A/N: This story has some disturbing content- but I don't want anyone to flame me telling me this wouldn't happen, because it has, and it will again- personal experience, people, Ron's story and Harry's both. And I'm not sure this is worth posting, but it had to be written by me, today; and so it was. Standard disclaimer, yada yada yada. Please review and tell me what you think...

Used


Harry says he's okay. For the most part, Ron believes him. Harry still laughs and jokes like he always has, still talks and smiles and seems all right. He points out the cutest girls, banter's happily with Hermione, stands up to Draco Malfoy. And when Ron asks, Harry says he's fine. And mostly, Ron believes him.


Running late to class. Ron's sweaty, hair pushed back, feet pounding on the stone floors. Bag clutched awkwardly in one hand. Harry's half a step behind, quiet, bag thwapping him rhythmically in the ass with every step he takes. Come on! Run, Harry! Ron's urging without thinking. come on, Harry!

Harry stops dead. Bag smacking painfully and harshly on the back of his robes. Ron runs and realizes, suddenly and with confusion, that Harry has stopped running. Harry? What's wrong, mate? We're gonna be late for McGonagall! Hermione will kill us! Normal question; normal day.

I- I'm sorry. Harry is walking, approaching Ron, head jittery from side to side as his hair flops awkwardly along. I don't know why... Come on.

Ron's all set to run again, lifting his bag into the same position balanced on one hip, hands cradling it. The halls are deserted; Harry's footsteps echo wearily. Harry is walking. Ron drops the bag and sighs. You okay, mate?

Yeah. You go on ahead- I'll catch up. Harry's hand is shivering as he raises it to wipe his hair from sticky forehead, baring a scar that's flat and flesh-coloured, as any other scar would be. Not red or obvious or... It's always painful. Ron is so skilled now he controls the wince without thinking.

They walk to Transfigurations; ten points off Gryffindor. Harry nods and sits down, head resting in his hands, eyes rubbing behind smudged glasses. Ron thinks that if he lifts his head it may well fall off, but in a moment Harry raises his head and it stays on; it stays on and Harry's focused, normal, laughing with Hermione in what Ron knows is real amusement.

Ron watches Harry; Harry is fine. Harry is fine.


Snapshot of your life: Sitting on the tiled floor of the bathroom, holding your best friends head as he hurls dinner into the shiny white toilets. Dinner, Ron thinks, looked better before it was half-digested. Only to be expected, really.

He pulls back; Harry smiles at Ron shakily and says he's fine. Ron grins and smacks him on the shoulder, saying I wasn't really worried. Something went down wrong, says Harry. He grimaces; dinner tasted better before it was half-digested, too. Ron stands up, offers him a hand. Harry hauls himself up on Ron; leaning on his shoulder in support.

Harry rinses his face and mouth, Harry says he's fine. Ron takes Harry to bed, Ron sits next to him, and they talk- they haven't talked much lately, not real talk, friend talk, we-know-eachother-so-well talk. Harry is ready to talk, Ron thinks.

It starts small- Ron and Harry talking about nothing talking about something talking about- Well, it's different for me. I'm the hero.

It doesn't have to be! Make Dumbledore be the hero. You can wait a few years. Just forget about it- it's what I'd do.

It- it doesn't work like that. Harry tells Ron the prophecy that dictates who he is. Ron sucks in a breath and tells him, well, that sucks, mate. But you won't be alone. Harry grins; they move on.

Ron is laying next to Harry- brown eyes to green eyes, silent and watching. Silent and waiting. Falling asleep curled like puppies, brothers and yet- and yet-

Harry says he's fine. For the most part, Ron believes him.


Ice cream at Hogsmeade, just the two of them- Hermione's on a date, and the two boys are ice-cream bingeing, laughing and making crude jokes. Harry shifts, his bare arm twists- bare, because Ron convinced him to ditch the long sleeved that looked awful, and go for the far more attractive tee-shirt. Harry turns his arm.

Etched in red and white, bare and faded in the sun, etched in blood and pain: USED. Letter's jagged, letters harsh. Ron imagines Harry gripping the knife razor tweezers whatever and dragging, dragging, dragging. Scraping complaints into flesh, keeping from screaming only by the release of pain. Pain.

Raw and swollen; Harry doesn't need anymore scars. Ron is thinking: I must not tell lies. But this is different; this is changed. This isn't Umbridge; this isn't stoicism. Ron is cold. His eyes move onwards; all he sees is USED. Harry's moved his hand nervously to his arm, thinking- Ron hasn't seen. Ron hasn't seen.

Ron is thinking, Oh, Harry, your poor arm. You poor boy.

Dean and Seamus wander over; how are you? Fine, Harry says, hand clasped gently over his arm. I'm fine. Ron is silent; silent as the grave; silent as a blade in raw flesh. Ron smiles at them and says, course I'm all right, it's Hogsmeade! Ron is silent silent silent and while convulsed in laughter with Harry over one of Seamus's funnier jokes, Ron is thinking: USED.

Harry says he's fine. For the most part, Ron believes him.