Tw: suicide ideation, self-harm, sharp object.
The summer holidays were neither here nor there, Draco thinks as he sits on the top of the staircase near Professor Lupin's classroom. On the days that dragged on so long that he wondered if he would ever make it to the end, it took all his strength to simply stay in bed.
There wasn't a day that went by when Ron didn't pass through his mind. It wasn't the kiss itself as much as the way their cheeks heated up, the way they paused before kissing him back, their flustered denials. He is confident that he can win them over.
Ron has been avoiding Draco's not-so-subtle glances and directed smirks since they returned to Hogwarts two days ago. As 23:00 on the marked Tuesday approaches, Ron can barely control their nerves despite knowing that hell will freeze over before he goes to that staircase to meet with Draco.
As promised, Draco kicks his feet up and sits at the top of the staircase as 11 pm rolls around. He didn't get a letter back from Ron, not that he expected to, although there was a sinking feeling in his stomach each day he woke up and Ulysses didn't have an envelope in her beak. This doesn't discourage him, however; he's never strayed away from a challenge.
His main train of thought is how utterly ridiculous this is, experiment or not. In no world is Ron going to show up: they're sworn enemies. Even 'enemy' is an understatement- their family's legacies are on opposing sides of the war. A male-female relationship between their two families would be scandalous, at the very least. His father might just kill him if he found out he got with a Weasely boy. He finds the prospect thrilling. A glimmer of excitement in his life, but at what cost?
Meanwhile, Ron sits on the end of Harry's bed, watching him chat with Seamus and Neville and enjoying the new curfew they get as sixth years.
"Ron?"
Ron snaps their head up to see the others looking at him. "What?"
"Did you hear what I just said?" says Harry.
"No."
Seamus thrusts him a piece of paper. "Look at this."
Ron tucks then untucks their hair from behind their ears for the fourth time and stares down at the white parchment. It reminds him of Draco's letter, not that they've been able to get it off their mind. Was it a wind-up? Would Draco even be there? Would he be waiting with Crabbe and Goyle, ready to make him a public mockery?
Draco waits. At about ten minutes after eleven, it becomes apparent that Ron isn't coming. He goes back to his room, not at all disheartened; he knew Ron wasn't going to show. A plan starts formulating in his mind. The black belt lies untouched at the bottom of his draw. He can still win them over.
11 pm comes and goes, and the twisting anxiety doesn't leave Ron's stomach. They lie in bed with a book in front of their face, the words refusing to go into their brain. He can't bear it anymore and realises he won't be able to sleep until something is done.
"I'm going to the loo," Ron announces to no one in particular. They get up and stride out of the dormitory.
Ron makes his way to the isolated west wing where Lupin's classroom is, listening out for footsteps. Settling down into sixth year has been exhaustingly stressful enough without the added tension Draco has managed to create.
He feels awful for even considering meeting with Draco again. They tell themselves that the fluttering feeling is irrelevant and that the way their lips connected seamlessly in July was no more than a fantasy. Draco is using them to get his kicks, that much is obvious from the mocking conversation that they had after the kiss. So why would he choose to even begin to think about playing into his twisted idea of fun?
The destination is painfully empty when Ron arrives, much to his relief. He doesn't know what he expected; it's over thirty minutes after the time Draco proposed to meet. Ron heads back to his dormitory, their nerves finally settling. He pushes away the disappointment fading in his stomach, lies down, and tries to go to sleep.
Out on the pitch for the first flying lesson of the term, Ron grasps their broomstick with sweaty palms.
"I'm going to fall off," they tell Harry.
He laughs and claps a hand on their shoulder. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."
"You're both looking very athletic," Hermione says as she approaches, admiring their new sixth-year crash helmets.
"What the hell is that?" Ron says as he turns to see Hermione sporting some sort of knitted grey scarf tied around her waist.
"It's for luck and balance," she says. "It's got a spell on, illegal for matches of course, but I thought it wouldn't do anyone any harm using it during flying lessons. Cho gave it to me." She observes him wobbling about. "It looks like she would've been better giving it to you, though, Ron."
"Don't start."
Madam Hooch strides over to address the class.
"Welcome back, sixth year. We're lucky to have such a lovely day for our first flying lesson of the year."
Ron hugs their arms together as a bitter autumnal wind whips around the field. "Lovely day?" they mutter.
"Hopefully you've not forgotten everything over the holidays," Madam Hooch continues. She receives various grumblings. "We're going to be preparing for the Quidditch tournament coming up next week. For those of you who aren't involved, you'll be practicing the usual flying routine. First, let's mount."
The class spreads out, putting their broomsticks down to mount like how they were taught to in first year. Harry and Hermione successfully get on theirs, hovering a meter above the muddy grass.
"Don't hold it like that," Hermione orders Ron as their broomstick wobbles around. "You're sitting too rigidly, relax your body."
As Ron relaxes his legs, all the tension holding them up collapses and they lose their balance, falling flat into the cold mud.
He lets out a loud groan, feeling hard mud smudge down the back of his jumper and trousers. The surrounding students let out a few laughs, attracting attention from the Slytherins on the other side of the group.
Neville holds a hand out for Ron, who accepts it.
"You all right?" Neville asks as the others snigger.
"Yeah, mate, I'm fine," Ron sighs as they get hauled up. "Cheers."
Once back on his feet, he sees Draco and his friends approaching. Draco and Ron connect eyes for a split second, but Draco's gaze slides away from them, purposely not making any low-hanging mud jokes, painstakingly obvious to Ron but undecipherable to the rest of the crowd.
"Is that your dad's cumrag, Granger?" he sneers, pointing to her knitted clothing piece.
She gives him a withering look. "Shut up, Draco," she says. "I thought you would've grown out of all this but I forgot that you're stuck with the mind of an eleven-year-old."
"No need to get so emotional," Draco smirks.
"Fuck off and leave her alone," Ron interrupts harshly.
All surrounding eyes fall on him in surprise. Ron isn't a stranger to an odd outburst, but nothing as venomous as this. Draco's eyebrows shoot up as he reverts his attention onto muddy-faced Ron.
"Your boyfriend's come to your rescue, I see," Draco says. He boldly blows them a kiss as he turns away. No one pays much attention to the demeaning gesture, but it earns Draco a thrillingly furious glare from Ron.
"What's going on?" Madam Hooch shouts, splitting up the standoff. "Stop messing around and get back on your brooms."
The twitch of their eyes is enough to tell Draco everything he needs to know; Ron hasn't moved on from the kiss and, most importantly, there's still a chance.
The first week of school is over, having dragged more than Ron feels is physically possible. When the second Monday of term arrives, Ron is already burdened with work and duties and crippling stress, a good portion of it stemming directly from Draco. They feel as though they could burst each time they exchange an accidental glance.
Potions lesson, last period of the day.
"'I'll do anything, please'," Draco taunts Crabbe in a high-pitched voice, holding the diary he nicked out of Crabbe's bag just out of reach.
"Give it back, Draco," Crabbe protests, regretting his words. "Don't read it, it's personal."
"Why, what have you got written in here? A list of girls you've wanked off to?" Draco snickers, leaning away to open the first page.
"Draco, Crabbe, stop messing about," Slughorn shouts at the disruption. "Pay attention. Draco, you can answer this next question."
Draco reluctantly hands Crabbe's diary back to him and watches Slughorn drag what appears to be a dead weasel down on his desk. "Imagine this animal was killed with an unforgivable curse," he says. "Give me an example of what curse could've killed this animal."
"Avada-kedavra," Draco answers.
"Correct," Professor Slughorn nods. "Can anyone tell me what this curse does?"
Hermione's hand shoots up.
"Yes. Hermione."
"It's the Killing Curse," she says. "It only works if the person truly means it and wants the recipient dead."
"Excellent," says Slughorn. "Remember, this curse is illegal under all counts with the gravest of punishments." He stares around the room. "Under no circumstances should this curse be used."
Ron's stomach turns over at the lifeless corpse lying on Slughorn's desk.
"Pike, can you name another curse that could've killed this animal?"
Pike gives a blank shrug. "I dunno."
"Anyone else?" says Slughorn. "Does anyone apart from Hermione know?" he says once Hermione puts her hand up for the tenth time this lesson. Ron's eyes almost droop closed as silence falls over the classroom. If only potions lessons weren't this dull maybe he would stop glancing in Draco's direction to see them staring back.
It starts to get on his nerves, and on the fourth time Draco manages to catch their eye, they throw their hand up.
"Yes, Ron?" says Professor Slughorn.
"Can I go to the toilet?" they say, disguising their anger through gritted teeth.
"There's only twenty minutes left until the end of the day."
"Please, Professor."
"All right, but be quick."
Ron doesn't need to be told twice. He strides out of the class, ignoring Draco turning his head in their peripheral vision.
Once in the bathroom, Ron takes a few deep breaths. They can't get Draco's infuriatingly beautiful smile out of their head. A minute later, they hear footsteps behind them and glance up in the mirror to see none other than Draco waltzing into the bathroom.
"What are you doing here?" Ron spits in furious exasperation.
Draco opens his hands. "I thought you wanted me to come."
"No, I didn't. We aren't doing any more of this," says Ron, jabbing their finger towards him.
"And what would 'this' be?" Draco says with an exaggerated innocent smile.
"You know what I'm talking about," Ron says, his voice raised. "Looking at me in lessons, giving me weird smiles, being nice to me. I didn't ask for you to kiss me."
"You wanted to though."
"You don't know what I want. Leave me alone or I'm telling everyone you're gay."
"Fine by me," Draco shrugs. "Just tell me the day before, though, so I can make sure to kill myself before it catches up with me."
Ron looks away, flaring their nostrils. "If you're gonna be like that, maybe I will."
Draco runs an unbothered hand through his hair, admiring himself in the mirror. "Go for it."
"I know you're just doing this to get a kick out of it," Ron continues, his raised voice echoing around the empty room. "You think I'm fucking ugly, I get it. I'm not risking anything for your stupid little games, alright? You might not care about whether this gets out, but I do. I've got a life worth something, Draco. You're not ruining that for me. I'm not compromising my relationship with my entire family or friends for this."
"'Compromising'," Draco smirks. "That's a big word for a Weasely."
Ron's cheeks heat up but they can't put into words their surge of anger.
"So what I'm gathering," Draco continues slowly. "Is that you're concerned about what other people think. Nothing about me is objectionable though, which I can't say shocks me." He gives himself eyes in the mirror, not believing a word coming out of his mouth, but amused by how easily he can get to Ron. "I'm pretty damn perfect."
"Plenty about you is objectionable," Ron spits. "But I think if I listed all your faults, Professor Slughorn would've sent out a search party for me by the time I'm done."
Draco laughs at the joke, which frustrates Ron even more. "All I'm saying is, you'd be down if we were the last two people on earth?"
"Fuck off, Draco." Ron pushes past him and heads out of the bathroom. "Go and find a girl to harass. I'm done with this."
Draco stares after him.
"Because I'd be down," he calls as Ron's head disappears around the corner. He doesn't see their reaction, but the stamping of footsteps eases to a regular step.
Ron swallows and keeps walking back to the classroom. A punching feeling causes their gut to clench up. Why does Draco have to be so awkward? Why can't he just let it go?
He knows Draco heard his footsteps soften, and he knows that's answer enough.
"This is grim," Ron mutters as Professor Sprout brings out a large metal container and picks out the dead frogs inside by their legs, distributing them to each table.
"It's perfectly natural," says Hermione.
"Listen up," shouts Professor Sprout over the grumbling of the students. "There's not long of the lesson left so we're going to do one simple cut and we'll analyse it further next time. Everyone have your frogs face up."
Harry flips the frog over, pulling a face.
"Pick up your scalpels and dissection forceps."
Hermione picks up the scalpel. "Harry, take the forceps," she orders. Harry takes the rusty forceps from the box as directed and clips them around the frog's head and feet.
"Now, whoever has the blade is going to start at the chin and cut directly downwards to the stomach. Be careful with this part, remember that the forceps are holding the frog in place so you won't need to touch it."
Ron looks away, repulsed as Harry does as she's told, revealing the insides of the frog methodically.
"I think I'm gonna be sick," they say.
"Don't be stupid, Ron, it's just biology."
"Yeah, look," says Harry, pointing to it. "You can see its heart now."
"Harry-"
Harry laughs as Ron goes a shade of greenish white. The bell goes for the end of the lesson and the class starts packing away.
"One person from each group make sure to put all the equipment back in the boxes," calls Professor Sprout over the racket. "Leave the frogs where they are, I'll put them away."
The students start filing out of the room. Ron takes the equipment from their group up to the box at the front once the main crowds have gone. Harry and Hermione wait outside the door for him and Professor Sprout is tucked away in the cupboard.
They hold up the scalpel, and as they are about to drop it in the box, the light catches on the sharp edge of the inch-long blade. A sudden desire overcomes him, what for exactly is unclear, and he stuffs it in his trouser pocket.
He throws the forceps in the box and makes his way to the door. There's got to be fifty scalpels in that box- Professor Sprout won't notice one missing. Ron catches Harry and Hermione up in the hallway and they make their way to their next lesson, not yet realising that he's just made a huge mistake.
The scalpel chides against his leg all day. Through potions and charms and lunch and flying and transfiguration, they feel it against their leg. By the evening, they still haven't taken it out to throw it away. The growing pressure builds throughout the day and by tea time, every single thought in their head is of vivid self-destruction.
"It's dinner in five minutes, are you coming Ron?" Harry asks.
Ron looks up from writing his essay for Ancient Runes. They've been sitting in the Gryffindor Common room all evening, procrastinating, keeping busy any way possible. In the end, it wasn't enough.
"Yeah, I need to go to the toilet first," Ron says. "I'll meet you down there."
"Alright."
As soon as the Common room is clear, Ron slips next door into the bathroom, locking the door and sitting behind it for good measure. They have three minutes max until the bell rings for tea.
They take the scalpel out of their pocket. For a long, panicked second, they just stare at it. He imagines digging it into his wrist and dragging it towards their elbow, opening up their entire arm and blood gushing out until they die.
Why did he take it? Did he want to hurt himself? The thought has never really occurred to him before. He rolls up his jumper sleeve and rests the blade on his forearm.
The anxious stream of thoughts stops. Any background noise also stops. It's just them and their stupid decisions.
For the first time in quite possibly his whole life, Ron feels completely level-headed. He puts on the most amount of pressure as he dares and slides the blade across his arm.
It stings.
They clench their jaw, sucking in their teeth.
The damage is negligible. Ron drops the blade on the floor, already regretting it.
A tiny drop of blood starts to form. He stares at it, captivated by watching it grow. Eventually, it overflows and the singular drop drips down their arm, then stops halfway down.
He wipes the sad trail of blood off and rubs the arm wound. The drop of blood doesn't come back. They can barely see where the incision was made. He pulls down their jumper, slides the blade back into his pocket, and gets up. Tea time.
Their head feels hauntingly clear as they walk down to the hall.
This evening is a one-off. He's not stupid enough to do this again. It didn't even feel that good.
But for a moment, for a blissful few minutes, Ron completely forgets about Draco.
Once in the Great Hall, they rest their arm on the table to lessen the stinging sensation. The cut doesn't start to bleed again.