Stalwart

Stalwart

Today is gonna be the day

That they’re gonna throw it back to you

By now you should’ve somehow

Realised what you gotta do

It’s not fair. Look at them, making eyes at each other across the hall, smiling when they think no one’s watching. Bloody sickening, is what it is. Couldn’t they just eat the damn food and go somewhere private?

It doesn’t help that jealousy hisses deep in his gut, and there’s a murmuring voice that just won’t go away: admit it you want to be in on their secret, sharing glances and grins and late-night trysts you want that don’t you don’t you don’t you

All Ron can do is glower down at his pie, and try to ignore the whispers, and say absofuckinglutely nothing.

***

“Ron,” he’d said, “I really, really like someone. And I think the feeling’s mutual.”

And Ron had been too busy not thinking about Potions and blonde hair to pay much attention to him. “That’s nice, Harry, go get ‘er,” he’d replied, all the while not mentally counting the ways a sneer softened into a smile can make an otherwise unappealing face so damn kissable. It seemed to be working.

Harry gave him a look, a sad look Ron didn’t quite catch, and left through the portrait-hole while Ron was carefully ignoring how aesthetically appealing the green-and-silver combination was.

***

Professor Dumbledore was grave as he peered over his half-moon glasses, the twinkle in his eye a mere shadow of its former self. “Every weapon must be protected,” he said slowly, “and for Harry this is more so. Everything is dependent upon him – the wards, the Order, the entire school – if he falls, so too will we. The charm will only work if you remain true to him – it is your unwavering loyalty that will save him from those that wish him harm.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sickly-sweet taste of lemon lay heavy on your tongue.

***

He doesn’t have issues. Of course he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter if he isn’t as well-off as he’d like to be, or if he’ll never be anything more than an alright Keeper, or if people think he’s just the clown-around sidekick. He’s a well-adjusted boy with a huge and loving family, he wears his heart on his sleeve and he’d do anything for his two best mates.

He’s just not sure if he’s willing to do this.

***

The sneer is back. It suits him so well, with that frame of pale hair, and the fine-boned structure resonating with a decadent history Ron can only imagine having.

“Well, Weasel? Cat got your tongue? Or perhaps it’s that Mudblood. But of course, she couldn’t possibly be interested in you. Too busy having it off with your sister, I suppose–”

“Don’t you dare say a word, you… you ferret!”

He isn’t right in the head. It’s the only reason why he’d listen to such rubbish even as his sense of honour pricks at the insults. It’s why he’s too busy watching those thin lips form those petty nasty words, instead of drawing his wand and slugging him one again – but without the backfiring.

It’s why Ron can’t think of a decent comeback, because he’s too busy imagining silencing that mouth with his own.

“No need to get worked up over it Weasel, and besides, everyone knows it’s true. But you didn’t answer my question: where’s Potty?”

He wants to know where Harry is, but you have to protect him from everyone, yes, everyone. Especially from pasty little ferrets who, despite spewing filth at every given opportunity, you couldn’t help falling in love with.

Maybe you have a rodent fixation.

“Why should I tell you? How would I know you’re not… you’re not luring him into some sort of trap?”

The eye-roll makes him wonder how such a smoothly simple movement can convey so much emotion. “Forget it Weasel, I should’ve known I’d never get a coherent response out of you. I’ll just go find Harry myself.”

And Ron is too busy congratulating himself on not thumping the prat in a fit of fury to notice the situation isn’t under control.

***

He’d always thought it’d been Ginny. It had seemed so obvious, right from the start: the unerring devotion, the relentless blushing, the giggly whispered secrets she shares with Hermione and he isn’t supposed to know about. It was almost expected for Harry to fall for her, and Ron was torn between making his best mate happy and keeping his little sister safe.

Then he’d realised Ginny wasn’t mooning over Harry, but someone else entirely.

So that idea was blown, and he’d been annoyed to waste all that effort on Hermione, but he’d been relieved it resolved the entire issue for him quite nicely.

And it also meant they had to share the pool. Best mates don’t go for the same girl, it’s a tacit no-no in the Book, and Ron thought he’d done the smart thing by picking someone Harry was bound to not want. He’d even let Harry know beforehand, and since he hadn’t hit the roof Ron had assumed it was alright.

Great minds think alike, eh? Pity they share the same taste.

***

It’s not so much the betrayal as it is the fallout.

For Ron, it’s a bloody triptych to rival all.

I. Black and white still life: “Sunset is a Betrayal”

Two boys, curled together on a rumpled bed. Nude and limbs entwined, relaxed and leaving the viewer in no question as to their relationship. The dying afternoon sun throws faded beams of light on dark hair, pale hair, painfully honest eyes that gaze without question.

Somehow the artist has managed to convey, beyond the scope of the brush or quill or imagination’s limits, emotions that border on love and hate and all-consuming lust. They burn on the canvas, and bring the piece to more than the tentative half-life usually employed.

In the doorway, a robed figure backlit by torches, the flames forming a halo around hair vivid even in the monochrome scene. Shadows cast on the face obscure any distinctive features, save a twisted grimace that mirrors the tension in the figure’s grip on the doorframe.

Set and staged as in the period of art before the revolution in ‘moving pictures’.

II. Technicolour portrait: “The Picture of Ronald Weasley”

Teenage boy, dressed in frayed blue robes to match his eyes, seated with the air of one unaccustomed to such situations. Bright red hair clashes with a maroon velvet backdrop, freckles are prominent against chalk-white skin. Shaking hands bely the cheerful smile, eyes are skittish and sweat forms on his brow.

A girl strides into the portrait – bushy brown hair, neatly pressed grey robes and assertive demeanour. She addresses the boy without preamble, and despite the lack of sound a fully-fledged argument is clearly taking place.

There are angry gestures and a brandished pair of broken glasses. There are silent accusations that bring pain to the boy’s eyes and twist his features into unnatural formations. There are tears that slide onto the background and bend the angle of light. The paint begins to run and mix, the portrait slowly disintegrating into fractured shades of brown.

The boy’s features meld into one disfigured mass – more abstract than the Muggle artist Pizzaco – and by some stroke of fate, among the rivulets of colour seeking freedom, the true essence of horror is delineated.

As the boy flees the portrait, face ruined and aged, the girl shakes her head in confused disgust and leaves in the opposite direction.

This piece is currently undergoing restoration by Mr. Argus Filch, and is not expected to be available for public viewing anytime in the near future.

III. Sepia photograph: “Once it Was Not Mine”

The photo is of standard size and tinted with the brown of the potion. Two boys kiss and eventually pull away, but almost immediately one is punched in the jaw with the slow precision of forethought.

A third boy nearby nurses his hand and watches as the injury is tended to by the unharmed boy. Soon after he turns away; the scene freezes, and repeats itself over and over again.

Seen during the process of turning the original stationary photograph into a magically moving picture. As the potion takes effect the scene slowly increases in speed, and the tenderness and despair written across each of their faces, in the set of their shoulders, is lost to the viewer.

.

Dean Thomas hands him a sketch he’d drawn the other day. It’s of the three of them standing by the lake, each head a pinpoint of brightness. He burns it in the fireplace, and watches the way he shrivels among the flames with no small sense of loss.

***

You never get over your first love.

The fucking irony is going to kill you.

***

He shouldn’t have felt that relief as the news spread – Did you hear? They split up, yeah called it quits. Buggered if I know why, something to do with the war maybe? Knew it was never going to last. Malfoy’s a bad egg, you know…

It was Bad Form, and wouldn’t sustain the charm in any way.

So he covered it up, and grinned back as Harry smiled at him, and accepted his tentative offers of reconciliation with the grace that carried Ron through yet another Chudley Cannons loss. The guilt that pricked every time he saw Harry’s swelling jaw certainly made things easier, but Malfoy’s current availability meant things weren’t exactly smooth sailing either.

And he knew things would never be the same again when he found Harry by the dormitory window one night, staring down at the Quidditch pitch.

“Ron,” he whispered. “I miss him.”

His heart tore and he clumsily knelt down beside the crouched figure, half-hidden in shadow. He was never good at this girly comforting stuff, and he wondered with a vague sense of panic if he should go fetch Hermione before it was too late.

“He was the one that broke it off, you know?” Harry said, eyes fixed firmly on the pitch. “Said that it wasn’t working out. I understand, but… but it doesn’t make it any easier. And I remember all the things we did together, and it still makes me wonder why he did it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” was all he could echo in reply. The lump in his throat was hard to speak around, and he couldn’t quite swallow back the bitterness at his own lack of fond memories with Malfoy, either.

There was a sound like a stifled sob. He almost reached out to rest a hand on Harry’s shoulder, but didn’t. Instead he got up and slowly made his way back to bed.

The gulf was widening, the charm was weakening, and Ron was hard pressed to do anything about it.

***

Dear Ron,

I do hope you’re all well. No illness or trouble to speak of? Mark my words, if you don’t tell me I’ll find out somehow, and there will be trouble if something is amiss.

How long have the girls been together now for? Six months? My, how time flies!

I wonder if there’s a chance of you bringing home that dear blonde you mentioned in your last letter. Just a passing thought, mind. No pressure whatsoever.

Charlie’s discovered another breed of dragons in Molvania, and he’s owling over a few pictures as soon as his wand-arm grows back. Bill says curse-breaking in Sudan gets tricker by the day, but I daresay he’ll be home in time for the opening of the twins’ new store – and mind you I still don’t approve of it. How on earth did they fund this business of theirs to begin with?

Your father is concerned with some of the things he’s been hearing at work. It seems the Death Eaters are planning something to do with Hogwarts, an attack or a siege of some sort. The details aren’t so clear, but what’s most certain is some form of inside help. All rumours point to that Malfoy fellow, and it looks as if it will be him. I’m so glad Harry’s parted ways with that insufferable little boy. No son, related or not, should deal with anyone of That Family.

The Order wants you to be on your guard, keep your eye out and protect Harry as much as possible. Is the charm still holding?

Enjoy your Easter pudding, dear.

Love, your mother

Dear Mum,

We’re all fine. No, really. No need to mistrust us or anything. Ginny and Hermione say hi, and they’re happy together. And no Mum, I don’t have a girlfriend yet. I don’t think the blonde likes me.

I hope Charlie’s arm doesn’t grow back like it did for Professor Kettleburn, it took ages for the scales to fall off. I don’t know where Fred and George got all the money, but tell them thanks for the robes, even though they really needn’t have spelled them to flash Weasley Wizard Wheezes advertising all the time.

It’s okay, I’ve got the charm covered. I know it’s really important and that if it breaks the school will collapse or something, I dunno. We really need Harry, don’t we? But I don’t see how everything depends on one little charm like this.

Don’t speak so soon when it comes to Harry and Malfoy. They’ve gotten back together again, I think. For a trial re-relationship, or something. Yeah. But I’ll keep an eye on him.

Send me another pudding, Mum, Ginny ate the other one.

Ron

***

Picture this:

You’re about to meet Harry before heading off to Divinations, mentally trying to compose another gruesome death for your predictions homework, when you hear your name hissed and you see Malfoy hiding in an empty classroom and looking shifty.

He grabs hold of your robes, drags you inside with him and before you can say or do anything he kisses you.

When the shock wears off you close your eyes and kiss him back and try to reconcile your dreams with reality. You always thought he’d be an excellent kisser, and you always thought the kiss was an act of love, and you always thought it’d be a perfect culmination to all your years of wanting.

But now he tastes of sherbet lemon and desperation, and he smells like broom polish and fear, and he grips you too hard in all the wrong places, pushing you up against the gritty stone wall, and it’s as if he’s afraid to let go of you. The whole situation doesn’t strike you as right and the feeling only intensifies when Malfoy pulls back and murmurs against your lips, “Help me, Ron.”

You open your eyes and see frantic grey ones staring back at you, and the fear and desperation and panic buried within them is slowly combining into one chaotic blend of Holy Fuck. He still hasn’t let go of you.

“My father, he found out about us. I mean about Harry and me,” he says, and you long to retort with a ‘So?’ but you don’t.

“It’s why we ended, why I stopped it. But it’s no use,” he continues, and the unease is really starting to sink in. “And, and…” he’s lost for words so he kisses you again, slowly and loosening his grip on you slightly. This time the underlying fear fades and you can taste just him and it’s great, you don’t want him to stop. But he does and won’t he shut up? says, “Maybe I’ve been looking in all the wrong places,” and then leans in to kiss you again and perhaps there really is a thing called heaven.

“But what about Harry?” you manage to gasp and what a fucking moodkiller you are. Malfoy’s hands still and his eyes burn with a sort of regretful pain you know only all too well, but something clicks and harden and instead of replying he lunges in with a vengeance.

It seems Malfoy thinks actions speak louder than words and he should put it into practise far more often than he actually does. As he makes his way down your neck and fumbles with your trouser buckle you can’t help but make out the remnants of Harry that still reside within Malfoy, even as your hips buck and your eyes are clenched shut and your lip is bleeding from the effort of not making so much noise. That traitorous little cricket at the back of your head voices what you won’t admit to, and you try to ignore what it says it’s not real he thinks this’ll save him and Harry fuck no it won’t because what you have is good enough. Isn’t it?

No it’s not. It’s for the wrong reasons but you’re so weak you’re just going to take it, aren’t you?

“No, don’t,” is on the tip of your tongue and you move to push him away, but then Malfoy’s kneeling in front of you as he moves in for the kill and instead your hands reflexively curl to grip his shoulders and drag him closer. Your breath hitches because damn, that feels so fucking good the way he works his mouth and oh

the pulsating beat the rhythm the rhythm it’s in your head your heart your soul it echoes as the ghosts of now combine in your dance of love and hate they breathe the regret of a lifelong dream it’s never too late to say goodbye and watch the rhythm pick up pace the devil cries too and well he may as the world grinds to a final halt spare a thought for those who’ve lost as you regain and they succumb

Footsteps resound in the corridor and pause outside the room and fuckohfuckdon’tstop I mean go away I mean GOD

“Ron?”

And Harry opens the door as you come with a cataclysmic shudder, collapsing against the wall.

Your eyes lock and the shock you see in his eyes is bound to be mirrored in yours, but that’s nothing against the betrayal that hurts to look at. Something within you is splintering at an alarming rate and the panic is doing nothing to hold back the inevitable. Everything will be alright, perhaps, if we just. don’t. move for a sec it’ll be…

But then Malfoy stands up, wiping his mouth and focussed on you, trying to ignore Harry and failing entirely.

“You taste like lemon,” he says, voice choked with something indefinable.

And the sound of Harry slamming the door echoes in your ears.

The charm breaks, the wards break, your hearts break. As the first Death Eaters swarm up from the dungeons with their faceless masks and wands at the ready, Malfoy smiles in sick and broken triumph.

But of course, it’s all in your dreams.

***

Ron woke with a gasp, wide eyes staring up at the canopy and heart slamming erratically.

Only a dream. Only a dream. But it was so real, the sounds and smells and taste and…

And…

It was wrong. It was wrong to want someone your best friend’s claimed, it was wrong to wake up with your sheets all sticky with irrefutable proof. He’s Harry’s, you have no right and it’s all a case of duty. Off-limits and keep the charm alive and anyway isn’t he part of the Death Eater conspiracy?

It didn’t matter if it was only a dream and Malfoy was up to something, the fact that Ron wanted to do it again – and this time in real life – meant he couldn’t look Harry in the eye during breakfast. When a concerned Hermione asked if he was coming down with something he choked and couldn’t answer.

Throughout the day he was ill at ease and itchy, as if he didn’t quite fit into his skin. Everyone seemed to be affected by it; teachers snapped and took away house points at the slightest misdemeanour, house rivalry escalated into outright brawls. Even the weather took offence and began to rain down like nobody’s business.

By lunchtime, Ron was moody and irritable and quite ready to break something, preferably someone’s head.

But when he saw Harry and Malfoy hovering near the entrance, smiling at some joke and standing far too close for misconstrued intention, Ron realised something had indeed broken. Because he saw the tenderness playing across Malfoy’s face that Harry missed as laughed and headed towards the Gryffindor table, and he knew it was something he’d never experience for himself, because he knew that Malfoy would never look at him in the same way he looked at Harry. He’d never look at Ron like he was all that mattered in the world, like he was the sole thing keeping him alive.

Draco would never realise how much he meant to Ron. Never.

Harry smiled as he sat down opposite from him, happily oblivious to the fucked-up thoughts running through Ron’s fucked-up head. “I’m knackered,” he said, and proceeded to drain a glass of pumpkin juice before hauling into the stew. Ron watched him eat and laugh with Seamus and knew for certain, then, that any loyalty he felt for Harry was gone, gone and translated into an intense sort of love for Draco he knew would never be returned. But in the end it should be alright, because Draco loved Harry in the selfsame way, and everything came full circle. Ron’s happiness never factored into the equation, anyway. Just his loyalty.

And so he smiled and watched Harry live the life that he wanted. He brought Luna Lovegood home to meet his mum and chose not to notice the looks Dumbledore gave him, waiting for the day when Harry was ready to take on the Dark Lord.

The charm cracked and broke into a million pieces. Resentment fused it back together again, and it was lovely and whole and fine.

No one noticed the flaws as they spread, until it was too late.

fin