35 : Sixth Sense
Title: Sixth Sense
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry Potter / Ron Weasley
Prompt: Sixth Sense
Word Count: 530
Rating: G
Author's Notes: Written for fanfic100 and posted at harryron.

The one hundred stories are inspired by Broke Back Mountain.

Ron looks back on one hundred memories of his life with and without Harry.

Enjoy.


Sixth Sense
****
We found a quiet corner and Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron.

I suppose it was possible that we’d have a few drinks and a bit of a reminisce.

We’d met just there, at the barrier at King’s Cross, twenty-six years ago.

We could sit at the bar and talk about our time at school, about our kids, how it beggared belief that we had four kids at Hogwarts.

We.

We had kids.

Yes, I know I spoke about the kids like that; like they were ours.

It honestly was mainly because his kids were my flesh and blood – and don’t think I didn’t sometimes feel really guilty about that - about the only thing we couldn’t have had in our relationship almost coming true, because of Ginny.

And it wouldn’t have been the same if he’s married someone else. We lived next door to each other, and with Hermione and me working, Harry often took care of our little ones during the day, and he helped Mum homeschool them.

They were in and out of each others’ houses all summer – most evenings Hermione would floo Harry at bedtime and ask how many were at his place. As long as there were eight in total, we just put to bed the ones we had in the house.

So.

Hermione had said ‘go for a drink’.

I followed Harry over to the bar, where he greeted Tom and asked for drinks and a spot of lunch.

There. We’d have a friendly afternoon together.

Harry was fine.

It was all in the past, now.

Too late to bring it up.

But something told me I’d been right.

It probably wasn’t noticeable to anyone else – and everyone else in the pub had turned to look at him when we entered, but I felt Harry tense up beside me.

“And Tom,” he added casually, “any chance of a private room?” he gestured to the people gawking at him.

“Of course, Mr Potter,” tom said genially, every inch our host, and he put our bottles on a tray and levitated it before him down the passageway to one of the private rooms.

A fire was crackling merrily in the grate and large armchairs were drawn cozily up, facing it.

Tom put our drinks on a low table and Summoned cutlery for the dining table by the door.

“Emily will be along with your lunch, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, it’s always good to see you again,” and he bustled out, closing the door behind him.

Harry and I sat in the cozy armchairs.

We ate the hearty and wholesome lunch that the buxom and wholesome Emily brought us.

She brought more drinks when she cleared the table with a whisk of her wand.

We sat in the cozy armchairs again and we chatted.

And it was good.

Good to be with him.

The first time we’d been alone together like this since Ginny died.

And I looked at him; at his hands, idly caressing a bottle of butterbeer; at his hair, curling against his neck; at his eyes, as his lashes swept up in slow motion and he looked at me.

And I knew I’d just been waiting for him to need me again.


My Big Damn Table.