They were lying on top of the Astronomy Tower with absolutely nothing to do. Harry felt as if the sunshine was turning anything resembling serious thoughts into hot air; it was fantastic. The sun was resting heavily on his forehead and belly, he was breathing deeply through his nose and wondering whether he could get paid to do that for a living, instead of going for that bloody Auror Training. He scratched one of his bare feet with the other one and idly thought about cold pumpkin juice; but it could wait. He felt far too drowsy to do anything at all. Beside him Ron was breathing so evenly it sounded like he was asleep; still, after an uncertain amount of time, Harry felt Ron stirring a bit and heard, "Harry. D’you reckon I should make an arse out of myself and try out for Keeper for the Cannons?"
Being Keeper was not about finesse. It was about being reliable and getting people out of tight places. It were the Seekers who were supposed to be 'sensational' and 'outstanding'. Keepers had to be 'good'. Once Ron grew into his gangliness and gained enough confidence to concentrate on what he was doing, he became a good Keeper, eager to prove himself and unswervingly loyal.
"Are you kidding? Of course I think you should. You’re brilliant at Keeping." Harry heard Ron snort good-humouredly, and a rustle of fabric as he shifted a bit. Harry pressed his eyelids with his fingers, and saw dark circles floating among the sunlit red. He reached down to his pockets, put his glasses on and shaded his eyes with a hand to look at Ron beside him. Ron was lying on his back, head resting on crossed arms, hair crackling with sunlight, eyelashes transparent. He straightened his arms back and stretched out the sun-induced daze they were both in. Harry watched him do that, imagining long, pale, freckled back arching off the stone flagons in a taut curve. He blinked and looked Ron in the face, which was turned towards him, cheek resting on an arm, fingertips touching the temple for a bit of shade, pupils dilated in the blinding sun nonetheless. Ron was squinting at him, expectant, and Harry realized he must have been looking as though he wanted to say something. He did want to say something, and he said it without thinking, a bit scared of how his life was bound to be changed now, after all of this, scared of change and newness and desperate to be able to preserve something familiar, something warm:
"Would you consider keeping me around?"
Ron looked at him with pale green eyes, smiling a little.
"Yeah, Harry," he said. "Yeah."