Author: Jadea

Disclaimer: *Strikes Dramatic Pose* "I don't own them. . .they're just some of my many toys. I don't own them. . .I just make them play with other boys. . ."

Synopsis: We all know that Ron is willing to sacrifice his life for Harry's. What else is he willing to sacrifice?

Pairing. . .both Ron/Draco and Ron/Harry. Slash. Just could not get this one out of my head.

Rated R, for restricted and Ron!

Kinda rough. Not a sweet, fluffy fic. This includes rape. . .Malfoy/Ron. If you want to respond, or archive, knock yourself out. Feedback will be taken with a grain of salt. . .which will then be used on my tortilla chips. Mmmmm, salsa.

*********************************************

It was, Harry thought for the millionth time, the perfect time for playing quidditch.

"Really, Harry!" The impish, red-haired Ron Weasely voice inside his head chortled, sounding amused, " any time is the perfect time to play quidditch!"

Harry snorted at the voice in his head, absentmindedly brushing his tangled bangs away from his eyes. He really needed to get a haircut. The last person who had given him one had been Mrs. Weasely, at the Burrow's annual haircutting day, two days before returning to Hogwarts.

_

"You're next mate. She's going to shear you like a sheep."

Harry grinned at Ron, who was mournfully running his fingers through his now considerably shorter fire-red locks with a disgruntled expression on his face.

"I think she goes overboard on all of us because of Bill. As if cutting off all of our hair will make up for the fact that she thinks his is too long."

"Won't make any difference. Mine'll look exactly the same an hour after she cuts it."

"Well, I know that, and you know that, but you know Mum. . .I doubt you'd stay bald if we held you down and shaved your head."

Harry grinned, speaking in a mock-Malfoy voice.. "I'm game if you are, Weasely."

Ron grinned back, his dark blue eyes dancing in amusement. "Can you imagine Hermoine's reaction? Eeeeeeek!" The sixteen year old boy did a fairly good imitation of a sixteen year old girls shrill squeal, a pitch known to shatter windows and cause birds to fall senseless out of the sky, "You've both gone BALD!"

_

Harry smirked at the memory as he surveyed the quidditch field from his Seekers position. The lower rim of the sun had just touched the tops of the mountains, and it would be dark in about another fourty five minutes. But right now. . .the weather was perfect.

A light autumn breeze ruffled his scarlet quidditch robes and brushed his raven hair back into his bright green eyes. He simply sat and let the wind ruffle his hair, blowing back from his brow. Smiling, he tilted his face to the sun, erratically wishing that he was a plant, some sort of flower or tree that turned sunlight into substinence, storing it inside himself. . .

It really was beautiful weather for quidditch.

So far, the whole autumn had been gorgeous. Cool enough to light a fire in the evenings in the Griffindor common room, cool enough for a sweater, but just enough warmth to make each evening almost unbearably beautiful. Right now the sun's rays slanted through the few whispy clouds dotting the sky, bathing the entire quidditch field. . .and his team in an aura of golden light that made them, for the moment, unbelievably precious.

He looked at them then, from his Seekers position above the field, his eyes following the movements of his team instead of questing for the snitch.

It seemed he wasn't the only one slightly drunk temperate weather and golden sunlight. Seamus and Dean, who had replaced Fred and George Weasely as the Griffindor teams Beaters after the twins graduation last spring, were both hanging upside down from their broomsticks, steering them into spirals and trying to see which one would throw up first. Colin Creevey, Neville Longbottom, and Dennis Creevey, their new Chasers, were in the midst of a huge debate about whether Neville had really meant it to be an accident when he actually spilled a cauldron of blue wart potion all over Snape. The memory of his Potions class that afternoon actually made Harry smile, which was unheard of. Oh, but it had been funny, seeing Snape stagger around the dungeon looking for all the world like. . .what was it muggles called them?

Oh, yeah. A Smurf.

A very profane, very angry, very greasy haired papa smurf.

Of course, Neville had lost Griffindor fifty points. And then Ron had lost another ten by being unable to stop laughing; the tall red head had still been shaking with hilarity when Snape had been towering in front of him, arms crossed, voice deathly soft, looking like a smurf with murder on its mind:

"Do you find something. . .amusing . . .Mr. Weasely?"

Even then, Ron had been unable to respond properly beyond a desperate attempt to stop shaking and start breathing. Even then, Ron's self control only lasted long enough for the Griffindor to get a good look at Snape standing in front of him. . .and then he had snorted in laughter, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he slumped in his seat, exhausted, still laughing.

Harry smiled again, at the memory. Even more then the weather, it was Ron's laughter that had made this day absolutely wonderful; Harry hadn't seen Ron laugh like that in a long time.

Ron. . .

His eyes trailed through the beams of sunlight still slanting across the field, some small part of the back of his mind looking for the snitch, trying to see it flash at him in a sunlit wink, but there was no snitch fluttering around, and the first truly bright thing he saw was his best friends hair, caught in a ray of sun, blazing on his head like a torch.

Ron was riding his broom far more easily then Harry was now, indeed, he could have been lying napping on the sofa at the Burrow for all the energy he was showing. He literally lay on his broomstick, long arms and legs dangling off, basking in the glow of the sun like some great, gingerhaired cat, flying in the air.

Kinda like Crooshanks, Harry reflected. Although he doubted Crookshanks would be nearly as blase about napping in midair as Ron was.

Ron was at home in the air. Just as much as Harry was, it was one of the things the Griffindor Seeker could instantly see about a person when they flew. . .and Ron loved it. Loved flying and quidditch the way he loved wizard chess, and chocolate frogs, and his friends.

Harry wrapped his hands firmly around the neck of his Thunderbolt, directing it towards his relaxing friend. He really should be enforcing this as a practice more. . .he was the captain, and he badly wanted to win the Quidditch Cup two years in a row. . .but it was the second practice of the year, and the day was so beautiful. A sense of irreponsibility and mirth seemed to have overtaken all of them, and he couldn't fight against it if he embraced it himself. He would give them this one practice, and then next time, he knew they would throw themselves back in to the game as fiercely as he would-but tonight, he just couldn't seem to care.

Ron didn't raise his head or open his eyes from where his right cheek was resting on the barrel of his broom, but Harry knew Ron had heard him coming. He watched, amused and touched, as Ron's fingers flashed at him even as the red head kept the rest of his body motionless

Two fingers-the ring finger and the pinky-followed by three fingers-the index, middle finger and thumb. Which meant, in Weasely code:

"Whatever you've got to say better be worth it, cause I was having a really nice dream. . ."

"Hey, Weasely! What do you think you're doing, slacking off! Someone could come in here and score any minute!"

Ron's hand signal changed until only one finger remained. Groaning in resignation, he threw a mock glare at his best friend:

"Oh, really, Mr. Captain? I don't see you focusing your every iota of concentration on finding the snitch."

Ron arched his left eyebrow at him, and nodded toward the crowd of their teammates almost the length of the field away who could have been saying curses or swapping recipies, or anything except practicing quidditch.

"Besides, if any one of our teammates could score from that distance, we wouldnt even need me on the team. We wouldn't need a defense at all. I could just sit back and do my transfiguration homework during games, I could. "

Ron's voice trailed off, his eyes getting a far away look in their blue depths. Harry knew where this was heading. That was Ron's, "wouldn't it be cool if. . ." look.

"Wouldnt it be cool if you could transfigure yourself into the snitch? Or better yet, the Bludger? Wouldn't it be great to smack Malfoy around and not get in any trouble for it?"

Harry grinned, thinking Ron had a perfectly valid point there and opening his mouth to say so, but all of a sudden a cry of alarm pierced the tranquil air:

"Dean! Look Out!"

Harry and Ron's heads whipped around in unison, just in time to spy the stray bludger-"I knew we should have put them away, I knew we should have put them away should have put them away"- strike Dean Thomas on the back of the head as he dangled upside down on his broom. Harry and Ron were already flying towards their teamate and roomate with out a second thought, but Seamus reacted quicker then anyone else. With seeker-like reflexes, Seamus reached out and seized his best friends robes, pulling the unconcious boy onto his own broomstick before slowly arcing towards the ground. It was only when they landed that Harry noticed the white grips of Seamus's knuckles, and how his hands were shaking, the color draining from his face as shock set in. Harry shuddered slightly, reflecting bitterly that he knew exactly how it felt to watch as your best friend. . the person you loved most in the world. . .was knocked unconcious in front of your eyes.

The other members of the team crowded around Seamus and the unconscious Dean, and everyone except Harry and Ron started proclaiming the obvious in loud voices. ..

"He's been knocked out. . ."

"Hell, of a blow, bludger, straight to the head. . ."

"Well, I guess that's practice for the night. . ."

"Think he'll be Ok?"

"Good catch there, Seamus. . ."

Only Harry, who had been in Seamus's position more times then he wanted to remember, knew what Dean wanted-needed-to hear. Kneeling beside the unconcsious boy, he checked his pulse and breathing.

"He'll be alright, Seamus. Just take him to the hospital. Madame Pomfrey will look after him."

Seamus nodded, the rest of the team except for Neville and Ron trailing after him. Neville paused:

"What about you guys? Are you going to come to the infirmiry.?"

Harry shook his head, mentally cursing himself for deciding to take it easy during practice and let the balls fly around unguarded. The stricken look on Seamus face as Dean was hit kept flashing in front of his eyes. Had he looked like that when Ron was knocked unconcious by the giant chess set? "I'll be there as soon as I can. I left the bludgers flying around, and one of them hit Dean. I can't let them fly around. If I go with him, someone else might get hurt. I'll collect them, and then come"

Ron's voice, subdued, echoed his words from next to him, "I'll help Harry. We'll be there ASAP, Neville."

The other boy nodded, his dark eyes anxious before he turned and jogged in order to catch up with the rest of the team.

"You don't have to help me, Ron. I'm the Captain, its my fault the bludgers were flying around, not yours."

The taller boy fixed him with a slightly exasperated look, the corners of his mouth turned in. Ron didn't try to lie to him, though. Ron never lied to him. It was one of the many things Harry loved about him.

"It's not only your fault, Harry. We all should have been practicing instead of goofing off. I mean, yeah, you're the captain, but we are a team. Any one of us should have mentioned that it wasn't really the smartest thing in the world to just let the bludgers fly around unchecked."

Harry smiled uncertainly at Ron's words, thinking briefly how much Ron sounded like their other best friend, Hermoine Granger, right then. Ron's next words, however, wiped the smile from his face.

" I mean, the bludgers could have hit any one of us."

Instantly, Harrys imagination supplied the scene with hellish clarity, down to the smell of the grass and the light in his eyes. Ron, dozing lightly on his broomstick, haloed in the few remaining strands of sunlight. . the bludger, careening out of nowwhere, striking Ron on the head. . .Ron, losing his balance and toppling, unconcious, from his broom. . .Harry, the youngest seeker at Hogwarts in over a hundred years, unable to reach him and able to only watch, helplessly, as the thing he would miss most fell away from him. . .

". . .Okay."

Harry gladly released his vision, and blinked at Ron, standing in front of him.

"I said I'm sure Dean'll be all right."

"Mmmmm."

"Are You all right?"

Harry focused his eyes on the frayed orange collar poking out of his best friends scarlet quidditch robes. It belonged to one of Ron's prized possessions. . .the Chudley Cannons shirt Harry had bought him for his birthday two years ago. When Ron had opened the gift, the shirt had been a screaming, shocking orange that violently assaulted the eyes. After much wearing and repeated washings, it was now faded considerably, though still incredibly ugly, especially when paired with Ron's red quidditch robes. But Ron had told him once that he thought the shirt brought him good luck, and wore it at every practice and every game. Harry had simply nodded when Ron had told him this, not wanting to point out the fact that neither the shirt nor the color orange had given the Chudley Cannons any luck.

Their losing streak was one hundred twelve matches and counting.

Harry focused on the worn, frayed colour of his friends shirt and steadied himself. He was fine. Ron was fine. Dean was going to be fine. All they had to do was collect the bludgers.

And the snitch.

Harry groaned in reply to Ron's query. "The snitch. . .I didn't catch it. And its going to be dark soon. It'll take us longer then I thought to put everything away. . .we won't get to the the hospital ward before it closes."

"I dunno." Ron replied thoughtfully. "What if you look for the snitch, and I get the bludgers? As a matter of fact," his best friend said, starting to grin, "I'll race you. If I get the bludgers all captured and put up before you get the snitch, you have to buy me a butterbeer at Hogsmeade next weekend."

Harry couldn't stop himself from grinning himself and shaking his head, amazed as always at how irrepressable Ron was.

"Fine. You got yourself a bet. But if I get the snitch, you owe me two butterbeers!"

Ron's reply was to grab his broom off and flash his best friend a lopsided grin before shoving off from the ground, flying at breakneck speed towards the nearest bludger.

Harry followed him quickly, flying high enough to once again get a view of the entire field, searching desperately for one glimpse of the snitch in the fading sunlight. But all he saw was Ron, darting over the field, chasing the bludgers and swearing softly under his breath. Harry knew, however, that Ron wasn't in a bad mood. . .his shoulders weren't tensed, and his grip was not white knuckled but relaxed, cupping the broom handle instead of seizing it. Once, Ron flew by him, holding the first bludger in one outstretched hand and whooping as he directed his broom to do a series of turnovers. Even as he rolled his eyes at his friends exuberance, he couldn't help but smile.

Ron was right. Dean was going to be Ok...and this years quidditch team was going to be great.

It would have to be, to compete with last year.

Last year had been, far and away, Harry Potter's favorite year of playing quidditch for Griffindor. Not only because they had won the quidditch cup; that had happened in Harrys third year also, and while it was a truly wonderful feeling, winning the cup last year had been ten times better.

Because Ron had been with him.

Practices and games had always been fun for Harry, but they had been even more so last year, after Ron had tried out-and won-the position of Keeper. And won it on his own merit, too, no matter what Malfoy might have said. Ron had been far and away the best candidate for the position last year, letting only one ball past his defenses to score. . .and Fred and George hadn't taken it easy on him just cause he was their baby brother. If anything, they had worked his audition harder then anyone else's, and he had outshone them all.

Harry bit his lip, remembering the shock he had recieved when Ron had told him the summer after their fourth year that he wouldnt be trying out for the Quidditch team that year. Well, told him and Sirius, actually. . .

**********************************

The silence lay heavily around the three figures as they sat around the scarred wood table in the Shreiking Shack. While Harry loved and looked foward to seeing his Godfather, he hated how their conversations always turned to Him.

Voldemort.

Sirius was cupping his forhead in his hands, rubbing his temples lightly. Ron and Harry watched him, a little warily, and more then a little disgruntled. Sirius had just made them promise-both of them promise-not to leave Hogwarts grounds, except to go to Hogsmeade, without permission. No forays into the forbidden forest. No flying cars. No adventures, in other words.

No fun.

The silence around the shack was stifling in the early summer afternoon. Harry watched dust motes dance in the slit of light peeking through the boarded up windows and tried to think of something that would break this silence. To his suprise, Sirius did it for him.

"You'll be trying out for Quidditch in the fall, right, Ron?"

Harry smiled. Perfect. Ron could-and did-talk Quidditch for days. As could Harry. And with Ron on the team-this year was going to be great.

Harry's green eyes flickered to catch his friends expression, but instead of the dawning excitement he had known he would see there, there was only a look of suprised embarrassment. Ron instantly dropped his gaze, his golden lashes shuttering the expression in his dark blue eyes. Harry's own eyes grew wide as Ron opened his mouth reluctantly, suddenly entranced by the trails of fine grey powder the tips of his fingers were dragging through the dust on the tables scarred surface. His voice was low, barely audible.

"Ummmm. . No.. .No. Not really."

Harry stared at his best friend, mouth agape. Sirius shot him a startled glance, but Harry shook his head, he had no idea. It was all Ron had been able to talk about at the end of last year. . .how next season he and Harry would be on the same team, how his parents had managed to save just enough money to buy him a new broom, because his old one would never work. . .

A suspicion began to flower in Harry's mind, but he didn't say anything. This would have to be handled delicately. He feigned ignorance.

"Why not, Ron?"

Fingers of red were starting to creep up Ron's neck, which meant that Ron was either getting embarrassed or losing his temper. Seeing the slightly wounded look in his friends eyes- Don't talk about this, please lets not talk about this, don't have us talk about this-

Harry knew it was embarrasment. The other boy still refused to look up from his examination of the table top.

"Ginny. . .well, see, she um, she got sick about two weeks after we got out of school. Before you got away from Dursely's, Harry. And. . .well, she got sick really bad, with the flu." Ron coughed himself, the lower half of his face flushed. "She got flu so bad mom couldn't cure her, and she was coughing up blood, and we took her to the hospital. And. . .well. . .we, um, we didn't know the hospital bill would be that much, and even with Percy's paycheck we didn't have enough, and so Mum and Dad had to. . .dip into savings. And it turns out. . .it turns out we couldn't afford my broom anymore."

Rons voice had decreased in volume throughout his speech until it ended on a barely audible whisper. He continued:

"I can't try out on my old broom, Harry. You know I can't. It'd be a waste of time. Maybe next year. . ."

Ron trailed off, trying-and failing-to interject a positive note to his voice. Harry felt his heart contract at the pain in his best friends voice. He knew how badly Ron wanted to be on the quidditch team-and how the position he wanted was that of Keeper, open this year.

Sirius looked at them both, a troubled expression in his eyes.

_

Two weeks later

The mid summer morning was cool; the weather had been rainy and cloudy for a week now, and the heat had not lingered in the air. In Ron's room, at the top of the Burrow, above Percy's room and below the Ghouls, Harry Potter shivered under the one thin, worn blanket covering him. He must have kicked the rest of the covers off during the middle of the night, he reflected sleepily. He knew all he had to do was sit up, reach down, and tug the covers up over him again, and then he would be able to sleep for a while longer. . .but the action would take far more energy then Harry had right now. All he wanted to do was lie there. But. . .there was warmth in the bed. To his left.

Harry and Ron had been alternating ever since Harry had arrived at the Burrow after two absolutely miserable weeks at the Dursely's: one night one of them got the mattress on the floor, the next night they got Ron's bed. Last night had been Harry's turn for the mattress and he winced softly as a spring poked him in a rather uncomfortable place. The mattress, though large, was, like everything else at the Burrow, old and mended in about a dozen different places.

Harry shivered again in the early morning air, eyes closed. He was so tired he felt like he hadn't slept at all. . .

*Cold, corpse rotted fingers stroking across a pale cheek. . .*

Oh. That was why.

He had barely dropped off last night, listening to Ron's quiet snores from the bed above him before he had been siezed and forced into one of his more spectacular nightmares. . .

*No. Please. Not Harry. Kill Me instead, but not Harry. . .*

Had he screamed? He thought he had. No, he Knew he had. He remembered a sleepy, startled but forgiving Ron, blue eyes wide, asking him if he was Ok.

"Harry! Harry! It's Ok. It was only a dream. Only a dream. . ."

He remembered sitting up in bed, hands fisted in his hair, glancing wildly across Rons darkened room as if expecting You Know Who to seep up through the very cracks in the floor. . .

"Harry, do you think you could go back to sleep?"

A barely stifled sob, a clench of small fists. No. He knew he couldn't. He couldn't, and didn't want to. But he couldn't tell Ron that. If he did, then Ron wouldn't sleep either. . .

"Would it be better if I slept on the mattress with you? Come on, shove over. . ".

Harry smiled sleepily, his eyes still closed, finally identifying the warmth next to him on the mattress. He rolled over closer to his left, snuggling on his side up next to the warmest thing in the room.

After Ron had lay down next to him, Harry had slept fine. . .

Later that morning, as Ron and Harry blinked blearily around the small kitchen in the Burrow, eating breakfast with Mrs. Weasely gardening and humming happily just outside the door, two enormous official post owls flew through the window, carrying a long, thin package between the both of them and startling Mrs. Weasely into dropping her puffskein, which shrieked petulantly at her.

Sleepiness instantly forgotten, the two boys clustered around the long package in the owls talons.

Ron wrested the letter around one of the owls talons free and handed it to Harry, gawping at the package. It was from Sirius, Harry read the letter silently:

Dear Harry:

I decided to give you an early birthday gift. You're my only Godson, and I have every right to spoil you. Besides, I think that your recieving your gift will make someone else very happy. You'll know what I mean. Remember, I have a vault full of gold at Gringotts that I would like nothing better then to spend on you. Happy fifteenth birthday (prematurely) and make sure to tell me the expression on his face when you give it to him. Be careful. Both of you.

Your Godfather,

Sirius Black.

Harry stared blankly at the letter, his mind in shock. He had never recieved such a cryptic letter from Sirius before. What on earth was he talking about?

Ron didn't seem to notice that Harry hadn't read the letter aloud like he usually did. Ron wouldn't have noticed if a storm of cornish pixies had been charging through the door at that moment. The tall red head was running his hands-which, Harry couldn't help but notice, were shaking-over the box, which was engraved

Quality Quidditch Supplies

"Harry." Ron spoke in a stunned voice, as if someone had just told him Percy had danced naked in front of the Minister of Magic. "Harry. . .there's an invoice on the side of the box."

Ron was evidently still trying to absorb this information.

"Harry. . .it's a. . .a Thunderbolt!"

It was a good thing, Harry reflected later, that the kitchen chair had been sitting where it was when all the feeling had run out of his legs. He oofed as he sat-no, fell-into the chair, which creaked dangerously at the sudden weight.

He couldn't believe it. A Thunderbolt! A model even more advanced then Harry's Firebolt, it had only come out a couple weeks ago. . .and it cost a fortune. Well over a thousand galleons.

The boys opened the box, eyes wide with adoration as they gazed at the holy relic inside.

"Wow." they breathed together.

It was beautiful. For ages, all they did was stare, until Harry reached out a tentative hand-he was slightly amused to notice his hand shaking, as well-and hefted it out of the velvet lined box.

They marveled at it, as did the rest of the Weaselys as they trickled into the kitchen to see what the post owls had brought. It wasn't until after lunch, while Ron was trying in vain to restrain Pig long enough to get the owl to send a letter to Hermoine to tell her the news, that Harry re-read the note and understood what Sirius had meant.

/I think your recieving your gift will make someone else very happy/

/Make sure to tell me the expression on his face when you give it to him/

/You'll know what I mean/

Harry smiled. Of course he knew. He knew Sirius had a soft spot in his heart for Ron, always had ever since their confrontation in the Shreiking Shack their third year, when they had all thought Sirius was working for Voldemort, plotting to kill Harry.

****************************************

"No, Harry!" Hermoine gasped in a petrified whisper, holding him back by his robes.

Ron, however, spoke to Black.

"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us too!" he said fiercely, though the effort of standing upright was draining him of still more color, and he swayed slightly as he spoke.

Something flickered in Black's shadowed eyes.

"Lie down," he said quietly to Ron. "You will damage that leg even more."

"Did you hear me?" Ron said weakly, though he was clinging painfully to Harry to stay upright. "You'll have to kill all three of us!"

*****************************************

Sirius had told him later that it was the first truly noble and selfless thing he'd seen in thirteen years, ever since he had been sent to Azbakhan. That it had made him happy to see that Harry had such a friend. A friend who was willing to die for him.

Harry bit his lower lip, thinking hard, watching Ron rushing around the room bellowing, trying to corner Pig. He knew that Ron would love to have the Firebolt now that Harry had the Thunderbolt. . .but he also knew he would have to be careful in how he gave it to the other boy. Ron was sensitive about some things, but nothing so much as how poor he was. He refused to accept overly expensive gifts, just as the rest of the Weasely's refused any effort of Harry's to pay them for the hospitality they showed him every summer. It frustrated him that they gave him so much, but refused to accept anything in return.

What good was money if it didn't make you happy?

Later that evening, while the crickets sang in the grass and the sun sank below the trees, Harry and Ron lay sprawled across the grass in the back yard, not far from the small enclosure of trees where they practiced quidditch. They talked about school, and friends, and Hermoine. . .about what they wanted to do when they graduated, but that talk seemed strangely removed, as if it would never truly happen. Lying there, watching as the shadows deepened on the grass in Ron's back yard, time seemed eternal, and the thought of leaving school, of graduating, had never seemed further away.

With practiced casualness, eyes closed, Harry spoke softly, as if commenting on the weather;

"I don't know how it'll be, being Captain of the Quidditch Team this year."

He held his breath as he heard Ron move beside him, shuffling into a more comfortable position on his side.

"You'll do fine, Harry. You know quidditch well as anyone, I reckon. And everyone respects you. Knows your good."

"Yea, but they're all older then me. Katie and Fred and George and Angelina. . .I'm two years younger then all of them, and all of a sudden I'm supposed to boss them around? Besides, do you know what Gred and Forge are like during team meetings and practices? Especially early in the morning?"

Chuckling, Ron plucked a blade of grass from near Harry's elbow and began chewing on it thoughtfully. "'Course I know. They are my brothers. Can't be any worse then the family meetings Mum and Perce used to try and have." He rolled his eyes, then smirked at the memory, "The shortest one we had was when Mom was trying to give us all a chore schedule" Ron shuddered in mock horror. . ."Fred ran into the kitchen shouting 'Fire!' and dragged Ginny out by her arm. Short meeting, that."

Ron smirked as Harry groaned.

"Oh, God, give me You Know Who or Severus Snape or Death Eaters anyday. . .but deliver me from trying to make the Weasley twins pay attention."

"Oh, Harry, you know how to handle us Weasley's by now. You're an honorary one, you know. Just got to get you to change that hair color of yours. . ."

Harry spoke without thought, filing his best friends words away for when he needed them. 'You're an honorary one, you know. . .'

"Yeah. I guess. I just wish that you could try out too. That would be great, wouldn't it?"

He watched his friends expression carefully, noting when Ron stopped chewing on the grass stem just long enough to make it noticeable. He felt a surge of compassion as Ron dropped his blue eyes, refusing to meet Harry's green ones.

"Yeah, I know. That would be great. I really would've loved to be Keeper, you know. . But my broom. . ."

Now was the moment. In the most casual tone he could muster:

"Why not just take mine?"

Silence, and the blade of grass dropped from Ron's mouth, followed by a "Huh?"

Tone still calm, almost bored, as if they were discussing Mrs. Weasely's new apron.

"My Firebolt. I don't need it anymore, not with my Thunderbolt. If you don't use it, it'll just sit in the cupboard and collect dust."

Harry kept his face impassive, but relaxed, aware that Ron was studying him with intense scrutiny, his best friends dark blue eyes gazing at him hard. For a moment, Harry was convinced Ron was going to storm off, thinking Harry was wounding his pride. Then:

"Really?"

Said in a tone of complete and total disbelief, tinged with the slightest bit of hope-as if Ron were being offered everything he'd ever wanted, but could never have, only to find that claiming it was so easy, so incredibly easy. . .

"Yeah, Sure. It can be your Christmas present."

Ron smiled. He had heard that before.

"For the next fifty years."

"Fifty!"

Said in a tone of joyous indignation. Harry glanced at his best friend, who was now sitting up, gazing at the tree tops in wonder with a wide grin spreading across his face. Harry thought that he'd give everything he owned to see that look on Ron's face. . .never mind a second hand Firebolt. Suddenly, the tall red head leaped to his feet, dragging Harry with him, swinging him in a circle and pounding him on the back, all while dancing a jig.

"!"

Ron had been a six foot tall bundle of energy after that, pestering Harry and the twins out to the Quidditch field so that he could practice on the Firebolt. His Firebolt. Between Ron's broom and Harry's Thunderbolt, the two younger boys had left Gred and Forge in the dust.

As they got ready for bed that night, exhausted and aching but impossibly happy, Harry had felt a twinge of apprehension. What if the dream returned again?

*Cold, Corpse like fingers stroking a pale cheek*

He had shuddered abruptly, gooseflesh breaking out all over his skin while despair wormed in his stomach. Here he was, at his favorite place in the world-the Burrow-in Ron's shockingly ugly but warm, soft, messy boy room, with his favorite person in the world. It was summer, the end of a perfect day. . .

And he didn't want to go to sleep.

He was afraid to close his eyes.

It seemed Ron hadn't noticed his shivering, and Harry was glad. He didn't want to keep Ron awake. Perhaps he could sneak downstairs after Ron fell asleep and get some homework done at the kitchen table.

Harry had been mentally prepearing himself for a long, lonley night downstairs until Ron had, with the air of someone who did this every night, stripped the blankets from his bed and tossed them on the floor, covering the left side of the worn mattress, next to Harry. The Boy Who Had Been Pretending To Sleep, opened his piercing green eyes with a start.

"What are you doing, Ron?"

The taller boy shrugged, and through the moonlight cascading through the open window, Harry thought he saw a look of slight apprehension on his friends face.

"Well, the mattress is bigger. I mean. . .we could both try and sleep on the bed, but there's a bigger fall if one of us knocks the other off, and I don't fancy going to Mum and explaining that I broke your arm. . ."

"You. . .you've been having nightmares for. . .well, ever since you came here, Harry. And sometimes you wake me up at night, screaming, and that's bad. . .but its even worse when you don't wake me, cause then I cant help. . .

Ron's voice, which had been trailing off, firmed.

"This way, if you have a nightmare, I can help."

For a minute all Harry could do was stare at Ron, dumbstruck. He knew about the nightmares?

And then

Thank you, thank you, thank you Ron, thank you for being my best friend, for noticing, for loving me, thank you. . .

"Yeah, Sure. Sorry if I kept waking you up, Mate."

The taller boy, climbing underneath the covers next to Harry, simply shrugged.

"No big deal, you prat. I sleep better when you're here then I do when you're at the Dursleys. . .even if you do have nightmares."

For the rest of the summer, and the summer after, they had slept like that, on the mattress on the floor, next to each other, drawing comfort from each others presence. It had been the worst thing about returning to Hogwarts; Harry would reflect later: even though Ron's bed, as always, was right next to his in their dorm room: he had missed the warm presence in the bed beside him.

Even if Ron did steal the covers.

*******************************************

Harry shook his head fondly, dispelling the memories. The sun was almost completely gone now; only a few shades of red and purple stained the horizon. The air was getting a bite in it. And. . .

Oh, Hell.

Ron had just caught the last bludger.

The Boy Who Lived groaned loudly as his best friend flew a victory lap, shouting some muggle song:

"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII...AAAAAAAMMMMMMMM...THE. . .CHHHHHAAAAMMMPPPIIIOONNNNN. . .OFFFFF...THE...WOOOOOOOOOOOORLD!"

Finishing his "victory lap" and bowing to his pretend audience, Ron yelled across the field to Harry:

"Hey, slowpoke! You owe me a beer!"

Harry responded with the hand signal that Ron had used earlier that evening. . .and not the "it better be good" one.

Ron chuckled, and yelled again, "I"m gonna put everything up and stick it in the shed. I'll help you try and spot the snitch, just let me put the bludgers up first."

Harry shivered abruptly, feeling the bite in the wind more keenly now as he watched Ron's feet hit the ground, bludger held tightly in his right hand as he dissapeared into the shed. He should be looking for the snitch, he knew. . .the sooner he saw it, the sooner he could go inside and shake this uneasy feeling that had crept over him so suddenly. . .but suddenly taking his eyes off of Ron seemed like a very bad idea. . .

'Focus. Focus. You do it in games all the time. Why can't you do it now?'

He didn't know.

He didn't know.

Moments passed and Harry gave up trying to spot the snitch. The sunlight was completely gone, now, and the lights of Hogwarts glittered in the distance under the stars. Safety. Warmth.

Like a mirage.

*Cold, Corpse like fingers stroking down a pale cheek. . *

Harry jerked, almost falling off his broom, steadying himself with a suddenly shaking hand. Why had that image suddenly haunted him? He hadn't seen it ever since the first night he and Ron had slept together. . .

Well-not-TOGETHER. Next to each other. He and Ron had Never. Done. Anything. Like. That.

No matter what Malfoy and his two goons might snigger about in the halls, or the nasty innuendos they made about the fact that neither he nor Ron had girlfriends, and they seemed to spend an awful lot of time together. . .

"How did Weasely pay you back for that broomstick, Potter? Was it with his ass or his mouth?"

No. He and Ron had never done anything. They didn't need to. Harry knew Ron loved him, and he loved Ron. His love for Ron was just as much a part of him as breathing, as much as the mop of black hair on his head, as much as his scar. Had been ever since the day they met, six years ago.

By now, the feeling of unease had bloomed into outright terror. The hazy, half-remembered dream had shaken him, and Harry felt incredibly vulnerable, exposed in the night air.

Screw It.

Someone else could pick up the snitch. He didn't care if no one caught it. He didn't care if it flew away, or got damaged, or bonked Snape smack on the forehead right in the middle of Potions.

Right now, Harry wanted one thing only in the world. . .his best friend, sitting across from him, safe and sound, while Ron trounced him at a game of chess.

It wasn't until his feet touched the beaten grass next to the equipment shed that Harry became conscious of the fact that he had landed: even then it was only a absent minded observation, mostly buried under beating of his heart and the mantra pounding in his head:

. . .

How long had the other boy been in the damn equipment shed?

As Harry approached the door to the shed he suddenly realized that, despite the chill in the air, his palms were sweating.

No sign of Ron.

He's fine, he's fine, he has to be fine, maybe he just decided to sit down, take a breather, take a load off, take a nap, stubbed his toe-

"Ron?"

His voice seemed strangely stuck in his throat; the other boys name came out in a hoarse exclamation that sounded more like a strangled wheeze.

Get a grip, Potter.

Harry suddenly lost restraint even as the icy hand gripping his heart tightened, digging in harder, and, with one quick, violent movement, kicked the door open. He could picture Ron's reaction even as the door swung open wide. Hell, he'd kicked it so hard, it might even knock Ron sprawling.

What the hell are you doing, Harry?

But there was no reaction from Ron. And instantly, Harry could see why. He stopped for a minute, stunned, breath catching in his throat.

The equipment shed was fairly large; about the size of their bedchambers in Griffindor: it did store equipment-and other supplies-for all four House Quidditch Teams. But one glance could cover the entire room, and through the boxes and broomsticks Harry could see what was happening very clearly.

Ron lay unconscious, slumped over the box he had undoubtebly been putting the bludgers in. Behind him a figure loomed, muttering a spell and pointing his wand at the back wall of the shed. . .which was, incredibly enough, opening up to reveal a subteranean staircase.

Leading down into blackness.

The figure in the dark, hooded robe then pointed his wand at Ron, muttering a spell-Wingardium Leviosa-that floated the unconscious red head into the cave in the wall of the shed, and then followed after him.

Harry's paralysis broke, and he hurled himself at the doorway, which was dissipating before his eyes. There was no time, no time to consider his actions, no time to go back for help, no time to even wonder who-or what-had seized Ron.

He's got Ron, He's got Ron, He's got Ron, He's got Ron. . .

Harry flung himself foward, through the doorway-

And lost his balance.

His feet slipped on the slick stone, and he fell heavily with his whole weight on his right elbow. He didn't even have time to hiss in pain as he felt something crack before he was tumbling, rolling down the dirty, cold hard stairs. Until he finally stopped, numb and bruised, lying alone in a heap in the complete darkness at the foot of the stairs.

He sprawled spectacularly when he finally reached the bottom, unable to move, unable to wince as pain rushed to fill the numbness, stunned that every inch of his body was bruised, and that what wasn't bruised was broken. His elbow was certainly broken, his right arm lay twisted out from his side in a very uncomforable position. He couldn't move-not even when the hooded figure that had dragged Ron down here whispered:

"Expelliarmus"

And Harry's phoenix feather wand flew out of his weak grasp.

'You Fool."

The voice hissed at him, full of venom, hatred, and frustration.

Harry almost didn't hear the voice, so great was the roaring in his own ears. But then the hooded figure whispered another spell, his soft voice echoing off the stone walls of their prison:

"Lumos."

The first thing he saw was not the figure but Ron-still unconscious but breathing, eyes closed, sprawled on the floor not five feet away from him. Harry reached out a shaking left hand to him, to check-to make sure-that Ron was alright, when the hooded figure grasped the concealing cloth in one pale hand and wrenched it away from his face. Harry could only gape at him, the familiar hatred burning inside him.

Malfoy.

**************************************************

Jade green eyes, confused and in pain but nonetheless sharp, clashed with cold grey ones. It only took a minute and their heartbeats blended, beating in the same rythem, cursedly synchronized. Harry held Malfoy's gaze even though it felt like staring eye to eye with a baslisisk; in all their fights, throughout all their years of loathing and sniping and despising each other, Harry had never seen Malfoy look at him so balefully before. Malfoy looked. . .cheated. He had never seen that look before on that arrogant, sharp face. . .

Or had he?

-

"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better then others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks." He said cooly.

Draco Malfoy didn't go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. . .

-

Yes. Their second meeting, on the Hogwarts Express. When he had denied Malfoy something he truly wanted. The first time he had faced Malfoy with Ron beside him. The same frustrated, cheated expression on his face now that had stained his face then, only now the expression was fueled by something else: pure, dripping hatred. A lust fairly leaping out of his cold eyes to slash and wound and kill. . .

Harry held his gaze, savoring the look of utter frustration on the Slytherin's face even as some part of his soul shudderd at being subjected to such abject hatred. His spirit shivered, searching for warmth. . .

Ah.

There.

Ron lay, silent and still, to his left. Breaking Malfoy's gaze, Harry began to inch his way towards his fellow Gryffindor. Once he was beside him, Harry felt better, even if Ron was unconsious.

Together, they could do anything.

Harry opened his mouth to say something-What the fuck do you think you're doing-seemed like a conversation starter-when Malfoy beat him to it.

"Everything. You ruined everything."

Harry had to restrain himself from shuddering. Malfoy's voice was so cold. . .he was amazed he couldn't see the vapors of his breath in the small. . .cave? Room?

"You couldn't just leave him, could you? One hour. . .that's all I wanted. One. Fucking. Hour.

An hour to get what I wanted. You weren't supposed to follow."

"You weren't supposed to follow."

Licking his lips, tasting the dust and the stone on his tounge, Harry shot back:

"What the fuck do you think you're you doing, Malfoy?"

Well, at least he'd gone with his first instinct.

Malfoy smiled.

"I can still have it. You've just added a complication-but a temporary one. You messed up my plans, Potter. . .but that's all right. I can fix it."

The Boy Who Lived was just getting ready to coil and spring on Malfoy, to wrench his and Ron's wands out of the Slytherin's hands, when that icy voice spoke an unfamiliar spell that nonetheless sent shivers through his body.

"Tempus Mortalis."

The light that sprang from the end of Malfoy's wand was not green, but orange-a dirty orange even uglier then the Chudley Cannons posters hanging up in Ron's bedroom, back at the Burrow. The Burrow, which had suddenly never seemed further away.

He couldn't dodge. He couldn't move. The spell was incredibly quick, it wailed like a ghoul, and plunged itself into Harry's chest.

Numbness in his chest, right below his sternum. Rather like plunging in an ice cold lake, first a thousand needles stabbing him through, then a void where there was no pain, no feeling.

Numbness.

"What. . ." Sore, wracking coughs, as if he'd had the flu for weeks. Iciness blooming across his chest, he wandered if this was what a heart attack felt like. He fell back hard against the stone floor, and gasped as he felt that his body-His Body- was colder then the stone beneath him.

"What. . .Wha. . .Do. . ."

Oh, his head was swimming. Not pleasently, though. Rather like all the blood had rushed from his body and the air itself was pummeling him.

There. There was an expression he truly recognized, one he saw almost as often as he saw Hermoine's thoughtful, studious one or Ron's grinning, impish one. The Patented Malfoy Smirk. But there was something colder behind it, now.

"I've just frozen your heart."

"You're heart is now pumping out ice in your blood."

"You're going to die in one hour."

**********************************************

"Liar."

Gasped out desperatley, unbelievingly. A constricted chest, a harsh sob of a word. Agony.

One slim, long index finger reached up and tapped Malfoy's lips. "Hmmmmm. . .am I lying, Harry? What does your body tell you?"

Ignore the pain. Ignore the cold seeping from his body, the burning and the numbness and the shocks, the pain, running through his blood, his blood. . .

He wanted to stand up, to seize his wand, to strike Malfoy down with the Cruciatus curse, do anything to wipe that look from his face. He wanted to open his mouth, to yell and curse and barrage the other boy verbally. He wanted to make him feel, feel just a little bit of what he was feeling right now.

But even that was denied him.

He could not talk.

Simple process really, when you think about it. Breathe in Oxygen. Breath out carbon dioxide. Let the air pass through the vocal cords, become syllables by virtue of the brain, mouth, teeth and tounge. Express anger, sadness, hope, love.

But he could not talk.

Malfoy smirked at him.

"Chest feeling a little funny, Potter? Feels like icy fingers are squeezing your lungs? Stones being laid on your chest? I've been practicing this curse for six years."

"Ever since I met you on the train, in fact."

Harry's vermillion eyes widened, and Malfoy laughed. Harry held himself still, as still as he could while pain wracked him, numbness and frost shooting through his body in dizzying currents.

Cold. God, so cold.

"Believe me now, Potter?"

Glare. Breathe in. Breathe out. Glare . Open the mouth-deep, wracking coughs as splinters of ice tried to stab their way out of his throat. Glare some more. Ice. God. It was so cold. . .so sharp.

He refused to give quarter, to admit the acceptance that was working its way into his blood with the ice. Unable to talk, he shook his head, glaring.

No.

"No?" The other boy shook his own head, silvery blond hair glinting even in the half light that lit his private hades. "I didn't think you would. After all, who'd believe that Draco Malfoy could do what the Great Lord himself could not. . .and Kill Harry Potter?"

"But I have."

Allow me to prove it."

Draco slipped his hand inside his robes, pulling out a small vial that perversely, Harry recognized as belonging to Snape, his much despised Potions teacher/blue smurf.

And former Death Eater.

"Snape let me 'borrow' this." Malfoy said in a silky voice, rubbing his hands around the small crystalline bottle. "I am his favorite student, and his aide. He'll never miss it"

"Recognize it, Potter?"

Harry only glared at him.

"Oh, Potter, you've no idea how long I've wanted this. You're everlasting yakking mouth finally shut up-I'll never have to hear your half mudblood voice again."

No response. Harry struggled with himself, denying himself the overwhelming need to cough, to expel the ice vapors settling in his lungs.

Malfoy only continued to watch him, no doubt waiting-hoping-for evidence of weakness. Finally a deep pain-as if a large icicle had embedded itself in his stomach-brought a hiss of pain through his clenched teeth.

Evidently it was enough.

"This," the Slytherin hissed, "is Veritaseum."

"Truth Potion, Potter."

Incredibly, Malfoy walked over to Harry and hunkered down beside him. Harry's green eyes stayed locked on the crystal cut bottle in Draco's hand, Malfoy's eyes remained on Potters tight, contracted face. Still locking his eyes on Harry, Draco unscrewed the stopper and seized Harry's chin, forcing two drops into Harry's open mouth. Harry shuddered and swallowed, still not sure what Malfoy had put down his throat, shaken from the way Malfoy's fingers had seared his cheeks and chin when the other boy had held them. . .

And was stunned to see Malfoy take two drops of the potion himself before turning and smirking at him.

"See, Potter? Believe me now?"

Harry only glared.

"Ok, fine." A haughty guesture, sweeping his silvery hair back, a teasing tone with a sense of. . .was that indulgence? The prat was telling him he wanted to KILL him, and he sounded like he was granting him a treat.

Draco's pale, pointed face looming above his. Such cold gray eyes. . .

"Is Your Godfather an Animagus?"

No. No. No.

"Yes."

No. No. No.

Oh, shit.

It was Veritaserum.

"Yes," the hated-loathed-voice whispered softly. "It is truth potion. Thanks to Pettigrew, all the members of Voldemorts inner circle know all about the illegal animagus." A short, cold chuckle.

"Appropriate, isn't it, that Pettigrew," spat out in a sneer, "was Weaseley's rat? That your 'best mate' almost got you killed? "

"Almost as appropriate as the fact that You're going to die in an hour because you followed him when you shouldnt have."

"I've already killed you."

"All I have to do is watch."

-

I'm Dying.

I'm Dying.

Such a strange thought to be having. Such a strange way to go; he'd never imagined he'd actually have time to sit back and think before he died-and really, wasn't thinking before he died the most pointless thing in the world?

And so cruel. So incredibly cruel.

He couldn't speak. The air would not leave his lungs without hoarse, constricting pain in his chest. But he could mouth the words. Motions, without any force behind them.

He forced himself to keep silent, to lock his breath inside him. He raised his furious eyes to Malfoy's, holding the other boys gaze simply through the power of his rage. Silently, shaking with fury, he mouthed the word.

"Why?"

There was no sympathy, no emotion in those cold gray eyes. No more then there was sorrow or regret in the water when it closed over the last, dying grasp of a drowning man, clutching for the sunlight. . .

"You shouldn't have followed, Potter. It would have been fine if you hadn't followed. You'd be tromping back to the Castle by now, and you'd get 'your Wheezy' back eventually. . .basically unharmed."

Jade eyes widening, Harry turned in horror to look at Ron, to make sure his best friend was still alive. The red haired boy lay in the exact same position as Harry had seen him in last, curled up on his side, cheek resting on the back of his hand, face oddly reminiscent of the way he looked in a pleasent sleep. . .

But. . .

That meant. . .

If Malfoy hadn't been kidnapping Harry for his Death Eater Induction, or kidnapping Ron to get to Harry, that meant. . .

Malfoy's original target hadn't been him at all.

It had been Ron.

Why?

He mouthed the word at Malfoy again, his heart pounding in his chest. He realized dimly that they had completely gotten off the topic of his impending death, but the fear was spiralling out of control for him now. Not fear for himself, or not entirely, because he already knew what was going to happen to him. He was going to die. In less then an hour, The Boy Who Lived was going to be The Boy Who Was Very Dead. But if Harry was dead, Malfoy could hurt Ron. Harry knew the Malfoy's and Weasley's had always had a bitter feud between them, bitter enough for blood. Ron and Draco had despised each other from the day they had met, and Harry shuddered at the thought of Draco-or even worse, Lucius Malfoy-getting their hands on Ron, torturing him for their own pleasure.

"Why Ron?" Harry mouthed again.

Suddenly Malfoy was looming over him, his face filling Harry's vision. His eyes looked curiously detatched as he gazed at the boy, wheezing and dying only inches away from him.

"Because I wanted him."

Long black lashes surrounded Malfoy's hard eyes, the corners of his mouth slipped upwards in a muted version of his usual derisive sneer.

Wanted him, wanted him. . .for what?

Malfoy only continued to look at him, his face disconcertingly close to Harry's. Harry longed to pull away, to place some distance between himself and the cold figure looming above him, but the he lay helplessly on his back on the stone floor, gasping, unable to breathe, to think, and he was dying, he was actually fucking dying, and Malfoy had him, had him and Ron and he was going to hurt him, well, he'd already hurt Harry but he was going to hurt Ron and he was going to torture Ron and a horrible, horrible suspicion had begun to bloom in Harry's mind like some poisenous flower and it was horrible, far too horrible to actually think about because it was so wrong and he had to get Ron out of here because Malfoy was looking at Ron in a way that would have frozen Harry's blood if it hadn't already been well into the process of doing so. . .

Harry's panic driven internal thoughts broke apart, like shattered glasss, as he felt the figure to his left stir softly, a long arm stretch out imploringly, searching for something to grasp onto besides dust and stone. A soft moan from the figure and Harry, through a supreme effort of will, turned to face his friend, who had brought his other hand to his forehead, blue eyes shut tight in pain.

Harry longed to get up, to simply move, to scoot over the six inches and the endless space separating him from Ron so that he could shake the other boy gently, wake him up and see those bright eyes blinking tiredly at him. . .or so that he could whisper to Ron to go back to sleep, go back to the pleasant dream that had put a smile on his face so that he would not have to face this waking nightmare. . .

But Harry could not move, and could only watch helplessly as Malfoy did exactly what he wanted to do.

Manuvering around Harry so that he was kneeling to Ron's left, Harry watched Malfoy as Malfoy watched Ron. For a second that lasted an aeon, Harry's murderer simply knelt on the cold stone floor of their prison, gazing at Ron with an expression in his eyes that made Harry wanted to scream a warning. He bit his lip hard and felt the blood on his tounge as Malfoy reached out one pale hand and stroked Ron's right cheek: from his brow, brushing across the fringe of his lashes to the corner of his mouth, lingering over the spray of freckles on Harry's best friends face.

The coppery taste of blood, the smell of dirt and sweat were washing in Harry's mouth now. If he could have moved, he would have vomited. Not because of the blood on his tounge. . .but because he recognized that guesture. He had seen that pale hand's motion just tonight, in a vision that had stripped his peace of mind, sent it tattered to the winds.

*Cold, corpse like fingers stroking down a pale cheek*

Harry felt the flesh of his own lip split beneath his teeth as Malfoy slid his hideous hand, like some horrible pale, bloated spider, upward over Ron's face, flauntingly, possessively, from the corner of Ron's lips to his brow, where he stroked Ron's fiery hair back from his face gently.

Still half asleep, Ron muttered something in his "I really don't want to wake up now" voice. Harry knew from experience it was either "Fuck off" or "Mooooom! Not yet!" or "Ten more minutes, Cmon Harry." Stunned that anything, even Ron's responses to being woken up when he did'nt want to be, could still be normal now that the world had so clearly been turned upside down, and expecting Ron would mutter his mother's name, (He had certainly never woken Ron up by stroking his hair) it was a shock to him when Ron muttered, still mostly asleep,

"Harry?"

The Boy Who Was Dying turned his gaze to Malfoy just in time to see that cheated look on the Slytherin's face again: anger, bitterness, and incredible, bone deep frustration that seemed to scream from his very skin. He watched as fury flashed in those pale eyes-was that jealousy?-and Malfoy rose his hand and swung, striking Ron hard across the same cheek his hand had been so recently caressing. Despite the hard crack of Malfoy's palm as it made contact with Ron's freckled cheek and the pain Harry knew his best friend was feeling, he liked this Malfoy: this furious, incensed, raving and bitter Malfoy to the one that had been oh so gently stroking his best friends cheek.

"Not quite, Weasley."

Ron's blue eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving, focusing on Malfoy's face and form leaning ominously over his, and panicked.

"Malfoy!"

Shoving Malfoy away so that the other boy had to catch himself on his elbows, Ron sat up abruptly-and swayed sitting down, propping himself upright on the palms of his hands while the blood rushed from his already pale face. He brought up a trembling hand to his forehead, rubbing at his right temple, as he squeezed his eyes closed.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Malfoy?"

Well, Harry thought, at least he and Ron were on the same wavelength when it came to "Being Held Captive By Draco Malfoy" greetings.

Silence stretched out, drifting through the cold air of the cave, pressing down on the three inhabitants. Of course, Harry reflected bitterly, he couldn't have said anything even if he wanted to: Malfoy had taken care of that. The little tableau had distracted Harry but it had only been a temporary respite from the inevitable.

He was going to die.

And Malfoy was going to force Ron to watch.

Harry somehow didn't think Ron knew that he was down here with him and Malfoy yet: the other boy hadn't glanced around after Malfoy had smacked him back to consciousness, and his eyes were still squinched tightly shut.

"Well?"

Said in a furious, blistering tone. Spat at Malfoy, who still said nothing, only looked at Ron with his hooded eyes glinting in the darkness.

Ron's eyes were blazing across at Malfoy before his blue eyes broke the gaze, searching and scorching the rest of the room. Even with the frozen blood that was now pumping through his veins, Harry felt warmed when those flickering eyes settled on him-and widened with shock and concern.

"Harry?"

Ron whispered his name in a voice that sounded remarkably like the one Harry had used to call Ron's name outside the equipment shed a lifetime ago.

Harry opened his mouth, forgetting for one sweet moment that he couldnt talk, could barely breathe because he was dying, dying. . .

And then the remembrance crashed upon him as he felt his body seize up and his lungs try to rip themselves in shreds as wave after wave of searing agony ripped through him.

Dim. The already foggy cave swirled out of focus and there was no stone under him or stone above him and there was no air, no air, and it was so cold so cold so cold so fucking cold and there was pain, pain in his chest and in his lungs and in his side and he wanted to die to breathe to breathe to breathe. . .

Dimly aware of someone crouching over him, someone with blazing red hair and fear flickering in their deep blue eyes. Dimly aware of soft, strong hands stroking through his own messy raven hair, pulling him gently into a sitting position, resting him against a strong chest and broad shoulder, too weak to move, shuddering, shuddering with the cold. . .

He drifted. For how long, he didnt know. But it couldn't have been too long because when he came back to himself he was still shuddering, still hissing his breath through clenched teeth. The strong arms still held him. And the voice above him, the voice of the warm one holding him, was speaking.

"What did you do to him?"

Fury. Anger and bitterness and fury, almost but not quite hiding the worry and fear that pulsed underneath.

"Simple, Weasley. Even someone as stupid as you should be capable of realizing what I've done."

"You kidnapped us, you stupid ferret. Well, you've gone too far this time. Dumbeldore will expel you for this, you fucking asshole. . .After I rip that smirk off your face and use it to wipe my a-"

"Please, Weasely. Spare me your gutter vocabulary."

Harry moaned painfully, a gentle expulsion of air against Ron's shoulder. Warm arms encircled him tighter. If he could just disapear into Ron, Harry thought feverishly, he could be warm again. . .

"What did you do to him?"

Panic making the voice rough, nearly breaking though now. Restraint eaten away, ripped through like old fabric at the sight of Harry limp and in obvious pain in his arms.

Harry was so cold.

A voice colder then Harry's skin, his breath, colder and harder then the very stone entombing them, answered:

"I already told you, Weasley. It's simple."

"He's dying."

The arms of the warm one holding him jerked, tightening around him almost painfully before relaxing, but the breath was now rasping in and out of the lungs he was leaning against in a marathon rythem: it was as if Ron was trying to breathe for the both of them.

Harry didn't want to move. Moving, breathing, simply existing, was an equisite lesson in agony. But. . .he needed to see Ron's face. His eyes.

His trembling hand reached up and gently turned and tilted his best friends face downwards, so that he could stare into those passionate blue eyes. He froze that way, his hand on Ron's chin, grasping it gently, the pad of his thumb barely brushing the bottom of his best friends lower lip.

Harry knew Ron's eyes, every shade of blue and fleck of gold in them, knew them as they watched him confident and calculating over a chess board, knew them as they squinted shut, tears leaking out of their corners from laughing too hard, knew them blazing like blue wells of fire when Ron was in a fury. He knew them soft, too, when Ron thought Harry or Hermoine or his family wasn't looking: Ron's eyes were as expressive as the rest of him, the emotions the red head felt so strongly seemed to spring from them, not mere reflections but tangible evidence of Ron's windswept feelings.

Yes, Harry knew Ron's eyes.

But he did not know these eyes.

These eyes were shattered.

Broken.

Agonized.

Dead.

Harry realized Ron was shaking.

"No. . ."

It was more of a whimper then a denial: the sound of someone or something being deprived the very essence of their existence. . .the response of a plant wrenched away from its life, perhaps, from the air, the sunlight, the water, the very earth it needed to be, destined to wither and die alone.

Those stricken blue eyes locked with his own green ones, pleading.

"Harry. . .Harry, pl-please s-say something."

Pleading, begging for reassurances he couldn't give.

If I'm already dying. . .how can this hurt so much?

I can't. Oh, Ron. . .I've never wanted to talk to you more in my life. . .but I cant.

Like an evil presence, Malfoy's drawling voice penetrated Harry's thoughts. It was ironic, Harry couldn't help but reflect. If he had to die. . .there was no place he'd rather do it then in Ron's arms. He just hadn't counted on Malfoy being there.

"He can't talk, Weasley. My spell took care of that. I told you. He's dying. And whatever your stupid story comics may say, most people don't get long, sappy death soliloquies before they kick the bucket."

Those cold, pale eyes, seeming to glow in the darkness, flickered over to Harry before leeching themselves on Ron's red head, bent over Harry protectively.

"I told you. . .he's dying."

"You're lying."

This time Ron's voice was firmer, harder. There was only a practically unnoticeable waver in that normally exuberant voice, a tiny chink in the wall of confidence. And his hands were still shaking.

"Don't believe me, Weasley? Perhaps you'd like to ask Potter what exactly, this is? And what I did with it? Oh, wait, you can't do that, can you? Cause Potter can't talk."

The moment Ron's eyes left his to glare challengingly at Mafloy's, Harry felt himself shudder. For a moment, when his best friends eyes had held his, the pain had lessened, and he had been warmer.

Cold. So Cold.

Reluctantly, Harry's eyes followed Ron's to see the other actor in this strange little play holding a vial Harry recognized only too well.

It was the Veritaserum.

Malfoy casually tossed the almost empty bottle back and forth between his hands, the crystal vial making soft sounds as it landed in the flesh of his palms. His eyes danced between the two Gryffindors mockingly, smirking at Harry, then flashing back to Ron. The pale orbs looked triumphant as they surveyed Harry, half conscious and in obvious pain, held off the floor only by Ron's arms. But, Harry couldnt help but notice, the expression in those cold eyes changed when they flickered from him to Ron.

The triumph was still there, yes. But it twined with something else, something that made the hackles on the back of his neck rise, something that made Harry's heart beat even more painfully once he had identified it.

Malfoy was looking at Ron. . .

Like he was. . .

Like he wanted. . .

Blissfully, Ron's flat voice interrupted Harry's thoughts before he had to consider them any longer.

"You're pathetic."

It was impossible to tell for sure in the half light of the cave, but Harry thought he saw Malfoy flush at Ron's words. With anger? Embarrassment? Or something else?

Malfoy continued, as if Ron hadn't spoken.

"This," he said, waggling the half empty bottle back and forth between his fingers, "is Veritaserum. Truth potion, for those of us who don't spend our Potions class daydreaming about mudbloods or having nightmares about spiders."

"I've already taken two drops, and so has Potter. I assure you, Weasley, I'm telling the truth."

"Potter. Is. Dying."

The trembling started in Ron's left hand, the one slung around Harry's chest, resting lightly above his heart. At first it was a small tremor in only the left hand, but then Harry realized it was spreading through Ron the way ice was spreading through his own veins. Soon both of Ron's arms were trembling, shaking softly and Harry along with them. Ron seemed completely unaware: he was looking at Malfoy, and his eyes, oh God, his eyes. . .

Three great whooping gasps, as if Ron was trying to force all the air in the cave into his lungs. Malfoy said nothing, Harry said nothing. Outside, perhaps, there was noise. Outside, the crickets would have finished their song, but there would be occassional hoot of an owl, the strains of celebration or anxiety or passion on the air as the Hogwarts students lived their lives: the wind whispering through the branches of The Forbidden Forest and the sound of the creatures within. But inside this cave, in this here and now, there was no sound except for the tortured breath of someone dying. . .and the tortured breath of someone who's heart was being broken.

The arms holding him were still trembling, though less violently. Harry kept his eyes focused on the object that had given him such false comfort earlier this evening. . .before the world had so obviously gone mad. The frayed orange collar of Ron's Chudley Cannons peeked at Harry through his friends robes. Besides Ron's hair, it was the only bright, the only warm thing in the room, and he latched on to it. Everything else was just so cold. . .

"Harry. . ."

Please, Ron. Don't make me tell you. Don't make me say it. I can't say it. I don't want to die. I dont' want to die, don't want to leave, don't want to leave you, don't make me say it, you can see it, I know you can see it, and this is killing me, killing me, but its ripping you, shredding you, but its killing you, and please, Ron, please dont. . .

The unwanted invader, usurper ripped through Harry's thoughts.

"Tell him, Potter. NOW."

Even if he would have been capable of talking, Harry couldn't have voiced the words that he knew would rip out his best friends heart. But he could not defy the Veritaserum running through his bloodstream any more then he could the ice coursing through his veins. Unable to speak, unable to meet Ron's eyes, cursing himself for his cowardice, Harry could only nod once against Ron's shoulder.

The shoulder holding him jerked, once, the soft fabric of the scarlet quidditch robe brushing softly across his cheek. That was all. Ron said nothing, and there was no sound in the cave now, not even their mingled breath; all action seemed to have stopped when Harry had inclined his head against Ron's sweat drenched scarlet robes.

It struck him first on the left lens of his glasses. A soft, gentle prism that shattered when it met the smudged glass covering his jade green eyes. Then another. And another. It was, Harry reflected, not unlike standing out in the rain, letting the wind whip him around and the rain wash over him. . .but rain did not taste of salt.

Harry licked his lips as the drops fell off his glasses onto his dry, chapped mouth.

Tasting his best friend's tears.

And rain had never tasted so bitter.

Harry-

Harry had never seen Ron cry before. It was excruciating to witness.

His best friends teeth were clenched fiercely, violently. Dark blue eyes hidden, golden lashes gleaming in the half light as prisms of tears collected in the fringes before dripping slowly off, down a pale, freckled cheek, trailing down to dissapear in the collar of his robe, or to fall onto Harry's upturned face, striking his glasses.

And shattering.

The taste of salt washed over him again as another tear hit his tongue.

And still, Ron would not open his eyes.

Harry needed. . .he needed to see Ron's eyes. Desperatley.

If he was dying, never to speak again. . .well, then knew what he wanted his last word to be.

"Ron."

"Harry. . ."

Oh, God.

Those shattered eyes.

Surely. . .those eyes could not belong to Ron. Not to the Ron Weaseley he knew, who slept in the bed next to his in their dorm room back at Gryffindor tower. Not the Ron Weasely he'd laughed with and studied with and argued with. Ron was fire; not stone. Ron was passion, not apathy. A creature of emotion, of feelings so violent they swept away not only him but those around him.

Ron. . .Ron was life.

There were a thousand things he wanted to do, to say. Six years of friendship, of a love deeper then any he'd ever known or believed possible. . .for him, at least. Six years of loyalty, and laughter, and memories, and he could have spoken to Ron for weeks, for weeks for all he wanted to say to him, and the words he wanted to say burned in him, searing his soul, but he could not say them, he could not say them. . .

So he didn't try.

There were other ways to reveal his heart.

Twining his fingers into the thick red hair at the base of Ron's neck, mindful of his own throbbing and probably broken elbow, Harry placed pressure on the vulnerable neck, pulling the red head down to reach his own.

Joining his mouth with Ron's.

And for the first time in aeons. . .he was warm.

Crimson hair flowed through his fingers, warm breath caressed his face. Soft whimpers that he took into his mouth, golden lashes, wet with teardrops, brushing against his cheeks. . .

Oh, God

He wasn't warm.

He was flaming.

And then the heat was wrenched away from him, the soft lips, the warm mouth, the strong arms, the very breath that had been sustaining him.

Malfoy's right hand was clenched brutally in Ron's fiery hair, his knuckles white as he dragged the boy away from Harry, who hit the stone floor with a harsh gasp.

Ron winced as the fingers dug into his hair harder, jerking his head back as far as it could go, exposing the length of his throat. Harry watched furiously, helplessly as Malfoy raised his wand and pointed it at his best friend.

At least we'll die together.

"And what was that disgusting display?"

Ron didn't answer, Harry couldn't. The only sound was the rasp of Ron's breathing, echoing throughout their cave, still choked with the tears that were even now trailing down his face.

Malfoy seemed to have completely forgotten Harry's presence; his eyes pinned Ron to the floor even as his fingers dug into Ron's scalp. Ron did not look at either Malfoy or Harry, his eyes were trained on the ceiling of the cave as if it held all the secrets of the universe.

"Look at me."

Ron made no move, his eyes as devoid of emotion as blue stone.

The hand twined roughly in Ron's red hair twisted, jerking bloodshot blue eyes up to meet icy gray ones.

"Do you love him, Weasley?"

No sound. No movement. Not even breathing. The fact that he was dying was overlooked. The fact that they were being held hostage by his mortal enemy was forgotten. The realization he had come to and that he had just kissed his best friend was ignored. Everything else faded away, because nothing else mattered.

Nothing else mattered then what Ron going to say.

Blue eyes met green.

Harry smiled.

"Yes."

The word was spoken softly, calmly. The assurance of a person who knows one thing that they would never, ever doubt. Spoken softly, reverently, as tears spilled from azure eyes, and Ron smiled back.

"I love you."

He'd known, of course. Knew Ron loved him, knew he'd loved Ron. Known practically from the moment they'd met on the train their first year, Ron with his shabby robes and his battered wand and his smudged nose.

But he'd never heard it before. Never heard the words spoken before, not from anyone, not to him, never to him. Never loved anyone before, not before Ron. His best friend was-literally-also his first love.

Oh, but the realization was bitter. Bitter.

To have everything he had ever wanted. . .only to have it wrenched away.

The person he loved loved him back.

He was loved. . .but he was dying.

He would die. . .but he would die loved.

"You love him. . ."the hand clenching the wand was trembling, white knuckled. The face of the owner of the wand just as pale, unnatural hair tousled around him like an obscene halo. Gleaming, pale eyes, fury flashing from them. Small, perfect white teeth stabbing the soft flesh of a lower lip, blood slowly welling up. That same white, trembling hand reached up to wipe the drop away, smearing crimson across pale lips and chin.

"You. Love. Him."

Harry had never seen Malfoy this way. Ever. Malfoy was ice, always, even in the middle of their rows, even when calmly informing Harry that he had just performed an unforgiveable curse and-by the way!-he had less then hour to live. Malfoy was control, Malfoy was the epitome of control. But he was going to lose himself, very soon. Ron. . .if Ron had been looking at Malfoy, he would have trembling. Harry was trembling, and he was already dying. But Ron wasn't looking at Malfoy. The blue eyed Gryffindor kept his eyes on Harry.

"Tell me, Weasley."

Blue eyes remained on green.

"Look at me, Weasley, or I'll perform another unforgiveable on him."

Harry also looked at the pale Slytherin, seeing the impossible. Malfoy had contained himself. He was ice, yet again. Crystallized, and so very, very cold.

Why, then, had he never looked more dangerous?

"Tell, me, Weasley."

"If you love him. . ."

"What are you willing to sacrifice for him?"

It was odd, seeing those eyes clash. Such extreme opposittes of what was supposed to be, obviously Harry was in some paralell universe. This time it was not Ron's but Malfoy's eyes that were burning with repressed emotion, flaming pale eyes gleaming in the cave, gazing at Ron ferally. Ron's eyes that were cold, the eyes of something that had nothing to live for, no emotion, no feeling left. . .

"Anything."

If he could have moved, could have breathed, Harry would have pleaded fiercely with Ron to take that word back.

"Anything?"

Said speculatively, softly. The finger was back, the blood starting to flow within the cold flesh again, tapping against the Slytherin's lips.

"I can still save Potter, you know. Oh, he's still dying. . .but he has time. About thirty more minutes, I'd say."

"You can save him. I'll reverse the spell. I know how."

"You just have to give me what I want."

Both Ron and Harry were staring hard at Malfoy now, eyes full of suspicion, doubt, disbelief, fury. . .and was that hope?

Harry felt the flesh of his palms sting under the sharp digs of his fingernails as his fists clenched, anticipating Ron's next words.

"What. . .What do you want?"

Four words. Well, five, if you counted the repitition.

He had never dreaded five words so before.

Except for the response they would bring.

And then. . .

Something truly horrible happened.

Malfoy smiled. Softly. Gently.

Triumphantly.

"You."

"I. Want. You."

No. God, please. . .

Ron's blue eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, gazing warily at the Slytherin looming over him, hand still fisted in his hair. Only now, Harry saw, the hand was not twisted roughly among the crimson strands but twining through them, resting almost gently on the crown of Ron's head. Stroking it, as if soothing a particularly wilful pet, a troublesome colt that was almost broken.

"Me? What the hell are you playing at, Malfoy? In case you didn't notice, you already have me. Right fucking here. Now, Harry's time is running out, and I don't have time for your shit. What. Do. You. WANT!"

A noxious chuckle floated from the Slytherin's evil, smirking mouth, but instead of responding to Ron's outburst, he directed his query to Harry.

"Tell me, Potter. . .Is he really this naive? Or is it all a show?"

Ron's blue eyes, still wet with tears but somehow blazing with fury and apprehension, flickered confusedly to meet Harry's green ones. In his best friend's gaze, Harry saw. Ron still didn't know what it was that Malfoy wanted. . .mainly because he didn't want to.

Ron was the champion of denying things he didn't particularly want to know.

But Harry was not. And Harry. . .

Harry knew exactly what it was Malfoy was demanding.

In exchange for Harry's life. . .

Malfoy was going to forcibly take Ron's innocence.

Malfoy had stowed his wand away somewhere; in the inner pocket of his robes was Harry's guess. Now the hand not twined in Ron's hair was resting on the other boys lightly freckled cheek, fanning out from his ear to his chin, pressing down hard enough so that Harry could see the indentations in Ron's flesh as Malfoy's cold hands gripped him.

"You, Weasely. You are what I want."

"You, on your back, on your knees, on your stomach."

You give me your body. . .I give you Potter's life back."

Centuries stretched out between the three of them. Time passed, and passed, and they remained there, buried under the earth of the cave; Harry, thirty minutes away from death, Ron, eyes wide and disbelieving, gaping at Malfoy, who stood there with his smirk and his cold hand fisted in Ron's fiery hair, his other hand pressing into Ron's face.

"You. . you can't. . .can't be serious."

Complete and total disbelief in that hushed voice. The expression of someone for whom the world has not just turned upside down but also did a few cartwheels and handstands.

Malfoy simply gazed at Ron, deepening the look of shock by stroking his fingers along Ron's cheek, tracing the outline of his face before settling on Ron's slightly parted lips.

"Malfoy. . .?"

Harry had never seen Ron look so lost before. As if all the foundations and girders and supports that made and reinforced his walls had just collapsed. And he didn't know if it was because of his own impending death, or because of Malfoy. Malfoy, who was smiling again, pressing one of his hideous fingers against Ron's lips in order to silence him.

"Deadly serious, Weasley. Complete and utterly sincerity. I took some Veritaserum, remember? I mean everything I say. I get you for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes, the same amount Potter here has to live. I'll even halt the spell here, in the middle. He won't be cured, but he won't die while you're. . .fulfilling your end of the bargain. Thirty minutes as my slave. . .and you'll have your Potter back."

"But why. . ."

In one swift, graceful movement, Malfoy had closed the gap between himself and the red head, his pale eyes level with Ron's even as his other hand, which had been resting against Ron's mouth, slipped downwards, gripping the juncture between neck and shoulder, thumb pressing against the garish orange of Ron's Chudley Cannons shirt.

"Because I want you."

"Now. . .do we have a deal?"

Harry closed his eyes, feeling them begin to sting, against his will. He wanted nothing more then to go deaf in that moment, to die right there, because he knew, knew what Ron was going to say.

Oh, Ron. . .

Amazing, Harry thought, how you can scream at the top of your lungs, but no one can hear you.

Evidently, though, Ron could.

For a split second, their eyes locked, and Harry felt a shudder in his soul like nothing he had ever felt before. Something that was equal parts pain and love, both so fierce, so powerful he thought that he was going to die right there, ripped in two. Then Ron's eyes left him and he gasped, feeling utterly bereft, as if something essential had been wrenched away..

"Yes."

The shudder that had been writhing in Harry's soul had gripped Ron; he shivered uncontrollably under Malfoy's eyes, tears still clinging to his lower lashes, but there was no trace of tears in those blue, blue eyes. He didn't speak so much as he spat the word out, bitten lip trembling in humiliation and rage; but his eyes held Malfoy's with desperate defiance.

The echo's of Ron's voice faded away, crystallizing into a stillness which no one seemed able to break. They simply sat (or, in Harry's case, laid there) in the dim twilight of their cave, the only sound that of their mingled breathing, harsh and tense. But Harry could hear plenty, oh yes. His own pained thoughts, shocked beyond measure. Enraged.

Oh, Ron. . .

Please. Not that. Don't. . .not with him. Please. . .

Not suprisingly, it was Ron who broke the silence.

Ron had never particularly liked the quiet and now, Harry could understand why.

"Well?"

"Well what, Weasley?"

"Are you. . .I mean when. . .Dammit, do something!"

Harry gave a groan that transfigured into another deep, wracking cough. The pain had worsened, if that was possible. . .now instead of shards of glass, it felt as though some one was pounding nails through his lungs.

This whole situation was so fucking absurd. Draco had lured them here, forced Ron to make an impossible decision. . . .between his own rape and Harry's life. And now Ron was, quite literally, asking for it.

His fisted hands-left arm sending jolts of agony through his elbow-reached up of their own accord, attempting to rub his stinging, tired, gritty eyes.

It was then that Draco-quite literally-pounced. Harry saw only a flash of movement and then Malfoy was straddling Ron, his hands holding the taller boys wrists over his head. Ron yelped in shock as he was slammed on his back on the stone floor, arms and legs pinned him to the ground. Malfoy dug his knees and thighs closer into Ron's hips and he struck, quick as a snake, sealing his mouth over Ron's. Through a haze of rage and (jealousy) Harry watched as his best friend thrashed, tossing his head from side to side in a desperate attempt to dislodge the blonde Slytherin. The more Ron struggled, however, the more Malfoy seemed to enjoy himself, digging his fingers into the tendons of Ron's wrists, drawing a pained gasp from the red head that Malfoy took advantage of, forcing his tounge into the Gryffindor's mouth. Ron bucked once, twice, trying to knock the slytherin off him, but Malfoy simply settled himself more firmly over Ron's body, capturing the other boys cries with his mouth, breathing them in.

Feeding on them.

Harry felt his own fists trembling as he watched Malfoy ravish Ron's mouth, painfully aware of the frozen blood pumping in his veins. A red haze of fury had settled over him and it warmed him slightly, boiling in the pit of his belly. Malfoy. . .Malfoy had no right. No Right, to take by force what was his. He longed to scream, to struggle to his feet and wrench Malfoy off his best friend, but he was helpless, and could only watch.

After several centuries, it seemed, the Slytherin withdrew from Ron's mouth, nipping sharply at the Gryffindor's swollen lower lip. Ron was panting, chest heaving, eyes squinched tightly shut.

"Now that I have your attention, Weasley. . . it's time to negotiate the terms of our arrangement."

Ron's eyes flew open in shock, glaring with furious hatred at the blond haired Slytherin still straddling him, settled comfortably on his stomach, hands still gripping his wrists.

"Fuck you, Malfoy. We already made our 'arrangement.' I let you fuck me, and you reverse the spell you put on Harry. That's it."

"For the unimaginative, yes. But there are stipulations that must be agreed to, or the deal will not be reached."

Ron snorted loudly, his voice tinged with furious disbelief. "You expect me to negotiate the terms of my own rape?"

"If you want Potter to live. . .yes."

Harry's eyes stayed locked on Ron, but his best friends blue eyes refused to meet his. . .they were narrow, regarding Malfoy cooly, and suddenly, painfully, Harry was reminded of Ron's eyes as they surveyed an opponent over a chess board.

"Fine. What are your 'terms,' you raving psycho?"

Malfoy's first response was to remove his right hand from Ron's wrist, rubbing it down the other boys chest. Ron gasped and futiley twisted away as the hand traveled to his naval before moving further down.

"Rule number one. . .this ends here. Once you fulfill your part of the bargain and I fulfill mine, you don't talk about this. With anyone. No running to your little Mudblood friend, Your mother, your brothers, any of your enormous family. Not McGonnagal, not Dumbeldore. If you ever tell anyone else about this. . .I'll kill you both. And who ever it is you tell."

"This. Stays. Here."

Ron shuddered suddenly, as if caught in a bitter wind, but whether it was due to the cold, calculating tones of the Slytherin's voice, or the hands that were on him, stroking his body, Harry didn't know. Ron's head had tipped back as Malfoy settled himself more comfortably on top of the red head, almost as if the Gryffindor wished he could melt into the stone floor beneath him.

"Fine."

Harry hadn't known it was possible to convey so much pure hatred in one word, one syllable. Surely he had never heard such venom from Ron's lips.

"What else, Malfoy?"

"Rule number two. . .You do what I tell you. No questions, no hesitation. If I tell you to fight me, you fight me. If I tell you to stop, lie down and spread your legs, you do that, too. For the next thirty minutes, until I reverse the spell on Potter. . .you are my puppet. Understood.?"

Just attempting to breath normally made Harry feel lightheaded. If he closed his eyes, he could just drift away. . .Perhaps then he could wake up from this horrid nightmare, because of course this whole thing. . .this wasn't really happening. . .

Malfoy, Harry noted disgustedly through his haze, was petting Ron's hair again, stroking it possesively. As if Malfoy could *ever* own Ron. Could ever understand Ron. Ron was His, not Malfoy's, and Malfoy had no right. . .He was so incensed, bitingly jealous of what Malfoy's hand was doing that he almost missed Ron's response, but not the bitter hatred with which it was said.

"Fine."

"Excellent." Spoken placatingly, as if to a tempermental, wilfull child that needed to be humored. Malfoy smirked as Ron sulkily avoided his eyes.

"One last rule."

Ron didn't move, or even acknowledge Malfoy's presence. A considerable feat, considering the other boy was lying on top of him, pressing his body onto the red heads'.

"Look at me, Weasley."

Ron hissed a breath through clenched teeth but didn't defy Malfoy, sparking blue eyes glaring at

the Slytherin above him. Harry noted that Ron's entire body was tense, knotted up and trembling, as if in pain.

"This concerns Potter."

If Harry had been capable of speech, he would have thrown a few choice curses at Malfoy. But he wouldn't have stopped with jelly legs or Furnclus, no. He was thinking more along the lines of crucio. Of course this concerned him. He was the reason they were all here, wasn't he? He was the reason Malfoy-Draco damned Malfoy-was lying on top of his best friend, calmly informing him of the rules of his soon to be rape.

As if hearing Harry's thoughts, Ron began to turn his head, breaking his gaze with Malfoy and turning toward Harry, no doubt in a futile attempt to reassure him.

*Crack*

The slap echoed loudly throughout the cave: Harry could see the red imprint of the Slytherin's hand on Ron's pale cheek.

"I didn't say you you could stop looking at me, Weasley."

Harry clenched his teeth as another wave of pain ripped through him, not from the ice or the curse, but the expression on Ron's face. . . the expression he knew he must have on his own. . .He wouldnt have thought it possible for someone to be in this much pain and survive. . .

Malfoy, however, continued on, speaking in a calm, almost detatched voice, as if he was presenting a report in Professor Binn's class.

"Look at me, Weasley."

Teeth clenched violently, fists trembling, Ron looked at Malfoy, who smiled at him condescendingly, one finger straying, feather light, to tap on the end of Ron's nose.

"It's Ok, Weasley. I know you're a bit slow. But this is one lesson you can't help but learn. I'll help you."

"I'm an excellent tutor."

Ron was shaking violently now. Malfoy watched him, licking his lips before turning his attention to Harry, a flash of triumph in his eyes as he surveyed the Boy Who Lived lying helplessly-dying-on the floor of a forgotten little cave. And helpless, utterly helpless, as Malfoy took what he wanted.

Ron.

"The third rule. . ., why, that's for you, Potter. You have to watch. Every minute. You can't close your eyes, or turn away. I want you to watch the entire time, while I fuck your best friend. . .your precious 'Wheez.y.'

"I want you to watch as I take him. He watches me. . .and you watch him. Poetic, isnt' it? But, under no circumstances, can you two look at each other, understood?"

"You're a voyeur here, Potter."

And *what,* Harry couldnt help but wonder madly, was he supposed to say in response to that?

Once again, Ron spoke Harry's thoughts:

"I hate you, Malfoy."

It was the exact tone the red headed Gryffindor had used when declaring his love for Harry: unshakeable, evident, true. The tone he used when stating one of the axis on which his life turned.

Malfoy may as well have been a statue.

"Personally, I don't care whether or not you hate me, Weasley. So far as I know, hatred-or love- has little to do with sex.

"You mean *rape*?"

The Slytherin continued unperturbed, ignoring Ron's caustic comment.

"What I want to know is simple. . .do we have an agreement? Or are you going to cross your legs and let your best friend die on the floor next to you?

"You. . .are a bastard."

The Slytherin simply tilted his head, surveying Ron confidently, silvery blonde hair drifting before settling perfectly, framing his hateful face.

"Is that a yes. . .or a no?"

Ron's chin trembled, ever so slightly, and he squeezed his eyes shut, as if attempting to shut everything away. Harry had never seen Ron look so defeated before. Shoulders slumping, he turned his face away from Malfoy, tear trails still evident on his freckled cheeks. Small, white teeth bit down *hard* on a kiss swollen lower lip. He took in a great breath-and expelled it slowly, eyes still closed.

"Yes."

Malfoy struck quickly; arms snaking around Ron, pulling the wooden boy into his lap. The Gryffindor submitted, unresisting as those horrible hands rubbed his back, as Malfoy patted his hair. He might as well have been Petrified for all the reaction he showed, even as Malfoys hands began to unlace his sweaty, dusty Quidditch robes.

The ice still shuddered though his veins; chest contracting with every diminishing breath. But it was Ron he couldn't turn his attention away from: Harry watched each movement with a jealous eye; a furious, incensed jealous eye. It should be *him* stripping Ron of his quidditch robes, *his* mouth working the flesh under Ron's jaw, *his* hips grinding into Rons.

Not Malfoys.

Malfoy had loosened the last tie on Ron's robes and, with the air of an artist unveiling a masterpiece, parted the black cloth, dipping his pale head to taste the flesh underneath. . .and recoiled in disgust.

"Great God, Weasley! That's the most hideous thing I've ever *seen*!"

*This* startled a reaction out of Ron; his blue eyes flew open, a far more familiar expression on his face then the defeat and apathy that hung around him earlier.

"At least I'm not some hair flicking, vertically challenged, murdering, exploiting, black mailing prissy hermap-Oh."

Ron had discovered what exactly it was that had prompted such a response from the Slytherin.

It was Ron's Chudley Cannons shirt.

Two years of washing and wearing had sapped it of its previous ability to blind the observer; it was now a positively filthy shade of orange. It was torn in several places, patched and stitched on the sleeves and the collar. Because Ron wore the shirt so often; namely, to every Quidditch Practice and Game, the fabric had worn through in several areas, the letters so faded they now spelled out something more along the lines of "C UD CAN S" Then the actual name of Ron's favorite team.

Malfoy stared, appalled, at the orange shirt.

"That. . .is the most revolting thing. . .you actually wear that, Weasley?"

"Oh, I'm Sorry, Malfoy. If I had known you would want to *fuck* me today I would have dressed for the occasion."

"Take it off. Now."

"No."

The two had been sitting, Malfoy half on top of Ron, glaring at each other. At Ron's refusal, Malfoy's eyes flashed dangerously.

"Going back on your word so soon, Weasley? I shouldn't have expected anything else from a *Gryffindor*."

Ron's eyes sparked just as dangerously as Malfoy's.

"You haven't fixed Harry yet. You're not getting anything from me until you help him."

Incredibly, Malfoy smiled, even as his eyes promised retribution for this act of defiance.

"How touching. Of course. Potter. How could I have forgotten? You always were his puppet."

Even in the chancy half-light of this little hell, Harry could see Ron's wince.

He. . .he just wanted to say something. Anything. To yell at Malfoy, to comfort Ron, to assure him. But he couldn't talk to him. And now, he couldn't even look at him.

Damn Malfoy. Damn him for this. Damn him.

The Thrice-Damned Slytherin was looming over him now, tucking a chin length platinum strand of hair behind his ear, smirking. For a moment, bile rose in Harry's throat, and he reflected that he could die happily if it meant that it would wipe that smirk off Malfoy's face forever.

He didn't dare look fully over at Ron, but he could see the other boy's beckoning hair out of the corner of his eye. Ron was shivering, looking half-naked with his Quidditch robes puddled around his ankles, Chudley Cannons shirt rumpled. His arresting blue eyes were trained on Malfoy, and they watched intently as the other boy raised his mahogany wand and flicked it, almost casually, over at Harry.

"Tempus Haltus."

Harry watched stoically as the spell wove through the air, sparkling diamond dust rushing, before settling over him.

Ron's tentative voice broke through his thoughts.

"How. . .how do we know if it. . .you know, if it worked?"

Malfoy continued to stand with his back to Ron, surveying Harry gleefully.

"It's not a reversal. . .it will not negate or switch the mortalis spell. He's not going to recover or feel any better. However, it should stop that spell in the process of, well, freezing Potter from the inside/out. It will get the job done well enough. . .just enough to keep Potter from dying, and for you to fulfill your end of our agreement."

Ron's eyes stared hard at the blonde Slytherin, but Malfoy seemed strangely giddy as he whirled, pinning the red head with is eyes.

"Now. . .where were we? Oh, yes. Take off that Chudley Cannons shirt, Weasley. NOW."

Harry could practically hear the scathing retort spring to Ron's lips, but his friend didnt voice it, exercising admirable self control. Instead the boy bit his bruised lip before slowly raising the well loved Cannons shirt over his chest and his arms. Slowly, Ron's vibrant hair emerged as he lifted the orange shirt over his head. His movements were slow, apathetic. Robotic.

The instant the orange rag had cleared Ron's head, Malfoy snatched it, holding the Gryffindor's favorite shirt pinched between two fingers, scowling as if it were infested with the plague before flinging it away. Harry watched, fascinated, as the shirt fluttered through the air before settling, gradually, over his left arm. Spasmadically, his fist clenched the orange cloth, leeching whatever warmth he could from it. The ice seemed ground into his bones. He'd been riding a wave of pain for so long now. . .

Was he still sane?

Malfoy was right. The constricting breaths, the ice in his blood. The pounding in his head, the hatred in his heart. No worse. No better. The pain had not eased, or dissipated. Still cold. Ice. So much pain. . .he hurt. . .everywhere. Hated Malfoy. Hated him. No longer thinking properly. Hate and agony roiled with in him. So tired. Cold. . .

Hard to think. Couldn't move, couldnt speak. Couldn't think. Hard. Water slipping through his fingers.

He wished to be blind. To not see, to not hear. Had to watch. Had to. Ron was doing this for him. Him. Watch. . .don't think. Merlin's beard, don't think. Only images in the dim light.

Malfoy. . .he'll pay. He'll pay. I'll make him pay. Somehow.

Dim, greenish light cast only from Malfoy's wand. Sickening hue. Pale haired boy forcing Ron to the ground, hands and mouth working furiously. No. He wanted to look away. Never wanted anything more in his life. Couldn't. Couldnt look away. Had to see. Hated Malfoy. Don't think. Watch. . .don't think.

Pale hands wandered over Ron's body, exploring. Pinching, caressing, groping. Surveying. Assessing. The gaze of a slave owner examining its latest purchase.

Don't think-

Bites. Hands slipping under faded Muggle jeans. Blue eyes wide. Pale eyes flashing in triumph. Heat. Breath intermingling, faces inches apart. Wet tounges. Scratches. Frenzied, hurried movements. Eyes shut. Soft gasps, intermingled with barely stifled sobs. Pale skin, the color of cream. Paler skin, the hue of snow. Warm skin on cold stone.

Don't think-

The rasp of tearing cloth. The scratch of nails on denim. Blood, bruises on freckled skin. The sound of nails on skin. White hands twisted in Scarlet hair. Pale lips leeching warmth, heat. Flesh grinding together. Hoarse moans.

Don't think-

Fingers stroking flesh. Twisting, pulling, yanking. Wet sounds. Half-stifled whimpers, gasps of pain. Groans of pleasure. Clothes strewn, torn, ruined. Naked. Ron on his back, Malfoy kneeling between his legs.

Don't think-

The sound of flesh striking flesh. Tenor voice, choked with pain at the invasion. Tall, slender frame gripped with sobs. Moans issued from a demonic mouth. Flesh striking flesh. Bruises on slender hips. White knuckled grip. Legs lifted, held in the air. Flesh striking flesh.

Harsh rythem. Groan of triumph. Spasm. Clenching.

"God, Weasley. . ."

Flashes. Nothing more then flashes. Brief glimpses.. No memories. Please, God, no memories.

Oh, Ron. . .

Ron, sprawled on his back, arms and legs spread wide. Malfoy thrusting, hard. Blue eyes closed. Body moving, the puppet of another. Up and down, up and down.

Free hand, reaching, grasping. . .

Held.

Feeling warm fingers curl roughly through his own. Clutching hand tightly. Taking Ron's hand even as Malfoy took Ron's body.

Thirty minutes.

Only thirty minutes.

Later, Harry would only be able to recall flashes. Images; still, like Muggle photos.

Sweat glistened on their bodies; Ron shivered in the cool air of the cave. Malfoy naked, spent. Lying on top of Ron. White teeth working flesh.

His head. . .God, his head hurt. Shivering, uncontrollably.

Ron, shivering. He was cold too. Bruises stained his hips, throat. There were more, Harry knew. Hard to see, in this foul light.

Malfoy, kissing, licking a pale throat. Sucking blood to the surface. Biting. Hard. Marking. Claiming.

Thirty minutes.

God, Ron. You should have let me die. . .that would have been better.

An eternity.

Malfoy, clothed. Murmuring to Ron. Petting that bright hair. An animal tamed. Words indistinguishable, insubstantial. Blurring together. Ears stuffed with cotton. Very cold cotton. Couldn't think. Couldnt think.

The fucking Slytherin looming over him. Sated.

He would pay.

Mahogany wand pointing, imperiously. Careless, yet victorious tone. Cold, icy wind rushing from him. Body temperature spiking. Head spinning.

He felt the water run through his blood as the ice melted in his veins.

The world was slowly coming into focus. Blink. Blink again. Still hazy. Shrouded.

Ah.

His glasses had fogged up.

Dimly aware of the stabbing pain in his elbow. Of the fact that he could now breathe almost normally, the vapors leaving his lungs. The moisture that clung to his chilled skin in beads, dripping from his clothes.

Movement to his right.

Malfoy.

Running pale fingers through his silvery hair. Calmly brushing dirt off his emerald robes, straightening the folds. Climbing worn stone steps, pausing. Profiled against the open doorway.

Smiling as he walked away, words echoing on the stone.

"Remember Potter. I won."

_

Well, that's it. You don't want to know how long this fic took me. Really. I intended to include some more, but this blasted thing had taken over my life. A sequal is probable. Feedback about such sequal would be greatly appreciated. Remember, you get more with honey. . .