A/N- Thanks so much to everyone for all of the reviews! So many new reviews this time, I’m so happy! I’d love to respond to each and every one of you, but I’m afraid I’m going to end up giving something away! I tend to ramble...

Anyway, thank you for sticking with this story. Hope you all continue to enjoy it!

Chapter XII

December 29th 1996

I dream of dragons and fire and pain and death. It’s as if, somehow, all of the nightmares of everyone in the world have been forced into me all at once, and everyone can smile again, while I’m left in a cold, grey, unforgiving hell. When I close my eyes, my safe, clean, perfect dorm room that I’ve slept in for years becomes dark with shadows and whispers; I hear things, monsters, rattling in the wardrobe, under the bed, waiting for me – to destroy me. The torches seem to go out from time to time, casting me in darkness, and I try to remind myself that that’s not possible because the torches are powered by magic but it doesn’t – it can’t stop the darkness. But it’s not my imagination because I can see it, and I’ve never been so desperate for help in all of my life. But if there can only be one hope, one Saviour – a Patronus to guide me through the darkness – I know that it is Ron.

It’s not fair and we can’t understand it; I think it’s something you can only understand when you look it in the face and know that there’s no turning back. We’ll die. Both of us – together. I’ve never been more afraid of anything; if he’s not here with me, nothing’s worth living anymore. I wasn’t living before him. I was hollow and empty, as good as the ghosts that roam these halls. But I didn’t know, I didn’t know until I had him. And now I feel so complete and whole and out of control that I don’t know what to do with myself anymore.

I don’t want to hurt him anymore. He’s my light, my comfort, my everything. We need each other. The world is so bleak and empty and I could write a thousand words and never be able to explain what I’m feeling right now. It’s as if I’m moving in slow motion, everything grey and old and dirty. But everyone around me is happy and moving on because life goes on even when someone’s broken and suffering, the first years can still smile and play as if there had never been anything wrong with the world. They’re eleven. Only eleven. I feel like I was never that young. I never had that carefree recklessness to smile in the midst of a tragedy.

But I suppose, in all fairness, they don’t even realise there is anything wrong. Who could know? Who cares enough to see? I’ve only met one person who was willing to look beyond everything I show the world, to reach deep inside of me and pull out the shadows and the nightmares and the fear and the love and see me for who I really am - and love me anyway.

He’s the only one to see, the only one to understand. And he loves me. No one has ever tried to look at me the way he does, and even if they did, I wouldn’t let them. I don’t know how he could pull forth all of my secrets and desires without me even realising it. But he did, and I love him for it. It’s like I’ve been waiting here for a million years, just for that one moment when my eyes first made contact with his, and suddenly my world seemed to make sense. He was so alive. I had to have him; I had to make him mine. I never knew he was thinking the same thing about me.

Eleven. I knew I was in love when I was eleven. I didn’t know exactly, but the passion was there, I just had to wait for my mind to catch up with my heart and suddenly we were like lost puzzle pieces finally fitting together to make a beautiful picture.

I can do nothing but lie in bed and cry until he returns to me. It’s as if I’ve already died. But there’s no comfort. I’m lying in shards of broken glass and happy memories, but they’re not happy, because every smile, every hint of childish glee brings up something worse – something more horrible and tragic and broken that I can’t even mourn for it because I never knew I’ve been in so many pieces for so long.

Maybe I’m the broken glass, so many little pieces filled with so many secrets that no one will ever know because they’re too scared to cut themselves. But he’s holding all my shattered pieces in his hands, not caring that they’re cutting into him, destroying him, filling him with loss and sadness. But he can’t feel it. He looks down at the pieces slicing into his hands and he smiles because he loves how they shine so many different colours in the sunlight.

But once you experience wholeness, perfection; it only makes losing it that much worse. Now that I know what it feels like to be whole, the pain of being broken that I had never even noticed before is suddenly the worst pain in the world and I wish I could just curl up and die and end this despair.

I can only hope that he isn’t feeling this, too. I’d die to keep him happy, he must know that.

I do have his blanket with me, yes. It keeps the nightmares at bay, sometimes. It smells so deliciously like him that when I close my eyes, I can almost pretend that he’s here with me, holding me together as I hold him, because we’re both broken, really. If it weren’t so completely perfect, I would say that it’s unfair. But he doesn’t mind, and neither do I.

I won’t hurt him. Ever again. When he comes back I’ll take him into my arms and kiss him and hold him and tell him how much I love him. Everything will be perfect and beautiful and we’ll be the ones laughing and playing, completely unaware of the pain and hurt and tragedy in the world. We’ll be eleven years old again. I’m ready.

January 1997

Saturday Evening

Ron finished eating as quickly as he could – quickly, to avoid being noticed by Harry and the others – and left for Gryffindor Tower. The day had been so long and stressful that he just wanted to sneak in one more nap before he had to go see Draco again. Thunder rumbled quietly in the distance, and Ron couldn’t wait to fall into bed and fall asleep to the sound of a steady storm – it was one of his favourite things in the world.

The dorm room was dark and empty when he arrived, the corners cast in dark shadows from the limited light from outside. He toed of his shoes and, finally free from having to worry about everyone seeing the marks on his body, Ron eagerly stripped out of his turtleneck. A soft, contented sigh escaped him, relieved that his neck was no longer being rubbed with the scratchy fabric.

He gazed down at his body, frowning at how abused it looked. But that’s not how things were with Draco at all. Draco wasn’t abusive, he was just –

Ron couldn’t even finish the thought. A bright flash of thunder had suddenly illuminated the room, and up against the wall, across the room from Ron, someone was sitting there; watching him. Ron jumped and cried out a little in surprise, automatically bringing up his jumper in a desperate attempt to hide the marks on his body.

Whoever was sitting there immediately stood up, and Ron noticed that familiar flash of blond hair. Before he could relax or even comment on it, Draco had crossed the room, grabbed Ron’s shoulders, and began shaking him violently.

“Hiding from me, Weasley!?” he demanded. One of his hands tightened its grip, while the other one let go in order to yank Ron’s jumper out of his hands.

“N-no,” Ron gasped, too startled to even think about explaining, or to even wonder how Draco had gotten into Gryffindor Tower in the first place.

“You don’t want me looking at you anymore?” Draco went on angrily, oblivious to Ron’s whimpered protest.

“No! I mean – I mean yes! Wait, Draco, just listen.”

“Shut up,” Draco snapped, shoving Ron onto a bed. “You’re mine! I can look at you whenever I want.”

“Yes!” Ron agreed, sitting up and nodding fervently, “Yes, you can. You just startled me, I-”

“Shut up! I told you to shut up!” His hands found Ron’s neck for the second time that day, but instead of squeezing, they just sat there; rubbing against the swollen, bruised skin in an almost gentle way.

Ron froze, staring into Draco’s eyes nervously. Shouldn’t Draco be getting upset now? Shouldn’t he be realising what he had done? All the other times something like this had happened, Draco would realise what he had done almost immediately when faced with it again. But this time, there was nothing. When Ron looked into his eyes, he saw no remorse, no fear - just pure unrelenting anger.

“I’ll look at you whenever I want,” Draco reiterated, his fingers squeezed slightly, putting the smallest pressure against Ron’s throat. He was shaking, or maybe Ron was, but Ron was too scared to care. Draco’s hands released Ron’s throat and drifted down his body to stop at Ron’s trousers, a finger curling and slipping beneath them.

“Draco-”

“I’ll look at you...,” Draco started, trailing off almost immediately. In an instant, he got Ron’s trousers unbuttoned and yanked them off, throwing them over his shoulder.

Panic was quickly starting to set in, but Ron didn’t know what he could possibly say or do to get Draco to stop. He wanted to pull a sheet or something over his naked body, but he knew that would only spur Draco on. “Draco, please, not now,” he begged, twisting his body slightly to hide himself, “They could come back any minute. This isn’t even my bed!”

Draco glared up at him, then smashed his lips against Ron’s. Ron hesitated for a moment, too panicked and confused to respond, only to finally part his lips when Draco growled against him and none too gently bit at his lips. They had never shared a more possessive, violent kiss than this one. Instead of a casual, gentle exploration, Draco’s tongue dominated Ron’s, the taste of blood from Ron’s lips swirling between them. Draco kept pushing and pushing, thrusting his tongue into Ron’s mouth in a way that mimicked the rough, frantic sex Ron knew was soon to follow, trying to touch every possible surface in Ron’s mouth, claiming it for himself.

When they broke apart, Ron was immediately protesting again. “We can’t do this, not here, please, we can’t.”

“I broke it,” Draco informed him; pushing Ron onto his back and crawling up to straddle him. “I broke it!”

“What?” Ron asked hesitantly, looking up at him. His hands were braced on Draco’s chest – not pushing, just resting there in a useless attempt to keep Draco away.

“That ridiculous watch you gave me.”

Ron’s rather stoic yet wary expression shattered, leaving pain and brokenness. “Why?” he whispered shakily, his hands falling away from Draco to rest uselessly up near his head.

Draco smirked. This is what he wanted – there was no fight left in Ron, no resistance; there was only submission. “Because it wasn’t right. It wasn’t cheap and dirty and flawed. It wasn’t you.”

Ron bit his lower lip, turning his head away from Draco to avoid his cruel smirk. He didn’t know Draco thought of him that way. He hadn’t known that Draco hated the most expensive, perfect gift Ron could find for him. He had treasured that watch, and even though it had only been his for a few hours before he gave it to Draco, he loved it. The only reason he could part with it was because he was giving it to someone he cherished even more than any possession he owned. To know Draco hated it... it broke Ron twice, hurting him deeper than anything he had ever felt before.

“I couldn’t love it,” Draco went on, “I couldn’t love it because it’s everything I am and everything you’re not. But now it’s gone – broken, shattered – and I can love you again.” He dipped down, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Ron’s mouth. “I love you.”

Ron was trembling from despair. He hardly even cared that they could be walked in on at any moment, he just wanted Draco to fuck him and get it over with so he could cry in peace.

“I love you,” Ron whispered. Because he did. Despite it all, he did.

Draco hummed pleasantly in response, slipping off his robes and unzipping his trousers. He slipped in between Ron’s legs, sitting up on his knees, while Ron obediently his parted his legs and pulled his knees up toward his chest. Draco’s hands slid beneath Ron’s waist, pulling his lower body up and off the bed; Ron’s legs hooked automatically over Draco’s shoulders.

With only a muttered lubrication spell as a warning, Draco plunged into Ron; Ron’s head falling back as he moaned loudly. Draco moved quickly, holding onto Ron’s hips and pulling him forward with each powerful thrust, slamming their bodies together as hard as he could. His breaths were ragged and heavy, and he closed his eyes tight only to immediately open them again and stare up at Ron through half closed eyes.

“You – you can’t,” he panted, “you can’t hide yourself from me.”

Ron groaned in response.

“I’ll have you... whenever... I want you.”

“Yes,” Ron moaned plaintively, his hands fisting the sheets. Whether he was agreeing with what Draco said or if he was just caught up in ecstasy, even he didn’t know. But it didn’t matter now because they were both crying out again and again in the final moments before their climaxes, and all coherent thought was gone.

Draco’s pace became impossibly fast in the last few seconds, and then he came with one long ragged moan, his body continuing to jerk and thrust spasmodically into Ron as he rode out his orgasm. His hands fell from Ron’s hips and onto the bed, on either side of Ron. He rested there for a moment, on his hands and knees, breathing heavily as Ron’s legs gently slipped from his shoulders.

Ron reached up and smoothed back Draco’s hair, staring up at him with sad, tired eyes. Draco lifted his head to meet Ron’s eyes, and they stared at each other in silence. Finally,

“You should go,” Ron whispered, searching Draco’s gaze. When Draco looked disappointed, Ron added, “Before the others come back.”

Draco nodded absently, before he noticed that Ron hadn’t come at all. “You’re still...” his hand slowly slipped between them and began slowly making its way down Ron’s body when Ron caught it by the wrist.

“I’ll take care of it. Go on.” He leaned up, pressing a kiss to Draco’s forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

After a tense moment of silence, Draco nodded once again. He dipped down and kissed Ron’s lips softly. “Later,” he agreed in a quiet murmur. He sat up on his knees once more; tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping them, then pushed himself slowly off the bed to pick his robe up off the floor. “Later,” he confirmed once more, nodding to himself as he slipped the robe on.

Ron watched him in silence, waiting until Draco was almost at the door before saying a soft, “I love you.”

Draco paused, turning around to meet Ron’s gaze. “I know,” he said finally, then he left the room.

The seconds seemed to drag on for an eternity, but Ron couldn’t make himself move or even cry. Nothing seemed worth it; he didn’t want to do anything. Even the imminent danger of Harry, Dean, Seamus, and Neville showing up at any moment was hardly enough to force him into action. Regardless, he knew what he had to do, so he hauled himself off of Harry’s bed, grabbing his trousers and jumper off the floor as he did. He took the few staggering steps necessary to fall into his own bed, bringing his trousers and turtleneck with him.

Once safe behind closed curtains, Ron rolled over on his back and reached a hand down to finish what Draco started. It didn’t take him long to come, shuddering and moaning out Draco’s name. He didn’t allow himself too long to bask in his happy, sated glow for too long, however. After casting a quick cleaning spell, he grudgingly pulled his clothes back on, then fell into that careless state between awareness and sleep. It was only minutes later when the door opened again.

“Ron, are you in here?” Harry called softly. The other boys had stayed down in the common room.

“’mhere,” Ron mumbled reluctantly, rubbing a hand over his face.

Harry approached Ron’s bed, pausing when his hands were at the curtains. “You decent this time?” he asked teasingly.

“Yes,” Ron grumbled, grateful that he had decided to put his clothes back on.

“Hey,” Harry said gently, pulling the curtains open, “why weren’t you at dinner?”

“I was.”

“I didn’t see you.” Harry shifted like he was going to sit down, but pointedly remained standing.

“I was sitting at the other end.”

“Avoiding Hermione?” Harry ventured.

Ron hesitated for a moment, then confirmed, “Avoiding Hermione.”

“What happened anyway? She wouldn’t tell us. Actually, she hardly spoke to anyone – and you know that’s saying something.”

Ron laughed lightly, brokenly, turning on his side to face Harry. “I don’t know what happened. We were just talking. I think she’s just disappointed because, for once, she’s wrong about something.”

Harry snorted a laugh. “Yeah, maybe. So what is going on with you? If it’s not some war with Malfoy.”

Ron winced at the mention of Draco, and took a moment to calm himself before answering. “Nothing,” he said shortly, his voice wavering. “I was sick, now I’m better, but I made a mistake abandoning Hermione. It happens.”

“Yeah, I guess. Why didn’t you go see Pomfrey, though? She could have healed you.”

Ron shrugged. “I wasn’t that sick.”

“You did look pretty awful,” Harry pointed out.

“That’s because you all kept approaching me at... inconvenient times.” He smiled despite himself, thinking of his encounter with Draco in the hallway, “like when I had just run down a flight of stairs or something.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“But you’re okay now?”

“Yes.” Ron closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. He needed to be alone, he couldn’t take this anymore. “If that’s all, would you please just go away?”

Harry frowned, noticing for the first time how tired and defeated Ron really looked. There were shadows lining his eyes and his skin looked paler than usual, and Harry couldn’t remember how long it had been that way. He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed for so long. He sat down on his knees beside Ron’s bed, folding his arms on the bed and resting his head on top, getting as close to eyelevel as he could. He heard Ron’s sharp but raspy intake of breath, and Harry’s mind spiralled, thinking of how hoarse Ron had sounded that day. Why hadn’t he noticed? Why hadn’t he cared?

“Ron,” he said gently, the true affection he felt for his best friend finally making itself evident in his voice. Harry wondered why he hadn’t displayed that before, either. “Talk to me, mate. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Ron hesitated, surprised by Harry’s sudden genuine concern. It’s not that Harry was a bad friend - he just usually wasn’t very compassionate with Ron. Their friendship seemed to be based on good times alone, and if they weren’t having fun, their relationship always tended to be a little strained. Ron had never blamed him for it, though. Harry had a lot of responsibilities as the Boy Who Lived – Ron couldn’t expect him to be very concerned with his petty little needs.

“I’m fine,” he said softly, his voice cracking.

Harry studied Ron’s face for a moment – the glassiness of his eyes, the way he seemed to be biting at his lip to hold something back... tears? “No, you’re not,” he whispered, reaching up to push Ron’s hair out of his face. His hand faltered when it made contact with Ron’s thick, soft hair, and Harry finally realised how cold he had been to his friend for all these years. He never touched him, not really, never hugged him. There were so many things Harry hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared to see... How many endearing little quirks had he overlooked? How many times had Ron been at rock bottom and Harry hadn’t even noticed? Did he even know Ron at all anymore?

His hand smoothed Ron’s hair back, and Ron stared at him in confusion – maybe a little wariness. There was no response, not that Ron could think of. Suddenly he wanted to tell Harry everything – how he was so desperately in love with Draco, how they had loved each other for so long... But Harry wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t care. Just because Harry was concerned now, that didn’t mean Ron could be inconsiderate and drop all of his deep, dark secrets on Harry. That wouldn’t be fair.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Harry asked, as if reading Ron’s thoughts. His voice was still gentle and concerned, a tone Ron had never heard from him before. It was so tempting, so very tempting, but Harry didn’t know what he was asking for. How could he accept that his best friend loved one of his worst enemies?

“It’s nothing. Really.” Harry looked unconvinced and Ron wasn’t surprised. His voice had broken halfway through.

Ron rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow to allow his tears to leak out silently. Harry stared at him, trying to decide what to do. Ordinarily, he would just walk out if Ron turned his back like this, but... what if this was important? Was there something he should be seeing?

He rested his hand on Ron’s back comfortingly, still fascinated by how it felt to actually touch his friend, and that’s when he felt it. Ron was trembling, his breath catching slightly with each inhale – he was crying.

“Oh, Ron,” he whispered wretchedly, unsure of what to do. He rubbed Ron’s back awkwardly, grasping for something, anything to say. “It’s... it’s okay.”

Now that the tears had started to flow, there was nothing Ron could do to hold them back. Everything came crashing forward at once, searching for release – the fear of finding Draco in the room unexpectedly, the shock and panic of being forced to have sex on Harry’s bed, the pain of finding out that the watch he had been so happy to give Draco was hated and destroyed. But most of all, he was worried about Draco. The thought of losing the one person he had ever loved – the only person he was capable of loving – hurt worse than anything else. Ron was sobbing violently now, and he didn’t care if Harry heard. Nothing really mattered at that moment – he had been holding this back for too long.

Harry leaned up and rested his forehead against Ron’s shoulder, continuing to rub his back. “Ron, please talk to me,” he pleaded, “I want to help you, but I have to know what’s going on first.”

Ron subtly moved away from the feeling of Harry’s head against him, torn between screaming at him to leave and telling him everything. But he couldn’t allow himself to be tempted like this – if Harry could almost convince him to tell his and Draco’s secret, that was a very bad thing. Draco would hate it if Ron told. If Draco hated it when Hermione got too close, wouldn’t Harry bother him just as much?

“Go away, Harry,” Ron said softly, his voice hardly sounding like his own.

Harry froze, leaning back and pulling his hand away. Should he really leave, or should he persist? What would a good friend do? He really didn’t know. When something was bothering him, Ron would always try to help – no matter what it took. So Harry should do the same.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“There’s nothing going on!” Ron snapped, pushing himself up so he could turn enough to glare at Harry.

Harry studied his face, torn between pointing out the obvious and letting it drop for now. Maybe he should wait – allow Ron to cool down a bit before trying again. That would give him time to get his thoughts together, too.

“Alright,” he said finally, “but if you ever want to talk-”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Ron said stiffly. When he noticed the disappointment and doubt on Harry’s face, he added, “But thanks anyway.”

Harry nodded, satisfied, and slowly left the dorm room – half expecting Ron to call after him.

It didn’t happen.