Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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
- 40
- 41
- 42
Chapter 40. Campaign for Control

Remus walked out into the shadowed garden where Harry was kneeling over Dobby’s grave having just dutifully deposited the fresh cut flowers Hermione had given him. Everywhere shoots of new spring grass were pushing up through the freshly turned soil to heal the wound and cover the ugly scar in its landscape. Beside the lichen covered, roughly carved headstone stood a jar of sea lavender with its clusters of delicate violet and white blooms. Carefully arranged next to it was a selection of large seashells and a few polished stones scavenged from the shore as offerings to the departed.
Harry’s continued grief manifested itself in the droop of his shoulders and the bow of his head as he stood up, staring down at the marker and holding the now empty vase upside down to let the water drain out.
“I am deeply sorry that he died. He was immensely loyal to you,” Remus said, offering his condolences quietly as he came to stand next to his dear friend’s son, who he’d come to know and love as his own.
Harry made no reply, but nodded while Lupin put a hand to his neck and squeezed consolingly.
“Dobby did a magnificent job caring for you, Harry. You look so much better than the last time I saw you, particularly since you did something with that hair.” Smirking slightly, he ran his hand up into Harry’s dark locks, tugging on a clump of the recently shorn strands that stood up perpetually at Harry’s crown like his father’s had before him.
Harry’s lips pulled up into the briefest of smiles for a moment, but then it quickly faded.
“He was a dear friend to me, Remus. He saved all of us, and now he’s dead.” Hesitating, he looked up into Remus’ face with those remarkable deep green eyes that were so like his mother’s, yet even more striking framed by his father’s dark hair coloring and her fair complexion.
Now that he'd met his own son, no other child could hope to compare in his eyes to the wonder and beauty of that amazing blessing, but Remus remembered Harry as an especially beautiful baby with those unique features. He'd been fascinated at the harmonious blending of both parents he’d found in their cherubic child.
As Harry had grown into a man, his features had lost the soft roundness of youth, changing into the hard planes and rough stubble of adulthood. Yet those same memorable qualities had not diminished in him. He’d only gained more of his parent’s characteristic traits, more of their personalities and mannerisms, despite him having barely known them.
Everyone was drawn to him, and not just those, like himself, who saw so much of his parents, his old friends in his young face. James and Lily’s son had an unusually powerful magnetism about him that was all his own. It bonded all those near to him tightly and protectively around him. No one could ignore it or deny it. Whether Harry wanted them to or not, people couldn’t help but respond to it, either positively, or negatively.
Like his father before him, Harry was a born leader. Yet, by circumstances, or by nature, even more powerfully possessed of it. People would go to war for this boy, follow him into battle with complete conviction, and lay down their lives for him without hesitation. Remus had only known one other person who could compel that same loyalty. Albus Dumbledore.
Allegiance to that great wizard had sent him into battle more than once and back to the torment of his Werewolf kin on Dumbledore's command, despite his great reluctance. But devotion to this man before him had compelled him to kill his own maker, Fenrir Greyback, the man he feared above all others.
“You were right when you told me that the time for Disarming was over,” Harry continued with a voice thick with regret. “It has been for a long time now, but I just couldn’t accept it. I had her wand, and still she killed him. She was aiming for me when she threw that knife, only she got him instead.”
“Were you injured?” Remus asked worriedly, protectiveness surging instantly as he quickly looked Harry over as if searching for wounds through his clothing.
His werewolf traits made his eyesight keener than most, but it could not penetrate through layers of fabric, and his nose had not alerted him to any concealed damage either. Harry appeared healthy, at least physically. All he smelled was sadness in his companion which was such a familiar scent on his newborn son’s godfather, that he’d come to associate it with Harry, however much he wished it weren’t so. Sirius had the same melancholy scent in the last years of his life. Perhaps the mutual sorrow between the two of them was what had helped forge the deep connection they felt for each other before that was ruthlessly stolen from Harry, too.
“Well, she tried to eviscerate me first, but she only managed to catch me in the thigh. It wasn’t bad,” Harry added when Lupin’s eyes grew wide with concern. “Hermione healed it. I’m fine, truly, but I couldn’t finish her before Dobby was Disapparating with us.”
A sudden cold blast of fury seemed to emanate from Harry then, chilling the air around them perceptibly. The sharp odor of hatred and regret stung Remus’ senses before it quickly curdled back into the bittersweet smell of sadness, tinged with shame.
He had a sudden image of Harry on his bed in Grimmauld Place, head down, hands in his lap with his hair standing up comically in every direction and the bruising around his eye darkening.
“Everyone is dying because of me,” he heard Harry’s anguished words echo again in his ears.
Merlin, life had been cruel to James and Lily’s son! How he wished they’d lived to see him safely grown. How different would Harry’s life and Sirius’ have been if Peter hadn’t betrayed them all? How different his own? God, he missed them, the ache more acute today from his inability to share with his old friends the new miracle in his life.
While Harry was no longer the sole heir of the original Marauders, he, himself had become the lone survivor of that band of rebels because of Peter’s treacherous duplicity. Remus had once mistakenly considered him a friend, but he never had been. Wormtail had finally shown himself as the weak and cowardly traitor he was. The turncoat at whose feet the blame for the others demise truly lay. He was the rat in their midst that they’d all failed to recognize until it was too late, despite the hundreds of literal transformations into that worm-tailed scavenger they’d witnessed. Too naive and trusting they were in their youth to see him for what he had always been.
“It’s not your fault, Harry,” Lupin told him bracingly as he stroked Harry’s neck with a callused thumb, knowing Harry was blaming himself for the elf’s death, struggling under the weight of one more burden he had no cause to carry.

Lupin’s thumb trailed along the back of Harry’s neck as he whispered lies meant to comfort while Harry again felt the horror of that day, at the other lives that might’ve been lost because of him. It could have been Ron and Hermione he’d watched die. Instead, it was Dobby and Wormtail. And it was his fault. Lupin said no one was dying for him, or because of him, but Dobby did, and he would have to live with that forever.
He looked up at Remus then. “Wormtail is dead, too,” he blurted, realizing suddenly that Lupin might not be aware.
Remus was quiet for a minute. Then he nodded grimly. “Did you kill him, Harry?”
“No,” Harry answered softly with a shake of his head. “I didn’t have to. Pettigrew killed himself, but I would have. He was strangling Ron.”
Remus’ hand tightened on Harry’s neck, but he didn’t respond. To Harry, his silence felt like a remonstration, as if Lupin was struggling to keep the words, “I told you so,” from spilling out of his mouth. He looked down again, unable to meet that amber gaze.
“I should have let you and Sirius kill him that night in the Shrieking Shack,” he confessed guiltily. “So much would be different now if I had. So many lives spared. I caused great damage that day, Mooney.”
“You showed him mercy, Harry. You gave him a second chance to redeem himself. He certainly didn’t deserve it for what he’d done to you, but you gave it anyway. I know what I said at the Burrow, but I was wrong then. I was afraid and worried for your safety and for my wife and the others, but I never should have told you to ignore your instincts. They’ve always served you well, and if I were a wiser man, I’d have remembered that before cursing you in anger when you next tried to set me straight. I regret that very much.”
Harry looked at him in surprise at the mention of that ill-fated visit before it turned to shame. “I’m sorry, Remus. I shouldn’t have said those—”
“No. Stop apologizing. I was a coward and a fool, and you were absolutely correct. Your father and Sirius would have agreed and used much more force than you did to knock some sense into me. Lily would have been on your side, as well, and done even worse to ensure I saw the error of my ways. She was uncommonly skilled with a wand,” he added ruefully. “After she finished with me, I probably would have been sporting a horse’s arse as a face so that my appearance would match my words. She always was able to keep the three of us in line. In truth, we were all a bit terrified of her.”
“Like Hermione.”
“Yes, like Hermione,” Lupin agreed. “Or Fleur, perhaps.”
Harry nodded while trying to stifle a snort at the image Remus had conjured, but couldn’t. Remembering the scene he’d witnessed in the Pensieve of his father and Sirius with Snape, he recalled how James had eyed Lily’s wand nervously and immediately stopped taunting his rival. That is, until she’d ultimately given her permission and angrily stalked away after Snape had called her a Mudblood. But then the sudden levity left him when the thought of Snape brought forth the other images he’d seen of her in those moments in the dungeon as his former Professor had been assaulting him.
“Were you in love with her?” he’d shouted at the man the next time they’d met in the woods, but Snape wouldn’t give him an answer. Harry didn’t need one, though. He already knew the truth.
“Listen to me, Harry. Don’t ever doubt yourself for what you did for Peter and Stan—”
And Snape, Harry thought bitterly. He’d let Snape live, too. He’d had him on his back at the end of his wand, but despite his revulsion for the man and the long list of compelling reasons he had, he couldn’t kill him. Ron had called him a coward for letting him go. Well, he hadn’t actually said it, but he certainly thought it.
“—and don’t ever resist the impulse. Mercy is a rare quality to possess for someone who has lost as much as you so young. You are not to blame for what Peter did with that gift. He chose to squander the clemency you bestowed upon him, and so it was taken away.”
Harry nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed Lupin. He didn’t say it, but he wondered if there was any mercy left in his heart anymore. There might have been for Snape, but there certainly wasn’t any for Rowle, nor would there have been for Bellatrix. But standing here next to Dobby’s grave was a reminder that for every act of vengeance he took, another innocent’s life would be forfeit, and that was much too high a price.
“Why were you three in Diagon Alley?”
Harry looked up at him again in surprise, the unexpected query jerking him out of his thoughts. Then he raised his eyebrows in unspoken question of what Lupin knew while remaining determinedly silent on a response.
“Bill has kept the Order informed,” Lupin admitted. “How else would I have known where to find you?”
“What else has he told you?” Harry asked carefully.
“That you three are planning something, but he won’t divulge what those plans are.”
Harry nodded, the sudden knot of tension in his stomach easing somewhat with the knowledge that Bill had not betrayed their confidence to the rest of the Order to thwart them, despite his belief that this was another suicide mission into which Harry was leading his baby brother.
“You won’t tell me either, will you? Does Bill even know himself?”
Harry stared hard at him through narrowed eyes. “Keep your snout out of this, Remus,” he cautioned sternly. “You have a wife and son that need you. Don’t make me goad you into hexing me again to get rid of you!”
It was unquestionably foolish to provoke Lupin. The very last thing he needed was to get into another row today, and with a real Werewolf at that, who would, without a doubt, be more protective and volatile with his emotions running high after witnessing his son’s birth than Bill could have hoped to be at the fear for his brother safety. But Harry was feeling slightly reckless today and increasingly drunk. Besides, when had he ever done the sensible thing? May as well go for three out of three, he decided, bracing himself then for the curse or punch that was coming. Yet to his surprise, Lupin’s shocked face split into a sheepish grin.
“All right, all right!” Remus said exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in surrender, eight long fingers splayed wide while the other two held his wine glass by the stem. “I just worry for you three… with good reason!”
“I know,” Harry admitted ashamedly.
Lupin grinned at him ruefully before grasping his shoulder and squeezing again. “You have your father’s daring and your mother’s stubbornness. It’s a dangerous combination that would make any person who cared for you worry. Yet, you seem better, though, than when last we spoke. Are you coming to terms with all that has happened to you?” he asked hesitantly.
“I… I’m doing better with it, yes,” Harry stuttered in response, startled by the unexpected question.“I think in some ways, it took Dobby's death for me to finally come round. I won’t lie though, Mooney. It’s still a struggle every day.”
“It always will be,” Lupin replied with an empathetic sigh. “But despite all the bad in the world, there is still good, too. Still happiness to be had, even in the darkest of times… even for people like me, who don’t deserve it.”
“But you do deserve it, Remus!” Harry said earnestly. “You deserve to be happy with Tonks and your son.”
“You deserve it, too, Harry. More than anyone I know.”
Lupin pulled Harry against his chest then with his hand across Harry’s back. Harry laid his head on Remus’ shoulder, his face pressed into the Werewolf's warm neck, breathing in his scent. He smelled like sandalwood and pine and linen that’s been hung out on the line to dry mixed with the slight tang of musk and dried sweat. It reminded him distinctly of Ron, which was both comforting and familiar, making Harry relax into his embrace.
Feeling slightly drowsy from all the wine, he let Remus stroke the back of his head, allowing himself to take comfort and solace from the last father figure left to him, who, unlike Dumbledore and Sirius, was now truly a father in his own right. The proud parent of his own flesh and blood newborn son. It was a role, Harry believed, that Remus had been born to fulfill.
“You’re going to be a great father,” Harry mumbled into the collar of Lupin’s cloak.
Remus snorted. “We might never know. If I don’t get back home soon, Dora will have thrown me out of the house!”
“You’d better go then,” Harry advised, pulling back to look at Lupin. “Give her my love, okay?”
“I will, Harry,” Lupin promised, handing Harry his half-finished glass of wine before squeezing Harry’s shoulder again. “And I’ll see you again soon. All right?”
“All right,” Harry agreed, nodding. “But bring pictures next time. I want to see what a beautiful child this godson of mine is.”
Lupin beamed with joy. The happiness radiating out of him made him look younger than Harry had ever seen him, and Harry felt suddenly older than he’d ever been.
If Remus only knew the reckless man he’d named as godfather to his son, he thought regretfully. With the path he was on, Harry would undoubtedly be a more absentee godfather to Teddy than Sirius had been to him. At least the little tyke had both his parents, and Lupin was close to Bill. He and Fleur would make fine substitutes in Harry’s absence, he decided.
As Lupin walked back towards the house, Harry suddenly called after him, “And for the love of all that’s holy, Remus, do NOT forget Fleur's damned food!”
“Right you are, Godfather!” Lupin called back, his shoulders dancing with his laughter.
Harry stood there smiling, feeling slightly dizzy with relief and off kilter by the news. It had been so long since they’d had any good news. He’d felt dread when he’d heard Remus’ voice at the door, and pure panic when he’d seen his face, certain that something awful had happened. Steeling himself for the worst, he was unprepared for what he’d heard. Harry’s new godson was whole and healthy. It was a gift that was so welcome during these stressful times that Harry was still struggling to accept it.
He must have looked like a complete idiot just standing there, blinking in shocked confusion, unsure how to react to Lupin’s announcement while everyone in the room watched them avidly. For God’s sake! The best thing he could think to say when his tongue came unglued from the roof of his mouth and his jaws finally unclenched was, “Congratulations!” What a ponce he was. As Godfather, he should have been the one to lead the toast, but Bill had to step in for him instead, doing a much better job than Harry could have ever managed.
He definitely wasn’t cut out for this role, he thought dismally as he downed the rest of Remus’ wine.
Night was falling rapidly, the stars starting to glimmer in the clear darkening sky as Harry lurked in the garden. He was hesitant to return to the house before Remus had said his goodbyes to the others and departed, fearful that he might have to witness another exchange between the Werewolf and part-Veela. He didn’t want another horribly private scene described in mortifying detail filling his brain. Already, he couldn’t blink away the image of Remus returning home to his exhausted wife and their new child, sitting beside her on the bed and stroking her shocking pink hair as she cradled their hours old son against her while the baby nursed at her exposed breast.
Christ almighty! It was so inappropriate to picture such things. Why did Fleur have to say that? And why hadn’t he had the good sense to leave the room like Ron and Dean? Had they known what was coming? Did women routinely share those kinds of intimate details with anyone in hearing distance at the news of a new birth?
Cursing his vivid imagination, Harry’s face felt hot with embarrassment, yet the night was growing quite cold. Though the walled garden blocked most of the wind, the warmth of the day was being swept out to sea and the cool night air was rolling in off it to take its place as if some great unseen being had sucked in a great lungful of mild air and then exhaled again a long frigid breath.
Surely Remus had managed to get away by now, he thought hopefully. Even if he hadn’t, Harry couldn’t expect to stay out here much longer before Ron or Hermione came looking for him. He didn’t want to be fetched and ushered back inside like some wayward child, so he gathered his resolve and headed unsteadily back to the house, the empty vase held in one hand and the empty wine glass in the other for balance.
He felt warm, really warm when he stepped back into the living room and closed the patio door behind him. His eyes were starting to droop from lack of sleep and all the alcohol coursing through him. When he turned around, Ron was walking up to him grinning, evidently returning from seeing Remus off.
“Godfather, Harry,” he said, clapping Harry on the back proudly.
Harry grinned back, feeling pleasantly buzzed as he gazed into Ron’s face before his eyes slid down to linger on Ron’s lips. Ron’s own grin faded for a moment as he stared back at Harry before it transformed into a knowing smirk.
“What do you say we head home then?” he asked, pulling the vase and glass from Harry’s limp grip.
Licking his own dry lips, Harry nodded. He didn’t know who else might be in the room, but he really wanted to kiss Ron right now. He really, really liked snogging Ron.
Fucking hell! He was drunk. How many damn glasses had he had? Four? Five and a half? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he needed to get out of here before he did anything stupid because however many it had been, it was obviously too many; more than enough to have dulled his sense of propriety, yet not nearly enough to dull his sudden arousal.
If Ron chose to accept the offer Harry was telegraphing none to subtly and wanted to take him right here on the floor in the middle of Bill and Fleur’s sitting room, Harry feared that he was intoxicated enough to let him.
“Come on,” Ron urged him. “Let’s go take these to the kitchen and get Hermione.”
Harry swept his arm in front of him in an ‘after you’ sort of way, ushering Ron ahead of him, which made Ron snort in amusement.
“How ‘bout I follow you instead?” he suggested, inclining his chin in the direction he wanted Harry to take.
Shrugging, feeling uncommonly agreeable, Harry side-stepped him and ambled towards the kitchen to collect the third member of their torrid triad.
Ron Apparated them all home because, like him, Hermione had also had a little too much to drink. Thank God Ron was sober enough to convince his brother he was up for the task or they might have been forced to spend the night at Shell Cottage. Drunk and horny, they would have had to try and sleep if off on the living room floor, struggling to stifle their desire with the fear of being discovered in a naked pile come morning.
As it was, the three of them were tangled up in each other almost the instant their feet hit the floor of the foyer at his Godfather's old house. Harry was fumbling with Ron’s fly while Ron tugged on Hermione’s shirt, their mouths and tongues sliding together, their hands groping as they stumbled into each other and off the walls, practically giddy as they tried to make their way upstairs. They were all going to be bruised in odd places in the morning, but Harry was feeling none of it right now.
Somehow, he ended up in the lead. Maneuvering backwards up the stairs, he’d almost made it to the safety of the landing, but tripped on the last step. Hopelessly unbalanced, arms wind milling absurdly, he grabbed for anything to break his fall, but ended up only dragging Hermione down with him as he keeled over backwards like a felled tree, landing flat on his back in the hallway. Her added weight knocked the breath out of him as her forehead smacked into his and her hair fell all around his face among the stars in his vision. Ron had only managed to stay standing by gripping the banister while making a wild grab to save either of them, but failing, tearing Hermione's blouse in the process.
Staring down at him for a moment in surprised shock, Hermione kissed his forehead once and then burst into riotous laughter as Ron sat down on the step beside them, grinning.
“Anything bent or broken?” he asked, kicking off his shoes before pulling his shirt over his head and dropping it on the stairs below them.
Harry might have responded that he was unsure, or at least giggled along with Hermione if he could have drawn a breath. Instead, his body flared with sudden heat and his vision dimmed. Growling, he swept Hermione’s hair back off her grinning face and gripped her head before rolling with her, reversing their positions so that she was under him on the worn carpet while he kissed her hungrily and ground his arousal against her.
“Guess not,” Ron remarked dryly.
Then Harry was pushing up her shirt, sucking on her ribs and biting at her cloth covered nipples. Drunk and delirious from the sudden familiar pain, struggling to breathe while his head throbbed dully, his mind was in a haze of furious desire that sent him spinning out of control.
Hermione was pulling at his hair, writhing under him when he suddenly came back to himself and realized where he was, who she was, and what the hell he was doing to her. Sitting back up quickly and almost toppling over backwards again down the stairs, breathing hard and blinking rapidly, Harry shook his head, desperately trying to clear his vision.
“You okay?” Ron asked cautiously, staring at Harry uncertainly with a hand on his arm to steady him.
“I don’t know… I just,” Harry stuttered, wiping at his flushed face with shaking hands and staring around, unsure now if Ron had been forced to pull him off Hermione. “God, I’m so sorry, Hermione. Are you okay?” he asked helplessly, his eyes stinging with the threat of tears while his body began to shake at the sight of her savaged clothes and her disheveled appearance. “I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t know what just happened all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine, Harry,” she assured him, sitting up and smoothing down her hair. “You didn’t hurt me, but I think I just got a glimpse of what you’ve been trying to hold back all this time. You definitely weren’t your usual self just then.”
“No… I wasn’t. I’ve had too much to drink… then I fell, and I… I couldn’t breathe… my head was pounding, and I forgot things for a minute,” he babbled between quick short gasps of breath. “I’m really sorry. I’m so sorry.” He felt clammy with cold sweat, dizzy and short of breath, and realized vaguely that he was having a panic attack, though the symptoms were somewhat muted from the wine.
“It’s all right, Harry. I’m not hurt unless you count the lump we’re both going to have on our foreheads tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry!”
“It was an accident. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Ron told him, pulling Harry, trembling and distraught, down next to him before rubbing his thumbs in soothing circles at the base of Harry’s head. “You just got a little excited.”
“Damn it! Is it... am I always going to be like this?”
“Just breathe for me, Harry. Everything’s all right now,” Ron murmured, his thumbs digging more firmly into the tense muscles in Harry’s neck. “You need to calm down a bit. We were all a bit too aggressive tonight. We just need to take it more slowly. All right?”
“I don’t think I can,” Harry confessed miserably. Still wound tightly and painfully aroused, he was afraid that more stimulation might cause him to escalate into violence again. “I’m not safe right now, Ron. I should just go to bed and sleep this off.”
“You’ve put me off for the last couple of nights in a row, mate. I’m not giving up on you that easily tonight. So why don’t we just get up off the floor and move to the couch in the drawing room? Hermione will make us all some special tea and we’ll start again with just you and me, and see where that takes us,” Ron suggested, nodding at Hermione, who nodded back in agreement.“You’re safe with me. I’m more of a match for you physically. I can handle it better if things start to get out of control again.”
“What you need to do is to work through it, Harry, not run from it. All right?” Hermione counseled, evidently eager for the opportunity to subject him to more therapy while his defenses were down.
“Yeah… all right,” Harry agreed, though still reluctant as he stared around slowly before looking into Ron’s face. “Just snogging though… just snogging, okay?”
“Okay,” Ron agreed.
“I really like kissing you,” he blurted stupidly.
“I know you do. I can tell,” Ron murmured, still stroking him soothingly. “I like kissing you, too.”
“Really?” Harry asked doubtfully.
“Yeah, really, you drunk bastard.”
Standing up, Ron pulled him to his feet and then Hermione to hers before leading them both by the hand to the drawing room they’d initially been aiming for before everything had come crashing to the floor with him when he’d tripped.
Ron steered him to the couch, and Harry dropped down on it heavily as Ron pulled Hermione into his embrace. Then he tilted her head up by the chin, stroking her hair out of her face and running his thumb across her forehead as he examined her.
“Are you all right to make tea?” he asked with concern. “Think you can manage the stairs again by yourself?”
“I’m fine, Ron,” she assured him, kissing him swiftly. “Truly.”
“All right,” Ron agreed before sitting down beside Harry and patting his knee while Hermione remained standing.
Then she stepped close to Harry. He tensed as she leaned down and kissed him softly before pulling back and running her finger across his lips. “I like kissing you too, Harry,” she whispered. “And I liked how you were kissing me earlier. Don’t be upset.”
Harry flushed and relaxed his fisted hands while she ruffled his hair, relieved that her kiss hadn’t caused his aggression to flare.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she announced as she turned and walked from the room.
Then Ron snogged him long and lazily between forced sips of Hermione’s special tea, which was strong and slightly bitter, until Harry’s lips were numb. Stroking his face, and his hair and his chest, Ron pressed his advantage, taking things further than Harry had initially agreed to go as he slowly undressed him. Yet Harry didn’t put up any resistance to it or even utter a single word of discouragement despite his lingering reluctance.
In an attempt to render him harmless, they’d likely saturated him with an unhealthy cocktail of potions from her bag along with the alcohol already in his system. But he couldn’t muster the strength to care because his head was filled with a foggy contentment which made him incapable of anger or regret. Yet it also made him incapable of sex. He simply wasn't able to get fully aroused despite Ron and Hermione's efforts which Harry found in turns both amusing and frustrating. It looked like working through it wasn't going to be an option for him tonight.
With little grace, Ron finally accepted defeat and settled for an evening of quiet conversation. Harry, the only one of the three of them completely naked but too drugged or drunk to feel self-conscious about it, was on one end of the sofa with Hermione lying against him to share in the warmth of his body while she stroked a thumb absently over the thin, recent line of the scar across his thigh. Ron was on the other end talking softly with Hermione while Harry twirled a strand of her hair, fascinated as the curled end circled his finger while he listened drowsily to their murmured words which were soothing but incomprehensible.
By the time they’d headed off to bed, the effects of the wine and Hermione’s special tea had begun to wear off. Harry thought of Lupin again and the news of his son’s birth as he crawled under the blankets, the slightly musty smell of the linen filling his nostrils as he burrowed into the pillow. But once he was pulled into sleep, those thoughts mixed with the discussion at Dobby’s graveside and the disorienting memories of Bellatrix brought on by that the drunken fall coupled, perhaps, with the fear of not being capable of fulfilling the promise Hermione had reminded him of the night before, had turned into the most horrifying nightmare Harry had ever had.
He dreamt that he was still trapped in the cellar, held without rescue to be tortured and used unendingly while the rotting bodies of Ron and Hermione hung on the walls around him so that he could watch them decay, as their now sightless eyes had once watched him while the Death Eaters had violated and tortured him repeatedly.
He’d refused to leave without them, vowing to die alongside them, but his magic hadn’t come to him. He couldn’t save them this time, and he hadn’t been allowed to die either. Instead, he’d been forced to watch helplessly as his captors had savaged them, listening as they screamed for mercy. Now they were forever silent, their pleas finally answered by Voldemort himself after his final desecration of their bodies, their minds having long since broken under the strain.
Only Snape watched him now. His attempted rescuer had been caught and returned, now chained to the opposite wall so that he could blame Harry for their plight, which he did until his voice finally gave out and his body had shriveled so that it was just graying skin pulled over bone. Harry had been forced to service him daily with his mouth until Snape finally grew too weak to perform even with the potion they continued to pour down his throat. Now he just hung limply from the chains supporting him, his final days spent in observation of his most despised former pupil.
Weeks past in agony and despair with an unrelenting stream of tormentors his only visitors, all his most despised attackers still alive to continue brutalizing him. Then Bellatrix had fallen pregnant with his child, a life created, and growing inside her from the seed she’d stolen from him night after night, the irrefutable evidence of his desire for her. No matter how much he wanted to deny that he ever consented to the sex, he’d learned his lessons well and had become a participant in the act without the aid of a potion, brought to orgasm again and again by her ministrations alone.
Hoping it would be her tonight and not one of the others, craving her sadistic affection and aroused by his hatred of her, he lay in anticipation of her cruel face. Fully erect and strapped down on his back under the jaundiced gaze of his ex-professor, turned on by the promise of the type of pain and release only she could provide him, he eagerly waited for her to appear.
Harry woke up horrified and repulsed by the vile image of her protruding belly and swollen breasts as she sat astride him, riding his stiff cock as he growled under her, baring his teeth and spewing his hatred of her, yet desperate for her hands to tighten around his throat so that he could finally orgasm. The dream was so vividly real, that he couldn’t go back to sleep again, afraid even to close his eyes. So consumed with revulsion by his own throbbing erection that it took all his will not to break his promise to Ron and cut himself open again for relief. He lay there trembling with the effort to hold himself in the bed while his cock slowly deflated. Vowing never to drink another potion-laced tea or drop of alcohol ever again as he struggled to fight off the nausea because if he couldn’t hold it down, and had to run to the bathroom to be sick, he wouldn’t be able to keep from slicing himself open over and over again to bleed out into the sink.
That night was the first night that he’d crept into Ron and Hermione’s room. Once he’d calmed himself enough that he felt like he could leave his bed, he crept straight across the hall on wobbly legs. Hugging his knees against his chest, he huddled in misery in the chair near the foot of their bed as they slept while his head pounded behind his eyes and his stomach cramped and rolled with nausea. Assuring himself over and over that they were alive and healthy as he watched their chests rise and fall while he trembled like a little boy who was too afraid of what was under his bed to go back to his room and sleep, and too afraid to wake his parents and ask for their protection.
As soon as the first rays of light illuminated the room, he got up and quietly returned to his own bed. It was more than an agonizing hour later before Ron and Hermione finally woke. The sound of their voices was such a welcome reprieve from his persistent anxiety at the self imposed purgatory of being back in the room of his nightmares that a wave of relief rolled over Harry as he crawled back off his bed when he heard them get up and start moving around. Both of them were tousle haired and sleep rumpled when he met them at the door.
“Damn!” Ron exclaimed when he glanced at Harry. “You look like total shite, mate. Are you okay?”
Harry hadn’t intended to tell them anything, or reveal his distress, but he was still so rattled that he simply shook his head and stumbled into the safety of their embrace, shuddering all over.
“What the hell?” Ron asked in bewilderment.
“Harry, what's happened? Are you ill?” Hermione asked.
Harry shook his head again, still unwilling to speak as she stroked his hair while his head throbbed dully behind his tightly closed eyes.
“Come on,” she urged him, taking hold of his arm. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
“Noooo!” Harry moaned, resisting her pull as a fresh surge of panic threatened to make him sick.
“The couch, then?” she suggested.
Nodding weakly, Harry allowed them to lead him into the drawing room before he curled up on the couch in a tight ball. Then Hermione conjured a blanket and draped it over him still looking concerned before she sat down next to him and ran her hands over his face and down his neck.
“You are ill! You’re fever is higher than normal and you’re deathly pale. What do you need me to get for you?”
“Nothing,” Harry mumbled miserably. “I don’t want any more potions. I’m all right.”
“You’re not all right, Harry,” Ron argued.
“I just had a bad night. I’m dizzy, disoriented, and hung over, but it will pass.”
“Did you have a nightmare?” Hermione asked.
“The worst fucking nightmare I’ve ever had,” Harry admitted. “Alcohol and whatever potions you gave me last night are a terrible mix that make for one hell of a bad trip. But I’m not telling you about it, all right? Ever. So don’t even ask.”
“Talking about it—”
“Will only make it worse,” Harry snapped, cutting her off. Shuddering again at the memory, he felt light headed and unreasonably angry at their concern. “I thought I was okay, but I didn’t expect to feel so much relief when you finally woke up. I just need a minute to get my shit together again. I’ll be fine in a little while. Really.”
“All right,” Hermione reluctantly agreed. “But you need to take some aspirin at least for the headache and to try to bring that fever back under control.”
“I’ll bring those little pills and make you some tea,” Ron said before Harry could argue.
“Fine, but don’t put anything in that tea!” Harry warned him.
“Just hot water and tea leaves, mate,” Ron assured him. “I promise.”
“Doctor Ron to the rescue,” Harry mumbled under his breath as Ron headed for the door while Hermione snorted in amusement. “Remind me never to drink anything you give me ever again,” Harry grumbled sullenly as he laid his swimming head against the arm rest. “What did you put in it anyway?”
“Ummm… I don’t really remember,” Hermione confessed. “Maybe you should remind me never to make tea when I’ve had too much to drink.”
“I blame Ron,” Harry said with a derisive snort as Hermione wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder in commiseration of his plight.
Harry turned his face to look at her. “How’s your head?” he asked.
“Hmm?”
“Your forehead from where you smacked into mine when I dragged you down with me last night?”
“Oh,” she said, running a hand across it. “It’s fine. Barely even a bump this morning.”
“That’s good,” Harry replied with a nod of his head.
“And yours?” Hermione asked.
Harry shrugged.
Ron returned with a tea service that also contained a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin. He set it down on the coffee table before shaking out two pills and handing them and the glass of water to Harry.
“Thanks,” Harry said grudgingly.
“I started some porridge,” Ron informed them. “I need to get back down to the kitchen and stir it before it scorches.”
“I’m not at death’s door!” Harry growled in exasperation, throwing off the blanket and sitting up which made him wince as his head throbbed harder and the dizziness intensified. “You don’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“Shut up and lay down,” Ron insisted. “You’re not leaving that couch until your color comes back. Not on my watch, and you can forget going to Bill’s today. Hermione can send him a message to let Griphook know that we’re all hung over and aren’t coming today.”
“That’s going to piss him off, Ron. We can’t afford that.”
“Yes we can,” Ron argued. “He’s always pissed off anyway so it hardly matters. What's he going to do? Walk away without his prize? I don't think so. Besides, it’s doctor’s orders,” he added with a smirk.
“Damn… heard that, did you?”
“Yup. Now listen to your healer, and shut the fuck up.”
“I agree with Doctor Ron’s assessment, Harry,” Hermione said as she stood up and pulled her wand, grinning at the scowl on Harry’s face as she threw the blanket back onto him and conjured a pillow. “Lie back down and shut the fuck up already.”
Both Ron and Harry gaped at her in surprise, shocked into silence by the novelty of her crass language.
“Fuck you both,” Harry finally grumbled irritably as he tugged the pillow from her grip, pulled the blanket back around him and laid his head down against the cool pillowcase while Ron retreated back to the kitchen and Hermione sent a Patronus message to Bill.
Ron’s porridge wasn’t as good as Dobby’s had been, but Harry ate every last bit in his heaping bowl without complaint before draining his tea. Then once his headache had finally subsided, he promptly fell asleep and slept soundly for several hours.

“I’m sorry I was such an arse earlier,” he apologized drowsily when he’d blinked himself awake and found Hermione sitting across from him in her favorite chair with a book in her lap. Harry sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes, pleased to note that his headache was gone. “I turn into a right bastard when I feel bad.”
“No, really?” she replied with look of feigned astonishment. “Believe me, Harry, we know.”
“I’m trying to apologize, all right? I know neither of you deserved that. I didn’t mean to lash out at you both, but I was embarrassed by my reaction at seeing you awake, feeling sick to my stomach with relief, exhausted and in pain. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know. You don’t have to explain, Harry. Ron and I didn’t take it personally. It was obvious that you were in distress.”
“Where is Ron, anyway?” Harry asked, looking around the room and searching for his glasses. “And what time is it?”
“It’s a little after eleven. I sent Ron to search in all the closets of this house a few minutes ago to see if he could scrounge up some robes that would be suitable for our disguises. The former inhabitants of this old place surely have something that might look Death Eater-esque. If not, I’m sure I can transfigure something that will suffice, but it gave him something to do besides annoy me,” she said with a sly grin. “I’ll confess that I’m a bit irritable myself this morning.”
“Great,” Harry said sardonically. “We ought to be fantastic company for him today. He’ll be second guessing his decision to stay home and wishing for Griphook’s friendly demeanor by lunch.”
“You’re assuming, of course, that he already isn’t,” she countered with a laugh.
“True,” Harry agreed. “Maybe you should squeeze in here next to me and we’ll sleep it off together.”
“Are you still tired? Does your head still hurt?”
“No. Actually, I feel pretty good right now.”
“Good,” she said as she slapped her book closed. “Then you can help me start lunch. Unless you’d like to discuss the contents of your dream.”
“I’d rather cut out my tongue with a dull knife.”
“That’s what I thought. Kitchen duty it is then.”
“Fine,” Harry groaned, flinging the blanket to the other end of the couch and tossing the pillow at her, leaving him sitting there in just his pajama bottoms. “Can I get a shower first?”

“Okay, what do you want me to do?” Harry asked fifteen minutes later when he arrived in the kitchen where he found Hermione rifling through the cupboards.
Turning to him, Hermione gestured at the selections she's laid out on the counter. “Figure out what can be made with that,” she suggested sheepishly.
Harry looked at the ingredients: several fat potatoes, an onion, a mound of wilted mushrooms and some fish fillets. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” he said encouragingly, examining the fish. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”
“I have no idea,” she confessed.
“How can you be such a brilliant potion maker, yet be utter crap in the kitchen?” he asked, mystified.
Hermione glared at him. “They’re not at all the same thing.”
“Of course they are,” he insisted. “It’s just a matter of finding the right ingredients and then following the recipe.”
“Yes, well,” she began grumpily. “I don’t see any recipes lying around here, do you? Most of the wonderful cooks I know, like Mrs. Weasley, make their dishes from memory or else are inspired to experiment with ingredients and create something utterly mouth watering on the spot. I don’t appear to have that gift.”
Deciding it would be unwise to agree with her on that point, Harry, studied the items on the counter instead, running them against the list in his mind of things he knew how to prepare. “Well, if we have any prawns, I can probably make some soles in coffins,” he suggested finally.
“Can you really?” Hermione asked, eyeing him skeptically.
“Sure, if you want,” he replied with a shrug. “It’s not hard, but it takes a while for the potatoes to bake. It would probably be a lot quicker if I knew how to cook with magic, but I only know the Muggle way. If you don’t want to wait that long, we could simply pan fry the fish or make some fish soup or something. Whatever you like.”
“Hmm,” Hermione said as she went in search of the prawns he’d suggested.
“I’ll need milk and butter, too.”
“What else can you make?” she asked as she returned a few minutes later, placing the items he'd requested on the counter and watching while he pricked the potatoes with a fork before wrapping them in foil.
“I dunno, lots of things, I guess,” he answered absently.
“Did your aunt teach you to cook?”
Snorting, Harry reached around her for the onion. “In a manner of speaking. Though her tutoring was hardly an act of benevolent mentoring, Hermione. It benefitted Aunt Petunia directly to give me the chore of making most of the meals. The fact that she was actually teaching me something valuable was simply an unpleasant consequence,” he informed her as he peeled the onion and cut it in half. “She suffered the lessons and my involuntary presence only to ensure I could prepare them competently. Well, and to subject me to ridicule and punishment if I didn’t perform the task to her exacting standards, of course. There was nothing she or Uncle Vernon liked better than to criticize my shortcomings.”
Hermione had placed a hand over his, stilling his movements. Harry looked up at her questioningly while she pulled the knife from his fingers. Blinking her watering eyes which Harry chose to believe was caused by the onion instead of pity as it was making his own eyes sting, she cleared her throat before saying, “Teach me?”
Harry stared at her a moment in silence before nodding once and stepping back to relinquish the task to her. “That needs to be diced,” he told her as he picked up the pan of prepared potatoes and placed them in the oven. Having nothing else to do then, Harry hoisted himself onto the counter beside Hermione to watch her progress.
Tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, she set to work on the onion, chopping it methodically while repeatedly wiping a few shorter strands of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. The unruly wisps refused to obey her command, however, sliding back into their preferred spot after a few moments to her huff of annoyance and his amusement. On her third swipe across her forehead, Harry took pity on her and reached out to slide the hair back and pin it with his finger. She looked up at him quizzically, and he shrugged.
"You're going to get onion juice in your eye if you aren't careful and it stings like a bitch."
Hermione smiled at him. "I can't imagine it could make them water any more than they already are."
"Trust me," he assured her. "They say you can hold a piece of bread in your mouth to stop the fumes from getting in your eyes, but I've never tried it to see if it works."
"Can you imagine what Ron would say if he came in here with you holding my hair back with a finger to my forehead and me standing here with a slice of bread between my teeth? I'd never hear the end of it."
Chuckling, Harry conceded the point as Hermione went back to her work.
God, she was lovely. Rarely had he ever had the opportunity to just watch her as he did now without fear of being detected by her and then questioned about his motives and grilled about his feelings, or without worrying that it would stir jealousy in Ron if his eyes lingered on her for too long. But under the pretext of overseeing her work and with Ron nowhere around, he had a ready excuse to stare all he wanted. So he did.
Her forehead wrinkled right between her eyebrows as she frowned in concentration. Harry had the urge to smooth it with his thumb, but he resisted. There was a small amount of bruising around it, a match to the one on his own brow. She'd told him it was fine this morning, but it might be tender. He'd already been responsible for that injury. He didn't want to distract her and possibly cause another. That would be just about his luck. Poking a bruise while she was using a sharp knife, real suave.
Hermione's lips pressed together as she worked, her expression grave as if she were diffusing a bomb instead of carefully slicing the onion into absurdly proportionate pieces. Harry's lips quirked, yet he made no teasing comments nor offered any suggestions on her methods. Actually, he found how serious she was taking the subject quite adorable. He'd said it was like making a potion, but the ingredients didn't have to be cut to the exacting standards of Snape to be sufficient for cooking.
She had tiny wrists and delicate small hands with the nails trimmed short and unvarnished, but the fingers weren't blunt or stubby even with their almost childlike size. In fact, they were rather nimble despite their limited span, he thought admiringly. And while both he and Draco Malfoy new from experience that those hands were quite strong when swung with some force, he also knew what they could do to him that was much more pleasurable when she chose to use them in a less brutal fashion, though sometimes with considerably more cruelty. A secret he shared with Ron, perhaps, but not, thankfully, with Malfoy.
Sliding her thumb over the flat edge of the knife, she wiped the diced onion pieces clinging to the blade back onto the cutting board before laying the knife beside it. Then she looked back up at him expectantly. "What's next?"
"We, uh... we need to start poaching the fish," he answered, dropping his finger from her face at last and watching as the trapped hair fell immediately back into her watery, onion-burned eyes.
Sometime later, Ron reappeared as Hermione was carefully lifting the poached fillets from the pan while Harry still sat on the counter beside the stove, holding the platter for her as she transferred the steaming fish. Ron had been in the attic, he’d informed them, having searched the rest of the house before he’d finally found some robes he thought suitable. Triumphantly, he held the dusty garments up for Hermione’s inspection.
“Very nice,” she said, her lips twitching in amusement before she turned hastily back to her task.
“Are you cooking lunch?” Ron asked, unable to hide the dubious tone in his voice as he took in the scene, his eyes falling on the pile of mushrooms still waiting with the diced onion to be cooked.
Undoubtedly, Harry thought, Ron was remembering the rubbery stewed toadstools Hermione had served them back in the tent. The only other food she prepared which hadn’t come from a can that Ron felt safe enough to eat was toast and scrambled eggs.
“Yes, I am,” she replied tightly. “Harry is teaching me how to cook.”
“Oh?” Ron asked, eyebrows raised in surprise at Harry as he draped the garments over the back of the nearest chair before mouthing a silent question to him that Harry couldn’t quite make out, but which was something to the effect of, “Are you mad?”
Harry shrugged. "One of you needs to know how to prepare your own food if I'm not around or you'll likely starve to death."
“Well, it smells good,” Ron said charitably, sniffing the air as he came to stand next to them. He placed a hand on Harry’s thigh and his lips against Hermione’s neck. “How long ‘til it’s ready?” They both looked to Harry then.
“The potatoes have at least another forty minutes to cook, but most of the other prep work is done. We won’t start the rest of this or the sauce for another twenty minutes or so," he explained, gesturing to the remaining ingredients. "You’re still looking at another hour before we eat.”
“Damn, I’m starving.”
Rolling his eyes, Harry pinched off a corner of the steaming fish on his lap before blowing on it to cool it and his burning fingers. Then he offered it wordlessly to Ron. Grinning, Ron stepped closer, his hand running farther up Harry’s thigh as he opened his mouth and closed his lips around Harry’s fingers unexpectedly.
“Mmmmm,” he groaned, the sound more of a rumbling of contentment as he sucked both of Harry’s fingers dry before licking his lips. "That's delicious, Hermione."
Harry sat mesmerized at the sight as Ron stepped even closer and pulled the platter of fish from his lap before setting it on the counter beside him. Then he turned his full attention to Harry, pressing his body between Harry’s legs, his hands crawling their way around to his arse as he leaned in and ran his tongue across Harry’s bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth.
“Sounds like we have some time then to see if we can work up an appetite,” Ron breathed against his mouth, sealing his lips against Harry’s before he could reply. The back of Harry's head bumped against the cabinet, making him grunt, but he didn’t mind.
By the time Ron had finally released him, Harry was certainly hungry for something. Aroused almost effortlessly today after last night's failure by the slow stroke of Ron's thumb over the fly of his trousers. The single gesture was both a question and a promise that Harry's body answered in the affirmative and enthusiastically accepted.
Damn, he was a slag.
Satisfied with the response he'd received, Ron pulled back, smirking slightly at Harry's readiness. Yet it was only a tease, a testing of the waters, Harry realized as Ron casually pinched off another bite of fish and popped it in his mouth. He was merely priming Harry, playing with him. He had no intention of delivering on that promise immediately, not after Harry had left him waiting for days. But last night was hardly Harry's fault. Well, not all of it anyway. He'd been willing enough in the beginning before that fall, and still capable at least after it, until Ron had made him drink that tea.
"So, you're feeling better then?" Ron asked, licking his fingers before peering into Harry's face. "You look a lot better."
"Yes, Doctor. I'm fine now." Harry said, sighing in frustration at the obvious dismissal.
"Seriously. Are you sure? I was afraid you were near death this morning. You said you'd had a nightmare. But you'd tell me if it was a vision, right?"
"It wasn't a vision," Harry assured him. "I promise," he added at Ron's skeptical look.
"You've never looked that bad from just a dream before."
"You didn't see me that night before you found me coming out of the bathroom," Harry countered, starting to get annoyed. Although, in truth, that had actually been from a vision. He'd not admitted that to Ron, however, and never would. "Besides, this wasn't just some dream. It was a drug induced horror helped along by Hermione's 'special tea' you forced me to drink."
"Did you cut yourself?" Ron asked sharply.
"No."
He supposed he had that coming to him after having reminded Ron of the incident where he'd been caught doing just that, but it didn't stop his growing irritation at the sudden inquisition.
"Are you lying to me?"
"No, I swear, Ron," he insisted, pushing up his sleeves and showing Ron his arms as proof. "I know you don't believe a word I say anymore, but I didn't. See?"
What he didn't confess was how much he'd wanted to, how strong the urge was to relieve the pressure inside him that way after the panic of that terribly vivid dream, or that he'd taken refuge in their room most of the night as the only way to keep from caving to that desire. He was sure it would have helped him if he had, and still firmly believed that he could keep control of it if he did, but he could never make them believe it. He couldn't hide it from them anymore, either, which was probably the strongest motivating factor that prevented it. Not because he worried that Ron would make good on his threat to beat the living shit out of him because that was still almost as appealing as the knife. It was because he didn't want to break his promise and fail them.
"What was it about?"
"What is it with you two and your morbid fascination with my terrifying subconscious? I'm fine. I don't need to discuss it in therapy with either of you. So just leave it alone and stop psychoanalyzing me, all right? I'm not some damned mental test patient you can practice your experimental remedies on!"
"Woah," Ron said in surprise, taking a step back from Harry. "I was just showing concern, mate. You don't have to be so defensive."
"I'm sorry," Harry apologized tightly. "I just really want to forget about it, Ron. Okay? Please will you let it be this time?"
"All right."
"Thank you."
"Is the moon getting stronger again or something? You're a little all over the place recently."
"Oh, my God! Are you serious?" Harry shouted, his anger suddenly reaching boiling point as he jumped down from the counter and shoved Ron furiously. "You're a prick, you know that?"
"Hey!" Ron barked in shocked outrage, grabbing Harry by the wrist as he attempted to push past him.
Harry whirled around, intending to jerk his arm out of Ron's grip, but Ron yanked him forward before he could even get his feet planted, making Harry stumble into him. Then he quickly threw his arms around Harry, trapping him against his chest. Infuriated, Harry fought to break free from Ron's hold before Ron placed a hand behind his head to pull Harry's face against his neck, pressing his lips against Harry's ear.
"Shhhh," he soothed, stroking Harry's head. "Calm down. I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean to make you mad."
Harry stopped struggling then, but stood stiff in Ron's embrace.
"Look, I know I'm a little overprotective and smother you sometimes trying to help, but I think you're overreacting a bit yourself here. Don't you think?"
"I think you're smothering me right now," Harry grumbled angrily, his face still smashed against Ron's neck.
Releasing Harry's head, Ron pulled back to look at him and Harry continued. "Why can't I just be in a bad mood or have a crap day without you accusing me of trying to butcher myself? Why can't you just leave me alone to work out my own shit in my own way? You're so far up my arse that I'm coughing up ginger hairs. I know you don't trust me, but I can't even turn around, Ron. I can't breathe."
"You know I don't mean to, but you won't talk to us, Harry. This is more than just a crap day, or a bad dream, or a hangover. Something is going on with you and has been for a while, but you won't tell me what it is. I don't know how to make things right between us again because I don't really know what I did wrong. Everything I say or do causes a row between us so that all we do is either fight or fuck anymore. I don't want that, Harry. I want us to be friends again, too. Okay?"
"We can't be friends, Ron, because we're not equals."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing's changed since the last time we had this same discussion weeks ago, and you know it. You're still trying to control me. You don't want to be my friend. You want to be my master," Harry accused.
"What?"
"You're still trying to be my guardian. The only thing that's changed at all is that we're now lovers which just gives you even more power over me."
"Over you? You must be joking."
"No, I'm not. Look, I get that you need to be in control of this," Harry explained, gesturing between himself and Hermione standing next to the stove, still holding a spatula in her hand and gazing open mouthed at the pair of them. "I'm not stupid. I get it all right?"
"I don't think you do," Ron interrupted.
"Yes I do, and I keep trying to give you that. But you can't force me into the mold of who you want me to be. I don't fit, Ron, no matter how hard you push."
"And just who the hell do you think I want you to be?"
"I don't know," Harry growled in frustration. "Somebody I'm not."
"All I want, all I've ever wanted is just to be with you, but I have to fight and beg for every moment you'll give me," Ron argued. "If I'm fighting for some control it's because you're the one with all the power here. You decide when and where and how. Not me."
"Bullshit. One word, one touch from either of you drops me to my knees and you're both well aware of it. I haven't made a decision with anything but my dick since Dobby died. Even before that, actually, which nearly got the rest of us killed, too. If I'm fighting against that it's because it terrifies me, Ron," Harry countered, stabbing himself in the chest with a finger for emphasis. "I haven't been in control of anything in my entire life, and now I'm not even in control of me. I'm not the master of my own mind and body anymore. Tom controls my destiny, Bellatrix control my dreams, Greyback controls my body with this infection he's cursed me with, you and Hermione control my actions and my desires and my emotions, and nobody controls my magic," he ranted angrily, thrusting out his hand in demonstration so that the spatula in Hermione's grip soared out of her hand and into his. He promptly flung it across the room again in disgust. "Now you want to be in control of my thoughts, too, and I just can't take it, Ron. I can't. It's the only thing I have left."
He was shaking all over, his head starting to throb again as Ron stared at him in stunned silence. Then Hermione left her station at the stove and walked briskly up to him. Throwing her arms around him, she held him to her as she kissed him hard and long. Harry clung to her, too surprised by her actions and relieved by her embrace to do anything else.
"It's okay, Harry," she whispered when she relinquished his lips. "Everything is going to be okay. Ron and I don't want to control your thoughts. We only want to help you shoulder the burden of them. The weight on you is so heavy sometimes and we can both see it. It makes us feel powerless."
Nodding, he pressed his face against her neck, still holding her tightly to him while she stroked his head and crooned soothingly to him.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, pulling away from her at last to stare up at Ron. "Maybe the moon is getting stronger again, I don't know. I don't mean to get angry, but I can't help it sometimes. It's not you, though, it's me. It's always me. I wanted this business with Gringotts to be over with quickly because every day that this drags on, I lose a little more of my nerve. It's making me crazy and irritable because I'm more afraid every day. The nightmare last night just brought out all of those fears into vivid reality and it's still too fresh in my mind for me to think clearly."
"But you still don't think that telling us about it will help?" Ron asked resignedly.
Harry shook his head. "All I can tell you is that what happened to us... it could have been worse. It could have been so much worse." He shuddered again, unable to stop himself.
"All right," Ron conceded, "I'm sorry for suffocating you. I'll stop pushing. I promise. But you know that we'll listen if you need to talk, right? About anything."
"I know," Harry agreed.
"I am your friend, Harry. First and foremost," Ron said, smiling suddenly. "And I think I just thought of a new idea that might help. You two stay here and finish lunch. I'm going to Bill's."
"What?" Hermione spluttered. "Ron--"
"Don't worry. I won't be long. I just need to set something up first."
"But what are you going to do?" Hermione whined. "Shouldn't we discuss this... whatever it is first?"
"Harry's wound up tight and needs to let off a little steam, Hermione. What he needs is a distraction to take his mind off of things for a while, and what kind of friend would I be if I didn't give him one? Besides, what's the point of skiving off work for one day if you can't have a little fun?"
"A little fun?" Harry asked skeptically as Ron leaned in to kiss Hermione on the cheek and squeeze Harry's arm before turning to leave.
"Yup, you'll see. At least I hope so," Ron called over his shoulder as he left to get his jacket, leaving Hermione and Harry staring bewildered after him.
It was more than an hour before he returned. An hour of confused speculation, irritation and then worry where they could do nothing but wait. Harry eventually helped Hermione complete the meal, and they were just finishing eating it when Ron reappeared. Having finally decided to follow him to Bill's and demand he tell them his plans, they were clearing the dishes away when they heard the telltale crack of Appararition. Dropping whatever they were holding, they scurried for the door, both of them ready to beat him senseless for leaving them to stew.
Ron met them at the kitchen door, grinning from ear to ear and holding a broomstick in each hand.
"We're going flying?" Harry asked in stunned disbelief. All thought of retribution dissolving in an instant as he stared at the vision in front of him. Neither of the brooms was anywhere as good as his Firebolt had been, but Harry had never seen anything in that moment that looked more inviting.
"Yup!" Ron confirmed cheerfully. "It took a little convincing, but I finally got them to agree. So it's the three of us, Bill, Dad and the twins. Tonight in the orchard behind the Burrow."
"Ron, I don't know. It's dangerous," Hermione warned, though reluctantly as she watched the glazed look of rapture on Harry's face.
"They're all heading over there now to throw on every protective enchantment around the place they can think of. If any of them sees anything that spooks them, we call it off. And we'll go in the evening when it starts to get dark. We've only got four brooms between us so there will be three others around at all times to keep a look out while we're there. Certainly the Death Eaters aren't expecting us to carry on a pick-up game of Quidditch near the Burrow which has been abandoned for months. We'll be safe. I promise."
"This is the dumbest idea you've ever had, Ron," Harry insisted weakly. "Completely stupid and totally reckless. You must be insane!"
"Probably," Ron agreed. "But do you wanna?"
"Hell yes!" Harry admitted. "More than anything."

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What it comes down to