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“Merlin, Harry,” Ron whined, flopping backwards onto his four-poster bed so hard the curtains shuddered. He dragged an arm over his eyes like a man grievously wronged by fate. “Did you catch a look at Hermione today? I swear she’s getting her skirts shorter this year. She said she wasn’t, but I swear she is.”
From the desk by the window, Harry did not look up. The late-afternoon light caught the edge of his parchment; his quill scratched on, steady and pointedly uninterested. “I don’t think Hermione wants me taking notes,” he said, flatly.
Ron peeked out from under his arm. “You didn’t notice?”
“I noticed you tripping over your own feet in the corridor,” Harry said. “That was hard to miss.”
Ron sat up, affronted, and fished a battered quaffle from beneath the bed, the leather soft with years of abuse. “You think it’s for me, then?” he asked, tossing it once, catching it, testing the weight like it might give him answers.
Harry finally turned in his chair, expression long-suffering. “No. I think Hermione gets dressed in the morning without considering either of us.”
Ron frowned, lobbed the quaffle again, caught it on the bounce. “Then why,” he said, slower now, “does she act like that when it’s just me and her? All calm, all reasonable, like nothing’s happening at all. You’d think— Merlin, she drives me spare.”
Harry paused, quill hovering. “I don’t know—”
Ron cut in, voice dropping as if the hangings might be listening. “—you’d think she’d either tell me to get lost or stop looking at me like that when I talk. It’s the looking, Harry. That little pause.”
Harry finally set his quill down and turned. “Or,” he said evenly, “she’s just thinking.”
Ron snorted. “No one thinks like that.”
“She does,” Harry replied. “She always has. You mistake it for a signal because you want it to be one.”
Ron lay there, staring at the canopy, quaffle forgotten in his hand. “So you’re saying she’s not teasing.”
“I’m saying,” Harry said, finally turning around to look at him, “that if Hermione wanted to tease you, you’d know. And if she wanted you to stop, you’d know that too.”
Ron sighed, long and put-upon. “That’s worse.”
Ron shifted, suddenly restless, the quaffle rolling off his stomach and thudding to the floor. He dragged himself upright, then just as quickly leaned back again, knees bent, as if he could not quite settle anywhere. His ears were pink now, the colour creeping down his neck.
“It’s not nothing,” he muttered, staring very hard at the canopy. “You ever have that feeling where your body’s decided something before your brain’s had a say?”
Harry’s mouth twitched, though his eyes stayed on Ron. “Constantly. Usually before Transfiguration.”
Ron shot him a look. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” Harry said. “You look like you’re about to try to rut on the furniture.”
Ron scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “She just stands there, Harry. Talking. Like she hasn’t turned my insides inside out. Like I’m not—” He broke off, gesturing vaguely at himself, then glared. “You can tell.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “I can tell you’re uncomfortable.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what I’m sticking with,” Harry replied calmly.
Ron huffed, dropping back against the pillows again, mortified and thwarted in equal measure. “She’s doing it on purpose,” he said weakly.
Harry reached for his quill. “Or,” he said, mild as ever, “she’s just being Hermione.”
Ron groaned again, louder this time.
“Harry, mate,” he moaned and finally broke down and pressed his palm to his growing erection. “Buddy. Pal. I am profoundly, catastrophically distracted. If this carries on, I’m not making it through dinner.”
“Tragic,” Harry replied, and resumed writing.
“I’m nineteen years old,” Ron went on bleakly. “I’m still at my childhood boarding school, pacing in circles, wanting Hermione Granger like a bloody idiot. This is not how this is supposed to go.”
“Ron, as terrible as I feel for you—” Harry started, putting his quill down, realizing that he wasn’t going to get any work done.
“You get it,” Ron said, bouncing up out of bed. The front of his red athletic shorts was tented prominently. He took a step towards Harry’s desk.
“Back up, mate, you’ll put an eye out with that thing,” Harry muttered, feeling a flush rise up his neck.
Ron ignored the instruction entirely and drifted closer instead, shameless in his misery. He hovered for a second behind Harry’s chair, then leaned in, his erection brushing Harry’s shoulder as he sagged forward with a low, wounded whine.
“Harry,” he said again, drawn out, unbearable. “Mate. I can’t sit still. Everything itches.”
Harry went very still.
“Do not,” he warned, “make me part of this.”
Ron dropped his forehead against the top of Harry’s head anyway. The contact was brief but deliberate, and Harry could feel the warmth of Ron’s skin through his hair. “I’m not asking you to do anything,” he said quickly, muffled now. “I just need— Merlin, I just need to complain near another human being.”
Harry shut his eyes. Counted to three. “Your hard on is on my shoulder.”
“Sorry,” Ron said, not moving. He shifted instead, a restless little nudge that made Harry’s jaw tighten. “She looked at me today like she was about to say something. Then she didn’t. That should be illegal.”
Harry angled his chair just enough to dislodge him. “Back. Bed. Personal space.”
Ron straightened, wounded all over again. “You’re heartless.”
“Guilty,” Harry grinned, flashing his green eyes up at Ron.
Ron hovered anyway, misery incarnate. “Harry,” he said again, softer now, stripped of theatrics. “I’m not trying to make this weird. I just— I cannot be left alone with my own thoughts right now.”
“That,” Harry said, dryly, “is not my problem.”
Ron grimaced. “You say that, but you’re the one I came to.”
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not comforting.”
“I’m not asking for much,” Ron pressed, inching closer again, then stopping himself like he’d hit an invisible line. “Just— help.”
Harry looked up at him and then, unimpressed. “I am not a solution to your hormones.”
“No,” Ron agreed quickly. “But you are a solution to me being insufferable.”
Harry held his gaze for a long moment. Ron just stood there, flushed and earnest and clearly at the end of his rope.
Harry exhaled, long and defeated. “You are exhausting.”
Ron brightened. “So that’s a yes?”
“That,” Harry said, standing at last, “is not what I said.”
Ron waited.
Harry sighed again, heavier this time. “Get the curtains. And put up a damned silencing charm”
Ron blinked. “Seriously?”
“If I change my mind,” Harry warned, “you will regret pushing.”
Ron moved instantly, nearly tripping over himself to pull the window hangings shut. “Not pushing. Absolutely not pushing.”
Harry shook his head, muttering, “I should have gone to the library.” He stepped closer, voice low and firm again. “This does not mean anything.”
“I know,” Ron said, earnest and immediate. “I swear. Just— help me not lose my mind.”
Harry closed his eyes once more, then nodded. “Fine.”
Ron let out a breath he’d clearly been holding for far too long.
“Lay down,” Harry added, already reverting to command. “And stop hovering. You’re making it worse.”
Ron obeyed without complaint, and stripped off his shirt as he slid back onto his bed.
Harry muttered something unrepeatable under his breath, then squared his shoulders. “We are never speaking of this.”
Ron nodded fervently. “Never happened.”
Harry stood and watched him longer than was strictly necessary.
Ron lay sprawled back against the pillows, one arm flung up, the other loose at his side, all long limbs and restless energy finally stilled by instruction. Without his shirt, he looked much older somehow, all freckles and familiar lines Harry had known since they were eleven, red shorts absurdly bright against the dark hangings. He was watching Harry now, wary and hopeful in equal measure, like a dog that had been told to stay and wasn’t sure whether it was about to be praised or scolded.
Harry swallowed.
He had been managing just fine until Ron took his shirt off, at which point his brain stopped working and his body made a series of truly unhelpful suggestions. He had been betrayed. By his body. By his eyes. Possibly by several formative memories he had aggressively ignored. Ron was not supposed to look like that, and Harry was absolutely not supposed to notice.
In hindsight, this explained rather a lot, and Harry deeply resented the timing of that revelation.
“You are,” Harry said carefully, buying himself time, “not allowed to smirk.”
Ron blinked. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good,” Harry muttered. He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled. “Because if you do, I will absolutely change my mind.”
Ron’s mouth twitched despite himself, then he pressed his lips together, nodding solemnly. “Warlock’s honour.”
Harry snorted under his breath and stepped closer, then stopped again, caught by Ron’s gaze on him. There was nothing clever in it, no calculation. There was want, yes, but also relief, gratitude, and that maddening earnestness Ron brought to everything he cared about.
Godric, he thought. I really am in trouble.
He reached out, then hesitated, fingers curling back on themselves. For a brief, treacherous moment, he wondered when this had started feeling like more than just Ron being Ron.
Harry cleared his throat. “Right,” he said, briskly, because he had to say something. “We’re doing this sensibly.”
Ron nodded again, immediately. “Sensibly. I can do sensible.”
Harry met his eyes, something unspoken tightening in his chest. “You’d better.”
And with that, before he could think too hard about the way Ron looked at him, or the warmth curling low in his own stomach, Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, resolve settling in alongside something far more dangerous.
“Uh, take your shorts down,” Harry muttered, fisting his fingers into the coverlet.
Ron whined. “Come on, mate, you do it. I’ll close my eyes and it’ll be part of the fantasy.”
“No,” he said, flat and immediate. “Absolutely not.”
Ron cracked one eye open, hopeful expression collapsing into a sheepish grimace. “Worth asking. Please?”
Harry sighed and reached out and laid on hand carefully over Ron’s abs. Oh, Godric, wrong move, wrong move—
—and without thinking, Harry hooked his fingers into the waistband of Ron’s shorts and gave a quick tug. The elastic got stuck at the base of Ron’s erection, and he gave a little, involuntary moan when Harry had to go a little slower and lift the band up and over it.
And then Ron’s shorts were around his freckled thighs, and his impossibly hard cock was left to bob in the early evening air. Ron sucked in a breath through his teeth, his eyes screwed closed, and let his fingertips drag along the underside.
“Uh, so— how do you like it?” Harry asked, clearing his throat. He reached out, and the tips of his fingers brushed against Ron’s as he moved.
Ron opened his eyes, and let his hand drop away, letting Harry’s wrap loosely around. Harry barely hesitated, and felt damned for it, but he gently stroked up to where Ron’s head was bright red and glistening under his foreskin.
“Just, uh, kind of—” Ron looked up at Harry, whose cock gave a little jump inside his trousers at how blue Ron’s eyes were, “like this.”
Ron wrapped his hand around Harry’s, showing him the right grip strength and pressure, how he twisted his wrist under the head of his erection without fully stroking the glans. “Merlin, Harry. Like that— yeah, like that.”
Harry felt his own palm start to sweat as he watched Ron’s dick disappear into his fist over and over. The pressure in his own balls was starting to become seriously uncomfortable. Ron was thick in his hand, thicker than Harry was, but a little shorter, maybe, and the amount of precome he was making was frankly ludicrous. Harry watched as bead after bead of it oozed out of Ron’s slit.
Ron made an absolutely obscene noise in the back of his throat, and reached out and grabbed at Harry’s thigh where it was pressed against his own. “This feels so good, Harry, don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” Harry shot back immediately, without thinking, and felt his whole face burn with humiliation.
“I’ll get you back, mate,” Ron assured him, stroking his huge hand up and down Harry’s thigh, each brush perilously close to Harry’s groin. “I’ll make it feel so good.”
Harry gasped, and Ron’s eyes flew open, suddenly questioning, but Harry closed his eyes. He couldn’t look. All he knew was that Ron’s hot, hard penis in his hand was maybe the best feeling he’d ever had.
He continued stroking, but even Ron’s copious precome wasn’t enough to lubricate forever.
“You got any—” Harry asked, and Ron grunted, rolling away for a moment to retrieve a vial from beside his mattress.
Ron was breathing hard and shaking as she unstoppered it.“Thanks.”
He poured a bit directly on his own erection, which twitched in response to the liquid. “This is good shit, Harry, I keep it down there, but you can use it. You know, later. When you’re—”
But he couldn’t continue. The words just wouldn’t come out. Harry had resumed stroking his cock and Ron was speechless.
Instead, he moaned, and it ended on a laugh. “You are so good at this. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck, Harry—” he moaned again, louder, “-—why didn’t we do this before?”
Harry was staring at Ron’s erection again, at the red hair around the base, at Ron’s bollocks tightening up underneath. Belatedly, he shoved Ron’s shorts down all of the way and suddenly his best mate was laid out in all of his glory, completely naked.
“That’s better,” Ron sighed, stretching his legs and readjusting. Harry moved closer, kneeling between Ron’s spread knees, and resumed stroking. After each pull, Harry watched how Ron’s bollocks lifted tighter and an expanse of smooth, unfreckled pale skin was revealed, and beyond it—
Harry’s mouth watered. He wanted to see Ron’s arsehole more than he’d ever wanted to see anything. Maybe if he… angled his head—
But Ron lifted his knee on one side, and Harry groaned out loud when he caught a fleeting glimpse of the pucker. That was it. That was good enough. He could die now. Again.
Ron sure was vocal, Harry thought. That was good. That’s how Harry knew that he was doing a good job. Harry was going to make him come. The thought sent a hot jolt down his spine and he writhed inside his trousers.
The red head of Ron’s cock was turning darker, more purple, with every stroke. Sweat had broken out across Ron’s chest and face, and he was alternating moans with straight up crying out in pleasure.
“That’s it,” Harry murmured, feeling the burn in his wrist and loving every second. “That’s a good boy.”
Ron nearly screamed.
Harry had to have more. He couldn’t hold himself back. On the next downstroke, Harry settled his fingers around the base of Ron’s dick, anchoring it.
“No,” Ron whined on a cry. “Don’t stop!”
Harry wasn’t going to stop. He lowered his dark head to the tip of Ron’s cock and with a deep breath, took him into his mouth.
Ron tasted salty, and a little metallic. Mostly, Harry just felt the heat radiating from him into the inside of his cheeks. The lube didn’t taste like anything, he didn’t think, but this was the first time he’d had a cock in his mouth, so it wasn’t like he could tell the difference. It felt so, so good there Harry thought that he might pass out, or actually die, from how good it felt.
He sucked gently, and pulled off the tip with a pop. He looked up at Ron whose eyes had gone wide with lust.
“Harry–”
Harry ignored him and started sucking in earnest. He felt the tip battering at the back of his throat, but he didn’t care.
Ron, on the other hand, cared a great deal, and had fisted his hands into Harry’s hair on either side of his head. “Harry, oh Merlin, oh Godric, if you don’t stop–”
Harry moaned an enthusiastic sound, muffled by his mouth stuffed full of cock. He looked up at Ron, tears welling in his eyes, and kept sucking.
“Harry, Harry, Harry,” Ron shouted. “I’m going to come in your mouth if you don’t stop–”
As best as he could manage with his mouth full, Harry nodded encouragingly, and made a garbled noise that if he could speak would say, “Fuck yes, Ron, come in my mouth.”
“I can’t hold back!” babbled Ron, as he lost control and jerked his hips up into Harry’s soft, perfect mouth. “Harry, fuck, I’m going to—”
Harry wasn’t sure exactly what it would be like to have Ron come in his mouth, but he certainly didn’t expect the sheer force or pressure behind the ejaculation that shot out of his best mate and flooded his mouth. He choked, tears streaming down his face, but he couldn’t stop. Ron cried out, going completely rigid under Harry’s hands and mouth, and spasmed over and over.
Before he knew what had even happened, Harry was lapping at Ron’s softening penis, and dragging his fingers through the trails of come that he hadn’t managed to swallow.
Ron laughed, and let go of Harry’s hair. He wiped one palm across his forehead and laid back, utterly spent. “Mate, that was–”
Harry pressed a kiss to the juncture of Ron’s groin and thigh, and realized abruptly that that was just a little too tender for the moment.
“-—c’mere,” Ron continued. “Let’s take care of you. We’ve got time before dinner.”
Harry looked at him dumbly. “What?”
Ron frowned. “I said I would–”
“Ron, I came in my pants like a bloody third year,” Harry admitted. “Even the chosen one doesn’t had that much will power.”
Ron glanced down, then back up at Harry. “So. Er. You okay?”
Harry considered that. “Ask me again in… several weeks.”
Ron smiled, sheepish and warm. “Still friends?”
Harry looked at him, really looked. He was earnest and familiar in a way that made his chest ache. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Obviously.”
“Good,” Ron said, relief obvious. “Because I don’t think I could handle you being weird about it.”
“I am going to be incredibly weird about it,” Harry replied. “Just not at you.”
Ron laughed again, softer this time. “Fair.”
Harry stood and retrieved his wand, resolutely not looking at the bed. “We are getting dressed. We are going to dinner. And we are not discussing this with Hermione, or anyone else, ever.”
Ron nodded. “Agreed. Completely. Lifelong secrecy.”
Harry paused to pull a fresh set of clothes from his trunk. “Also,” he added dryly, “you owe me new trousers. I don’t think I’ll ever get this stain out.”
Ron grinned. “Worth it.”
Harry shook his head before turning to go to the lavatory, but he was smiling too. He suspected this would not be the last bad decision disguised as problem solving.