Chapter Text
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Ron
The Ripples It Causes
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Ron, Harry Potter’s Weasley friend.
.
Summer, 2008
Ron swipes three fingers through the bristles of a Cleansweep—taking in the strength on each slender branchlet. Alone with his brooms, the shop doesn’t make any sound. No other human has been in today.
The day has been wet and grey under the never-ending rain. It started as a drizzle and grew heavier. That awfully sounds like a burden, doesn’t it, something getting heavier as time passes by? Ron would know one or two things about burdens. He throws a breath—glancing at the small round clock above the door. The dusk has just joined him, though it barely makes any difference, as the sun didn’t even bother to show itself all day long, hiding behind mountains-like clouds.
Thunder rattles the window. It’s followed by the loud shriek of a door being opened. Momentarily, the sound of the rain deafens the room, for all of ten seconds until the door is closed again. Ron raises his head, finding his gaze directly meeting with Harry’s. It takes Ron a moment longer to notice that there’s someone else behind him.
It’s Draco bloody Malfoy.
Ron lets out a long-suffering sigh. Something in the back of his mind has always known that this day would come.
At the very least, the massive git satisfyingly looks like an emaciated, mud-sodden white rat tailing Harry. Merlin knows which grimy lair Harry retrieved him from. Harry makes a fuss and gives him Ron’s freshly brewed tea, Ron’s soup, Ron’s potions supplies, and Ron’s favourite green Weasley’s jumper, effectively ruining it for life. Harry only leaves an hour later, holding Malfoy’s bony arm to support him as he Apparated them both in a hush.
***
Harry brings Malfoy back to the shop, after a long, quiet two months. They pass the threshold holding hands in a firm grip. The summer hasn't shifted into autumn—leaving a small piece of red flower petal caught in Harry’s inky black hair, just near his left ear. Malfoy is in Harry’s purple Weasley sweater, seeming well-fed and passably-groomed. His cheeks are red, as red as the stray petal. Malfoy’s hair is impossibly pale, loosened behind his shoulders. Looks like Harry has been keeping him as a pet rat in one of the rooms in that dingy Grimmauld.
And they both stop before the till, Harry behind Malfoy, while two pairs of eyes look at Ron. Harry slowly runs his palms up and down Malfoy’s arms, like a caress on a cursed stone idol. Ron shudders—wondering if Harry will catch a curse, touching a Death Eater like that. His green eyes are bright and unafraid. Harry’s voice is crisp as he gives the verdict. “From today on, Draco works here.”
***
Winter, 2008
Ron sits on a stool close to the window, its curtains split open, permitting the early dawn into the room, allowing the soft early light seep in, falling on the brooms on display. They look most magnificent in this state, glimmering in gold and ember.
He sets up a 1932 Golden Montrimer on his lap, carefully rubs a piece of cloth on the ash wood. It’s one of the younger Brooms in the shop.
The methodological routine is his peace—the quietness of the rushing thoughts in his mind. Not a single thing matters more than the brooms. And they have to be sparkling clean. Everything has to be. The ceiling, the glass displays, the floor—Ron will do it later with a swish of his wand. But the brooms—the brooms are delicate magic. Ron is meticulous about the quality of his brooms, he would not use a cleaning spell and risk messing up the enchantment.
When all the cleaning is done, Ron throws together some bread and ham and cheese for a simple toast for breakfast, works out in his room for half an hour, and takes a bath. He's done dressing himself when the bell rings and the door opens. It's barely seven. And it's not the first customer, coming before the sign is flipped; it’s Harry, with Draco Malfoy in tow. Harry looks hurried. Malfoy looks annoyed. He glares at Ron from under his ashy pale fringe that weirdly covers his eyes. Malfoy is bony and thin. And short.
Short like Harry.
“I'll leave him with you. I have—I need, I should get things.”
Harry leaves before Ron gets the chance to firmly protest. Maybe he does that for that exact purpose.
***
Ron places Malfoy on the stool he uses to stand on when he needs to arrange the higher displays. Ron honestly doesn't know what to do with him—his gait is strange and tense, his back straight as a rod and his face broody.
Malfoy glares at things. Since yesterday, all he's been doing is glaring at Moontrimmer from the year 1901, as if the broom had offended him. He doesn't answer any of Ron's questions, not yesterday, not right now. Ron wants to report him to the Aurors, a stray Death Eater haunting a poor broom shop, but he has a feeling Harry will never forgive him for that. Ron has no desire to displease Harry—so he suffers by babysitting the git for him.
Ron has half a mind to let him sit there all day—like he did yesterday. Like an ornament, like décor. But Ron doesn't need any additional ornament, the brooms are masterpieces. He doesn't need any more on his plate really, not any non-consenting employee either. He does everything on his own just fine, thank you very much.
“Fine. Let's just give you the very basics. If you work with brooms, you should know how to clean them.”
Malfoy moves his glare from the broom to Ron.
It's like dealing with an angry cat. He doesn't even look that intimidating. “Look. I'm trying to make it work because I don't want to upset Harry. So if you can act a bit, you know, humanely. It'd be helpful.”
Malfoy does not answer, but he reaches out his hand, an open palm, not one for a handshake. He notices the calluses on his fingers—what on earth did Malfoy do to earn that hand?
Ron picks up the moontrimmer, the broom Malfoy has been glaring at, and gingerly puts it into his palm. He wonders if this was a good idea, Ron spent a great amount of money to fix the broom. Malfoy's fingers closed in a clasp around the wood.
He looks pointedly at Ron.
“Alright.” Ron sighed. And he takes Cleansweep One in his hand. It's already shiny and clean. But Malfoy has to be taught.
Ron takes another stool and places it in front of Malfoy. The shop is cramped, so there's not much space Ron can take a seat so his broom is within Malfoy's eyesight. Except for this. They’re close. Ron tries his best to spread his knees as wide as possible, lest they touch Malfoy's. Ron doesn't trust Malfoy's touch. He takes his cleaning box and places it atop of his left knee, and takes out two pieces of cloth. He hands one to Malfoy.
“You start here.” Ron very carefully, slowly, wipes the small cloth onto the end of the broomstick's handle, towards the seat, very thoroughly. He can feel Malfoy’s brooding eyes following his movement. “Towards here.”
Then Ron wipes the bipod, on each side. Left first, always left first. Then to the right. “And end here.”
Rons looks up. His gaze meets straight with Malfoy's, so Ron diverts it. He clears his throat. “You should—you have to be careful. Make sure that you're thorough.”
Malfoy's thin hand begins to wipe Moontrimmer's handle. He does it exactly the way Ron does, as diligent, as meticulous. Ron follows the satisfying movement of his bony fingers.
When he finishes, he looks up to Ron, there's no change on his face.
Ron breathes out the word before thinking about it. “Good.”
Malfoy shrugs.
Ron clears his throat again. He hands over a brush. Careful to place his hand on the end of the handle, so Malfoy won't accidentally touch it. “Next, you brush the twigs.”
Malfoy accepts the brush. Ron turns to his Cleansweep and starts to brush its twigs, not too hard nor too gently. Malfoy follows Ron's hand movement flawlessly.
“Good.” Ron says again.
Malfoy moves, his knees hit Ron's. There’s a creak from Ron's stool’s movement against the floorboards as Ron stands up and gathers the brooms. He places them back on the display and opens the shop, officially.
Ron clears his throat. “You should start tomorrow morning.”
Malfoy shrugs. And stays on the stool, doing absolutely nothing all day, like a piece of furniture.
***
From the window, the sunlight slips between the blinds. It's harsh on the eyes. And Ron isn’t used to waking up after dawn. He glares at his ceiling, wondering what to do now. He thinks of his brooms—and re-questions last night's decision to trust Malfoy with them under careful supervision.
Ron decides to do the morning exercise longer. Push ups, pulls up, sits up, the regulars, only longer to replace the vacant time that was once the broom cleaning routine.
After a cup of tea and a shower, Ron has breakfast. He puts Harry’s empty plate on the table. Harry won’t be joining—he hasn’t been joining Ron since that stormy night two months ago. But he has his plate prepared anyway.
Right after Ron finishes, like it’s planned, the bell rings, and it’s followed by Harry’s loud holler, calling for Ron. He opens the door to the stairs and sees that Harry is already climbing up towards him.
“Hi,” Ron says.
Malfoy snorts loudly behind Harry—his sneers disgrace his white rat-like face even more. Harry stops two stairs below Ron. “Draco said he’s doing quite well at the shop.”
Ron looks past Harry to meet Malfoy’s eyes, raising his eyebrows. Malfoy meets his eyes evenly. “Did he, now?”
“Yeah. You get along, don’t you?”
Ron answers in one tone. “Yes. Such impeccable behaviour for a piece of furniture.”
Harry stares at Ron and sighs. He strides past Ron into the flat, their shoulders bump, leaving a glaring Draco Malfoy behind.
Ron takes a deep breath, accepting his fate. He climbs down the stairs, retrieves the maintenance box, and hands it to Malfoy.
Ron meets Malfoy’s broody, annoyed eyes and gestures his hand towards the brooms. “Start with the brooms on the lowest displays. Call me when you're done. The upper displays are still warded.” Ron turns to climb back upstairs to follow Harry, but before he closes the door on the top of the stairs, he looks back at Malfoy. “They have to be clean, Malfoy. Clean.”
“Furniture doesn't clean, Weasley. We get cleaned,” Malfoy snaps, speaking for the first time since he’s been here.
“Furniture doesn't speak.” Ron snaps back, he rubs a palm on his own face. “I was wrong, I actually like you better when you shut up.”
“Why, Weasley, I clean your broom.” Malfoy picks a broom and fists it between his fingers. Ron shudders, absolutely disgusted. He closes his eyes and turns back inside. “What the fuck was that?”
***
Harry's hair shines under the rays of London summer's lazy sun. He lounges on the dining table, sitting on the wrong chair—his legs spread under the table, old Chudley Cannons socks covering his toes, head heavily leaning on the oval-shaped headrest of the guest chair.
Ron tells him, “I can make another breakfast.”
Harry opens his eyes. “I had breakfast.”
Ron pulls out Harry’s correct chair—on the emerald green leather covering its headrest. He holds Harry by the shoulder to gently nudge him to move. Harry doesn’t fight him, a little smile on his mouth. Ron suspects he was on the wrong chair on purpose. “You cooked? Have you finished the last left-overs I gave you?”
“I love cooking.” Harry lies. Ron rolls his eyes, standing behind Harry’s chair, and rests his hands on Harry’s shoulders. The shoulders shrug under his hands. “Malfoy likes my eggs.”
It doesn’t help his case.
From the window, a bird flies atop the neighboring shop's roof. “If you're bored of eggs. Come here. Just you, though. I haven’t made any new left-overs.”
Harry sighs as if Ron is the one who is being impossible. “He and I fucked, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
“Mm… I liked it, I think.”
Ron strides towards his cabinets in his small kitchen. He has sausages, bread, and pickles. And he can probably make toast in record time. “Are you sure you don't want breakfast?”
“He's good. I want to be with him all the time.”
“Heard you.” Ron says as he warms up water in the kettle to make tea. He doesn’t have time to boil it on a stove, so he just lets it sit and puts on a heating charm before pouring it over the teabags in the mugs.
“Say something.”
“Something.”
“Ron.”
Ron sighs as he puts the mugs on the table with Harry’s milk jug. “Wait for it to steep.”
“Ron.”
“It's as if you have ears to listen when it comes to him.” Following Harry through the ministry hall into the courtroom, years ago, was something Ron never thinks about fondly. It was fucking cold and scary; they both were just a pair of eighteen year olds. Malfoy was shackled down on the chair, chained with metal and magical bonds alike. There were wounds around his wrist and his legs. He was a pile of skin and bone sitting there. Harry didn’t even look at him. Ron has spent years alright not thinking about it, for Merlin’s sake. He couldn’t imagine letting Harry do it alone, standing there speaking in fragments, scared yet brave. Every single second of it was torture.
Ron sighs, looking at the wall. “You no longer come for breakfast anymore.”
“I like cooking.”
Ron sits in his own chair, feeling Harry's shocked feet settle above his. “Do you hear yourself?”
Harry sighs. “Can you just take what I say?”
“Don’t even think of trying.”
Harry leans his forehead on Ron's shoulder, strands of hair tickle Ron’s neck. This couldn't be comfortable for Harry. They don’t sit side by side, as Ron sits facing the window and Harry beside it. Harry sighs, letting out a blow of breath muddled with heaviness. “Can you, at least—he’s been helping me.”
“He must be really great.”
“He is.” Harry pulls back, looking at his tea for a long time. Ron puts both of his palms around the mug, feeling the temperature. He can feel Harry’s toes digging into his shin. Harry says, “I had a painting class this morning.”
Ron frowns, it sounds awfully out of nowhere. It is a good thing, knowing that Harry doesn't ever do anything for himself. But Harry never mentioned any interest in art all of his life. They've been doing this together—facing life standing with each other since they were bloody eleven.
“You… take painting classes?”
“Yeah, Draco made me.”
Ron sucks a breath. “He doesn’t have the right to—”
“I've always wanted to.” Harry cuts in, hand finally moving to take the jug, he slowly pours milk into his mug. “He just gave me a nudge to finally do it.”
Ron stares, mind straying through the years. Those years—they shared the same space. They share a life; he and Harry. Harry never shows any real interest—in anything. Well, except clubbing, smoking, and bloody Malfoy. He never says a word about anything. And yet, somehow, Malfoy, who’s only been living under his roof for two bloody months tells him he likes painting and Harry just goes with it? “You always wanted to paint?”
“I think so. I never thought it was—it wasn’t possible. I didn’t know—I wanted it. I think I did.” Harry shakes his head. “It’s… not bad.”
Ron breathes in, closing his eyes. “It doesn't make sense to me.”
“I didn't even know—Look, Ron.”
“He’s only been around for two months.”
“He is—”
“I'll be downstairs. In the workshop. Finish your tea.”
***
Downstairs, Malfoy still sits on the same stool as when Ron left him. Ron wants to punch him, just for the hell of it. Instead, Ron takes a deep breath and turns himself into a saint. He slams his fingers to put in the passkey, and the money drawer is opened—the whole till is actually adopted from Muggle technology. And Malfoy just watches—nothing flashes on his face. He seems to be adapting to all the Muggle things all too easily. He understands the pens, even the telephone doesn’t confuse him. It annoys Ron even more.
“You,” Ron points at his vain face, “know how to count, don’t you?”
Malfoy earnestly shakes his head. “No, I didn't finish school. I’m also illiterate.”
Ron takes another necessary deep breath. “And mute.”
Malfoy shrugs. Ron shoves him lightly with a hand. Merlin’s balls, Malfoy is small, like garden gnome-small. And skinny. He would have fallen onto Ron’s precious brooms had Ron used slightly more force. He could die if Ron actually punched him. The prospect actually interests Ron to commit to it even more. Except, well, Harry. “Manage. I'll do the talking. You shut up. Don’t speak.”
“Brute.” Malfoy speaks. Because he isn’t mute, apparently. He just takes delight in being difficult. Malfoy moves to the back of the till, his back so perfectly straight that Ron’s back aches just by looking. Malfoy seems fine standing like that for hours, wearing Harry’s old Gryffindor shirt, which Ron would be delighted to burn. Even better when it’s being worn by Malfoy, so he can also turn to ashes. Ron will let Harry take it as a keepsake. Or Ron will even happily keep it for him. He wonders why the hell didn’t Harry buy new clothes for his pet. Malfoy is lucky that Ron’s self-restraint works. He would not see another day if it didn’t, really.
Ron leaves Malfoy alone in the backroom to cool himself down. He picks his projects back up. There don’t seem to be any customers today anyway. With the broom shop, it’s more common for people to sightsee. Ten brooms sold in a month happens during peak season, like when the world cup is happening. If Malfoy is lucky, he can brood all he wants all day. And Ron doesn’t have to get into the gallery and see his face again. That also can be considered as Malfoy’s luck.
***
The pack of cigarettes rests on the dining table. Harry doesn’t light one up. He rarely does at Ron’s flat. Only on some occasions. And Ron certainly hopes this isn’t one of those. Harry leans against the green backrest, eyes pensive as he watches the abandoned tea. Ron will have to warm it up again soon. “I don’t know how—I don’t know what to do.”
Ron takes a seat on his own chair, staring at the cigarette pack. “Are you going to smoke here?”
“You're never angry at me.” Harry says with distress. Ron hates being angry at Harry. “I don’t know—what should I do?”
Harry takes out a fag and put it between his lips, it rolls slowly in there. Ron doesn’t see what Harry sees in cigarettes, neither can he see what Harry sees in Malfoy—there’s nothing to see, there’s nothing to love. To pity, sure. Malfoy is worth nothing of Harry’s love, time, and trust.
“How do you—why him?”
Love is the gloaming twilight near the end of the day. When the sun has given up and it starts to get dark. Ron has put his heart in the wrong place twice by the presence of dusk. He still wants to find love—but he’s too broken for it. He doesn’t understand how Harry can hand his fragile, priceless heart so carelessly to someone like Malfoy. He wouldn’t know how to treat it gently—if he doesn’t choose to smash it down to pieces once he knows he has it, that is.
“What do you want me to do?” Harry leans into Ron, his voice even more distressed.
Ron takes a deep breath. “It’s Malfoy—”
“Draco helps.” Harry says, eyes earnest. “He opens up the rooms. Grimmauld Place is not—he dealt with—he took care of everything.”
Ron feels his world pause. He hides his hands under the table—to not show how they shake. His voice trembles when he asks, “Even him? You told Malfoy about him?”
Harry’s face doesn’t change when he softly admits, “I did.”
It took Harry years to tell Ron about it. What is it that makes Malfoy so special that Harry can give him that trust so easily?
“You let him fix the room.”
Harry finally lit the fucking fag with the tip of his wand. “I’d let you too. You didn’t—you haven’t visited in a very long time.”
Ron feels the words like a slap straight on his face—leaving an invisible handprint on the skin. He hasn’t visited Grimmauld since he moved out, actually. A flimsy excuse he can give is that Harry’s always here. And then, Malfoy happened. Ron knows Malfoy stays at Grimmauld Place. Harry told him about it vaguely one night after he sat down and watched Ron work. Ron remembers he said something. Only he doesn’t remember Harry mentioning anything about fixing Grimmauld Place.
Ron throws a breath. Harry straightens up, ash falls from the tip of his fag. The cig is secure between two of his fingers as he lifts his mug and sips his tea—more white than the colour of tea-brown stain, too much milk, the way Harry likes it. “It’s cold.”
Ron refreshes the warming charm on Harry’s tea, feeling awfully inadequate, not even for the first time.
***
Ron reviews his ledger and inventory behind the till. This is only done once in every two weeks, as the turn-around is quite slow. He looks out from the window, watching the harshness of the deep winter. He re-does the room’s warming charm as he feels the temperature drop—and catches sight of Malfoy cleaning the brooms. Ron lingers for a moment, just making sure he does everything right.
This person knows Harry better than Ron, just in two months. What about him? What makes him different?
Malfoy follows Ron’s method, his calloused hand is well versed with the ritual of sweeping the cloth all over the broom. If Ron were not so bitter, he’d admit that it’s actually engrossing to watch someone else give the same care Ron does to the brooms. Not even Harry does that. Malfoy is surprisingly adept, and he has this look in his eyes when he looks at the broom, this fascination that Ron has only seen in the mirror.
His head is bowed down so low, lower than Ron does. And his fringes ridiculously fall all over his forehead, covering his moody, glaring eyes. His fingers are slender, and they rub the broom rod smoothly. He doesn’t even look up when he asks, “Why the stare? What do you want?”
Ron wants to fucking punch him. Instead he just laughs. “I just wonder.”
“What?”
“Did you dose Harry with anything?”
Malfoy laughs even louder than Ron. He stands up from the stool, puts down the broom. He asks, “Why? You sound jealous.”
“Fuck no.” Ron leaves the till and strides closer to Malfoy. He swipes a look over Malfoy from his pale hair, vain face, his thin frame, to his legs; and frowns. “It just baffles me. What he sees in you.”
Malfoy dares to smirk, cocky and self-important. “What do you see in me?”
“Let’s see. Ah, alright. Maybe there—” Ron closes the last distance between them, towering over him. He bows down to whisper into Malfoy’s ear. “I only see trash.”
***
The bell rings near twelve. Ron straightens his back and brushes unseen dirt off his robes and leaves the current project, an artisan 1874 broom, on the workbench. He takes a deep breath, puts on his widest smile, and emerges into the shop. “Welcome to Altered Ateliers!”
A man, seemingly older than Ron’s dad, stands in between glass displays like he owns the place—his burgundy robes fall swiftly behind him as he moves about. His eyes fall first on a broom inside the display. “I was recommended this place. You sell Artisan Brooms?”
“Oh, yes, and also better! These are historical brooms that have recently been altered and refined. Some of them are old artisan brooms, some of them are refined racing brooms.” Ron clears his throat. With a smile, he says, “These brooms are both collection-worthy and perfectly functional, you see.”
He opens the crest to show off the beautiful inky-black broom and its light blue twig bristles. “This broom, this carved signature, over here,” Ron bows closer to the man, and points to the carved number on the handle, “from the year 1902. And it was ridden by the Romanian keeper, Iorgu Iordan. He invented the Double Eight Loop. This broom saw glory—and it’s now perfectly usable. The body is repaired, the magic is refined. Better, even.”
“So you changed the magic?” The man touches the bristles, and straightens up and his eyes still when he looks at the till—at Malfoy, specifically, for a moment. Luckily, Malfoy is good at pretending he doesn’t exist. In his hand is another one of Ron’s broomstick maintenance books that he must have stolen from the backroom he’s not supposed to enter. But that’s for later. Ron tries to get the customer’s attention back.
“We improved it, Mr—?”
“Watson.”
“Ah, yes, of course Mr. Watson.” Ron caresses the light blue bristles. “I saw the colour caught your eyes. This colouration was popular back in the year. What a nice taste you have. This broom saw the world cup! It deserves refinement. This broom wants to fly! Not to rot and gather dust in some cabinets. Now it is sturdy and flies as fast as a new firebolt. And it should fall into the hand of a honourable gentleman.” Ron looks at him meaningfully to indicate like you.
Mr Watson frowns even deeper. He looks at Malfoy instead. And the git is still reading the stolen book. “If you changed it, where’s the historical value, then?”
“We altered it, but we left out souvenirs to tell the history; the small scratches, and the bristles. We curate the old twigs, keeping the ones that are still good enough, and freshening it up by adding a new one. To both keep the value and enhance functionality. Over here—it’s a scratch from Iorgu’s signature goal post save when he accidentally crashed at the metal goalposts that almost made him get thrown off the broom.”
“Does every broom here undergo the same thing?”
“Yes.”
Ron talks to him about five different older brooms and their history. In the end, Watson is sold to the first broom with the blue bristles. He hands Ron the money, which Malfoy grudgingly counts and puts in the book.
Watson leaves, with a promise of broom delivery by the owl.
Malfoy is back to reading his stolen book. “When did you steal that?”
Malfoy doesn’t raise his eyes from the book. “Don’t worry about it. This activity is for folks with higher intellect like me.”
“You said you're illiterate.”
“Sometimes. It depends.” Malfoy shrugs and smirks. “I just noticed something. You fuck your brooms, don’t you? You wank with it as if it’s someone’s shaft.”
Ron feels heat on his face. Malfoy is dead. “You're supposed to be mute.”
“Apologies, I was wrong,” Malfoy says, his face devoid of any expression. “You worship the brooms.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“You should have named the shop ‘Broom Altar' instead of ‘Atelier.’ Just so you know, ‘Altered, the Broom Altar’ has a nice ring to it.”
Ron doesn’t want to argue. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes to unsee the overcomplacent sight of Malfoy's face. Ron reminds himself that he doesn’t like the prospect of Azkaban, nor Harry’s disappointed eyes. So, slowly, without making a single noise, he raises his wand to Malfoy's face, whose nose is still deep in the book. “Muffliato.”
That gets Ron a blissfully quiet shop. Malfoy spends the rest of the day being wordlessly passive aggressive—refusing to clean the brooms after they're taken out for a try out by a customer, refusing to clean the shop, refusing to help pack the broom, refusing to do anything at all but read the stolen book. Just for today, Ron has learned to appreciate the silence, abrasive as it is.
***
Ron puts down the broom on the workbench with a sigh, careful about the placement of the fragile twigs, afraid they might break. He’s still working on the broom from 1872. It stubbornly refuses to fly—it’s been dormant inside a careless man’s cabinet for more than a hundred years. Ron brought it to Altered three months ago and still doesn’t know how to fix it. He has refined the magic, strengthened the wood, he strengthened the weak twigs. Ron’s been tirelessly trying to figure out why the broom still doesn’t fly. All the diagnostics and usual spells tell him nothing.
“What’s wrong with it?” Harry sits on a stool leaning against the wall just across the room, eyes never leaving Ron’s movements. He looks tired. But Harry always does, especially under this harsh bright light. When Ron designed the workspace, he decided that the room should be wholly lit up with bright bulbs. The room has a small window—but it’s only out to a small alley between Ron’s shop and the Apothecary, it never lets in an appropriate amount of sunlight.
Harry likes to watch when Ron works. It used to make Ron nervous, once. As years went by, Ron started to find his never-ending stares a comfort—existing in his periphery, proof that he has Harry’s full attention.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Just minor problems. I'll solve it later.”
“You brought that broom three months ago.” Harry surprises Ron by noticing that. He doesn’t think Harry ever does. “Just ask for help.”
“My helper didn’t reply. I’ve sent her ten letters. I'll figure something out.” Ron looks up to look at Harry. “How’s the painting class?”
“I tried pottery this week.”
Ron takes a deep breath. “Did Malfoy tell you to?”
“No.” Harry sighs, he fiddles with his fingers. “Stop being so—I know. I know you don’t like—But he's changed. And he’s not a Malfoy anymore.”
Ron glances from the door at Malfoy outside, his head bowed down as he cleans a broom that’s just been looked at by visitors. Sure, Malfoy’s changed after his disownment. But is that change enough? Even people with the best intentions end up hurting you. Even when you know you love them; you still hurt them. How can someone like Malfoy handle fragility?
Malfoy rubs the spaces between the protruding shape of the carved art on the broom handle with the smallest fabric and with determined care. His fingers dance gracefully. Ron can admit, he has good hands, that Malfoy.
It’s only that Ron still doesn’t think he can hold Harry’s hand the way it should be held. No one deserves Harry, if it’s up to Ron.
Ron looks back at Harry. “You're too reckless with him.”
“Am I? This isn’t the same—”
“How do you know that?”
Harry stands up and strides to the workbench, leaning against it as he stands so close to Ron, almost touching but not. “I have a confession—”
Ron knows he won’t like it, whatever it is.
There’s an inhale from Harry. “I've met him several times before.”
“Believe me, I know—”
“You suspected. Now you know.” Harry catches Ron forearms with his two hands. “We had—he wrote me an—”
Ron waits—a breath caught deep in his lungs, refusing to get out until he hears what it is that Malfoy can give and he couldn’t. “He let—he taught me to grieve.”
Fuck.
***
There’s glass everywhere in the showroom; display cabinets, windows, and some of them mirror and catch shadows. Ron sees their reflection on the display cabinets before he sees them. The room is quiet; except from the squelching sound from a mouth sucking on another mouth—wet and in a hurry. Malfoy’s hand is around Harry’s neck and Harry’s is pulling at Malfoy’s hair. They are too impatient with each other—as if they hadn’t had enough, as if they couldn’t have enough. Ron suspects the clasped fingers on Harry’s neck will imprint a red marking. Ron stands there, watching, hands sweaty on his sides, angry, and yet unable to move. But that’s Harry—how can Malfoy be so harsh? He knows how to be gentle, Ron has seen it in the way he treats the brooms.
Malfoy opens his eyes, looking up to the stairs, to Ron as he sucks Harry’s underlip. There, that vain smile, curving self-satisfied around Harry’s mouth. There’s something there—a question, a challenge, something Ron can’t understand.
Ron doesn’t breathe.
Harry lets out a small, whiny sound when their mouths part.
Ron finally feels the spell break and he runs upstairs to the flat—Harry must have heard his hurried steps. He sits down on his bed and takes a deep breath. It’s wrong. Why would he watch his best friend making out with that? Ron doesn’t want Harry. He definitely does not want Malfoy. But he doesn’t mistake the desire, the want rooting in the depth of his chest—it was wrong—maybe Ron’s been alone for too long. It’s been some years since his last relationship. That’s it. This is not about Harry. And definitely not about Malfoy.
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