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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
- 33
- 34
- 35
Chapter 34. Talking it over in Bed

“Well, that was a fucking disaster,” Ron whispered miserably when Harry had gone limp beside him.
Hermione continued to stroke Harry’s head in silence until they were both sure he was asleep before she spoke, asking the questions Ron knew were coming. Many for which he had no answers.
“Ron, I think it’s time you told me what’s happening with Harry. What went on last night that he wanted kept secret from me? And what happened this morning? Were you seen? Did the Death Eaters ambush you? How could they have known you’d be there, and how did you get separated from him?”
“One at a time, Hermione,” he replied wearily, holding up his hand to silence her. Then he began to explain.
“I found Harry last night coming out of the bathroom. He’d had a nightmare, like I told you. I wasn’t quite asleep yet and heard it. Then after a while when he didn’t come back, I went looking for him to make sure he was all right. Let’s just say Harry wasn’t expecting company, and I discovered his secret.”
Ron stopped speaking, frowning at the memory. It still made him angry and desperately sad.
“What was it?” she prompted.
“He’s been cutting himself, Hermione,” he answered flatly. “Over and over again.”
“Oh, God—”
“I know! I was furious, and I threatened to tell you and Mum and Dad, even Lupin and Ginny if he didn’t swear to stop. He promised he wouldn’t do it again, which was a lie, obviously, and he begged me not to tell you. I agreed, but only on the condition that he come to me first before it got so bad that he felt like he needed to do it again. Then I tried to make him talk to me about it, to tell me what was happening with him, using alcohol to try and loosen his lips so I could pry it out of him. But, Christ, ‘Mione! It’s like trying to wring water from a stone.”
“Yes, I know,” she said ruefully, running her hands affectionately through Harry’s hair again.
“He’s just so fucked up, and the moon is making it worse. I made it worse trying to force this relationship on him.”
“We both did, Ron.”
“He’s having nightmares all the time. I don’t think he’s slept worth a damn since we moved out of this room, and he admitted that he’s started having visions again from You Know Who now, too. He didn’t want me to tell you about that, either, but we both knew he was, and I told him so.”
“So, then what happened this morning in Diagon Alley?”
“I don’t really know. We’d been sitting there freezing our backsides off. Then I heard someone and thought it might be you. When I turned to look, I found him all the way at the other end of the alley, fighting four Death Eaters. I’d never even heard the prat get up and leave. Then all hell broke loose, spells were flying everywhere, and you turned up right in the damn middle of it. I just barely managed to grab hold of Bellatrix as she was Disapparating with Harry, but when we arrived at the Malfoy’s, I landed on my face, broke my wand, and must have crashed into something because I got knocked out. Next thing I knew, I’d come to lying under a dining table. I thought I must have had amnesia, or something, ‘cause I didn’t know where the hell I was, or what had happened. But then I sat up to find Harry strangling Bellatrix with Wormtail and Draco’s mother trying to get him off her. Wormtail started strangling me with that cursed silver hand of his, and then you turned up again with Dobby and got us the fuck out of there.”
Hermione lay silent then, absorbing his tale before she finally spoke.
“I saw the spells flying and ran out of the Apothecary, but I was too late to stop what happened. And when I couldn’t find you either, I came back here in a panic looking for Dobby. I begged him to take me to the Malfoy’s because I knew that’s where she’d take him. Poor Dobby was as terrified as I was, but he agreed,” Hermione told him, her voice shaking.
Taking a deep breath, she held it a moment and then went on.
“I found Dean and Luna in the dungeon, Ron, and Griphook and Mr. Ollivander, the wand maker, too. I knew I couldn’t just leave them there, but I didn’t know where to have Dobby take them. So I told him to take them to Bill’s, and then I continued searching for both of you, but neither of you was in any of the rooms. It wasn’t until I got to the top of the basement stairs that I could hear Harry’s voice—”
“Wait a minute,” Ron interrupted, startled by this news. “You found Dean and Luna?”
“Yes, and—”
“And you took them to Shell Cottage?”
“Yes, Ron. Well, no. Dobby took them there because I didn’t want to bring them here, and it was the only other place I could think of. And then I told him to come straight back for us. He’d just arrived when Bellatrix tried to slice off Harry’s leg.”
She started to cry then.
“It’s all my fault, Ron. The whole plan today was my idea, and now Dobby’s gone and Harry’s completely devastated.”
Quietly, Ron got up, walked around the bed, and slid in next to her. Turning away from Harry, she wrapped her arms around Ron, crying into his neck while he rubbed her back.
“It’s all right. It’s not your fault, Hermione. You never planned for any of this to happen. It was just a terrible accident.”
She sobbed harder.
“Just hush now,” he crooned, stroking her hair. “It’s not your fault. You got us out of there. You Know Who was probably coming, my wand was broken, and Harry was completely insane. But you rescued us and Dean and Luna and Mr. Ollivander, too. You did what you had to do, Hermione. You and Dobby probably saved all our lives.”
“I found…I found the room. Everything was burnt, and the walls were all scorched…except for where we’d been chained…and the sight of it…the smell of it,” she moaned, trembling in his arms. “But you weren’t in there either, and I just stood there and cried, Ron. I couldn’t move. I was falling apart while you were upstairs being strangled by Pettigrew.”
“I’m fine, love. I’m all right, and you were incredibly brave. Everything’s going to be okay now, I promise.”
She clung to him for a long time until she’d cried herself out, hiccupping into silence finally. Then they just lay together with Harry asleep beside them, almost like the first night. Ron held her until he thought she might have fallen asleep, wishing he could, too. He was so tired, but his head was still aching dully from the probable concussion he’d sustained, and his stomach was cramping because it was so empty, making sleep impossible.
“Are you still awake?” he asked quietly after they’d been laying there for close to an hour.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good. Listen, I think I need to go back to Bill’s then if that’s all right. We tore out of there pretty fast after dumping a house full of refugees on them, apparently. Plus, I was damn rude when I left. I think I owe Bill an explanation or an apology at least. I’ll let them know everything’s fine here and tell them that we’ll be back in the morning. Okay? I don’t think Harry should go back over there again today,” he explained. “I know he’ll try to insist, but he needs a little time to sort through all this without an audience. You stay here with him. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
“All right, Ron,” she agreed, sitting up.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, tilting her face up to him to look into her puffy eyes.
“I’m fine. Go.”
“Okay. I won’t be long, I promise. Even in two languages, Bill and Fleur are bound to run out of names to call me before very long.”
Ron smiled at her, but it came out more like a grimace, and she rubbed his arm consolingly. Kissing her forehead, he got up and walked quietly back around to Harry’s side of the bed, where he redressed before returning to her.
She reached out her hand. Sliding his fingers between hers, he squeezed once before handing Hermione her wand.
“Just in case,” he said, shrugging.
“Be careful, Ron, and don’t worry. Harry and I will be fine here while you’re gone.”
“I hope so, but Harry’s a complete mess right now, and I don’t know if what we did will make it better, or worse,” he admitted, worried about leaving her alone with him.
He glanced at Harry a moment in indecision before looking back to Hermione.
“You stun him, straight away if he wakes up and starts freaking out again, understand?”
“I understand, Ron.”
Squeezing her hand again before releasing it, he sighed, picked up his shoes, and then padded out of the room; the door barely making a sound as he pulled it shut behind him.

Harry woke up in the early afternoon curled up next to Hermione. She was stroking his hair, humming softly as she combed the unruly strands with her fingers, attempting to tame his defiant locks while he lay silent against her, trying not to think about any of the things that had happened today.
“I know you’re awake, Harry,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” he answered in complete honesty. “Dobby’s…dead.”
His voice sounded flat to his own ears as if he couldn’t comprehend the words. But he had to say them out loud, hear them spoken before he could accept the truth of it. Dobby was gone now, too, and he was never coming back, murdered in front of Harry’s eyes like Sirius had been, like Cedric and Dumbledore.
“He was devoted to me, Hermione. He would have followed me anywhere, and I led him straight into hell. I got him killed just like all the others.”
Hermione’s breath hitched and her voice waivered as she spoke.
“His death is my fault, Harry, not yours. I made him bring me to the Malfoy’s. I’m the reason he died. He’d still be here right now preparing lunch for us if I hadn’t.”
“But you were coming for me. It was still because of me. He’s been…he had been trying to save my life since I was twelve years old, usually by trying to kill me, but still. God, I loved him,” he whispered, taking in a shaky breath of his own, his eyes burning again.
“This one hurts worse than Dumbledore so that I can hardly let myself think about it. He was so innocent.”
A tear rolled down his cheek, his chest aching with the loss.
The world would be forever a less joyful place without Dobby in it. His death had torn a hole in Harry. A raw, gaping wound throbbing inside him that Harry didn’t think he’d ever be able to close.
“I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered.
Trembling, she turned into him, pulling him against her. As she wrapped her arms around him, she tucked her face into his neck. Harry let her, though he felt numb. His heart numb to it, his body. His mind insulating him, building a wall around it to protect itself from the total collapse it threatened to bring if he allowed himself to feel the depth of that grief.
“I killed someone else today, too,” she confessed into his neck, her voice still shaking. The warm air of her breath ghosted across his chest. “A man, a Death Eater. I killed him.”
“Whoever it was, he would have killed you, Hermione, or me or Ron.”
“I know, and I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry I did it. It’s as if I don’t feel any remorse at all for what I’ve done as if there’s no room inside me for it anymore. But what if he had children? A family? I should feel something shouldn’t I?”
“I’m not the person to ask. I killed Rowle. I would have killed her, too, if you and Ron hadn’t stopped me.”
He felt no remorse, no regret for the way he’d ended the massive Death Eater. It wasn’t self-defense. It was cold blooded murder. He hadn’t tried to goad Rowle into attacking him like he’d tried to do with Snape. He hadn’t attempted to justify his actions by provoking the wizard. He’d simply raised his wand, pointed it at the huge blonde, and said the spell.
“Sectum Sempra!”
His fury had cut deep. Harry hadn’t shouted the spell. He didn’t need to. Bellatrix had once told him that to perform a truly powerful spell, he needed to really mean it, to really want to cause harm, and she was right. But an Unforgiveable Curse, the mercy of the Avada Kedavra, wasn’t what he’d had in mind.
A rush of green light, a quick and painless death wasn’t good enough for that man. It wasn’t justice for what he’d taken from Harry. Harry wanted his rapist to feel pain, to know fear when he looked into Harry’s eyes and knew that his death was coming. He’d wanted to take back some of the power they’d stolen from him. Harry wanted Rowle to beg like he had begged. And when he felt his own life draining slowly away, Harry wanted him to feel the same helplessness to stop it that he’d had felt trying to stop them.
But Rowle’s death had provided him none of the satisfaction he craved. He hadn’t even tried to bargain or beg for atonement. He gave Harry nothing. Perhaps he knew there would be no forgiveness. Perhaps he could see in Harry’s eyes the cold finality of his decision, knowing there would be no hope of reprieve, no pardon for his crimes.
Hermione tried to make Harry believe that he wasn’t the cause of all the death around him, and that he’d tried to save everyone he could, but she was wrong. He wasn’t a savior or a defender. He was a deadly plague, a vengeful killer, a remorseless murderer.
As blood poured from Rowle’s body, Harry remembered looking down at the dying man, no pity in his glance. Only acknowledgement of a piece of hard work finally completed. It meant Harry could draw a line through another name written in the back of his journal and add his initials beside it on the page. One more task off the long list he’d compiled and had to complete before he was through. Then he’d turned back to the next target on that list: Bellatrix, the person who held a place of honor right near the top.
“How did you know they were there? In the alley, did you see them coming?” Hermione asked then.
It took Harry a moment to regain the thread of their conversation.
“No. I could smell her,” he said in disgust, remembering the moment that led to the events of this morning in vivid detail. “I smelled her, and my mind went totally blank. Then I didn’t know what I was doing or even care where I was. I just went straight towards her like a dog trained by its master to heel.”
“Then after I killed Rowle, she Apparated with me, and I don’t really know what happened after that. She’d pressed her mark, and Tom was in my head. The pain was so bad, and I was just in this rage fueled frenzy until they tried to stop me killing her. Then Narcissa told me she’d kill Ron if I didn’t let her go. I didn’t even know he was there, Hermione. I didn’t know where I was.”
The horror of that realization was upon him again as he desperately tried to explain his actions to her. The revulsion and shame of what he’d done and the terror of seeing Ron in Wormtail’s grip washed over him. He could have lost them, both of them today. Harry was once again to blame for them all being in that terrible place.
“I promised you I’d keep him safe today,” he whispered, miserable with regret. “And I failed. I’m so sorry.”
Lifting her head, Hermione reached up and touched his cheek. He turned slowly to look at her, preparing for the expression of deep disappointment he would see in her features, ready to accept her sharp rebuke, but it didn’t come. She simply stared down at him with red-rimmed eyes, her face surrounded by a halo of messy curls. Then she leaned down and kissed him softly, and he felt the guilt burn in him again. He did not deserve her forgiveness, but, God, he wanted it. He wanted her, and Ron, wanted to keep them both here with him and safe.
“I’ve missed you, both of you, so damn much,” he confessed against her lips, gripping her head with both hands and pressing his forehead into hers. “I tried…I really did, but I need you too badly. I can’t help it, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I still think this is wrong…I still think it’s a terrible mistake, but I still want you, too.”
He turned his head to stare at the spot where Ron had been.
“And him. This is just so fucked up, Hermione!”
“I know,” she murmured, laying back down and pulling him onto her. “It’s all right, Harry. We’ve both made some horrible mistakes today, but being with you wasn’t one of them. Not for me.”
“Oh, Jesus!” he moaned. “You’re still naked.”
She smiled.
“So are you.”
The sheet had shifted from where it had been tucked between them, and he could feel her bare skin on his. Pressed against her thigh, Harry went hard almost immediately, and he felt himself blushing, knowing she could feel it, too.
“Christ, I’m sorry, Hermione,” he apologized.
Mortified, he tried pulling away from her, but she slid under him, positioning him so that his hips were between her thighs, trapping him.
Harry’s eyes went wide and his body rigid. His heart started pounding as the beginnings of fear began to gather in his chest and slide into his stomach.
“What on earth are you sorry for?” she asked, blinking innocently up at him as she ran her hands up his back and shifted her body more comfortably underneath him while he tried to avoid looking at her naked form.
She couldn’t possibly want to, he thought, dismayed, not after the total catastrophe he’d made of things earlier. The pity she felt for him must be enormous for her to willingly suffer through that again.
“Hermione, you don’t have to—”
“But I want to,” she replied.
Filled with doubt, Harry swallowed hard, staring down at her.
“Do you want to, Harry?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered hesitantly, which was both a lie and the truth.
He did want to, but he was still so afraid, still wishing with all his heart that he didn’t want her like this, that he could somehow obliterate his desire for her, bury it forever and turn from this path, steering them back into platonic friendship. But it was already too late for that. It had been from the moment he’d been coerced into carrying out Bellatrix’s terrible plans for them in the dungeon, when she’d forced him to swallow that horrible potion, led him to Hermione, and made her demands.
Searching her face, he asked then, “Are you sure, Hermione?”
He was throwing the decision back on her again, trying, like a coward, to absolve himself from any accountability for his actions, half hoping she would change her mind and end his torment.
“I’m sure,” she said, smiling at him again.
His stomach swooped, but he couldn’t tell if it was from disappointment and fear, or desire and anticipation.
Still, Harry didn’t move. He just kept staring down at her, his heart thumping. Hermione remained silent, staring right back, waiting for him to decide, letting him take the next step if he was brave enough to accept her invitation.
“I… I’ve never done it like this,” he whispered finally, fear and uncertainty in his voice.
It was as much of an admission of his willing consent as he was capable of expressing.
“Then let’s make this your first time. It will be our first time together with both of us saying yes, both of us wanting to love each other without feeling fear or panic.”
“But what if I…I mean, is it safe?” he asked, his arms tensed, the muscles in his neck and back straining to hold himself off her.
“Yes. I use a spell.”
Harry’s brow furrowed a moment, and then he gaped at her.
“You… you do?” he asked, surprised by her response because he wasn’t even asking about…what he meant was if she thought it would be safe for him to do this after how he’d reacted to it this morning. Now his chest was constricting with a new fear.
“But… before… in the dungeon? I tried not to, Hermione, but…are you sure you’re not…Oh, God! What if…”
An unbidden image of her filled his mind; Hermione pregnant, the evidence of what he’d done to her growing inside her womb. The prospect of creating a child out of that horrible act was so nightmarish that it struck him dumb, yet he’d never even considered it before now. He’d only ever thought of the violation of the rape itself, not the potential consequences.
“Madame Pomfrey gave me a potion after she’d gotten you stabilized,” she answered quietly, interrupting his panicked stammering. “She assumed…well, after seeing what they’d done to you…I denied it, but she made me take the potion anyway.”
Harry nodded in relief, but then looked away from her, feeling the shame rising up in him again, made even worse now by his new awareness of what he’d put her through. He’d left her to suffer that fear alone. God, he was a bastard.
Reaching up, she touched his face.
“I took the potion just as a precaution, Harry. I’ve been using the spell since we left the Burrow after the wedding, but it has to be re-cast fairly regularly to be effective.”
He blinked, trying to make sense of her words. Then, when comprehension came, his eyebrows rose at her surprising admission. She’d been using a spell to prevent pregnancy for months? Why?
“W...what?” he stammered. “You mean back in the tent?”
“It’s nothing like that,” she said, snorting softly at the look of astonished disbelief on his face. “It wasn’t because I thought I might find myself tossing away my knickers one night and crawling into bed with either of you, or perhaps getting seduced by some handsome Muggle along the way. I just didn’t want the hassle of a menstrual cycle, is all.”
“Oh, right,” he said stupidly, as if he had any understanding at all of the mysterious workings of a woman’s body.
His face went red again. He couldn’t believe they were discussing these things at all, and most certainly not while they were both naked in bed, and he was braced over her, lying between her thighs. Not in his wildest imagination had he ever envisioned this scene.
Then a new scene formed, and he pictured Hermione back in the tent slipping off her knickers to stand bare in front of him, like she’d done this morning, and then crawling into his bunk late one night, maybe the night Ron had left, seeking comfort for her loss. The vision of her made his pulse pound harder and heat pool in his gut, reigniting his arousal, which had been quelled by the horrors of his earlier thoughts.
How might he have reacted had she come to him then? Would the Harry he’d been before have refused her, the Harry before their capture, before Greyback’s infection? Harry had to admit to himself finally that, no; he probably wouldn’t have been able to turn her away. If Hermione had asked him, he would have been powerless to resist her. The thought was actually comforting. Knowing that the attraction he felt for her now wasn’t simply brought on by the infection and the strength of the moon. Maybe it had always been present, but just deeply suppressed. The feelings simply lying dormant within him until now, sparked by what they’d endured together.
“Are you finished interrogating me on my contraception methods now?” she asked teasingly. “And you can rest your weight on me, you know,” she added when his arms had started to shake. “I won’t break. You probably don’t weigh two stones more than I do.”
“Gee, thanks,” he said dryly. “I guess Ron is a lot bigger than me, isn’t he?”
Relaxing gratefully onto his forearms, Harry finally rested more of his weight against her, bringing their faces closer together, their bellies touching.
“He’s stronger than me, too, the great git,” he growled, scowling at the bitter reminder of how easily Ron had overpowered him earlier. “But just wait ‘til I get back to my fighting weight. Then I’ll have his face in the dirt.”
“This is your fighting weight, darling,” she replied, her lips quirking as she ran her fingers up his arm.
“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed.
Harry could hardly argue the point. He’d always been wiry, always a bit skinny. Maybe not this skinny, but he’d spent too many years being underfed by the Dursley’s. Life in their care had left its mark.
“But you’re one of the strongest men I’ve ever known,” she continued. “And I think you’re just the right size.”
The tone in her voice held a hint of suggestion, and then, tilting her hips up to rub against him, she removed all doubt. It rendered him temporarily speechless, surprised by her boldness. Harry had never expected it from her, though he didn’t know why. Hermione had certainly never been timid about anything else, really. She’d always been fairly ‘take charge’ about things. Taking the lead when he or Ron hesitated, but when it came to sex, he just never thought she might be the aggressive one. He’d accused Ron of taking advantage of her, but perhaps, it had been the other way around.
Harry stared down at her, wide eyed, and she shifted underneath him again, sliding her hand down his back and over his arse encouragingly.
Nope, not shy at all. Apparently, that was only Harry, who could feel the heat rising in his face again.
“God, please don’t let me throw up this time,” he moaned dismally.
“That would be an improvement,” she replied, stifling a laugh. “But we’ll keep the Pepper-Up potion on standby, just in case.”

Hermione didn’t want to do more to initiate this, to coerce Harry or make the decision for him. It had to be his choice. Harry needed to truly decide for himself if he wanted to be with her, to participate willingly, to be fully in control of it for the first time. Not forced and influenced by a potion or allowing the act to be performed under extreme emotional duress.
She could still see the apprehension in his eyes, feel it in the rigidness of his limbs, and she desperately wanted this to be something wonderful for him instead of something to fear. He deserved so much more than what this life had dealt him. And the panic he’d felt this morning certainly wasn’t the experience she’d hoped to give him. This time though, some of the old Harry, that slightly quirky, sometimes shockingly honest man that made her heart ache was starting to break through. Those little glimpses made her feel optimistic, encouraged that maybe, just maybe, the wand stuffed under her pillow might remain there.
At first, he’d been timid. Afraid of hurting her when he entered her, he filled her slowly, tentatively, but then, with her assurances and encouragement, his anxiety had finally started to ease, and he began to move less hesitantly.
Rocking against her gently, his eyes locked on hers, Harry moved within her almost silently, making love to her unhurriedly, and she was in no rush to escalate it. Harry needed to set his own pace, to come to his completion on his own terms when he was ready instead of climaxing in some torturous, terrifying way. Besides, her tits didn’t have to be bouncing for it to still feel wonderful.
Kissing her softly, almost shyly as he slid into her again, he rested his forehead against hers and buried himself inside her. Letting her bear more of his weight, Harry relaxed his body, pressing her down further into the feather mattress as she wrapped her legs around him.
Without the cooling effect of Madame Pomfrey’s balm, Hermione could feel the heat of his unnaturally warm skin all around her, radiating inside her, deep in her core. Reveling in the remarkable sensation of that searing heat, comforted by the weight of him against her, she rocked with him, running her hands up his back, over the flesh prickled with goose bumps, and into his hair.
Shivering at her touch, Harry tilted his head back, eyes closed, and moaned, penetrating her as deeply as he could and holding himself there, his fingers curling into fists. The look on his face, the breaking of his silence was so beautifully erotic that she got goose bumps of her own. Grinding against him, Hermione squeezed around him in response, which made him bite down on his lips, fighting against the urge to move while his hips jolted in a spasm of pleasure.
“Are your toes curling?” Harry whispered hoarsely through gritted teeth as he pulled back and then slowly sank into her again as if savoring the sensation. “Feeling all tingly yet? Because I am. Christ, you feel so good!”
Hermione chuckled. She couldn’t help it.
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“I don’t know how to make you feel like that. I’m crap at this.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“Will you teach me?” he asked, burying his face into her neck then, embarrassed by his request. “I don’t think my last instructor taught me correctly. Those lessons hurt. Ron said it’s not supposed to, but it always did. With you most of all. I don’t ever want to hurt you again, Hermione.”
Hermione’s eyes filled with sudden tears, and she held Harry against her, stroking his head and wrapping her legs more tightly around him while he sighed into her hair.
God, she loved this broken man.
“We’ll learn together. All right? You, and me, and Ron, we’ll discover each other on our own,” she told him, trying to keep her wavering voice steady.
Hermione didn’t want him to know she was crying now.
“You show me what feels good to you, and I’ll show you what feels good to me. How would that be?”
“Okay,” he agreed, nodding into her neck.
“Then maybe, when we’ve mastered that, we’ll brew up that batch of Polyjuice potion and learn all over again what if feels like for each other.”
“Oh, my God!” he moaned, curling his hips into her more firmly, and she rose up to meet him.
“Breathe,” she whispered.

Ron arrived back from his brother’s house much later than he’d anticipated. Bill and Fleur were still annoyed with him when he’d arrived, but they’d kept their telling off to a minimum. Probably because they were quite preoccupied with two severely dehydrated, malnourished, and traumatized teens, an emaciated, tortured old man, a goblin beaten into unconsciousness, and a dead house elf to deal with. All of whom were competing for space in their tiny three bedroom cottage so they didn’t have much time to spare for Ron.
Most unfortunately, however, Ron had to insist that Bill hold off on his plans to move anyone to another safe house, which he was in the process of doing when Ron arrived. He wouldn’t even let Bill bury Dobby without Harry’s approval which, of course, didn’t go over well with his oldest brother.
That’s when the real fight began, but Ron stood his ground because he knew instinctively that Harry would want to see Dean and Luna for himself and know they were all right. He would want to speak with Mr. Ollivander, too, if he was able, about the things Harry had seen in his visions or to see if there was any hope of repairing his wand. And Griphook? Well, he was a goblin wasn’t he? A goblin who’d been a Gringotts employee at that, who might be willing to help them if he could be persuaded, Ron thought. Hermione had rescued him, after all.
Bill didn’t even have to ask why Ron wanted him to stay, though he clearly still disapproved of their plans to break into Gringotts, especially since they’d only sat outside the bank today and had nearly gotten themselves killed.
But most importantly, Ron couldn’t let them bury Dobby without Harry being present. It was the argument he’d fought the hardest to win. He would not allow them to rob Harry of his chance to say goodbye to the elf that had been his friend, whose death had shattered him so completely.
He won out on all counts. Ron was, of course, second only to Harry in stubborn tenacity. So Bill had left him with the grim duty of preparing the elf’s body, which was still wrapped in Harry’s damp jacket and lying on a small table while he and Fleur tried to find places for the rest.
Stripping him of his soiled clothes, Ron washed the blood from Dobby’s torso and mouth with a warm wet rag, revealing the red outline of a handprint over the deep gash in his chest, the skin burned from where Harry had evidently tried to use his magic to stop the bleeding. His features were so small, childlike, Ron thought, as he cleaned the wound. Tears dripped silently while he wiped the sand from the elf’s pale, lifeless body before drying him.
When he’d finally finished his sad task and had wrapped the body in fresh linens that Fleur had given him, he carried the tiny remains back out of the bathroom. He found Bill waiting for him in the hall. Grimly, Bill performed a charm to preserve the body, and they lay the small bundle back on the table. Then Bill gripped Ron by the shoulder, squeezing it consolingly, and steered him into the kitchen.
Fleur had prepared a huge pot of soup and a mountainous stack of sandwiches for the hungry horde. Exhausted, Ron dropped heavily into a chair and began to eat gratefully, his headache subsiding finally with a full stomach. Then they sat and listened to Ron’s profoundly edited explanation of what had happened that morning.
Once he’d finally gotten up to leave, Fleur had pressed more sandwiches and soup on him to take back to Harry and Hermione. Hugging her and Bill, he thanked them and then Disapparated.
When Ron entered Sirius’ room, he found the two of them still in bed, both asleep. Harry was curled up against Hermione, his head on her chest, his face buried in her neck. She was holding him tucked against her, like a mother comforting her child. Cradling him with her chin on his head, Hermione held Harry like Ron’s mother used to hold him when he’d had a bad dream, holding him, in fact, the way his mother had held Harry on the couch when he did wake from a bad dream.
Ron watched them a moment longer before finally stripping and sliding in next to Harry. Curling his body around the other boy’s and throwing an arm over him to embrace them both, he nuzzled into the back of Harry’s neck and fell asleep.

Harry didn’t wake up again until late in the night, finding himself in the middle again, sandwiched between Ron and Hermione. He was curled around Hermione with Ron curled around him, a hand at his waist.
With nowhere to go then, Harry lay there in the darkness thinking, staring at the strip of gray light cast by the full moon shining in through the window behind him. He was hungry, but didn’t want to eat, no longer tired, but reluctant to get up. Unwilling to leave the safety of the bed or their warm bodies, he stayed and thought for hours until the gray moonlight faded into early morning sunlight.
He thought of Bellatrix and Narcissa and Wormtail. He thought of Ron and Hermione and Dobby. And he thought of Voldemort and Dumbledore and an old man murdered in a cell in Nurmengard who’d once been a laughing boy Harry had seen in a picture. He thought of Horcruxes and Hallows, of secrets stored in a vial of memories, and ones locked in a snitch, both tucked safely in his pouch, but still out of reach.
Harry thought until his mind was going around in circles, returning again and again to Voldemort and Grindelwald, to Pettigrew and Dumbledore, wondering what secrets Dumbledore knew and which ones he’d tried to keep hidden.
Dumbledore had known people’s hearts, understood things about them that perhaps they didn’t even know themselves. As Ron had said, Dumbledore knew he would leave and need a way back. He also knew that Draco would not be able to kill him on the tower, even knew perhaps, (if Harry could look past his enmity for the man to the truth of what he’d seen that night) that Snape would not betray his wishes and perform the task instead.
Had he also suspected that Peter felt remorse, even if only the smallest part of him? And did he believe, too, that Grindelwald might honor their brief close friendship and keep his secret? Because Harry was coming to understand what that secret might be, and as he did, he knew that somewhere in Malfoy Manor, Voldemort was also reaching that same conclusion.
What then had Dumbledore known about Harry? Did he know that Harry’s faith in him would be shaken? How badly it would test him to read of his mentor’s dark secrets in the pages of a book, written so scathingly by that acid green quill? Did he understand how hard it would be for Harry to continue to trust Dumbledore when he hadn’t trusted Harry enough to tell him the truth?
What other secrets had he kept from Harry and why? Was he not meant to possess the wand? Had Dumbledore not wanted him to unite the Hallows? For surely he realized that Voldemort would seek the wand and eventually discover its location. Did he believe that Harry would get there first?
His head felt like it might burst with all the unanswered questions, filled with the uncertainty of his choices which threatened to leak out of his ears when there was no more room in his brain to hold them. For the first time in his life, Harry thought he understood finally what Dumbledore had meant when he’d told Harry that sometimes it was a relief to siphon some of his thoughts into the Pensieve.
Eventually, he just lay there not thinking of anything at all anymore, breathing in the traces of Hermione’s lavender shampoo, his brain echoing with merciful emptiness. Then Ron had finally rolled onto his back, giving Harry a little more room. Straightening his back and legs, Harry turned to face him.
Propped up on his elbow, Harry stared down at Ron, examining the swollen lump on his forehead and the dark bruising around his neck. Studying his features, his eyes mapped the freckles across Ron’s cheeks, his red eyelashes fanned against them. Then they were drawn to the fullness of his mouth.
He’d never before looked at another man and felt the stirring of arousal. Unlike what he’d reluctantly experienced at the hands of Bellatrix, there had never been a single moment of pleasure in what those men had done to him. There was only pain and fear mixed with humiliation and revulsion. Why then would he desire Ron, knowing it would eventually escalate into that terrifying conclusion?
He’d avoided probing those feelings until now, hoping that somehow, they would simply fade if he didn’t give them an audience in his thoughts, but he couldn’t any longer. Not after yesterday.
Harry could explain his attraction to Hermione, but Ron was a totally different matter. Harry was still pretty sure he wasn’t gay and just as certain that Ron wasn’t, either. Yet however hard it was to reconcile himself to something that seemed so totally against his nature, Harry couldn’t deny it either. He should be repulsed by these unnatural cravings, aggressively resisting the pull of longing he was feeling for Ron, but he wasn’t. It was actually easier to accept.
Perhaps he was so much less afraid of Ron because even his fear of that pain couldn’t compare to the pain he’d felt with Hermione and the terrible memories she stirred in him. There was less betrayal in his feelings for Ron, too, even though he was Ginny’s brother. Harry’s attraction to him was more physical than emotional, which didn’t make it better really, but for whatever reason, seemed to ease his guilt.
After a few minutes of Harry’s quiet contemplation of his features, Ron stirred, stretching, but not really awake. Placing a hand on Ron’s stomach, Harry snaked it upwards, running his hands over the smooth skin of Ron’s chest, courting his own disaster.
Opening his eyes, Ron blinked him into focus.
“Hey,” he mumbled sleepily and then yawned hugely.
“I want to bury Dobby. Properly, without magic,” Harry announced without preamble.

Ron stared up at Harry a moment before rubbing his eyes.
“All right. I told Bill not to touch him until we came back today. I went back to his place yesterday after you fell asleep,” he explained.
“I know.”
“So, how are you feeling today?” he asked quietly. “Your lip is really swollen. I’m sorry about that.”
“I’m okay… Better. Don’t worry about it. I was asking for it. I wanted it.”
“Do you still want it?”
“What, for you to beat the hell out of me?” Harry asked, snorting softly. “Why? Are you offering?”
“No, you prat! Of course not. I don’t want to hurt you. But I don’t want you to hurt yourself, either, Harry. I don’t want you to lock yourself in a room again and rip yourself apart,” he answered in a hoarse whisper.
Harry nodded, still running his fingers over Ron’s chest in lazy circles. Ron covered Harry’s hand with his own, staring at his troubled friend’s face. Then he slid it up Harry’s arm. Turning it, Ron examined the skin.
“Jesus, mate. Your arms are covered in bruises.”
“You should see your neck. It’s almost completely purple. Peter really choked you good.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t fucking breathe,” Ron replied as Harry pulled his arm out of Ron’s grip and tilted Ron’s head up by the chin to better examine the marks on his neck.
“Speaking of not breathing,” he said then, looking up at Harry. “You were holding your breath yesterday weren’t you? You tried to get me to strangle you.”
Harry nodded his head, but looked away from Ron, pulling his hand away.
“You’re neck was all bruised, too, when we first got out of the dungeon. She choked you didn’t she?”
Harry was silent for a few moments, but his eyes slid back to Ron’s. Ron watched them, searching for the crazy, for a better clue to his mental state, trying to gage what his response might be to bringing up Bellatrix.
“The only way she could make me come was to strangle an orgasm out of me,” Harry admitted. “I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop it.”
Christ! Could he be anymore fucked up? As if Harry’s torture could be any worse than the mental pictures Ron already had of it, suddenly, Harry would reveal something more. Each exposure of the true depth of the Death Eaters twisted depravity made the horror he’d endured even more painful for Ron to comprehend, made his desire for revenge that much greater.
“You did it that day in the shower, too, didn’t you?” Ron asked then, but he didn’t wait for a response. “It’s not safe, Harry. It’s dangerous and destructive for you, and you don’t need it. You didn’t need it before her, did you?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t need it now, either. Don’t do it anymore, okay?”
Harry didn’t answer, but gave a quick nod of his head after a moment.
“Is that why you were trying so hard to strangle her yesterday?”
Harry became agitated then at the mention of his actions yesterday.
“I don’t know, Ron. I guess so, yeah. I really had no idea what I was doing with her. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I’m sorry for getting us in there again, for getting you hurt. But when I saw her—”
“Say her name,” Ron ordered.
Harry looked at him, frowning.
“Ron—”
“I want to hear you say her name.”
“No. I don’t want to.”
“You tried to fuck her yesterday. Call me old-fashioned, but I think you ought to at least be on a first name basis. Bellatrix, say it!” he demanded.
Harry flinched.
“Stop it, you prick!”
“Not until you say it.”
Scowling at Ron, Harry was starting to get angry now.
“Fine…Bellatrix,” he muttered, barely audible, and then tried to repress a shudder.
“That’s not nearly good enough. Say it again.”
“Fuck you.”
Ron smiled.
“No. Fuck her!” he retorted. “Fuck Bellatrix, Harry. She doesn’t have any power over you anymore. She doesn’t control you, so stop letting her. You weren’t afraid of her yesterday. Bellatrix was afraid of you.”
Harry didn’t respond. He just stared at Ron. Then, to Ron’s surprise, Harry slid down next to him. Stretching out beside him, Harry kissed him once quickly, somewhat shyly, before he began licking his way up Ron’s bruised throat. The rough stubble on his chin scratched against Ron’s tender skin. Placing a hand at his back between his shoulders, Ron pulled Harry against his chest.
God, he was warm and felt so good. Maybe it was just a dream, but having Harry here next to him like this, apparently sane and possibly seducing him after the terror of yesterday, was like a miracle. It was a gift, and Ron couldn’t wrap his head around it. If it was a dream, he decided to stop trying to comprehend it, happy to simply let it continue.
“You taste salty,” Harry commented, murmuring the words against Ron’s damp neck as Ron stroked his back.
Soon, Harry was completely on top of Ron, sitting on his thighs, his hands tangled in Ron’s hair. Ron was propped up on his elbows underneath him as Harry had been the night before while Harry snogged him, their tongues dueling.
“I’m glad you changed your mind, Harry…about us,” Ron said breathlessly when they broke apart.
“I don’t know that I have. I’m just too weak and selfish to say no anymore, and I can’t undo what’s already happened between us. Well, more between me and Hermione. You were left out a bit yesterday. I’m sorry about that.”
“I was there and plenty involved.”
“For some of it, yeah, but still, I can fix that. I can… you know, finish what I started in the bathroom if you want.”
Harry went a bit red at his proposition even though he was sitting naked and hard in Ron’s lap. He kissed Ron again to cover his embarrassment, but Ron pulled away to look at him.
“You don’t have to do that, you know. What happened yesterday was for you. It was crazy and scary, and it doesn’t have to happen again if you don’t want it to.”
“And if I want it to?”
“I think you’d say that even if you don’t mean it.”
He put a retraining hand to Harry’s arm.
“Listen, you believe you can’t step back now, but you can. You said we can’t undo what’s happened, but we don’t have to go any further.”
“Changed your mind about this?” Harry asked, waving a hand between them.
“No, of course not! I just don’t want to make things worse, Harry. I don’t want you to be with us because you feel obligated, or to be here, doing this with me now out of guilt, or as some sort of debt repayment. I don’t want you like that. I don’t want you to regret this.”
“You don’t want me anymore?” Harry asked, sitting up fully and climbing back off Ron, mistaking Ron’s concerns for rejection.
“Don’t be stupid. Do I look like I don’t want you?” Ron asked incredulously, gesturing to his obvious arousal.
“Then lie back,” Harry whispered, scooting down Ron’s body. “And shut up.”
“It’s just, you know, sometimes…if you felt like…in the light of day—”
His breath hitched and his stomach clenched as Harry’s breath blew across his thighs.
“A mistake…I don’t want—”
“Shut up, Ron,” Harry warned, wrapping his fingers around the base of Ron’s erect cock to pull it towards him.
This dream had suddenly become very intense.
“We can go slow—”
“Are you afraid?” Harry whispered, arching an eyebrow as he stared up at Ron.
“Fuck, yes!” Ron moaned, trembling all over.
“Good.”
Harry grinned up at him, and then touched the tip of his tongue to the head of Ron’s cock, ending his protests. Ron let out a tiny squeak, clutching the sheets, but his eyes were wide, watching.
Then he squeezed them shut and shuddered as Harry took him into his hot, wet mouth.

Ron’s whole body had gone rigid when Harry wrapped his lips around the head of Ron’s cock and sucked him into his mouth. Relaxing his neck, Harry forced his head down, and Ron slid slowly down his throat. Then, when he’d taken his full length, Harry bit down around the base, and Ron shuddered. His eyes were still squeezed shut while he uttered a stream of hissed curses.
Engulfing every inch of Ron, Harry held himself there, unable to breathe around his girth, but he wasn’t panicked. Ron wasn’t holding his head down, wasn’t forcing him. Harry could remove the obstruction whenever he wanted, and he didn’t want to just yet. Controlling his gag reflexes, he patiently waited until Ron opened his eyes and looked down at him. Then he finally pulled back, watching Ron’s reaction before slowly repeating the process again a second time.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Ron moaned, clutching at Harry’s head and gripping a handful of his hair in his fist when Harry’s throat muscles squeezed and he swallowed around him. “You mother fucker!”
Taking that as a sign of approval, Harry finally began to move, sliding his hand up to wrap it around Ron’s throbbing cock. Perhaps Snape had been right, and Harry was a natural at performing fellatio. Something to pad his resume with later, he thought in dark amusement, smiling as he pulled back, swallowed, and went down again.
It wasn’t long before Ron had released his hair and clutched the sheet again, instead, letting Harry move more freely and with more speed. Harry continued to suck Ron off with the technique he’d learned in the dungeon. Sliding Ron’s shaft through his fist with every retreat of his lips and tongue, and back down again at their advance, he kept up the constant pressure around him with his firm grip while Ron bit down on his own lips to stifle the sounds he was emitting.
Then Harry could feel the head of Ron’s cock starting to flare against his tongue. Ron was gasping, pumping his hips now, so close to his release that he was unable to stop himself trying to hump Harry’s face. So Harry let him. Stilling, he braced himself and sealed his lips around Ron, relaxing his throat and allowing Ron to thrust through his fist and into his mouth while he ran his tongue around the sensitive rim.
When Ron’s rhythm became more erratic and he was whimpering pleas and warnings of his impending orgasm, Harry tried to help coax it out of him. Sliding a thumb under his tightened balls, he stroked his perineum firmly with his free hand. Ron let out a strangled cry, a mixture of surprise and pleasure, and after a few more shallow strokes, he squeezed his eyes closed again and came with a deep groan, his whole body shuddering and quaking.
Harry could have pulled back and finished Ron with just his hand, but he didn’t really want to, so he’d let Ron fill his mouth. When the contractions stopped and he was spent, Harry applied suction again, making Ron utter more curses. He knew how sensitive he would be, but he was trying to release Ron without dribbling all over his stomach, and it was hard to do with his head facing down and all the fluid trapped against his swollen lips. Not wanting to spit it out onto Ron or the floor, Harry swallowed. It was warm, of course, and slightly bitter.
Wiping his mouth as he crawled back up the bed and sat on his knees, he felt for the first time that he may have done a good job with something in this arena, for once.
“You taste better than Snape,” he announced hoarsely, his throat slightly raw.
“Shut up!” Ron growled, outraged. “Why would you mention that? God Damn, Harry! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Harry shrugged.
“The list is pretty long, but if you really want to hear it,” he replied, raising his eyebrows as his voice trailed off.
“You just totally killed my buzz mentioning him, you prat, and this was the best dream ever. Now I feel like an arse.”
“We’re not asleep, you idiot. At least I’m not. And you started it, you know, by bringing her up. That killed mine.”
“Bringing up who?” Ron asked innocently.
Harry scowled at him.
“Bellatrix.”
“Oh, that’s right. So I did.”
Ron slid an arm under his head and rested a hand on his stomach, watching Harry.
“You know, now I’ve experienced it, I think I know why Snape was trying to save you after all. I knew it wasn’t some crap about loyalty to Dumbledore. If you did anything to him like you just did to me, Snape planned to get you out of there and keep you all for himself, which just makes me want to kill the bastard even more.”
“Well, if he asked to meet me because he thought I might be grateful and would agree to be his pet boy, he was badly mistaken.”
Grinning at Harry, Ron patted the bed beside him.
“No, I have to get up. I need the loo. And we need to get to Bill’s.”
“It can wait, you’re supposed to cuddle with me,” he said, chuckling. “Hermione always does.”
“She’s right there,” Harry protested, pointing to Hermione who was curled up, pretending to still be asleep, facing away from them. “Go cuddle her.”
“No. This is my dream, and I want my post coitus pillow talk,” Ron whined petulantly, placing his hand on Harry’s thigh.
“Oh, God! This isn’t going to get weird is it?” Harry asked, alarmed.
“Nah, this isn’t weird,” Ron replied with heavy sarcasm, waving a hand between them and grinning hugely.
“You know what I mean. I’m not your boyfriend, or whatever, Won-Won. Don’t expect me to start holding your hand or snogging you in public, or something,” he warned.
Ron rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, cause that’s what I do with Hermione.”
Harry stared at him.
“I just don’t know what you expect from me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to react to this.”
“React to this? You started it! Both yesterday and today!” Ron replied incredulously. “All I ever did was snog you.”
“Please, you know you started all of this, and you were working towards a lot more than snogging,” Harry accused.
“Fine. I can’t deny that. But look, I’m not going to ask you to sit on my lap or anything at Bill’s today, Harry. Stop freaking out. What we do here in private, is private. It’s between you and me and Hermione. And when we leave this room or this house, it stays here. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“But while you’re here with me, naked, after you just sucked me off, you could show me a little affection,” he added, pouting. “You’re making me feel dirty and used.”
“Shut up,” Harry scoffed.
“Seriously, though,” Ron began then, the smile sliding off his face, turning pensive. “I want to talk about yesterday, about some of the things you said when you were trying to pull your arms out of their sockets to get away from me.”
“Haven’t I endured enough therapy for one morning, Ron?” Harry asked, exasperated. “You already made me talk about her, made me say her name. That’s progress, right? Pat yourself on the back and give it a rest for awhile.”
“No. I want to know about this monster inside you. This Dementor, or whatever.”
Harry froze, his eyes slowly finding Ron’s. He’d been caught off guard. Their light banter had left him unprepared for the questions. Lulled into thinking he might get away without having to discuss this, Harry felt manipulated by Ron, and it irritated him.
“You don’t really think that do you? It was just crazy talk yesterday, right? From the moon, and seeing her, and being back there. You said you were trying to get the poison out, you tried to show it to us, as if you thought you could actually see it, or something. Tell me about that.”
“I…you saw what I was like. You saw it come out of me. I wasn’t myself then. I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m becoming something else, Ron… something terrible.”
“What I saw was a man traumatized so much by all that’s been done to him that he snapped. A boy that has suffered for so long that he couldn’t take it anymore and fought back against the people that had hurt him. That’s all,” Ron replied firmly.
“I killed one person, attempted to kill another and then watched as a third died without trying to stop it. I sexually assaulted two people. I almost got my best friends killed, did get another friend killed, before finally trying again and failing again to kill myself. Then I rounded out my epic meltdown of a morning by having sex with those same two friends before finally collapsing,” Harry recited quickly. “Does that about sum it up? Did I miss anything, Ron? You tell me, if it wasn’t me that had done all that; wouldn’t you think that person was a monster? And now you want to cuddle with me like I’m just a cute little fluffy bunny, or something.”
“Well, maybe more like a bunny with fangs. You did bite me earlier.”
Harry glared at him.
“Look, Harry, you weren’t yourself. I’ll admit—”
“You’re deluding yourself.”
“Listen to me. These people, what they did to you…It would make anyone go crazy when they saw them again. And you’ve been struggling lately, not sleeping. And with the moon… It doesn’t make you a monster. A horny vigilante, perhaps. A man bent on revenge, but I completely agree with you on that score. I want to help with it, actually. As for the sexual assaults, Bellatrix had it coming, and I certainly didn’t mind mine. It was a right sight better than what you were doing before that. So you’re a little fucked up. We all are.”
Harry just stared at Ron a minute in dumbfounded disbelief. Then he pulled Ron by the arm so that he would sit up. Flipping Ron’s hand over, Harry slid his fingers over the circular scar on his chest.
“Can you feel that?” he whispered.
“I feel the scar, Harry, yes.”
“No. Do you feel how cold it is, how dead the skin is?”
“No, mate, I don’t. It feels warm, like the rest of you.”
“It feels cold to me, numb and it’s pumping the blackness into my veins, seeping into the rest of me.”
“Harry, it’s just damaged nerves. There isn’t anything in there. And your blood runs pure red. I know. I’ve seen enough of it.”
“Then why the fever? Why is my body fighting against it?” he argued. “It’s an infection, Ron. An infection that Madame Pomfrey can’t kill because it’s already dead.”
“Do you want to know what I think the fever’s from?” Ron asked. “I think it’s your magic. I think it’s those flames inside you. It’s your power, Harry. The power you’re holding inside. I don’t think for a second you’re a harmless fluffy bunny. I think you’re a damn powerful wizard.”
Harry remained silent, still holding Ron’s hand to his chest, while he considered his words. Ron ran his thumb over Harry’s nipple then, and Harry shivered involuntarily, looking back at him.
“Hermione would probably say we’re both wrong. She’d say it’s just a side effect of the bites. That the wolf, as you called it, is the only thing that’s inside you and that the fever is a side effect of a more rapid metabolism, or something, healing you faster. And if that’s the case, Harry, it’s not a bad thing. I mean, other than you going completely mental once a month from now on.”
“You’re completely mental, Ron.”
“I must be to put up with you.”
Ron rolled off the bed then and pulled Harry by the arm.
“Come on, I wanna show you something.”
“What?”
“Just come here,” Ron insisted, tugging again on Harry’s arm.
Harry complied, crawling out of the bed and following Ron’s naked form into the loo. The bathroom was still in shambles from yesterday, the mirror shattered, his blood smeared on most of the surfaces in the room, which had dried to a rusty brown color.
“Watch your step.”
“What are we doing?”
Ron didn’t reply. Picking up a sliver of the broken mirror, he held out his hand to Harry, who after a bewildered second, placed his own hand into Ron’s. Ron squeezed it briefly and then slid the sharp edge along the tip of Harry’s middle finger. Blood welled immediately with the pressure Ron was applying.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“Blood,” Harry replied, nonplussed.
“Look at it. What color is it?”
Harry didn’t answer, continuing to stare at the blood as it welled up and slid down the side of his finger.
“Is it black?”
“I don’t know,” Harry answered hesitantly.
He thought it might be. It wasn’t pure red, he was sure.
Ron released his hand, slid the glass over his own finger, and then placed it next to Harry’s.
“Now, what color is mine?”
Harry looked between them, frowning.
“It’s red.”
“Can you tell a difference?”
“I don’t know, Ron,” he said again uncertainly. “Maybe…yes.”
“Close your eyes,” Ron ordered then.
Harry did, though he was getting exasperated again.
Flipping Harry’s hand over, Ron squeezed the tip of his finger. Then he told Harry to open them again.
“Okay, now, tell me, which is your blood, and which is mine?”
Five or six drops of blood had been dripped in the sink, sliding towards the mouth of the basin. Harry stared at the identical blood for a long time, brow furrowed, before speaking.
“It’s all mine,” he answered, sure that this was some trick of Ron’s to confuse him, to make him think that Ron had dripped his own blood in the sink alongside Harry’s.
“Wrong,” Ron replied, opening his hand. “It’s all mine. I dripped yours in my other hand.”
Harry stared at the blood in Ron’s palm for a moment in confusion and then up into his face as Ron turned on the tap.
“It’s in your head, mate,” he assured Harry as he rinsed Harry’s blood off his hand and his own out of the sink. “It’s not real, okay? There’s nothing inside you. Nothing is in your blood. No black infection. All right?”
Harry was silent for a long while, still staring into the now clean sink basin. Then he finally looked up into Ron’s eyes and nodded, though he still felt unsure.
“Good. No more talk of black poison and Dementors then, and if you ever take a sharp object to yourself again, I will beat the living shit out of you. I’m not kidding,” he said sternly, poking Harry in the chest. “Got it?”
Harry nodded.
“Good. Now, come on, let’s get a shower.”
Ron pushed Harry towards the tub, slapping him lightly on the arse, and then followed him in.
“It’s my turn to see what you taste like.”

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What it comes down to

Chapter 34. Talking it over in Bed

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