In later years, I questioned his decision.  Cursed it, raged against it, but always questioned it.  I don’t think I’ve ever merely accepted it.

The night before the final battle, we sat nervously at the table.  He and I were nervous around each other for the first time in our lives.  We’d been best friends for ten years.  We’d fought many times, not spoken to each other for months at a time, but never had we been nervous around each other.

We knew the next day I would be facing Voldemort in the to-the-death battle that had been prophesied before my birth.  It made him nervous, and when he was nervous he played chess.

Looking back at our friendship, I realized that was how it had always been.  Even at the end of our first year in school, when he’d commanded Professor McGonagall’s giant chess set on the way to the Philosopher’s Stone.  When nervous, he found ways to be in control.

The night before the battle, when we found ourselves facing each other over yet another chessboard, I asked him what he felt the need to control.  He looked up at me, his blue eyes dark and stormy, mouth set in a grim line.  We were twenty-one and felt twice that old.

“You,” he finally ground out.  I could see the beginnings of a blush creeping up his cheeks before he returned his attention to the board.

I leaned back in my chair, startled.  Me?  He needed to control me?  I thought I knew what he meant, but I was going to make him spell it out.

“Why do you need to control me?” I asked, voice low so Hermione wouldn’t overhear.  She was engrossed in conversation with Remus, but I was taking no chances.

After asking the question, I reached across the board to move my knight.  His hand grasped my wrist tightly, preventing the move and drawing my eyes upward to his face.

Intense.  Those blue eyes were fixed to mine, studying me, sizing me up and looking as if they’d gladly devour me.  I blinked, suddenly uncertain with him as I’d never been before.

I lifted one eyebrow in question.  He continued to hold my gaze.  Slowly, he lifted my hand to his face.

Even as I think about it now, I’m still shocked by his actions.

He whispered, “I need to control you to keep you safe,” then pressed his lips into my palm.

My body froze, in shock and desire.  The desire frightened me more.  This was my best friend – my best male friend –  and when he kissed me I felt desire?  However, I wasn’t repulsed.  Some part of me must have recognized the reaction for something I’d long suppressed, because I didn’t pull away.

His eyes held mine captive, blue possessing green.  There was something feral in his gaze, something I didn’t know if I could understand.  I could only drown in that gaze.

“What is it you want from me?” I asked, my voice quavering uncertainly.  This was new territory in our ten year friendship.  I despised myself for my nervousness.  He was the one in control and I was merely the follower.

Something in his gaze shifted.  The desire he made me feel was reflected in his eyes.  Gently, he pulled me forward.

We each had one hand on that chessboard; his other slid into my hair and my other rested on his cheek.  Then our lips met.  It was all at once something I’d never felt before and familiar.

The kiss was brief.  He pulled back only slightly, merely far enough to look me in the eye.

“That is what I want from you, Harry,” he replied, voice rough.  “I want to control you.  I want to possess you.”  Licking his lips, he paused.  It was all I could do not to moan as I watched his tongue.  Finally, he continued, “If I can’t keep you safe tomorrow, I want you tonight.”

He’d finally spelled it out.  He wanted me.  Wanted.  I had never had those thoughts about another man – let alone my best friend – but seeing the need, the desire, in his gaze was intoxicating.  Though I’d never considered it, I wasn’t immune to the plea there.

Embarrassingly, my voice broke as I asked, “You want me?”

His fingers tightened against my scalp, sending a shower of tingles down my back.  I closed my eyes.

“Oh, yes,” he answered fiercely, pulling my lips back to his and claiming them.

He thrust his tongue into my mouth, toying with mine.  Then he sucked on my tongue, working it skillfully.  When I moaned in reaction, he released it and pulled away.

“You’re not such a straight arrow, Harry Potter,” he laughed, the sound low and visceral.  I felt a pulling in my groin in direct response.

No, not so straight after all.

“Apparently just a little bent,” I agreed readily.  I knew what my response implied – and what I was agreeing to as a result.  If I was going to kill or be killed the next day, I was willing to take a risk.  If we both survived, we’d figure out the repercussions the day after that.

His eyes flared, both desire and surprise there.  It did flicker through my mind to ask how long he’d had thoughts of me that were more sexual than mere friendship, but I didn’t voice them.  I don’t think I wanted the answer then.

He disentangled his hand from my hair and leaned back.  Glancing over at Remus and Hermione, he grinned.  I followed his gaze.  Hermione had fallen asleep against Remus, who was looking at both of us and smiling.  It was disconcerting.

“You two go on,” Remus said, waving us upstairs with his free hand.  “I’ll make sure she gets to bed.”  There was enough of a leer in his voice to make me wonder if there wasn’t something in the air that night, something primal on the eve of battle, the need to prove to yourself that you were alive.

Whatever the case, I felt my hand being pulled and I rose from my chair.

Unsure of myself, but certain of my decision, I followed my best male friend upstairs to his bedroom.

I had barely shut the door when he pressed me against it.  He had grown four or five inches taller than I in the last years of school, so it came as no surprise when he used his height to his advantage, looming over me.

“Are you sure?” he managed between gritted teeth, now pressing his body against mine, chest to knee.  His erection bumped against my burgeoning one, sending another shockwave of desire through me.

To this day, I’m not exactly sure what went through my mind at his question.  Part of me was extremely aroused to feel his erection against mine; part of me was in shock that he felt that way about me; and part of me wondered why we hadn’t done anything before that night.

Each of us had dated Hermione – he longer than I – and slept with her at least once.  Between the two of them, things were too volatile as they fought even more than usual when sex was involved.  She and I, on the other hand, fell too easily into a routine.  In retrospect, it could be that he and I were in denial and merely using Hermione because a heterosexual relationship with your best friend is okay.

Whatever the reasoning, it was with conflicted emotion that I answered, “I’m sure.”

He smiled ferally before pulling my jumper over my head in response, then pulling off his own.

Having lived in the same dormitory for seven years, then off and on together since school based on the circumstances of war, seeing him without a shirt wasn’t anything unusual.  Knowing I was the reason he and I were without clothing from the waist up was something quite different.

I opened my mouth to ask him something – to this day I don’t recall what – but before I could say a thing, he sealed his mouth over mine.  His hands found their way to my waist before beginning a slow exploration upward.

Unsure of what to do with my hands, I wrapped my arms around him, resting my hands at the small of his back.  He made a noise of approval at the back of his throat and pressed his hips into mine.

The arousal that shot through me as he pressed our erections together again made me light-headed.  He’s hard.  He’s aroused because of me.  I moaned into his mouth, allowing one hand to drift lower and cup his arse.

He broke the kiss, trailing his lips along my jaw.  When I squeezed one cheek, he groaned my name into my ear.  I’d heard my name on his lips many times, but never had it sounded like that, like I was the only thing in the world for him at that moment.

With the hand not on his arse, I grabbed a fistful of his red hair, pulling his head back to look him in the eye.  “Are you sure?”

He grinned, then turned us to walk me backwards toward the bed.  My knees struck the edge and I fell backwards onto the bed.  Before I could move, he toppled onto me, pressing me into the mattress with his body.

“Does that answer your question?”  He punctuated the retort with a kiss to my chest.

My only response was a moan.  His kisses were hard and demanding, compared to those of the women in my past.  At that moment, for that night, it was what I needed.  I needed someone to be as forceful as I was, someone who wasn’t afraid of hurting me, someone who wanted more from me than to shag The Boy Who Lived.  And if it was my best friend giving it to me, I could live with that.

His mouth circled one of my nipples, tugging on it with his lips and teeth.  I fisted my hands into the blankets, rasping his name as a plea.

His response was to slide his hands to the waistband of my jeans, pulling the belt free and unbuttoning the fly.  Releasing my nipple, he trailed his lips down over my stomach and between my navel and the denim.

I lifted my head from the mattress to meet his stormy blue look.  The easy grin from just a few moments before had become untamed.  Holding my gaze captive with his own, I felt his hands on my thighs.

If my heart had leapt from my chest at that moment, I wouldn’t have been surprised given how fast it was beating.  My head dropped to the mattress again when he finished unbuttoning my jeans.  I lifted my hips so he could pull them down.

When he chuckled, I smiled.  Without asking again, he knew I wanted this.

He yanked my jeans off my feet, leaving me clad in nothing more than my boxers, which hid nothing.  I closed my eyes tightly, waiting for him.  The sound of his zipper made a shiver run down my spine.

Drawing one arm over my eyes, I clenched the other more tightly into the blankets.  A whimpering moan escaped me when I felt him collapse onto the bed, his erection digging into my thigh when he pressed himself tightly against me.  The only clothing between us was my boxers.

Though not usually submissive, I found it very easy to let him take the lead.  He’d told me he wanted to control me and he was doing it superbly.

I bit my lip when he began tracing my nipples with his fingernails.  Once I was panting for breath, he stopped.  I lifted my arm off my forehead and opened my eyes.  That seemed to be what he was waiting for because he then slid his hand into my boxers, grasping my cock in his fist.

I moaned his name.  Loudly.  It felt as if my eyes had rolled back into my head.  He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, working his hand up and down my length just fast enough to drive my arousal higher and just hard enough to drive me insane.

He pulled his hand away long enough to yank my boxers off, tossing them backwards, then knelt between my legs.  I bit my bottom lip in anticipation, then whispered his name harshly.

Pushing my legs further apart, he bent his head forward, taking the head of my cock into his mouth.  I was moaning and murmuring, but I doubt it was anything coherent.

It felt as if I’d been engulfed in fire.  As more and more of my cock disappeared into his mouth, I knew I wouldn’t last long.  I also knew that didn’t matter when I felt his cock, hard and weeping, against my shin.  His tongue swirled around the head, then down the underside until I was completely buried in his mouth.

He worked me up and down, sucking hard on the downstroke and licking on the upstroke.  I fisted one hand in that fiery red hair, the other in the blankets again.  His hands tightened on my thighs, fingernails driving crescent moons into my skin.

Releasing my cock briefly, he commanded, “Come for me, Harry,” before devouring me again.

I did.  Nearly screaming, my hips arched off the bed, trying to bury my cock as far down his throat as I could, I came.

When I could breathe again, I realized he had swallowed.  He dragged his body up mine, his skin sliding against my damp skin, until he hovered over me.

“You’re mine, Harry,” he growled.  “I own you tonight.”

“Yes,” I agreed.  He smiled, and it wasn’t the pleasant smile I’d seen on his face for the previous ten years; this was a possessive smile.  This was a smile of ownership.

He bent his head to kiss me, capturing my mouth, driving his tongue deep.  I could taste myself in his mouth, and it merely increased my desire for him.  If he wanted to possess me, I would let him.  If he had asked to keep me as a pet at that point, I think I would have agreed.

His mouth on mine in a long, drugging kiss, he slid one hand down my side, then down my thigh.  When he moved his lips down my jaw to my ear, he lifted my leg, propping my foot on the edge of the mattress.  He moved his lips down my neck, along the cord of it stretched tight, while his hand slid over and cupped my balls.  Briefly kneading them, he whispered a lubrication spell, then slid his fingers lower against the puckered opening of my arse.

I had taken the backdoor route with one or two of the women I’d gone to bed with, but had never thought to be on the receiving end.  I knew what it felt like to be the one sliding my fingers into that forbidden place, then to slide my cock inside.

He worked one finger into me, making me gasp in pain and pleasure.  No, not so straight at all, are you, Harry?  He added a second finger, pushing them deep then stilling his hand.  I whimpered.  It hurt but it was also erotic.  My cock twitched in response, some life returning to it.

“You like that, don’t you?” he rasped, slowly drawing his fingers out, then pushing them back in.  Doing nothing more than that would have driven me out of my mind, but then he began talking.

Sliding up the cord of my neck once more, he moved his mouth next to my ear.  I could feel his cock, impossibly hard, intimidatingly large, against my thigh.

“Oh, yes, I can see that you like it.  That cock of yours is perking up a bit.”  A nip of my earlobe had me grabbing at the blankets again.  “In Gryffindor Tower, I used to love to listen to you wank.  You didn’t do it often, but I knew what your muffled moans meant, when they were different from your nightmares.”  He nipped again, moving his fingers into me more forcefully.  “But my favorite was in the showers after Quidditch, when you were wet and thought you were alone.  I only caught you twice, but I’ll never forget.”

He crooked his fingers and hit a spot inside me that made me stiffen and moan in pleasure.  “Yes, you’re very bent, Harry,” he growled before capturing my mouth once more.

His tongue molested my mouth and I loved it. I’d never been kissed so aggressively and it was making me hot and hard with arousal.  Suddenly, he pulled his fingers out and repositioned himself, moving himself between my thighs and drawing my legs onto his shoulders.

That large, hard cock was at my opening.  All I felt capable of doing was holding eye contact and whimpering.  Some big, bad hero I was that night, completely at the mercy of my best friend.

Then he grasped my hips and slid into me.  What hurt most was the head of his cock entering me with a little pop; the length of his cock was easy after that.  He dropped his head to his chest, breathing heavily.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he gasped, then began to move.

Extreme pleasure warred with pain.  I moaned his name, my voice low and breathy.  I ached for him to drive into me hard and fast, to possess me, to claim me.  “Harder,” I managed to say before using my heels on his shoulders to lever my hips upward, giving him a better angle.

I knew I’d have bruises in the shape of his fingers on my hips before the night was through.  His grasp tightened, holding my hips still so he could drive into me harder, faster.

“I wanted this to last,” he whispered.  His eyes met mine again and the desire, pleasure and hurt there was almost more than I could bear.  “But it won’t.”

“Then come,” I answered.

He sped up and hearing our skin slap together was driving me close to the edge once again.  He bent down, forcing my knees almost to my chest.  My name was forced past his lips, a combination growl and scream, as he came, pouring himself inside me.

The knowledge that he had come inside me was enough to force me to my second climax.  I arched my back, my hands scrabbling over his sweat-damped skin as I clutched him.  Hot and sticky, I came all over my stomach and chest.

Releasing his breath on a heavy sigh, he pulled out and collapsed onto his back next to me.

Had I known at the time what he would do the next day, I might have tied him to the bed, might have fucked him until he couldn’t walk, might have made him promise he’d be there for me the day after the morning after.

But I didn’t know.

After a cleaning spell, we moved under the blankets.  He spooned behind me all night, keeping me close to him and under his control.  It was a sensation that was at once strange and welcome.  The women I’d taken to bed all expected me to be the protective one, be the one holding them tight.

To be the one nestled against someone else, to feel his chest against my back, to feel his softened cock nestled against my arse, to feel his breath on the back of my neck was something I could have learned to crave.

However, it wasn’t meant to be.

I’ve cursed him many times, ranted to his shadow, cried at his memory.  How dare he give me that night?  How dare he think that one amazing night could make up for what he did?

He and Hermione accompanied me to the battlefield the next day, each of them there for moral support and defense if I needed it.

I was there to kill Voldemort or be killed by him.  Despite the weeks of research and reading by Hermione, I still had no idea how I would kill him.  It was unacceptable that I die, especially after the night I had shared with my best friend.

He had other ideas.

When Voldemort cast the Killing Curse on me once again – as I fully had expected – he stepped in front of me.

While it gave me another lightning bolt scar, this one on my chest, I could not accept that he was dead.

Before I could think about it, I cast the Killing Curse on Voldemort and Hermione caught his escaping soul in an unbreakable, sealed box.

Hermione was the one who rescued me that day.  He had saved me and kept me alive, but Hermione rescued me that day and every day after.  She foiled my attempts to join him, she kept me anchored in the present rather than dwelling in the past.

She understands why I cannot say his name; I rarely think his name anymore.  But on this day, the twentieth anniversary, she understands I must talk about him.

Sending our children away, I sob into her shoulder.  “I loved him, Hermione.  I loved the bastard and never got to tell him.”

She strokes my hair much the same way she does for our children when one is upset.  “He knew, Harry.”

I look into her warm brown gaze.  “I loved Ron.”