Brethren...

Brethren...

The harsh rap on the door was interrupted by the sound of feet padding towards it. The lock was flicked abruptly and the door swung open a few inches.

"Yes?" Asked the face, peering through the small gap, his long nose covered in an explosion of freckles. The chain prevented the door from opening any further.

"Ron," cried the other, on the other side of the door, his green eyes desperately searching the freckled man's face for recognition. "I never thought I'd find you."

"Harry," sneered Ron, starting to close the door, "I don't want to see you, or even hear you."

"Please Ron," the one named Harry begged, pushing on the door. "Please Ron, talk to me, I've done something dreadful."

"And?" Asked Ron sarcastically, his top lip curled with hatred for the man at his door. "Isn't everything you've done dreadful in your opinion?"

"But Ron," Harry whispered, ruffling his jet-black hair in frustration. "So many mistakes, so little time."

He disappeared from Ron's sight, but the sound of him sliding to the floor in a slump was clearly audible.

"Alright then," muttered Ron, closing the door and removing the chain. Opening the door to its full extent, he asked the other man in.

What Harry was confronted with was an absolute surprise. The room that he had stepped into was empty, bar two folding chairs and a black and white television on a packing crate.

"You live like this?" He asked, surveying the room once more to make sure he hadn't missed anything.

"Not up to your standards, I guess," growled Ron, still standing by the door, eying the unwelcome guest.

"Don't be like that Ron," Harry pleaded, looking at his old friend. "There is no need to hold a grudge."

"Who said I'm holding a grudge?" Murmured Ron, stepping up to Harry. Harry noticed that his right hand was clutching his left wrist tightly, for no apparent reason.

Looking Harry in the eye, Ron noticed the effect the years had had upon Harry in his eyes. Although they were still a clear green, they appeared so much wiser than they had when Ron had last looked into them, some ten years ago.

Harry also noticed the change in his friend. Already his hair was peppered with grey and his face seemed oddly pale, making the freckles on his face look out of place. His frame was gaunt and hidden beneath a sheath of Muggle clothes, namely a scarlet shirt that clashed horrendously with his flame-red hair.

Ron watched in disgust as Harry removed the long black duster he was wearing, revealing a crisp white shirt and black pants, as he sat on a folding chair.

"How did you find me?" He asked, refusing to stoop to Harry's level and join him on the chairs.

"I had to search everywhere, ask everyone. Nobody had any clue. It was as if you had disappeared. Everyone's worried about you," Harry answered, eyes full of concern.

Ron snorted at the last comment.

"'Bout time too, only took them seventeen years to discover that I wasn't your shadow."

"You were never my shadow Ron," Harry whispered, "people respected you and liked you."

"Only because I was your friend," he chided, his top lip curled once again, "or so I thought. It's strange how even the ones you trust most betray you."

"I never betrayed you," cried Harry, jumping from the chair and waving his hands in the air. "I never did anything to hurt you Ron, never. You were always my best friend."

"Hah, I don't believe you."

"Why not?" Asked Harry, inching closer and closer to his old friend.

"Because I can remember finding you, with my girlfriend, in my room, when you'd sworn that you'd try nothing of the sort."

"She was drunk," explained Harry, "I told you this before. I was helping her back because I didn't want her getting hurt. Is this why you're so bitter?"

"She left me Harry, she bloody well left me," Ron yelled, letting go of his wrist and slamming his left hand into the nearby wall with a thump. "And you wanna know why? Because she loved you, all those years and the reason she was with me was because it was a chance to get to know you."

"I didn't know," whispered Harry, sinking into the chair. "I didn't know, I'm sorry."

"Don't you understand," continued Ron, edging closer and closer to Harry, "I was always second best to the bloody git who lived. So, you have a scar, so you fought You-Know-Who once or twice and scrapped out of it with your life, but what about me? I was there too. Any recognition for me?"

He stood, inches from Harry's face, eyes bloodshot and watery. His bottom lip quivered in rage.

"Not a bit, because you were the goddamn centre of attention. You were the flamin' great Harry Potter and I was just that redhead boy that followed you everywhere."

"I didn't think so Ron, I didn't think so. I owe my life to you," Harry said, barely moving his lips.

"You never said so to anyone else, did you? Nobody even knows my name. I'll go into history as the shadow, the Potter wannabe. Ten years and no one's come to look for me, except for the bloody git who caused me so much pain.

"And not just that, Harry. You never had to put up with older brothers, every single one achieving something. It's one hell of a life, having to be everything that they were while you were there. It was damned near impossible. Everyone loved you, but at least I've got one up on the world, I'll show them the Real Ron Weasley yet."

With this, Ron took Harry by the shoulders, pushing him, chair and all to the floor.

"Think I'm pleased you're here, not bloody likely," he sneered, clutching his wrist once more.

Standing, Harry brushed himself off and turned to Ron, "everyone who mattered knows who you are. What does it matter if the rest of the world doesn't know the amazing personality of Ron Weasley?"

"It matters when even your own mother acknowledges everyone before you. At the end of the school year, she'd always run up to you and even on Graduation; it wasn't me she congratulated first, but you. I guess you wouldn't understand, would you? After all you've got no mother, or father for that point."

Harry glared at the now-stranger standing before him. Ron had changed, but then again, ten years could do that to a man, but even then, remarking on Harry's unfortunate situation was unacceptable.

Harry watched, the hatred brewing inside, as Ron sat, the weariness showing on his face as he slumped, still staring at Harry with pale blue, unfeeling eyes.

"Well," erupted Harry, kicking the packing crate beside him with all his strength, sending the television flying, crashing to the floor in a thousand pieces.

"What did you do that for?" Roared Ron, still sitting in the chair, his face twisted in a mix of pain and sheer hatred as he rocked carelessly. "I can't believe I ever called you friend, you bloody thorn in my side. Hell, I wish you'd been a Slytherin, then I wouldn't have had to see you face every moment of my seven years of Hell at Hogwarts."

"If that's what you think, then I'm not bloody well sorry for everything I've done. Hell, most of it wasn't even my fault, I had nothing to with it, I couldn't help it in any way, but I'll take the blame for it. As long as it makes your pitiful life worth living, but I can't say that it would help."

Snatching his duster from the floor, Harry strode to the door, wrapping it around him at the same time.

Not even looking back at Ron, Harry opened the door as he slid his arms into the duster's sleeves.

"If I were you Ron, I'd consider killing myself," he sneered, slamming the door on a past that he'd sooner forget than remember.

Standing at the door, he adjusted the collar of his duster when he brushed his hand against his shirt where Ron had pushed him. It was wet. Removing his coat, Harry found that there was a blood-red stain where Ron's hands had been.

"Christ," whispered Harry, turning back to the door, "he is killing himself."

Opening the door, he burst in, only to find Ron, slouched in the chair unconscious. On further inspection, Harry found Ron's left wrist had been sliced open and his scarlet shirt was sodden with blood.

The bathroom sink was splattered with blood, as was the floor, walls and tub. Sitting on the lip of the tub was a small razor, the bane of his old friend.

Picking it up, Harry sauntered to the window and threw it as far as he could and returned into the lounge area, where Ron still sat.

Clutching Ron's right hand, Harry detected a slight pulse, barely regular.

"Don't worry old friend," he muttered, reaching for the phone nearby. "I'll make sure no one finds out about this. Your reputation will no be tainted."

The voice on the other end of the line listened to Harry's steady words and immediately alerted an ambulance the Ron's address.

Placing the phone on the floor again, Harry left the room, leaving the door wide open for the impending paramedics, but not before magicking Ron's identification so he would not be discovered.

Striding down the hall away from the scene, Harry walked away from a past that he'd never know again. Unbuttoning the cuff of his left sleeve, Harry stared at his marred wrist, forever marked just has Ron's now was. But Harry's marking was much more terrifying for some than Ron's would ever be for Harry now wore the dark mark of his greatest adversary, now his exultant Lord.

"Maybe it's better that things ended as they did," he muttered, climbing the stairs alone, "at least you have said goodbye to one you could conquer, not one that had been conquered. You could have saved me Ron; you could have saved me. I would have let you be the hero, but things just weren't meant to be."

He reached the street and stalked on, repeating over and over, "Lies, deceit, and everything my fault. At least I know that now."