Harry/Ron, March 20, '05

[mandarinjazz]

Privacy
by miro

I.
Ron had this thing about confined spaces. He had lots of "things" like that, actually. He couldn't stand spiders. He didn't like the dark. He didn't mind mischief but he wasn't too fond of the consequences. He certainly didn't like Professor Snape. But whenever he thought about broom closets, cupboards, airplane seats, he got the chills.

He'd never really told anyone about it. Usually, though, he was pretty open about his anxieties. He always tried to change his face to show when he didn't like something. He could twist his face into all kinds of interesting expressions, and he enjoyed doing it. Sometimes words were just too cumbersome. Besides, by making a fear amusing, he discovered after many years of practice, he could soften its power. There would still be the nagging doubt in his chest, but at least he could reduce the blow for his friends. Ron was always trying to protect his friends.

This "thing" was different. Harry'd told him about the cupboard underneath the stairs at the Dursleys the second week they'd known each other. They were sharing secrets over bowls of porridge, alone in the dining hall long after the others had left, their eyes bright as they leaned for each other. "It’s dark most of the time," he’d said. "My whole body would fall asleep all the time."

"But how could you stand it?" Ron'd said. He'd kept his face neutral, but his eyes had surely betrayed his curiosity. He'd shivered inside but tried to keep his shoulders stiff.

Harry'd put a hand on the table, his fingers had tightened, and he'd sort of blushed and stammered with hooded eyes. Ron'd fought a hard breath- he could never begin to understand this- and had kept staring until Harry'd looked up.

"I don't know," he'd said with a shrug and a small smile. "I guess I just got used to it, you know." Ron'd stared bright eyed until it'd gotten awkward. He had no idea how anyone could get used to such places. Confined, one lost all sense of the world. To be squeezed into one's own universe that wasn't real, trapped by the weight of that very fantasy- he just couldn’t imagine it. He'd shivered and changed the subject to Quidditch, decided maybe certain anxieties were best kept secret.

II.
The night after Ron'd turned the boggart into a spider, he'd dreamed so hard that he woke in the middle of the night clutching wet tangled sheets. He dreamt he was trapped in a locked box just big enough to spread his fingers, and he was covered with big black spiders. Horrible voices called to him, and he thought an army was descending on him. He banged the wood with closed fists until the spiders had bitten his skin. He was pretty sure he was screaming.

He awoke to the sound of someone else's breathing, but there was nothing in the room but inky black shadows. When his eyes flashed open, he felt a quick stroke of skin softening one stray lock of his wild hair. But there was nothing there, only darkness. "Riddikulus," a voice whispered that sounded suspiciously like Harry's. There was no power in the spell, only a faint haunting trace of something Ron couldn't name. Muggles might've said it smelled like magic but Ron knew better. Ron'd shot out his hand, pressing his lips, but he caught only air.

III.

Ron liked the three of them together. Ron, Hermione, Harry, together forever. He wished there were no bad things in the world to tear them apart. He didn't like telling them things that bothered him, though. Of course he told them secrets and he talked about his day. Sometimes they huddled together in the common room, warming their hands by the fire and chatting about everything for hours.

But he couldn't tell them something stupid like this. It was stupid to be worried about boxes when there was a war going on. A war that could blow them to pieces at any moment. Best to treasure the moments they had, store them away for later recollections. Ron thought of the history books. Surely the history books would want to know the friends of the Boy Who Lived.

IV.

When they bring him in his skin is nearly charred, he's curled into a foetal position with his hands laced over his knees. Ron watches them carry his writhing small body to the hospital ward. He gets a place of honour. They take off his broken glasses. A fragment gets stuck on his nose. Ron watches until they leave him. He doesn't know what that bastard did to him. He squeezes his hands into fists inside his robes, tries to shape and control his rage. A flicker might have gone through his face, though.

Ron stands by his bed. He's got his fingers over his eyes, but they're opened a crack. He's in his twenties but he looks so small and weak. Ron shivers just watching. Ron tries to talk. "I bet it was dark," he whispers. He raises one hand, intending to comfort, but Harry shifts and Ron drops it to his side. "I hate the dark." He makes a face. He tries to twist his nose to make Harry laugh, tries to take the pain away from his eyes, but it's as if he isn't there.

At some point- Ron doesn't know when- Hermione joins him. She touches his shoulder. "He'll pull through," she says near his ear. "He always does. You need rest."

Ron doesn't know how she can be so careless.

V.
A few weeks pass and Harry gets his own room, supervised by an orderly who periodically gives him magical injections. They say he's healthy, his body is fine, but something's gone wrong in his head. There's a closet in his room. It's medium sized and made of oak and it's dark inside. He fits inside it with a little awkward crumpling. Ron finds him there the next day, after panicking with his heart in his throat when he didn't see him in his bed. But the orderly points to the closet and shrugs, goes back to reading her magazine. Ron glares. He knocks, touches the handle.

"Forbidden!" Harry screams, and Ron winces. Well, he thinks with a shrug, at least that's better than nothing at all.

VI.
Weeks pass. Ron's moved his things in and sleeps in Harry's old bed. Sometimes Hermione brings him coffee and biscuits. They sit together in silence and curl their fingers around hot cups. She tells him that there's a war on. She's keeping a running total of the casualties. She wants to make baskets full of memorabilia from their lives, like those Christmas gifts strangers give each other, just so people won't forget what they were like when they were alive. He tells her he doesn't care about any of it.

At night he puts his ear on the door until the wood scratches his skin and listens to Harry's breathing. He wants to make sure he's still breathing, he tells himself. Sometimes he puts his head against the wood and falls asleep there, legs crumpled, and his feet are stiff and tingly by morning.

VII.
Dumbledore replaces the orderly with Ron. The orderly disappears; she never did her job properly anyway. Ron feels relieved.

VIII.
"You're living in your own private world," Hermione tells him one day. She convinced him to go outside, and they sit in the middle of the lawn on a bright day eating from lunch boxes. She's already remarked on how pale he looked. "I’m worried about you."

"Tell me about the war," he says uneasily, because he knows it will shut her up about *that* at least, and his foresight is rewarded.

VIV.
Ron stops leaving the room on the sixtieth day of their confinement. He can summon house elves for all he wants, anyway. He just doesn't see the need to leave, not when Harry could emerge any second. Things are always happening to him when he's turning his back on them.

At night he sleeps in the bed Harry used to sleep in and wraps the sheets around his nose, smelling Harry's faint left over scent. He tells himself he smells it, anyway. His heart beats wildly in his chest. He wishes he knew where Harry's invisibility cloak was. A strong wind would open the door and he'd whisper some kind of spell to take all Harry's fears away. He knows, though, that no magic can cure Harry. No magic he knows, anyway; no magic the most professional experts in their world know, anyway. Magic is for sods. He's forgotten most of his spells. He doesn't have his wand. He only knows "Lumos," for when he can't sleep at night. Which is most nights.

VV.
The next day, on the ninetieth day of his confinement, Ron hears scratching behind the door. He scrambles to his knees. Maybe Harry wants food. He watches carefully as the door swings open a crack. A little voice cracks, "Ron?"

The door opens wider. Sharp small eyes squint. Ron's pulse pounds. His knees are shaky, but it might just be from their stiffness. He stretches a hand forward. Harry takes it, a hesitant finger traces Ron's thumb.

"You’ve been here all this- waiting-"

Ron nods.

"Would you like to know?" Harry whispers. His voice cracks. Ron looks up so fast he gets a crick in his neck. His heavy eyes hurt. "What it's like, to-?"

"I already know," Ron says hard. His hand tightens on Harry's hand. He lowers his head. Harry breathes softer, and a little "Oh" falls from his mouth. But Ron doesn't have time to be angry. He puts his mouth on Harry's, steals the surprise from his tongue. His touch is gentle. A reminder.

Harry blinks fast, as if he's unused to the light, to the world, and really he is, Ron thinks. Harry kisses him back. Ron doesn't forget about the world outside but it doesn't seem to matter as much.

At some point light floods through the room and hurts Ron's eyes. Harry leaves the closet slowly, straightens unused limbs. They're kissing on top of each other, tongues low and deep and succulent. When they break Ron says, "Tell me about what happened."

"Maybe later," Harry says, and slips a hand underneath his shirt.

Ron’s okay with that. Harry's hand slides down his waist, and their backs are against the closet, and their knees are touching, and Harry seems to know what Ron was really afraid of all along and it doesn't seem matter. Ron closes his eyes so that taste is his only sense. He realizes he's not afraid any more.