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[said_scarlett]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY lennaofmidearth!

I wrote you a little something for your birthday. And by 'little something', I mean eleven page fic. I hope you enjoy! (And your package is on its way, as well.) Have an awesome birthday!

Title: To Find the Words
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Rating: R
Summary: There's nothing wrong with Ron. He's not good with words, and he's not like everyone else (but he's like some everyone elses) but he knows there's nothing wrong with him.




Ron didn’t think there was anything wrong with him. Not really, anyway. Wrong wouldn’t be the proper word, despite select opinions on the subject. He just didn’t like the word, he didn’t think it fit. Words had always been a downfall for him. Different? No, Ron didn’t like that word either. Different had too many unfavorable connotations. Things that were different weren’t always good. Could go either way, really.

There was always ‘unique’. But wasn’t everybody unique? And he wasn’t really unique, not when it came to this. Sadly, Ron didn’t have that many words. He could never remember them, never keep then ordered in his mind. Hermione had one of those special books that was full of words for other words, and he’d gone so far as to nick it out of her rucksack. It was full of other words that he didn’t like either. Words like ‘contradistinctive’, ‘incommensurable’, ‘anomalous’ and ‘heteroclite’. All of which Ron had a hard time accepting as real words.

And none of them fit. None of them were words he had any desire to attribute to himself. Why did people even need words? Well, so many words anyway. Wasn’t one word for something enough? Apparently not.

His lack of words was beginning to bring Ron Weasley down to a rather despondent point of depression. (Despondent was one of those words he’d found in Hermione’s special book.) He had taken to retreating into the library - something wholly unusual for him - and attempting to bury himself in books. But books and Ron didn’t get along all that well. Maybe it was because of the army of words that they held between their pages.

Hermione was brilliant with words. They came naturally to her. He imagined them all lined up in her mind, like millions of soldiers in their tidy barracks. They were there, all just waiting to be released at the command of their master.

It really wasn’t fair, that some people could control and wield words with seemingly-flawless skill. Words on his tongue were like a greased club in his hands. He simply couldn’t wield them with any amount of success.

His strange behavior was not going unnoticed. It was wholly impossible for one Harry Potter (best friend of Ron, and the source of his recent etymological confusion) to not notice the red-haired boy’s sudden change in behavior. And Ron knew this and, in a rather counterproductive gesture, went further out of his way to avoid Harry.

It should be stated now that while Ronald Weasley had a mind for strategy like no other mind in his age group, he had never quite mastered common sense. This, as we will soon find out, was both a good thing and a bad thing.

Our story truly begins on one late November evening, when Ron was (as per usual these days) hiding in the library with a book he wasn’t actually reading. It was open in front of him, and he would even go so far as to turn pages, but it was all part of an elaborate facade designed to keep Madame Pince from kicking him out. It did not, however, fool Harry.

Harry knew Ron better than most. That tended to happen when two boys were best friends for nearly seven years, and shared a dormitory and often-times a bedroom over the summer as well. Personality quirks, speech mannerisms and other little things tended to slosh over and ooze from one to the other and back until both boys had the underlying feeling they would be perfectly comfortable in the other’s skin.
But other things could happen. Strange things, dangerous things. Things that confused and baffled Ron, and sent him hiding in the safety of the library. (Though the fact that it took Harry only half an hour to find the other boy rather opposes the idea of the library as being a good hiding place.)

“Ron?”

The word shuffled nervously through the dry-page-dust of the library, and crept into Ron’s ears. It made him jump.

“Harry.”

The library was still and empty on this particular day, most students either in the village or their common rooms. Madame Pince was tucked away behind the desk, far in the front of the library and out of sight of the two seventh years.

Now what? Names had been uttered in lieu of greetings, and now both boys simply stared. Not that this bothered Ron. He quite liked staring at Harry. Harry’s unruly black hair, Harry’s large green eyes, Harry’s petite nose, his cupid’s bow lips....

“Can we talk?”

Ron was again surprised. He’d been lost in visual study, traveling the well-mapped lines of Harry’s face.

“Talk?” When it doubt, repeat the last thing heard.

“Yeah.” Harry sat down, uninvited. But why would Ron turn him away?

“Yeah.” Still in the repetition phase, Ron desperately sought some excuse not to have a Talk with Harry. He wasn’t stupid, he knew what was coming. The sort of Talk that was heavy and thick and smothering and sometimes stale. The sort that made Ron’s skin crawl and stomach sink, and made his shoes feel too tight about his feet.

“I feel like you’re mad at me.”

A sentence that Ron couldn’t hope to parrot back without some question of sanity.

“Not mad,” Ron said, shaking his head. The gesture served duel purpose, both advocating his statement and blurring his expression. Harry didn’t need to see the panic-scared glint in his eyes.

“Upset?” Harry never knew when to drop things. But then again, neither did Ron. They both pushed and pushed until the other broke, shoving roughly like two children on a playground.

“No.” More head-shaking. Harry was staring again. Harry was good at staring, he had eyes that were just made to do it. Large and expressive and so bloody green. Green was a sharp colour, a cutting colour. It wasn’t soft like brown or pliant like blue, it was a razor edge color. “No, I’ve just been busy,” Ron found himself adding on.

“Busy?” Aha! Now Harry was reduced to mimicry! Ron felt a strange surge of triumph at this new development. But alas, his triumph was fleeting. “Busy with what?”

“NEWTs and stuff.” Vague. Vague was good. Be vague, but not evasive - that was the ticket!

“It’s only November, Ron. Unless you’re being blackmailed by Hermione, I can’t see you cracking down on NEWTs this early.”

“Well, you know. Last year and all.” Yes, very vague. But sensical! You wouldn’t find Ron Weasley babbling off nonsensical chatter when faced with an uncomfortable situation, no indeed!

“Ron....”

And that was his undoing. Harry’s lips forming that perfect oval, his name falling from it like the dust from a butterfly’s wing. Ron sighed, a heavy sound that was at home amongst the heavy tomes of the library.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think we should.”

Push. Harry was going to push. And Ron (as he had always done) would crumble.

“Nothing to talk about.” His first mistake! Contradiction! And Harry was no amateur in the art of the Talk, he’d pick up on that.

“Then what don’t you want to talk about?”

Bloody hell! How could he have slipped up like that? He was really rattled today. Desperation began setting in.

“I’m busy.” Which wasn’t even an answer. Not to the question asked, at any rate.

“I’m not stupid, Ron.”

Ron’s head snapped up. These were dangerous waters they were headed into now. Those words never heralded anything favourable.

“Course you’re not.” Agreement was always good.

“And you’re...well, you’re not all that discreet, Ron.”

Were those jagged rocks out there between the waves? And was that a storm on the horizon? Why yes, Ron thought, it was.

“Um?” Ron wanted to beat himself mentally. That was probably the worst response possible. All it did was give Harry a tactical advantage! It was like leaving the fortress doors wide open and hanging a sparkly sign over the head of the king!

“Uh...yeah.”

It seemed Harry’s tactical skills were on par with that of a sea cucumber.

“Yeah?”

They were both floundering. But Ron was beginning to recover. He knew the trick here. He couldn’t give too much away, he needed to find out what Harry knew.

“I just...well....um....”

“You just what?” Ron was pushing now, with as much force as Harry had. “You just what?”

“Been noticing things! Little things. Look, never mind.”

How the tables had turned! Now Ron was in control! Ron held the reins of the conversation now!

“No, no.” Ron shook his head. “You wanted to talk, so talk. What have you been noticing? What are these things we should be talking about?”

Harry’s head drooped. Ron had the feeling that things weren’t going as Harry had planned.

“Just....I dunno. Let’s just forget about it?”

“Nope.” Ron shook his head, barely fighting the smile that wanted to crease his lips. He had envisioned this spiraling downhill and smashing him against those jagged rocks he had imagined earlier. Now it was Harry who was in danger.

“I just - and don’t get hacked off at me! - I just thought you’d been...you know. Looking at me. Lately.”

“I do have eyes Harry, and that is what they tend to do.” He was even being witty! Yes, Ron was back on point!

“No, I mean, looking.” And Harry was looking at the tabletop now, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks to stain his face in Christmas colors.

“Looking like how?” Slipping, slipping, Ron could feel himself beginning to slip. Why had he pushed, why?

“Like. Um. Like how Ginny used to look at me....”

“Oh.” A flat sound. A muted-trumpet sound. A defeated sound. Ron would have never made a class poker player.

“Just ‘oh’?”

“Not much else I can say to that,” Ron said with a casual shrug. Inside he was anything but casual. Inside he was searching desperately for that word, that word that was only needed when it came to Harry. Inside he was panicking.

“You could say ‘larks Harry, you daft bugger! I do not look at you like that!’”

“When have I ever said ‘larks?” Ron had to laugh. Harry made him queasy and confused and strange, but he always made him laugh.

“You never know. You could start. Maybe you pick today to start. Alright, come on. Awkward part’s out of the way, let’s talk now?”

“I repeat myself, mate. What do you want me to say?” Ron gave another shrug, and tipped his chair back. It wobbled dangerously, so he let it rest on four legs again.

“I want you to say whatever it is you need to say. That’s all.” Harry’s hands had found their pockets, even though he was sitting. Harry had the amazing ability to slouch into his pockets, regardless of his position. It was probably genetic or something.

“So...maybe I do look. What would you say to that? You know, hypothetically speaking.”

“Wow, ‘hypothetically’. You’re pulling out the big words today.” But it was said with a smile and a warm tone. “If you do look? I dunno. Then....I guess we’d have to talk about why you look. And. Um. Stuff.” And Harry’d been doing so well up until that point.

“Stuff? No stuff to talk about, really. Unless you’ve been looking back and I haven’t noticed.” Hypothetically, of course, but Ron realized that it was silly to keep up that facade. Harry just shrugged, and Ron had a revelation. Why had he gone to such lengths to avoid Harry? It was always so easy to talk with Harry. The words always came okay when he talked to Harry. Because it was Harry. There was no other way to explain it.

“So how long?”

“I dunno.” And he didn’t. Ron couldn’t pin something as massive and sprawling as this into the constraints of something so mundane as time. “A while, I guess. Why?”

“Just curious. It doesn’t bother me or anything.” Now Harry was casual. Too casual? Maybe.

“That’s good. I guess.”

“So...this mean you’re camp?”

“No!” It didn’t mean he was anything. But it did. And therein lay the crux of the problem.

“Hey, calm down, it’s fine if you are. I mean...you know. We all...look at blokes. Sometimes. I mean...I’ve done it. A couple of times. It’s no big deal.” There was no casualness now. There was a distinct lack of casualness.

“Oh yeah?” Ron couldn’t help but be curious. He leaned forward, conspiratorially. Libraries had ears, you know.

“Well...yeah.”

“And? Come on, I want grisly details.” A ghost of a grin painted Ron’s lips.

“Why? I didn’t get any, why should you?”


“I’ve got none to give, mate.” Ron spread his hands. He didn’t, either. He didn’t fantasize about Harry, or anything crass like that. Not much, anyway. Not in a dirty way, at any rate. And it wasn’t like he stared in the showers. Much. For very long, anyway.

“Well, you bunk with blokes and all, you start to look. I mean, I can admit you’re a...you know. Fine looking bloke. You’ve....well, you’ve got nice legs.”

Nice legs? Nice legs? “Nice legs?”

“Well...yeah. They’re long and they’re nice shaped.”

“My legs? I’m not a bloody girl, mate. You complement girls on their legs.”

“But you’ve got nice legs!” Harry’s tone was indignant. But not seriously so. “And the rest of you isn’t too bad either.”

“Yeah?” Ron tossed his hair (which was too short to toss properly) and attempted to give Harry a sultry look.

“Not when you make fish eyes like that, no....”

“Was not making fish eyes,” Ron protested. “I was making calves eyes, there’s a difference.”

“Sure there is. Anyway, yeah. You’re a decent looking bloke. I might even go so far as to say cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah. You’re all freckly, so cute’s about as good as I can do you.” But there was an easy smile on Harry’s face. Because it was easy, between them it was always easy.

Perhaps it was the ease that helped slick the way for Ron’s next move. Perhaps that ease was like butter for him, and he simply slid along a greased track. He leaned forward, his cute freckled face pausing only when it was right before Harry’s, and attempted to kiss the other boy. Attempted not because Harry pulled away, but because Ron had never before kissed and didn’t quite understand the logistics of noses and glasses rims and chins. He managed to bump his face against Harry’s, lips in the general vicinity of lips, and retreat in shame to his side of the table.

“Huh,” Harry responded after a moment of silence. “And you know...it was still better than with Cho?”

Ron blushed. Weasley red surged up his cheeks and colored him the same as his hair.

“So why didn’t you tell me?” Harry asked, standing suddenly.


“Just cause,” Ron said, following suite. He assumed he should, as Harry’s razor sharp eyes were looking at him in anticipation. Expectation. There was something more to come.

“Would’ve saved us a hell of a lot of hassle.” Harry was leading him out of the library. Ron’s legs followed with no instruction from Ron’s brain.

“How was I supposed to know? For all I knew you’d freak out over me....you know.”

“You know me better than that.” Or I thought you did, were the unspoken words that Ron heard after it. Up the stairs to Gryffindor tower. The common room was full but the dorms were empty.

“I know I do.” Now, anyway.

“So what now?” Harry, sitting on the edge of his bed. Kicking off his shoes with exaggerated ease.

“I dunno.” He took a chance, sitting on the bed beside Harry. Was he imaging it, or could he feel the heat from Harry’s thighs against his own?

“Fat lot of good you are,” Harry mumbled. He was in his socks now, his shoes laying forlorn and toppled in the middle of the room.

“Yeah, well....” He shrugged. “I probably shouldn’t even have to say this, but I don’t want the other guys knowing I’m....you know.” He’d heard all about Seamus’ views of the ‘queers and dykes’. He didn’t want to deal with that.

“That you’re what?” Harry pressed. “You said you weren’t camp. Which, you know, is pretty flattering for me...”

“Stuff it,” Ron said, but Harry’s hand was suddenly on his knee and he couldn’t manage even mock-venom.

“No, I mean it.”

“Yeah, me too.” Would it be wrong to cover Harry’s hand with his own? Apparently not, as it had already happened and now Harry’s hand was beneath his own. And they were both damp and clammy.

“So what are you?”

What was he? All the words came streaming through his head and he still hated them all. Not a single one of them was his word. Why wasn’t there a word for Ron? He didn’t want to answer, so he tried kissing Harry again. It went a little better this time, lips met lips in a slick and wet snog that was better than anything Ron had shared with Lavender Brown or whichever girl it had been that had let him snog her. But noses kept getting in the way, and Harry’s glasses dug into Ron’s cheek.

“Your glasses,” Ron muttered, and Harry took them off. And then Ron’s lips were back, insistent and curious. Thinking about kissing Harry and actually kissing him were two different things. Harry’s lips were wet, and slightly chapped. Quidditch did that. Ron’s own lips were chapped as well, but he hardly gave that a thought. And Harry’s hand was twitching under his, Harry’s fingers were making furrows in his trousers.

“Um. This is okay, right?” Ron pulled back, suddenly worried. Harry shrugged, but it was enough for him. A deep breath, and it was back to snogging. This time Ron ventured a go with his tongue. He snuck it between Harry’s lips when they were busy moving against his own, and was met with no barrier of teeth. Harry’s mouth tasted like pumpkin juice and pastries. Breakfast. It was a good taste, and it was warm and wet and Harry’s tongue was moving against his and all of a sudden Ron realized how hard he was. And then wondered if Harry knew he was hard, or if Harry himself was hard, as well.

Harry was breathing heavily and in little pants against Ron’s mouth. And his hand was so much damper now, and it was clutching at Ron’s thigh desperately. They should have their arms around each other. The though occurred to Ron suddenly, and he did his best to accommodate it. He wrapped his arms around Harry, but that made the kissing difficult. Human bodies weren’t meant to be bent that way for very long.

“You never answered my question.” Harry’s lips were now on Ron’s neck, and Ron remembered those nights when the black haired Gryffindor would be out late with Parvati Patil, and would come back to the dorms flushed. Harry knew what he was doing, moreso than Ron anyway.

“Which one?” As if Ron could think? As if there was any blood flow to Ron’s brain? That had stopped somewhere back in the library, when Harry hadn’t socked him for the horrible snog.

“About you. And what you are? I mean...I already told you I sort of like blokes. I doubt I’d be doing this with you, if I didn’t. I mean, not that I don’t like it!” Such quick assurances! But it was so easy to doubt onself, when engaged in taboo proceedings. “I mean, I like it and all, even if it is a bit weird. But I like you, and I already told you I thought you were pretty good looking. And...you know. You’re my best mate. If you can’t snog your best mate, who can you snog? But...well, what are you?” Harry’s tongue was making patterns on his neck now, and his breath when he spoke was hot and ticklish. There was no skill or art in Harry’s caresses or kisses, but it felt as though there was because it was Harry.

“I’m....I dunno,” he admitted, closing his eyes and wishing for the words. His mind was still swirling with the things Harry had just said. “I don’t...don’t know what I am.” I don’t what to call myself. Harry drew back, and his eyes were darker than normal and his lips were flushed and bruised with kisses. Kisses from a freckled redhead who was also a bloke! Kisses that made said redhead’s mind soar.

“Oh,” Harry said, cocking his head to the side and regarding the firey haired boy with a look of scrutiny. “ Well, I suppose you’re just Ron.”

And coming from Harry, falling from those kiss-swollen lips, Ron thought that was the best word of all.