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What it comes down to	By : melinda1293 Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 115219 -:- 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
- 29
- 30
- 31
Chapter 30. Trust

Ron rolled over, curling around Hermione, and she nestled her warm body into him. The day’s journeys still clung to her skin. She smelled like the library and the ocean air, a strange but pleasant mixture of the indoors and out when he took a deep breath.
Sighing, he rubbed himself against her as his desire was awakened, though it was very late, and they were both almost asleep. Maybe they already were, and he was just dreaming of her. He couldn’t be sure, and it made no difference, really. He was content as long as she was next to him, either way.
They’d stayed late at Bill and Fleur’s, none of them really eager to return to Grimmauld Place. Even Harry appeared reluctant to call an end to it and come back here to begin contemplating their next move, though he’d seemed melancholy since his nap and had clearly been struggling to hide a headache he’d been fighting all day or, more likely, a vision from You Know Who during dinner.
Going out of her way for their visit, Fleur had prepared a delicious dessert that she called Tarte Tatin, which was like an upside down apple tart, and she served it with cinnamon ice cream, to his delight. They savored it, and afterwards, settled back into more casual conversation again.
Ron thought Harry might cut the visit short once they had the information about Gringotts they needed from Bill, but instead they’d spent the rest of the evening just sipping tea, enjoying the rare company and new surroundings until late.
Bill, too, had appeared unwilling to let them go, knowing the danger they were getting into with the information they’d coerced out of him. Ron thought for a moment he would refuse to let them leave, simply insisting they stay with him, but in the end he let the three of them walk out his front door into the night, though not without begging them one last time to reconsider their plans.
Ron had done his best to reassure his brother, to tell him they’d be fine, that they’d be careful, but it seemed little comfort for his oldest sibling. Fleur wept openly as they said their goodbyes, and Bill hugged each of them fiercely in turn before they left. Ron could see that the knowledge of what they were planning, of being an accomplice to it, was weighing heavily on him. It made Ron feel guilty. He wished he hadn’t had to involve Bill in their plans at all, but they’d had no choice.
Afraid that Bill might have unburdened his conscience and informed the rest of the Order immediately of their plans, Ron half expected to find them all sitting in the drawing room when they arrived. He imagined his parents and Lupin lying in wait, wands drawn, ready to ambush them and forbid them from going to the bank. But there was only Dobby greeting them on their return with yet more tea, his face anxious with worry at their late arrival.
They headed up to bed almost immediately after draining their cups; not wanting to be rude to the elf, but not really wishing to engage in anymore small talk or start mulling over what they’d learned either. It had been a very long day, and Ron was eager for it to end. Well, he had been, at least. Now he thought maybe to stay awake just a little while longer.
He slipped his hand up Hermione’s shirt to fondle her breast, and she whispered his name sleepily, turning her head to capture his lips in a soft, lazy snog, inviting his advances. Dragging up her shirt, his thumb glided along the valley of her spine, feeling her soft, warm skin. As his hand travelled up her side, she placed hers between their bodies to rub him through his boxers, her tongue flicking against his lips.
Abandoning any pretense, he pulled off her knickers, and ran his hand along the curve of her hip into the dip at her waist and over her ribs. Then, without a word between them, he rolled her fully onto her stomach so that he was lying on top of her. Brushing her hair to the side, Ron kissed the back of her neck, along the hairline where tiny baby hairs curled against the nape, under the strawberry mark at the base of her head, which he couldn’t see in the dark, but knew was there, having discovered it previously.
He reveled in this knowledge of her, delighting in each new discovery of her hidden secrets, like the birthmark concealed in her hair and the two tiny freckles on her left hipbone. His own freckles were so numerous that you could hardly single one out for inspection, but those two tiny dots against the sea of her smooth, creamy skin fascinated him.
Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply the faint flowery scent of her hair, and then ran his tongue along the knot of her spine at her neck. Moaning, Hermione pushed the pillows up to lay her palms flat against the headboard and pressed her forehead against the mattress in response, shifting restlessly underneath him and against him in invitation.
Hermione was ready for him, and without hesitation, anxious to feel her moist heat around him, he pushed her leg up as she arched her back for him so that he could penetrate her more easily.
He entered her slowly, and she sighed, letting out the breath as he filled her. Pausing as she adjusted around him, he kissed her once behind the ear and braced his hands beside her. Then, resting his head between her shoulder blades, he surged forward, forcing the air out of her with a gasp, while a moan escaped the seal of his own lips.
Gathering handfuls of the sheets in his fists, he worked himself within her quietly; both of them grunting softly at the exquisite feel of their bodies moving together. Their effort to remain silent was like an unspoken agreement between them with Harry just across the hall, but the faint rhythmic creaking of the bed betrayed them.
When the noise started to make him feel nervous, Ron rolled them back onto their sides so that he was spooned behind her again. He was afraid of disturbing Harry’s sleep, and yet wanted to move faster, harder.
“Open yourself for me, Hermione,” he whispered into her ear, running a hand down her belly. “Let me touch you.”
She did, whimpering in anticipation as she lifted her leg and placed her foot behind his thigh, arching her back once more to hold him deeply inside her. Then bracing a hand against the headboard again, she placed the other on the back of his neck, sliding it up into his hair as his fingers found their way to her folds, feeling where they were joined together. He stroked her slowly with just his hand, building her pleasure before starting to move again.
The new position did little to stifle the bed noise, but Ron was beyond caring anymore. He’d tried, and there was little more he was willing to sacrifice to satisfy his conscience when it came to Harry and what they were doing. If they woke him, he would just have to understand.
Using his arm to help pin her leg back, he worked to bring them to completion. Hermione buried her face in the pillow, and Ron held his breath when the feeling grew too intense. Then her body was contracting around him. Holding her tightly to him, his hips collided against her with more force until he was emptying himself inside her, unable to hold back the moan of pleasure at his own release.
Murmuring words of his devotion against her flushed skin as his heart thumped excitedly in his chest, Ron planted soft kisses on her shoulder and along her neck while their bodies calmed down, and their breathing slowed. Then she relaxed her leg, and he slid out of her, nipping at her with his teeth before laying beside her again and pulling her back against him.
“Goodnight, Ron,” she whispered, stroking the back of his thigh as he nuzzled into her neck. “I love you.”
He kissed her again, mumbling his reply into her hair, and her body went limp against him. Then, feeling drowsy once more, his lids and limbs heavy, his body humming in post coital bliss, he closed his eyes, finally ready to end this day.
For a while he floated in delightful nothingness, his brain full of pleasant emptiness, before little thoughts started to flutter up, popping into his head like tiny lights coming on in the darkness. Like annoying fireflies, he tried to bat them away, only to have them wink on again in another corner of his mind.
His body was ready for sleep, but his brain wasn’t, apparently. Perhaps it was too much caffeine from all the tea, but he couldn’t seem to stop it lingering on their day, on Harry and Hermione, on Bill and Fleur, on Gringotts and Horcruxes.
He thought of how Hermione had reacted to Fleur tonight, more warmly than Ron had ever seen her. She’d been happy to linger at Shell Cottage and chat with a woman she had previously openly disliked, perhaps because Ron wasn’t slack jawed every time Fleur glanced in his direction anymore. Hermione now knew that she was the only woman who could take his breath away, the only woman in his heart, and her own seemed to have thawed towards Fleur with that knowledge.
Fleur was still stunningly beautiful, but his sister-in-law no longer held any appeal for him. However, her sheen hadn’t simply dulled from living in such close quarters with her and Bill over Christmas, de-sensitizing him to her brilliance. For him, it had dulled from living in such close quarters to Harry and Hermione in the tent. His desire to return to them had outshone everything and everyone else.
He knew, of course, that he was in love with Hermione, though he hadn’t admitted it to anyone at the time, but he should have known that his feelings for Harry had deepened into something more than mere friendship, too, because he didn’t just ache to have Hermione with him then. He ached for them both.
Thinking about Hermione made him think about Harry. Ron could hardly separate the two of them in his mind. To think of her was to think of him. Hermione was the love of his life. She was everything he wasn’t, so brilliant and beautiful, and he’d never been happier, despite their current circumstances. But Harry was responsible for bringing them together. The likelihood that he and Hermione would have found each other at all without Harry as the catalyst was remote at best.   Hell, the two of them weren’t even friends. In fact, they were quite hostile to each other before Harry insisted they find her at Halloween, saving her from the troll Quirrell had let into the castle and forging their friendship.
They were two very different people who would have followed two very different paths if they both hadn’t happened to stumble onto Harry’s. And for that gift alone, Ron would fight a hundred trolls, slay a thousand Death Eaters and face another army of Acromantulas to keep him safe.
Fuck, those things scared the hell out of him! Why did he have to think of them? His muscles were too relaxed to shiver with revulsion at the idea of facing any more of those giant, hairy spiders, but they were absolutely terrifying. He still owed Hagrid a sharp kick in the arse, if he could reach it, for sending him and Harry into the forest that night as dinner for his murderous pets.
But they weren’t facing hungry arachnids this time, not ever again if he could help it, he reminded himself. If they were, he might find himself paralyzed with fear, and Harry would have to be the one saving him, again.
What they were going to have to face, and soon, was Gringotts. A formidable fortress guarded by clever and bloodthirsty goblins. Those creatures were the threat to Harry that Ron had to protect him from currently, and he wasn’t looking forward to it with any enthusiasm.
As much as he didn’t want to tonight, he mulled over Bill’s warnings to them about the nature of goblins and the defenses they’d set up to protect the treasures of Gringotts. Still, they couldn’t be as bad as those spiders, he decided, taking shelter in that thought. And they weren’t Second Years with about five defensive spells between them this time, either. Plus, they had Hermione, which surely evened out the odds considerably. But they were going to have a job on their hands for sure, getting to that Horcrux. Ron wasn’t kidding himself about that.
What horrors would this one unleash on them when they attempted to destroy the foul bit of soul inside it? The first one possessed Ginny, manipulated her into opening the chamber, set a Basilisk on Harry, and nearly killed them both. The second took Dumbledore’s hand and almost his life, if Snape was to be believed. And the locket…the locket had tried to use Ron’s own self-doubt to infect his mind with jealousy and poison it with suspicion. It strived to destroy their friendship and shatter his trust and loyalty to Harry. Then it attempted to incite Ron to attack Harry with the sword and spare itself, after it had failed to strangle him.
What would the next one do? But more importantly, what was it? What treasured artifact had Bellatrix been entrusted to protect for her master? Ron felt like they’d been speculating on the identity of the rest of the Horcruxes for an eternity.
Was it the badger, the raven, or the lion? Perhaps it was something completely different, or another Slytherin heirloom from the Dark Lord’s own lineage she had hidden for him in the bowels of Gringotts. And what would they be facing if they actually managed to gain access to the Lestrange’s vault to find it?
Breathing out when Hermione breathed in, his mind wandered aimlessly then through a menagerie of bizarre, imagined creatures and remembered adventures, all his thoughts swirling together as he finally neared sleep.
They walked through marble corridors, patterned in black and white like a chessboard and illuminated by huge crystal chandeliers. Past mean looking goblins, all bearing their pointed teeth at the three of them and Fang as they followed the spiders over logs and along dark dirt pathways by lamplight, into the spider’s den, which was filled with treasure. The entrance was guarded by two trolls holding secrecy sensors, and Ron imagined he heard the chittering sounds of thousands of restless spiders coming from within its black depths.
Entering the vault itself, they found it was filled with hundreds of identical golden cups, so that it was impossible to tell one from another. The whole mass shifted horribly under their wand light, growing and swelling as if it were somehow alive and breathing when they drew near. Circling silver ravens with glowing red eyes cawed angrily overhead, ready to attack. And then a massive three-headed lion stepped forward and crouched low, protecting its owner’s secret possessions as it bared its huge fangs and prepared to pounce.
He didn’t know how long he lay like that, hovering in that trance-like state between awareness and sleep, falling into dreams while still awake, before he registered that he was hearing something more than just their steady heartbeats and breathing.
Reluctant to process the information his brain was receiving, incorporating the fearful sounds into his own subconscious, it took him a while longer to comprehend that it was actually Harry he was hearing, and not Fang’s low whine, or his own panicked whimpering.
Hermione’s hand twitched against his thigh, and Ron opened his eyes, trying to better focus on the sounds coming from the next room.
Harry was having a nightmare or a vision of his own, he suddenly realized, understanding finally penetrating the thick fog in his brain. Ron had heard enough of them in his lifetime to recognize the sounds.
Lying still, he listened to Harry’s faint whimpering and moans. The sound of his body tossing on the bed, and his legs and arms thrashing had Ron fighting the urge to go to him. He knew better than to wake Harry, but he still wanted to check on him, to make sure he was all right. Harry had made it clear that their concern wasn’t welcome, however, that he didn’t want them hovering over him. Finding one of them in his room in the dead of night for the second night in a row would likely send Harry over the edge. So Ron continued to lay there curled next to Hermione, waiting, now fully awake again in the darkness.
After a few more moments, Harry cried out and then went still. Hermione mumbled in her sleep and rolled away from him as Ron lifted his head, straining his ears to listen.
The bed creaked when Harry sat up and blew out a deep, shaky breath. Then all was silent. Ron knew Harry was awake now, but he stayed in his own bed, trying to let Harry deal with his demons.
He’s not a child, he kept reminding himself, fighting against his instincts.
The bedsprings creaked again as Harry got up. Ron quickly lay back against the pillows, feinting sleep as he heard him pass, not wanting Harry to know he was awake and aware of his troubled sleep or embarrassed that he might have disturbed theirs. After a moment, he heard the click of the bathroom door.
Waiting, staring up at the ceiling, Ron listened for the sound of the door, for Harry’s footfalls on the carpeted hallway, for the swishing of his cotton pajamas bottoms brushing together with each step signaling his return.
Minutes clicked by, but he couldn’t close his eyes and sleep until he knew Harry had gone back to bed. Then more long minutes of only Hermione’s steady breathing and his own growing unease. He rolled onto his side finally, when he couldn’t convince himself he was being irrational, watching for Harry to pass by the door, but he didn’t return to his room.
Sliding out from under the blankets when the worry grew too great, he pulled on his own pajama bottoms and padded silently to the door.
Harry should have been back by now if he just needed a piss after all that tea, or to wash his face and collect himself from the horrors his subconscious had unleashed on him. It’d been too long. Maybe he was getting sick in the toilet. Maybe he’d had another vision and needed help.
Ron peered down the hallway. There was light coming from under the bathroom door. He stood there uncertainly for a moment, trying to talk himself back into bed, but he took a step into the hall, instead. Then he was standing outside the bathroom door. He could hear the trickle of water running. It wasn’t the shower this time, but his fear was still growing. Ron knew he was overreacting, but he was reminded of the last time he was standing on this side of the door with Harry in trouble on the other.
Picturing Harry vacant-eyed and slack-faced on the floor again, Ron reached for the handle, and then heard Harry turn off the taps. Pulling back with a thrill of fear at being caught, Ron stepped quickly back from the door as if to flee back to his room. Instead, he got control of himself and leaned back against the wall, affecting as calm an appearance as he could muster.
He was just going to see for himself if Harry was all right, there was no harm in that, right? Surely Harry wouldn’t fault him for simply showing concern.
Ron had a few more moments in the hall to prepare himself for whatever Harry’s reaction would be at finding him there before the handle slowly turned.
Harry looked at first startled, letting out a little yip of surprise at finding Ron on the other side of the door. Ron expected that, but then it turned almost instantly to fear. It was the same fear that would have shone on his own face at almost getting caught trying to burst in on Harry.
Hurriedly hugging his arms, Harry folded them over his bare chest protectively, mirroring Ron’s own would-be-casual pose. But Harry was even worse at pretending than Ron. His grip was too tight, his posture too stiff, his eyes glancing anywhere but into Ron’s.
Harry looked nervous or upset, Ron thought, as he carefully looked him over, possibly from the nightmare or from finding himself face to face with Ron in the hallway, half dressed in the dead of night. And he did look ill, too. His face was flushed, his skin clammy.
“Are you all right?” Ron asked.
Harry nodded.
“Yeah, it’s nothing,” he said dismissively. “Just a bad dream.”
Ron’s eyes narrowed, still studying Harry intently, his concern growing. He said he was fine, but his body said otherwise, his eyes still searching for an avenue of escape.
“Sorry I woke you,” Harry mumbled.
He spoke without meeting Ron’s gaze, his voice unsteady, and then he turned. As he made to walk away, Ron’s hand shot out, closing around Harry’s forearm.
“Wait a min—”
Panicked, Harry tried to jerk away from him, but Ron held firm. His eyes were transfixed on the arm he had in his grip now, staring at the fresh tear in the skin on the inside of the elbow, which was leaking blood. Ron was momentarily frozen, dumbfounded at the sight, yet instantly aware of what caused it.
He’d done this to himself, Ron realized with certainty, Harry’s fear at meeting Ron now explained. Not expecting an audience in the hallway, Harry had been careless and hadn’t sealed it properly, or it simply pulled back open again when Ron grabbed him.
The blood trickled down Harry’s arm as Ron’s eyes slowly travelled back up to his face, which had gone pale, draining of color. He shook slightly when they met, his desperate eyes staring back into Ron’s own. Harry’s mouth worked to form words, perhaps to try and explain away again the cuts as simple scratches, but nothing came out.
“What have you done?” Ron whispered, breathless with horror at what he was seeing. “Oh, God, Harry! What have you done to yourself?”
Jerking Harry forward, Ron grasped him by the upper arms.
“No… let me go.” Harry begged, his eyes huge, wide with fear.
“You asked me to trust you, and this is what you do?” Ron hissed. “How long has this been going on?”
Ron’s terror had turned to outrage that Harry was doing this behind their backs, that he was harming himself without them knowing. He gripped Harry harder, his fingers digging into the skin of Harry’s upper arms as he searched his face.
Planting his hands on Ron’s chest, Harry tried to push away from him, desperate to break free, but he couldn’t pull out of Ron’s grip.
Ron shook him when he didn’t respond.
“Damn it! How long? How many times?”
“Just a couple of days. Maybe three or four times,” Harry admitted in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t really know, Ron. Not that many.”
“Not that many?” Ron spluttered, struggling to keep his own voice down in his fury. “Why, Harry? Why would you do this?”
Harry remained silent, and Ron glared at him, at a complete loss. He was so angry he was squeezing Harry hard enough to leave bruises on his arms. Devastated by the betrayal, Ron wanted to shake him and keep shaking him. Instead, he pulled Harry back into the bathroom and pushed the door closed with his foot before finally shoving Harry down onto the toilet seat and releasing him.
Dropping back against the door so Harry couldn’t flee, Ron sank to the floor, his hands in his hair. He felt sick now, too, his whole body shaking as he tried to pull himself together while Harry sat like a stone, just staring at him, watching him fall apart.
“Christ, Harry…what do I do? What am I supposed to do?”he asked helplessly, blinking the sudden wetness from his eyes.
“This isn’t about you, Ron. I didn’t ask for your help, okay? You don’t have to do anything. Just be my friend and walk away.”
“Be your…?” Spluttering again with indignation, Ron glared angrily at Harry. “I can’t walk away. If you think I can just let you do this to yourself, you’re barking mad. A friend wouldn’t turn their back on this, Harry. That’s the most asinine—”
“I need to, Ron. I know you don’t understand, but I need to do it,” Harry explained quietly. “It’s just for a little while longer, just until the moon wanes. Then I’ll stop. I swear it.”
“Why do you need to hurt yourself? Why? You’re right. I don’t understand this at all.”
“I’m not trying to hurt myself, honestly. See?” Harry protested, holding his arm out to Ron. “See, it’s not bad. I just need to let it out. It… it feels good. I feel better after. It calms me down.”
Blood still trailed down Harry’s arm, and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through Ron. The deep red looked so terribly stark against his pale skin as it made its way to his wrist, where he’d lost so much blood already, as if reminding Ron of how much damage Harry was capable of inflicting on himself.
“Give me the knife,” he demanded angrily, holding out his hand. “Where did you get it? Where is it? Did you conjur it? Wandlessly? You did, didn’t you?”
Harry shook his head in denial.
“I can’t remove all the sharp objects from the house if you can just create another one whenever you feel the need to butcher yourself, now, can I?”
“I’m not…it’s not like that. I knew you wouldn’t understand. That’s why I kept it a secret.”
“Explain it to me, then. Make me understand. Give me the knife so I can see for myself. It feels good, does it? Let’s find out.”
“No!”
Harry slapped a hand over the cabinet door below the sink, holding it closed.
“No?” Ron asked, staring at the cabinet now where Harry had obviously hidden the knife. “It’s okay for you, but not for me?”
“Ron, please,” he pleaded. “Just leave me alone. This isn’t your problem. I’m dealing with this shit my own way, and if this is how I choose to handle it, it’s not for you to stop me.”
“You must be joking. You think you’re handling it?” Ron shook his head, snorting incredulously. “And would you just sit back like a good friend and do nothing if this was the way Hermione decided to handle what happened to her?”
Harry flinched, and then closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.
“Shall I recommend it, then? Tell her how good it feels?” he asked snidely.
“No,” Harry replied softly, shaking his head.
“You kept it a secret because you know it’s wrong. You kept it a secret so you could keep doing it, and because if we knew, we’d go mental and put a stop to it, and you don’t want that, do you?” he asked. “This is so wrong, Harry. It’s fucked up, and you know it!”
Harry said nothing, staring at his hands so he wouldn’t have to look at Ron, which made Ron want to grab him and start shaking him again.
“Hermione’s right, Harry. You need help. You’re in trouble even if you don’t think so or can’t see it in yourself. And maybe we’ve fucked up so badly with you already that we aren’t the ones to do it, but I don’t know who else to ask. Lupin?   Mum? What about Ginny? She seems to be able to sort you out when you need it?”
“Ron, no!” Harry looked up at him then, horrified at the thought. “I don’t want that. I don’t want them here. Please, just let me be, damn it!”
“I can’t do that. I won’t let you destroy yourself like this, Harry. I can’t watch while you finish what the Death Eaters started.”
The tears were back again, and Ron wiped at them furiously before pointing at Harry accusingly.
“You said you didn’t need protection. You said to trust you!” he spat. “Swear to stop, or I’ll tell Hermione and Madame Pomfrey what you’re doing. You come to me first before resorting to this, or I’ll do worse. I’ll tell Mum and Lupin and Ginny. I’ll bring the whole damn Weasley clan and every member of the Order down on you, and we’ll watch you round the clock to stop this, if that’s what it takes.”
Harry’s mouth fell open at the threat of Ron’s words. That seemed to have hit him where it hurt, and he looked mortified at the prospect.
“No. Please, Ron. Don’t do that to me. I’m sorry, okay?   I won’t do it again. Don’t tell them about this. Please,” he pleaded, his voice shaking with fear.
But he was lying, Ron knew it. He’d say anything right now to get out of this, and it made Ron want to howl in frustration and bang his own head against the wall.
“Damn it to Hell!” Ron growled.
Crawling over to Harry, he pulled open the cabinet door. While Harry watched him in silence, Ron rummaged around through the toiletry contents until he finally found the knife Harry had hidden. Then he pocketed it.
It wasn’t as if Harry couldn’t simply get another, but he wasn’t leaving this one here as temptation either. As it was, he was never likely to let Harry go to the loo by himself again or anywhere else, for that matter. Fuck trust! Harry had just earned himself a constant shadow.
Pulling tissue from the roll then, he wadded it up and used it to wipe away the blood from Harry’s arm, examining the wound more closely while Harry sat perfectly still.
God! Harry had been slicing his arm open in the same place over and over so that it was hard to tell how many times, but the edges were inflamed, the skin around it bruised. It broke his heart. Tears started to fall again.
“I just want you to be all right again, Harry. You know? Please…just be all right again,” he begged.
“I can’t,” Harry whispered, tiredly, watching Ron dab and prod at the wound. “Madame Pomfrey stopped the screaming in my body, but I can’t stop the screaming in my head. It’s just made it that much louder.”
Ron’s chest ached at Harry’s words, as if he had punched him so hard in the gut that he couldn’t breathe. He squeezed his eyes closed.
“You’re not capable of quitting,” Ron told him quietly then when he could speak, sitting back on his haunches to stare up into Harry’s drawn face. “I know that even better than you do, I think, but you’re tearing yourself apart with this, Harry. Don’t do this to yourself. Please. I can’t stand it.”
Harry didn’t speak, letting Ron get the bleeding stopped on his arm before tossing the tissue in the trash. Then they both sat there, the silence heavy as Ron tried to find a way to collect himself while Harry probably tried to find a way to Obliviate Ron wandlessly, hoping to wipe this revelation from his memory so he could continue to self-destruct.
FUCK! All of this was his fault. He’d driven Harry away from them, strained their relationship so badly that Harry had nowhere else to turn for help, forced to rely on his own perverse mechanisms to cope with what had happened to him. Ron was failing him, failing to protect him even, and most importantly, from himself.
“You told me right after you woke up not to give up on you, and I couldn’t if I wanted to,” he said, gathering his resolve. “I swear I won’t ever leave you again, Harry, and I’m going to help you get through this one way or another.”
Sniffling, Ron got to his feet again slowly, his body, his limbs feeling twice as heavy as usual, his legs rubbery. Extending his arm out to Harry, Ron turned his hand palm up.
“Come on,” he said grimly, wiggling his fingers so that Harry would take his hand.
Harry stared at the offer suspiciously. As Ron twitched his fingers again, Harry’s eyes slowly traveled up his arm to meet Ron’s gaze.
“Take my hand, Harry. Come on.”
Reaching out hesitantly, Harry finally slid his warm hand into Ron’s.
“Where are we going?” he asked wearily as Ron tugged him to his feet.
“I don’t care. Out of here, though. I’ve had enough crisis go down with you inside the bathrooms in this house to not be keen to be here any longer. As it is, I’m about ready to ban you from every loo in this fucking cursed place and make you take a piss in a bucket from now on.”
Turning, he pulled the door open and stepped into the hall, dragging Harry with him. A plan had started to form in his mind.
“We’re going to go find something else that can help you relax, or me at least. Something of the alcoholic variety. And then we’re going to talk this shit out.”
Harry groaned behind him, but didn’t attempt to pull out of Ron’s grip, obediently following behind him.
Ron found what he was looking for easily enough; maybe not quality libations, but something that would do the job, at least. With a bottle of elf-made wine and some brandy tucked against his chest, he pulled Harry back upstairs and into the drawing room by the hand he’d not yet released. Pulling his chess set out, they settled cross-legged on the floor across from each other, a bottle on either side of the board as Ron set the pieces up.
“We’re gonna get drunk and play chess? That’s your better alternative?” Harry asked with a derisive snort. “You think I should give up the knife for the bottle, is that it? That’s your brilliant plan?”
“Shut it. I said I probably wasn’t the right person to help you with this, didn’t I? But I’m all you’ve got right now, unless you’ve changed your mind about Ginny, or you want me to wake up Hermione.”
Harry shook his head, glaring at Ron.
“What I want is for you to crawl back in bed with her, and leave me alone.”
Ron glared back.
“Sorry, not gonna happen, mate. But if you have a better plan, I’m all ears.”
Silence.
“Right, then. Well, it’s two o’clock in the morning, and I’m fresh out of good ideas, so this is what you get.”
“Drowning myself in a bottle of booze, numbing myself with it, frankly, scares the shit out of me, Ron. I have enough problems to deal with. Adding substance abuse to the list somehow doesn’t seem like the brightest idea.”
“We’ll forgo the liquor next time then, and just try playing chess, but I think tonight we both need it to relax enough to talk about this. I can’t stop shaking,” Ron admitted. “I’ll turn the rest to vinegar in the morning.”
“I have no plans for a next time. I said I wouldn’t do it again.”
“Right. I’ll just take your word on that then, shall I?” he replied sarcastically.
He was met with more glaring.
“The blackmailer sets the rules, and that’s me,” he explained, pointing to his chest. “So humor me. If Hermione finds out what we’re doing, or the secret I’m keeping for you, though, she’ll skin me alive, so let’s try to keep it quiet. No giggling, all right?”
Harry raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
Shrugging, Ron picked up one of the bottles then, and thrust it at Harry.
“Here, and it’s your move first.”
Harry didn’t argue. Taking it from Ron’s hands, he hesitated a moment before putting it to his lips and tilting the bottle to get a mouthful. He swirled it around on his tongue for a bit before swallowing, making a face as it went down. Then he handed it back to Ron, who did the same. Studying the board then, Harry chose one of the goblin pawns and moved it forward.
“My dad always played chess with me to help me focus and relax when I was angry, or afraid,” Ron explained. “It’s a distraction that seemed like a good idea right now. It’s better than sitting here staring nervously at each other, at any rate. Besides, maybe you’ll be a better player when you’re drunk.”
“Maybe,” Harry agreed.
They’d both made several more moves and had taken several more drinks from whichever bottle was closer before Ron finally decided to just wade into it.
“Hermione says you have post trauma syndrome, or something,” he announced.
“Does she?”
Ron nodded.
“She says you need a special kind of muggle healer.”
“No thanks. I’m not going to some doctor to have my head shrunk.”
Ron looked up at him in surprise.
“I didn’t know muggles knew how to do that.”
“They don’t… not really… It’s just a figure of speech, Ron,” Harry said in exasperation.
“Oh, well, she was reading up on it today, and she reckons you’ve got it pretty bad. She said that the irritability you were talking about earlier, and the headaches, and terrible dreams, the being tired and depressed, those are all symptoms,” Ron explained knowledgeably. “She says you need to talk about what happened and maybe get some kind of potion or something for anxiety.”
“I suppose if that’s what I have, I’ve probably had it since I was about a year old, having watched my mum murdered and almost dying myself, so it seems pointless to medicate for it now. And it’s not a potion. It’ll be a pill, like an anti-depressant, or something. The effects would be like the equivalent of a cheering charm mixed with a calming potion, but she can forget trying to make me take more of that,” he replied defiantly.
Harry’s hands had curled into fists, his voice rising angrily.
“And you already know what happened there. Making me talk about it doesn’t help me, all right? Maybe it helps you and Hermione. Maybe it makes you feel like you’re doing something, but I don’t want to talk about any of it. Not to you, not to her, and not to some damn healer at St. Mungo’s, either. I just want to put it behind me and forget about it.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Fuck you!”
“Nice, that’s real friendly.”
Harry glowered at him a minute and then rubbed at his face before taking another drink.
“Look, I’m not asking you to re-hash what happened then. I’m asking you to tell me what’s happening with you now.”
Harry said nothing, staring at his lap or the chess board, anywhere but at Ron, remaining resolutely mute.
Ron sighed heavily. He wasn’t giving up, though. It wasn’t as if he thought Harry would just pour out his soul simply because he’d asked. Still, he thought the alcohol might have helped some.
“Was it a vision?” Ron asked into the silence, forging ahead when it looked like Harry had no plans to start talking.
Harry shook his head.
“No, just a nightmare.”
“Don’t lie to me, Harry. I know you’re having them again.”
“It wasn’t. Not this time.”
“You had one earlier, though, didn’t you? At Bill’s.”
His hand hesitating over the board, Harry looked up at Ron.
“It’s nothing really clear yet, just feelings mostly,” he admitted. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Hermione about them either.”
“She already knows, or suspects.”
“Fantastic,” Harry replied sarcastically.
“What was the nightmare about then?”
“I don’t want to talk about—”
“That’s not an option, Harry. It’s part of the condition of the blackmail. You talk or I tell.”
“This is stupid,” Harry complained irritably, but then sighed, resigning himself to it. “It was just more of the same, all right? The same things I always dream about now. Sometimes they’re flashbacks of what really happened. Other times they’re just horrible nightmares, things my mind has made up to torture and terrify me. This was one I’ve had before. It’s a little of both.”
Picking loose strands from the worn carpet, Harry worried the thread between his nimble fingers a moment before letting it fall back to the floor, while Ron waited for him to continue.
“She was torturing you again, killing you, and I couldn’t get to her in time,” he elaborated without prompting. “I couldn’t save either of you. I was too slow, moving through quicksand.”
Harry looked up at him then.
“Have you ever had a dream like that?”
“Yeah. I’ve had dreams where I was being chased, and whoever was after me was catching up. I couldn’t move fast enough, like I was trying to run in water.”
“And if they catch you, something terrible will happen.”
“Right,” Ron agreed. “You wake up terrified, sweat pouring off you with your heart pounding, afraid they’re still right behind you.”
Harry nodded, and Ron took another drink, trying to wash away the dreadful fear he’d conjured, picturing the spiders he’d thought of earlier.
“The problem is, I know who’s pursuing me,” Harry said quietly. “They’re not my imagination. They have faces and names, and I know exactly what they’ll do to me if they catch me again.”
He shuddered, and his hand shook slightly as he took another long pull from the bottle. Ron watched then as Harry made his next move, remaining silent.
“The real nightmare is that I’m running away from them and towards them at the same time,” he whispered.
Harry didn’t offer more, and Ron let the silence grow between them, maybe because he, himself couldn’t yet face the stark reality of Harry’s previous statement, the truth of it too terrifying to dwell on. He couldn’t offer any words of comfort. They were all running towards that end. They had no choice, really, but to face Voldemort.
“When was the first time you cut yourself?” Ron asked next, needing to know if he was to blame for driving Harry to this extreme with what he’d started between them in Sirius’ room.
“Well, the first time I can remember, I was around five and sliced open my foot on a rusty nail at the playground,” Harry responded dryly.
“Funny. That’s not what I meant.”
“Do we really have to do this?”
“Yes, if you won’t talk about this on your own.”
Harry sighed again.
“What is it you want to know?”
“Right now, I want to know when this started and why. When was the first time?” he asked again.
“I wanted to when I first woke up after coming here from the Malfoy’s. I think you already know that, but I was too weak. It was near the full moon then, but I didn’t realize that’s what brought it on until this time, and I was healthy enough to feel the full effects. The first time I acted on the urge was before we met with Draco.”
So it was after the fiasco in the bedroom, but Harry was blaming it on the approaching full moon and not on the wedge Ron had driven into their friendship. Or maybe he just wasn’t saying it.
“And doing it makes you feel better?” Ron asked, sounding dubious.
“Look, you don’t understand what it’s like. All right? I tried to explain it this morning, but I’ll be blunter. I either have a raging hard-on, or I’m just raging. Other times it’s both, and I don’t know how to stop ricocheting between the two extremes or relieve the hysteria they cause in me. You saw what I’m like, Ron. My magic just shooting out of me. I’m dangerous. I feel like Jekyll and Hyde all the time now, and cutting is the only relief I can get.”
Harry took a long swallow of brandy, his body flushing with embarrassment at the admission.
“Is it like a sexual release, or something?”
“No, Ron!” Harry replied quickly, his face going a deeper shade of red. “It’s not…but I can’t…”
“You can’t touch yourself without thinking about what she did to you.”
It wasn’t a question this time.
“Yes. I can’t do that. Can we talk about something else, please?”
Ron took another drink. He was feeling pleasantly tingly, the warmth in his belly spreading out to all his limbs now.
“I could help you, or we could do it together,” he offered without thinking.
Harry’s eyebrows rose into his fringe, and his eyes went wide.
Christ! That sounded like a pick-up line or something, which wasn’t at all what he meant. Bloody Hell, what was he thinking, asking Harry if he could give him a tug? What the fuck was wrong with him? Offering to fondle him certainly wasn’t going to turn things around between them. Instead of trying to help Harry and get back on solid friendship ground, he was suggesting more intimacy.
Maybe the alcohol was a bad idea. It was making him stupid. That was the excuse he was going to give Hermione, at least, when she demanded to know how he’d managed to completely fuck up whatever inroads they’d made with Harry, or burned whatever bridges remained between them that they’d somehow managed to miss so far.
“Sorry. I mean, what’s a friendly wank between friends, eh?” he asked with a shrug, hoping a little lightheartedness would make it sound more like a helpful gesture instead of a come-on.
“Um…I think I’ll pass. I’m not that drunk yet.”
“I’m trying to help, is all. I didn’t mean that like it sounded, okay? But it’s just…look, if you need relief, I guarantee I can keep your mind off that bitch.”
“You shouldn’t call Hermione that.”
“That’s not funny. And you’re pushing it now,” he warned, pointing an angry finger at Harry’s chest. “I’m not so drunk either that I can’t still whip your arse.”
Harry raised his hands for a moment, signaling his surrender, before slowly dropping them again.
“I’m sorry. That was shitty,” he apologized. “I appreciate the offer, Ron, but I don’t see that going well. Okay? I can’t even touch myself. How do you think I could handle someone else touching me like that?”
“I’m willing to do anything to help you, Harry. If I can’t help with that, then let me help with the rage. You can’t keep bottling it up. I said I wouldn’t sit still for another round of you pummeling me, but that’s not true. I would. If you need to let it out, do it on me, not on yourself. I’ll gladly volunteer.”
Harry shook his head. He was back to picking nervously at the carpet, his fingers burrowing into the dense fibers. They both had gone silent again, letting the awkwardness pass.
“You said between friends, but we’re not just friends anymore, are we?” Harry asked quietly after a few moments, glancing up at Ron.
“I’m still your friend, Harry, your best friend, and I always will be. I’ll be whatever you want, and I won’t push for more. If friends are all you want to be, I can be that,” Ron said earnestly.
“But you want something more.”
It was a statement, and Ron couldn’t lie about it.
“Yes, of course I do. I’m not going to deny that.”
“I just can’t handle that, Ron.”
“You can’t handle it, or you don’t want it?” he asked, but he was met with only silence.
“Harry, I need you to tell me you don’t want me. Then I can let it go. Just say it. Say you don’t want to be with me and Hermione. Make me believe it. That’s all you have to do.”
“I don’t,” Harry began quietly, dipping his head, his whole body starting to shake. “I don’t want to…want you.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Ron whispered, leaning over the board.
Putting a hand to Harry’s chin, Ron pulled it upwards, forcing Harry to look into his eyes.
“Please,” Harry pleaded.
But a plea for what, Ron didn’t know.
“We don’t ever have to do anything you don’t want to do, mate. We can go slow. I’ll do whatever you want and nothing more. I swear it.”
He placed his hand behind Harry’s head, his thumb at his throat. Ron could feel Harry’s Adam’s apple rolling as he swallowed nervously, licking his lips as he fought his fear. Then they parted.
It was an invitation, and Ron wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t recognize it, but he couldn’t take it. Whatever lay ahead for them, it would be shaped by what he did in this moment, right here, right now. They were both well on their way to being drunk, but Ron wasn’t so inebriated not to realize what a disaster it would be to take advantage of Harry right now, to break their already fragile relationship and his promise to keep his hands to himself. Drunken consent was not consent.
What he wanted to do was lean into Harry, press their mouths and bodies together, and pull his earlobe between his teeth, craving more of that ridiculously warm skin, keen to feel the heat of it against his own. Instead, Ron pulled back, running his hand down Harry’s neck and out across his shoulder, his thumb trailing over Harry’s clavicle and down his arm. Then he returned to his side of the board with a sigh.
“All right. But you’re going to have to deal with that sooner or later, too.”
Harry’s eyes began to water as he pulled his knees up to his chest protectively. Then he wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees.
“I can’t,” he mumbled, looking miserable.
Ron watched him, feeling like the prick he was. He shouldn’t have done that. Harry was so vulnerable right now, and Ron was practically begging him. He said he wouldn’t push for more, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Hell, he had no idea what he planned to do with Harry if he got him in the first place. Though given enough time, and the proper encouragement, he felt sure he could figure it out.
Reaching around behind him, Ron pulled a throw from the couch and passed it wordlessly to Harry, who draped it around his shoulders. He curled the ends around his fists to pull it closed around his knees, cocooning himself within it. Then he sat balled up like that for a while, the chess game all but forgotten between them.
“I just wish we had as much power over you as you’ve given her, Harry.”
“You do,” he whispered.
“Well, I’m bolloxed if I know how to use it.”
Staring at Harry’s bare feet sticking out from under the thin blanket and then at the hem of his faded blue pajama bottoms, Ron puzzled over his words. The only power he knew had over Harry was the threat of blackmail. Ron was blackmailing him to keep Harry sitting across from him now, blackmailing him to keep him from abandoning them and going back to Malfoy Manor for the others. If he had some other power over Harry, Ron wished Harry would just tell him what that might be.
“Hey…Are we okay?”
“Yeah.” Harry nodded.
“Okay, good. I’m sorry about that.”
He nodded again.
“I can just be your friend, Harry. I can…I’ll work on that.”
Ron had to force himself to stop blabbering then, biting his own lips to prevent them flapping. His mind wasn’t working to clearly, and he wasn’t sure now what to say, how to get back on track with this little intervention, or whatever he was having with Harry. He didn’t really trust himself to speak, afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep from continuing his mindless chatter to fill the empty space between them.
Before he’d formulated a new line of questioning, Harry took a deep breath and then broke the silence.
“I need the loo,” he announced, pulling the blanket off. “May I go to the bathroom, or am I going to have to piss in a bucket in front of you?”
And in that instant, they were themselves again, blackmailer and blackmailed, as if a simple breath had cleared the air between them. Ron’s shoulders relaxed.
“Nope, it’s fine as long as you don’t mind if I come with.”
Ron smiled, and Harry scowled at him, staggering as he got to his feet. Ron came up to his knees quickly to assist him, but found he wasn’t much better off, having to place a hand on the floor to keep from pitching face first into the carpet before he could get his bearings and right himself.
They both stood close together a moment, trying to get their land legs, Ron with his hand at Harry’s back to steady them both as the room tilted as if they were on the deck of a ship in rough seas.
“You smell like sex, you know,” Harry said accusingly.
“Sorry,” Ron apologized a bit sheepishly. “I would’ve showered if I’d known we were going to hang out and play chess all night.”
“Wasn’t my idea, and we’re not hanging out. This is some idiotic therapy session I’m being forced to participate in. ’S okay, though,” Harry replied, waving off Ron’s apology. “At least the wine and whatever that other rot gut is, has my senses dulled enough that it isn’t making me panic right now or start sobbing. But the full moon can’t come soon enough. I just want this to be over with. I don’t know how Bill and Lupin stand it.”
Harry grabbed onto Ron’s shoulder for support before they started weaving towards the bathroom together.
“Damn, I just got to where I could get to the toilet on my own without help. Now I’m back to hanging onto you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think I’m helping much right now. I don’t think either one of us was feeling the full effects of that stuff until now.”
“Well, the good news is, I have the finale of this wonderful evening with you to look forward to,” Harry replied sarcastically. “You know, where we end up spending the rest of the night right where we started, back in the loo, taking turns vomiting into the toilet this time.”
“Ooohhh, I can hardly wait.”
When they got to the hallway, Ron propped himself against the wall directly across from the bathroom door again as he had been earlier tonight and folded his arms across his chest.
“I’ll just wait outside then, yeah?” he offered.
“Can I at least shut the door?”
Ron shook his head.
“Not all the way.”
“You’re an arse. You know that? What the hell do you think I’m gonna get up to in there in the thirty seconds you’re going to allow me to empty my bladder before rushing in on me?”
Ron shrugged.
“Not my problem, mate. You brought this on yourself. Be happy I’m not insisting on being right there next to you. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen you take a piss before. I practically held you up so you could the first few times after we got here. Hell, I bathed you, for Christ sake.”
“For the record, I bathed myself,” Harry replied, making a rude gesture at Ron as he teetered into the bathroom, running his other hand along the wall to keep from crashing into it. “You just washed my hair. And if you bathed me at any time before that, I don’t want to know about it, all right?” he added sharply.
He didn’t even bother with the door, leaving it wide open instead of bowing to Ron’s terms for his privacy, which made Ron want to smile and thump Harry on the back of the head at the same time. Damn, he was stubborn.
“You smelled like sex then, too, by the way. It’s part of what freaked me out so bad. I mean, besides the fact that you had your arms around me and your hands on my bare arse. Don’t you and she ever take a break?”
“Would you? And I’m sorry about the bath. That was a stupid mistake. One of many, actually. Oh, and for the record, Madame Pomfrey and Hermione gave you sponge baths before that.”
“Christ! I could have lived without that information, git.”
“Just giving you the facts since you seem to want to set the record straight.”
Ron could see the scars on Harry’s back and shoulder as he stood hunched over the toilet, a hand at the sink to keep him upright. Most of the scars had healed up, except for the bite marks, which never would. Still, he looked so much better than he had that day of his bath. He’d put on quite a bit of the weight he’d lost, so his shoulder blades were no longer jutting out from his back. He was still thinner than usual, but you couldn’t see every one of his ribs when he took a breath anymore.
“Your thirty seconds are up. It’s my turn now.”
Harry washed his hands, and then came to stand in the doorway, blocking Ron’s entrance.
“Why Hermione? Why not just Madame Pomfrey?”
“Hermione did most of the nursing, nearly refusing to let anyone else near you. All I did was the heavy lifting and Madame Pomfrey just the healing. It was Hermione that wrapped your arms to stop the bleeding when I first dragged you out of the bathroom. It was Hermione that administered your potions and kept cool rags on you to bring your fever down. She practically wouldn’t leave your side, Harry. She never once hesitated to care for you, no matter what had happened between you two. I told you she never blamed you, and she’ll never leave you. And if I have to tell you again that I’m not going to either, I’ll punch you in the eyeball.”
“In the eyeball?” Harry asked, snorting.
“Yeah, Ginny screamed that at me once when we were younger, and she was furious with me over something. I thought it was hilarious, which didn’t do anything to make her less angry.”
Ron was smiling at the memory. Now that he thought on it, it may have been the moment when she hurled the first Bat Boogey hex at him, for which she was so famous. Geez, she had a temper and a deadly accurate aim. He should have known she would be a fantastic Chaser.
He looked back to Harry, who was staring at him, the smile gone from his lips.
“No one has ever taken care of me like that before.”
He sounded almost confused, as if totally baffled why anyone would.
Ron pushed off from the wall and stepped close to him. Then he slapped Harry lightly on the cheek.
“Get out of the way, idiot.”
They traded places, Harry now watching him, which was a bit embarrassing, Ron had to admit, but he wasn’t about to shut the door after affording Harry no privacy. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t taken a leak before at public urinals before, but it was different when someone was just standing there, watching you.
When he was through, they returned to the drawing room, to the half-finished liquor and their chess game. Neither could remember whose turn it was, so Ron simply suggested that Harry make the next move. It wasn’t like it mattered. They’d probably both pass out before declaring a winner anyway.
They continued towards Harry’s evening prediction as well, consuming all the brandy and more than half of the elvish wine, until Harry’s face began to droop, his eyes dilated, and his words began slurring together slightly. Ron must have looked the same. His movements were slow and clumsy, and more than once, he’d knocked over chess pieces trying to take his turn.
“Your eyes are blue,” Harry announced suddenly after several long minutes of staring at the board, until Ron thought he might have fallen asleep.
“Always have been,” Ron replied with a smirk. “But well spotted.”
Harry’s face colored, his rosy cheeks going a shade darker as his eyes dipped to study his hands. Then his lips quirked just a bit.
“It’s just…I guess I’ve never really noticed before.”
“And you probably won’t remember tomorrow either, is what I’m guessing.”
“Ginny’s are brown…like chocolate,” Harry continued, finishing his thought as if he hadn’t even heard Ron’s interruption.“Hermione’s are, too, but not the same color, exactly. Hers are kind of gold around the middle, you know? ‘Course you do,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I never gave any thought to yours, though. I guess I just figured they were brown, same as theirs.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t all have yours now, can we? Not everyone has eyes that inspire people to wax poetic about them, and then have the drivel sung to them by an ill-tempered dwarf.”
Harry chuckled, his eyes finding Ron’s again as he grinned lopsidedly.
“God, that was embarrassing.”
“For all of us, mate.”
“Really? Well, at least I was twelve. The spectacle of you and Lavendar was pretty hard to stomach, Won-Won. Was I ever glad when that was over.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
Harry sprawled out on his back then, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting on his stomach, abandoning the game for good, apparently.
“I feel soft,” he said. “As if all my muscles have relaxed for the first time in a long while.”
“Yup,” Ron agreed, stretching out onto his side. “I think I might just sleep in here. I don’t think Hermione will appreciate me coming back to bed smelling like the Hog’s Head. I can’t see that going over well.”
“She already knows,” Harry informed him. “She’s been out in the hall for about a quarter of an hour.”
“Fuck! You could have warned me,” he growled, whipping his head around to stare at the door and nearly falling over backwards when the room didn’t stop moving when his head did.
“I can’t seem to get away with anything. I don’t know why you should. Besides, it’s not my fault. It’s not like I told her,” he argued. “And I wasn’t giggling,” he added defensively.“I think we woke her up when we went to the loo earlier.”
“The two of you are always doing that,” Hermione called from the hall. “Every time I wake up, it seems you’re in the bathroom together, usually having a row.”
Then after a moment, she appeared around the doorway.
“I don’t even want an explanation of why you’re both up in the middle of the night, completely pissed and playing chess, or whatever. But we’re going back to the bank in the morning, so you two better just sober up and get some sleep.”
She marched into the room, her wand in her hand, and plopped herself down on the couch, looking down on them sternly. Ron thought for a moment she might hex them. Instead, she conjured pillows, which she then tossed at them, hitting Harry squarely in the face with his, before conjuring one for herself and some blankets. She distributed them, grim faced, and then settled herself on the couch and lay down without another word. Extinguishing the lights, she left Ron and Harry to find a comfortable spot on the floor for the night.
“Night, ‘Mione,” Harry muttered, and then giggled, muffling the sound with his pillow.
Ron rolled his eyes.

~ . ~
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What it comes down to

Chapter 30. Trust