Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2625638.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Charlie_Weasley/Ron_Weasley
  Character:
      Ron_Weasley, Charlie_Weasley, Draco_Malfoy, Filius_Flitwick, Hermione
      Granger, Harry_Potter
  Additional Tags:
      Unresolved_Emotional_Tension, Angst_and_Humor, Mild_Language, Explicit
      Sexual_Content, Sibling_Love, Marking, Come_play, Male_Slash, Frottage
  Collections:
      HPFandom
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-16 Words: 12129
****** TO THE INEVITABLE DUSK ******
by Wolfiekins
Summary
     Tournaments, dragons and Viktor Krum. Ron's fourth year has been
     completely mad so far, and he still needs to sort all that business
     with Harry. Leave it to Charlie to do just that.
     WARNINGS: Angst, Adult Situations & Language, Strong Sexual Content,
     Under Age, Incest, Marking, Come Play
Notes
     Thanks much to my wonderful betas,
     [[personal profile] ]
brumeux77, [[profile]_]dream_wia_dream and [[personal_profile]_]thrihyrne.
Title taken from a quote by Susan Scarf Merrell: ”Our brothers and sisters are
there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk.”
DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all associated characters and settings remain the
intellectual property of JK Rowling and her associates. No offence intended nor
monies made through this presentation.
 
 
Wednesday, 1 March, 1995
 
“Are you sure you shouldn't join us? Madam Pince went to a great deal of
trouble obtaining that spell book from Durmstrang.”
Ron looked up from his stack of parchments. “I'm not worried about Snape's
weekly quiz, Hermione.”
“I'd be worried, if I were you,” she snapped. “Your last attempt at a Deflating
Draught was a bit off.” Hermione scooped up her sizable stack of textbooks and
stuffed them into her book bag. “If you'd only study more effectively, Ronald,
you wouldn't have such problems.”
Ron flipped a page of his History text, doing his best to sound unruffled. So
what if his last attempt at the Deflating potion had turned Neville orange? At
least Snape had found the entire episode rather amusing.
“I've said I can't, yeah? I've a couple chapters to go over for Binns' exam
tomorrow.” He turned another page. “I'd best keep to it here. Maybe I'll meet
you two in the Library later.” He shot a knowing glance to Harry, who nodded
once.
“A couple of chapters? I believe you're much farther behind than a couple.”
Hermione turned to look at Harry, who actually paled.
“Thanks, that,” Ron muttered, turning another page of his text with a savage
snap.
“Sorry, Ron. It sort of slipped.” Harry looked rather pained as he struggled to
haphazardly shove his books and parchments into his rucksack.
Hermione blew out a huge breath, ruffling her bushy fringe. “Honestly,
Ronald...”
“I'm not that far behind,” he huffed.
“Oh? How many is it, then?” Hermione planted her free hand on her hip and
batted her eyes in a completely annoying manner.
Ron glared at Harry, who'd suddenly developed a keen interest in the far wall
of the Great Hall.
He knew that he'd let his studies slip, what with the Tri-Wizard Tournament and
all, but he didn't need Hermione's constant harping as a reminder. His mum was
bad enough. Hermione was right, though he'd never admit it aloud or otherwise.
If she wasn't always so bloody smug about such things, she'd be far easier to
take.
“Well?”
Ron heard Hermione's foot begin to tap the flagstones in impatience. He really
hated when she did that. “Eleven,” he grumbled, wishing that he could Apparate
away from her right then and there. He waved a hand at Harry, who was now
intently studying the zip of his rucksack. “But you knew that already, thanks
to my best mate.”
Harry groaned.
Hermione harrumphed. “Obviously I knew how many chapters, Ronald. We've already
established that fact. Seems to me that someone several chapters behind might
want to consider spending less time stalking Viktor Krum and—”
Ron cut her off, sensing an opportunity to divert attention away from the ruddy
History chapters. “What did you just say?”
“I said, someone who's several chapters behind in a subject ought not to
waste—”
“Hah! It's not several chapters, now is it? It's eleven.” Ron noted with no
small amount of satisfaction that Hermione's cheeks were quickly flushing from
pink to bright red. He knew it was a minor error on her part, but he was
desperate. Besides, it was quite plain that eleven and several weren't the same
thing. “Honestly, Hermione, you should pay closer attention to what people
say.”
Hermione made a high-pitched squeak, sounding amazingly like an annoyed
Niffler. “You're trying to change the subject.”
“Am not. I'm merely pointing out that someone with hopes of being Head Girl
someday ought to know the difference between eleven and several. Right, Harry?”
Harry immediately ceased his examination of a spot of gravy on the sleeve of
his jumper. “What? Oh, yeah, right,” he blurted out.
“You don't even know what we're talking about,” Hermione fumed, waving a hand
and nearly knocking Harry's glasses off.
Ron knew he'd just about driven her to distraction, so he stayed his course.
“Perhaps not, but Harry knows the difference between eleven and several.”
“So do I, Ronald! Even a first year knows that eleven chapters behind is a
great deal worse than several.”
Ron shrugged. “I'm not at all sure that's true. Anyway, they aren't same, are
they? I'm surprised that you'd make such a mistake.”
“What?” Hermione's eyes went wide.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.
Ron allowed himself the luxury of a crooked grin. He knew he had her so he took
full advantage of it. Hermione could be so easy at times. “Do you deny that you
said I was several chapters behind in History of Magic? Didn't you admit that
Harry told you I was eleven chapters behind?”
Hermione's mouth worked but no sound came out.
“Speechless, eh? That's because I've run rings around you and your faulty
logic.” He drew himself up triumphantly, folding his arms across his text. “Now
if you don't mind, I've work to do.”
Hermione's mouth dropped open for a moment, and Ron mused that he could hear
gears grinding.
“But...what...that's not—”
“Erm, Hermione, we'd best get on, yeah? Don't want to keep Madame Pince
waiting.” Harry tugged at the sleeve of Hermione's Gryffindor jumper. He
mouthed the words Leave it at Ron, jerking his head toward a clearly flustered
Hermione.
“Ah, a grand idea, Harry,” Ron continued. “And please see to it that she
focuses on her work rather than ranting and raving about her grievous error in
logic.” He waggled his eyebrows and returned his attentions to his history
text.
Hermione made a rather odd grunting sound as Harry proceeded to drag her out of
the Great Hall.
“See you later,” Harry called back to him. “We'll be in the usual place.”
Ron nodded and waved a hand over his head, not looking directly at his friends.
He did, however, spare a quick sideways glance to confirm that he'd
successfully agitated Hermione to once again deflect attention away from his
admittedly shoddy study habits. He supposed she meant well, but the last thing
a bloke needed was to be constantly reminded of his shortcomings.
While she'd been correct that he'd been spending a great deal of time shadowing
Viktor and all the goings-on with the Tournament, the real distraction was
Harry.
The unpleasantness that ensued after Harry's name had popped out of the Goblet
of Fire had sent Ron into a tailspin. He'd honestly believed, for a time
anyway, that his best mate had kept the truth from him.
That Harry had somehow charmed the Goblet in an attempt to curry more attention
for himself.
He hadn't been the only one to think ill of Harry, and the fact that his best
mate had completely shut him out hadn't helped matters. The whole mess had been
such a crushing disappointment for Ron, as he'd been looking forward to simply
enjoying the Tournament as a spectator, with Harry at his side. Worse, he'd
been ready to come out to Harry, to tell him exactly how he felt and just how
much he needed and wanted to be with him.
Every one of Ron's carefully crafted plans had been wrecked in an instant, and
he hadn't reacted well. At the time, he'd felt as though he were the wounded
party; that his wants and needs had once again taken a backseat to Harry's.
He'd been petty and had allowed his jealousy to consume him.
It had been a rough span of weeks, but Harry's close call with the dragons had
shaken him badly, knocking him sensible, as Fred was fond of saying.
Ron had been ready to put all of it behind them, whatever it was, and get back
to normal.
However, something had changed, and Ron couldn't put a finger on exactly what
had shifted.
Sure, he and Harry were speaking to each other, sharing notes and studying
together, even hatching the occasional prank on the Slytherins or hapless
Hufflepuffs. But there was now some sort of barrier between them, an unseen
wall that Ron kept smashing into when he least expected it.
Harry wasn't as closed as he'd been during their spat, but he wasn't exactly
completely open, either.
On the surface, Harry smiled, joked and laughed, yet Ron could tell none of it
was genuine. He'd listen and nod and say what he thought Ron wanted to hear,
but the look in Harry's eyes spoke the real truth. They were flat and dead,
totally absent of the spark that Ron knew so well.
Ron desperately wanted to press his friend, to get Harry alone and find out
what was truly wrong. But the ugly truth was, he was afraid to do so. He'd made
a half-arsed attempt a few weeks ago, cornering Harry one afternoon in their
room in Gryffindor Tower. He'd barely gotten a few, bumbling sentences out
before Harry had leaped from his bed, dashing through the common room and out
the Portrait Hole.
He'd been at a total loss until Moaning Myrtle had whispered in his ear as he'd
been showering alone late one Saturday morning. She'd managed to give him a
right nasty fright as she'd wafted out of the floor drain. Despite this, he
couldn't deny that what she'd told him made sense and went a long way toward
explaining some of Harry's distressing behaviour, especially all the time spent
with Diggory and the Hufflepuffs.
He knew Myrtle was a total pervert, but she had no reason to create gossip or
lie to him.
Normally, he'd ask Hermione for advice, but even though she harped on his
preoccupation with the Tri-Wizard Tournament, she was similarly enamoured of
Krum and spent hour after hour watching the Bulgarian Champion exercise and
practice. Clearly, she was as distracted as he was.
Plus, it was incredibly annoying and entirely unfair that she could waste so
much time mooning over Krum whilst managing to maintain high marks in all of
her classes.
Ron really had no one else to confide in about his troubles; there was no way
on Merlin's green Earth that he'd consider the twins. They'd have a bloody
field day if he were to talk to them about harbouring strong feelings for
Harry. Fred and George had been taking the piss for as long as he could
remember, calling him all sorts of colourful names like poncey, poof, tosser,
pillow biter and Ron's personal favourite, turd burglar.
The last thing he wanted to do was give them the satisfaction of being right
about him, at least for the moment, anyway.
“Bugger,” he said to no one. Sighing heavily and resigning himself to the
inevitable, he turned his attentions to the mouldy text in front of him.
Whilst slogging through eleven chapters of insufferably boring details about
equally boring wizards wasn't appealing in the least, it was certainly better
than the alternative. As he was failing both Divination and History of Magic,
he'd concluded that Divination was a lost cause. Trelawney consistently wailed
that his aura was in flux, whatever that meant; he never saw anything but fog
in his crystal ball, and he was pants at reading tea leaves.
That clearly left History of Magic as his only option for success.
“Right. Now, where are we...yeah, chapter twenty-two.”
Ron found the proper page, immediately diving into the incredibly dull
adventures of a thirteenth-century wizard named Sir Treyton the Terse and his
intrepid terrier Stig amongst the demonic pygmy marmots of Madagascar.
He'd barely made it through the second paragraph when something cold and wet
slammed directly into his forehead. He reflexively sat upright, and before he
could utter a sound, another slime ball struck him square in the nose.
“Shit!”
“Green looks good on you, Weaselby.”
Ron wiped the greasy gook from his face, blinking furiously to clear his
vision. Though he couldn't see clearly, he knew the voice, as well as the
honking laughter accompanying it.
“Green and orange,” Crabbe spluttered between guffaws.
“Yeah,” Goyle added importantly. “Looks good. I mean, awful.”
“Yeah,” Crabbe agreed.
“That's enough,” Draco cut in, immediately silencing his henchmen. “Lone
Gryffindors should always be wary. Especially exceedingly stupid, in-bred
gingers like you, Weaselby.”
Ron looked around, noting that the Hufflepuff and Slytherin tables were indeed
devoid of students. A trio of Ravenclaw third years could be seen making a
hasty retreat toward the entry hall, and no professors were in sight.
Not even an errant house elf could be seen.
Save for himself and the trio of Slytherins, the Great Hall was now empty.
“Brilliant,” he muttered, attempting to wipe the slime from his eyes without
rubbing it in.
Draco chuckled as he strutted around the Slytherin table toward Ron. “A single,
solitary, little Lion. A tiny little pussy, more like. All alone. Not very
bright, Weaselby.”
“Yeah,” Goyle snorted.
“Um, yeah,” Crabbe agreed, punching a meaty fist into his palm.
“Shut it, both of you!” Draco snarled.
Crabbe and Goyle fell silent again, both nodding vigorously.
Ron stood, stepping back over the bench and wiping at his face with his robes.
Whatever the stuff was that Draco had hit him with, it not only smelled foul
but it stung his eyes as well. He heard the Slytherins' footfalls come closer.
When he opened his eyes, they stood not three feet away, leering at him from
the head of the Gryffindor table.
He was never one to back down from a fight, even when he was so obviously
mismatched. Being the youngest male in the Weasley clan, Ron had learned to
give as well as he got at an early age. He'd also grown a fair amount over the
past year, and though he was a bit on the thin side, he was still taller and
broader than Draco.
He felt confident that he was more than a match for the pasty Slytherin, but
factoring in the pair of dullards that were Crabbe and Goyle, the odds
definitely weren't in his favour.
Shit.
“What's the matter, you dim-witted pile of budgie turd? Don't know what to do
without your boyfriend Potter to save you?” Draco barked out a laugh, and
Crabbe and Goyle grunted their agreement.
Ron rolled his eyes.
As he saw it, he had two options: turn tail and run away in disgrace, or stand
his ground and most likely take a sound pummelling.
It had already been a right nasty birthday, what with Fred and George banishing
his clothes in the middle of the common room that morning. Then there'd been
birthday underwear from his mum, the embarrassingly unfortunate incident with
his Skrewt in Care of Magical Creatures, followed by an excruciatingly mind-
numbing dose of double Divination. Hermione had been in rare form all day,
which had done nothing to improve his prospects for passing not one, but two
exams the next morning.
And the cherry on the cake of his day?
Ridiculously predatory Slytherins.
Yeah, the choice was clear.
A sound pummelling.
It would do wonders to clear his head and erase the entire sodding day.
“Fuck you, Malfoy.”
Draco's eyebrows shot up into his snow-white fringe. “What did you say?” His
cheeks actually flushed pink.
“You heard me, you pitiful shit. Fuck you, and your traitorous Death Eater
father, too.” Ron could scarcely believe his own words, but bugger it all.
After the day he'd had, it felt fantastic to vent.
Crabbe's eyes went wide while Goyle merely looked confused.
Draco clenched both fists as he advanced on Ron. “You filthy, embarrassing
disgrace to purebloods everywhere! How dare you?”
“Yeah,” Crabbe added, trying to sound menacing.
“Um, yeah,” Goyle said, nodding absently as he noticed an abandoned platter
still half-full of sausages.
“You'll pay, Weasley!” Draco growled. “C'mon. Let's get him!”
Ron shook his head to clear it, doing his best to appear unfazed as he prepared
for the Slytherins' onslaught. He drew his wand, certain that he could take
Draco out rather quickly. While Goyle was clearly more interested in the
sausages, Crabbe would be a problem.
“Bring it on, ferret face.” He aimed his wand directly at Draco as a voice
boomed across the Great Hall.
“Oi, three on one isn't very fair now, is it? Not at all honourable for an
avowed member of the aristocracy, surely?”
Draco's eyes grew wide as saucers. Crabbe went blank while Goyle licked his
lips and headed for the platter of sausages.
“Charlie?” Ron whirled about. Sure enough, his older brother stood there, bold
as brass, at the foot of the Gryffindor table.
“Problem, little bro?” Charlie strode up the aisle, his battered duffel slung
over one shoulder. He wore his trademark dragonscale jerkin and leather
trousers, looking as if he'd just ridden a dragon all the way from Romania.
As far as Ron knew, his brother had done just that.
Charlie winked at Ron as he approached, dropping his duffel to the floor and
planting both fists on his hips. “Sorry I'm late, Ron. Wanted to surprise you
this morning, but a clutch of Chinese Fireball hatchlings had other ideas.”
Ron blinked, for a moment forgetting Draco. “Charlie?” he repeated. It was
almost too good to be true. He hadn't expected to see his older brother so
soon. Somehow, Charlie always seemed to know when he was needed the most.
Charlie jerked his head in Draco's direction. “Did I hear you say something
about a disgrace to purebloods?” He stood next to Ron, folding his arms across
his chest. “Most unbecoming speech from one who purports to be such a paragon
of virtue.” He flexed his sizable arms, causing the tattoo of the Swedish
Shortsnout on his right forearm to bellow angrily as it spewed bursts of tiny
flames.
“Um, this doesn't involve you,” Draco replied in a rather unsteady voice. He
took a small step backward, bumping into Goyle, who was on his third sausage.
Charlie snorted. “Anything that involves my brother involves me.”
Draco pointed a thin finger at Charlie. “You're not a student, nor are you
faculty. You've no right to be here!” His voice cracked on the last word as he
took another step backward.
“Gentlemen. May I be of service?”
Draco whirled about at the sound of Flitwick's voice. A moment later, the
Charms professor pushed his way past the trio of Slytherins.
“Well, well. I daresay I've arrived at a most fortuitous moment.” He spared
Draco a disdainful glare. “Care to offer an explanation for your abhorrent
behaviour, Mr. Malfoy?”
Charlie nudged Ron in the ribs as Draco fussed with his robes.
“Um, well, there's nothing to explain, Professor,” Draco spluttered. “Just some
harmless inter-house rivalry, you know.”
“Yeah,” Crabbe added hopefully.
Goyle nodded, his mouth full of sausage.
Flitwick held up a hand. “Yes, yes, that'll be enough, I think.” He turned to
Charlie and Ron, smiling broadly as he held out his hand. “Charles! A pleasant
surprise indeed.”
Charlie knelt down, shaking Flitwick's proffered hand. “Professor. Good to be
back again. I'd only just arrived when I came upon this situation. Sorry, but I
hadn't had a chance to check in as yet.”
“Bah. Never a problem, especially for one of my most gifted former students,”
Flitwick gushed. He threw a glance toward Draco, who was now paler than ever.
“You're always welcome here, Charles. I gather that this harmless inter-house
rivalry took precedence. And please, call me Filius.”
“Erm, sure, of course,” Charlie replied, throwing an arm around Ron's
shoulders. “Filius.”
“Splendid!” Flitwick's smile faded the instant he turned back to take in Draco
and his collaborators. “Do not make matters worse by opening your mouth, Mr.
Malfoy.”
Ron pocketed his wand and could barely suppress a smile as Draco averted his
gaze and intently studied the flagstone flooring.
“So, what have we here?” Flitwick approached Ron and carefully examined the
remnants of the slime balls that covered his robes. “Hmmm...the consistency is
far too thin,” he commented, running his index finger through an especially
large blob of the goo. “Colour's a bit off as well. Very poor conjuring,
indeed.” He turned on his heel and extracted a small parchment and quill from a
pocket of his robes. “One hundred points from Slytherin for sub-standard spell
work.”
“What?” Draco cried out.
“And another fifty points deducted for poor aim.”
“That is completely unfair!” Draco whinged.
“Plus another one hundred points for behaviour most unbecoming a fourth-year.”
Flitwick turned his head just enough so that Ron could see his smile. “One more
word, and I shall deduct five hundred points from Slytherin.” He returned his
quill and parchment to his pocket. “Very good. You three, with me!” He twirled
his hand over his head and pointed to the main doors. “I'm absolutely certain
that Professor Snape will be keenly interested to hear of this. We go!”
As he passed by Charlie, he paused and said in a low voice, “I've an unopened
bottle of Ogden's Special Reserve in my quarters. Do stop by later, if you
can.”
“Sounds brilliant.” Charlie saluted his former professor as Flitwick strode out
of the Great Hall.
Crabbe and Goyle followed, their chins nearly touching their chests. Draco,
bringing up the rear, turned around to favour Ron with one of his best Malfoy
sneers. For good measure, he drew his index finger across his neck.
Charlie laughed out loud. “He's got some issues, eh?”
“I've noticed.” Ron shrugged out of his goopy robes, balling them up with the
slime inside. “Damn. They've made a mess of my parchments and History text,
too.”
“Pompous arseholes.” Charlie cast a wandless cleansing charm, which removed
most of the slime. “My Slytherins were no better, I'm afraid.” He laughed
heartily, turning to face Ron. “Some things never change.”
“S'pose not. Thanks for the cleanup, Charlie.” As he laid his soiled robes on
the bench next to his book bag, he realised that he felt oddly embarrassed all
of a sudden, as if he'd been caught with his pants down. He didn't know why, as
there was no good reason to feel that way. He was thrilled to see his older
brother, of course, and there was no doubt that he'd been spared more than a
few bruises and perhaps even detention.
Charlie broke the silence. “Seems I arrived just in time.” He turned Ron to
face him and placed both hands on Ron's shoulders. “Good to see you, little
bro.”
“Yeah, you too.” Ron stared at Charlie for a long moment, noting every smudge
of soot and grime on his forehead; the red splotches betraying many a close
call with dragon breath; the fresh scar across the bridge of his nose; the
spray of freckles across his cheeks that were rivalled only by Ron's own.
Charlie's hazel eyes were bright and alive, as always. He then realised that
he'd been staring far too long, breaking away from Charlie to fuss with his
book bag. He was absolutely certain that he was blushing, much to his chagrin.
“You okay, Ronnie?”
“Yeah.” Ron looked up to find that Charlie had flung his arms wide.
“C'mere, you gangly git. Don't I get a bloody hug?”
Ron froze, suddenly unable to speak or move. What in the blazes was wrong? He
watched as Charlie paused for a moment before moving in for the kill. Ron
closed his eyes as Charlie's arms encircled him, large callused hands drawing
wide circles across his back. He drew in a deep breath as Charlie's broad chest
met his own, and Merlin-be-damned, but he was slowly pushing his groin to his
brother's.
“Happy birthday, Ron,” Charlie breathed into his neck, hugging him still
tighter. “I've missed you.”
“Yeah,” he gasped, absolutely positive that his own hardening erection was
brushing against Charlie's. “Me too.” He tensed, and Charlie noted the change
immediately.
“You okay?”
Ron leaned back into Charlie's arms. “Yeah. O' course. Been quite a term, what
with the Tournament and all.”
Charlie nodded. “Right, for sure. Wanna talk about it?”
“Erm, okay, but not here.”
Charlie nodded. “Fine.” He gently wiped two fingers across Ron's brow. “You're
quite the mess.”
“Really? Fuckin' Malfoy.”
“Bastard.”
“Yeah.” Ron swiped at his nose with one hand, oddly hopeful that the motion
would somehow clear his head and extinguish the suddenly disturbing urgings in
his groin. He raised his head to look into Charlie's eyes, at once sorry for
doing so.
Charlie's completely open, warm expression slew him. That one glance smashed
through whatever emotional defences that he'd built up over the last few
months. All the confusion and anger and fear erupted from it's hiding place,
combined into a single wave of concentrated, roiling emotion that consumed him
in a flash.
He pushed away, shocked to find that his legs had suddenly gone rubbery. He
grasped Charlie's forearm in order to steady himself.
Why was this happening now, of all times? He'd been in a good frame of mind
lately, slowly but methodically sorting through the problems at hand. And now,
with a single look from his brother, he'd gone to pieces, shaking like a
sodding first year and wanting nothing more than to bury himself in Charlie's
arms. It wasn't fair, nor was it right, but Ron couldn't deny the absolute need
that throbbed through him. He blinked a few times, horrified that his eyes
stung with the first signs of tears.
He struggled to school his features, to draw himself up and seem like he wasn't
a frightened little boy. A rush of heat flushed up and out of his collar and
sweat popped out on his forehead.
“Charlie,” he mumbled, his tongue strangely thick and unresponsive.
“Ronnie?”
Ron felt his balance failing again; no, more than that, almost as if his body
had somehow lost its molecular cohesion or some such. The Great Hall wheeled
around him, the expanses of rough grey walls smearing into a blur. Yet sounds
were amplified and focused; he could hear, no, feel the settling of the great
stones, coupled with the padding of a multitude of house elf feet as they
scurried about the Hall. His vision grappled outward, desperate to lock onto
something concrete, something safe and secure.
“Ron!” Charlie cried, clearly alarmed.
Ron whirled around, falling to his knees and bracing himself on one of the
benches. Something small and grey caught his attention. He reached for it, just
as a pair of big hands clamped onto his shoulders. He wiped at his eyes,
managing to clear his vision only the slightest bit.
Two pointy ears stood straight up for a moment; the left ear fell, and two huge
yellow eyes gazed back at him, wide and fearful.
“Somethin' wrong, yes? I is getting Pomfrey, indeed?”
“No, no, I'll take care of him,” Charlie's low voice rumbled.
Ron felt a pressure, tight yet comforting, encircle his chest. Charlie lifted
him up to sit on the bench, one hand holding him steady.
“Ronnie, hey, mate, are ya in there? Bloody hell, but you're burning up.”
Ron watched as the house elf scurried away to confer with a pair of its co-
workers. His head bobbed, suddenly far too heavy for his neck to support.
“I'm okay,” he mumbled. Ron gazed at the face scant inches from his own.
Wide eyes, wild curly hair, masses of freckles.
Charlie.
He'd be fine now.
“M'fine.”
“No, yer not. I'm getting you to the hospital wing.”
Ron shook his head, dissipating the fuzziness a bit, and the Great Hall seemed
to be make an attempt to re-coalesce to its normal proportions. “No really, I'm
right.” He tried to smile and took a step away from Charlie, to prove that he
was, indeed, feeling better.
A second later, the room swam again and he fell, spinning away into blackness.
 
                         *~~~~~~~~~~* ~*~ *~~~~~~~~~~*
Something intruded upon his warm cocoon,.
It was faint at first, but quickly became impossible to ignore. The sound
rolled over him, as if someone had dropped a stone into a calm pool of water,
the ripples of its surface growing larger and larger as they pushed their way
outward.
He bobbed like a leaf on those waves, each successive one lifting him higher
and higher from the comfortable depths.
“Wha hmpn?” His brain knew exactly what it wanted to say, but his mouth refused
to cooperate.
“Poppy! He's coming out of it.”
He recognized that voice. He asked his eyes to open, and they complied, sort
of.
“Stay still, Ronnie,” Charlie soothed. “Madame Pomfrey will have you right as
rain in no time.”
Ron struggled to lift his eyelids further, but they resisted his efforts. After
a few moments, he was able to focus sufficiently to note his brother's
expression of concern, with an unmistakable bit of anger mixed in.
“Blast that prick Malfoy,” Charlie seethed, shifting some errant ginger locks
out of Ron's eyes. “If the little bastard were only a few years older, I'd
teach him a lesson he wouldn't soon forget.”
“What...happened?” Ron repeated, somewhat relieved that he could speak properly
again.
Charlie snorted. “Your friendly neighbourhood Slytherins used Artemisia
Absinthium to add colour to their slime balls. Flitwick found traces of
Baneberry as well. Luckily, you didn't ingest enough to do anything more than
knock you out for a bit.”
Ron nodded even though he couldn't quite recall the characteristics of the
herbs Charlie had mentioned.
“Oh, I feel like shit.”
“Now, now, Mr. Weasley. You know full well I do not tolerate such vulgarity in
my wards.” Madame Pomfrey appeared, her expression the complete opposite of her
brusque tone of voice. “This should mitigate most of the side effects you are
experiencing.” She held out a small glass filled with a roiling, purple potion.
“Could you help him sit up, Charles?”
Charlie nodded, shifting on the mattress to slide his arm behind Ron's
shoulders. He lifted his little brother to a sitting position, scooting further
behind Ron to add support.
Ron leaned into Charlie's chest, wrinkling his nose at the foul smelling liquid
that Pomfrey pushed under his nose.
“Take it all in,” she said, watching as his fingers curled around the glass.
“Don't leave even one drop in that glass, Mr. Weasley.”
“Right, of course.”
Charlie tightened his grip on Ron's shoulders. “Down the hatch, Ronnie.”
Ron took a deep breath and blew it out. “Ugh.” He swallowed the concoction as
ordered, squinching his eyes shut to brace himself for the inevitable reflexive
gag. To his astonishment, it never came. The potion was a bit too sweet but not
horrible, somewhat like liquid strawberries. “Hey, that's not bad at all,” he
murmured, handing the glass to Pomfrey, who merely smirked.
“I shall sleep soundly knowing that you found it palatable.” She nodded to
Charlie “Give him a few minutes, and as soon as he can stand on his own without
toppling over, he's free to go.” She arched an eyebrow to Ron. “Straight to
bed.”
“Brilliant. Thanks so much, Poppy.”
“And please,” Pomfrey said, still glaring at Ron, “attempt to remain out of
trouble. It would be most refreshing if I didn't find a Gryffindor in my wards
every few days.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Ron replied, pushing away from Charlie and swinging his legs over
the side of the bed.
“How do ya feel?”
“Pretty good. At least I'm not dizzy any more.” Ron looked up to see Professor
McGonagall hurrying up the wide aisle between the rows of beds, her robes
billowing behind her.
Charlie stood and met his former professor at the foot of Ron's bed.
“Charles. A pleasure to see you again so soon.” She offered her hand, never
taking her eyes from Ron.
“And you as well, Professor.” Charlie pumped her hand enthusiastically.
“I gather you've had quite the evening, Mr. Weasley. How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thanks.”
McGonagall stared at him for a long moment before clasping her hands at her
waist. “Professor Flitwick has informed our Potions Master of this evening's
regretful events, as well as the ingredients used in creating the, uh, slime
balls. I assure you that Mr. Malfoy and company will be properly disciplined.”
“Oh, no, really, it's not that much of a problem,” Ron stuttered, placing his
feet on the floor yet still leaning against the side of the bed. “Just a
harmless prank.” He smiled, but it was apparent McGonagall was having none of
it.
“Admirable sentiments, Mr. Weasley, but I believe your presence here is proof
that tonight's little escapade was anything but harmless.” She held Ron's gaze
to communicate the finality of her decision before looking to Charlie. “Filius
informs me that you'll be with us through the end of the Tournament?”
“Yes, Professor. Uh, I mean Minerva.”
“Excellent. He's also arranged guest quarters for you in the faculty section.”
Charlie nodded. “I told him that wouldn't be necessary—”
McGonagall waved a hand. “Nonsense. We've plenty of room, and quite honestly,
I'm hopeful that I might convince you to assist Hagrid with Care of Magical
Creatures. Considering the elevated interest in all things draconic of late, it
seems reasonable to take advantage of such a skilled dragon handler while we
have one right here in the Castle. The Headmaster has already given his
approval.”
“Well, I suppose, but—”
“Wonderful!” McGonagall beamed. “Then it's settled. I've already informed
Hagrid to expect you first thing Friday morning.”
“Brilliant,” Charlie replied.
Ron faked a coughing fit to cover his sniggers. One thing about McGonagall: she
wasn't one to take no for an answer once her mind was made up about a thing.
“As for your brother,” McGonagall said, fixing Ron with a meaningful stare,
“would you be so kind as to see him back to Gryffindor Tower?”
Ron drew himself up as Charlie laid his hands on his shoulders.
“Actually, I'd thought that I might like it if Ron could spend the night with
me in the faculty section. We haven't had a proper visit in months, and I'd
like to be able to celebrate what's left of his birthday with him tonight. If
that would be acceptable, of course.”
McGonagall tilted her head back slightly. “Are you certain he's well enough for
such activity?”
“I promise to keep things very low key.” Charlie flashed his most winning smile
and the Shortsnout on his forearm snorted.
“Very well, then. Just see to it that Ronald is well rested and on time for his
classes tomorrow morning.”
“No worries.” Charlie squeezed Ron's right shoulder. “I'll see to it.”
“Excellent. Good night.” McGonagall whirled around, conferring with Pomfrey for
a brief moment before leaving the ward.
Pomfrey handed a small phial to Charlie. “Give him this if he feels faint or
nauseous. If he has difficulty sleeping, you can also administer a sleeping
draught.”
“Okay, sounds good.” Charlie pocketed the phial and gathered up Ron's soiled
robes and jumper.
“He should also have a thorough scrubbing to remove any remaining residue from
the slime balls.”
“I'll take care of it.” Charlie slung an arm around Ron's shoulder and guided
him from the ward.
“Oh, and Mr. Weasley?”
Ron and Charlie both turned to face Pomfrey.
“Happy birthday.”
 
                         *~~~~~~~~~~* ~*~ *~~~~~~~~~~*
Ron settled into the hot water, the fresh, earthy scent of the bath salts
incredibly soothing. Charlie had engorged the small tub in the guest quarters'
tiny loo, enabling Ron to fully stretch out and relax. The perpetual heating
charm kept the water at a perfect temperature, and Ron felt content to soak in
it until doomsday. Or the next few hours, anyway.
After the rotten day he'd had, he certainly deserved it.
Pomfrey's unusually tasty potion had worked beautifully, and he felt good as
new. He sank lower, his entire body submerged until only his nose remained
above the surface of the water.
He listened to Charlie clomp and bump around just beyond the closed door, and
only Merlin knew what his older brother was up to. Earlier, he'd heard muffled
voices in the bedchamber, one being Flitwick's, while the other clearly
belonged to a house elf.
Charlie'd fussed and flitted around him like mad when they'd reached the guest
quarters, and while Ron had made a few half-hearted protestations, deep down,
he revelled in the attentions.
He'd always been Charlie's favourite, for as long as he could remember.
His earliest memories were of Charlie bouncing him on his knee, or reading to
him or singing him to sleep. It had been Charlie that had taught him how to
successfully cast a proper Jelly Legs Jinx, and Charlie was there the first
time he'd managed to fly a broomstick further than a hundred feet without
falling off.
Since both of his parents had been involved heavily with The Order during
Voldemort's first war, much of the daily care of the younger Weasleys had
fallen to Bill and Charlie.
Ron got along well with Bill, of course. But with Charlie, the strength of
their bond was always a given, like gravity. He'd always felt at ease with
Charlie, safe and secure in a way that he didn't feel with anyone else.
He loved his mum and dad and they were wonderful, at least as parents go. He
couldn't have asked for better, but they were, well, his parents. He knew that
they loved him, yet he was just one of their children, special in a way, but in
relation to his other siblings, somehow not. He couldn't always make sense of
it all, but one thing was clear: he was special to Charlie, and there was no
denying it.
He'd been devastated when Charlie had made the decision to relocate to Romania
rather than take a teaching position at Hogwarts. He'd hidden himself away for
days after Charlie had left the Burrow, doing his best to conceal his tears
from everyone, especially the twins.
No one knew or understood him like Charlie did.
The only other person that came close was Harry, but lately, that relationship
seemed to have crumbled away to nothingness, leaving Ron feeling alone and
vulnerable.
Charlie's arrival that evening had been like the sun making an appearance after
a fortnight of oppressive cloud cover. Ron felt energized, more confident and
sure of himself. If there was one person he could talk to about anything, it
was Charlie.
Ron swirled his fingers around the surface of the water, creating tiny waves
that rocked the few remaining bubbles.
Of all his brothers, the one Ron admired most was Charlie. He was bright and
strong, not to mention handsome, but he didn't make a fuss about it like Bill
did. He didn't prattle on and on about his accomplishments like Percy. He
didn't take advantage of people or embarrass them like the Twins. If anything,
Charlie didn't say enough, apparently content to remain in the background while
others snagged the spotlight.
There was something definitely admirable about him, about the way Charlie was.
While Ron couldn't always convert his thoughts into proper words, he knew
without a doubt that he wanted to be like that, too.
Another bump and a muffled curse filtered through the closed door of the loo.
Ron sat up, a smile pulling at his lips. His right hand glided along his chest,
his skin super slick and smooth under the silky water. His fingers drifted
lower, following the trail of hairs on his stomach that lead to the mound of
curls surrounding the base of his cock. He pulled gently on his hardening
shaft, closing his eyes and envisioning Charlie as he'd been earlier that
night.
If only he resembled his older brother rather than being nothing more than a
long, skinny plank!
Charlie was gorgeous, short and stocky, yet perfectly proportioned. Broad
shoulders and a barrel chest with powerful arms and big hands. There was a
roundness to his belly that Ron found oddly fetching, not to mention the light
dusting of bright red fur on his chest and stomach. And of course there was
Charlie's nicely muscled legs and deliciously round arse.
Ron stroked himself firmly, his cock fully hard. He smiled, recalling the first
time he'd realised just how attractive his older brother was. Had he been nine?
Ten maybe? Wasn't that when he discovered that he liked looking at Charlie,
fresh from the shower and wearing nothing but a towel, or skinny-dipping down
at the Burrow's pond?
He'd figured out rather early on that it was wrong to harbour feelings about
one's own brother, to stare and want them in such a way. But if it felt so
good, so right, how could it possibly be a bad thing? Somehow, realizing that
he favoured blokes paled in comparison to perving over his own brother.
Ron recalled how excited he'd been when he'd found out that Charlie was queer.
He never understood why his parents had initially been so upset, as Charlie was
nothing like the stereotypical poncey, mincing gits that the Twins so often
portrayed gay blokes as being. He was at the top of his class, brilliant at
Quidditch, funny, warm and if Charlie hadn't said anything, one would never
have known that he preferred blokes.
Even though he was only eleven at the time, Ron had been completely fine with
'Charlie's coming out,' as it came to be referred to. It was just the way
things were, and he could see nothing wrong with it.
Charlie was still Charlie, and Ron loved him regardless.
So much so that he defended him whenever the twins would crack jokes or make an
off-colour comment about queers. He knew they weren't really being hateful or
mean, it was just the way they were. He just didn't like it, and never failed
to remind them that their own brother was queer, and that Charlie could
probably pummel both of them with one arm tied behind his back.
Of course that's when Fred and George started calling him “Ronniekins” and
“Princess”. Ron imagined that his twin brothers must have spent hours
researching new and inventive ways to take the piss.
It wasn't until sometime in Ron's first year at Hogwarts that the realisation
that he just might be like Charlie sank in.
He pulled on his dick harder now, faster, biting his lower lip and pumping his
hips into each down stroke. The bath water slapped against the sides of the tub
and some splashed out and onto the stone floor.
It was more than Charlie's body that Ron found attractive, though. It was
everything else about him too, from his loyalty and devotion to family, his
smile and good-natured sense of humour, to his willingness to do anything for
anyone.
It was all of Charlie, the entire, blinding package that he loved.
“Charlie,” Ron moaned, yanking on his erection mercilessly.
As if his older brother had somehow heard his breathless cry of pleasure, two
sharp raps echoed from the door to the loo.
Ron jerked in the water, ceasing his wank and struggling to catch his breath.
“You okay in there, little bro?”
“Yeah, fine, just fine,” Ron replied breathlessly, sitting up and brushing wet
stands of hair from his face.
“Can I come in?”
Shit.
Ron willed his hard-on away as he tried in vain to look relaxed. “Uh, sure.”
The latch clicked and the door creaked open, Charlie's head filling the narrow
gap. “I was startin' to worry that you'd dissolved or something.” He flashed a
winning grin, and Ron's heart jumped into his throat.
“Erm, well, I was just enjoying the soak.” Ron shifted about, placing both arms
on the rim of the bathtub. He was still fully hard, but thankfully the water
was deep enough to adequately conceal his condition. Charlie wasn't helping at
all, though, wearing nothing but an open dragonskin vest and a pair of
unnecessarily snug leather trousers. Ron tried not to notice the sizable bulge
straining against the crisscrossed lacings of the trousers.
He knew Charlie wasn't showing off or anything, but really!
“Harry dropped these by for you.” Charlie stepped in, closing the door behind
him. He laid a pile of folded clothes on the top of the washbasin. “He also
said that McGonagall was able to convince Snape and Binns to allow you an extra
day to prepare for your tests.” He sat on the toilet, leaning forward, elbows
on his knees.
Ron watched as the tattoo of the Chinese Fireball on Charlie's upper left arm
and shoulder writhed and snorted smoke. “Not like I'll get any studying in
tonight. What time is it, anyway?”
“Half-past nine.” Charlie held his gaze, his eyes catching the flickers of
light thrown by the two oil lamps mounted on the wall.
“Time flies when one's in hospital,” Ron said, marvelling at the deep line
between Charlie's rather large chest muscles. He knew he shouldn't be staring,
but he couldn't look away. The vest hung off Charlie's shoulders, revealing his
large, pink nipples, each surrounded by whorls of ginger fur. He blinked and
finally managed to tear his eyes away.
Bloody hell, get a grip!
“Sure you're feeling well, Ronnie?”
“Yeah. Brilliant. Really. Pomfrey's potion did the trick.”
“Okay.” Charlie stood, lifting one of the huge, soft towels from the nearby
rack. “Here ya go. Best get out before everything shrivels up.”
Ron coughed. “Right, wouldn't want that.”
Charlie draped the towel on the edge of the bathtub, hooking a thumb over his
shoulder. “If you're up to it, I had the kitchens send up some food and
butterbeer.” He opened the door and paused a moment. He looked as though he
intended to say something else, thought better of it, smiled crookedly, and
closed the door behind him.
Ron let out a sigh of relief. He stood up, his cock still at full attention.
“Thanks, mate,” he grumbled to his uncooperative member, quickly towelling
himself dry.
 
                         *~~~~~~~~~~* ~*~ *~~~~~~~~~~*
Harry had brought by Ron's favourite pair of Chudley sleep pants and his very
well worn and slightly small Canons tank top. He'd worn the shirt so much and
for so long that the orange piping around the neck and arm openings had faded
to a pale peach colour.
By the time he'd dressed and sufficiently dried and tamed his mop of hair, his
dick had apparently decided to relax.
For the moment at least.
He found Charlie seated at a small desk, scratching away at a stack of
parchments.
The bedchamber, while small, managed to squeeze in a huge four-poster, a good-
sized hearth, the desk, an overly squishy looking armchair, and a tiny table
with two chairs. A pair of covered dishes on the table emitted an insanely
delicious aroma. A gigantic picture hung over the mantel, but the ornately
gilded chair in the center of it was empty. Obviously Charlie had asked that
the portrait's occupant give them some privacy.
A fire crackled away in the hearth, and just as one of the logs popped loudly,
Charlie looked up from his papers.
“Hey, there he is.” He literally bounded across the small room, throwing his
arms around Ron and hugging him tightly.
Ron responded in kind, burying his head in the crook of Charlie's neck. His
brother smelled of musk and rain with the slightest hint of ash. He melted into
Charlie, his hands sliding down Charlie's broad back and coming to rest on the
patch of bare skin above the waistband of the leathers.
“Happy birthday, Ronnie,” Charlie murmured, leaving a chaste kiss to Ron's
cheek. He moved to break the hug, but Ron still held on firmly.
“Thanks,” Ron replied, nuzzling his brother a moment longer before stepping
away. “So good to see you.”
Charlie looked Ron over, from head to toe and back again. “I swear you've grown
since the last time I saw you.”
“Really? I guess so.” It occurred to him that Charlie was right. With both of
them in their bare feet, he noted that they were practically the same height.
“Quite the little show you put on for me tonight. You shouldn't have gone to so
much trouble on my account.” Charlie smiled that smile of his, and Ron couldn't
help but grin like an idiot.
“I'll remember that next time.”
“Those are for you.” Charlie jerked his head to two packages lying on the bed.
“You didn't need to—”
“Just shut it and open 'em, ya spotted git.”
“Look who's talking.”
Ron ripped off the wrappings, tossing them to Charlie who sent them into the
fireplace.
His brother always gave the best gifts, and Ron couldn't have been more pleased
this year: a mint condition copy of edition #13 of The Adventures of Martin
Miggs, Mad Muggle, his favourite comic, as well as Quigley's Super-Deluxe
Broomstick Care Kit. Ron's trusty but well-worn Shooting Star was in dire need
of some tender loving care, and the kit was just what he needed.
After opening his presents, he and Charlie tucked into the best bangers and
mash Ron had ever tasted. They made short work of some treacle tart for afters,
and once the house elves had retrieved the dirty dishes, both of them scooted
their chairs closer to the slowly dying fire in the hearth.
The brothers sat in an amiable silence for some while, Ron sipping on his
butterbeer while Charlie enjoyed a Muggle brew called Corona.
Ron felt completely satisfied and incredibly comfy. After a shaky start, it had
turned into one of the best birthdays ever.
Charlie finished his third Corona and summoned another.
“Can I try one of those?”
“Sure. Only one, and don't tell Mum.”
A bottle of light amber liquid flew into Ron's hand and with a snap of
Charlie's fingers, both bottle caps flicked off, sailing straight into the
waste bin.
“You'll have to show me that trick,” Ron said, taking a tentative sip of his
beer. It was extremely light and not very bitter, but wasn't completely
horrible. “That's different.”
“Acquired taste,” Charlie responded, his free hand absently rubbing his belly.
“So, are you still seeing that fellow you work with on the Preserve? Lucian,
right?”
“Yeah, Lucian.” Charlie sipped at his beer, staring into the flames. “We're
just friends.”
“Oh. But I thought—”
“He needed some space. He's just a few years out of Durmstrang, and he's not
even come out to his family yet. Romania's not Britain, either. A bit more
difficult to fancy blokes in that society. So there it is.”
“Sorry.” Ron felt a twinge of embarrassment for not knowing about Lucian.
Charlie'd been so excited when he'd met the apprentice dragon handler, clearly
smitten with the younger Romanian. Ron had been so wrapped up in his own
problems he'd forgotten about most everything else. “Mum really liked him.”
Charlie nodded. “So do I.”
“He's got a really great arse,” Ron said wistfully.
Charlie barked out a laugh, nodding. “Cheers, that. I knew I'd seen you perving
on him when he visited the Burrow that one time.”
“How could I not? Those black leathers he wore left nothing to the
imagination.”
“I know. I bought 'em for him.”
“Thought so.”
Charlie smirked, shaking his head.
“What?”
“I'm not sure if I should be amused or disturbed by that admission.”
“Go with whichever one gives your broomstick the most lift, I reckon,” Ron shot
back, grinning at his cheek.
“Twat.”
“Git.”
“Harry says that you're still a bit out of sorts.” Charlie took a deep swallow
of his beer before scooting his chair closer to Ron's.
“Did he now? Well, I'm not sure how he'd know that, considering all the time he
spends with Diggory and the Hufflepuffs.”
“He's your best mate.”
“Supposedly.”
Charlie's eyebrows shot into his fringe at Ron's comment. “I thought that you
and Harry had made up, gotten over your differences. At least that's what you
wrote in your last letter.”
“You make it sound like we're a couple or something.” Ron upended his bottle
and gulped down a good deal of his beer. “We just started talking again after
the First Task. I admitted that I was wrong in suspecting that he entered the
Tournament without telling me, and that's it.”
“I see. And you haven't told him how you feel? About him?”
Ron rolled his eyes. “Not sure when I'm supposed to do that, what with him
being so ruddy busy with Skeeter and Diggory and the bloody, stinkin' Tri-
Wizard Fuckin' Tournament.”
“Harry does have a lot on his plate, Ron.”
“I know, I know. Just like always. Poor Harry and all his problems. He's not
the only one with issues, yeah? There's other people in the world.”
“You're his friend,” Charlie said softly.
“You don't know how hard I try. I really do, but lately...he just drives me
mental. He's so wrapped up with everything that's going on he doesn't have time
for...anything else. He runs hot'n cold. I never know what to expect from him
from one minute to the next.”
“Just talk to him, bro. It's the easiest way.” Charlie laid a hand on Ron's
shoulder. “I know you can do it.”
Ron shook his head. “That's part of the problem. I can't seem to get through to
him any more. He's different, Charlie. Even when we're together, just the two
of us, it's almost like he's not there. I've tried to say...to talk about
the...situation, and I've gone over it in my head, rehearsing what I'm gonna
say, but every time I start in on it, I look at him and he's totally blank. It
ain't easy, ya know? Tryin' to tell him that I'm queer, and oh, by the way, I
fantasize about buggering the hell out of him on an almost daily basis.”
“Ron—”
“And then I get mad, and the next thing I know I'm sayin' exactly the wrong
thing, and then he's mad. I'm goin' spare tryin' to figure out what to do.”
“Keep at it. It's important to you, innit?”
Ron nodded, staring sullenly into the flames.
“Okay, then. Don't give up on him, Ronnie.”
“There's more to it.”
“Yeah?”
“I'm pretty sure Harry and Diggory are, well, you know—”
“Seriously? No way. What makes you think that?”
“Moaning Myrtle told me.” Ron noted Charlie's confused expression. “The ghost
of the Ravenclaw girl that haunts the pipes and loos?”
“So a ghost told you that Harry and this other guy—”
“Diggory.”
“Right, the Hogwarts champion.” Charlie drained his beer and fetched another.
He opened it and leaned an elbow on the mantel. “Why would you believe what a
ghost says, Ronnie? You know they're not at all reliable.”
“Myrtle's different. She helped Harry sort out the second task. She's not your
typical ghost.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
Ron took a deep breath. “She saw Harry and Diggory in the fifth floor Prefect's
Bath. Alone. Together. Naked. In the water. Snogging. Repeatedly.”
“Repeatedly?”
“Right. And she was very detailed, too.”
“Bloody hell.”
“That's what I said.” Ron's shoulders slumped in defeat. “I think I mucked
things up very badly this time, Charlie. I wasn't there for Harry when he
needed me most, and now, it's too late. Because I'm such a coward, I've most
likely pushed him away, for good.”
Charlie sat down and gently bumped his knee to Ron's. “We've been through all
this. You know what you need to do. Just talk to him. He's your best mate, and
you don't want to hide your true self from him, do ya? Say what's in your
heart. You can never go wrong with that.”
“It's not so easy.”
“Never said it would be, little bro.”
“It was for you,” Ron muttered.
“Might've looked like it, but it wasn't, believe me. At the time, I'd've rather
faced a dozen Hungarian Horntails than Mum and Dad in the sitting room at home.
Coming out to them was one of the most frightening experiences of my life.
Looking back, I realise I made much ado about a whole lot of nothing. Our
parents love us Ronnie, no matter what. There's nothing that you could ever do
to change that.”
“I'm sure they'll be thrilled when they find out there's two shirt-lifters in
the family.”
Charlie frowned and punched Ron in the shoulder. Hard.
“Ow! Furry oaf!”
“Well, you deserved that.”
“Did not.” Ron rubbed his shoulder and finished his Corona.
“You know I'll always be there for you. You've gotta trust me on this. I know
it seems huge and horrible and damned insurmountable, but really, it isn't.
Once you come out to your friends and family, it's like a tremendous weight
evaporates straight off your shoulders. Sure, some people will shun you, but
fuck 'em. Your true friends, those that really love you for who you are, won't
care.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
Charlie nodded. “That's part of it right there. Trust in yourself and know who
and what you are. Makes things a lot easier for everyone else.” He took a
swallow of beer. “Like I said, I know you can do it.”
“If you say so.”
“Here's something else to consider,” Charlie continued in earnest. “If what
this Myrtle told you is true, then Harry's in almost precisely the same place
as you are—mentally, I mean. What if he's afraid of what you might think of him
if you knew that he was into blokes? What if he's turning to Diggory because he
hasn't a clue that you really fancy him? It's possible, isn't it?”
Ron turned Charlie's words over in his head.
When he'd first entertained the notion that he might be queer, the very next
thought to shoot through his addled brain had been that perhaps Harry might be
queer as well. Now that it appeared that his best mate was into blokes too, it
did take some of the weight from his shoulders. It'd be one more thing that
they had in common. Of course it didn't mean that Harry would automatically
fancy him, but the only way to know for certain was to talk about it.
With Harry.
Why did everything make perfect sense when Charlie said it?
Ron stared at Charlie for a long moment. “You're bloody amazing, you know
that?”
“Just a tad older and wiser, that's all.” He shrugged and finished his beer.
“I wish I could talk to Harry like I can talk to you.”
“You can.” Charlie's gaze met Ron's.
“It's not the same.”
“I'd imagine not, since I've known you your entire, sorry life. Give it time.
I've seen you two together, and when you're in sync, you and Harry are as
connected as you and me.”
Ron shook his head. “There'll never be anyone else like you.”
“And I know a few Hogwarts professors who are thankful for that fact.” Charlie
mussed Ron's hair and stood up, moving about the bedchamber and extinguishing
the oil lamps. “It's getting late, and you need some rest. Plenty of studying
ahead tomorrow.” He picked up his wand from the mantel and cast an alarm charm.
The misty clock face hovered in the air, the numeral seven glowing faintly.
Now the only light in the room came from the flickering embers in the hearth.
Ron watched as Charlie shuffled the parchments on the desk, organizing them
into neat stacks. The dim, orange light outlined his brother's form like a sort
of halo. His heart seemed to swell in his chest, feelings of pride and
admiration coursing through him.
He couldn't imagine ever being without Charlie.
Another move became clear to him, inherently bold but impossible to ignore. Ron
knew that a sound strategy required risk, and one who always played it safe
rarely if ever won the game.
He stood and stepped behind Charlie, sliding his arms under the vest and
encircling his hands around Charlie's waist. He pressed himself fully against
his brother's back, his cock stirring in his sleep pants.
Charlie started almost imperceptibly as Ron tightened the embrace, pausing only
a moment before placing his hands over Ron's. He tilted his head back slightly,
sucking in a deep breath and letting it out very slowly.
Ron nuzzled Charlie's right ear, his tongue teasing the shell of it. His
brother's hair smelled heavenly. “Mum's gonna say you need a haircut.”
Charlie's breathing hitched as he sighed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ron's right hand drifted downward to ghost over the laced fronts of
Charlie's leathers. He moaned as his fingers traced the thick outline of
Charlie's hard cock. Fully erect himself, Ron pushed into Charlie's arse,
rocking his hips ever so gently.
“Ronnie,” Charlie protested, pushing Ron's hand away from his hard-on. “We
shouldn't. S'not right.”
Ron immediately put his hand back, squeezing Charlie's cock as best he could
through the tight leather. “I don't care,” he breathed. “I love you.”
“And I love you,” Charlie countered, this time only covering Ron's probing
fingers with his own. “But this isn't...it's not helping either of us.”
“I don't care,” Ron repeated. “Please, Charlie? Show me what it's like. Teach
me.”
“You mean you've never—”
“Not really. Snogged some blokes, tossed 'em off. That's all.” Ron's fingers
worked feverishly to unlace Charlie's trousers. “I've never made love to
anyone. Or had anyone make love to me.”
“We can't,” Charlie gasped as Ron slipped his fingers into the leathers and
around his cock. “I don't want...can't take advantage of you.”
“You're not,” Ron persisted, releasing Charlie just long enough to turn his
older brother around to face him. “It's not like you're seeing anyone now,
anyway.”
“That's not the point.”
“The point is that I want this.”
Charlie swallowed hard. “You're only fifteen. Barely.”
“How old were you when you first snogged a bloke?” Ron asked, nuzzling the side
of Charlie's neck.
“Thirteen,” Charlie murmured.
“See? I'm old enough to know what I want.” Ron rubbed his erection into
Charlie's, gently swishing his hips back and forth.
“You're still underage. If anyone ever found out—”
Ron slipped the vest from Charlie's shoulders and it tumbled to the floor. He
ran his hands over his brother's firm pectoral muscles, stopping to tease
Charlie's firm, mounded nipples.
“Gods, I so want to hold you,” Charlie moaned, his hands resting hesitantly on
Ron's narrow hips.
“It's okay,” Ron soothed, exhilarated now that the momentum had shifted in his
direction.
Everything seemed so clear to him now. What had been a jumbled mass of
confusing signals and questions was now an orderly list, a series of actions
and reactions, very much like a chess game.
Why hadn't he thought of it that way before?
“This is just us, Charlie. It's all ours and no one else's. We'll always have
this, no matter what.”
“When did you get so wise, little bro?”
“Sometime last November, I think,” Ron quipped.
“Oh, man.” Charlie's eyes locked onto the tenting of Ron's sleep pants.
Ron pulled off his tank top, watching as Charlie's hungry eyes drank him in. He
couldn't understand how his brother could find him attractive, but then again,
what did it matter? Ron knew for certain that Charlie loved him; it was written
all over his brother's face.
He'd known it for years.
That was the key, wasn't it? The hows and whys of love were of no real
consequence. It was the knowing of it, the certainty that someone loved you
that truly counted.
He pushed down his sleep pants, releasing his aching cock that slapped once
against his belly before bobbing heavily and pointing directly at Charlie. As
he stepped out of them, Charlie shoved down his trousers, hopping crazily on
one foot to fully remove them.
Ron took in Charlie's naked body, every firm muscle and luscious curve,
marvelling at how perfectly gorgeous he was. He loved bloke's bodies, loved the
way they were put together, and it was completely fine.
It was okay to like blokes.
It was okay to want to touch and hold them.
It was okay to want to love them.
And who better to start the journey with than the one he loved most?
How could he have ever thought it could be wrong?
He stepped forward, slipping his arms around Charlie. The sensation of his
brother's firm, supple body against his, naked flesh to naked flesh, nearly
made Ron swoon. At least that's what he thought happened, as all the air seemed
to go out of the room. He ground his cock against his brother's, sliding their
erections together in a slow, deliberate friction.
Charlie muttered gibberish, his head buried in the crook of Ron's neck, his
meaty, callused hands massaging and squeezing Ron's arse with abandon.
Ron licked and nibbled along Charlie's jaw line, his brother's stubble sharp
and rough on his tongue. He reached Charlie's chin, and as he pulled back
slightly, Charlie raised his head at the same moment. The next instant, they
crashed their lips together, Charlie's determined tongue demanding access to
Ron's mouth. Ron opened wide and Charlie ravished him. Ron grabbed onto his
brother's clenching arse with both hands and held on.
Everything felt so intense, amazing and utterly unbelievable. Ron had never
felt anything like it before. The handful of fumbling, frenzied encounters that
he'd had with other frightened boys in deserted loos or dark corners of the
Castle were nothing compared to this.
He he could feel every single pore and hair on his body individually, as if
each was charged with electricity and somehow Charlie knew how to activate and
release it. Ron never wanted it to stop, and the sensation of Charlie's furry,
sweat-slicked chest against his was mind-numbing, almost beyond description.
Charlie bucked his hips more firmly, backing Ron against the foot of the bed.
Ron lost his balance as the backs of his knees contacted the edge of the
mattress. He flopped backward with a yelp, more distressed at being suddenly
apart from Charlie than anything else. He gazed at Charlie, who stood at the
foot of the bed, absently fingering his thick cock.
Charlie knelt down laying a hand on each of Ron's knees. He slid his hands
along Ron's thighs, slowly climbing onto the bed, keeping himself low, as if he
were some sort of prowling animal. The firelight flickered and danced,
illuminating Charlie's features, highlighting the damp curls pasted to his
forehead.
The Fireball tattoo belched fire.
His hands finally reached Ron's hips, and Charlie drew himself up, his tongue
darting out to tease the underside of Ron's dick.
Ron gasped as Charlie seized the base of his prick with one hand, proceeding to
swirl his tongue around the head of Ron's dick, lapping up the drops of fluid
there. Ron bucked with each swipe of his brother's tongue.
Charlie stopped for a moment, a knowing grin plastered to his face—then
proceeded to swallow Ron's cock to the root.
“Fuck!” Ron barked out, grabbing bunches of the coverlet in both hands as
Charlie sucked and slurped at his cock, slowly lifting his head and working his
way up Ron's length.
Charlie dragged his teeth along the underside of Ron's erection. When he
reached the tip, he swirled his tongue around the head once, teased the slit
for the briefest of moments, and went down on Ron again, repeating the process.
Ron had never known that a blowjob could be so bloody brilliant. His brother
was a bona fide expert compared to those who'd come before. He threaded his
fingers into Charlie's sweaty mane of hair and closed his eyes, grunting and
gasping at each of Charlie's ministrations, the telltale heat building in his
bollocks.
“Charlie...Charlie! Shit!”
Charlie released his dick instantly, wiping the back of his hand across his
lips. He crawled on top of Ron, sliding his own neglected erection against his
brother's. “You liked that, eh?” he growled, leaving a trail of kisses to Ron's
cheek.
“Gods, yes,” Ron managed to splutter between breaths. “You're incredible.”
“So're you.”
“I love the way you feel,” Ron gushed, his hands caressing the firm globes of
Charlie's arse. “Merlin.”
Charlie smirked as he sat up and summoned something from his duffel, a small
tube flying right into the palm of his left hand.
Ron used his elbows to push himself to the centre of the bed. “You're
beautiful, you know?”
“Stop that,” Charlie grunted, squeezing out a dollop of goop into his palm.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.” Charlie knee-walked up the mattress, straddling Ron's
thighs. He grabbed Ron's dick and slathered the stuff all along his cock.
“Unnnnggghhnnn!” Ron mewled. “That's cold...oh, hell!” Shock quickly morphed to
ecstasy as Charlie stroked him firmly, the slick substance warming incredibly
fast.
“Muggles make the best lube.” Charlie released Ron's dick to coat his own
erection, lowering himself on top of his little brother, adjusting his position
and fisting both of their cocks with his right hand. “Just relax, bro.”
Ron closed his eyes as Charlie suckled at the side of his neck. Ron wrapped his
arms around Charlie, trailing his fingers all over his brother's broad back.
Charlie ground his hips, slowly at first, but with increasing speed.
Ron loved the feeling of Charlie's weight on him, covering him, protecting him.
It made him feel safe and totally secure.
It didn't take long for the heat to return, building steadily as Charlie thrust
against him. It erupted from the depths and he cried out his brother's name,
spatters of come coating his belly and chest with a few flecks reaching his
face.
Charlie gave a final, firm nibble to the skin of Ron's shoulder and released
him, hoisting himself up and sitting on his haunches once more.
Ron watched as Charlie pistoned his cock mercilessly, his free hand tugging and
squeezing his bollocks.
A few moments later, Charlie threw his head back, grunting loudly as the thick,
ropey strings of his release spurted across his thighs and the coverlet. He
fingered his softening dick, opening his eyes and gazing at Ron. He leaned
forward to drag his fingers through the cooling spunk on Ron's belly, licking
each finger in turn, sucking them in to the first knuckle until his tongue had
scoured them all clean.
Ron didn't know what to say.
What could he say?
He felt wonderful, content, without a single care in the world. This had to be
that blissed feeling he'd heard so much about.
He couldn't understand how he'd been so worried about things. Sure, he had
issues, but he'd sort them out. Everything would be fine.
He yawned and shivered, despite the toasty atmosphere in the bedchamber.
Charlie chuckled and lay next to him, a muscular arm thrown over Ron's chest.
He snuggled against Ron, lazily lapping at the bruise blossoming on Ron's
shoulder. “That's gonna be something come morning.”
“Don't care,” Ron said through another yawn. Why was he suddenly so tired?
“I like to leave marks,” Charlie commented dreamily.
“Fine with me.”
“This is just between us, yeah?”
“Just us,” Ron confirmed, pulling Charlie in tight.
They lay there on top of the coverlet, sated and sticky, for a long time.
Ron drifted off to sleep, and the next thing he knew, there was nothing but a
few embers left in the hearth and the room had turned decidedly chilly.
Charlie snored at his side.
“Charlie? Hey, wake up.” He jostled his older brother, who snorted twice before
sitting straight up and glancing wildly around the bedchamber.
“Wha? Who? Have the eggs hatched already?” The Fireball tattoo belched out a
few tiny bursts of flame.
“You're at Hogwarts, you big speckled git.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Bloody hell, but it's freezing in here.” He cast a wandless
cleansing charm on them both before leaping from the mattress and pulling back
the covers. “C'mon, get in before our bits freeze off.”
“How about a warming charm, too?” Ron said through chattering teeth.
“Bossy little twat, ain't ya?”
“Learned it all from you.”
“Except the respecting one's elders thing, apparently.”
Ron slid under the covers and flopped on his side, smiling as Charlie's warmer
coursed through the sheets.
The mattress dipped as Charlie climbed in and pulled the coverlet up and over
them. The next moment, Charlie's warm body pressed against his back, a meaty
arm curling about his waist and pulling him close. He covered Charlie's hand
with his own, feeling more comfortable than he could ever recall.
“Charlie?”
“What?”
“Thanks.”
“No worries.”
“Charlie?”
“What, Ron?”
“Love you, man.”
“Me too, Ronnie. Now shut it and go to sleep.”
Ron listened as Charlie's breathing slowed to an even rhythm, his brother's
breath warm on the back of his neck.
He had a busy day ahead of him come morning.
There was much studying to be done, and he'd finally have that talk with Harry.
He'd tell him everything, all the things he should've said a long time ago.
What happened after that, Ron couldn't be sure.
All he was certain of was that he'd be back in Charlie's arms tomorrow night.
 
                         *~~~~~~~~~~* fin *~~~~~~~~~~*
 
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