They’ve been dancing around it for years.
Harry’s never said anything, not really. Not when Ron started looking at him differently, not when the tension in the room started to burn hotter than the fireplace. Not when the hugs lingered too long or when they started sharing a bed after nightmares and didn’t stop even when the dreams did.
But tonight—it’s different.
Harry’s sitting on Ron’s lap, legs straddling him like it’s nothing, like they do this all the time. Except they don’t, and Ron is frozen solid beneath him, every nerve pulled taut.
Harry’s drunk off something—not alcohol, not Firewhisky. Something heavier, magic and pining and shared trauma. Something that trembles in his chest when Ron doesn’t look away.
“I know I’m not…” Harry says, voice rough, eyes flicking down toward his own stomach. “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”
Ron frowns. “Pretend what?”
Harry laughs, hollow. “That this is something you want. I’ve seen the women you’ve dated, mate. And I’ve—look at me.”
Ron’s already looking. He never stopped.
Harry’s bigger now. Heavier. Soft in the chest and soft in the belly, shirt pushed up halfway, the swell of his stomach folding gently where he’s seated. Warm, heavy, real. And Ron wants to bite him.
“I’m not some fucking fantasy,” Harry mutters. “I’ve got a gut now, stretch marks. I’ve got—”
Ron surges up and kisses him.
It’s rough, teeth and tongue, a groan swallowed between mouths as his hands come up and grab at Harry’s waist—squeeze the softness there, pull him down harder onto his lap. Harry gasps.
Ron pulls away just long enough to rasp:
“You think I didn’t notice? I’ve always looked. I’ve wanked thinking about your belly pressing into me. I’ve imagined riding you and watching it bounce. I want you to sit on my face until I can’t breathe.”
Harry makes a noise that’s barely human.
“I want to feel you fuck me with your stomach heavy on my chest, sweat dripping off you—fuck, Harry, you don’t get it. You’re not a fantasy—you’re the only real thing that’s ever made me come untouched.”
Harry shudders. His hips grind down without thought, belly dragging across Ron’s ribs, and Ron moans like he’s dying.
“Sit up,” Ron pants. “Wanna see it. All of you.”
Harry leans back just enough, and Ron grabs his belly with both hands, reverent, hungry, like he’s been starving for years.
“So fucking beautiful,” Ron says, jaw slack, eyes wide. “Wanna live right here.”
He mouths at the skin under Harry’s navel, wet and open-mouthed, then lower.
Harry’s shaking. “Ron—fuck—Ron.”
“Ride me, Harry. Let me feel it. I want your belly hitting me every time you bounce.”
And Ron doesn’t last two minutes.
————————-
Harry’s breath is still ragged. His skin sticks to Ron’s where their chests are pressed together, his belly soft and warm against Ron’s front, heartbeat steadying as they cuddle.
Ron’s stroking slow circles into the dip of Harry’s back, like he never wants to stop touching him.
And then, from the doorway—quiet, half-dreaming, half-haunted—Remus speaks.
He’s just come in, unaware, a cup of tea forgotten in his hand. Maybe they left the door unlocked. Maybe he was supposed to come by. Maybe he’s not really here, he wanders sometimes, trapped in nostalgia.
But he sees them, Harry curled heavy and happy in Ron’s arms, and he breathes—
“You know… you look more like James by the day.”
Ron goes still, arms tightening protectively.
But Remus’s voice is distant, soft. Not comparing. Not accusing. Just… reverent.
“Not your face,” he adds, barely above a whisper. “The way you take up space when you’re wanted. He never knew how to shrink.”
And then he steps out, quietly. Leaves them in peace.
Harry stays silent a long while. And then presses his face to Ron’s throat.
“Don’t let me forget that,” he murmurs. “Any of it.”
Ron doesn’t answer—he just holds him closer.
