Pairing: Ron/OMC.

Rating: R.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. All characters except OCs are owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: 'Dear Ron,Denial is not just a river in Egypt. Talk to me some time. Bill.' Ever thought that, just maybe, fighting evil from the age of eleven doesn't turn out wholesome, rounded twenty-somethings? Ever considered that not everything in life turns out in exactly the way that you plan it? Ever wondered how Harry would be in his early twenties? How about Hermione? Or Ron? Not your average post-Hogwarts fic.

Author's Notes: Not Just A River In Egypt is written for an adult audience. The adult characters use frequent explicit language to refer to sexual situations throughout.


:::'Not Just a River in Egypt' by John:::

For Lady Morsmordre, who gave me the name


Potter? Harry? Fucked up, that boy is. Don't get me wrong, though -- he's a great bloke, really good mate and all...but romantically, he's fucked up. Doesn't know what the fuck he wants, fuck-wise. Men, women, sheep -- no, I'm joking. His mum's Welsh and all, but I'm pretty sure he's not into animals. Yeah. Umm...actually, what he wants is both. Men and women. I don't think he's bi as much as pansexual. I saw him around the back of the Horny Toad the other night (as I was passing, of course) and I'm sure he was sucking off a drag queen. Or it could have been a bloke in really sparkly robes. But there were definitely no trousers involved on the receiving side.

Herm? Yeah. My teenage sweetheart. Sort of. When I was thirteen. That's teenage, right? So she counts as my teenage sweetheart. Not any more, though. She's sort of...well, we're not right for each other. Herm's a brainy, intellectual type. People at her parties talk about Sartre and Camus and things. Frankly, I'd go absolutely spare if we were going out. So would she. She can't stand Quidditch. Mad. Absolutely stark raving bonkers, if you ask me, but that's our Herm.

And me? I'm just a kid who happened to sit in the same compartment as Harry Potter on the Hogwarts Express. Seven years later, I got a job -- my dream job -- talent-spotting for the Cannons. Yeah, II know. Dream job out of Hogwarts? Im-fucking-possible. But remember what I said about being mates with Harry? He's a good mate like that. Had a quick word with their manager after a match. Result.

Ron "Riding on Coat-tails" Weasley, that's me. Riding on the coat-tails of fame. Fuck it, it was the Ministry otherwise. Can you imagine working in the same building as your father and older brother? I can. That's why I don't. As I said...fuck it!

Percy's all right though. He's got so much fucking better since school. Oh. My. Gods. It's probably Oliver's influence. Oliver Wood, that is. Percy's boyf. When they announced they were getting hitched you could literally hear the screams of despair from the entire female wizarding population of Britain. Even my Gran. She sent Percy a bloody Howler, can you believe it? Madness, fucking madness. But at least she has an unlimited supply of signed Oliver photos now. Hah.

Perce's still a crusader, though. Except now it's not school rules he's crusading for, it's gay rights. All very well, but it gets bloody irritating when he bitches the rest of us out for not acknowledging that a writer or a Quidditch player or someone's gay. I've got beyond the point of giving a crap which sex someone likes to fuck, I really have. Just be happy, for Merlin's sake. The gods know that enough of us aren't happy. Don't tell Percy I said that, though. He'd tell me I was being straight-sexist or something.

Fred and George are still running that bloody joke shop in Hogsmeade. I reckon that they're barely breaking even on the thing, so it's a bloody good thing that Kate and Ange are earning. Kate's doing something with the Ministry and Ange's a Quidditch journo for the Prophet. So, of course, she tries to get a whole load of gossip out of me every time she sees me.

Ginny just started a new job as a Paramediwitch. Lots of Apparating everywhere and patching people up when they've splinched themselves or flesped each other or stranched their parents. I reckon that Gin's really good at it too.

Bill's off in Rome at the moment, just got an owl from him yesterday. He's sorting out the curses on some magical archaeology thing that the Italians found under a temple-type thingy. You know the sort, lots of pillars, white marble, all that sort of stuff. Anyway, sounds like he's having a brilliant time in the Roman sunshine. The bastard. He sent me a postcard before he left Egypt, of the Pyramids with a river in front of it. There are these dancing camels on it, some sort of charm for the tourists, I think. The message didn't make sense -- probably the charms on it -- but it's a fucking great picture, so I stuck it up on my wall.

And then there's Charlie, still off in Romania with his dragons. Got an owl from him the other week asking if I could get him tickets to the Cannons-Harpies match when he was back in England. He brought along this weird bird who spoke no English at all to the match. Vanja, her name was. Pretty fit, amazing legs, but weird, dressed all in black. She kept talking with Charlie in Romanian, which was a little off-putting. Did I mention the amazing legs?

Mum and Dad don't change, of course. Dad is muttering about retiring some point soon, but he really loves his job, so I dunno. But they don't change. Still get a bloody jumper every Christmas.

Yeah, my family's important to me. I love them loads, though they can be as irritating as fuck at times. But still, I do love them.

Everyone always assumed that we'd all marry each other, my mates and I. Like Mormons, I dunno. It was like Harry and Herm were paired with each other from birth, if you asked some people. Or me and Herm for that matter. Some nutter in the Prophet even ran this article where she paired Harry with Ginny and me with Herm. Gods...imagine all the little redheaded brats running around. My idea of fucking hell, that's for sure. Imagine the bloody nappies... Urgh. No. A thousand times, no.

* * *


It's a weird sort of life that we lead, those of us who fought in the war in our final year at Hogwarts. Those of us who are still alive, anyway. We tend to go to Muggle pubs, restaurants, bars, clubs, all that sort of thing. We're not recognised as much there, especially Harry and Herm and me. We also use Muggle mobile phones instead of sending owls. It's a damn sight faster and more reliable, and you don't have to feed the bloody things. Took me bloody ages to get used to the damn things, though. I kept leaving it in my pocket and it kept dialling random people, who could then listen in on my conversations. Or me having sex. Which was embarrassing.

Of course, Dad loves it that we use mobiles -- I got him his own, but he took it apart and now it doesn't work any more. We all learned to drive, too -- Herm and Harry and all the other wizards from Muggle families knew already -- just because it's a lot easier than Apparating and more comfortable than a broomstick. And we have the added advantage of being able to slip through tight spots with the proper charms. Nice one. And no, I haven't crashed into any trees lately.

* * *


So, I'm on this date, and I sit down at the table in this sort of posh London restaurant. Somewhere in the City, I think, one of those pseudo-French affairs, with the little tassels on the menus and the waiters with the awful, awful French accents.

Yeah. Anyway, her name was Jen. I think it was Jen anyway. She was pretty in that Quidditch Hanger-on sort of way...long legs, nice tits, good arse...pretty stupid, but I thought that she was going to put out later on, which was good.

Anyway, so there I am, and I look behind Jen or whatever her name was, and there's bloody Harry sitting behind me with this bloke. I think Herm later said his name was Rufus or something. He was one of those Tall Dark Swarthy types with too much stubble for his own good. I think he probably trimmed it with clippers or something rather than shaving. And Harry was just drinking him in like he was parched. It was really fucking funny, actually. Harry looked like he was fourteen and had that crush on Cho Chang again, the same bloody look in his eyes. Jen/whoever kept turning around and trying to see what I was looking at, but I kept telling her that it was nothing.

That worked. Yeah, right. She threw a glass of wine over me and accused me of being gayer than someone I'd never heard of, and accused me of staring las-something-ously at Swarthy Rufus. Who, of course, turned round. As did Harry. And the entire restaurant. Result. No shags for poor Ron, noooo. Of course, Harry's downstairs neighbour, who works with Herm, told her that Harry didn't suffer the same fate. Bastard.

* * *


Yeah, and then there was the time that Herm and I went on a double date. Well, that was successful. Argh. I was with this Indian bird named Asma and Herm was with some bloke whose name I'd forgotten at the time. Anyway, after the Crème Anglaise Sousmettante d'une Neste de Sucre à Grand Marnier -- which was actually Custard With Alcoholic Orange Sugar Thing -- Asma and Herm's bloke, Scott, hooked up and went off together. Four months later they were fucking married. And Herm was a bridesmaid, and I was an usher. Typical.

* * *


"So yeah. Scott was the first of your Many Woes Of Love."

"No, he wasn't, Ron, Robert was the first one."

"Robert...was he the gay one?"

"No! That was Jasper. Robert was the one who took me to a lovely restaurant and was pleasant and charming and intelligent and witty and married."

"Oh yeah. So Robert, then Scott, then..."

"Drew, the seventeen-year-old who was a sweetheart and had the most amazing todger but made me feel like Mrs Robinson."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Muggle film. Middle-aged woman seduces uni student."

"Oh. Robert, Scott, Drew. Then came..."

"Jasper. After Jasper was Michael--"

"--the thirty-five-year-old?"

"That's the one. Michael the thirty-five year-old with erectile dysfunction."

"Then?"

"The tax accountant. Edgar. Winner of the Most Boring Man I've Ever Met contest."

"Right. And you've met Professor Binns."

"Precisely. Edgar sent me to sleep during dinner. And after that...you know who came after that."

"Bill."

"Yep. Your big brother. The one who made me think I was talking to you over the entire dinner at that sushi place. I mean, that's not a bad thing, Ron, not necessarily. Well...I mean...if you were snogging some girl who reminded you of me -- umm...he's your brother, Ron, it just wouldn't have worked!"

Ouch. "The one who made me think I was talking to you." Cheers Herm.

* * *


So, this one night, Harry's off with this bird named Hailey or Harley or Honey or something, and Herm and I are just relaxing at her flat in Islington, and chatting. It's like we're the superhero's sidekicks, except that the hero never spends any time with us. Robin and Batgirl, dumped by Batman, that's us.

"So, seen Harry much?" she said.

"Not really," I said. "We went to the match against Portree together last weekend, but apart from that it sort of seems like I'm being avoided."

"Me too. He came with me to La Principessa D'Umbaralinto three weeks ago, which was this absolutely superb adaptation of the original Schiarradello, except that the woman singing Vialanta sounded like Crookshanks, and the baritone was a semitone flat--"

My eyes must have glazed over at that point, and Herm stopped telling me about it a few minutes later.

"So...no. I haven't either," she concluded eventually. Gotta love Herm.

"You sound worried," I said. "Think he's going to commit suicide? Is it a cry for help?"

"Oh, honestly, Ron," she said. "I just feel sort of squeezed out by his current shags."

"Who is it this week?" I asked.

"Piece of French mutton dressed as lamb named Minette and this admittedly cute hairdresser from Watford called Steve," she said. "My friend Janet, who lives downstairs, says that they both appear on the same evening, sometimes with extra friends."

"The crazy, fucked-up arse and life of Harry Potter," I said, raising my glass of Chateau Snobbeux to him.

"Ron!" Herm laughed and knocked back half her glass anyway.

"At least," I said as I refilled our glasses, "he's got over that awful punk boy. What was his name? Mercury or something?"

"Yeah. The one with the tongue piercing."

"Hey, don't knock the tongue piercing until you've experienced it in bed," I protested.

"And how, Ronald Weasley, would you know about what a tongue piercing in bed is like?"

"That would be telling you Male Secrets, and that's not allowed," I said with an apologetic shrug. "Can't do."

* * *


But yeah. Herm is looking for her soulmate, her lifemate, whatever. Whenever she talks about it I tell her it sounds as if she is looking for a lesbian love partner. It does, really.

Anyway, she wants this charming, intelligent, literate, wonderful man with large muscles and an enormous cock. She doesn't say that she wants him to have large muscles and an enormous cock, but I know that she does really. All women do, right? I mean, if I were female -- which I'm obviously not -- or gay -- which I'm not -- and if I took it up the arse -- which I don't -- I'd probably want my bloke to have an enormous cock.

What? I'm not gay. What? What?

Anyway. Me...me, me, me. Sounds strange coming from Ron Weasley, Sidekick Extraordinaire, right? But what or who am I looking for? That's a good question. Right now...I don't know. I mean, it'd be nice to have someone to come home to, you know, with dinner on the stove and a blowjob waiting in the bedroom, but then I couldn't fuck about off the Quidditch pitch. And, by gods, are those Chaser birds randy after they get off their brooms. I had this amazing fuck from this Swedish blonde who was playing for the Malmo Myrmidons... like a bloody rabbit, she was. Or perhaps a squirrel, racing up and down a tree, looking for nuts to stuff in her cheeks...

Okay, that was a little visual. But you get my point. Having a steady bird would be like being chained down to the bed or something. Oh. Wait. I've been chained down to a bed.

I shouldn't have told you that. I should not have told you that.

Okay. Her name was Elka. She was Russian. And had hairy armpits. But I didn't know that before she got the handcuffs out. Really I didn't. The sounds of "you hef bin a wery bad boy" still echo in my brain. As does the sound of her two enormous bosoms colliding with each other. Reminds me of that Muggle film Herm showed me, "Clash of the Titans". Sorry, that was an awful joke.

* * *


So Harry stopped by the other day.

"Hey Ron," he said as he dropped onto my sofa, narrowly missing a bottle of something alcoholic.

"All right Harry," I said, in my typical greeting.

"How's things?" he answered, reaching for the bottle of whatever-it-was and taking a slug. He looked good, a little grubby but good. I assumed that he was on his way back from some shag or other. That's when he usually drops into my flat. It's central and quite handy for the Floo, you see, which means that he stops by for a drink and occasionally a shower to make himself presentable before he heads off somewhere.

Not that he does an enormous amount of anything anyway. Bit of a lazy fuck, our Harry, but a lazy fuck who got me a job, so I can't really complain. I reckon he thinks that saving the world multiple times by the age of eighteen is more than enough for anyone, and that he's perfectly within his rights to just loaf for the rest of his life. Fair enough, if he wants to, but frankly neither Herm nor I have that sort of feeling (not to mention that sort of Gringotts vault), and we were bloody good sidekicks, if you ask me.

"Not bad, mate," I said, leaning back on the beanbag on the floor. My flat is a bit bachelor pad-y, complete with row of alcohol bottles, beanbags, fur rugs and maps on the wall. "Cannons are doing well this season, and there's a bloody good Beater on the Durmstrang team who I want to nick. Catapults' and Arrows' scouts have their eye on him too, though, so I want to make sure I get him. Seamus' little sister is turning into a pretty good Seeker too, and I've got the Gryffindor connection there."

"Cool, cool," Harry said absently. "Ron, I've got a question."

"Yeah?" I said, realising that he didn't give a flying fuck about Quidditch scouting.

"Am I fit?"

I did a doubletake. "In what way, Harry?"

"In an attractive, hot, would fuck me way."

"Er...I'm probably not the best judge of that, Harry. Remember, I'm straight, yeah?"

"And?" Harry started cleaning the dirt out from under his fingernails. "Ron, surely you can make some judgement on the relative sexiness of another bloke."

"Well, yeah, but...you? You're Harry. We're practically brothers. I mean..."

"Yeah?" Harry looked sort of defensive.

"So...umm...I wouldn't fuck you, no. But I hear from others that you are certainly hot and attractive, although your hotness and attractiveness would receive a boost if you had a shower and a shave. The bathroom is right where you left it." I tend to keep a set of towels and disposable razors for Harry when he drops by. His skin gets irritated if he uses magic to shave, poor bugger. Something to do with the summers he spent at the Dursleys' without being able to use magic.

"Oh, fuck you, Ron," he said with a grin. "You're so irredeemably straight."

"Yes, yes, I am," I said, pointing at the bathroom. "Although, if I happened to find you in the shower, soap suds coursing down your moist body..."

"Tease," he said, putting down the bottle and slouching towards the bathroom. "And besides, you'd probably die of either a heart attack or envy."

Bastard. He knows that I wouldn't fuck him. Probably. Actually...no. It would be like fucking one of my brothers. Except that Harry is so much better looking than they are...

Don't tell Oliver I said that.

"You know, Harry," I called through the door, "I could call up Witch Weekly and tell them that I have Harry Potter naked in my bathroom, and they'd be here quicker than you could say 'erection'."

The door opened and Harry's head and chest poked around. "Yes, but then I'd rip off your testicles and feed them to Crookshanks." The door closed again.

* * *


And then there was this other time that Harry came round, dressed in pink cutoff tracksuit bottoms and a frilly t-shirt, at about 2 am. It must have been January at the time. Apparently, he'd gone home with this Muggle bird and she'd put out, but sometime during the night she had realised that having Harry sleeping in your bed is similar to sharing with a very possessive water buffalo. The boy snores worse than anyone else I've ever met, and he steals the covers something awful.

The reason I know that, before you ask, is that Parvati told me. Or was it Padma? One of the Patil girls anyway.

So, she'd kicked him out of bed and out of her house, not even letting him stop to get his trousers and shirt. He'd grabbed something from a pile of washing she'd had on his way out. I should have taken a picture, really I should.

So, that was the first -- and last -- night he spent on my sofa. The next day, he'd ordered this new sofabed from that Muggle place where you have to assemble the furniture yourself. Brought it round and assembled it himself. I should have called Dad to help him do it, because Dad would have been fascinated. Although he probably would have done more harm than good. Anyway, when Harry crashes at my place now he has somewhere comfy to kip.

That reminds me. I should probably wash those sheets, because I reckon that's what the smell in my living room is coming from. I hope there's no cum on them.

* * *


And then there was that time that we went running around Hyde Park and he just ran off behind a tree and fucked this bloke who was cruising. It was truly bizarre. One minute we're just running along, and the next he tosses off a quick "Gonna go fuck, mate, see you later," and runs off towards this bloke leaning on a tree who is making eyes at him. He's like a rabbit, really he is. Except with smaller ears.

* * *


"Shh. Harry's asleep now in the living room. He's absolutely off his head. Must've taken something."

"Thank gods you called, Ron," she said, opening the door a crack and peering through. "Shite."

"You swore!" I said stupidly.

"Yes, Ron, it happens occasionally." She walked over to Harry and peeled open one of his eyelids. "Arse. You, Harry Potter, are a complete and total arse."

"What?" I said.

"As you said, the boy is off his head. I'm guessing it's some form of dust. Probably that Czech stuff which is coming across the Continent according to the papers."

"Dangerous?"

"Well, he's not going to die, but he is going to have fucking awful withdrawal when he comes off this. Either you or I should be here all the time," she said, pulling out her mobile and dialling.

"Who are you calling?" I asked, trying to make the oblivious Harry more comfortable on the sofabed.

"Draco," she said.

"Why? Wait -- Malfoy has a mobile?"

"Come off it, Ron, he's had one for ages."

"Hmph."

"And I'm calling him because, apart from Snape, he's the best damn pharmacologist we've got."

"Whassat? Remember, I don't speak Muggle."

"Someone who knows about drugs," she said. "Hi, Draco? Hermione. Yeah, listen, can you come over to Ron's? Jump the Floo? Yeah, don't want to say on a mobile. Really? Cheers. Bye."

Ten seconds later Malfoy appeared in the fireplace, cursing and holding up his artificial leg. You know, the one which was blown off in...yeah. That one.

"Fucking Floo network. Fucking leg. Fuck."

"Hello, Draco," Herm said, walking forward to give him a hug and to help him put his leg back on. "Thanks for coming."

"No worries. Blaise and I were just cleaning up after dinner. He'll just bitch at me for it later and expect exciting monkey sex. Such is the price we pay for being friends of Harry Potter. So, what's so...?" His scarred face fell on Harry's limp form. "I see."
Snapping his artificial limb into place, Draco walked forward to peer into Harry's face. "Hmm. Dust. Probably Diamond, possibly Emerald or Ruby. Sapphire, even...although no...problem is that you can't tell the symptoms apart."

"Mmm," Herm agreed. "Little fuckers."

"Hey, even drug traffickers have to earn a living," he said with a shrug. "Besides, a large part of my store cupboard comes from illegal sources. But don't tell anyone I said that."

I frowned. "So, what can we do for him?"

"Not much. He's going to start burning up very soon, so he probably needs to be sponged down..."

"Not me," I said quickly. "As official straight boy around here, I refuse to give unconscious Harry a sponge bath."

"Ugh, breeders," Draco said with a snort.

"Oi," Herm said, and poked him in the arm. "Watch it."

"Give me a hand with him, Weasley," he said, trying to pick Harry up.

"Draco, don't be silly," Herm said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Let me."

"Sod off, Granger," he said. "I can do it myself if Weasley would get his little freckled arse over here."

* * *

Took Harry three days to come down off that one. Malfoy was smug about it the whole time. I mean, I know he was the key to overthrowing Voldemort and all, but he's such a sarky git. Probably because he knows he was the key.

Anyway, Herm took some time off work to sit up with Harry during the bit where he had the shakes, and I did too, although I got the bit where he was sleeping about twenty hours a day. Of course, the remaining four he was fucking starving, so I had to keep running out for kebabs and stuff, but yeah. He made it.

* * *

And, of course, there was Sam. The bird who worked at Kenneth Troll when Harry went to buy something, and who he picked up, took to dinner, fucked and then dropped. As usual. Unfortunately, I'd seen her with him at dinner (I'd been out with Ginny and Perce for a family bitching session), and he'd said hi, so she knew I was mates with him.

Which was why she grabbed me a few days later in Diagon Alley and asked if I knew why Harry wasn't responding to her owls. I sighed.

"Love, it's nothing to do with you. You're a gorgeous girl and you've got a lot going for you. Harry is fucked up. Really fucked up. I'm surprised the female population hasn't got a General Alert out to stay away from him."

"But--", she sobbed, "--he said he loved me!"

"Yeah," I said, handing her a tissue. "He does that."

"He's such a bastard!"

"That's the spirit."

So then she decided that she wanted to go out for dinner with me. Of course, the fact that she invited me didn't stop her from leaving the table to go to the loo just after I asked for the bill. Emancipated women, my arse. But she did shag like a minx. But I claimed commitment-phobia after a week or two and moved on. Girl was like a sponge for attention. But the bugger of it is that I can't go into Kenneth Troll to buy clothes now because she'll just glare at me, and she's told all her coworkers what a total arsehole I am, and it's just very uncomfortable, you know?


* * *


That's nothing compared with Will, though. He was another one of Harry's pre-fuck dinner dates. However, for some reason Herm had agreed to go on a double date with some Ministry bloke with them, and they were at the Skanky Haggis when I walked in with Ciaran, this young Keeper I was trying to scout for work. They waved me over and I introduced the lad, who was one of those "wow, the Harry Potter" types, in the way that there are never any "wow, the Ron Weasley" types. Harry flirted outrageously with Ciaran, which pissed off Will -- not to mention me -- and ended up taking them both home and, Ciaran said the next day, shagging them both senseless.

I did manage to recruit Ciaran in the end, and he was very grateful. Offered to give me a blowjob, but I declined. Never mix work and pleasure, that's what I say. Besides, I'm not gay.

Oh, yeah, and it turned out that Will was bi too. How do I know? Well, he and Herm were seen in the Café des Pretensieux a few weeks later. Simply shocking...

"I can't believe you're shagging his castoffs, Herm," I said with a grin.

"Oh, honestly, Ron, Will's hardly a castoff. Poor thing just wanted to talk, but then the talking became kissing, and it sort of progressed from there. What?" she said indignantly.

"Sorry," I said, picking my jaw up off the floor, "but I was expecting you to say something along the lines of 'oh, honestly, Ron, I didn't shag him!'."

"Well, can't I have any fun," she asked. "I'm looking for my perfect soulmate but that doesn't mean I'm a virgin. Gods, you men. You're all the same. If a bloke fucks around he's manly and virile and he gets respect, but if a girl does it she's a slut. Honestly."

I had to admit, it was a good point. And yeah, we do all fuck around. We men, that is. Well, most of us. Perce and Ol are totally committed to each other. Sickening, isn't it? They're married. Or as close as gay blokes can come to it. "Partnered", I think it's called. And they're both less than thirty!

* * *

"It's funny," Herm said to me a while later in a Muggle pub. The Prune and Pumpkin, or Pig and Puddle, or something, it was. "I mean, the only ones of us all who are in stable, long-term, committed relationships are the gay ones. You know, Seamus and Dean, Percy and Oliver, Lavender and Parvati..."

"Yeah," I said.

"You're sounding very morose, Ron."

"Umm, yeah."

"Sad, depressed, worried. Morose."

"Yeah, I knew that, Herm."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I keep thinking that I should feel terribly empty or lost without a long-term girlfriend, but I don't. Is that a bad thing?"

"Not especially," she said, taking a sip of her Baileys. "Many people go through life and are very happy and just fuck."

"Nicely put."

"Thank you," she said.

"But I thought you were looking for a soulmate."

"I am."

"But...that doesn't make sense, then."

"I didn't say it had to make sense for me, Ron. I was just pointing out that marriage or a long-term exclusive relationship is not the best thing for all people. No value judgments from me."

"Hmph."

"What?"

"You kinda have a point," I said. "So is that what Harry's up to?"

"No, Harry is emotionally scarred from having an abusive childhood followed by a major change of life during his pubescent years, followed by saving the world once a year from the age of eleven. He needs to work out some demons before he can return to reality."

"You've got it all figured out, haven't you?"

"Naturally," she said, giving me that pursed-lips look which says, Did you need to ask?

"So what do you reckon about me?" I asked when I returned from getting another pint.

"You, Ron, are attempting to show that you're more than just the second fiddle to Harry Potter and the comic relief in the trio of people who saved the world once a year from the age of eleven."

I didn't have a reply for that.

I do now, though. "You haven't yet realised that you should stop measuring yourself against other people. And you need to find the confidence to figure out that people do think that intelligence is a turn-on."

Well, other people. Not me. Makes me feel stupid.

Always happens, doesn't it? You come up with the best reply after the time for it. Bah.

* * *

And then there was Darien. The kid who managed to get Harry totally eating out of his hand. And more. We saw -- Herm and I, I mean -- we were out one night and saw Harry dancing with him in a club. Yeah, the boy was an amazing dancer, like a tiger stalking his prey.

I looked away and headed for the bar, returning with a vodka-Red Bull for Herm and me. As we danced, Herm leaned over to me.

"They both just snorted something."

"What?"

"I said, they--"

"I heard! Fuck!" I yelled.

"I know!"

"Any idea what it was?"

"White powder," she shouted.

"What a surprise," I muttered to myself.

"What?" she yelled.

"Never mind," I said, shaking my head. I was sure that Harry would end up smashed out of his skull on my sofa, and that we'd have to call Malfoy over once again, and he'd be a twat, and I'd get no bloody sleep. Arse.

But Harry didn't arrive on my sofabed that night, and we didn't see him for a couple of days. Herm called his mobile the morning after we'd seen him, and he picked up and Herm talked to him for a bit, but then he said that there was a call coming in on call waiting and that he'd have to go.

The night after the phone call, Herm and I were eating at some place in Soho, when we saw Harry and Tiger Boy arrive. Tiger Boy was practically entwined around Harry's arms and legs. Harry, as usual when he is having dinner with a shag, gave us a brief nod and a raise of his eyebrows and then completely ignored us for the entire evening.

Typical.

* * *

Herm and I were over at mine one night, draining the dregs from our second bottle of something, and everything was getting all serious.

"I don't know," Herm was saying while making hand gestures with her wineglass. "I just worry about him sometimes."

Harry had gone off from the Cauldron earlier that night in a bit of a snit, and had hissed that he was fed up with us interfering and that he was going to go get fucked by at least ten random strangers that night. It wasn't that we were even actually interfering...Herm only just asked who he was going home with tonight, and if we were going to be given the pleasure of seeing him any time soon.

"I know," I said with a shrug. "But he's Harry. He's different. You know that. I know that. Harry knows we know that."

"Yes, and he manipulates us, the bastard."

"Yep." I took a large gulp out of my wineglass. "That he does."

"Ron," Herm asked curiously, "when you were at Hogwarts, did you and Harry ever...you know, fool around?"

"Course we did," I said. "I actually lost my virginity to him."

"You never said!"

"You never asked," I said, opening another bottle.

I wonder if I'll ever give in to Harry and shag him. Again. Wait, did I just say that?

* * *


Arse. Harry has found a bloke who is perfect. He's devoted to Harry, giving without giving too much. He's tolerant of Harry's little spats without being a total pushover, everything. He's glamorous, sexy, loving, kind...but Harry's spending all his time with him and none of it with us.

His name is Chris, and he's a Hufflepuff -- or he was, when he was in school -- and he's five years older than us all. He's about a couple of inches shorter than Harry, and has this perfectly-done short dark-blond hair. He does something independent at the Prophet and Witch Weekly, and he's also the European Correspondent for some of the American papers. So, he has a nice lot of dosh clinking into his vault every month. Not like he or Harry really need the money -- Harry still has all that from his mum and dad's vault.

"I don't like it, Ron," Herm said to me in the pub one night soon after Chris arrived on the scene. "But I know that sounds horribly jealous of me, not to mention silly and unjustified, and I'm a little ashamed of myself, to be honest."

"Yeah," I said, taking a gulp of my pint. It was a little flat. "Me too."

"And we can't do anything about it at all, can we?" she said. "Because Chris is so bloody good for Harry. That's the problem. If he was destructive and awful--"

"--like that awful Kyle--"

"--yes, like that awful Kyle, then we'd be justified in jumping in and trying to put a stop to it."

"But, as you said, we can't." I frowned.

"No. Fuck it."

"You swore again," I said.

"Yes," she replied. "I did."

We both stared off into space for a few minutes, digesting that.

"Well," Herm said finally, "if you can't beat them, join them."

"What are you suggesting!" I spluttered. I must have looked a little panicky because she laughed.

"No, Ron, I'm not suggesting we go out."

"I--no, that wasn't--the--never mind," I said.

"What?" She frowned. "Oh! That! Ron! Honestly! I would never suggest that!" She turned pink and sipped at her chardonnay.

"What I meant," she continued after a brief uncomfortable silence, "was that we should invite them round for drinks. Or dinner. Or something."

"My place or yours?" I asked.

"Well, there are no underpants on the floor in my room, for a start," she said with a grin.

"Oi," I objected. "There aren't always underpants on the floor..."

"No, not when Dobby and his elf cleaning crew have been round, but that's about the limit of it," she said.

"Bah," I replied expansively.

* * *

And so that's how we ended up at dinner at Herm's flat in Islington, me and her, Harry and Chris, Ol and Perce, eating Bruschetta Garlic Bread and something involving chicken, dried fruit and olives which Herm had found in one of her mum's Muggle cookbooks.

"So," Chris said as Herm and I served the Chicken À La Thing, "Harry has told me so much about you, Oliver. What's it really like playing in the League?"

"Great," Oliver said enthusiastically. There's nothing like Quidditch talk to get Ol Wood excited. He rambled on for a few minutes, mostly the traditional platitudes we all spout to people who aren't involved with professional Quidditch.

"Wow," Chris said. "You must be away from home a lot, then." He smiled at Percy as he said it.

Aaaaaaaaaargh! I shouted to myself. He's so nice! And friendly!

Percy said something about how Ol always tries to be home for dinner, or something similarly couply.

"This Chicken Marbella is wonderful, Hermione," Chris said next.

"Thanks," Herm said. "Ron helped, of course."

"And is the kitchen destroyed, or has a team of crack Hit Wizards been dispatched to deal with the consequences?" Harry asked with a grin.

"I'll have you know that I'm ace in the kitchen," I said.

"Is that an ace, like you've killed five people in action? Harry asked.

"Bah," I said again, and pretended to stab Harry with a fork.

"Actually, he is improving, Harry," Herm said. "I only had to explain the differences between prunes and olives once this time."

I glared at Herm with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. This was all going terrifically badly.

Chris had completely won everyone over by pudding. He kept complimenting Perce on the Black Forest Praline Flan he made -- which I happen to know is a pot of Nutella mixed with a sachet of custard powder and those sugared cherries that go in cakes -- and by the end of dinner everyone was just eating out of his hand. Argh, I say.

"Well, bye then, Ron." Chris said as he and Harry stood on Herm's doorstep. "Thanks again for the fabulous party. It was wonderful to meet some of Harry's friends."

"No probs," I replied. "We don't mind you stealing our best friend from us. It's our pleasure."

Of course, that wasn't what I actually said. "Great to see you again, Chris."

Harry gave Herm and me a big hug. "Why don't you two come round for drinks sometime?"

"Just tell me when and I'll be there," Herm said with a smile.

"I'll have to check with my social secretary," I pointed out. "Herm?"

"You're free that day, Ron," she said. "What day was it again?"

They left and we went back inside to talk to Perce and Ol.

"Isn't he just lovely?" Perce gushed.

"Oh, yes," Ol gushed back. That was odd. I've never thought of Perce and Ol gushing before.

"You know, Ron," Herm said thoughtfully, "I don't think we were right about Chris. He's not good for Harry."

Perce and Ol looked confused.

She smiled apologetically. "He's bloody wonderful for him."

"I sense a disturbance in the Force," Ol said, quoting that Muggle film Harry made us all watch one time. You know, the one with the Judi and the metal people and the bird with brown hair in the funny earmuff style. Yeah, that one.

"What's up, you two?" Perce said.

Herm sighed. "We're just being selfish."

"We sort of feel like Chris has stolen Harry from us and that there's nothing we can do about it," I put in.

Perce exchanged a look with Ol.

"I felt the same way when Perce and Penny started going out," Ol said. "Like someone had taken something really important away from me and there was no way to get him back."

"Even though we weren't actually going out," Perce said hurriedly.

"Yeah, but I had no way of knowing that, did I?" Ol said to him with a smile. "But anyway, the point is that you just need to give Harry some time to adjust to his new relationship. He's never had one of those before, and he's going to need some time to figure out exactly where it fits into the life that he has already...and that includes the two of you, and us, and all his other friends."

Oliver can be so wise sometimes.

Percy smiled. "Remember, Ron, that Christmas when Ol and I first got together? We did nothing for about a month except sit and talk to each other. Give it some time, and let them and especially him figure out where the boundaries in your relationship lie."

So, we did. And we went over to Chris' gorgeous flat in the Docklands for a really nice meal with Seamus and Dean, and afterwards we ended up in a nice but slightly naff wine bar nearby. It was really weird to see Harry's things in someone else's flat, though. Harry's broomstick leaning against the wall near someone else's front door, the Invisibility Cloak hanging on a peg in someone else's bedroom, the shoes I've seen so many times in my flat lying at the foot of someone else's bed. Really bloody weird.

Later on, Herm said she noticed it, too. Even so, it was a fun evening, and Chris really is good for him, dammit. Harry doesn't seem so fucked up any more, like he has been ever since the final battle with Voldemort. Part of the wild animal which was uncaged in Harry has been tamed and put back in its cage. Thank fuck.

And it's funny, even though I felt -- feel -- sort of jealous about it, I don't think I'm going to miss Fucked Harry really after all. Except that I now have a sofabed which will feel very unloved. Oh, never mind, Herm says that she'll borrow it every so often.

"After all," I said to Herm a few days after the dinner at Chris' and Harry's place, "most likely the whole thing will be over in a few weeks. I give it a month at most."

She frowned at me. "Ron, that's not very nice, is it? I'm not quite so jealous as to wish them ill."

"I'm not wishing them ill at all," I explained. "I'm just going on past experience, and that experience is that Harry has never stuck with one person for more than a week since...since before the war."

"But have you ever seen him in love before?"

"No," I had to admit. "Okay, I'll give you that. And I wish them nothing but the best, really I do."

* * *

Of course, since I said that, Harry and Chris are still going out now, three months later. Witch Weekly has done the usual thing, now that they've got wind of the relationship. The Boy Who Lived has become The Boy Who Lived With Another Man. Which is a bit of a sod, really. Bloody Witch Weekly. Mum wrote in to the editor and reamed her out -- something along the lines of "how dare you turn the love between two people into some spectacle simply because the lovers are both men!"

Good old Mum. Unfortunately for the rest of us, she included the line "as the mother of a gay son myself," which meant that until the journalists realised that this was Percy and so actually old news, the rest of us Weasley boys got all sorts of bloody investigative reporters ringing us up at all hours of the day and night asking who we fuck. I think Fred put it best... "Actually, mate, Percy, George, Ron and I are all having a Gay Weasley Love-in right now. Want to watch?"

* * *

So, yeah, Chris has been in the picture for about six months now. I knew that the famed Weasley betting luck had been used up by Fred and George back during the World Cup in fourth year. Gits.

Actually, though, I have to say that Chris is an all right sort of bloke. He's quite funny, really. He and Harry have started coming out clubbing with Herm and me, just as long, they say, as we match them in the number of gay clubs to straight ones. It's quite a lot of fun, really, going to gay clubs with the two of them and Herm. She keeps getting asked to dance by random lesbians. Don't tell her, but she gets a lot more possible action in that respect than I do. I suppose that I just don't look gay enough. Not that that's a bad thing, mind...

* * *

So, the four of us are sitting outside Babel one lunchtime, which is this really fab pub in Old Compton Street, and who walks by but Snape! Yeah, that old bastard. Harry and Chris start just falling off their chairs at that point, and they eventually calm down enough to explain that he was carrying a bag from the Prowler shop round the corner. Apparently, that's an all-gay shop run by a Muggle porn mag. Really fucking funny. No, really. Almost makes me wish I was back at school so I could laugh at Snape.

* * *

Ginny was over a few days ago, and she was saying how much better dressed Harry was looking with Chris to make sure he didn't clash with himself. She wittered on about how she'd gone over and done a colour consultation or some other rubbish for him. I must say, though, that Chris has managed to make Harry get rid of those round glasses he's been wearing for ages. He's now got this pair of thin rectangular things and has even got a new haircut. Short, a little spiky...it's actually not bad for once.

I'd noticed that he was less scruffy, and the new glasses, but I played dumb with Ginny just so she could roll her eyes at me with Herm and say "Men!" in that voice that girls have. I'm such a good older brother.

* * *


Actually, Chris introduced Herm to this guy from the Prophet he works with. Ben, I think his name was. And, as usual, Muggins here was left without a bird, until Chris set me up with this really fit artist he knows from Witch Weekly. Her name was Liz, and she was really nice, as well as being fucking brilliant between the sheets. The girl has a mouth like a Hoover Charm, I'm telling you.

So, yeah. Herm and Ben, and Harry and Chris, and Liz and I were out at this swanky Thai place near Herm's in Islington which had the folded lotus serviette thingies. I'd never been to a Thai place before, so I pissed myself when Ben ordered kao pad, which sounds just like "cow pat". Oops. Got an icy look from the waitress, who seemed like she wanted to stick her pen in my ear.

Of course, it bloody didn't last. Liz dumped me the same week that Herm dumped Ben. Both for the same reason -- that Men Are So Commitment-Phobic. Bitches, the lot of them, women. It's enough to turn a bloke gay. Well, not really. I'm not gay.


* * *


Uh-oh. Harry is sleeping on the sofabed again. He arrived late last night and he's still asleep. He was really fucking drunk when he arrived, so I put him on the sofa with some help from the Cannons' Beaters, who were over for a few beers. Of course, I called Herm over just as soon as I woke up this morning.

"Drunk? And without Chris?" she said when she arrived through the kitchen fireplace.

"Yep," I said. "Worrying, isn't it?"

"Question is, where's Chris?"

"Business trip to the States," muttered Harry from the doorway to the living room.

"And you went out on your own? Why didn't you call us?" Herm asked as I poured Harry a big mug of really sugary black coffee.

He took it, sipped, and almost dropped it as his eyes widened in horror.

"What?" I asked.

His face turned white. "Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Tell me I didn't...no....I fucking know I did...oh, fuck..."

"What did you...oh, fuck," Herm said, realising.

"With a boy or girl?" I asked.

"Girl..." he said.

"Well then," I said, "nothing to worry about then. It's not like you cheated on him with another bloke, is it?"

He just stood there and sipped at his coffee, his eyes never leaving mine as he nodded ever so slightly.

"Oh, you stupid bugger. You silly, stupid sod," I said quietly.

"Oh, Harry," Herm said in sympathy. "What happened?"

"Usual," he said deadly. "Got drunk. Found fit girl, fit bloke. Went home with the bloke. Fucked them both. Came here."

There was a long pause. "Are you going to tell Chris?" Herm asked.

"No! I can't!" Harry said, slumping onto the bench in my messy kitchen and narrowly missing a half-eaten kebab. "He'd be devastated."

Herm looked at me. "Not as devastated as he'd be if he found out about it from someone else..."

"I am such a twat," Harry said to himself.

"Yes, you are," I said, putting my arm around his shoulders. "But you're a twat who we love."

"Yes," Herm said. "But...Harry, no good ever came of dishonesty in a relationship."

"But I don't want to lose him," Harry said, sounding like a small puppy.

"I know. I know. But you're going to have to think of something," Herm said. "When does he come back?"

"Tonight!" Harry sounded panicked.

"Well then," Herm said, "we'll just have to work out what you're going to say before he gets back, won't we?"

"Just like the old days at school," I said.

"Yes, but without the people dying or getting hideously maimed," Herm pointed out.

"Yeah," I said. "Right."

So, it ended up that Harry, Herm and I waited in Chris' flat for him to come home that night.

"Hello, darling boy!" Chris called from the entry hallway. We heard him drop his suitcases and watched him stride into the living room with a teddy bear wearing an I Heart NY t-shirt, which he threw to Harry. Harry was sitting with his head bowed on the large sofa between the two of us, and looked up just in time for the bear to hit him on the nose. Catching it before it hit the floor, he looked up, hugging the bear to him. His eyes told the whole story.

"What's the matter?" Chris asked, sounding concerned and crouching down to take Harry's hands in his, looking into his eyes.

"I have something I need to tell you, Chris," Harry said quietly. "Alone."

"Bye," Herm said, pulling me to my feet. As we walked out, we heard our best friend say, "I've done something really awful and I don't know if you can ever forgive me for it."


* * *

We went straight back to my place after we left, because we both knew that my flat would be the first place Harry would come if the worst happened. Herm opened a bottle of vodka and reached for two clean half-pint glasses.

"Why, Hermione Granger, I thought you never touched the stuff."

"It's a special occasion," she said, pouring a very generous measure for both of us.

"Cheers," I said, picking the glass up. It was actually decent stuff for once. I think it must have been given to me by someone on the team for my birthday.

"To our best friend and the man whom we want him to marry," she said as she held up her glass.

"We do?" I asked, slightly taken aback.

"Yes, we do," she said.

"I suppose we do, at that," I said. "To Harry. And Chris."

* * *

We didn't hear from Harry for a couple of days after that. Herm and I would call each other's mobiles, and Harry's, but his was turned off and all we'd get would be his answerphone. "Hello. You've reached oh seven nine seven oh..." We tried going round to Harry's place, but he wasn't in. Herm's mate who lives downstairs said that she hadn't seen him for several days.

Finally, though, he came round on the fourth night since we'd left Chris' flat. I opened my door and let out a bit of a gasp.

"Harry! Mate, how are you?"

Herm, of course, came running down the stairs. "Harry!"
We piled into a massive group hug at the bottom of my stairs, until we realised that Chris was still standing on my doorstep, holding a bottle of wine.

"Chris! Mate! Come on in," I said, giving him a hug.

The four of us flopped down on the sofabed in the living room in a tangle of arms and legs. Chris hesitated for a few seconds until Herm pulled him down into the scrum.

"Have you made up, then?" I asked after we fell apart, Harry and Chris on the floor in front of the bed.

"Yes, we have," Chris said with a smile, drawing Harry closer to him on the floor.

"And how was the make-up sex?"

"Ron!" Herm said, slapping my wrist.

"Amazing," Harry said, wincing slightly and rubbing his arse as he exchanged a deep look with Chris.

I nudged Herm and we grinned. It looked like the trusty sidekicks had saved the hero this time. Again.

* * *

Harry? Yeah. Sorted, he is. Suits his bloke perfectly, and Chris suits him. Lucky fuck. Just wish I could find a love like that. Well, except with a woman, obviously.

What? What?

* * *



So, Herm has a few single friends from our year in Hogwarts over to hers this one night, and we're having dinner.

She'd made something which she served straight out of the oven. Pasta bake or something. Pretty good. Anyway, so there we were, Amanda Brocklehurst, Kev Entwhistle, Mikey Corner, Wayne Hopkins, Herm and me, sitting round the table.

Anyway, we're talking about all our friends who are getting engaged, or have been with the same person for bloody years, or whatever, and then Mikey starts talking about how he really, really wants a boyfriend. He's gay, apparently. Who knew?

Anyway, he wants someone to snuggle up with at nights, or some other bollocks. But yeah, Amanda says that's exactly what she wants, and Herm agrees, and so does everyone else, and then everyone turns to me.

"So, Ron, what do you want out of a relationship?" Wayne asks as he pulls off a piece of garlic bread.

"Umm," I stall, trying to think what I want out of a relationship, or actually what I want birds to think I want out of a relationship. "I don't know what I want. I've never thought about it."

"Never?" Kev asks.

"No, never," I say, shrugging as I fork some salad into my mouth. "Just not something I've ever given much thought to."

Yeah, so anyway, we're all lying around on the floor, watching this really bloody good film over a bowl of Florean Fortescue, when Mikey slips his hand along my leg. I stiffen up, and my eyes flick to him. There's a big loud orchestra playing in the film at this point, so I'm pretty sure nobody heard us.

"Mikey, mate, what are you doing?" I finally ask.

"Ron, I think you're really sexy," he says, and then winces. "Sorry, that sounded stupid. Umm..."

"Er...cheers, mate, but I'm straight," I say.

"What? You're kidding." He looks really surprised.

"No, I'm really straight."

"But I thought you and Harry...well..."

"Only once," I say. "Experimenting."

"Well, if you ever want to," he says, "get in touch. Seriously."

"Umm, cheers," I say.

Anyway, so we all leave Herm's that night, and Mikey and I live relatively near each other, so we're walking back, and he starts up again.

"Ron, I meant what I said, really."

"Mikey, really, I am straight. You're a nice bloke and all, but I'm not the one you want."

"Could you put a word in for me with Harry, then?"

"Mate, you do not want to sleep with Harry. Seriously. Especially if you want a boyfriend and not just a random fuck. Because that's what Harry is. He's a random fuck, and a bloody good one at that, but the very next day he will be fucking someone else and you will be in exactly the same situation you are today. Except that you'll have lost a day and a piece of your heart to Harry fucking Potter. Besides, he's got a boyfriend."

"Oh, fuck it," Mikey said forcefully, running his hand through his short, slightly spiky blond hair. "Why can't I find someone? Am I horribly hideous? Repellent, somehow?"

"No, mate, you're not. Really."

"Yeah, well you're straight, so it's not like you'd know," he said.

I didn't exactly know how to answer that.

The rest of the evening is still a bit of a blur. We stood talking for a while down next to the lamp-post at the bottom of my street. The lamp-post is overhung by this pine tree, and so Mikey got some pine sap in his eye, so I said he should come back to mine to wash it out rather than walking home. So, he did, and then we had a couple of beers and a couple of vodkas. He seemed like a really nice bloke, was in Ravenclaw and works as some sort of Muggle-Wizard technical engineer, trying to set up a link between phones and fireplaces. Pretty cool stuff, even if I didn't understand much of it.

So, it got to be about two in the morning, and we were just sitting chatting, when I rub my eyes and suddenly feel these lips brushing mine.

And suddenly, there is this fire inside me. Like someone's just turned on a gas cooker, you know, that hiss-click-WHOOMPH sound. I know, it sounds like a girly romance novel, but that's the only way I can describe it. And so I start kissing back. Hungrily. Passionately. In a way that I didn't even know I could. And with a bloke!

Weird. Totally weird. We sat there on the sofa for ages, kissing and exploring each other's body with our hands. It took a bit of trying to get his t-shirt off without either looking or breaking lip contact for more than a couple of seconds, but it worked.

I also discovered that belt buckles are really fucking difficult when you're trying to unbuckle them the wrong way round. Seriously. It must be like buttons. That, I reckon, is why girls' and boys' buttons button the opposite way round.

So, lips still locked together, we make our way to my bed. It's quite big, my bed, a double, which helped.

The sex was amazing. I didn't know that I could do or feel things like that with my arse, or my cock. Mikey explained that it's the prostate that makes you feel that. Well, my prostate and I are going to be getting to know each other a lot better in the future. And the same for me and Mikey's prostate, apparently.

And fucking Mikey seems just so...different than fucking women. It's warmer, and tighter, and...amazing. It just...feels so wonderful, both when you're fucking and when you're being fucked.

Mikey and I fucked until the sun came up. I awoke a few hours later, the sun shining through my window and slanting across the room, lighting up Mikey's pale skin and my paler skin, his legs covered in blond hairs and mine in ginger as I opened my eyes.
I took it all in with a deep breath.

I suppose that settles that, then, I said to myself. Congratulations, Ron, you appear to be gay. Or bi.

I shifted slightly so that I was spooned backwards under Mikey's arms, the length of his stomach touching the length of my back.

This feels so...right, I thought. So...made for me.

I felt a slight pressure as he squeezed his arms and rubbed his slightly stubbly chin against the back of my neck. Fuck, that feels good. Try it if you haven't.

"Morning," he said into my ear, blowing softly over it and giving me a shiver. "Ready for more?"



* * *


So. Yeah. I'm gay. Pretty much. Don't think I'm bi, as I don't feel like I'm really attracted to girls any more. It's not that they're unattractive, just that men are so much more than women. For me, anyway. Yeah, Herm would kill me for that, I know.

And Mikey...Mikey's great. He's just the sort of bloke I wanted. Well, the sort of girl I wanted, or thought I wanted, but a bloke. But anyway, he's just great. He loves to cook, so I let him, because I'm crap in the kitchen. Just the look of...anticipation, I suppose it is...on his face as I take the first boiling hot bite of dinner, and have to breathe in through the sides of my mouth...and then it's really good, really, really good, and I smile, and he smiles, and then we start kissing.

Thank fuck that Mikey makes things that can be reheated easily, or we'd be eating cold dinners every night.



* * *

Mikey moved in today. It's been two months since that one amazing night, and I'm still on a high like you wouldn't believe. I even had Herm check to see that Mikey hadn't put a love charm on me, but he hadn't. We just do really fancy each other this much.

Oh, a funny thing happened when we were redecorating the living room. It's now this gorgeous speckled cream colour, with this really deep purple trim on the bits which aren't wall. Like the lights and the fittings and the baseboard and stuff. Looks really gorgeous, though it took us ages to do. Anyway, so Mikey picks the postcard of the Pyramids, river and dancing camels which Bill sent me off my wall and flips it over to read the message.

Next thing I know, he's rolling around on the ground, laughing so hard that he's actually tearing up. I just stared, looking amused.

"Ron...do you know what this says?" he gasped between laughs.

"No, it doesn't make sense and Bill's handwriting's awful anyway," I said. "I reckon the dancing camel charm fucked the card up, but I just like the picture."

"Denial," Mikey read from his place on the floor, "is not just a river in Egypt. Talk to me some time. Bill."

"I told you it didn't make sense," I said, crouching down to read it.

"Oh, Ron!" Mikey laughed. "I knew I was right about you."

I told you it took us ages to paint that room, right?

* * *

So, who'd have thought it? Me, Ron Weasley, Friend of Harry Potter, Sidekick of the Side of Good, a certified gay boy. Mikey badgered me into getting matching ear piercings with him, right at the top of our right ears, and it looks really cool. Hurt like a fucker, though, an absolute fucker. But it looks great, and when Mikey nibbles on it during sex...oh, my gods. Fuck, yes.

Potter? Harry? Yeah. He's got a bloke. Chris is great, really great. I get along with him much better now. Mikey thinks I'm less jealous of Harry now that I have my own boy. Yeah, that's probably true.

Herm? She's got a bloke. Really good bloke, he's involved with Portree on the management side. He's got a wicked sense of humour, and is clever but not in the Hermy way -- not books, but just sharp as a whip. Really.

And me? I'm fine. Just fine. Oh, and Bill's card? I spoke to him about that. He's right, though -- denial isn't just a river in Egypt.

* * *

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