Tw: self-harm, gender dysphoria, slight suicide ideation

Ron has tried.

They can at least give themselves that.

But resistance was futile as when evening rolls around again they're curled up against the bathroom door with the bloody blade in their hand.

Nothing else relieves his anger and self-hatred in such a gloriously painful way. This new thing, this hobby, he knew would become an addiction from the moment they felt the gush of relief the first time they put the blade to their skin. It isn't going to take much longer for it to destroy them from the inside out.

But Ron tells himself that it's okay. It's only themselves they're hurting. It doesn't matter. He's only hurting himself. It's no big deal.

It has been four weeks since they rejected Draco on the stairs outside his bedroom. Every day they tell themselves it's going to get better. Tomorrow they'll wake up with no desire to meet with him, tomorrow they'll realise how nasty he is and never want to look at him again, tomorrow they'll find someone else to fantasise about.

They've been waiting for four weeks for tomorrow, and it still hasn't come.

Maybe it would be easier if Draco was a bit more like his usual malicious self instead of completely blanking them. He'd prefer to be called names and insulted than to have his existence overlooked, but Draco is refusing to give them so much as a glance.

They get up, binning the empty plaster wrappers and blood-soaked tissues, and stare at themselves in the mirror under the unflattering white lights.

His jawline is accentuated, his Adam's apple is prominent, tiny ginger hairs spread across their chin, his jumper hugs his flat chest, their hair is styled like every boy in his year. Their voice is too low, too emotionless, their eyebrows are in an unkempt brush, his trousers highlight his shapeless hips, their hands too big and rough.

They don't like one singular aspect of their overwhelmingly masculine body.

They start to cry, ugly sobs, finally facing the fact that Draco isn't the problem, he never was. He was the embodiment of all their shame and pushed away guilt and repressed feelings they've been hiding for years and years.

It all seems so clear now; the only real problem is himself.

Ron wakes up with the sun. He checks the clock. It's before 8 am and the others in the dormitory are still asleep. They tiptoe across to the bathroom with their suitcase. It's been decided: they want to stop feeling utter despair every time they look in the mirror, starting today. Maybe if they can nip it in the bud, the blood-soaked tissues won't become a regular problem.

He has a good life, Ron thinks, shutting the bathroom door behind him. Self-harm isn't for people like them, it's for loners with no friends or future aspirations who cry themselves to sleep every night wishing they were dead. Well, Ron doesn't wish they were dead. They want to be alive, very much so. Not only that, they want to live a long and happy life. Destroying their skin is not achieving anything remotely close to the success he craves.

He doesn't just want to stop hurting himself: he wants to look at themselves and smile.

First, Ron pulls on his largest knitted sweater. It falls in such a way below his hips that disguises their board-flat body. Next, he pulls on some loose brown cords and boots. Finally, they're ready to face the mirror. They audibly groan out of frustration; he still looks without a doubt like a man. It makes them want to melt to the floor and never be perceived again.

Perseverance.

Ron takes out the shaving razor they got on their 16th birthday. He squirts a bit of cream from the accompanying set onto his chin, rubs it around then puts the razor to their face. A wash later, Ron stares in the mirror at their clean-shaven face. It looks alright, they suppose. He can't change his face shape or their Adam's apple or their overly large hands, but it's a start. The next step is to start growing out their hair. This could take months, years, even.

There's a shuffling in the dormitory so Ron packs his stuff up, staring into the mirror one last time. They only feel marginally better.

"Ron, is that you in there?" calls Harry's voice from the other side of the door.

"Yeah," he shouts back. "One sec."

They cup their face, cringing at their painfully deep morning voice. This isn't working. The jumper doesn't change their body shape and shaving just highlights their masculine jawline.

They kick the wall, swamped with silent fury; nothing is working and they are certainly not smiling.

Maybe it's easier to give up.

If self-sabotage is the way, Ron can't think of a better way to do it than by having a fling with his best friend's sworn enemy. Because what does it matter? Maybe Draco was right after all. Maybe it is no big deal. And even if it is, which it definitely is, then they'll make it no big deal. They can meet once or twice, just long enough to satisfy their desires but short enough for it not to develop into anything more.

And who knows, Ron thinks as he opens the door to Harry waiting impatiently, Draco might not even want anything to do with them after what happened last time. He's certainly acting like it.

There's only one way to find out.

Draco stares at the chessboard, analysing the position displayed in a book he nicked from the library weeks ago. He considers pushing black's pawns. Either that or attacking with the bishop and the rook appears to be the best idea. The book reckons from this position, black has mate in five. All he needs to do is find it.

He doesn't pay attention to the distant knocking until he hears it a third time and realises it's more than an echo in his head. He stares at the board, trying to imprint the position into his mind so to not lose his train of thought, then answers the door.

Standing there, to his surprise, is Ron Weasley.

"Hello," says Ron.

Memories of the last time they spoke over three weeks ago invade Draco's mind. The way the evening ended with him half-dead on his bedroom floor, how the deathly feeling didn't leave for weeks, and still now a cloud of numbness hangs over his head.

"What do you want?" he snaps.

Two red spots colour Ron's cheeks. "I can go if you don't want to talk," he starts, pointing behind him.

Draco clenches his jaw, curiosity trumping the bitterness in his mouth. "No," he says. "I just didn't expect to see you back here."

"Yeah, me neither, to be honest."

Draco pauses. This could go one of two ways, and considering Ron is here of their own accord, it seems that the decision lies solely in his hands. To say he's been on the verge of death for the last four weeks is no exaggeration. It's exactly like before July. He has nothing to keep him going, again, the only thing getting him up in the morning being the fact that he didn't kill himself the night before.

He could hold a grudge, or he could give himself another chance.

"So, are you going to start another bitch fight today?" Draco says, leaning on the door frame as casually as possible.

Ron sighs guiltily but when he glances up at him, they see a glimmer of a smile on his face.

"Fuck off," they start to smile.

"Get in here, you wanker."

Ron hesitantly walks in. It's the first time they've been in Draco's bedroom. He does a once-over, impressed. A worn, dark red sofa lies in the middle, facing an open fireplace. To the side is a polished wooden desk, a wardrobe, and a bookcase stretching to the ceiling. A four-poster double bed is pushed into the corner with an open suitcase on top. They don't know how he got his own room, but now that seems like the least pressing issue.

"If you want me to leave then tell me now," Ron says, standing stiffly by the sofa. "I get if you don't want to talk to me ever again considering how it ended last time. I was pretty awful."

"Yeah, I was too," Draco admits. "Call it quits?"

"Sure," Ron says, downplaying the hopeful surge of anticipation in his chest. "And no, I haven't come to scream at you again."

"What have you come for then?" Draco asks. He moves the chessboard off the sofa so they can sit, disrupting the carefully positioned pieces.

"You were right about me always running back," Ron smiles awkwardly. "I've changed my mind."

"About this?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm not expecting you to be the same, but I wanted you to, I don't know, have the option."

Draco hesitates, torn between preserving his unaffected image and desperately wanting him to stay.

"About time," he eventually says. "I've been dreadfully bored with no one to rile up lately."

Ron ignores the expected sarcasm. "But I'm not committing to anything," they say. "I don't want to get into anything serious, I'll tell you that now. We can crack on for a few weeks or whatever but this can't become a long-term thing."

"Relax, fucking hell," says Draco. "This isn't a job interview."

"Draco," Ron says seriously, crossing their arms.

"Yeah, okay, I get it," Draco says. "You want to be friends with benefits without the friends bit." He smirks. "I guess that just makes you my slut, then."

Ron makes a noise. "I'm not your slut."

"Of course you aren't."

"Can I establish a few things before we do anything?" Ron says. They sit upright, calming their nerves by scanning around the room and taking in the new setting. This is probably the stupidest thing they've done, and after running it through his mind all day, Ron decided they should at least lay some ground rules before diving in headfirst.

Draco reclines on the sofa, amused by Ron's rigid position. "Yeah, go for it."

"Okay, so, we're not friends, we're not talking about anything related to the war or Harry or anything, and we're not getting deep into this, no catching feelings." Ron says, their confidence growing slightly with each passing second. "I'm not getting into bed with you, and I'm not doing anything weird, like sucking toes or anything kinky, you're not tying me up or any of that shit. Also, don't kiss my neck, you almost gave me a hickey last time. You're not wanking me off and I'm, ugh," Ron sighs, struggling to articulate themselves. "Okay, what I'm trying to say is that I don't want to go further than kissing, alright?"

"Great, is that the terms and conditions done?"

"Oh, piss off," says Ron, making Draco break into a genuine smile. "Listen, I'm just being thorough."

"Yeah, I've got it," Draco says. "No sex, no romance, nothing long-term, no talking about the war, no being friends. No kinky shit, no wanking you off, no giving you hickeys and no sucking toes."

"Correct," Ron nods.

"How far down your throat am I allowed to go?" Draco asks, then wheezes at the accidental implication. "Christ, I mean my tongue, not my dick."

Ron gives him an unimpressed look. "I don't mind, kiss me however you like. Anything you'd like to add?"

"Nope," Draco says, finding this more entertaining than he probably should. "I'd let you do whatever the fuck you wanted to me. Tie me to the bedpost, wank me off, piss in my mouth, rip into my arsehole and shred up my intestines, I'm all yours babe."

Ron folds his arms. "Can you stop taking the mick?"

Draco snorts seeing a blush creep up Ron's face. "Fine," he says. "But I am down for anything. Well," he pauses. "I probably wouldn't let you shit on me, come to think of it."

"Good, because I wasn't planning to."

"That's alright then." Draco leans forward until he's inches from Ron. "Can we kiss now?"

"I suppose so," Ron says, barely able to hold back the smile as Draco plants a long kiss on their lips.

Ron finally admits to themselves, as Draco pushes them down under him while they start making out on the sofa, that they've missed this. He's more than missed this: he's longed for this, dreamt of this. It feels like all the air is being released from a balloon. All the pressure vanishes and every anxious feeling in Ron's stomach is replaced by want and joy.

Draco enjoys feeling Ron's flustered hands move from place to place, unsure of where to go, able to gently guide them to his waist and chest.

He curls his arms around Ron, lying his body on top of theirs. Ron's stomach churns as Draco pins their hands against the sofa's arm above them.

They pause faces inches apart.

"What made you change your mind then?" Draco utters. "You seemed pretty certain you weren't coming back."

Ron swallows as they gaze into Draco's eyes. "Uh, I don't know," they say. They can't think straight with Draco staring into their eyes with their bodies pressed right up together. Draco watches them blink rapidly, swallowing once, then again.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Ron says after a moment.

Draco realises that his desires must be written all over his face. "Nothing," he says, unsuccessfully hiding a smirk.

"Tell me."

"You won't want to hear it."

"Why?" Ron says suspiciously. "Are you about to ask me something weird?"

"No," says Draco. He cups Ron's face. "To be honest Ron, I really want to fuck you right now."

Ron's jaw drops slightly, and Draco laughs it off.

"What did you expect?" he says. "I'm fucking straddling you right now."

Draco's confession sends hot flushes through Ron's body and they become extremely conscious of their position, with his hips resting onto theirs, his hands inching under their shirt.

"Why do you always have to make everything sexual?" they eventually say.

"You told me to tell you," Draco smirks. "But I'll shut up if you want me to."

"Yeah, your mouth is put to far better use kissing me than talking."

"Charming," Draco says with a bemused smile. "You sure know how to seduce a guy, fucking hell."

"I'd say I'm doing a pretty good job," Ron grins. "I arrive and ten minutes later you're begging to fuck me."

"Begging?" Draco splutters. "Who said I was begging for it, you self-centered whore." Ron can't help but laugh at Draco's offended frown.

He pins them down even more securely as payback and starts kissing them again. They stay like that, making out on Draco's sofa until their lips are sore and they've exchanged all of the saliva in each other's mouths at least twice.

Ron taps Draco's chest, and again he ignores the signal, so they end up pushing him away with a hand on his neck, accidentally jabbing his windpipe.

"What the hell?" Draco says, clutching his throat.

"Yeah, well I told you to get off me," Ron grumbles, kicking his feet off the sofa. "I need to go now."

"Already?" says Draco, not bothering to hide the disappointment in his voice.

"Yeah, curfew is soon."

"Stay a bit longer."

"No, I need to go now," says Ron as firmly as he can manage, his knees wobbling beneath him.

"Fine, alright," Draco says, rolling to one side. "When do you want to come back?"

Ron runs a hand through his hair, hit by a wave of guilt. A part of them wants to say 'never' and leave this whole thing behind.

"I don't know, next week? Tuesday?"

"Sure," Draco says. "I'm here every day from about nine onwards so it's not like I've got to schedule around it. You can turn up whenever."

"Okay," Ron says.

"Don't stress about it," says Draco, picking up on their discomfort. "It's no big deal, it's not like we're feeding each other information about the war. It's a pathetic betrayal if you could even call it that."

"Yeah, it's just illegal and could get us kicked out of school and make our families hate us."

"Like I said," Draco smiles. "No big deal. I'll see you next week sometime, my little slut."

"What the fuck did you just call me?"

Draco cackles at Ron's disgusted face. "I'm just winding you up. See you later."

"You're bloody pushing it," Ron says, ignoring the smile creeping to the edges of their mouth as he stumbles out.

Draco closes the door to reset his chessboard and Ron makes their way back to the Gryffindor dormitory.

Ron takes out the blade. They look at the time. 20:00. They've been holding on for hours, doing work and finishing essays and chatting to Harry and listening to music.

There's quiet in the dormitory: everyone else is still down in the Common room. He rolls up his sleeve and looks to where the first scars are fading into a lighter purple, where the recent ones are scabbing, where their untouched skin sits appetisingly.

He was right: it's destroying them from the inside out. They'll find themselves in potions, in flying, in Ancient Runes daydreaming about plunging the scalpel into the prominent arteries in his wrist and watching the blood spurt out.

Their arms itch, they're constrained to long sleeves, it hurts to move his arms a certain way, it's a hassle to shower. The guilt is the worst part. The burden weighs heavy on their chest constantly.

Before it can tempt them further, Ron stuffs the blade back to the bottom of his suitcase. He knows another solution, or at the very least, a distraction for tonight. And it involves a boy.

They stand in front of the mirror, pulling a range of expressions, rearranging their hair into a neater style and replacing their top for his favourite jumper. One last look at themselves and Ron paces out of the dormitory.

There's no reply to the knocks at the door once Ron has climbed the spiralling staircase to Draco's bedroom. He sits on the top stair, out of breath and disheartened. Now he thinks about it, why would Draco be locked away in his room at 8 pm? He'll be in the Common room, socialising and messing around for the heck of it instead of using it as a distraction from his self-destruction.

They hold on for ten minutes in case Draco decides to show up, but he never does. Disheartened, Ron starts to plod back down the stairs.

"Ron."

Ron spins around on hearing someone fiercely whisper their name, having reached the bottom of the staircase. Draco is standing in the middle of the hall.

"Oh, hi," says Ron, a blush creeping around their face at his mere acknowledgment of them.

"You should've come a bit later, I'm not usually up here until nine," says Draco.

"Right, yeah," Ron nods over-enthusiastically.

"So?" says Draco after a moment of silence. "Are you coming up? It would be a shame to waste the journey."

"Yes, yeah," Ron says, pointing up to the stairs. "I'll just..."

Draco smirks to himself as he watches Ron make their way awkwardly back up the staircase.

"How are you not out of breath?" Ron pants once back at the top.

"You get used to it," says Draco, walking forward to unlock his door without trouble. "I'm up and down here at least twice a day."

Ron follows Draco into his room, looking around. Everything is how it was last time, except today he notices a chessboard on the small table in front of the sofa. They don't question it, too consumed in Draco's eyes, his stance, the way his silver-blonde hair flops onto his forehead.

"This is the part where you kiss me," Draco says, crossing his arms challengingly.

Ron's mouth gapes open, his heartbeat speeding up. "Right," he stutters.

Draco juts out his chin as if to say why haven't you moved?

Although he enjoys making Ron flustered perhaps more than anything, his conscience tells him to cut the showy attitude.

"Ignore me," he utters, stepping over to Ron and pressing a short kiss onto their lips. Ron's heart flutters and they grab Draco's shoulders, leaning in. Their lips connect again, and Draco gently holds Ron's waist, guiding them even closer together. He wraps his arms around them, pushing their back against the wall. The blood rushes to their head as Draco rubs his hands across their abdomen and kisses him harder.

They pause faces inches apart and laugh breathlessly. Draco rests his forehead on Ron's shoulder.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Ron would roll their eyes at his snarky tone but they're too dazed to think of anything else apart from Draco's hands and Draco's lips and Draco's body.

"Fuck me, I've charmed you that much, have I?" Draco snorts when Ron doesn't reply.

"Just kiss me," breathes Ron.

Draco does as he's told and they stay like, Draco kissing Ron against the wall.

The bell for the main school curfew goes fifteen minutes later, startling Ron.

"You're going now?" Draco asks as Ron glances at the clock.

"Yeah, I probably should," they say.

"Okay," Draco nods, brushing a hand through their hair.

"Night," says Ron, lingering in Draco's arms perhaps a moment longer than he should.

"See you," Draco says, watching them go.

Ron ambles back to their dormitory as Draco watches the second hand tick to the top of the clock face.

They unfasten their suitcase and take out the blade, playing with it in their fingers, resenting themselves for the pleasure created in the last hour. It shouldn't come from this, a boy, his enemy. He's just too bloody irresistible.

Their thoughts silence as Ron slides the blade across their arm for the fourth time this week. He replays Draco's lips against his and wonders why it's not enough.

Draco opens his draw and takes out the black leather belt. He ties it up with no particular desire to execute the act. The intent has shifted- now it's sheer control he craves.

His experiment is working, in fact, it has succeeded. Ron wants him back. Now would be an excellent point to let his legs go limp and his face turn purple. End things on a high note.

It would be a perfect day to die.

After all, he doesn't like Ron, he lusts for them. Whatever Ron feels is irrelevant as long as they're still willing to meet with him.

Draco smiles at himself in the mirror, stretching his mouth into an insane-looking grin and releasing the pressure from the noose. Not today, Death. He puts the belt back and entertains himself for the rest of the evening by sitting on the sofa and imagining Ron lying there underneath him.

Lust aside, Ron is nothing to him. Realistically, he's an experiment, an outlet. They are a device to keep him alive.

Ron is a means to an end, and nothing more.

"Have a good rest of your day," Madam Hooch calls as the students start to disperse off the field. Another tedious flying lesson, Ron thinks as they trudge back to Hogwarts' main block with Harry and Hermione.

Draco walks diagonally away from Ron, gazing over at them several times. On the fourth try, they look back. Ron watches Draco stride off to the toilet block as everyone else starts walking to the main school building for break.

"I'll be a minute," Ron says, curiosity getting the better of them.

"Where are you going?" Harry asks.

"Toilet. I'll catch you up."

"Ok, we'll be in the library," says Hermione.

Ron hopes that he interpreted Draco's surreptitious glances correctly as he hangs back behind the class then walks into the toilet block.

No one appears to be in the bathroom as Ron goes in. Dark clouds block the sun, casting a gloomy shadow over the already grey cubicles. Ron gets goosebumps as he walks to the end, picturing an array of ghosts watching him.

"Boo!" says Draco, pouncing out from the second last cubicle.

"Jesus Christ," Ron jumps, holding his heart. "You prick, what was that for?"

Draco grins as he backs into the cubicle. "Got you."

"I'm guessing you wanted me to in come here," Ron says. They pull a face at seeing the amount of space in the cubicle left once Draco stands in it. "We aren't both gonna fit in that."

"Yes I did and yes we are," says Draco, pulling Ron in by the waist and shutting the door behind them. "I thought we could do with a change of scenery."

"We're very... close," Ron says, their legs against the back of the toilet bowl, Draco at the other end and not even foot of distance between them.

"That's the point," Draco smiles, leaning in to softly kiss them. Ron doesn't have anywhere else to put their hands other than on Draco, and they feel a warmth spreading as Draco wraps his hands around their middle.

"This is such a shit change of scenery," Ron mutters, taking a breath.

"I thought the smell of stale piss was quite charming, myself," says Draco, edging Ron against the wall. "Bit of a throwback to last month."

"Someone's going to walk in and hear us."

"We've already got an audience," says Draco. "You know this block is haunted? About ten ghosts are watching this right now, all calling us slurs and booing."

"You've put me off now," Ron laughs quietly. "But I'm serious, what if someone comes in and hears us whispering away? We'd be fucked."

"Stop talking then," Draco whispers, pushing his lips back onto theirs, their tongues brushing against each other's. This time it's Draco who releases a few soft noises, but he continues kissing Ron, unphased.

"Right," says Draco, leaning away from Ron a few minutes later, stroking the side of their cheek before quickly dropping his hand. "I've got herbology to get to. Good talk as always."

Ron watches him sling his backpack over his shoulder and listens to the echo of his footsteps fade away. They face themselves in the mirror, tousled hair and pink cheeks, still not smiling. Every kiss provokes a deeper feeling of guilt and betrayal, just enough to transform the euphoria of meeting Draco into the desire to hurt himself.

Still, it feels great to be wanted in such an obvious and immediate way. The mere thought of Draco grazing his thumb over their cheek makes their stomach turn over. Ron is certain he regards them as more than a piece of meat.

As he heads to herbology, he wonders how much longer any of this is going to last.