My Knight - H/R - NC-17
Title: My Knight
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Harry/Ron, mention of Ron/Hermione, Hermione/Viktor and both Ron and Harry with ‘other men’
Words: 9000
Rating: NC-17

Written for the smashing hpvalensmut, where Harry/Ron is like gold dust!

This is being sprinkled for marginaliana, who asked for all things wonderful, and wasn’t scary at all.

It is betaed by the entirely lovely magicofisis, who puts the M in my Muse!

Apparently I am supposed to warn for rimming, although with these gorgeous arses, I have no idea why!!


My Knight
I’d been away for six months, specialist Auror training – top secret, sorry, can’t go into detail – and I was dying to see my friends, when I got back.

Hermione’s letters had been full of work – elves, werewolves, oppression – Neville’s had been full of school – his plants, his students, his dates with Ginny in Hogsmead – and Ron’s full of, well, nothing.

A bit of Quidditch, a bit of gossip about the twins or Seamus.

News about Bill’s kids.

But nothing about him.

Ron.

My Ron.

My best friend in all the world.

Not that we were ones for talking about personal stuff, and not that I could stand it if his letters were full of sweaty details of women he’d fondled. Just the thought of him… accessing strange women had been enough for me to score top marks in… no, sorry, can’t go into detail.

Anyway, I was dying to see everyone, and I sent hurried owls to them all, as soon as I cleared the International Portkey Office and Flooed home.

Seamus was the first to arrive at the Leaky Cauldron, and he slapped me on the back and placed a drink before me on the table.

“How’s the top secret stuff going, then, Harry?” he asked.

“Can’t say,” I replied and he sniggered.

“Any top secret Eastern European women?”

“I’m sure there are,” I said. “But I didn’t play with any. How about you?”

“A bit of a thing with Sally-Anne Perks,” he smirked. “She’s back from Australia, missed all the excitement, thinks I’m a blasted hero.”

I snorted.

“How about everyone else?”

“Fred’s engaged.”

“I know.”

“Hermione needs to work shorter hours.”

“I know!”

“You know about… Nev and Ginny?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “And I’m thrilled for both of them.”

“Yeah, well,” Seamus said. “I mean, I know what you saw in her, but I never reckoned it’d last.”

“You were another heartbroken victim, were you?” I laughed, taking a drink.

“What?” he said, frowning.

“You know what I saw in her.”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But it did nothing for me.”

“What didn’t?”

“That she’s Ron with breasts.”

I sat and blinked at him for some time, utterly unable to frame a coherent sentence.

“No, she isn’t,” I managed finally.

He made a noise like Crookshanks with a furball, which I took to express Celtic scepticism.

“Cho cried all over you,” he pointed out.

“I know.”

“And yer girl, there, made you laugh.”

“So?”

“Just like her brother.”

“Seamus,” I scoffed. “That is not why I liked her.”

“She’d sit at yer feet, and you’d stroke her hair,” he said dreamily.

“So?”

“Just like you never could with her brother.”

He looked smug.

I felt murderous.

“I never stroked Ron’s hair,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said gleefully.

“Shay, that just isn’t fair,” I protested. “How am I supposed to argue with that?”

“So, you admit it you can’t,” he said.

I glared at his back as he smugly crossed to the bar to get another round in, furious that he’d speculated about the most important relationship in my life, like that.

Not me and Ginny.

Me and Ron.

Not that there ever was a me and Ron, except in the I’d die for him sense.

And, OK, I’d managed my share of homosexual experimentation. Top secret training courses being a hotbed of other top secret behaviour. I’d probably managed Ron’s share, too, which was depressing.

And I had had one very interesting weekend with Viktor that I would never tell Ron and Hermione about.

But I never allowed myself to think of Ron like that.

He’s the single most important person in my life and he always will be, and he’s straight and out of bounds and he always will be.

“I know why you never did anything about it,” Seamus said, sitting back down with our drinks.

“Oh, you do, do you?” I asked wittily.

“Best friend territorial thingy,” he said wisely. “You just don’t make a move on the one yer best mate is in love with.”

I blinked.

“Why would I make a move on Hermione?” I asked.

He tsked.

“On yer man!” he said firmly. “You’d never offer ter count his freckles, not while Hermione was mad for him.”

“I don’t think we’re talking about the same people,” I said.

“Only I bet stuff is making you squirm, now,” he said, ignoring me.

“What stuff?”

“Well, Hermione’s over him,” Seamus said.

“So?”

“And look at who he’s dating!” he said triumphantly.

“Who?” I asked, not really wanting to know.

“Look,” he said, nodding towards the fireplace as a sooty Ron tumbled through, turning to grab Terry Boot by the hand and tug him between the tables to our booth.

“Harry!” he crowed, throwing himself onto the bench beside me and his arms around me.

I hugged him back, blinking at an uncomfortable looking Terry and allowing myself to breathe Ron in for a second, before realising Seamus was watching me rub my cheek against his hair.

“Look at you,” Ron said, pulling back and shaking me by the shoulders. He grinned maniacally as his eyes ran over my face. “I missed you.”

“Missed you, too,” I whispered.

Terry cleared his throat casually.

“Missed rather a lot,” I murmured, moving deeper into the booth so a grinning Terry could join Ron and me on the bench.

Ron’s ears pinked and he smiled.

“Just didn’t know how to tell you in a letter,” he said sheepishly.

“Well, um, congratulations,” I said, nodding at Terry, to include him. “Since when?”

“Fourth year,” Terry said firmly.

Ron laughed. “Three months,” he said.

“But since when were you..?” I couldn’t finish my question.

Seamus sniggered.

“Don’t reckon I necessarily am,” Ron said. “I guess I’m… flexible. And turns out you were right, Terry wasn’t staring at Hermione.”

“And don’t ask Hermione ‘since when?’,” Seamus said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“She’s worried shagging her left him bent,” he said and Ron rolled his eyes. “She’s just pleased Krum has such a way with the ladies, to protect her bruised ego.”

I blinked and shook my head to get rid of the image of Viktor lying and begging beneath me.

“And there’s nothing bent, anyway,” Terry smirked. “It’s all in perfect working order.”

And I saw his hand slide round Ron’s waist and down the back of his jeans.

And I wanted to kill him.

Now, I’ve always got on quite well with Terry; even feeling a certain solidarity with him, over the hopeless crush on Ron thing.

But, hard as it had been to accept that I had to kill Voldemort, suddenly I’d quite happily mutilate thissmug bastard, whose fingers were doing something that made Ron’s eyes open very wide.

I’d been quite happy with Ron being unavailable. But that was unavailable with his hand up Lavender’s shirt, not unavailable with Terry fondling his arse.

My luxury item, should the Muggles ever realise how famous I am and invite me onto Desert Island Discs, would be Ron’s arse.

Not only is it immensely decorative, but its practical applications are limitless.

I sighed and tried focusing on the conversation around me, greeting Dean and Susan when they arrived, hugging Hermione when she arrived and practically leapt over the table, accepting drinks from all and sundry, apologising for not being able to tell anyone what I’d been doing in Eastern Europe, ignoring Hermione’s significant looks.

But mainly trying to ignore the way Ron’s thigh was pressed against mine; especially the way it shifted each time Terry molested him.

Ignoring the strong freckled hand wrapped round the bottle on the table right in front of me; desperately trying not to imagine it wrapped round anything else.

I’d drunk far too much on an empty stomach by the time Terry’s hand reappeared and stroked the back of Ron’s neck as Ron hugged me goodbye.

They stumbled, flushed and laughing, into the Floo and I, discovering I was now alone with Hermione, allowed myself to lose it.

She moved round the table, to sit beside me. “Home,” she said firmly, wrapping her arms around me and Side Alonging me to my room at Grimmauld Place.

She sat on the bed while I strode round the room, ranting.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I shouted. “You let me walk straight into Terry-fucking-hand-down-his-trousers-Boot.”

“I didn’t know Ron was bringing him,” she said. “I tried to get away from work early enough to warn you.”

“You had three months to warn me,” I complained.

“What could I say in a letter? ‘Don’t be angry, Ron is shagging another bloke’?”

I stopped dead.

“A bloke,” I said.

“What?”

“Shagging a bloke,” I repeated. “Isn’t ‘shagging another bloke’ superfluous?”

“Not other than him,” she said. “Other than you.”

“What?”

She gave me a very level look. “Other than you, Harry,” she said. “I know that’s why you’re upset.”

“I’m upset because…”

“It’s not you.”

“No one told me he was… flexible,” I overrode her.

“Harry.”

“What?”

“Harry.”

“It’s not me, Hermione,” I said heavily, sitting beside her. “Why isn’t it me?”

“He doesn’t know you want him,” she shrugged. “I was never certain, until tonight.”

“Not like this,” I admitted. “Well, I knew I wanted him, but I was fine with it being impossible, what with…”

I gestured at her breasts and drunkenly knocked one.

She giggled.

“You really don’t seem very surprised,” I said.

“Well, you’ve always cared more for him, than anyone, haven’t you?”

I nodded mournfully.

“And when Viktor told me about sleeping with you…”

“What?” I shouted.

"Um."

"That was something I was never gonna tell you!" I wailed.

"Well, Viktor and I tell each other stuff like that."

I blinked.

"He was awfully complimentary," Hermione said comfortingly. "And you know he has his own share of groupies who'd sleep with him just because he's famous. Actually, I think you'd be good together."

"It was just a... thing," I said lamely. "We don't really have all that much in common, apart from... Viktor's a very... physical being... I'm not gonna... date him."

"That's probably for the best," she agreed. "Can you imagine Ron's reaction?"

We looked at each other.

"That would be a shabby thing to do to Viktor, Harry," she said severely.

"Not if he knew it was still just a thing," I said. "The Vultures are touring next summer; it'd be good to see him again."

"Well," she said slowly. "As long as you tell him it's just a thing. And about Ron."

I nodded firmly.

"So," I said. "Very complimentary?"

"Said you did things with your..."

"Don't finish that sentence," I yelped, covering her mouth with my hand and wincing as she sniggered wetly behind it.

She hugged me goodnight and Disapparated home and I flopped back onto my bed.

Even though I had never held out any hope of actually being with him, or anything like that, well, it had always been Ron, hadn’t it?

And I’d watched him kissing pretty girls; watched his hands cupping their faces, their arses, their boobs. And I hadn’t even been jealous. Not really. I’d been impressed at how physical he was, but he liked girls, and I was fine.

I’d be fine, as long as he was my best friend, as long as he told me everything.

But he was keeping secrets from me.

Wild, boy on boy, hot, sweaty secrets.

Hard muscled, hairy, shirt lifting, long legged, arsing secrets.

I could smile fondly at him drunkenly trying to squeeze Hannah’s bum at a party, but now I was imagining him kneeling before Terry, gazing up through his fringe and opening his mouth for his too-bloody-clever-for-its-own-good cock.

Fucking Ravenclaws.

And now I was unzipping my jeans and grinding the heel of my hand against my stirring cock and imagining him parting Terry’s cheeks with long, probing fingers and stroking the head of his cock up and down and up and down and…

Oh, god.

Now I was squeezing and stroking myself and imagining him on all fours, submitting to that smarmy bastard.

Hadn’t Terry’s fingers been half-way up Ron’s arse all evening? And hadn’t I inhaled as he caressed the back of Ron’s neck as we hugged goodnight, pitifully trying to catch Ron’s scent on him?

I bit my lip and came all over my fingers.

I wanted to go back to Bulgaria.

Where men were men and you could stick your tongue up their arse without worrying about where Terry-sodding-Boot’s tongue had been.

I Tergeoed and undressed and climbed glumly into bed, where I spent a restless night, dreaming about Terry keeping Ron as a pet and taking him for walks on a collar and leash.

For the next few weeks, I threw myself into work; various top secret criminals didn’t know what had hit them.

I met up with Hermione for lunch, with the boys for a drink, with Ron as often as I could, and I managed not to punch Terry in the face.

Not when he pulled Ron’s hand into his lap under the table at the pub, smirking into his pint as those long fingers stroked him.

Not when I called for Ron, to go watch a match together, and had to wait while Terry thoroughly kissed him goodbye.

Not even when I walked into the kitchen at Ron’s flat and Terry had him pinned to the wall, one hand holding Ron’s wrists, crossed above his head, the other down the front of his trousers, pumping frantically, his mouth sealed to Ron’s throat.

I didn’t punch Terry, but I did punch a wall.

Which I don’t recommend, but, luckily, Hermione was in the lounge and she healed my hand without a comment.

Poor Hermione bore the brunt of it.

“I don’t know why you don’t just tell him,” she said, at lunch, prodding her salad.

“Because he doesn’t want me and it would be humiliating,” I said, for the hundredth time, frowning at a carrot and viciously biting the tip off.

“No, it wouldn’t,” she said. “Humiliating is finding out that both of the men you’ve slept with prefer blokes.”

I snorted.

“I’ve slept with six men,” I said. “And they all prefer blokes, so I’m three times as pathetic as you.”

“What is the worst he can say?” she pressed. “It’s not like he can say he doesn’t go for blokes.”

“He could say he’s been with his boyfriend for nearly six months, and doesn’t think of me that way,” I said.

“He adores you,” she said.

“D’you go for blokes?” I asked.

“What? Yes.”

“D’you adore me?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m a bloke,” I said. “How’d you like me to suddenly declare myself madly in love with you?”

“Harry,” she tutted. “That’s not the same.”

“Except that it really, really is,” I said mournfully.

She shook her head.

“What are you going to do, then?” she asked.

“I am going to be pleased that Ron is happy,” I said firmly.

She raised an eyebrow.

“And I’m going to see Viktor, next month, and ask him to help me make Ron jealous.”

She snorted.

And she was right.

What did I think would happen? Did I really think Ron’d be consumed with jealousy and swept off his feet by the new, gay me?

Pretty much.

I met Viktor at his hotel, for a drink; we talked about Quidditch and work and Hermione and his fingers closed over mine and he asked, “Are you staying?”

“Ah,” I said.

He held his hands up in front of him. “No,” he said. “I understand this, you’re home now.”

“What?” I asked.

“No more… the experiment.”

“No, that’s not it,” I assured him.

“I just think is good to know you don’t care how I am famous.”

I laughed. “Well, yeah.”

“And also you are excellent in bed.”

I blushed. “Um, great. Hermione said you…”

“Ah,” he said. “I understand this. I should not have told Hermione.”

“No. No, no, no. That’s not it, at all,” I said firmly. “The thing is, I’m after a favour, not a… fling.”

“Fling?” he said. “Fling is to throw, no?”

“No,” I said. “Well, yes, fling is to throw – I mean fling means to throw, but it also means an affair? A… sleeping with someone.”

“Ah,” he said. “OK, what favour can I make? You have tickets.”

I bit my lip.

“Do you know the word ‘jealous’?” I asked.

“Most certainly,” he said. “It is how Ronald thought that Hermione and I were having a ‘fling’.”

“Well, you were,” I pointed out.

“Not when she was a little girl,” he protested. “She… flinged Ronald before she flinged me.”

I laughed. “Good point.”

“But Ronald was angry with me, because he wanted to have her for himself. That is jealous.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly. Well. I want to make someone jealous. And I thought. Maybe I could come to your changing rooms, after the match…and get caught. With you.”

Viktor’s bushy eyebrows rose swiftly. “Caught with me?”

“Yeah. Caught… kissing you?”

“I would like to kiss you, after game or before,” he said. “But who would be jealous?”

“Um,” I didn’t dare say it.

“You and Ronald?” Viktor asked.

“What?”

“Hermione tells me he now sleeps with men,” he said. “And I think you think he would feel the same as to see me kissing Hermione.”

“It sounds stupid, when you say it out loud,” I said, running my hands through my hair. “He’s been with his boyfriend for six months; why would he drop everything and choose me?”

Viktor shrugged.

“He does not know you sleep with men?” he asked.

“Uh, no.”

“Well, is a good way for him to find out,” he laughed. “Then maybe he will start to think of you.”

Which was good enough for me, so we had another drink and talked about Quidditch.

The Cannons versus the Vultures match was on a hot, sunny day, and Hermione and I made up a foursome with Ron and Terry and watched a fantastic match, culminating in Viktor catching a rather fast Snitch in the sixth hour.

Ron was thrilled that Hermione had arranged for us to go to the changing rooms after and I hadn’t warned her that my plan was on, as she was as bad an actress as ever, and I needed her to be as surprised as anyone, so I kissed her on the cheek and said I needed the loo and would meet them there.

She waved me away and turned to round up Ron and his other half, ostentatiously not commenting on the fact that Ron’s hand was in Terry’s lap and Terry had to hold the match programme in front of his groin as he stood up.

I’d been expected behind the scenes, and several other Vultures called a greeting as I crossed the roomful of gorgeous athletes in various stages of undress. Their Keeper had stripped down to trousers and wrist guards and two young women were counting the bruises on his chest.

Two of the Chasers were undoing each other’s laces, their shirts already unbuttoned.

A Beater lay on his back on a bench, the towel wrapped round his waist failing to cover the rather attractive bollocks between his parted legs and raised knees.

Well, maybe Terry’s head would be so turned that he’d never make it across the room, and I’d have Ron to myself.

Pushing open the door to the showers, I tracked down a half naked Viktor, struggling to untangle the laces on his own wristguards.

“Ah, Harry,” he boomed. “I am in need of favour, also.”

He held out his wrist and I bent my head over it, tugging at the sweat darkened laces and trying to encourage them to loosen. I was so engrossed in my task that I didn’t hear the rest of Viktor’s guests approaching, and was taken by surprise as his hand closed on my wrist and pulled me closer.

“What?” I asked, then rolled my eyes at myself and closed them as he kissed me and the door opened.

He was a fantastic kisser, and he’d obviously decided there was no reason not to enjoy it; the arm I’d been unlacing went round my waist, pulling my own hand with it. Bending me back over the arm twisted behind me, his mouth moved slowly against mine, tongue and teeth lapping and nipping at my lips.

My other arm went round his neck, if only to keep my balance, and I sighed as his kisses wandered across my cheek and down my neck.

I didn’t dare peek at the trio in the doorway, and the silence was finally broken by Terry.

“Well, bugger me,” he said.

I looked round, giving Viktor better access to my neck, and he didn’t stop kissing me.

“Harry!” Hermione chided. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She nodded towards Ron and frowned at me.

I looked at Ron.

He looked as if a tree had fallen and hit him on the head.

Then his mouth closed with an audible snap and he whirled on his heel and left the room, the door swinging closed behind him.

“Uh, congratulations?” Terry said, before shrugging and turning to follow his upset lover.

Which left me with Viktor’s lips on my throat and Hermione frowning at the pair of us.

“Oh, you can stop it, now,” she snapped.

Viktor gave me one last, lingering kiss, sucking my lower lip into his mouth and sending vibrations through me as he hummed.

“Hermione!” he cried, smiling widely.

She snorted as he crossed the room and gave her an identical kiss.

“What was that all about?” she said, frowning at us as I shrugged sheepishly and Viktor went back to his laces.

“I was greeting my very good friend, Harry,” he explained.

“Oh, give me that,” she snapped, grabbing his wrist and making short work of undoing the guard. “I cannot believe you went through with it, Harry.”

“I don’t actually expect him to be out there dumping Terry for me,” I said.

“Then what?”

“Just that he now knows I’m an option.”

She tutted. “And you,” she said, glaring at Viktor as his heavy and damp trousers hit the floor, leaving him in his boots and jockstrap. “Why did you go along with this plan, Viktor?”

“I get to kiss the Chosen One,” he said, frowning down at his ankles and grinning at her as she knelt and unlaced his boots so he could step out of them and kick his trousers away.

I laughed.

“And he is not hurt, your Ronald,” Viktor went on. “Now he knows that Harry sleeps with men, maybe he will think of him.”

Hermione sat back on her heels and gazed up at him and Viktor reached for his jockstrap.

“Put that away,” Hermione said, waving a hand at his groin and getting to her feet, “and have a shower. Are you still joining us for a drink?”

“Am I wanted?” Viktor asked, turning to the showers and showing a rather tasty arse, framed in leather straps.

I wondered if Ron had gone to the Leaky Cauldron, as we’d planned; I wondered if Terry had calmed him down; I wondered if Hermione knew just how tasty Viktor’s arse was.

“Absolutely,” I said, licking my lips. “If Ron has calmed down enough to be there, it’ll be fine – and, if he hasn’t, then it’ll be just the three of us.”

“A threesome I could get used to,” Viktor said.

Hermione tutted loudly and I caught her hand and led her from the room.

We Apparated to the pub and I squared my shoulders and braced myself for what I’d find inside.

If Ron wasn’t there, if he was that upset with me – what would that mean?

“He’ll be there,” Hermione said comfortingly, then frowned, because she couldn’t work out if that would be a good thing, or not.

If he was there – what if he wasn’t upset?

And what if he was?

I pushed the door open and scanned the room; Ron and Terry were sitting very close together, in a booth. Ron’s shoulders were hunched and his head drooped and Terry was rubbing his back comfortingly and murmuring in his ear.

Hermione and I threaded our way across the room and sat opposite them.

Ron’s eyes flickered at Terry and I was suddenly sure that the only thing stopping Ron from thumping me was Terry’s hand on his back.

“Since when?” Terry asked me. “And don’t say fourth year!”

I laughed uncomfortably, aware of Ron’s eyes on me. “No, uh, just when I was in Bulgaria.”

“You didn’t mention it,” Terry said, manfully keeping the conversation going.

“Well,” I shrugged. “It didn’t seem necessary. Viktor wasn’t here, um…”

With his usual immaculate timing, Viktor arrived at the table and sat beside me, kissing me on the cheek as I nudged Hermione to move up and give him room.

Ron still didn’t say anything.

I still couldn’t work out if this was a good thing, or not.

“How are you, Ronald?” Viktor said, ignoring the atmosphere and Ron’s frown.

“Fine,” Ron croaked.

“Are you going to introduce me?” Viktor asked, nodding at Terry.

Ron blinked.

Terry held his hand out. “Terry Boot,” he said. “Huge fan.”

“Viktor Krum,” Viktor said, laughing and shaking his hand vigorously. “Huge celebrity.”

Terry and Hermione and I laughed and she shoved Viktor’s shoulder.

Ron glared at him.

And me.

Alternating between us as the drinks were necked and the match analysed.

At midnight, Terry tried to get him to leave, but he sat, with arms folded, and shook his head.

Terry shrugged at me, kissed Ron on his unresponsive cheek, and Flooed home.

Viktor took his leave shortly afterwards, nodding at Ron and kissing Hermione’s hand and my lips.

The three of us looked at each other.

“What the hell was that about?” Hermione demanded.

“What?” Ron asked defensively.

“How dareyou be so rude to Viktor!” she snapped. “I have never been so embarrassed, and I thought I was used to you.”

Ron glared at her.

“Well?” she snapped.

“He… he’s…” Ron bit his lip. “I don’t know why we all have to be so pally with him,” he muttered. “Not when he just won the match against the Cannons, and then we have to drink with him, and … and… he’s… and stick our tongues down his throat, when he’s… you’re just….”

“If you say Harry’s fraternising with the enemy, I will hex you,” Hermione hissed.

Ron snorted and looked at me.

“What the fuck wasthat, Harry?” he said in a very small voice.

“He’s a friend,” I said.

“A friend?” he echoed. “Do you let all your friends twist your arm behind your back and suck on your neck?”

“If you like,” I snapped.

“Stop it,” Hermione interrupted, putting her hand on my arm and glaring Ron into submission. “Ron, you are the last person who can complain about Harry’s love life like this. What is wrong with you?”

“It was a shock,” Ron grumbled.

“It was a surprise,” Hermione said severely. “And one a grown man should be able to shrug off. How is it your business, anyway?”

“Harry’s my business!” he shouted. “And he didn’t tell me.”

He looked defiantly past my left ear.

“Hermione, could you leave us to sort this out?” I asked her.

“Are you sure?” she said, throwing a doubtful look at Ron.

“Yeah,” I said heavily. “We’re grown-ups now, we have to sort out our own mess.”

She kissed me on the cheek and slapped Ron on the back of the head and Flooed home.

“Ron,” I stared to say.

“Not here,” he interrupted.

“Come back with me?” I asked.

He nodded sharply and followed me into the Floo.

I sat on my couch and ran my hands roughly though my hair and watched Ron prowl.

Part of me was frightened that he was really angry; part of me was angry that he was really angry; part of me was watching the muscles moving in his back as he muttered and shook his head and strode round the room.

That part of me was growing bigger and I adjusted my jeans.

“Ron?” I said, finally. “It’s not this big a deal.”

He stopped pacing and looked at me and suddenly the tension went out of his shoulders and he came and slumped onto the couch, beside me.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t tell me about Terry,” I protested.

“I told you as soon as you got back!” he said. “I just couldn’t put it in a letter. But I haven’t hidden anything since you got back.”

I almost wished he had, as I’d seen far too much.

“Well, I haven’t hidden anything either,” I complained. “There is no reason I should have written from Bulgaria and told you about Viktor and I haven’t had so much as a date since I got back, so I haven’t got anything to tell you, or to hide.”

Apart from the fact that I am desperately in love with you was on the tip of my tongue, but I managed to hold it back.

Ron looked chastened and up at me, through his fringe.

“But Krum,” he moaned. “Just when I was all excited about seeing him play again!”

I shrugged. “I didn’t know anyone else in Bulgaria,” I said.

“Luckily,” Ron snorted.

He gave me a small and sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “I behaved like a prat.”

“You did,” I agreed.

“It was just a shock, y’know? Seeing you with him and… picturing you… with him. I’m sorry, it’s really not my business, is it?”

“I like being your business,” I said. “It’s OK. As long as we’re friends.”

He gave me a look like I’d grown an extra head.

“How could we ever not be friends?” he asked incredulously.

He made a half movement towards me, and his arms twitched.

“We’re not too girly for a hug, or something, are we?” he asked ruefully.

“‘Course not,” I said, opening my arms and wrapping them firmly around him.

He hugged me tightly and I allowed myself a moment to breathe him in before he sat back and flushed.

“So,” he said. “You, uh, date blokes?”

I half shrugged.

“I dunno,” I said.

“What d’you mean you dunno?” he scoffed. “I saw you!”

“‘Date’ means, uh, going out and stuff, doesn’t it?” I asked him. “Let’s say I stay in with blokes.”

Ron’s eyes opened wide and he suppressed a snort.

“Harry!”

I sniggered.

“It’s, um, all the rage in the Academy in Sofia,” I said.

“Good to know the Wizarding World is in such safe hands.”

We grinned at each other.

“This is so weird,” Ron said, shaking himself like a dog coming out of the water.

“What is?”

“Thinking of you letting Viktor…” He made a rather scary gesture.

“Um.”

“What?”

“I didn’t let Viktor,” I said. “He let me. Well, he begged me, if I’m being accurate.”

“But,” Ron blinked. “The way he was kissing you. He had you bent over backwards just for a kiss!”

“I’ve,” I felt myself blush. “I’ve never ‘let anyone’.”

“Oh,” Ron looked round the room. “OK. This is weird, Harry. Why is this so weird?”

I shrugged.

“Well, we’ve never been able to talk like this before - we could never compare notes about Hermione and Ginny,” I said.

He grimaced.

“So,” he said. “How many…?”

“Six,” I said. “Including Viktor. The others were at the Academy. You?”

“Uh, one,” he said. “And that hardly counts.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I scoffed. “Six months doesn’t count?”

“Not in a slutty blokes-I’ve-shagged conversation,” he said. “I probably get negative points for being with Terry for six months.”

I laughed.

“On a slutty scale, yes,” I said. “You score minus six for being faithful.”

“So,” he said, tucking one leg under him and looking rather more animated. “I score one for shagging a bloke, a bonus point for him shagging me, but minus six for the pesky monogamousness.”

“And minus one for him fancying you since you were fifteen.”

He pouted.

“Giving me a grand total of minus five,” he concluded. “And you, you score six for shagging six blokes, but no bonuses for taking it like a man.”

I laughed at his shining face.

“Yeah, OK,” I said.

“These relationships,” he said. “How long did they last, exactly?”

“Ron!”

“How long, Harry?” he said seriously. “Points are at stake, here.”

“Viktor was a long weekend.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “No points; especially as you’ve known him for years.”

“And he shagged your ex.”

“And he shagged my ex.”

“Um,” I shook my head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. OK, one was an American bloke, John, he was studying… um, well, something secret at the Academy… lasted about a week.”

Ron wrinkled his nose. “Not very slutty.”

“One was from Australia, tall, blond, gorgeous, called Craig and lasted a fortnight.”

“Pitiful.”

“One was my instructor…”

“Sounds promising,” Ron said encouragingly

“…and that was a one-off, at the end of my course.”

“You get a point for that,” Ron decided. “And an extra one if that is why you passed.”

“I passed because I’m bloody good!” I insisted, shoving him.

“In bed or at top secret stuff?” he asked, shoving back.

“Both,” I huffed. “I passed the course on my top secret stuff skills.”

“OK,” he said. “Six points, one bonus for shagging your boss. Who else?”

“Uh,” I said. “This local guy, Kubrat, who worked at the Academy.”

“And you were together how long?”

“About four hours,” I admitted.

“Point. And how long had you known him before you….”

“About twenty minutes?”

“Point!”

Ron counted on his fingers. “Who was the sixth bloke?”

“His friend, or possibly boyfriend.”

“Oh?”

“I think boyfriend,” I said slowly. “They didn’t speak much English.”

“Two points, easily,” Ron decided. “That makes, um, ten points.”

I crowed and raised my hands aloft in triumph.

“I really fail at everything, don’t I?” he asked mournfully.

“Git.”

“You beat me by fifteen points,” he sighed. “And I’ll fall further behind, every month I’m with Terry.”

“Arse.”

He smiled at me.

“So, I never actually asked you about Terry,” I said. “What with the whole… you thought that I hadn’t… anyway, um… how’s it going?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “It’s good,” he said. “It’s fun, no pressure, you know?”

“Do you… love him?” I asked tentatively, wondering why I was torturing myself like that.

Ron squirmed. “It’s fun,” he said firmly. “I can’t see myself telling a bloke I love him, but I reckon I deserve some fun. Reckon you did too, shagging pairs of Bulgarian blokes.”

“Yeah,” I said sheepishly. “I’m glad you’re having fun, too.”

It was good to know he wasn’t in love with Terry, but not that he couldn’t be in love with a bloke.

Because I had known that first; I knew I could sleep with a bloke, because I knew I was in love with Ron.

“And the sex is amazing,” he said. “Even if it is monogamous.”

I snorted.

“Judging by the amount innocent bystanders get to see, I’m sure it’s pretty amazing in private.”

“Well, the sheer variety with a bloke is pretty impressive,” he said seriously. “Although, if you’ve never…”

“I, um, well, I...” Mainly I regretted starting the conversation. “I’ve tried everything but,” I muttered. “It’s just too… intimate.”

“Yeah, but if you…” he trailed off.

Ron blinked at me and, we both seemed to realise, simultaneously, that we were discussing having someone’s cock up my arse.

“It’s getting late,” he said pathetically. “I should, um, get home.”

He stood up and looked awkwardly between me and the fireplace.

“‘Course,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll, um, see you at the weekend, yeah? Seamus’ party.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, shuffling his feet, giving me a quick I’m-not-still-thinking-about-cocks-up-your-arse hug, and Flooing home.

So, all in all, it had gone pretty well, hadn’t it?

Ron knew I was bisexual; we’d made up a whole game about how slutty I was; he wasn’t in love with Terry.

If that didn’t count as him knowing I was available, I don’t know what would.

Unfortunately, nothing changed.

That’s not completely true.

Somehow Ron had taken this knowledge to mean he could be even more open in front of me.

He could catch my eye and nod towards Terry’s arse, outlined in tight, tight trousers as he bent over the couch to pick something up off the floor.

I went home having to wank to the memory of a drunken Ron unbuttoning Terry’s shirt and sucking his nipples right in front of me, my thumb running round and round the head of my weeping cock, as I pictured Ron’s tongue circling Terry’s erect nipple.

Weeks passed and I didn’t date and Ron didn’t break up with Terry and what was the point of being bisexual, but not sleeping with anyone?

When we were all drunk at Neville and Ginny’s engagement party, I was treated to the sight of Terry leaning on the couch by Ron’s legs and stroking Ron’s cock through his trousers, carefully using an eyebrow pencil he’d pinched from Ginny’s bag to mark the point the tip of Ron’s erection had reached after every few strokes.

It seemed to curve interestingly to the left.

Towards me as I sat beside him.

I had to excuse myself and stagger into the bathroom, lock the door behind me and frantically unzip and jerk myself off into the toilet; I couldn’t aim straight, what with the image I had of Ron’s head tipped back on the couch, his eyelashes fluttering like fans on his cheeks, his lips parted, his cheeks flushed, his hand clenched into a fist an inch from my thigh and his cock visibly swelling and pointing ever closer to me, and my come splattered on the seat and the toilet flushed indignantly and gave a small sniff.

And I knew which image would fill my sad and solo wanking sessions for months to come; an image of Ron being debauched was really the last thing I needed.

Or the second last thing, possibly.

Because a heart to heart with Terry about their relationship topped it.

He asked me to meet him at the pub and I couldn’t think of a way to get out of it, and I had a sinking feeling he was going to be planning something romantic for their first anniversary, which was just four weeks away and I wasn’t sure I could stand it.

We both sat and nursed our drinks until I couldn’t stand it any longer and asked what he wanted.

“Um,” he said. “Ron and I have been together for eleven months.”

I nodded, my heart sinking, knowing I’d have to be the Best Mate and help him organise a surprise party or a romantic weekend or an engagement atop a mountain at dawn…

“And we had the oddest conversation last night.”

“Huh?” I asked, shaking myself and trying to concentrate on what Terry was saying.

He sighed.

“We’ve been together eleven months,” Terry repeated. “Which, apparently is minus eleven slutty points, leaving him on a score of minus ten.”

“Ah,” I said. “It’s not important, it’s this scoring system we made up.”

“And you scored plus ten.”

“Well, sort of,” I said. “There was a lot of it going on at the Academy. It’s a joke between Ron and me.”

“That’s the thing,” Terry said.

“What’s the thing?”

“It’s between Ron and you,” he said. “Everything’s always between Ron and you and he thinks the gap between you is this big important thing, and it only gets wider as he scores less slut points.”

I blinked.

“Just how drunk was he?” I asked.

“Pretty drunk,” Terry admitted. “But in an honest drunk mood, not a talking total bollocks mood.”

“Look,” I said, my heart aching. “There’s never been anything… you know, between Ron and me. He doesn’t really think there’s anything wrong with being in a relationship, while I’m not.”

“You could be scoring negative points together,” he said gloomily.

“What?” I said. “No!”

“I’ll never mean as much to him as you do,” Terry said. “And I know there’s never been anything ‘you know’ between the two of you. There doesn’t have to be.”

“Look, we went through a hell of a lot together,” I said, cursing myself for doing the right thing, when it would have been so easy to push myself between them.

“And that is one of the things I love most about him,” he said. “He is so loyal and protective and I love having just a small part of that, but I know that it’s always been focussed on you, since you were eleven, and I’m never gonna have more than your leftovers.”

I shook my head, utterly speechless.

It was all I wanted, and Terry could see it, and maybe Ron wasn’t completely happy with him, but I couldn’t say it, I couldn’t ask for it.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said weakly. “I don’t want to come between you, honestly.”

“You do it without trying,” Terry pointed out and I shrugged helplessly.

“What d’you want me to say?” I asked.

Terry sighed and fiddled with the label on his beer bottle.

“Do you want him?” he asked quietly.

“What?” I choked.

“Do you want him?”

“Are you… giving him to me?” I asked tentatively.

He snorted.

“I don’t want to,” he said. “But, if you do want him, then I think it’d be for the best if I broke up with him. It’d save problems, in the long run, heartbreakwise, for all of us.”

“I want him,” I said simply.

We looked at each other and he nodded sharply.

“I won’t tell him,” he said. “I’ll break up with him and it’s up to you when you do something about it.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“I don’t know what to say,” I whispered.

“Say you’ll look after him.”

“I always have.”

He nodded again, necked his drink and left the table.

Leaving me with a racing heart and a racing mind.

And an available Ron.

And a problem.

When do you make a move on your available bisexual best mate, without bollocksing things up?

He’d come to me, wouldn’t he, when Terry ended things? To his best friend.

Who couldn’t take advantage of him.

Who’d have to watch him rebounding onto any number of men, or women, or both, what with the whole being insanely gorgeous thing.

I sighed, bought two bottles of Firewhiskey at the bar, for consoling my poor, broken hearted best mate with, and Flooed home.

It seems Terry took his time, because it wasn’t until late the following Friday that Ron arrived at my flat.

“Hey,” I said, standing back from the door and letting him in. “Why didn’t you Floo?”

“I needed a walk,” he said, sitting dead centre on my couch, but leaping up to stride around the room again, almost immediately.

“A walk,” I said. “Yeah, good.”

I Summoned the Firewhiskey and two glasses and poured him a drink.

He stopped and frowned at it as I held it out to him.

“Thanks,” he said, finally, taking it and glaring at it.

“Um,” I said, sitting down and gazing up at him.

It was about all I could say, without asking if Terry had broken up with him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He sat on the coffee table in front of me and sighed.

“I reckon I’ve been dumped,” he said.

“Terry?” I said stupidly.

He snorted.

“Strangely enough, yes,” he said. “Who else?”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you… OK?” I asked.

“I’m… surprised,” he said. “The last I heard he wanted to go away for our ‘anniversary’, and then he decides we’ve about run the course.”

“You all broken hearted, and stuff? Am I gonna have to go all Chosen One on him and beat him up?”

He laughed. “Very protective.”

“‘Cos if, you know, you’re all broken hearted, well, you should at least tell him, because then you haven’t, um, run the course, have you?” I suggested, rather generously, I thought.

“I’m not broken hearted,” he said. “I’m surprised and a bit offended, which is a bit egotistical, but I never thought he’d be the one to break up with me, you know?”

“Yeah,” I said. “The crazy fool.”

He half frowned, half smiled and I kicked myself.

“Joke,” I said.

“Um, thanks,” he said.

“No one messes with my best mate,” I said.

He took a mouthful of whiskey and I followed suit.

“And you can play the field, now,” I pointed out. “So many men, so many points, so little time.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“I think I’ll pass,” he said.

“Women, then.”

“No.”

“Goats?”

“Shut up, Harry!”

“You do what you need to do,” I said, offering him the bottle. “And I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

“Could you… hold me?” he said, sliding off the table to kneel in front of me.

“Sure,” I said, opening my arms to him.

He sighed and his head fell forward onto my shoulder and his arms wrapped round me.

“This alright?” he asked.

“It’s OK,” I murmured. “Really.”

He turned his face towards me and his eyelashes brushed against my neck.

I held him tighter.

“Harry,” he whispered.

“Hush.”

He nuzzled closer, his lips motionless against my skin.

I held still; it had to be his move, be what he wanted.

He lifted his head slightly, moving forward and pressing a kiss under my jawline.

Did that count as his move? Just that one small opening forwards movement, like a pawn.

Could I touch him yet?

He sighed and moved forward again, his slightly parted lips touching my cheek.

Two moves forward.

His eyes were closed and he was very still.

All it would take was for him to move his head to the left and he would touch my lips.

His arms tightened around me and he turned his head.

His eyes opened and his lips touched mine.

Two moves forward and one to the side.

My knight.

It was a dry, gentle, chaste kiss and he pulled away, with another sigh, still looking at me, solemnly.

“You OK?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, swallowing hard.

“D’you want a point for that?” I whispered.

“Don’t joke, Harry,” he breathed. “I want to do this, and I know the timing is awful, and I really shouldn’t do this, but I’m not heartbroken and it’s not a rebound thing, because how could it be a rebound, when it’s you?”

“Ron?”

“I could go out there and score some points,” he said. “Bring myself up to your level of sluttiness, so that maybe you’d be interested.”

“I’ve always been interested,” I said levelly.

“Or, we could do this,” he said.

“We could do this,” I agreed.

“We could score loads of minus points, together,” he suggested. “And after a few years, your twenty point lead won’t matter, anymore.”

“I think I score at least minus twenty for being in love with you since we were at school,” I said.

His face lit up with a triumphant smile and his mouth descended on mine again, this time with one large hand cupping the back of my head and his lips moving softly against mine.

I opened my mouth under his and he sucked my bottom lip into his mouth, humming happily, and I thought I would explode.

He sat back on his heels and smiled happily up at me.

“I love you, too,” he said.

“What happened to you can’t see yourself telling a bloke you love him?” I asked, despite the fact that my heart was trying to burst out of my chest.

He tutted. “You’re not ‘a bloke’,” he said firmly.

We gazed dopily at each other for a while and he suddenly leapt to his feet.

“What?” I asked.

“So,” he said. “Your personal best is twenty minutes from picking up a bloke to going to bed with him?”

“Ron!” I protested.

“Is it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, hurry up,” he said, sprinting down the corridor, to my bedroom.

“You cannot be serious,” I said, trailing after him.

“Deadly,” he said, already standing on one foot as he kicked his jeans off.

“We can’t just leap into bed together,” I protested, my eyes locked on his body as his t-shirt was discarded.

“Oh, yes we can,” he said seriously.

I shrugged helplessly and gave in.

How could I fight with this sight, before me?

I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him to stand between my parted knees, my fingers running down his ribs and across his stomach, before stopping at the edge of his soft cotton boxers, tented impressively in my face, though pointing slightly to the left.

I rested my hands on his hips, my fingers curling round his arse and my thumbs caressing his hipbones; leaning forward, I ran my tongue along the curve of his bottom rib, inhaling his scent and sighing as he gasped.

“I wish we’d learnt all this together,” he murmured, stroking my hair as I explored his navel with my tongue.

“I was a clumsy idiot my first time,” I said, looking up at him, moving one hand to cup his erection and feeling a rush of lust in my belly as his eyes widened and darkened.

“I guess it’s like the Wronski Feint,” he said, swallowing hard and thrusting against my hand.

“What?” I asked, peeling his boxers down his legs and licking my lips at the sight of the erect cock that sprang out at me.

“First time you do it, you kinda want it to be with someone who’s done it before, and knows what they’re doing,” he explained.

I laughed at how Ron that was and bent and took him in my mouth.

His cock was hot and heavy on my tongue, and his hands tightened in my hair as he started to move and I cupped his arse and tipped back my head and let him fuck my mouth and suddenly and blindingly knew that I wanted him inside me.

I pulled my head back and he took his cock in his hand and ran it hypnotically round and round my parted, wet lips and I knew that I wanted him inside me.

And I stood up and kissed him and locked eyes with him as I unbuttoned my shirt and stepped out of my trousers and boxers and his eyes flickered down at my cock and I knew that I wanted him inside me.

I decided to leave my glasses on and I took his hand and pulled him onto the bed and he lay full length on top of me and his glorious weight pressed me into the mattress and I wrapped my arms round his neck and he wrapped his hand round my cock and he stroked me and kissed me and I murmured, “Fuck me,” against his lips.

He reared back and blinked at me.

“B-but you never…” he whispered, his hand stilling on my cock.

“But it’s you,” I said.

“Harry,” he breathed.

I blushed and thrust up into his hand, keen to get past the Moment and on to the desperate, passionate sex and he smiled widely and bent to his task, with hands and mouth and Lubricating Charm.

And maybe I will grudgingly admit that it was a good thing he’d learnt his Wronski Feint with Terry.

Because, yes, Ron was the only person I could be that vulnerable with; the only person for whom I’d lie back and spread my legs and wallow in the feeling of his fingers stretching me.

But I’m not sure what his first attempts had been like, and I was getting the benefit of nearly a year’s practise at hooking his fingers just so up a bloke’s arse to make him see stars.

A year’s practise at lifting my arse and dipping his head and pressing against my entrance until my body gave him entrance and fucking me with his tongue and fingers until I was babbling and begging for it, by the time he knelt over me and pressed his cock in side me.

And it stretched me and it hurt and it filled me and it fucking reached the small of my back and pinned me to the bed, but it was Ron and I watched him frown with concentration and gasp with pleasure and grasp my cock and stroke me to a bellowing climax.

And I tightened around him and I watched him come.

I saw his beautiful face flush and grimace and I heard him moan and I watched him hook his arms behind my knees and lean over me and thrust wildly until he spilt himself inside me.

And he sat back on his heels, between my splayed thighs, and he bent and pressed a kiss to my already stirring cock and he rested his forehead on my stomach and he breathed heavily and I marvelled at the sight.

And he looked up at me and the look in his eyes took my breath away.

I’d always reckoned my real life started on September 1st 1991, when I met Ron and Hermione and started school and joined the Wizarding World.

I think my whole ‘life beginning’ thing had just had a bit of a second coming, because the look on Ron’s face was one I would curl up tight and wrap myself up in for the rest of my life.