Title: You And I

Pairings: MANY. Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ron, Snape/Hermione, mentions of Lucius/Snape, Harry/Ginny. Maybe others.

Rated: M

Warnings: Slash and Het. Sexy scenes. Possibly some language. Will probably not get happy endings for all, if any, of the characters. NO character death.

Disclaimer: Everyone belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me even though I certainly wouldn't mind.

Note: This is a chaptered fic.

You And I

You villain touch! What are you doing? My breath is tight in its throat, Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me.

~*#*~

Harry sat on the edge of his four poster, curtains splayed, watching the boy next to him, more than listening to him. Ron was lying in bed, on his back, his covers pulled up around him with Scabbers the fat gray rat resting on his chest. Ron stroked the rat's back affectionately as he went on speaking, his story only punctuated by the soft snores of the other Gryffindor boys. Harry nodded now and then, and occasionally murmured an 'uh-huh' or 'mmhm' to propel Ron onwards in his tale. Ron was so wrapped up in it, he probably wasn't even hearing Harry, but that was okay if he wasn't.

Harry was busy taking in each feature, usually familiar and taken for granted, but in the moonlight made something different, wonderful, and curious. The pale light caught Ron's red hair, the newly washed fluff partially tumbled over his forehead, curling over his ears, and splayed out in messy little cowlicks onto his pillow. His eyes were wreathed in lashes that looked like pale fire, and his skin seemed to glow, the curves of his cheeks still soft in boyhood but the line of his jaw and chin beginning to hint at something more. His mouth was his usual wide smile, even when he spoke, his lips framing his teeth with pale pink. Freckles were peppered delicately over his nose, and Harry felt his cheeks burn warm as he wondered, just where else Ron might have freckles.

Scabbers rolled onto his side lazily, gave his whiskers a twitch, and let Ron get to petting the fuzz on his round belly.

"Harry...did you hear me, Harry?"

Harry blinked, and startled slightly.

"Of course." He answered, but Ron had noticed. His smile deflated, his eyes glancing down at his pet, as he ran a fingertip along the pale, bald tail.

"You weren't listening, were you?"

Harry climbed off his bed, and onto Ron's, curling his legs beneath him, and thumbing his glasses up his nose.

"No." Harry confessed, unable to lie to his best friend, even if it meant sparing him the let down. "I wasn't. I was...looking." Harry chewed his lip a bit, as Ron's eyes held his, seeming a little confused as to what Harry might have been looking at. As if to confirm, Ron glanced around, seeing nothing curious or out of place. "At you." Harry added, an amused smile tugging the corners of his lips.

"Me?" Ron's eyes widened. "What happened? If Fred and George replaced my shampoo with Frizee Folicle's Every Hue Hair Dye-"

"No, no!" Harry assured him, laughing. Harry reaching forward to muss Ron's already mussed hair. "It's fine, Ron...red as ever it was."

"Phew!" Ron sank bank onto his pillow, heaving a sigh of relief. He looked up to the ceiling for a moment, then hoisted himself up onto his elbows, looking at Harry once more, quizzically. "Then why were you looking at me?"

What was Harry to tell him? Harry wasn't even sure of it himself. If he wasn't awkward enough as Harry Potter, he was beginning to grow into a Harry Potter who was interested in things that confused him even more than potions class, and made him feel more uncomfortable than that vein must feel—the one which was always throbbing right in the middle of Uncle Vernon's ugly purple forehead.

Harry's tongue darted out to lick his lips, as he thought of the way best to answer Ron. At last he abandoned the method of weighing options and consequences, and then in true Gryffindor fashion, decided to abandon reason and just plow on ahead and be out with it. If Ron had stood up through everything they'd been through together thus far, he couldn't possibly be ran off by the curiosities of a hormonal teenager; one Harry Potter.

"I...I was curious, Ron. And the truth is, well we've been through so much together, and I was wondering if you feel as close to me as I do to you. I was also wondering, if you-"

"Of course Harry! You're my best friend!" Ron sang happily, all smiles again. "The best mate a guy could ever hope to have!"

Harry smiled too. He moved closer to Ron, and Scabbers scurried away to find less crowded sleeping arrangements.

"I was also wondering," Harry went on, picking up exactly where Ron had interrupted, as if there had been no interruption at all. "If you realize how attractive you look, with the moonlight through the window. I was wondering-

Harry moved even closer, swinging one agile leg over Ron's body, as if he was mounting a broom for Quidditch practice.

"Attractive? Me?" Ron was too thrown off by Harry's words, seemingly to notice Harry's position.

"If your hair is as soft as it looks...and if your lips are even softer. I was wondering if you would have that look of wide-eyed surprise, should I find out about your lips by adventure, and I was also wondering...Ron...if your nose is the only part of you speckled with little brown dots."'

Harry leaned down, his belly pressing to Ron's, their chests breathing together, only the thin material of their nightshirts to separate their skin. Ron's eyes grew wide, finally processing that Harry was on top of him, their lips a mere breath away from touching. Ron swallowed, a small squeak of uncertainty the only reply he could properly form as his wits scrambled about his head.

"Ron?" Harry said, quietly. "I don't want to kiss you, if you don't want me to. I wouldn't want to ruin our friendship." Harry looked through the twin circles of his spectacles, eying the curve of Ron's lips, and taking in the scent of Ron's breath, tinted with chocolate and toffee that they'd shared earlier. Harry found it very tempting to see just how those sweets tasted now, kissed from Ron's lips, and licked from Ron's tongue. Their lips brushed; not even a proper kiss. Ron squeaked again, and looked completely terrified.

"Harry!" Ron finally got enough mind back to get the name out, and then there was more. It just sort of tumbled out of him, the way those slugs had done when his hex a few years prior to Draco Malfoy had backfired, due to a busted wand. "Harry, no! I don't know—we can't—what are you getting at? I really like girls, Harry. I'm sorry, please don't be upset with me, I like you, I honestly do! But I don't LIKE you. You're not really pretty Harry—not that you're not er—well-what would I tell Mum and Dad? I mean, Mum likes you but I don't think she'd really go for...Oh! What about Ginny? Ginny's just crazy about you, Harry! She really likes you and um...she has freckles too." Ron finished, looking so upset and confused that he might be on the verge of tears, screaming, or both.

Harry backed away, unseating himself from Ron's body, reluctantly. Ron pulled the covers up close to his chin, looking uneasy.

"Ah...wow." Harry rubbed at the back of his messy hair, awkwardly. What had he expected, really-for Ron to be curious also? For Ron to want to explore as much as he did? For Ron to see glimpses of Harry in a light that spoke of possibilities, the way Harry sometimes saw Ron? Ron was neither curious, nor lustful for his best friend. Both of them were now blushing furiously, faces redder than Ron's hair. "I don't know what came over me...I must've been hexed." Harry added, nodding decisively. Ron's eyes narrowed, and he scowled.

"I'm gonna kill Fred and George if they think this was funny!"

Harry climbed off of Ron's bed, fixing his glasses.

"I wouldn't let on to them. Don't give them the pleasure of letting them know it got to you. If neither of us get upset about it, then they'll hardly find reason to find if funny. Besides, nothing happened, did it?"

Ron thought this over, his eyes showing the slow and careful processing of Harry's words. Harry felt a bit bad for it, but after all it wasn't a lie that would hurt Ron. He had to come up with something to brush off what had just happened. He didn't want things to be awkward, and he certainly didn't want Ron to be afraid Harry was going to grab his knee under the table at breakfast, or brew an aphrodisiac in potions class and slip it into Ron's pumpkin juice.

Ron nodded, finally.

"Right. Let's go to sleep then." Ron gave a great yawn, and flopped back onto his pillow, his easy smile back in place.

Harry slid under the covers of his own bed, and pulled his curtain closed. He lay awake listening to Ron's breathing grow soft, as the red-head fell asleep quickly. Harry however, did not. He was kept up late into the night, still wondering about Ron's lips, and dreaming up places to trace freckles.

~#*#~

Five Years Later

Harry had the money to live lavishly, had he wished to, but he did not. Most of his life had been spent in a cupboard under the stairs, and so his small apartment above the pub he now owned in Diagon Alley was spacious enough for him. It contained all the essentials: most importantly, a large and comfy bed to sink into when home from his travels, and secondly, a kitchen just the right size for a bachelor. Harry after all did enjoy a good meal when he was home long enough to have one. The counter left just enough space for a sink and a small space for prep. His favorite appliance was a Muggle refrigerator that Mr. Weasley had enchanted and given to he and Ginny as a wedding gift. Any time an item in the fridge was running low, it was automatically refilled. It was also spoil proof: No more sour, clotted milk, or hairy cheese left forgotten in the back corner.

His home was cozy and it was all Harry and Ginny had needed, and now, just Harry. His marriage to Ginny had been short-lived. Both of them had agreed to break it off, after a long talk and a united understanding of why. Ginny understood, and Harry wondered if she might've even suspected the reason before, but had hoped that her love for Harry could have been enough.

After their breakup, Ginny had decided to travel. Fred and George had issued threats and stayed angry with Harry over it all, until Ginny had finally convinced them that they had indeed agreed on the split, and that Harry had not broken her heart. He had crushed it, but not shattered it. Ginny had grown into a strong woman, and willed herself to carry on. She still loved Harry, and that was exactly why she could allow herself to let him go.

All Harry had ever wanted to do was to lead a normal and happy life, and marrying Ginny, owning the pub, living commonly, seemed so very blissfully routine and welcoming, after all the business with You-Know-Who. But life tended to throw curve balls to Harry Potter, and so his picturesque existence he had imagined had changed, though not so drastically as it had when he had turned eleven.

Harry still had the pub, still lived in the same place he had shared with Ginny, and kept many of the same routines. The only ones that were changed was the lack of her presence, and the shape of the bodies that lay in the very bed where Harry and Ginny had shared their first passions as a married couple. That bed now saw broader shoulders, leaner hips, chests laced with hard muscle instead of dolloped with soft pink mounds. The sounds that the walls heard in the early morning hours, after the pub was closed, were masculine and pitched lower, grunts and heavy groans instead of breathy sighs and flimsy feminine whimpering. Now in the mornings, after it was all over, the sheets smelled of nothing but pure man. Often after waking, Harry would stuff his face into the sheets and pillows, and inhale the heady scent of leftover sweat, spent sex, and raging testosterone. All of that alone was often enough to get him worked up into quite the quivering, horny mess, and all before breakfast and with a pub to run.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Harry's partner for this night—a regular whom more often than other contenders, lay wrapped in Harry's cool sheets—just as he did now. The blond had already fallen asleep, snuggled up to Harry's side, their feet wrapped together. Harry idly stroked the soft, pale hair, and watched it filter through his fingers and fan out against an equally pale forehead. The skin was still damp with sweat, and the slightly-darkish crescents beneath the blondes closed eyes were silvery-wet. This man had a tendency to cry when he slept—just silent tears that crept out from beneath his lashes, usually just enough just to dampen the skin, sometimes more.

He often suffered from nightmares, but Harry understood, and was always there to offer him comfort when he awoke in fear or panic. The blonde would either accept, wilting into Harry's arms, or he would push Harry away unwilling to compromise what was left of his pride, which he often overcompensated for with arrogance. It only depended on what sort of mood this man was in, but Harry had found that he could deal with either reaction, just the same. Harry didn't love him, and his frequent guest did not love him back, but in each other they were able to find what they needed for just one night at a time: attention, comfort, understanding, and of course, there was the sex, which was always satisfying on a more basic and biological level.

Sometimes Harry would stay up and watch him, and wipe his tears away, because no matter what had once been between them, no one deserved to shed that many tears, and especially not alone.

Most would not understand the reasons or the odd boundaries of their relationship, but they did, and that was all that mattered. In the morning, the blond would go home to his wife and his two-year-old son, feeling hopelessly detached from them. Like Harry, the blond had married in hopes of finding that same sense of normalcy, but his coldness and aloof ways had chilled the bud of his relationship before it could really bloom.

Harry continued to stroke his hair, and look over the pale skin that was left bare to him. From the waist down, his odd partner was tangled in the sheet. Harry's emerald eyes moved over the lines and muscles of the other mans neck, chest, shoulder, and his curled arm—his gaze briefly stopping on the ghost of the dark mark that the man had taken as a foolish boy. The mark no longer burned in blackest ebony, but the faded outline and emblem were still clear enough to forever brand his beautiful milky skin. Sometimes when Harry woke to the mornings after, he'd catch his pale partner sitting on a corner of the bed, staring down at the damned mark, his eyes leaking, vacant, and tormented as the mark triggered the same flashbacks that haunted his nightmares.

Harry pulled the sheet up further, covering the toned torso, the taught nipples, the curled arm, and the dim but ever present mark. The blond gave a shudder and breathy little moan as the movement of the cotton fabric tickled the naked planes of his flesh. Harry adjusted his own pillows, on which he had been propped up sitting, and sank down further, his eyelids feeling heavy. He gave out a yawn, and closed his eyes, enjoying the cool night air wafting in from the open window. He opened them again when he heard the soft rustle of feathers.

Harry cracked his eyes open, to see a blurry shape that was the familiar owl of Hermione, now Weasley instead of Granger. The plumed messenger perched on the post at the end of his bed, in its beak was a letter. She opened her wings and fluttered over, dropping the letter onto Harry's chest. He propped himself up once more, grabbed his glasses from the stand at bedside, and hung them onto his ears and nose. The envelope was opened in one rip, and the letter when unfolded, bore Hermione's distinct and familiar handwriting.

Dear Harry,

It's been too long since we've last been together! Ron and I will be coming for Ron's annual birthday celebration at the pub. I'm prepared to make this particular birthday very special for Ron, as I've lately gotten a confirmation to something I suspected all along. Ron speaks of you often, but lately, he's spoken of you in his sleep and I was quite amused to listen. I'm sure you would have been more than amused, if you had heard exactly what he was saying, or rather, begging and whining for you to do to him, Harry.

Don't look so shocked.

I always knew there was more to your friendship, although I've yet to decide if the two of you simply had unrequited desires, or had in our years at Hogwarts, acted upon each other in experimentation.

Of course, Ron wouldn't ever tell me. He won't even admit to saying such things whilst sleeping, but that doesn't take back the fact that he DID say them. Maybe you would have also enjoyed the way he blushed—hot and deep crimson when I asked him such questions. You should see the way he's fawning over me lately, thinking I might be angry or hurt at him for the things he didn't (did) moan out to you.

No Harry, I'm not upset. I know you may be surprised, as I just might have been prone at a younger age, to become offended easily. However, I'd say we've all matured since then, and in fact there is a stronger urge which cancels out the jealousy that first rose up in me when I knew. As I said, I suspected as much of you and Ron when we were children and teenagers, and to be honest, I might've had fantasies of my own about the two of you.

Maybe I still do.

Do you have any idea what we could possibly give Ron for his birthday?

I certainly do.

I think he might like Harry Potter, doing marvelous, dirty things to him.

In fact, I think you may like it too.

All My Love,

Hermione

P.S.: So would I.

Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he almost choked on it. He read over the short letter again, the words sending a tingle twisting down his spine, and heat settling into his groin. He folded the letter and lay it on the stand next to his bed, and lay his glasses on top of it. Hermione's owl flapped out of the open window, and into the inky night. Harry closed his eyes, imagining Ron's birthday gift—Harry plowing him through the feather mattress. He imagined baring each inch of Ron's pale, freckled skin, teasing and pleasing all of Ron's most sensitive parts—lips, nipples, the head of his cock, the tight little secret between Ron's toned cheeks...Harry moaned out lowly, turning his head to the side and partially muffling the sound into his pillow.

The sleeping blond next to him stirred, thrashing a bit. The sweat of panic wet fair skin and plastered the short blond locks onto the sleeping man's forehead. He cried out—a sound of fear that hung somewhere between a plea and a sob. His thrashing increased, his legs further tangling in the sheet that was growing damp with his sweat and sticking to him like a spiders ensnaring web. Harry reached over, and shook his partner until his eyes flew open: gray irises awash in tears. A trembling hand went immediately to his mouth to keep a sob from escaping, but it was to late to shut it out completely and the sound was so horrible, that it felt like an ache.

"Shh..." Harry soothed. Comforting Draco, despite how the two got on as children, since then seemed like the right thing to do. As a kid Harry had never taken the time to look past Draco's attitude and meanness, but as an adult Harry had come to realize that 'tough guy' and 'bully' are often nothing more than masks.

He pulled Draco closer, and this was one of the times when instead of tugging away, Draco curled into Harry and let himself be held as he wept out the burning tears from his all too real nightmares. Draco rarely spoke in detail of the things that haunted him, but Harry could only imagine what sort of darkness Draco had pulled upon himself when he, as a young and stupid boy, as many boys are at such an age, became a Death Eater and servant of Voldemort. Harry and many others knew that Draco's family had been tortured—and he only assumed that a dark wizard—no, a dark demon—cruel as Voldemort had been, would no doubt have made the boy watch such horrors. Draco's forearm was not the only part of him that bore dark scars. Some of them couldn't be seen, for they were branded onto his young mind and sharp memory, and there they would remain until Draco could deal with them properly: perhaps, forever.

Harry stroked Draco's platinum hair, watching and feeling helpless, as the tears continued to pour over Draco's face, and smear onto Harry's bare chest. There was nothing he could say or do to really help, but nonetheless he would try, when Draco needed him to.

Draco sniffed, and shuddered. Harry pulled a bit of the tangled sheet free, and used a corner to wipe Draco's dripping nose and dab the many tear trails and puddles off of his face. Draco's stone-colored eyes looked wearily at him.

Draco had been horrified the first time this had happened: the first time he'd awoke Harry with his nightmares and crying. He'd tore himself out of bed and gathered his things hastily, snapping at Harry when he tried to ask questions, and heading for the door looking a mess in his half-on clothes. Harry had stopped him, however, and Draco saw that Harry was concerned, not cold, smirking in arrogance, amused, or snarling to Draco that he had gotten what he deserved. Concern—true concern in Harry's brilliant green eyes had been the last thing Draco Malfoy had expected to see.

Harry had not convinced Draco to stay that night. Draco was too rattled not only from his dream and his emotional undoing, but from Harry as well. The second time it had happened however, Draco allowed Harry to comfort him much like he was doing now. In an odd sort of way, Harry's fingers playing in his hair, holding him close, reminded Draco of his father. As a little boy Draco had often woke up with nightmares—none of which were as horrible as the ones he bore now—and Lucius would always appear in his room, and sit on the side of the bed. Draco would crawl into his lap and his father's protective arms would curl around him, and Lucius would stroke his hair until Draco would calm and lull back into sleep.

Draco closed his eyes, but opened them immediately with a little whimper when on the backs of his eyelids flashed the vivid memory of his father on his knees, bound, broken and bleeding from lashes upon lashes, his blond hair stuck to his shoulders and back and dyed a dripping ruby. Lucius tried as he might to hold back the yelps and screams, but Draco could see them shuddering inside of him, Lucius' muscles strained and trembling, his lips stained with blood from repetitively biting on his tongue. Draco was not as strong as his father, and with each blow to his father's abused flesh, it was Draco who sobbed out for him—it was Draco's punishment that Lucius' had begged to take upon his own body. His boy did not get off freely, however, and had been forced to watch until he had been driven nearly mad by it the torture and abuse.

Harry's fingers kneaded Draco's tense shoulders and knotted back, and started up some mundane conversation in a low tone, in attempt to distract Draco from his lingering torment. Harry could feel Draco's muscles slowly loosen, and his breathing begin to come slower. They both fell asleep, Draco's arm flopped over Harry's torso, his head resting on Harry's chest, as Harry held him.

In the morning, Draco was more like his old self. He complained about Harry's bed being lumpy, and then whined about his back and ass hurting from the fucking—which he didn't complain about at all as he was taking it. He made a big deal of limping around the room to gather up his clothes, and so slowly put them on, feebly fumbling with the buttons.

Harry thought to himself, and not for the first time, that Draco was quite the big baby. It was a trait of Malfoy's that had never ceased to annoy Harry during their Hogwarts years, but at some point thereafter, it had become something Harry could put up with. Draco pouted at Harry's back, as Harry put tea on and spread jam onto his toast. Harry could feel the cool gray eyes, and sense Draco's expression.

"Right. Suppose I'll be going, then." Draco said, moving towards the door and lingering there, watching Harry turn to face him. Harry leaned back against the counter, wearing jeans and no shirt. His tongue traced one edge of the toast's crust and came away sticky with dripping jam. Draco lingered near the door, his hand on the knob. Harry raised an eyebrow, it quirked upwards over the circle of his glasses. Draco was usually off as soon as he was awake and dressed. He'd never shown any interest in sticking around, but of course, Harry hadn't ever really asked him. It didn't seem like sharing breakfast together was really in the scope of their...whatever it was. Harry had to admit, that maybe it was a bit rude for him not to ask. Draco must be hungry, after all, when Harry awoke the morning after a good romp, he was always famished.

"Draco, would you like some-" Harry felt bad for not offering, but Draco moodily snapped a short reply, cutting Harry off.

"No."

Draco closed his hand around the doorknob, hesitated a few more moments, and then with an offended sniff and upturned nose he was gone in the air of arrogance that was typical.

Harry finished his toast and jam, poured his tea, and moved towards the bedside table. He blew at the curls of steam wafting up from his teacup, snatched up the letter Hermione's owl had delivered last night, and went to his desk. Harry read over the letter twice more, and finished his tea. He pushed the empty cup aside, found a piece of parchment, picked up his quill, and began to write back.

~*#*~

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