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What it comes down to	By : melinda1293 Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 115221 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 27
- 28
- 29
Chapter 28. The Wolf at the Door

Harry found himself pressed against the wall again. Trembling in the dark, his heart pounded like a frightened child startled awake by a terrible dream. But what was scaring him wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. It was flesh and bone, warm breath and soft skin, sitting next to him in nothing but a thin shirt and cotton knickers.
She was like a demon, a succubus, come to drain his soul, tempting him with her nubile body, seducing him with her whispered words. Hermione felt more menacing to him now, as he fought her insidious allure, than any fearsome beast he’d ever imagined as a young boy locked in his dark, cramped cupboard.
He never should have spoken to her. He should’ve continued to feign sleep, like he had on her previous visits to his room tonight, and let her go back to her own bed when she was satisfied he hadn’t fled in the night. Instead, he’d foolishly acknowledged her presence, effectively inviting her in by initiating the conversation. Now her physical proximity was making him mute, as completely taciturn as he’d been earlier with Ron in the foyer.
They were conspiring against him. He was sure of it. His mind had begun to fester with fear and paranoia. His growing dementia was making him certain that she and Ron were now tag-teaming him. They appeared hell bent on driving him mad, chipping away at his fragile mental state, inching him towards insanity as they actively campaigned to keep him on edge. His mind and body were on high alert, so that even innocent or accidental touches sent him running for cover. Fearing that a single brush of fingertips against his bare skin might be the catalyst that would send him careening over the edge, that the feel of a caress would push him past his threshold for endurance, Harry was scared for either one of his best friends to touch him anymore or even be too near him.
Believing he was cursed, the butt of a cruel, cosmic joke, Harry was convinced that the gods had some personal vendetta against him, just one more to add to the long list of those plotting his destruction. He must have been completely reprehensible in a previous life for them to pursue him into the next with such a vengeance.
Hermione had finally removed her hand from his foot, agreeing to stop pressuring him, but he couldn’t relax. Those were just words meant to trick him into letting down his guard, to cause him to loosen the tenuous grip he still had on his self-control. She’d ignored all his other pleas tonight so that he couldn’t trust her, and she was still too near him, imprisoning him on his own bed as he sat huddled against the wall with his knees pulled against his chest like a shield.
The approaching full moon and his regained health, coupled with the timing of Ron and Hermione’s sexual advances, had created a perfect storm inside him. His sharpening senses were flooding him with an intoxicating mixture of smells and sounds, the sheer multitude of which was wearing him down with its constant barrage, priming him so that his body was in a near constant state of arousal, which he couldn’t relieve.
The feeling was horribly reminiscent of those vile potions Bellatrix and then Madame Pomfrey had forced down him. It tortured his mind and body so that he found himself wishing for the flames of Madame Pomfrey’s potion to consume him once more, to cauterize his senses and burn away the aching desire he felt for them both.
Harry wanted at least two locked doors between them, preferably a house or two apart for good measure, just to be safe. Believing that if he could only hide, lock himself away from Ron and Hermione, maybe just until the moon waned, he could get his head on straight. That belief and his fear of himself made him unable to embrace the relationship they sought so relentlessly.
As fucked up as he was, he didn’t think he was even capable of reciprocating, of truly acting on his urges anyway, but what if he succumbed to his desire? What if he submitted to them and while they were together like that, he panicked? What if it caused a flashback so powerful that he forgot where he was or who he was with, and then, hysterical with fear, believed they were Bellatrix and Rudolphus? What kind of destruction would he be capable of in his frantic effort to escape? Possessed by that madness, he wouldn’t be able to protect them, not if he lost control of himself, not if he lost his grasp on reality. He couldn’t save Ron and Hermione from the threat he himself would pose to them.
They were blind, unable to see it, but Harry was a landmine lying in their path, waiting to be tripped. He’d tried to share with Hermione his fear of that danger, tried to explain to Ron that he was broken, but they wouldn’t listen. They didn’t believe he would hurt them, or naively thought they could heal him. Not truly comprehending that threat, they ignored all the signs of the madness metastasizing within him. Unwilling to heed his dire warnings, they continued to press him, to torment him, oblivious to the horrors they might reap if they put enough pressure on the right spot and he exploded again.
There was no way to escape the torment either, to siphon off the pressure building inside him, because he was too scared to touch himself now, too. Terrified if he did, it would unleash the horrible visions of Bellatrix hovering in the dark places of his subconscious, to infect his mind again with that corrosive poison and propel him back into that tenebrous black hole. He might not be able to crawl out if he was swallowed up by the darkness again, left in perpetuity to drown in that numb state, like some poor, hapless victim of a Dementor’s kiss.
The only recourse left to him had been to turn that fear and sexual aggression into anger, to force Ron and Hermione away from him before he rained fire down on all their heads. That relief had come at the expense of their friendship, but it had been the only outlet he had, until today. Today he’d found a new way to alleviate some of his stress, a new way to drain some of the poison inside him, or an old way rediscovered.
Of course, there were drawbacks. It wasn’t a perfect solution. There was no panacea for all of his problems, but it helped with his most pressing one at the moment. It came with consequences, however. There was always a price to pay for everything, Harry was learning, and what he’d traded for the relief he needed was additional guilt, fear and anxiety. There was fear that Ron and Hermione would find out, anxiety about what he was doing, and guilt about hiding it from them.
If they knew, though, they’d be horrified. He wouldn’t be able to make them understand that he wasn’t causing any permanent damage. He’d injured himself worse scraping his knees as a child on the pavement. He wasn’t harming any nerves or muscles, not like he had before. These cuts were shallow and would heal quickly. And if they left marks, what did it matter? What were a few more scars added to a body already so littered with them? Among the rest, these new, small wounds he was inflicting would hardly be noticed.
Most people never saw past the first one he’d received, anyway, the one he was least able to hide, the one he’d thought as a young boy was sort of cool, until Hagrid came for him and he’d learned the truth about its origin. It was the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, given to him by Tom Riddle all those years ago, fulfilling a prophecy to supposedly mark Harry as his equal, and setting him on this path of destruction, his own or Tom’s or both. It was the scar for which he was so famous, the one that defined him for so many in the wizarding world, keeping him from the anonymity he craved, never allowing him to be simply Harry. It was like a neon sign pointing him out everywhere he went, tangible proof that announced him to them all as The Boy Who Lived, or The Chosen One, and now, Undesirable Number One.
For those who were able to look beyond that notorious disfigurement, they would see the myriad of other scars that covered his body. Some he’d acquired on his own, but most were souvenirs he’d collected from his encounters with Tom and his followers. The most recent ones, the most severe, were from the Death Eaters that had spent so much time schooling him in the art of torture; badges earned from the week long course in appreciating agony he’d involuntarily undergone at Malfoy Manor.
Teaching himself how to embrace the pain, to crave it, Harry had learned how to lose himself in the misery it wrought. The places it had taken him had, at times, been magnificent. He’d never discovered more about himself, who he was at his core, than he had being taught to endure the suffering during the days spent in the throes of that excruciating pain.
They’d ripped him apart in those lessons, pried him open, stripped him down, and then reshaped him so that he was barely recognizable anymore, molding him into some sadistic piece of art. A slightly warped caricature of himself reminiscent of a Picasso created during a violent schizophrenic episode.
Their fists pounding his malleable flesh, shattering bones, swelling and contorting his features had transformed his pale skin into hues of black, purple, blue and green. Burning and tearing his flesh with shouted spells and sharpened knives, they’d smeared his blood like paint on the tattered canvas of his body, and then left him hanging on the wall by his emaciated limbs so that their work could be admired. The anguish required for its creation had sometimes been beautiful, but it had taken time for Harry to truly acquire a taste for that agony, difficult at first, for him to appreciate their artistic interpretation.
He was worried initially, when that desire to harm himself had come flooding back after so long. He thought he’d beaten it back, but he hadn’t felt an urge that strong since the early days of his recovery. He realized now that it had been near the full moon then, too, and that the desire had faded with the light from that celestial orb, the buildup of toxins slowing after those first few days as it began to wane. The understanding brought relief that these feelings and actions would soon fade again with the shifting lunar phase, taking with it his crippling fear of spreading it to Ron and Hermione.
If he could just keep the secret until then, when it lost its powerful pull on him, he’d come back to himself once more and be able to stop bloodletting. That’s the lie he told himself, anyway, and he was getting so good at bending the truth recently, so accustomed to deluding himself, that he almost believed it, too.
He hadn’t actually even been looking for some kind of outlet when he found it. He was a little nervous, maybe, at the prospect of meeting Draco, but he wasn’t frantic to relieve the pressure inside him at the time. Not yet, not like he was now. He’d just accidentally nicked himself shaving. But standing in front of the mirror, he found himself mesmerized, watching the tiny drop of blood well up and slowly travel down his neck. And he couldn’t stop the memories as he lifted his hand and caught the droplet on his finger. He remembered how easily the knife had penetrated his skin that day, remembered that wonderful feeling of release as his blood gushed out of him, and the serenity that stole over him as he watched it rushing to flee his dying body.
Dumbledore had said Harry’s blood was much more valuable than his own when he’d spilled his at the cave entrance on that fateful night. But not this blood, Harry thought, as he’d stared at it on his fingertip while small amounts still trickled from the tiny cut at his throat. This blood was tainted, riddled with disease. It might have been his imagination, but he believed he could see the red tinged with black, the poison mixing with it as he examined it under the bathroom lights.
Harry had meant to kill himself that day in Sirius’ bathroom, after he left Ron and Hermione at the Burrow, and nearly succeeded. But not this time. This time he just wanted to feel the calmness he hoped it would bring him, even if just for a little while, and he hadn’t been disappointed. The cut was shallow, not enough to do him any damage or cause too much blood loss, but the feeling of peace it gave him, the immediate rush of relief, was ecstasy. He could actually feel the poison draining out of him while he stood there and watched it flow out of the gash he’d hidden in the crook of his elbow to drip into the sink.
Afterwards, he’d felt relaxed, tranquil, as if he’d taken a small dose of calming draught, but without the debilitating side effects the potion caused in him. The reprieve had only been temporary, however. Harry knew almost immediately after the bleeding had stopped that he would turn to it again, that he would need the relief only it could bring. He’d wanted to after his fight with Ron today, but he hadn’t been able to without fear of drawing their suspicion, not as closely as they were watching him. And he wanted to again right now, too, needing that same release once more, to quell his hunger for her as she sat next to him like an ethereal siren, giving off powerful pheromones, filling him with desire and longing. Her scent was all around him, the smell of her own arousal seeping into his pores, making him ache all over, making the monster in his chest roar to life again.
Hermione’s face was in shadow as she spoke, and it only added to the image he’d conjured in his tortured mind of her as some beguiling spirit. Gesturing between them, she wafted those scents towards him to continue her seduction, holding him spellbound while she spoke of how much she missed sharing a bed with him. Of how much she missed their friendship and the intimacy that had been growing between them. Of how much she loved him.
Afraid to speak, afraid of what he would say, or what he might admit, Harry remained silent, entranced by her words, as she reached out of the darkness then and cupped his face. Her hand felt cold against his skin, which was fevered from the war waging in his veins. His whole body went rigid at her touch, too frightened to move as if she’d frozen him solid where he sat with the power of that single gesture. His heart was pounding, his blood throbbing in his veins, his breathing ragged as he fought to maintain control of himself.
“You’re so beautiful, Harry,” she whispered, brushing her thumb across his cheekbone, the one still bearing the mark from where she’d struck him. As if she’d heard his echoing reply anyway, the words he wouldn’t give voice, confessions he hadn’t allowed himself to speak. Admitting that he missed her, too, desperately, that he ached with loneliness in this room, that it reminded him so much of the depression he’d fallen into following Sirius’ death and of the feeling of isolation he’d felt here at Christmas, thinking he was being possessed by Voldemort after his vision of the attack on Mr. Weasley.
His cheek burned, the coolness of her touch scalding the skin, leaving a tingling sensation across the path her thumb had travelled. He closed his watering eyes involuntarily at that gentle caress. The feel of her hand, the stroke of her fingers a command he felt compelled to obey. Fighting to keep the moan from escaping his chest, he tried to resist the urge to press his face into her hand, to nuzzle against the cool skin of her palm and beg for the affection he so badly craved.
“Go back to Ron, and close the door tonight, okay? Hermione, please?” he begged her, his voice straining as he tried to shake off her spell, tried to hold back the monster inside him which had taken form now, had a face. It was the face of a wolf, a feral, wild-eyed wolf, which was frantic to satisfy its need for this wicked temptress, rabid with the desire to bend her pliable, accommodating body to its depraved will.
“I promise, I’m not leaving.”
He was prepared to promise her anything, desperate to make her leave, to end the cruel game she was playing with him because he’d met his threshold, and his will was crumbling, the bars caging the beast growing brittle, rotting through. Instead, she drew closer still and pressed her soft lips against his.
Please no! Feeling frantic, the hysteria within him building, he pressed himself as far into the corner as he could and held his breath, his heart beating double-time. Clutching the blankets, he tried to keep himself from grabbing Hermione and crushing her against him or shoving her violently away in his bid for escape. Harry fought against the instinct to tangle his hands in her hair, to push her onto her back and cover her body with his own. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled to hold himself together before he broke into pieces, and finally, mercifully, she pulled away.
Letting out the breath when he could hold it no longer, he tried to breathe through his mouth to avoid her intoxicating aroma, the mixture of her own scent and Ron’s that had him starving for her, but it wasn’t working. He felt as if he could taste her in the air, remembering vividly how she tasted that last morning they’d shared on Sirius’ bed, when he’d found himself between them.
He clamped his mouth closed again to keep from panting like a dog, and swallowed down the saliva sliding down the sides of his tongue to pool in his mouth. He was losing this battle, and he was afraid of what he might do if the wolf got loose, if he set it free. His mind was in a complete haze of desire, flooded with images of those few passionate moments, memories that he constantly relived now whether asleep or awake, driving almost all his thoughts and actions since the minute they’d occurred.
“You’re an awful liar, Harry,” she whispered.
Her warm breath ghosted over him like a caress, and all the hairs stood up on his arms as his control finally shattered.
Pushed past endurance, he was whimpering again, shaking all over. What little light was available in the room seemed to grow darker as his vision turned to blackness, and all other sound was extinguished with the roaring in his ears.
“You’re the liar,” he accused, his voice a soft, hoarse growl spoken through gritted teeth, the sound mirroring the sound of the hungry wolf in his chest.
She’d said she would stop pushing, she said she’d only wanted to repair their friendship, but that was a lie. She would never stop, and neither would Ron. He knew it now.
He wasn’t sure if he’d leaned into her then, or she’d leaned back into him, but his mouth was suddenly on Hermione’s again, swallowing her reply, silencing whatever defense she might have made, or more lies she wanted to tell. His knees remained a barrier between them, protecting him from the full contact of her body pushing against him as she surged forward. His limbs were still frozen, his hands continuing to grip the blankets, but his tongue was in her mouth, stroking hers, mapping its contours, sampling her flavor while the wolf growled its approval, finally getting a taste of what it so desperately wanted from her.
Hermione slid the hand cupping his face onto the back of his neck. Running her fingers up into his hair, she clutched at his head in a reversal of their positions in the dungeon with his back against the wall now. She held him to her to continue their explosive kiss which was growing more urgent, the passion building in intensity despite his fear of what that escalation would bring as she tugged his bottom lip between her teeth and tilted his head for better access.
God, she felt and tasted unbelievably good! He was groaning into her mouth now hungrily. He was in free fall, lost again experiencing her, confused about what was reality, with her soft lips molded to his and her hands in his hair. Hermione’s face and hands were chilled, but her mouth was so warm and wet as he delved into it. She was pulling him further into her, and he was letting her, flooded again by the memories of his actions and thoughts of her together with him in the dungeon with this bizarre role reversal.
Suddenly he was reliving the terrible agony he’d felt in those moments when he stood nose to nose with her before he forced himself on her. Feeling the same familiar strain in him now as he’d felt then, trying to hold himself back, struggling against the effects of the potion which had made him so wild for her, as wild as Greyback’s infection was making him now. He remembered the smell of her hair, the scent of her skin behind her ear, along her neck as he’d bitten down and pushed into her, forever damning himself, taking from her what Bellatrix and the potion demanded of him while she’d tried, unsuccessfully, to fight him off.
Tears had begun to leak out of his eyes which were squeezed shut against the memories of that hell to slide down his cheeks. He was trembling all over, locked in the iron grip of those awful images. With their mouths still fused together, the horror and guilt of what he’d done was blending with the pleasure he’d derived from her then and was deriving from her now.
Attempting to calm him, to relax the stiffness of his limbs, and ease the trembling of his body, Hermione ran her hand down his arm, stroking him, reassuring him. But it only left behind a trail of more tingling, more seared flesh from those icy fingers against his heated skin. She reached his hand and then gently pulled. Urging him to release the grip he still had on the blankets, to place it on her bare thigh, he thought, like it had been in the dungeon, so that he might grip her again while he took her, to leave bruises once more on her tender flesh.
Maybe instead, she intended to place his hand at her waist, or to cover her breast, encouraging him to go further with her tonight. Or maybe she meant to pull him up off his bed and back to her own where a sleeping Ron lie waiting for them, ready to consummate this dysfunctional relationship. Harry didn’t know, but whatever her motivation, he hung on, clinging to the blanket, refusing to release his grip as if it were the only thing tethering him to Earth. He couldn’t take what he needed from her again. He couldn’t use her like that, no matter how badly his body was screaming for it. It was a path that led to total insanity.
“Stop, please,” he cried breathlessly, bumping his head against the wall as he pulled away from her finally. “I just…I can’t do this. I can’t give you what you and Ron want from me. I want to, but I can’t.”
He couldn’t get enough air. He was being held captive by her, fighting against the riot breaking out inside him. The walls was spinning and he was dizzy, light headed as if all the oxygen were being sucked from the room while he spiraled hopelessly out of control.
“Please don’t make me do this,” he begged.“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did, Hermione.”
The violent trembling of his limbs and the clenching of his stomach made him feel like he was going to be ill. He was shaking loose again, falling apart, like he had at her feet in the dungeon, his words echoing the pleas he’d made to Bellatrix. This whole encounter felt like some twisted reenactment. A painful, warped reliving of those horrible events orchestrated for his destruction.
“Shhhh,” she whispered, wiping at his damp cheeks.“It’s okay. Everything is going to be all right.”
“It hurts,” he moaned as he began to hyperventilate. “I’m not…I’m not capable of this.”
“All right, Harry. It’s all right. You don’t have to. Just hush now.”
She stroked his hair, sounding alarmed, as she tried to soothe his hysteria and the frenzied shaking of his limbs while he gasped for breath.
“I’m sorry. No one is going to make you do anything, no one will hurt you. I promise. Just calm down now. It’s okay, you’re okay.”
He’d already had sex with six people, seven if you counted what he’d done with Snape, all of them participants in his rapes or recipients of acts he’d been forced to perform. The number staggered him if he let himself think on it. None of them were the person he’d hoped to be with in that way, and now never would. None of them were the person he’d fantasized sharing that experience with whenever he’d allowed himself to dream of the future. None of them were Ginny.
Every one of those sexual encounters had been the perpetration of a crime against him. He hadn’t volunteered for any of it, and he’d fought with everything he had to prevent those violations from happening, despite what Draco believed. What he was doing with Hermione now didn’t feel truly voluntary either. He hadn’t pursued this. Instead, he’d been fighting against her from the minute she’d stepped into his room with about as much success as he had fending off all the others.
One of those forced copulations had been with Hermione. He’d condemned himself in an effort to protect her from the same fate Greyback had left him to suffer, if the savage werewolf would have left her alive at all. It had been the only occasion where Harry had ever offered himself to Bellatrix. He’d have given her anything, though, would have agreed to whatever depraved acts she wanted him to do or would have done to him, if he could spare his friends.
Hermione certainly hadn’t volunteered to be his partner in the performance Bellatrix wanted out of him in demonstration of her power over Harry for her audience of Death Eaters. She hadn’t willingly given herself to him. She hadn’t wanted what he’d done to her then, but she wanted him now. It was she who was initiating this, choosing him freely, and she was asking him to add Ron to that list, too. But he wasn’t in complete control of his faculties right now. His free will was being compromised. He felt coerced by Ron and Hermione, compelled by the moon’s influence to act outside of his own conscience, sacrificing the contentment of their deeply devoted friendship to satisfy a craving for something he believed would result in its complete destruction.
Even though she had every right to demand whatever she desired of him in compensation for what he’d taken from her, Harry simply wasn’t able to give her what she was asking. She deserved more than just his endless remorse for what he’d done. He owed her so much more than that, but he could never give back what he’d stolen, and the price she wanted would cost him too deeply. His sanity was more than he could pay.
Why did she have to come here tonight? It was so much worse at night, the desire, the madness, bubbling up, rising inside him along with the moon. It settled back again with the sun, becoming more manageable in the daylight when it had less influence on him. Why couldn’t she have come then, when he could have resisted her?
He tilted his head back against the wall, taking deep wheezy breaths, finally releasing his grip on the blankets to wrap his quaking arms around his knees. Trying to hold himself together, to get himself back under control and swallow down the nausea, he concentrated on steadying his heart rate while she sat next to him in the dark. Rubbing his arm again, she listened for his breathing to slow, while continuing to whisper reassurances and apologies.
He’d been stronger than this in the dungeon, endured so much worse. Why couldn’t he keep it together anymore? Why was this so hard for him? Where was the stubborn will Bellatrix claimed he possessed? He didn’t understand why Ron and Hermione could shatter him with such ease. How they could dismantle his defenses with almost no effort at all, when it had taken so much more for the Death Eaters to finally break him.
She scooted back from him finally and replaced her hand on his foot when his sharp intakes of breath had quieted back into normal breathing and the dizziness had passed, when the air pressure seemed to have been restored to the room. Softly stroking him, she continued to try and calm him.
They sat like that for several long minutes, until the shaking subsided and his fear lessened, until his thumping heart had slowed its frantic pace. Then he dropped his head to his knees, weak with fatigue from the mental and physical struggle, emotionally exhausted from his battle with her for control of the wolf inside him.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered into his knees, finally breaking the silence.
“No, I’m sorry,” she replied. “You were right, Harry, I am the liar, but I swear, I never intended for that to happen. I didn’t come here to try and seduce you. I didn’t mean to pressure you. Truly, I didn’t. I meant it when I said I would stop pushing. I only wanted to repair things between us, but I’ve made them worse. I’m so very sorry. Please forgive me.”
The words flooded out of her mouth in a rush of breathless apologies. She was gripping his foot now, almost painfully in her earnest pleading for his forgiveness.
"I only meant to convince you not to leave us, Harry. I know I’ve given you even more reason to go, but please don’t.”
“I can’t stay here anymore. Being across the hall from you isn’t good enough. You’re making me crazy, both of you. You see what I’m like. I can’t endure this.”
Lifting his head again, he sniffed, wiping at his running nose, brushing at his eyes.
“I know it’s me. I know I’m the one fucking things up all the time, and I’m sorry, Hermione, but I meant it when I said I was broken. I’m not myself right now. You have to get away from me. You’re tormenting me, both of you, and it’s dangerous. I’m dangerous. You don’t understand what this is doing to me.”
“I promise, Harry. I promise to keep my distance. I’ll do whatever you want. Ron and I will respect your wishes. Please believe me,” she urged, her voice trembling. “I’m begging you. Just don’t abandon us. Please, we love you so much.”
She was crying now, too, and he hated that. He hated that he couldn’t stop making her cry, couldn’t stop being the reason for it, but what was he supposed to do?
“Go back to your room then. Please, all right? Don’t make me beg you anymore. Just go back to Ron.”
“Okay…all right,” she agreed, nodding her head, yet still she made no attempt to return to her room, continuing to sit next to him in the darkness, both of them sniffling now.
He waited while the silence stretched between them, waited for her to leave. Then, when it seemed she could not, or would not leave on her own, he lowered his legs down slowly, pushing against her thigh with his feet, inching her off his bed. Finally she took the hint, standing up to keep from sliding off onto the floor.
“Are you going to be okay?” she asked, still reluctant to walk away, afraid to leave him alone after the bedlam she’d created. Standing beside the bed, she wiped at her face, her dark form staring down at him.
“No. I’m not. I’m not going to be okay. I’m a complete disaster, Hermione, but you can’t fix it. You and Ron can’t fix it, and I need you both to stop trying. The best thing you can do for me right now is leave me alone. All right?”
She nodded her head and wiped at her eyes again. Then she straightened up, taking in a deep breath before blowing it out on a shaky sigh.
“It’s Ron and I that are making a mess of things, Harry. Not you, and I’m sorry. I can’t stop saying it, but I don’t know how to else to convince you how sincerely I mean it. I know we’ve botched things badly with you. All the mistakes we’ve made, though, we made with the best intentions. We’ve only ever wanted to be with you and to help you through this.”
Turning reluctantly, Hermione walked away from him then when he only nodded his head in reply. She paused at the door, bracing her hand against the doorjamb, her body just an outline against the slightly more illuminated hallway.
“Goodnight, Harry,” she whispered. Then without waiting for a response, she let out a soft breath and stepped quietly out of his room, finally returning to Ron.
She didn’t close her door. He didn’t expect she would. Hermione might have agreed to stay away, but her conciliatory efforts would only go so far. She wouldn’t allow any physical barriers to separate them, any obstacles to act as a hindrance in her path to him. She had no intention of actually letting him out of her sight, of letting him run unimpeded.
He heard her slide back under the blankets next to Ron, listened as Ron stopped snoring for a minute, mumbling in his sleep while they both readjusted themselves against the other before going still again. Then Harry relaxed, his whole body going limp with relief.   Staring up at the ceiling, he blew out an agonizing breath. The torment had finally ended, but there would be no more sleep for him tonight, and that was going to make tomorrow even harder to endure as they drew ever closer to the full moon.
Harry thought again about fleeing, maybe to the attic and barricading himself infor the next few days, but he didn’t know a locking spell that Hermione couldn’t counter. He considered simply running, but he was reminded of Ron’s warning in the foyer. That cursed Deluminator Dumbledore had given him would keep them right behind him no matter where he went, unless Harry could steal it from Ron, could somehow wrest it from his grip before Apparating away with it.
Knowing Hermione, though, Harry thought she might have figured out a way to place a tracking charm on him by now so they could stay right on his heels if he tried giving them the slip. A trace similar to what the Ministry uses for underage wizards to further thwart his efforts to physically distance himself from them. She was certainly clever enough to do it. That would just about be on par with the course his life was taking. Draco had jokingly called him a jammy berk, and he wasn’t wrong. Harry’s luck was completely abysmal.
He wished he could talk with Bill tomorrow, to understand better how to cope with this affliction, to defend against it, since riding it out in seclusion wasn’t going to be an option for him, apparently. But it wasn’t exactly a conversation he could realistically have with Ron’s eldest sibling. He really didn’t know Bill all that well in the first place, and wouldn’t feel comfortable confiding in him. Besides, Harry could hardly confess to him that he was struggling to keep from jumping the bones of his two best friends, or explain their inexplicable desire to jump his, especially not when one of them was a member of Bill’s own family, and worse, that the family member wasn’t Ginny. At least it wasn’t right now. God help him if she showed up here again!
The conversation he imagined in his head was completely absurd. Bill would think he’d gone insane. If he didn’t punch Harry in the mouth or curse him straight away, his advice would probably be a warning to Harry to stop drinking the damn Kool-Aid and to stay the hell away from his baby brother.
Scooting back down on his bed finally, he lay on his back and pulled the pillow from under his head, pressing the cool side over his face as if to smother himself. The idea was tempting, but he was really only trying to smother his over-stimulated senses. At least his nose was stuffed up now from weeping like a child in front of Hermione, so that helped some, he thought miserably. Maybe in the morning, he’d rub some of Madame Pomfrey’s minty smelling salve under his nose and coat the inside of his nostrils with it, too, for good measure. Perhaps that would be overpowering enough to override the scent of the two of them.
Coming up with an effective way to expunge the new images they’d created tonight from his memory before they became more fodder for his fantasies would be significantly harder. He wished Hermione would have hit him with an Obliviate spell before she left, like the one she’d preformed on Draco. Nothing short of that could make him forget how she felt tonight, or mar the image in his brain of the outline of her body framed in the doorway, or rid him of the painful erection he’d had from the moment she stepped into his room.
One of them shifted again. Harry heard the slight creak of the bed, the whisper of hair brushing against a pillow and then a soft sigh. Thinking it must be Hermione, he pictured her bare legs sliding against the sheets, the thin t-shirt she was wearing riding up to her waist as she twisted, searching for a more comfortable position. His cock throbbed at the image.
Oh, God, he was in hell! He let out a muffled growl of frustration into the pillow and pressed it down harder over his ears.
It felt like it had been only a moment since Hermione left him when he was awakened by a burning in his scar. He didn’t realize he’d even fallen asleep, didn’t think he would be able. It hadn’t appeared as though he’d even moved until the quick stab of pain jerked him awake. He was still on his back, the pillow still over his face, but when he reached up to pull it off him, it was clear that morning had come, judging by the light in the room. He didn’t think he’d slept more than a few hours, though, if the soft snoring still coming from the next room was any indication. Feeling certain Ron would’ve been up long before him if that wasn’t the case, since the prat was the only one of them who’d gotten a good night sleep last night.
Dropping the pillow to the floor, he slid his fingers over his forehead, tracing the scar, which had already stopped stinging, going completely benign again, making Harry almost believe he’d imagined it. But he knew he hadn’t.
His scar had started tingling again recently, as if it had been re-awakened from its dormancy when he returned to consciousness after that horrible incident in the bathroom, when his thoughts and memories, his ability to reason, came roaring back on the wave of that debilitating, skull-splitting headache. Bringing with it these unwanted carnal desires and reopening his connection to Tom.
Harry felt like he could tie everything to that one moment. His mental deterioration, the growing fear, the paranoia, his feelings for Ron and Hermione, all of it linked to the breakdown he’d suffered in the shower. He had become convinced that the blackout had fundamentally weakened him somehow, that the lack of oxygen had damaged him mentally, or damaged him more than he already was. Now he believed that it had also caused his Occlumency shields to collapse. Perhaps the timing was just a coincidence, and they’d simply weakened from so long away from the physical torture that taught him finally how to build those walls, how to protect his mind from the trauma. Whatever the cause, it wasn’t his imagination that the pain in his scar had returned.
It was troubling, but he certainly wasn’t fool enough to share with Ron and Hermione his concerns about these changing developments. Holy hell! The amount of monitoring he’d be subjected to if he did. He couldn’t even fathom it.
He wasn’t getting any clear visions from Voldemort yet, so he didn’t know if his defenses were down completely, and without any details, there was nothing to tell anyway. Of course, it was possible that Tom’s emotions simply weren’t strong enough to trigger Harry’s full immersion into his thoughts.
He worried, nonetheless, that the pain might mean that Tom had learned of their interrogation of Draco, and that he’d broken through the memory charm placed on their former classmate. Fearing that Draco was being punished now, tortured or worse for what he’d revealed to them about the location of the Horcrux, left Harry agitated.
Harry knew his fear was irrational, more a reflection of his guilt for putting Draco in so much danger. If Voldemort had learned that they were hunting down and destroying his Horcruxes, Harry felt certain he’d know. Tom would surely be furious. His rage at that knowledge would be strong enough for Harry to feel more than just the slight burning and tingling he was experiencing recently. Without question, the violence of his wrath, if he knew, would swarm Harry’s weakened shields, bursting through the fracturing walls to overrun his mind, to flood him with the same excruciating pain he’d felt during Lucius’ torture and murder.
Draco was a complete prick, had always been one to Harry and his friends, but he still didn’t want that death on his conscience, too, didn’t want to be the cause of it. He was responsible for more than enough already. He was also responsible for Dean and Luna being locked in that hellhole now, and his imagination punished him with images of both them and Draco being tortured because of him.
Rubbing at his eyes, which felt puffy and gritty from lack of sleep and from crying last night, he sat up on his elbows and reached down for the pillow he’d tossed to the floor to return it to the bed. He stopped before his fingers even touched it when he found himself unexpectedly sticky. Squeezing his eyes shut a moment and gritting his teeth, he tossed the blankets off himself and sat up fully.
Christ! In the short time he’d actually slept, his body, his subconscious evidently had continued on where he and Hermione left off when he’d denied himself and the wolf what they wanted and had sent her away.
He hadn’t had a wet dream since…well, for a long while. It appeared that his body was intent on getting the relief it needed with or without his help, the wolf unwilling to settle for the blade, unable to wait until morning to satisfy its hunger. He supposed he should just be grateful that he didn’t remember the dream or nightmare that had caused it. Happy that he wasn’t aware of the path his mind had taken or what his imagination had conjured for him to bring the release his body craved.
Reaching for his glasses, he slid them on while he groped for the wand he’d stolen from Draco, intending to clean himself up, but it wasn’t on the side table. He glanced around, searching for it, thinking perhaps it fell off onto the floor, but it wasn’t anywhere. And he knew without a doubt that Hermione had nicked it on her way out of his room last night, hedging her bets in an effort to hold him to his word.
Son of a bitch! She was an underhanded, sneaky witch! She knew he wouldn’t leave without it and would be reluctant to enter their room to retrieve it if he discovered it missing in the night. Hell, she probably had it booby-trapped, too. Spells set to go off around it if he even laid a hand on it, sirens blaring and stunners flying in all directions. Damn it!
Growling in frustration, he jumped up and yanked angrily at the sheets on his bed to strip it, piling the linens in a ball on the floor before storming down the hall to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, after depositing his bedding in the laundry, he was in the basement kitchen with Dobby, his hair still damp from a quick, flesh-blistering shower, pouring himself a cup of strong coffee and wishing he had firewiskey instead, while the elf prepared breakfast. Still feeling so pissed off, so outraged that she’d stolen Draco’s wand from him, that Dobby tip-toed around him as he scowled into his mug as if it were Hermione’s face instead. Imagining all the things he planned to say to her when he saw her today, if he didn’t just start screaming obscenities the moment he caught sight of her bushy brown hair or got a whiff of that fucking lavender-scented shampoo.
He was brought out of his brooding with the sound and smell of bacon frying, the strips sizzling as Dobby added them one by one to the hot skillet. His stomach growled. Feeling guilty for the distress he was causing Dobby and needing the distraction, Harry went to help him prepare breakfast. He’d certainly had enough experience cooking meals at the Dursley’s, having done so since he was barely big enough to see over the stovetop, that he knew he could be of assistance.
Although Dobby was stunned initially when Harry first stepped into the kitchen, the little elf didn’t insist on doing it himself or try to shoo him away. He allowed Harry to take over the bacon while he made porridge. They worked pretty well as a team, and Dobby relaxed when he realized that Harry actually knew his way around a stove and could be trusted not to make a mess of things.
Soon, Harry felt the bacon in the pan was mirroring his mood or mocking it, and the idea amused him. It crackled merrily when left alone, but hissed furiously when disturbed. It grew hostile at his efforts to cook the fatty strips evenly, as Harry automatically strived for the perfection that had been required to pass his aunt’s inspection.
The black cloud hanging over him was growing considerably lighter as he worked, and he didn’t even get irritated when he got popped on the hand by the scalding grease in retaliation, when the angry bacon needed turning. He simply got his revenge by nibbling on one of their fallen comrades which he’d already defeated, pulled from the battle field and left to cool on a plate. It had been a game played as a lonely child growing up isolated at the Dursley’s in an effort to make his chores somehow fun. The familiarity of finding himself at the stove, and possibly because of his mood when he began, caused him to revert back to that childhood pastime now.
Selecting a perfectly cooked piece of bacon, Harry offered it wordlessly to Dobby, who grinned up at him and plucked it from his fingers while standing on an ancient looking stool so he’d be tall enough to work at the stove. They worked together, side by side in companionable silence, with Dobby occasionally humming happily as he stirred the bubbling porridge.
The elf made it for Harry several times a week now as he’d become a bit of an aficionado after that first bowl, his first solid meal that had tasted so good to his starving taste buds and filled his shrunken stomach with warmth. Maybe it was just the way Dobby prepared it, but it always seemed to taste just as wonderful to him now when he served it. Harry savored every spoonful, each mouthful a gift. His appetite seemed never to be satiated anymore and he ate his meals with the same kind of enthusiasm as Ron these days.
Under Dobby’s care, Harry’s stomach was always full, and he was swiftly regaining the weight he’d lost. His clothes were starting to fit him again instead of looking like his wardrobe had been mistakenly swapped for Dudley’s. Just having regular meals helped. Even before their imprisonment at the Malfoy’s, their meals were often sparse and sometimes nonexistent. They’d all lost weight during these months of endless running. It made him feel like he’d become the fox for Tom’s hunt, going to ground here at Grimmauld place, taking refuge in this familiar den until the Death Eaters caught their scent once more and flushed them out for their master to resume the chase.
But Tom’s hounds hadn’t caught up to him. Not yet, not today, and so this morning he was refueling, taking advantage of the interlude to build on the strength and health Madame Pomfrey and Dobby had helped him to regain while he had the chance, before the race was on again.
He was working steadily through his heaping bowl of porridge and his second cup of coffee. His spoils of war: a plate stacked full of vanquished bacon with buttered toast and jam, sat waiting beside a glass of cold pumpkin juice when he was finally joined at the table by Ron.
Harry knew almost as soon as he’d woken up. Not because his nose was that sensitive, but because he could hear his feet thundering on the stairs from two floors away. Ron came into view a moment later, skidding around the doorway, looking around wildly as if he’d been chased out of his bed by an ax-wielding murderer. He did a double-take at finding Harry sitting there having breakfast, surprised, perhaps, to find him still here at all. Staggering into the room, he let out an exhausted breath, clutched at his chest, and then sagged against the wall in relief.
It hadn’t occurred to Harry what Ron or Hermione would think at finding his room empty, the bed stripped and him nowhere in sight. It didn’t make him feel bad, though. He was still angry with both of them. It was their own guilty consciences that had them so terrified of his escape. They were the ones driving his desire to flee. It served them right to feel terrified for a change, and he was still planning to give Hermione a piece of his mind when she finally made an appearance this morning, but right now, he’d settle for Ron.
He’d only glanced at Ron before returning to his porridge so he was taken off guard when Ron plopped down in the chair across from him and pulled Harry’s plate across the table towards himself without a word. Dropping his spoon, outraged, Harry tried to pull the plate back, but the git had already stolen a piece of his toast.
“Get your own,” he growled.
“You’ve got plenty.”
“And there’s plenty more in the kitchen, so get your own.”
“Fine,” Ron replied, though he didn’t replace the stolen toast or leave to fetch his own breakfast.
He stared at Harry instead, looking put out that he still seemed angry, as if nothing had happened between them yesterday that would warrant Harry’s continued hostility.
“You’re in a foul mood aren’t you? And you look like shite, too. Your eyes are all bloodshot.”
“Well, you should tell your girlfriend to stop wandering into my room at night and into my bed and maybe I’d get a good night’s sleep then. I expect we’re both pretty tired this morning.”
“What?” Ron choked. Half strangling on the bit of toast he’d just bitten off, his eyes went round with shock, looking totally stunned at Harry’s pronouncement.
Scooting his chair back from the table, Harry made to leave after lobbing that grenade, even though he’d not finished his breakfast, but Ron slapped a hand over his, grasping Harry by the wrist to prevent his escape. It sent a thrill of fear and anticipation through him, the touch radiating all the way up his arm. He was playing with fire here, feeling reckless.
Maybe it was ill advised to imply to your best mate that you’d shagged his girlfriend last night, suicidal even, but he was still angry at them both for yesterday, still afraid for how much stronger his attraction was going to be today, so he’d led with a preemptive strike. If it resulted in a bloody beat down from Ron, he could live with that. He might actually even be courting it, if he were being honest.
“Wait a minute. What do you mean?” Ron spluttered, still reeling from Harry’s words.
“Jealous?” Harry asked snidely struggling to pull his wrist free, though Ron held on to him easily, in part because he was trying to pry Ron’s fingers loose with his bad hand, which was still much weaker that the other.
“I knew you would be. I thought that was what you wanted, but you see it now, don’t you? You understand why this idea the two of you have can never work. There would always be too much jealousy. We’ll start to fear and mistrust each other, one of us always feeling like a gooseberry in the relationship, turning us against one other.”
“What the? No…Just hold up, damn it. Where the hell is this coming from?” Ron growled gripping him harder.
“Don’t act like you’re fine with it.” Harry pressed on, ignoring that he was losing feeling in his hand, not giving Ron a chance to catch up, to make sense of the flurry of words and accusations Harry was battering him with. “I was there too, remember? I saw what that bit of Riddle in Slytherin’s locket showed you before you finally stabbed it. I saw your fear of that coming true.”
“All right. That’s it! You’re just trying to provoke me.” Ron shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Harry with the hand still clutching his stolen toast, not releasing the other from around Harry’s wrist. He spoke loudly to finally interrupt Harry’s tirade.
“You slung that comment out there to get back at me for being such an arse to you yesterday. You’re trying to get a reaction out of me, and then use it against me as evidence, or something, for whatever you’re accusing me of,” Ron argued. “I’ll admit that I didn’t know about last night, but if Hermione was in your room, it was in an attempt to do what I failed to do in the foyer. To make you stay, to make you see reason.”
He released Harry’s wrist finally, and Harry massaged the feeling back into it while glaring at Ron, who continued more quietly once he was sure Harry wasn’t going to attempt to leave again.
“I won’t lie. I would’ve preferred to have been there, too. Of course I don’t want to be left out, but I trust you, Harry, and I trust her.”
Harry scoffed, and Ron leaned back in his chair then, taking another bite of Harry’s toast, studying him before speaking again.
“I’m not the same person I was when I destroyed that locket, Harry. Things are different now. We’re not the same as we were before, none of us. Malfoy got that part right. We didn’t come out of that dungeon the same as we went in.”
“Right. And you want me to believe that you came out not as the jealous, insecure Ron that went in, but a Ron who’s so self-assured, so confident now, that he’s just fine with finding out the girl he loves was in someone else’s bed last night?”
“Listen, I don’t know what happened last night, but I’m all for what went on between you two if it led to you to still be sitting here this morning. Honestly. If it means you’re not leaving, I’ll throw a damn party in celebration. The only thing I’m pissed about is that she didn’t at least wake me up to invite me along. I should go up and thank her, ask her to teach me the techniques she used to persuade you, or beg her to demonstrate them for me. She’s shown me a few already, but I’m guessing I was a lot less difficult to convince. Hell, I’m way too easy. It would’ve been nice to have seen her have to work at it a bit.”
Well shit! That backfired. It was Harry’s turn now to look stunned as he gaped at Ron. That wasn’t the reaction he was expecting from him at all, and he didn’t know what to say now, how to counter that. He was hoping for a fight, planning to work Ron into a jealous rage, but all he’d done was let Ron fill his mind with titillating images of what he thought they’d done together last night and of what Ron and Hermione got up to in the dark. He’d let the momentum swing to Ron’s favor, the wind no longer at his back, the element of surprise gone. Ron had him rocked back on his heels now with his unexpected counterattack.
“Her technique was to assault me, force me to make promises to her that I wouldn’t leave just to get her out of my room, and then steal my wand to make sure I stayed,” Harry admitted grudgingly, dropping the ruse finally that they’d had some sort of tryst on his bed, and then, hoping to at least leave Ron off balance, he added, “There was a fair bit of crying and freaking out, as well, mostly on my part.”
Ron’s eyebrows shot up at Harry’s unexpected candor.
“Damn…Well, that’s a bit less exciting than I’d imagined, but it was still effective I guess.”
He snorted in amusement, but Harry wasn’t finding much of this funny. He didn’t like feeling like his back was against the ropes in this fight. He hadn’t landed a single solid blow to Ron. He was as completely ineffective as he’d been against him yesterday in the foyer.
At least he still had the ability to speak right now. Ron wasn’t pressing him against the wall, leaning into him so their chests were almost touching or blowing angry puffs of hot breath in his ear and on his neck. The hairs on his arms stood up now at the memory.
“No wonder you’re so pissy. Maybe I should be glad I didn’t watch. If it makes you feel any better, though, I cried and freaked out some, too, the first time she persuaded me.”
“Shut up! Tonight, I’m just going to murder you both in your sleep and be done with it,” Harry warned.
Yeah, that was a real knockout punch right there, he thought ruefully. God, he was pathetic. He couldn’t even spar verbally with Ron today. Now he was picturing their first time together, and even though he was trying to imagine Ron sobbing through it, it was still making him horny as hell. If he was losing to Ron this badly, Hermione was going to wipe the floor with him when he finally confronted her later.
“Bring it, bad boy,” Ron replied with a waggle of his eyebrows and another smirk. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“You suck!”
Completely giving up, apparently, Harry slouched down in his chair, crossing his arms like a petulant child.
“Like I care.”
What Harry needed, he decided, glowering at Ron, was a fucking nap, preferably for a couple of days locked in a sensory deprivation tank. Remus said his reasoning would be dulled near the full moon, but this was more like nonexistent. Surely lack of sleep was playing a part in this humiliating defeat.
Ron took another bite of toast, still smirking at him. Harry had never really noticed before, the fullness of Ron’s lips as he watched him chewing, finishing off the toast and then licking his sticky fingers while Harry continued to glower at him.
He wondered if Ron’s tongue would taste like jam now, the idea making his pulse react which made him even more irritable at the stupid prat sitting across from him, still in his pajama bottoms, shirtless, with his hair mussed from sleep. It was a dirty, underhanded tactic, hardly a fair fight in the first place. How was he supposed to have it out with him when Ron was half dressed and blatantly flirting with him?
Reaching across the table then, Ron stole Harry’s untouched pumpkin juice and took a long swallow to wash down the toast before Harry could even react at having more of his breakfast pilfered. He set the glass down, and a bead of sweat slid down the side onto the table to form a ring at the base. A third of the juice he’d been looking forward to was now gone. Ron was running his thumb around the rim when Harry, scowling, sat up suddenly, and reached out a hand.
Utterly annoyed now, he quirked two fingers in a summoning motion, and the glass, slick with condensation, slid swiftly out of Ron’s grip, back across the table and into Harry’s hand. Both of them stared at it in surprise.
“Wicked! Do that again,” Ron exclaimed in childlike wonder, his face splitting into a wide grin.
Harry hadn’t found it at all fascinating, however, more like frightening, and his mouth hung open in shock.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he said, astounded. “It was an accident.”
“Here, have another go, Harry,” Ron urged enthusiastically, dragging the glass back across the table for a second attempt, but Harry didn’t want to try again.
“No, I don’t know how,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to.”
He felt weird, frightened at the wandless magic, unnerved at how easily it had come out of him. He hadn’t had to try, to even think about what he was doing. He’d just summoned it in frustration, the magic coming from him without him being furious or terrified as it had all the times before. But he was only mildly irritated at Ron. It shouldn’t have been enough to trigger any accidental magic.
What did it mean if his magic was coming out of him like that? What did it say about his mental state? How much of a danger was he truly becoming?
“Why not?” Ron asked, sounding disappointed that Harry didn’t want to perform the trick again.
“Because, you idiot, what if I shoot fucking flames out next? Are you really stupid enough to sit across from me, directly in the line of fire and ask me to try again? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Ron sobered up quickly, his enthusiasm sliding off his face, looking shocked at Harry’s outrage, or his own ignorance.
“Yeah, all right. I hadn’t thought of that. It just seemed harmless. I wasn’t thinking. Sorry,” he apologized.
Harry reached across the table for the glass again with shaking hands and drained it quickly, gulping it down before replacing it on the table and then dropping back into his chair while Ron watched him.
God, he was deteriorating so quickly that soon they wouldn’t be able to take him out in public at all without drugging him and turning him into a drooling mess, fearing that he’d become hysterical and make a scene if they didn’t, afraid of his magic shooting out of him uncontrollably. Was that what he was becoming? Was that his future? Sighing heavily, he squeezed his eyes closed, pushed his glasses up, and rubbed the bridge of his nose and then his tired eyes.
“Are you okay?”
Harry looked up at him, letting his glasses fall back onto his nose.
“I’m just corking, Ron. Thanks for asking.”
“I’m sorry, all right? I just thought it was a neat bit of magic. It could come in useful you know? I think you should try and practice with it.”
“No.”
“Fine… damn, you’re an arse today.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Actually, yeah,” Ron replied, looking startled, as if he’d totally forgotten the reconnaissance mission to Gringotts he’d volunteered for this morning. “I need to jump in the shower, or I’ll be late.”
He slid his hand slowly across the table towards Harry’s plate again as he stood, and he swiped a piece of bacon while Harry scowled at him.
“What? I’m running late. The cloak won’t do me much good if my stomach is growling so bad they can hear me coming.”
“You’ve had plenty of time to eat,” he argued.
Ron merely shrugged, cramming the whole piece of bacon in his mouth as he walked away. Pausing at the door, he swallowed and turned back to Harry, looking suddenly serious as he braced his hand against the doorjamb.
“Listen, Harry. I really am sorry about how I acted yesterday. I know I handled it all wrong, but I was scared. It won’t happen again, okay? I promise.”
That was both of them making promises now that they wouldn’t or couldn’t keep, Harry thought, watching Ron standing in the doorway like Hermione had been last night. He stared at the cinnamon colored freckles, which started at Ron’s shoulders and multiplied on their way down his arms, as if he’d been standing too near Seamus when some baking experiment he was conducting went invariably awry, pelting him with the spice when the whole thing blew up in Seamus’ face. Harry imagined them as the source of Ron’s inexplicable scent, as if the aroma emanated from those tiny spots of pigment dotting his body.
Harry had seen Ron wearing less, much less, hundreds of times before and not given it a second thought. Watching the outline of Ron’s ribs appear and disappear against his pale skin with each intake of breath, Harry’s wished he could be as unaffected by the sight of him now.
“Please don’t take Malfoy’s bait. Don’t go after Luna and Dean, Harry, please.”
Harry blinked, his eyes jumping back to Ron’s face from where they had been charting the path of the slight curve of his spine to the elastic waistband of his pajama bottoms. But he just stared mutely at Ron, unable to reassure him and unwilling to lie.
“Talk to me about this,” Ron pleaded, gripping the doorframe when Harry remained silent.
“I can’t leave them there to rot, Ron,” he finally admitted. “I can’t leave them there with her.”
“We can’t save everyone, mate. I hate that they’re in that fucking place, too, but there’s nothing we can do.”
“Is that what you think the Order said about us? Is that the vote you would have cast if it was you or Hermione or me they were deciding was worth saving or not? Have you forgotten what it felt like in there, how desolate we felt when our hope of rescue faded? When we thought we’d been abandoned, left to die?” he asked. “I’m not leaving them to that, Ron. I can’t.”
Ron turned fully to face him. Looking pale, he leaned against the wall, blowing out a breath as if Harry had knocked the wind out of him.
“No. There’s no way I’d leave either of you there. Never. But we have a job to do that can end this thing once and for all,” Ron argued. “I understand how you feel, but going after Dean and Luna won’t get us closer to that Horcrux, closer to finishing this so that we can all be free. It’s exactly what she wants you to do. It’s a trap you’re planning on just walking right into. You have to know that.”
“I do, but it doesn’t matter.”
“You can’t even say her name. How do you think you’re going to be able to face her?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.
“Harry, look, if we can’t talk you out of it, at least let us come with you. Don’t go by yourself.”
“You don’t understand, okay? This isn’t a committee decision. I have to go alone. I can’t take you two. I’m not leading you back there. I don’t think I can bear us all being in that place again.”
“We’ll follow. You know we will,” Ron said defiantly. “Hermione and I will walk straight up to the gates of Malfoy Manor with bells on, offering ourselves up to that bitch and her master like lambs for the slaughter.”
“God damn it! Don’t do that. You’re blackmailing me!”
“Hell yes I am! And I don’t feel the least bit guilty about it, either. You need to understand what we’re willing to risk to stop you. If you go, you’re forcing my hand, taking my choice, too, and it’ll get us all killed.”
“Fuck!”
He glared at Ron, curling his hands into fists to stop them shaking at the image of Ron and Hermione back in Bellatrix’s clutches, chained to the wall again awaiting their execution. Oh, God! And Ron would do it, Hermione, too. Harry knew it. The threat was real. Ron meant every word he’d said.
“Are you going to be here when I get back?” Ron asked, his forehead creased with worry.
“Yes,” Harry growled reluctantly. “But you’re a complete bastard.”
“I know,” Ron agreed, grinning at Harry in a relieved sort of way. “You are, too, but I’m stuck to you like glue now, and no one is going to pry me off. Even you can’t shake me loose, tosspot, so get used to it.”
Christ, he was a prick.
“I really hate you today,” he muttered.
“And I’m just heartbroken about that, I can tell you. I’ll just have to get over it, I guess. Maybe Hermione will comfort me.”
Ron stared at him a second longer and then winked. Turning again, he stepped into the hallway and out of sight. He was definitely running late to make it to the bank now when it opened.
“Your method of persuasion is even shittier than Hermione’s,” Harry growled at Ron’s retreating footsteps.
“Hmm, that’s not the way I’m remembering it from the other morning on Sirius’ bed,” Ron shouted back down the hallway. “I can be very persuasive if you’ll give me the chance.”
He heard Ron bounding back up the stairs, and Harry dropped his head onto the table.
He needed to lock himself in the bathroom once Ron left for the bank, before he had to face Hermione or they went to Bill’s. He needed some relief before facing anymore of what this day had in store for him.

~ . ~

It's been a very long time. I know. I will try to do better :)
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What it comes down to

Chapter 28. The Wolf at the Door