Fic: Summer Storms
This is in response to the "Epic Journey" challenge.
Title: Summer Storms
Author: Lorien_Eve
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own either one of these beautiful boys. J.K. Rowling has that honor.
Sometimes Ron wonders what life would be like without Harry, but those moments are scarce and short-lived. Ron doesn’t like the way the question sounds in his head and he doesn’t like he way the answer feels in his mouth.
They’re best friends, have been since first year, and almost inseparable. So much so, that you hardly see one without the other. In fact, rumors about their relationship, started by a jealous Slytherin, no doubt, filtered through Hogwarts during their fifth and sixth years, but as neither Harry nor Ron were seemingly affected by them, the rumors died out.
Though Harry and Ron never confirmed the rumors (there was honestly nothing to confirm), they never denied them, either. But really, what was the point in denying something that was never true to begin with? That’s Ron’s take on the matter, anyway.
Harry signs up for Auror classes, and Ron does, too. Because Harry does, and what would Ron do without Harry? Ron goes through the standard training, studying Concealment charms and learning powerful defense spells that he hadn’t been permitted to learn in the ordinary Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons. Harry, however, is whisked away in a blur of tattered black robes, ushered down secret corridors and into hidden rooms by Mad-Eye Moody, and Ron isn’t able to see him during the day.
Ron only sees Harry at night, though it isn’t every night, not at first. It’s random nights, like when a storm rolls through, or when the wind is rough, or when the full moon hangs heavy in the sky. The first night Harry comes to Ron, it’s near the end of June, right before the end of the school year.
“Ron…” Harry’s voice is barely a whisper, just a sigh in the dorm room, but Ron hears it anyway. He always hears Harry’s voice.
“What is it, Harry?” Ron mumbles, though he doesn’t turn over.
“Can I sleep here?” Harry asks, and Ron is suddenly more awake than he would like to be.
The sheet twists around Ron’s long legs as he rolls over to look at Harry. Harry isn’t wearing his glasses, and Ron notices how different he looks without them. Not brave or fierce, but cracked and discarded, like an old boot with the sole worn thin. Ron supposes this is why Harry never lets anyone see him without his glasses.
“Another nightmare?” Ron asks. Harry hasn’t complained about nightmares in months, but Ron doesn’t know if he’s stopped having them or if he just isn’t mentioning them.
Harry pauses, but only for a breath, so faint that no one but Ron would ever hear it. “The moonlight. It’s too bright in my bed. I can’t sleep.”
Ron sighs and untangles the sheet from around his legs. The moonlight is just as bright in his bed. It tumbles blue through the window and splays white across his bed, leaving grey shadows in the covers.
But Ron doesn’t bother explaining this to Harry. Instead, he lifts the corner of the sheet and Harry slides beneath it, curling wordlessly against him. Harry lays his head on Ron’s shoulder and Ron starts thinking that they’re really too old to be doing this, wonders how they will explain it to the other boys in the morning. But Harry’s breathing softly on his chest and Ron falls asleep before he can finish the thought.
****
Though most of Ron’s lessons involve hands-on training, there are some professors that swear by the knowledge only a book can provide. N.E.W.T.s are approaching quickly, and that means both practical and written exams. Tonight, Ron has fallen asleep on the sofa down in the common room, his abandoned text still open in his lap. There’s a soft clap as the book is closed, and Ron jerks and wakes up. Harry’s looking down at him, holding the book in his hand.
“Sorry, mate, didn’t mean to keep you up,” Ron apologizes sleepily.
“You didn’t,” says Harry. He sets the book down on the table in front of the fireplace, but he doesn’t walk away.
“Then why are you still awake?” Ron asks.
“The wind’s howling outside my window,” Harry explains. “Can I sleep down here?”
Ron sits up and stretches his arms. “Yeah. I’ll move upstairs,” he says with a yawn.
Ron starts to stand, but Harry reaches out a hand and touches his chest. “I want you to stay,” he says quietly.
So Ron stays because Harry asks him to, and Ron always does what Harry asks. He lies back down on the sofa, shoulders pressed against the cushions and legs bent and uncomfortable against the arm on the opposite end. Harry stretches out next to him, front to front, and Ron is thankful that Harry’s short and skinny because otherwise there wouldn’t be enough room for both of them.
Ron feels a shy hand on his hip, right at the waistband of his trousers. Before he knows it, the hand is moving, sliding timidly underneath his shirt, skimming up his side and back down again, then resting lightly on his bare skin. Harry had never done that before. He and Ron usually just lie quietly next to each other, and sometimes Harry might sleep with his head on Ron’s shoulder. But there was no touching before, not like this. Ron would have remembered this.
Untidy black hair tickles Ron’s chin as Harry snuggles against his neck. Ron never liked when his older brothers tickled him as a child, but he’s older now and he finds that he doesn’t mind it so much when Harry does it. Ron isn’t sure where to put his arm, so he wraps it around Harry’s shoulder because that’s the only comfortable place for it. Harry slides a thin knee between Ron’s legs, and for the first time, Ron is thankful for the small sofa.
Ron’s breathing becomes deeper, though he blames it on the narrow space and limited supply of air. He tries to say something, he isn’t sure what, just anything, in hopes of disguising the quick intake of his breath, but Harry interrupts and whispers, “Don’t talk, Ron.”
So Ron doesn’t talk because Harry asked him not to, and what would he say anyway? ‘Keep touching me, Harry, just like that’? Or ‘Slide your knee a little higher, Harry, yes, right there’?
Quickly, Ron realizes that he didn’t need to say anything at all. It seems as though Harry read his thoughts because soon Harry’s knee is wedged firmly between Ron’s thighs and his hand is moving in slow circles over Ron’s stomach.
The sofa rests against a wall, underneath a tall window, and as Ron melts into Harry’s touch, he can hear the wind whipping against the panes. Had he not been distracted by Harry lying so close, Ron might think it odd that Harry didn’t notice how the wind howled just as loudly down in the common room as it did upstairs.
****
At the end of their seventh year, when Seamus asks Harry what his post-Hogwarts plans are, Harry simply shrugs and says, “I’ll be staying with Ron.” Harry doesn’t bother to ask Ron about the arrangement. It’s an unspoken agreement, a silent pact, like so many other things in their friendship.
****
It’s Ron’s first night back at the Burrow since last summer. He and Harry are officially finished with school now; they won’t be going back in two months for another year of academic lessons, Quidditch matches, and House Cups. Ron guesses he might miss his friends at first, but he’s got Harry - he’s always had Harry - and he doesn’t need anyone else.
Mrs. Weasley informs Harry that he’ll be sleeping in Ron’s bedroom, but that doesn’t surprise Ron or Harry. Harry always slept with Ron, though no one knows how frequent it has become.
Ron’s room looks mostly the same, the animated Cannons posters still decorating the walls, and the orange comforter, tattered and lurid as ever, thrown on the bed. The only difference is the small camp bed that Mrs. Weasley conjures for Harry. Ron reminds her that it’s not necessary, that they are adults now and they can use magic whenever they want, but she ignores him, busy straightening Harry’s covers. Ron feels like telling her that the bed is unnecessary, too, but he’s afraid she won’t ignore him this time.
“Good night, you two,” Mrs. Weasley says, and she kisses both of them on the cheek.
Once she leaves, Harry begins pulling back the covers on his camp bed. Ron bites his lip, worried that Harry might want to sleep alone tonight. Not that it matters, not really, Ron tells himself. Harry doesn’t sleep with him every night, and that’s all right.
Ron turns off the light, hoping the darkness will hide his disappointment. He climbs into his own bed while Harry is still messing with the covers on the camp bed. Ron closes his eyes and listens to Harry’s movements. He’s listened to Harry for years, knows what every different sound means, so a few minutes later, when Harry shuffles over to Ron’s bed, Ron knows it without even opening his eyes.
“There’s a storm coming,” Harry says in a hoarse whisper. “Can I sleep with you?”
Ron fights the urge to throw his covers back and take Harry in his arms. Instead, he looks out the window. It’s a clear night, no clouds, and the moon is only a quarter full.
Misunderstanding Ron’s reaction, Harry explains, “I can feel it. The storm, that is. It’s coming.”
Ron swallows and nods quickly. “Sure,” he says, and throws the covers back, shifting to make room for Harry. Harry crawls in next to him, tucks his head under Ron’s chin, and wraps his arms around his waist.
Ron lets out a sigh of relief into Harry’s hair. He tries not to worry about how they’ll explain the situation if anyone catches them. Harry will probably want a place of his own soon, a place without Ron, and Ron tries not to worry about that, either. Tomorrow can be a day for worrying and poor explanations, but tonight Harry’s breathing warmly down the neck of Ron’s shirt and Ron finds it impossible to think about anything else.
Harry begins to move against Ron, slowly, but Ron knows what it means, knows what Harry wants. Though their arrangement began innocently, merely to ensure fretless sleep and protection from nightmares, it has recently become physical, a transition that Ron isn’t entirely unhappy with.
Ron wraps a hand around the back of Harry’s thigh, spreading his legs slightly and pulling him closer. Harry grinds into him, his breath hotter and stronger on Ron’s neck.
Ron hears the first raindrop hit the tin roof, then another, and then another. Now he knows that Harry was right about the storm, and without realizing it he begins counting the raindrops. But after seven, Harry’s lips cover his and he loses count.
Harry has never kissed Ron before. There’s been touching and mild petting, but never any kisses. Ron isn’t sure what to do at first, and he isn’t entirely sure that Harry knows, either. But then Harry surprises him by deepening the kiss, pressing against Ron’s lips so that his mouth seems to open on its own. When Ron feels Harry’s tongue curl around his, he lets out a groan that Harry swallows down.
Ron discovers that kissing Harry is better than any of the other kisses he’s ever had. He thinks it’s a shame that they waited so long to try it, wasting time with less important things like studying, when there was something else so wonderful to be doing instead. Harry’s tongue is slick, his mouth is hot, his lips are soft, and Ron makes a mental note to kiss Harry as often as possible.
A few minutes later, Harry pulls away, hiding his face in Ron’s neck again like he’s suddenly shy. Ron worries that maybe he isn’t such a good kisser, that Harry didn’t like kissing him so much after all, but then there’s a huge flash of lightning outside, lighting up the sky and the room, though only for a second. Harry shudders, just slightly, but Ron feels it. He feels every move Harry makes.
Fumbling clumsily with the tie on Harry’s pajama pants, Ron loosens them and slides them over Harry’s hips and halfway down his thighs. He’s going to take Harry’s mind off the storm. Ron then pushes his own pajamas down so that his cock is fully exposed, his pale skin grey in the feeble light trickling through the threadbare curtains. A sharp roll of thunder shakes the thin glass panes in the window, and Ron doesn’t waste any more time in pressing his erection against Harry’s.
Ron’s hands are in Harry’s hair, down his back, then between his legs. There are so many places Ron wants to touch, and though he used to be kidded about oversized hands and feet, right now it seems like his hands just aren’t big enough.
A heavy sheet of rain blows against the window, and Ron wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock. Harry groans, his voice low, just like the thunder than rumbles overhead. Ron rubs himself against Harry’s hip, building up friction and matching his thrusts with the speed of his hand, only half noticing that Harry’s hipbone is too pronounced for a supposedly healthy boy his age.
“Ron…” Harry gasps, “Ron, I…”
“I know, Harry,” Ron breathes.
Ron’s afraid he comes too quickly, but before he has time to be embarrassed, Harry comes, too. Ron can feel the warm, sticky, wetness running between his fingers and down the sides of his hand.
There’s a long silence, filled only by slowed breathing and the tinny sound of raindrops as they pelt unceasingly on the roof. A white network of lightning crackles across the sky.
“Will you be here when I come back?” Harry asks, breaking the silence, though his voice is nearly inaudible over the pounding of the rain.
Ron wonders where Harry is going, while at the same time, his mind comes up with a hundred different ways to make him stay. Ron decides to keep those to himself, so he asks, “Why are you leaving?” even though he already knows the answer.
Harry stills suddenly, like he’s been petrified, and for a moment Ron is afraid he’s stopped breathing. “To, you know…fight,” he says at last. “I’ve got to. They won’t send anyone else.”
Ron understands, though he doesn’t want to and wishes he didn’t. Ron wants Harry to stay with him, where he can watch him and protect him, because if Ron doesn’t, no one will.
“You don’t have to, you know,” Ron whispers against Harry’s cheek. “You don’t have to,” he says again, thinking that if he keeps repeating it, maybe Harry will believe it.
“Yeah, I do,” says Harry, and there’s a finality in his voice that Ron doesn’t mistake.
“You’ll come back, though, won’t you?” Ron asks, trying to sound hopeful, though he’s not surprised when he’s unsuccessful.
“Yeah, Ron, I’ll come back,” Harry answers too quickly. “I’ll come back.”
It’s a lie and they both know it. Not all stories have happy endings, and Ron knows that Harry’s story isn’t a happy one. Ron has never been good academically, though Hermione claimed he could be a doctor because of his handwriting. Still, Ron wishes that he had a larger vocabulary and a natural talent for words because he’d rewrite the ending for both him and Harry, make it a happy one, the way it should be.
Title: Summer Storms
Author: Lorien_Eve
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own either one of these beautiful boys. J.K. Rowling has that honor.
Sometimes Ron wonders what life would be like without Harry, but those moments are scarce and short-lived. Ron doesn’t like the way the question sounds in his head and he doesn’t like he way the answer feels in his mouth.
They’re best friends, have been since first year, and almost inseparable. So much so, that you hardly see one without the other. In fact, rumors about their relationship, started by a jealous Slytherin, no doubt, filtered through Hogwarts during their fifth and sixth years, but as neither Harry nor Ron were seemingly affected by them, the rumors died out.
Though Harry and Ron never confirmed the rumors (there was honestly nothing to confirm), they never denied them, either. But really, what was the point in denying something that was never true to begin with? That’s Ron’s take on the matter, anyway.
Harry signs up for Auror classes, and Ron does, too. Because Harry does, and what would Ron do without Harry? Ron goes through the standard training, studying Concealment charms and learning powerful defense spells that he hadn’t been permitted to learn in the ordinary Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons. Harry, however, is whisked away in a blur of tattered black robes, ushered down secret corridors and into hidden rooms by Mad-Eye Moody, and Ron isn’t able to see him during the day.
Ron only sees Harry at night, though it isn’t every night, not at first. It’s random nights, like when a storm rolls through, or when the wind is rough, or when the full moon hangs heavy in the sky. The first night Harry comes to Ron, it’s near the end of June, right before the end of the school year.
“Ron…” Harry’s voice is barely a whisper, just a sigh in the dorm room, but Ron hears it anyway. He always hears Harry’s voice.
“What is it, Harry?” Ron mumbles, though he doesn’t turn over.
“Can I sleep here?” Harry asks, and Ron is suddenly more awake than he would like to be.
The sheet twists around Ron’s long legs as he rolls over to look at Harry. Harry isn’t wearing his glasses, and Ron notices how different he looks without them. Not brave or fierce, but cracked and discarded, like an old boot with the sole worn thin. Ron supposes this is why Harry never lets anyone see him without his glasses.
“Another nightmare?” Ron asks. Harry hasn’t complained about nightmares in months, but Ron doesn’t know if he’s stopped having them or if he just isn’t mentioning them.
Harry pauses, but only for a breath, so faint that no one but Ron would ever hear it. “The moonlight. It’s too bright in my bed. I can’t sleep.”
Ron sighs and untangles the sheet from around his legs. The moonlight is just as bright in his bed. It tumbles blue through the window and splays white across his bed, leaving grey shadows in the covers.
But Ron doesn’t bother explaining this to Harry. Instead, he lifts the corner of the sheet and Harry slides beneath it, curling wordlessly against him. Harry lays his head on Ron’s shoulder and Ron starts thinking that they’re really too old to be doing this, wonders how they will explain it to the other boys in the morning. But Harry’s breathing softly on his chest and Ron falls asleep before he can finish the thought.
****
Though most of Ron’s lessons involve hands-on training, there are some professors that swear by the knowledge only a book can provide. N.E.W.T.s are approaching quickly, and that means both practical and written exams. Tonight, Ron has fallen asleep on the sofa down in the common room, his abandoned text still open in his lap. There’s a soft clap as the book is closed, and Ron jerks and wakes up. Harry’s looking down at him, holding the book in his hand.
“Sorry, mate, didn’t mean to keep you up,” Ron apologizes sleepily.
“You didn’t,” says Harry. He sets the book down on the table in front of the fireplace, but he doesn’t walk away.
“Then why are you still awake?” Ron asks.
“The wind’s howling outside my window,” Harry explains. “Can I sleep down here?”
Ron sits up and stretches his arms. “Yeah. I’ll move upstairs,” he says with a yawn.
Ron starts to stand, but Harry reaches out a hand and touches his chest. “I want you to stay,” he says quietly.
So Ron stays because Harry asks him to, and Ron always does what Harry asks. He lies back down on the sofa, shoulders pressed against the cushions and legs bent and uncomfortable against the arm on the opposite end. Harry stretches out next to him, front to front, and Ron is thankful that Harry’s short and skinny because otherwise there wouldn’t be enough room for both of them.
Ron feels a shy hand on his hip, right at the waistband of his trousers. Before he knows it, the hand is moving, sliding timidly underneath his shirt, skimming up his side and back down again, then resting lightly on his bare skin. Harry had never done that before. He and Ron usually just lie quietly next to each other, and sometimes Harry might sleep with his head on Ron’s shoulder. But there was no touching before, not like this. Ron would have remembered this.
Untidy black hair tickles Ron’s chin as Harry snuggles against his neck. Ron never liked when his older brothers tickled him as a child, but he’s older now and he finds that he doesn’t mind it so much when Harry does it. Ron isn’t sure where to put his arm, so he wraps it around Harry’s shoulder because that’s the only comfortable place for it. Harry slides a thin knee between Ron’s legs, and for the first time, Ron is thankful for the small sofa.
Ron’s breathing becomes deeper, though he blames it on the narrow space and limited supply of air. He tries to say something, he isn’t sure what, just anything, in hopes of disguising the quick intake of his breath, but Harry interrupts and whispers, “Don’t talk, Ron.”
So Ron doesn’t talk because Harry asked him not to, and what would he say anyway? ‘Keep touching me, Harry, just like that’? Or ‘Slide your knee a little higher, Harry, yes, right there’?
Quickly, Ron realizes that he didn’t need to say anything at all. It seems as though Harry read his thoughts because soon Harry’s knee is wedged firmly between Ron’s thighs and his hand is moving in slow circles over Ron’s stomach.
The sofa rests against a wall, underneath a tall window, and as Ron melts into Harry’s touch, he can hear the wind whipping against the panes. Had he not been distracted by Harry lying so close, Ron might think it odd that Harry didn’t notice how the wind howled just as loudly down in the common room as it did upstairs.
****
At the end of their seventh year, when Seamus asks Harry what his post-Hogwarts plans are, Harry simply shrugs and says, “I’ll be staying with Ron.” Harry doesn’t bother to ask Ron about the arrangement. It’s an unspoken agreement, a silent pact, like so many other things in their friendship.
****
It’s Ron’s first night back at the Burrow since last summer. He and Harry are officially finished with school now; they won’t be going back in two months for another year of academic lessons, Quidditch matches, and House Cups. Ron guesses he might miss his friends at first, but he’s got Harry - he’s always had Harry - and he doesn’t need anyone else.
Mrs. Weasley informs Harry that he’ll be sleeping in Ron’s bedroom, but that doesn’t surprise Ron or Harry. Harry always slept with Ron, though no one knows how frequent it has become.
Ron’s room looks mostly the same, the animated Cannons posters still decorating the walls, and the orange comforter, tattered and lurid as ever, thrown on the bed. The only difference is the small camp bed that Mrs. Weasley conjures for Harry. Ron reminds her that it’s not necessary, that they are adults now and they can use magic whenever they want, but she ignores him, busy straightening Harry’s covers. Ron feels like telling her that the bed is unnecessary, too, but he’s afraid she won’t ignore him this time.
“Good night, you two,” Mrs. Weasley says, and she kisses both of them on the cheek.
Once she leaves, Harry begins pulling back the covers on his camp bed. Ron bites his lip, worried that Harry might want to sleep alone tonight. Not that it matters, not really, Ron tells himself. Harry doesn’t sleep with him every night, and that’s all right.
Ron turns off the light, hoping the darkness will hide his disappointment. He climbs into his own bed while Harry is still messing with the covers on the camp bed. Ron closes his eyes and listens to Harry’s movements. He’s listened to Harry for years, knows what every different sound means, so a few minutes later, when Harry shuffles over to Ron’s bed, Ron knows it without even opening his eyes.
“There’s a storm coming,” Harry says in a hoarse whisper. “Can I sleep with you?”
Ron fights the urge to throw his covers back and take Harry in his arms. Instead, he looks out the window. It’s a clear night, no clouds, and the moon is only a quarter full.
Misunderstanding Ron’s reaction, Harry explains, “I can feel it. The storm, that is. It’s coming.”
Ron swallows and nods quickly. “Sure,” he says, and throws the covers back, shifting to make room for Harry. Harry crawls in next to him, tucks his head under Ron’s chin, and wraps his arms around his waist.
Ron lets out a sigh of relief into Harry’s hair. He tries not to worry about how they’ll explain the situation if anyone catches them. Harry will probably want a place of his own soon, a place without Ron, and Ron tries not to worry about that, either. Tomorrow can be a day for worrying and poor explanations, but tonight Harry’s breathing warmly down the neck of Ron’s shirt and Ron finds it impossible to think about anything else.
Harry begins to move against Ron, slowly, but Ron knows what it means, knows what Harry wants. Though their arrangement began innocently, merely to ensure fretless sleep and protection from nightmares, it has recently become physical, a transition that Ron isn’t entirely unhappy with.
Ron wraps a hand around the back of Harry’s thigh, spreading his legs slightly and pulling him closer. Harry grinds into him, his breath hotter and stronger on Ron’s neck.
Ron hears the first raindrop hit the tin roof, then another, and then another. Now he knows that Harry was right about the storm, and without realizing it he begins counting the raindrops. But after seven, Harry’s lips cover his and he loses count.
Harry has never kissed Ron before. There’s been touching and mild petting, but never any kisses. Ron isn’t sure what to do at first, and he isn’t entirely sure that Harry knows, either. But then Harry surprises him by deepening the kiss, pressing against Ron’s lips so that his mouth seems to open on its own. When Ron feels Harry’s tongue curl around his, he lets out a groan that Harry swallows down.
Ron discovers that kissing Harry is better than any of the other kisses he’s ever had. He thinks it’s a shame that they waited so long to try it, wasting time with less important things like studying, when there was something else so wonderful to be doing instead. Harry’s tongue is slick, his mouth is hot, his lips are soft, and Ron makes a mental note to kiss Harry as often as possible.
A few minutes later, Harry pulls away, hiding his face in Ron’s neck again like he’s suddenly shy. Ron worries that maybe he isn’t such a good kisser, that Harry didn’t like kissing him so much after all, but then there’s a huge flash of lightning outside, lighting up the sky and the room, though only for a second. Harry shudders, just slightly, but Ron feels it. He feels every move Harry makes.
Fumbling clumsily with the tie on Harry’s pajama pants, Ron loosens them and slides them over Harry’s hips and halfway down his thighs. He’s going to take Harry’s mind off the storm. Ron then pushes his own pajamas down so that his cock is fully exposed, his pale skin grey in the feeble light trickling through the threadbare curtains. A sharp roll of thunder shakes the thin glass panes in the window, and Ron doesn’t waste any more time in pressing his erection against Harry’s.
Ron’s hands are in Harry’s hair, down his back, then between his legs. There are so many places Ron wants to touch, and though he used to be kidded about oversized hands and feet, right now it seems like his hands just aren’t big enough.
A heavy sheet of rain blows against the window, and Ron wraps his fingers around Harry’s cock. Harry groans, his voice low, just like the thunder than rumbles overhead. Ron rubs himself against Harry’s hip, building up friction and matching his thrusts with the speed of his hand, only half noticing that Harry’s hipbone is too pronounced for a supposedly healthy boy his age.
“Ron…” Harry gasps, “Ron, I…”
“I know, Harry,” Ron breathes.
Ron’s afraid he comes too quickly, but before he has time to be embarrassed, Harry comes, too. Ron can feel the warm, sticky, wetness running between his fingers and down the sides of his hand.
There’s a long silence, filled only by slowed breathing and the tinny sound of raindrops as they pelt unceasingly on the roof. A white network of lightning crackles across the sky.
“Will you be here when I come back?” Harry asks, breaking the silence, though his voice is nearly inaudible over the pounding of the rain.
Ron wonders where Harry is going, while at the same time, his mind comes up with a hundred different ways to make him stay. Ron decides to keep those to himself, so he asks, “Why are you leaving?” even though he already knows the answer.
Harry stills suddenly, like he’s been petrified, and for a moment Ron is afraid he’s stopped breathing. “To, you know…fight,” he says at last. “I’ve got to. They won’t send anyone else.”
Ron understands, though he doesn’t want to and wishes he didn’t. Ron wants Harry to stay with him, where he can watch him and protect him, because if Ron doesn’t, no one will.
“You don’t have to, you know,” Ron whispers against Harry’s cheek. “You don’t have to,” he says again, thinking that if he keeps repeating it, maybe Harry will believe it.
“Yeah, I do,” says Harry, and there’s a finality in his voice that Ron doesn’t mistake.
“You’ll come back, though, won’t you?” Ron asks, trying to sound hopeful, though he’s not surprised when he’s unsuccessful.
“Yeah, Ron, I’ll come back,” Harry answers too quickly. “I’ll come back.”
It’s a lie and they both know it. Not all stories have happy endings, and Ron knows that Harry’s story isn’t a happy one. Ron has never been good academically, though Hermione claimed he could be a doctor because of his handwriting. Still, Ron wishes that he had a larger vocabulary and a natural talent for words because he’d rewrite the ending for both him and Harry, make it a happy one, the way it should be.