Chapter Text
Harry
Do I have to explain why it's a little worrying that you've instructed your wards to start playing All By Myself whenever Hermione or I try to get through to your Floo? Hermione says you might be regressing. I remind you that you being sixteen wasn't a very pleasant time for any of us and we would all like to avoid experiencing it all over again.
Let me through, you wanker. Hermione's doing the overnight chai spa treatment at Parvati and Lavender's place – says it's particularly pregnant-lady-approved. I don't want to know either. So, since she won't be back until morning, obviously, you are coming to our house and we will be drinking Firewhiskey until we don't remember what the names of our (ex, as the case may be)-spouses are. (Don't tell Hermione I said that.) This is not an invitation, it's an order, and my owl will not leave you alone until you send me a letter back saying that you'll be here at eight.
And it's also no use pretending you haven't read this letter, I've put a Registration Charm on it. Who said only Slytherins were devious?
Ron
#
Harry brought flowers.
“I'm sorry,” Ron said politely, “you must have me confused with Neville Longbottom, the only male friend we have in common who would be happier to get a bunch of forget-me-nots than a bottle of booze.”
“Shut up,” Harry said, stepping inside and shaking off raindrops. “They're for Hermione, to apologise for what she's going to find in the morning and sympathise with her for having such an insensitive prick for a husband.”
“Ha! I'm sure she wouldn't agree that my prick is insensitive.”
“Ron.” Harry paused in the act of trying to tame his hair by running his hand through it. “Please stop talking.”
Ron grinned, then gave him a critical one-over. “Merlin, Harry, have you never heard of Impervius? No, don't tell me, the rain made you feel brooding and romantic in an uncaring world.”
“Yes, well, masochism and magic don't always go together.”
“Ohh, I'll have to tell Hermione you've learned a new word.”
A Drying Charm later, Harry followed Ron to the familiar living room, and put the flowers into a vase on the dresser. He found himself automatically looking at the groupings of pictures set out there: the well-known and well-loved faces all looked out at him, animated in happiness – Ron going teary-eyed during his vows at their wedding; Ron, Hermione and Harry with magical fireworks bursting over their head from New Years' in 2000; the yearly Weasley group shot, ever expanding; Harry giving Teddy a piggy-back ride; the one Muggle shot of Hermione's parents eating jollof rice in Nigeria with her grandparents. Without really wanting to, Harry looked for himself in the Weasley family picture: it captured him giving Ginny a spontaneous kiss on the cheek.
“Mate, none of that, all right?” Ron said. “This is a no-moping-allowed sort of night. Sit down.” His hands steering Harry away from the photos were gentle but decisive.
“Why even invite your recently-divorced best friend if he's not allowed to wallow in self-pity?” Harry said, as he sat down in a corner of the sofa and touched the familiar and comforting fabric of one of Mrs. Weasley's quilts. “It's pretty much my state of being right now to be preoccupied with my own misery.”
“Story of your life,” Ron said, pouring them both generous measures of whiskey.
“That's harsh.” Harry frowned and took the tumbler. “Tell me, does Hermione really know that you planned this for tonight?”
“Yes. She made me write to you, wand at my jugular and all.” Ron sat down in the armchair next to the sofa. His jokey demeanor changed. “Mate, you shouldn't cut off communication with us, it gets Hermione all tetchy, and that's generally not considered to be a good thing for pregnant women, you know.”
Harry winced. “I know, I'm sorry. But she had a routine going of Flooing me in the morning and in the evening, Ron.”
“Oh, suck it up. She's just worried about you! And, granted, her maternal feelings are a little out of control at the moment,” Ron conceded. “She's started leaving Patronuses with Melissa about having me check in after fieldwork to make sure I haven't died. Says being a single mother isn't in her master plan for life, or something.”
Harry drank. The lovely bitter heat of the whiskey warmed his throat.
“Then again,” Ron mused, “I think her hormones are just going every which way and she gets all hot and bothered at the thought of all our dirty Auroring and she wants me to tell her all the details.”
Harry stiffened. He sipped his whiskey again to avoid any mental images forming; he was only half successful. If there was one upside to his promotion to Head of the department, it was that he didn't have to witness as much of Ron's sweaty and physically affectionate post-fighting state, nor as many of the stories about how appreciative Hermione was of that part of the job. “The pact, Ron,” he reminded Ron, with the familiar twinge of guilt.
Ron rolled his eyes. “The pact isn't on anymore, Harry. You're not married to Ginny anymore, are you?”
“No, thanks for the reminder.”
“So now that we've got rid of the problem of your wife being my sister, that leaves us finally free to talk about our sexual exploits, as best friends should always do.”
“Even after over fifteen years I honestly don't know if you have the right idea about friendship,” Harry said, shaking his head. He hesitated briefly. “How is she?”
“Harry, you know how she is,” Ron said, almost sharp. “She's – just like you, she's doing okay, but it's hard for both of you, and that's all right and it's normal and all of that. Hermione and me are trying hard to remain friends with everyone involved here, so let's not go into detail.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought we weren't going to talk about Ginny,” Ron said.
Harry shrugged. “You brought it up. Besides, I never agreed that we weren't going to talk about her.”
“Your agreement was implied.” Ron leaned forwards towards Harry. “McCurry and Haverside say hullo, and told me to tell you to get your arse back in the office.”
Harry let him get away with the change of topic. Work was safe, anyway. “I doubt it was in those words.”
“I think you underestimate how much your employees fancy you, mate. It's even entirely possible that I've left off a luscious somewhere in that sentence, in order to prevent unpleasant intrusive memories. I'm a sensitive friend that way.” He reached over and patted Harry on the knee.
Harry couldn't help laughing. He felt better already. “You do know how to cheer me up, Ron.”
“That's my job, isn't it?” Ron said lightly. They tipped their whiskey glasses against each other. “That, and running the entire department in your absence.”
“I'll be back soon. I just –”
“Need some time. Mate, I know, and I don't even think it's a bad idea.”
Harry ran his finger over the rim of his glass. “I should really thank Hermione for that therapist recommendation.”
“I think the flowers will do just fine for that.” Ron hesitated. “Er, you want to...”
“Talk about therapy? Not really. Especially considering your habit of passing on everything I say to Hermione, so that tomorrow I'd be getting a secondary analysis by owl post, complete with recommended reading list.”
“Oh, she wouldn't,” Ron said easily, and knocked back the remainder of his drink. He licked his lips. “She knows she should never try to be your therapist. Now if only she'd get the same idea about me.” He smiled. “I wonder why no one ever talks about how hard it is to be married to a psychologist.”
“I think that's because you already talk about it enough to cover the topic extensively.”
Ron waved the whiskey bottle over from the drinks cabinet and made it refill their glasses. “Let's just get absolutely smashed,” he suggested. “So that when we get to your paralysing abandonment and commitment issues, and to my sizeable fear of becoming a father, we'll be too drunk to remember anything about it in the morning.”
“Sounds constructive,” Harry said, nodding, and cheerfully they clinked their drinks together.
#
On their fifth tumbler, filled quite a bit beyond what was acceptable for whiskey, Ron said: “Sooooo, when are you throwing yourself back on the market?”
Harry groaned. “No, not this, I beg you.”
“The love and sex market, is what I mean,” Ron pursued. “The market filled with lusty lonely ladies, who are all, er, rifling through the aisles looking for a hot and unreliable adventure to … to waste their cooking skills on.”
“Yeah, thanks, stop talking,” Harry said.
“The market of late-night intimacy,” Ron said, slurring a little on the sibilant, “where we try to forget our ex, our ex –” He tried again: “– existential aloneness.”
“That's not even a word.”
Ron made a face over the rim of his glass. “Yeah, thanks, Hermione.”
“I'm gonna tell her you said that,” Harry said, quite satisfied with himself.
“Oh, you wouldn't dare.”
They glared unsteadily at each other, then burst into laughter and drank again. “I hate whiskey,” Harry said, holding up his glass and trying to focus on it.
“Yeah,” Ron agreed happily.
“I hate – divorces.”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, less happily.
“I hate –”
“Yeah, I get it, you hate a lot of things,” Ron said, and he looked at Harry. One blue eye was slightly more droopy than the other, giving him a lopsided look. “You hate yourself, you hate your life. You hate, what's it called. Lick – liquorice, which, to be honest, makes you a pretty weird person, mate.”
“Thanks a lot, Ron, always nice to get your support.”
“I'm always here for you, you know that. Y'know, Harry, you should – have sex with someone,” Ron said sagely. “Nothing like a good, wild shag with someone you don't know to feel better.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Says the man who's only ever slept with his wife and who's loved her since age eleven.”
“That's a – filthy lie,” Ron said, pointing an unsteady finger at Harry. “Fourteen, at the earliest.”
“Yeah, you tell yourself that.”
“Hermione didn't love me at fourteen,” Ron said sadly. “She hated me at fourteen …”
“So did I. You were a sack of shit at fourteen.”
“True!” Ron laughed and took another gulp of whiskey. “Well, you – you're still a sack of shit at – how old are we? Twenty-six. So that works out, hey?”
“I'm offended,” Harry said, trying hard to pronounce the words. “M'therapist says I'm – developmentally delayed.”
“Dev – dev-el-op-men-tally delayed,” Ron echoed. “'s hard to say.”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you… thingy? Delayed?”
“'cause,” Harry said intelligently, “Mum and Dad died and the Dursleys fucked me up.”
“That's true,” Ron conceded.
“And then Voldemort tried to – off me all the fucking time and I never got to be a normal kid,” Harry finished, and grinned at Ron. “'s why I'm delayed.”
“It's all Voldemort's fault!” Ron exclaimed happily, and he raised his glass. “To Voldemort being dead as a doornail.”
“To Voldemort being dead! Fuck him!” They clinked glasses too enthusiastically, slopping whiskey over their hands. “And!” Harry said, brandishing his glass. “I don't know – anything about normal, whatsits, relationships! I know fuck all about love! So now I'm getting divorced!”
“Hooray!” Ron called, and smashed his glass into Harry's again, which shattered on impact. “Oh, shit – no, I'll do it –” Clumsily he Reparo'd Harry's glass; the shards sprang back together. “Are you bleeding?”
Harry was laughing, half out of shock, half out of hilarity. “No, I'm okay.”
“You're not, you're bleeding, here – no, give me your hand –”
“No-oooo, you're too drunk, you're going to fuck it up,” Harry whined, trying to keep his hand out of Ron's reach. “Ron, you wanker, stop –”
“Okay, have it your way,” Ron grumbled, and stopped trying to Heal Harry's hand. Instead, he took hold of it and sucked its whiskey-and-blood-wet index finger into his mouth.
“What the fuck,” Harry said, and tried to pull his hand back, but Ron held it in place. He sucked on the finger, slid his tongue across the cut. Harry, suddenly confronted with the reality of Ron's mouth around his finger, received an electric shock that chased away part of his drunkenness and set his entire body on edge. “Ron,” he said, mouth going dry, “what the hell are you doing?”
Ron released him. There was a smear of Harry's blood on his lower lip. “I haven't got the faintest,” he said, and started laughing. “Mum always used to – but I dunno why! It doesn't – make any sense, does it?”
Harry, his hand restored to him, held it in his other hand as if it were a wounded animal. Fresh blood welled from the cut.
“You'll have to Heal it yourself, mate, I'm – definitely too drunk.” Ron gave him a relaxed, wide smile, but the sight of his lower lip smudged with Harry's blood and the memory of his tongue around Harry's finger were so vivid that Harry had no idea how to respond. Ron squinted at him, then frowned. “Mate?”
Harry blinked. “What?”
“You look –” He waved a hand in Harry's direction. “You all right? Does it hurt?”
“Oh, no, it's fine.”
Ron rested his tumbler of whiskey against his lip, against the blood. Harry looked at it and found it hard to look away. “Sure?”
“I dunno,” Harry admitted. “I feel a bit … wobbly.”
“All right,” Ron said, patting him on the thigh. “This may be the universe telling us to stop drinking for a bit.”
Harry Healed himself carefully; his wand hand trembled a little. The cut closed cleanly; the blood remained, sticky and drying.
“What were we talking about?” Ron said, frowning.
“Voldemort.”
“Oh, shit, no, that's no good. We were…” He concentrated. “Right, we were saying that you should have a good one-night stand.” Satisfied, he nodded. “Let's return to that.”
“Please, let's not,” Harry said. “I don't do that.”
“And there's your problem! You could have anyone! Just show your mug in any club, make 'em sign a contract that they won't sell the story to the Prophet, and Bob's your Kneazle.”
“Yeah. Not interested.”
Ron peered at him. “Sometimes I don't get you, Haz. All of the fame, but none of the, thingies. Upsides.”
“Don't call me that,” Harry said, quite sincerely. “Ron, that's just not what I want.”
Ron went quiet. He seemed to be thinking about it. “What do you want?”
Harry sighed. “Someone who isn't star-struck, to start with.”
“How about a friend, then?”
“Oh, Merlin, fuck off,” Harry said sharply. “You go and take the risk of ruining the few friendships you have.”
“Er, yeah. I did,” Ron said, and he smiled. “I recommend it.”
Harry closed his eyes. The inside of his eyelids was an undulating darkness. Very suddenly and urgently, he didn't want this conversation anymore. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I know.”
Silence followed, as if by cutting off Ron's visual presence Harry had also turned off his sound. He floated for a while on the cusp of feeling nauseous, limbs feeling far-off as if they had been disconnected from the rest of his body. From the drunk intimacy of the evening flowed now a slow sadness that welled from some deep place in him he hadn't quite known the existence of. It took him some time to realise tears were moistening his eyelids; when he touched his fingers to his face they came away wet, which surprised him. “Oh, damn.”
Ron's weight dropped into the sofa beside him. Harry opened his eyes, saw Ron's worried, exasperated look.
“Shit, Harry.” Ron pulled him into an awkwardly angled sideways embrace, tucking Harry's shoulder along his chest. “Mate. I'm sorry, all of that came out wrong. We love you, all right?” He patted the side of Harry's head with a large hand.
Harry nodded tightly, biting down hard to stop himself from starting to cry in earnest. He succeeded in pushing down the knot of emotion in his throat. “I know,” he said when he felt able, then cleared his throat, trying to get his voice steadier. “Thanks, Ron.” He tried, for a futile instant, to pull back from the hug, because there was too much of Ron all of a sudden, too much of his familiar smell – but Ron wouldn't let him.
“You're going to be all right,” Ron muttered, still petting Harry's ear. “You're gonna be fine.”
Harry couldn't help laughing a little at that. “Yeah.” He took a breath, closed his eyes, allowed his body to relax against Ron's. It was nice, really … why was he so tense all the time … he should just unwind a little now and then …
Ron started running the long line of his nose across Harry's cheek, and this didn't register as particularly odd until he pressed his mouth to Harry's jaw in a brief, soft kiss. Harry blinked.
Ron did it again, kissing the bit of Harry's cheek that was not quite cheek anymore and not quite mouth yet. Automatically Harry turned his face a fraction into it, and Ron kissed the corner of his mouth. The shock of his lips there broke through the cloud of Harry's drunkenness.
“Whoa, Ron –” He pulled out of the embrace, heart hammering.
Ron sat back. His face was red but his expression was neutral. “No?”
Harry gaped. “What kind of question –? What are you doing?”
Ron licked his lips; Harry's eyes were involuntarily drawn towards his mouth, with that little smear of blood on the lower lip. “Dunno. Just – thought you might want to.”
“Okay, you're drunk,” Harry said. “I'm drunk. You're married. To Hermione.”
“Er, yeah. None of that has to be a problem,” Ron said.
Harry stared at him.
“Look, yeah,” Ron said, “I am drunk, and I'll probably be sorry in the morning, 'cause –” He peered at Harry. “Sorry. We thought maybe you wanted to, and – with the...” He gestured vaguely between them. “I thought… maybe now… But. Stupid. Sorry.”
Harry tried to make his brain get through all that. “We?”
“Yeah. Hermione and me. Goes to show I should never do anything without her. I always fuck it up.” Ron shook his head, and started getting up. “I need some water.”
Harry caught him by the arm. “Am I getting this right?” he said sharply. “Hermione and you, you both thought, that I –?”
“Yeah.” Ron looked down on him blankly.
Harry waited for more, but nothing came. “And that's fine?”
“Yes.” Ron must have caught Harry's expression, because he said: “Okay, long story short, erm, it was always going to be me and her, exclusive, unless – well, unless it was you. Us and you.” Embarrassed, he ran his hand over the back of his head. “We were going to tell you, but I s'pose I've messed that up now.”
“What the hell, Ron.”
“Yeah, I know. Stupid. Hermione's going to kill me for this.” He winced. “She had a plan.”
“Wait.” Harry shook his head. “If this is… then what was all that about going out to shag people in clubs?”
“I was trying to find out more about what you wanted! I know, I'm pathetic without Hermione, I'm a shit investigator.” He smiled. “At least I'm good at the wandwork. I'm getting us some water, okay. Don't go anywhere.”
“Wandwork,” Harry muttered to himself, watching him go into the kitchen. “Merlin.” He shook his head. He felt hindered by the alcohol; his thought were heavy and fuzzy, but he was still aware of some cool current of fresh certainty somewhere underneath: this meant that he could have this.
“Here.” Ron handed him a tall glass of tap water and sat down next to him. “Drink first, have your identity crisis later.”
They drained their glasses in deep gulps and set them on the table. There was a long silence.
“I'm not having a crisis,” Harry finally said, which was only a little bit of a lie. They looked at each other until Ron's expression changed.
“Oh,” he said, and he was going to say more, but Harry leaned in and kissed him, feeling remarkably like the distance between their mouths was incredibly short and incredibly long at the same time.
“Mm –” Ron kissed back, his hand coming up to slide to the back of Harry's neck. His stubble was scratchy, his lips thin and not as soft as any other person's that Harry had ever kissed. He pressed into it with an unfamiliar strength that made warmth bloom in Harry's gut. He kissed Ron's upper lip, his lower, then navigated clumsily around a longer nose than he was used to, trying to change the angle. Ron laughed a little at that; Harry retaliated by slipping the tip of his tongue into Ron's mouth. Ron let him in, and the sound he made now was pleased, soft. Their tongues slid together and Harry's stomach tightened with the pleasure and fear of it.
Ron pulled back quite suddenly. “O-ookay,” he said, “I'm gonna stop this here.” Before Harry had time to rearrange his face, Ron said: “Oh, no – mate, I want to, I do. But Hermione should really know about this.”
“Oh,” Harry said. “Right. Of course.”
Ron kissed him briefly, closed-mouthed and sweet. “Let's talk in the morning, yeah? That's – if I'm still alive in the morning, after Hermione finds out about this.”
Harry smiled. “Nothing more than you'd deserve.”
Ron got to his feet, and stretched. “Traitor,” he said pleasantly. “Didn't hear you complaining a minute ago.”
Harry, only slightly wobbly, got up too. “Kind of hard to complain with your tongue down my throat,” he said, feeling reckless.
“You say that like it's a bad thing.”
At the guest bedroom door, they said goodbye like a teenage couple after a first date, standing a little closer together than strictly necessary.
“So,” Harry said. “Night, I guess?”
“Merlin, I feel like I'm sixteen.”
“You're less spotty now, don't worry.”
“You know, I don't want to banish you to the guest bedroom, mate, but I think, in this case –” Ron grimaced. “If we get round to shagging while Hermione has to sit around wrapped in tea leaves and pretending mocktails are fun, I'm pretty sure she's not going to be happy.”
“Yeah, 'course, we can't do that.”
They didn't move.
Ron laughed softly. “Fuck. C'mere.” He pulled Harry into a hug that lasted long beyond their usual embraces. Harry rested his cheek on Ron's shoulder, feeling warm all over.
Ron squeezed him even closer. “Think you'll still want to in the morning?” he said, so quietly Harry only just heard.
Harry vaguely thought about telling him about how long this had been in the back his mind, nudged constantly to the side by life and habits and fear and assumptions – he said, softly: “Yeah, I think so.”