Yet He Shall Live by wwmrsweasleydo

[ronbigbang]

Title: Yet Shall He Live
Author: wwmrsweasleydo
Main Pairing: Ron/Lee
Secondary Pairing(s): Harry/Ginny, Remus/Tonks, Ron/Hermione.
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angsty sad post-war gloom fest with a bit of smut in it.
Warnings: EWE, canon and non-canon character deaths, masturbation, explicit description of m/m sexual activity, sexual assault (non-titillating description), mental illnesses, drug and alcohol abuse, semi-public sex, strong language, four funerals and a wedding.
Word Count: 21,300.
Summary: At Fred's funeral, his family and friends look for ways to cope with their grief, and afterwards, to rebuild their lives.
Author's Notes: The title, chapter titles and quoted passages are taken from various versions of the Anglican funeral service. (Yes, that's how cheerful this story is). I am intensely grateful to my betas: rons_pigwidgeon and masteroftrouble, to glockgal for the artwork and also to the ronbigbang mods for running this big bang.



Artist: glockgal
Title: "In the Treehouse"
Rating: G
Media: photoshop
Artist Notes: YAY!



YET SHALL HE LIVE

CHAPTER ONE: Our Dear Brother Here Departed.

For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life ...

It should have rained on Fred's funeral. The sky should have shed the tears his friends and family held back. The sun blazed instead. His pall-bearers sweltered in the dragon-skin suits they wore in his memory, almost replicas of the ones he had designed for himself and George when they had first gone into profit, only with black bands circling the upper arms.

Fred's brothers and his best friend carried his coffin. Ginny had protested, but she was too short; the coffin tipped towards her when she tried to join them. She walked ahead of them with her parents. Arthur looked very old, as though he were being held up by the pale, damp-eyed women on either side of him.

Charlie and George were shorter than the others, but only by a few inches, it was little enough difference that they could compromise, accommodate, adapt. They were at the back. Ron was at the head end with Bill because they were the tallest. Both of them had attempted to defer to George, but he had said, "If it all tips over and he falls out, I want him landing on his feet not his head." Percy was behind Bill and Lee behind Ron.

"Charlie's strong," George had said, "I might need him to take over my share of the carrying. I pass out sometimes these days."

When it came to it there was a good chance that any one of them might have lost consciousness; Lee had shared out enough rum in the vestry to keep a pirate ship from mutiny. They needed it.

The service had been sombre and so heavy that it was a wonder any one of them had managed to push enough air off them to stand. But stand they had, watched by the packed, black-clad, congregation. All six of them had walked down the aisle, to the coffin in front of the altar — the box which couldn't really have Fred in it — and they had stood in their allocated positions and hefted it in unison onto their shoulders.

They had followed Molly and Arthur and Ginny out through the cool dark of the village church, and had been hit with the blaze of a hot summer sun in the graveyard. It should have rained; it should have been grey and cold and damp. The weather ought to have been as miserable as they were.

"At least you've got a good day for it," Mrs Figg said and Ron wanted to punch her.

Why was she even here? She'd never met Fred. Ron couldn't fathom why Harry had brought her along. The whole Wizarding world seemed to want to mourn the dead of the Battle of Hogwarts, to praise their heroism. Ron wasn't comforted by that; it just felt like intrusion.

"It's bad enough burying nephews, but one shouldn't outlive a great-nephew," Great Aunt Muriel complained. From her it sounded like a criticism of Fred.

"Can't hack any more of this," George said and he walked out of the wake, along with Lee and Charlie. Ron got Harry and then followed them.

"Can I take my mourning robe off?" Harry asked as they stepped out of the back door.

"Of course, mate. It's bloody hot." Ron looked round the garden and caught sight of the others climbing up into the treehouse.

"It's not disrespectful or anything, is it? I've never been to a Wizarding funeral before. Except Dumbledore's and that was different."

"Funny that. With all the deaths in the last couple of years." Ron shucked off his own dragon-skin jacket, but hugged it to him. "We did Cedric's, but then the Diggorys only live over there." He waved vaguely towards some hills.

"I don't know the etiquette."

"Sod that. Would Fred give a shit, or would he rather you were comfortable?" Ron was thinking about what Fred had said about weddings, about his own wedding and how informal he wanted that to be; it was never going to happen now.

They climbed up the wooden stepladder into the old treehouse they had played in as kids. Ron dropped his jacket near the door and took the bottle of rum which Lee immediately offered him. Harry struggled for a moment with pulling the heavy black mourning robes off over his head, then he came and sat beside his best friend in the silent circle of drinking men.

"You got some stuff?" George was asking Lee.

Lee looked nervously at the other men in the room.

"I can do what I like today, remember? Nobody's going to say anything." George looked pointedly at his brothers.

"Whatever gets you through," Charlie said sympathetically. "Bloody horrible day."

"Bet you can't wait to get out of the country." George pulled a pipe out of his pocket and tapped it against his palm. "Don't know," Charlie muttered.

"Don't know what I'm going to do."

"Stay." Ron surprised himself with the neediness in his voice. "Just for a bit," he added. "Mum would like it."

"I know," Charlie replied.

George pushed at Lee's knee with his foot. "Go on."

Lee sighed and pulled a velvet pouch out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Ron watched with interest, and then checked Harry for his reaction. He looked wary.

"Percy's driving me round the bend. I mean, all hail the prodigal son's return and all that ..." George took the pouch from Lee and started transferring something which looked almost like tobacco into the bowl of the pipe.

Charlie nodded his agreement. "If I have to hear one more time about how it was all his fault —"

"What was?" Harry asked sharply.

"Fred's death," Ron told him.

"But it wasn't!"

"We've all told him that," said George. The end of his wand glowed and he held it against the pipe. Smoke drifted out of it and Ron could smell something sweet and spicy — definitely not tobacco. George inhaled it deeply, then raised the pipe in the air. "To Fred!" he proclaimed.

Ron was holding the rum bottle at the time, so he lifted it up. They all repeated solemnly, "To Fred!"

George choked quietly, keeping his lips forced together so that the smoke spurted out of his nostrils. He took a deep breath. Then he put the pipe back in his mouth. "You look like a Norwegian Ridgeback," Charlie commented with a smile. "Does that stuff help?"

George shrugged and passed the pipe to Lee.

"Why is he blaming himself?" Harry asked.

"Percy?" Ron clarified. "Because he was talking to him when he was hit, thinks he distracted him."

Charlie lay down to ease his hand into his too-tight trouser pocket.

"It doesn't matter, Harry," Ron muttered.

"Look, if he wants to feel guilty, then let him," Lee said, in words of smoke. "We all know that's not really what the guilt is about." He looked at Ron questioningly, turned the pipe round and offered the mouthpiece.

Ron didn't know what to do. He was curious, but scared, too. He looked at Harry for a lead, but Harry hadn't noticed his predicament. He was too busy worrying about Percy. Ron nodded and took the pipe; Lee smiled.

"Better?" Charlie asked George.

"'Course not," George replied.

"Try this." Charlie pulled a small glass vial out of his pocket. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and then inhaled the contents sharply. He passed it to George.

"If anything, it's my fault," Harry mused.

"Not this again!" Ron sucked in smoke and closed his eyes. It tasted like it smelled, but it was hotter than he'd expected. He could feel his tonsils. He breathed the smoke in his mouth down to his lungs. He didn't know if it was his imagination — his expectations — which made everything a little blurred round the edges when he opened his eyes again. Harry stood up. George was sniffing at the glass vial and Charlie watched him carefully. Lee stretched to take the rum bottle from between Ron's knees.






"Fuck!" George said in a small, awed voice.

"I'm going to go talk to Percy," Harry said, picking up his mourning robes.

"There's no point!" Charlie called after him.

Harry went away down the ladder.

Ron offered Charlie the pipe. He seemed to know what he was doing with it. Ron hadn't known about any of these substances. He'd never known his brothers were playing with fun stuff like this.

"Fucking immense!" George said to Charlie.

"Not too much at once," Charlie cautioned.

"Whatever gets me through," George answered and took another deep sniff.

"Let's have a go!" Lee took the vial. "What is it?" he asked Charlie after he'd inhaled it. "Oh, fuck!"

Charlie shrugged, passing the pipe to George. "I only know the Romanian name. Good, though, isn't it?"

It was hot in the treehouse; Ron was aware that he was breathing in stale air. His head was feeling light and he couldn't judge whether that was the weather, the drink and drugs, or just a reaction to the stresses of the day; probably it was a mixture. He thought about Harry and then forgot about him. Lee offered him the vial. It looked very small and pale in his big, dark hand. Ron hesitated.

"Not the kid!" Charlie said quickly. "Come on, Lee. Give it back!"

"I'm not a kid!" Ron snapped back, taking the vial. Lee let go slowly, sliding their fingers over each other. "I've done things this year ..." He lifted it towards his nose. He was scared to inhale, though.

"You should have been around more, Charlie. Ron grew up." George slurred the words together.

Ron breathed in. It smelled like putrid pears, and he had a moment to think about that before it hit. Then colours flashed across his vision and he could hear his heart thundering — too loud and too fast. He thought he was going to die.

When someone took hold of the thing in his hand, he realised that the slipping sensation he had been feeling had been the glass falling slowly from his grip.

He felt sick, and blackness was seeping over him, so he loosened his limbs and let his heavy head fall to the floor. Somewhere, distorted, someone was saying, "I told you. Look. He's a lightweight." The sound was blurred and rang with an unnatural clarity all at once. He lay on his back with his eyes closed and let the sickness wear off.

Suddenly he was awake and full of energy. His mouth was parched. He rolled his head, not trusting himself to sit up. The grey light coming through the door reflected on a bottle; he wondered when it had got so late. He put out his arm and then drank deeply from a Firewhiskey bottle which he couldn't remember being there.

"Oh shit." Ron looked around until he saw George. He looked pale, sick.

"You alright?" Charlie asked him.

George groaned in reply. Then there was a shuffling sound and he lurched to his feet. Ron sat. He watched his brothers.

Charlie was looking like he felt guilty. "Where are you going?" he asked George.

"Bed," George mumbled.

"Not down the ladder! Hang on, mate," Lee said.

"I've got it. I'll take him down, get him to bed." Charlie took hold of George, gently lifting him up before they both disappeared into the evening.

"You feel ok?" Lee asked Ron. "That's some weird shit, the Romanian stuff."

"I don't think I like it." Ron took another mouthful of Firewhiskey.

"It's a buzz. Yeah, I'd do it again. Like at a party, I reckon. Wears off quick, though, doesn't it?"

"It's funny." Ron lay back on the dirt floor with his eyes closed. "Hearing your voice."

"My voice?" Lee took the bottle from Ron's hand. "How is that funny?"

"Keep talking," Ron replied. The bottle was replaced and he drank from it without looking.

"I don't know what you want me to say." After waiting for Ron to say something and hearing nothing, Lee spoke again: "I miss Fred, but, I don't know, I don't want to talk about him really. I know it's his funeral; he's supposed to have the spotlight, but ..." His voice trailed off. It was a little slurred, but so familiar that the drunkenness didn't matter much. "Do you think we should go after George?"

Ron had been so intent on Lee's voice that it took him a while to realise what his words had been, that they needed an answer.

"Charlie's got him. Keep talking. Please. Makes me feel safe — your voice."

"Safe?"

"Always did. Tuning in, finding it. All well with the world."

"Oh!" Lee sighed with understanding. "Potterwatch."

"Reminded me of school Quidditch matches. Something ordinary. Not dark."

"Ok." Lee paused. "You were a pretty good Keeper in the end. Better when the twins weren't watching you. Funny that. They raised their game when you were watching, tried to impress you. Too much for you, though, wasn't it?"

"Mmm hmm." Ron drank. His stomach flipped. Enough alcohol, he didn't want to throw up. He put down the bottle on the ground, near where he thought Lee was. He didn't look to check, though. He wanted to doze off to a radio voice the way he had done so many times before in the last year.

"In every group of three friends you always have times when there's a couple and a single. I've watched it happen with you and Harry and Hermione. The thing was, though, with me and the twins, well ... they were always the twins. I was always the extra. Sometimes you and Harry go off on one about Quidditch, or Harry and Hermione talk about Muggle stuff, y'know? Then you and Hermione — I don't know. Whatever. But it switches. Not with us. I was always the extra one."

Lee fell silent. After a couple of minutes, Ron wondered if he'd fallen asleep. He looked over to where he thought Lee was. He jolted when he opened his eyes, because Lee was much, much closer than he had been. He was staring intently into Ron's face.

"Er, all right, mate?" Ron asked. He swallowed. Lee looked weird. Pissed, yeah, but something else as well.

"Ron." Lee's voice was thick and cracking.

"You're just pissed, mate." Ron suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed, lying there on the floor. He remembered where his wand was: by the door, in the pocket of his dragon-skin jacket. He tried to sit up.

Lee moved fast. His hand pushed against Ron's shoulder, forced him back down. "I am pissed," he said. "But that's not it. Years. Years of thinking." His face was deathly serious.

Ron's heart hammered. His gorge rose. Adrenalin born of fear forced sobriety into his brain. He tried to scrabble up to a sitting position at least. Lee got his other hand onto Ron's skinny hip, holding him down, and then his knee was on Ron's chest.

Ron froze at first. He just stared at Lee's looming face.

"Come on," Lee pleaded. Ron didn't know what he was pleading for, but he didn't think he wanted to give it to him; this felt bad. He shook his head. He felt helpless the way he had done as a kid when one of his big brothers had held him down and taken something from him. He couldn't even shout for his Mum here. Everyone else was back in the house. It was only a few hundred yards away, but it was beyond shouting distance and that was suddenly all that mattered.

Lee lay down on top of him, knocking the wind out of him. One hand held Ron's head now, and the other was at his fly. Lee licked his neck.

"Yes, yes, yes ..." he was saying. His breath was hot and stank of alcohol and something rank.

"No!" Ron shouted with what little breath he had.

Lee's hand forced its way into Ron's underpants at the same time as his mouth descended onto his in an obscene parody of a kiss. The twin shocks were enough to energise Ron's struggles. This was wrong and bad and evil, just like the Death Eaters had been. Ron might not have been able to fight off his brothers when he was a kid, but he'd been fighting bad men for years. In a rush he believed he could escape the situation and it was done.

Ron lifted one knee, aiming it for Lee's crotch. He missed, but he hit his thigh and knocked him off balance. The momentum allowed Ron to roll over, knocking Lee off him. Ron sprang to his feet. Shakily, Lee followed him to standing, and Ron punched him hard in the mouth.

Then he ran. Picking up his jacket on the way, he scrambled down the ladder at a speed which wasn't safe and ran to the house, holding his waistband up, no time to zip up. He was thinking that he would tell his parents, he would tell George, he would tell Charlie ... only they had enough to be worrying about today. Harry. That's who he would talk to. He could tell Harry anything. Only, when he lurched, panting, into the room he was supposed to be sharing with his best friend, it was empty.

He locked himself in by magic, turned the Muggle key and then shoved his chest of drawers against the door. He pulled a bottle of mead out from under his bed to swill his mouth, to get rid of the taste of Lee's mouth. He forgot to spit it out though and once he'd swallowed one mouthful he wanted another, and another. He lay on his bed with the lights on full, drinking and staring down his demons.

CHAPTER TWO: In the Midst of Life We Be in Death.

In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour?

George's frame was seized and shaken by another overpowering convulsion. While it lasted, he could feel nothing but the contraction of his guts, heard only his own blood roaring and saw a red-shot blackness.

As it passed, he became aware of a strong smell of bile, then cold hardness against his brow and, finally, Charlie's voice:

"You'll be alright. I told you to take it easy."

George hoped that Fred was feeling as rotten as he was. He must be; he wasn't taunting. He opened his eyes and found he was looking into the abyss of the toilet bowl. It was full of something bubbly and nasty. He closed his eyes again.

"If I got you a Pain Potion, do you think you could keep it down?" Charlie asked.

George's belly immediately imagined thick liquid hitting it. It contracted defensively and he retched again. Very little came up — just a trickle of stomach acid which burnt his throat. His eyes watered. He wondered whether Fred had taken any Pain Potion yet, he would have asked, but he couldn't speak. Maybe Fred was still sleeping it off. Lucky Fred.

Charlie's bare feet made sticky noises against the bathroom floor. They had a wooden floor in their flat over the shop. This sounded like he was at home — the Burrow. He and Fred were always correcting each other. Wheezes was their home now. What was Charlie doing at their parents' place?

George's mouth was dry, sore and tasted of regurgitated rum. He didn't trust himself to take a sip of water, though. He remembered the rum from the treehouse. Lee must have been there, he was the one who drank rum. It had been his weed, too. Then there had been that stuff Charlie had.

George remembered the heightened distortion of the high that had given him. And then in an overpowering rush, he remembered everything. They had gone to the treehouse to get away from Fred's wake, because Fred had been buried, because Fred was ...

His body convulsed and his mind closed down. He tried to drag air out of the room, pulling hard, but his ribs were too tense, too close and he was smothering. Then he felt himself pulled upwards. He opened his eyes but all he could see was a blurred, white dazzle. He was being held from behind. It was a firm, reassuring hug. Charlie was saying something — he couldn't make sense of what it was, but it was Charlie's voice and that was a comfort. A sob took over his body. It was dry and silent, but overpowering. It was followed by another and another.

Tears arrived eventually, then Charlie turned him round so that they faced each other and sat them both down on the edge of the bath. Time had lost meaning. George wept onto Charlie's shoulder. It smelled of clothes which had been slept in. There was a scent of stale ganja smoke in it, too.

When his crying had calmed to the point where he could speak again, George choked out, "He's dead."

"Yes. Yes, he is," Charlie replied.

"Fred," George clarified.

"Yes. Fred. Are you ready for that Pain Potion now?"

George noticed how much his head hurt; he nodded.

"Is everyone else alright? Ron?" George asked. He'd just remembered telling Charlie that Ron wasn't a kid, and then Ron's reaction to one snort. If Ron was ill now then that would be George's fault.

"I followed you," Charlie said. "You looked like you were about to tumble down the ladder. Lee was with Ron."

George sighed with relief. "Oh. He'll be fine, then."

They sat in silence together until they both felt strong enough to go back to bed.

They started the next day with lunch. Ron lurched in, still in his pyjamas, half-way through the meal. He looked warily round the table before entering the room. Then he sat down next to Harry. He looked at least as bad as George felt.

"Alright?" Harry asked him. His voice rang oddly in the room, drawing attention to its previous silence. That wasn't right — Weasley meals were not quiet times.

"Bit hungover," Ron muttered.

Molly shuffled listlessly to her feet. "I'll get you a potion."

"I've taken one. It'll kick in in a moment."

Molly should have been telling Ron off for getting drunk, not accepting it and offering him a cure. It was all wrong.

"You going to be up to it this afternoon?" Harry asked Ron.

"What's this afternoon?" Arthur asked.

Harry paused, looking awkward.

"Colin's funeral," Hermione supplied gently.

George hadn't noticed that she was there. Every ginger head in the room dipped, their freckled noses pointed towards their plates. Another funeral. Too many.

"Colin?" George found himself asking. "Colin who?"

"Creevey," Ron said. "Annoying little shit with the camera. He was in the D.A."

"I remember." George pictured him. He was so young. "From the Battle?" He felt stupid as soon as he had asked. Of course he'd died in the Battle. Though, there was just a chance that he had been killed before that under Death Eater rule, or even that his death had been natural, the timing could have been coincidental.

It was hard to think that some normal things like drowning, illness or accident could have been happening at the same time as the Battle of Hogwarts. They must have happened somewhere, though. Somewhere in the world at the same moment that Fred had fallen down, somebody would have been giving birth. And somebody else would have been eating a toasted cheese sandwich. "He was in the grounds. He snuck back from Hogsmeade to take part ... he ... the body was ..." Harry stopped talking and his face took on the frozen, haunted look he got from time to time these days. "I came back from the dead, I wish that ... that they all could ... that it hadn't been just ..." He looked round the table. Then he swallowed and stood up. He nodded crisply and left the room.

Hermione and Ginny both stood to follow him.

"Give him a minute first," Ron said.

"I bet he got a few of them before they got him," Ginny said. "Colin. He was a bloody good hex thrower."

"I remember him in the Room of Requirement. He hexed Angelina off her feet, threw her against the wall." George smiled.

Ron nodded. "Really pissed her off." He rubbed his hand over his face. "Wish I could remember which spell that was."

George thought about Colin, tried to remember as much as he could about him. "Who's going this afternoon?"

"Me, Ginny, Harry, Hermione," Ron replied. "Loads of other people, too, of course." He took a deep drink of pumpkin juice. "Then we're going to St Mungo's to see a few people."

"What time's the service? I'll get dressed, come with you."

His brothers all looked at George. It was Molly who spoke: "Are you sure? Another funeral, so soon after —?"

"I'm a big boy, Mum. I'll be fine."

"Well, I know I couldn't cope. Not the day after," she admitted.

"It won't be the same ceremony," said Ron. "His parents are Muggles."

It was evidence of his state of mind that Arthur didn't even react.

On the bus journey out to the cemetery, George sat next to Ron who seemed jumpy and pre-occupied.

"Got any plans?" George asked, for something to say.

Ron stopped whatever he had been thinking and focussed on George. It was un-nerving. "I did have an idea, actually," he said.

"Yeah?"

"I was thinking, you know, if you needed some help getting the shop open again —"

"No! How could I do that? Without him? No!"

Ron looked surprised. "I just thought you were going to ..." he mumbled. "Never mind, then."

They got off the bus at the cemetery. Ginny and Harry walked together in front of them, holding hands through the dreary place — huge and full and grey like the housing estates and tower blocks they had passed to get to it. The chapel at its centre was featureless and modern.

As they walked towards it, Ron asked, "So what will you do, then?"

George shrugged. "Don't feel up to anything," he replied. "Not coping," he added quietly.

The Creevey family sat in the front row. They were all short and mousey-haired like Colin. George recognised Dennis, the younger brother. There was a tension around his eyes which looked familiar. His hands were clenched against emptiness, too. Just like George.

George shuffled along a bench and sat next to Ron. Ginny sat on his other side. He patted her hand, grateful to her for being there — unlike Fred and Colin who had left their brothers and wouldn't be coming back. Poor Dennis had no sister, no more brothers; he was the only one left.

After the strange, dry ceremony which ended with curtains coming round the coffin instead of a burial, the mourners all made their way out into the colourless gardens. It was sunny again. The sky's bright hope was unbearable.

George shook Mr Creevey's hand as he stepped out of the door.

"Who are you?" asked the drawn, bony little man.

"George. I was at school with Colin. A few years older."

"I hardly know anybody here." Mr Creevey shook his head. "I never got to meet his friends, what with it being the sort of school it was. I never really understood. I was happy for the boys, though. That they'd found something special. I left school at fourteen, became a milkman. It's not much of a life. I thought that place would offer them ... I don't understand. What sort of a school has battles going on? You'd think they would have stopped the fighting, wouldn't you? Rather than let my boy ... I don't understand. Dennis tries to explain things, but it doesn't make any sense to me. I thought they'd be safer, happier, with the magic."

"He died a hero, Mr Creevey," George found himself saying. He didn't know why; it was no comfort to him when people said that about Fred. Mr Creevey sighed.

"So they say," he said. "I don't know. I'm more one for a bit of give and take, though. It shouldn't have to come to blows. Not ever. Somebody should have been negotiating or something. I don't know."

George didn't know what to say. There was too much this man didn't know. Poor Dennis was the only one who would ever understand; he would never be able to make it right for his parents. George shook Mr Creevey's hand again and walked on.

At least he understood what Fred had died for. Fighting had been the only option and they had all known the risks. He still wished that it could have been him who had died and Fred who had been forced to live on. It could have been so much worse, though. He could have been poor, pale Dennis Creevey.

George was incapacitated by the depth of his pity for the boy and so he just waved to him from the other side of a crowd of wizards. There was nothing he could have said to him.

Mrs Creevey led the way to a little pub where they had hired a room. As they crossed the busy road she pointed up to one of the angular concrete blocks of flats in the area. "

That's our place," she said quietly. "That's where our Colin was brought up. Sixth floor."

Inside the pub there were curling sandwiches, bowls of stale crisps and gooey little pork pies cut into quarters. Ginny caught George's eye. They both looked back to the food. This was no way to see off the plucky little photographer. Ginny nodded at him.

George slid his wand down his sleeve. Ministry be damned. Let them turn up and Obliviate all the Muggles here. It couldn't make things any worse. He muttered a few words in Latin. Making food was impossible with magic — freshening it up wasn't.

Ron was organising a round at the bar, dealing with some of Hermione's Muggle money to pay for it. George hung around and helped hand drinks out, waiting until Ron was less busy.

"Brandy was it?" Ron asked him, flustered.

"Rum. It doesn't matter."

Inexplicably, Ron blushed and his eyes darted sideways. Before he could get contemplative again, George said, "You know what you were saying about the shop?"

Ron made eye contact. He nodded. Half of his mind was still clearly elsewhere.

"I've changed my mind. What else am I going to do? Sit around feeling sorry for myself? Things could be much worse." George looked over at the Creeveys. "Waste of his time and mine if I just let the shop go."

Ron was fully engaged in the conversation now. He nodded enthusiastically.

"So thanks for the offer. I'd love some help. It'll be a big job, mind. Don't know what happened to the place after we moved out. You'd have to move in to the flat with me, I think. That ok?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it'll be brilliant. Need to keep busy. Things are going to get to me otherwise." Ron nodded. "Perfect."

"Excellent!" George patted his baby brother on the back. "There'll be three of us, 'cos Lee offered to help out yesterday. He was the one who suggested that all the staff ought to live on site. Three lads in a bachelor pad — it'll be a laugh!"

If Ron didn't exactly look like he was about to start laughing, then George put that down to the fact that they were at a funeral.


CHAPTER THREE: Thou Knowest, Lord, the Secrets of our Hearts.

... shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, thou most worthy judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee.

Lee didn't know why he had woken up. George's sofa was pretty uncomfortable and it was airless in the little sitting room above the shop. The sun was half-heartedly beginning to push its way through the un-curtained window. Perhaps he just wasn't tired any more. Or maybe it was because of the aching erection rubbing against the inside of his pyjama bottoms.

He glanced over at the bedroom door. It was definitely closed. He should lock it probably, but he was too sleepy. He shuffled about on the lumpy cushions and slipped his hand under his waistband, between the warmth of his skin and the scratch of the over-washed cotton. He gasped out when the side of his hand touched his cock; he wished he could remember what he had been dreaming about.

He closed his eyes and something pale brushed against his memory, then was lost.

He spat onto his other hand and pushed it down, too. Wet fingertips made contact with his foreskin: his nerves sent jolts throughout his body. He looked down himself — a smooth plane of toned muscle from his head to his long, brown toes, with his erection jutting out from it. He bit his lip then eased his elasticated waistband down over his jutting hipbones. Belatedly he checked George's bedroom door again; it was still shut. He pulled the bedspread over his head anyway.

His dark, thick cock rose from a mass of black hair, shining with sweat in the sparse light. He let go of it for a moment, but his hips jerked upwards into the air, missing the contact. He wrapped his right hand tight round the base, while his other hand went searching under the bed. He'd kicked the incriminating tube under there the day before when Arthur had popped round for an unexpected visit. It wasn't too far under. He glanced over at the bedroom door again, then at the door down to the shop — not that anyone would be coming in that way at this time of the morning.

He squeezed himself and released a deep sigh, which he had to bite back. Harry knew some kind of muffling spell; he must get that off him. He squirted the lube onto his fingertips and tickled his foreskin again.

"Mmm, sweet Merlin!"

He watched himself as he pulled down his foreskin, exposing the head of his prick to the air, and then to his moist fingers. The lube shone on the tip like pre-come in the light coming through the thin fabric. It wouldn't be long before it was joined by the real thing.

While one fist set up a gentle, firm rhythm of strokes, the other hand kneaded his balls. He watched himself as best he could for a while, listened to the slurping sound and his own heavy breathing. He pressed one finger back onto his perineum — and his eyelids fell shut. He could picture his hand moving, only after a few strokes it wasn't his own hand, it was another, paler hand: a remnant of his dream, but still just out of focus.

He was sweating and panting now. His mouth was open, rasping air over his throat. The repeated scratch of the rough cotton of his pyjama top over his inner arm suddenly became unbearable. He didn't want to let go of his cock, to stop stimulating it, but he wanted to enjoy this sensation wholeheartedly, without distraction. He fumbled about, trying to remove his top with one hand, without interrupting his rhythm, but it was useless.

He opened his eyes, freed his hand and yanked the shirt off over his head. One dreadlock bounced off his cheek. He lowered the bedspread and looked at both of the doors. Still safe. The day was breaking now. Orange light played over his dark, shining skin. His belly looked ok: the curves of muscles in all the right places. He looked a little like one of those posters of Quidditch stars advertising shaving potions. His chest, what he could see of its shape under all the hair, looked alright, too. The hair cleared round his two peaked black nipples.

He ran one palm over them, lightly glancing over their tips and making himself whimper. His eyes closed and he hid back under the bedspread and took himself in hand again. Behind his eyelids he saw another hand — a white-skinned, freckle-backed hand — on his chest. He followed its movements with his own fingers: pinching, rubbing, rolling.

The thumb of his other hand brushed over his tip, collecting the pre-come which was forming there, sliding it over his over-heated, over-sensitive skin. He pictured a mouth, made a mouth out of his hand. He pulled up in tight, small movements and in his head there was ginger hair over his waist — bobbing up and down in the morning light.

He left his nipples and pressed two fingers against his scalp, then grabbed hold of a wiry dreadlock and pulled hard.

He cried out, a grunting sound which might have been a name, grabbed hold of his nuts instead of his hair and squeezed. Then the lights and rainbows danced inside him and he came with five hard sprays of hot come into the hair on his belly.

He stroked gently a few times and then let go. After looking down at his own sticky mess, he checked the doors again. Still safe. He would need to get up in a moment, the others would be awake soon. He recovered his breath, lying back and listening to the in-and-out of the air, trying not to think.

Another image from his dream resurfaced. Who had he been trying to kid? Of course he knew who he'd been dreaming about. Again. It was pure pointless torture and he wished his subconscious would give it up. Not that he didn't deserve torture and worse.

If he'd ever had a chance with Ron — which he probably hadn't — he had lost that after Fred's funeral. He had thrown away any respect the boy might ever have had for him. He couldn't help wondering how far he would have taken things if Ron hadn't punched him. If Lee had still been stronger than the younger man, would he ever have stopped himself? He wasn't capable of rape, was he? He'd never thought so. But he didn't know at what point his body would have felt sated enough to halt. He felt sick again. What trigger other than Ron's fist would have brought him to his senses?

Yes, he had been drunk and stoned and high; yes, it had been a horrible and unnatural day; yes, he'd finally found himself alone with the subject of his obsessions. But there was no excuse.

He had waited for Ron to tell people. Specifically, he had spent two days on edge, braced for George to attack him. When George had owled him to say that he wanted to talk, he was sure that he was going to be shouted out, hexed and that his remaining best friend would be lost to him forever. Instead, George had wanted to take him up on his offer to help re-open the shop. When he had happily told him that Ron would be moving in here, too, Lee had realised that Ron was keeping their secret. It didn't mean he would be silent forever.

Neither of them wanted to let George down; they both cared for his happiness too much. So they had found themselves in this impossible position. It was dreadful for Lee, he could only think that it must be worse for Ron. The lad kept shooting him wary glances. Lee had apologised, of course. It had been the first thing he'd done, the first time George had left the room. This went way beyond an apology, though. There were no words to make it right. He had promised that nothing like that would happen again — but he could see Ron was reluctant to believe him. Why should he?

Ron was sleeping in Fred's old bed. It was natural enough that the brothers would be the ones sharing the bedroom. They all had to negotiate the one small bathroom, though, and the stockroom, the shop floor. There was only so much space Lee could put between himself and Ron.

He could see Ron getting worried when alcohol appeared. George wanted to drink, though. Neither of them had told George, so they had to both drink with him. Lee had started buying vodka. He didn't think either of them would ever be able to swallow rum or Firewhiskey again.

The guilt and the carefulness were bad enough, but the desire refused to go away. It mingled with his contrition and broke free in his dreams. It had been bad enough at school. He had shocked himself by noticing how handsome Ron was growing. He'd fancied boys before, it wasn't that. He'd never mentioned it to anyone — there'd been no point; he fancied girls too and he could talk about that for hours. He was glad he didn't play Quidditch — there was barely a member of the House team who didn't turn him on. Well, apart from the twins. Ok, sometimes even the twins did.

What had surprised him — that first time the candle light had shown up the hairs on Ron's arm and Lee had lost his breath — was that Ron was only a kid. More than that — worse than that — he was the baby brother of his best friends. Lee felt protective enough about him and Ginny; he couldn't imagine just how angry their own kin would be if they knew he was lusting after one of them. He was glad that Percy had left school before it had all started because Percy noticed everything.

Ron grew quickly, he developed muscle, his form filled out. Every tiny change captivated Lee. He had worked hard at not touching Ron then. He hated Lavender, tried not to watch them snogging, but at night his dreams would replay him every moment. Only with himself replacing the silly, curvaceous girl. When he turned his face from the couple, he had invariably seen Hermione, watching too and hating it all as much as he was.

Then Fred and George had flown away. He had been driven mad with loneliness and boredom for those last months of school. It could have been his opportunity. Only, Ron was still too young then, and even Lee could see that it was Hermione he really wanted. It still was, as far as he could tell. She liked to describe their wedding plans to anyone in earshot. There was no way Lee would ever have had a chance to be with Ron; now he had no chance of his friendship either.

A door creaked open and Lee started guiltily. It was only George; he lay back down.


CHAPTER FOUR: Subdue all Things to Himself.

... our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it may be like to his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.

Bare wood was scraping against his skin. He was in the treehouse again, but this time he was naked. He was small and weak and he could hear the monster breathing heavily in the darkness. The monster was bigger and stronger than him and it was coming to get him. Ron was terrified. It felt like he whimpered, but he could not hear himself.

Then it pounced; it pinned him down with its weight and its tentacles wrapped round him, burning into his skin. Dark, lust-glazed eyes were in its face, staring at Ron's naked body. Ron was helpless and afraid as he was licked and kissed and then he was twisted round and his face was pushed into the rough floor. He was bent and penetrated. The pain was intense.

Ron woke, sweating and breathless, biting back a scream. He lay in the dark and let the world solidify around him, concentrating on George's snores to anchor him. His heart was hammering; bile burnt his throat.

He lived on the edges of his nerves — scared to be left alone with Lee. He couldn't explain why to George. Sometimes he didn't even believe in it himself. Lee seemed to be the same courteous, reasonable person that he always had been. He didn't laugh as much as he once had, but then none of them did. Some days they would be engrossed in mending windows, counting stock or cleaning shelves, and Ron would start to doubt himself.

He would wonder if maybe it had never happened. Perhaps he'd just hallucinated Lee's mouth on his neck and his hand scrabbling about in Ron's underwear. The Lee he saw at Wheezes was the Lee he had always known, and he just didn't seem like the sort of man to...

Then Ron would look over to seek out clues, and when Lee saw him looking he'd duck his head to hide his eyes quickly behind his dreads. Ron would see the fear and guilt in his posture and then he would know for sure that it really had happened.

George needed them both, otherwise neither one of them would be staying here and they both knew that. They tried to avoid each other, but it was a small place full of cramped cupboards and they both had to do whatever George asked them to do.

George needed Lee. He had lost his closest friend in Fred and Lee was the nearest thing he had left. Ron couldn't tell him what Lee had done. He couldn't force George to choose. He was just a little bit afraid that George would side with Lee; and Ron needed George.

The shop had been a mess when they first arrived there. On that first morning, Lee had already been standing by the front door when George and Ron had approached down the grey and damaged Diagon Alley. He had been facing away from them, his back hunched and his dreads falling forwards. His bare arms were covered in muscles and Ron's stomach clenched. Lee looked strong.

He had fought him off before, though. He was going to be fine. His heart was hammering, nonetheless, and he felt as scared as he had done in the Battle — but with no fight to take his adrenaline to. Then Lee had heard them, turned and Ron saw from his shocked expression that George hadn't told him that Ron was going to be joining them.

As George had talked — excited now, fired up just as Ron had hoped to see him — Lee had looked at Ron and Ron had seen that he was scared, too.

"You two wait here," George said. "I'm going in on my own first. I want to see what I'm up against."

Silently, Lee and Ron watched him as he ran his wand around the seal of the door, then carefully pushed it open. They both looked through the cracked front pane as he picked his way over the rubble into the dark centre of the shop.

They did not look at each other. They both kept their hands in their pockets.

Quietly, Lee said, "I'm so sorry."

"Let's not —" Ron started to say. He wanted to ignore it all.

"It won't — I need you to know that. I'm not like that. It won't happen, nothing like that. Never before, I don't know what — I'll keep away from you as much as I can. I feel so bad about —"

"Ok." Ron took a step back, further away from Lee.

"Just need you to know that I'm sorry."

"Got it," Ron snapped.

And he could see that Lee did feel terrible, but as for whether it would happen again, he couldn't see how Lee could be so sure. If Lee didn't know how he had lost control the first time, then how could he stop it from happening again?

Ron worried about whether he should tell George, whether he ought to warn him. Because the more he thought about it, the more he felt like Ron had been a substitute that night. It made sense. It was the twins Lee had been close to; it had been Fred that Lee had been grieving for. If Lee had found himself alone with George that evening...

George had emerged from the shop, looking grim but determined. "The Pygmy Puffs have been eating each other," he said.

The shop had clearly been ransacked. Someone had got through the wards. There was something dark smeared across one of the walls. Even the display cases which hadn't been knocked over had products on them which had expired, and they smelled bad, or bubbled menacingly, or — in one case — had burned through the shelf beneath.

George insisted on taking on the cull of feral Puffs himself. Only a few could be saved; they were put in individual cages, cleaned and fed. Lee was put to righting the furniture, Ron to locating and isolating the stock which could still be used.

The stench was so strong that to begin with they could only work for half an hour at a time before going out to the street to breathe properly. George and Lee would have a smoke with their fresh air. Ron tried to time it so that he and Lee weren't outside at the same time.

Late on the first day, the three of them dragged themselves up the stairs to the flat. Ron scourgified the bathroom, thinking longingly of his parents' nice, clean, cosy soap-smelling bathroom. He thought for a moment that he would Apparate back there.

He was too tired; he couldn't face splinching himself again. The Floo network hadn't been stabilised yet. He had to stay. Anyway, that was what George had asked him to do.

After his bath, he had walked out (fully dressed again) into the little sitting room to find George and Lee sharing a bottle of mead. He had looked warily at Lee and the bottle and he had seen from Lee's apologetic face that they were both thinking the same thing.

"Got any food?" Ron asked.

"I'll go out and pick something up."

"Don't know how safe it is out there," George had replied.

Ron didn't know how safe it was inside the flat.

I KNOW that my redeemer liveth, and that I shall rise out of the earth in the last day, and shall be covered again with my skin, and shall see God in my flesh: yea, and I myself shall behold him, not with other, but with these same eyes.


The silence was heavy on the shop floor as they worked: clearing, cataloguing and laying out stock. The spaces between the three men grew larger and at the same time more claustrophobic. They worked and ate together for several weeks.

There were occasional visitors. Angelina was the first. The look of horror on her face was repeated by everyone else who came into the shop.

"Somehow I was thinking of it as still being here, still being the same," was how Seamus put it.

"It will be," George said with determination. "It'll be even better."

When Angelina came in, she hugged Lee and George, then hesitated before Ron; they didn't know each other well enough for that. He hurriedly offered to make a pot of tea. When he saw Alicia approach a few days later, he made himself scarce before she came in.

When the Patil twins dropped by on their way to the Owl Post office, George made the tea. Harry was the same with all of them: miserable and short-tempered. Everyone else seemed to belong to either Lee and George or to him. It made Ron feel even more isolated. He questioned why he was there at all.

Harry had withdrawn into a silence which Ron suspected was full of self-recrimination and grief. He wouldn't talk to Ron about any of it; Ron hoped that he was talking to Hermione or Ginny. Girls were supposed to be good at dealing with that emotional stuff. He and Harry never had been. Ron would have liked to have told somebody about how it felt to be working and living with Lee now. Even if he and Harry could have broken through their awkwardness and he had managed to discuss it with him, Harry was struggling with too many demons himself. Ron feared that he wouldn't have listened anyway.

Hermione came every other day, though, and every time she came in and greeted Ron with a hug, Lee would back off to the stock room upstairs and wouldn't appear again until she had gone. Ron looked forward to Hermione's visits.

Most of the time, it was just the three of them. Nobody else wanted to spend long in the messy dirt and odd smells.

One sullen lunch time the three of them sat on the dusty floor, eating sandwiches Molly had sent in to them and staring out into their own individual empty spaces. George said, "You should have said something. One of you could have mentioned it. I had no idea you didn't like each other."

Ron and Lee both turned away from him, looking guilty. Neither said anything.

"Any time one of you decides to tell me what this is all about, then I'll listen," George continued with a sigh. "And if one of you chooses to leave, I'll get it. The atmosphere here is... Well, you know." He stood up and brushed the crumbs from his lap. "I'll be up in the workshop making dung bombs."

Ron wasn't about to leave. George needed him; it wasn't about having a laugh, it was about rebuilding a joke shop. He wasn't going to tell his brother how scared and angry he was either, not when George needed Lee, too. So, the silence grew and the secret swelled. Then suddenly one morning George stood back from his Violent Creme and Turnfish Delight display and announced, "I think we should open tomorrow!"

Lee jumped up, dropping the pricing gun which sprayed out five for a Galleon tickets like an indoor firework. "Is it ready?" he asked, incredulous.

"We can finish the rest off with the punters in here. Diagon Alley's starting to wake up. It's time."

Ron nodded. "There was actually a queue inside Gringott's yesterday. First time in months."

"I'll start on the publicity, then," Lee said, a little nervously.

George grinned. "Go on Jordan. This is what you're good at. The Prophet, then WWN, The Quibbler ..."

"Not the fucking Quibbler! We want to sell jokes, not become one. Leave it to me, Weasley. This is my area." Lee ran his wand over himself to shake off the dust.

"That's what I just said. You look gorgeous, get out there. He looks fine, doesn't he, Ron?"

Ron tried not to look at Lee, but George was watching him. "Fine," he mumbled. Now that he was finally looking right at Lee, he didn't want to see how good he did look. He wanted Lee to be the deformed malignant thing of his nightmares — not a clean, handsome, good-natured man.

Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.


The next day a few customers did come. A few more the day after that and pretty soon the paying public filled up the spaces and the silences that had been building in the store. Ron was too busy to worry about Lee during the day. They were all too occupied with taking money and catching up with people they hadn't seen for a while. The Wizarding World was beginning to come back to life.

George greeted most customers with a broad smile. His eyes were less bright than they had been when Fred had been alive, but he was getting some of his humour back — at least during shop opening hours. It was a surprise, therefore, one brisk mid-morning to hear him shout angrily, "Out!"

Everyone stopped to see who he was shouting at. Ron and Lee excused themselves to the people they were dealing with and both of them edged towards their boss. In the doorway of the shop stood a stooped, thin, pale figure. If it hadn't been for the very fairness of his hair and the pointiness of his nose, Ron might not have recognised Draco Malfoy. His characteristic arrogance had disappeared and there was a haunted shiftiness about him instead.

"Get out!" George was scarlet with rage. "I'm not having your sort contaminating our shop! Fred died to get rid of cunts like you! I'm not having you here, fouling what he made."

Malfoy said nothing; he just shuffled backwards out of the shop.

I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

The next day, as Ron was cashing up at the end of the day, alone in the dark shop, Lee came sprinting in, panting and agitated. He looked round frantically.

"George?"

"Not here."

"Where is he?"

"Not here," Ron snapped. "You'll have to make do with me."

They stared at each other for a few seconds which were full of the things they never spoke of.

Lee nodded. "It's your dad. Come on."

They raced down Diagon Alley at top speed, pushing through the last of the day's shoppers. Ron saw his father long before he reached him. It felt like he was running at dreaming speed, like the journey would never end. Arthur was standing at the top of the steps to Gringott's; his face was upturned towards the sky and he was howling. His pain was beyond language. He pulled at his robes, ripping them, with tears soaking over his face. A hesitant crowd was gathering as Ron forced air into his burning lungs and pounded on the ground with one foot and then the other.

When he was within touching distance, it all ended. Bill and George reached the disintegrating man just before Ron did. They moved together, wrapping him in a cloak and the three of them disappeared. The crack of Apparition rang through the next few seconds. Ron leaned forwards with his hands on his knees and drank in breaths.

When he straightened up, he saw Lee beside him, doing the same thing.

"St Mungos or The Burrow?" Lee asked breathlessly.

Ron thought about it, shook his head, swallowed. "They won't let Mum see him like that."

"You alright to Apparate?" Lee asked. "You want a Side-Along?"

"Fuck off!" Ron spat before spinning into his journey. He made it to the Mediwitch on the front desk before Lee did. There was a grim satisfaction to that. He felt patronised and belittled by the offer — but also he had no intention of ever allowing himself to be touched by Lee again.

"Yes," said the bony blonde Mediwitch slowly. "He's just been admitted to the Janus Thickey."

Ron turned for the stairs instantly, to see Lee jogging towards him. He stopped long enough for the Mediwitch to call him back.

"He's got two family members with him already," she said. "You'll have to wait."

Ron spun, his worry making him angry. "What?"

"You'll have to stay in the waiting area until one of them leaves." She pursed her lips. "Don't start with that attitude young man; it's a sensitive ward. There are issues around new admissions. You'll be fully informed in due course."

"But I'm his son."

"I don't make the rules. Which are all developed using sound clinical criteria. What's more, if you don't calm down, you'll be ejected from the hospital."

"Come on," Lee said gently.

Ron wanted to tell him to 'fuck off' again, but he bit it back and ignored him instead. He knew exactly where the Janus Thickey ward was. It had expanded since Voldemort's defeat and now covered two floors. He had known plenty of people who had passed through there while they tried to cope with the trauma of the battle and the grief of bereavement. A few of them were still there. At least Neville was with his parents now.

He knew the little waiting area, too. He tried to damp down his irritation as he explained to the Mediwizard on duty up there who he was and who he wanted to see. As the brittle blonde downstairs had predicted, he was shown to the waiting room and told nothing.

He sat heavily on a hard chair and glared at the grey wall as the image of his distraught father played itself over in his mind.

Then Lee Jordan walked in.

"You should go back and lock up the shop," he growled. Lee was the last person he wanted to be stuck in a small room with now.

"I just did that." Lee stayed near the door, leaning against the wall.

"What's the news? What's wrong with Arthur?"

"How the fuck should I know? Nobody tells me anything."

An icy silence followed.

"What are you even doing here?" Ron snapped eventually.

"He's not your dad. You're not family, you know."

"I know," Lee replied quickly. "I like your dad; he's been good to me. I want to know that he's alright."

"Of course he's not fucking alright. His son just died."

"I know," Lee said softly, sadly. "Fred was my best friend, remember?"

"Yeah," Ron sneered. "I remember how choked up you were at his funeral."

He recalled carrying the coffin, with Lee directly behind him. He had wondered sometimes in the dark sleepless hours of the night, whether Lee had been concentrating on the man in the coffin, or watching Ron's back view. It was a sick thought he knew; worse than sick if he was right.

"I was!" Lee took a step into the room. "It hurts, Ron! You can hate me all you like, but never doubt how bloody much I miss Fred! Don't bring him into this!"

Ron finally looked at Lee, faced him with the full fire of his eyes. "You thought he'd want you to sexually assault his younger brother? Was that in memorium?"

"Don't," Lee warned or pleaded.

Ron rose to his feet and let all his frustrations pour through him and shoot out at the young man standing shakily in front of him.

"Don't what? Don't talk about how bloody terrified I was? What would have stopped you if I hadn't managed it, eh?" he shouted. "How far would you have fucking gone? You expect me to believe you cared about Fred at all, when that's what you did as soon as he was in the ground? And now you want to hang around the Lunatic ward waiting for my dad like you give a shit? You're a fucking animal, Jordan!"

"No," Lee protested weakly. "I know what I did. I don't..." he shook his head. "It's not..."

"I don't want you here. I don't want you around my family when we're vulnerable."

"I'm not going to... I never... That one time, I wouldn't..." Lee sank down to kneel on the floor with his head in his hands.

"So why then? What was so special about then?"

"I was so miserable and I got off my head and..."

"You're blaming Fred?" Ron shouted.

Lee just choked out a strange sob and shook his head.

"Why me, then? Why did I have to suffer that? Why am I the one with the nightmares? It's not like I didn't get more than my fair share of horror in the last few years. Why'd you do it to me?"

Very quietly, Lee replied, "Because I'm in love with you."

Ron didn't have time to react, didn't know what he would have said if the mediwizard hadn't come in at that moment, Percy just behind him, to tell them they could visit Arthur now, that he was exhausted and deluded, but he'd been sedated and they were going to keep him in for a while.

"Ginny's collecting Mum," Percy said. "And Charlie's on his way back home."


Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.


They closed the shop on the day of the Lupins' funeral. There were so many funerals these days that when you found a shop locked up in the middle of a working day, you expected the hand-written sign which said Closed for personal reasons and knew exactly what it meant.

Tonks and Remus were laid to rest together in a shared coffin. Harry, looking nervous, held their baby as his grandmother collapsed into her sister's arms. Ginny stood with him.

"What the fuck are they doing here?" George growled under his breath, glaring daggers at the Malfoys. "We all know what they think of Half-breeds and Half-bloods."

Lucius Malfoy stood stiffly upright, leaning on his cane. He looked a little less strong than he once had, but his expression was still one of aloof disdain. His son, in contrast, barely seemed to be present. He made no attempt to maintain a facade of family pride, slumping listlessly at the graveside.

Lee stared into the hole in the ground, fixated. He had worked closely with Lupin on Potterwatch.

"If it hadn't been for him, it would never have happened," he sniffed at one point to nobody in particular. "He was a great man."

Ron remembered him at Grimmauld Place, begging to join them and escape his pregnant wife and the responsibilities of family. He remembered Harry's response to that. Then both he and his wife had leapt into battle with their helpless infant only newly born. It was tragic and there was a heroism to it all, but Ron couldn't help but wonder just how great a man Lupin had actually been. He kept his thoughts to himself, though.

Hermione wept gently beside him. While the grave was being filled, she slipped her hand into his and they watched for a few minutes together.

Lee stayed for the wake, so Ron went back to the shop. As he was cashing up, Harry and Ginny came in.

"You're here?" Ginny asked, although she could see that he was. There was an accusation in her tone.

"Somebody needs to be," Ron said.

Harry nodded. "Well, George and Lee are still at the wake. They're rat-arsed."

A jolt of fear ran through Ron. He needed Lee to be in control of himself. He tried to tell himself that nothing bad had ever happened here and Lee had been drunk before. Nonetheless, he dreaded being around when Lee staggered in tonight.

"We wanted to tell you there. We told a few other people." Ginny looked to Harry as though she were asking for permission to speak. That wasn't like the Ginny he had once known. His little sister had defied everyone. Love had changed her. Or maybe the war had. He didn't spend much time with her these days.

Harry said, falteringly, "Let me." He looked at Ron.

He looked very serious and Ron was afraid that he was going to start to talk about his feelings or something like that. Ron was tired and stressed and scared; he wasn't up to difficult conversations, not today.

Then Harry's face split into a grin and Ron knew he was safe. "You wanna be my best man?" he asked.

"Cool!" Ron grinned back. Then he remembered Ginny was there too, realised what Harry meant. "As long as you're not marrying her," he teased.

Ginny smacked him on the arm and she looked like Ginny again; Harry laughed and it was like a memory come to life.

"I know we're a bit young," said Ginny with a shrug.

"No. You're right for each other. Why wait?" It felt like the right thing to say, but Ron hadn't thought about it, didn't really know whether that was how he felt or not.

"Come for a drink with us?" Harry asked. "To celebrate?"

Ginny tucked herself in tight to Harry and Ron realised that they would rather be alone together than have his company. He wondered whether he was going to lose his best friend. Thinking back over the past few weeks, he thought that maybe he already had.

"Thanks, but there's the banking and a load of restocking to do."

Neither of them looked disappointed.

Ron worked until exhaustion obliterated emotion, and then he went straight to bed without eating anything.

Bright sun filtered through leaves. Dry earth clattering onto the coffin. Bare wood on bare skin. Ron heard the monster's breath. He started to shudder. He wanted to wake up.

Then it pounced the way it always did in these dreams; it pinned him down. Sometimes it had claws, sometimes it was slimy. Tonight there were hands, Lee's brown-backed hands. They held him, touched him everywhere. Ron tried to scream, but his voice wouldn't work. He looked down to find that he had no legs. Ron was twisted round, his face to the floor. He fought for breath against the rising dust. He couldn't stop Lee.


CHAPTER FIVE: Change our Vile Body that it May be Like to his Glorious Body.

... Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our vile body that it may be like to his glorious body, according to the mighty working ...


They took it in turns to open up. They each got to sleep late a couple of mornings a week that way. Being on the sofa meant that Lee was disturbed by the other two getting their breakfast anyway, but he still enjoyed Wednesdays and Fridays.

Once they were downstairs, he knew he wouldn't be disturbed. He had a good hour to spend with his left hand and his fantasies. He spat into his palm. The sexual frustration was driving him mad. He wished Ron would get ugly or be mean or prissy or something unattractive, but the only thing Lee didn't like was how much Ron hated him. And he deserved that.

He concentrated on his magazine, on the curves and glistening folds of the witches displaying themselves provocatively in it. As soon as he closed his eyes, though, to concentrate on the warm sensation of the pressure of his hand's movement, the willing witches disappeared and Ron's wary scowl replaced it. Lee's imagination smoothed the features into those of desire.

Lee's other hand slipped down to fondle his balls and his perineum, further back towards his hole. He ran his thumb over the head of his prick, and then pulled back his foreskin. He tried to think about breasts, about the feel of them in his mouth. It was no good; he couldn't concentrate.

He thought about the one time he had fumbled with a man — a Muggle man in a strange town he had visited only once for Potterwatch. He couldn't remember the man's face, though. It kept being over-painted by Ron's.

He pressed his finger inside himself and his hand sped up until he released onto his magazine. The come splattered onto the different skin tones of three curvaceous women. It did nothing for Lee. He lay back as the orgasmic glow faded, feeling increasingly hollow.

He got onto the shop floor just as the owl delivered the Prophet. George had opened up, and so he got the paper first. He sat down on the stool behind the till, while Ron talked a new father through the safest way to ignite indoor Pink Cascade fireworks in his wife's room on the Maternity Ward at St Mungo's.

Lee checked which shelves needed restocking. He was just about to suggest to George that he go upstairs to get some more Canary Cremes when he saw the expression on his best friend's face. He was staring at an article in the newspaper, looking bloodless and horrified.

"George?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't mean that," George muttered. His hands fluttered uselessly.

"George?" Lee went up to his friend and placed one hand gently on his shoulder. George pulled back.

"That's not ..." George shook his head.

"Tell me."

"I need a drink." George picked up the newspaper, clutched it to himself and staggered back out of the shop, upstairs, away.

When Lee glanced back, he realised that Ron had been watching George's departure too. Briefly they looked at each other and a silent question passed between them. It was the first look they had exchanged since Fred's funeral.

Ron completed his sale, and Lee nipped out of the shop and down the road.

"What is it?" Ron asked anxiously when he returned.

"Don't know yet." Lee laid the Prophet out over a table displaying copies of Spells to Turn Your Poo Blue and Other Harmless Amusements.

Ron spelled the door locked and the sign to Closed at the moment, we'll make you laugh later.

"You reckon we need to do that?" Lee asked.

"You saw his face."

"Fair point."

They didn't touch each other, but they did stand close as they scanned the paper for the story which had triggered George's unhappiness. Silently Ron pointed and Lee read the headline: Malfoy Heir's Suicide.

"Shit," Ron whispered.

"Well, he didn't look right," Lee reasoned.

"Then George yelled at him."

They nodded and read on.

"... couldn't cope with being rejected by the Wizarding community ... " Lee read out. "Shit."

They both moved for the stairs at the same time, running up and finding George with the cork from a Sloe Sake bottle in his mouth. He spat it across the room and took a deep drink.

"It wasn't your fault," Ron said firmly.

George ignored him, asking Lee instead, "You got anything to smoke?"

"How could I have got hold of anything? I've been here the whole time."

"Your boss is a slave driver," George observed emotionlessly. He tipped back his head and drained the quarter-full bottle in one movement.

"Is that a good idea?" Ron asked. He looked helpless.

"It's a brilliant fucking idea, actually, Bumfluff!" George snapped. "What the fuck do you know about anything, little hero?"

"Don't turn this onto Ron, George," Lee said softly. "Come on, sit down. I'll get the mead out."

"We finished it," George reminded him. "I wouldn't have been drinking that paint-stripper otherwise."

"I'm going to crack open my secret supply. Now, sit down."

George sank down onto the sofa muttering, "Sneaky bastard." He still had the copy of the Prophet clutched to his chest. Ron tried to pull it away from him; George gripped it tighter. He turned his mournful eyes on his brother. "He was a little shit, wasn't he?" he asked. "We never liked him, did we?"

Ron shook his head. "Cowardly, arrogant suck-up."

"And now he's dead."

Ron sighed. "Give me the paper, George."

"I didn't mean for him to kill himself."

"He had a shit war. The dark stuff that was going on at Malfoy Manor... it was the Death Eater HQ. He lived through stuff that..."

"Too many deaths already. I lost my temper with him, sent him away..."

"That's not why he killed himself," Lee said, handing George a glass. "That's what Ron's saying. He would have done it anyway." He looked at Ron. "Right?"

"Yeah. Nobody ever topped themselves because they weren't allowed to buy a Puking Pastille." Ron tried to laugh, but it sounded false. He and Lee were wearing the same worried expressions and watching George.

Lee sat down beside George on the sofa — his bed — and poured alcohol into two more glasses. He handed one up to Ron.

"Bit early for me," Ron said.

"Get it down you!" George ordered.

Ron took the glass from Lee. Their fingers brushed and Lee tried not to notice. Ron looked lost and scared, like he hadn't seen George in this mood before. Lee knew this state all too well, knew George's only way through it was drunken oblivion followed by a hangover.


CHAPTER SIX: The Lord Giveth, and the Lord Taketh Away.

WE brought nothing into this world, neither may we carry anything out of this world. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Even as it hath pleased the Lord, so cometh things to pass: blessed be the name of the Lord.


Hermione had plans. A big white wedding, a house, a career, babies (one of each called Rose and Hugo) and a househusband to look after them all. Since she was twelve she had known that these plans involved Ron.

Ron was her friend. So was Harry, but he was a liability and anyway, she planned on being the achiever in her relationship and Harry simply had too much going for him. Let Ginny be the power behind that throne. Also, Ron had grown up to be better looking than Harry. He had outgrown his gawky phase and now he was nicely proportioned and a pleasure to be seen with.

She had been furious with Lavender. Luckily that liaison hadn't lasted long. She hadn't failed to notice that someone else had been jealous, too. He still hadn't declared himself, but he was still around; in fact Lee was getting closer to Ron than he had ever been.

It was time for her to make her move. Ideally, Ron should have been the one proposing to her. He was too lazy, or emotionally unintelligent or something. She kept expecting something to happen, but it never did. Even when Harry and Ginny had announced the date of their own wedding, it hadn't spurred him into action.

Two bridesmaids in pale blue: Ginny and Luna. A Muggle blessing in her village church and a big do in the Weasleys' garden like the one Bill and Fleur had — but without the dramatic ending. Percy could do one of the readings; she needed to narrow down exactly which Shakespeare sonnet she wanted.

Ron had only kissed her the once, after the Battle. She had expected more kisses after that. She didn't need them, though; that had made his intentions plain enough as far as she was concerned. Fred had died soon after that, they had all been in mourning.

It was time, now, though, to bring hope to the Wizarding world. A marriage was a promise of a future. Harry's wedding day could be the start of the healing. Their own nuptials would mark an end to the grieving period.

She had drawn up the guest lists some time ago, now it was time to book the venues and start writing the invitations.


CHAPTER SEVEN: MAN that is Born of a Woman hath but a Short Time to Live, and is Full of Misery.

MAN that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he flieth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.


"We're out of booze," Lee announced.

Ron watched him warily. He seemed to be in control of himself, though.

Lee stood up. "I'll get down the Leaky, pick up some gin."

"No, rum. We never have rum anymore," George whined. He was lying on his back on the floor beside the sofa.

Lee and Ron looked at each other in a sudden move neither of them had any control over. They looked sharply away again.

"When was the last time we had rum?" George asked.

Warily watching Ron for a reaction, Lee replied, "Fred's funeral."

"Fuck." George closed his eyes. "Yeah."

"Didn't you bring most of yours back up again?" Lee asked. "Surprised you want to relive that."

"Nah." George pulled a face. "Gin is fine. Firewhiskey, too."

"You want Butterbeer?" Lee asked Ron in that soft, careful way he always spoke to him now.

"He wants a proper drink!" George spat.

Lee was right, though. Ron didn't want anything stronger than Butterbeer. He hated that Lee knew him so well. He bit his lips together and shrugged. Lee nodded as though he knew exactly what that meant. Then he left through the back door, letting in the sounds of the street and a brief blast of sunlight. It was a shock. Ron had forgotten that it was only afternoon.

Ron was squatting on the floor next to George. When Lee had gone, he relaxed and laid his head back on the sofa seat, let his bum slip down to sitting.

"He's a good man, is Lee," George said.

Ron replied with a noncommittal grunt.

"He is. I don't know how I would have coped. We needed him, me and Fred. It couldn't be just the two of us. We would have fallen out. Me and Fred, we both needed him." George paused. "I need him now. You as well. You've been brilliant and I think the world of you, and we both know I'd never say that sober and you're not to repeat it."

Ron laughed. "You expect me to say that back?"

"No. You're not as pissed as I am. I know you love me, too. Don't need to say it. I know how much you admire me."

"Like fuck I do!"

"But Lee, seriously now, I don't know how I would have coped without Fred if it wasn't for Lee."

"I know," Ron admitted reluctantly.

"Not just that. He's a hero. You know what he did in the war?"

"Potterwatch?"

"Yeah. You ever hear it?"

"All the time. It kept me going. Everyone else as well, I know." Ron looked over to find George staring at him. "What?"

"How did you manage that? You had to have the first code to start listening to it and you'd gone before we —"

"Oh, I was... Bill showed me, told me about it."

"When did you see Bill? During that time you were off with Harry and Hermione?" George was frowning and he didn't look quite so drunk anymore.

Ron wished his brother was a bit less sober. "Yeah. I hid out at Shell Cottage for a while."

"Mum was worried sick about you; why didn't you come home?" "I was ..." Ron stood.

"I was ashamed, actually." He walked into the little kitchen and got himself a glass of water so that he wouldn't have to see George's face while he told him the story of how he had lost his temper and deserted his friends.

When he'd finished telling George, he came back out into the sitting room. He was surprised to see George sitting on the sofa and just nodding.

"I never had many regrets," George said. "One of them involved your teddy and a spider."

"Thanks, mate." Belated and not exactly an apology, but it was more than Ron had ever hoped to get.

"When you're a kid, you don't think things through. But even as an adult, you can lose your temper, let your emotions get the better of you." George paused. "Can't always make it better." He lay down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. "You got back to them, Harry and Hermione, and you made things right. What I said to Malfoy, how I treated him, there'll never be a chance to make that right."

Ron nodded. "Things build up, you say something or do something ..." Ron wasn't thinking about the Horcrux hunt anymore. He wasn't thinking about what he'd done, but about what had been done to him.

"We all make mistakes," George said.

"We do," Ron replied thoughtfully.

"Hope we get to be forgiven, get another chance." George paused. They were both lost in their own thoughts, thinking about quite different things. "You forgiven us for the teddy bear incident yet?"

"I'm still scared of spiders."

"Sorry."

"Ok. You weren't to know how badly I'd react. You were just kids."

"We didn't think much about other people, me and Fred. That's why we needed Lee, I think."

There was a noise on the stairs and Lee himself walked in levitating several bottles including a six-pack of small Butterbeers. Ron forced himself to look at him, to really look, as clearly as he could.


We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.

Ron managed to visit his father at St Mungo's a couple of times a week. He ought to have gone more often, but it depressed him too much and anyway, while Arthur did just about recognise him, he was so doped up that he never knew what day it was. According to the mediwizards, Arthur's problem was a perfectly natural excess of stress and grief which he had failed to deal with adequately at the time when his bereavement had occurred. Bed rest seemed to be their main prescription, but Ron wasn't convinced that it was helping.

His father's movements were all slow and uncoordinated. Sometimes he wept, but mostly he just gave Ron unfocussed smiles and muttered inanities. They never talked about Fred. Ron looked into his familiar features and tried to find his father in this strange imbecile. Ron sat with him for an hour on the morning of Draco Malfoy's funeral. He handed him some Muggle magazines as he left, but he didn't know whether they would ever be read.

"Ah, you can go in, now," he heard a Healer say as he walked out into the corridor. He was surprised to see that it was Lee she was talking to. Lee sat on the bench which ran under a notice-board full of advice about wand cleanliness. He stood up.

"You're visiting Dad?" Ron asked.

"Mr Jordan is your father's most frequent visitor," the Healer said. Ron might have imagined the criticism in her tone, her implication that his own children ought to have been there more often.

"Really?" he asked Lee.

Lee shrugged. "Most days," he said. "Like I told you before, I like him."

"Thanks," Ron replied.

Then Lee went into the hospital room and Ron sat on the bench. He did some thinking, unaware of the bustle of the ward around him. He was trying to extract the Lee Jordan who had enough patience and compassion to spend time with Arthur from the creature of his nightmares. He tried to trace back his recollections to the point where those two people converged. There was a boy with a smile and a sonorus commentating on school Quidditch in there somewhere. He remembered being watched sometimes and not understanding, he remembered things which Lee had said since.

He only woke from his contemplation when the door clicked shut again and Lee left Arthur's room. Ron stood up. He cast a tempus and realised that he had only just enough time to get to Malfoy Manor and meet up with Harry as he had arranged.

"Look, Lee," he said.

"You're still here?"

"I've been thinking things through. I think I've been a bit harsh, unfair on you." Lee shook his head.

"I don't. What I did was unacceptable. I don't ever expect you to forgive me for that."

"I think I do forgive you, though. Emotions can be like that, reactions. You know?" The locket might have pushed him to the point where he lost his temper and ran away, but it had only had to relax his self-control to make it happen; missing Fred and taking drugs had done the same to Lee. "I'm not explaining well. And then something goes wrong and you live with it. You know?"

"Of course I know," Lee replied gently. He looked at Ron with a softness which Ron thought he had probably always misinterpreted before. "You alright?"

"Look, I haven't got long now. I'm going to the funeral."

"Which one?"

"Yeah. Too many bloody funerals." Ron sighed. "The Malfoy one. You'll look after George, right?" George would know where Ron was, and it would eat away at him, even if he didn't say anything. "Of course."

"Of course." Lee always looked after George. Ron turned down the corridor, ready to move to the exit. Then he stopped himself again. He wished he had more time to make sense of everything he had been thinking about. "Lee?" he asked with his back to him. "You know you said you were in love with me?"

There was a pause, and then a hesitant, "Yes?"

"Are you still?"

A longer pause. A quieter, "Yes."

Ron turned and looked at Lee. He took a couple of steps back towards him.

"Can't be late for a funeral," Lee said, looking worried.

"I know," Ron replied. "I just want to ..." He took another step towards Lee. He was thinking hard in rapid, confused, thoughts. Abruptly, all thinking stopped. He looked at Lee's face and all he could see were his soft, wet lips and he wondered what it would be like to kiss them.

The next thing he knew, he had done it. He was touching Lee's cheeks and their mouths were pressed together. There was a shocked moment where Lee stiffened, and Ron thought he was going to pull away. Ron moved his lips, though, and Lee relaxed against him, moving his own lips with a slow, light pressure.

Then Ron let go and stepped back. He touched his lips with his fingertips. He was stunned, unsure about anything any more.

"What was that for?" Lee asked in a choked whisper.

Ron didn't know the answer to that one. "I just wanted to," he replied. "I think."

"I'd better get back to George," Lee said quickly. "See you after?"

Ron nodded. Then he walked away, aware of Lee's eyes on his body as he went.


And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.


The summer of funerals had been an inappropriately glorious one. Even now, in early September, an Indian summer lit up the flower beds of Malfoy Manor. Inside the family mausoleum, however, the sunlight disappeared. The Malfoys had managed to buy the fitting chill which Fred's funeral had lacked.

Much good it did them. Lucius Malfoy's face wore its usual expressionless mask, but he leaned heavily on his cane as he followed the procession of dark-ragged house elves levitating the white gold coffin through the marble tunnels down to the crypt. He stared straight ahead of him, acknowledging none of the mourners.

Ron spotted Mrs Figg among the crowded pews. Again. Why did she go to all the funerals? Perhaps she was actually some distant, barely recognised squib relation of the Malfoys or Blacks. He was related himself, of course, though he tried to forget it.

"Do you think we ought to be here?" Harry asked Ron quietly.

"Kingsley said you should, didn't he?"

Harry nodded uncertainly. "Something about an expression of forgiveness and unity or solidarity or something."

"And at least we actually knew Malfoy. Bet half the people here never even met him," Ron whispered.

"Thanks for coming with me."

"Couldn't let you face it on your own."

"Thanks. No offence, but I don't think I could have coped with Hermione's over-piety."

Ron suppressed a snort of laughter and wondered why Harry thought that might have offended him. Just then Narcissa Malfoy staggered in and all humour was killed instantly. She was leaning heavily on Andromeda, who looked barely able to cope herself. Narcissa shook and wept pitifully, displaying none of her husband's reserve.

Once the two women had passed them, Harry whispered to Ron. "She only saved my life because she loved him so much."

"Huh?"

"When I died. I'll explain later." Harry sank into his own thoughts.

Ron was left to his own. The service was in Latin, which he didn't understand. Hermione would have made a better job of that. Ron tried to remember sharp-featured, blond, acid-tongued Malfoy, but his mind kept drifting to the corridor at St Mungo's.


He didn't know why he had kissed Lee. It had been a horrible thing to do, really, knowing as he did that Lee was in love with him. Was he trying to punish him for Ron's fears and nightmares, for the horror of that evening in the tree house? That just didn't seem like the sort of thing Ron did.

Ron wished he was more in touch with his own emotions. Hermione was always urging him to get in touch with his feelings and to express them. Well, he'd managed the second without the first. Had he? But that would mean that he had wanted to kiss Lee for the most obvious reason. Really? Ron thought of himself as a straightforward person. So had he kissed Lee because he fancied him?

He had liked the kiss. He relived it over and over as a white-robed Elder anointed the coffin with oils and ran his wand over it in symbolic shapes. Ron was certain that he had liked kissing Lee, but he couldn't decide whether it had been the right thing to do, nor what he ought to do next.

There was a lavish feast laid out in the Manor. Luckily it wasn't in the room where Dobby had been stabbed and Hermione had been tortured. Ron wondered where that one was. He was a little ashamed at himself for it, but found that he was starving hungry and the food was delicious.

When he returned to the shop, George grinned at him.

"Sly or just coy?" George asked.

Ron decided to ignore the question because it made no sense. "I'll just grab a cup of tea, then I'll get behind a till. Either of you want one?" He looked around for Lee and saw he was in a dark corner, with his back to the shop floor, keeping his head in a box of stock. The set of his back was carefully stiff.

"Or maybe something stronger?" George winked."Champagne?"

He disappeared quickly up to the flat. Ron really wanted a cup of tea.

"He been inhaling fumes again?" Ron asked Lee.

Lee didn't answer. Ron walked over to him. He was shuffling Puking Pastilles around, pretending to fill up Skiving Snackboxes, but the brightly decorated packaging piled up next to him was empty.

"Lee? Alright?"

"She asked me to DJ the evening do." Lee's flat voice echoed into the cardboard box. "Congratulations."

Ron sighed. "You being deliberately cryptic?" he asked.

"You didn't have to tell me. I'll be fine. It's a good idea. Much better. I just need a bit of time. To get used to it. Don't think I'll be able to work the reception though. That would be too much. I'll think up a good excuse. I just need a bit of time."

Ron ducked down so he could look at Lee's face. "What?"

Lee looked into his eyes and Ron saw misery. "I just wish you hadn't kissed me," Lee whispered. "It makes it all harder."

Ron jerked back — shocked. "I thought you wanted me to. Sorry. I don't read things like that well. That's what Hermione tells me. I'm sorry."

He had intermittently regretted that kiss himself, so it was a shock to find how much Lee's words hurt him.

"I did," Lee said. "You know I did." He sniffed, then looked sharply towards the stairs. George was not there. "But I didn't know you were about to get married."

Ron really needed a cup of tea now. "I'm not."

Lee looked at him sharply and then stood abruptly. He marched over to George's desk and Ron scampered after him. Lee picked up a piece of card which was propped against the till and shook it at Ron. "Yes, you are," he said, and his voice sounded angry. Ron put out his hand.

"Can I see it?"

Lee handed it over. It was burgundy with gold edging and gold writing. Ron blinked and read it again. It still made no sense:

Mr and Mrs Douglas Granger request the company of GEORGE WEASLEY and one guest at the marriage of their daughter HERMIONE to Mr RONALD WEASLEY at The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, and afterwards to a Blessing at ...


Ron stopped reading. It was ludicrous. Something felt like a relief, too, though and he couldn't tell what that was. "Someone's having you on, mate," he told Lee. "This looks like one of George's. Glad to see he's up to his old tricks again. Just hope he hasn't shown this to anyone else."

"She came in, gave it to him herself. I told you, she tried to book me to DJ the reception."

Ron looked at Lee's hurt face and realised what he'd found reassuring. Lee only regretted their kiss because it made it more painful for him to see Ron marrying somebody else. With that realisation came the knowledge that Ron wasn't sorry that he'd kissed Lee, either. He was glad. He wanted to do it again.

He looked up towards the stairs, saw George coming down them with a bottle in his hand and three glasses levitating in front of him.

"You'll have to put that away I'm afraid," Ron called up to him. "She's delusional!"

"Who is?" George asked. "Hermione."

"Then why'd you propose to her?"

"I didn't!"

Lee and George both eyed him doubtfully.

"I would remember if I had. We're not even going out together."

"Yes you are," George said slowly, confused. "She always calls you her boyfriend."

"Not to my face, she doesn't!" Ron snarled. "I thought we were friends, but this ..." he still had the wedding invitation in his hand, so he waved it at them. Then a surge of fury ran through him and he cast Incendio on it. Pain shot along his fingertips before he remembered to let go. He put his burnt fingers in his mouth. "I need to go and talk to her!

" "Maybe you should calm down a bit first," George advised nervously.

Ron Apparated away.


CHAPTER EIGHT: In Sure and Certain Hope.

The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the Name of the Lord.


Ginny and Hermione were comparing fabric swatches in Hermione's neat little Muggle studio flat. It was so much more peaceful there than at the Burrow, not as nice as the cottage Harry was rebuilding in Godric's Hollow, of course, but nice.

Ron Apparated into the room. Ginny hadn't seen much of Ron in the past few weeks. Well, she hadn't seen much of any of her brothers, really. George and Ron had been at the shop all the time, Charlie had gone back to Romania at the first chance he had got, Bill was spending time with Fleur and Percy was so annoying that she tried to avoid him. She was mostly with Harry, anyway, and when he was busy then she was planning their wedding.

She was really happy to see Ron again before she saw the look on his face.

"What the fuck is going on?" he yelled.

Hermione looked a little flustered, but not all that surprised.

"Er, hello, Ron," Ginny said carefully, wondering whether he didn't know that she was there and whether they normally had screaming rows when nobody else could see them.

"Oh, hi, Gin," he replied without looking at her, clearly focussed on his girlfriend — well, fiancée now. "Hermione? Say something?"

"Don't I get a kiss?"

"No, you fucking don't! What the fuck are you trying to do to me?"

He was incoherent with rage: red-faced and shaky. Ginny wasn't used to seeing Ron like this. She stood up quickly. She didn't want to get caught in the middle of this.

"Oh, do calm, down," Hermione said. "Isn't it bad enough that I've had to organise everything myself because as usual —?"

"What are you going on about? What the fuck is the meaning of ..." he looked into his hand, clearly expecting to see something there but it was empty. Ginny noticed some dark singeing to his fingertips.

Her feet stopped moving towards the door and she waited to see what would happen next; her curiosity overcame her fear. Ron looked about him desperately. Then he focussed on Ginny herself. He dived over and snatched something out of her hand. It was her invitation. She had forgotten that she was holding it.

"This!"

Ron waved it in Hermione's face.

It made no sense. Surely he had seen the invitations before they'd gone out to everyone. What could be his objection? Why was he so angry? She and Harry had spent hours together trying out different fonts, colours, wording. Ron and Hermione must have done the same. She had listened to Hermione saying "We decided ..." and "we chose ..."

"You're so busy these days. I knew it was what you wanted." Hermione looked surprisingly calm. She still sat at the kitchen table, covered in pieces of ivory and cream satin.

"Knew what was what?" Ron stalked towards his fiancée . Ginny didn't think she would have been that composed if he had been approaching her in that way.

"When you held my hand. At the funeral. I knew that was the sign."

"You put your hand in mine and I didn't pull away. It was a bloody funeral, 'Mione! What's wrong with you?"

Ginny was starting to wonder the same thing.

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Hermione replied primly. "I'm not the one who has been prevaricating. One of us needs to be organised otherwise this marriage won't function efficiently."

"What marriage? I'm not bloody marrying you!" Ron yelled.

Ginny heard her own gasp of shock, but neither of the other occupants of the room reacted to it.

"You're not even my girlfriend. We kissed once. In strange and emotional circumstances. That's it! What the bloody hell made you ...?" Ron ran out of words and looked down into his hand where he was still holding Ginny's invitation. He pointed his wand at it and it burst into flames. Ginny understood the scorch marks on his fingers.

Hermione was shaking slightly, but she still managed a superior tone of voice as she said, "Don't be such a silly boy. We can change the date if you're busy that day. It's a fairly simple spell to alter all the invitations so that —"

All of the energy had drained out of Ron and his shoulders slumped as he said quietly, "Don't you get it, Hermione?"

The fireplace issued a warning "whoosh" just then, which startled all three of them. Bill's head appeared in the flames. "Three at once!" he said happily, oblivious to the atmosphere in the room. "Guess who's at The Burrow!"

Ron and Ginny just stared at their brother, unable to think rationally. It was Hermione who asked, "Who?"

"Dad!" Bill replied with a laugh. "He's out of St Mungo's."

Ginny shook herself. "That's brilliant!" she said. The rest of the world began to come into focus again. "We'll be right over. Yeah, Ron?" she asked tentatively.

"Oh, yeah, Ron, Hermione. Congratulations," Bill said before his head disappeared.


CHAPTER NINE: Of Whom May We Seek for Succour?

Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not
thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy,


The monster's breathing was loud in the dark; it echoed off the wooden walls. The monster moved slowly. A naked body lay helplessly curled in the corner. It wasn't Ron; Ron was the monster, and he moved towards the darkest place, rejoicing in the whimper which rose from there. He paced, watching the dark, bare body writhing in fear. He pounced. Ron woke in the dark of George's bedroom, with his heart hammering in a familiar way. The dream had been different this time. Half awake, he lifted his fingers to his lip as though he could feel an imprint of Lee's mouth there still. He ran through his actions in the hospital corridor in his mind and he wanted to repeat them.

Lee was on the other side of that door, sleeping on the sofa. He had already been asleep there when Ron had finally made it home from the Burrow after celebrating his father's return with the rest of his family. If Ron listened hard and filtered out George's snores, maybe he would be able to hear something of Lee.

Lee was kind and brave and handsome. He was also sane and honest, unlike some. Lee was in love with Ron, he had said so. Lee had made one mistake once when he'd been drunk and full of grief.

But what a mistake! Ron tasted his own fear again, his horror. The two moments ran concurrently through his thoughts: his kiss in the corridor and Lee's pounce in the tree-house.

Lee was in the next room and Ron wanted to kiss him again. Ron slipped silently out of his bed and tiptoed out of the bedroom. Once in the sitting room, he stood still — letting his eyes adjust to the low light and listening for Lee's breathing. On this side of the door it was easier to discount the sounds made by George. After a moment he caught it: the steady inhale and exhale of air passing through Lee's lungs.

He walked softly to the sofa and, as he did so, the shape of Lee's unconscious body became clearer. Ron squatted down beside him, still not sure what he was going to do. For several minutes he just watched and thought and tried to work things out. He couldn't merge the two Lees into this body, though. The man who had held him down and groped him could not be the same man he worked with every day; neither of them were this sleeping peaceful form of warmth.

Eventually he realised that Lee's eyes were open. It was too dark for Ron to see them in detail, but he was surprised to find that he could remember exactly what they looked like.

"Huh?" Lee asked sleepily.

"Been thinking," Ron whispered.

"Uh?" Lee swallowed and blinked heavily.

Ron didn't think that he would have been as polite as Lee was being, to anyone who had woken him in the middle of the night. Lee had never struck him as being a particularly happy waker — one of those dreadful chirpy sunshine people who leaped out of bed without a grumble — so perhaps this was a proof of just how much he really did like Ron.

"About kissing you," Ron explained.

Lee's eyes flew open and his mouth made a little 'Oh' shape.

"I don't know why I did it," Ron said. Lee's face fell a little, but in a guarded way. He closed his eyes.

"But I want to do it again."

Their eyes met. They stared at one another and Ron's heart thudded loudly in his chest. He moved forwards slowly, hoping that Lee would move a little in his direction too, to help him out. It made sense, though, that Lee would not dare to approach Ron at all. Not even now.

Ron kissed Lee. At first he just made one dry, soft little butterfly of contact on unmoving full lips. Even that felt comfortable and right. Then he placed a hand on each of Lee's shoulders to steady himself and opened his mouth slightly. He pecked at Lee's lips with his own, finally eliciting a responding movement.

Fluttering tentatively, Lee's hands came up to rest against Ron's chest.

Their mouths moved together. Ron didn't know who had initiated it, but the stroking of their tongues against each other felt very right.

He wanted to feel Lee's body against him, so he moved up and began climbing onto the sofa without breaking the kiss. He lay down on top of Lee, with the quilt and their nightclothes between them, but the heat of Lee's body was apparent. Lee's hips bucked up underneath him and Ron realised that he was hard. He ground down onto Lee's thigh.

Then suddenly it was over. Lee had moved away, was pushing him off, sitting up.

"What?" Ron asked, ridiculously devastated.

"I don't think this is the right time," Lee said. "Look, I don't want something to happen tonight, and then in the morning you regret it. I know you think you want this now. I'm not going to take advantage of that. Can't do that to you." He took a deep, shaky breath. "Can't do it to me, either. Not get this close and then have you hate me again."

"I won't hate you. I want to do this," Ron whined.

"Look, you've had a weird day." Lee stood up. "It's not the right time."

"Lee, I — Look, I finally worked out what I want. I want you."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," said Lee before going into the bathroom and shutting the door.


He cometh up and is cut down like a flower;


Breakfast the next morning was quiet. George never talked much in the mornings, especially when he had a hangover. Ron wasn't sure when he had managed to get drunk. They had been with Arthur until late, welcoming him home. The whole family had sat around the kitchen table and enjoyed Molly's cooking together for the first time in months. He had been sober when they had got home.

Eventually, George shuffled downstairs to open the shop. Ron looked into Lee's face then, at his angular cheekbones and soft nose — but mostly at his full mouth "I still want to kiss you," he said.

Lee took a deep breath. "I don't know why you've changed your mind," he replied. "I don't understand. I can't let myself believe in this. I'm scared that I'll end up being hurt. More than that, though, I can't trust myself. I've been lying awake for the last few hours trying to think this through."

"I don't know either." Ron tried to order his thoughts. It didn't happen. "I just like you. A lot. I think I want to ... I don't know. Be your boyfriend?"

Lee grinned. Immediately, he tried to stop himself, but that just made things worse. "Boyfriend?" he asked. "You think? You don't know?" He managed to bite his lips together.

"I do know. I think. Can we try it? It all makes sense. It makes even more sense when I'm kissing you."

Lee's face split into another smile. "I suppose we'll just have to do some more kissing then. You want to tell George or should I?"

Ron sighed. "We'll do it together. In a bit. After the kissing."


In the midst of life we be in death: of whom may we seek for succor but of thee, O Lord, which for our sins justly art displeased?


It should have been sunny for Ginny and Harry's wedding day, but instead there was a thick mist and the first chill of autumn. Ron stood at the front door next to Harry and greeted the guests with a handshake. Everyone told Ginny she looked beautiful — and she did. They congratulated Harry. Then they got to Ron and most of them didn't know what to say. Most of them had received invitations from Hermione, which had subsequently disappeared in black smoke. Gossip had got round as to why that had happened and, while it was delicious to discuss it behind his back, it was daunting to be actually faced with him.

Ron was just grateful that Harry and Ginny had changed their minds about including the bridesmaids in the formal line-up. It was going to be difficult enough sitting at the top table with Hermione. One day, he hoped, they could be friends again. It was too soon now.

Molly had tried to balance being supportive of Ron, with being sympathetic towards Hermione, but in the end had settled for concentrating on Arthur instead. Ginny and Harry had been torn and apologetic; Percy had bundled Hermione off to talk to some Mediwitch he somehow knew, called Audrey, but had been too embarrassed to mention the situation to Ron; George had been struck dumb, but then had laughed like a drain. He was the only one who had teased Ron about being so irresistible that he could drive a girl mad. When he'd been told who Ron actually was seeing, that had rendered him speechless again. He was still the only person who knew.

Aunt Muriel was never one to be lost for words, however. She told Ginny that she was revealing far too much cleavage and that she was getting married too young; she warned Harry not to go getting her Great Niece in the family way at the first opportunity the way his parents had done things; then she told Ron to make the most of being best man because he had just thrown away the only chance he had ever had of getting married himself.

"I ... I might do!" Ron spluttered indignantly. Harry nudged him, and he did know full well that he should just ignore her, but he couldn't help reacting.

"Nonsense! Or have you found some other silly girl willing to take you on?" she asked cynically.

"Actually, I have got a partner!" Ron snapped.

Muriel raised an eyebrow. "Really?" She looked around. "Little boys shouldn't tell lies. It just goes to show that you are far too immature to be wearing that formal dress robe. Such positions of responsibility shouldn't be given to foolish children."

Ron reddened at being called a liar. How dare she? She might have lived longer than he had, but she hadn't seen or done as much as him, had never been through the things that he had. "Yes really! You think it's impossible for someone to fall in love with me? You think I'm that pathetic?"

"Where is this fantasy girlfriend of yours, then?" asked Muriel.

"What if it's not a girl? Why would it have to be a girl? Actually, he's ..." Ron searched the approaching guests for Lee's dreadlocks.

Slowly he became aware of the stares of everyone else in the room. His mother had paused half-way through settling his father into his seat at the top table. Arthur looked confused. Of course, he often did these days.

Hermione was the only person not looking at him. She was staring at the floor, chewing at her lips, while Luna — dressed identically and looking completely different — pressed a glass into her hand. Hermione snatched it and downed it; Ron realised that he'd never seen Hermione getting seriously drunk.

"Ron? Mate?" Harry asked. The two words asked a dozen questions.

Ron felt cold and hot all at once.

"Arthur!" Muriel called out in her ringing voice. "Why didn't you tell me you'd raised a pooftah?" She turned back to Ron. "I don't believe in these homosexual civil partnerships, so I wouldn't attend even if you did manage to get your nancy boy to agree to commit to you."

"Well that's all right!" Ron found himself shouting. "Because we wouldn't invite you!"

"Ron, calm down," Harry said, but Ron was too angry to hear him.

Muriel looked terribly pleased with herself; Ginny looked furious at being upstaged.

"It's all pure fantasy," Muriel remarked loudly to the person behind her, who, Ron suddenly realised to his horror, was Hermione's father. "Nobody in their right mind would be prepared to take him on. Just look at him." Douglas Granger looked like he wished he knew how to hex.

"He looks perfect," boomed a sonorused voice over the hubbub. Ron knew that voice; it was calming him and warming him already. The crowd parted and Lee's dreads came bobbing through. He opened his arms and (to a collective gasp of shock) hugged Ron with them.

"We'll be back in time for the speeches," Lee reassured Harry at a normal volume.

"You? What?" Harry asked.

"I'll just go and calm him down for a bit," Lee explained.

Ron rested his head on Lee's shoulder. He allowed himself to be steered away from the house, from the chatter, from all the people. They stopped on the other side of the garden. The mist was beginning to lift and watery sunshine cast some little light on them, but no heat. Lee turned so that he faced Ron again.

"You alright?"

Ron shrugged and let himself relax into the embrace. "I think I just outed us to everyone we've ever met."

"Gets it out of the way," Lee purred.

"Come on." Ron pulled back far enough to take Lee's hand and walk him across the garden. "I was going to take you here later tonight, but as we've managed to sneak off, it might as well be now."

"That's how you do sneaking? You were our great hope against Voldemort? Glad I didn't know how inept you were at avoiding notice at the time."

"That was nothing! We snuck out of Gringott's on a dragon's back."

When Lee realised where they were going to, he stopped and said, "No."

"Yes," Ron insisted. "Make it right again."

"I don't ever want to go up there again. I'm surprised you do."

"We've got to exorcise it. I want to stop being afraid of the tree-house." Ron pulled on Lee's arm. "Do things right this time." He let go of Lee's hand and climbed up the rope ladder. He sat on the bare wood floor and waited for his boyfriend to join him.

When Lee's head emerged into the space, Ron crawled over and kissed him.

"I need a drink," Lee said.

Ron shook his head. "Doing things right this time," he repeated. He dragged Lee over to the window. The wedding guests were beginning to filter out onto the dewy lawn. So many people. They were all at a bit of a loss, because this was the time which had been scheduled for the photographer, only with the low visibility and the loss of the Best Man, she wasn't able to herd them into positions and record the happy day.

"I don't know what possessed me. The last time," Lee said. "I didn't think you'd ever forgive me. Every time you looked at me I could see you reliving it."

"That's why we're here. This is going to become our happy place; I need to take it out of my nightmares." Ron kissed Lee. "You're not a monster."

"Am I not? I don't deserve you," Lee mumbled.

They melded together into a deep kiss in full view of any of the guests who might have chosen to look up. Then they broke apart as Ron took Lee into the darkest corner. "I think it was here," he said.

"I don't know." Lee was shaking. "I can't —"

"Yes, you can." Ron held Lee's upper arms firmly. "Now. Properly. Lee, please can I kiss you?"

Lee nodded, shakily, his eyes closed. "I don't like the smell of this place," he muttered.

Then his mouth was covered by Ron's. They kissed softly. "Lee?" Ron whispered.

"Uh huh?"

"I want to make love to you."

Lee pulled back sharply. "Here?" He looked around them. "Now?" he asked. "You mean, actually do it?"

"Do it?" Ron raised his eyebrows in mock horror. "How romantic you are!"

"No, come on, Ron. It'll be the wedding feast soon, and the speeches, there's all those people ... We've got a nice soft bed and a bedroom door we can close at home. Well, George's place. We'll send him to the pub, make him sleep on the sofa."

"I thought you wanted to."

"You know I do. Merlin, boy! It's been killing me for years how much I want you!"

"Then let's make love. I want it, too, Lee. Now. Here." He looked into Lee's doubtful face. "Otherwise I'll make you wait another week."

Lee ran his hands down Ron's sides. "You look fantastic in formal robes. We don't want to get these all mucky, do we?"

"Better take them off, then," Ron murmured into Lee's ear. The hard, warm shell played against his lips.

Lee stepped back and stared at Ron as though hypnotised by him. Slowly, he reached out a shaking hand and touched his fingertips to one of the gold buttons on his red cloak. "You didn't mean it, did you?" he said, his gaze fixed on the lion engraved into the button. "It was just temper, wasn't it?"

"What was?"

"You're not going to marry me. This is just a short term thing. I'll have to learn to live without you again, won't I?"

"Oh, that." Ron grabbed hold of Lee's collar and pulled him close, kissing him to buy time to think through what his reply to that was. "Too early to say," he said eventually. "But I can't imagine being with anyone else. I'm not playing, if that's what you think. This isn't an experiment. I know how strong your feelings are and I wouldn't mess about with that."

"Do you think you're serious about me?"

"I do think that."

"Good enough for me."

"Now, hurry up and get these robes off me. You said we'd be back in time for the speeches."

"We'd better go back now." Lee stepped away.

"I don't want to," Ron said calmly. "It's up to you, but I really want our first time to be here, to make this place something different for us."

Lee nodded slowly and looked around. "Ok." His voice cracked a little. "So, you undress me."

Fingers shaking, Ron unfastened all the complicated catches on Lee's robes. "You couldn't have decided to do this when we were in jeans and T-shirts?" Lee asked with a laugh, getting to work on Ron's own robes. "

We should have just turned up in pyjama pants," Ron replied.

Lee laughed again. "That would have gone down really well!"

He stepped out of reams of velvet and used his wand to raise both of their outfits to hang in mid-air above their heads. They looked at each other in their underwear.

Lee's body was hard and smooth and dark. It was everything that Lavender was not. Ron had never even looked at photographs of naked men, and he hadn't spent a lot of time assessing his own body. He could see that Lee was different to him, though. It wasn't just because he was a different colour. His shapes were broader; he was more muscular and hairier. Ron put out a hand and ran it down Lee's chest, over his belly, towards the place where his underpants stuck out. He wasn't sure what he was going to do next.

Lee moved closer, slowly and gently. Then he said, "Ron, can I kiss you?"

Ron nodded.

The kiss started out gentle and loving but soon became heated. Their half-dressed bodies pressed against each other and Ron stopped worrying about what he was going to do next and just let it happen. His hands slid down Lee's bare back. He surprised himself by taking hold of the waistband of Lee's underwear and pulling it. The fabric slid easily over Lee's tight buttocks, but caught at the front.

Ron took a deep breath. This was it; he was going to touch another man's cock. He thought it was what he wanted, but he was scared, too. His belly clenched and fluttered with something like stage fright. He ran his thumbs round easily to the front of Lee's body. He could feel Lee freezing and tensing against him.

Ron's left hand pulled the elasticated cotton forwards, his right palm turned to touch Lee's cock. Still their mouths were together and their eyes closed. He wrapped his fingers round and gripped it. Lee moaned. It felt warm and solid; not like his own but not so different either. Ron stroked upwards.

Their mouths fell away from each other as their hands explored each other's bodies. "I love you," Lee gasped, then "Please can I touch you? I want to hold your cock."

"Uh huh," Ron responded as reply to both things.

The fire rose up in him as they stroked each other. It felt natural and good. There was none of the awkwardness which he had expected. He shucked off his own underwear.

"I want to be inside you," Ron found himself muttering.

"Yessss," Lee hissed in a whisper full of hot breath against Ron's throat.

They fell to the floor. It didn't feel harsh and dusty as he had felt it in his nightmares. He was only aware of Lee's body beside him. Lee rolled onto his front and Ron's erection nestled between his buttocks. Ron's hips jerked.

"Not yet!" Lee said in a panicky voice.

"I know," Ron replied. "I'm not."

Lee gripped Ron's fingers and rubbed them against the puckered skin of his hole. Ron couldn't stop his pelvis from thrusting again. He had been planning this; he had remembered to bring along the lubricant, but now he couldn't remember where he had put it. He struggled away from the intoxication of Lee's flesh. He couldn't remember where his wand was either.

Ron tugged on the hem of his dress robes, where they swayed above them. He shook, in blind faith. The vial clattered to the floor. As he retrieved it, Ron thanked his Magical luck.

Lee was looking up at him. His deep, dark eyes were warm with love and lust. His dreads fell haphazardly over his face which — Ron realised with a jolt — was the most beautiful thing in the world. Ron squatted down to brush the hair back, to stroke that lovely face. He knelt and kissed Lee's cheek.

Lee firmly took hold of Ron's hand and placed it back between his buttocks.

"I know, I know," Ron said softly.

He used plenty of lube and both of them used their fingers inside Lee to stretch him for what felt like a long time. Finally Lee said hoarsely, "I'm ready."

Ron knelt between Lee's shining thighs and Lee lifted his arse towards him. It was all too glorious. Ron pushed inside.

Of course, neither of them lasted long that first time. Lee had been waiting for years, thinking and dreaming of it and not believing, most of the time, that it would ever happen. Ron had never penetrated anyone before, had never felt heated flesh clenching round his cock, the rub of anyone's inner walls against him. They both came at almost the same time, panting and grunting, then falling together onto the bare wood floor.

They were lying there — breathing, cooling, not yet thinking — when the gong from the house announced the feast.


I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit: for they rest from their labours.




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