The Moving of Mountains

The Moving of Mountains

Harry Potter believed in trusting his instincts. He always had and he always would. And granted, at times they had led him down the wrong path, but most times, they were all right. That’s why, when he woke up in the morning with his instincts practically screaming at him that something wasn’t right, he listened. And acted.

He opened his eyes and stood up quickly, feeling lost and dazed for only a very brief moment before starting to get his bearings.

He looked around, taking information in and processing it with a few swift glances.

He could see that he was in his living room and that it was daytime (actually early afternoon) by the hue of the light. He then glanced down and back and saw that he had apparently been laying on the couch.

He also noted that he was fully dressed.

Now that was odd. Odd enough that he counted it as the first clue in solving the something’s not right riddle. He never slept on the couch unless Ron was angry with him. And he was sure they had not had an argument last night.

He took a moment to reach back into his memory to see what had happened last night. But no, as far as he could tell, last night had been fine; they had eaten dinner, they had snuggled, they had . . . Harry frowned as he tried to follow the memory further, but it was useless, the memory stopped there, ending in complete nothingness.

He shook his head to clear it, frustrated at his inability to remember, and the fact that his memory seemed to be failing him more and more often lately.

He took another look around, and felt that sense of something’s not right turn into a sense of something is really fucking wrong here.

Over on the far side of the room, he had spied a broken mirror on the floor. It was something that he and Ron had bought together in their quest to make this place homey. Now it was seemingly shattered beyond repair. And over to the right, beside the glass, dozens of pictures scattered on the floor; discarded, unwanted. Pictures they’d kept on the mantle and on the tables, because they liked to be reminded of family.

Now Harry could barely breathe, he was so frightened. Not for himself, his fear was never for himself. But it was obvious that they had been here, in his home. And he didn’t dare imagine what else they could have done while he was . . . what? Unconscious? Sleeping?

He pulled his wand out of his pocket and began to walk slowly, careful not to make a sound, in case the people that had done this were still here.

He was heading toward the mirror when he heard a small noise come from the direction of the guest bath. Then came another one, and it sounded as if someone were moving around in there. A second later he heard a barely stifled gasp.

Harry gripped the wand tightly, holding it in front of him like a weapon as he changed direction and walked toward the source of the noise. The bathroom door was open, but barely at all, and when he tried to look inside, he couldn’t see anything but white tile and Formica.

Taking a deep breath, he kicked the door open and all but threw himself into the room. One look however, and he froze and dropped his wand, letting it clatter to the floor. There was no one here but Ron, his Ron. And his Ron was on the floor looking up at him through a mass of dried blood that seemed to cover his face. Harry noticed that in one bruised hand he held what might have once been a white washcloth. It was crimson now.

“Ron,” he whispered as he dropped down next to his friend.

“Harry . . . ”

The hand that held the washcloth trembled and Harry found himself reaching out for it.

“I was trying to clean up. I...”

Harry took the washcloth out of Ron’s hand and set it down on the floor while the other hand gently touched the other man’s hair. “What happened? Who did this to you?” he asked softly, afraid to speak too loudly lest Ron just shatter in front of him.

Ron shook his head just slightly. “I don’t know . . . I . . . ”

Harry listened as Ron’s words dissolved into nothing. Harry swallowed hard and tried to pull his thoughts together. Right now they were everywhere, flying around his head like crazy balloons. Then his eyes fell upon that washcloth again, that red washcloth, and all the thoughts melded beautifully into one cohesive one. “Oh God. I have to get you to the hospital,” he cried.

Ron’s eyes widened and he looked . . . afraid? Nervous? Harry couldn’t tell, but it wasn’t a pleasant emotion, whatever it was. “No, I’ll be fine, Harry. I just need to be clean. And lie down. That’s all.”

Ron was speaking too quickly; his pleas almost falling over each other in their eagerness to leave his mouth. And Harry - Harry was so close to letting him have his way. He hated denying Ron anything. He was an infinitesimal moment away from taking Ron’s hand and helping him up and to their bedroom when he noticed all the blood. Not that he hadn’t seen it before, but now he really noticed it. He noticed that there was far too much of it, both on Ron’s face and on his torn clothing. And there were far, far too many bruises on his pale face.

“Ron, who did this to you?” Harry whispered as the absolute miserable horror of this situation hit him again.

Ron inhaled slightly, as if readying himself to speak, but Harry interrupted before anything else could be said.

“It’s all right. You can tell me later. Right now we’re going to the hospital.”

Ron looked like he wanted to argue, looked like he was going to argue, his face tightening in anger or resentment, but then the look quickly disappeared and a new one took its place. The new look was one of defeat; pure, simple defeat. He mumbled, “Fine,” as he closed his eyes and hung his head.

Harry pulled him to his feet as gently as he could, moving him so as to cause him no further pain. As if that could possibly be avoided. When Ron stumbled and gave a low moan as his legs gave way, Harry merely picked him and carried him like a child the rest of the way over to the fireplace.

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When they arrived at the hospital, Harry was told to, “wait here, boy” while Ron was taken away from him by some very concerned looking healers. He sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs in the waiting room and tried hard not to look at his bloodstained hands.

As the seconds turned into minutes, disturbing questions began to fight for dominance in his mind. What the hell had happened? Who could have come into their home and done this? And most confusing and frustrating of all; why hadn’t he been attacked? Why only Ron? And how had he slept through it all? He was supposed to be some kind of great, powerful wizard and he had slept through his boyfriend getting assaulted?

He shook his head and looked up, trying to get away from all the questions. He managed to clear his head of them for a while, concentrating only on his fierce worry for Ron. But after the minutes began to stretch into hours, the questions returned with a vengeance and Harry had no choice but to listen to them echo in his head.

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Finally, someone came to talk to him.

The tall, imposing man that stood over him reminded Harry of an undertaker. He was somber; overly so, and Harry felt for a moment that he was about to be told that Ron had died.

Harry clenched his hands together and tried to prepare for what was going to be the worst moment of his life. Worse than that night in the graveyard with Cedric, worse than losing Sirius. Worse than anything imaginable.

But when the man finally spoke, he said nothing of death. Words like concussion, broken wrist, contusions and cracked ribs were the words that came out of his mouth. And they were all awful words really, and Harry couldn’t help but cry when he heard them. Ron had been hurt, terribly hurt and he had not been able to protect him. But Ron was also alive. And that was why he was crying in relief.

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He was allowed to go to him after awhile. He sat quietly beside Ron’s bed and watched him sleep for a very long time. Harry knew that he should be alerting Ron’s parents, their friends - hell even the Ministry so they could investigate this attack - but he couldn’t bring himself to move. So he sat, and sat, holding onto Ron’s hand and rubbing it gently and occasionally brushing his hair back from his forehead.

It was much later when Ron finally woke. Harry had all but begun to fall asleep himself, his eyes drooping closed every so often, when he felt Ron’s hand tighten within his.

He straightened instantly, blinking hard twice to clear his eyes and his brain. Ron was looking at him through heavily lidded eyes. Or at least trying to look at him. He still appeared more asleep than awake. And nowhere near lucid. “Harry?” he asked softly, his voice unsure.

To Harry, those two syllables were the most beautiful sounds in the world. They melted his insides and made him feel giddy with warmth. Because those two syllables meant that Ron would be all right. He had to be. Harry wouldn’t allow himself to believe anything else.

He nodded and whispered, “Yeah, it’s me,” before reaching forward to lightly kiss Ron’s forehead.

“Where are we?” Ron asked as his eyes slowly scanned the room.

“We’re at the hospital. You were attacked. But you’re going to be ok now,” Harry said, trying to be as reassuring as possible; sounding sincere because he believed it more than anything in the world.

Ron’s brow furrowed, and his eyes grew dark with an emotion that Harry couldn’t quite place. Then it was gone, whatever emotion it had been, and Harry summarily forgot it. “Oh,” was all he said.

“What happened? Who did this, Ron?”

But Ron shook his head slightly, grimacing at the pain that even that small bit of movement brought. “Don’t want to think about that, Harry. Please?”

And Harry nodded, instantly agreeing. If Ron didn’t want to talk about it right now, then they wouldn’t talk about it.

Ron sighed and seemed to relax. “Will you stay with me?” he asked.

And Harry nodded again and gripped Ron’s hand just a little bit tighter.

Because there was no where else he would rather be.

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The next day, Harry contacted Ron’s parents and told them what had happened. Within a matter of minutes, the hospital room was filled with hordes of people, all of them so worried and upset and so full of love for Ron that Harry felt he couldn’t breathe sometimes.

The day after that, Ron was told he was well enough to go home. The crowds of people surrounding them scattered to the winds with promises of visits for Ron and hard looks for Harry. Harry ignored them all. He figured they blamed him for not protecting Ron like he should have. It made perfect sense to him that they feel this way. After all, he blamed himself.

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When they got home, Harry promptly tucked Ron into bed and made him some tea. As Ron drank it slowly, Harry watched him.

“Why are you staring at me?” Ron finally asked in a teasing voice.

“Because you’re beautiful.”

Ron lowered the teacup. “Harry, I look like hell. I’m even further away from beautiful than I usually am.”

Harry shook his head and touched Ron’s wrist. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Always.”

Ron smiled despite himself. Harry could always do this to him. Always make him feel so wanted and special. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Harry gave a small smile before turning completely serious. “I need to know who did this to you.”

Ron sighed and looked down. “Why? What’s the point? It’s over.”

“So I can kill them, Ron.”

Ron looked back up and saw that Harry meant every word he had said. He could tell by his eyes, the way they glinted and shone, that Harry was itching to do this.

“I’m so tired, Harry. Can we talk about it tomorrow? I promise I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

Harry’s face softened, and the thoughts of death disappeared from his eyes. “Promise?”

“Yeah, I do,” Ron.

Harry nodded and took the tea from Ron to place it on the bedside table. Then he reached forward and wrapped him in a gentle embrace. He never saw Ron’s sad smile. If he had, he would have thought it odd.

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Ron woke up afraid and panting. He shot up in bed, arms half-raised to protect himself, when he realized that it was just a dream and that he was in no danger. He shivered and for a moment was at a loss as to what the dream had been about. It had been bad, he knew, but he couldn’t recall any of its details. He tried really hard to remember, but found that the dream images were fading faster than he could catch them.

Out of habit, Ron turned his head slightly and looked at the figure asleep next to him. And he suddenly knew without a shadow of a doubt what the nightmare had been about.

He got up from the bed silently, so silently that Harry didn’t even stir. He was getting to be quite good at this sneaking around stuff. Which was a shame really, because he didn’t want to be. He wandered over to the living room, mindful of the still healing bruises and the aches that they produced.

He sat down on the couch gingerly and reached up to touch a particularly tender bruise on his cheek. But even this one was starting to fade. The healers at the hospital were brilliant. In another two days he would be able to tell Harry that he had gotten it from walking into the door.

And Harry would believe him. Like he always did.

And in a few days after that, all of the signs that showed he had been attacked would be gone. And so would Harry’s memory of it.

Ron almost smiled at that.

Everyone had asked him, at least once, why he stayed. Why he continued to let it happen. He had tried to explain it, but found he could never put it into words for other people. Hell, he couldn’t even put it into words for himself. But he understood it, even if no one else ever would. He understood that Harry loved him more than anything. That Harry would move mountains for him. That Harry would die for him. And he would do the same for Harry. All of that and more. Somewhere along the way, friendship had turned into so much more and it was the most special thing he had ever stumbled upon.

He also knew that what they had was beyond love and friendship. There was need there. A primal need.

Harry needed him.

He needed Harry.

Two halves of a whole.

Which is why he stayed, although occasionally Harry’s fractured mind completely broke apart and he would turn into a tornado of rage and hatred. Ron never fought him though, not once, even though Harry had beaten him senseless more times that he cared to think about. Because he loved Harry and Harry loved him and Harry didn’t mean it. He didn’t even know he was doing it. And always, after that bit of pain, the tornado would calm and Harry’s mind would begin to mend itself, at least as much as it ever could.

And Harry would love him again, and treat him like the most precious thing on this earth.

It was quite simple really, as long as he didn’t have to put it into words for other people.

Harry would move mountains for Ron. And Ron would lie still and quiet for Harry.

And that, to Ron, was more than fair.

It was right.