fic: Is Forever Enough for cormallen
Title: Is Forever Enough?
Author: ♥ janicechess
Giftee: cormallen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,950
Characters/Pairing: Ron/Draco, plus others but to tell would give away the plot
Warnings: Mild violence, language
Author's Notes: Title is from a lyric in the song "Lullaby" by the Dixie Chicks, but this is otherwise not based on that song at all. Also, two lines of dialog at the end were quoted directly from The Order of the Phoenix. You'll recognize them when you get to them. Many thanks to my fabulous beta, and to my dear friends (you know who you are) for tossing ideas around with me over IM and email.
Summary: Ron reluctantly accepts Draco's help in identifying the author of a series of seductive love letters he accidentally finds under Harry's bed. Will the answer lead to love or heartbreak? Or maybe a little of both? Seventh year, post-war, canon-compliant through HBP.
Is Forever Enough?
--
The letter, like all of the others, simply said 'Potter' on the front of the envelope. When it had arrived with the morning post, it had taken all of his resolve not to dash from the Great Hall up to Gryffindor tower, clutching it gently so as not to wrinkle the paper. Instead, he had stuffed it casually into his satchel, hoping the others were too absorbed in their conversations to take notice. He had spent the rest of the day in a distracted daze. His eyes may have been focused on his professors, but his attention was entirely absorbed by the presence of the slim envelope in his bag, nestled between his fifth-year Potions textbook and his Transfiguration notes.
He opened it that night, after everyone else had fallen asleep. With the bed-curtains tightly shut around him, he pulled the letter from the pocket of his pyjamas, heart pounding with excitement. He tore it open and pulled out the carefully folded pages, his eyes devouring the familiar handwriting. He began to scan through, one page at a time, not reading anything yet -- although of course he would; he would savour every word, just like he had with all the others. But he had to find it first: the identity of his "secret admirer" was supposed to be revealed to him somewhere in this letter. Finally. He had a feeling he knew who it was -- he had known ever since the first one, really -- but this would confirm it and from now on his life would be perfect because he was in love and--
His eyes landed on a name at the end of the last page. A cruel signature; a heart-breaking signature. He dropped the letter as if it were on fire. In a few moments, it was, his wand held in a shaking hand, the paper crumbling to ash on his bed. He extinguished the blaze before his blankets could catch fire as well.
He pulled at his hair with his free hand, making the dark locks even more unruly than usual. He shook his head, feeling tears streaming down his face but refusing to admit that he was crying over this. Removing his glasses, he wiped viciously at his eyes. He had been tricked. He had been humiliated. Surely this couldn't be real -- it couldn't be. But it was. The hints -- things he should have noticed, should have seen -- fell together in his head like pieces of a cursed jigsaw puzzle.
He saw it all now, and it hurt. He wanted to burn the other letters as well, but he couldn't even bear to touch them, to see them, to be reminded of the time he had spent reading and rereading them. They would stay where they were, locked away under the floorboards and hidden by a series of spells that no one would ever be able to undo. No one would ever find them. No one would ever know.
--
"Third floorboard over … left side of my bed!" Harry yelled, his voice carrying from the common room. Ron paused on his way up the stairs.
"Yeah, mate, I heard you the first time! And the second and third as well!"
Shaking his head, but grinning, Ron knelt by the head of Harry's bed, searching for the floorboard under which Harry claimed to have stashed a bottle of Firewhisky during sixth year. It wasn't that Ron thought Harry was lying; it was just that if he'd really had Firewhisky hidden all this time then he was in serious trouble for not sharing it sooner. Although, he'd had a lot of things to deal with -- things like finding all the Horcruxes and killing Voldemort -- that might have required a good stiff shot every once in a while. Ron shook his head to clear away the memories. That was in the past. They were here now, at Hogwarts, just starting the second term of their belated seventh year. Everything was just as it had always been. No, everything was as it should have been all along: friends and Quidditch and sneaking to Hogsmeade to stock up on sweets and Butterbeer. No evil plots to thwart, no death and destruction. He could almost pretend that it had always been this way, were it not for the empty seats in the Great Hall, the missing faces in the classrooms.
That third floorboard didn't seem to be as loose as Harry had said it would be; in fact, it wouldn't move at all. Not wanting to go back downstairs empty-handed (he could just hear Seamus teasing him for not being strong enough to lift up a fucking board), he cast a levitation spell on the plank of wood. It didn't budge. Frowning, he cast something that he'd gotten quite good at: a spell to reveal the magical aura of an enchanted object. He gaped when he saw the result. Impervius plus an Imperturbable Charm plus a Disillusionment Charm plus … some sort of binding or fastening magic?
"Bloody hell, Harry," he muttered. "It's just Firewhisky, not an illegal Dark artefact."
With a practised ease that would have astounded his past self as well as his first through sixth-year teachers, he dispelled the charms with a single incantation. He had learned something from helping the Order, after all. The board lifted easily, leaving a gap big enough for him to stick his hand in, which he did, praying that there were no spiders in residence -- although the Impervius should have kept them out.
He withdrew a parcel of letters, tied together with twine. Weird. Was the bottle transfigured or something? But no, it actually was a bunch of letters; they were all already opened, judging by the ragged edges of the envelopes. The one on top said "Potter" on the front. So, thought Ron with a frown, the letters must be Harry's. He stood up, puzzling over why Harry would have sent him to get Firewhisky when there was none, knowing Ron would instead find this. Was he trying to tell him something? Had he wanted Ron to find the letters? Why couldn't he have just shown them to him?
Hesitantly, Ron extracted the top letter from its envelope. He felt guilty, as if he was doing something he shouldn't, but Harry must want him to see these, he told himself firmly, unfolding the parchment and beginning to read. The letter began abruptly, with no salutation.
~~~
I don't know what else to do but to write to you. Whenever I see you, I feel like my insides turn to fire. You are amazing. You are gorgeous. You are brilliant. (Well, perhaps not in every subject, but brilliant nonetheless.) I watch you all the time, you know. In the Great Hall, in classes that we share, when you play Quidditch, I watch you. I can't help myself.
And yet, you are often obnoxious and arrogant. I must be honest -- after all, what good is an anonymous letter if one is not completely honest? I merely want you to know that despite your flaws, I love you.
That's right. I love you. I admit it. The worst part is that you think I hate you. I have said some things to you that I regret. But I cannot take them back, not yet. My friends wouldn't understand; I'm not sure you would even understand.
It may be that you hate me as well. I used to think you must, but … I've seen the way you've looked at me lately. You may not even be aware of it, but on some level, you know we were made for each other.
We are, you know. Our love would be strong, our lives full of passion and fire. I could make you feel such things … but that is a subject for another letter. I am not so forward in person, please understand. But again, what is the point of writing an anonymous love letter if one does not declare one's intentions? You will be mine.
Sincerely,
Just Yours
~~~
Ron sat down heavily on Harry's bed, staring at what he had just read. Who the hell had sent this? Why hadn't Harry told him? There were so many envelopes … this must have been going on for months. He flipped the bundle over and pulled out the bottom one. Maybe if he read another one, things would make more sense. It seemed doubtful, but what else could he do? With a sigh, he began to read.
~~~
I don't know how you managed to get a letter to me. The owl was very confused, but it found me all the same. Clearly I underestimated your magical abilities as compared with my own. I told you that you were brilliant, didn't I? It only took you four months to figure out how to counter that charm.
I am so incredibly happy to learn that you love me in return. Yes, everything that I told you can come true. It can be real. Yes, I will tell you who I am. Next letter, I will tell you.
When I saw you today, I wanted to run up to you and kiss you. But, I have been patient this long. I will wait. One week, until my next letter, and then you will know. Will you still love me when you know? I will have to trust that you truly love me, that you love the person you have gotten to know through these letters. I worry that perhaps you will not, once you learn who I am. But then I see the fire in your eyes, and I know that I have nothing to fear. You already know, don't you? Perhaps you have always known.
You asked how long I would love you. Is forever enough?
As Always,
Yours
~~~
Ron exhaled a shaking breath. He flipped the letter over and then looked at the front of the envelope, but there was no date written anywhere, no indication as to when this had been sent. And there were no other letters after this one. Therefore, Ron reasoned, this must have been the last one Harry had received. Which meant he had less than a week to find out who this mystery person was; less than a week to make sure that Harry wasn't going to get his heart broken. That must be what Harry wanted. He'd probably sworn not to tell anyone about the letters (that seemed like something he would do) and this was the only way he could ask for help. Ron stood and walked determinedly across the room to stash the letters in his trunk.
After depositing the bundle securely, he turned, intending to go back downstairs and claim to not have been able to find the Firewhisky. Halfway to the door, he stopped and studied the floor around Harry's bed.
"Hold on," he thought as an idea occurred to him. "Maybe he meant the left side from the point of view of being in the bed."
He knelt down on that side, counted three over, and easily lifted the board, revealing a half-full bottle of Firewhisky. Ron picked it up with a sinking feeling in his chest. He looked over towards his trunk, unsure of what to do. Maybe Harry hadn't wanted him to find the letters after all. He had been very adamant about saying the left side of the bed. Perhaps he should put them back and forget he had ever found them.
No. He shook his head and walked out of the room. Even if Harry hadn't been asking for help, it was still Ron's duty as Harry's best mate to protect him. That's what he had done all of last year, and that was what he would continue to do. He walked back down the stairs, forcing a grin onto his face. His return was greeted with cries of delight.
"Oi! There you are! We thought you might be up there drinking it all yourself," said Seamus with a grin. Ron placed the bottle on the table and threw himself down on the sofa between Harry and Neville.
"I can't believe you hid this from us!" Ron said, elbowing Harry in the ribs. "From now on, no more hiding things." He watched Harry's reaction carefully.
"Okay, okay. But come on, you can't blame me," Harry said, the blush that crept onto his face belying the casualness of his voice.
Right. Tomorrow, he would begin his investigation.
--
Ron sat slumped forward on a stone bench in a deserted corridor, his head in his hands. He couldn't believe it. How could Harry have been so bloody stupid? Less than a day of watching the other students and he had already figured it out, yet Harry didn't seem to have a clue. All it had taken was seeing the casual glances that weren't really casual and eyes that should have been focused on quill and parchment or knife and cauldron intermittently flickering over to the other side of the classroom where he and Harry sat. There was only one person who was looking at Harry more than he should be. Draco Malfoy.
That Malfoy was even here at school was something of a sore point with Ron. Fine, someone somewhere at the Ministry had seen proof that he had done something moderately heroic that had helped defeat Voldemort, and that someone had seen to it that Malfoy was forgiven for almost being a murderer. But that didn’t change the fact that he had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts -- had let Fenrir Greyback in too -- leading to Dumbledore's murder and Bill's maiming. Their headmaster was dead and Ron's brother would never be the same, and it was all Malfoy's fault.
Also, Malfoy was a nasty, spoiled little wanker.
Of course, ever since his return to school, Malfoy hadn't really been that nasty. Not that he was suddenly nice and friendly and pleasant to be around … it was just that he hardly spoke at all, to anyone. None of the Slytherins from his year had returned to school -- being mostly dead, missing, or imprisoned -- and his younger housemates seemed to avoid him. He was sullen and withdrawn and did nothing but glare at the desk or the table or the wall most of the time, which had made his glances towards the Gryffindor side that much more obvious.
At the beginning of the year, Harry had said that Malfoy had suffered the consequences of his actions as well as inactions, but no matter how much he was pressed, he wouldn't explain what he meant by that. Harry had been with the group that had found Malfoy hiding in a closet with Snape's body, and that was all Ron knew.
"I hate to say it, but Malfoy has earned the right to start over. I just wish he could start over at some other school," Harry had said with a crooked grin, and Ron had laughed and agreed heartily.
Ron stood up and paced in the empty corridor. There was no way Harry knew the letter writer was Malfoy. Harry didn't like Malfoy. Malfoy, as far as Ron knew, didn't like Harry. The looks he had been sending his way all day were more venomous than anything else, now that he thought about it, and certainly did not match with the confessions of love that Ron had read earlier. That left just one explanation: Malfoy was trying to hurt Harry. It seemed an overly elaborate plot, but maybe that's how Slytherins did things. You-Know-Who's behaviour certainly seemed to bear that out.
"That bastard," muttered Ron, rushing off to the Owlery. He had a letter of his own to write.
--
That night, Ron sat waiting on the same stone bench, his legs bouncing with nervous energy. When he heard footsteps approaching, he stood and withdrew his wand, setting a determined expression on his face.
As Malfoy turned the corner and caught sight of Ron, his face contorted briefly in surprise; then he scowled.
"Weasley," he said, brushing past Ron and taking a seat on the bench, "I suppose I should have expected that the note came from you -- given the troll-like handwriting. What do you want?"
"I want you to leave Harry alone."
Malfoy narrowed his eyes, then cocked his head to one side and studied Ron for a few moments. "Why?"
"Because!" Ron shouted, stabbing his wand at Malfoy but not actually touching him with it. "You're a giant git and I know you're just toying with him and I won't let you hurt him!" He drew a shaking breath and dropped his wand arm to his side. "After all he's done for … for everyone … after all he's been through. How dare you do this to him? It's not right. They never should have let you back into this school."
"I have no idea what sort of wrong you think I've committed against your precious Potter," said Malfoy tightly, his face slightly pink as though from anger, "but I assume it won't matter if I claim innocence -- you'd never believe me, of--"
"You're bloody well right I wouldn't believe you! I know you wrote these," shouted Ron, pulling the letters out of his robe pocket and slamming them onto the bench beside Malfoy, who started at the abrupt movement.
Malfoy picked up the bundle and flipped through it. "Never seen them before," he said casually, tossing them at Ron, who lunged forward to catch them just before they hit the ground.
"Right, so that's your game, is it? This doesn't sound familiar?" Ron pulled a letter from the stack at random, took out the first page, and began to read it out loud.
"Let me tell you how it would be. We would sit in the tall grass, the moonlight washing over us, and talk for hours. Finally, when the conversation had gone quiet, we would lie back and gaze at the stars. Only, I would be unable to take my eyes off of you. You would notice that I was staring at you, and you would smile. Then, I would run my hands through your hair and caress your face.
"And then I would kiss you. I would kiss your forehead and your nose and your cheeks and your chin. And then your lips. I would start off softly, gently, and when you opened your mouth a little, that's when --"
Ron stopped reading, embarrassment flooding through him. He really didn't want to think about Malfoy kissing Harry, it was--
"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Malfoy, standing and pulling the piece of parchment from Ron's hand. "Why would you think I wrote this? That's the most ridiculous … I don't fancy Potter." He grimaced, apparently disgusted with the very thought.
"That's my entire point! You don't fancy him, and he doesn't fancy you, which is why you writing all of these makes you even more of a bastard than I already knew you were."
"I see no reason why you would leap to the conclusion that I had written this, other than that you're an idiot. This isn't even my handwriting. This is a girl's handwriting."
Damn, Ron thought. Malfoy had a point. The writing was a bit … round and bubbly. Malfoy was smirking at him now, and Ron felt himself blush. Then he remembered something he'd heard Hermione say once.
"So?" he retorted. "There are spells to disguise handwriting. It doesn't matter what the bloody writing looks like."
Malfoy made a thoughtful face and then withdrew his wand and wordlessly tapped the letter in his hand. Ron watched, wide-eyed, as the writing changed to a spiky scrawl. Malfoy's eyes went even wider than Ron's, and he clutched the letter so tightly that the paper crumpled in his hand.
"What the hell?" said Ron as Malfoy staggered slightly before letting himself fall to the bench. "What is it?"
"Nothing," said Malfoy, shaking his head and standing up again. He approached Ron, a determined fire in his pale eyes. "Give me those letters, Weasley."
"Not on your life, Malfoy." Ron stuffed the bundle back into his robes. "That wasn't 'nothing.' Tell me why you almost fainted when--"
"I did not almost faint," snarled Malfoy. "It's just -- I was surprised."
"Gee, I never would have guessed," said Ron with a snort.
Malfoy crossed his arms and stared at Ron for a moment. "That spell that was cast over that letter, the one that I dissipated, is one of the Slytherin house spells. Who … whoever wrote those letters was … is a Slytherin."
Ron wasn't really sure what was meant by 'Slytherin house spells,' but he decided to ignore that for now. "Oh, really? Well, now. This is interesting, isn't it? The letters were written by a Slytherin. The handwriting isn't girly; in fact, I think you'd agree that it looks quite masculine. So, we're looking for a Slytherin male. And would you look at that? You are a Slytherin male. You wrote the fucking letters. Just admit it!"
"You half-wit ... do you really think I would have revealed the true handwriting if I had written them?"
With a sigh, Ron sat back down on the bench, then leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. "Fuck," he said simply. Malfoy was right.
"So, what is it?" said Malfoy with a sneer. "Are you trying to figure out who's making a move to steal 'your Harry' away from you? I always knew you two were too close. That's why things didn't work out between you and Granger, isn't it?"
"Fuck you," said Ron, standing up and balling his hands into fists. "You're the one who spent most of last year holed up with Snape. Is it true they found you cradling his body in your arms?"
Malfoy screamed something unintelligible and threw himself forward, swinging wildly at Ron's head. Ron ducked and drove his fist into Malfoy's gut. With growls from both sides, they began to fight.
Several minutes later, they both lay on the floor, panting and bleeding -- Ron from his nose and Malfoy from his lip.
"Fine," said Malfoy after a prolonged silence, "I'll help you figure out who wrote the letters, if you'll let me read them all."
"Why would you want to do that?" asked Ron, groaning at the pain flaring in his face. God, it had been a while since he'd gotten into a fight like that.
"Because I'm a Slytherin," answered Malfoy, sitting up and gingerly touching his lower lip. "I'd like to know which one of my housemates has an inappropriate infatuation with a Gryffindor. With Potter, of all people. Knowledge is power, and--" He looked over at Ron, who was still lying on his back on the cold stone. "Never mind," he said, shaking his head, "that sort of thinking is beyond you. Just know it's in my best interests to acquire the information." He stood up and dusted himself off.
"Meet me here tomorrow night after dinner," he said, turning to walk away.
"Yeah, okay," agreed Ron. It couldn't hurt. Could it? Ron sat up as well, looking down and noticing that he'd gotten blood on his prefect's badge.
"Hey, Malfoy!" he called out just before the other boy disappeared around the corner. "That's twenty-five points from Slytherin for hitting a prefect!"
Ron laughed at the stream of expletives that echoed down the corridor, then got himself up, wincing at the pain in his side. Perhaps he'd better go to the Hospital wing. He'd just tell Madame Pomfrey that he'd fallen down the stairs.
--
When Ron arrived at the now-familiar corridor on the third floor of the castle the next evening, Malfoy was already waiting for him.
"So," said Ron, sitting down hesitantly next to Malfoy, "I was thinking--"
"Careful, don't hurt yourself."
"Augh! Just forget it," said Ron, standing up and stomping away. He had gone halfway down the corridor when Malfoy spoke up, his voice casual.
"Fine by me. But remember, you're looking for a Slytherin. You'll never figure it out alone."
Ron spun to face him and began walking back towards the bench. "I don't bloody care! It's not worth putting up with your crap just to figure out who is--" Ron stopped abruptly, realising that it was worth it. He'd have to put up with this … this insufferable git. He had to do it for Harry. Bollocks.
Malfoy smirked. "Hand over the letters, Weasley," he said, holding out his hand. "I'll read through one, then pass it on to you. If either of us finds anything noteworthy, we tell the other."
Ron gritted his teeth. That was exactly what he had been going to suggest. "Fine," he said sullenly, dropping the stack of envelopes into Malfoy's hand.
Malfoy pulled out the first letter, and after he had read it, he handed it over to Ron, shaking his head. "This doesn't make sense," he muttered.
"What doesn't?" asked Ron.
"Just keep reading."
--
Hours passed and they barely spoke except for brief exchanges when one of them was reading too slowly for the other's liking. As he read through the letters, each one getting more detailed and intimate and explicit than the last, Ron felt almost as if he was slowly being put under a spell. Gradually, he was succumbing to the letter writer's seduction. He almost envied Harry, really, having someone feel this way about him -- having someone want to do these things to him. He wondered if Malfoy was having a similar reaction to what he was reading. He wasn't wondering for any particular reason, it just would have been comforting to know that he wasn't alone in his … response. Every so often, he cast furtive glances to his right, hoping to see flushed cheeks or moist lips, parted slightly, or …
Ron cleared his throat and went back to reading. Hours more passed. Now, when he and Malfoy exchanged letters, both of their hands were trembling, and Ron knew for sure that their faces were equally flushed. A few times, their fingers brushed lightly together, sending a tingling warmth up Ron's arm.
Now they were getting to the end. There were only half a dozen letters remaining, and Malfoy didn't seem to have had any flashes of insight as to the identity of Harry's mysterious suitor. Ron rubbed his eyes, waiting impatiently for Malfoy to finish the letter he was reading. It appeared to be a particularly long and detailed one, judging by the rapt look on Malfoy's face. Ron was looking forward to reading it.
"Yes! I knew it!"
He started at the loud exclamation. "What is it? Did you figure out who it is?"
Malfoy looked exultant. He poked a place at the bottom of the page he was holding. "Right here," he said. "Look what it says."
Ron scooted over on the bench and leaned towards Malfoy until their heads were almost touching, trying to make out the tiny postscript that apparently held some important clue. He squinted, but was unable to focus on the words. The page was shaking, and he could feel the warmth of Malfoy's breath against the side of his face.
"What does it say?" whispered Ron, turning his face towards Malfoy's and finding them suddenly nose to nose. Malfoy whimpered and then leaned forward, kissing Ron softly on the lips. Ron leaned into the kiss, feeling the wetness of Malfoy's tongue slide into his mouth. He laced his fingers through Malfoy's hair, pulling him closer, remembering the words he had read, feeling a sweep of emotion that wasn't even really his as the kiss got rougher and deeper. He wanted to feel like Harry must have felt reading the letters. He wanted to feel like the letter writer must have felt writing them.
But bloody hell, he was kissing Malfoy. That was wrong -- so wrong. He pushed him away, sliding himself over on the bench and scrubbing at his mouth with his sleeve. "Don't fucking do that again," he said hoarsely, "or I'll kill you. Now, tell me what the letter says."
Malfoy stared at Ron, desire and hatred plainly warring on his face. "Read it yourself," he said with a snarl, flinging the page at Ron. Ron watched him retreat down the corridor and out of sight before turning his attention to the letter.
Ron felt a mixture of relief and horror as he read the postscript: "I heard you were caught out of bed last night and lost 75 points for Gryffindor. What are we going to do about you, dear James?"
--
"Leave him alone," said Lily. "What's he done to you?"
'He knows what he did,' thought James. 'And I'm going to make him pay.' He wanted to scream but instead he grinned. "Well, it's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean…."
Later, as Snape hung suspended upside down in midair, his robes pooling on the ground around his head, his underpants vanished, his wrinkled, flaccid penis exposed for all the assembled students to see, James wondered what else he could do to get revenge. Nothing seemed sufficient.
Remus approached him quietly. "How long are you going to keep him up there?"
James looked over to where Lily had been standing and saw that she had left. "I don't know," he answered, pain in his eyes, "is forever enough?"
Author: ♥ janicechess
Giftee: cormallen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,950
Characters/Pairing: Ron/Draco, plus others but to tell would give away the plot
Warnings: Mild violence, language
Author's Notes: Title is from a lyric in the song "Lullaby" by the Dixie Chicks, but this is otherwise not based on that song at all. Also, two lines of dialog at the end were quoted directly from The Order of the Phoenix. You'll recognize them when you get to them. Many thanks to my fabulous beta, and to my dear friends (you know who you are) for tossing ideas around with me over IM and email.
Summary: Ron reluctantly accepts Draco's help in identifying the author of a series of seductive love letters he accidentally finds under Harry's bed. Will the answer lead to love or heartbreak? Or maybe a little of both? Seventh year, post-war, canon-compliant through HBP.
Is Forever Enough?
--
The letter, like all of the others, simply said 'Potter' on the front of the envelope. When it had arrived with the morning post, it had taken all of his resolve not to dash from the Great Hall up to Gryffindor tower, clutching it gently so as not to wrinkle the paper. Instead, he had stuffed it casually into his satchel, hoping the others were too absorbed in their conversations to take notice. He had spent the rest of the day in a distracted daze. His eyes may have been focused on his professors, but his attention was entirely absorbed by the presence of the slim envelope in his bag, nestled between his fifth-year Potions textbook and his Transfiguration notes.
He opened it that night, after everyone else had fallen asleep. With the bed-curtains tightly shut around him, he pulled the letter from the pocket of his pyjamas, heart pounding with excitement. He tore it open and pulled out the carefully folded pages, his eyes devouring the familiar handwriting. He began to scan through, one page at a time, not reading anything yet -- although of course he would; he would savour every word, just like he had with all the others. But he had to find it first: the identity of his "secret admirer" was supposed to be revealed to him somewhere in this letter. Finally. He had a feeling he knew who it was -- he had known ever since the first one, really -- but this would confirm it and from now on his life would be perfect because he was in love and--
His eyes landed on a name at the end of the last page. A cruel signature; a heart-breaking signature. He dropped the letter as if it were on fire. In a few moments, it was, his wand held in a shaking hand, the paper crumbling to ash on his bed. He extinguished the blaze before his blankets could catch fire as well.
He pulled at his hair with his free hand, making the dark locks even more unruly than usual. He shook his head, feeling tears streaming down his face but refusing to admit that he was crying over this. Removing his glasses, he wiped viciously at his eyes. He had been tricked. He had been humiliated. Surely this couldn't be real -- it couldn't be. But it was. The hints -- things he should have noticed, should have seen -- fell together in his head like pieces of a cursed jigsaw puzzle.
He saw it all now, and it hurt. He wanted to burn the other letters as well, but he couldn't even bear to touch them, to see them, to be reminded of the time he had spent reading and rereading them. They would stay where they were, locked away under the floorboards and hidden by a series of spells that no one would ever be able to undo. No one would ever find them. No one would ever know.
--
"Third floorboard over … left side of my bed!" Harry yelled, his voice carrying from the common room. Ron paused on his way up the stairs.
"Yeah, mate, I heard you the first time! And the second and third as well!"
Shaking his head, but grinning, Ron knelt by the head of Harry's bed, searching for the floorboard under which Harry claimed to have stashed a bottle of Firewhisky during sixth year. It wasn't that Ron thought Harry was lying; it was just that if he'd really had Firewhisky hidden all this time then he was in serious trouble for not sharing it sooner. Although, he'd had a lot of things to deal with -- things like finding all the Horcruxes and killing Voldemort -- that might have required a good stiff shot every once in a while. Ron shook his head to clear away the memories. That was in the past. They were here now, at Hogwarts, just starting the second term of their belated seventh year. Everything was just as it had always been. No, everything was as it should have been all along: friends and Quidditch and sneaking to Hogsmeade to stock up on sweets and Butterbeer. No evil plots to thwart, no death and destruction. He could almost pretend that it had always been this way, were it not for the empty seats in the Great Hall, the missing faces in the classrooms.
That third floorboard didn't seem to be as loose as Harry had said it would be; in fact, it wouldn't move at all. Not wanting to go back downstairs empty-handed (he could just hear Seamus teasing him for not being strong enough to lift up a fucking board), he cast a levitation spell on the plank of wood. It didn't budge. Frowning, he cast something that he'd gotten quite good at: a spell to reveal the magical aura of an enchanted object. He gaped when he saw the result. Impervius plus an Imperturbable Charm plus a Disillusionment Charm plus … some sort of binding or fastening magic?
"Bloody hell, Harry," he muttered. "It's just Firewhisky, not an illegal Dark artefact."
With a practised ease that would have astounded his past self as well as his first through sixth-year teachers, he dispelled the charms with a single incantation. He had learned something from helping the Order, after all. The board lifted easily, leaving a gap big enough for him to stick his hand in, which he did, praying that there were no spiders in residence -- although the Impervius should have kept them out.
He withdrew a parcel of letters, tied together with twine. Weird. Was the bottle transfigured or something? But no, it actually was a bunch of letters; they were all already opened, judging by the ragged edges of the envelopes. The one on top said "Potter" on the front. So, thought Ron with a frown, the letters must be Harry's. He stood up, puzzling over why Harry would have sent him to get Firewhisky when there was none, knowing Ron would instead find this. Was he trying to tell him something? Had he wanted Ron to find the letters? Why couldn't he have just shown them to him?
Hesitantly, Ron extracted the top letter from its envelope. He felt guilty, as if he was doing something he shouldn't, but Harry must want him to see these, he told himself firmly, unfolding the parchment and beginning to read. The letter began abruptly, with no salutation.
~~~
I don't know what else to do but to write to you. Whenever I see you, I feel like my insides turn to fire. You are amazing. You are gorgeous. You are brilliant. (Well, perhaps not in every subject, but brilliant nonetheless.) I watch you all the time, you know. In the Great Hall, in classes that we share, when you play Quidditch, I watch you. I can't help myself.
And yet, you are often obnoxious and arrogant. I must be honest -- after all, what good is an anonymous letter if one is not completely honest? I merely want you to know that despite your flaws, I love you.
That's right. I love you. I admit it. The worst part is that you think I hate you. I have said some things to you that I regret. But I cannot take them back, not yet. My friends wouldn't understand; I'm not sure you would even understand.
It may be that you hate me as well. I used to think you must, but … I've seen the way you've looked at me lately. You may not even be aware of it, but on some level, you know we were made for each other.
We are, you know. Our love would be strong, our lives full of passion and fire. I could make you feel such things … but that is a subject for another letter. I am not so forward in person, please understand. But again, what is the point of writing an anonymous love letter if one does not declare one's intentions? You will be mine.
Sincerely,
Just Yours
~~~
Ron sat down heavily on Harry's bed, staring at what he had just read. Who the hell had sent this? Why hadn't Harry told him? There were so many envelopes … this must have been going on for months. He flipped the bundle over and pulled out the bottom one. Maybe if he read another one, things would make more sense. It seemed doubtful, but what else could he do? With a sigh, he began to read.
~~~
I don't know how you managed to get a letter to me. The owl was very confused, but it found me all the same. Clearly I underestimated your magical abilities as compared with my own. I told you that you were brilliant, didn't I? It only took you four months to figure out how to counter that charm.
I am so incredibly happy to learn that you love me in return. Yes, everything that I told you can come true. It can be real. Yes, I will tell you who I am. Next letter, I will tell you.
When I saw you today, I wanted to run up to you and kiss you. But, I have been patient this long. I will wait. One week, until my next letter, and then you will know. Will you still love me when you know? I will have to trust that you truly love me, that you love the person you have gotten to know through these letters. I worry that perhaps you will not, once you learn who I am. But then I see the fire in your eyes, and I know that I have nothing to fear. You already know, don't you? Perhaps you have always known.
You asked how long I would love you. Is forever enough?
As Always,
Yours
~~~
Ron exhaled a shaking breath. He flipped the letter over and then looked at the front of the envelope, but there was no date written anywhere, no indication as to when this had been sent. And there were no other letters after this one. Therefore, Ron reasoned, this must have been the last one Harry had received. Which meant he had less than a week to find out who this mystery person was; less than a week to make sure that Harry wasn't going to get his heart broken. That must be what Harry wanted. He'd probably sworn not to tell anyone about the letters (that seemed like something he would do) and this was the only way he could ask for help. Ron stood and walked determinedly across the room to stash the letters in his trunk.
After depositing the bundle securely, he turned, intending to go back downstairs and claim to not have been able to find the Firewhisky. Halfway to the door, he stopped and studied the floor around Harry's bed.
"Hold on," he thought as an idea occurred to him. "Maybe he meant the left side from the point of view of being in the bed."
He knelt down on that side, counted three over, and easily lifted the board, revealing a half-full bottle of Firewhisky. Ron picked it up with a sinking feeling in his chest. He looked over towards his trunk, unsure of what to do. Maybe Harry hadn't wanted him to find the letters after all. He had been very adamant about saying the left side of the bed. Perhaps he should put them back and forget he had ever found them.
No. He shook his head and walked out of the room. Even if Harry hadn't been asking for help, it was still Ron's duty as Harry's best mate to protect him. That's what he had done all of last year, and that was what he would continue to do. He walked back down the stairs, forcing a grin onto his face. His return was greeted with cries of delight.
"Oi! There you are! We thought you might be up there drinking it all yourself," said Seamus with a grin. Ron placed the bottle on the table and threw himself down on the sofa between Harry and Neville.
"I can't believe you hid this from us!" Ron said, elbowing Harry in the ribs. "From now on, no more hiding things." He watched Harry's reaction carefully.
"Okay, okay. But come on, you can't blame me," Harry said, the blush that crept onto his face belying the casualness of his voice.
Right. Tomorrow, he would begin his investigation.
--
Ron sat slumped forward on a stone bench in a deserted corridor, his head in his hands. He couldn't believe it. How could Harry have been so bloody stupid? Less than a day of watching the other students and he had already figured it out, yet Harry didn't seem to have a clue. All it had taken was seeing the casual glances that weren't really casual and eyes that should have been focused on quill and parchment or knife and cauldron intermittently flickering over to the other side of the classroom where he and Harry sat. There was only one person who was looking at Harry more than he should be. Draco Malfoy.
That Malfoy was even here at school was something of a sore point with Ron. Fine, someone somewhere at the Ministry had seen proof that he had done something moderately heroic that had helped defeat Voldemort, and that someone had seen to it that Malfoy was forgiven for almost being a murderer. But that didn’t change the fact that he had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts -- had let Fenrir Greyback in too -- leading to Dumbledore's murder and Bill's maiming. Their headmaster was dead and Ron's brother would never be the same, and it was all Malfoy's fault.
Also, Malfoy was a nasty, spoiled little wanker.
Of course, ever since his return to school, Malfoy hadn't really been that nasty. Not that he was suddenly nice and friendly and pleasant to be around … it was just that he hardly spoke at all, to anyone. None of the Slytherins from his year had returned to school -- being mostly dead, missing, or imprisoned -- and his younger housemates seemed to avoid him. He was sullen and withdrawn and did nothing but glare at the desk or the table or the wall most of the time, which had made his glances towards the Gryffindor side that much more obvious.
At the beginning of the year, Harry had said that Malfoy had suffered the consequences of his actions as well as inactions, but no matter how much he was pressed, he wouldn't explain what he meant by that. Harry had been with the group that had found Malfoy hiding in a closet with Snape's body, and that was all Ron knew.
"I hate to say it, but Malfoy has earned the right to start over. I just wish he could start over at some other school," Harry had said with a crooked grin, and Ron had laughed and agreed heartily.
Ron stood up and paced in the empty corridor. There was no way Harry knew the letter writer was Malfoy. Harry didn't like Malfoy. Malfoy, as far as Ron knew, didn't like Harry. The looks he had been sending his way all day were more venomous than anything else, now that he thought about it, and certainly did not match with the confessions of love that Ron had read earlier. That left just one explanation: Malfoy was trying to hurt Harry. It seemed an overly elaborate plot, but maybe that's how Slytherins did things. You-Know-Who's behaviour certainly seemed to bear that out.
"That bastard," muttered Ron, rushing off to the Owlery. He had a letter of his own to write.
--
That night, Ron sat waiting on the same stone bench, his legs bouncing with nervous energy. When he heard footsteps approaching, he stood and withdrew his wand, setting a determined expression on his face.
As Malfoy turned the corner and caught sight of Ron, his face contorted briefly in surprise; then he scowled.
"Weasley," he said, brushing past Ron and taking a seat on the bench, "I suppose I should have expected that the note came from you -- given the troll-like handwriting. What do you want?"
"I want you to leave Harry alone."
Malfoy narrowed his eyes, then cocked his head to one side and studied Ron for a few moments. "Why?"
"Because!" Ron shouted, stabbing his wand at Malfoy but not actually touching him with it. "You're a giant git and I know you're just toying with him and I won't let you hurt him!" He drew a shaking breath and dropped his wand arm to his side. "After all he's done for … for everyone … after all he's been through. How dare you do this to him? It's not right. They never should have let you back into this school."
"I have no idea what sort of wrong you think I've committed against your precious Potter," said Malfoy tightly, his face slightly pink as though from anger, "but I assume it won't matter if I claim innocence -- you'd never believe me, of--"
"You're bloody well right I wouldn't believe you! I know you wrote these," shouted Ron, pulling the letters out of his robe pocket and slamming them onto the bench beside Malfoy, who started at the abrupt movement.
Malfoy picked up the bundle and flipped through it. "Never seen them before," he said casually, tossing them at Ron, who lunged forward to catch them just before they hit the ground.
"Right, so that's your game, is it? This doesn't sound familiar?" Ron pulled a letter from the stack at random, took out the first page, and began to read it out loud.
"Let me tell you how it would be. We would sit in the tall grass, the moonlight washing over us, and talk for hours. Finally, when the conversation had gone quiet, we would lie back and gaze at the stars. Only, I would be unable to take my eyes off of you. You would notice that I was staring at you, and you would smile. Then, I would run my hands through your hair and caress your face.
"And then I would kiss you. I would kiss your forehead and your nose and your cheeks and your chin. And then your lips. I would start off softly, gently, and when you opened your mouth a little, that's when --"
Ron stopped reading, embarrassment flooding through him. He really didn't want to think about Malfoy kissing Harry, it was--
"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Malfoy, standing and pulling the piece of parchment from Ron's hand. "Why would you think I wrote this? That's the most ridiculous … I don't fancy Potter." He grimaced, apparently disgusted with the very thought.
"That's my entire point! You don't fancy him, and he doesn't fancy you, which is why you writing all of these makes you even more of a bastard than I already knew you were."
"I see no reason why you would leap to the conclusion that I had written this, other than that you're an idiot. This isn't even my handwriting. This is a girl's handwriting."
Damn, Ron thought. Malfoy had a point. The writing was a bit … round and bubbly. Malfoy was smirking at him now, and Ron felt himself blush. Then he remembered something he'd heard Hermione say once.
"So?" he retorted. "There are spells to disguise handwriting. It doesn't matter what the bloody writing looks like."
Malfoy made a thoughtful face and then withdrew his wand and wordlessly tapped the letter in his hand. Ron watched, wide-eyed, as the writing changed to a spiky scrawl. Malfoy's eyes went even wider than Ron's, and he clutched the letter so tightly that the paper crumpled in his hand.
"What the hell?" said Ron as Malfoy staggered slightly before letting himself fall to the bench. "What is it?"
"Nothing," said Malfoy, shaking his head and standing up again. He approached Ron, a determined fire in his pale eyes. "Give me those letters, Weasley."
"Not on your life, Malfoy." Ron stuffed the bundle back into his robes. "That wasn't 'nothing.' Tell me why you almost fainted when--"
"I did not almost faint," snarled Malfoy. "It's just -- I was surprised."
"Gee, I never would have guessed," said Ron with a snort.
Malfoy crossed his arms and stared at Ron for a moment. "That spell that was cast over that letter, the one that I dissipated, is one of the Slytherin house spells. Who … whoever wrote those letters was … is a Slytherin."
Ron wasn't really sure what was meant by 'Slytherin house spells,' but he decided to ignore that for now. "Oh, really? Well, now. This is interesting, isn't it? The letters were written by a Slytherin. The handwriting isn't girly; in fact, I think you'd agree that it looks quite masculine. So, we're looking for a Slytherin male. And would you look at that? You are a Slytherin male. You wrote the fucking letters. Just admit it!"
"You half-wit ... do you really think I would have revealed the true handwriting if I had written them?"
With a sigh, Ron sat back down on the bench, then leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. "Fuck," he said simply. Malfoy was right.
"So, what is it?" said Malfoy with a sneer. "Are you trying to figure out who's making a move to steal 'your Harry' away from you? I always knew you two were too close. That's why things didn't work out between you and Granger, isn't it?"
"Fuck you," said Ron, standing up and balling his hands into fists. "You're the one who spent most of last year holed up with Snape. Is it true they found you cradling his body in your arms?"
Malfoy screamed something unintelligible and threw himself forward, swinging wildly at Ron's head. Ron ducked and drove his fist into Malfoy's gut. With growls from both sides, they began to fight.
Several minutes later, they both lay on the floor, panting and bleeding -- Ron from his nose and Malfoy from his lip.
"Fine," said Malfoy after a prolonged silence, "I'll help you figure out who wrote the letters, if you'll let me read them all."
"Why would you want to do that?" asked Ron, groaning at the pain flaring in his face. God, it had been a while since he'd gotten into a fight like that.
"Because I'm a Slytherin," answered Malfoy, sitting up and gingerly touching his lower lip. "I'd like to know which one of my housemates has an inappropriate infatuation with a Gryffindor. With Potter, of all people. Knowledge is power, and--" He looked over at Ron, who was still lying on his back on the cold stone. "Never mind," he said, shaking his head, "that sort of thinking is beyond you. Just know it's in my best interests to acquire the information." He stood up and dusted himself off.
"Meet me here tomorrow night after dinner," he said, turning to walk away.
"Yeah, okay," agreed Ron. It couldn't hurt. Could it? Ron sat up as well, looking down and noticing that he'd gotten blood on his prefect's badge.
"Hey, Malfoy!" he called out just before the other boy disappeared around the corner. "That's twenty-five points from Slytherin for hitting a prefect!"
Ron laughed at the stream of expletives that echoed down the corridor, then got himself up, wincing at the pain in his side. Perhaps he'd better go to the Hospital wing. He'd just tell Madame Pomfrey that he'd fallen down the stairs.
--
When Ron arrived at the now-familiar corridor on the third floor of the castle the next evening, Malfoy was already waiting for him.
"So," said Ron, sitting down hesitantly next to Malfoy, "I was thinking--"
"Careful, don't hurt yourself."
"Augh! Just forget it," said Ron, standing up and stomping away. He had gone halfway down the corridor when Malfoy spoke up, his voice casual.
"Fine by me. But remember, you're looking for a Slytherin. You'll never figure it out alone."
Ron spun to face him and began walking back towards the bench. "I don't bloody care! It's not worth putting up with your crap just to figure out who is--" Ron stopped abruptly, realising that it was worth it. He'd have to put up with this … this insufferable git. He had to do it for Harry. Bollocks.
Malfoy smirked. "Hand over the letters, Weasley," he said, holding out his hand. "I'll read through one, then pass it on to you. If either of us finds anything noteworthy, we tell the other."
Ron gritted his teeth. That was exactly what he had been going to suggest. "Fine," he said sullenly, dropping the stack of envelopes into Malfoy's hand.
Malfoy pulled out the first letter, and after he had read it, he handed it over to Ron, shaking his head. "This doesn't make sense," he muttered.
"What doesn't?" asked Ron.
"Just keep reading."
--
Hours passed and they barely spoke except for brief exchanges when one of them was reading too slowly for the other's liking. As he read through the letters, each one getting more detailed and intimate and explicit than the last, Ron felt almost as if he was slowly being put under a spell. Gradually, he was succumbing to the letter writer's seduction. He almost envied Harry, really, having someone feel this way about him -- having someone want to do these things to him. He wondered if Malfoy was having a similar reaction to what he was reading. He wasn't wondering for any particular reason, it just would have been comforting to know that he wasn't alone in his … response. Every so often, he cast furtive glances to his right, hoping to see flushed cheeks or moist lips, parted slightly, or …
Ron cleared his throat and went back to reading. Hours more passed. Now, when he and Malfoy exchanged letters, both of their hands were trembling, and Ron knew for sure that their faces were equally flushed. A few times, their fingers brushed lightly together, sending a tingling warmth up Ron's arm.
Now they were getting to the end. There were only half a dozen letters remaining, and Malfoy didn't seem to have had any flashes of insight as to the identity of Harry's mysterious suitor. Ron rubbed his eyes, waiting impatiently for Malfoy to finish the letter he was reading. It appeared to be a particularly long and detailed one, judging by the rapt look on Malfoy's face. Ron was looking forward to reading it.
"Yes! I knew it!"
He started at the loud exclamation. "What is it? Did you figure out who it is?"
Malfoy looked exultant. He poked a place at the bottom of the page he was holding. "Right here," he said. "Look what it says."
Ron scooted over on the bench and leaned towards Malfoy until their heads were almost touching, trying to make out the tiny postscript that apparently held some important clue. He squinted, but was unable to focus on the words. The page was shaking, and he could feel the warmth of Malfoy's breath against the side of his face.
"What does it say?" whispered Ron, turning his face towards Malfoy's and finding them suddenly nose to nose. Malfoy whimpered and then leaned forward, kissing Ron softly on the lips. Ron leaned into the kiss, feeling the wetness of Malfoy's tongue slide into his mouth. He laced his fingers through Malfoy's hair, pulling him closer, remembering the words he had read, feeling a sweep of emotion that wasn't even really his as the kiss got rougher and deeper. He wanted to feel like Harry must have felt reading the letters. He wanted to feel like the letter writer must have felt writing them.
But bloody hell, he was kissing Malfoy. That was wrong -- so wrong. He pushed him away, sliding himself over on the bench and scrubbing at his mouth with his sleeve. "Don't fucking do that again," he said hoarsely, "or I'll kill you. Now, tell me what the letter says."
Malfoy stared at Ron, desire and hatred plainly warring on his face. "Read it yourself," he said with a snarl, flinging the page at Ron. Ron watched him retreat down the corridor and out of sight before turning his attention to the letter.
Ron felt a mixture of relief and horror as he read the postscript: "I heard you were caught out of bed last night and lost 75 points for Gryffindor. What are we going to do about you, dear James?"
--
"Leave him alone," said Lily. "What's he done to you?"
'He knows what he did,' thought James. 'And I'm going to make him pay.' He wanted to scream but instead he grinned. "Well, it's more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean…."
Later, as Snape hung suspended upside down in midair, his robes pooling on the ground around his head, his underpants vanished, his wrinkled, flaccid penis exposed for all the assembled students to see, James wondered what else he could do to get revenge. Nothing seemed sufficient.
Remus approached him quietly. "How long are you going to keep him up there?"
James looked over to where Lily had been standing and saw that she had left. "I don't know," he answered, pain in his eyes, "is forever enough?"