Chapter Six

~*Flashback*~

They had stomached him enough to stay. He was such a smooth talker.

It was time for supper and Ginny was able to make a fairly good meal, with some help from some family members. Ron was ready to eat hours ago but today's events were despicable and grotesque. He had his full way with him. The week previous was devoted to torture and kisses but this day was full contact.

Ron sat delicately on the only available seat beside his bodily invader. He was tired, worn, bruised and bloodied and no one had noticed. While they ate, he sat stiff and unable to eat. The man beside him had wormed his hands between his legs, massaging his crotch. It was invasive. But he threatened him…he told him that if he didn't comply with his needs, his wants, his desires to be pleased and to earn back some revenge, then Ron and his family would suffer. He couldn't let that happen…he had, after all, caused his mother's death.

He stared at his food while trying to keep a rein on his tears and his anger. As his body betrayed him, as the image of food fused with the sickness that waved over and engulfed him, Ron soon knew that this was the end of his happiness. With a blank stare or lifeless blink of his eyes, the ordeal soon ended, a stain in his jeans that forever lay on his floor since he can't touch them, he can't scrub them because he touched them, he caressed that spot and Ron gave in to that tempestuous sensation.

He hated himself. He hated his life…his body was no longer his.

~*End of Flashback*~

Ron awoke from his daze. He saw from his window that a Quidditch game was going on. He wanted to be there. He wanted to yell and shout but he had no possible way of doing that. Ron wanted to burst free.

After three days of being unable to leave the bed, Ron shifted out of it and stumbled into the shower stall, only to throw back on his sweaty pajamas. He snuggled into the bed. Another wave of loathing against his body flowed through him as he pounded his pillow with his balled fists. He pummeled; he kicked. Ron realized how much this was his fault. He shouldn't have listened so devoutly. The man that ruined him was his height. Ron was even a bit taller than this man was. He could have fought back…but he was still too blinded by grief to understand his upper hand.

Ron opened to side table drawer and retrieved his magic quill. Why bother with writing his wrongs and scribbling angrily? His body deserved direct punishment. Recently, his body had learned to not respond but those times with his tormentor would touch him intimately, he tried to right it but those words of threat would get to him and he would have to let go and try to enjoy it.

His body, this thing that his tormentor said he liked so much, was the enemy. The vessel was the problem. If Ron wasn't as beautiful as the man whispered, perhaps it would end. Perhaps he could get away without anymore pain.

His once lean and masculine body that many and his tormentor desire was wasted away. His plan would work. It would have to work. He looked so frightfully thin, borderline, what some would call, anorexic. He still, miraculously, had fat clinging to his organs for safety purpose but now, he was ribcage, too flat for flattery stomach, and twig-like appendages. No one could possible desire him now. So then why, a few weeks or days ago, did this plan not work?

He needed more disfiguration. 

He unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it off, and leaned back. His stomach and chest had angry, white welts that were cuts healed the hard way, the Muggle way. His upper thighs still had vengeful, crimson nail streaks from last night erratic episode.

He carved across his chest. He etched it so delicately. He took his time to make sure they were correct. Some were faint and spindly while some were thick like the silence and shouts of `No' that Ron experienced so many times. Some were twisted and upside down. Etching his skin calmed him…added a since of control over his life. He was able to be free from his life, whatever shards remained. His mind was so occupied; he didn't notice the boredom…he hadn't notice the hurt that echoed in his heart. Ron was a shell and cutting into it may let his former self go. The old Ron deserved to be free and if slicing himself was going to ensure that of happening, Ron was willing to continue.

His body, his fragile and bent body, was his personal tally board, his personal diary. It was risky keeping those secrets on paper and in his mind so, once he destroyed his previous writings, he opted to his body, certain words cutting permanently across his
skin. `Emptied' and `Damage' were paler shadows left on his defaced skin. His arms weren't spared the tragedy. His left arm had long tick marks as to how many encounters that he endured.  Eleven so far. Not many seeing as how it just began during summer but it was enough.

Once he was finished with his decorations, he healed them so no one was the wiser. He didn't expect anyone to understand and he wanted out so bad. If Pomfrey noticed the anger and the scarring, he was sure to stay forever.

He knew he couldn't survive a forever in this place…especially if Malfoy was destined to that same fate. He had mentioned those three days ago that he was struggling against putting the old Malfoy back together. How long would he be recovering? Would it take as long as Ron's recovery?

Ron replaced his shirt onto his body and curled up into a fetal position. He wanted to die. He wanted nothing else but to slip away. He wanted Harry and Hermione to coax him into half-life functions. He wanted closure.

A few tears slipped by and he was unable to forget. Wave after sobbing wave of release crashed against his throat as he cried aloud. Someone may come…someone may not. He hadn't cared too much. His life was over.

He needed to tell.

It came so suddenly but it was perfect. He did need to tell. But who? He couldn't tell just anyone. He needed to tell someone who wouldn't pity him…someone who wouldn't tell.

The door flew open and his answer appeared.

"What the hell is going in here?"

Malfoy had heard some distant sound that was similar to the noises that drifted out from the drawing room when his father was in a mood. Next, he heard sobs and his curiosity got to the best of him.  

"Did you hear me? Or are you going to ignore me as usual?" He kept his hand on the knob for support. His balance had improved a little but he was still unsure on his own two feet.

Ron knew what he had to do. But could he do it. He was tired of this but he refused to succumb to his tormentor. He wouldn't allow that bastard to win. He disliked him before the incident had ever occurred and now he would destroy the man if he were ever given the chance.

"Weasley, I don't know why I even care. Maybe if you weren't such a poor charity case or if you didn't give into whatever happened to you, I would have some respect for you. Minute, but there." Draco sneered. He wanted to rub salt in the boy's obvious wounds. How correct he was in his assumption. Draco had an inkling as to how far Ron would go, he had see it before in his Slytherin Housemates. Why anyone would do such a thing…he never knew.

Ron sat up, sheets tangled around him. His dull eyes bored into Malfoy's chest. He hadn't the strength to look him in the eye just yet.

"I don't accept your apology. You have no clue as to how you have maimed me."

"I do know." He rasped out. He hadn't used his voice much, except to scream at Malfoy. He knew that his vocal cords were shot.

Draco was unfazed by Ron's speech. He knew he was the only person to hear him speak but that didn't matter. He was furious, malicious, and slightly aroused by Weasley's vulnerability. This was his chance. He could rid himself of this desire while blindly punishing the redhead. He could pay for what he made Draco acknowledge. He stepped forward. "I could harm you in the worst way possible. I could break you into smaller pieces."

Ron froze. Malfoy was sounding exactly like-

"I won't though." He wanted his fantasy. He wanted to humiliate the Weasel by having him succumb to the pleasure that he would give out. Malfoy was going to take Weasley, not be taken, and Ron would be horrified at how he gave in.

Ron visibly relaxed but his inside braced itself. Malfoy wasn't the one.

"I know your secret, Weasley. You didn't fix your sleeve." Sneered Malfoy as he came closer.

Appalled by his lack of care over his concealment, Ron gave in, once again. He was ready to come clean…thought that would never truly happen.

"You burst in." He forced out. He wanted to keep silent but he knew that his life depended on this blonde victim.

"Couldn't cover your tracks. I did barge in though." Malfoy continued with his calm demeanor but inside he was thrown for a loop. Weasley was so unaware of the severity that it chilled Malfoy. He hadn't known it was that bad.

//I will not pity him…I will not pity him// He chanted over and over. "I'm going to regret asking this but why are you doing that to yourself?"

Ron swallowed. He was so close to letting it out. Could he do it or would he let his tormentor's threats get to him?

"Weasley? I'm surprised. You've been here for over a week and they still haven't caught you. Aren't there supposed to be wards to alert them to when you hurt yourself?"

"It doesn't hurt if I want it." Ron's voice was deadpan. His expression, void of any remorse or emotion or alertness.

Malfoy stumbled at these words. He closed the door then pulled up a chair from the chess set. What could possibly be that horrible that would make Ron so used to pain?

The Slytherin placed his head in his hands and tried to contemplate the possibilities. This was obviously not about his mother. It was sad, he guessed, but it wasn't that heartbreaking. He didn't care that much about his own mother. It wasn't possible for others to feel that badly about a dead mother. That was absurd!

"Why did you do it?" He asked once again.

Ron's eyes glazed over. The pain from that day, the betrayal, the agony, the trust stolen forced Ron to shudder. He had to be quiet. If he didn't, bad things would happen. Very bad things. His family would suffer…

//I'm suffering now// a voice whispered. It was true but it didn't matter. He wasn't as great as his family.

"Tell me." Draco growled. "Tell me or I never come back."

Draco scoffed at his own words. Weasley wouldn't care if he never came back. They hated each other. Besides, not coming back meant that Draco could focus on recovering and that meant he would be whole again.

//Never whole again// He acknowledged. //This boy keeps you from it. He caused you to recognize that side of you. He made you unsteady on your own feet. He made you lose your short-term memory//

But he gained that with each day's end. His memory was almost fully restored and his walking was improving.

"This summer."

Draco looked over at Ron who was staring out the window. The game was over…the students were filing back in.

"What about it?"

"He took it."

"Took what?'

"Everything"

"Like?"

"My dignity. My sanity. My trust…happiness."

"Who? Who did it?"

Ron was so close to bringing justice. He had to. Harry would. Hermione would tell. They wouldn't be so petrified.

Ron was petrified. He shook his head.

"No? You don't know who did it? You don't want to tell?" Draco leaned forward. He was so close to knowing. He was so close to understanding what had put him in this position.

Ron shook his head. He mentally berated himself. He was almost there until he shut down. Something inside told him he could not tell, told him that he was in danger. He should tell but something was restraining his voice. He throat was shut down.

"Oh come on!" Malfoy roared. "You have to tell me!"

Ron had retreated inside. He was looking for the answer to Malfoy's question and his own. To Draco he looked like death. What little color that had returned to Ron as he struggled to speak was drained away. He was so sullen…so dead…so far away.

"Fine. I'll just have to guess then. Does it have something to do with what I did?"

Ron nodded.

The other boy thought hard about that day. Ron had shouted that he didn't want to be touched. He muttered it at first but once he was pressing against Weasley, so close to kissing him. By that time, the Weasel was shouting it. They were only touching…

Intimately touching…

That didn't mean…?

No way, shape, or form could that happen to Weasley. He was too tall and too strong to give in to that. He was a passionate Weasley. He could fight. Malfoy knew that.

"Were you-? Please don't tell me you were-?"

Ron mechanically turned towards Malfoy. That was it. Though he was a Slytherin, a Malfoy, and the son of a Death Eater, he was quite sharp. He figured it out.

Ron stared harshly at Draco. He seemed to hate what he was going to say. He did hate it but saying it…it was like saying You-Know-Who's name. Saying it was too harsh and too real and too frightening to say - to admit to.

"Weasley? Are you telling me that-?"

Harry could say his name. Hermione could say his name. Ron could not stand it. He could not say it and he could not hear it. He hated being so afraid of a name. He hated being so afraid of the man who killed him inside. He hated the act and he hated the man.

"Yes, Malfoy. I was raped."

.........................................................................................................................................................................................