It wasn’t as if there weren’t boundaries, of course. Even if Ron had never discussed them with his friend, they both knew where the boundaries were. There were things Ron would never do, depths he would never sink to. There were limits that understated their friendship, that made it survive and kept it strong. When Ron had left his friend in fourth year for hogging the glory, they had both known that it was only temporary, and that Ron would never do anything to really hurt his best mate. He might have left him, but he still silently supported him, and never sided with Harry’s enemies. Ron knew that was going too far, and that he could hold out against the temptation. He would stick within the limits.
Even still, the redhead knew that Harry would forgive him if he crossed the line. The limits were for Ron, not Harry. Harry had no limits; he was the best person Ron knew, and he forgave everyone unconditionally. He had forgiven Snape for his years of torment, Dumbledore for his lies, Gryffindor for all the times they had turned their back on him, even Draco and the Malfoys. Ron knew he was safe. Even when he eventually crossed the line, Harry would see that it was inevitable, that Ron was only human, that it was only natural for his best friend to take from him things he was never meant to.
That was why, when Ron took his sister’s wand and locked the doors of her house, he didn’t feel a shred of doubt. Why, when his little sister had started punching and kicking him, he had held her down until she stopped. Why he had ignored the redheaded girl’s questions about why she had seen him and Hermione naked in bed, why he had ignored her shouts at him and silenced her with a kiss. Why, when she had told him “No!” he had just kept undressing her until her protests grew weaker. Why, when he finally had her beautiful body lying naked in Harry’s bed, he had positioned himself and sunk into her without a second to reconsider. Why he had kept pounding into her until her tears turned to moans; until the scrapes of her ring against his back had turned from deterrents into spurs for him to go harder, deeper. Why he had refrained from cumming until Ginny was in a sweat-soaked orgasmic stupor. Why he had coaxed his little sister around to ride him until her flying red locks stuck to her back and her burning breasts collapsed on top of him, her hips rolling of their own accord to milk the last of their illicit sex.
He had taken her from Harry; the girl he was never meant to have: his little sister. Yet another thing he had taken from Harry, and not the first girl. He remembered he had had a girl blow off her date with Harry to sleep with him in the Room of Requirement by polyjuicing himself as Harry, telling her very clearly he only did one-night stands (being muggle-raised and all) and that he never wanted to be romantically linked with her. He had never told Harry why the girl had blown him off and never contacted him again, had barely comforted his friend by pointing him in the direction of other girls that he could never touch — like Ginny. He knew that if Harry ever did find out, however, he would know that Ron had been destined to take from him, and accept it. He would know that limits were meant to be pushed and broken. He would understand that the desire had been unbeatable, that the temptation was there to be succumbed to, that there had been sexual tension between Ron and his would-be girlfriend. The same sexual tension there had been with Hermione and, if he was honest, the same sexual tension that had, for a long time, existed between Ron and Ginny. Harry would see that it was for the best that his wives slept with his best friend; that Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Black now made love to Ron Weasley.
He had betrayed Harry.
He liked to betray Harry.
It was good to betray Harry.
He would keep betraying Harry.
And when Ron found a naked Hermione gently stirring on his right and a naked Ginny on his left; when he guided the brunette’s adulterous mouth down, down, down; when he kissed his little sister deeply and passionately while Hermione got him erect with her too-long-denied lips and tongue; when Harry’s wife removed Ginny’s scanty panties, kissed her, spread her legs, and guided Harry’s other wife down to where she belonged to lovingly mount Ron’s straining manhood so she could ride him well into the morning he realized that Harry, when he found out, would just have to live with it. After all…
He would keep betraying Harry.
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