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one.
“So,” George asks conversationally over breakfast one day, his tone as unconcerned as if he were talking about the weather, “when are you and Hermione going to get together, then?”
Ron, who is halfway through taking a sip of orange juice, chokes and sprays pulp clear across the table.
George makes a disapproving face—a very Hermione-like face, damn him, he’s doing that on purpose—and banishes the mess with a wave of his wand. “Really, Ronniekins, you’d think you’d have better control of your basic motor functions by now.”
“You surprised me,” Ron says grumpily, and stabs at his eggs with his fork. “It’s cruel and unusual to ask something like that before nine in the morning.”
“Whoever told you I was anything but cruel and unusual?” George looks horrified. “I’d like to berate them for besmirching my good name.”
“Oh, shut up, will you.” It’s far too early in the morning to keep up with George’s unmatched verbal repartee; eight months of living in the same apartment and Ron still hasn’t mastered it. George usually gives up soon enough when Ron doesn’t engage him—though then he finds other ways to amuse himself, such as using Ron as an experimental guinea pig for whatever new products Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes is developing, or turning his hair purple for the hell of it, or charming every pair of Ron’s underpants to bite his hands and other extremities when he puts them on (that had been interesting visit to St. Mungo’s)—but today he doesn’t seem inclined to take pity on Ron. Ron has become adept at reading George’s expressions, and there’s a look in his eyes that Ron knows means things aren’t going to end well.
“Harry and Ginny got together ages ago,” George says. “Right after the war.”
“I know when they started dating, thank you.” Ron feels suddenly exhausted—hasn’t Harry been talking about Ginny for months now? And hasn’t he heard, countless times from countless people, that he and Hermione should “get a move on already”? He stabs rather viciously at his eggs again, imagining that they’re really George’s face and that the horrible scraping noise the fork makes on the plate is George screeching in anguish.
“Well, I don’t know what’s taking you and Hermione so long, then,” George says. “You’ve been in love with her forever and haven’t done anything about it. She won’t wait around much longer, you know.”
“Wow,” Ron says. “You know, you’re right. I can’t believe I’ve been so blind. You’ve just changed my life, George. I can see everything so clearly now. I’m going to go and sweep Hermione off her feet right this second, today, because obviously the only thing that’s been keeping me from doing it is hearing for the hundredth goddamn time that I should.”
George feigns innocence. “A mite defensive, aren’t you, mate? Keep that up and someone will think you’re hiding something. But since I am so benevolent and magnanimous and wonderful, I’m going to forgive your insolence this once. Don’t expect me to be so nice again—while my forgiveness may know no bounds, sometimes I might just want to fuck with you, you know.”
Ron chucks his spoon at him (his fork is still engaged in glorious battle with his eggs, after all) and wishes he could talk to Harry about Hermione–but all Harry ever wants to talk about now is Ginny, and (for quite obvious reasons, Ron thinks), hearing his best friend talk about his little sister like that is not something he really enjoys.
two.
As it turns out, the reason Harry had talked non-stop about Ginny is that he’d been trying—and failing, quite spectacularly—to convince himself and everyone else that he’d loved her. The day he spends in St. Mungo’s with bats flapping out of his nose is a testament to how badly he’d failed.
“You dumped my sister,” Ron says, staring at him over his drink. They are sitting in a bar, loud party music thrumming and pounding all around them, girls dancing with guys in the corners and people talking at truly inhuman levels, because apparently alcohol graces everyone with vocal cords capable of rivaling an elephant’s.
“And she’s already hexed me for it, so I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from doing the same,” Harry says, stirring his drink and looking rather glum.
“You dumped my sister.”
“I realize that.”
“You dumped Ginny—”
“I fucking know, all right?” Harry sloshes his drink onto the counter by accident. “Fucking fuck.”
Ron watches him dry the counter with a spell, somewhat stunned. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s a surprise.”
Ron punches him on the shoulder, perhaps with slightly more force than he should have done.
“That’s better,” Harry says, rubbing his shoulder with one hand. “I was wondering when you’d start hitting me. I’m shocked you haven’t taken me outside yet and beaten the crap out of me for breaking Ginny’s heart.”
“I could still do that,” Ron says, “and don’t you forget it. What happened? Why’d you split up? Everyone always thought the two of you would get married, have kids—I always thought....”
“I know.” Harry chews at his bottom lip for a minute, and suddenly he can’t meet Ron’s gaze. “It’s, well, uh, I have something to tell you, but—oh, hell, this is going to be awkward no matter what, isn’t it?—Look, Ron.” Harry wets his lips, his tongue tracing the corners of his mouth. “I’m...gay.”
Ron stares at him. And stares some more. And when Harry shrugs rather helplessly and runs a hand through his hair, looking acutely uncomfortable, Ron punches him in the mouth.
“Ouch,” Harry says a few moments later, after the barkeep has kicked both of them out of the place. He puts his fingers to his lips, and they come away bloody.
“You prat,” Ron yells, “why the fuck didn’t you tell me you liked blokes?”
“I just did!”
“Why didn’t you tell me before? I’m your best mate!”
“There’s no need to be so angry,” Harry says moodily, “or to smack me around, you know. I’m going home. I’m–—sorry, I guess—oh, fuck it, I’m not really—if you’re going to hate me forever, I’d like to know now, so I can get used to the thought of us not being friends anymore.”
He glares at Ron defiantly, but Ron sees right though his forced bravado. It’s a defense mechanism that Harry has learned, something to protect himself before he loses someone—because Harry is desperately afraid of losing the ones he cares about. Ron suddenly regrets having hit him. He’s not even sure why, exactly, he’d done it.
“I don’t hate you,” Ron says. “I’m sorry I hit you. Look, Harry, I honestly don’t care if you’re gay. Shag whoever you want. It’s none of my business, I’m a huge arse—”
“You really are,” Harry mutters.
“—and, just, I don’t care. I don’t care if you’re gay or not. You’re still my best mate and I love you.”
“Uh...thanks, then,” Harry says, glancing at him with an odd smile on his face–Ron doesn’t realize why immediately, but when he does he turns bright red.
“I mean, in a totally manly, platonic, friend sort of way,” Ron says.
Harry rolls his eyes (“Watching you awkwardly deal with the fact that I wanna shag blokes is going to be fun,”) and departs, clapping Ron on the shoulder and giving him a small, thankful smile that says more than words ever could.
three.
Ron and Hermione have only been dating for seven months (Ron, feeling strangely at a loss after Harry’s coming out, had asked out Hermione not two weeks later) when Hermione turns to him one evening—with a look in her eye that Ron associates with S.P.E.W., canaries, and the night the Deluminator had led him back to the camp site—and says, apropos of absolutely nothing: “Let’s get married.”
“Let’s get what?” Ron asks, aghast. He stares at Hermione as if he’s never seen her before in his life, and in that moment, he feels as if he never has.
“Married,” Hermione says. “Hitched. Joined in holy matrimony. Wed. United—”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Ron says, “I just don’t understand—why? Why now? Why us?”
Hermione shakes her head as she does when Ron is being unusually dense. “Because we’re in love,” she says, as if that makes everything simple and easy, but to Ron it seems to make everything more complicated and difficult.
“It’s not that easy,” he tries to say, weakly, but Hermione interrupts him.
“I was thinking we could do it in the spring, you know, when the weather starts to get warmer—and not next year, I don’t think, maybe the year after—unless you want to get married next year, in which case we’d better start planning everything now—”
“Hermione,” Ron tries to say, but his voice seems to be growing smaller and smaller and Hermione’s is becoming louder and louder—
“And I was trying to think where, and I realized I don’t mind if it’s simple, so perhaps your parents’ church? I’m sure they would like that—”
“Hermione—”
“I think the guest list should be the first thing to compile, so that we know exactly who and how many people are coming—”
“Hermione—”
“And I know it’s far too early to even think about this, but as for the centerpieces at the reception, I was trying to think of what type of flowers would look best, what do you think—?”
“Hermione, stop.”
She does, which surprises Ron so much that he can’t quite figure out what it is that he wants to say.
“Well, go on,” Hermione says irritably when Ron holds his silence.
He takes a deep breath and says it, all in a rush—“donwannag’married.”
“What’s that?”
“I...I don’t want to get married.”
She stares at him. “You don’t want...to marry me?” Her voice is trembling.
“I–no.” He shakes his head. “Look, Hermione, I’m so sorry–”
She doesn’t give him time to explain; instead, she gets to her feet and leaves the room without looking back. Ron hears her Disapparate a few moments later and he puts his head on his arms, wondering what the fuck is the matter with him.
four.
“‘m a fucking idiot,” Ron declares, throwing his arms wide and somehow managing to not spill his drink. “A complete—idiot.”
“True as that may be,” Harry says, grinning at him drunkenly, “there’s nothing wrong with you for breaking up with Hermione. I mean, granted, everyone thought the two of you were gonna get married, but that’s what they said about me and Ginny, right? And look at us now—I’m eternally single, and she’s off eloping with Neville.”
Ron gapes. “They’re eloping?”
“Oops,” Harry says. “I wasn’t supposed to mention that, actually...don’t tell your mum, all right? Ah, you’ll probably have forgotten by the time you wake up tomorrow, drunk as you are....”
“‘m not drunk,” Ron says. “I’m pleasantly buzzed. There’s a difference. If I were drunk, I’d have already forgotten about Hermione and how badly I’ve fucked up her life and what an idiot I am—”
“If it makes you this upset to break up with her, why aren’t you marrying her?” Harry puts his chin on his hand, and he focuses his gaze far too steadily on Ron’s face for someone who’s been drinking for the past hour.
“It...wasn’t right,” Ron mumbles, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “She’s one of my best friends, but us? Married? I mean...imagine if you and I were—were married....” He gulps.
“Yeah,” Harry says. “Weird.”
Ron looks up at him then—and maybe it’s the alcohol, or the dim lights, or the fact that he’s just broken up with his girlfriend and is feeling lonelier than he’s ever felt in his life—but when he sees Harry, his breath catches somewhere deep in his throat and adamantly refuses to budge. Harry has leant towards the barkeeper and is ordering two more beers—his neck is stretched forward, slender and smooth and the curve of his shoulder somehow seems like the most amazing spot for Ron to put his mouth, to lick, to suck—and his eyes are astoundingly green, too, so fucking green it’s like looking into the fire when you’re burning wrapping paper and the flames have gone lime-yellow-bright–how could anyone possibly have eyes like that—
Harry turns, pushes the beer towards him, and the breath in Ron’s throat decides it’s time to unstick. He blurts, without thinking: “How did you know you were gay?”
And Harry gets that guarded look that years of dealing with the press has given him–after he’d come out the reporters hadn’t stopped badgering him for months—that look that he gets because he’s weary of explaining who he is to ignorant bloody people, countless time over, just because someone can’t possibly understand the idea of two guys being in love, and Ron regrets asking but can’t take the question back now.
“How do you know you’re straight?” Harry shoots back, and he leans back to take a long sip of his beer.
And Ron doesn’t have an answer, because he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know at all—but by now Harry is too drunk to notice that Ron hasn’t answered him, and the conversation drifts from the topic, even if Ron’s thoughts don’t.
five.
“Ron,” Ginny says, not all too warmly, which is perhaps understandable as it is seven in the morning, “what are you doing at my house?”
“I, uh,” Ron says. “I just, well, I guess....”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Ginny says, and she lets him inside. “Keep quiet, will you? Neville is sick and I don’t want you to wake him up.”
“Yep, of course,” Ron says. “Quiet as the dead. Quiet as can be.”
“Shut up.” Ginny thrusts a cup of tea in his hands and gestures for him to sit. He takes a sip and gags on the sickeningly sweet brew.
“You drink this stuff?”
“It’s just a bit of lemon and honey,” she says, sipping at a cup herself. “I told you, Neville’s sick.”
“Hmph.” He pushes the mug away. “How are you and Neville, then?”
“Wonderful, thanks for asking; yes, Mum’s still furious at me for eloping; and no, I’m not in it for the hallucinatory plants that Neville does not grow anyway. Skip the small talk, Ron, and tell me why you’re really here.”
Ron decides it might be best to do as she says, because she looks like she might just possibly break his face for real this time; she never was a morning person. “Hermione and I broke up.”
“I know. She told me ages ago.”
“Oh.”
“She says that she asked you to marry her and you said no.”
“That...would be the gist of it, yes.” Ron put his hand over his eyes. “Ginny, I don’t know what to do.”
“So of all people, you come to me, before the sun is even properly up, to ask for my advice and to make fun of my tea? I’m so honored.”
“Why’d I do it, Ginny? Why didn’t I marry her?”
Ginny sighs a long sigh and sets down her mug. “If you honestly expect me to answer that, Ron....”
He shakes his head, helplessly. “I don’t, I guess. I just wish—wish I could understand myself–I’m so confused.”
“Well, you might as well tell me everything,” Ginny says, tiredly. “I’ve listened to you have a moan so often that I may as well be your therapist.”
Ron bites the corner of his lip, not meeting Ginny’s eyes. “I...I think I might have feelings for someone else.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Harry.”
Silence. After a few long moments, Ron looks up at Ginny, who is staring at him with a strange look on her face.
“The fact that you’d come to me and admit you have feelings for my ex-boyfriend is either really brave or really disturbed,” she says. “I’m leaning more towards the latter.”
“Can you not make fun of me?” Ron asks, throwing his hands up helplessly. “I’m confused, here!”
“So am I, I admit.” Ginny leans towards him slightly. “Are you saying you’re gay?”
“No! I dated Hermione, didn’t I?”
“You might not have wanted to admit the truth to yourself. Harry dated me, after all, and Cho.”
“I don’t—I don’t think that’s what I was doing, though,” Ron says. “I didn’t want to marry Hermione because I’d fallen out of love with her, not because I wasn’t attracted to girls anymore—I am.”
Ginny looks at him closely, narrowing her eyes. “Do you still want to sleep with girls, then?”
“I—yeah, I do,” Ron says.
“What about guys?”
“That’s the thing!” Ron gets to his feet and starts to pace, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “I think I want—with Harry—but the thought of other guys, too, even, is...is....”
Ginny leans back in her chair and massages her temples for a minute. “So, if I’m understanding you correctly—which would be a master feat of human cognition, by the way—you’re saying you want to sleep with guys and girls?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Yes or no, Ron.”
“I...I guess so.” He sits back down, heavily, feeling terribly exhausted and ashamed. His skin is crawling.
“Oh,” Ginny says. “That makes this rather simple, then. Honestly, you blow everything out of proportion, don’t you?—Ron, you’re bisexual.”
“I’m...what?”
“You know what it means, Ron. You’re attracted to both guys and girls.”
He stares at her. “Is that—is that even possible? I thought—straight or gay....”
Ginny shakes her head rather pityingly. “You really don’t know anything about this, do you? There’s more out there than being straight or gay, Ron—or bi, actually, though judging by the look on you’re face you aren’t ready to hear that yet....”
“I know there is,” he says. “I just never thought–not me.”
She pats his hand and smiles a bit at him. “You are who you are,” she says. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. If you like Harry, then you like him. But I’m not going to give you advice on how to ask him out, so if that’s what you’re going to say next then get the hell out of my house.”
“I—thank you,” Ron says weakly, getting to his feet. “Thanks, Ginny, honestly. You’re the best.”
“So I’ve heard,” she dead-pans. “Oh, bugger, I’ve got to go—I’ve got Quidditch practice in twenty minutes. Take care of yourself, okay?” She hugs him tightly, and he leaves, feeling slightly dazed.
one.
Telling your best mate that you’re in love with him shouldn’t be this difficult. It really, honestly shouldn’t, because Ron is sure this happens to people all the time and it’s probably always this hard—because what if this wrecks everything, what if you don’t stay friends, what if he laughs and shuts the door in you face, what if, what if...?
Harry looks bloody gorgeous today, though, which is something. And may be part of why this is so difficult, actually.
Ron shifts his weight from foot to foot, wondering what kind of Gryffindor he is, anyway, if he can’t even get up the courage to confront his best friend. Harry is standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, as Ron hovers on the doorstep of his apartment. Harry’s hair is spectacularly mussed by sleep, and his pajama bottoms are hanging off of his slender, narrow hips, his hipbones just visible beneath alabaster skin; he clearly hasn’t had the time yet to brush his teeth, because he keeps running his tongue over the front of them—yet Ron wants nothing more to take him by the shoulders and press him against the wall, slip his knee between his, kiss his mouth downturned by sleep, again and again.
“Don’t be angry,” Ron says, and his voice definitely does not squeak, thank you, not the slightest bit.
“I don’t think I’m awake enough to muster up the energy to be fully conscious yet, never mind angry,” Harry says, and runs his hand through his hair.
“Oh,” Ron says. “Good.” He pauses for a minute and Harry yawns, then: “I think I’m in love with you.”
Harry stares at him. “What?”
“I think–I think that I’m....” But he’s run out of ways to verbally express himself. Helplessly, he steps forward, brushes his thumbs over Harry’s cheekbones (is this all right?)—and kisses him.
Harry stares at him when he pulls away, and for a moment Ron thinks he’s made a mistake.
“But what about—you and Hermione?” Harry touches his fingertips to his lips. “I don’t understand.”
Ron’s lips are cold and his chest is tight, but somehow he manages to speak. He doesn’t know where the words come from, but come they do—perhaps they’ve been locked within him for years, so well hidden and so deeply buried that he himself hadn’t even known they were there. “You’ve been my best friend for ten years, Harry. I know I’ve been a prat a lot of the time and I’ve fucked up and made mistakes, but I’ve always come back—I could never stay away from you for long because it made me so fucking unhappy that it was like a constant ache—I think it’s always been you, and I just never wanted to admit it. But I’m admitting it now. And maybe it’s too late, or maybe there would never have been a right time because you’d never have felt the same way because I’m just not good enough or—or—whatever–and that’s okay—oh, no, it really isn’t, but what can I do about it?...I love you. Have for years. Since—for ages, really. And I feel so incredibly stupid right now saying all of this, so if you could just—say something....”
“I could,” Harry says. He is moving slowly towards him, his lips parted, his eyes bright. “But I think I’m going to kiss you again, instead.” And he pulls Ron close by the collar of his shirt, smiling at him, and does exactly that.
“You’re right,” he murmurs after several long moments, his lips brushing lightly against Ron’s, just barely touching his—“it’s always been you.”