Translation of Light

Harry stood, eyes closed, forehead resting against the cool wood of the door, cursing his own stupidity. This had gone on long enough. Ron kept pulling this shit, and Harry was at breaking point. He pounded his head against the door, muttering, "stupid" over and over, then suddenly stumbled forward as it was whisked open.

"Harry! You're early, come - oof!" Blaise braced himself, but Harry's momentum knocked them both to the floor.

"Oh damn, I'm sorry, Blaise." Harry dragged himself to his feet and offered Blaise his hand. "I wasn't expecting the door to open so suddenly."

"Well, you were banging hard enough," Blaise said as he straightened his dressing gown. He looked up at Harry, who was wearing jeans, t-shirt and a morose expression instead of the expected suit, and the grin fell from his face. "Bloody hell, not again. Am I to assume that you were finally trying to pound some sense into your head with the assistance of my front door? Because I swear I've just about given up."

Harry just shrugged half-heartedly. Blaise shook his head. "How about you get us both a drink then come and sit with me while I finish my face. It's about time you told Aunty Blaise what the hell is going on." He gestured vaguely towards the bar in the living room with an impeccably manicured hand before wafting into the bedroom.

Harry poured their drinks and then wandered into the bedroom to find Blaise sitting in front of an elegant dressing table, expertly applying his make-up. Actually, elegant pretty much described everything about the spacious flat, including its owner. Blaise Zabini was the epitome of sophistication: tall, willowy, with dusky skin and black hair that fell in waves about his delicate features. He carried himself as though he owned the world. Harry always felt vaguely oafish around him, and he had to fight the urge to check his fingernails and make sure he hadn't traipsed mud in. Blaise had laughed until tears ran down his cheeks when he'd admitted this one day. Harry had been horribly embarrassed until Blaise had kissed him, and told him it was the nicest compliment anyone had ever given him.

Harry put Blaise's drink on the dressing table, then sat on the end of the enormous, silk-swathed bed that dominated the room. He finished his drink in two swallows, and then sat staring into the empty glass.

Blaise put the finishing touches to his lipstick, blotting it carefully before picking up his glass and delicately sipping at his gin and tonic. He eyed the despondent figure for a moment.

"We'll just assume that Ron is the reason you've turned up at my flat two hours early, wearing rags and looking like your owl just died, shall we?" Blaise said as he picked up a hairbrush and turned back to the mirror to start work on his hair.

"There's nothing wrong with my clothes. Or Hedwig." He was spot on about Ron, though. Harry slumped forward, the very picture of abject misery. "I can't do this any more. It hurts too much."

Blaise sighed. "Falling in love with straight boys always does, sweetie."

"He's driving me crazy. I don't know how much more of this I can take. I keep telling myself he'll never be anything more than just my best friend, you know? But he's making it so hard..." Harry looked up and glared at Blaise, who was obviously trying to pretend he hadn't just sniggered and muttered something that sounded like 'I'll bet'.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Blaise said, raising a hand defensively. "I just couldn't help myself." He twisted his expression into what Harry assumed was supposed to be penitence, but looked more like someone trying desperately not to laugh as he quickly turned his attention back to his own reflection in the mirror.

"This is serious, Blaise! I'm having a crisis here. A little sympathy wouldn't hurt."

Blaise put down his hairbrush and turned to face Harry. "I said I'm sorry! But honestly, this has been going on for months now. And whilst angst can be really attractive in small doses, the whole tall-ish, dark and broody thing is starting to get old. Working your way through my bar is no substitute for actually talking about things, trust me. A problem shared and all that. But all you ever say is, 'Ron's driving me nuts', and when I offer sound, sensible advice, you ignore me. I eventually give up trying to pound some sense into your thick skull, you get wasted, and any tall redhead in the vicinity gets lucky. Rinse and repeat."

Harry felt his face heat up. "I'm sorry if I'm such a bother to you," he said tightly.

Blaise sighed and shook his head. "Don't be a prat. That's not what I meant and you bloody well know it. I just hate to see you doing this to yourself." Blaise stood, picked up his drink, then put a hand under Harry's chin and tilted his head so he could drop a kiss on Harry's lips. "I need a cigarette, and I'm sure you could probably use a refill."

Harry followed Blaise into the living room and got himself another drink while Blaise lit a cigarette, hit a button on the CD player and then arranged himself on the couch. He patted the seat next to him and said, "Okay. Sit. Talk."

As the music began to play, Harry sat next to Blaise and muttered, "Patsy Cline? I thought I was depressed enough already." Blaise rapped him sharply on the leg.

"Ms. Cline is never depressing. Now, talk to me."

Harry sipped his drink as he tried to gather his thoughts. He really didn't want to talk about Ron. The whole situation was confusing and painful, and he didn't need Blaise calling him an idiot again while pointing out the obvious. But at the same time he knew that he was the only one he could talk to about this. He was also taking far too long for Blaise's rapidly diminishing store of patience.

"Why, oh why is there never any Veritaserum lying around when you need it? Okay, this isn't getting us anywhere. How about I start, and you can feel free to jump in anytime." Blaise cleared his throat dramatically, and said, "Once upon a time, there was a boy called Harry, who lived in a hovel in Diagon Alley with his best friend, Ron. Harry loved Ron very, very, much. But Harry was too -"

"Blaise."

"- stupid to do anything about it. He was also too scared to say anything, which is very, very odd because Harry was a Hero, who -"

"Blaise."

" - rushed off to kill Dark Lords at the drop of a hat. Some people would say that he did this because he was very, very frustrated -"

"Blaise! Enough, all right?"

"It speaks! You know, I'm rather good at this. I should write children's books," Blaise said brightly. At Harry's scowl he continued, "For God's sake, just spit it out and then we can bitch about it together. What's he been doing that has you in such a tizz? Did you find out that he's been screwing his conquests in your bed? Maybe some conniving little witch has finally managed to get a second date? Or... Damn - he's not getting married, is he?"

"What? No, of course not. Nothing like that. He's... Look, over the last, what, four months, maybe? Yeah, at least four months, he's been acting really oddly. He stares at me; you know that feeling you get when someone's watching you? But when I look up he looks away. And he's started touching me all the time. Patting me on the back to say hello, slinging his arm over my shoulder, straightening my collar and brushing off my jacket when we're going out, that sort of thing. And he keeps taking his clothes off in front of me and -" He shot a glare at Blaise who'd made a sort of gurgling sound that he'd tried, unsuccessfully, to turn into a cough.

"Go on," said Blaise, his voice sounding oddly strangled.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetie," Blaise said as he crushed out his cigarette and took a sip of his drink, studiously avoiding Harry's gaze.

Harry stared at him suspiciously for a moment, then said, "Look, I know what it sounds like. But it's not funny. Because all the time he's doing this stuff, he's telling me about some girl he fancies, or has asked out, or who came into the shop and asked him out. Or he's telling me in excruciating detail about the strippers at the club the twins keep taking him to." Harry took a sip of his drink, then continued, "I know he's not doing it on purpose, he doesn't know how I feel about him and he wouldn't deliberately hurt me like that. But it's killing me."

"Oh, Harry." Blaise put a hand on Harry's knee and gave it a little squeeze.

Harry shrugged. "Yeah. Well, today was the last straw. Ron was getting ready to go out with his latest bimbo, and I tapped on the bathroom door to let him know I was popping out for an hour. I was going to nip into the club to drop off those quotes for Martin, so he could have a look at them before he opened up. I mean, I know he told me it was up to me, but he knows the business better than I do and really, you should have a look at them as well -"

"Harry!" He looked up, startled. "You're rambling, sweetie. And much as I would love to talk about my gorgeous man, you're telling me what Ron did that was so bad it had you trying to dislodge the memory using on my front door as a blunt instrument."

"Oh, right. Yeah. Well anyway, I shouted through the bathroom door that I was leaving, and suddenly it opened, and..."

"And?" Blaise prompted as Harry fell silent again. "So what did he do?"

"Do?" said Harry blankly. "He just stood there, dripping wet, holding a towel in front of him. I couldn't take my eyes off him. There was a bead of water running down his chest, and I just wanted to drop to my knees and lick it off and... I'm not sure what happened next. Maybe I moaned, or made a sudden move or something, but he gasped and dropped the towel, and he was hard, Blaise. I mean, I just stared, and he knew; the look on his face... I panicked. I Apparated straight out of there - didn't even think about where I was going. Bloody lucky I didn't splinch myself." Harry picked up his drink with an unsteady hand and finished it in one swallow, the look of shock on Ron's face as they'd stared into each other's eyes just before Harry had Apparated away playing over and over in his mind.

He looked up in surprise as Blaise plucked the glass from his hand and sloshed whisky into it.

"Medicinal," he said as he pressed the glass back into Harry's hand.

"Yeah, so, Ron's probably wondering what the fuck happened, and I've got no idea what I'm going to say." Harry stared into his glass. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and said, "I think it's time."

"You won't get any arguments from me on that score. But Harry..." Blaise hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and ploughed on, "I'm going to say something, and I want you to think carefully about it, okay? Ron assumes you're straight, yes? So how do you think he'd react if he suddenly realised that what he felt for you was a lot more than friendship?" Blaise raised a hand as Harry opened his mouth. "No, hear me out. I mean, Ron's not exactly known for his emotional maturity, is he? No offence," he added quickly as Harry glared at him. "And subtlety and tact have eluded him for years. It's just that, what you're describing sounds exactly like a blundering Gryffindor having doubts about his sexuality and desperately trying to hide it. Imagine it; he's attracted to you, he knows he should keep away but he's like a moth to a flame, hence all the looking, touching, attention seeking stuff, but it's scaring him to death, so he blathers on about girls because then he can lie to himself about it. He probably thinks he's done a wonderful job at covering it up, and that you haven't noticed a thing, because God knows you're totally oblivious to anything less obvious than a brick across the back of the skull."

"I am not!" Harry said indignantly. After a moment he added, "Am I? Really?"

Blaise nodded solemnly. "You've got no idea the lengths that Weasley girl had to go to, to get your attention, have you? For all the good it did her."

Harry wasn't sure whether he should feel insulted or not. Admittedly, he'd always found it difficult to believe that people wanted him for anything other than his fame, or more recently, his money, but Ron was his best friend. Surely he'd know; he knew him better than anybody. Fuck, he was confused. "I don't know, maybe... No. No." He shook his head firmly. "I know for a fact that he was sleeping with Hermione when they were together. And more than one of the girls he's gone out with has dragged him into the bedroom the minute they got in the door. He's straight."

"Harry, I fucked girls at Hogwarts. It doesn't mean a thing. Granted, it was self-preservation in my case. I couldn't risk anyone getting suspicious before I was old enough to grab the dosh and run. Oddly enough, I found the prospect of the Paterfamilias stunning me and Fidelitas-binding me to some poor, unsuspecting witch to preserve the family honour strangely unappealing. But the point is, I did it, and I even enjoyed it once or twice. Doesn't make me the posterboy for happy heterosexuality, now does it?"

Harry looked at Blaise; legs crossed as he delicately perched on the couch. He was wearing a full-length peach satin kimono-style dressing gown, and dangling a matching high-heeled slipper from a dainty foot. "Obviously not, but it's different with Ron."

"No, not really. So he's having sex with women. Big deal. It's not like he's prepared to admit there are any other options, right? And it certainly doesn't mean that he's not interested in you; but he's even less likely to come out and admit it than you are. After all, as unconventional as the Weasleys are, they're still purebloods. You Muggle-raised wizards have no idea what lengths magical families will go to, to ensure that no shame is brought to their name. Ron does." Blaise flapped a hand at Harry as he began to protest. "Yes, yes, I know Muggles can be just as homophobic as any wizard, but they don't have the magical means to permanently enforce their views, if you get my drift."

"I really can't see Molly or Arthur going to those sorts of lengths, although Molly has made her feelings on the subject quite clear."

"Mmm. Really must thank Ron's mother for that one day," said Blaise, a sour expression crossing his face. "It's done wonders for your self-esteem."

"It wasn't aimed at me. She didn't know how I felt."

"Oh, of course, silly me. If she'd known you were lusting after her baby boy at the time, she'd never have said such an awful thing."

"Fuck you, Blaise," said Harry wearily. Molly's diatribe against 'unnatural perversions' and 'abominations' had been made at a gathering of the Order three months after the War had ended. A couple of people had looked uncomfortable at her comments, but everyone else had agreed wholeheartedly. Harry had just begun to ask Ron what on earth had set her off like that, when Remus had tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he could have a word, in private. Remus' concise and dispassionate explanation of Molly's comments, and how they reflected the general view of homosexuality within the wizarding world, was deeply distressing to Harry, who had finally come to terms with the fact that he was in love with his very male best friend. Harry had solemnly nodded and thanked Remus for telling him. Then he'd excused himself, found a bathroom and was copiously and violently sick. He sighed heavily at the memory, and Blaise tutted at him.

"Oh, cheer up, for pity's sake. Nil desperandum and all that. I really do think I'm right about Ron, you know."

Harry finished his drink and ruthlessly tried to stomp on the little tendril of hope that that thought brought with it. He'd begun to suspect something very similar himself, but had firmly filed away such thoughts under 'wishful thinking' and tried very hard to ignore them.

"No, it doesn't work that way. Just because I want him to feel that way about me doesn't mean it'll magically happen. Not for me, anyway."

Blaise huffed. "I'm not saying that, you idiot. Look, you two have always been close. You were raised Muggle, so you were more open to understanding what your feelings for him meant. I'm betting that something happened that made him suddenly see things as they really were. Think back. Did his behaviour towards you change out of the blue?" At Harry's raised eyebrows, Blaise snorted and added, "Before he started acting oddly!"

Harry leant back and stared at the ceiling as he considered Blaise's question. He couldn't really think of anything, although...

"Actually, he did do something odd after New Year's Eve, now you mention it. We went to a party at Fred and George's flat. We both got rat-arsed, and Ron was pretty down 'cause Hermione'd turned up with her new boyfriend. Well, fiancé now." Harry furrowed his brow in concentration as he tried to dredge up the memories of that drunken night. "Don't remember too much about it, really, or how we got home, come to that. Must've passed out or something. Ron wasn't there when I woke up. He'd left a note saying he was going home for a couple of days. I felt a bit, well, hurt, I suppose, 'cause I'd always stayed at the Burrow with him, you know? And when he came back he had some bird with him. He barely said two words to me and they spent the whole weekend in his bedroom."

"Ah, that explains it, then. I wondered why you suddenly decided to move in with me for a week just after New Year. Not that I minded, of course. You know you're always welcome, sweetie."

Harry smiled at Blaise. "Yeah, thanks. I don't know why I let it get to me, really. I mean, he's had lots of girlfriends to stay. It just felt - I dunno, more personal." Harry shrugged. "I can't explain it. But anyway, by the time I went home again, he seemed to be back to normal."

"Well, there's your answer. Something happened between you two on New Year's Eve, and Ron ran away. It's obvious."

Harry rolled his eyes.

Blaise raised an elegantly plucked eyebrow. "No, it really is. So the question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"I have no idea. But what if I say something and it turns out that you're wrong? He'd hate me and I couldn't cope with that. Maybe I can gloss over what happened this afternoon and just leave things the way they are, you know?" Harry chewed his bottom lip as one disastrous scenario after another played out in his head.

"Right," Blaise drawled, "because that's working so well for you at the moment."

"I didn't say it was a good plan," Harry said as he picked up his glass, noticed it was empty once more, and with a slight gesture refilled it. Blaise squeaked and Harry turned to see what was wrong. He sighed when he saw the shocked expression on Blaise's face.

"I'm sorry -"

"No! I shouldn't have over-reacted like that. It's just, well, it still spooks me a bit to see you use wandless magic. I didn't mean to make you feel like a..." Blaise took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, before shooting a worried glance at Harry. "You're being careful, aren't you?"

Harry nodded morosely. "Yeah. In fact I barely do magic at all these days. I have to rein myself in so tightly, and I never know who's watching, I'm terrified I'll forget, you know? I'm gawped at everywhere I go, and I know I'm under constant bloody surveillance. If it's not the Ministry it's the Prophet or sodding Witch Weekly. The only places I can relax and be myself any more are here or at the new house."

"I don't know how you can live like that, I really don't. Are you sure Scrimgeour doesn't suspect anything?"

Harry took a sip of his drink. Blaise lit another cigarette and then offered one to Harry. He hesitated for a moment and then took one. Blaise lit it for him, and Harry inhaled the smoke, feeling the slight buzz of the nicotine. He didn't smoke often, but found the occasional one soothing. He stared at the glowing tip for a moment as he considered Blaise's question.

"No, I'm pretty sure he doesn't. I think he's basically fishing, trying to find something to discredit me." He puffed angrily on his cigarette for a moment before deciding he didn't really want it, and crushed it out. "I've made no secret of the fact that I think the Ministry's a waste of space. And as far as I'm concerned, Scrimgeour's contribution to the war was too little, too late. I've told him I want the Ministry cleaned up, and he's got a lot of work to do on law reform, but he's dragging his feet as much as he can. He knows I'll throw my weight behind an alternative candidate at the next election unless he starts doing something positive, and soon. He'd like nothing more than to be able to turn public opinion against me."

"All the more reason for you to leave Diagon Alley. If he found out about your proclivities, well, he'd have a field day. It'd be plastered all over The Daily Prophet and you'd be publicly vilified. Your leverage would be gone, and it'd probably harm your other interests."

"I know, I know. I'm just reluctant to leave the magical world."

"And Ron."

"Yeah, and Ron."

Blaise smiled at him sadly. "Yeah, I can understand that. I miss the magical world myself, you know. The odd letter from old friends and bits of gossip from wizards who visit the club is the extent of my contact these days. I'm persona non grata until I come to my senses, go home and become a breeder, and that's not happening in this lifetime, trust me." He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette then said, "I do put on a Glamour and wander around Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade sometimes. Not often, just - sometimes." Blaise shook himself. "Well, aren't I the drama queen!" He shot a wide grin at Harry. "So, when are you moving out?"

"Soon, I suppose. Hermione's getting married in a couple of months, and I want to be there. I'd like to spend my birthday with my friends, too." Harry huffed softly. "I don't know why I'm making such a drama out of it. I can always pop back for visits; in fact I'll have to. Have to keep up some sort of public profile if I want to keep some influence there. But they won't understand why I can't stay. I suppose I can always tell Hermione I'm gay and that's why I have to leave. She'd understand that. It might freak her out a bit at first, but she'd be okay with it eventually. But what am I going to tell Ron? I mean, I've told him I want to travel, see some of the world before I settle down, but he'll expect me to come home sooner or later."

In deference to Blaise's already frazzled nerves, Harry walked over to the bar and helped himself to a can of soft drink. Blaise simply rolled his eyes and poured himself a whisky from the bottle he'd left on the coffee table.

"Well, you could always just tell him the truth, and Obliviate him if it all goes horribly wrong. Or... Why don't you just use Legilimency on him? Because that'd be the easiest way of finding out how he feels about you. Or are his shields too strong?"

Harry shook his head. "I taught both him and Hermione Occlumency and Legilimency. We practiced together. He's not as strong as Hermione, and neither is as strong as me. It's just that the three of us, well, we promised we'd never use it on each other uninvited."

"I see. I suppose that rules out Obliviation as well, then?"

Harry hesitated. "I'm selfish enough to want to keep his friendship, if that's all I can have. And I never promised not to modify his memories a little."

Blaise nodded slowly. "I'd probably do the same, which brings us all the way back to your most important piece of unfinished business. You've really got nothing to lose. Worst case scenario, I'm totally wrong, he reacts in disgust and you've well and truly burnt that bridge. But at least you know for sure. A quick Obliviate, you set off on your travels, eventually get over him and get on with life. Best case? I'm right, and you take him with you on an extended honeymoon. He may well take a bit of convincing; you've got a lifetime of prejudice to get past, so I wouldn't dither around if I were you. Personally, I'd just get him drunk and seduce him; much easier to apologise afterwards than try to gain permission beforehand - words to live by, sweetie."

Harry gave Blaise a wry grin. "You are totally shameless. But I don't think that's such a great idea. And I certainly don't think my dithering will be a problem. The highlight of my day was drooling all over my naked best friend and then Apparating here in a panic, in case you've forgotten. Even Ron couldn't have missed that. I'd say that last bridge is already burning."

Blaise patted his hand absently and lapsed into a thoughtful silence, and Harry found himself softly singing along with Patsy Cline about being crazy. He was sure he'd heard that song playing earlier, and had just decided that Blaise had the blasted CD set on perpetual repeat when the tinkling first bars of "The Girl from Ipanema" issuing from the bedroom made him jump. Blaise quickly crushed out his cigarette and shot to his feet. "Damn, what time is it? That'll probably be Martin," he said as he trotted into the bedroom. He came back into the living room a minute or so later still talking into a tiny mobile phone.

"... lost track of the time... Uhuh... No, I'll be there in an hour or so... No, I'm going to send him home... Yes, my thoughts exactly... Love you, too. Bye." He pressed a button on the phone and then said, "That was Martin, and before you say a word, yes, we were talking about you. And no, you're not going into the club tonight. You need to go home, sort out what you're going to do, and then talk to Ron."

"But what if you need me?"

"We'll manage. Tell you what; come to dinner on Tuesday evening. Bring the quotes with you and we can discuss them then. But you need to look after yourself for once, and I need to finish getting ready, so go home."

"Fine, fine. I know when I'm not wanted. I would have had to go home to get changed anyway," Harry said. He knew Blaise was right; he'd be better off at home. And face it, it wasn't like they needed him. Nobody seemed to need him, he thought morosely. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Blaise suddenly sat down next to him again and slipped an arm around his shoulders.

"It'll all work out, you'll see."

Harry shook his head. "No, it's not that. It's just..."

Blaise tilted his head and gave Harry a searching look. "You're doing a lot of good, you know that. Don't be so hard on yourself."

Harry snorted softly. "My money is, you mean. I'm not doing anything."

"Rubbish," Blaise said briskly. "You're just wallowing now, and I'm not going to listen to it. You and your money could have buggered off overseas and left the rest of us to rot. The American Ministry would welcome you with open arms, and they're not the only ones. You could be off somewhere having a ball, living the high life. But you're not. You're here, risking everything to help people who don't even know you're the one doing it." He patted Harry's arm. "So no more wallowing, right? Trust me, there's a hell of a lot of people out there who should be extremely grateful that you decided to hang around."

Harry gave Blaise an apologetic grin. This wasn't the first time he'd heard this particular lecture from his friend. "Sorry. Just feeling a bit pathetic at the moment."

"We really have to do something about your self-esteem, or lack thereof, you know."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, so you keep saying." He got to his feet. "Thanks for - well, thanks."

"You're welcome, you daft sod. Now go home and sort things out with Ron," Blaise said as he stood and followed Harry to the door. Harry was just about to step outside when a sudden wave of doubt assailed him. "What am I going to say to him? What if I screw it up?"

Blaise wrapped his arms around Harry and patted his back. "You need to get him somewhere private. Seduction is the key. Nice, romantic atmosphere, you know? Soft lights, raunchy music, several strong drinks - you're not a complete idiot, I'm sure you can work it out. And how hard can it be to convince a man to let you give him a blowjob? He's in denial, not dead. But you know what? If all else fails, you could just try telling him the truth; that you're not quite as clueless as everyone thinks you are, and that you want him too." Blaise sighed. "You've got my number. Call me anytime, and I mean anytime, if you need to talk, okay? That means charging up your damn phone and turning it on! Now go home." He kissed Harry gently on the forehead, and then ushered him out the front door.

"Good luck, sweetie," he said as Harry Apparated away.

---<@