Chapter XI

December 25th 1996

He’s gone. He’s gone, that’s all I can think about. It seems like it’s been years since I last saw him. He’s at home; happy, surrounded by his family, probably not wasting any of his time thinking about me. He’s never left my mind.

I need him. I don’t know what to do. I can barely think. I’ve already bled for him, screamed for him to return to me, but he never answers. I send him an owl every day, telling him what I’m going to do to him when he gets back. That I’m going to fuck him until the only thing he cares about is how I feel inside of him. I’ll tie him up and never let him leave me again. I’ll ruin him – make him completely and undeniably mine. There won’t be a centimetre of his body that I haven’t touched – that I haven’t made mine.

I want him to bleed for me, scream for me to never leave him. I want him to need me like I need him. I want him to give up his family and friends and spend every moment with me. I’ve done it for him, I’ve given up everyone. I have nothing. He’s the only thing worth owning, and I barely have him.

He’s only owled me once. Once. After the countless owls I’ve sent him. I got it this morning. It’s a short, sweet little note. But that’s just the problem. There was no explanation, no promise to return. Nothing. The only thing that even suggests that he still cares is the packages he sent.

In the first package, there was a heavy gold watch. It has symbols on the edges and little moving stars instead of hands. It actually looks brand new and rather expensive... I hope he hasn’t given me one of his Christmas presents.

In the other package was his Chudley Cannons blanket. He loves it; I don’t know why he’d send it to me – even if it is just for a little while. I’ll cherish it while it’s in my possession, of course.

God, I need him. Thinking about him like this isn’t helping, but there’s nothing else for me.

January 1997

Saturday

Ron was jolted awake a few hours later by the sound of his bed curtains being yanked open. And then,

“I found him!”

Ron groaned and buried his head under his pillow. He was going to kill Neville.

“Oh, good,” Harry sighed, walking over to Ron’s bed. “Now Hermione will leave all of us alone. Ron, get up.”

Ron nestled further into his bed, making sure his neck was completely covered. “Go away.”

“Ron,” Harry said firmly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. As soon as Ron felt the bed dip down, he promptly kicked out, forcing Harry to stand back up again. Harry continued as if nothing had happened, “listen, just get up for a few minutes, explain to us what happened at Hogsmeade, then you can go back to sleep, okay?”

With a resigned sigh, Ron peaked out at them from beneath his pillow. “Fine. Just go away so I can put some clothes on.” He just hoped that they would think the rasp in his voice was from sleep.

“You’re naked?” Harry laughed, “God, Ron. We’ll be down in the common room.”

As soon as Harry and Neville left, Ron sat up and lightly fingered his neck to see if the swelling had gone down at all. From what he could tell, there had been no improvement. Even his feather light touch was painful.

He carefully eased his Chudley Cannons shirt off, making sure it didn’t rub across his neck, and tossed it aside. He slipped on his turtleneck, wincing as the rough fabric irritated the sensitive skin on his neck. He had always hated the suffocating feeling of turtlenecks, but now it was worse than ever.

After changing into the trousers he had worn earlier that day, Ron reluctantly went down to the common room. Hermione, Harry, Dean, Seamus, and Neville were all waiting for him. And, to his surprise, Hermione looked completely disgruntled.

“Is this really necessary?” Ron asked roughly, nodding at them as he flopped down sideways onto one of the chairs. “If I owe anyone an explanation, it’s Hermione. No one else.”

“You worried everyone!” Hermione snapped, “Dean, Seamus, and I spent hours in Hogsmeade looking for you! Then when we got back here, we find out Harry and Neville hadn’t seen you either! No one had any idea – you can’t just disappear like that!”

“Look,” Dean cut in, “why don’t you just explain what happened?”

Ron hesitated, suddenly very aware that he had no reasonable excuse. “I don’t see why I should have to. It was all just a misunderstanding, but I’m here, no harm done.”

“No harm done!?” Hermione shrieked, “No harm done!? You have no idea how worried I was! You were so badly hurt-”

“Hermione.”

“What if you had fallen and were trapped in some alley where no one would find you and-”

“Hermione.”

“I would just worry myself to death. I was so scared, Ron,” she added softly, her voice coming perilously close to breaking, “so scared...”

“I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t even hurt that badly,” Ron informed her, “I didn’t even think you’d notice I was gone.” That was a lie, admittedly, but he really didn’t care.

“Oh, Ron,” she whispered plaintively, “how could I not notice?”

Harry, noticing the sudden intimacy of the conversation, stood, subtly beckoning for Dean, Seamus, and Neville to do the same. The four of them quietly retreated back to the dorm, but Hermione never noticed. She continued to stare at Ron with that painfully empty brokenness brought on by an obsessive love too powerful to keep. Ron recognised that look; the look that caused so much fear and terror, but at the same time, was a beacon of hope and love and all that was right and good in the world. She couldn’t look at him that way, not in the same way that Draco did, she just couldn’t.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he whispered, breaking eye contact, looking at everything but those eyes.

Hermione leaned forward slightly, straining to hear him over the furious roar and crackling of the fire next to them. It danced across the walls and their faces, painting them in a golden glow so beautiful that it was evil. “What was that?” she asked, brushing hair out of her face, keeping her eyes trained on the firelight reflected in his gaze.

“If I wanted help, I would have asked for it,” Ron said stiffly, avoiding the question from her lips and the countless questions in her eyes.

Hermione stared at him for a second longer, though it might have been an eternity, then sighed. “Ron, please.” she knew she was begging, but for him, she would. “Please just tell me what’s going on. I don’t care what it is or why it’s hurting you, it’s just that it is and I can’t just stand here and watch you fall apart.”

Ron hesitated, stunned by the sheer emotion in her voice.

“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?” She asked, tired of the silence.

“I-” Ron’s automated response was cut short as soon as he realised what she had said. “What?”

“Malfoy. You’re... you’re fighting him, aren’t you?” She glanced down at her clasped hands resting in her lap, one stray tear trickling weakly down her cheek, finally escaping from being held back for so long. Hermione closed her eyes, took a breath to calm herself, and looked back up at Ron, her eyelashes clumped into sharp, damp points. “He’s vicious, Ron, and so, so mean. You can’t take him on by yourself, you’re losing. If not me, at least get Harry... or Dean or Seamus or even Neville! You can’t do this alone!”

“Hermione,” Ron said darkly, surprised by how normal and steady his voice came out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but just stop, okay?” He kept his gaze trained on the fire, too unnerved to even look at her.

“You’re meaning to tell me everything is just fine?” She asked dryly.

“Everything is fine! There’s nothing going on! I was sick for awhile, but now I’m fine. I accidently crashed into a table today and walked off without telling you. I don’t see what any of that has to do with Malfoy or anything else! From what I can tell, you’re just mad because I left you with no explanation!”

“Ron, no,” Hermione whimpered, shaking her head, “that’s not it at all.”

“So what do you want?” Ron snarled, “A respite from some nightmare you’ve made for yourself? Sorry, but I can’t – I won’t – take part in your delusions.”

Hermione stared at him, stricken, before her cool composure crumpled, leaving a terrified little girl behind. “Ron,” she begged, “please, please just look at me!”

“Not anymore,” Ron said firmly, standing up to leave. Draco’s orders had been clear: stay away from Hermione. Ron had already messed up by speaking to her for so long.

“Please don’t leave,” she cried, tears falling unnoticed down her flushed cheeks, “I’m sorry, don’t leave, I just – I worry, I’m so worried!”

“Well stop it. I don’t need you,” Ron said harshly, storming out of the common room and into the corridor beyond.

Hermione sat in terrible, mind numbing silence for what could have been hours. Or maybe just a few minutes – probably just a second. Her breath hitched with every inhale, and each exhale was a quiet, shuddering sob. She hoped no one would come down and find her this way, she didn’t want to be near anyone else, she didn’t want to listen to empty words of comfort.

But the fire – that was a comfort no one else could provide. It was constant, yet unpredictable; wavering, yet steady; an angel and a demon that existed for her alone – to comfort and guide, tempt and lead astray.

Her hand reached out on its own accord, hovering as close as it dared to the hot flames. The radiating heat burned her hand, and she could feel it tingling and blistering. Leaving her hand where it was, Hermione closed her eyes, mesmerised by the imprint the glow had left in the darkness of her closed lids. She could still see her hand, silhouetted and warping, in front of bright sparkling oranges and reds. If she squeezed her eyes shut tight, the flames became vibrant purples and blues as her hand faded away to nothingness. Is that what would happen if she got burned? If she could fit her body into the fireplace, allowing it to engulf her all at once, is that how it would be? A beautiful light show as she quietly faded?

She opened her eyes and drew her hand away, looking down at her reddened palm. She brought it to her face, pleasantly surprised by the burning heat that had seeped into her skin and was now spreading onto her face as she wiped away the last of her tears.

There was no help, no respite from the nightmare. She would face it alone. She had to. If Ron was to be saved, to be hers, then she would have to face the unknown by herself. Ron was hurt, terrified, suffering; and it was her responsibility – her desire – to take that from him. And to do that, she would have face what he was facing, see what he was seeing, and put a stop to it all before it was too late. Ron was the only thing in the world worth fighting for, worth dying for, if it should come to that. It shouldn’t, logically, she knew that. What was a petty school rivalry compared to the larger terrors of this world? But Malfoy... cruel, uncaring, and quite possibly, a soon-to-be Death Eater; he played to win, he would kill. She knew that, too.

Hermione curled up on her side on the couch she had been sitting on, facing the fire, the delicious warmth enough to slowly begin to lull her to sleep. She watched it through half closed eyes for as long as she could, before slipping from her nightmare and into a dream. A dream with colours and voices filled with love and laughter. And fire. There was fire everywhere, consuming everything; the love and colours and voices and even Hermione herself – it was all burning. She wanted to dance, to laugh, but she was writhing, screaming, completely consumed with the burning pain of death. And then, there was his face. He was there, smiling at her, and suddenly, she wasn’t burning anymore. The fire was gone; the only light now came from the brightly glowing torch in his hand. With his free hand, Ron reached out to her, beckoning her to come to him. And somehow, Hermione knew everything was going to be just fine.

Ron paused in the corridor, not knowing where he meant to go or what he meant to do. He just had to get away from Hermione. Ron had thought Draco’s request (“request,” he had been telling himself, not “demand.”) was a little extreme at first, but now it was all starting to make sense. It hurt Draco when Ron and Hermione were together, and seeing Draco that way hurt Ron just as much. So really, they were both benefitting when Ron avoided her.

Ron took a step forward, but stopped once again. He had nowhere to go. He had no idea where Draco was, but a large part of Ron was still too scared to face him again. Still, Ron knew he had to let him know that Hermione was getting suspicious. The last thing they needed was her poking around, interfering, discovering things that need not be discovered.

With a heaved sigh, Ron backed up and sat down against the wall next to the Fat Lady. There was nowhere to go, and he certainly wasn’t going back into the common room or the dormitories. He would find Draco later, maybe... at the very least, he would definitely see him that night in their classroom. Draco would know what to do, he always did. And... maybe he would be happy that Ron had given up talking to Hermione forever. Ron couldn’t wait to see the beautiful smile on his face.

Draco had long since returned to his dorm room, making a general mess of things as he sifted through his trunk. What he was looking for, he didn’t know, but he had a feeling he would know as soon as he found it. He froze, however, when his fingers brushed up against a rumpled piece of parchment. Slowly, reverently, he pulled it out of the trunk and unfolded it, surprised and nearly breathless to find the note Ron had written him for Christmas.

He scanned over it, smiling as he read the words he had come to memorise. It had made him mad at Christmas, when he first opened it, but now, it was one of the most beautiful, perfect things he owned. Even with its crossed out words and blurred ink from tear drops or tea, it was his, from Ron, and that made it be everything.

“Good morning, Draco! Well, hopefully it’s morning when you get this. But who knows with that ruddy owl of mine? Anyway, listen, I’m sorry I haven’t responded to any of your owls, it’s just that they were a little... well, I didn’t exactly know what to say to them. But, God Draco, I do miss you. I’m sorry I had to leave.

“I can’t wait to see you again; I’m bored out of my mind here. You were right, as usual, I shouldn’t have come home. But I had no choice, please understand. I love you so much; I would do anything to be with you right now.

“Oh, and the packages with the owl... the smaller one is your present... it’s not much, but it’s all I have. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to keep it. I know you’re probably lonely, so the other one is something that will hopefully make you feel a little better. If you think it’s stupid, you don’t have to use it. I just thought it would maybe help. You can laugh at me when I get back.

“ I love you, I love you, I love you – don’t forget.

“Happy Christmas, Draco.

“Love, Ron.”

Even now, it still made Draco’s insides flutter with excitement and love and fill him with a desire to see Ron. He could just hear Ron’s voice fumbling over the words, trying to be sweet and confident but getting scared and changing his mind to something a little safer.

He tucked the note into his pocket, determined to never lose it again, and went back to digging. He eventually found the watch Ron had given him and dropped that into his pocket as well. He continued to dig, now searching for anything that had come from Ron. There wasn’t much – Ron couldn’t really afford to give gifts – but what was there had more sentimental value than a pocket full of galleons.

Besides the Christmas note and present, Draco had found various other scraps of parchment that Ron had passed to him during class or when they “accidently” bumped into each other in the hallway. They were just small things, most of them said “I love you,” in one way or another, while some of the really early ones were suggesting times and places to meet at night.

Draco placed them all on the floor so he could see them all at once, then pulled out the note from Christmas and the watch and the various tufts of hair from his pocket, gently setting them down with the other objects. He pushed himself up to stand and gazed down at his collection, tilting his head as he examined it.

It was just so Ron; a perfect representation. The scraps of old parchment with written endearments because Ron couldn’t afford more but couldn’t give any less; a short, sweet note that displayed Ron’s awkward feelings of inadequacy but perfectly conveyed his affections; and two clumps of hair: one perfect and clean, gathered from the shower drain, the other crusted with blood. Those represented Ron’s dichotomy; perfect to his friends, open and vulnerable and bleeding for Draco.

But there was one piece that just didn’t fit: the gold watch. There was nothing sentimental, nothing that endeared it to him, it was just there – expensive, fancy, and everything that Draco didn’t want or need. He kneeled down, taking the watch into his hand and studying it closer. It was cold and distant. He didn’t like it, suddenly. Why would Ron give him such an emotionless gift?

With an outraged scream, Draco threw the watch up against the stone wall with every bit of strength that he possessed. It smashed against the wall with a satisfying crunch, bits and gears springing from it and falling down with the gentle, comforting patter of rain. A laugh started through Draco, seeming to come from deep within him and rippling to the surface, leaving him almost hysterical as he stared at the destroyed watch on the floor. One of the little floating stars was flicking in place, seemingly determined to continue to work even after such a brutal attack.

Each time it twitched it grated on Draco’s nerves, unravelling him, breaking the control that he would have liked to claim that he still possessed. His hand instinctually reached for his wand, but he was already moving forward, and before he could even get a grasp on what he was doing, the watch was in his hand again and he threw it down with surprising force, loving the dead, metallic thud that rang through the air. He stamped on it, then, only because he needed to feel it shatter beneath his weight.

Satisfied that it was finally broken beyond repair, Draco stepped away, sliding his foot along the ground to remove any extra pieces from the bottom of his shoe, and returned to staring down at his collection. Now it was perfect. He could love it.

Reaching back into his trunk, he pulled out his journal and a quill and sat down cross legged on the floor in front of his collection.

January 29th 1997

He paused, suddenly unsure of what he wanted to say. It didn’t matter, he supposed, this was his – he could say whatever he wanted to.

This is mine. I own it, I made it, it’s mine. Like Ron. Like everything I have.

He sighed heavily and shifted his gazed back to his collection, chewing absently on the end of his quill. It was harder to write when he wasn’t actually looking at Ron.

I’ve made it perfect. I destroyed that ridiculous watch he gave me – it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. Now it’s right. Now it’s Ron. It’s cheap, bloody, and so perfectly loving. Just like him. For me. Mine.

I have all of his notes and his hair and the blood – I think the blood is his. Perhaps. Maybe it belongs to us both. I couldn’t imagine anything more perfect. Both of our blood and pain stained into a lock of his hair.

Draco stopped writing and stared at the bloodied clump of hair. There was really no way of ever finding out whose blood it was, he supposed. However, he had tasted Ron’s blood before, hadn’t he? He should be able to recognise it.

He delicately picked up the hair and brought it up to his mouth, hardly noticing or caring when a few strands were left behind, lightly sucking on the blood covered end of it. It wasn’t as lively and rich and perfect as he remembered, but it was still there, that familiar tang of blood. Ron’s? Possibly. Letting the hair dangle from his lips, Draco continued to write.

It’s his, it tastes like him. So it has to be. I have to make him bleed for me again. Tonight, perhaps. To hear him scream as I slowly sink a blade into his flesh – oh, I can barely describe it. I love him, oh my God, I love him. Nothing can stop this, I swear, he loves me more and more each time, I know it. I won’t disappoint him. He needs me to do this to him, to own him, because he has never had it before. We won’t abandon our dream, our fantasy, we’ll be together – body and soul – for the rest of our lives.

He paused and read over what he had written. It wasn’t exactly what he had planned, but it was perfect. He wanted to spill out his thoughts on his collection, but he liked this so much better. It only made him even more excited to be with Ron that night. He scribbled one more line,

I love him, I love him. I can’t wait to see him.

Then closed the journal and placed it, the quill, and the random scraps of parchment from Ron back into his trunk. The only thing he left out what the note from Christmas and the two clumps of hair – one of which was still in his mouth. He neatly placed the clean hair - making sure he didn't leave a single strand behind - onto the middle of the note then gave the bloodied hair one last suck and pulled it out of his mouth. A few stray strands stuck at the corners of his lips and the back of his throat. He absently scrubbed his lips with the back of his hand, staring in awe at the gooey, shining mess of blood and spit at the end of the stringy clump of Ron's hair before placing it in the middle of the note as well. He then folded up the note and placed it in his pocket.

Perfect.

Ron sighed and stood up, stretching his aching muscles. It was getting close to dinner time, so he went ahead and went down to the Great Hall. He was absolutely starving; he hadn’t eaten all day. And for Ron, that was a pretty amazing feat.

After selecting a seat as far away as possible from where Harry, Hermione, and the others usually sat, Ron settled in and waited for the food to appear. The enchanted ceiling above was flickering with lightning, a thick cover of grey clouds having swiftly moved in, casting the Great Hall in the eerie, depressing light of a thunder storm. When he saw Harry, Hermione, and Neville enter the room, he half expected one of them to come over and annoy him with questions as to why he walked out on Hermione, where he had gone, etcetera. But instead, they all sat down in their usual places, none of them even noticing him as he had strayed so far from them. Ordinarily, Ron would have been upset, but in this case, he couldn’t be more grateful.

The food soon appeared, and – one hand itching and tugging at his uncomfortable turtleneck – Ron began to load his plate. But something just wasn’t right. Draco wasn’t there yet. Ron had been scanning the Slytherin table since he had sat down, but Draco was obviously not even in the room. Ron might have gone to look for him if he hadn’t been so hungry.

But still, it did nothing to stop the nagging fear in the back of his mind that he really should have paid attention to.