harry wasn't paying attention. He was looking at the High Table with a confused frown on his face. Ron followed his gaze. Professor Snape looked particularly sour today, but that wasn't anything out of the ordinary. That man always behaved as if he had something large and uncomfortable wedged up his arse.

"Harry." Ron snapped his fingers in front of his friend's face.

Harry blinked, eyes regaining their focus. "Hmm. What?"

"Are you all right?"

Why Ron bothered asking at all, he didn't know. Harry just nodded and acted very interested in his mostly untouched breakfast plate. It didn't take a genius to know that he wasn't being honest. George had often teased Harry that the day he lost his appetite was the day He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named repented. George wasn't the most sensitive of souls, but he was the observant sort.

"Hermione's right, though," said Harry, still distracted. "We'd better get to class."

Ron boggled at him. "I think I'm hearing things, Harry." Ron made a show of sticking his finger in his ear and wiggling it around. "You just sounded a trifle too eager for Divination."

Harry looked at him sharply. "It's never too late to take an interest in my studies, Ron."

"That's it. I'm not sick. You are. You've been taken over by Imperius."

Harry flinched, and Ron immediately regretted teasing him. The Unforgivables weren't curses Harry liked to joke about, for glaringly obvious reasons that occasionally made Ron feel like a clod because he forgot them. Ron was about to apologize, but in the space of a second, Harry went from hurt to angry. The tide of rage swept visibly across his face, and without another word, Harry started to push away from the table.

Guiltily, Ron reached out, wrapping his fingers around Harry's wrist. Harry stopped, looked down at Ron's hand, and sat again.

"I'm sorry," Ron said, hating the way the words tasted.

"It's not a joke, Ron," Harry replied in a low, intense voice. "What do you think is going to happen when we leave Hogwarts? We're going to have to protect ourselves from curses like that, from Voldemort, and you need to learn to fight them off quicker, you need to stop messing around. If you're able to make jokes about it, then you obviously don't understand that."

He'd wanted Harry to speak to him, but not like this. This was too much like Malfoy's snide insults about Ron's worth, and he wanted to cover Harry's mouth, *make* him shut up.

"I understand," Ron said, too loudly. "How can you say that I don't?"

"Then start paying attention," Harry said coldly. "Because this isn't a game. People have died, better Wizards than you and I, and they're not coming back..." Harry trailed off, and looked away from Ron. "I just wish you'd take it more seriously."

"You were talking about Sirius." Ron winced when his voice cracked, proving yet again that he was way out of his league. "You haven't before."

Harry shrugged. "What's the use of talking about it? Sirius is dead. End of story."

"That's not the end!" Ron snapped. "You can talk to me. It's me, Harry."

There was a pause. Harry sucked in a breath, almost like he was going to give in, and Ron's heart began beating faster. His fingers tensed where they had come to rest on his thighs, curled into his robes, holding himself back from jerking the words out of Harry physically. If he looked down, he would see the white knuckles, the way hunger could be written onto the back of his hands.

"No," Harry said, with finality. "You wouldn't understand."

Ron's heart skipped a beat, and he felt very cold, freezing. And then heat swept over him, blood pricking his skin like a thousand tiny needles. He watched in helpless anger as Harry rose from his seat, picking up his books as calmly as you please, so perfectly untouched, so, so...

"Don't you tell me what I can understand!" Ron burst out, his voice carrying across the Great Hall. He realized too late to stop himself that he'd yelled, that he was standing, moving quickly. It was like he was outside of himself, watching himself get in Harry's way. There was only one second to register Harry's shocked face, before Ron had him by his robes, pinned against the table.

Harry was white all over, but the whitest were his eyes, wide with disbelief.

"Ron!" Harry's voice cracked this time. "What are you--"

"Shut up," Ron ordered. "You shut up and listen to me, or I swear I'll--"

"Let go of me!" Harry demanded, and dropped his books. His hands wrapped painfully around Ron's where they were fisted in his robes. "Let the fuck go. What the hell is your problem?"

"You're my problem," Ron hissed, pushing his face toward Harry, and everyone was watching, he could feel them watching, eyes on the back of his neck. "You're such a martyr, walking around all the time with your new voice, and the weight of the world on your shoulders, and no one has it worse than Harry Potter, no one could possibly understand that life sucks, that your godfather is dead, that..."

"Stop it," Harry gasped, struggling harder to get away.

But Harry didn't understand. Ron *couldn't* stop.

"You don't talk to anyone, and you're always by yourself, reading those dumb books about the Dark Arts. And when you're not by yourself, when you choose to share your presence with the rest of us mere mortals, I almost wish you'd go away, because you don't say anything that matters. You didn't write to me, you didn't--"

Harry stopped struggling. "There isn't anything to talk about," he said bracingly, colder than Ron had ever heard him speak to anyone. *Anyone*. "You wouldn't understand."

"Well no, not if you won't tell me! And stop saying that!"

"I don't think I want to tell you. Shouldn't I be allowed a little privacy?"

Ron's mouth fell open. "Oh, is that what this is about?" His robes were too tight across his chest, strangling his every attempt to breathe. "The famous Harry Potter needs to guard his sacred privacy. I'm so sorry for encroaching on your personal space, Harry Potter, but I thought, what with all your fawning fans, you might appreciate an ear that gives a damn."

Harry went crimson right down to his collar, and probably beyond. "Careful, Ron." Harry's voice shook imperceptibly, his nostrils flaring. "You're beginning to sound like Malfoy."

Ron's fingers tightened that much more, and there was a tearing sound. "Well, I'm beginning to understand why that twat hates you so much. Friends are supposed to share their toys, Harry, but maybe you never learned that, being a single child."

"Keep talking, Ron," Harry grated, "and we won't be friends anymore at all."

Ron licked his lips, about to answer, when a large hand fell solidly on his shoulder, and Ron gasped, pulled back into himself so fast he got whiplash. He'd never been so angry in his life, but it rushed out of him now, and Ron looked down, horrified to see his hands had ripped Harry's robes.

"I think that's enough, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said, not unkindly.

Slowly, Ron released Harry and stepped back. Harry, still looking stunned, straightened and smoothed his palms over the front of his robes. His hands paused when they came in contact with the tear in the fabric, and then clenched into fists at his sides.

"Harry," Ron whispered, and Harry hunched his shoulders, avoiding Ron's eyes, a glimmer of hurt surrounding him.

Dumbledore looked at them with an expression so reproving that Ron nearly gaped in shock. Dumbledore may have been forced to punish them in the past, but he'd never looked disappointed with them. It was like being kicked in the bits right after something nasty had tried to gnaw them off.

"Did you know that some of the bloodiest wars in history were fought by brothers, nothing more than the result of an emotional rift?" Dumbledore inquired seriously. He nodded when neither of them spoke, and his gaze shifted from Harry's face to Ron's. "Yes, torn friendships are dangerous creatures. Hate is more powerful when it is the result of love."

Ron shifted on his feet and dropped his chin to his chest. When he chanced a glance at Harry, he wasn't surprised to see a simmering hate on his face, but Ron *was* surprised to see it directed at Dumbledore. Harry's lips were pursed together so hard they were white around the edges, and Ron blinked, confused.

"Perhaps you two would prefer feuding with a slightly smaller audience?" Dumbledore suggested, making an elegant, sweeping gesture to the doors of the Great Hall.

"Yes, I think you're probably right," Harry said stiffly. "I wouldn't want to cause another scene."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "As you say."

Harry's eyelids swept low, but whatever he wanted to say was bit back. He bent, gathered his books up, and stalked off without another word. There was a loud rumble of noise as the rest of the students turned in their seats to watch him leave. Ron bit his bottom lip and spared Dumbledore a curious glance, then grabbed his own books from the table and shot after Harry, all too aware that it made him look like Harry's well trained pet. He clearly heard Malfoy break into hysterical guffawing, the fucking ferret.

Ron burst through the doors just as Harry was about to disappear around the corner.

"Harry!"

Harry stopped walking, jolting as if he'd run into an invisible wall. He leveled a wary stare at Ron from over his shoulder, jaw stubbornly set. Ron took a hesitant step forward, stilling when Harry's head jerked from side to side, indicating that Ron should stay where he was. Well trained pet, indeed.

"If you're here to attack me again, then I don't need it," Harry warned. "I've got a hundred other people to tell me that I'm crazy and self-absorbed, so I'd thank you to leave me alone."

"You tell him, Potter," one of the paintings rallied. "Though you are rather strange."

Ron tried to smile. "Well, you know how I like weird things." After a moment, Harry nodded, and Ron started forward again. Harry didn't try to stop him this time, only eyed Ron with that same wariness until they were two strides apart, and Ron halted. "Just tell me one thing," Ron requested.

"Okay, if it's something I want to, then maybe."

Well, that was decisive, Ron thought sarcastically, and stuffed his fists in his pockets. He didn't look at Harry directly, found his gaze on Harry's nose for lack of a better place. It had a few pale freckles dusted across the surface. Not dark, blatant freckles like his own, but soft ones that looked like they might rub away under the right fingertip.

"Why aren't we friends anymore?" Ron asked quickly, before he could lose his nerve.

Harry drew in a startled breath, blinking compulsively. "Um, I'm not sure what you... I don't..."

"You know what I mean," said Ron. "You know you do. Every time I try to talk to you about anything that matters, you clam up like I'm trying to sacrifice your virginity to You-Know- Who. When I try to talk to you about things that *don't* matter, you hardly listen. I can't fucking win with you."

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, holding his books tighter.

"I can't imagine what I've done to deserve that," Ron said. "I've no idea why you've decided to treat me like I'm a stranger that you can't confide in. I fought right there beside you when you needed me, and maybe I didn't fight so well, but I tried my best. And after, I might as well have been as dead as Sirius, for all the attention you paid me."

"I'm sorry," replied Harry dryly. "It's not like I didn't have anything to be preoccupied about. Next time someone I love dies, I'll be sure to ask you how you're feeling."

Ron reared back like he'd taken a blow. "That's not what I meant."

Harry didn't look so certain. Ron's hand shook a little as he raised it to press his hair out of his eyes. At any moment, he felt like he might grab Harry by his robes again and just... hold on. Or shake him hard.

"Please, just tell me," Ron continued. "That's all I'm asking. Tell me why you're treating me like this, why you won't let me help you." Ron waited, but when Harry still said nothing, fresh anger flooded him. "Bloody, stupid, stubborn-! If you don't tell me what's wrong... if you don't tell me, I think I'm going to hit you."

Ron took his hands from his pockets and balled them up to show that he wasn't all talk, and after a long moment, Harry sighed and lifted his glasses to rub his eyes. When his hand fell away from his face, he looked older, like a man outdistancing his body.

"People drift from each other, Ron," Harry stated with certainty. "That's a fact of life I've come to accept. People drift, and they die, and they don't stay for as long as you'd like them to." Harry gestured to the space between them. "Look at us, for example. We've been drifting from each other for years, and I don't think there's any stopping it. You've been fooling yourself if you think otherwise."

"What, I don't have any choice in the matter?" A pained sound escaped Ron's throat. "One day I'm just going to drift along into a brick wall or something, and have nothing to say about it but 'ouch'?"

Harry almost smiled. "I wouldn't word it exactly like that, but that's something like what I mean, yes."

"No, I don't agree with you." Ron shook his head fiercely. "Not one bit. People have a choice, Harry, always. *You* have a choice. You don't have to stop caring."

Harry's lips twisted down, that glimmer of hurt surrounding him again. "I still care."

"Well, that's something then." Ron's smile wobbled. He held Harry's eyes for as long as he could, watching the emotions shift across the moveable green surface. "You're my best friend, Harry. Always."

Harry's cheeks twitched, and he shut his eyes for a moment. "I don't want to talk about it, Ron," he whispered. "I don't. Don't try to make me, because I won't."

"Just--"

Harry dropped his books with a resounding thud! and clutched Ron by the cloth of his robes, pulling him forward into an awkward half hug that crushed his own books between them. Ron was stunned silent. It was the kind of hug boys shared when they didn't want to talk about their emotions anymore, when it was all just too much, when they knew they shouldn't be hugging at all, because boys just didn't do that sort of thing.

The embrace pressed Harry's angular hip against the outside of Ron's thigh, and Ron wanted to push him away, but Harry's arm curved around the back of his neck. It was awful and wonderful all at once. Someone inside Ron, someone who couldn't have possibly been himself, shivered with hot-cold-yes-oh-yes.

"I can't," Harry said.

Ron's eyes drifted shut. His hands found their way to the center of Harry's back and knotted together, a tangle of callused fingers. Not pushing, *holding*. Harry flexed the arm around Ron's neck in response.

"You have to be my friend," Ron couldn't stop himself from saying, cheek brushing the mess of Harry's hair. "I'm not giving you a choice."

And Harry didn't say anything horrible, didn't tell him that people drifted so Ron should just stop being a needy fool. Still, Harry didn't agree either, and the silence wasn't much better. When Harry pulled away, Ron stood stiffly, waiting for Harry to say something or hit him. For some reason, Ron felt like the moment called for one or the other.

Harry just smiled faintly, and edged back. "Let's get to class," Harry suggested with false cheer. "I'm sure we've already got ourselves a detention."

It was like magic, Ron thought irritably, frowning at Harry's back. Just like that and not a hard word had ever been said between them. Even so, he didn't contradict Harry's unspoken assumption, because as shamefully good as it had felt to rip into Harry, he never wanted to feel that way again.