Author: Jadea

Disclaimer: Absolutely none of the Harry Potter characters belong to me. Not mine. Nicht meine. Ot-nay, ine-may. The "A Deal With the Devil" universe *does* belong to me.

Rating: R. Most *definitely* an R.

Notes: There will be at least one violent chapter; the rest of the rating comes from swearing (hello, there is a lot of Ron in this fic) and sex, specifically Harry/Ron with references to forced Draco/Ron.

This is a part of the "A Deal With the Devil" universe, which extends in this order: "A Deal With the Devil," "Interlude," "Playing With Fire" and "Two Weeks Later." All are rated R. If you have not read those fics, I strongly reccomend you do so, especially if you want to get the full effect of this one.

Dedication: The whole sequal: To Rose. I never imagined such support when I came into the Fiction world in August; she's been incredible.

This chapter: To MamaLaz, whose praise means a great deal to me. And whose Draco/Ron I adore.

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_

Dear Sirius,

The next Hogsmeade weekend is in two weeks. I need you to meet Ron and I at the Shrieking Shack on Saturday, November 28th. Please. This is very important.

Harry

Postscript: Don't mention this to anyone. Not even Professor Dumbeldore. Or Professor Lupin. Or Hermoine.

_

Soft white feathers tickled his skin, raising the hairs on his arm. Hedwig clutched the short missive in her talons and, with a farewell cry, launched herself into the dusk.

So. It was done.

It had been...over a month now. Fourty-seven days, to be exact. Almost two months, then.

His hands gripped the stone sill of the window; fingers pressing into the dust and grime on the worn granite. Watching until Hedwig dissapeared completely, a speck of white that was swallowed by the darkening sky.

Two months. Almost.

The weather was bitter now; gray skies hid the sun. Like a slap in the face the cold had descended very soon after... 'it'...forcing the students to stay inside and listen to the wind as it howled outside the stone walls of Hogwarts. The Indian Summer that had given them such beautiful evenings had been a mirage; everyone was saying this was going to be the worst winter in decades...maybe in centuries.

Wearing only his normal robes, standing in front of the open window, Harry shivered abruptly, feeling the gooseflesh sweep through his body.

He hated the cold. He hated *being* cold.

Now more then ever.

Still, he stood at the window, teeth clenched tightly, as the cold wind skimmed over his skin with sharp fingers, slipping under his robes, freezing him to the bone. He hated being cold. He truly did.

But it had to be done.

He had been caught once, unprepared, for the cold. Not this time. Not the next time.

Two months. Almost.

The world outside hung, suspended, between day and night. Thick clouds covered the sky; if the stars had come out, he couldn't tell. The grounds were deserted. There was no one ouside...not on an evening like this.

A particularly harsh gust of wind ripped through the skelatal branches of the Forbidden Forest; he could see whitecaps on the lake.

A low pulse throbbed at the base of his neck. Unless the tension eased soon, he was going to have a splitting headache well before he went to sleep. If he went to sleep.

If Ron *could* sleep.

Unconsciously, his fingers began to curl into fists.

Before...before 'it' Ron had never had trouble sleeping, so far as Harry knew. There had been no nightmares, no pained, stifled cries in the night, no tears silently wetting the front of Harry's pajamas.

Now-Ron rarely slept the whole night through without at least one bad dream. And not alone. Never alone. The two hadn't slept in separate beds since...well, since 'It'

Deliberately, he unclenched his fists, rubbing his forhead with one tired hand.

He felt exhausted, strung out. All he wanted was to go back to the Common Room and find Ron. To have the other boy fall asleep in his arms, so that he could ward away each others bad dreams. For both of them to have a decent nights sleep, for the first time in months.

Well, fourty-seven days, to be exact.

Still, he stood by the window, feeling the cold seep into his bones.

He didn't know exactly where Sirius was, but he knew his Godfather would be able to meet them in a fortnight. He had to.

Nothing would work without Sirius.

He shivered abruptly, eyes watering with the sting of the wind.

He didn't want to put Sirius in danger. He truly didn't want to.

But...he *needed* Sirius. And he knew that Sirius would help him. He knew it.

But...

A small, reufel smile tugged at Harry's lips, he ran a hand through his dark hair and was not at all suprised when he realized it was chilled, small beads of icy moisture clinging to the strands.

Ron didn't know about the letter.

Freezing cold fingers reached up to rub his stinging eyes. He needed to go down soon. It was getting late, and Ron would wonder why it was taking him so long to go to the library. He had left the other boy in the Common room, surrounded by Gryffindors, playing chess with Hermione. Safe.

Ron didn't know about the letter. Or meeting Sirius.

Eyes closed, he cupped his forhead in one hand, gently rubbing the skin around his scar.

God, he was tired.

Sleep. Sleep sounded nice; sounded more then nice. Last night neither he nor Ron had gotten almost any rest at all. Not so much because of the nightmares, although that was part of it. . .

_

"No."

Frustrated, Harry raked his fingers through his already messy dark hair, making it stand up in peculiar clumps. Ron's hair was also messy and longer then usual; the boy hadn't cut it for weeks.

"How can you say that, Ron? It's been...almost...two months now. And we haven't done anything."

Red-gold strands of hair hid Ron's blue eyes from his own green ones; the other boy was very deliberately not looking at him, examining the pattern of the quilt beneath him instead.

"I don't want anyone to know, Harry. You *know* that."

Exasperation and weariness warring in that voice; this was neither the first-nor, Harry suspected, would it be the last-time they had had this discussion. Frustration bordering on anger, Ron's emotions had always been hair trigger, and they had been worse then ever before in the last few weeks.

But there was something else in that voice. An undertone of pain that hadn't been there before this fall, that seemed completely alien in his best friend's voice.

He wanted-desperately-to go over to Ron, to take him in his arms. Smooth his hands through the other boys red hair, kiss the pain in that voice away. But Ron didn't want that. Not right now. It was in the set of the other boys shoulders, the way his fingers combed restlessly through the threads of the quilt. The way he refused to meet Harry's eyes. All signs to Harry that being touched was just about the last thing in the world the red headed boy wanted right now.

"Ron, I know that. I do. But...what else are we going to do?"

If anything, the tension in those shoulders increased. God, he wanted to go over there.

The other boy's fingers had seized a stray thread and were wrapping it around his thumb, Harry could practically feel the cord cutting into the other boy's skin.

"Didn't your Mother ever tell you not to do that?"

A quick shrug and the fingers released the thread, still, the other boy avoided his eyes. No wonder Ron had been letting his hair grow longer, recently. It provided an impenatrable shield to anyone who wanted to see his blue eyes.

"Ron-"

"I told you, Harry. I don't want to tell anyone. Not Dumbeldore, not McGonnagal, not even Hermoine. *No one*"

His own fingers had stopped clutching his dark hair and were instead gripping the post of the nearest bed-Neville's-tightly.

"Then what *do* you want?"

Moments passed, the only sounds those of the winter wind outside and the muted hum of conversation from the Gryffindor Common Room. That, and their breathing.

Never again was Harry ever going to take breathing for granted.

The soft sound of breath filled the room and fogged the windows. Seamus, Dean, and Neville were all downstairs...reasonably so, as it was only eight o clock. But he and Ron had been spending far more time alone together-upstairs-then even before, and people were starting to ask questions.

/Harry? Is there some-is there something you'd like to tell me? About you and Ron?/

A harsh gust of wind shook the window slightly, rattling in its frame. Harry jumped but Ron didn't even flinch, tracing the quilt pattern with the tips of his fingers.

"I hate him."

A whisper, barely audible over the howl of the wind. The hands on the quilt paused, settling over the pattern of a blue star.

"I hate him, Harry. He...he hurt me. And you. I *hate* him. I-"

Abruptly, the voice broke off and Ron's right hand clutched, tight, at the quilt.

/I'll get you, Malfoy. I swear. I'll get you.../

A slow shiver seemed to be working its way up the other boys back; Harry watched as Ron twisted away, more strands of hair falling down his forehead, obscuring his eyes behind a thick, red-gold curtain.

"I hate him, Harry. So much. So very much. But...I-I don't know what to do-"

Involuntarily, his hands moved, motioning towards Ron. God, he wanted to go over there. And he knew that Ron needed him over there. Needed him, but didn't *want* him. Knew that the other boy would only tense under his fingers, turn his face away if Harry sought his lips.

Each night found them in each others arms, neither one could sleep a minute otherwise. And sometimes, during the night when neither of them slept, they had done things...at first, for comfort, then for pleasure. Sometimes during the day, when they were alone. Sweet, stolen moments. Kisses and touches that grew gradually in intensity...but there was always some barrier, some limit that neither boy acknowledged or passed. A limit known to both of them when muscles began to tense, when Ron began to turn his face away from open mouthed kisses.

If it wasn't Ron who slipped into his bed every night, and Ron who almost always began their moments with hot, demanding kisses and subtle movements, Harry would have stopped. But any mention of taking advantage or stopping their actions brought vehement protests from Ron and, if Harry persisted, the full brunt of a raging Weasley temper. Not that Harry wanted to stop. Everything they did felt wonderful.

But he didn't want to hurt Ron.

His hand clenched tighter around the bed post, forcing himself to keep his distance from the other boy, no matter how badly he wanted to go over there.

"Do you want to kill him? Do you want me to?"

The words tumbled from his mouth before he was even aware he had thought them. Perhaps he hadn't thought them. He didn't think about breathing, after all. Not ususally. Perhaps those words were just as much a part of him as breathing, now.

Incredulous blue eyes met his, the depth of Ron's shock reflecting in in his eyes.

"Harry-"

The word came out in a startled breath and seemed to take all the energy out of the other boy; his lips parted slightly as his eyes searched Harry's face.

Wrenching his hand free of the bedpost he strode across the room in three giant steps, kneeling before the other boy so that his head was level with Ron's chin, his green eyes searching Ron's blue ones.

"I will kill him, if you want me to. I swear."

Tentatively, Ron reached out and slipped both his hands into Harry's dark locks, tugging the other boy up towards him until they were face to face.

"I don't want him dead if it means that I lose you, too. I'd rather do anything...*anything* then that."

The words sent soft whispers of breath against his lips even as they sent shivers down his spine. Ron's hands were rough from years of chores and quidditch, framing his face, but they were holding it so gently...

Slowly, he closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth against Ron's. The tension he had observed earlier was gone, now; the other boy pressed against him, pulling Harry closer and closer, opening his mouth under soft pressure of Harry's tongue.

How much time passed, Harry wasn't sure. It couldn't have been too long, none of the other boys had come up to the room, and Neville always went to bed insanely early. All he knew was that sometime later they found themselves entertwined on Ron's bed, still fully clothed, if a bit rumpled looking.

Slowly, he traced a pattern of freckles sprinkled across his best friend's cheek while resting his own cheek on Ron's chest, just below the other boys neck. Listening to the soft, steady beat of the other boys heart.

"I don't know what I want."

The words were whispered, reluctantly, into his hair. Words Harry knew Ron would never have been able to say to anyone else, wrenched from his mouth as they were.

"I...I don't have any fucking clue, Harry. I-I never really hated anyone before. Not like this. I just. Don't. Know. I hate him, so much, I want him *dead* but I don't know how and he's here, he's *at* Hogwarts, and every time I see him...God, every time I see him I just want to make him pay and I hate him so fucking much..."

Slowly, gently, he ran his fingers up the other boys arm, smoothing over the worn material, feeling the hard muscle and skin underneath. Listening to the beat of the other boys heart, the litany that was ripping up his own.

Ron...this wasn't Ron. This boy with venom dripping from his lips, hatred in his heart. What Malfoy had done had left more then simply physical scars; he had also wrenched something incredibly precious away from his best friend. Something Harry had never had to lose. Childhood, perhaps. Innocence.

But he loved this boy. The one from before and the one after, more then anything else in the entire world. More then life itself. Loved him fiercely.

And love meant protecting those in your heart, even if it cost you everything.

His mother had taught him that.

Malfoy had stolen something from his best friend; something he would never be able to replace. But that didn't mean Ron had to lose more of himself in order to get revenge.

"Let me think, Ron. For a while. I promise I won't do anything without you. Let me do it."

A soft sigh was the only hint of protest; it was instantly followed by warm acceptance, a soft kiss on his forehead, lingering on the skin of his scar.

_

Struggling against the wind, Harry slammed the window shut with a harsh scraping sound, wincing as the noise grated against his ears.

He hadn't told Ron about the letter. He would have to, but he couldn't bear to, tonight.

Later, perhaps.

It was time to go back to Gryffindor Tower.