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Title: Maybe ``°°ºº¤oøO§Oøo¤ºº°°``°°ºº¤oøO§Oøo¤ºº°°``°°ºº¤oøO§Oøo¤ºº°°`` Almost there... *Almost*... Harry stretched his fingers as far as they would go, and then felt the slight weight tumble into his palm. With an exultant shout, he raised his gloved hand high, the gossamer wings of the golden Snitch buzzing between his fingers. The referee blew his whistle, and Harry was immediately flocked by his teammates, their red and white St. George's Cross robes flapping madly. "Potter has the Snitch, and England takes the World Cup!" the announcer boomed. A great roar went up from the British spectators, and enchanted fireworks exploded high above the Quidditch pitch in red, white, and blue. The Bulgarian supporters visibly deflated as their team circled round and filed past the British squad, offering their congratulations. Harry shoved his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose and grinned at Viktor Krum, who happened to be playing Seeker for the Bulgarians. "Good show, Viktor. Good to see you again." Viktor grinned back good-naturedly. "Well played, Harry. I'm glad to see you, too." Harry was abruptly bowled over by Oliver Wood, who by a lucky chance was first string Keeper on the national team at the same time as Harry'd made Seeker. "Well done, Harry, well done! Just like back at Hogwarts, eh?" Oliver enthused. Harry clapped Oliver on the shoulder. "Sure is, Oliver. Glad to be playing with you again. It's been grand!" Just three years out of Hogwarts and playing professional Quidditch, Harry was one of the youngest Seekers ever picked for the national team's first string. After staying on the field long enough to share their fans' jubilation, a weary English team swooped towards the locker rooms. "So Harry," Oliver began as they stood in the showers, cleaning up after their match, "you going to keep playing?" "Not sure, really," Harry replied. "Maybe another season, maybe not. The Academy wants me pretty badly, and they've made me a fantastic offer. Plus, it's the work I've always wanted to do, anyhow." "Aha, so Harry Potter is going to be an Auror, eh?" Harry sighed, a look of disappointment crossing his face briefly. "Yeah, Oliver, he is. He's had lots of practice fighting against the Dark, after all." Oliver laughed. "Good for you, then. You'll be good at whatever you do, though England will miss you as Seeker if you hang up your broom." A small smile ghosted faintly across Harry's face. "Yeah." Once, just once, he wished that somebody would see *just Harry,* not Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, Champion of the Light, and Seeker Extraordinaire. A few people had seen that Harry once, and taken the time to get to know him. They weren't so much in his life anymore, though. Hermione was now very high up in the Ministry of Magic after a meteoric rise, and Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall were busy, as always, at Hogwarts, as was Hagrid. To Sirius and Remus, he'd always be James' son to a certain extent. As for the other... Harry's mind shied away from that uncomfortably. For reasons that no one had ever entirely understood, Ron Weasley had graduated from Hogwarts and simply vanished. Everyone who knew the jovial, swashbuckling teenager had been stunned, but Harry had taken it particularly hard. For a month, he'd been inconsolable. His very best friend had disappeared without a trace, without so much as an owl to explain things. Everyone had worried over Harry's numb listlessness, and in desperation, Sirius had finally appealed to Albus Dumbledore. No one had been more surprised than Harry when the venerable wizard had tumbled out of the fireplace in Sirius and Remus' house with much puffing of soot and grumbling of very un-headmasterly curses. Professor Dumbledore had sat Harry down on the couch and fixed him with a stern glare. "Now you see here, young Master Potter," he'd said firmly, "nobody, least of all Ron, would want you to waste away like this. Ron Weasley has a very special talent, and he's at a top-secret location being trained to use it. That's all I'll tell you, and it's more than I should've told you. So I'll thank you to leave it at that and not inquire any more about it, both for your safety and for *his.* If and when it is safe for Ron to contact you, he will. But you've got to live in the meantime, Harry. You've got to." Harry had blinked at the blustering Headmaster and his worried godfathers, nodded, and complied. Playing professional Quidditch with the Portsmouth Peregrines was a dream come true. He was having a ball, but there was something...missing. In the deep recesses of his soul, Harry knew exactly what that something was, but again, his conscious mind shied away from it, lest that emptiness swallow him up again. Harry had already figured out that whatever Ron was doing, it must've somehow been related to the fight against the Dark, or else it wouldn't have been secret. Truth be told, that was part of the reason he'd decided to be an Auror. Maybe, just maybe, he'd see his best friend again. And maybe he'd feel whole again. Harry sighed again as he pulled on blue jeans and a pullover, then shrugged into his customary deep green robes. Oliver swung past him, tousling his already-tumbled hair. "Coming, Harry?" "Yeah, Oliver, I'll be right there." Harry gathered up his Quidditch robes and stuffed them in his duffel bag after casting a cleaning charm on them. He grinned slightly. The robes he'd worn when England had won the cup. Yet another thing to put carefully away in the Box of Stuff to Show Ron. Above all, Harry wanted to be sure that he could share some of his life with Ron when... if... he ever saw his friend again. He hoped Ron would do the same. Harry got to his feet and headed for the locker room door. Out in the corridor, he could hear Oliver trying to chase off a fan who'd apparently found his way into the restricted area. "Look, mate, you can't be in here, this is off-limits to everyone but the players. The team'll have a press event tomorrow afternoon." Harry pushed out of the locker room and froze. Leaning against the wall, looking amusedly at Oliver, was a very tall, very lean, very red-headed young man. He was dressed in black from head to foot, from his long black duster to his black jeans and snug black shirt. His hair was long, pulled back into a queue that fell past his shoulders. A small slivery-blue hoop glinted in one ear. "Don't you recognize me, Oliver?" The young man's voice was deep and warm with suppressed merriment. Oliver's eyes narrowed. "No, should I?" Harry's paralysis abruptly gave way. He'd have known that profile anywhere. It was a bit leaner, a bit harsher, but it was unmistakable. "Ron," he breathed, scarcely believing his eyes. Then at the top of his lungs, he shouted, "Ron!" and took off running. The tall man turned with a blinding smile on his angular face. "Harry!" he shouted jubilantly and threw lanky arms wide to catch his shorter friend. Harry hurtled right into Ron without checking his pace one whit, and they went down in a flurry of black and green, arms roughly embracing, hands slapping each other's backs, laughing and crying all at once. Oliver stood staring bemusedly at the heap of wriggling wizards on the floor, completely unsure of how to respond to any of what had just happened. In the midst of his confusion, the only thing his befuddled brain managed to work out came flying out of his mouth. "Ron Weasley?!" he blurted incredulously. Suddenly remembering that someone else was present, Harry scrambled up off his friend and thrust out a hand to help Ron to his feet. He started visibly as a jolt of electricity went up his arm when he grasped Ron's slender fingers. Ron hesitated briefly and his eyes got a little wider before casting Harry a quizzical glance. He got to his feet. "Been awhile, Oliver. Good to see you again." Ron stuck out a hand. Oliver shook it vigorously. "It is indeed, Ron. We were all wondering what happened to you." Ron smiled briefly. "Special training at the Headmaster's urging, I guess you could say. Not something I'm supposed to discuss much." Oliver cocked an eyebrow. "Right-o. Mum's the word. Well, I've got to be off." Oliver grinned devilishly. "Got someone waiting for me, but I imagine you knew that already," he said, winking at Ron. "Great to see you, Ron, and I'm sorry for chewing you out like a nosy fan, there. Percy'll be thrilled to see you again, if you haven't seen him already." Ron grinned. "Not a problem, Oliver. Great game. Now go see my brother." Oliver returned the smile and disapparated. Harry was still standing off to the side, his eyes drinking Ron in, scarcely daring to blink lest his friend disappear on him again. Ron turned back to speak to him, but Harry cut him off. "Please tell me you haven't got to disappear again," he almost begged. Ron smiled gently. "No, Harry, I've been cleared to return to normal life, such as it is," he said cryptically. "I couldn't very well miss the Quidditch World Cup finals, not with my very best friend playing Seeker for England, now could I?" Harry sighed with relief and managed a wobbly smile. "Thank goodness. I don't think I could manage it if you just vanished again. God, I missed you, Ron Weasley." Harry found himself suddenly enveloped in a bear hug, Ron's arms tight around him. He buried his face in his friend's shoulder, not caring about the tears that leaked from his eyes into the fabric of Ron's duster. "Harry, you have no idea... I wanted to tell you, to *explain,* but everything happened so damned fast. It was all I could do to hold myself together, never mind tell anybody else what was going on when I didn't understand myself..." The words tumbled from Ron's mouth as he tried desperately to explain. Harry heard voices behind him as the rest of the team exited the locker rooms and clapped his hand over Ron's mouth. "Ron, I want to hear all about it, but wouldn't this be better done in a nice warm flat over dinner?" Ron grinned sheepishly under Harry's hand and nodded, his fair skin giving away his slightly embarrassed flush immediately. Harry grabbed Ron's hand and apparated them to a deserted alley behind his flat with a pop. Ron blinked. Harry, it seemed, was living in a well-kept, older building in Muggle London. "Still opting to live around Muggles, eh Harry?" he teased. Taking the question in all seriousness, Harry nodded. "Yeah. I tried living off Diagon Alley for awhile, but I just couldn't hack the notoriety. I mean, not only am I *Harry Potter,* I'm also Seeker for the Portsmouth Peregrines, and we've one of the best teams in the league. Between the two of them, I barely got a moment's peace. Besides, none of *them* ever cared about the real me underneath, anyhow. It's much quieter out here. Come on, let's go in." Harry turned and unlocked his flat, leaving a slightly befuddled Ron staring after him. From inside the apartment, Harry's voice floated out. "You coming in Ron, or had you planned to decorate my stoop for awhile?" he ribbed. Ron shook his head. "Silly prat," he grumbled affectionately. He stepped inside and was immediately struck by the cozy decor. It was a lot like Harry, himself, he supposed, warm, and unpretentious, and... comfortable. He saw Harry's robe hung up on a clothes tree beside the door, and Ron's black duster soon joined it. He turned in time to see Harry's tousled black head disappear into the kitchen. "You fancy a bit of Asian food, Ron?" "Eh? Oh, sure. It's been a long time since I had anything like that." He wandered into the small kitchen, where Harry already had four enchanted knives whacking away at various heaps of vegetables. Harry, himself, was currently sticking out of a small refrigerator, attractive back end first, rummaging around and muttering to himself. Ron swallowed hard and tried not to stare. One thing he'd always kept religiously to himself, and vowed to die before he admitted, was that he'd fallen in love with his best friend. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with that, mind you, but how trite was it to go and fall for *Harry Potter?* Every witch between the ages of 12 and 30 thought Harry Potter was just dreamy, and Ron should know. Not only had he seen all the Gryffindor girls mooning over him, but he'd lived with his own sister sighing and moping over his best friend all the time. So Ron had summarily decided that no one, not even Harry, would *ever* know that he'd gone and gotten a crush on The Boy Who Lived just like a teenaged girl. The trouble was, though, that the crush hadn't gone away. Even the girls inevitably got over their swooning-over-Harry phase; he'd watched his own sister do just that. But Ron's feelings felt a whole lot more... permanent than anything he'd observed in Ginny or any other girl, for that matter. It had torn him in two to leave his friend so suddenly after graduation, but it couldn't be helped. The turn of events that had sent him stumbling blindly to the Headmaster's office for aid had necessitated that he disappear as quickly as possible. Ron had to admit, the isolation of the very specialized training base to which he'd been spirited was exactly what he had needed. Leaving Harry, though, had nearly broken his heart. "Aha!" Harry interrupted Ron's woolgathering. He backed out of the refrigerator with a white paper-wrapped bundle clutched triumphantly in one fist. "Prawns okay with you, Ron? I've got some that I really need to use up." "Sure, whatever you've got's more than fine. Can I help you shell them?" "Sure," Harry said, grinning, then made room for Ron at the sink. They shelled the prawns together, neither of them sure how to broach the subject of the last painful three years. It was Ron who finally broke the silence with a snort of laughter. "You know what this reminds me of?" he asked, snickering. Harry quirked an eyebrow at his friend, eager to share in the joke. "This reminds me of Potions, our sixth year, and those ghastly arthropods whose antennae we needed for that petrificus potion. I remember Snape had us wrestling the blasted things since the potion would only work if the antennae came from *live* insects." Harry laughed, remembering that day in Potions. "Here's hoping our dinner turns out better than our petrificus potion did." Ron burst out laughing. Their petrificus potion had been an unqualified disaster, causing the moth they'd sprayed it on to go completely crazy, careening around the room as though it were on speed rather than freezing in mid-flight like it was supposed to. Harry tossed the prawns into a wok with some oil and spices, then added his diced vegetables. A dark, fragrant sauce spouted from the end of his wand to cover the contents of the pan. Meanwhile, he zapped some rice with a cooking spell. "Cooking's got its uses, but waiting for rice to cook isn't one of them, I've noticed," Harry said wryly. He stirred the contents of the wok about for a few minutes while Ron hunted down bowls and chopsticks. Harry grinned as his friend looked dubiously at the slim bamboo sticks. "You'll show me how to use these, right?" "'Course. It's not hard once you get the hang of it." Another minute, and Harry was apparently satisfied by the condition of the wok's contents. He deftly transferred the stir-fry to a small platter, which he carried to the table with the pot of steaming rice. He rummaged in the cupboard for a pair of small, rounded cups, and aimed his wand at each in turn to fill them with hot green tea. "I usually brew fresh tea the Muggle way, but there wasn't enough time," he said apologetically. "I'm sure I won't mind," Ron said with a grin. "It all tastes the same anyhow." By tacit agreement, they stayed away from the subject of Ron's disappearance while they ate. Both of them seemed to sense that it would be a conversation best had without any distraction, so Harry served up bowls of rice and stir-fry in silence. First in order of business was to teach Ron how to eat with chopsticks. Harry patiently showed him how to do it again and again, hoping Ron would eventually get the hang of it. When the chopsticks fell out of his hand for the sixth time, Ron finally growled at them and stabbed through a prawn with one of the offending wooden implements. He chomped triumphantly on the shellfish while Harry cracked up next to him. "Mmm, Harry, this is really good," Ron mumbled around his hard-won mouthful. "Thanks," Harry gasped through his laughter. "Glad you like it. Here, let's try this again. It's really not hard once you get the trick of it..." He leaned over and shoved Ron's chopsticks back into his hand. He molded his right hand around Ron's this time, determined that his friend should get it right after all this effort. "See, you just keep this one still between these two fingers, and you hold the other one just like you would a quill, and let it do all the work." Harry helped Ron pick up a chunk of sweet pepper and guide it to his mouth, so intent on his task that he didn't notice how red Ron's face was or how his breathing had gone rather shallow. "Thanks, Harry," Ron said, pleased that his voice was only slightly squeaky. "I think I've got it now," he lied. "Great!" Harry beamed. "I suppose that ill-fated relationship with Cho was good for something after all." Ron cast a quizzical glance at his friend. "What, learning how to pick up food with two sticks?" Harry chuckled. "Well, when you put it that way..." Ron snickered as he decided to abandon finesse for practicality and held the bowl directly under his chin, awkwardly shoveling the food into his mouth. Harry blinked at his friend, a mischievous half-smile playing about his lips. "What?" Ron mumbled defensively with his mouth full. "I'm hungry and these damned things are too bloody difficult to mess around with." The half-smile bloomed into a huge grin, and Harry silently perched his bowl under his chin and shoveled right alongside Ron, green eyes sparkling merrily. Ron Weasley almost forgot to eat. Those laughing green eyes had always captivated him, and now he had their undivided attention. He wished he'd kept his coat on. It, at least, would have provided some camouflage. These black jeans were too tight to hide *anything,* and his traitorous body was reminding him of just how happy he was to see Harry again. He scooted his chair closer to the table, ostensibly to keep from making a mess on his first foray into the Asian method of eating. He hoped Harry hadn't noticed the real reason for his maneuvers. The Boy Who Lived, however, also appeared to be the Boy Who Was Completely Oblivious. Harry was happily helping himself to another bowl of rice and vegetables. Ron cleared his throat. "So, you said the Peregrines are doing well," he began somewhat inanely, "how well is 'well,' and how's everyone else in the league doing? I'm sure the Cannons are at the bottom of the heap again." Harry nodded apologetically. "The Cannons always seem to have the worst luck," Harry said around a mouthful of pea pods. "We were undefeated this season," he said, trying not to sound smug. "Took the Merlin Cup this year. 'Course, with Stephen Sedgewick as Keeper, we could hardly do otherwise." Ron nodded. "Good, is he?" Harry snorted. "Oliver's good. He's a terrific keeper. Steve's a bloody wall. We might as well have parked Hagrid in front of the rings. Nothing gets past him." Ron grinned. "And I'm sure it's helped Portsmouth to have one of the best Seekers to come out of Hogwarts in over a generation on its starting roster, eh?" Harry blushed. "Well, I'm not so good as all that," he mumbled, embarrassed. Ron reached out with a long arm and ruffled Harry's already-tumbled black locks. "Yeah, you are, and don't let's be falsely modest about that, okay?" Harry's flush got even brighter, and Ron concluded that Harry really looked quite fetching in red; was a nice contrast to those green eyes, he thought devilishly to himself. Ron cleared his throat, deciding that there was no time like the present to deal with the difficult issues between them. "Look, Harry, I know you've got lots of questions, and Godric knows I've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do, but do you suppose we could go out and just do something fun together first? Get our friendship reestablished before we deal with all that?" Harry considered that quietly for a moment. "Sure, Ron, I s'pose that'd be alright. But just so you know, I didn't ever think our frienship would need to be *re*-established. As far as I'm concerned, it was never *un*-established in the first place." Ron ducked his head, abashed. "I can't even begin to tell you how glad I am to hear you say that, Harry," he said quietly. Harry smiled at Ron and rose from the table, clapping his friend on the shoulder as he carried the dirty dishes to the sink, where he cast a washing charm on the whole lot. "All right, then, Ron, what do you say to an evening of clubbing?" Ron glanced up, and a slow grin that made Harry's knees suspiciously unsteady spead across his narrow face. "Sounds grand. You might have to lend me some suitable Muggle clothes, though." Harry cast an appraising glance at his friend. Ron tried not to blush under Harry's scrutiny. "No, I think you'll do. You shouldn't need to change clothes to go to Muggle clubs. 'Course, anything black and tight will do for that. I'll need to change, though." Ron nodded his understanding. "Sounds fair. I've never been to a Muggle club; you'll have to show me how to behave, tell me what to expect, that sort of thing." Harry grinned as he stuffed the dinner left-overs into the icebox. "Nothing to it, Ron. Just check your inhibitions at the door." Ron swallowed hard. "What sort of club are you taking me to, anyway?" Harry burst out laughing. "Oh, your face! Don't look at me like that, Ron, I'm not going to take you to a den of iniquity or anything like that. Just be prepared for it to be very loud, dark, and be ready to dance." Ron still regarded Harry with a trace of suspicion. "Look, I'll go change, and we'll go to a club, and you can see how you like it. If you don't like it, say so, and we'll leave. Fair?" "Okay. 'Sides, I know you'd never really steer me wrong." Harry smiled and gripped Ron's shoulder as he passed him on his way out of the kitchen. "No, I wouldn't," he said softly, "I'll be right back. Make yourself at home." Ron ambled into the living room and sprawled on Harry's couch while waiting for his friend to reemerge from his bedroom. When Harry finally did come back out, Ron was afraid
his jaw would fall off. Harry looked like he'd been poured into a
pair of black leather pants which were topped off with a loose silk
shirt the color of his eyes. ...tbc... |