Warning: I have rated the story an R because of a Harry/ Ron slash pairing. So please avoid this fic if you do not like the idea of a same sex romantic pairing.

Disclaimer: They belong to J.K. Rowling. I just like to hurt them.



His Belongings



Good things come to those who wait, and Ron waits patiently for all his second-hand belongings.

His toys, their lustre gone and their paint chipped, belonged to Bill or Charlie once. He got his faded robes from Fred, his worn-out jeans from George, his torn sweaters from Percy and had to spend long nights, pricking his fingers on needles, mending them up. The clothes feel awkward against his body at first, shaped by someone else's wrists and elbows and shoulders, with the scent of someone else's skin still clinging on them, the cheap fabric smudged by someone else's fingerprints. Even his face is a jigsaw puzzle of borrowed pieces, dad's hair, mum's eyes, aunt Virginia's jaw, uncle Tom's cheekbones.

Ron is a boy of red hair and small spaces, squashing his anonymity in a narrow room below the attic, somewhere between Percy's pompousness and the twins' vulgarity. Sometimes he is afraid he will never escape this second- hand life, each day a tight, ill-fitting shoe. His anger, shaped according to the walls of the Burrow has become a square, dark, musty thing, full of the angles of tables and chairs. His horizon shrinks every time he gazes out of the window.

But then the fourth year at Hogwarts comes, and Ron wakes up one day with transparent tongues of water licking his palate and Merpeople screeching cacophonous songs in his ears. Harry is floating, pale and scared, struggling to hack the ropes that bind Ron to the post. And at that moment he realizes that Harry- unlike anything or anyone else- is his.

But then the fifth year comes and everything changes, before he even gets the chance to kiss Harry. Walking back to the dorms from the library Ron turns round a corner and stops dead on his tracks. His arms go numb and the pile of books crashes on the floor as he takes a step back and then runs and runs, not looking over his shoulder once. His hands are blind, seeking anything, a wall or a chair, anything to lean against until he can stop crying but there is nothing.

At night, frost is creeping over the windows of the Gryffindor dorm. Ron's skin is prickling up and Harry's bed is empty. But the image of his knee jammed between Malfoy's legs and Malfoy's trembling hands linked around his waist is still there, hammering a nail into memory. There is nothing left for Ron to do but wait, and waiting is all he has ever done.

The sixth year comes and everyone seems to think that Ron has a chance of getting into the Quidditch team this time. At the changing rooms after practice he tries hard not to stare at Harry, who is kicking his muddy shoes off.

'How are things with Malfoy?' he asks.

'It's over, Ron. I don't want to talk about it.'

Harry's voice is strained, but his movements are unconcerned, fluid like a dancer's. He pulls his Quidditch robes off, steps out of boxers and pants and turns to look at Ron. His body is luminous, and his lips move slowly, forming a soundless phrase. It could be: 'I love you now,' or it could be: 'You'll do for now.'

'Have you showered already?'

Ron shakes his head, wondering why he can't breathe.

'Ron?'

'Yeah?'

'Come. Take these off.'

They're under the shower and Ron is choking. There is no air, only water everywhere, water rolling on slippery skin, water dripping from their eyelashes, water blinding their eyes, and only Harry's tongue in Ron's mouth is dry and rough, like a cat's. He glides over Ron's body, hands moving along his legs until they reach the back of his knees. Ron's palms fall on Harry's shoulders, he tugs at the tangle of black hair and forgets about breathing.

Good things come to those who wait. Ron has waited long enough and now Harry has come to him. A bit awkward he feels against Ron's body, shaped by someone else's wrists and elbows and shoulders. A bit faded, a bit torn and Ron will have to spend long nights prickling his fingers on needles, mending him up. With his lustre gone, his paint chipped, and someone else's scent still clinging on his skin; second-hand, like all Ron's belongings.