Fic: The Room of Hidden Things (Ron/Greg)
Jun. 24th, 2013 05:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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hp_rarefestTitle: The Room of Hidden Things (And The One Thing Ron Weasley Never Expected to Find There.)
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
emansil_12
Prompt: #43 bysapphoatsunset
Pairing(s): Ron Weasley/Greg Goyle
Word Count/Art Medium: 10,228
Rating: (G to NC-17) R
Warning(s): N/A
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: At first I wasn’t even going to write for this fest at all. I just wasn’t feeling very writerly. Then I wrote one, enjoyed it so much, I wanted to do it again. This prompt kept calling me. I hope I did it some degree of justice. Complete thanks and all praise for their assistance on this go to wwm, dig and wnt. Without their support and encouragement and hard work this fic would possibly have been abandoned.
Summary: Goyle and Malfoy come to Ron and Harry insisting they have to repay the life-debt for the Fiendfyre. Hermione with encouragement from Professor McGonagall comes up with an interesting plan. They’re going to have to clean out and restore the Room of Hidden Things, if it will let them in. What they find there, will surprise them all, especially Ron.
“The Room of Hidden Things”
(And The One Thing Ron Weasley Never Expected to Find There.)
Legs stretched out under the table, elbows resting comfortably on either side of his plate, Ron prepares to tuck in. He’s barely taken his first bite when a low and rasping voice, like someone’s got a hornet stuck in their throat, says, “Er, so what you want?”
Bloody hell! He knows that voice. He wishes he didn’t, but after seven years in the same school, it’s hard not to. Although…the bloke's never been much for words, usually preferring to communicate with grunts. Maybe it is strange—extremely strange—that Ron does recognize the voice.
Ron’s eyes fly upward. Goyle, Death-Eater prodigy and imitator of small mountains, is sitting across from him. Ron forgets to finish chewing and tries to swallow the three strips of bacon he’s just shoved into his mouth. The mass lodges in his throat. He can’t cough it back up. It’s too thick, too large to swallow. Panic overcomes him. His eyes water, snot leaks from his nose, and he cannot breathe. His friends had often said he was going to eat himself to death one day. Who knew it was going to be so soon?
Goyle pulls his wand from his robe and points it at Ron. The panic escalates. Goyle stands, wand brandished. The little Death Eater always got top marks in the Cruciatus Curse.
Ron doesn't care anymore. He just wants to not be choking. Honestly, he’s not sure a quick “Avada Kedavra” wouldn’t be preferable.
“Disolverus.” Goyle’s voice holds no hesitation.
The mass in Ron’s throat does exactly that, dissolves into tiny pieces that he’s able to swallow with ease. Air, sweet, flowing air, passes into Ron's lungs. He gasps for it, drinks it down. Once his heart stops racing, he realizes Goyle is still there. “Erm, um, thanks. I think you just saved my life.” His voice is as raspy as Goyle’s.
Goyle shrugs. “Umm, what you want?”
“Huh? What do I want for what? Nothing. I just want to eat my breakfast.”
Goyle sits, waiting. Ron’s never been this close to him, not while they’ve both been alone. Goyle really is like a small mountain. Patient and silent.
He looks as if he’s about to speak. Ron’s nervousness increases. It must be a terribly difficult experience as Goyle stops and starts several times before he finally succeeds with, “Umm, you know. The Fiendfyre. You saved me.”
Ron feels like applauding or maybe even cheering. It’s the most words he’s ever heard Goyle say. Ron flushes. Truth is, if it’d been up to him, he’s not sure he wouldn’t have left them. Embarrassed, he’s unable to meet Goyle’s eyes.
“Us Purebloods. We’ve a code. Life-debits must be paid. I owe you.”
The life- debit confuses Ron, until he works out that Goyle probably means, ‘Life- Debt’, not ‘Life- Debits’. “Erm. I’m pretty sure you just saved me. All paid in full.”
“That’s nothing. Vincent always ate too much at one time. Didn’t chew his food right either. We was always having to save him.” There’s a slight catch in his voice. Goyle looks across the Great Hall to the open space where the Slytherin table has always stood. Like so many of the others it is broken into pieces of varying sizes. . The largest remaining piece is currently at full occupancy with four of the younger Slytherin students.
“Besides,” Goyle rasps, again startling Ron. He wonders if he’ll have to call Madam Pomfrey because surely this much talking is going to cause Goyle harm. “It was my fault. You choked because I scared you.” Goyle’s look of joy at this possibility makes more sense than anything else that’s happened this morning.
Ron can’t deny it; he has nothing more to say. He returns to eating. He missed proper food for so long on the Horcrux hunt; he has a lot of catching up to do. He doesn’t relish cold eggs, and the reheated ones are even more revolting.
A large hand, its nails jagged and bitten, reaches across the table and grabs a sausage off Ron’s plate. “Oi! Hands off. That’s mine,”
“Ouch.” Goyle jerks away the hand Ron’s just smacked. “I’m hungry.”
“So get your own.” He’s completely baffled as to why Goyle is still there. Surely it can’t be that ‘life debt’, debit, my arse, thing. Ron’s let him off the hook for that. Goyle should be leaving, not staying. Certainly, not still talking.
“You’ve got more food there than Vincent used to. He always let me share.”
The information that he eats more than Crabbe, leaves Ron a bit disconcerted. A large platter of kippers appears on the table. Ron stabs a few of them with his fork. “Well, I’m not Crabbe,” he mutters. Immediately he feels conflicted. Crabbe had tried to kill them, all of them. But, Crabbe had been Goyle’s best friend. Ron’s not good with the touchy feely sort of stuff. He looks around the Great Hall to see if he can find support from someone, anyone. Where’s Harry? His sister? (Oh yeah. They’re probably still having a late lie-in this morning), or Hermione, (nag that she is), or even another Slytherin. Any of them would be better at this sort of thing than he is. All he sees are Ravenclaws and the four Slytherin. All younger than him, he doesn’t know any of them.
Goyle isn’t leaving. Instead he eats even more food off of Ron’s plate, careful to avoid Ron’s smacks. Ron’s extremely possessive of his food. Goyle needs to leave. Now. Inspiration strikes.
“Saving you wasn’t my idea. It was Harry’s. You owe your life-‘debt’ to him, not me.” Ron enunciates every word. Surely this will take care of this bizarre offer and Goyle will leave.
Only, he doesn’t. “Malfoy’s got Potter. He’ll be stuck with Malfoy until the debt’s paid.” Goyle speaks carefully, saying each word slowly, especially ‘debt’. He’s smiling now, or maybe grimacing. It’s hard to tell. Ron is well and truly terrified now.
Malfoy’s a right git. No one can deny that, but he’s a rather attractive git. Isn’t he? He’s a bit too skinny for Ron’s taste though. Ron likes men with some muscles and bulk on them. Yeah, he likes men. He’s only admitted that to Harry. And Hermione. He had to, had to help her understand. He and she, would never be. Never, ever, in a hundred years. Ron likes men, hard and muscular, with piercings and tattoos, like his brother Charlie. Bloody hell. Scrub brain, scrub brain. Where had that come from?
Ron looks under his fringe at Goyle, who is calmly chewing more of the bacon he’s just stolen. He’s eating it piece by piece, slowly, as if he wants to enjoy each bite. Ron’s never known that about him. Always thought he’d just shovel the food in by the fistful. It’s then he notices it. A tattoo on the inside of his arm. Ron flinches, and then relaxes. It’s on the wrong arm. He’s not marked. Goyle’s robe covers most of it. It’s only with the all the stuffing of Ron’s food into his mouth that Ron’s been able to see it at all. Its dead ugly, whatever it is. Ron frowns and narrows his eyes. “Is that a gargoyle?”
Goyle looks up and catches Ron’s eye, surprised that Ron’s noticed. His neck and face stain red. The robe pulls tight across his chest and his shoulders strain at the seams, from muscle, not fat. Ron’s mouth goes dry. He wonders. Could he? Would it be right to ask for—for—that?
He swallows. “What do you have in mind?” He can’t believe he’s even thinking this. His brother is dead dead and possibly by one of Goyle’s relatives. But Ron has never, or rather he has, but Lavender was a girl. Ron desperately wants to feel the hard muscles of a man as they --.embrace, the stubble of a man’s beard against his cheek when they kiss, to run his fingers through the short bristles on the side of a man’s head, while he--.
“Dunno. You got any ideas?” Goyle looking at Ron with a strange expression on his face. The heat rises and Ron is positive he’s crimson with embarrassment.
“Goyle! What are you doing here? Are you threatening Ronald?” Suddenly Hermione is by his side, neither her voice nor the hand holding her wand wavers in the slightest. “We should tell Professor McGonagall.”
“It’s fine Hermione. We’re just talking. Right?” Ron looks across the table expecting to see some type of affirmation by Goyle. What he sees is loathing and hatred. Goyle’s eyes are no longer the soft golden colour which Ron’s just noticed; instead they are dark amber.
“Get away from me, you disgusting Mudblood,” Goyle spits out, his wand too now drawn.
“Whoa! What the fuck? I thought you were here to fulfill your life debt to us. That’s right, to us,” Ron spits out at Goyle’s confused look. “It was Hermione and Harry’s idea. Not mine. Never mine! If you owe anyone of us a life debt, it’s one of them.”
“I done told you. Malfoy is taking care of Potter.”
“Fine. That means Hermione is who you owe. Not me.”
“What’s this?” Hermione asks. “He thinks he owes us a life- debt?”
“Him. Not you,” Goyle snaps.
“And Malfoy’s doing the same to Harry?” A smile begins to play across Hermione’s face. “This is going to be interesting.”
“But Hermione. He can’t call you that and get away with it.”
“Then make him see his beliefs are wrong. Give him a task that’ll help him understand. There’s no longer a reason for any of this nonsense to continue.” Hermione’s voice is calm, but her hands shake as she reaches for a handful of cherries before walking away from the table.
“It can be a real annoyance having a best friend who’s a know it all, but she’s right again,” Ron says as he watches her stop at a table to talk with Luna and other Ravenclaws. He turns back toward Goyle. “The old ways are going to change. This whole Mud –I’m sorry, I can’t even say it. It’s just wrong.”
Goyle bares his teeth at Ron; again it’s unclear if it’s a smile or grimace. “We’re Pure-blood. It’s how we think.” Ah, grimace then.
“So are we, but we’ve never thought like that.”
Goyle’s mouth opens. He’s about to say something else. “Oh, Gregory. There you are. Come on, we need you.” Pansy Parkinson interrupts them and they turn towards her. Ron tenses, seething at the sound of her voice.
She pales. Then sets her mouth and shoulders at the same time and continues forward. “Slughorn needs us to start the repairs on the Dungeon.”
Greg stands. “The longer I go without fulfilling the life-debt, the less stable my magic will be. It’s a Pure-blood curse.” Is it his imagination, or is Goyle starting to talk in complete sentences?
Goyle and Parkinson have barely left the Great Hall, when Harry collapses onto a seat across from Ron. “Bloody hell,” he exclaims, looking as confused as Ron feels.
“Malfoy?” Ron questions.
Harry screws his face up, "Yeah, how’d you know?”
“It’s about the life-debt thing, right?” Harry nods. “Goyle was just here. After the same thing.”
“Malfoy caught me outside the common room this morning. I was waiting for Ginny. She felt the need to shower and put on fresh clothes after last night.” Harry grins at him.
Ron frowns. “Please mate, I know you’re dating and all, but that’s my sister. I don’t need to know all the dreadful details.”
“We didn’t really do anything. Just held each other and snogged. She’s still really upset about Fred, understandably. And Tonks. Did you know she and Tonks had become really good friends this last year?"
Ron shrugs. The number of things he doesn’t know about his baby sister in the past months could fill Hermione’s expandable beaded bag and still have room left over.
Ginny’s too upset by Fred’s death to be with Harry, her long-time boyfriend. While he, Ron, can’t stop thinking about Goyle. Goyle? Ron is sure he must be one sick bastard. Then he corrects himself. He’s an eighteen year old male and he’s not had sex of any type in longer than he can remember, and he’s never had it with a man. It’s not that it’s Goyle, per se, he’s just another male, that’s all. (And Death-eater prodigy, Ron’s ever present unhelpful voice provides.)
“Do you think Malfoy and Goyle will maybe just forget about it?” Ron asks.
“Goyle maybe, but when have you ever known Malfoy to forget anything. Besides, he said that the longer they go without rectifying the debt the weaker their magic becomes.” Harry frowns. “Could that be true? Is repayment of life debt that important?”
“I don’t know, but Goyle alluded to the same thing. He said his magic wouldn’t be safe until it was resolved. I think it’s some sort of Pure-blood thing.”
“Malfoy also said, it needs to be something that’ll not be easy for them. It’s supposed to test them.”
Ginny slides in next to Harry. “It’s hard to imagine anything that wouldn’t test Goyle,” she jokes. “I think I could be really annoyed having Malfoy following you around like a shadow, interrupting us all the time, if it wasn’t going to be so blasted funny.” She grins at Harry and leans in to kiss him.
Harry rolls his eyes and then returns the kiss. He looks happier and more at peace than Ron’s seen him in a very long time. Conversation flows around Ron, but he finds he’s distracted by thoughts of that tattoo and wonders if there are any other ones, and what they might be.
***
“We’ve got to think of something--a project or a plan-- anything that’ll get them to leave us alone.” Harry reaches across Ginny for the roast chicken. “Malfoy is driving me barmy. He’s just always there. Wherever I turn, there he is. Just looking for something to ‘save me’ from.”
“I’m surprised you were finally able to shake him,” Ginny says smacking his hand away. “Wait your turn. I swear you’re worse than Ron. Speaking of, what about poor ickle Ronnikins? At least you don’t have the gormless Goyle following you around like some overgrown sloth.”
It’s been ten days since Malfoy and Goyle declared their intention of repaying the life debt. Ten days since they began following their every move. Ron doesn't find it as irritating as Harry does. Then again, he doesn’t have a girlfriend that he can’t find the opportunity to be alone with. Instead he and Goyle have enjoyed their time spent together. Rather it hasn’t been exactly horrible.
They spend a couple of afternoons on the Quidditch Pitch, after their daily repair duties are finished: Ron at the Tower while Greg still helps with the Dungeons. They discover that playing their traditional positions doesn’t work. Goyle has no one to bludgeon, and Ron has nothing to block. Instead, Ron plays Keeper while Goyle plays Chaser, or Goyle is Beater to Ron’s Chaser. Still as enthusiastic about his role as Beater as ever, Ron tumbles from his broom when one of Goyle’s Bludgers catches him unexpectedly. Only his catching Ron in mid-air keeps a serious accident from happening. Goyle’s arms tighten around him, warm and secure. They don’t let go until they’ve both feet firmly on the ground.
They’ve also taken walks in the Forbidden Forrest, repairing what damage they find. Goyle’s a quiet sort; doesn’t say much, or require much in conversation from the other. Ron’s okay with that. Sometimes a bit of quiet is just what one needs. At first it was difficult. Seven years of animosity and different beliefs remain between them. As does the remembrances of those lost because of those beliefs. They avoid the most disruptive topics. Ron’s had a lifetime of disagreement and arguing and bickering. He’s tired of it; it won’t change anything. It won’t bring back the dead. It’s probably not the most honest friendship Ron has ever had. He can’t be buggered though. He doesn’t want to shatter this—this--. Whatever this is they have.
Ginny, Harry, Seamus and Padma all turn towards Ron. He’s not sure he wants them to keep thinking this way about Goyle. He’s not gormless. He’s simple, uncomplicated. He knows who and what’s important to him, and he does whatever he has to, to protect them. He’s much like Ron in that way.
Nor is Ron ready to let others know how he’s starting to feel.
Torn, he just keeps chewing, saying only, “He’s not so bad.” He swallows his milk hoping to mask his words. The table goes still. Ron waits for the explosion. But none comes, or at least not the one he’s expecting. Instead Hermione happens.
“I was just talking to Professor McGonagall, about. . . Well, about your problem with Malfoy and Goyle.”
Ron and Harry both snap at the same time. “Hermione! They’re not a threat --only annoying. We’re not in danger.”
“Oh, I know. That’s not what we talked about. You still need a way to solve this life debt thing, right?”
They nod.
“It needs to be something that has meaning, right?”
Again they nod, hoping she’ll get to the point soon. But this is Hermione so they settle in for the long haul. Harry and Ron grin and roll their eyes at one another, remembering.
“And it has to be something that will be difficult for them. Something they’re not going to want to do. But at the same time it’ll be something that will help them grow and maybe change them.”
“What about making them take Muggle Studies? You could be the instructor?” Padma suggests.
“We discussed it, but that’s a subject that’s going to become part of next year’s curriculum.” Hermione turns half stern and half smiling towards Padma. “Nor am I qualified to teach it.”
“Well, did you reach a decision?” Seamus yawns. He’s never been as patient with her as the others are. Ron nods his gratitude to him.
“What happened to make them feel they owed you a life-debt?” she continues.
“We rescued them.” Harry frowns down at the table. Ron wonders if he had to do it all over again, would Harry still save them. Of course he would. That’s what Harry does. As his best friends, that’s what they do as well.
“Exactly. And where did this rescue take place?”
Harry’s gaze snaps upward. Ron is sure he is just as pale as Harry. Surely she didn’t... She couldn’t... Would she really? Neither of them says a word. There is nothing to say. Everyone knows it was the Room of Hidden Things.
“Well, the three of us, along with Malfoy and Goyle, are going to repair the Room of Hidden Things. Then we’re going to give it a thorough cleaning and put in all new walls and floors. If there’s any stuff left, we’re going to repair and clean it as well, or get rid of everything that is unsalvageable.” She pauses as if waiting for some type of response.
“What if the Room won’t give us the ‘Room of Hidden Things’? What if it’s only ever going to be the ‘Room of Requirement’? Or not let anyone in ever again? What if it’s just gone?” Harry’s questions are valid ones.
“Harry, I thought everything was destroyed by the Fiendfyre.”
Harry turns to Ginny. “I thought it was. I don’t see how anything could have survived that fire.”
“The Room of Hidden Things and/or the Room of Requirement are a sentient part of Hogwarts, as important as the Great Hall or the Astronomy Tower, possibly even more so. Hogwarts always finds a way. They’ll need cleaning and organizing and put back the way they should be. I volunteered us for the task.” Hermione sits and fills her plate while she waits for their answer. The silence lasts a long time. “Did I do right?”
“Will anyone else be helping us?” Harry asks.
“I don’t believe so. As we were the only ones there when the fire happened, we’re the ones responsible.”
“Hey, we didn’t start the fire.” Harry and Ron both snap.
“Professor McGonagall says the castle doesn’t look at it like that. We were there when and where it started. It holds us just as responsible. “
“Is this true, Granger? We’re expected to restore the Room of Hidden Things?” Malfoy’s voice is tense behind them. With anger or pain, Ron isn’t sure.
Ron turns around. Goyle is standing next to Malfoy. Goyle’s face is pale. “I don’t want to go into that room. Vincent died there.”
The table is silent. There’s nothing they can say. Everyone knows this. It’s been the thestral in the room; they all pretend isn’t there.
Ron focuses his attention on Goyle. Pain is in his eyes, sadness, and the fear. Ron understands how he feels. Greg lost his best friend; Ron lost his brother. At least Fred hadn’t died terrified of what he’d wrought with his own hands. Instead, Fred had a smile on his face, laughing at Percy’s unintentional joke. Fred had died like he had lived—full of joy.
Ron budges over and gives Greg access to the roasted new potatoes still left on his plate. They’re Greg’s favourites and this is Ron’s way of offering him comfort.
Greg picks them off his plate one at a time, using nothing but his thumb and forefinger, and nods his thanks. Ron turns back to the others. Malfoy is looking back and forth between Harry and Hermione as if trying to decide. Harry’s expression says that somehow in the past ten-twenty seconds, he’s come to agree with Hermione.
It’ll be hard for Malfoy and Goyle, but it’s supposed to be. The two Slytherins will be forced to work with Hermione, not against her. Something they are going to hate. But maybe, just maybe, they’ll discover how amazing and brilliant she really is. He can only hope.
Malfoy makes a decision. He nods once and turns towards Goyle. “We’re doing it.”
Goyle frowns at him. “But, I don’t want to.”
Malfoy hesitates. Has Goyle ever said no to him? “We can resolve our life- debt. We can save our magic.” Goyle tenses next to Ron.
“Goyle, we need to say goodbye to Crabbe. You, especially, need to say your goodbyes.” Greg still says nothing.
The potatoes on the plate have all disappeared and Greg has started tearing the bread into little pieces, rolling the pieces into little balls before popping them into his mouth, one by one.
“Goyle. We’re doing this. You can do it with a positive attitude or you can be surly, it doesn’t matter.” Ron and Harry both snort, ‘cause really Malfoy is practically the definition of surly. Malfoy’s face softens, “Weasley, talk to him. Help him understand.” Malfoy turns and walks away.
Ron wants to ask, ‘why me?’, but from the looks he is getting from the others, he knows why. Impossible as it is to imagine, he and Goyle have become friends. He just may listen to Ron.
The rest of the table departs leaving him and Goyle alone. Hermione’s look is indecipherable. Ron knows she wants him to be happy, but his growing friendship with Greg has her baffled and hurt. She’s always been able to read him so well... But Greg is still not over his Death Eater prejudice. How can Ron care for Greg and still be her friend? Ron isn’t sure himself. All he knows is that he does and he can. He must.
“Greg? What are you thinking?”
“You called me Greg.” The smile is quick and fleeting, before it is gone. There’s no malice in the smile.
“Yes, well, umm. It’s your name isn’t it?” Ron stammers, wondering why he hasn’t called him Greg before now.
“I don’t want to do it.”
“Why not? Malfoy’s right. There is no better option.”
“I bet you could think of one. You’re smart like that.”
“I am?” Ron’s so surprised by this statement, he’s not sure what to say. “You know I’ll be there too, right?”
Greg thinks for a while. Ron is sure he’s going to say no again. “Greg, you can do this. I’ll be there as will Malfoy, not that I’m all that excited about Malfoy, but it’ll be good for you.” Ron thinks of Greg’s smile and hopes he’ll be able to see it again.
“Okay, I’ll do it. If you’ll stay with me.”
“I won’t leave your side. We’ll do this together. All of us.”
***
Greg stands next to him, Malfoy next to Harry. Hermione stands alone. But only for a short time as coming down the hall towards them is Parkinson, a wry look on her face. “Professor McGonagall ‘suggested’ I help you.”
“Why? You weren’t part of what happened,” Hermione says.
“I think she feels the whole offering Potter up to the Dark Lord deserves some punishment.” Parkinson shrugs. “I’m sorry, Potter. I should not have offered your skinny Gryffindor arse to the Dark Lord just to save me, my friends, my family and my school.”
Ron seethes. She’s no right to be here, to be with them. He’s filled with anger and resentment. Beside him, Greg is silent. Ron turns; Greg’s brow is furrowed and he is frowning. Ron ignores him.
“But you’d do it again, right?” Harry says.
“In a heartbeat. If I thought it would work.” Parkinson is unapologetic.
The others gasp in indignation and trepidation, but Harry just laughs.
The wall is before them, completely bare. Nothing mars the perfection of it. There is no hint of where the door will open, or what they’ll find when it does. They need the Room of Hidden Things. It is where the destruction lies. The room has not opened for anyone since. They’ve no idea of the level of damage they will find. Will it be worse than they expect? Or has the Castle used the time since to heal itself? Ron doubts it. He is sure Hogwarts will want some atonement from them.
The six of them pace, back and forth. Silent, except for Malfoy, who mutters incessantly with each pass. Behind them, Barnabas the Barmy continues to try and teach trolls to Rond de jambe and releve. The others ignore the stumblings and flailings as well as they do Malfoy, the concentration on their faces plain to all.
There’s a grinding sort of noise, like stones rubbing against one another. Ron looks up, as does Greg who is still next to him, having followed Ron’s pacing footstep for footstep, turn for turn. Is that the door? If it is, it’s huge. None of them have ever seen the door that massive. But, it's not the door, or not just the door. Something else is happening. The actual entry way is tiny, only big enough for them to enter one at a time, but the space around it is immense and there are slowly scenes coming to life on it. It’s like some sort of carved mural. Scenes of the War that just took place are displayed there. Every battle or skirmish that took the life of a Hogwarts student or alumni is shown in the carvings.
They stand taking in what they are seeing. So many of the death, they’d not know of the details: the how, the where, or the when. Others, like Crabbe’s, five of them remember too well. Ron wonders if this aspect of the wall will only show itself to those who require entrance, or if it will remain here for all to see. A memorial to the fallen.
Hesitantly, fearful of what they may find, they enter. Gasps of surprise echo those of Ron’s. The room has done it again. It’s given them exactly what they need; or rather it is exactly what they need it to be. It is double; maybe even triple its normal size. They find themselves in the Room of Hidden Things. The place of ruin, of death, of fear and of unexpected rescue. It is as painful to look at, as he has imagined it would be. Nothing has changed. No repairs or healing have occurred. It is a blackened and scorched disaster.
They look at the wreckage and wonder how they ever escaped. Five of them remembering, the sixth shocked by what she sees. Ron closes his eyes, he imagines he can still feel the heat from the intensity of the flame, the roar of the fire as it grew and grew, and came after them, the varying monsters that it gave birth to, all intent on reaching them and killing them. It’s too much; he opens his eyes.
Next to him, Greg trembles. Ron wants to reach out and take his hand, but he’s not sure. He worries it might be too girly, or too mushy. But he needs the comfort as much as he wants to comfort. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry take hold of Malfoy’s hand. Merlin knows there is nothing romantic between those two. Ron relaxes, it is safe. He takes hold of Greg’s hand and squeezes it. Greg squeezes back and flashes him a look of gratitude. Even Hermione and Parkinson move closer together, shoulders touching. The moment passes. It is time to move on.
To the left separated by some sort of invisible barrier is a huge cavern of blank and empty space. Just like the Room of Requirement, vacant except for what is needed. It is a canvas wiped clean waiting for them to fill it, complete it, and return it to what it should be.
“It looks as if the room wants us to use this space to put in the repaired and refinished things and furniture,” Hermione says.
“What repaired and refinished furniture and things? Everything’s ruined. There’s nothing to save.”
“And those things we can’t fix, that are too broken, we can throw them out over there,” Greg says as if Malfoy has not just interrupted Hermione.
Ron and the others turn to where he is pointing. They had missed it. Against the far right wall are large double windows. Attached to them is a giant tube looking thing. Large enough for a sofa or even a family sized table to fit through.
“Looks like it’s going to get the majority of the things. I agree with Malfoy, there’s nothing to save,” Harry says.
“But we have to try!” Greg and Hermione both say at the same time, the vehemence of their conviction equal. It’s the first time they ever agreed on anything. They stare at one another, stunned, before quickly turning away.
As they do, Ron begins to hear it, as do the others. They still, confusion on all their faces. A large rumbling sort of noise, then creaking and grinding, along with cracking and popping.
“Ohhh.” Greg’s voice is filled with awe.
Greg’s looking at the towering mass of destruction. Then they see what he sees. It’s moving, changing shape and form. Things are being separated for them. Not everything is beyond help. Many things just need time and a bit of magic spent on them. The room is already sorting the salvageable from those that are beyond repair.
“Look!” Harry cries excitedly.
Even as they watch, some of the things believed to be beyond help begin to repair themselves.
“I don’t know why you’re all so surprised. I told you. Hogwarts always finds a way,” Hermione mutters.
***
They develop a plan that works as well as any other. Harry and Malfoy are responsible for the hard furnishings: Wood and stone along with the heavier metals; Parkinson and Hermione the more genteel and soft furnishings: sofas, chairs, clothing, books, jewelry etc. Theirs is the larger pile, but most of it is beyond any help they can give it. Even Hermione’s excellent spell work cannot save the majority of it. They spend a lot of time trying, but close to seventy percent of everything they touch ends going down the tube. What happens to it after that is anyone’s guess.
As for he and Greg, they are responsible for the damage left behind, the parts that can’t be pulled away and cleaned and restored. Once the furniture is removed, once the books and clothes have been sorted, what remains is their responsibility. They cannot dispose, only repair. It is the foundation of the room, and probably the source of the Room’s magic.
There’s nothing they can do until a space has cleared. The waiting is hard, especially for Greg. Ron can feel Greg’s emotions, but whenever he asks if Greg wants to talk, all he gets in answer is an emphatic shake of the head.
There’s a whoosh sort of noise, as if something large has been pulled down or off. Harry and Malfoy are standing in front of a large wooden cabinet. Malfoy gasps, as do all the others. Even from where Ron stands, he knows what it is. Malfoy is trembling. No, shaking, shaking violently. His face is ghostly white.
“Damn, I didn’t know Malfoy could get any paler,” Greg says quietly next to Ron.
“Malfoy? Are you okay?” Harry asks.
Malfoy cannot speak. He tries; they can see that, but the words seem to catch in his throat.
No one else speaks either. Even Hermione and Pansy have stopped their constant bickering; only it’s not been as much bickering as it has chattering for the last hour or so.
“This is where they came through,” Malfoy whispers finally.
“Where who came through?” Harry asks his voice is shaky. He knows. They all do, but Malfoy must say it. He must admit to what he has done.
“The Death Eaters. This is the Vanishing Cabinet. They came through here from Borgin and Burkes. The night Dumbledore was—the night Dumbledore died.” He pauses. The silence lies thick and heavy around them. So much has happened as a result of this one action.
“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says. So softly, they should not have been able to hear him, but the silence is so deep, there’s no way they can’t. “I thought I had no other choice. I still don’t think I did.”
“Dumbledore could have helped you.” Even now Harry still believes in his mentor’s ability to help those in need.
“Ouch! Merlin, Fuck,” Malfoy suddenly cries out. They all jump in surprise.
He’s rubbing along the side of his face, along his left temple, and staring at the floor. Something about the size of a small fist and brownish in colour lies there. It’s not really brown, more something that looks like it was striving to be brown, but didn’t quite make it.
“Malfoy, why did a mangy old apple just beam you?” Harry asks. “And there’s a bite missing. That’s disgusting.”
Malfoy looks very uncomfortable at Harry’s question. Instead of answering, he levitates it with his wand. The spell a bit iffy, as the life-debt’s still not paid.
The disgusting, mangy, dehydrated partially eaten apple lifts off the floor. It moves threateningly close to Malloy’s face. Malfoy’s magic has no control over it. It’s bouncing up and down like someone, or something, tossing a ball into the air.
Still Malfoy refuses to speak. The apple core flies out and smacks him right on his pointy nose.
That’s all it takes. Malfoy sings like a bird after that. He confesses all. About the Vanishing Cabinet and the apple and how it returned with a bite missing. It was how he knew his repairs were working. It was what had encouraged him to keep trying.
Once he finishes confessing, the apple core disappears, or rather disintegrates in front of their eyes.
Malfoy gathers himself back together and the Malfoy swagger returns. “I am sorry. That is true, but I can't deny I’d probably do it again. I truly felt I had no other choice. My family means everything to me,”
The tentative peace between the six of them shatters. It explodes, disintegrates into pieces, into particles of pieces. Harry and Ron are in Malfoy’s face shouting at him; Malfoy is giving back just as good. Pansy is yelling at Hermione. (Why Pansy is the one doing the yelling and not the other way around, he isn’t sure. He can’t hear their argument over the one he’s having with Malfoy.) And Greg, well Greg is constantly placing himself, and his bulk between Ron and Malfoy, begging them to stop.
“Bloody fuck! That hurt!” Harry yelps. Everyone spins around at the sound.
Harry’s rubbing the top of his head, mumbling. On the floor in front of him is a book. Ron recognizes it immediately. It’s the Potion book Harry used sixth year.
Harry leans over and picks the book up off the floor.
“So, what’s the book, Potter?” Malfoy asks.
“Potions book I used in sixth year.”
“Why’d it hit you on the head?” Malfoy is grinning, as well he should be. Looks like its Harry’s turn for confession.
Harry ignores Malfoy’s question, instead he turns as if he’s going to go back to the Vanishing Cabinet and continue working, without answering Malfoy’s question. Bad idea. Ron thinks.
To the surprise of everyone, the book flies out of Harry’s hand and immediately begins to beat him about the head and shoulders. None of their spells to stop it has any effect. In utter frustration, Harry finally, throws his arms over his head and screams, “Alright, fine. I’ll tell him. Just stop bashing me.”
The book stops hitting him and settles down, but continues to hover in the air, just above Harry’s head.
“This is the Potions book I used in sixth year. It belonged to Snape. It’s where I first read the Sectumsempra spell that I used on you, Malfoy. The one I almost killed you with. I didn’t know. I swear. I had no idea how dangerous it was.”
Malfoy reaches out and takes the book out of the air. “Surely, Potter, even you should know better than to cast a spell that you don’t know what the outcome is going to be.”
Malfoy’s flipping through the book, fascination on his face as he does. “So this was Snape’s potions book. No wonder you did so well that year.” The Potions book flies out of Malfoy’s hand and disappears into the jumble of things they’ve already sorted. Ron doubts it will ever be found again.
An hour or so later, they depart. They are hot, tired, sweaty and above all filthy. Their hands face and clothes are streaked and smeared with the blackening from the fire. Exhausted and worn out--and no longer speaking to one another. The things they have learned today has destroyed their easy camaraderie of earlier. It is past time for lunch. He doesn’t know about the rest of them, but, right now, Ron doesn’t want to be around any of them.
He heads immediately to the kitchens. Only, he’s not the only one with that idea. Greg enters just moments after he does. Although they had not been actively fighting, the tension between them is still high. As they stand next to each other waiting for the baskets of food, they cast fleeting glances. Eventually the glances start to become wry smirks, then genuine smiles and finally happy grins.
They take their baskets of food to the Lake. Harry and Malfoy are there as well. A platter of sandwiches sits between them. The four of them acknowledge one another, but choose not to sit together. Ron and Greg continue walking past until they find a place that’s shaded. They eat without speaking but it’s not uncomfortable. Near them they can hear the rise and fall of Harry and Malfoy’s conversation. It fluctuates between genuine laughter, and tense and angry voices. So familiar is this to Ron, he almost falls asleep to its gentle cadence. Greg rests quietly beside him. When their hands meet, by accident, neither of them pull away.
***
Harry and Malfoy are late arriving the next morning. By general consensus they all had agreed to take the rest of the afternoon off the day before. Tensions had become too high.
The others stand around waiting, finally Hermione and Parkinson decide they’re going to go ahead and get started. Ron can see their friendship is improving; he realizes he doesn’t want Hermione to be friends with the undeserving Parkinson. “Slytherin bitch,” he mutters under his breath as he watches Parkinson walk away. Doesn’t stop to think who is standing next to him. It just slips out.
Beside him, Greg scoffs. “You’re just the same as we are. Only difference is we get punished and ridiculed while you lot get exalted and rewarded.”
Ron turns, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Your prejudices and your igotries. You’re always going about how we shouldn’t put down Hermione, or any other of the Mudbloods. While you and your lot put us down all the time. You’re all just... just… hipercrikes.” Greg stares daggers at him. The situation doesn’t improve when Ron begins to laugh.
“You mean hypocrites? And I’ve no idea what my “igotries” are supposed to be or even what that is. I’m not prejudiced. Slytherins are just evil. Everyone knows that.”
“The Mudblood brain is starting to wear off on you. Big fancy words, showing off how much smarter you are than me. Stop laughing at me!” he yells. Ron stops. He’s not seen Greg this angry in some time, it’s like the old Goyle has returned.
But Greg is just getting started. Ron’s learned Greg may not say much, but when he does, you’d best listen. “Slytherins aren’t evil, any more than Ravenclaws are all smart. It’s not right to judge us without knowing us.” Greg turns his back on Ron. “You’re just following the lessons you learned from your parents. The same as us.”
Greg waits for Ron to respond, but he needs some time to think. Sure the Slytherins have done some really horrendous things and their name calling and horrible treatment of Hermione is inexcusable, but isn’t his own behaviour just perpetuating the situation. If they’d all been nicer to the Slytherins, would things have been different?
Greg grows tired of waiting and says, “I can’t stand being around you right now. I’m not sure either of us will keep our mouths shut, like we should.” He moves over closer to where Hermione and Pansy are working, leaving Ron nearer to Harry and Malfoy, who must have arrived when he and Greg were arguing.
“Ow! Bloody fuck,” Something has just bashed Ron on the back of his head. He spins around prepared to give Goyle a piece of his mind. Just because they disagree doesn’t mean he has to resort to violence. There’s a bucket on the floor in front of Ron, and Greg is clear across the room, hunched over something that’s on the floor, and looking more defeated than angry. The bucket rises, and slugs, disgusting, slimy, nasty, horrible tasting slugs, begin to rain all over Ron. It is not until he is completely covered with slug slime that the bucket departs, leaving the slugs and their sliminess behind. Ron feels sick, but even more, he feels there’s probably some kind of lesson here.
He looks around, waits for the laughter and the comments to come. Everyone is ignoring him, even Greg. Maybe they didn’t see. Then he sees Greg, and although Greg is still looking angry there’s also a smirk on his face and it’s obvious he’s trying not to laugh. Ron wishes Greg wasn’t still angry at him.
The tension between them infiltrates the others. In no time, soon Hermione and Parkinson’s new and shaky friendship begins to suffer through some birthing pangs. One too many “Honestly’s” from Hermione has Parkinson walking away, mumbling under her breath.
From nowhere, a wig, ugly and ancient, comes zooming across the room and whaps her atop the head. Ron sees it. Can’t believe he just saw it. He spins to look at Greg, who is looking as gob-smacked as Ron felt.
“What the fuck? Granger, did you just throw this at me?” Parkinson grabs the thing off her head, where it has somehow landed, and flounces over to Hermione. Hermione looks up confusion on her face.
Ron starts to interrupt, to remind them of the ghost that’s inhabiting the room with them. Only he can’t.
“What? I didn’t throw anything at you. That’s more your style. If you can’t argue with any degree of intelligence, resort to violence. ” Ron starts to interrupt, to remind them of the ghost that’s inhabiting the room with them. Only he can’t.
Hermione stops as well, when she realises that neither Parkinson nor Ron nor Greg are paying her any attention. Instead they’re watching a small flock of yellow canaries fly across the large and cavernous space coming straight at her. They dive bomb her one at a time, turning into stuffed canaries just as they strike, before falling to the floor, immobile. The floor around her is sprinkled with stuffed canaries before she even realises what is happening.
None of them say a word. Because really what is there to say. Both Parkinson and Hermione have been unexpectedly attacked. Not dangerously, but enough to get their attention. This is way too reminiscent of what took place the day before with Harry and Malfoy. Some other entity is at work here. Greg is looking decidedly uncomfortable.
He moves back over to stand beside Ron. Their previous argument now forgotten. “I’m pretty sure it’s Vincent,” he whispers.
“You do? Really? But why?”
“Well, think about it. Who else could it be? This is where he died.”
“But why’s he taunting us?”
“Maybe he just wants to remind us of some of the bad things we’ve done, that were hurtful to other people. I don’t know what some of these things mean, but you can tell from looking at the other’s expressions that they do.”
“What about mine? Did you know what the slugs meant?”
Greg grinned at him. “Sure. It gave the entire Slytherin house endless hours of pleasure, especially Malfoy. “
***
“Greg?” Ron asks nervously, his hand clasped in Greg’s. They’re sitting on the floor, their backs against the far wall across from the doorway. “Do you think Vincent will stay here? Become one of the Hogwarts ghosts. You know, I can’t believe he never got you.”
“Oh, he got me alright.”
“He did? What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not something I’m proud of.”
“And you think the rest of us were proud of the things we had done. Come on, you’ve got to tell, at least me.”
“It was a pamphlet. That I used to read all the time. Vincent did too. We shared it between us.”
“Wait! I saw that. It was around the same time I was being doused with slug slime,” Ron says excitedly. “I wished I’d paid more attention. What’s the name of the pamphlet?”
“Soyouwanttobeadeatheater.”
“Excuse me? What”
Greg sighs, the sigh of the terribly downtrodden. “It was called: “So You Want to be a Death Eater. Early training for dark wizards ages 10-12.” There are you happy now.”
But these weren’t the only things that didn’t stay where they belonged. There was other stuff as well. Anytime there was any sort of disagreement between any of them, especially if it involved a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, things started to fly: jewelry-long since out of fashion, half empty sherry bottles, bedraggled feathers, which seriously freaked the fuck out of both Harry and Malfoy, along with various other oddments. No one escaped. Crabbe, if indeed it was him, was persistent in his effort to keep their skirmishes and disagreements to a minimum.
Surprisingly Goyle receives the worst of it, especially if his behaviour and name calling is directed towards Hermione. Ron’s beginning to see a difference in Greg. Seems having your dead best mate literally hitting you over the head is quite an incentive to change. Malfoy’s still not a convert, but there’s always hope. Or Harry can just keep bashing him; Ron’s rather fond of that idea.
Greg pulls away from Ron, still holding on to his hand. Ron’s eyes follow his as they look around the room. Sees what he sees. Sees the improvements they’ve made. The once blackened walls now shimmering with the magic Hogwarts has imbedded in them along with the white-wash they’d used to paint them. Sees the open space where burnt furnishings, both hard and soft had littered the floor. That same floor once covered with scorch marks of the fire, now vanquished by their magic and muscle, elbow grease and determination. The soft grey of the slate tiles that now covers it. All the Hidden Things repaired by them or reclaimed by Hogwarts, once again hidden, waiting to be found if or when needed.
“It won’t be Slytherin. He’ll be the ghost of the Room of Requirement, or the Room of Hidden Things, wherever he’s needed. He’s not angry anymore.” Goyle turns back towards Ron and their gaze holds. “Vincent took care of me, made sure no one hurt me, since we were five or six. I wasn’t very big then and I scared easily. My father was ashamed of me. I got stronger, but Vincent never stopped trying to protect me. He always just wanted me to be happy. This past year changed him.”
It’s the first time Greg’s ever really opened up about Crabbe, how they’d become friends, and why they had been so close. Ron wants to persuade him to say more. Knows he should try to convince him to share more, but all he can say is. “And are you? Happy, that is?” He wants so very much for the answer to be yes.
Greg leans forward and cups his hands around Ron’s face. The fingers are rough and calloused against his skin, the jagged nails catch in Ron’s hair. They brush against the stubble that had grown there since the early morning shaving charm. Ron’s eyes flutter and he sinks into the touch.
Greg gently lifts Ron’s head and pulls it closer. As his lips lower towards Ron’s, he says, “I think I could be.”
Their lips meet. It is not the first kiss for either of them; it is not even their first kiss. (If one counts that previous drunken, sloppy and slobbering attempt Ron made, before passing out after a night at the Hogshead, when he’d confessed to Harry that he thought he might be physically and maybe even sexually attracted to Greg. Harry had first been appalled, then amused, laughing his arse off, prat that he was, (sometimes Malfoy had the right of things) and finally accepting. Harry had got Ron well and truly drunk. “Just want to celebrate my best-mates happiness,” or so Harry kept saying as he’d bought Ron drink after drink. Upon return to the Castle, Ron had attempted to enter the Slytherin domain to tell Greg of his feelings. Luckily Harry had been there to make sure he got safely back to Gryffindor before he humiliated himself too much, but not before Ron had laid a wet one on a very surprised and sleepy Greg. And Malfoy had been there to… Well, Ron wasn’t sure what Malfoy’s purpose had been. Then again, did Malfoy ever have a purpose?)
But that’s a discussion they’ll revisit at another time. This is the first kiss that counts, the one that matters.
Greg’s fingers tighten on Ron’s face using light pressure to tilt Ron’s head; he moves his mouth to hover over Ron’s lips. Ron’s hands need someplace to go. They feel adrift; until they find purchase and security in the folds of Greg’s robe, pulling him close as he moves closer to Greg as well.
The tip of Greg’s tongue is right there, requesting entrance. He only has to ask once, didn’t even really have to ask. Ron’s mouth opens and he introduces his tongue to Greg’s. At first slow and shy and a bit timid, as the two of them are. Or were. But no longer. They now feel safe, feel at ease, and that makes them less hesitant.
The kissing becomes more intense. They need to be closer, but the angle is awkward. Greg moves his hands away from Ron’s face, leaning over Ron, Greg places one on the wall beside Ron to balance himself. The kiss deepens; Ron leans into it. Greg’s kiss is soft and caressing and then hot and demanding, keeping Ron always guessing, always surprised. Greg attempts to caress Ron’s shoulder with his free hand, but it’s an awkward angle at best.
Greg pulls away and leans against the wall again. Breathing heavily, Ron can feel Greg’s frustration as if it was his own. All they want, or at least all Ron wants and he can’t imagine Greg wanting anything different, is a place to snog.
But he can’t keep his hands, or his lips off Greg. He rolls over and straddles him. This time he takes the lead, teasing and nipping at Greg’s lips.
A subtle shift, in the light, the temperature and general ambiance of the room, interrupts them. Ron feels it, tries to ignore it; doesn’t want to be interrupted again. Greg gently pushes him away though, a smile lighting up his face as he does. Ron turns to see what he’s smiling about. A small fire is now blazing where there was none before. A large and overstuffed chair is beside it. The chair is large enough for two to sit comfortably, but little else. Adjacent to it is a table, covered with food. Perhaps even enough for the two of them.
Ron shifts around and rests his head against the crook in Greg’s shoulder. “Hooray, for the Room of Requirement. We should have realized. All we needed to do was just let it know what we needed.” The chest muscles against Ron’s face vibrate under him as Greg chuckles, shaking his head no.
“It’s not the Room, or at least it’s not just the Room. This is Vincent. By giving us the chair and nothing more, he’s telling me to be sure, warning me to take it slow.”
“Oh, I don’t’ know. I imagine there’s a lot that can be done in a chair, and it looks a lot softer than the floor.”
Greg frowns, as if he doesn’t believe him.
“Come on. Let’s at least try.”
Ron stands and pulls Greg to his feet as well. Greg stumbles against him, the perfect opportunity to have another quick snog. The kiss is hot and hard.
Somehow, lips locked together, they manage to make it to the chair. Though side by side, there really isn’t enough room to do anything. It’s beginning to look as if Greg might be right.
Unexpectedly, Greg pushes Ron away, shifts his own body to where only he is sitting in the chair.
Ron’s heart is broken and his libido's not doing too well either. He pouts. Then Greg, brilliant, wonderful, Greg pulls him back down into his lap. He pulls Ron down against his chest, his arms wrap around him and Greg is kissing him again.
It’s hot and wet, oh god, Greg’s tongue is thrusting. As are his hips, pushing up against Ron’s thigh. It’s good, but it could be better. Ron lifts up and throws one leg over until he’s straddling Greg’s lap. Greg’s cock rubs against his arse, hard and firm and ohgodisitreallythatbig. He leans down, attacking Greg’s mouth and tongue with his own. Greg’s hips push upward again. Fuck Ron throws his head back and feels the pressure. Greg’s mouth follows him, nipping small kisses along Ron’s jaw and neck. He settles in the space just below Ron’s ear. And fuck if that wasn’t the most bloody wonderful spot in the whole world.
Greg’s hands are on his arse, he’s pulling Ron against him. But the angle’s still not right. The pressure’s not right. They squirm back and forth, up and down twisting and turning. Until Fuck! That’s it. Right there! Greg holds Ron’s hips and shoves upward, Ron thrusts down.
And it’s fucking brilliant. Wanting this so long, it’s not enough, he wants more. But wait. They can’t. They’re not alone.
He pulls back. “We can’t. The others will see,” he pants.
Greg pulls him back down. “We can do a "Diss-Lusion Charm.”
Ron wants to laugh out loud, ‘cause Greg still mispronounces the word, and it delights Ron to no end. He no longer thinks of Greg as stupid, but eccentric and charming.
Then he remembers the last time Greg’d used that word. One look at Greg’s face and Ron knows he’s remembering it as well. So much has happened since, so much horror and grief and so much new friendship and happiness and maybe, just maybe, so much more. Suddenly they are pressed against one another again. Lips and tongues kissing slow and deep and exploratory.
Groins press against one another. And then there’s so much movement and friction and pressure and pushing and pulling. It’s all so bloody brilliant; with each thrust their cocks slide together.
There’s too much clothing between them, but nothing for that now. They can’t risk that. But this is pretty fucking wicked. Greg’s hands, large and firm, cup Ron’s arse and pulls him even closer. How is that even possible?
Ron’s no choice but to ride this out-- like he wants another choice. He leans forward and attaches his mouth to Greg’s neck. It tastes of heat and sweat, but pleasant sweat, clean sweat, honest sweat. There’s a tiny freckle on Greg’s ear lobe and Ron has to lick it. The noises Greg makes inspires Ron on; he has to nibble it, suck it, and bite it.
Below him Greg is writhing as Ron continues to torment his ear and then his neck, wants Greg’s shoulder. The robe’s in the way. Ron’s fingers itch to rip it off him, but he can’t. He settles for pushing the collar down, exposing the skin and muscle that’s right there. That Ron has to suck, to bite, or…Oh sweet Merlin, there’s another tattoo. On Greg’s left shoulder. Ron can’t see what it is, can only see the top of it, the rest of it remains hidden despite his best efforts.
If he can’t see, he can touch. He needs to touch more skin; this is not near enough. He works one of his hands through the openings in Greg’s robe. The other is holding him up, keeping him from collapsing completely against Greg. Below him Greg is exploring for skin contact as well. Greg’s thumbs brush the bare skin of Ron’s back, just above his trousers. There’s pressure, then caressing, then pressure again.
Ron’s fingers tangle in the mass of hair he finds as his hand brushes against Greg’s stomach. He can follow it up to his chest, or he can follow it down. Down is too much of a temptation; he wants to touch it, stroke it, pull it out, gaze at in stunned wonder. He can’t see the hair, only feels it under his fingers, coarse and wiry and springy. It turns him on more than he’d have ever imagined. He runs his finger up and down, side to side, grasping and tugging at the furry substance. In his exploration, a fingertip brushes against a nipple and Greg moans and the humping becomes hard and erratic and Ron knows what’s coming. Almost laughs out loud, cause yeah, that’s exactly what’s about to happen. Both of them.
They do. One after the other, but even if Veritaserum was used, Ron could not swear as to which was first. Honestly it doesn’t matter, because it was just so fucking perfect.
Breathless and exhausted, yet strangely exhilarated Ron rests his head against Greg’s shoulder. He wants to see more of that tattoo, but instead there’s a new spot on Greg’s shoulder. Bright red, but starting to purple. He must have bit him. Ron never meant to do that; he leans in and runs his tongue over it, kisses it with gentleness.
Greg’s arms tighten, holding him safe and warm. They are still completely dressed, which meant they don’t have to worry about anyone finding them with their cocks hanging out. It also means they are both sticky messes.
Ron sits up and prepares to stand. He pulls a face at how icky the aftermath feels.
Greg laughs. “It’s a good thing we’re wizards. He pulls his wand and cast a Scourgify Spell at Ron’s crotch. It’s a bit uncomfortable, meant for less sensitive areas, but Ron’s now warm and dry and decidedly un-sticky. He returns the favour and sits back down, curls up in Greg’s lap. Greg’s hand rubs long and smoothing strokes up and down Ron’s arms, while Ron’s hand again finds itself inside Greg’s robe, enjoying the feel of the all that hair under his fingers. He can’t wait to get Greg alone, fully alone.
He also wants to examine that tattoo a lot closer.
End
Author/Artist:
emansil_12Prompt: #43 by
sapphoatsunsetPairing(s): Ron Weasley/Greg Goyle
Word Count/Art Medium: 10,228
Rating: (G to NC-17) R
Warning(s): N/A
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: At first I wasn’t even going to write for this fest at all. I just wasn’t feeling very writerly. Then I wrote one, enjoyed it so much, I wanted to do it again. This prompt kept calling me. I hope I did it some degree of justice. Complete thanks and all praise for their assistance on this go to wwm, dig and wnt. Without their support and encouragement and hard work this fic would possibly have been abandoned.
Summary: Goyle and Malfoy come to Ron and Harry insisting they have to repay the life-debt for the Fiendfyre. Hermione with encouragement from Professor McGonagall comes up with an interesting plan. They’re going to have to clean out and restore the Room of Hidden Things, if it will let them in. What they find there, will surprise them all, especially Ron.
“The Room of Hidden Things”
(And The One Thing Ron Weasley Never Expected to Find There.)
Legs stretched out under the table, elbows resting comfortably on either side of his plate, Ron prepares to tuck in. He’s barely taken his first bite when a low and rasping voice, like someone’s got a hornet stuck in their throat, says, “Er, so what you want?”
Bloody hell! He knows that voice. He wishes he didn’t, but after seven years in the same school, it’s hard not to. Although…the bloke's never been much for words, usually preferring to communicate with grunts. Maybe it is strange—extremely strange—that Ron does recognize the voice.
Ron’s eyes fly upward. Goyle, Death-Eater prodigy and imitator of small mountains, is sitting across from him. Ron forgets to finish chewing and tries to swallow the three strips of bacon he’s just shoved into his mouth. The mass lodges in his throat. He can’t cough it back up. It’s too thick, too large to swallow. Panic overcomes him. His eyes water, snot leaks from his nose, and he cannot breathe. His friends had often said he was going to eat himself to death one day. Who knew it was going to be so soon?
Goyle pulls his wand from his robe and points it at Ron. The panic escalates. Goyle stands, wand brandished. The little Death Eater always got top marks in the Cruciatus Curse.
Ron doesn't care anymore. He just wants to not be choking. Honestly, he’s not sure a quick “Avada Kedavra” wouldn’t be preferable.
“Disolverus.” Goyle’s voice holds no hesitation.
The mass in Ron’s throat does exactly that, dissolves into tiny pieces that he’s able to swallow with ease. Air, sweet, flowing air, passes into Ron's lungs. He gasps for it, drinks it down. Once his heart stops racing, he realizes Goyle is still there. “Erm, um, thanks. I think you just saved my life.” His voice is as raspy as Goyle’s.
Goyle shrugs. “Umm, what you want?”
“Huh? What do I want for what? Nothing. I just want to eat my breakfast.”
Goyle sits, waiting. Ron’s never been this close to him, not while they’ve both been alone. Goyle really is like a small mountain. Patient and silent.
He looks as if he’s about to speak. Ron’s nervousness increases. It must be a terribly difficult experience as Goyle stops and starts several times before he finally succeeds with, “Umm, you know. The Fiendfyre. You saved me.”
Ron feels like applauding or maybe even cheering. It’s the most words he’s ever heard Goyle say. Ron flushes. Truth is, if it’d been up to him, he’s not sure he wouldn’t have left them. Embarrassed, he’s unable to meet Goyle’s eyes.
“Us Purebloods. We’ve a code. Life-debits must be paid. I owe you.”
The life- debit confuses Ron, until he works out that Goyle probably means, ‘Life- Debt’, not ‘Life- Debits’. “Erm. I’m pretty sure you just saved me. All paid in full.”
“That’s nothing. Vincent always ate too much at one time. Didn’t chew his food right either. We was always having to save him.” There’s a slight catch in his voice. Goyle looks across the Great Hall to the open space where the Slytherin table has always stood. Like so many of the others it is broken into pieces of varying sizes. . The largest remaining piece is currently at full occupancy with four of the younger Slytherin students.
“Besides,” Goyle rasps, again startling Ron. He wonders if he’ll have to call Madam Pomfrey because surely this much talking is going to cause Goyle harm. “It was my fault. You choked because I scared you.” Goyle’s look of joy at this possibility makes more sense than anything else that’s happened this morning.
Ron can’t deny it; he has nothing more to say. He returns to eating. He missed proper food for so long on the Horcrux hunt; he has a lot of catching up to do. He doesn’t relish cold eggs, and the reheated ones are even more revolting.
A large hand, its nails jagged and bitten, reaches across the table and grabs a sausage off Ron’s plate. “Oi! Hands off. That’s mine,”
“Ouch.” Goyle jerks away the hand Ron’s just smacked. “I’m hungry.”
“So get your own.” He’s completely baffled as to why Goyle is still there. Surely it can’t be that ‘life debt’, debit, my arse, thing. Ron’s let him off the hook for that. Goyle should be leaving, not staying. Certainly, not still talking.
“You’ve got more food there than Vincent used to. He always let me share.”
The information that he eats more than Crabbe, leaves Ron a bit disconcerted. A large platter of kippers appears on the table. Ron stabs a few of them with his fork. “Well, I’m not Crabbe,” he mutters. Immediately he feels conflicted. Crabbe had tried to kill them, all of them. But, Crabbe had been Goyle’s best friend. Ron’s not good with the touchy feely sort of stuff. He looks around the Great Hall to see if he can find support from someone, anyone. Where’s Harry? His sister? (Oh yeah. They’re probably still having a late lie-in this morning), or Hermione, (nag that she is), or even another Slytherin. Any of them would be better at this sort of thing than he is. All he sees are Ravenclaws and the four Slytherin. All younger than him, he doesn’t know any of them.
Goyle isn’t leaving. Instead he eats even more food off of Ron’s plate, careful to avoid Ron’s smacks. Ron’s extremely possessive of his food. Goyle needs to leave. Now. Inspiration strikes.
“Saving you wasn’t my idea. It was Harry’s. You owe your life-‘debt’ to him, not me.” Ron enunciates every word. Surely this will take care of this bizarre offer and Goyle will leave.
Only, he doesn’t. “Malfoy’s got Potter. He’ll be stuck with Malfoy until the debt’s paid.” Goyle speaks carefully, saying each word slowly, especially ‘debt’. He’s smiling now, or maybe grimacing. It’s hard to tell. Ron is well and truly terrified now.
Malfoy’s a right git. No one can deny that, but he’s a rather attractive git. Isn’t he? He’s a bit too skinny for Ron’s taste though. Ron likes men with some muscles and bulk on them. Yeah, he likes men. He’s only admitted that to Harry. And Hermione. He had to, had to help her understand. He and she, would never be. Never, ever, in a hundred years. Ron likes men, hard and muscular, with piercings and tattoos, like his brother Charlie. Bloody hell. Scrub brain, scrub brain. Where had that come from?
Ron looks under his fringe at Goyle, who is calmly chewing more of the bacon he’s just stolen. He’s eating it piece by piece, slowly, as if he wants to enjoy each bite. Ron’s never known that about him. Always thought he’d just shovel the food in by the fistful. It’s then he notices it. A tattoo on the inside of his arm. Ron flinches, and then relaxes. It’s on the wrong arm. He’s not marked. Goyle’s robe covers most of it. It’s only with the all the stuffing of Ron’s food into his mouth that Ron’s been able to see it at all. Its dead ugly, whatever it is. Ron frowns and narrows his eyes. “Is that a gargoyle?”
Goyle looks up and catches Ron’s eye, surprised that Ron’s noticed. His neck and face stain red. The robe pulls tight across his chest and his shoulders strain at the seams, from muscle, not fat. Ron’s mouth goes dry. He wonders. Could he? Would it be right to ask for—for—that?
He swallows. “What do you have in mind?” He can’t believe he’s even thinking this. His brother is dead dead and possibly by one of Goyle’s relatives. But Ron has never, or rather he has, but Lavender was a girl. Ron desperately wants to feel the hard muscles of a man as they --.embrace, the stubble of a man’s beard against his cheek when they kiss, to run his fingers through the short bristles on the side of a man’s head, while he--.
“Dunno. You got any ideas?” Goyle looking at Ron with a strange expression on his face. The heat rises and Ron is positive he’s crimson with embarrassment.
“Goyle! What are you doing here? Are you threatening Ronald?” Suddenly Hermione is by his side, neither her voice nor the hand holding her wand wavers in the slightest. “We should tell Professor McGonagall.”
“It’s fine Hermione. We’re just talking. Right?” Ron looks across the table expecting to see some type of affirmation by Goyle. What he sees is loathing and hatred. Goyle’s eyes are no longer the soft golden colour which Ron’s just noticed; instead they are dark amber.
“Get away from me, you disgusting Mudblood,” Goyle spits out, his wand too now drawn.
“Whoa! What the fuck? I thought you were here to fulfill your life debt to us. That’s right, to us,” Ron spits out at Goyle’s confused look. “It was Hermione and Harry’s idea. Not mine. Never mine! If you owe anyone of us a life debt, it’s one of them.”
“I done told you. Malfoy is taking care of Potter.”
“Fine. That means Hermione is who you owe. Not me.”
“What’s this?” Hermione asks. “He thinks he owes us a life- debt?”
“Him. Not you,” Goyle snaps.
“And Malfoy’s doing the same to Harry?” A smile begins to play across Hermione’s face. “This is going to be interesting.”
“But Hermione. He can’t call you that and get away with it.”
“Then make him see his beliefs are wrong. Give him a task that’ll help him understand. There’s no longer a reason for any of this nonsense to continue.” Hermione’s voice is calm, but her hands shake as she reaches for a handful of cherries before walking away from the table.
“It can be a real annoyance having a best friend who’s a know it all, but she’s right again,” Ron says as he watches her stop at a table to talk with Luna and other Ravenclaws. He turns back toward Goyle. “The old ways are going to change. This whole Mud –I’m sorry, I can’t even say it. It’s just wrong.”
Goyle bares his teeth at Ron; again it’s unclear if it’s a smile or grimace. “We’re Pure-blood. It’s how we think.” Ah, grimace then.
“So are we, but we’ve never thought like that.”
Goyle’s mouth opens. He’s about to say something else. “Oh, Gregory. There you are. Come on, we need you.” Pansy Parkinson interrupts them and they turn towards her. Ron tenses, seething at the sound of her voice.
She pales. Then sets her mouth and shoulders at the same time and continues forward. “Slughorn needs us to start the repairs on the Dungeon.”
Greg stands. “The longer I go without fulfilling the life-debt, the less stable my magic will be. It’s a Pure-blood curse.” Is it his imagination, or is Goyle starting to talk in complete sentences?
Goyle and Parkinson have barely left the Great Hall, when Harry collapses onto a seat across from Ron. “Bloody hell,” he exclaims, looking as confused as Ron feels.
“Malfoy?” Ron questions.
Harry screws his face up, "Yeah, how’d you know?”
“It’s about the life-debt thing, right?” Harry nods. “Goyle was just here. After the same thing.”
“Malfoy caught me outside the common room this morning. I was waiting for Ginny. She felt the need to shower and put on fresh clothes after last night.” Harry grins at him.
Ron frowns. “Please mate, I know you’re dating and all, but that’s my sister. I don’t need to know all the dreadful details.”
“We didn’t really do anything. Just held each other and snogged. She’s still really upset about Fred, understandably. And Tonks. Did you know she and Tonks had become really good friends this last year?"
Ron shrugs. The number of things he doesn’t know about his baby sister in the past months could fill Hermione’s expandable beaded bag and still have room left over.
Ginny’s too upset by Fred’s death to be with Harry, her long-time boyfriend. While he, Ron, can’t stop thinking about Goyle. Goyle? Ron is sure he must be one sick bastard. Then he corrects himself. He’s an eighteen year old male and he’s not had sex of any type in longer than he can remember, and he’s never had it with a man. It’s not that it’s Goyle, per se, he’s just another male, that’s all. (And Death-eater prodigy, Ron’s ever present unhelpful voice provides.)
“Do you think Malfoy and Goyle will maybe just forget about it?” Ron asks.
“Goyle maybe, but when have you ever known Malfoy to forget anything. Besides, he said that the longer they go without rectifying the debt the weaker their magic becomes.” Harry frowns. “Could that be true? Is repayment of life debt that important?”
“I don’t know, but Goyle alluded to the same thing. He said his magic wouldn’t be safe until it was resolved. I think it’s some sort of Pure-blood thing.”
“Malfoy also said, it needs to be something that’ll not be easy for them. It’s supposed to test them.”
Ginny slides in next to Harry. “It’s hard to imagine anything that wouldn’t test Goyle,” she jokes. “I think I could be really annoyed having Malfoy following you around like a shadow, interrupting us all the time, if it wasn’t going to be so blasted funny.” She grins at Harry and leans in to kiss him.
Harry rolls his eyes and then returns the kiss. He looks happier and more at peace than Ron’s seen him in a very long time. Conversation flows around Ron, but he finds he’s distracted by thoughts of that tattoo and wonders if there are any other ones, and what they might be.
***
“We’ve got to think of something--a project or a plan-- anything that’ll get them to leave us alone.” Harry reaches across Ginny for the roast chicken. “Malfoy is driving me barmy. He’s just always there. Wherever I turn, there he is. Just looking for something to ‘save me’ from.”
“I’m surprised you were finally able to shake him,” Ginny says smacking his hand away. “Wait your turn. I swear you’re worse than Ron. Speaking of, what about poor ickle Ronnikins? At least you don’t have the gormless Goyle following you around like some overgrown sloth.”
It’s been ten days since Malfoy and Goyle declared their intention of repaying the life debt. Ten days since they began following their every move. Ron doesn't find it as irritating as Harry does. Then again, he doesn’t have a girlfriend that he can’t find the opportunity to be alone with. Instead he and Goyle have enjoyed their time spent together. Rather it hasn’t been exactly horrible.
They spend a couple of afternoons on the Quidditch Pitch, after their daily repair duties are finished: Ron at the Tower while Greg still helps with the Dungeons. They discover that playing their traditional positions doesn’t work. Goyle has no one to bludgeon, and Ron has nothing to block. Instead, Ron plays Keeper while Goyle plays Chaser, or Goyle is Beater to Ron’s Chaser. Still as enthusiastic about his role as Beater as ever, Ron tumbles from his broom when one of Goyle’s Bludgers catches him unexpectedly. Only his catching Ron in mid-air keeps a serious accident from happening. Goyle’s arms tighten around him, warm and secure. They don’t let go until they’ve both feet firmly on the ground.
They’ve also taken walks in the Forbidden Forrest, repairing what damage they find. Goyle’s a quiet sort; doesn’t say much, or require much in conversation from the other. Ron’s okay with that. Sometimes a bit of quiet is just what one needs. At first it was difficult. Seven years of animosity and different beliefs remain between them. As does the remembrances of those lost because of those beliefs. They avoid the most disruptive topics. Ron’s had a lifetime of disagreement and arguing and bickering. He’s tired of it; it won’t change anything. It won’t bring back the dead. It’s probably not the most honest friendship Ron has ever had. He can’t be buggered though. He doesn’t want to shatter this—this--. Whatever this is they have.
Ginny, Harry, Seamus and Padma all turn towards Ron. He’s not sure he wants them to keep thinking this way about Goyle. He’s not gormless. He’s simple, uncomplicated. He knows who and what’s important to him, and he does whatever he has to, to protect them. He’s much like Ron in that way.
Nor is Ron ready to let others know how he’s starting to feel.
Torn, he just keeps chewing, saying only, “He’s not so bad.” He swallows his milk hoping to mask his words. The table goes still. Ron waits for the explosion. But none comes, or at least not the one he’s expecting. Instead Hermione happens.
“I was just talking to Professor McGonagall, about. . . Well, about your problem with Malfoy and Goyle.”
Ron and Harry both snap at the same time. “Hermione! They’re not a threat --only annoying. We’re not in danger.”
“Oh, I know. That’s not what we talked about. You still need a way to solve this life debt thing, right?”
They nod.
“It needs to be something that has meaning, right?”
Again they nod, hoping she’ll get to the point soon. But this is Hermione so they settle in for the long haul. Harry and Ron grin and roll their eyes at one another, remembering.
“And it has to be something that will be difficult for them. Something they’re not going to want to do. But at the same time it’ll be something that will help them grow and maybe change them.”
“What about making them take Muggle Studies? You could be the instructor?” Padma suggests.
“We discussed it, but that’s a subject that’s going to become part of next year’s curriculum.” Hermione turns half stern and half smiling towards Padma. “Nor am I qualified to teach it.”
“Well, did you reach a decision?” Seamus yawns. He’s never been as patient with her as the others are. Ron nods his gratitude to him.
“What happened to make them feel they owed you a life-debt?” she continues.
“We rescued them.” Harry frowns down at the table. Ron wonders if he had to do it all over again, would Harry still save them. Of course he would. That’s what Harry does. As his best friends, that’s what they do as well.
“Exactly. And where did this rescue take place?”
Harry’s gaze snaps upward. Ron is sure he is just as pale as Harry. Surely she didn’t... She couldn’t... Would she really? Neither of them says a word. There is nothing to say. Everyone knows it was the Room of Hidden Things.
“Well, the three of us, along with Malfoy and Goyle, are going to repair the Room of Hidden Things. Then we’re going to give it a thorough cleaning and put in all new walls and floors. If there’s any stuff left, we’re going to repair and clean it as well, or get rid of everything that is unsalvageable.” She pauses as if waiting for some type of response.
“What if the Room won’t give us the ‘Room of Hidden Things’? What if it’s only ever going to be the ‘Room of Requirement’? Or not let anyone in ever again? What if it’s just gone?” Harry’s questions are valid ones.
“Harry, I thought everything was destroyed by the Fiendfyre.”
Harry turns to Ginny. “I thought it was. I don’t see how anything could have survived that fire.”
“The Room of Hidden Things and/or the Room of Requirement are a sentient part of Hogwarts, as important as the Great Hall or the Astronomy Tower, possibly even more so. Hogwarts always finds a way. They’ll need cleaning and organizing and put back the way they should be. I volunteered us for the task.” Hermione sits and fills her plate while she waits for their answer. The silence lasts a long time. “Did I do right?”
“Will anyone else be helping us?” Harry asks.
“I don’t believe so. As we were the only ones there when the fire happened, we’re the ones responsible.”
“Hey, we didn’t start the fire.” Harry and Ron both snap.
“Professor McGonagall says the castle doesn’t look at it like that. We were there when and where it started. It holds us just as responsible. “
“Is this true, Granger? We’re expected to restore the Room of Hidden Things?” Malfoy’s voice is tense behind them. With anger or pain, Ron isn’t sure.
Ron turns around. Goyle is standing next to Malfoy. Goyle’s face is pale. “I don’t want to go into that room. Vincent died there.”
The table is silent. There’s nothing they can say. Everyone knows this. It’s been the thestral in the room; they all pretend isn’t there.
Ron focuses his attention on Goyle. Pain is in his eyes, sadness, and the fear. Ron understands how he feels. Greg lost his best friend; Ron lost his brother. At least Fred hadn’t died terrified of what he’d wrought with his own hands. Instead, Fred had a smile on his face, laughing at Percy’s unintentional joke. Fred had died like he had lived—full of joy.
Ron budges over and gives Greg access to the roasted new potatoes still left on his plate. They’re Greg’s favourites and this is Ron’s way of offering him comfort.
Greg picks them off his plate one at a time, using nothing but his thumb and forefinger, and nods his thanks. Ron turns back to the others. Malfoy is looking back and forth between Harry and Hermione as if trying to decide. Harry’s expression says that somehow in the past ten-twenty seconds, he’s come to agree with Hermione.
It’ll be hard for Malfoy and Goyle, but it’s supposed to be. The two Slytherins will be forced to work with Hermione, not against her. Something they are going to hate. But maybe, just maybe, they’ll discover how amazing and brilliant she really is. He can only hope.
Malfoy makes a decision. He nods once and turns towards Goyle. “We’re doing it.”
Goyle frowns at him. “But, I don’t want to.”
Malfoy hesitates. Has Goyle ever said no to him? “We can resolve our life- debt. We can save our magic.” Goyle tenses next to Ron.
“Goyle, we need to say goodbye to Crabbe. You, especially, need to say your goodbyes.” Greg still says nothing.
The potatoes on the plate have all disappeared and Greg has started tearing the bread into little pieces, rolling the pieces into little balls before popping them into his mouth, one by one.
“Goyle. We’re doing this. You can do it with a positive attitude or you can be surly, it doesn’t matter.” Ron and Harry both snort, ‘cause really Malfoy is practically the definition of surly. Malfoy’s face softens, “Weasley, talk to him. Help him understand.” Malfoy turns and walks away.
Ron wants to ask, ‘why me?’, but from the looks he is getting from the others, he knows why. Impossible as it is to imagine, he and Goyle have become friends. He just may listen to Ron.
The rest of the table departs leaving him and Goyle alone. Hermione’s look is indecipherable. Ron knows she wants him to be happy, but his growing friendship with Greg has her baffled and hurt. She’s always been able to read him so well... But Greg is still not over his Death Eater prejudice. How can Ron care for Greg and still be her friend? Ron isn’t sure himself. All he knows is that he does and he can. He must.
“Greg? What are you thinking?”
“You called me Greg.” The smile is quick and fleeting, before it is gone. There’s no malice in the smile.
“Yes, well, umm. It’s your name isn’t it?” Ron stammers, wondering why he hasn’t called him Greg before now.
“I don’t want to do it.”
“Why not? Malfoy’s right. There is no better option.”
“I bet you could think of one. You’re smart like that.”
“I am?” Ron’s so surprised by this statement, he’s not sure what to say. “You know I’ll be there too, right?”
Greg thinks for a while. Ron is sure he’s going to say no again. “Greg, you can do this. I’ll be there as will Malfoy, not that I’m all that excited about Malfoy, but it’ll be good for you.” Ron thinks of Greg’s smile and hopes he’ll be able to see it again.
“Okay, I’ll do it. If you’ll stay with me.”
“I won’t leave your side. We’ll do this together. All of us.”
***
Greg stands next to him, Malfoy next to Harry. Hermione stands alone. But only for a short time as coming down the hall towards them is Parkinson, a wry look on her face. “Professor McGonagall ‘suggested’ I help you.”
“Why? You weren’t part of what happened,” Hermione says.
“I think she feels the whole offering Potter up to the Dark Lord deserves some punishment.” Parkinson shrugs. “I’m sorry, Potter. I should not have offered your skinny Gryffindor arse to the Dark Lord just to save me, my friends, my family and my school.”
Ron seethes. She’s no right to be here, to be with them. He’s filled with anger and resentment. Beside him, Greg is silent. Ron turns; Greg’s brow is furrowed and he is frowning. Ron ignores him.
“But you’d do it again, right?” Harry says.
“In a heartbeat. If I thought it would work.” Parkinson is unapologetic.
The others gasp in indignation and trepidation, but Harry just laughs.
The wall is before them, completely bare. Nothing mars the perfection of it. There is no hint of where the door will open, or what they’ll find when it does. They need the Room of Hidden Things. It is where the destruction lies. The room has not opened for anyone since. They’ve no idea of the level of damage they will find. Will it be worse than they expect? Or has the Castle used the time since to heal itself? Ron doubts it. He is sure Hogwarts will want some atonement from them.
The six of them pace, back and forth. Silent, except for Malfoy, who mutters incessantly with each pass. Behind them, Barnabas the Barmy continues to try and teach trolls to Rond de jambe and releve. The others ignore the stumblings and flailings as well as they do Malfoy, the concentration on their faces plain to all.
There’s a grinding sort of noise, like stones rubbing against one another. Ron looks up, as does Greg who is still next to him, having followed Ron’s pacing footstep for footstep, turn for turn. Is that the door? If it is, it’s huge. None of them have ever seen the door that massive. But, it's not the door, or not just the door. Something else is happening. The actual entry way is tiny, only big enough for them to enter one at a time, but the space around it is immense and there are slowly scenes coming to life on it. It’s like some sort of carved mural. Scenes of the War that just took place are displayed there. Every battle or skirmish that took the life of a Hogwarts student or alumni is shown in the carvings.
They stand taking in what they are seeing. So many of the death, they’d not know of the details: the how, the where, or the when. Others, like Crabbe’s, five of them remember too well. Ron wonders if this aspect of the wall will only show itself to those who require entrance, or if it will remain here for all to see. A memorial to the fallen.
Hesitantly, fearful of what they may find, they enter. Gasps of surprise echo those of Ron’s. The room has done it again. It’s given them exactly what they need; or rather it is exactly what they need it to be. It is double; maybe even triple its normal size. They find themselves in the Room of Hidden Things. The place of ruin, of death, of fear and of unexpected rescue. It is as painful to look at, as he has imagined it would be. Nothing has changed. No repairs or healing have occurred. It is a blackened and scorched disaster.
They look at the wreckage and wonder how they ever escaped. Five of them remembering, the sixth shocked by what she sees. Ron closes his eyes, he imagines he can still feel the heat from the intensity of the flame, the roar of the fire as it grew and grew, and came after them, the varying monsters that it gave birth to, all intent on reaching them and killing them. It’s too much; he opens his eyes.
Next to him, Greg trembles. Ron wants to reach out and take his hand, but he’s not sure. He worries it might be too girly, or too mushy. But he needs the comfort as much as he wants to comfort. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Harry take hold of Malfoy’s hand. Merlin knows there is nothing romantic between those two. Ron relaxes, it is safe. He takes hold of Greg’s hand and squeezes it. Greg squeezes back and flashes him a look of gratitude. Even Hermione and Parkinson move closer together, shoulders touching. The moment passes. It is time to move on.
To the left separated by some sort of invisible barrier is a huge cavern of blank and empty space. Just like the Room of Requirement, vacant except for what is needed. It is a canvas wiped clean waiting for them to fill it, complete it, and return it to what it should be.
“It looks as if the room wants us to use this space to put in the repaired and refinished things and furniture,” Hermione says.
“What repaired and refinished furniture and things? Everything’s ruined. There’s nothing to save.”
“And those things we can’t fix, that are too broken, we can throw them out over there,” Greg says as if Malfoy has not just interrupted Hermione.
Ron and the others turn to where he is pointing. They had missed it. Against the far right wall are large double windows. Attached to them is a giant tube looking thing. Large enough for a sofa or even a family sized table to fit through.
“Looks like it’s going to get the majority of the things. I agree with Malfoy, there’s nothing to save,” Harry says.
“But we have to try!” Greg and Hermione both say at the same time, the vehemence of their conviction equal. It’s the first time they ever agreed on anything. They stare at one another, stunned, before quickly turning away.
As they do, Ron begins to hear it, as do the others. They still, confusion on all their faces. A large rumbling sort of noise, then creaking and grinding, along with cracking and popping.
“Ohhh.” Greg’s voice is filled with awe.
Greg’s looking at the towering mass of destruction. Then they see what he sees. It’s moving, changing shape and form. Things are being separated for them. Not everything is beyond help. Many things just need time and a bit of magic spent on them. The room is already sorting the salvageable from those that are beyond repair.
“Look!” Harry cries excitedly.
Even as they watch, some of the things believed to be beyond help begin to repair themselves.
“I don’t know why you’re all so surprised. I told you. Hogwarts always finds a way,” Hermione mutters.
***
They develop a plan that works as well as any other. Harry and Malfoy are responsible for the hard furnishings: Wood and stone along with the heavier metals; Parkinson and Hermione the more genteel and soft furnishings: sofas, chairs, clothing, books, jewelry etc. Theirs is the larger pile, but most of it is beyond any help they can give it. Even Hermione’s excellent spell work cannot save the majority of it. They spend a lot of time trying, but close to seventy percent of everything they touch ends going down the tube. What happens to it after that is anyone’s guess.
As for he and Greg, they are responsible for the damage left behind, the parts that can’t be pulled away and cleaned and restored. Once the furniture is removed, once the books and clothes have been sorted, what remains is their responsibility. They cannot dispose, only repair. It is the foundation of the room, and probably the source of the Room’s magic.
There’s nothing they can do until a space has cleared. The waiting is hard, especially for Greg. Ron can feel Greg’s emotions, but whenever he asks if Greg wants to talk, all he gets in answer is an emphatic shake of the head.
There’s a whoosh sort of noise, as if something large has been pulled down or off. Harry and Malfoy are standing in front of a large wooden cabinet. Malfoy gasps, as do all the others. Even from where Ron stands, he knows what it is. Malfoy is trembling. No, shaking, shaking violently. His face is ghostly white.
“Damn, I didn’t know Malfoy could get any paler,” Greg says quietly next to Ron.
“Malfoy? Are you okay?” Harry asks.
Malfoy cannot speak. He tries; they can see that, but the words seem to catch in his throat.
No one else speaks either. Even Hermione and Pansy have stopped their constant bickering; only it’s not been as much bickering as it has chattering for the last hour or so.
“This is where they came through,” Malfoy whispers finally.
“Where who came through?” Harry asks his voice is shaky. He knows. They all do, but Malfoy must say it. He must admit to what he has done.
“The Death Eaters. This is the Vanishing Cabinet. They came through here from Borgin and Burkes. The night Dumbledore was—the night Dumbledore died.” He pauses. The silence lies thick and heavy around them. So much has happened as a result of this one action.
“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says. So softly, they should not have been able to hear him, but the silence is so deep, there’s no way they can’t. “I thought I had no other choice. I still don’t think I did.”
“Dumbledore could have helped you.” Even now Harry still believes in his mentor’s ability to help those in need.
“Ouch! Merlin, Fuck,” Malfoy suddenly cries out. They all jump in surprise.
He’s rubbing along the side of his face, along his left temple, and staring at the floor. Something about the size of a small fist and brownish in colour lies there. It’s not really brown, more something that looks like it was striving to be brown, but didn’t quite make it.
“Malfoy, why did a mangy old apple just beam you?” Harry asks. “And there’s a bite missing. That’s disgusting.”
Malfoy looks very uncomfortable at Harry’s question. Instead of answering, he levitates it with his wand. The spell a bit iffy, as the life-debt’s still not paid.
The disgusting, mangy, dehydrated partially eaten apple lifts off the floor. It moves threateningly close to Malloy’s face. Malfoy’s magic has no control over it. It’s bouncing up and down like someone, or something, tossing a ball into the air.
Still Malfoy refuses to speak. The apple core flies out and smacks him right on his pointy nose.
That’s all it takes. Malfoy sings like a bird after that. He confesses all. About the Vanishing Cabinet and the apple and how it returned with a bite missing. It was how he knew his repairs were working. It was what had encouraged him to keep trying.
Once he finishes confessing, the apple core disappears, or rather disintegrates in front of their eyes.
Malfoy gathers himself back together and the Malfoy swagger returns. “I am sorry. That is true, but I can't deny I’d probably do it again. I truly felt I had no other choice. My family means everything to me,”
The tentative peace between the six of them shatters. It explodes, disintegrates into pieces, into particles of pieces. Harry and Ron are in Malfoy’s face shouting at him; Malfoy is giving back just as good. Pansy is yelling at Hermione. (Why Pansy is the one doing the yelling and not the other way around, he isn’t sure. He can’t hear their argument over the one he’s having with Malfoy.) And Greg, well Greg is constantly placing himself, and his bulk between Ron and Malfoy, begging them to stop.
“Bloody fuck! That hurt!” Harry yelps. Everyone spins around at the sound.
Harry’s rubbing the top of his head, mumbling. On the floor in front of him is a book. Ron recognizes it immediately. It’s the Potion book Harry used sixth year.
Harry leans over and picks the book up off the floor.
“So, what’s the book, Potter?” Malfoy asks.
“Potions book I used in sixth year.”
“Why’d it hit you on the head?” Malfoy is grinning, as well he should be. Looks like its Harry’s turn for confession.
Harry ignores Malfoy’s question, instead he turns as if he’s going to go back to the Vanishing Cabinet and continue working, without answering Malfoy’s question. Bad idea. Ron thinks.
To the surprise of everyone, the book flies out of Harry’s hand and immediately begins to beat him about the head and shoulders. None of their spells to stop it has any effect. In utter frustration, Harry finally, throws his arms over his head and screams, “Alright, fine. I’ll tell him. Just stop bashing me.”
The book stops hitting him and settles down, but continues to hover in the air, just above Harry’s head.
“This is the Potions book I used in sixth year. It belonged to Snape. It’s where I first read the Sectumsempra spell that I used on you, Malfoy. The one I almost killed you with. I didn’t know. I swear. I had no idea how dangerous it was.”
Malfoy reaches out and takes the book out of the air. “Surely, Potter, even you should know better than to cast a spell that you don’t know what the outcome is going to be.”
Malfoy’s flipping through the book, fascination on his face as he does. “So this was Snape’s potions book. No wonder you did so well that year.” The Potions book flies out of Malfoy’s hand and disappears into the jumble of things they’ve already sorted. Ron doubts it will ever be found again.
An hour or so later, they depart. They are hot, tired, sweaty and above all filthy. Their hands face and clothes are streaked and smeared with the blackening from the fire. Exhausted and worn out--and no longer speaking to one another. The things they have learned today has destroyed their easy camaraderie of earlier. It is past time for lunch. He doesn’t know about the rest of them, but, right now, Ron doesn’t want to be around any of them.
He heads immediately to the kitchens. Only, he’s not the only one with that idea. Greg enters just moments after he does. Although they had not been actively fighting, the tension between them is still high. As they stand next to each other waiting for the baskets of food, they cast fleeting glances. Eventually the glances start to become wry smirks, then genuine smiles and finally happy grins.
They take their baskets of food to the Lake. Harry and Malfoy are there as well. A platter of sandwiches sits between them. The four of them acknowledge one another, but choose not to sit together. Ron and Greg continue walking past until they find a place that’s shaded. They eat without speaking but it’s not uncomfortable. Near them they can hear the rise and fall of Harry and Malfoy’s conversation. It fluctuates between genuine laughter, and tense and angry voices. So familiar is this to Ron, he almost falls asleep to its gentle cadence. Greg rests quietly beside him. When their hands meet, by accident, neither of them pull away.
***
Harry and Malfoy are late arriving the next morning. By general consensus they all had agreed to take the rest of the afternoon off the day before. Tensions had become too high.
The others stand around waiting, finally Hermione and Parkinson decide they’re going to go ahead and get started. Ron can see their friendship is improving; he realizes he doesn’t want Hermione to be friends with the undeserving Parkinson. “Slytherin bitch,” he mutters under his breath as he watches Parkinson walk away. Doesn’t stop to think who is standing next to him. It just slips out.
Beside him, Greg scoffs. “You’re just the same as we are. Only difference is we get punished and ridiculed while you lot get exalted and rewarded.”
Ron turns, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Your prejudices and your igotries. You’re always going about how we shouldn’t put down Hermione, or any other of the Mudbloods. While you and your lot put us down all the time. You’re all just... just… hipercrikes.” Greg stares daggers at him. The situation doesn’t improve when Ron begins to laugh.
“You mean hypocrites? And I’ve no idea what my “igotries” are supposed to be or even what that is. I’m not prejudiced. Slytherins are just evil. Everyone knows that.”
“The Mudblood brain is starting to wear off on you. Big fancy words, showing off how much smarter you are than me. Stop laughing at me!” he yells. Ron stops. He’s not seen Greg this angry in some time, it’s like the old Goyle has returned.
But Greg is just getting started. Ron’s learned Greg may not say much, but when he does, you’d best listen. “Slytherins aren’t evil, any more than Ravenclaws are all smart. It’s not right to judge us without knowing us.” Greg turns his back on Ron. “You’re just following the lessons you learned from your parents. The same as us.”
Greg waits for Ron to respond, but he needs some time to think. Sure the Slytherins have done some really horrendous things and their name calling and horrible treatment of Hermione is inexcusable, but isn’t his own behaviour just perpetuating the situation. If they’d all been nicer to the Slytherins, would things have been different?
Greg grows tired of waiting and says, “I can’t stand being around you right now. I’m not sure either of us will keep our mouths shut, like we should.” He moves over closer to where Hermione and Pansy are working, leaving Ron nearer to Harry and Malfoy, who must have arrived when he and Greg were arguing.
“Ow! Bloody fuck,” Something has just bashed Ron on the back of his head. He spins around prepared to give Goyle a piece of his mind. Just because they disagree doesn’t mean he has to resort to violence. There’s a bucket on the floor in front of Ron, and Greg is clear across the room, hunched over something that’s on the floor, and looking more defeated than angry. The bucket rises, and slugs, disgusting, slimy, nasty, horrible tasting slugs, begin to rain all over Ron. It is not until he is completely covered with slug slime that the bucket departs, leaving the slugs and their sliminess behind. Ron feels sick, but even more, he feels there’s probably some kind of lesson here.
He looks around, waits for the laughter and the comments to come. Everyone is ignoring him, even Greg. Maybe they didn’t see. Then he sees Greg, and although Greg is still looking angry there’s also a smirk on his face and it’s obvious he’s trying not to laugh. Ron wishes Greg wasn’t still angry at him.
The tension between them infiltrates the others. In no time, soon Hermione and Parkinson’s new and shaky friendship begins to suffer through some birthing pangs. One too many “Honestly’s” from Hermione has Parkinson walking away, mumbling under her breath.
From nowhere, a wig, ugly and ancient, comes zooming across the room and whaps her atop the head. Ron sees it. Can’t believe he just saw it. He spins to look at Greg, who is looking as gob-smacked as Ron felt.
“What the fuck? Granger, did you just throw this at me?” Parkinson grabs the thing off her head, where it has somehow landed, and flounces over to Hermione. Hermione looks up confusion on her face.
Ron starts to interrupt, to remind them of the ghost that’s inhabiting the room with them. Only he can’t.
“What? I didn’t throw anything at you. That’s more your style. If you can’t argue with any degree of intelligence, resort to violence. ” Ron starts to interrupt, to remind them of the ghost that’s inhabiting the room with them. Only he can’t.
Hermione stops as well, when she realises that neither Parkinson nor Ron nor Greg are paying her any attention. Instead they’re watching a small flock of yellow canaries fly across the large and cavernous space coming straight at her. They dive bomb her one at a time, turning into stuffed canaries just as they strike, before falling to the floor, immobile. The floor around her is sprinkled with stuffed canaries before she even realises what is happening.
None of them say a word. Because really what is there to say. Both Parkinson and Hermione have been unexpectedly attacked. Not dangerously, but enough to get their attention. This is way too reminiscent of what took place the day before with Harry and Malfoy. Some other entity is at work here. Greg is looking decidedly uncomfortable.
He moves back over to stand beside Ron. Their previous argument now forgotten. “I’m pretty sure it’s Vincent,” he whispers.
“You do? Really? But why?”
“Well, think about it. Who else could it be? This is where he died.”
“But why’s he taunting us?”
“Maybe he just wants to remind us of some of the bad things we’ve done, that were hurtful to other people. I don’t know what some of these things mean, but you can tell from looking at the other’s expressions that they do.”
“What about mine? Did you know what the slugs meant?”
Greg grinned at him. “Sure. It gave the entire Slytherin house endless hours of pleasure, especially Malfoy. “
***
“Greg?” Ron asks nervously, his hand clasped in Greg’s. They’re sitting on the floor, their backs against the far wall across from the doorway. “Do you think Vincent will stay here? Become one of the Hogwarts ghosts. You know, I can’t believe he never got you.”
“Oh, he got me alright.”
“He did? What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not something I’m proud of.”
“And you think the rest of us were proud of the things we had done. Come on, you’ve got to tell, at least me.”
“It was a pamphlet. That I used to read all the time. Vincent did too. We shared it between us.”
“Wait! I saw that. It was around the same time I was being doused with slug slime,” Ron says excitedly. “I wished I’d paid more attention. What’s the name of the pamphlet?”
“Soyouwanttobeadeatheater.”
“Excuse me? What”
Greg sighs, the sigh of the terribly downtrodden. “It was called: “So You Want to be a Death Eater. Early training for dark wizards ages 10-12.” There are you happy now.”
But these weren’t the only things that didn’t stay where they belonged. There was other stuff as well. Anytime there was any sort of disagreement between any of them, especially if it involved a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, things started to fly: jewelry-long since out of fashion, half empty sherry bottles, bedraggled feathers, which seriously freaked the fuck out of both Harry and Malfoy, along with various other oddments. No one escaped. Crabbe, if indeed it was him, was persistent in his effort to keep their skirmishes and disagreements to a minimum.
Surprisingly Goyle receives the worst of it, especially if his behaviour and name calling is directed towards Hermione. Ron’s beginning to see a difference in Greg. Seems having your dead best mate literally hitting you over the head is quite an incentive to change. Malfoy’s still not a convert, but there’s always hope. Or Harry can just keep bashing him; Ron’s rather fond of that idea.
Greg pulls away from Ron, still holding on to his hand. Ron’s eyes follow his as they look around the room. Sees what he sees. Sees the improvements they’ve made. The once blackened walls now shimmering with the magic Hogwarts has imbedded in them along with the white-wash they’d used to paint them. Sees the open space where burnt furnishings, both hard and soft had littered the floor. That same floor once covered with scorch marks of the fire, now vanquished by their magic and muscle, elbow grease and determination. The soft grey of the slate tiles that now covers it. All the Hidden Things repaired by them or reclaimed by Hogwarts, once again hidden, waiting to be found if or when needed.
“It won’t be Slytherin. He’ll be the ghost of the Room of Requirement, or the Room of Hidden Things, wherever he’s needed. He’s not angry anymore.” Goyle turns back towards Ron and their gaze holds. “Vincent took care of me, made sure no one hurt me, since we were five or six. I wasn’t very big then and I scared easily. My father was ashamed of me. I got stronger, but Vincent never stopped trying to protect me. He always just wanted me to be happy. This past year changed him.”
It’s the first time Greg’s ever really opened up about Crabbe, how they’d become friends, and why they had been so close. Ron wants to persuade him to say more. Knows he should try to convince him to share more, but all he can say is. “And are you? Happy, that is?” He wants so very much for the answer to be yes.
Greg leans forward and cups his hands around Ron’s face. The fingers are rough and calloused against his skin, the jagged nails catch in Ron’s hair. They brush against the stubble that had grown there since the early morning shaving charm. Ron’s eyes flutter and he sinks into the touch.
Greg gently lifts Ron’s head and pulls it closer. As his lips lower towards Ron’s, he says, “I think I could be.”
Their lips meet. It is not the first kiss for either of them; it is not even their first kiss. (If one counts that previous drunken, sloppy and slobbering attempt Ron made, before passing out after a night at the Hogshead, when he’d confessed to Harry that he thought he might be physically and maybe even sexually attracted to Greg. Harry had first been appalled, then amused, laughing his arse off, prat that he was, (sometimes Malfoy had the right of things) and finally accepting. Harry had got Ron well and truly drunk. “Just want to celebrate my best-mates happiness,” or so Harry kept saying as he’d bought Ron drink after drink. Upon return to the Castle, Ron had attempted to enter the Slytherin domain to tell Greg of his feelings. Luckily Harry had been there to make sure he got safely back to Gryffindor before he humiliated himself too much, but not before Ron had laid a wet one on a very surprised and sleepy Greg. And Malfoy had been there to… Well, Ron wasn’t sure what Malfoy’s purpose had been. Then again, did Malfoy ever have a purpose?)
But that’s a discussion they’ll revisit at another time. This is the first kiss that counts, the one that matters.
Greg’s fingers tighten on Ron’s face using light pressure to tilt Ron’s head; he moves his mouth to hover over Ron’s lips. Ron’s hands need someplace to go. They feel adrift; until they find purchase and security in the folds of Greg’s robe, pulling him close as he moves closer to Greg as well.
The tip of Greg’s tongue is right there, requesting entrance. He only has to ask once, didn’t even really have to ask. Ron’s mouth opens and he introduces his tongue to Greg’s. At first slow and shy and a bit timid, as the two of them are. Or were. But no longer. They now feel safe, feel at ease, and that makes them less hesitant.
The kissing becomes more intense. They need to be closer, but the angle is awkward. Greg moves his hands away from Ron’s face, leaning over Ron, Greg places one on the wall beside Ron to balance himself. The kiss deepens; Ron leans into it. Greg’s kiss is soft and caressing and then hot and demanding, keeping Ron always guessing, always surprised. Greg attempts to caress Ron’s shoulder with his free hand, but it’s an awkward angle at best.
Greg pulls away and leans against the wall again. Breathing heavily, Ron can feel Greg’s frustration as if it was his own. All they want, or at least all Ron wants and he can’t imagine Greg wanting anything different, is a place to snog.
But he can’t keep his hands, or his lips off Greg. He rolls over and straddles him. This time he takes the lead, teasing and nipping at Greg’s lips.
A subtle shift, in the light, the temperature and general ambiance of the room, interrupts them. Ron feels it, tries to ignore it; doesn’t want to be interrupted again. Greg gently pushes him away though, a smile lighting up his face as he does. Ron turns to see what he’s smiling about. A small fire is now blazing where there was none before. A large and overstuffed chair is beside it. The chair is large enough for two to sit comfortably, but little else. Adjacent to it is a table, covered with food. Perhaps even enough for the two of them.
Ron shifts around and rests his head against the crook in Greg’s shoulder. “Hooray, for the Room of Requirement. We should have realized. All we needed to do was just let it know what we needed.” The chest muscles against Ron’s face vibrate under him as Greg chuckles, shaking his head no.
“It’s not the Room, or at least it’s not just the Room. This is Vincent. By giving us the chair and nothing more, he’s telling me to be sure, warning me to take it slow.”
“Oh, I don’t’ know. I imagine there’s a lot that can be done in a chair, and it looks a lot softer than the floor.”
Greg frowns, as if he doesn’t believe him.
“Come on. Let’s at least try.”
Ron stands and pulls Greg to his feet as well. Greg stumbles against him, the perfect opportunity to have another quick snog. The kiss is hot and hard.
Somehow, lips locked together, they manage to make it to the chair. Though side by side, there really isn’t enough room to do anything. It’s beginning to look as if Greg might be right.
Unexpectedly, Greg pushes Ron away, shifts his own body to where only he is sitting in the chair.
Ron’s heart is broken and his libido's not doing too well either. He pouts. Then Greg, brilliant, wonderful, Greg pulls him back down into his lap. He pulls Ron down against his chest, his arms wrap around him and Greg is kissing him again.
It’s hot and wet, oh god, Greg’s tongue is thrusting. As are his hips, pushing up against Ron’s thigh. It’s good, but it could be better. Ron lifts up and throws one leg over until he’s straddling Greg’s lap. Greg’s cock rubs against his arse, hard and firm and ohgodisitreallythatbig. He leans down, attacking Greg’s mouth and tongue with his own. Greg’s hips push upward again. Fuck Ron throws his head back and feels the pressure. Greg’s mouth follows him, nipping small kisses along Ron’s jaw and neck. He settles in the space just below Ron’s ear. And fuck if that wasn’t the most bloody wonderful spot in the whole world.
Greg’s hands are on his arse, he’s pulling Ron against him. But the angle’s still not right. The pressure’s not right. They squirm back and forth, up and down twisting and turning. Until Fuck! That’s it. Right there! Greg holds Ron’s hips and shoves upward, Ron thrusts down.
And it’s fucking brilliant. Wanting this so long, it’s not enough, he wants more. But wait. They can’t. They’re not alone.
He pulls back. “We can’t. The others will see,” he pants.
Greg pulls him back down. “We can do a "Diss-Lusion Charm.”
Ron wants to laugh out loud, ‘cause Greg still mispronounces the word, and it delights Ron to no end. He no longer thinks of Greg as stupid, but eccentric and charming.
Then he remembers the last time Greg’d used that word. One look at Greg’s face and Ron knows he’s remembering it as well. So much has happened since, so much horror and grief and so much new friendship and happiness and maybe, just maybe, so much more. Suddenly they are pressed against one another again. Lips and tongues kissing slow and deep and exploratory.
Groins press against one another. And then there’s so much movement and friction and pressure and pushing and pulling. It’s all so bloody brilliant; with each thrust their cocks slide together.
There’s too much clothing between them, but nothing for that now. They can’t risk that. But this is pretty fucking wicked. Greg’s hands, large and firm, cup Ron’s arse and pulls him even closer. How is that even possible?
Ron’s no choice but to ride this out-- like he wants another choice. He leans forward and attaches his mouth to Greg’s neck. It tastes of heat and sweat, but pleasant sweat, clean sweat, honest sweat. There’s a tiny freckle on Greg’s ear lobe and Ron has to lick it. The noises Greg makes inspires Ron on; he has to nibble it, suck it, and bite it.
Below him Greg is writhing as Ron continues to torment his ear and then his neck, wants Greg’s shoulder. The robe’s in the way. Ron’s fingers itch to rip it off him, but he can’t. He settles for pushing the collar down, exposing the skin and muscle that’s right there. That Ron has to suck, to bite, or…Oh sweet Merlin, there’s another tattoo. On Greg’s left shoulder. Ron can’t see what it is, can only see the top of it, the rest of it remains hidden despite his best efforts.
If he can’t see, he can touch. He needs to touch more skin; this is not near enough. He works one of his hands through the openings in Greg’s robe. The other is holding him up, keeping him from collapsing completely against Greg. Below him Greg is exploring for skin contact as well. Greg’s thumbs brush the bare skin of Ron’s back, just above his trousers. There’s pressure, then caressing, then pressure again.
Ron’s fingers tangle in the mass of hair he finds as his hand brushes against Greg’s stomach. He can follow it up to his chest, or he can follow it down. Down is too much of a temptation; he wants to touch it, stroke it, pull it out, gaze at in stunned wonder. He can’t see the hair, only feels it under his fingers, coarse and wiry and springy. It turns him on more than he’d have ever imagined. He runs his finger up and down, side to side, grasping and tugging at the furry substance. In his exploration, a fingertip brushes against a nipple and Greg moans and the humping becomes hard and erratic and Ron knows what’s coming. Almost laughs out loud, cause yeah, that’s exactly what’s about to happen. Both of them.
They do. One after the other, but even if Veritaserum was used, Ron could not swear as to which was first. Honestly it doesn’t matter, because it was just so fucking perfect.
Breathless and exhausted, yet strangely exhilarated Ron rests his head against Greg’s shoulder. He wants to see more of that tattoo, but instead there’s a new spot on Greg’s shoulder. Bright red, but starting to purple. He must have bit him. Ron never meant to do that; he leans in and runs his tongue over it, kisses it with gentleness.
Greg’s arms tighten, holding him safe and warm. They are still completely dressed, which meant they don’t have to worry about anyone finding them with their cocks hanging out. It also means they are both sticky messes.
Ron sits up and prepares to stand. He pulls a face at how icky the aftermath feels.
Greg laughs. “It’s a good thing we’re wizards. He pulls his wand and cast a Scourgify Spell at Ron’s crotch. It’s a bit uncomfortable, meant for less sensitive areas, but Ron’s now warm and dry and decidedly un-sticky. He returns the favour and sits back down, curls up in Greg’s lap. Greg’s hand rubs long and smoothing strokes up and down Ron’s arms, while Ron’s hand again finds itself inside Greg’s robe, enjoying the feel of the all that hair under his fingers. He can’t wait to get Greg alone, fully alone.
He also wants to examine that tattoo a lot closer.
End
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Date: 2013-06-24 10:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-25 02:56 pm (UTC)The Quibbler Report -- Tuesday, 25 June 2013
Date: 2013-06-26 03:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-05 04:22 am (UTC)