*Disclaimer: Alas, no, they are not mine. The plot – or lack of it – is, however. *

He hadn't meant to seduce Bill Weasley.

This was the first thought that ran through Harry James Potter's head one bright November morn. Well, not quite first – there were, of course, the obligatory moments of oh this isn't my bedroom and whoops whose arm am I clutching and wow, my head hurts first. However, as soon as these trivial necessities had been covered, the Man-Who-Conquered's thoughts did, indeed, run right towards intention.

Theirs had been a low-key friendship, developing slowly amidst war, creeping up upon them until one day they were suddenly friends, relaxing by the firelight together and guarding each other's back. It had perhaps started when Harry had been the only person seemingly oblivious to the vivid Greyback-inflicted gashes scarring Bill's face – or, maybe it started when Bill had decided that he, if no one else, would help Harry learn the curses and hexes needed to survive the war. Either way, their friendship had meandered along, solidifying on that day when Fleur and Bill had tried to explain to a uncomprehending Weasley family about how they were still friends but were definitely not getting married – and Harry had been the only person not to pity them, or to try to question them both about why and how and well, what are you going to do now? Instead, Harry had offered Bill a cold beer and asked Fleur about her sister, and treated them much the same as he always had – as friends, and companions, and nothing else.

It had been sometime last month, however, when Harry had felt their friendship become something else, something more. There had been nights of insomnia, when Harry would wake up screaming and Bill would be unable to sleep, and dawn would find them both, sitting comfortably together, coffees in hand, allowing companionship to keep the terror at bay. Then there were battles, where Bill would say I'll guard your back and Harry would know that there was an unspoken forever, whenever at the end of it. And there were the times when everything seemed gloomy and hopeless and bleak, and Bill would be there with a lopsided smirk and an off-color joke and suddenly everything seemed alright again. And by the time that happened, Harry only knew that Bill was totally, irrevocably a part of him, and that Harry, without Bill, would never be the same.

So on that blustery November morn, when Harry Potter woke to a pounding head and familiar red hair, Harry contemplated intentions and then snuggled right back down. Intended or not, nothing mattered but being right here, right now, with the dawning realization that there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Bill Weasley woke up that same November morn with a similarly aching head, a mouthful of cotton, and some really, really interesting memories of the night before.

A good many of his questions were answered by the messy black head pillowed on his bicep, snoring softly. He let his fingers give in to temptation and run – once, twice, thrice – through that dark silken mass.

When Bill Weasley had first met Harry Potter, the dark-haired hero hadn't registered too well on the curse-breaker's radar. Harry Potter was neither physically imposing nor intensely charismatic – but then Bill had seen Harry fly against the Hungarian Horntail, and the sheer amount of weary determination he had seen on the 14-year-olds face was something that intrigued him. The next time Bill Weasley had encountered Harry Potter, he had made sure to look Harry in the eye. The green gaze that he encountered left a definite impression on Bill - for here was somebody who had seen too much, who was under a crushing burden and yet built up the strength to go on and face it, day after day. These were the eyes of someone Bill wanted to know.

From then on, Bill had taken an interest in Harry, teaching the teen duelling and curses and tricks to keep alive – and in turn Bill had been gifted with clear, unconditional friendship. He had found in Harry someone who understood duty and honor, who had been beaten down but then got back up; he found, in short, a friend who developed into a man well worth knowing. When, after that horribly complicated no-I'm-not-marrying-Fleur-but-it's-not-her-fault meeting had gone so terribly wrong, the joy of Harry's friendship, his care for both of them and his unstated sympathy, had been a welcome balm to Bill's rather temperamental frame of mind.

It had been just over a month ago, however, just after yet another terrible, bloody battle, that Bill had realized that perhaps this went a little deeper than friendship. The two of them – battered, heartsick and sore – had been sitting wearily side-by-side, using shaking hands to lift water to parched mouths. Bill had been exhausted beyond belief in mind and body, after watching companions fall to the left and the right and no discernible difference made in the unrelenting ranks of death eaters. Harry, tired though he was, had seen Bill's misery, and had lifted that clear green gaze to meet Bill's weary hazel one – and then, so quietly that Bill had strained to hear, he had added It'll be all right, Bill. Maybe not now, and maybe not tomorrow – but this will end, and the sun shall rise once more. That is what Bill thought of when he thought of Harry – the quiet strength, the silent compassion, a strong hand on his shoulder, and a burden lessened by being shared.

And even when the last battle had come, and Harry had duelled against Voldemort and won – and oh, how he had won – even then, with Harry at his strongest and most powerful – even then, Bill always thought that Harry had never seemed quite as precious, as beautiful and brilliant, as he had on that one weary, blood-soaked day.

And so when Bill Weasley woke up with a killer headache and a parched, sore mouth, to see that messy black head resting on his arm – all he thought was yes, this is right before holding his bedmate a little tighter, a little closer, and allowing himself to drift once more, safe and content, back to sleep.