Notes: Still no plot worthy of being called plot. It was just resting on my computer for so long, so I added a bit to it and decided to post it, since this is my don't-worry-about-plot-or-anything-else story. Or my "just relax" story. But if you want to make a suggestion, it would be welcome.

Part four

Their argument had been stopped by a stressed Molly trying to get everyone together for dinner, and Harry had escaped to Ron's room not long after. When the next morning came, Harry had already left the house.

Even before Charlie approached the tree, he knew Harry would be there. He didn't know how he knew, but Harry had never been one to hide from a conflict – he raged through it with all of his fiery passion, and though that often created more conflicts, no one could say he was a coward. Far from it, in fact, though that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

There was such a thing as too much courage, Charlie thought as he stepped into Harry's line of sight, and now he was playing with an angry dragon.

Well, he supposed it was all the better, considering his occupation.

"Hello, there," Charlie said quietly. Harry scowled at the ground. Charlie sat down beside him, ignoring Harry's flinch when their knees brushed. The wind brushed gently through his hair. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like… Harry, please. You know I'm pants at explaining stuff like that."

Harry sent him a look. "Do explain," he said.

"You're younger than me," Charlie said. "A lot, too. It would be… frowned upon, at best. And I'm still in Romania, you know. You'd have no direct support."

From the Burrow came the sound of falling pots and loud voices. Charlie found himself smiling a little; it was always good to be home – especially with Harry by his side.

"I care about you a lot, Harry. But I'm not sure that will be enough."

"Stupid git…"

And with that enlightening comment, Harry draped himself over Charlie's lap.

"I take it that I'm forgiven?"

"Don't make me say it."

"Fine, I won't."

His freckled fingers weaved through black hair, swirling and twisting and brushing out tangles.

"Will you wait?" Harry said.

"For what?"

"For me. Next summer."

Charlie chuckled. "I suppose I will," he said. "I'll send letters."

"You better." Harry paused. "Can I kiss you?"

Charlie peered down at him. Harry looked so… innocent, somehow, even asking him for not-quite-so-innocent things. (There was something about his grin that made Charlie suspicious of his intentions, which most likely consisted of kissing turning into touching.)

"If we keep it chaste, I don't see a problem," he muttered. "But whatever you're thinking about, I'm sure we better not."

Harry pouted, but sat up, facing Charlie as he bit his lip. Charlie smiled.

"You're quirky, Harry," he said.

Then, he leaned forward to brush their lips together.

He chuckled as Harry blinked at him with wide eyes, seeming to realise that perhaps he wasn't ready for anything more overwhelming than kissing quite yet.

"Again?" Harry whispered.

Who was Charlie to deny him?