Post Bellum

Act III: Patrocinor

It started to rain almost the moment he and Harry recovered their bearings long enough to look around. They were at the front steps of a decent-sized cottage, beige with eggplant-purple trim and shutters. The windows were boarded shut; aside from that odd detail, the cottage was ordinary, unobtrusive, and picturesque enough to be pleasant but not enough of anything to draw attention. It was also charmed to help the illusion of innocuousness along.

The drizzle matted Ron's hair. He walked in front, trying not to jump every time Harry's trunk knocked against a stone step, and adjusted the grip on his wand anxiously. It was hard to see through the droplets of water continually clouding his vision. "Harry, stop."

Stopping dead, a terrified Harry looked over his shoulder at Ron. "W-what is it?"

"You need to get in front of me. We're open for attack."

Harry seemed hesitant. "We're nearly at the front door."

"That doesn't matter." He didn't bother to explain about how fast and how far spells and curses could travel, just waited edgily for Harry to step in front of him. When he did Ron urged him to keep walking. "Nearly there, as you said."

Harry's posture was ramrod-straight as he walked. The rain was getting heavier and the both of them started when thunder cracked, Ron instantly lifting his wand, Harry dropping his trunk. "Shit." He bent to pick it back up but Ron stopped him and cast a levitation charm.

They reached the door and Harry jiggled the handle uselessly. "How do I...?"

Ron released the spell and the trunk clattered to the ground. Ron stepped up even with Harry and chanted to unlock the door--courtesy of Bill's experience with rare locking spells. Only a few members of the Order knew of it and Bill told him no amount of Alohomoras and the like would ever work. Harry glanced at him oddly for the chanting but the door gave way with a faintly ominous creak. Ron all but shoved Harry inside the house, followed him and slammed the door shut.

"There's no light," Harry murmured, feeling the walls. "How--" Ron waved his wand and all the antiquated lanterns mounted on the walls flickered to life. "Oh."

The cottage was astonishingly modern, given the old fashioned lighting. There was a kitchen, its walls spelled a cheerful daisy-yellow, an icebox, a small stocked pantry, and a thick oak table. The stove had knobs totally unfamiliar to Ron, so he guessed they were Muggle and for Harry's benefit. He tried his wand with it and found it lit fine, so he could use it as well. The icebox wasn't spelled cold either but ran from elecktrickity (or whatever it was his father was so fascinated with).

"I'm going to go have a bath, is that all right?"

Ron was engrossed in studying the kitchen and distractedly waved Harry off. Belatedly, he hoped the bathroom was set up for Muggles too. He made himself a ham and cheese sandwich, making sure to carefully rewrap the items and stash them neatly inside the buzzing icebox again.

He wandered through the rest of the house eating his sandwich, noting the chess set and multiple books, though it looked as if scarce few of them would be to his interest; a favor to ask Dumbledore for others if he got the chance. There were two bedrooms and one bathroom, the one Harry was currently occupying. A den and a few storage closets. Not much to do, aside from that chess set and those boring books scattered here and there. Ron immediately gathered which bedroom was his; it was off-white and rather sparse but it had a magical alarm radio and a lone Quidditch magazine on his bed. Harry's room was also off-white but livened up by a few paintings--Muggle, of course; it would probably freak him out to have someone's likeness staring at him and attempting to make conversation.

When he came back to his own room and began to put his clothes away, he spotted an envelope lying on his dresser. Ron recognized Dumbledore's curving script on its front: "Ronald Weasley." Ron opened it, nearly giving himself a paper cut in the process, and cursing he held the parchment up to the light to squint at the contents.

Quickly apparent were two things: Dumbledore really had no idea when they would be able to come out of hiding, although the logical conclusion was they would return after Harry regained his magic. No amount of magical training could ever make up for the years of schooling and precision Harry had garnered, it would seem pretty foolish to teach him even simple defense spells, but Ron figured a few first-year spells wouldn't hurt and vowed to ask Dumbledore for Harry's wand.

Secondly, Snape was their Secret Keeper, which Ron secretly found hysterical. Secretly, because the only person Ron could share this joke with was Harry, who only had a fleeting impression of Snape, no bitter history and no idea why this stupid situation would be funny. Hysterical, because Snape was top priority for You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters: instructions were, the Order heard, to take him alive so they might make an example of him.

Ron didn't even mention the letter when Harry stepped out from the loo, a towel wrapped his waist and looking somewhat refreshed. It was tucked away in his pocket, not to be thought of.

---

The first few days Harry was unnervingly quiet. The only noises he made were during dinner or when he needed something: "please," and "thanks," the only whispered acknowledgements of Ron's actually being there. He never asked questions, never asked for news. Dumbledore did eventually write back and instructed Ron to write any requests on the back of his parchment; he did and in the morning it was gone, presumably sent back.

They sat in the living room after another full day of nearly not speaking. The trite attempts at conversation Ron made hardly counted, as they went unnoticed. Ron was a bit chilled but didn't want to risk turning up the fire with his wand; Harry got odd about it, and they truly didn't need anymore oddness. Instead he tugged his sleeves down and situated his legs so they were nearly tucked underneath him, a feat considering their length.

"So," Harry began, while Ron was in the middle of gradually being hypnotized by the dancing flames. "I guess we're not allowed outside?"

Ron earlier had told him of the last note from Dumbledore, which was nothing more than a pathetic attempt to boost morale with "we're even closer than before." Coming closer to what, exactly, was Ron's question, but you couldn't take anything Dumbledore said for what it was in the first place. "Uh, it's imperative that we stay inside for the wards. Or something."

"The protection... stuff." Harry nodded and didn't even look discomfited by the idea.

He went back to his book. Ron went back to staring unblinkingly at the fire. Every now and then Harry would turn a page and the rustling would snap Ron into looking over until he got used to it.

---

Sometimes it was easy to forget the changes in Harry, considering. He seemed so normal most of the time: unlike himself, yes, but quiet and calm, if not content. He rarely asked questions and hadn't expressed anything like awe or fear towards Ron's magic and the Wizarding World--his former life. He sat around and read and every day cooked by hand, except for the one time Ron made lunch, and it was that which emphatically reminded Ron how not with it Harry really was.

Hermione had said he was "fragile." Likened him to a block of clay or a baby, all impressionable and wide-eyed and easily distracted. "You have to be careful," she had warned, "you could upset him." Ron thought she was being forgiving and optimistic. When you got down to it, Harry could be downright mad.

Ron cooked lunch. He made sandwiches and tomato soup, brought it to Harry on a tray at the table, sitting down to serve them. They ate in relative silence. Harry didn't seem off, insofar as Ron could tell, but you couldn't be sure. When they were done eating, Ron waved his wand and watched with half-interest as all the dishes flew off the table and sailed into a now-sudsy sink, cleaning themselves niftily-a trick learned from his mum. He got up and read the old paper left for them, settling down into another day of nothing.

Harry didn't say much the rest of the day. Once he asked Ron if there'd been news from Hermione again; Ron shook his head no.

When it was evening, Harry got up and started making spaghetti. He set out the noodles and boiled water, chopped up zucchini and sliced mushrooms to go in with the tomato sauce, and molded spiced beef into neat, fist-sized balls. Ron went to the loo and passed the kitchen on the way, noticed the sauce was lopping about too nosily in the pan. He turned the flames down with his wand before Harry could do it manually, standing across the tiled floor in his bare feet and bored expression. Harry blinked at him and Ron turned, closing the door to the bathroom without a word.

While he washing up he heard a loud clang and figured Harry was draining the pasta. He studied his face for a moment in the mirror--it was time for a shave, and any magical mirror would have fussed at him for it--before flicking off the light and opening the door.

Immediately Ron could smell the burning meatballs. He must have made a sound because Harry, bent over the sink, jerked into movement. After flinging a serving spoon against the counter to his left, Harry started sobbing, or started sobbing louder; it wasn't clear. His whole body shuddered with it. Harry slammed his palms against the porcelain inlay of the sink, noises escalating until he was all-out panting, nearly screaming. "I hate it," he spat raggedly. "I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it."

"Harry--" Ron took a step towards him.

"IHATEITIHATEITIHATEIT," Harry went on, ranting and crying and letting the meat burn. Ron took care of that before there was a fire, but once the danger was out the way he couldn't think to do anything else. He kept standing, wand held loosely in his fingers, and watched as Harry broke down. "I hate it." On and on, the words harshly and rapidly said until the sounds were almost comically merged.

"Harry." Ron tried to say it again loudly, to get his attention, but the words choked around his closed throat. He'd not seen Harry like this for a very, very long time, not since fifth year at Grimmauld Place, but this Harry was a new Harry who didn't yell and scream at Ron and Hermione. He yelled and cried to himself, to the kitchen counter, to the sink, to fucking spaghetti. "Harry, please."

Harry did seem to make a concerted effort. He stopped erratically throwing things or pushing himself against the counter violently and only stood in place, crying softly. "I'm so... I'm so useless. I feel like I'm dead."

"I..." There was nothing to say. Ron couldn't even imagine what it would be like to wake up with not even a faint idea of yourself and to be told you were a wizard in the middle of a war. Harry probably thought he was crazy, or worse yet hallucinating. "I'm sorry?" It was the best Ron's mind, stunted as it was in the moment, could come up with.

Harry sucked in a deep breath of air and made a sound that scarily resembled laughter. "I know that. You've been nothing but... whatever."

"Look, Harry--" He was planning to go off on some mildly comforting if awkward rambling speech about how everything would be all right and that he knew things were terrible, but if Harry could just wait. But Harry turned around so suddenly and caught Ron's gaze, held it intently and looked like he desperately wanted to speak. "Harry?"

"They said we were best friends?" The question was in an unexpectedly harsh tone, and it took Ron aback?

"Well, yes." He had to wonder about this sudden change in... whatever it was. One minute Harry's crying and hysterical and Ron's completely lost, but then he's asking questions? Not that Ron was any less lost than before.

"You... do you... miss. Me?"

Ron blinked. "Uh, yeah."

"During... that war. Were you. Did you see me everyday?"

"No, we weren't... close. I mean, physically."

Harry stared at him in befuddlement. "But I thought the camp was pretty close? Closed in, like?"

"Well." He shifted uncomfortably and dropped his wand onto a nearby counter, lest he twist it in his hands and accidentally light something on fire. "It was. But you were important. You know? I didn't see you much towards the end. And it was a lot different than school." He almost snorted at the understatement.

"Did you miss me then?" Harry's voice turned desperate again, hardly more than a whisper.

"Oh, well. Yes. Of course."

"But not like you miss me now." It wasn't a question.

"No, not like now." Ron wasn't sure what was going on, nor why Harry was looking so terribly sad and thoughtful all at once.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly.

"No!" His reassurance came out strange and vehement, like he was chastising Harry. Ron immediately blushed and stammered through elucidating. "Don't worry about it." 'Mate' nearly came out by habit and he had to all but stomp on it, figuratively speaking.

They stood in the kitchen, gracelessly silent until Harry sighed despondently. Tension leaked out of his frame, dragging down his shoulders, but it was more like exhaustion finally taking over him and leaving him limp underneath its force.

"I should take care of dinner," Ron offered, eyeing the meatballs and the probably soggy pot of noodles.

"No, no." Harry waved him off and moved completely away from the sink. He started turning on the stove and adjusting the pans, the noise oddly metallic and loud after the queer silences. "Go sit down, it'll be ready in a bit."

"Fine. Let me know... if you need anything." Ron stared at Harry for a moment. He wasn't noticed. Not even when he turned around and walked back to his sofa by the fire.

---

"Dumbledore said he would give me your wand."

"What?" Harry stopped eating porridge long enough to look up at Ron, shocked.

"I asked if we could have it, in case it... helped." Upon seeing Harry's stunned and somewhat appalled expression, it didn't seem like a good idea at all. "You don't have to start doing magic if you really don't want to," he rushed to explain. "I just thought maybe you would want to play around with it. Er, I could show you a few spells, I mean. Easy ones." And maybe the focus and reality of a wand in Harry's hand would either trigger his memory or stop another indiscriminate flip-out.

"Oh." Harry blinked and returned to his porridge. His spoon listlessly prodded at the sodden stuff and made little patterns in the milk. "So, was I a good wizard?"

Ron inwardly debated on how he should answer the question. "Yeah, you were great. You defeated You-Know-Who--"

"Voldemot?"

His breath caught. Even a close derivative still made his heart beat faster, and the bastard was dead. "Voldemort," he said with some precision, and Harry was oblivious to the significance of Ron's saying it. "You defeated, er, him, and he was said to be the most powerful wizard, next to Dumbledore or Merlin."

Harry looked up again. "There was a real Merlin?"

"Yeah. There was. We even have an award."

"How will it get here?"

"What?"

"My... wand."

"The same way the food gets here." Ron didn't feel like explaining how Dumbledore ported them food or whatever it was he did, mainly because Ron had no clue.

"Magic?"

"Of course."

But Ron was wrong.

A knock at the door two hours later startled him so thoroughly he nearly forgot to reach for his wand. His hands scrambled for it, knocking over Harry's book in the process, and stood up. "Stay out of sight but don't go far. Scream if you need me."

Somewhere in his fog of fear and anger, Ron heard Harry retreating. Another knock sounded. Ron pointed his wand in the direction of the person he assumed was standing behind the door. Death Eater, his mind kept supplying, Death Eater.

"R--er. Hello! It's me."

Hermione's voice nearly bowled Ron over, but he wasn't convinced. "Hermione?"

"Yes!" She, or whoever it was, brightened considerably.

"What form does your Patronus take?" he asked, searching for anything unique to her.

She sighed. "An otter. But really, anyone could know that. Ah, how about that time I tripped and fell at... your house and I was wearing ugly knickers?" Ron noticed how she carefully avoided saying 'the Burrow.'

The strangeness of the comment, not to mention Hermione acknowledging something she seemed to previously find horrifying, took him off guard. No one else would have known, however, as both Ron and Harry had been unexpectedly closed-mouth about it.

"Why are you here?"

"Yes, I'm really going to answer that out in the open like this." Hermione had that incredibly ability to make him feel five years old. "Just let me in. You can put a Body Bind on me if that will help." There was a pause. "You would, of course, have to let me out of it eventually."

"I'm opening the door," he said sullenly, pretty much certain it was Hermione, but he kept his wand raised just in case. He whispered the chant to unlock it and it swung open, creaking again in that bloody menacing fashion.

Hermione stood on the top step, bag on her shoulder. It was raining out. Ron hadn't realized. "Hi there," she said, and pushed past him in a hurry.

Ron closed the door behind her and muttered the chant again. A thought struck him. "Wait, why didn't you let yourself in?"

Hermione was busy hanging up her scarf and jacket. "Because, Ron, I don't know the chant. And even if I had, I doubt it would be a good idea if I just marched in unannounced. I'd be dead before I could say 'put your wand away.'"

She was right. Ron didn't say anything: he was sure it would make him sound like more of a dolt.

"I have Harry's wand," she eventually said, turning around. Her face was flushed but she looked to be in good spirits. Her hands were still stained a weak yellow from potions but she was Hermione, as ever. God, but it was good to see her. See anyone, really. "Is he...?"

"No, he's still not remembering anything." He hadn't thought he would have to explain this to Hermione, who was so fervently against Harry having anything to do with magic in his state.

"Why does he need his wand?" Suspicion colored Hermione's voice and even reflected in her eyes.

"I thought--and Dumbledore agreed--" which was kind of a lie, as Dumbledore hadn't outright said 'great idea, Mr. Weasley!", but anything to persuade Hermione he wasn't potentially harming Harry or a bigger fool than she first suspected. "I mean, we thought Harry should be familiar with it at least. Maybe it would help him, I don't know."

"You thought it would help him? Ronald Weasley--"

"Um, Ron, can I come out now?" Harry effectively cut Hermione off before she could work herself into a quivering, self-righteous rage. "Hello, Hermione." He was shy, and still hidden, but Ron got the feeling Harry was nearly ecstatic to see someone again. Ron tried not to feel bothered but failed. Miserably.

"Yeah, come out. Hermione brought your wand." She glowered at him impressively. Must have been taking lessons from Snape. "Give him his wand, would you? I'm going to go make tea."

The kettle was set on the stove, and Ron pulled out Earl Gray. He knew Harry favored it now, which struck him as curious. Harry usually only drank breakfast tea at Hogwarts, and he liked coffee now when he hadn't before. Harry was quite like half of a set of twins; Fred and George were the same and different, now that he thought about it in those terms. Fred liked chocolates, George liked jellybeans, Fred preferred sleeping in his pants, and George preferred flannel pajamas.

Harry and Hermione were speaking to each other, their voices deliberately hushed. Must have been private, or important. Though Ron could have walked back into the room and tried to strike up a conversation between the three of them, he didn't. Harry mentioned a few days before he'd like to speak with Hermione, see what she could tell him about Hogwarts. At the time Ron didn't think much of it, aside from yet more irritation at being presumed not good enough. Not good enough to ask simple fucking questions. Ron was every bit as magical as Hermione, if not a bloody fount of knowledge. He knew Harry better, too. Or at least he had.

Ron's hand shook almost imperceptibly when he poured the boiling water into their cups. He diligently added two pinches of sugar to Harry's and one to his, leaving Hermione's alone. Stupid, again, to start raging. Ron hated it, he hated the feelings and he hated the way it made him see red and want to scream. He didn't want to be that sort of a person but unfortunately he'd more than inherited his mum's famous temper. And what was he getting angry about? No matter what Harry did, it was obvious he didn't mean it as a slight.

When the tea was poured and everything was in perfect order, Ron couldn't delay coming out any longer. Still, he stalled and poured himself a glass of water, drinking two swallows before dumping out the rest. Some of it splashed up so high it flecked the window. He cleaned that. And he dried the sink off as well, not that it needed it, per se.

Finally Ron levitated the tray in front of him, making sure to be careful and not rattle the cups too much. Harry and Hermione were sitting side by side on Ron's couch, heads together and talking quietly. Harry was smiling and Hermione reached out to squeeze his hand.

"I have the tea," he announced. He lowered the tray to the coffee table and grabbed his own cup. "Hermione, yours is on the right."

"Thanks, Ron," Harry said, tearing himself away from her long enough to smile in his direction. And if that wasn't rare, Ron didn't know what was.

"Harry was telling me," Hermione started, blowing on her tea though it was hardly steaming anymore, "about how little you've told him about Hogwarts."

Ron blinked. He stared at Harry, who shifted, and then at Hermione, who stared back at him evenly, totally nonplussed. "I, er. He--I mean, you haven't asked all that much, Harry. Sorry if I wasn't..."

"Well, I told him a few things he might want to know," she breezily continued after sipping her tea.

"Oh?" Predictably, he was starting to inwardly seethe again and tried not to let on. How ridiculous and interfering and rude could Hermione get? Ron wasn't surprised, mostly angry and disappointed. It wasn't his job to carefully detail every single moment of Harry's life, and doing so would have probably yielded nothing! If Harry wanted to know, he could have fucking asked! Shite, those two were nitwits.

"Yes. I told him about which subjects he preferred, about Quidditch--" the look she gave him basically said 'and HOW could you not mention Quidditch?' "--and his friends. I told him about the House system and about the Slytherins, the professors. About Voldemort. About his parents."

Firstly, he felt guilty after realizing just how much he'd not said. Secondly, he sincerely doubted he was gone long enough for her to talk about that much, but Harry didn't seem to want to protest. "Did you tell him which toothpaste he liked?" Ron snapped, not liking Hermione's shrewd gaze and the self-reproach enveloping him.

"Ron, honestly. Don't be a child. Harry needs you to--"

"What the bloody hell do you know about what Harry needs? I'm the one who has to live with him, Hermione! Not you! I have to live every day with this... this ghost who just doesn't fucking understand, doesn't remember us..." Abruptly he stopped, seeing Harry's face for the first time. He was shock-white and gripping Hermione's hand so tightly it looked like as though it might break. Ron cursed and stood up, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'll just go."

He walked from the room, not seeing anything, especially not Harry's miserable expression and Hermione's glare.

---

Neither spoke of Hermione's visit and what transpired, but both were acutely aware of it. The silences stretched longer, the few moments of interaction more unsure. Harry never quite looked Ron in the eye, but he spent a lot of time staring at him, eyes constantly boring holes into the back of Ron's neck. Disarming, but a relief in view of under the circumstances.

Harry started to work with his wand. Ron watched him one night, eyeing a first year spell book Hermione brought him along with the wand itself, trying not to smile or say something while Harry grew more and more frustrated with trying to make red sparks. Or any sparks at all.

He eventually went back to his book and tuned Harry's fruitless attempts out.

About a half an hour later, Harry shouted, "Holy shit," and suffice to say Ron's curiosity was piqued. Harry's wand was streaming purple sparks, and Harry was smiling like a maniac. "That's it, then," he breathed. "I just have to do this certain motion with the wand and say the words. That's it!"

"Great job, Harry."

---

After three weeks of silence from Dumbledore's end and nothing but oddness and occasional magic from Harry's, Ron had to take a break. He was tired of looking across his kitchen table and seeing this eerie phantom who asked too many questions, who knew too much to be liked and yet not enough to be hated. He was tired of the look on Harry's face; detached interest and utter lack of familiarity anything. Ron thought it must be like looking at a child born with mental disabilities, the startling vacancy on Harry's face.

He pulled himself together. "I'm going to take a shower. Υou all right by yourself?" There was, after all, nothing left to do.

The Wireless, another gift from Hermione, was playing a news cast and Harry listened diligently. "I'm fine," he softly affirmed.

He wandered off to the loo, already lifting his shirt above his head and kicking off his shoes. They both landed haphazardly in the hall, forgotten for Harry to stumble upon. Unless Ron grew a cleaning-conscience.

The bathroom door opened and closed, leaving Ron in tinny silence. He caught his reflection in the mirror, shirtless and pale, and was reminded of Harry with Ginny so long ago. The memory of it still made his blood boil, his stomach clench, his mind reel. Ron knew it was stupid, bizarre even, to still hold resentment about something that obviously meant nothing to either party. At the same time, Harry's apology wasn't a good one at the time, nor particularly true. And now he had Harry for company and Harry only, a changed Harry to whom he couldn't vent his lingering frustration.

Sometimes he wanted shove Harry against the wall. He wanted to scream how Harry had never done one good thing in his life, not one, and he was lucky to have Ron and Hermione for his friends. They were loyal, damn him, and he so obviously wasn't. Fucking his sister, brushing the whole thing off like dirt, and moving on to Cho bloody Chang, then Luna, and some random girl in the showers. Because he just couldn't wait for more people to come back. He had to sink low, had to fuck anything that moved; Ron remembered looking at the girls at Hogwarts for hols, and none of them were even pretty. And Lavender, fucking her while she couldn't move her legs or communicate well. God knew what else Harry had done. He was disgusting and Ron wanted to tell him so.

But then he would remember Harry's still too-small body lying in Snape's tent, his eyes guileless. Or the tentativeness of his current state, the way the bones in his wrists looked fragile and ineffective as he stirred his tea, his face when he accomplished a simple spell. And he would feel like a prat. An arse. Some friend he was, throwing all of his past anger onto this shell of a person who only needed someone to look after him and his interests. Ron couldn't look at his reflection in the mirror when his judgment caught up with him.

He used his wand to turn on the shower, checking the warmth of the spray with his hand. When it passed muster he slid his trousers off and stepped into the shower full-stop, the water pelting him in an unexpectedly hard. Showering during the day was always an surreal experience for Ron; at Hogwarts too, after Quidditch practice, it had felt wrong to strip down and shower with sunlight streaming through the high windows.

Dumbledore provided them with shampoo that was different than any Ron remembered using. It smelled like apples--synthetic apples, but the smell was there nevertheless. Suds of it dripped down his back, slick and almost ticklish. He stared at the white around him, the cramped stall, the red flannel hanging. Head spinning unaccountably, Ron closed his eyes and stood still for a while as the steam began to rise like smoke.

The shampoo was gone from his hair. Ron thought about using the conditioner in there as well, but he didn't really need it. His hair was soft enough and didn't tangle. Tilting his head back, Ron closed his eyes again and blindly reached for the soap he knew rested along a ledge of the shower's molding.

A burst of cool air suddenly hit his body and instinctively his eyes popped open. "Harry?" he asked, dumbstruck. By the time Ron noticed Harry was not wearing his glasses or his clothes, he was dizzy with shock and confusion.

The shower was proven to be uncomfortably small for two people when Harry stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His arm was brushing Ron's chest, and his thigh was touching Ron's, and he was staring so sharply, biting his lip and shivering when the misty overspray of the water hit him.

Maybe Harry wanted closeness. Maybe he was lonely. Nothing else made sense. Ron thought it was abnormal, to say the least, but if it was what Harry wanted Ron would give it to him gladly. He awkwardly opened his arms as much as he could and Harry stepped into them right away. They touched unexpectedly, Harry sliding against him so closely and burying his face in the crook of Ron's neck, arms going round Ron's waist.

"Ron," he mumbled; the vibrations against Ron's skin were intense.

He said nothing in reply. His fingers stroked the sleek skin of Harry's back, at a loss for something to do. Exposed and claustrophobic didn't begin to cover how fucked up he felt, but Harry was soft and quiet and relaxed in his arms. Which was good.

"Ron," Harry said again, unexpectedly wheedling under the muffle of Ron's skin. He pulled away and looked Ron in the eye, then studied his face at length. He bit his lip ceaselessly, and Ron kept up the gentle movement of his fingers. It was startling to feel okay now that the initial shock was gone. "Ron." Harry seemed incapable of saying anything else.

In the middle of a blink, Ron found himself with Harry's lips pressing urgently against his own. He gasped; Harry's mouth nipped and bit and licked desperately, and since his mouth was already partially open, Harry took advantage of it, flicking his tongue over Ron's teeth. Frozen, Ron considered his options: he could shove Harry away, probably violently if he went that route, or he could just wait it out. See what happened.

It should have been grossing him out. It didn't. Not really. Harry flush against him was so odd, the wetness, the slipperiness, half-hard and licking his mouth clumsily, but expertly at the same time, as if he knew that was how Ron liked it.

He remembered out of the blue how much Harry must favor fucking in showers. And he shoved him away.

"What--Harry, what?"

Harry didn't look at him. "I thought. Were we lovers, Ron? We were."

"What?" Staggered, Ron stared at him and was immediately annoyed when Harry wouldn't look back. He reached up and jerked Harry's chin so they faced. "What the fuck gave you that idea?"

"Just... stuff you said. You would look at me, but then you wouldn't, and then that time you said..." Harry broke off, and Ron suspected tears were welling. "Hermione, too, she was telling me about how you were really different around me, how our relationship changed and she couldn't fully explain it..."

"That--that--that wasn't why! I wasn't your... your whatever." His voice was rising, resounding in the acoustics of the shower. "It changed because you changed, Harry. You were... Merlin, I don't know what you were. I couldn't stand you."

"But you just..." Harry stopped himself again and looked away. He looked back before Ron could make him. "You let me in and you let me kiss you and you held me."

"I--" Explaining that was hard. How could he say he did it out of pity and fucking duty? Because he thought it might help. What a mess.

"You're hard," Harry murmured, and yes, Ron was, and the question emblazoned in Ron's mind was how and why and what the fuck and how had he not noticed? "You feel..." He moaned, set his cheek against Ron's shoulder and rocked against him once.

"Harry, I'm not, you're not, we're not poufs." He didn't think. Harry never appeared to like blokes.

"I think I am," Harry answered, kissing Ron's shoulder like it was nothing. "And Hermione said..."

The words were lost to Ron when Harry licked his jaw, and he dealt with the implication that perhaps he wasn't a virgin because he hadn't found the right girl. When he pushed it out of his mind, trying to think about how to get Harry to stop, to realize that Ron didn't want him: in fact that he hated him sometimes, passionately, more deeply than he had hated Malfoy, the fucking git. He felt betrayed and helpless and worthless and Harry stroking him was not going to erase all that. Ever.

"She said..." Harry groaned and his hand sped up, fingers furling around Ron's now fully erect length, squeezing around the base and rubbing forcefully at the head. "She said when I was in school I had sex with a guy. I told her about it."

"Hermione said you..."

"Yes," Harry answered, deep and breathless and most likely not caring when Ron's body stiffened and he clenched at Harry's back with painful strength. "During Christmas time. He was a... a Slyth--Slytherin, I think."

In the showers. In the showers, Harry was fucking someone, and it was a boy's bathroom, why hadn't Ron thought of that in the first place, and dear Merlin it was probably Malfoy, why hadn't Harry or Hermione told him, oh God and his queer, whoring best friend was empty inside.

"I think I'm going to throw up," he panted. "Oh, God, I think I'm going to throw up."

"No, No, Ron." Harry lifted both of his hands to Ron's face and Ron was even more nauseated when he found he missed Harry's hand wrapped around him. His still Quidditch-callused palms and fingers stroked the side of his face, and he lifted his head up for a chaste kiss. "No, Ron, please. I just want to touch you. Please. Please just touch me. Ron."

---

Harry was in his bed, head tucked against Ron's chest and snoring quietly. They were both naked.

He remembered Harry sliding carefully to his knees in the shower, petting Ron's thighs as if he were a skittish animal. And when it was over, nothing could muffle the keening, painful shout Ron gave, fingers digging into Harry's scalp, black wet locks twisting around his fingers.

Death must have been coming for him. The burning shame and horror Ron felt was too powerful to be anything other than a descent towards hell. And Harry, wrapped around him so comfortably, so naively. When he got his memory back if Ron wasn't already dead or driven to suicide, Harry would surely kill him. And laugh. And scream, "you sick fucker." Because he was.

And he was gay, moreover. He knew it. It made sense. No straight bloke, even out of his right mind as Ron felt, got a blowjob from his amnesiac best mate and sickly, disgustingly craved more. This realization was almost as frightening as what he'd done.

"Ron?" Harry sleepily asked, stirring.

"Yeah?" His voice cracked. He'd expected it to.

"You all right?"

'No,' he mouthed. He grabbed Harry's hand and pulled it onto his lap, their fingers tangled together.

---

The real sex, two days later, was hideous to consider. At least initially. Harry said he read a book, and that he wanted to be with Ron. The earnest words were so hackneyed, so gross Ron nearly disagreed. He didn't in the end, staring at the fair expanse of Harry's back as he cooked breakfast for them. He couldn't, not when Harry's arse drew his attention every three minutes.

When it was over they didn't speak.

---

Three days of not leaving the bedroom more than a few times. They showered and wasted most the hot water until Ron remembered a heating charm. They ate sparing breakfasts and gorged at early hours, whatever they could find that was easy and quick. It felt great, the having sex, the kissing, the constant touching, the talking they managed to get in somewhere between everything else.

Ron fell asleep around four in the morning on the third day, exhausted.

When he woke it was to Dumbledore's face peering down at him, and he was in the Hogwarts Infirmary.

"Mr. Weasley." He twinkled as always. "Good to have you back."

"Where--you--"

"Mr. Potter is waiting to see you, I believe." He stood from the chair near Ron's bedside and walked away, robes swishing.

Harry came into the room almost noiselessly, wearing black robes and a closed expression. "Ron," he said, taking Dumbledore's vacant seat.

Nothing to say. Ron stared at Harry, trying to work out the words in his head; what happened, why are we at Hogwarts, are you all right, where's Hermione, Harry, Harry, please.

"Harry."

"It's over, Ron. I think it's all over." The war, he meant. It explained why they were at Hogwarts. Harry looked at Ron, clearly measuring him. Ron didn't know why or what he was looking for. "You should rest." With that he got up. He did linger at Ron's side and fiddle with the papers on his stand.

"Harry?"

"Go to sleep, Ron. Nox."

Before the light went out and Ron was thrown into shadows, he knew. He saw Harry's eyes. Harry was Harry again.

And Harry left, closing the Infirmary door behind him.