Shifting Foundations

Shifting Foundations

Harry Potter imagines he is not very good at kissing, because he is never able to remain in the moment. At the precise instant where his full powers of concentration are required, his mind pulls a Potter Hair and runs wild, resisting all attempts to pin it down.

The only difference between the inside and the outside of his head being that his brain always cartwheels, skips, somersaults to the same place.

***

Harry's first kiss was fifth year, in the Room of Requirements and, objectively speaking, he considers is a great loss that lips were the only body parts that met on that occasion, for such a magical, hidden, all-stocked location would certainly have been the ideal space in which to lose his virginity. Or, at least, that's what his mates told him in anguished tones when he narrated the story.

Dean pointed out that, in the Muggle world, condoms are never around when they are needed, so how could Harry have let such an opportunity pass him by?

Neville lamented, "I imagine whenever I'll try to have a go with a girl, Gran'll come interrupt, without so much as a knock on the bedroom door, if you please. Oh, Harry, it was a such a private place - you'll never get that again!"

Seamus, meanwhile, simply berated Harry over and over for not taking advantage of such an open chance. "She wasn't going to say no, was she?" he demanded.

"She was a basket-case!"

"Well, mate," he said bracingly, with a clap on the shoulder, "perhaps your looks put her off. But she wouldn't have said no to your body, eh?"

Harry chalked this up to Seamus's mysteriously ever-present Irish horniness, and further hypothesized that even an atom bomb wouldn't decrease the sandy-haired boy's hormones.

Ron had remained silent throughout the entire exchange, perking up slightly at Seamus's last sentence - and thus sending all of Harry's musings about the Irish lad's stamina directly out the window.

(Kissing Cho is like stepping into an early-morning rainstorm: hazier than real life and drenching, though in this case owning to tears, not tongue. Later, Harry thinks someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon is worlds better than someone with more feelings than stars in the sky. Through it all, he wants vaguely to run, and keeps returning wistfully to the non-confusing gold and especially red of Gryffindor tower.)

***

After Sirius's death, Harry spent July and August at the Burrow, ingesting Canary Creams by accident, de-gnoming the garden, and forgetting. After one Quidditch practice with almost every Weasley child, Harry and Ginny were saddled with the task of returning six broomsticks to the shed. Everyone else had rushed ahead to await the twins' joke shop's newest shipment, which was being delivered to the Burrow so Molly Weasley could ascertain that it was not dangerous.

Once they had properly stowed all the equipment, Ginny drew Harry aside. She looked lovely, freckled cheeks and wind-roughed hair, some laughter from a joke from the match still playing across her face. And then she lowered Harry's mouth to hers, and Harry maneuvered his lips properly, but felt none of her touch in his heart.

She had done it again throughout the summer, periodically, and Harry wishes she hadn't, because whenever they separated, he had looked into her eyes and found the wrong color: brown, when he wanted blue.

(Kissing Ginny is awkward, because even Harry, with his slowly clunking reactions to girls, can tell she approaches him as a nonsensical way to prove to herself that the crush is finished. He feels the lack of romance in her oddly desperate body. When he runs his fingers through her waves of red hair they inevitably get tangled, and sometimes even with his glasses, so the parting process is acutely uncomfortable, full of mumbled "oh sorry"s and too-high giggles.)

***

At some point during Sixth Year, Harry became aware that he was failing Advanced Charms, which was a ridiculous course to be doing poorly in. Harry supposed that his lack of charisma outside the classroom was somehow translating to his abysmal performance in Flitwick's lessons.

Hermione, naturally, began tutoring him, because she couldn't bear to see a friend struggle in school when her services were available, and perhaps out of another motive altogether. Translation Charms presented a particular challenge for Harry.

One night in the Common Room, Hermione volunteered, "You know, Harry, these may be so difficult for you because you're fluent in another language -"

"--Am I?" Harry asked, astonished.

"Yes, Parseltongue," she said briskly. "I've read that wizards who are already bilingual have problems with Translation Charms. Their brain wants to learn the language in question properly, not just comprehend the words magically."

To which Harry pointed out, "You're fluent in French and you're not having problems," which caused Hermione to blush and propose they crack on.

Two hours passed, putting them at midnight, and that was when Hermione suggested, with an air of forced reason and calm, "Perhaps if you really wanted to know the Translation ... I'm going to say something that will change everything." She cleared her throat anxiously. "Je t'aime."

Harry sighed, chanted 'I really want to know the Translation' to himself, in the hope that repetition would make it true, and intoned "Traduisar."

Her meaning floated past his mind like a running script on a television show. He echoed "I love you" aloud, and later realized he must not have made it sound like a question, for Hermione's eyes and mouth widened in happy surprise. Somehow her lips found his, all the way across the table, and somehow this event repeated itself over the next few nights.

(Kissing Hermione always feels like a surprise, and sometimes like one of those gruesome ones at circuses. Harry loses track of his fingertips in her perpetual jungle of nutmeg-colored curls, and her studious hands leave ink in his hair that he never notices until bleeding black during the next morning's shower. Despite years of pent-up affection, she never loses self- control, which makes Harry think of chess, which reminds him of his real desire.)

***

Harry is staring into the Common Room fireplace when Ron climbs through the Gryffindor portrait hole. To all the world, Harry is devoting necessary time to his new hobby of flame-watching, but Ron is not all the world. This means he recognizes that almost frighteningly morbid, preoccupied expression on the other boy's face as the beginning of despair. More than six years of friendship have taught Ron precisely how to address such situations, and so he marches across the room and plants himself directly in front of Harry's armchair.

"Want to come to the Kitchens with me? I - er - fancy some more of that chocolate gateau from dinner." The hopeful, if-you-don't-say-yes-then-I'm-lost lilt in his voice is no lie; for though experience dictates that the black-haired moper agree, the only constant in Harry's behavior Ron has observed is that his personality is never static.

"All right," comes the reply. Harry's voice is weariness tinted with gratitude.

"Thinking about him?" Ron asks as they walk to the exit.

Harry's eyes flick over. "Yeah," he says. Ron nods.

And yet both sense that this clarification has clarified nothing, that they're referring to different You-Know-Whos - or perhaps to the same one, and this idea that their minds are in the same place is at once more terrifying than a thousand dark lords.

They make their way down the stairs and to the fruit painting quietly; when Ron reaches out and touches the portrait, the giggling pear's tones are the first to break the silence that has been stretching between the two boys since the Tower.

Good hands, Harry comments to himself, and it isn't until he catches sight of Ron's face - surprised, a little scared, and then awash with hope - that he realizes he must have said it aloud.

Dobby is only too delighted to be of service to "Harry Potter and his Wheezy" (an address than never fazed the boys before, but now has them studiously avoiding the other's gaze) and continues his merry chatter through their after-hours snack. Harry is grateful for the elf's continuous steam of speech, for without it he and Ron would surely dine in heavy, determined silence that would only stress the unexpressed between them.

Finishing, Ron stands from the undersized table too abruptly; his form suddenly seems to occupy the entire room. Sensing this, he sits down heavily, turns to Dobby, and manages a weak "Firewhiskey. Bottles of." Harry snaps his head up, simultaneously suspicious and thankful. Dobby trots away to obey.

"We going to get smashed?" Harry inquires.

"Thought so, yeah." Ron tosses off the reply with a casualness Harry envies - until he sees Ron worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

Dobby returns bowing and bearing several single-malt Firewhiskeys, and the two boys make their good-byes. Outside the Kitchen, Ron puts a hand to Harry's forearm, stopping his progress.

"You've got cake on your face," he says. "Just there," indicating the left-hand corner of his own mouth.

Harry mirrors Ron's location. "Better?"

"No, your other left - here." Ron advances and hesitantly brushes off the crumbs. "There. Better." His fingers remain on Harry's skin, inclining themselves to Harry's lips, a moment too long before Ron takes a huge step backwards.

"Thanks," Harry says in a quiet voice.

The redhead nods feverishly, and takes a wide-eyed swig of alcohol.

***

Back in the Common Room, Harry's first chug was even less graceful than Ron's nervous gulp outside the Kitchen: Harry swung his head back in an arc, the way bar-hoppers did in Muggle movies, and merely succeeded in getting most of the liquid on his clothes. Now several mouthfuls in, he is acquiring a technique of holding the whiskey in his mouth for a few moments, spending its bite in his cheeks, so it burns less on the way down to his stomach, where it settles like a warm blanket.

"So, mate, tell me your troubles."

Harry is discovering that he and Ron are drunks of the same mold: both with a surprisingly low tolerance for alcohol; both the loud, giggly sort who pretend to remember nothing the next morning, but in actuality recall every slurred word. Harry thinks it logical they gain such brutal honesty while intoxicated, as their sober selves contain intense secrets more powerful than fast whiskey in their seventeen-year old frames.

Ron leans over, places a hand on Harry's shoulder to brace himself, and waves the other around. "Hello! Eh? You in there, Harry?" he shouts in his ear.

"Oh - yes!" comes the reply.

"Where were you?" Ron ponders this question he himself asked before bursting out laughing because, of course, Harry has been nowhere but by his side in the past hour. He flops to the ground, still chuckling.

Harry rolls onto his back, slightly cross-eyed as he views the towering ceiling. "I was just thinking of when you telph - telelel - telephoned the Dursleys a few years ago." It may as well be the truth, for the end meaning is the same: I was thinking about you.

Ron straightens with an enthusiastic "Yeah!" He prods Harry, who remains stretched out. "D'you remember that, Harry? That was so funny!"

Were he in his right mind, Harry may have been slightly indignant and insisted, "You got me in a lot of trouble, you know!" But so inebriated, everything has taken on a level of irresistible amusement.

"Yeah, it was!" he agrees enthusiastically. "You were so loud!"

"Ha-ha! Your uncle was absolutely ballistic -"

"Completely panicked - "

"'There is no Harry Potter here! Harry Potter does not exist!' As if you could not exist! Ha!"

By now, they are rolling on the floor.

"Hey!" Ron sits up, lightning-struck. "Let's do it!"

Harry, still recovering from the last bout of humor, goggles. "S-slorry?"

"Let's recreate it," Ron insists. Harry believes this is the best idea of the entire night, and he says so.

Leaping to his feet and then heaving Harry up, Ron doesn't even remember to be embarrassed by the praise. "I'll be Ron," he volunteers magnanimously.

"I'll be Uncle Vernon." Harry mimes a spectacular throwing-up into the cushions of a nearby futon, clutching his middle and rolling his eyes to the back of his head. Ron half-screams with laughter, and from there is it a while before either boy masters himself enough to recall the task at hand.

Shooing Ron to the opposite corner of the room, Harry lifts an imaginary telephone receiver. "Vernon Dursley speaking," he recites in pinched tones. Harry is quite impressed that he manages that phrase without slurring.

"Hello, hello, can you hear me!?" Ron yells. He has apparently forgotten what a phone looks like, as he is cupping his hands around his mouth. "I - want - to - talk - to - Harry - Potter!"

"Who is this? Who are you?" Harry roars back. It's very lion-like, this activity; Godric would be proud. Harry giggles a bit.

"Ron - Weasley! I'm - a - friend - of - Harry's - from - school!" Ron bellows back. This introduction finished, he stuffs a fist into his mouth to prevent himself from laughing aloud and thereby distracting Harry from the most ludicrous speech that comes next.

"There is no Harry Potter here!" Ron's control wavers and threatens to evaporate; a muffled noise makes its way around his hand. "Never contact me again!" Ron doubles over, arms around his stomach, with the effort of remaining silent. "Don't you come near - " And abandoning all pretense, Ron bolts across the room, now fully laughing, and tackles Harry. The two go flying and land, hard, on the barely-carpeted area before the fireplace.

"--my family," Harry finished in a gasp. "Aww, Ron, you did anyway!" A wicked grin and huge chuckle, a groan, a brief tumble, and another round of Firewhiskey.

"I want to talk to Harry Potter!" Ron, sprawled out on a sofa, repeats at the same volume as before.

"Eh?" Harry wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "What d'you want to say to him?"

And something between them changes, something vivid and inexplicable, yet necessary, and this difference in the air has shifted the foundation on which they had quietly placed all justifications for not moving within one another.

Ron glances up through his lowered red lashes that seem even brighter in the firelight. Harry looks down, green eyes questioning.

Not breaking eye contact, Ron rises from the couch and stands before his best friend. It is seventh year, so they are almost matched in height, though Harry remains the smaller one. Ron lifts a hand from his side and hesitates, as if he has forgotten how to work the muscles in this appendage. Harry bites his lip nervously, an expression of the hunger that's playing leapfrog with his heart, and it's all the wordless convincing Ron requires. His fingers alight on Harry's face, and Harry's left hand flies up to secure this position and then the two faces meet like a suddenly finished jigsaw puzzle, and it is completion.

(Kissing Ron is feeling the other boy's crystalline sweetness and somehow grassy flavor dissolve on his tongue like millimeter-thin lace paper in vinegar. Harry cracks his eyes open and sees a mop of copper hair, flushed and freckled cheeks, and a pair of lips that glisten like diamonds from his touch. In such aching simplicity, Harry understands for the first time that it doesn't have to be difficult to be true. He feels the alcoholic heat in his stomach contract like a fist, before exploding into a fit of Firewhiskey fireworks and distantly classifies this as love - and then Ron whispers Harry's name, and it's lush, and Harry knows no more than this flurry of activity on a shifted foundation of open mouths, grasping hands, and jaywalking hearts.)