The Platonic, Sane Level -Part Four-
Despite the tense reunion, they broke the ice enough to agree to hang out again.
On their first outing they went to a Quidditch game. United versus Arrows. It was a good neutral location. If either upset the other, they could just watch the game, and it was too public for hex-throwing.
The wind was strong, stinging their cheeks red and chafing their noses. Hats kept bouncing down the stands, blown off from heads above.
Harry stuck to the Quidditch-only script, nattering about statistics and the latest performance-enhancing potion scandal involving an Arrow's Chaser. Ron bought bags and bags of roasted peanuts and ate so he didn't have to talk. Between nerves and gorging on legumes, his stomach was starting to ache.
"So what have you been doing all this time?" Ron finally asked, spraying bits of nut on Harry’s chin.
Harry wiped a hand across his face. "Er. I don't know. You know. Same old."
"Um. No. I don't know."
Harry’s usually open face turned hostile. He narrowed his eyes and seemed to assess Ron. "Oh, you know, the usual perverted crap. Getting whipped. Tortured on the rack. Impaled."
Ron knew the comments were designed to provoke him. If Ron retorted stupidly, Harry would throw up his defenses, and their reconciliation would go tits up. He sighed.
"Er." Ron swallowed, the salt from peanuts making his throat dry and sticky. "Is 'impaled' some new kinky gay lingo? You know I'm a square. Got to enlighten me."
His best friend looked startled at that. Then he laughed, partly wheezing on the cold air. He laid a hand on Ron's shoulder and held it while his body racked with laughter.
Then United caught the Snitch. As they were seated in the United stands, everyone around them shot to their feet cheering. Harry was still laughing when he laid his forehead over his hand, still clamped on Ron's shoulder. His hair tickled Ron's ear, which was suddenly hot and swollen up with blood.
*___*___*___*
Amazing how easy it was to slip back into the routine of their friendship. Ron should have known it would be. They'd survived much worse. Still, Ron thought that he had already reached his quota of abandonments. He had promised that he would never leave Harry again.
There were differences now, naturally. They didn't see each other every evening at Grimmauld. They had to firecall or send an owl to meet up.
The recliners were also gone from Harry's sitting room. One was transfigured into a large leather couch that four people could dog pile on comfortably. Ron liked the couch. When he had sat in the recliner, he wound up twisting to one side and throwing his legs over the arm rest. He never sat right. Now, he could stretch his legs out over the sofa cushions. That is, if Harry wasn't sitting on the other end.
Now they sat together on a couch. There were fewer barriers between him and Harry. That was a little ok.
The biggest difference was Hermione. Her absence was acutely felt. Ron hated mentioning her. Every time he brought her up, Harry started looking uncomfortable and got this hurt look on his face.
"What happened between Hermione and you?" Harry asked one night as he flipped through the channels.
Ron rubbed the ridge of his nose "I found out I didn't love her. And after all this time..." He swept his hand across the room, as though to indicate all the years they've known each other. "I should have."
The blue light of the television wavered across Harry’s blank face.
"Wow," he said. "That's awful."
"I know, right?" He cracked his neck, and Harry flinched. Harry had a squick about creaking bones and hated if Ron even popped his knuckles. "How she doing?" Ron asked.
"Well, she doesn't... well... " A cringe twisted Harry’s face. "She's fine. Just needs some looking after. She's always been independent, and it's hard for her to admit when she's falling... Forget it."
"I don't want to forget it," Ron spat.
The conversation was veering into bad territory for Ron. It hurt him that he had to stay away from Hermione. Couldn't protect her. He may have relinquished all claim on Hermione, sure, but he still didn't like Harry’s tone when he said she "needed looking after." It sounded condescending. Or accusing. Or something. Ron fleetingly thought about snapping that Ginny could use some looking after, too.
Then Ron imagined Brad. If Brad were here and could read his sulky thoughts, he would tsk and tell Ron he would never become self-actualized being so petty.
"Sorry," Ron said, jaw tight. "I didn't meet to bite your..."
Suddenly he noticed that both of their hands were resting on the middle cushion. They were a pinky's berth apart. Ron gulped and turned his eyes back to the screen.
He was annoyed with himself. Lust had no place here. They had just discussed Hermione-had been on the verge of arguing about her. He shouldn't be feeling overheated, itchy skinned, and wondering what bollocks tasted like.
Perhaps sensing his discomfort and wanting to make amends, Harry added in a tone of eyes rolling, "She took a job at the Ministry. Now she's hassling me all the time about employment."
In the past they would exchange a sympathetic glance, both knowing what a nag Hermione could be.
Instead, Ron felt like being contrary. "You are always home."
"What?" Harry asked sharply.
"Nothing. Just, you're always home now."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing, mate. Just, before, when I lived here, you would be gone a lot. Now, you're always here. It's odd."
"I make myself available for you."
"Right."
An explosion erupted at a daycare center on the TV. A grimy scorched woman crawled from the rubble, crying, "There's one still left inside!"
"Just saying-the Aurors could use you."
"Ha. So, you've had an official job for a few months, and already you're patronizing me?" Harry's voice was toneless, his eyes never leaving the telly.
"I guess so," he muttered.
Ron still struggled with anger. Sometime he'd look at Harry and feel his stomach roil. Pointless nausea, because he knew intellectually that he had nothing to be mad over. Blaise and Harry shagged.
Nothing more to it.
Still, if Ron could shake Harry up, he saw no reason not to take it. Especially since Harry wasn't meant to piddle his life away as one of the idle rich. Ron pointed to a white splotch on the back of the couch. "You see that spot? It was from an owl flying through here four months ago. Four months, and you couldn't even clean the shit off it."
Harry stared at the spot. "Huh. Funny, that the spot would remain even after the furniture's changed form."
That night, Ron pretended to fall asleep on the couch. Harry turned off the television and listened to Ron's fake snores in the dark for several minutes before sighing and going to his room. It was a senseless urge, wanting to stay the night, but Ron didn't want to go back to the Burrow. And anyway, Harry didn't seem to mind.
When he woke up at dawn, Harry was clomping around the house, doing his leg lifts. It was a sort of half-kneeling walk. He was only wearing Y-fronts. Ron cast screening charms so he could see through the walls as Harry moved through the halls. Every now and then, he could have sworn that Harry glanced up in middle of his exertion, cheeks red and chest heaving, and would look right at him. Once, he even seemed to wink.
But he could have been blinking the sweat out of his eyes.
*___*___*___*
"What do you do when you're sort of in love with your best friend?" Ron asked.
Brad's Quick Quotes Quill hovered in mid-air. The Quill turned to Brad, downy bristles twitching, and Brad turned to the Quill. Ron swore the Quill was sentient, and that the two consulted on Ron's case.
"Do you plan on telling on him?"
"No. Well. No. I'm... not ready to tell him I'm gay."
"Are you taking time away from other worthwhile pursuits so you can spend time with him?"
"No," Ron lied.
"Do you think you can keep it on platonic, sane level?" Brad dipped his head. The Quill dipped the top of its plume. Both Brad and the Quill scrutinized him. "No more hexing acid into Harry’s date's ears?"
Ron sighed, eyeing the cuckoo clock mounted on the wall. He loved that clock. It featured automated ladies wearing German peasant blouses dancing around a rotating water-wheel. A stream made of blue glass spun around the base. Deer carved from oak looked on the scene with puzzled expressions.
"I think Harry's in no place to judge to me," Ron finally volunteered. "He's not quite normal, himself. The man once hexed me because I poured beer in his potted basil plant."
"Why would you pour beer in it?" Brad asked indignantly.
"The drain was clogged, and my wand was upstairs." Ron shrugged. "That's not what I mean, though. He gets mood swings."
"The trials of loving a hero." Brad sighed. "Manic Depressive heroes pull Mankind into their cycles and carry everybody away."
Ron blinked. “Huh?”
*___*___*___*
The day of the vernal equinox was supposed to be a day of equilibrium.
Calmness.
Reflection and serenity.
Which was why wizards and witches spent the day brewing their household potions. Concoctions made on equinoxes were notoriously potent.
The kitchen was converted into a makeshift potion laboratory. A bag of powdered graphorn sat next to a sack of flour. Test tubes and pipettes surrounded the sugar bowl. Molly was at the kitchen island, dissecting newts inches from a bowl of marinating fish cuts. Ron tried to silence that horrible little Snape in his head that ranted about illiterate country bumpkins who brewed where they cooked and duly poisoned themselves.
Each time Molly's knife sliced the amphibian, Ron winced, watching as a squirt of guts sprayed the dinner fish.
Suddenly Andromeda Tonks appeared in the middle of the room, tears rolling down her face. Molly was so startled that she nicked the side of her finger and yelped. Exhorting Mrs. Tonks to sit, she scrambled for a tea towel to wrap around her hand and glanced at the tea kettle, wondering plainly if she had something to offer her guest.
"Harry’s done something stupid," Mrs. Tonks explained, white-knuckling the back of a chair. "He's been seeing these dangerous people. I was worried about him.... so I... " She shot Ron a distressed look. "I put a tracking charm on him. It also checked his breathing and hydration. The alarms went off..."
"Why aren't you there?" Ron asked, much louder and harsher than was polite, and his mother -even while in the middle of a panic attack- managed to swat his head with her bundled hand.
Andromeda sobbed. "There're wards on the place that don't allow women. Ted's away-I don't know what to do-"
The lady's sobs grew so fierce she had to cling to Molly to stay upright. This from the matriarch who had identified her dead child in the Great Hall with the trademark Black frown.
"Give me the tracking charm, then," he said.
Sniffling, she handed him a golden snitch that looked vaguely familiar. "It's the one Harry caught his first year. The one Dumbledore gave him. I charmed it. It acts like a portkey for where ever he is. You just need to tap it and say 'Harry.'" As Ron tapped it, he hysterically thought that if Harry was still alive, he would hate it when he discovered he was being spied on.
The golden snitch wasn't as fast as regular portkeys since it was also tracking charm. For several moments, Ron was lost in the ether space of transference. He saw wisps of elbows and shin as other wizards were jerked through the strange "between" place.
He was dumped in a musty attic, smacking his head on a wood beam upon his landing.
In front of him was a small Muggle plastic jungle gym. On top of the bright red monkey bars were boxes of dusty soy baby formula. Behind the playground set stood a rabbit hutch with a bed of molding shavings. Inside the cage was a broken sneakoscope, its axis rusty from leaning against a moist water bottle which once leaked onto it. Beyond the jumble of appliances was a window where Ron could see the sun set.
He turned toward another wall and discovered the east side of the attic was quite different. Bondage hooks and spreader bars hung from the low ceiling. There was a spanking bench and, Ron's favorite, the X-frame. Guillotine hoods and leather body harnesses hung from crooked nails.
"Naturally, this would be how we'd meet again," Ron muttered to himself, all thought for his friend's welfare temporarily forgotten.
Then he shook himself and remembered who he was here for-Harry-who was nowhere in sight. Ron circled the room frantically, kicking over milk crates filled with cock rings and nipple clamps. A rat scurried across the floor when he upset the box of many-flavored lubricant it had been lurking behind. His breaths became shorter, and he grabbed fistfuls of his hair. When every kink box and piece of furniture had been tossed-one never knew if Harry was hiding under the pile of latex breeches-he took the golden snitch out of his pocket and shook it. Maybe it had portkeyed him here by mistake. Maybe his best mate was lying in some Death Eater's shack, being tortured for kicks, and here he was trapped in this perverted wet dream. Harry would probably find Ron's predicament hilarious-if he wasn't dead or dying. If Ron could save him. If Mrs. Tonks's stupid tracking charm worked-
Then he heard a thump.
Ron whirled around and studied a section of wall.
There was another thump.
After studying the wall for several seconds, he noticed the glittering seam between the wooden planks. The shimmering border outlined a magical wall. Ron realized that behind the door was another room created out of wizard space.
"Alohomora!" he shouted, mentally bracing himself for what he found.
The glorious Chosen One. Locked inside a pervert's closet.
Fuck him, Ron would kill Harry if he was okay-
A black mummy popped out of the wizard closet. Ron yelped and jumped back, letting it fall at his feet.
Britain hadn't seen a mummy since Howard Carter had animated Tut for a lark, but still.
The mummy moaned and lurched, managing a roll so it was on its back. A spandex hood with a padded blindfold and gag covered its head. It wore a black straitjacket with leater staps running down and binding its legs.
He watched as the chest rose and fell, taking large panicked breaths.
First, Ron ran the diagnostic spells. The heart rate was a little high but stable, but the hydration level was low. That must have been what tipped Andromeda off.
Ron toed him. "Well, I hope you've satisfied your curiousity. You're a fucking prick, you know that? I can't believe I fucking..."love you, he meant to say. I can't believe I fucking love you.
In a moment, Ron would banish the spandex kit, and he would be faced with his naked friend who he had lusted after for months. That worried him. He didn't want to get hard over Harry here, in this fucked up place. Maybe Ron was too uptight for his own good, but Harry just... didn't deserve Ron's stiff prick right now.
Ron took his cloak off and held it before him, squeezing his eyes shut. After aiming his wand, he whispered the incantation and heard the momentary rustling of spandex being unstuck from Harry’s clammy skin. Then he dropped his cloak over his friend's exposed body, opened his eyes, and said, "Put it on."
"'Aight." Harry’s voice ground like gear gridlock. "Get my wand, will you? I think... it's in the crate with the cock rings..."
Back at Harry’s house, Ron propped him in a kitchen chair that he layered with cushions charms. Then Ron made tea with lemon and honey. Harry almost nodded off over his cup, but Ron woke him and made him drink another cup. Harry retched it up, drooling some onto his chest.
Feeling numbed with disappointment and worry, Ron forgot about magic and cleaned him by hand with a towel, lingering where the whip marks where so thick they made his skin rise in angry, red ridges. Then he picked Harry up and carried him to his bedroom, where Harry passed out with a snore as soon as his head hit the bed.
All night he kept vigil by Harry’s bedside, though he knew it wasn't for any noble reason like making sure his friend was okay. No. He stayed so he could rub it in Harry’s face when he woke up. Look at what a good friend I am! You owe me, you arsehole! Now listen to me piss and moan and make you feel bad for being a deviant. That sounded more like Ron.
Several times Harry woke up with a groan. Ron had a glass of water ready and pressed it to his lips.
An hour before dawn, Harry woke up and stared at him.
"'Ello, arsehole. Feel okay?"
"Sorry," Harry croaked. "I didn't want anyone to see that..."
"Oh, fuck all," he shouted, jumping to his feet. "You don't say sorry to me." Ron yanked the pillow from underneath Harry's head and shoved it in his face. Like they were fourteen in their dorm rooms, swatting each other with pillows as they bickered over money. "That was for my sister! You really killed her, you know that? She's going through this stupid identity crisis now and hanging out with snooty Ravenclaws because of you. You should give her the whip and let her be the one who beats you!"
Harry covered his face with his arms. "Ron... you couldn't have picked a worse time to start in..."
"I know that! But I just pulled you half dead from some pervert's closet, so fuck you kindly."
He peaked through the shutter of his arms. "I thought you had a problem with Blaise, not the lifestyle-"
"-Of course I hate Blaise!" Ron was incensed at this point. His words were fumbling over themselves to gush out of his mouth, and he could not make sense of them. "And not because he liked Voldemort, either. He could have killed a million Muggles for all I care; that's not the point. I hate him because I saw him whipping you. I hate that you are hurt. And I will always hate that - and I don't care if you crawled across broken glass begging for it, either- it's you being hurt, and that will never be alright with me!"
"What are you saying?"
"What am I-what am I saying? I think the Savior of the Wizarding World shouldn't be whipped in some pedophile's attic-Shit, is this what gay men do?"
"What? He's not a pedophile-What the hell-no! This isn't what all gay men-Christ, just leave if you are going to be a prick about this-"
"-oh no-you are not going to toss me out thinking I'm some bigot-"
"-don't tell me what I get to toss you out for. I don't want your toxic crap in here while I'm sick-"
"-I'm gay, Harry. Gay, gay, gay, so-sodding-gay gay."
Silence rang. Harry swallowed. "That's a lot of gay."
Ron collapsed into a chair.
"For the record," Harry began. "You can still have bigoted thoughts about gay people and be gay."
Ron snorted. "Nope. You're allowed to think whatever you want about 'em if you're one yourself."
In an hour, dawn would break. It was a darkest time, and the shadows swirled between the two men. From outside came the sounds of rousing life. A dog brayed below the bedroom window. Several piercing, hacking coughs trailed down the street. A dim police siren trilled from far across town. Brakes skidded around a corner. The dull thuds of awakening construction; a bank was being demolished several blocks down. The noises would be hell on Harry’s head today, Ron thought.
"Go to sleep, Harry," he sighed.
"You'll be here when I wake up?" Harry asked.
Ron got up, heading for a nap on the couch. "Sure thing."
At noon Ron woke up with an erection and a neck cramp. He waddled to the toilet, trying to shake the dreams from his heads where he fucked a Harry wrapped in spandex while Blaise watched. After taking a piss and quick shower, he emerged and smelled breakfast cooking in the kitchen. Harry stood at the cooker, looking gray and shaky but managing the frying pan all the same.
"Omelet?" Harry asked, indicating the pan with a spatula.
"Uh. Yes. Thanks."
Ron pulled the back of the chair out and watched Harry while he cooked.
Hiss head jutted forward at the neck and his shoulders were curved inward. Harry had the posture of a turtle.
"What?" Harry was suddenly looking at him, pad of butter in hand.
Ron realized he was still standing, holding the chair and staring at him. "Nothing." Ron sat.
Mushroom omelets were set on the table. Ron's stomach growled in hunger, but he felted too disconnected to eat, turned around by lack of sleep and bizarro events. He listened to the rumblings impassively.
Harry pushed the omelet closer to him. "It's good. I promise."
Gazing at the dish, he counted the chunks of bell pepper and wondered if he should take an antacid before he ate.
Harry cleared his throat. Startled, Ron’s foot jerked and hit the table leg.
Both their hands reached for the salt, and their fingers brushed. Harry’s thumb skimmed his knuckles.
"Oh" said Ron.
"Um," said Harry.
They both sat back without the salt and waited for the other to take it.
"Accio salt," Ron spat, but he was half distracted and wasn't ready for it when it flew at him. The shaker hit him in the chest.
"This is uncomfortable," Harry said. He stuffed a large forkful of egg in his mouth.
He watched Harry’s lips as they stretched and compressed while he chewed and wondered where that mouth had been. Probably in dungeon attics, where it had bent over the laps of faceless wizards, being face-fucked by unwashed pricks.
"You're always off somewhere else," Harry whispered. Shoulders slumped, he stared glumly at his plate. "Your head's off on a broom."
"Sorry." He rubbed a fist at his cheek. "I'm not thinking the best stuff right now."
"I had no idea it would affect you that hard. I really thought it was just Blaise." Harry ducked his head. His fringe had grown out and, at this angle, covered Ron's view of his face. Harry picked at his lip, and pieces of skin flake accumulated on the table.
"That contributed. There was..." jealousy. "-don't worry about it."
"You sure you're going to be... I feel like you're angry with me." His fingers jerked away from his mouth and his head dipped up to the light. Blood dotted his lip. He had picked it raw.
"Is this what you do with your day? Hang out with Teddy, lie around the house, get wrapped in leather and whipped?"
"I know you don't understand-"
"I don't? I spent the last year getting pissed every day. I know a bit about being a waster. Look, Mrs. Tonks put a charm on you that detected when your vital signs were failing. You were dangerously dehydrated. These aren't just kinky shags. It's... just fucked up."
Really, he hoped he was speaking out of concern and not jealousy, but with Harry, he didn't even know where one ended and the other started.
The silence grew interminable.
Antsy, Ron jumped up and started the tea kettle. He stood at the stove, his hands pressed against the edge and his chest leaning over the hob. When the kettle blew, steam gushed up his neck.
Ron leaned over Harry’s shoulder when he placed a cup of tea next to his friend's hand. As he bent over, he breathed in Harry's hair. It smelled of leather and orgy and the sort of sickly sweat one associated with St. Mungo bed sheets, and also of broomsticks and Grimmauld mustiness.
Harry froze. His breaths slowed. He tilted his head fractionally toward Ron.
Did Harry like him being this close? Ron asked himself.
Then he got a hold on himself. He was flirting-sort of-and Harry was not someone to be flirted with right now. Harry needed naps and tea and telly and a head exam and a job and definitely not a best friend slobbering on him. So Ron retreated-as best he could.
Part Five