Late April

As soon as Ron walked in and saw them, he knew something was terribly wrong.

He'd been expecting to find Hermione, or maybe Harry and Hermione, getting things ready for this evening. The Chudley Cannons were tied for first place with Puddlemere United in the British and Irish League, which meant that he and Harry could root for both sides because Oliver Wood played for Puddlemere, and they'd devour pizza and butterbeer in ridiculous amounts and yell their heads off at the telly, while Hermione smiled indulgently and read something at least a hundred years old and two inches thick.

Instead, Hermione was curled up at one end of the couch, knuckle pressed to her lips, a tissue crumpled in her fingers. Harry stood across the room, hands shoved in pockets, apparently just turning away from a picture of the three of them at Hogsmeade.

They all stared at each other for a moment. Hermione's eyes were red from crying. "God, what is it?" Ron finally said.

To his surprise, Harry slowly turned away. With what seemed an enormous effort packed into a very small moment, Hermione touched the couch next to her. "Ron. Please sit down."

Sparing only a worried and somewhat suspicious glance at Harry, Ron put down his briefcase, sat down next to Hermione. "Okay...?"

Hermione could not meet his eyes. She tried to speak, but all she could manage was little sobbing breaths. "I- w-"

"What?"

"We had sex," said Harry, not turning around. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut against fresh tears.

A silence so vast filled the room that Ron actually heard his own eyes widen. "You did what?" he said at last.

"It - it just happened," said Hermione.

He'd known it would happen eventually, Ron suddenly realized. His entire married life had been spent waiting for this transgression. Which didn't stop him from exploding, "You 'just happened' to shag him!"

"We were just... sitting around this afternoon. Talking, laughing, having a wonderful time. A- and I gave him a hug, and he gave it back, and he looked at me, and - and he was right there, and, oh, Merlin, his eyes -"

"SHUT UP!" Ron jumped to his feet and loomed over her, his whole body shaking. "My god, shut up! D'you think I want to hear this?"

Hermione began to sob uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry, Ron. I'm so sorry."

Ron whirled to face Harry. "And you!"

"Me, Ron. Be as mad at me as you want." Harry's voice was quiet, deliberately flat. Ron knew that tone, the one that said Harry had so much emotion pent up that he dared not reveal any of it.

Oh, shit, they love each other. Oh, my god, no. No, no, no, fucking no...

"It has nothing to do with you, Ron," Hermione cried. "You've done nothing wrong. It's not you. Please, please believe that. Please. Ron, I do love you."

"Then why the fuck did you fuck him?"

"Because I love him, too!" she almost shrieked. "I always have! I love you, Ron... but -"

"How long have you been doing it?"

"Just the once -"

"HOW LONG?"

"It just happened today, Ron." Harry's voice was too fucking calm. "It's not her fault -"

"The hell it's not! Jesus fucking -" Ron turned and stormed out. One of the small windows in the door shattered as he slammed it shut.

"Tom! S'more damn f- firewhiskey!"

Frowning, Tom came around the bar to the table where Ron sat, elbows on the table, face half-buried in his fists, flanked by enough empty glasses to stand in for a Wizard's Chess set. "You've had about six too many, Mr. Weasley. Either go home, or go upstairs and sleep it off."

Ron did not budge, except to speak. "Gimme the damn whiskey or I'll hex you int' next month."

"Today's the thirtieth, mate." The wards bristled around the fixtures at the hint of danger to the innkeeper, but Tom glanced around and waved them down. He fished into his apron, pulled out a key, and laid it on the table. "Room three, top of the stairs. Get some sleep."

Can't sleep, thought Ron. Can't anything. Can't trust my friend, can't trust my wife, can't keep her happy, can't hold my liquor. Can't see the obvious. All the little looks, and sighs, and words, and everything just for him.

Him. Him him him. Time was, if I was in a state like this, they'd've come looking for me. Heh. They might be.

They're my two best friends.

They are. I need them. I need them.

I bet they're doing it now. I can see them twined around each other. Laughing.

Or crying.

What the fuck do I do? It's not like I can make them suddenly not be in lo-

And then he stopped.

His eyes focused for the first time in hours.

By the time he stood up, he was stone sober. He slapped some galleons on the table, and headed for the door.

He could've Apparated. But he walked, almost four miles, rolling it around in his head until he was absolutely sure of himself and his plan.

The door was closed when he got home, the small window already fixed. When he opened the door, he saw his wife sitting on the couch in much the same position she had been, only this time Harry was sitting next to her, a comforting arm around her shoulders. They looked up in surprise and - good - guilt as he came in. Harry pulled away from her, started to stand up. "Ron -"

Ron raised his wand and aimed it at Harry. "Obliviate!"

Harry was caught completely off guard. The spell struck him square in the forehead, and he wobbled a moment before collapsing back onto the couch, eyes vacant.

"Harry!" Hermione reached for him, looked up in astonishment at Ron. "Wh-"

"Obliviate!" This time, Ron's spell struck Hermione, and she sprawled back into the couch with a soft cry.

Ron stood for a moment, trembling, looking at his two best friends. "You didn't fuck him," he said softly, and then more loudly said, "You didn't have sex. Harry, you came over to watch the Chudley match with me. We've all been having a lovely time talking about school days. But - but, Hermione, there's part of you that can't wait for Harry to leave, because you - because you've been wanting to jump me all day."

Harry and Hermione sat there, blank expressions slowly focusing on the new reality Ron had written for them. It would take a little while for them to come out of it. Ron sat down very heavily, suddenly unable to look at them.

After a minute, he got up, and phoned for pizza.

Mid July

Stupid goblins, thought Ron as he got home, four hours early. Throw a royal wedding and a month-long feast, and don't tell their human customers about it until the day it happens, and now no wizarding business in London can perform a single financial transaction. Hope Dad can clear this up by tomorrow, or we're going to have to go back to trading kneazle pelts.

The lights were on, but the downstairs was empty. Glancing upstairs, Ron was hit with a small, abrupt wave of unease. He climbed the stairs cautiously, his fingers already on his wand.

The door to their bedroom was open about a foot; Ron could see through it easily just over the top of the stairs.

Harry and Hermione were standing next to the bed, naked, kissing passionately. Harry began to tighten his arms around her, but she broke the kiss, raised her fingers to his lips, and gracefully sank to her knees before him.

She began to sweetly kiss the head of his cock, and then lick along the underside, before at last parting her lips and drawing his length into her.

Ron would've burst into the room in a homicidal rage if not for his sudden and painful arousal. It was a dream tableau: Harry's head falling back, mouth open and eyes closed; his fingers knotting in Hermione's hair; Hermione's head bobbing up and down as if she was a well-oiled sucking machine, a thought which actually made Ron even harder, God knew how.

He stared slack-jawed as Harry came and Hermione swallowed every drop with soft moans of pleasure. He pushed the heel of his palm against the bulge in his pants as she rose to embrace Harry again, and he bit back a groan as Harry cupped his hands under her arse and lifted her onto his already-recovering erection. He gripped himself roughly as Harry's hips pounded Hermione into the bed again and again. He bit his lip and stifled his breathing as her legs wrapped around Harry's waist. He came painfully as her nails drew blood clawing Harry's back. He regained just enough presence of mind to cast Silencio on himself and the stairs as his wife screamed his best friend's name.

Ron made his move as they were just coming down from orgasm.

He slowly backed down the stairs.

He heard Hermione begin to sob, murmuring something about What have we done. Harry said something about I don't want to hurt him but I'm not sorry we did this. The rest was lost as Ron reached the bottom of the stairs. He sat in his favorite chair and thought.

He thought about how betrayed he felt, which was surprisingly not as much as he imagined he should, certainly not as much as the first time this had happened earlier this year.

He thought about Hermione, and how much he loved her. And how much she loved him. She did. There was no doubt. When she was angry at him for whatever reason, she let him know. But they had a good marriage, with lots of easy laughter and gentle touches and open affection. He could be incredibly thick at times, he knew that, but he was positive Hermione wasn't living a lonely life of quiet desperation or anything like that. They still made love regularly, if not frequently, and if she didn't love him she could never make love to him at all, let alone as passionately as she did.

He thought about how much more passionately she had just made love to Harry.

Jealousy towards Harry burned his eyes, as well as a fresh wave of anger towards Hermione. She'd made her goddamn choice when she married Ron. Harry shouldn't be getting better sex than him, not from her. He shouldn't be getting any damn sex from her. And she shouldn't be able to have both of them.

Ron was hard as a rock again.

There was movement at the top of the stairs. "We have to tell him, Harry." Hermione and Harry came down the stairs. Harry was buttoning his shirt; Hermione was tugging at her T-shirt, adjusting the sleeves. "It's not fair to him."

"I know that - I just don't know how he'll -" Harry froze.

Ron looked up at them very calmly. "How he'll what, Harry?"

"Ron," breathed Hermione.

None of them spoke for a long time. At last Hermione spoke, in a very small voice. "It's not you, Ron. It was just - we just -"

"Save it." Ron raised his hand, revealing the wand he'd kept hidden. "Obliviate."

Harry was jolted backward by the spell, bumping into the wall, eyes empty. Hermione whirled to look at him, and turned back just in time for an identical spell to strike her. She staggered but did not fall.

"Harry," said Ron quietly, "head down to the market four blocks from here. You weren't here yet today. You and Hermione did not make love. You got delayed by a couple of things which took up your afternoon. But now you're on the way over to see your good friends, and it's your turn to buy the beer.

"Hermione, you never made love with Harry. He wasn't here today. I called to let you know I was coming home early today, and you were so delighted you decided to make it a bit special. You're going to give me a long, sweet blow job, which will get you as hot as it does me."

Something fluttered across Hermione's otherwise hollow gaze, something primal. She crossed the room as if in a trance, settled on her knees before Ron, and opened his trousers.

Neither one noticed Harry leave.

Early October

The Chudley match wasn't on for another hour, and Ron was into his third butterbeer, when he realized he hadn't seen Hermione or Harry for a half-hour or so.

And he suddenly knew.

He knew.

Were they upstairs, in his and Hermione's bed? In the one bedroom they'd made into her library, shoving books off the table? In the kitchen, up against the counter? In the shed behind the house? Likely there. Was it quiet and romantic? Were they tearing at each other like manticores? Had Harry pulled Hermione's undershirt up her body, wrapping it round her wrists and hanging her from a tool hook? Did he know she liked that sort of thing? Did he guess? Did she tell him?

Why was he so goddamn hard at the thought?

When they finally showed up, Harry's hangdog expression, combined with Hermione's pensive look, told him everything he needed to know. He smiled slightly as Hermione ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his forehead, then sat down next to him and held his hand. Harry sat down at the far end of the couch.

"You guys are awful quiet," Ron said at last.

Hermione inhaled. "Later," said Harry, too quickly. "After the match. It can wait till then."

Ron studied him for a moment, then nodded, content. Bloody psycho. They want to tell me, but they know I've been looking forward to this match for a month, and they don't want to ruin it for me.

I should hate them both so fucking much.

"We've got an hour till then," said Ron reasonably. His wand was ready and hidden in the cushions next to him. "What's up?"

"Ron, we - I -" Did Hermione have any idea how damn sexy she looked when she bit her lip guiltily, eyes brimming with unshed tears? Ron began to wonder if he might acquire a taste for it. "Harry and -"

"I - we -" Harry broke in, then stopped.

Ron merely raised his eyebrows.

"We made love," said Hermione at last.

"Did you."

"I'm so sorry, Ron." Hermione was looking at the floor. "We've betrayed your friendship - I've betrayed our marriage..."

"Are you really sorry?"

Hermione looked up, startled. "Wh- yes! Yes, of course."

"D'you still love me?"

"I do, Ron, I swear, it's not you -"

"I believe you." From the cushions, Ron pulled his wand and aimed it at Harry. "I should just hex you to fucking hell, you know."

"I know, Ron." Harry was an old pro at wordless and wandless magic; if he hadn't disarmed Ron by now, he wouldn't. "I'd deserve it."

"Ron, please -"

"They say confession's good for the soul," He glanced at Hermione. "Tell me about it. How it happened. What you did. What he did."

"Wh- Ron, we -"

"If you say you still love me, and you don't want to end our fucking marriage -"

"Ron, I - you don't deserve -"

"- I think I deserve to see you suffer a little. Tell me what you did with him that you couldn't do with me."

Once again, they all sat there for what seemed a very long while. When Hermione spoke at last, it was barely a whisper. "We were downstairs. Harry was helping me fold the linens - "

Ah, yes. The laundry.

"- a- and he finished the bath towels, and I was starting on - Ron, I can't do this!"

"Well, then." Ron's eyes never left Harry. "You'll just have to get over here and show me how much you love me while Harry continues the story."

For a moment, neither one moved. They stared at Ron as if he'd got something disgusting on his face. Ron flicked his gaze briefly to the floor in front of him. Hermione's eyes welled up, and she bit her lip. "Ron, please."

"Now, Hermione."

"Ron..." Harry began dangerously.

"What, Potter?" Ron's grip tightened on his wand. "You got something to complain about? Now talk. Every detail."

"Ron, stop this."

"Hermione, get my damn pants open."

Something in her broke. She squeezed her eyes shut, her body shaking with sobs. "Don't make me do this." Her voice was a thick, sad wail.

"Stop it, Ron." The only visible sign of Harry's tension was a tic along the right side of his jaw, but the air was suddenly heavy with gathering power. "Don't make this about you."

"It's my fucking wife, in my fucking house, with my fucking best friend. I think that makes it about me. Hermione, you have a count of three before I start doing to Harry with spells what I do to him in Wizard's Chess."

"Do not, Hermione."

"Three. Sectumsemp-"

"All right!" Hermione shrieked, her hands fumbling with Ron's pants. "All right." She drew his cock out, holding it as she would a dead ferret.

Harry's eyes were the same green as the sky before a tornado. "You're a dead man, Weasley."

Not if I can keep you spinning your wheels pissed off at me. "You don't want to talk? Fine. Hermione can demonstrate."

"It's over, Ron," she murmured under fresh tears. "We're over." She leaned forward with more resolve than Ron would've thought she'd have at this point, and, almost automatically, began to suck him, with skill and dexterity and almost no emotion. Did she not notice that Ron had never been so hard in his life?

"Why, Ron?" Harry's voice was so low as to be nearly a whisper, but the rumble underneath it threatened the entire neighborhood. This was about as far as Ron dared go. "We were in the wrong. I was in the wrong. Why hurt her like this? How can you?"

"Just wanted you to hurt like I did, Harry. At least for Obliviate! Obliviate!"

Too late, Harry had begun casting the shielding charm, and Hermione had begun to bite; but Harry fell back into the couch, and the residual pressure from Hermione's aborted attack instead proved just enough to make Ron come down her throat. She knelt there, still blank and confused and far too beautiful with her lips distorted around his cock.

Too close, thought Ron.

And too fucking brilliant.

They did it four more times before Thanksgiving.

The sex afterwards was amazing. Obliviate worked like a low-level Imperio, and Ron's scenarios grew more... inventive. None of this was harmed by Hermione's belief, dictated by the spell, that their marriage was perfect, and that her passion was genuine.

Hell, it was. She didn't remember; therefore, she hadn't come to despise him for what he'd done to her, several times now. But that fresh jolt of enthusiasm every few weeks was very nice.

On the other hand, that meant that their passion continued to escalate as well. It had to, to overcome their sense of propriety and their love for Ron.

Ron was slightly taken aback by the variety of Harry and Hermione's realizations that they loved each other. Hermione tripped and Harry caught her. Harry bumped his head and Hermione looked after him. A flour fight while baking biscuits. Watching that stupid movie French Kiss.

Every time, he could tell it was the best sex either had ever had. Or, at least, could ever remember.

Ron also noticed that it was taking less time for them to actually cheat on him, but longer to tell him that they had done so. This worried him a lot, actually; if some hideous strain - say, overwhelming guilt and/or insatiable love and lust - triggered similar memories for one or both of them and broke down the memory charms, Ron would have exactly enough time to say Oh shi- before Harry forcibly evicted him from the world.

He had no doubts that Harry would cast Unforgivables in quantity for Hermione's sake.

And, given how much Ron had come to savor making her cry before Obliviate-ing her, Harry would likely go through the list twice.

Ron went so far as to check up on Gilderoy Lockhart in St. Mungo's. Still a blathering idiot, but fortunately one who did not remember how he'd got there.

If he could keep one step ahead of Harry...

He didn't know how that sentence ended.

Late December

Ron was very sure they thought he hadn't noticed.

They'd got together a week ago. He'd seen it in Hermione's eyes, a glimmer of guilt and pain that had grown more intense over the past several days.

He could smell it on her. Not the sex, but the sexiness.

Meanwhile, Harry had said less and less to him, and what he had said had grown more and more banal, not quite to the lot-of-weather-we're-having level but closing in on it. To amuse himself, Ron had put up several sprigs of the twins' magical mistletoe, the kind that froze the two people beneath it until they kissed. The first time Harry and Hermione were caught under it, they stared at each other, almost trembling, and finally gave each other the quickest and least passionate kiss in history to free themselves from the charm. They did not get caught beneath it a second time.

Ron grinned to himself. This was going to be a good one.

At the table, Harry and Hermione sat quietly, not looking at each other or at him. Ron whistled as he carved slices off the Christmas goose. He set the platter to one side, raised his wine glass, and looked at Harry and Hermione, who at last looked up at him, and rather mechanically took their glasses. "To us," said Ron. "May next year be even better than this one."

"To us," Harry mumbled, looking at Hermione like a child not allowed candy looks at a chocolate shop.

"To -" And that was as far as she got. Her hand fell to the table like a dead weight, so hard she almost broke the wine glass, and she burst into tears.

"Something wrong, love?" said Ron.

Looking miserable, Harry stretched a hand across the table. Hermione stretched out her hand, tentatively at first, but then seized Harry's and clutched at it.

"Goodness," said Ron. "Whatever it is, it must be awful. Any ideas, Harry?"

Harry turned slightly to glare - yes, glare - at him. "She's had a rough week."

"Really. Everything seemed fine to me."

"Ron - Ron, I -"

"Come on, Hermione. I'm here, Harry's here, what could be so wrong?"

Hermione sobbed. Harry's eyes narrowed. There was something new in his gaze.

Suspicion.

Ron set down his wine glass and walked around behind Hermione, putting his hands on her shoulders with great affection, and to keep her between him and Harry. "What is it, love? You know you can tell me anything. Although you can tell Harry everything." Why was he pushing, dammit? How had this suddenly got so dangerous?

"What...?" Hermione tensed under his hands, and Ron knew without being able to see that her eyes were huge with realization. "Oh, my god. How did you - how -"

"How did I know you two were fucking?" Both Harry and Hermione flinched at that word. "You think I couldn't see the signs? The newfound love in your eyes, and the guilt at pissing all over your best friend? All over your marriage?"

"It's not like that, Ron." Harry's anger and misery were beautiful.

"Oh, really? I think I know by now it bloody well is like that. It's like that every single ti-"

Harry's eyes grew wide, then hard.

Oh shi-

Ron didn't have his wand out.

He grabbed for it, but Harry leaped to his feet, snapped his own wand out in as fast a draw as Ron had ever seen, and shouted, "Petrificus totalus!"

The charm hit Ron full-on; he froze in mid-dodge, shock trapped on his face.

No one moved for a few moments. Then Harry came round the table, checked Hermione briefly, and went to Ron, casting a silent Legilimens. "Everything. Tell me everything."

"Here he is, Mister Potter."

"Thank you. Five minutes."

"Harry, please - Harry, you've got to get me out of here! I'm sorry, so sorry, what I did to you, what I did to her - please tell her I love her - my god, this has been the worst week of my life, the worst week of anybody's life! The dementors keep brushing against me, and I go numb, it's like my heart is too heavy to feel anything anymore, so weak, I'm so weak, Harry, it's only been six days -"

"Eight years and two months, actually."

"... what? What?"

"Obliviate!"

"..."

"Ron, you were convicted of unauthorized use of memory charms three days ago. Your divorce became final yesterday. You've just been brought to Azkaban for the first time.

"The dementors are waiting for you."

And as the vacant look on Ron's face was gradually replaced by dawning terror, Harry turned and left him to begin his sentence.

Again.