The Long and Winding Road - Part Three

I'm writing to reach you… Only want to teach you… About you…

Travis 1999

Ron

He stared around the room morosely, picking at the ridiculous purple flares and the T-shirt with a giant yellow smiley face on the front. Ron took a bored swig of coke, watching Harry prance around the room with his sister. They were both laughing, and Ron could see the happiness on Ginny's face, the spark in her brown eyes. Ordinarily, he would have been feeling angry, as he knew full well that Harry had no intention of going out with Ginny. But now…

He sighed. What was the point of even considering it, when he couldn't even admit what he was to himself? He just felt so unsure, and yet, deep down, he knew he was different from all the other boys. Perhaps he'd always known it, perhaps all these years he'd just been denying the truth. All those crushes on male teachers that he quickly put down to teenage hormones running wild. It had been so painful, and so hard keeping his feelings from the others, particularly Harry. He'd found a notebook the other day, from when he'd been thirteen. Pages and pages of diary entries about how this teacher or that was so great, so impressive. He never came out and said it, but Ron remembered the feelings of longing and of desire. Of course he was gay! Who was he kidding! All these years of burying his feelings, hoping they'd 'just go away'. He was just lying to himself.

And of course, he had to fancy the one person in the world it would be hardest to tell. He watched Harry talking to Hermione now. Harry Potter, defeater of the Dark Lord, Quidditch champion, attractive, friendly Harry. Swarms of girls lusted after him each day, and here was Ron, loving him just the same. He ran a hand through his hair, and looked around at the girls, giggling, flirting, dancing… He had scrutinized each one's face and body a million times, trying to force himself to find them attractive. But it was no good. The friendly ones like Hermione were just like his sister, and the popular, aloof ones were simply frightening, unknown creatures. Girls didn't seem to find him attractive either, which at least reduced the problem slightly. He couldn't quite understand why, though. Looking in the bathroom mirror each morning, looking hard at his hair and features, he didn't see an ugly face staring back. He certainly wasn't vain, but somehow he'd never felt that he should be worrying about his looks. They were there, and he felt no reason to obsess. He didn't think he was ugly, not like some boys.

But he obviously was, because no girl… or boy, for that matter, had shown the slightest interest in him. It was all so depressing...

No. It was no good. Try as he might, he could not find one girl in that room remotely attractive. It was funny. He could see, as others did, which girls were pretty, and which were not. He could look at them all and give them marks out of ten, like his brothers, but the prettiness didn't really make any difference in the end. None of them made him feel like Harry did.

Harry was now dancing with Hannah Abbott, the blonde-haired girl from Hufflepuff. Talk about a lady's man…

Hermione came and plonked herself down beside Ron at that moment. She was saying something about the drinks, and Ron made idle conversation, not really concentrating. He looked up, and saw Malfoy staring straight at Hermione, with an almost fierce expression in his eyes. Ron pointed this fact out to Hermione, who immediately declared it to be a load of rubbish. But Ron could tell from the way she replied too quickly that she knew it full well.

"So who are you eyeing up then, Casanova?" he heard Hermione say, and thought how ironic that question was.

"No way!" he heard himself exclaim as Hermione suggested Lavender. Lavender! He watched her and Dean Thomas slow-dancing together. Lavender's face was just so… boring. All girl's faces were boring, to him. There was no spark of attraction there at all.

Eventually, Hermione must have taken the hint, because she wandered boredly away, back to the punch bowl. The party dragged on, and eventually Ron sought refuge in the toilets. Languishing depressively in one of the cubicles, he heard some people come in, and walk over to the cracked mirrors that hung over the washbasins.

"You shouldn't really be in here!" said a voice, and Ron immediately recognised it as Harry's. Who was he talking to? Ron wondered. His answer came a second later.

"Hey, boys' toilets hold no secrets for me, Harry," came a creamy, honeyish voice. A female voice. Ron strained to recognise it.

"Ohh," she sighed deeply. "Harry. I feel a little… cold."

"Oh!" said Harry, sounding slightly out of his depth at this. "Um. Why don't you… um… I mean, Pansy, maybe you could-"

Pansy!! shrieked Ron silently. Pansy Parkinson? But isn't she going out with Malfoy? Oh, but they broke up a few days ago… he realised. But, Pansy Parkinson!

"Mmm, Harry," she moaned, and Ron stiffened, hearing kissing sounds. No, he thought. This can't be happening. Please God, do something to stop this, wake me up from the nightmare…

A girlish giggle came, and more kissing sounds, then heavy breathing. Ron felt physically ill. He leant on the cubicle door, which he had forgotten to lock. The door immediately burst open, and Ron skittered across the cold toilet floor.

"Um!" he said, his voice about two octaves higher than usual. "Fancy seeing you here!" And he fled, feeling a hideous mixture of jealousy and embarrassment.

Jesus, he thought as he stormed back to his dormitory. Only you could make such a huge mess of that situation. You idiot, he repeated over an over in his head. You're so pathetic, you big pouf.

He got into bed, not bothering to change into his pyjamas.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, he chanted over and over to himself. You're a sham of a boy, you're just a mockery, a big stupid girl, you complete loser. Its your fault you're like this, you pathetic homo.

He pounded the pillow in frustration, wanting to hurt himself in the same way. Harry will never love you back, he thought. Just try and pretend to be normal, and don't even dare to hope.

*

Ron woke to the not very pleasant sound of Seamus's raucous laugh, reverberating all around the room. He opened his eyes, to see Neville, Seamus and Harry bending over something on Seamus's bed.

"Get up, lazy," said Seamus, "and come and check this out!"

"Wha…?" groaned Ron, pushing the duvet regretfully off himself. He stumbled out of bed, and saw Harry standing in only a pair of boxer shorts. He forced himself to think normally. Normal, straight thoughts, he chanted mentally. Straight, straight, straight.

"Look at this, Ron!" cried Harry, and pointed at the small black book lying on the bed.

Just be normal, he pleaded inwardly. "What is it?" he asked, offhandedly.

"When everyone else was at the party last night, I found the Slytherin dorms, and broke into the Seventh year boys one!" exclaimed Seamus. "I found Malfoy's diary under his mattress!"

"Fantastic!" said Ron happily, glad for a distraction. "Found anything good in it?"

"Have we ever!" said Neville. "Read him that bit about Pansy, the one back there, Seamus."

"Oh God, yes, this is hysterical, listen to this-" Seamus flicked through the pages of the diary. He put on a posh voice that vaguely resembled Draco's. "Pansy and I broke up today. It was a very strange experience. I realised, that, as ever, our relationship was based only on mutual, physical attraction…" Seamus stopped reading, because he was bent double laughing. Ron laughed cruelly along with the rest of them. It was so nice to have a joke at others' expense. No matter how saintly people could be, it was human nature to be bitchy and hateful sometimes.

They flicked through a few more pages, and eventually Neville got bored, and drifted away.

"I'm off to have breakfast, you two," said Seamus presently, growing bored with the diary. "You coming?"

Ron and Harry silently shook their heads, engrossed in the diary. There was something wickedly exciting about probing into someone's innermost thoughts like that. And it was ten times more exciting when that person was your sworn mortal enemy.

Harry budged up on his bed, and patted the duvet. Ron flopped down next to him, so that their body's were almost touching. He had now perfected a technique of being normal when he was with Harry. He just did not look him in the face, he avoided all eye contact when he was close to him, and he could keep his mind on the matter in hand. In a manner of speaking, you understand.

They chuckled together over Malfoy's fixation with Pansy, and his lengthy vocabulary, that sounded just as though he was showing off to his own diary. They had reached one of the fairly recent entries.

"Hey, look at this!" said Harry delightedly. Malfoy's perfect italic script suddenly had changed its tune. For pages, he had been spouting forth about the loss of Pansy, much to Ron and Harry's amusement. Now, he was describing someone new - and unnamed.

"It had suddenly dawned on me that there may perhaps be a person that I like. And perhaps have always liked. She has been sitting there under my nose since the first year, and, naturally, I have always dismissed her as a nothing. It goes against all my principles… My father's principles. And to name her, to write down her identity here would be like admitting it to myself, which I really do not think I'm ready to do yet."

"Intriguing," said Ron, grinning at Harry. They flicked through the next few pages, which only contained mundane entries about how Snape had yet again favoured him in Potions, and how that had wiped the smug smiles off the pathetic Gryffindors' faces.

"Bla de bla de bla," said Harry, ignoring the less than polite remarks Malfoy had made about their school house.

"Ooh, look at this one," said Ron, pointed to the very last entry. It read:

"I was right about that girl I mentioned earlier. She really is something more special than I ever gave her credit for. Certainly not a looker, or poster material, which is strange. I'm very superficial. I always go for girls on their looks. Maybe this is why no relationship ever lasts… Anyway, I suppose it won't tempt fate to name her-"

A knock came at the door. Harry sighed with frustration.

"Just as we actually get to the good bits…" muttered Ron. "Come in!" he called, and Hermione breezed into the room.

"What're you reading?" she asked suspiciously. Here we go, thought Ron. He told her, anticipating the inevitable outburst, which naturally came with unrestrained gusto.

"How dare you read someone's diary?" she screeched, and was off, ranting and raving for what seemed like hours. Ron guessed she was going to have something up her sleeve, and watched in misery as she performed the padlock charm on Malfoy's diary. Hermione, in her typical way, soon realised who it belonged to, and Ron could have been wrong, but he could have sworn he saw a jolt of something in her eyes, just for a second. He was probably just imagining things…

Hermione flounced to the door. "I expect you're wondering where Dean Thomas is," she said, grinning slyly. That was a point, thought Ron. Where was he? Had he actually come back to the dorm last night? Maybe he just got up early…

Hermione twirled a lock of hair on her finger petulantly. "He's in bed with Lavender Brown, in my dormitory." And she was gone, before the magnitude of this statement hit either Ron or Harry. They stared at each other.

"Dean… Dean scored last night?" stuttered Harry. "Wha-, how did he… what the?"

"Him and Lavender have only been going out a few weeks, that's all…"

At that moment Seamus came back from breakfast, and they regaled him of their findings, all thoughts of Malfoy's mystery love forgotten.

"Always said that Lavender was a bit of a slapper!" remarked Seamus cruelly, and all three boys chortled merrily.

*

Later in the day, when Harry and Ron had finally had breakfast and got showered and dressed, and Dean returned to their dormitory and revealed the less exciting truth, Ron was lying on his bed, playing chess with himself. He was attempting to instruct both sets of chessmen, a rather pointless exercise, but he was terribly bored.

What is the point of all this? He suddenly wondered to himself. Constantly living a lie? Would it be so bad if he were to come out? He had a fair idea of how the other boys would react. The worst insult you could call someone was "gay", for no real reason that Ron could think of. Most of his friends would probably disown him… It would probably be far easier if he was a girl, who was gay. Girls always seemed more accepting of things like that, and society in general seemed to have less of a problem with lesbianism. Girls, after all, were always hugging each other and kissing. It was far more acceptable for females to have close contact with each other. There was far more of a taboo about two men kissing. And there was the whole issue of 'manliness'. Being masculine was uppermost in priorities, Ron thought dryly. Heaven forbid you should come across as effeminate.

He sighed, and turned over on his bed, staring up at the cream-coloured ceiling. What would his family think? His mother… Gay men were always supposed to be close to their mothers, and he wasn't. Mind you, gay men were supposed to be about five foot tall, with long eyelashes and finger nails, and a high, camp voice. There were such prejudices, he realised. And for most of his life, he had been quite happy to go along with them. Calling short boys, that happened to be no good at Quidditch 'queer'. Neville, being a prime example.

Of course, looks had nothing to do with your sexuality. It was something you were born with, something that came from inside. He had tried for so long, and so hard to force himself to be attracted to girls. It wasn't for lack of trying. No-one in their right mind would wish to be gay. It caused no end of problems…

He thought of his brothers. The twins, with their endless streams of girlfriends all through Hogwarts, and now Fred with his long-term girlfriend Anna Larkin and George leading a bachelor lifestyle in his 'shag pad'. Fred had met Anna at work, and they had been going out for nearly two years now. George favoured the 'love 'em and leave 'em' approach. Both twins were typical, red-blooded males. How Ron longed to be just the same.

Bill was married to Carole, and they had a tiny son called Henry. Charlie had settled down with his long-term girlfriend Sam, who was now six-months pregnant. Even Ginny had a boyfriend, for heaven's sake! It seemed that his entire family was conspiring to show him up, with their unrelenting straightness.

The door suddenly burst open, and Harry collapsed onto his bed, drenched to his skin.

"What happened to you?" said Ron, peering at him between the heavy velvet drapes that cloaked his bed.

"Don't ask," groaned Harry, his voice muffled in the duvet. "I had a Quidditch practice…"

Ron peered at the window, watching the heavy rain dashing against the glass pane. "How did it go?" he asked.

"Apart from wetly?" said Harry, wiping wet strands of hair out of his eyes. "Well, I wish I'd never taken on Andrew Kipling from the fifth year as Keeper. He's a liability. Not only can he not guard the goal to save his life, but he seems petrified of the Quaffle, and zooms away from the goal whenever it comes near! God, he's a right little pouf sometimes… I'm going to have a shower."

Ron watched Harry leap across his bed, and stride into the bathroom, grabbing his towel en route. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Harry had called that little fifth year sod a pouf, as a kind of insult. He'd heard plenty of boys say it before, but this was Harry. He was as homophobic as the rest of them. Ron shook his head, trying desperately to rid the hot stinging in his eyes. How puerile. Crying, at his age! He really was a typical gay, a right Nancy boy.

How could they all be so bloody cruel? Sexuality wasn't dictated by the way you dress, or how tall you were, or if you were any good at sport, for heaven's sake! It was a deeper, abstract path that you took, through no choice of your own. It was probably set at conception, a particular gene pool, or slightly different setting in the hormones or the part of the brain concerned with attraction. He didn't know. His knowledge of Biology was very limited, and of course, no-one in the world had been able to prove conclusively… why. All I know is, he thought fervently, I did not chose to be this way. This way chose me. And there's nothing I can do about it.

*

It was the middle of the night, and Ron was having an attack of insomnia. Recently, this had been an increasingly common occurrence, although of course that fact made it no less frustrating; lying there, tossing and turning, sweating through the endless inky nights.

Ron sighed heavily, and pushed himself up on his pillows, wiping the perspiration off his brow. He yanked at the thick, lustrous velvet curtains that encased his bed like a shroud. Harry had forgotten to draw his curtains across, as he had simply fallen into bed and gone straight to sleep, worn out from the Quidditch practice.

Ron got labouriously out of his bed, and stole silently across the carpeted room, to Harry's bedside. He knelt by his sleeping friend's side, and looked at him, for several minutes.

Harry's glasses were still on his face, Harry having been too exhausted to even take them off when he got into bed before he fell asleep. They had slipped right down to the end of his nose, and Ron carefully slipped the glasses above his ears, and placed them on Harry's bedside table.

Ron gazed at him, the seventeen-year-old adolescent who still looked like a tiny angelic boy when he was asleep. Harry's messy hair stood up in tufts around his heart-shaped face, his pink lips slightly parted as he breathed deeply, his black eyelashes resting on his skin. Ron couldn't help himself; his hand moved forwards before he had time to think, and he swept a gentle finger against Harry's warm, smooth skin, brushing the fringe of hair away from Harry's eyes. His eyelids slowly fluttered open.

"Mmm…?" he moaned blearily, trying to focus without his glasses. "Ron? It's the middle of the n-"

"Shh," said Ron firmly. "You're having a dream. Just go back to sleep."

Surprisingly, Harry sleepily obeyed without objection, and turned his face into his pillow. Low snores a few minutes later let Ron know that it was safe to go back to bed, which he did.

Ron snuggled down in the cover, feeling extraordinarily tired. He yawned, and shut his eyes. I hope that Harry won't remember that in the morning, he thought. He could… could…

Ron never finished his thought, because when he finally finished trying, he went straight to sleep.

*

Ron picked at his plate of scrambled egg and bacon. Nibbling half-heartedly at the toast dripping with golden butter, he glanced around the table. Hermione still hadn't come down. It wasn't like her to be late for breakfast, he thought. She was always so punctual, even on a Monday morning…

He glanced at Harry, who was sitting opposite him, attacking a bowl of porridge with gusto. He looked up at Ron.

"You've got Transfiguration, right?" he asked. Ron nodded.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts?" he enquired. Harry also nodded.

"Should be good…" he was saying. "We're going to be practicing deflecting the Imperius curse onto the…"

Ron gave up listening, and just let his thoughts twirl themselves into one thick chocolate coating of his mind. Gazing into those green, green eyes, he seemed to lose himself totally…

"Ron!" he heard Harry snap. "At least attempt to look interested in what I'm telling you!" He angrily pushed the half-finished bowl of porridge away, and strode across the hall, in the direction of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

Well done, Ron, he thought wretchedly, cursing himself for his idiocy. He too stood up, cramming the last of the toast in his mouth. Walking slowly to the Transfiguration room, dully dragging his ripped cord bag behind him, he sighed at the thought of another lesson with Professor McGonagall.

Moodily, he flopped down in the back row, and pulled out his books hap-hazardly onto the pine desk. Ron still hadn't quite got used to the system of the sixth and seventh years. Unlike at OWL level, they had had to choose four subjects to do for their NEWTs (apart from Hermione, who of course was doing five). He and Harry were both doing the same subjects; Transfiguration, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts and Care of Magical Creatures, but because the classes were of much smaller groups, they were only time-tabled together for Herbology. In Transfiguration, he was with Dean and Neville, but of course it wasn't the same.

Ron waved mutely as Neville and Dean clumped over to join him at the back of the class. They were half-way through a mind-bogglingly boring lesson, turning small green pond frogs into their namesake in chocolate, when Ron noticed something strange. Malfoy wasn't in the room. He, unfortunately for Ron, was in the same group for that lesson, and usually made it his aim to make the Gryffindors' lives a living hell. But today, he wasn't there…

Ron stretched his brain. Malfoy certainly wasn't ill - he'd seen him up and about at the party on Saturday night. Probably bunking, he decided. Even so, it wasn't like him…

The day dragged by, filled with melting chocolate frogs, and squeaky chalk on the blackboards. Today was as cold as the previous week had been, and Ron shivered in his thread-bare black robe. At two o'clock, he finally escaped to his dorm room, thankful for the blessing of free periods.

Of course, he thought to himself as he slowly rounded the many staircases, strictly speaking seventh years should spend their free periods working in the library, but the teachers tended to turn a bit of a blind eye. Ron collapsed on his four-poster, breathing heavily. He dropped his bag onto the floor with a thud, and lay back on the pillows, sweating, despite the cold, his heart hammering.

"Bad day?" asked Harry, breezing into the room a second later. Ron sat up on the bed.

"Look, Harry," he started. "About earlier, I-"

"Forget it, Ron," said Harry. "I was just in a bad mood, I shouldn't have snapped at you." he came and sat down next to Ron on his bed. "Bad day?" he repeated. Ron sighed.

"No, nothing in particular," he replied non-comitally. "How was yours?"

"Oh, boring as usual," replied Harry airily, and Ron stared at him. He got the feeling that he wasn't the only one trying to hide something. Harry suddenly grinned.

"We really have to get you fixed up with someone, bachelor boy!" he said, laughing. "You've never had a proper girlfriend…"

Ron looked down at his lap, and to his horror, felt tears prick at his eyes. No! he thought, horrified, crying at my age! But it was too late.

"Ron?" said Harry, trying to peer up at his face. "Ron? Are you… crying?" He slipped a comforting arm around Ron's back, and squeezed him. "What is it?"

Ron froze when he felt Harry slip his arm around him, and felt his face burn red. And then, it was as though he took leave of his senses. All those years of carefully concealing the truth, of pretending and lying… All thoughts in his mind flew away in an instant, and before he could stop himself, he bent forward quickly. And kissed Harry.

It was as though all his life, his feelings had been wound up and wound up, like an elastic band. And now, just as the elastic had been pulled so tightly and so thinly that he nearly fainted from the pressure, the elastic snapped. And a waterfall torrent of emotions showered him, cloaking him, in the most incredible release he had ever experienced. Ron felt like he was flying. All of this happened in an instant, and then, he fell back to earth from considerable height. Harry pulled sharply away.

Ron had never seen him carrying such a mix of negative emotions. The most obvious one was shock; Harry's eyes were wide and staring, and his mouth was slightly open. He looked horrified. And then, in a split second, the look changed to disgust. Harry's lips curled in a look of pure revolt. He stared at Ron for seemed like years, and then leapt shakily to his feet. Harry shot Ron one last look of what could only be described as hate, and bolted out of the door.

Ron put his head in his hands. The elastic band had snapped, taking with it any sense of stability in his life. All Ron could see behind closed eyelids was miles of inky blackness, cracked into a terrible mosaic of broken pieces. The pieces of his life.

"What have I done?' he wailed out loud. He couldn't think of anything worse than this. There simply was no way that he could have made a bigger mess of the situation. And then…

Ron's head shot up as he heard the door close.

"Harry?" he said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. It wasn't Harry. It wasn't one of the other Gryffindors. It was Malfoy.

To be continued…