Fic: Call it Affinity Part II

Title: Call it Affinity
Word Count: 6,975 total
Warnings: Angst, Confusion, AU, Underage
Rating: Pg here, nc-17 in the next part
Summary:One minute there are pawns stealing quaffles and rooks dodging bludgers, and the next it’s Potter, Harry, Harry Potter everywhere – and how could Ron have ever forgotten?
A/N: This was written for the Harry & Ron Fuh-Q-Fest over at harry_and_ron community.

Call it Affinity

Part II

There is a poignant pause before Potter lets out a shaky laugh, “Very funny, Mate.”

                But it’s Ron’s face that reveals he’s not joking. Ron really doesn’t know who this boy is. Why should he? They’d only just met, hadn’t they?

                Hermione lets out a strangled hiccup before crumbling in her chair. Potter is sitting frozen in his. Flitting emotions race across his face and Ron can’t help but be enraptured by them. He likes how expressive Potter is. And then his face settles and Ron doesn’t know if he likes it anymore. Betrayal smolders in Potter’s eyes. Ron’s insides twist at the sight.

The hospital wing suddenly drops temperature very quickly, ice crackling across the windows. Next to his bed the potion vials shatter, green and grey liquids frozen into miniature cylinders. Ron shivers and gasps and his body arches. The air is sharp with the cold, cutting down his throat, tearing his lungs. Ron can hardly breathe. He is left gaping and suffocating and not knowing what to do, all in the space of five seconds.

“Stop it, Harry!” Hermione shrieks, jumping up from her chair, “Look what you’ve done!”

And just as suddenly as it came, the cold seeps away. Only it hasn’t vanished completely. It’s gone inside of Potter, Harry, because instead of smoldering, now his eyes are just hollow. Ron coughs weakly, not feeling relieved at all. Wetness dribbles from his nose. Red splotches appear on his hospital gown as it drips from his chin. Funny that this shouldn’t hurt when what Ron can’t see hurts most of all. Maybe he’s just delusional.

“I’m sorry,” Potter sighs, “let me help.”

Potter summons a rag and spells it wet. While he dabs at Ron’s face, he explains that he met with Madam Pomfrey before coming to visit. She said that it’s best for direct magic not to be cast on him, in case it worsens his delicate position. Ron scoffs, but swallows his complaints. Being taken care of like this is a pleasant change. Ron likes this sudden gentle Potter. It’s almost like the blood is being caressed away. Potter’s fingers dance across his face in time with the lullaby he is now humming faintly. Ron is lulled to sleep long before the bleeding stops.  

Ron wakes to somebody asleep next to him. The mattress is too small; they’re both lying half off, half tangled together.  Ron flounders for a plausible explanation. Even after he struggles to sit, Ron doesn’t recognize the boy beside him right away. He knows that maybe, possibly, the messy black hair and jagged scar should produce a name. Ron is disappointed when nothing comes. He takes defeat in stride, curling against the boy’s warmth to covet what little time Ron surely has left of him.

His bed partner only awakens once Ron succumbs to a shivering fit. The green, green eyes startle him just as much as the strong arms offering support. Relief floods through his veins, washing away the discomfort. Ron melts into the boy’s embrace. Surely mental recognition pales in comparison to this. While Ron’s body is dying, his soul is not. No memories are needed for a connection as deep rooted as theirs. Ron could lie like this forever if forever was an option.

“Should I get Pomfrey?” The boy asks, levitating Ron’s potion tray onto the bed with them.

Ron shakes his head. What more could she do for him, anyway? Let her tend to the other patients. They need her most.

“Can you tell me your name?”

The boy stiffens. Ron is hyper aware because they’re lounging back to front and suddenly it’s not so comfortable anymore. A minute drags by, imaginary fingers grasping at nothing. Then another. Ron clears his throat, winces, coughs.

“I’m Ron,” He says carefully, “But you probably already know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” The boy answers, “Yes, I do.”

And that makes Ron unbearably sad. He wants to remember this boy. He really, really wants to. Ron hopes his memory won’t be impaired forever. Dying without knowing, Ron can’t even entertain the thought.

“Let me know you now,” Ron begs, body twisting awkwardly in the tight embrace.

The expression on the boy’s face is strained. He reaches around Ron to grab a potion off the tray while he thinks. Ron’s lips part obediently once the vial is held to his mouth, and he drinks it down in two consecutive gulps. Ron’s almost used to the taste. It’s not long before his stomach settles and the shivers stop, but the boy’s still not said a word. Ron wishes that he wasn’t such a big decision.

“Am I not worth it?” Ron asks when he can’t bare the silence any longer.

“No,” The boy says, “That’s not it at all. I’d leave you alone if I could, but I can’t. You’re dying, Ron, and you don’t even bloody remember me.”

Ron frowns, hands clutching at the boy’s jumper. He rests his head on the boy’s chest, ear above heart, and just listens to it beat. The soft ba-dum, ba-dum soothes him right down to his toes.

“I recognize you,” Ron murmurs.

“Of course you do, I was here this afternoon.”

“You were?” Ron doesn’t remember. It seems he’s getting worse.

“This is why I don’t want to tell you who I am. What if you forget again?”

“I won’t,” Ron promises, though he can’t be certain, “Please tell me your name.”

“It’s Harry,” He says, and Ron feels like he’s known all along.

                Not ten minutes later Ron is transferred to St. Mungo’s for all of three days. The mediwizards, just as Madam Pomfrey, are unable to diagnose him. The gloomy atmosphere smothers Ron. Barred from visitors, he forgets how to fight. Ron surrenders to sleep and pain and flits in and out of reality. His dreams are hazy, fuzzed images of four-poster beds, slimy tunnels, and a giant black grim. It’s Harry that rescues him, barging into his room to floo them back to Hogwarts. Ron guesses that they’ll be in a lot of trouble once they’re found out, but he doesn’t care. He can finally breathe again.

Ron follows Harry through the castle, not surprised when they stop in front of the Room of Requirement. Inside is everything Ron could ever need to keep comfortable. Waiting for death is ominous, but Harry says he won’t leave his side again. And Harry keeps his word. He skips classes, summons Dobby for meals, and shares the bed with him when night falls. All day he’s nursed Ron, and now Harry is exhausted. Ron lets him sleep.

Shadows flicker all around from the fireplace. The heat curls around Ron’s body until Ron can stand it no more. He scrambles out of his clothes until he’s bare and the heat only has naked skin to lick. A whimper rises from his throat. Ron doesn’t feel right. He’s still so hot. It’s pooling in his abdomen, searing through his veins. Ron rolls towards Harry, lying oblivious beside him. There’s something wrong and Harry can fix it. Ron needs Harry to fix it.

Ron’s mouth opens, but words fail him. He reaches out, fingers ghosting over Harry’s mouth, cheeks, nose. He traces the jagged scar, mumbling soundless nonsense. Then there is an explosion of magic and Ron is surrounded by a whirlwind of memories.  He siphons through them, searching for the source. Ron ignores the cupboard with its spiders, ignores all of it, even his own face. He knows what he’s come for. It pulses before him, alive and whole. Ron basks in its power until he is pulled forward against his will, until there is nothing left between him and the magical core.

Ron shouts and writhes, but he can’t escape. His mind is pleasantly empty, but somehow Ron just knows that he shouldn’t be liking this. It’s wrong and sick and what the fuck is he doing to Harry?

                Make me stop. Make me stop. Make me stop.

                But Ron can’t. He’s not in control. Then he is, then he can, and everything melts away. Ron is collapsed on top of Harry, sweat binding them together. Relief crashes over him like a wave once he feels Harry’s chest rising and falling, warm breath puffing in his face. Ron casts a quick scourgify before picking himself up so Harry can move. But Harry’s not moving. He’s just lying there, consumed by sleep or something else like it even after Ron gives him a shake. And just as suddenly as the relief came, so too does the dread. It pools in Ron’s stomach like acid.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whisper-shouts, “Wake up, Harry.”

                There’s no response. Ron is beyond grief, unable to cry or scream or run for help. All he can do is stare and shake and hope to Merlin that Harry is okay, even when Ron knows that he’s not. What he’s done is unforgivable. Even now the memories are all seeping slowly back a week too late. How could Ron let that monster in? He should have been strong. Instead he was weak, instead he may have cost Harry his life.  

                “Enervate,” Ron says hoarsely.

                Though he doesn’t really expect the spell to work, Ron puts all the power he can into it anyway. He feels the magic well inside him. It pulses like it never has before, but Ron doesn’t take the time to notice. His wand vibrates with the amount of magic passing through it. The spell punches against Harry’s chest, enveloping him in life-light. It seeps beneath his skin until Harry’s veins are glowing with it, steadily moving to pool in his center. Ron doesn’t care that he’s glowing, too. His wand slips through his fingers to land on the bed. The magic is still as strong as ever. Ron falls forward from the drain, landing chest to chest and neck to neck. Harry gasps beneath him when the glowing meets and stops, eyes wide with wonder.

If anyone said Ron would be lovesick a week ago, let alone pining after his best mate, Ron probably would have laughed in their face; but, he wasn’t laughing now. Ron doesn’t know how or when or why his affection for Harry evolved into something wholly more complex. Both the attraction and the want seemingly came out of nowhere. Now Ron is so euphorically happy that he forgets himself. He holds Harry’s tight, fingers tangling in his messy hair. Then their lips are mashing together in a desperate kiss and Ron isn’t certain who is kissing who. Harry groans into Ron’s mouth, thrusting up beneath him to bring their bodies closer. A startled sigh escapes his lips when their erections meet. Ron moves a hand to Harry’s shoulder, fingernails grazing the visible skin around his neck line. Ron can feel his heat through the cotton night shirt, but Ron wants it off anyway. The room is still so hot. So hot that Ron feels on fire as they kiss and kiss and kiss – Perfect.

Harry brakes away first, panting. He rests his face in the crevice under Ron’s jaw. There he peppers sweet feather kisses, hair tickling Ron’s face. His legs wrap securely around Ron’s waist, drawing him down even further. Ron doesn’t mind. He gyrates his hips until a sharp gasp is elicited from Harry. His back arches up off the mattress, toes curling.

Ron runs his hands down Harry’s sides. He wishes their clothes were gone, but doesn’t have enough will to stop and fix that problem just yet. Ron firmly grabs hold of Harry’s arse, lifting him forcibly to rest groin to groin. A shiver of pleasure reverberates between them, gooseflesh rising.

“Ron,” Harry whispers huskily, head thrown back in abandon as they continue to rock together.

Ron can already feel that liquid heat beginning to pool in his abdomen. He doesn’t want it to end. Release shouldn’t come so soon. He wants them to be like this forever, just the two of them together, finally living off in their own Somewhere.

“S-stop” Ron says, “Harry – Uhn! – Wait.”

Harry stops, face scrunched in a mixture of frustration and concern. Ron brushes a sweaty lock of hair from Harry’s face with careful fingers. He’s done nothing wrong.

“Let’s do this right.”

So they do. Their clothes are torn off and flung carelessly away. Finally, finally, they are both gloriously naked and exposed, aroused and slightly embarrassed. Everything national, everything expected. It was all Ron could ever ask for, except…

“Harry,” Ron whispers into his ear, nibbling on the outer shell, “I want to be inside you now.”

There is no moments hesitation before Harry leans against Ron, pushing him down on the bed. Something desperate fills their next kiss, something needy. Ron tries to reassure Harry as best he can, cradling him tenderly in his arms.

“Only if you want to,” Ron says when he’s able.

The last thing he wants is for Harry to feel pressured. Sex shouldn’t be something to regret.

“What does that mean?”

“Harry,” Ron admonishes, pressing a sloppy kiss to his lips, “I want you to want me make love to you.”

Harry’s mouth twitches into a smile, a pretty blush tinting his cheeks. Then his hands are mapping every inch of Ron’s body, eyes relit with passion. Wet kisses trail down Ron’s neck, teeth scraping at his collar bone. When Harry’s lips encircle a pert nipple, Ron can’t help but whimper. He never knew that he could ever feel this good, this happy – but Harry’s hands are moving again, farther down. Ron becomes putty, ready and willing for anything Harry wants. When Harry’s calloused fingers wrap around Ron’s weeping erection, a throaty groan rumbles from his chest.

“Lube, lotion, something,” Ron pants, frantically looking around for some sort of lubrication.

A vial of it appears on the bedside table. Ron reaches for it, stretching under Harry as he crawls back up Ron’s chest. Their lips connect, molding together in a tender kiss. Ron melts beneath the onslaught, lubrication forgotten until Harry thrusts down against his groin. He spreads the oil generously over his fingers. Harry leads them down his body to his entrance. Ron runs a nail along Harry’s perineum, thumbs at the puckered hole, until oil glistens and runs down Harry’s thighs. Only once Harry is pushing back against him does Ron enter Harry with a single finger. He studies Harry’s face carefully, taking care that there is no pain.

“More,” Harry commands, shifting his hips for better access.

Ron complies, adding a second finger and scissoring them slowly to fit a third. When Ron finally slips his fingers from Harry, he hisses at the loss. Then Ron presses his erection to Harry’s entrance. Their eyes connect, green on blue. Harry’s hands clutch at Ron’s waist, knuckles white, but there is a look of profound wonder on his face when he impales himself over Ron’s erection. They arch together.

“Keep going,” Harry urges, sliding up Ron’s erection, up Ron’s chest, and then back down.

Their sex is uncoordinated and sloppy, but everything Ron could ever want. He feels so connected to Harry, and not just because of the penetration. This is so much more than sexual gratification. Ron flexes his hips to meet Harry thrust for thrust. It’s in and out, kiss and breathe. Any sense of self control is lost once Ron brushes that spot deep within Harry that makes him writhe and yelp in undeniable pleasure. The pressure mounts quickly, faster than before. Ron’s hands rake up Harry’s back, mindless of the shallow marks he leaves behind. The sound of flesh hitting flesh fills his ears, Harry’s muffled groans sending jolts of electricity to Ron’s groin.

Harry stiffens and screams when he comes, erection caught snugly between their grinding bodies. His seed splatters up their chests. It’s Harry’s muscles clenching around him that tears the orgasm from Ron. With one final, brutal thrust Ron empties himself inside of Harry before collapsing.

“What just happened?” Harry asks breathlessly.

Ron rolls on his side to face him. Harry’s face is still flushed, chest heaving up and down. He laces their fingers together.

“Which part?” Ron grins lazily. 

“The one where you went from dying to having sex, and maybe what happened in between.”

“Oh,” Ron says, “That part.”

So Ron tells him, mind and mouth disconnected in the darkness. He explains that because he was weak, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wormed his way inside. Ron was nothing more than a vessel used to attack Harry. The first night it happened, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced Ron to directly attack Harry’s magic. But his plan backfired. Once Ron came in contact with Harry’s magical core, Ron was able to fight back – but he wasn’t able to get him out.

“What I don’t understand,” Ron continues, “Is why he’s finally gone now. What changed?”

Harry smiles and cuddles closer, pulling the blankets over both of them. He doesn’t look concerned at all anymore.

“That’s simple, Ron,” Harry says, “We’ve connected.”

But Ron still doesn’t understand at all.

“I’m talking about fate here – when feelings are so powerful it’s as if some force beyond your control is guiding you to someone who can make you happy beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Harry, you’re still not making any sense,” Ron sighs.

“Call if affinity, Ron. When you attacked me, our souls connected."

A/N: So this was quite the wild ride to write. I thought I would never finish. Between work and life, I had one hell of a time getting it all out. Seriously, nothing like a trip to the ER for inspiration, right? I apologize that it hasn't been betad. I hope it wasn't too hard to understand.