A/N: This is a gift for a friend's birthday-Happy birthday, you strong and beautiful mermaid! I hope you enjoy this!

In flagrante delicto:

Five Times Harry Caught Romione (and One Time They Caught Him)

-one-

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, if Harry was being honest. With the end of the war and the brutal fallout that followed, it only made sense. Harry needed a place to live, Hermione wanted to finish her seventh year at Hogwarts, and Ron didn't want to be left out.

So they moved in together, sharing a sizeable flat above Tomes and Scrolls in Hogsmeade, and began an adventure as flatmates—"Quite the step up from tentmates," Ron had joked.

Harry should have seen it coming. He really, really should have. It's not like the signs weren't there, or anything.

Certainly, they'd all claimed separate bedrooms, leaving the spare as an odd space to serve different purposes—a study for Hermione, a gymnasium for Harry, and a studio for Ron. (At Hermione's suggestion, Ron had taken up painting to relieve his grief over the loss of his brother, and had gotten quite good.)

But more than once, he chose not to dwell over the fact that he noticed Ron had come out of Hermione's room one morning, or that a few days later, he could have sworn Hermione was wearing Ron's boxers under her long S.P.E.W. T-shirt (that Harry had gifted her, jokingly, for her birthday that year) as she made her morning cup of tea. He decided that if his two flatmates were going to unabashedly strut about in the wake of their apparent shagging, then he was unabashedly not going to notice it unless they brought it up.

Or unless it became a problem.

Harry could have kicked himself; he'd been so careless.

There he was, just a few days before Christmas, having returned home early from a special press tour spearheaded by Minister of Magic Shacklebolt, utterly exhausted from having to recount the story of Voldemort's horcruxes, and reassure the Wizarding public that there was absolutely no way the Dark Lord could return again, and all he had wanted was to crawl under his bedspread and sleep off three weeks of Rita Skeeter hounding him for details about his traumatic fucking past.

She really should have been asking about his traumatic fucking present.

He hadn't been thinking, he realized, as he trudged up the back steps to his flat. He would have Apparated inside, but he didn't want to risk waking up his mates. So, with a well-placed sigh just outside, he unlocked the front door wordlessly with a wave of his wand, only to find that he'd really rather wished someone could Obliviate him.

He blinked a bit in the doorway, staring at the sight in front of him. They were so focused on the task at hand that they hadn't noticed him. He quickly averted his eyes, not really knowing what to do in this situation. He'd vanquished the Dark Lord, sure, but weaving around the awkward scenario of finding his best mates shagging, totally starkers in the front room, while he was trying to get to his bedroom on the other side of the fucking flat—well, that was definitely something for which Harry Potter was unprepared.

"Oh, Ron!" moaned Hermione, and Harry could feel his ears burn. He looked anywhere but in front of him, his eyes searching the carpet by his feet. He stood paralyzed just outside the door, the image of Ron pounding into Hermione as she lay back on the plush blue couch seared into his mind.

He quickly turned around and closed the door behind him, stepping fully into the chilly December air.

He should have known it couldn't have been that simple—coming home early when his best mates had clearly moved on from snogging to the shagging department.

As long as they were still awake, he reasoned, he should just Apparate into his bedroom. They'd probably not even notice he'd come home, at the rate they were going. Next time, he decided, as he popped into his familiar bedroom and Ron let out a loud groan that echoed from the other side of the door, he would owl them to let them know to expect him.

It was only polite.

-two-

"Alright, Weasley, time to get out. Some of us have actual work to do this morning!" Harry yelled through the bathroom door.

He was clad in only a towel, wrapped tightly about his hips, having waited an extra twenty minutes for Ron to get the fuck out of the shower already. Harry was going to be late, and while he could just opt for the quick Cleansing Charm and be off to the Auror's office, he rather preferred the relaxation that a morning shower usually supplied.

Clearly, so did Ron.

He banged on the door again, but got no response. Harry rolled his eyes, and sighed. He'd been trying to convince Hermione they needed to convert the spare bedroom into a second bathroom for weeks now, but she'd refused to give up her studying space.

"You have an entire castle to study in, plus every other room in this flat!" he'd argued.

"Well, then where's Ron supposed to do his painting? Hmm?" she would say, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

It would always come back to that. Ron and his sodding painting. If Harry said anything about it, it would seem callous and selfish, because Ron really needed his painting—and Ron was really good at painting.

But did Ron really need a whole fucking room to paint in?

Harry growled in frustration against the bathroom door and decided he'd just go in and drag Ron out. He opened the door, hot steam rolling through the air. His glasses fogged up immediately, and he stepped into the room, ready to give Ron a stern talking to.

At least, that's what he intended as he made his way over to the shower and pulled back the curtain. He had expected Ron to be naked, certainly—and it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before—but he hadn't expected Hermione to be attached at the mouth to his cock, the pair of them drenched and red-fleshed under the hot, steaming shower. Any and all angry rants died on his gaping lips.

Hermione's back was to Harry, and Ron's eyes were closed, his hands tangled in the hair at the back of Hermione's bobbing head.

Harry was living in a real life porno.

There was no other explanation for his sudden talent for voyeurism.

Ron's head lolled back against the tiled wall, muttering "Her-my-knee" in a tone of voice Harry had never quite heard from him before, and it genuinely frightened him.

He backed out of the bathroom quickly, leaving the door open a crack in his haste.

They were definitely getting another bathroom. Ron could paint in the fucking kitchen. In the meantime, perhaps a quick Cleansing Charm was exactly what Harry needed.

-three-

"Oh, sweet Merlin! Yes, Ron, yes! Fuck me . . . oh, fuck me harder!"

Harry found the nearest wall and promptly banged his head into it a few times. He'd just wanted a midnight snack—something to eat, for Merlin's sake. He should not have to worry about walking in on his best mates shagging on the kitchen table at two in the morning!

Fortunately, he'd just gotten a promotion in the Auror Department, so it made his next decision rather easy.

"I'm moving out," he deadpanned, blinking rather unimpressed as the two slags in front of him tensed in alert. He reached into the refrigerator.

Hermione snapped her head up from her position—she'd been taking it doggy style from a very enthusiastic Ron. "But we've just finished the bathroom!" she stammered at him. Her cheeks, at the very least, had the decency to color with embarrassment.

Ron was flushed from head to toe, but Harry suspected it was for an entirely different reason. "Yeah, bathroom," he murmured. He hadn't seemed to notice that his hands were still kneading his girlfriend's breasts.

Harry rolled his eyes and fished out a bit of egg salad from the refrigerator. "You can put it in your classified ad in the Prophet, then. I'm sure you'll attract lots of prospective tenants."

He made his way back to his room, but not before Ron and Hermione exploded into fits of hysterical laughter.

-four-

Harry's new flat was in London this time, near Diagon Alley, and much quieter than the flat he'd shared with Ron and Hermione. He'd connected his fireplace to the Floo Network, and his mates would show up sometimes for dinner, covered in soot. They'd converted his old bedroom into an art studio, shacking up in a room together, and leaving the extra room and bathroom for guests.

Harry himself had a spare bedroom, apart from his own, that he used primarily to hold his Muggle workout equipment. He quite liked lifting weights, and the habit must have rubbed off on Ron while they were living together, because he would come over every now and again to use the room himself.

On Harry's first away mission as an Auror, Ron had asked him if he could still use the gymnasium while he was gone. Harry had agreed, and left him a key.

When Harry returned home on the exact evening he'd told Ron he would be home, he found his fireplace bright and crackling, his post on his desk, and food on the kitchen table: cottage pies and a cucumber salad. He smiled. He really did have the best mates.

He was about to help himself when he heard grunting from down the hall. Ron's grunting. He must be working out again. Harry shrugged and grabbed himself a plate, searching for a serving spoon in a drawer. No luck. He tried the jar of random kitchen utensils sitting beside the sink, and that's when he spotted them.

Two plates, unwashed, sitting in his sink.

The grunting down the hall got a little heavier.

No, thought Harry, they wouldn't dare. Suspicion, disbelief, and irritation flooded through him all at once.

He stalked down the corridor and threw the door of his spare bedroom open.

"Unbelievable," he muttered.

There, on the floor, on top of his precious gym mat, lay Hermione in a scarlet "Weasley Is Our King" t-shirt, her legs bent back and her skirt hitched up to her torso, while Ron's head buried itself in her sex. He was completely starkers.

"Get out, Harry," growled Hermione furiously. Her eyes rolled back in her head slightly as Ron, presumably, distracted her.

"This is my flat!" yelled Harry. "You get out!"

Hermione moaned, one of her hands going down to Ron's head. Instead of alerting him to reality, however, she fisted her hands in his bright red hair and merely pressed him closer.

"Go the fuck away, Harry, or I will—nnnggghhh—ah!" She never got to finish her threat, however, instead arching her back and clamping her thighs around Ron's head as he continued his expert ministrations.

Harry didn't need telling twice. He took one last, angry look at Hermione's slack-jawed face, then turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

His mates were the worst.

-five-

Ron had been banned from Harry's home gymnasium after that, and truthfully, he took extra measures to make sure his mates weren't on the other side of every door, shagging like rabbits.

He sent out notices of his schedule, on the off chance that they somehow managed to Floo into his flat while he was out and decided to get off while they waited for him to get home. He regularly phoned them ahead if he wanted to pop by for dinner. He yelled very loudly outside their door once he did get to their Hogsmeade flat, so that they would answer it before he barged in on their sexy times (if they were having any).

When Hermione graduated from Hogwarts, Harry had half a mind to bring along the Marauders Map, just to be certain Ron and Hermione's dots wouldn't be on top of each other when he rounded the corner.

He supposed he was happy for them—they were in love and they couldn't stay away from each other—though he did wish he didn't have to take such drastic actions to avoid their impulsive copulating habits.

That summer was the Quidditch European Championships, and Harry had gotten quite a few complimentary tickets from a very impressed Head of Magical Law Enforcement. He'd invited the Weasleys, Luna, and Neville to come along, and they'd all accepted, with the exception of Percy (because he was a hopelessly boring twat with no passion for Quidditch or a sense of national pride) and Bill and Fleur (who were already in France, visiting the Delacours).

It was around ten in the morning of the third day of their campout when Mrs. Weasley sent Harry to get Ron out of his room and ready for lunch. Harry, ever the vigilant sort, had promptly asked if Mrs. Weasley had seen Hermione.

She had. "Yes, she and Ginny have gone off with Arthur to get some firecrackers, dear. Not to worry. I expect they'll be back soon." She returned to the potatoes in front of her and resumed her peeling.

Satisfied, and more than a little relieved, Harry traipsed through the tent in the opposite direction, and peeked his head through the hangings of Ron's room. He tried very hard not to groan in frustration. It seemed Mrs. Weasley had been mistaken.

Ron and Hermione were lying in bed, Ron spooning her from behind. His arm slung lazily over her waist, her naked torso spilling over the bed sheets. His other arm cradled her by the breast to him, and at first Harry thought maybe they were just sleeping. He soon realized, however, that the slow movement beneath the sheets, and the insistent creaking of the bed, suggested otherwise.

Hermione smiled, her eyes half-lidded in sleep. She turned her head back over her shoulder and captured Ron's lips in a sweet kiss. "I love you, Ron," she whispered, brushing her lips against his cheek.

Ron buried his face in her neck, dotting her skin with kisses as he said, "I love you so much, Hermione." He flipped her over to face him and she shrieked with laughter.

"Merlin, you're a good shag," Hermione sighed, her hands going up to cup Ron's face. "However did I get so lucky?"

Harry ducked away just as they kissed again, and made his way back to Mrs. Weasley.

"Any luck?" she asked him.

"He's waking up," he responded vaguely. It was mostly true.

Mrs. Weasley nodded, and dumped a bowl full of freshly peeled potatoes into a boiling pot.

Just then, Ginny and Luna darted in through the main opening, Neville trailing behind and carrying a large, bright green, rocket-shaped package in his arms.

"Alright, Potter," Neville grinned easily, setting the rocket down gingerly just inside the hangings.

"Alright, Neville, Luna," he responded, nodding at each of them in turn.

"Hullo, Harry," sang Luna, her arms bursting with brightly colored firecrackers.

Ginny smirked at him. "Good morning," she said, and she walked past him to the picnic table in the middle of the room, her shoulder brushing his playfully as she passed.

"Morning yourself," he called after her in a daze.

-and one time they caught him—

They'd been dancing around this for ages, and finally, after a few too many shots of Firewhiskey and a Quidditch European Championship victory for England, Harry had grabbed Ginny by the waist and kissed the living daylights out of her. She was eager to kiss him back, and after a few minutes of intense snogging, she pulled him away from the crowd and into the nearby tree line.

She smiled mischievously up at him and pulled him down to her by the collar, her mouth crushing his. Their kiss quickly heated up, expanding into an openmouthed frenzy of hot and wet tongues, knocking teeth, and a nip or two of Harry's lips. He found that particularly intoxicating, arousal shooting through his veins, and set about cupping her bottom as he pressed their bodies together.

Ginny moaned into his lips, wrapping her leg around his hips. "Harry," she murmured.

"I know," he whispered back, his free arm roaming tantalizingly up her spine, his fingers curling around the ends of her hair.

She moved her lips across his jawline and settled them on his earlobe, sending his mind spinning. He'd forgotten how much he loved that.

In all fairness, it'd been a while since he and Ginny had been together in any capacity, what with the Holyhead Harpies signing her straight out of Hogwarts. She'd trained with them all summer, and Harry had to complete another press tour following the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Whatever he and Ginny were—and whatever they were becoming—it had to be put on hold. Until now.

He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, and her hands came up to tangle themselves in his thick, dark locks. He let out a pleased sort of noise and searched for her pulse point, sucking at it and lavishing it with his tongue.

"Merlin, I've missed this," she quipped, exposing her neck and allowing him better access.

Harry laughed into her neck, his mind cloudy and filling with the smell of her—apples, flowers, and something indescribably Ginny.

"I've missed you," he said in a low voice, his face pulling back slightly to stare into her darkened eyes.

She brought her face up to his and kissed him languorously, the leg wrapped around him slowly trailing down the back of his leg as she set it back on the ground again. Harry, feeling very encouraged by this and fiercely aroused, maneuvered them so that her back was against a large, wide oak.

"Bloody hell, Harry," Ginny complained, removing her arms from around his neck to rub at her offended backside.

"Damn, sorry," he replied. Harry got out his wand and, after a few Cushioning Charms and a bit of apologizing-by-heated-snogging, it was rather easy to pick up where they'd left off, if slightly less clothed than before.

They hardly noticed the twigs snapping in the distance followed by a scandalized gasp.

-epilogue-

Two weeks later, Ginny was moved into Harry's flat. For Harry's birthday, she woke him up clad in sexy lingerie, and Harry was very pleased, if not a little disappointed that she had to dart off immediately to prepare for the evening's affair.

Ginny, aware that birthdays had never been a grandiose event in Harry's life, had planned a huge party to celebrate the occasion; she played hostess, decorating, cooking, and making sure her guests were well entertained throughout the night.

Ron and Hermione had appeared fashionably late, Ron toting around a box wrapped in brown paper and string. He seemed oddly proud of it, placing it at the front of the pile of Harry's gifts. (Ginny had instructed all of her guests to bring Harry gifts, and they'd all acquiesced, though Harry suspected threats of a Bat-Bogey Hex might have been responsible.)

They'd sung him "Happy birthday," he'd blown out his candles, and had a bit of Ginny's cake (orange and white chocolate sponge), and Harry found himself in front of a huge pile of gifts. He grinned broadly, remembering Dudley's eleventh birthday and feeling quite like Big D himself.

Most of the guests had left, but Ron and Hermione had stayed behind, eager to watch their best mate enjoy his birthday party.

"Go on, then," said Ron, egging him on.

The joy would not leave his face as he began opening presents. New quills (from Neville), a broom polishing kit (from Hermione), a package of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes new product line (George), a charcoal jumper (Mrs. Weasley), several cards (assorted guests), an anti-nargle amulet (Luna), a tin of treacle tarts (Hagrid), and a dragon leather jacket (Bill and Fleur—though Harry expected it was mostly from Bill) all rested in a neat pile on the kitchen table.

Ron had confiscated his gift, saying Harry would have to open it last. So, when it appeared all gifts had been opened, Ron wordlessly laid his rectangular box in front of Harry. "Cheers, mate," he said, smiling—Harry thought—rather smugly.

Curious, Harry unwrapped the package carefully, pulling at the string and then the brown paper. He was looking at the wooden frame of a canvas. He peered up at Ron with a quirked eyebrow, and turned it over.

The painted image shocked Harry, and for a few seconds, he could only splutter incoherently. "Weasley!" he finally spit out, and he slammed the painting facedown on the kitchen table before standing up and chasing Ron around his kitchen, shooting spell after violent spell after him.

"You think you're so clever!" he shouted. Leave it to Ron and his sodding fucking painting.

Ron dodged every one of Harry's furious spells, laughing like a madman. This infuriated Harry even more, and just as he was about to jinx him—"You smarmy git!"—Ron threw himself to the floor, and Hermione Disarmed him.

"Whatever has got into you, Harry?" she asked, Harry's wand in her hand.

Harry felt his face flush. "Like you don't know!" he yelled. Hermione frowned at him, and Harry realized she really didn't know, but he was too buggered to care. It was all her fault for telling Ron to start painting in the first place.

Ginny, meanwhile, had lifted the painting up off the table and turned absolutely scarlet. She'd seen it, oh, Merlin, she'd seen the painting. Instead of reacting explosively, she tugged on Hermione's sleeve and brought her attention to it.

Hermione's eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. She looked between Ginny and Harry nervously, and then over at Ron, who was still sniggering to himself on the floor.

"Well, that's—er," Hermione stammered. Her ears burned bright red, and she couldn't help but smile slightly. "It's rude, but all in all, a very good interpretation of what we saw that night, I'd say." She caught Ron's eye and couldn't help but dissolve into a fit of giggles. "I'm so sorry, Harry!" she said as he growled furiously at her. "It's just—you have a right, fit bum, you know." Then, to Ginny, "You're a lucky girl."

"That's it, OUT!" screamed Harry, pointing to his fireplace. "Get out, get out, get out!"

Ron and Hermione, too carried away in their laughter and mirth to apologize properly, stepped into the fireplace and Flooed away.

Harry, still rather disgruntled over the whole affair, made his way back to Ginny, who was staring in awe at the painting in front of her. It was a painting of the Quidditch European Championship campsite, except that the main focus wasn't anything Quidditch related at all; it was Harry fucking Ginny against a tree.

"I'm going to burn it," he grumbled.

Ginny cradled the painting against her. "No! You can't!" she said.

"Gin, it's vile!"

She looked down at it, as though inspecting it for the first time. "I like it," she murmured. "It's very . . . exciting. And you can't deny Ron has got talent. He got your bum just right." She traced her finger over it on the painting, humming thoughtfully, then bringing her finger enticingly to her lips.

Harry found that extremely erotic, and he felt a familiar bulge in his pants. He shifted uncomfortably, determined to be angry about this stupid painting.

Ginny caught his gaze, her eyes dark and blazing. "She's right, you know," she said innocently, flipping her hair back and exposing her neck. "You do have a 'right, fit bum.'"

Harry's jaw clenched, but he couldn't say he wasn't flattered.

"And, if you don't mind, Mr. Birthday Boy, I think it's time I gave you my gift. . . ." she trailed off, smiling wickedly.

"Yeah?" he asked gruffly, as she pulled her dress off, revealing the sexy lingerie from earlier that day.

"Yeah," she answered, yanking him towards her with a grin, and setting him on fire with a scorching kiss.

Suffice it to say; he forgot all about Ron and his stupid, sodding, fucking painting, sufficiently distracted by a beautiful woman with whom he was in love.

And so what if Ron and Hermione had seen them fucking in the forest? The scales were still severely unbalanced. Perhaps, thought Harry, he and Ginny could restore that balance.

All in due time, of course. Harry grinned smugly to himself. They'd never see it coming.