Author: Jadea

Dedication: To Shinonbu, my e-mail correspondent who helped me overcome my loneliness in the bitter weeks when my laptop was AWOL.

Notes: I know people are clamoring for the next chapter of "Best Served Cold" and it will be out soon, very soon, because I want to write it as much as you want to read it. But first I have to exorcize this story, which has plagued me for three weeks.

Synopsis: Harry and Ron had starkly different childhoods. How would that reflect on their emotions, and their relationship? Harry reflects.

Rating: Pg. Very, very light slash. Love is love.

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You asked me once when it was I knew I loved you.

Well... "asked" sounds more civilized, really. You're a lot of things, Ron, but somehow, "civilized" isn't the word that comes to mind when I think of you. Which is often.

No. You didn't "ask" per say. The words just seemed wrenched out of you, torn from your throat, from your heart to your lips without so much as a thought. Like quite a few of your words, Ron.

Other people-anyone else, actually, anyone *normal* would have asked the question-okay, again, not asked, but blurted-the question at a more...romantic venue than you chose to. A dinner for two, perhaps. A quiet night at home, in front of the fireplace. After making love...any one of a thousand opportunities would have been more appropriate. Even in front of your entire family, Fred and George and Weasely Wizard Wheezes included, would have made more sense then the place and time you chose. Hell, standing at wandpoint in front of Voldemort would have been more appropriate. At least that would have added some tragic drama.

I mean...

Honestly, Ron.

A quidditch match?

A bloody *Cannons* game. Sitting sandwiched between you (not that I'm complaining about that) and some overweight, smelly bloke dozing off too many pints on my other side. (And yes, I *am* complaining about that, because you tricked me into switching seats before the game) whose elbow kept jabbing me in the ribs and whose breath smelled like the vomit flavored Bertie Botts Beans. A game the Cannons (surprise, surprise) were losing eighty to ten, the two of us in our ground-level seats, squinting through our omnioculars to see the players. Only you, Ron, would ask a question like that...there.

Actually, only you would ever ask me that question.

The one person who would never, ever need to ask.

But you did. Right after the Cannons scored their first-and last-goal of the game. I don't know whether it was the shock of seeing the Cannons score, but after you stopped jumping up and down and waving your arms wildly (nearly hitting a little bald man sitting two-rows above us right smack on the forehead) you sat down, eyes shining, and flashed me one of your Smiles.

And the words that I had been expecting: "Great game, isn't it, Harry! Did you see that goal? The Cannons are gonna *win* this game, Mate!" suddenly became:

"Harry, when did you know you loved me?"

I don't think the words ever even shot through your conscious mind. No, I take that back. I *know* they didn't. If you'd seen those thoughts-had even the faintest inkling of what they were-you would have stomped on them, shown them no mercy. But that was the beauty of it. One minute they were in your heart and the next they had escaped your lips. Like so many of your words, your expressions.

I would have expected nothing else from you.

Granted, I didn't expect such a question from you at a quidditch match, of all places. But the way you asked...well, that was just... you.

It's really kind of amazing. The two of us, I mean. Oh, I'm sure to much of the Wizarding World, it's not a surprise at all. Why would it be? We've been inseparable from the day we met. To everyone else, "us" must look so easy, so sweet and natural. As normal as breathing.

And it was. It really was. That's the amazing thing. Meeting became liking. Liking became Friendship, which became Needing. Needing became Love. And then the Love altered, changed.

A slow, gradual process that must look natural to a spectator. As normal as breathing.

I don't believe you ever thought about it. I could be wrong, but I don't think so. You were never one to sit for hours of ruthless self-examination.

Not like me.

I remember how that used to confuse you. It still does, in a way. When we were younger you'd coax me away from my thoughts with jokes, stories and quidditch. And most of the time I'd go, allow my self to be swept away by you, because you were what I needed.

You were always what I needed.

But there are some things that I *had* to think about, had to understand. Ideas and concepts that were so alien to me that not even you could explain them. Some things that I had to find inside myself.

Affection. Need. Friendship.

Love.

I don't think you ever truly understood what life was like, at the Dursleys. I rarely talk about it, because it makes your eyes smolder and your jaw clench. And it's not that you didn't *try* to understand. But there was no way you could ever know...

How could you even begin to comprehend what it was like? You grew up surrounded by love from the day you were born. Not just tolerance or absent minded affection. Love.

You know that wall of pictures at the Burrow, in the hall on the way to the kitchen? The first time I came to your house, the summer after first year, you tried to drag me through the hallway before I could see them; Fred and George teased you endlessly.

I love those pictures. The Weasley family pictures. Frames upon frames of events, their times long past, but the figures in the pictures remain. Molly and Arthur's wedding. Percy's graduation from Hogwarts. One of Charlie's quidditch games.

But my favorites were always been the baby pictures. Seven of them, of course. Arranged in the order of birth, spanning the entire length of the hall from a two-day old Bill right next to the door of the kitchen to a week-old Ginny right before you walk into the den.

Your portrait is second to last. Appropriate enough, you always said. Of course, it was also my favorite.

You're less then a week old in the picture, but you already have a shock of bright red hair. Most of the time, the picture shows you trying to swallow your fist. You never quite succeed, but you certainly give it a good try. And when, in the picture, the week-old-you realizes that you are never going to be able to swallow your hand, you start to cry. Little tiny tears start to well up in your big blue eyes, and you start to bawl.

That's when the best part of the picture happens.

You've been sitting on your mother's lap the entire time, but no one looking at the picture realizes it until she picks you up. In the frame your mother coos to you, wiping away your tears and kissing the top of your head, and you stop crying.

I used to watch that picture, long after I'd memorized the sequence of events. The look on your mothers face when she kisses you...

That's why you could never understand.

And I'm glad.

Love, Ron. Affection. Friendship. Need. As much a part of your family and your childhood as your fire red hair. Together we explored those emotions, and discovered nuances in them we'd never imagined before. But they didn't scare you. Because you'd experienced love before, even if it hadn't been with me. Granted, the love you have for say, Bill, is a lot different then the kind you have for me. But the emotions weren't foreign to you.

Like they were to me.

It wasn't just that I'd never loved anyone before. It was that I didn't know what love was. Oh, I knew it existed, and in other forms then the sick, twisted, parasitic love of the Durslelys. But I'd never experienced it, never been the object of any emotion throughout my entire childhood besides a form of disgusted tolerance.

You can explain the concept of sight to a blind person, but they will never understand it until they actually *see.*

And that was why, while you rode the wave of your emotions usually without so much as a second thought, I second guessed every emotion, every gesture, every word. Even before thoughts of you slipped into my dreams, before I began to notice you in ways I'd never imagined, I agonized over every emotion in our relationship. Was *this* friendship? Was what I was feeling affection, or stronger? Did I like you? Did you like me? Did you want to be my friend, or were you just being nice? Did I need you? And when, exactly, did you become the most important person in my life?

Not a day went by, or still goes by, without some of those thoughts slipping in to my mind. I haven't doubted your love for me-ever. But I doubted myself enough for both of us.

And that's why I answered your question the way I did. If I'd asked you the same thing...I'm laughing, just thinking about it. Because I can hear your response as clearly as if you were saying the words in my ear, right now:

"What kinda question is that, Harry? Did someone slip something in your butterbeer? I've *always* loved you. You know that-hey, did you see that feint?"

'I've always loved you.'

The first time you told me that, I couldn't help but be amazed by your words. Because I knew that, for you, they were true. And while sometimes it seems like I've always loved you, I have memories that tell me differently.

I memorized them, you see. Every step in our relationship, every new feeling and emotion. My first feelings of affection, friendship, and love. Not only because they were my first feelings for you, but because they were my first feelings like that for anyone. I know them all, each moment in time, intimately.

I can tell you not just the day I knew I loved you, but the day I knew I liked you, and the day I knew you liked me. The moment I realized that you were my best friend, and the heart stopping fear that went through me the night I realized that I needed you.

But you didn't ask about those. You asked me when it was I realized I loved you.

January 8th, 1992.

I remember how the corners of your mouth turned upward in a ghost of a smile, when I answered such an emotional question with such a straight-forward answer. But it was the truth. That was the day I knew I loved you.

It was Christmas break, and all the other first-year boys were gone. The glare of the sun on the snow woke me up early that morning, and I couldn't get back to sleep. So I slipped out of my bed and padded over to yours, tugging back the curtain, fully prepared to wake you up because, if I couldn't sleep, you shouldn't be able to either.

But I never woke you that morning. You slept for a good hour longer then I did; for some reason, I couldn't bear to wake you.

That moment stands out in its clarity. For the longest time, I simply stood there, the folds of your bed curtain still pressed in my fist. And I just watched you sleep.

Because it had hit me. The instant I pulled the curtain back and saw you, curled up on your side. I noticed things I never noticed before-the way the sleeves of your pajamas were far too short, stopping halfway down your arm, the way your hair tumbled down over your face, even the way your fists clutched the pillow beneath you.

I loved you.

I was only eleven, as were you; it wasn't the love we found together later. But it was love, just the same...even though I hadn't experienced the feeling for over ten years, some long-denied part of me remembered it. And rejoiced in it.

You never knew.

I never told you about that moment first year, not until that quidditch game. How could I? I knew I loved you...but then, I didn't know if you felt the same. You told me later that you'd always loved me, and I think you did. But I didn't know that then.

And so even though I could now see, I still had to pretend that I was blind.

I never told you. It wasn't until five years later when we finally acknowledged the feelings between us and by then, it was no longer the simple, uncomplicated love of an eleven year old boy for his best friend.

But on some level, you already knew. You always do.

Of course, I couldn't tell you all this at a quidditch game, especially when the bloke next to me woke up and began screaming obscenities at the Kestrel's Keeper. His breath smelled even worse when he was awake then when he was sleeping; no wonder you tricked me into switching seats. And that night, when we returned from the game, we got...distracted...by other things.

You were my first...everything. And sometimes, in those rare moments when we're separated, like now, that idea scares me. No. It terrifies me. It's times like these when just the thought of losing you almost paralyzes me, stops my heart.

I love you.

I know I haven't said it enough, not nearly enough. I didn't tell you on that long-ago day in January; I didn't tell you when I knew, really knew, in September of our sixth year; I didn't say a thing until after the words had tripped impulsively from your own mouth. I know I haven't said it enough, and we both know why. But I feel it. Always.

I liked you from the moment I met you. I knew you were my friend when you volunteered to be my Second for the Wizard's duel with Draco Malfoy. I knew I needed you, really, truly *needed* you in a way I'd never needed anyone before, that first Halloween...the very first time I realized that you could be taken away from me.

You've told me, many times, that you've always loved me. For the longest time I didn't know what love was, and couldn't say the same. But I do know this:

As long as I've known, really known, what love is, I have known that I've loved you.

And I am never, ever switching seats with you at a quidditch match again. Ever.

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The first line of this story popped in my head, and I just had to write it. I don't know how good it is, but I really enjoyed writing it. If you enjoyed reading it (or even if you didn't) exercise the "review" button. Next: more "Best Served Cold."