Sleeping With Thine Enemies

Sleeping With Thine Enemies (Part 3)

Draco runs as fast as his long legs will take him. He runs through corridors, around corners, and across rooms, not caring that he is being less than silent or that he might possibly be seen.

His only thought, his only aim is to get away - to get away from Ron and back to the safety of his own rooms. To get away from thoughts and feelings that are less than clear and should never have been stirred up to begin with.

As he finally collapses, panting, onto his bed, he realizes that he should never have gone down to the dungeons in the first damn place. His father had rules, and those rules were there for a reason. Why he would ever have thought of disobeying this one; when he has never disobeyed his father before, is beyond him.

Draco kicks at the bed in frustration. “Stupid Weasley! This is all his damn fault somehow!” he hisses.

And to Draco, these words become absolute truth. Somehow, some way, this is all the other boy’s fault. He has never behaved like this, so it has to be Ron’s fault.

Feeling somewhat better now that he had managed to place the burden of blame on Ron, however tenuous that blame may be, Draco lifts the covers and slides his fully-dressed body beneath them. He closes his eyes tightly and silently swears to himself that he will not return to the dungeons. Ron Weasley can rot down there for all he cares. He won’t return.

Ever.

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It is only when he is several feet away from Ron’s cell the next night that Draco allows himself to think about what a liar and a hypocrite he is. There are no words for what he feels about himself right now. Sickened, disgusted, and revolted are the first to come to his mind, but he discards them immediately because none of them are strong enough; none are nearly powerful enough for the self-loathing that is burning its way through him.

Just last night, he had sworn he would never come back here.

And the horrible truth of it is - he cannot stay away.

So he continues to walk forward - like a helpless moth drawn to a flame. Or like a predator drawn to his prey. He’s not sure which.

On this night, Ron lies on his side on the small mattress. A thin grey blanket is wrapped tightly around his body, as if he is trying to cocoon himself within it. Only his head and one hand are visible outside of its protective cover.

Draco lifts his wand a little higher for better light and almost gasps at what he sees. But the Malfoy control that deserted him so traitorously last night is back with him now and he does not make a sound.

Tonight, Ron does look the worse for wear. He looks, Draco thinks, like a prisoner of his father should look. His red hair is wildly tousled. His cheek is bruised and smeared with dirt. His bottom lip is swollen; blood and saliva making it glisten. His eyes, while open, are so unfocussed, so blank, they give the impression that he is only half-conscious. It appears that his suffering has begun in earnest.

Draco walks up to the bars of the cell and wraps a hand around one of them. He expects Ron to look at him, yet Ron continues to stare off into space as if he were completely alone. Draco clears his throat and waits.

But there is nothing; no reaction from the other boy.

Feeling a bit impatient, he calls out, “Weasley?”

At this, Ron blinks and finally turns his eyes toward Draco.

“Malfoy?” he asks hoarsely as some dim emotion gives life to his eyes at last.

“Yes, Weasley, it’s me.”

A sickly grin that has nothing to do with amusement crosses Ron’s face. “I knew you’d come. I knew it.”

“Listen, Weasley . . . ” he begins, although he has no idea what he really means to say.

“But guess what?” Ron conveniently interrupts. “You’re too late.”

“What are you?...”

“You’re too late,” Ron says more loudly and Draco can clearly hear the tinge of hysteria in his voice. He watches as Ron pushes himself up to a half-sitting position. He does not miss the wince that this small movement causes. “Your father beat you to it. He beat you to it! So there’s no point in being here, is there, because your father got here first!”

By the time Ron reaches the end of his final sentence, he is no longer merely raising his voice; it appears he is screaming with all the strength left to him and his body is trembling as if he were very, very cold.

It takes a moment for Draco to get past Ron’s display of emotion to decipher the meaning of it.“My father kissed you?” he finally asks stupidly.

“Kissed?” Ron asks, and a strangled laugh escapes him. “Kissed? Your father did a lot more than a kiss me, Malfoy.”

And then, full awareness strikes Draco, and the implications of what Ron is saying and how he is acting come rushing at him. “What the hell are you insinuating? That my father . . . ” Draco lets the question die, because it’s simply too preposterous, too insane, to actually voice out loud.

Ron nods his head jerkily. “Your father . . . your father . . . he . . . ” A small, wounded noise escapes him - the sound of a dog that has been kicked too many times and can’t possibly understand why.

Draco shakes his head in negation. “No, my father wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Why are you acting so damn shocked? That’s what you were working up to, isn’t it? With your little visits? Like father, like son. Except your father beat you to it!”

“You liar!”

“Liar?!” Ron asks, his voice sounding incredulous. “Do these look like lies?” he asks as he tugs at the collar of his filthy white T-shirt, exposing several red marks around his throat. “Does this look like a fucking lie?” He stands up as quickly as his tired body will let him, and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his loose pants. He tugs them down slightly, just enough for Draco to get a good look at the mottled, purple bruising on his hip - bruising that isn’t at all solid. It’s broken up . . . as if a hand had . . .

“Does it?!” Ron screams as he pulls his pants back up to cover himself.

And then, as quickly as the anger had arisen within him, it disappears. Without it, Ron seems to shrink in upon himself. His legs sag and his shoulders drop and when he hits the ground he lands unsteadily on all fours, panting heavily.

Draco watches all this with an ever-growing anger. It’s as if all Ron’s short-lived wrath has been infused into his body. He is so livid that he is shaking. That this worthless little shit . . . this worthless fucking blood-traitor would say such a thing about his father . . .

Without another thought, he runs into the cell and throws himself on Ron, knocking them both to the ground.

His hands grab at the material of Ron’s shirt and pull the other boy close. “My father is not like that. He would never do that! He would never touch you!”

Ron lets out a strangled sob and turns his face to the side, inadvertently allowing Draco to see the wetness on his cheek.

But the tears do nothing except serve to incense Draco further. He begins to shake Ron mercilessly, not even noticing that he is slamming the boy’s body against the concrete. “My father is not a rapist! He would never touch you!”

“Do you hear me?” he shouts into Ron’s ear as he continues to shake him. “Do you?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . ”

“My father is not a rapist!”

“No . . . ”

“You lied!”

“I lied. I lied,” Ron gasps. “Just please . . . please don’t touch me anymore . . . please. Oh God, don’t touch me anymore . . . ”

Draco releases Ron quickly and stands, watching dispassionately as he curls into a fetal position on the floor and begins to sob.

If anyone were to walk in on this moment, they would think Draco as cold and hard as ice - standing there and simply watching as the other boy cries brokenly into his hands. But inside, Draco is quaking with emotion. Like every other time he has been down here.

As if his father would ever touch . . . would ever lower himself to . . .

But hadn’t he himself done it yesterday? Just last night, he couldn’t seem to get enough of Ron.

As he takes a step back, he remembers the words Ron uttered only moments ago.

Like father like son.

Harsh words; accusing and condemning all at the same time.

He smooths his hair back in an automatic gesture and prepares to leave, making sure that there is no evidence of the fact that he was ever here.

As he walks away, he doesn’t bother trying to decide if the disgust he’s feeling is for his father or for himself.