Nearly a month had passed since Ron landed at the entrance of Malfoy Manor. Since then, it had become something of a home to him, and the Malfoys had become something akin to family. Mrs. Malfoy doted on him, the house-elves were at his beck and call, and Mr. Malfoy — who still allowed Ron to call him "Lucius" — occasionally gave him a supportive clap on the back. That was only, of course, when the patriarch emerged from his study.
He practically lived in there, it seemed. Whenever he did finally trudge into the hallway, he tended to mutter to himself, and he always had an uncontrollable twitch. Azkaban had eaten at him until he was nothing but skin and bones, and his mind had shriveled just the same. Both Draco and Ron learned this the hard way: They couldn't chance moving too fast around him anymore. Whether he cowered or pulled his wand was a Sickle-toss.
"He'll get better," Draco often assured Ron. It seemed like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone.
Ron would agree with him, nonetheless. Mr. Malfoy would quickly be forgotten, left to his devices in the corridors, and the two boys would weave through the manor until they found somewhere more private. If Ron was lucky, they'd end up kissing for a short while. He always wished it went on longer, but the moments they found was a rare treasure, and he didn't dare waste time complaining about it.
Draco's parents didn't know of their unique relationship, and neither of the boys were in any rush to tell them.
After all, they were only allowed to scour the grounds together because the Malfoys didn't know what their son did with his friend when they were alone. It didn't bother Ron. There were plenty of alcoves and tall bushes around the estate. The sprawling land was like something out of a Beedle the Bard tale, with endless rooms, grand gardens, and even a pond that stretched across the property.
"I told you you'd like it here," Draco once told Ron as they laid in the grass near the gardenias.
"Certainly nicer than the Burrow," Ron had said.
It wasn't the first time Draco reminded him how lucky he was to be there, and though Ron knew it to be true, he couldn't shake what happened on that final, haunting night at the castle.
The manor's luxury was a constant reminder, after all. The night's events were what led him there to begin with, what would make him a pariah if he attempted to return to his childhood home.
He wondered what was happening there.
He reached for Draco's hand automatically. Draco looked around before taking it.
"Speaking of the Burrow," Ron said. "I've been thinking about them — my family, I mean."
"I see." Draco cleared his throat. "You're thinking of going back there?"
Ron chewed on his lip. "No. Of course not, I just — I s'pose I just wonder what's going to happen to them . . . since some of them are, y'know . . ."
"On the other side," Draco finished for him.
Ron nodded, silently thanking him for not calling it the losing side.
War was looming, and in war, losers die.
Ron blinked back tears as silence blanketed them. In his nightmares, he saw his mother and father laying next to each other, tapestries covering their blue lips and lifeless eyes before being burned by Death Eaters. It would be all his brothers' and Ginny's fault. They insisted on letting Potter's criminal army into the Burrow, and even when Ron's mother banned them, they kept fraternizing with them, kept digging in their heels.
Their parents would be guilty by association, no matter what Ron did — even if he hoped he could have them spared.
The unsavory characters that flitted in and out of the manor liked him. In fact, the majority of them seemed quite taken with him once they learned he was a Weasley.
"Those blood traitors?" Draco's Aunt Bellatrix had hissed when she first met him. She then pulled him close to her chest and cooed, "And still a son willing to fight for his purity . . . You've done well teaching him, Draco."
Ron knew it to be a compliment, but the moment felt rather unnerving. In fact, most moments with Bellatrix were unnerving. There was no chance she would spare his parents if he asked, and the more time he was forced to spend with her, the more he believed she'd have no problem killing him too.
"Lady and Master Lestrange have arrived," squeaked Podger. The Malfoys had four house-elves, and Podger was easily the oldest of them all, with shaky, gnarled fingers and wiry, grey hairs poking out of his ears. "The lady and master linger by the front doors."
Draco and Ron exchanged glances. Visits from Bellatrix were always unpredictable, and usually sprung upon them without any notice. Sometimes, she would dance inside with glee, kissing everyone on their cheeks and rattling on about the latest good news. Other times, she was snarling and inconsolable, dragging Draco and Lucius into corners where she would berate them for failing whatever she had tasked them with. Ron hoped she came with a good mood that day. She had a way of stealing the light from Draco's eyes, and Ron couldn't stand it.
Mrs. Malfoy sighed and marked the page in her book. She had invited Ron and Draco to the garden to watch the peacocks as she enjoyed tea and an old novel, something that had become a bit of a tradition. She spoke little during those afternoons. Still, she spared them a smile every few moments, and unlike her sister, it was completely free of wickedness. In fact, Mrs. Malfoy was every bit the opposite of Bellatrix. She was poised and kind, with hair as fair as Draco's, a stark contrast to Bellatrix's curls of jet-black.
Ron quite liked her company. It was unfortunate that Bellatrix had to ruin it that day.
"Thank you, Podger. If you would please escort them into the dining room, I would appreciate it," Mrs. Malfoy said. "We will join them shortly."
"Yes, Lady Malfoy."
Podger tottered away, and Ron noticed that Mrs. Malfoy sucked in a deep breath. He suspected she didn't like her sister any more than he and Draco did.
"Come, boys, we wouldn't want to be poor hosts, would we?"
"Of course not, Mother."
"Kippy will be serving shepherd's pie this evening," Mrs. Malfoy went on. "Perhaps, that will keep my darling sister out of one of her moods."
"Blimey, it'd be a miracle if it didn't," Ron said. "A plate of that keeps me happy for days."
Mrs. Malfoy let out a tinkling laugh. "How you eat so much and stay so slim is a mystery, Ronald. Truly, I envy you."
Ron grinned. Sometimes, he worried he was a bit too crass to fully fit in, especially when comments like that fell from his mouth. Yet, Mrs. Malfoy always reassured him that he was not only welcome, but appreciated. In that way, Malfoy Manor was much better than the Burrow. People liked Ron there. He wasn't a nuisance, nor was he in the way. He was a unique facet to their otherwise spotless family, one they treated just as they would treat Draco.
If only living there didn't mean seeing Bellatrix.
They crossed the garden, leaving the chrysanthemums and the peacocks behind them. Through the many corridors they tread, mouths pressed together as they prepared for what was to come.
By the time they entered the dining room, Bellatrix was already seated.
A half-empty glass of red wine was in front of her, and her ankles were crossed atop the surface of the long table. Her dark curls hung loosely around her face as she toyed menancingly with a dagger, paying no attention to her husband who sat to her left. Ron could never remember his name.
"How are my two favorite boys?" she lilted, not bothering to look at them.
Both Ron and Draco were silent until she finally glanced up at them and tilted her head, urging them to speak. Draco cleared his throat.
"Superb, Auntie," he answered, sitting across from her. Ron immediately sat beside him. "I've been privileged this summer, to learn all I've been learning from both you and Dolohov."
Ron tried not to make a face. Dolohov, he had never met, but Ron did know when Draco returned from lessons with him, he was battered and bruised in ways Ron thought unimaginable. He understood it was combat training, but was training really meant to be so violent? Realizing his fist was clenched, he did his best to relax.
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered, reaching out to squeeze Draco's hand. "The Dark Lord has been most pleased with your progress, nephew. He's told me so himself."
Mrs. Malfoy pursed her lips as she took the head of the table. Ron could tell she was uncomfortable whenever the Dark Lord was mentioned.
"Lucius will not be joining us, then?" Bellatrix asked.
Ron already knew the answer: He wouldn't be. If he was going to dine with them, Mrs. Malfoy wouldn't have taken the head seat. Traditional pure-bloods — aside from Bellatrix — were, if anything, predictable. They had all kinds of patterns and methods of etiquette that they unfailingly followed. Narcissa Malfoy was no exception.
"I'm afraid not, sister," Mrs. Malfoy replied. "He has much to prepare for, as you know."
Bellatrix grinned a wolfish grin. "So he's told you. You must be excited, Cissy — knowing what's about to happen."
"Naturally. My husband has been longing for the Dark Lord's forgiveness. It's high time he is granted it."
Bellatrix narrowed her eyes. "So long as he obeys, he'll be forgiven in due time. Tonight is not about forgiveness. It's about opportunity."
"Opportunity," Mrs. Malfoy echoed.
"The Dark Lord is merciful, Cissy, you should be glad for that," Bellatrix hissed, reaching for her wineglass. She swirled it in front of her face. "Lucius is lucky he's being allowed to reclaim his rank, you know. After his failure at the Ministry, I feared the worst . . . I couldn't imagine what it would be like for Draco if he lost his father . . ." She pouted. "He's being given a chance many wouldn't be offered. I suggest you make sure he doesn't fail this time."
"I'll do that, Bella."
"I mean it, Cissy!" Bellatrix leaned forward, her right palm still on her dagger, and her left still curled tightly around her glass. The wine splashed against the sides. "The Dark Lord won't stand for another mistake!"
Mrs. Malfoy said nothing. Ron tried to keep his expression as schooled as Draco and his mother did, even if he was trembling like a Knockturn Alley hag.
Bellatrix's husband then leaned towards her and whispered something in her ear. She broke out into a devilish grin.
"What a lovely idea, Rodolphus!" she cackled. Her gaze settled on Ron. Something wicked and twinkling danced in her eyes. "Perhaps it could be sooner than we thought . . . Tonight, maybe, if things go well . . ."
"Please elucidate, sister," Mrs. Malfoy said.
"I think it's time he's introduced to the Dark Lord," Bellatrix replied. "Don't you, Cissy?"
"Who?" Draco asked quickly.
"Our dearest Ronald, of course," Bellatrix said. "I suspect he's been itching to meet him, and if things go swimmingly with your father, perhaps I could arrange it."
Draco stiffened at that.
"Sister, are you sure that's a good idea?" started Mrs. Malfoy. "The Dark Lord is so very busy, and —"
"The Dark Lord is building an army! Ronald would be a most valuable addition," Bellatrix snapped. "And he's eager to meet him, aren't you, Ronald?"
Ron forced a smile and choked out, "Yeah, I er — I can't wait."
"At this rate, he'll have the Mark before school starts," Bellatrix noted, triumphant.
"He's still quite young, Bella," Mrs. Malfoy said. "Give him time."
"Draco was young too." She looked back to Ron, and her saccharine grin quickly returned. "My nephew's set to climb our ranks quickly, Ronald. He'll be Minister for Magic before he's thirty."
Bellatrix was speaking about what would occur after the war — when Ron's family was inevitably dead, and the Dark Lord's reign was nigh.
"After we win, every opportunity will be lying at your feet," Bellatrix went on. She dropped her dagger and reached out to squeeze his hand. "Especially with a bloodline as pure as yours."
"Aren't all Death Eaters pure-bloods?" Ron asked.
"The Dark Lord has accepted plenty of half-blood swine over the years, as much as I disagree with it." Bellatrix pulled back her hand and examined her garnet, claw-like fingernails. "You're a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Family full of blood traitors or not, your blood is clean, love. There's no reason you can't knock these nasty half-Muggles down a few pegs."
"It will be his decision," Mrs. Malfoy said.
Bellatrix nodded. "And he'll choose wisely, I'm sure. The Mark is a great deal of responsibility, but there is no greater honor."
"I only hope he considers all that will be required of him," Mrs. Malfoy said softly.
"Are you not pleased with Draco's choice?" Bellatrix asked lowly. "He wears the Mark with pride! As any good pure-blood should!"
"I know you wish me to take the Mark, Bella —" Mrs. Malfoy started.
"I don't wish you to do anything you're not capable of handling," Bellatrix spat. She eyed Ron. "Besides, the Dark Lord hasn't any interest in you. You're a society wife, Cissy. You have your place in the world. And Ronald will have his, won't you, Ronald?"
Ron forced a smile. "Yeah, I er — I'm excited. Real excited."
"Good boy," Bellatrix whispered. Her attention flicked to Mrs. Malfoy. "Did you hear that, Cissy? He's excited."
Mrs. Malfoy was silent. Draco was too.
Ron and Draco lay atop Draco's bed that night, on opposite sides, with their day robes still on. They were mirrors of one another, their faces bathed in the soft candlelight — passable as only friends, to anyone that might have seen them. They stared at the ceiling.
"You can't take the Mark," Draco said at last.
"I don't think I have much of a choice," Ron replied.
"It's dangerous," Draco shot back.
"I reckon it's just as dangerous not to," said Ron.
"You have no idea what you'll be in for. I'm lucky Dolohov doesn't kill me when we train."
"You think they won't kill me if I don't take it?" Ron asked, rolling over to look at Draco. Draco didn't turn to look at him too, and the question hung in the air.
Ron wished he would answer. Ron needed to know. He needed someone to tell him if he had a choice, because after the conversation with Bellatrix, he was almost certain that he didn't. After all, he did not have the same history that Narcissa Malfoy did. On this chessboard, he was a white pawn among red knights, kings, and queens. He had to prove himself.
Draco turned back to the ceiling and closed his eyes, confirming Ron's worst fear.
"That's what I thought," Ron muttered.
A brief silence followed. It was slashed by the cry of a peacock just outside the window. Draco sighed.
"You know he killed Burbage, right?" he said softly. "Murdered her on our dining room table."
"What?" Ron breathed. "That's mental."
Draco shrugged. "It's what you'll be getting into . . . So if you'd prefer to run —"
"I wouldn't," Ron said quickly. "I — I want to be here." He gulped. "With you."
Draco looked resigned rather than pleased. The expression didn't last long, though.
They were interrupted by a distant howl; it was low and primal — nothing like the kind they sometimes heard from Greyback on hunting nights. Besides, Ron knew that it couldn't be him. Bellatrix claimed "the mutt," as she so lovingly called him, wasn't allowed to attend the night's meeting. Which meant —
"That's my father," Draco supplied.
"I know," said Ron.
The howls went on like that for the rest of the night, until finally, there was silence. Nobody fetched Ron to meet the Dark Lord.
Ron stopped exploring the grounds when Draco was gone. Twice, he had stumbled across scenes he never wanted to see again, one involving Crabbe's father and a rather large woman clearly under the Imperius Curse, and another involving Bellatrix, the Cruciatus Curse, and Podger. Both were tattooed in Ron's memory, haunting him when he crossed into the scarcely traveled corridors.
Malfoy Manor was no longer the friendly place he thought it was. It was cold, a meeting ground for Death Eaters and nothing more. It was where screams pierced the night air, where curses soared, and where the stink of death lingered.
No corner was safe, not even the dining room and the foyers, much to Mrs. Malfoy's chagrin.
"I told her not to use my dining room for her . . . conquests," Mrs. Malfoy huffed to Lucius, late one evening in the north sitting room. She spoke of Bellatrix.
"There is nothing we can do, I'm afraid," Lucius had murmured back, the flickering fire highlighting a gash across his sunken left cheek. "Her rank is much beyond my own."
"So I'm to let her run wild in my home?" Mrs. Malfoy hissed back. "Without consequence? I will not be imprisoned on our own estate —"
"Quiet, darling," Lucius said lowly. "They might hear you."
Ron and Draco sat on the opposite couch, Draco scowling at his parents as they murmured to one another.
"Ahem." Lucius craned his neck. "Boys, perhaps you ought to go to your bedchambers. It is getting late, after all."
"Another late meeting for you?" Draco grit out.
Lucius gave a humorless smirk. "Rather an early morning for you, son. Your aunt and Dolohov will be here before breakfast."
Horrorstruck, Mrs. Malfoy hissed, "Again? Lucius, you said —"
"Hush, darling." He gave Draco a look of warning. "Off with you now. You'll need your strength."
Draco glared. Still, he stood and said, "Yes, father."
Curses filled Ron's ears. The hateful magic was loud enough that it rang throughout the manor, though who it was directed at, he did not know.
He thumbed through Quidditch Through the Ages, sat at the wide mahogany desk in the corner of what had become his room. Draco told him he would get used to living on the estate, and Ron had thought he was right, but he never knew he would be surrounded by torture. Stepping beyond his own door was too dangerous now — according to Draco, anyway.
In some ways, Ron was a prisoner.
He tried to shake off the thought and turned the page. That was how he spent his afternoon, rereading the same book he had read at least a dozen times before. He could have recited it aloud, had he not been terrified of being heard by the home's visitors.
He had just reached the last chapter when the door opened. In stepped Draco.
The other boy muttered a series of complicated enchantments Ron knew they never learned in Charms. Wires of red and orange light wrapped around the deadbolt. Draco's mouth was pulled downward into a frown.
Something had happened.
"What's going on?" Ron asked slowly.
Draco was pale, his purple-rimmed eyes wide and his hair mussed with crimson smears of blood. Ron didn't think it was his own.
"You can't leave your room anymore," Draco said evenly. "At all."
"I don't, really," Ron replied.
"You do. I've seen you in the halls."
"Just for meals and the loo . . . After . . . Well, there was the thing with Crabbe's dad and that witch . . . And no offense meant, mate, but your Aunt Bellatrix bloody scares me, and with her here all the time —"
"This has nothing to do with them," Draco said thickly. "This is an entirely new development and I am asking you not to leave this room. I can arrange for a chamber pot. Podger will deliver your meals."
Ron somewhat doubted anything could be worse than what he saw Crabbe Sr. doing to that woman, but he decided to keep that to himself.
"What is it, then?"
"He's going to be staying here now." Draco's voice cracked as he teetered on the edge of madness. Ron could see he was broken, and he wanted nothing more than to put him back together again.
Alas, he wasn't sure he could — and he still had questions.
"Who? Crabbe's dad?"
Draco shook his head. His silver, shattered eyes locked with Ron's.
"The Dark Lord," he breathed.
The Manor was big — big enough Ron likely could avoid the Dark Lord without trying, but it was a chance he wasn't willing to take. He stayed in his room, resigned to the stench of the chamber pot, despite his regular use of Vanishing Spells and practically a river of Destinking Potion, courtesy of Podger. The elf also brought him food, just as Draco promised. It still felt like prison, with visits from all three Malfoys brief and to-the-point.
Mrs. Malfoy seemed anxious. Lucius was jumpier than usual. Draco practically vibrated with terror.
The reality, Ron feared, was that he couldn't put it off forever: He had to meet the Dark Lord. Someday, there would be no escaping it, just like there would be no escaping taking the Mark.
"I want to meet him," Ron told Draco one morning. "Just to get it out of the way."
"No," Draco said shortly.
"What d'you mean no? It's not like we can avoid it forever. If I do it now, well — well, maybe I can at least help if something happens to you during one of those . . . trainings."
"I can handle myself, Weasley," Draco growled.
"But you don't have to," Ron said. "I want to help, but I can't if you keep trying to protect me from him. Besides, the whole point of all this is so he doesn't try to kill us when he beats Potter, right? You think he'll treat me any better than he treats your father if I put off meeting him for months? He'll think I'm a coward! Or worse, a traitor!"
"You're not an Occlumens," Draco pointed out.
"So? It's not like I have any information that matters. I've not seen my family in ages, and they're the only ones he'd go looking for in my head, aren't they?"
Draco clenched his jaw. "No, he'll try to use you to spy on my family too. He knows you've been staying here. Bellatrix tells him everything."
Ron frowned. He hadn't thought of that.
"You will have to meet him, eventually, but not yet. And I should at least give you some Occlumency lessons before you do," Draco said. "You won't be very good at it, I don't think."
"Hey!"
Draco shrugged. "You grew up with Gryffindors, all loud and the like. Your mind's different. Even now you're trying to play the hero with me. The types of people that can outsmart the Dark Lord would not be doing that."
"Well, I have to learn it eventually, so you might as well start teaching me."
Draco hesitated, but then, he gave a nod.
"I'll meet you in here at nine tonight. Don't tell anyone — not even Podger, and especially not my father."
With an inhale, Ron nodded back. That night, preparations to meet the Dark Lord would begin.
"Legilimens."
For the tenth time that evening, Draco slashed through Ron's memories. He saw his own body lying on the bathroom floor. He saw Ron's father telling him he couldn't visit the Malfoys. He saw Ginny cutting sprouts during Christmas break, and Ron chucking gnomes with his brothers, and Perkins's massive tent from the 1994 World Cup.
"Walls," Draco reminded him. "Build the bloody walls."
Ron tried to picture the walls Draco spoke of. He imagined them with as much detail as he could, constructing them, brick by brick, particularly around a rather damning memory involving Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott. It was a memory of the previous year: They were arguing in the common room — about Draco.
The wall was built. Draco wouldn't see —
Ron felt the bricks being pulled away. Draco was tearing down the wall even faster than Ron built it. Ron scrambled to put the bricks back, but Draco was too quick.
"She was telling people I'm —" Draco stopped short, blanching. "That little —"
Ron rubbed his neck awkwardly. He had never told Draco how he knew.
Overhearing the two of them had changed Ron's life forever — and Draco's, he supposed.
"I didn't tell anyone," Ron offered.
"That's not the point. I'm not —" Draco stopped again.
"You're not what?" Ron asked, quirking an eyebrow. Suddenly, his stomach felt queasy.
"That slag didn't know what she was talking about," Draco spat. "And neither did Nott."
"No one else heard," Ron pointed out.
He considered telling him it was that very conversation that made Ron realize his feelings for Draco far exceeded friendship. The other boy should have been grateful — unless all the snogging was some sort of sick joke and Draco wasn't at all interested in him. Ron frowned at the thought.
"It doesn't matter if no one else heard or not," Draco grumbled. "I never spread lies about her."
"I mean, it wasn't exactly a lie," Ron pressed.
"I'm not —" Draco rubbed his face. "Never mind. Lessons are over for today."
"Draco —"
"I said: lessons are over."
Draco stormed out of the room. Somehow, the moment seemed even scarier than meeting the Dark Lord.
In the week that followed, Draco continued to avoid Ron. In fact, all three of the Malfoys' visits had started to dwindle, leaving Ron alone, stuck with the stink of the chamber pot and no one to speak to except Podger.
Never had he been more miserable.
Ron's stomach was always sour, the acid thrashing in his throat each time he tried to eat. The worse it got, the more the house-elf's stew tasted of bile, the cake like rot. Most of Ron's meals went unfinished.
"Young Master Weasley fails to finish his roast beef," Podger pointed out once.
"Sorry, mate. Stomach's been bothering me again," Ron said.
"Perhaps a bug makes its way around the manor," Podger suggested. "Master Draco has also been feeling ill."
"Is he okay?"
"Podger imagines he will be soon."
Ron lowered his voice. "And has he — ahem. Has he mentioned me?"
"Master Draco is busy. He and Podger do not exchange many words."
Ron's gut twisted. Their time together, suddenly, seemed to mean nothing to Draco. There was no hiding the pain. Ron missed him, circumstances be damned.
They were in the very same house, yet they seemed so distant.
"I see," Ron muttered at last.
Podger's large eyes bounced around as he tried to make sense of Ron's sullen mood. He cleared his throat. "Podger will fetch more potions for the chamber pot. Master Weasley needs clean air, if he is to be in this room all day."
Ron raked his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, all right . . . Thanks, Podger."
The house-elf Disapparated, leaving Ron to his devices. Ron lay on his side and held back tears.
With nothing else to do, Ron buried his feelings in the task at hand: Occlumency. It took all of his energy to learn some days — especially when he swore he heard Draco's screams coming from the other wings — but he forged on. He would be meeting with the Dark Lord someday. He had to be prepared.
He read about building walls, about forcing people out, about managing emotions. All talents of Draco's, but not his.
Some nights, he would lay on his back in defeat, surrounded by open tomes. Those nights, he wondered if it was worth the effort. If Draco didn't care about him, there wasn't much reason to live. Maybe the Dark Lord would put him out of his misery.
It was a selfish, fleeting thought.
Draco or no Draco, he had to think of his family. If he was a trustee of the Dark Lord, there was a possibility he could save them, even if they were on the wrong side. He held this thought close as he turned the pages of The Unnatural Occlumens.
He was six chapters deep when he heard footsteps padding past his door. He recognized those footsteps well.
He slammed the book shut.
Ron had barely touched a meal in two weeks, but he had devoured eight different books on Occlumency.
He had mastered the theory from every angle, and he had even tried practicing on his own. Alas, he would never know the strength of his Occlusion methods until he practiced with someone else.
With a heavy breath, he raised his knuckles to Draco's door. He closed his eyes and knocked.
Nobody answered.
Ron sighed and prepared to knock again, knowing damn well that Draco was inside that room, but before he could, his fist met air. The door had opened.
Ron let out a gasp.
Draco's silver eyes were boring into his, one blacked and the other bloodshot. Across his cheek were three scabbed slices, almost as though an animal claw had met his skin. Ron feared the worst.
"You — you look —"
"I'm fine," Draco said stiffly. "What are you doing outside your room?"
Ron cleared his throat. "I erm — I want to practice."
Draco poked his head into the corridor and looked both ways. His gazed landed back on Ron and he whispered, "So you thought you'd just wander the halls?"
"Well, I've read a lot on Occlu—"
"Shh!" Draco hissed, clapping a hand over Ron's mouth. He tugged him violently into his room and shut the door behind him. Pressing his back to the door, he whispered, "Are you mad? He can't know you're —" He stopped. "Muffliato." He lowered his voice even more. "He can't know you're practicing . . . that!"
The panic emanating from him only confirmed what Ron already knew: Things were getting worse.
"It's getting bad, isn't it?" Ron asked.
Draco's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Slowly, he nodded.
"Then, we've got to get me practiced up," Ron decided. He sat down on Draco's bed. "Test me."
The other boy peered down at him. Then, after a moment, he let out a shaky breath and swung his wand.
"Legilimens!"
The return to Hogwarts was approaching swiftly. Ron, who was tired of being stuck in his room, was actually looking forward to being back in school. Draco was eager too; the less time with the Dark Lord, the better.
"I can't believe he did this to you," Ron murmured, dabbing dittany across Draco's battered shoulder. The other boy's head rested in his lap.
"He didn't," Draco replied. "This was all Bellatrix."
"Bellatrix?" Ron asked loudly.
"Shh!" Draco hissed, bolting upright. "Someone might hear you!"
Ron corked the dittany and sighed. "At least we won't be stuck here much longer. Once we're at Hogwarts —"
A knock interrupted them. Draco's eyes widened and he gave Ron a meaningful look, jerking his head towards the bottle in his hands. Ron shoved it in his pocket. Draco stood and pulled his robes back over his shoulder.
There was another knock — an urgent one.
Ron looked questioningly at the other boy. Silently, he mouthed, "Should I answer it?"
Draco flared his nostrils, but nodded nonetheless. Ron took a deep breath and approached the door.
He opened it. There stood Draco's father.
"Good evening, Ronald." Lucius's silver eyes darted to his son. "Draco."
"Good evening, Father." Draco drawled.
"It's good to see you've found some time to entertain your friend. I trust training with your aunt went well today?"
"It was superb, as always," Draco lied effortlessly.
"Lovely," Lucius replied. "I admire your commitment, you will bring honor to our family name one day."
Draco said nothing.
"That actually brings me to my next point," Lucius went on. "As you know, the Dark Lord requires us Malfoys to surround ourselves with those of similar goals and pedigrees." He eyed Ron. "To ensure those goals are aligned, the Dark Lord wishes to meet our dear Ronald."
Ron's breathing hitched. Still, Draco was silent.
"It is high time they get acquainted, don't you agree?"
"When?" Draco asked at last.
"He's requested he joins us for dinner tomorrow."
It was quiet for a long, lingering moment. Then Draco said, "I see."
"Do you have a problem with that, son?"
"Of course not," Ron answered for him. "We were just talking about how much I want to meet him, weren't we, Draco?"
Draco looked like he'd smelled something terrible. Perhaps he had. The chamber pot only smelled worse the longer it was in there, Cleansing Potions be damned.
"You will attend, then?" Lucius asked.
Ron nodded. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Very good," said Lucius. "The Dark Lord will be pleased to hear this happy news. You'll tell him, Draco?"
Draco hesitated, and then said, "I'll inform him in the morning."
"Good," Lucius said. "Yes, very good . . . Ronald will need to make a good impression. He has more to prove, given his . . . background."
"He's a pure-blood," Draco pointed out.
"And the son of unapologetic blood traitors," Lucius shot back.
Draco clenched his jaw. Ron could see the rage bubbling in him. If he said the wrong thing, there was no telling what Lucius would do.
"I understand," Ron said, before Draco could say a word.
Besides, he did understand. He always had more to prove. In Slytherin, to his family — he was the puzzle piece that fit only because it was forced into place, hammered by his own fist.
So hammer, he would.
Lucius cleared his throat. "It is only dinner, if that offers any transparency. You will not be bestowed with the honor of the ceremony just yet . . . You must earn the Dark Lord's trust first."
"Dinner sounds ace," Ron replied.
Draco's eyes were fixed on his father.
"You're sure this is all right with you, Draco?" Lucius asked suspiciously. "You seem . . . tense."
"It's perfect, Father, thank you . . . for the transparency."
Genuine gratitude was in his tone.
Draco fetched Ron sharply at seven. They exchanged not a word.
Their shoes echoed loudly. The clapping of soles on marble filled Ron's ears, dizzying white noise that deafened him to the other sounds of the manor.
The hall seemed shorter than usual. The grand dining room opened at the end, cavernous and dark like the meeting that was about to take place.
Draco sucked in a breath and stepped inside. Ron followed.
The dining room table was studded with silver platters, surrounded by flowing, black robes that pooled around the feet of the dinner guests. There were at least a dozen Death Eaters there. Ron didn't recognize all of their faces.
But one was unmistakable.
He sat at the head of the table, his nose as flat as the plate before him, his eyes gleaming crimson. Bellatrix placed her hand on his, a blood-red grin pasted across her lips.
Draco seated himself beside his father. Ron instantly took the spot beside him.
"How lovely of you to join us this evening, Mr. Weasley," Voldemort purred. "I've been awaiting this meeting for quite some time."
Ron did not know what to say. He was still shocked by the mere sight of the man.
Draco nudged his foot.
"Er — yes, yes, me too," Ron said, sitting up straighter.
"It was unexpected, to say the least," Voldemort went on. "Considering your family is known to commiserate with Muggles and Mudbloods."
Mrs. Malfoy nearly choked on her wine. Bellatrix snickered.
"Dirty blood traitors," sneered Crabbe Sr. He poked at his mashed potatoes.
"Quiet, Crabbe," Voldemort warned. He then raised his chin at Ron. "You will have to excuse his outburst . . . He does, however, raise a valid point. They are traitors, aren't they?"
Ron swallowed hard.
"That was a question, Ronald!" Bellatrix barked.
"Yes!" Ron exclaimed automatically. "They — they are. Traitors, I mean."
Bellatrix looked pleased with the response, but Voldemort clasped together his long, bony fingers. He leaned forward. "And what encouraged you to stray from them and their . . . ways?"
Ron cleared his throat. "Well . . . It — it didn't seem right. We're pure-bloods, we ought to act like it."
Bellatrix's smile grew larger.
"Indeed," Voldemort said coolly. His red eyes flicked towards Draco. "You have been at Hogwarts with Mr. Weasley for six years now, Draco. Is that correct?"
Draco nodded. "Yes, My Lord."
"Tell me: Can he be trusted?"
Draco nodded again, with vigor. "Yes, My Lord. He was Sorted into Slytherin. He's rejected his family for years. I can attest to that."
"And his blood status?" Bellatrix quipped, cocking her head to the side. "Is he really a pure-blood?"
"'Course I am," Ron said, a little offended that she questioned the claim.
"But how could that be?" Bellatrix's husband asked. "Muggle lovers producing a flock of mudless heir? Seems unlikely."
"My dad messes about with Muggle rubbish, sure, but no one in the family's ever actually bred with one," Ron said. He shivered. "And honestly, I doubt any of them ever would. We never even met any Muggles growing up."
"Yet your father reveres them," another man pointed out.
"His father has a bizarre fascination, one that Ron does not share," Draco cut in.
"Yeah and no one else in the family's like that," Ron added, feeling a dash more confident. "My father's just . . . different."
"Different," repeated a man.
"He seems awfully defensive of this family he rejects," said a woman. She looked quite like the man before her.
"He is merely proving a point."
The voice came from behind Ron's head. He gasped and whipped around, shocked to see Snape standing there. He hadn't heard him enter the room.
"Severus," Voldemort said with a smile. "I was afraid you wouldn't make it."
"Fortunately, I was able to complete the task with haste," Snape said. He took the seat opposite Bellatrix. "I do apologize for my tardiness, My Lord."
"No need to apologize, Severus. Your loyalty is what kept you," Voldemort said. He then smirked. "We were just discussing Mr. Weasley's blood purity."
"So I heard."
"I still don't believe he's a pure-blood," Bellatrix's husband muttered.
"I can assure you that he is," Snape drawled.
"A purer bloodline than even your dear Bella's," Voldemort agreed smugly, "considering your sister-in-law's Mudblood marriage."
Bellatrix's smile faltered, as did her husband's. She shrunk in her chair and pulled her hand away from Voldemort's.
Ron had never seen her look so dejected, and never thought he would.
"Tell me, Ronald, have you liked staying here with the Malfoys?" Voldemort then asked, cutting into his steak.
"Erm — I've liked it a lot," Ron said awkwardly. "Mrs. Malfoy is a good hostess."
Narcissa smiled a little at that.
"That she is," Voldemort said tightly. His red eyes darted towards Draco. "You've recruited well, Draco."
Draco gave a short nod. His eyes were clouded with Occlusion, but Ron could see clearly the other boy wanted to be sick. Ron felt uneasy too, but there wasn't much to be done. Potter's side was hardly a choice anymore, especially since he was going to lose.
Uneasiness trumped death. There was no question about that.
"You hope to take the Mark then?" a man with a warped nose asked. His voice was deep, and he wore a five o' clock shadow.
"Of course he does," Lucius cut in quickly. "He wouldn't be allowed in my home if he hadn't planned to take it, My Lord."
Mrs. Malfoy's lips pursed.
"Yet it's taken him so long to meet me," Voldemort pointed out, his tone dangerous. "If he plans for the Mark, I would've assumed him to be eager."
Ron's hands were clammy. He couldn't help but look at Draco, and then upon realizing what he'd done, he Occluded immediately.
"He was eager, My Lord," Draco said swiftly. "To impress you. He feared what you might have thought of him, considering his . . . family."
Ron saw something stiffen in both Mrs. Malfoy and Voldemort.
Voldemort raised a napkin to his narrow lips and dabbed them.
"Is that true, Ronald?" the Dark Lord asked softly. His red eyes fixated on Ron; Ron felt his arm hairs stand on end. "You thought your blood traitor relatives may have made you less than desirable, in my circle?"
Ron swallowed and nodded, slowly. Voldemort smiled thinly and nodded back. Ron let his walls of Occlusion melt away, but then he felt Draco's foot nudge his. He quickly built them again, and it was just in time.
Legilimency sliced through his thoughts — Legilimency far more powerful than Draco's — in search of a lie. If Ron hadn't known better, he would've thought someone had taken a knife to his temples, cutting all the way to his skull, and then through it, and then —
It stopped.
Voldemort raised his chin.
"The ceremony will take place during the Easter holidays," he announced. "It seems the Weasley boy was eager to please, after all —" He leveled his gaze on Ron. "— and so he shall."
Draco's misery was palpable.
The first day of school was mere days away, and Ron hoped breaking away from Malfoy Manor for a while would cheer him up. The Dark Lord's surprise visits — as well as those of his lackeys — were beginning to take their toll on the other boy. A vacation from that would do him some good.
"We ought to pack our things tomorrow," Ron said. He then frowned. "Wait, my trunk — it's — "
"I'll have my mother find you an extra one of ours," Draco mumbled, knowing good and well that Ron's trunk was left at Hogwarts, and there was no telling what had come of it. "It's not like her and Father will need them. He won't let them do any traveling this year, I'm sure."
Ron nodded awkwardly. "Yeah. Right."
Silence engulfed them. Ron could feel the sheer stress radiating from the other boy, and in a wordless effort to comfort him, he reached for his hand.
Draco did not look at him.
He intertwined their fingers, and kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"You are both such handsome young men," Mrs. Malfoy said, squeezing Draco and Ron's wrists. She smiled at them brightly, yet something in her eyes was distant and broken. She blinked quickly, as though fighting off tears. "Your last year at Hogwarts. It seems it was just yesterday —"
She choked on a sob, and Moppy hurriedly reached up to offer her a handkerchief. Mrs. Malfoy took it and dabbed her eyes.
"I suppose it's time, then," Mrs. Malfoy said, sniffing. "I will see you both for Christmas, I trust?"
"Of course, Mother," Draco said, reaching out to peck her cheeks. "We'll be back soon."
"Do write," Mrs. Malfoy whispered. Her eyes snapped to Ron as she pulled away from her son. "And Ronald — if you happen to see your family at King's Cross today —"
"I won't talk to them," Ron said gravely.
He wasn't sure he could talk to them. Even if he tried to bury the hatchet, he assumed he was long-dead to the lot of them.
Mrs. Malfoy nodded. "Good." She put her hands on Ron's upper arms and sucked in a deep sigh, as though she didn't know what to do with him. Then, she pulled him in for an embrace, cradling him with as much love as she did Draco.
She was warm. Ron would miss her.
"Please take care of my boy at Hogwarts," she whispered.
Ron tightened his grip on her and nodded.
"I will."
The window was cool against Ron's temple. He rested his head there, watching the scenery zip by as the Hogwarts Express chugged north. His thoughts spun.
He hadn't seen his parents at King's Cross, and while he wasn't surprised, he wasn't sure whether he was supposed to be disappointed or relieved. Mostly, he felt terror. For them, for himself.
They had made their choices. He had made his.
The chessboard was set.
"What about you, Weasley?"
Ron jumped and quickly turned to the voice in question. Staring back at him was Goyle, his brow wrinkled.
"What?" Ron asked.
"When're you getting the Mark?" Goyle said in a low tone.
"Easter," Ron answered quickly. He gulped, his eyes averting to Draco. "According to er — according to the Dark Lord."
"You spoke to him?" Crabbe exclaimed.
"Er — yeah," Ron replied. "We had dinner, one night."
"Bloody hell," Crabbe breathed. "What was he like?"
Ron felt Draco's foot lightly nudge his.
"Brilliant." He glanced at Draco again before clearing his throat and nodding at Crabbe. "Yeah, real brilliant. Completely the right choice to be on his side. He's got it all right. That's er — that's for certain."
Nott cocked an eyebrow at that. He was sitting in the corner by the compartment door, staring at Ron as he spoke.
Ron looked at the floor.
Deboarding the train took hours. Filch stopped each student as they disembarked at Hogsmeade Station, patting them down, poking, and prodding at them before they were allowed to step onto the carriages. Even the first-years were checked. As the older Slytherin boys awaited their turn, they watched a small redhead tremble while Filch turned his pockets.
"Contraband!" Filch shouted, fisting a handful of candies. Ron recognized them at once; they were his brothers' inventions — Nosebleed Nougats and Puking Pastilles.
The boy looked like he was going to faint. "Am I — am I expelled?"
"If it was my choice, ya would be," Filch growled.
"But it's not," the oaf — Hagrid — boomed from afar. He was collecting the first-years for their boat ride to the school. "C'mon lad, we'll meet Professor McGonagall at the castle." He leveled angry eyes on Filch. "She'll decide what happens with yeh, and I ruddy doubt it'll be an expelling!"
Filch muttered to himself as Ron stepped forward for his turn. The last thing Ron wanted was for the caretaker to touch him, but he didn't seem to have much of a choice.
Scowling, Filch shoved the candies into his pocket. Then, he raised his filthy hands, long fingernails protruding as he reached towards Ron, before —
"Leave him!" a voice cut in sternly.
Ron blinked and turned in the direction the voice came from. Hurrying down the hill was Snape, his dark robes dragging behind him. His wand was clutched in his hand.
"But sir, you said —" Filch started.
"I am well aware of what I said, Argus, and you'd do well to listen to what I am saying now. Mr. Weasley does not require any searching," Snape spat, parking in front of them. His beetle-black eyes flickered to Draco. "Nor does Mr. Malfoy."
Filch retracted his claw-like hand in defeat. Draco smirked.
"Knew things'd be different with you in charge, Professor," Crabbe said, grinning, sliding past Filch. "Finally, someone to keep the Mudbloods and blood traitors in line —"
"Mr. Crabbe, please do be still so Mr. Filch can search you," Snape drawled.
All the superiority drained from Crabbe's round face. Ron fought off a snort, nervous that Snape might change his mind if he was too openly arrogant.
Draco pushed off his heel to hike towards the carriages, but Snape grabbed his arm.
"You're to come with me. You as well, Weasley."
Ron and Draco exchanged confused looks. Nevertheless, they followed him as he trudged back up the hill. There was not much else to do; not only was he the new headmaster, but he was also one of the Dark Lord's most loyal servants.
He outranked them in every sense.
They passed the dozens of carriages being boarded by other students, including the prefects' carriage, where Ron saw Longbottom pulling himself inside. The Gryffindor spared Ron a dark look. Ron watched him blankly on his way past.
Finally, they stopped.
Just ahead of the prefects' carriage was a much grander one — one Ron had never seen before. It was a rich black, with a large "H" upon the side, inlain in gold. The door opened automatically. Snape pulled himself inside without a word.
"Do we —" Ron started.
Draco did not answer, but instead followed the headmaster. Ron did the same.
His jaw dropped.
The inside of the carriage was even more luxurious than the exterior. It was lined with ruby crushed velvet that seemed to go on for ages, as it was so big on the inside that it could fit ten people or more. It reminded Ron a bit of Perkins's tent that way.
He shook off the memory. It wasn't the time to think of his family.
Snape sat. Draco sat across from him, and Ron took it as his cue to do the same. He dropped onto the seat beside Draco — but not too close.
The headmaster stared at them unblinkingly. It went on that way for at least two minutes, before Ron began to wonder what was going on.
"Sir?" he asked at last. "Why aren't we moving?"
"We're waiting for someone, Mr. Weasley," Snape drawled. "Surely, you're familiar with the concept."
"Well, yes but —"
"It's not him, is it?" Draco blurted.
Snape remained expressionless before saying one word.
"No."
Draco let out a sigh of relief. Almost immediately, he went rigid again. "Will he come here at all this year? To Hogwarts?"
"Eventually."
Draco's shoulders sagged at the news, but he didn't seem surprised.
"By he, d'you mean —"
Ron was stopped short as the carriage rocked with the weight of someone landing on one of the steps. Then, the door burst open, followed by a voice so shrill Ron had to cover his ears.
"I knew it!"
The sour hiss came from none other than Pansy Parkinson. She looked infuriated, her dark eyes darting towards the headmaster.
"As soon as I got the letter, I knew —"
"Sit down, Miss Parkinson," ordered Snape.
" — and I'll have you know, I will not —"
"I said sit down!" Snape boomed.
Pansy pressed her lips together, shaking with rage and glaring daggers at Snape. Ron half-expected her to disobey him.
But after a moment, she seated herself, several spaces to Draco's left. The carriage jolted forward.
"I'm not sharing quarters with him," she said. Her voice echoed, a lone sound in the awkward distance.
"Contrary to century-old rumors, the Head Boy and Head Girl do not share living quarters," Snape replied. "You do, however, share a bathroom. You will be expected to manage an agreeable schedule to respect one another's privacy. I imagine that will be feasible, considering you share it with nobody else."
"I have to share a bathroom with him?" Pansy shrieked.
"Considering you still have full privileges to the prefects' bathroom, and every other bathroom in the school, it shouldn't be too grueling of a challenge, Miss Parkinson."
Pansy crossed her arms in a huff, but she didn't argue.
Snape eyed her, waiting for her to protest. When she didn't, he went on. "Now, I suspect you will have a more difficult job than usual this year, as Head Boy and Girl. The castle will be . . . different than you are accustomed to, given recent events."
Ron twiddled his thumbs, trying to push away thoughts of the previous year. Honestly, he was curious why he was in the carriage at all. Draco would be an excellent Head Boy, of course — and Ron was happy for him — but he didn't understand why he was being forced to listen to Pansy's grousing. It had nothing to do with him.
"I'll manage just fine, but I suspect Draco may have more trouble," patronized Pansy. "He's out of practice. He wasn't even a prefect last year."
"Then you'll be pleased with the news that Mr. Malfoy is not the Head Boy," Snape drawled.
Ron furrowed his brow. Draco seemed just as puzzled.
"What do you mean by that?" Pansy asked. "Who is it then?"
"Mr. Weasley," Snape started, "is this year's Head Boy."
Ron blinked. "What?"
"That doesn't even make sense!" Pansy exclaimed. "He's never even been a prefect —"
"Being a prefect is not necessarily a prerequisite to becoming Head Boy or Head Girl," Snape interjected. "As Mr. Weasley has experience with the Inquisitorial Squad, as well as passable marks and familial familiarity with the role, he seemed the natural choice."
"But sir, he —"
"He'll do a good job," Draco cut in. Ron's heart warmed at that, and his cheeks did too. "You made the right choice, Professor."
Pansy scowled.
"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, for your approval," Snape said coolly.
Pansy was still glaring at Ron. Her eyes slid towards Draco.
"If Weasley is Head Boy, why is Draco here? Shouldn't he be riding with the rest of them?"
Snape's lip curled. "Some things are outside of your understanding, Miss Parkinson. I advise you learn to accept those things in silence. I imagine it will be to your benefit this year."
The carriage came to a halt. Snape stepped out without another word.
The Great Hall was less packed than usual. Students dotted each table sparingly, their faces fixed into grim expressions as they poked at their plates. The Sorting ceremony was brief, with only four new first-years — all pure-bloods, three of them in Slytherin. The other landed in Hufflepuff.
Snape's speech was less winded than those of Dumbledore's past ramblings. His black eyes had darted between the tables as he introduced the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Amycus Carrow, and his sister, Alecto Carrow, who would be teaching Muggle Studies. Ron recognized them from his dinner with the Dark Lord, and judging by the way Draco's face drained when he saw them, Ron suspected they would be far from their favorite professors. Ron squeezed his hand beneath the table.
"Going to be a good year," Crabbe grunted. "The Carrows are legends."
Ron ignored him and cut into a piece of ham, inconspicuously glancing at the Gryffindor table. Ginny glared back. He wondered how long she'd been looking at him.
He cleared his throat and looked back down at his plate.
"Did you notice?" Goyle asked, smirking.
"Notice what?" Ron asked.
"Potter's gone," the giant brute said gleefully. "His little girlfriend too."
McGonagall hurried down the corridor, Pansy and Ron at her heel. If Ron didn't know better, he might've thought she was trying to get away from them. She was walking so fast, after all.
". . . and when prefects report an issue of great importance to you, you are to report it to a professor. There is a list of offenses that do not require faculty intervention, all of which you'll find in your handbook. Anything that falls outside of that . . ."
She kept talking, but Ron wasn't listening. He was eyeing Filch, who was balancing on the top rung of a ladder, his arms spread to their full span as he wrangled a massive portrait. It left yet another gap in the oddly bare walls. More portraits lined the floor, haphazardly pushed towards the sides to leave ample room for passersby.
Ron elbowed Pansy and whispered, "What's Filch doing?"
"Who cares? We're supposed to be —"
"As Head Boy and Girl, I expect the both of you to listen to me," McGonagall said sternly. She had stopped, and was facing the both of them.
"Sorry, Professor. I was just curious why he's pulling down those portraits. Makes the place look a bit grim is all . . ."
McGonagall cracked a mirthless smile. "Well Mr. Weasley, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that Mr. Filch is removing any imagery of Muggle-born witches and wizards in the school. Our headmaster believes them to be a distraction . . . considering the politics of the world."
Ron opened his mouth to speak. He wasn't sure what to say.
"While we are on that subject, we should address what to do if any of the Ministry's so-called Undesirables are found on the grounds."
"Undesirables?" Pansy asked. "You think they'd come here?"
McGonagall raised her chin. "I'm quite certain they will, Miss Parkinson — and if they do, you're to report it to me."
"Or Snape," Ron said quickly. "Right?"
McGonagall narrowed her eyes. "Professor Snape is a busy man, Mr. Weasley. You will report such an instance to me, and to me alone."
"How is it to be shacked up with Parkinson?" Blaise Zabini asked, over breakfast the next morning.
"We're not shacked up," Ron scowled. "Our rooms are completely separate." He lowered his voice to a grumble. "We just share a loo."
"I think this is the first time I've felt bad for Pansy," Goyle said. "With the way you wreck the toilet."
Crabbe and Zabini sniggered.
"You must have slept well, though?" Draco asked nonchalantly. "With a room all to yourself?"
"Well, it was weird without —" He stopped himself before saying you. "All of you."
"Lonely, 'en, Weasley?" Urquhart laughed loudly from a few seats away. "Need me to come read you a bedtime story?"
"No," Ron mumbled. He poked at his plate.
"Speaking of bedtime stories," Blaise started, wearing a rather devious smirk. "Nott went to read one to Parkinson last night, didn't you, Nott?"
Pansy coughed on her pumpkin juice. Nott said nothing, continuing to smugly leaf through his new Defense Against the Dark Arts book.
"You know, I noticed something funny about that book," Tracey Davis said, pointing at it with her fork. "It's not really defensive at all. It's just . . . the Dark Arts."
Draco clenched his jaw.
"Even the counters are pretty wicked," Tracey went on. "I er — I'm not sure how comfortable I'll be performing them. Hopefully it's all just reading."
Ron sucked in a deep breath. He suspected it wouldn't be just reading at all.
"She's right," Ron said, flipping through the pages of Ancient Magick: A Guide to the Darke Artes. He and Draco were seated in a lesser-explored section in the library: Children's Tales and Folklore. It seemed an inappropriate place to read such an evil tome. "It's all curses and hexes!"
Draco nodded from behind his own book, a rather thick edition of Natural Arithmancy. "I know. I recognized the title when I saw it on our supply list. My father keeps a copy in our library."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I knew you'd be upset," Draco replied airily.
"Of course I'm upset!" Ron hissed. "There's a section on how to perform the Cruciatus Curse. The Cruciatus Curse! That's torture!"
"If torture scares you, you ought to know: That's precisely what you're signing up to do when you take the Mark. All of what you find in that book . . ." He tapped the cover. "That's what will be expected of you."
"But . . . the Cruciatus? Can't I just . . . shoot a Stinging Jinx at them or something? Those bloody hurt, you know! George landed one on me when I was six and —"
"A Stinging Jinx won't appease him," Draco snarled. "And honestly, a Crucio's not even the worst of what you'll be expected to do."
"It's not?"
"There are rare curses far nastier than a bit of measly torture, and once you have the Mark —" Draco winced. "— he can make you perform them."
Ron paled. "Worse than a Crucio? How is that possible?"
"Trust me, it is."
Ron frowned. He knew following the Dark Lord wouldn't be easy — but the more he learned, the more anxious he grew for Easter break.
Still, he knew he had to take the Mark. The only other choice was death.
"I mean — it's just until the war's done," he reasoned.
Something in Draco's demeanor shifted just then. He buried his face deeper in his Arithmancy book, his eyes growing far too focused on the tattered page.
"Draco?" Ron questioned. "That is what's going to happen, right? We just need to be on his good side to get through the war?"
The other boy didn't look up.
"Then once he's done with all the Muggle-borns, everyone will move on." Ron grimaced. "Well, everyone that's still alive, anyway."
Draco still didn't answer.
"I mean, it makes no sense for him to keep going after that," Ron continued. "If he wants pure-bloods, he wouldn't kill them . . . So his plan must be to stop, right? It has to be. Nothing else would —"
"I don't know!" Draco shouted.
A group of girls sitting nearby all twisted their necks in the boys' direction, alarmed by his outburst.
"You . . . don't know," Ron repeated.
"That's what I said," Draco snapped. He sniffed, and while he straightened his spine, Ron could see he was blinking back tears. The change in posture was only a distraction, a sleight of hand to hide his emotions. "I have no idea what happens when it's all done. All I know is that compliance is what's going to keep us alive. That includes doing whatever's in that bloody book."
"You mean —"
"I mean you need to show up to class and do exactly as they say." He lowered his voice to a hiss. "They'll be looking for traitors. Don't give them any reason to think you are one. I can't —" He took a shaky breath and lowered his voice. "I can't lose you, okay? I'm under enough stress as it is."
Ron offered a sad smile. He couldn't lose Draco either.
"You won't."
Draco gave a stiff nod. He was floating somewhere else again, somewhere Ron suspected was far from pleasant.
Ron slammed his book shut and slapped the table.
"Let's get out of here, yeah?"
"And go where?" Draco muttered. "I don't exactly fancy the common room, if Crabbe or Goyle asks to see my arm one more time, I swear I'll hex their bollocks off."
"Well, I didn't plan on going to the common room, but you might've just changed my mind."
"I'd prefer to avoid the detention, thanks," Draco said dryly. "Where were you thinking?"
Ron grinned back at him. "You'll see."
The starry ceiling swirled above.
The room was silent, a private reprieve from the rest of the castle and all of the chaos that lived within it. In the Head Boy's dormitory, they were just Ron and Draco. There was no pressure to be anything else.
Ron wished he could capture the moment and store it in a bottle forever. Amidst all the horror in the world, he had found peace.
They had found peace.
"You could stay here like this all the time, if you wanted," he said.
Draco snorted. "I wish."
Ron frowned. "What d'you mean you wish? It's a private room, it's not like someone's going to come in here and catch you with your hand in my trousers."
Draco turned on his side to face Ron. His expression was suddenly far more serious than Ron would've liked. "You do know why the Dark Lord dislikes Muggle-borns, don't you?"
"They steal magic," Ron answered automatically. "Your Aunt Bellatrix has only told me so about a hundred times."
"Right. They steal it from pure-bloods. That's why the Dark Lord wants to instill that we're superior — so Muggle-borns no longer are able to steal our magic, and so we're able to take our rightful place in the world."
"Right," Ron followed.
"The thing is: There aren't very many of us," Draco went on. "Which means pure-bloods are especially important for . . . reproduction."
"Makes sense, I guess," Ron said.
"And that means pure-bloods with no intention of reproduction are useless. We are useless. Just as much as Muggles, really, since we can't have children."
Ron blinked. He wasn't sure what Draco was trying to say, but something felt heavy in his chest.
"The point is . . . if anyone were to know that we're . . ." Draco closed his eyes. "This has been a secret for a reason. It has to stay that way."
"So what happens when we don't have kids?" Ron asked.
Draco rolled onto his back, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
"I have no idea."
Ron's stomach had been in knots ever since the night before. He and Draco didn't speak much during breakfast, nor on the way to Herbology. As the two of them silently took their seats, Ron suspected the class wouldn't be any better.
It wasn't.
Sprout was thinner than he remembered her being. She seemed frazzled as she directed the students to open their books, snapping each time someone so much as scooted their stool, and even shouting at Daphne Greengrass for getting sprayed by a sprig of Hissing Fiddlewort. The plant was finicky, and the sticky yellow substance on Daphne's face only made Ron all the more nervous. It was hard enough to concentrate with the awkward air emanating from Draco. Then, he had to try to make it through the class without getting hit with a cloud of itchy pollen.
Fortunately, he managed. He turned to Draco to celebrate their success in harvesting the sprigs, only to quickly hang his head low when Draco didn't acknowledge him.
They waited in silence for the bell to ring. When it did, Draco hurried to put away the potting soil, uttering not a word before climbing the hill away from the greenhouses. Ron knew better than to try and catch up. Instead, he lagged behind, dragging his feet back towards the castle. His Head Boy badge gleamed on his chest, and small groups parted to allow him through. He might have basked in that feeling of power once, but right then, he didn't feel very powerful at all. He felt stupid.
How could he think he and Draco could be all he wanted them to be? Amidst all that was happening, love was the last thing that should've been on his mind. He couldn't help it though.
He loved Draco, but the world wouldn't let them be together.
Something like grief weighed heavy on him as he trudged towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts room.
He only felt worse when he stepped inside.
Like Herbology, it was a mixed class, with seventh years from all houses. Nott had taken the seat to Draco's left, and Crabbe to his right. Ron held in a groan, realizing he was going to be stuck between Goyle and Eloise Midgen.
He settled into the seat between them.
Goyle leaned in to ask, "Did you read the book? This class is going to be bloody brilliant."
Ron grunted in reply and pulled Ancient Magick from his bag, his eyes level with the professor by the chalkboard. The man had a narrow face, and he stood with his hands behind his back. The smug way his slim lips curled told Ron he was plotting something. He'd worn the same smirk during dinner with the Dark Lord.
The bell rang. The doors slammed shut.
"Tell me, what do you all know about Fiendfyre?"
"That was brilliant!" Crabbe exclaimed, slicing his wand through the corridor air. A group of Ravenclaw girls stepped around him, looking rather unimpressed. "First day in class and I've already learned how to cast Fiendfyre!"
"You read about it in a textbook," Zabini pointed out.
"I'm not convinced he read about it at all," Nott said slyly.
"Go on and make your jokes," Crabbe shot back. "I'll be having the last laugh when I get to show the Dark Lord all I've learned this year. If all goes to plan, I'll be Marked by Christmas."
"Right, you have fun with that," Draco muttered. He then addressed the group. "I'm going to go study."
Ron had no idea what Draco was doing, but he had a feeling it had nothing to do with his schoolwork.
"Already?" Goyle asked, frowning.
Ron shrugged. "Leave it to Sprout to give us an essay on the first day."
The lie came easily, and he saw a flicker of gratitude shine in Draco's steel eyes. It disappeared quickly. Ron's stomach curdled.
"Studying's actually not a bad idea," Zabini added. He gave Goyle a knowing look. "Unlike you, some of us want to pass our N.E.W.T.s."
"I won't need N.E.W.T.s with where I'm going," Goyle said.
"And where's that? The Squib ward at St. Mungo's?" Nott asked dryly.
"I ain't a Squib! Give me a few more months with Carrow and . . ."
Goyle's words became white noise; Ron was far too focused on Draco as he broke away from him and the other boys. He wasn't heading towards the library.
Draco's lips were like silk.
They traced Ron's, hungry and hot like his fingertips that traveled up Ron's chest. With closed eyes, Ron drank him in, the sweetest intoxicant he would ever know.
It was nearing midnight when the soft knock sounded on his door. He didn't apologize, and Ron didn't need him to. Ron just wanted to drown in the time they had together — in this place away from anyone else. Where nothing could get in the way of —
Something hit the window. Draco jumped off him.
"It was just a bird," Ron said breathlessly.
Draco swallowed hard, his gaze still fixated on the windowpane. Rain pattered against it, the storm that guided the creature to the low skies.
"Nobody's going to see us here, you know," Ron continued. "The Quidditch pitch is on the other side of the castle."
Draco shook his head. "Right. Yeah, you're right."
Ron reached out to squeeze his hand.
"We're safe here."
Draco let out a heavy sigh. "I'm not sure we're safe anywhere."
"What the hell did they do to the eggs?" Ron asked, grimacing at the black mush on his fork. "They taste like soot."
"And the beans are rotten," Daphne Greengrass quipped, pushing a pile of green sludge around her plate. "Like the Stasis Charm didn't take."
Goyle sniffed a mushroom. "This mushroom smells like the boys' lavatory."
"Someone ought to complain," Pansy said, making a face. "I'd rather starve than eat this slop. The house-elves at my manor would never —"
Suddenly, a younger girl pushed her way between Pansy and Nott, to which Pansy shrieked "Excuse you!" Nott nearly choked on the apple he was eating.
Flushed, the girl wheezed, "Are you going out for Seeker, Draco?"
Draco furrowed his brow. "Do I know you?"
"No, well, kind of — my family are the Fawleys. Sacred Twenty-Eight. I think we may share some cousins . . ." Her already red face only grew more crimson. "Anyway, I know you weren't in all season last year, but I think you ought to consider trying out. We could really use you on the team."
"Who's we?" Ron asked. "Tryouts haven't even started."
"My family and the Captain's are quite close," the girl said proudly. "He'll be making me Keeper."
Ron snorted. "Urquhart? Good luck getting him to boot Boshley. He might be daft, but he'd be a lunatic to kick her."
The girl blinked. "Aren't you a Weasley?"
"So what if I am?"
"I like to know the status of anyone passing judgement on me. Lucky for me, I don't care much about the opinions of blood traitors," the girl said, smirking. She batted her lashes at Draco. "Urquhart will make me Keeper. I know he will. And as a future member of the team, I'd love for there to be other . . ." Her fingers brushed Draco's arm. "Top talent."
Draco jerked his arm away.
"I'm not joining the team," he muttered.
"Why not?" the girl asked. "We need a great Seeker, if we're going to —"
She was interrupted by a scream. The Great Hall came to a sudden silence, bodies swiveling in their seats towards the source of the sound.
There, at the entrance, stood Professor Carrow — Amycus. His wand was aimed at a student.
"Half-blood scum!" Amycus shouted. "How dare you speak ill of the Dark Lord!"
The student writhed on the floor, her agonized shrieks echoing in the grand room. She couldn't have been more than twelve.
Panic bubbled in Ron's chest. His hand was curled around his fork, glued to it as his every limb froze. He knew he should've intervened. Everyone should have intervened. They should have rioted and shot every jinx they knew at the professor. Someone should have been finding Snape. The entire student body should've sprung into action.
But they didn't.
The young girl cried out, "Please! Please st-stop! I'm b-begging you!"
"What's that, girl?" Amycus boomed. He cupped his ear melodramatically. "I couldn't quite hear you over your infernal sobbing!"
A ray of violent yellow burst from the tip of his wand, coiling around the girl. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pleaded with him, but the professor had no intention of stopping. He kept his wand trained on her, his lips twisted in a cruel scowl.
Then, from the corner of Ron's eye, he caught movement at the Gryffindor table. It was a flash of red he would've recognized anywhere — one that resembled himself.
Ginny had stood. In her hand was her wand, her fist coiled tightly around it, ready to strike.
"Stop it!" she shouted.
Amycus turned his head, his beady eyes now trained on Ginny. The hex still streamed from the tip of his wand.
"Excuse me?"
"I said to stop it!" Ginny yelled. "You're a teacher, for Merlin's sake!"
Amycus looked unamused. The beam of yellow disappeared, and he began stalking towards her, leaving the young girl a sobbing mess on the ground. Ron's heart pounded in his chest. He automatically reached for Draco's hand. Draco batted it away.
"You dare speak to me that way?" Amycus asked. He was growing closer to Ginny now.
"I won't stand by and let you do it, if that's what you mean," Ginny said angrily. Her grip on her wand was even tighter than before. Ron found himself pawing for his own.
"Ginny!" Seamus Finnigan hissed. "Sit down!"
"No, I won't!" Ginny said stubbornly. "I won't just sit here like a coward while a professor tortures a student. And if that's what the Dark Lord stands for, then maybe the Dark Lord deserves much worse than whatever that girl was saying about him!"
Amycus's lip curled.
"An impressive speech, Miss . . . Weasley, I assume," he said icily. "Unfortunately, I'm not one for diatribes. Suturioris!"
Ginny squealed.
Black stitches were threading across her mouth, trickles of blood trailing down her chin. Ron jerked forward, a surge of fury running through him at the sight of the conjured needle poking holes in his baby sister.
Draco held his arm in front of him and shook his head: A warning to stay back.
He was right.
There was no stopping it, no matter how much Ron wished he could.
Draco stayed the night in the days that followed that, despite saying that he couldn't stay often.
They kissed sometimes, but the unspoken moment in the Great Hall was festering there between them. There was nothing Draco could say that would make it better. There was nothing Ron could do to change it.
He watched his sister experience one of the most sadistic hexes he had ever witnessed, and he had no choice but to stand there.
He always said Ginny chose the wrong side.
Now, he saw just what that meant.
"You missed the meeting," Pansy hissed at Ron one morning, throwing a wadded up piece of parchment at him. She dropped into her seat beside Nott. "I had to host the whole thing by myself!"
"Meeting?" Ron asked, confused. "What're you talking about?"
He hadn't been focusing well. He'd been far too distracted by the glares his sister shot his way from afar. He knew he deserved them, and that only made it worse.
"I mean the weekly prefect meeting. You've missed the last two!"
"I didn't realize there was a weekly prefect meeting," Ron replied. "I'm new to this, remember?"
"New or not, you should've gotten a list of the dates at the start of the term," Pansy spat. "With your schedule."
"Oh," Ron replied. "I er — didn't get that."
He had gotten it. He'd only forgotten it, leaving it in his Charms textbook along with the Transfiguration syllabus he was yet to look at.
"Well, next time you need to be there. As unhelpful as I'm sure you'll be, it would've been nice to have someone there. This year's rules are . . . different than I'm used to."
Images of Ginny and the screaming second-year hit Ron like a freight train. He knew exactly what Pansy meant.
"Yeah, all right. I'll be there," he replied. "Was er — was Longbottom there?"
"Yes he was there, he is a prefect," Pansy spat.
Ron nodded. "Did he er — say anything about . . ." He trailed off.
"About what?"
"My sister?" Ron asked.
Goyle snorted. "You mean Stitchface?"
"Shut up, Goyle," Draco warned.
"What? She's just a stupid Gryffindor. And did you hear what she said about the Dark Lord? Served her right, what she got."
"I said shut up," Draco said again.
Ron's heart swelled, but he knew if Draco did anything else, he could get himself in trouble. Ron nudged his foot beneath the table.
"Yeah, Pansy and I were trying to have a conversation," Ron said. He cleared his throat. "I was just er — curious about the counter-curse." He waved his fork around, trying to look casual. "Y'know, in case something like that happens to one of us."
Goyle narrowed his eyes. Pansy, was staring at him, her pupils darting between him and Draco.
"No, Ronald," she grit out. "Longbottom did not mention the counter-curse to the disciplinary action your sister received several days ago. Maybe had you been there, you could've mentioned it."
"Oh er — well, next time then."
Pansy nodded briskly.
"Yes. Next time."
A week passed before Ron saw Ginny again.
It was in the late hours of the evening, when the corridors were near-empty, sans for Peeves and Filch. The latter was cursing at the former for smearing something unspeakable across a portrait of a man with a rather frilly collar. That was where the corridors crossed and Ginny passed by.
Ron gasped at the sight of her.
Deep scars lined her thin lips that looked so much like their mother's. They were gnarled, angry, and red — souvenirs of one of the most heinous moments Ron had ever witnessed.
She stiffened her jaw at the sight of him.
Ron had the urge to say something to her, to ask her how she was doing. To see if it hurt, if she'd been given the potions she needed. Yet, the words wouldn't come to him.
He walked to Astronomy instead.
The Quidditch tryouts were less cut-and-dry than the Fawley girl thought they would be. Boshley kept her position as Keeper, Ron was Chaser, and Crabbe and Goyle were Beaters, as always. Fawley was informed she could "fill in" as needed.
Ron left with a smirk.
"Superb flying," Draco said to him, who had watched from the bench.
"Thanks," Ron breathed.
There was a fire in Draco's eyes.
"Celebration in the common room!" Urquhart shouted. "Firewhisky and butterbeer from my stash — players only, o' course."
Ron and Draco were already headed towards the castle.
"Oi! Weasley! Goin' to join us?" Urquhart called.
Ron swiveled around, a goofy grin on his face. "No I er — I have an essay to finish up. Nerves put me off it."
Urquhart frowned but nodded. "Yeah, all right. See ya for practice, then."
The walk to Ron's room felt all too far.
As soon as they stepped inside, Draco kicked the door behind them, and his mouth was on Ron's. Heat and friction and desire pulsated between them as Ron's hands explored Draco's body.
Teeth clashed, tongues twisted, lips bruised.
They panted with need, Draco pulling Ron's Quidditch robes over his head and Ron's hands threading into Draco's platinum locks.
Ron felt his legs buckle against the bed. His breathing hitched as he realized what was about to happen. Draco was straddling him and then —
"I KNEW IT!"
Ron's eyes were wide, darting towards his door.
There stood Pansy Parkinson, her wand in hand.
