"According to Madam Pomfrey, thoughts could leave deeper scarring than almost anything else…
-- Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix"
Everyone in Gryffindor house learned quickly to watch for the signs. The strange gleam in Ron's eye. The creased brow and fierce stare into the empty middle distance that would go on indefinitely, or until some internal cue brought him to focus with a glare. The brittle, sudden silence when someone would ask an innocent question or make a teasing remark, or just be right there. By the end of fifth year, all of their classmates had heard what happened to Ron in the Ministry of Magic, and so when he returned to school a little... strange, everyone supposed it was only to be expected.
But Ron brought more to his sixth year than a suddenly eidetic memory, a tendency to accidentally write his essays in iambic pentameter, and an uncanny knack for making up unheard-of spells which he couldn't remember the next day. He brought a shifting glower that could erupt out of nowhere and strangle the joy out of the common room in minutes. He brought a way of saying 'no' that was like a slap to the face, and a way of saying 'yes' that was worse. He brought the very best and the very worst of himself to Hogwarts, and it often seemed the two were at war... with everyone else.
"It isn't so much his temper," Hermione tried to explain while she comforted a sobbing Lavender Brown one day just after Halloween, "Ron's always been hot-headed, hasn't he? It's just that he's a little more..."
"Vicious?" supplied Parvati, "Sadistic? Bloody psychotic, perhaps?" Hermione glared, but the dark girl stood her ground. "It's true, and you know it! He's worse than-" she glanced at Harry and changed tack abruptly, "than Malfoy, even! At least you can make some bloody sense of him."
"It's not like there's no warning," Hermione insisted, a little weakly.
"Oh, sure," Seamus put in, "Only by the time hisself's run up his colours, ye can't do naught but duck and cover, an' hope Harry's close enough to get in his way!"
Harry didn't look around at his name, knowing already what he'd see on the faces gathered around the Common Room fireplace: worry, anger -- and worse, expectation. Because he was Harry, and this was Ron, and even if nobody came out and said it, they all bloody knew who was to blame.
"Mum and Dad don't even know what to do with him," Ginny said, and Harry could see her reflected in the window, scrubbing her broomstick with quick, angry strokes. "They said until his own brain settles in with what those other brains left behind, we just have to try and let it roll off our backs. Dad thinks if we try not to argue with him, it might just, you know, level out on its own."
It won't, Harry thought, glumly watching his best friend through the window. Ron streaked and dived above the Quidditch pitch alone, taking out his fury on his broomstick, painting rage in jagged sweeps across the autumn sky.
"Fat chance of that," Dean said, "He's got nothing but worse since the year began, and the whole school says so. I hear Parkinson won't do her rounds on the same night as him anymore. Says he followed her all over the castle one night-"
"He never touched her!" Hermione snapped, "And he never threatened her either, and she's a rotten little liar for spreading those stories!"
"Padma said she told the Ravenclaws that Ron never said a word," Parvati said coldly, patting Lavender's hand, "He just walked behind her the whole time -- four steps behind her, no matter where she went. I'm not even a Slytherin, and I'd be scared of that." Hermione glared, but Parvati only boosted her chin and dared her roommate to contradict.
Harry only sighed. Because he knew Hermione couldn't dispute it, however much she might want to -- it was the sort of scary thing Ron had been doing this year. He checked the clock. Ten minutes since Ron had stormed outside. Harry decided to give it another five minutes before he took his Firebolt and a spare Quaffle out to do what he could to disarm Ron's temper -- or at least put it to some worthwhile use.
"What worries me," Neville fretted with his quill, pulling loose barbs off nervously, "is what if he gets hurt?"
"More likely he'll hurt someone else," Lavender ventured in a bruised, thick voice.
And the sixth-year boys who had seen Ron jump on Vincent Crabbe outside the library and blacken both of the bigger boy's eyes before they could pull him off, only shared a silent glance. If there'd been a teacher about when they'd hauled him away between them, they'd have lost hundreds of points for Ron's language alone. And for all that Goyle and Malfoy had told the whole school that they meant to settle the score, even the Slytherins seemed warier than usual around the redhead.
Did you have meetings like this about me last year? Harry wondered, turning to look carefully, measuringly at each of his housemates, Did you ask each other if I'd lost it? Did you wonder if I was turning into a dangerous lunatic? And, as though they'd all heard his thought, not one of the Gryffindors looked up to meet Harry's eye.
Which, he supposed, answered the question.
"I'll be back later," he muttered into the dense silence and went to get his broom.
*****
Ron didn't say anything when Harry flew his Firebolt onto the pitch. He didn't look up, didn't deviate at all from his tight, fast pattern-drill. But Harry didn't doubt he'd been spotted as he flew out to take up his position over the scoring range at the end of the pitch. Ron was flying a Chaser's drill, designed to command the entire pitch in under a minute -- there was no way he didn't know Harry was there, it was just a matter of time. Harry tucked the Quaffle under his arm and tightened his gloves while he waited for Ron to take up the Keeper's position.
It was only a tickle across the back of his neck -- very like the one he got when a Bludger had him in its sights -- that warned Harry in time. Sucking in his breath, he flattened himself to his broom, tipped left and rolled hard. He caught the massy blur from the corner of his eye, the flutter so close he could feel Ron's robes snapping as he blazed past.
For a split second, fear surged over Harry's head, bleeding into outrage in a flash. "Shite, Ron!" He bellowed. Then, gripping his broom hard to stop the tumble, Harry choked the anger down again.
It was an accident, Harry decided forcibly. Ron had meant to barely miss his left side, and he couldn't have known Harry was going to dodge that way. But as he righted his Firebolt and brought her nose about, Harry had to abandon the explanation; Ron was hovering in front of the center ring with mouth pressed tight and hard eyes glittering. The thought-scars gleamed stark across his face.
He didn't hit me, Harry decided, bringing the Quaffle out from under his arm and sitting upright on his broom, That's all that matters.
*****
They played until dark, saying no word that didn't relate to the game, offering neither accusation nor explanation for what had happened earlier. And gradually, the anger bled out of the evening and ran away into the cracks between the wild throws, mad catches, close saves, and near spills. By the time the candlelight blazed through the windows of the Great Hall, Harry and Ron were both laughing aloud, wind-scrubbed and half numb in the autumn twilight.
At last, Ron bore the Quaffle to the ground beside the broom shed. He was grinning when Harry alighted beside him -- grinning and shivering, with those terrible white scars now invisible against his chilled-pale skin. And at last, Harry could grin back without forcing it. Because now they both knew what the evening ahead of them would hold. Dinner with bad jokes and broad grins to amend the nervous silence that would greet them at the table. Ron would announce that he was a wanker, and would apologize to Lavender, just as he'd done with Neville and Dean the week before, and with Hermione the week before that. Ginny would agree that he was, and a prat and a berk as well, and would throw a roll down the table when Snape wasn't looking. And the whole table would relax into profound relief that the danger had passed.
Except for Harry, who would remember all night long how those ropy white scorch-marks gradually appeared again as the shower warmed away the chill and brought blood back into Ron's freckled skin. He would remember watching the scars creep out across Ron's soapy, wet chest and back, striping like whip-scores over the long muscles of his hips, arse and legs.
All night long, Harry would remember what he had done to his friend. What he had allowed to happen. And all night long, Harry would pray that Ron's grinning and joking and flirting meant that for one night, anyway, he'd been able to forget it.
*****
For nearly a week, it seemed as if Ron had. He was back to his grinning, clowning, chessboard-dominating self, with only occasional flashes of strangeness. But Ron's perfect memory made for a fun study game when he wasn't psychotic, and on Monday night the game escalated into a competition for who could best imitate Snape's voice. (Neville won by two votes.) Then on Tuesday, when Ron suddenly decided to switch wand hands and grip-styles, and started translating the incantations into Gaelic in the middle of his charms homework, the results entertained the common room for the balance of the night. Except for Hermione, who couldn't manage to take notes fast enough.
But in the last class on Thursday, Ron got detention from Snape for sabotaging Malfoy's potion. Or, Harry rather thought, Ron got detention for suddenly knowing how to sabotage Malfoy's potion, when Ron had barely passed Snape's class for the previous five years. Ron himself sat impassive, unmoved by Malfoy's screaming about his outbreak of spots and utterly unfazed by Snape's withering tirade. The redhead merely stared the ranting Potion's Master in the eye for the duration of his telling off, earning himself another detention for having been 'disrespectful.'
Leaving the classroom afterward, Harry could just see two veins of white creeping up the back of Ron's neck between his shirt collar and his coppery hair. It had started again.
Quidditch practice was Friday, and it was brutal. Rainy and windy and cold, with half the team coughing nearly too hard to fly, and all of them clumsy and distracted. Tempers frayed on all sides. Except for Ron's. He held his silence hard and tight between his lips while the rest of them snarled and grumbled. And Harry was too busy watching his friend watch the team with glittering, fierce eyes to lose his temper.
Harry dawdled in the shower after practice, standing face-up to the sluice of hot water and listening to the rest of the team finish up one by one. He told himself he wasn't thinking of anything, that he wasn't waiting for anything. He was just there. He was just... available, so that Ron could, if he wanted to, maybe tell him this time. So that Ron could, if he wanted to, just say anything.
He heard Angelina and Ginny wander off together at last, leaving the two of them alone. But not alone together. Not really.
Harry could feel Ron behind him, like a dense, cold spot in the shower room. He could just hear the other boy's breathing, snagged and rough over the drumming spray. Harsh breaths, and sticky, skidding sounds echoing off the tiles like... Harry's cock, already half-hard from a good workout, came fully, achingly erect.
He's doing it… Harry thought, and his right hand itched to wrap tightly around himself, He's doing it right here! But he wiped his eyes instead, squinted sidelong at the blazing column his friend made against the blue-grey tiles. Ron's back was fiercely pink and his red hair curling wildly in the steam as he leaned with one arm on the wall, and the other working slowly between his legs.
Harry swallowed thickly, transfixed as he mapped the pale webbing of marks...scars... thoughts that rolled over Ron's shoulder as he jerked himself off. Harry licked his lips, focused his blurry stare on Ron's elbow, following its flex and curl, and the way his wrist turned as it skated past his hip. Ron made a low, growling noise in his throat, shook his head as though dodging a fly. Then he turned to face into the spray, eyes screwed tight and teeth bared, and Harry couldn't help looking, couldn't help catching his lip in his teeth at Ron's fierce grip on his rage-dark prick. His fingers were white against it, and so tight it almost seemed that he was trying to tug it right off.
Harry took a breath, half a step, and then Ron threw back his head, sobbed a breath and thrust awkwardly into his fist. White burst from his cock, spattered the wall as Ron's arse clenched and his thighs twitched. Harry's bollocks tightened at the sight, the sudden, sharp smell he knew as well as his own, because silencing charms can't ever really hide it when you sleep the next bed over. Hissing into the spray, Ron milked it out, still pulling his cock in long, slowing strokes as the last of his orgasm seeped over his knuckles.
Ron finally jerked back, shook the water from his face, and Harry flinched back under his own shower, hoping he hadn't been seen watching. But the redhead's eyes were still closed, and though his face had relaxed a bit from the fierce rictus, it was still a far cry from the blessed-out relaxation that normally followed one of Harry's own wanks. Ron sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and Harry turned quickly away.
He fumbled with the soap and his flannel as Ron's tap creaked off, scrubbing lather across his face so he wouldn't have to know whether the scorch across his skin was Ron's gaze or just his imagination. He tried to act as if he didn't have a rock-hard erection bobbing in front of him, as if there was nothing to notice at all. And perhaps it wasn't very brave that he couldn't make himself look up when he heard Ron's squeaking footsteps pause on the wet tiles behind him. Perhaps it was cowardly not to say anything, but Harry's cock didn't seem put off if it was.
But Ron said nothing either, and after a moment, Harry heard a loud sniff, a cough. Then he jumped as Ron spat noisily and strode from the room.
The locker slammed. Harry took his cock into his hand, just a gentle, wet cradle as the water sluiced down his belly and out along the rigid length. No pressure, no friction. Not yet. He held his breath, listening over the thundering noise his pulse made in his ears. Clothing noises, a rustle, a zip. Shoes on the floor. He closed his fingers and shuddered. Steps receding, the rustle and clatter of a broomstick coming free of the rack beside the door. Harry gave a slow pull and bit his lip harder. His thighs were trembling.
Then the locker room door closed with a slam, and Harry lunged into his fist, wincing as the water made skin drag against skin, but gripping hard, twisting hard until he was coming and groaning and baring his teeth to the spray.
*****
"Ronald, will you stop distracting me?!" Hermione's voice was low, furious and strung-tight with nerve, and Harry knew if she'd been anywhere else but in the library, she would have been shouting. "You might be done with your essay, but I've barely started, and I want to finish this tonight!"
Harry turned back the way he'd come, crept through the looming stacks until he glimpsed Ron's bright hair through the shelves, leaning close over Hermione as they shared one of the study carrels that bordered the restricted section. He could just make out Ron's voice, too quiet to catch the words, but rumbling with intensity as he slid his arm across her shoulders.
Harry almost walked on at that. None of your business, he told himself, and clutched Aelfwyke's Magical Bestiary tighter under his arm. But there was something about the set of Ron's shoulders, the tension in his hand where it tapped restlessly on his knee. It was enough to warn Harry that this one would be bad.
He stepped into the lee of the stack, set his shoulders against the shelves, and closed his eyes to wait.
Within a minute, Hermione's chair scraped angrily across the floor. "Well if you're so bored, then there's nothing keeping you here," she spat, "And I couldn't be more bloody pleased that your marks have improved so much since last year," Harry winced at her oblique reference, not needing to see Ron's face to know how the blood would rush high and hard to his cheeks, and how the scar that wandered up from his throat to his temple would gleam against the flush. Hermione, however, was apparently too angry to steer clear of the danger and continued her rant. "But you know I still have to study to pass my classes, and I won't have you mucking about with my-"
"Look, I said I'd let you copy mine, didn't I?" Ron answered, not bothering to keep his voice down, "I can't believe you bloody well want to spend the whole night stuffed up in here, when we could be-"
"Shut up!" Hermione hissed, "I have never copied from anyone, and I'm damn well not starting with you, Ronald Weasley!"
"Think I did it wrong?" Parchment scraped the table, "Go on then, look it over!"
"I don't need to! I -- I know you probably got it right, but that's not the point!-"
"No, I know," Ron cut her off this time, "The point is that you have to get it right. Like you have to get every bloody thing right, every bloody time you open your mouth!" Hermione made a sound of incoherent rage, but Ron rolled right over her. "Go on, tell me how I'm wrong then, because we both know you're dying to! But better yet, why don't you prove it -- tell me the last time you were bloody well wrong, why don't you?"
Hermione made a choked sort of sound, halfway between a sob and an enraged scream, and Ron barked a laugh. "You can't do it, can you? You can't admit-"
"Ron, stop it," Harry said, coming around the corner, "Just stop, okay?"
And Ron was smiling when he came around -- a fierce, furious, icy smile, sliced in half by the white line of his scar. But he let Harry see his eyes, let Harry hold his gaze just long enough to read the truth there. Bloody hell -- he's terrified! Harry realized with a flinch he couldn't hide.
"It's all right, Harry," Hermione said in a thick voice, "We were just-"
"Leaving," Ron said, with cheer so false just hearing it hurt, "Catch you later, mate!" And snatching his essay off the study carrel he shouldered past Harry, who for just a moment, was too stunned to try and stop him. He half-turned, drew just enough breath to call out, when behind him, Hermione gave a loud sob and collapsed into her chair. I can't leave her like this, Harry decided, flinging his books on the carrel and scooping Hermione into a hug, He wouldn't want me to.
"Shh," he murmured into her tickly hair, "He doesn't mean it. He doesn't."
"Oh, Harry, I can't bear it!" she wept angrily, but clung as she never would have done, had anyone else hurt her. "I know he's trying, but it's too much! It's too bloody much!" And that admission seemed to shatter her worse than anything Ron could have done or said to her. For several minutes, she could manage nothing more. Harry just held her, allowed her tears to soak his robes and glared at the curious passers-by until they hurried along their way.
Eventually her tears ran out, however, and Hermione pulled away, fished a large handkerchief out of her pocket, and began to wipe her face. "It's always like this," she explained, as much to herself as to Harry, "I know he didn't really care about any of that nonsense he was saying: he was just saying it to wind me up. I could tell it was something else bothering him, but he never-"
"Says what it is," Harry nodded, "It's as if these fights he keeps having are some kind of diversion."
"But a diversion from what?" Hermione cried, "Who is he trying to mislead? He must know we've seen through it -- I even told him so last time, after Lavender. I mean for God's sake, Harry, he fought with her over her shoes! But he just -- just teased me and flirted, and..." she looked down and shook her head, but Harry knew the words she couldn't say. Because they'd all been so grateful to have Ron happy again, he didn't think he'd have pressed the matter either.
"Himself, I think," he said instead, explaining as Hermione gave him a quizzical look, "He's trying to mislead himself. Distract himself from-"
Hermione's eyes flickered away, and she wound her handkerchief tight around her fingers. "They're only thoughts," she insisted, "Thoughts aren't harmful, why would he need to act like this just to hide from -- There's no call for it!"
"They're thoughts that put him in the infirmary for weeks, Hermione! He was in just as long as you," Harry snapped, "I think I'd call that 'harmful!"
"Then perhaps he should go back to the infirmary," she rounded on him, angry eyes not hiding her tears, "Perhaps we need to tell Madam Pomfrey to give him some more-"
"No," Harry stood, as if to block her from leaving, "it won't help. You know it won't! Hermione, if he can't even tell us about it, what do you think he's going to be like when we try to convince Madam Pomfrey that there's a problem? And do you want to explain to Ron why we tried to have him locked up for a nutter?"
"But Harry, if he's in trouble, we have to get him help!"
"Not if it won't be any help at all!"
They glared for a moment. Then Harry sighed. "Let me talk to him, all right?"
Hermione whined frustration deep in her throat, and snapped her Arithmancy book closed. "I've been trying to talk to him since last summer, Harry! He won't bloody well talk-"
"To you." As soon as Harry had said it, he wished he hadn't. Not because of the wounded look she raked him with, but because he knew it was true. And so did she.
"I hate this!" she said at last, angrily flipping another book shut, "I hate this, and I hate him, and I hate the bloody Department of Mysteries, and I hate-"
"It's all right," Harry cut in before she could say it, before she could regret it, "I understand. But it's my fault it happened. It's only fair I should be the one who has to make it right." Her eyes were full of contradiction, so Harry swept up his books before she could speak. "Just let me talk to him tonight, okay? Just let me see what I can do before you go to anyone."
"Harry, it's not your-"
He walked away from her absolution, drowning the words in forceful strides that made his trainers squeak on the floor. No one shushed him on his way out.
*****
He ran into Ginny outside the Fat Lady's portrait. Literally. He had to catch her shoulders to keep them both from falling, and he felt the trembling at once. She glanced up through her hair, all scarlet flush and streaming eyes. Then, with a strangled noise, she tore loose of his hold, pausing long enough to point with a savage jab at the portrait hole before clattering off down the stairs.
Harry took a deep breath, watching her go. The Fat Lady's face was grim as she opened without even asking for the password. Harry could hear the shouting at once -- male voices, muffled and roaring over each other while the common room huddled in silence.
"Oh, thank Vishnu!" Parvati leapt to her feet as Harry came in, "They're in your room, Harry, quick!" But he was already running, taking the stairs two at a time. The voices resolved as he got closer; Dean, Seamus, Neville. Which meant Ron had to be in there too.
"Tell me what you said to her, you bastard!" Dean screamed, lunged and almost escaped Seamus and Neville's restraining hold as Harry threw the door open.
Ron sat on the floor beside his bed, laughing around a cut and streaming lip. The scar was a frigid streak across his freckles as he swiped at the blood with his sleeve.
"Leave off, mate!" Seamus said, hauling Dean back by his collar while Neville did his best to pry the boy's wand out of his hand. "Let it go!"
"No! I want to know what he told her! He's got no call to go treating people like that!" Dean screamed, "Especially not his sister!"
Harry went to Ron's side, took his arm to help him up. "We should go," he muttered.
"What, and miss all the fun?" Ron laughed, shaking off Harry's hand to brush the dust from his robes, "Dean here's wanting a lesson in," he leaned close to the furious boy and leered, "family relations, isn't he?" Dean surged up with a roar, but the other two held him back. "Well I've got a dozen ways to make ickle Ginnykins cry like a Firstie, Dean old boy," Ron winked, shoving both hands into his pockets, "some of 'em? I don't even have to say a word!"
Harry grabbed Ron's robes, hauled him out of the way as the other three boys lurched into a pile of outrage and fists and disbelief. "STOP IT!" he bawled, shaking Ron by the shoulders, "LOOK WHAT YOU'RE BLOODY DOING! LOOK AT IT!" And as the raucous laughter died on his friend's lips, Harry leaned close to hiss in his ear. "They're your friends, Ron. They aren't the ones you hate!"
And Ron went still, and the mad colour drained from his face all at once. He stared at the three boys wrestling in the corner, and, still pressed close against his back, Harry felt it when Ron's breath hitched.
"Get out of here, Weasley," Seamus growled over his shoulder when Dean's struggles subsided for a moment, "Get out before I kick your arse myself!"
"Please, Ron," Neville agreed, "Just go, all right?"
The redhead nodded once and let Harry guide him outside and down the stairs. But in the common room, he shook off his stunned docility, noticing all at once how it quaked with an accusatory silence, noticing how not a single person in the crowded room would look up at them.
Harry took careful hold of his arm. "Let's go, Ron-" Then he staggered as the taller boy shoved him away and bolted for the exit. Ron threw wide the portrait with a slam and leapt through while Harry struggled to escape the deep chair he'd fallen into.
No you don't! Harry thought grimly, scrambling after his best friend and ignoring the startled squeaks and shouts around him, Not this bloody time! He dived out of the portrait hole and let the calls of affronted paintings guide his feet. He knew that despite Ron's longer legs, he was the faster runner, and he could go flat out for longer as well. Ron hadn't grown up dodging Dudley's 'Harry hunting', after all.
Hogwarts itself made tracking Ron easy -- the paintings shouted to slow down, and the suits of armor and statues pointed the way at every corner. Plus there were plenty of alarmed students marking the fleeing boy's wake. It wasn't long before Harry caught sight of Ron, pelting down the stairs to the entry hall at a breakneck pace. He sprinted to catch up, and Ron threw him a fierce glare as he came abreast, then put on a burst of speed. But Harry wouldn't be shaken off. He stuck to Ron's shadow like a ginger snitch, but he didn't call out, didn't touch, didn't try to stop him. He figured they'd have to stop at the main doors, if only because even at a full run, he and Ron didn't have the mass to get them open at speed.
But as they approached, the doors flew wide, yielding to one of Snape's typical dramatic entrances. Too close to stop, they both just swerved around the Potions Master, who spun into a dueling crouch as they blew past. The back of Harry's neck prickled -- he knew how quick Snape was with a hex -- but the man only bellowed after them to stop at once.
Harry almost did. There was something in Snape's voice, something more than his typical outraged dignity and malice, something that seemed almost like a genuine warning. But even as he slowed, glancing back over his shoulder through the gloom, Harry knew better. Ron wouldn't stop, no matter how many professors shouted after him. Not this time.
"Sorry, Professor," Harry called back to the dark silhouette in the entranceway, "Don't wait dinner!" Might as well fetch a detention for cheek, since it was inevitable anyway. Then he took off into the heavy twilight again. If Snape shouted after him, Harry didn't hear.
He'd nearly lost Ron in the moment he'd tarried, and in the lowering gloom, it was some moments before Harry caught the flicker of movement heading toward the Quidditch supply shed. "Oh no," he growled to himself. If Ron got hold of a broom, Harry'd be chasing him around the bloody castle all night long! Harry sprinted after him, closing the distance in a burst of furious determination, but this time when he caught up, he tackled the redhead to the ground.
They rolled in a flurry of knees and elbows, grappling and roaring until the supply shed brought them up hard in the weeds. Harry lay half-under Ron panting and staring at the sky. He had leaves and grass down his collar, dust in his mouth, grit in his eye, and a death grip on his friend's jumper sleeve. For his part, Ron lay still, face pressed into the crook of his arm as he heaved breaths so deep they sounded almost like sobs. The tumble seemed to have sapped his will to run, but Harry wasn't taking any chances.
The stars crept out while they lay there, peered white and impassive across the night while their breathing gradually slowed, and their heartbeats eased back from a gallop. They both knew the silence couldn't last, but Harry got a sense that Ron was as reluctant to let it go as he was. He thought wistfully about their impromptu practices, then shook his head and gripped Ron's sleeve tighter.
"Ron," he began. And the body that had been draped so carelessly across his went suddenly taut.
"No." Ron sat up and rolled off, but Harry didn't let go.
"You don't even know what I'm-"
"Yes I do," Ron said, combing leaves out of his hair with his free hand, "You want the same thing she wants. But I don't want to." He shook his head, the pale scars gleaming in the darkness, "I'm not going to-"
"Ron, you have to!" Harry rolled to his knees, caught Ron's bony wrist, "You have to tell someone, or they'll drive you bloody mental!"
"I don't," he cried, tugging back weakly, "They're not even real! They're not mine, they're not me! They're just...they're poison left behind by those sick, fucking..." his voice cracked, and he scrubbed his face with his free hand. "They aren't real."
"Ron, they're real!" Harry seized the narrow shoulders and gave his friend a shake, "I can see them across your face! I can see what they're doing to you!"
"No," Ron begged, "No, you don't bloody well know! How can you know what it's like, Harry?"
"Because I've got one too!" Harry cried, shoving his fringe off his forehead. Ron shocked back onto his heels, eyes wide, and Harry pressed his advantage. "I know what it's like having thoughts in your head that don't belong there, Ron, and I know what happens when you don't let them out."
"What?" Ron's lips shaped the word without air.
For answer, Harry raised a finger and traced the line of white scar spanning Ron's face from temple to chin. "People get hurt."
Ron froze, sucked a breath through his teeth. "Don't," he said, and Harry's thumb slipped off the word.
"Please, just tell me --
Then Ron lunged and tackled Harry to the ground -- grappling him flat in the weeds while Harry's head rang from the impact, arms pinned wide and legs bowed around Ron's knees. Harry had never really noticed how much bigger Ron was than him, how much longer his arms, and how his hands could span Harry's wrists like manacles, but with his heart in his mouth, and those blue eyes gone so wide and dark above his own, Harry thought about it now.
"Ron," he breathed, "you don't-"
"Shut up," he snarled, and Harry's wrist bones creaked in his grip, "You want to know about my thoughts, don't you?" Ron ground his erection against Harry's hips, then laughed as Harry caught a startled breath between his teeth. "I reckon it'd be best if I just showed you." Then he fastened his mouth over Harry's, thrust his tongue inside when Harry tried to gasp, ground his hips and kissed deeper when Harry grunted protest.
Alarmed, Harry writhed, shied and bucked to no avail -- Ron didn't stop kissing him. Not when their teeth clacked painfully together, not when Harry struggled for breath, not even when he stopped fighting and just let his mouth be ravaged.
But when Harry kissed back -- when he stopped trying to push Ron's tongue out and started twining his own up along its length, when he sucked and stroked and searched the depths of Ron's mouth instead of trying to shy away, when he rolled his hips up into the crushing weight, and shared Ron's groan when hard met hard -- well that changed things.
Ron made a desperate sound, as though a sob lurked somewhere behind a furious growl in his throat. Then he tore away, pulled up off Harry just enough to glare down with bright, frightened eyes. "What the hell are you doing?" He demanded.
Harry blinked, wondered if it was him shaking or Ron. "I'm listening," he said at last, curling his fingers to stroke lightly over Ron's knuckles. Ron flinched from the light touch as if burned, snatched his hands away from Harry's wrists and reared up to sit astride his hips. Harry bucked and hissed as the weight ground his trapped cock against his fly, but he left his arms outstretched -- threatless, defenseless, daring Ron with trust.
"What do you want to hear?" Ron's voice cracked, "what the hell do you want me to say, Harry? That I thought of grabbing you in the shower? That I stood there and looked at you and thought how if I got you 'round the throat, you couldn't fight me? That I thought about bending you over and fucking you," he grabbed Harry's hand and pressed it hard to the bulge in his fly, "and there was just enough soap on your arse that I thought I could probably get it in with one shove, even if I had to keep one hand 'round your neck?"
Harry swallowed. "Soap, huh?" he said, and kneaded Ron's cock gently, "That would hurt, wouldn't it?"
Ron hissed. "Yeah. Yeah it would. You'd bleed, probably lots. But since you wouldn't be able to breathe, you couldn't-" he shook his head, tore away with a disgusted cry and staggered to his feet.
Harry lunged after him, caught Ron's flailing arm and dragged himself up. "Couldn't what?" he demanded, voice cold as he pinned Ron's toes under his knees, "It's just words, Ron! Like Voldemort is just a name! Now say it!"
Ron closed his eyes and slid his fingers along Harry's face, up his cheek, around his ear, threaded deeply into his tangled hair. "But what if I don't want it to be just words?" he asked, and closed his fist tight.
Harry winced at the pull, but held himself very still, resting his hands on Ron's hips. "Do you want to rape me, Ron?" He made himself ask.
"Sometimes I think… maybe. I see your lips and I think they look soft, you know? And I want to just…" Heart pounding, Harry nodded just a little -- all he could manage against Ron's grip. Ron's eyes flew open, shocked. "No! You can't- What if I-"
"Who do you think you are, a Death Eater or something?" Harry traced his thumbs down toward Ron's fly, "I don't care what any stupid brain in a tank tells you, you're Ron-bloody-Weasley! You're my best friend, and I trust you!" He tipped his head and leaned just a little into Ron's fist, turning the clenching pull into something like a caress. And all the while he kept his eyed fixed on Ron's frightened gaze.
Then Ron slung him backward by the hair, sent him sprawling in the weeds. When Harry looked around again, he found the taller boy standing over him with a white-lipped glare. "Take off your clothes," he snapped. Harry blinked, and Ron's face twisted into a nasty grin. "I've thought about you with your kit off, you know? Thought how it'd be to get a proper look at you instead of just a peek in the showers. That doesn't bother you, does it, Harry?"
Boosting his chin defiantly, Harry decided not to think about whether it did, (as his fierce blush hinted,) or whether his iron-hard cock told the truer tale. Ron wanted him naked. Ron thought he wouldn't do it. Ron was going to bloody well be wrong!
Harry sat up and began to strip, tossing his shirt, shoes, and socks without care. The air was cold, but windless, so he paused long enough to cast a quick warming charm to take the edge off, then tucked his wand into a shoe. Ron was watching, he knew, but he didn't look up as he hauled his trousers and pants off at once. The dry grass crackled under his hot, heavy bollocks, and his erection bobbed at his belly as Harry started to rise.
"No," Ron's voice slapped him still, "Stay there. On your knees." Harry swallowed, settled back onto his heels and tried not to shiver. "Hands behind your back, and keep your eyes down."
I owe him this, Harry thought as Ron circled him like a shark. But he couldn't stop a flinch as Ron's shoes came down on either side of his thighs. Harry looked up, startled, and Ron caught his chin, dragged it straight to his tented fly and held it there.
"Know what I'm thinking now, Harry?" he asked. And even though Harry reckoned he did know, he shook his head. His lips and nose brushed the rough denim, and Ron growled. "I'm thinking of making you suck me. I'm thinking of you taking my cock out, and and putting it into that soft fucking mouth, and just-"
Harry popped the button, tugged the zip as Ron's voice broke on surprise. The cock lopped out, and Harry flinched aside. Ron cursed under his breath as Harry shook off his grip and leaned forward to bury his nose in the dark auburn curls that trailed down from Ron's freckled belly to surround his turgid prick. The smell was sharp and strong up close, but still familiar -- musky and salty and just a little bit like caramel and bitter almond -- Ron-smell, only more so. Harry pressed his tongue along the hard ridge of flesh and licked upward along Ron's cock, rising to his knees to reach the scarlet tip. Something sticky and salty burst over his tongue, and he licked his lips thoughtfully.
Ron swore again, shivering. "Suck it," he pleaded, and so Harry did. It was heavy on his tongue, soft and rigid and just a little sweaty. His spit and Ron's precome made the hot length slippery and sour against his lips. Harry sucked experimentally, slid it partway in, then again a little deeper, thinking that perhaps it wasn't so bad, really -- kind of interesting, the way the foreskin rolled back and forth along his tongue when he--
Ron grabbed Harry's head and thrust.
Fuck! Harry gagged, eyes watering but Ron gripped tighter and did it again, deeper, harder. Nails dragging in Ron's jeans, Harry grappled, shoved, and managed to tear free. He rocked back on his heels and coughed hard, stomach knotted and heart racing, and Ron --
Ron just stood there, hands hanging at his sides with strands of Harry's hair wrapped tight around his fingers. Angry, Harry glared up to find the other boy staring at him, triumph and loathing at war on his face, and the scars... they were so rigid and pale they almost seemed to pulse in the darkness.
"It's -" Harry swallowed and came back up to his knees again, "It's all right. You just surprised me." Ron's thighs quivered when Harry ran his hands up them, but he pretended he didn't notice. Ron's prick was still hard, gleaming and slick as Harry wrapped his fingers around it and brought it to his lips. "It's all right." He brushed the words across the spongy head, then sucked it into his mouth again. Glancing up to find Ron still watching, he guided his friend's hands back to either side of his head, and he gave a little nod.
"Fuck, Harry , I --" Ron made a ragged gasp, fingers clenching in Harry's hair as he groaned and slid the cock deep into his mouth. "Fuck, you can't just, just -"
"Tell me what else," Harry pulled away long enough to murmur.
Ron shivered. "Merlin, that's so good. I was -- It's just, I was thinking…" another ragged breath, and Ron took the rhythm over, thrusting into Harry's throat with long, smooth strokes. Now Harry knew to expect them, it wasn't hard to go along, to make himself ignore the urge to gag, and just keep sucking. "I was thinking that a bloke could… Ahh! Could kill someone this way."
Harry didn't let himself tense at that, just tilted his chin, pressed his tongue up a little harder, and said "Mmmh?"
Ron pushed deep, shoved the head of his prick all the way back into Harry's throat, and then just held it there. And Harry couldn't breathe -- not even through his nose, and Ron's hands were like a vise around his head, and his jaw was split wide open, and his tongue pinned flat, and he couldn't, he couldn't --
Then the pressure released. Ron pulled Harry's face away, let him sob a deep, cold breath, and then pushed it back down again. "I could hold you here long enough," he whispered, "And you couldn't bite, and if I tied your hands, you couldn't get away at all." Harry dug his fingers into Ron's loose-hanging trousers and did his best not to fight. "I could probably get off," he said, "shoot my load down your throat while you were struggling, while you were... Must feel pretty…" Ron was starting to shake, "Must feel…"
No! That isn't you! Harry clung to the thought, forced himself to stop pressing Ron away, and reach around to cup his arse instead. I know who you are, Ron! Harry rolled his eyes, tried to find Ron's eyes in the tear-blurred shadows above him, I know!
And then he was shoved away, flung gasping to sprawl and shiver in the autumn grass. A flicker of movement beside him, a rustle of cloth. Tall grass thrashing around long, striding legs. Coughing, Harry looked up to see Ron's retreating back. Running. Again.
Like hell!
"Ron!" Harry cried, dragging himself upright. The redhead stopped short -- almost turned, almost looked. "Ron, wait, I'm -- I'm cold," Harry didn't have to fake the quaver in his voice -- the chill in the air had him all over gooseflesh, despite his warming charm. He rubbed his hands over his arms and nodded at the supply shed. "Can we go inside? Please?"
He caught a glimpse of blue eye -- hot and wild and more than half mad, but it was enough to reassure him. It was still Ron. Harry could do this. He could see it through. They both could. Harry held out his hand, and Ron came to it as though mesmerized. Their fingers touched, then laced together. Harry waited, counting heartbeats.
Then all at once, Ron yanked him close, clamped him tight against his chest, and pinned his arms down in a fierce grip. "I'm going to hurt you," Ron whispered, lips brushing Harry's temple, "They're going to hurt you!"
"You won't," Harry replied, shivering as Ron's jumper rubbed hard against his peaked nipples, and his cock began to ache for touch, "And I'm not afraid of them."
Ron pulled back just enough to give Harry a long look. "You should be."
And maybe he was right, but Harry only shook his head. "You shouldn't be. It's like occlumency, Ron. The harder you fight against something, the more power you give it. Maybe you just have to let go of it and-" he stopped with a muffled grunt as Ron kissed him again, then he slipped his arms around the taller boy's chest and let the kiss fill him up with fire. His cock wasn't confused about what it wanted, who it wanted, and his brain didn't care what all of this meant, so long as it kept Ron there, where Harry could fight for him.
And then they were walking backward, entangled and stumbling, fumbling around each other for the shed door and grunting, clutching, sucking, grinding together, tongue to tongue and hip to hip. They tugged each other across the threshold into the close, dusty gloom, redolent of broom polish and a hundred year's worth of groping, horny teenagers just like themselves. Harry pulled away from the kiss and called out a breathless summons to his wand before Ron kicked the door closed.
A quick charm had the shed basking in a warming, golden glow, another locked and warded the door, and a third banished Ron's clothes to the floor. Harry sighed to feel Ron's skin hot against his own, groaned as Ron's cock jutted and skidded against his own. "Tell me," he pressed the words against the salty curve of Ron's shoulder, "what other thoughts have you had about me?"
Ron gave a shudder, but Harry didn't let him pull away, rolling his hips, dragging their cocks one against the other until Ron groaned and pressed him hard against the wall. "Thought about you, asleep in your bed," Ron said, "helpless. Thought how easy it would be for me to slip right in with you. Take your pillow and press it down over --" Ron gasped as Harry caught his hand and wrapped it around their warring cocks.
"Then what did you do?" Harry asked, twitching his hips to urge Ron's stunned hand back into motion. "You went back to sleep, didn't you? Maybe had a wank first, but that's all." He licked at Ron's collarbone and grinned. "Go on then; tell me another one."
Ron's lips pressed for a moment, annoyed. Then he leaned close to press a line of kisses onto Harry's shoulder and up his neck. "Thought," he murmured the words in between, "how thin your skin looks just... here" And he bit down hard on the curve of Harry's throat.
Harry jolted in surprise, and Ron clutched him close, giving their cocks a twist. At first shocked by the pain, Harry quickly realized it was more than that -- that the crushing, not-quite-tearing pressure shot a burn straight down his spine, to his bollocks. He whimpered, thrusting helplessly, and in two meager strokes, he was coming hard into Ron's fist.
The taller boy grunted, surprised, but he held on with fist and jaw until Harry was limp and panting and sticky in his arms. Then he pulled back, blue eyes dark and wary as he searched Harry's face.
But Harry only grinned and trailed his fingers along the mess dripping down Ron's belly. "That was a good one," he panted, "Definitely have to remember that." He reached lower, curled Ron's bollocks into his palm and tilted his chin cockily. "So, what else have you been..." he gasped as Ron let his cock go, then gasped again as he brought his hand, sticky and dripping with Harry's come to his lips. He sniffed, then put out his tongue to catch a white glob that rolled over his knuckles. Harry let out a shaky breath, transfixed while Ron licked and sucked every trace of come off his hand.
"Fuck, Ron," he whispered, awed and hungry. "Just... fuck!"
"Yes," the redhead groaned, and suddenly he wrenched Harry around, pressed him hard up against a supply shelf and shoved his cock hard against his arse, "Merlin, yes!"
Harry grabbed the shelf with both hands, laughing aloud to cover for the way his stomach jolted with panic. He'd thought about sex like this -- with another boy -- they all had after those awkward classes on Sex Magic Theory back in September. And Harry'd even played around with his fingers back there while wanking, and yeah, he had come hard, and so he reckoned he'd be able to do it if he had to, but... but sex he might possibly have for magical purposes sometime in the future was a lot different from his best friend rutting at him. He gasped as Ron's fingers clamped over his hips and drove his cock deep between Harry's arse cheeks. It felt so big rubbing back there, and Harry could feel every ridge, every vein skidding across his arsehole, and oh God the head caught just for a minute, and almost-
"Wait," Harry gasped, shaking and high-voiced with nerve. "We'll need something-" He reached, searching the shelves and cursing as he fumbled pots of broom polish, liniment and saddle soap to the floor. Ron licked his neck, just on that spot, and made him shiver back into his arms. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!" Harry tossed half-twisted tubes away by the fistful, "Any other day, I'm tripping over Malfoy's stinking lube stash, and now when it'd actually come in bloody useful--"
Then suddenly Ron dropped behind him, kneeling between Harry's spread legs and spreading his arse cheeks wide. Harry had time for one ragged breath, and then he felt Ron's tongue, hot and slick and oh God, oh God, he couldn't be licking him there! But he was, and Harry thrust back into it, shameless, shocked, and totally unable to keep himself from wailing.
He was getting hard again already -- his cock twitching and aching with blood, from bollocks to dripping, sticky head. He panted, still groping blindly across the shelf, but no longer identifying anything his fingers came across. He was too enthralled by the feeling of Ron's tongue spreading him open, burrowing, thrusting into him over and over like a promise, or a threat. He cursed, panted and babbled, clinging to the shelf until his thrashing pulled it right over.
Somehow they managed to scramble clear, the both of them, clutching and laughing, staggering out of the way as the shelf toppled a broom rack on its way down. They fetched up on the cabinet where the practice balls were stored, each holding the other upright while the equipment clattered and rolled everywhere.
"Bloody hell," Ron laughed, releasing Harry and catching up one of the brooms that rolled to a stop against his foot, "now look what you did! Hooch will go mental!"
"Oi!" Harry protested, opening his fist and grimacing to find that one of Malfoy's contraband lubricant tubes had burst all over his fingers, "Bit of a team effort there, mate. You're as much to blame as me!"
But Ron wasn't listening anymore. He was staring at the broom handle with sharp, hot eyes, running his fingers thoughtfully over the knobby end. Harry gulped. "Won't fit," he said, as though the idea didn't scare him.
"I think it would," Ron replied in a strange, tight voice.
Harry's stomach gave a wench and his heartbeat skittered in panic. But he forced himself to hide it under a grin as he took Ron's erection into his slick, dripping fist. "What about this then?" he asked hopefully, "You just going to ignore it and hope it goes away on its own?"
Ron groaned, tossed the broom aside and dragged Harry into another frantic kiss. And Harry, more than a little relieved, took care to spread the lube very liberally across his friend's cock.
"Harry," Ron pulled away to gasp, "Harry, make me come," he begged, hips jerking, bucking into Harry's grip, "Oh Merlin, make me come like this, don't let me fuck you! Don't let me hurt you!"
"You won't," Harry told him, giving the straining prick one last stroke before he turned to lean over the cabinet. He wiped the last of the slickness from his fingers across his hole, shivering as the sensation buzzed straight to his dripping cock. "You won't, because I trust you," he looked back, caught and held Ron's panicked stare, and made himself smile. "And you know it. So you won't hurt me. Not really."
White faced and livid with scar, Ron looked down, slid his gaze over Harry's arse so slowly that Harry could almost feel it burning his skin. "Oh, Harry, please..." he breathed, moving into place as though dragged to it under imperio, "I don't want-"
"You have to," Harry whispered, sucking a breath as Ron thumbed the head of his cock against his greased hole. He could feel in the hesitation, hear in the half-sobbed plea that Ron knew it too. He had to. They had to, or else they'd never know. And if they never knew, then the thoughts would destroy them both with wondering. "Do it," he said again, and closed his eyes as Ron began to push.
Harry held his breath, ground his teeth tight on the gulping whimpers that crowded into his throat as Ron's cock breached him. Tears squeezed from his eyes and he clenched them shut, but then there was nothing to distract him from the rippling shocks that spasmed through his arse. But he could read Ron's fear through the roaring in his ears, through the clenching grip on his hipbones, through the shaking in Ron's thighs as they came to rest against his own, and so he didn't dare make a sound.
"Merlin, Harry," Ron's voice was strangled and thick, "You're so, fucking -- I... I want to --"
Biting his lip, Harry nodded. He could do it. For Ron, he could, because he couldn't lose him, and oh fuck, he was pulling back, and back and back, and it felt so strange and wrong after his arse had been so full, and how could it not be slipping out by now? Then in once more -- a long, smooth slide that ached, but didn't quite make Harry's guts twist with agony.
"Thought about this... About being inside you..." Ron said as his hips met Harry's arse again, "thought about... about fucking you... so hard and..." Out again, and more of the shaky, quivery pain went with it. Harry blew out his breath in relief, then grunted as Ron shoved in faster, smooth and deep. He could do this. He could.
"Doing it f-fast and fuck you're tight..." Ron gasped, and began to speed his strokes -- striking deep over and over again while Harry gasped and held on, dangling on the edge of pain, within sight of pleasure.
I CAN do this, Harry thought, grinding his teeth. The pain made his cock soft and sore as Ron's thrusts drove him hard against the cabinet's edge, and really all he wanted was for Ron to come and get it over with. But he'd promised, hadn't he? He'd promised Ron it wouldn't be too bad, and so even though coming again was just about the last thing he wanted to do just then, Harry reached between his legs and began to coax himself back to hardness. That made it easier, he was surprised to find -- as though the pleasure confused the pain, let his breath flow deeper than a shallow flutter.
Ron, his pace staggering, leaned over Harry's back. "It hurts," he grunted, knocking Harry's hand aside to take his cock into a fierce grip, "doesn't it?"
"I'm fine," Harry shook his head, arched his hips to urge the pace onward. But the ache in his cock and the burn in his arse conspired against him, and his voice gave him away with a quaver. "It's fine," he tried again, a little better. Then he gasped as Ron slammed against him, hard.
And not only hard, but deep, so the shock of it raced like lightning along Harry's spine. "You don't like it," Ron's lips moved against his shoulder. "You don't, do you?"
"Not when you do that, you arse!" Harry snarled, "No, don't you fucking quit," he wrapped his fist over Ron's as the taller boy's rhythm faltered, "Not till you do it properly!" Because I'm not losing you! he thought, threading their fingers together and sliding them over his cock, Not like this!
Harry pressed his hips back, realizing as he did, that it almost didn't hurt at all now. The glide was smooth and hot inside him, making his cock throb inside their shared grip, making him writhe to meet Ron's slower, longer thrusts, making him pant and strain after an orgasm that was almost, almost close enough to catch.
Then Ron suddenly jolted against him, roaring as his prick jerked and sprayed, filling Harry's arse with slick heat. Then he gasped out Harry's name and fell, ragged and panting across his back, and Damn it! Harry thought, before he remembered to be relieved that it was over.
But even as Ron's breath huffed damply across Harry's neck, his hand seemed to remember Harry's need. His fingers tightened, stroked long and slow down the length of Harry's cock, made him shiver and catch his breath and long for more.
"Shh," Ron murmured, kept stroking as he eased out of Harry, his fingers never stopping, never releasing Harry's either "It's all right, just --" he dropped to his knees again, "Just let me --" And Harry could only groan helplessly as Ron flicked his tongue along the sore, slippery flesh of his arse.
"You don't-" he panted, undone, "Ron, it's okay, you don't have to," he shuddered, writhed helplessly as the tongue circled his hole, "Oh fuck Ron, don't-" Blood throbbed in his head, his breath seized tight as Ron stuck his tongue in deep, and suddenly Harry was coming, groaning, spilling hot and hard over their clenched fists.
Ron caught him when his trembling knees gave out, wrapped his long arms tight around Harry's chest and bore them both to the gritty floor. And panting through the aftershocks of the most incredible orgasm of his life, Harry wasn't surprised when Ron curled tight about him, turned his face into Harry's neck and gasped out secret, hidden sobs.
"I'm sorry," he groaned, "I'm so sorry, Harry."
"I'm all right," Harry promised, relieved to watch the scars fade into Ron's tapestry of freckles, "I'm all right. You didn't -- not really." He cradled Ron's head tight against him and began to believe he might have won more than his first shag. He may have won back his best friend.
The storm didn't last long. Neither had the energy for much more than to sprawl, exhausted and close, twining their legs in a comfortable tangle on the spread drift of Ron's robes.
"Better?" Harry asked at length, sliding a hand over the peak of one bony shoulder.
Ron gave a weak snort, but nodded. "For now. They'll come back though." His arms tightened around Harry's back, and he burrowed his face into Harry's shoulder, mumbling "They always come back."
"Yeah," Harry agreed, thinking wistfully of his own dreams -- of the creeping guilt and paralyzing fear that always slunk from the shadows when he didn't expect it, of the memories of Cedric, of Sirius, of Peter Pettigrew that haunted his sleep. They never did go away -- not really.
But then Harry set his chin and scowled. "Well, let them come then," he said, as much to Voldemort's dreams, to Snape's hateful bile, Dumbledore's secrets, and Malfoy's spite as to Ron's haunting thoughts, "We can beat them now, can't we?"
And when Ron's only answer was to hug him as though he might never let go again, Harry supposed he might have got it right after all.