Silent Dawn

Author: Freddie

Rating: R

Warning: Slash, non-graphic sex, kind of dark

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: This was written for Tarie in the ron_draco community fall fic exchange on livejournal. It was originally titled Edenbeam, but I changed it to Silent Dawn because I like that better! Also, it was very much inspired by the song Eva by Nightwish, but it's not a song fic.

The sun was just beginning to peek over the trees of the Forbidden Forest, casting the snowy Hogwarts grounds in pale pinks and oranges; the shadows of the trees were long and deep blue against the thick blanket of white. Snow drifted slowly from the heavens, glinting in the dim light.

Everything was over. Voldemort was dead, Harry was a hero; all was as it should be.

There was a sense of peace and happiness through Hogwarts that hadn't been there in years. The hallways were always filled with laughter and everyone could smile for no reason at all. There was no more fear that they would die before they could live their lives.

Ron pushed open the front door with a mitten-clad hand and stepped out into the untouched snow, grinning as the cold wind nipped at his cheeks and fluttered through his hair. The grounds were silent except for the quiet crunch of Ron's boots as he walked aimlessly through the winter wonderland. He welcomed the silence and solitude; it was the only thing that made sense anymore.

He, Harry, and Hermione had become so involved in the war that they were detached from the light-hearted celebrations. There weren't many others who had seen what they had seen. Even now, months after Voldemort's death, Ron still dreamed of blood and pain. How could he possibly be happy with everyone else when the terror had never truly left him?

But here, alone and surrounded by beauty, Ron forget all of that, even if it was just for a little while. His mind could wander freely, and he could dream of all the things that he secretly longed for, all the things that he loved and cherished.

Harry and Hermione had gotten together shortly after the war had ended. Maybe it was because they really loved each other, or maybe it was just because they needed each other. It was hard for them to be alone, and they were the only ones who could understand each other; sympathise with and pity each other.

Being excluded should have hurt, but Ron didn't mind. He had his hopes and dreams, and sometimes, if he thought hard enough, he could pretend they were real.

His hand curled slightly, and he could feel the warmth of another hand in his; the presence of someone else wandering through the snow with him.

They walked together down to the edge of the frozen lake, gazing across the gleaming ice. Ron smiled and shifted closer to his companion, longing to rest his head on a shoulder. But he didn't move.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Ron asked quietly. His words were blown away in a gust of wind.

He tightened his hold on his companion's hand, and guided him along the edge of the lake and over to a small bench. They sat down, probably closer than they should have, their hands remaining tightly clasped between them.

If there were such a thing as peace, Ron knew it had to be moments like this. The scenery was as beautiful as a photograph, almost glowing as the sun slowly rose higher and higher into the sky. He was warm and happy, accompanied by someone who would listen to his every word; someone who would love him, regardless of what he said.

They sat together for what felt like hours in comfortable silence, the breeze flowing through their hair, the cold forcing them to move a little closer for warmth. As much as Ron loved solitude, he also longed for this companionship. He needed this—every single morning he needed it. He was never one for keeping something as ridiculous as a diary, but why should he? He already had someone to spill his deepest thoughts to.

Ron told him everything, every single morning. He talked about his nightmares, the fears he would never let anyone see. He would finally confess his fears and insecurities, and how hard it was to cling to one tiny thread of hope.

Harry and Hermione could never know these things; it would just make their lives more difficult. Ron was always the happy one. He still was, in a way, because at least he had hope—even if it was just a little.

He gazed up at the sky, trying to make a guess at the time. It was bright enough—everyone would probably be waking up soon, which meant it was time for him to go back inside.

He sighed and took one last look around before standing up and following his lone set of footprints back up to the castle.

***

He sat in the common room with Harry and Hermione later that evening. The two of them sat together on one of the couches, Harry's arm wrapped tightly around her shoulder, with her tucked close to his side. Despite what they had, despite the warm kisses they pressed to each other's lips, the two of them looked so dead.

"Neither can live while the other survives."

Voldemort was dead, so why wasn't Harry living?

Ron tore himself away from the bleak scene and went upstairs to the dorm, pausing as he passed a mirror. He turned, confronting his reflection. He looked as pale and tired as Harry and Hermione did, but with one major difference: his eyes weren't dark and sunken in. They were still bright; proud and determined. He believed in himself, even if no one else did.

Hermione would pat his shoulder sometimes, smiling at him with sad eyes. She would tell him how sorry she was, how the Wizengamot had been completely unfair, and how she wished there was something more that they could have done. Ron was tired of hearing it. Apologies meant that he had lost. And he hadn't, not yet.

"Hey Weasley!" Draco called, shoving his way through a crowd of first years who were giggling at the outcome of the Ravenclaw versus Slytherin Quidditch game.

Ron continued walking, pretending he hadn't heard him. They had become quite civil for a while, almost even friends, but the tension between them had grown to be unbearable. So Ron did what he always did in uncomfortable situations: he fled.

But that didn't stop him from watching Draco's Quidditch matches from afar, watching how light and elegant he was on a broom. But Ron wouldn't, couldn't, talk to him. What could he possibly say?

"Weasley!" Draco called again, a hint of frustration in his voice.

Ron quickened his pace, but was brought to a jarring stop when a hand gripped his arm and yanked him backward.

Ron spun around, mouth agape, struggling for something to say. Draco's face, flushed pink from the Quidditch game, was set into a firm, almost angry, expression. "Stop avoiding me," he snarled, his grip on Ron's arm tightening.

Before Ron had a chance to respond, Draco yanked him forward and crushed their lips together.

Ron smiled, sliding up onto the cool stone of the window ledge in the common room. He rested his forehead against the glass, watching the snow fall. The other boys were asleep, and had been for a few hours, but Ron was faced with another bout of insomnia. Well, it wasn't that he was incapable of falling asleep, he just didn't want to yet. He had discovered that the later he stayed up at night and the earlier he woke up in the morning, the less chance he had of remembering his nightmares.

His breath puffed against the glass, forming a small oval of condensation. He brought his finger up to it, delicately tracing a small heart in the centre of it, his finger making a quiet squeaking sound against the glass. He stared at the crooked little heart for a moment, his smile faltering, and then quickly rubbed the heart away. There was no use in upsetting himself. He had to stay happy for Harry and Hermione. And, most importantly, he had to stay happy for himself.

He watched the snow fall for a few more minutes, letting his mind wander. He could almost hear the crunch of snow being pounded under running feet and the distant laughter of two carefree boys. And, if he really thought hard enough, he could feel the cold and heaviness of a snowball crashing into the side of his face.

His eyes fell closed and he brushed his fingers gently over his cheek. There had been an awful bruise, he could remember that vividly. Pomfrey had refused to heal it because he shouldn't have been sneaking out in the middle of the night to begin with.

He hadn't regretted it, though. It had been the first snowfall of the year, and it had already piled up thick. They just couldn't wait to go out until morning. He and Draco were the first ones to leave their footprints in the snow, the first ones to roll around and kiss and hug with no one else there to see them. After that night, a lot of other couples would sneak out and do that very thing. But they were the first, and that was how they liked it.

Ron sighed and quietly slid out of the window, giving the snowy scene one last fleeting glance. He would be out again tomorrow morning, as always, and then maybe he'd allow himself to reminisce just a little more.

He tiptoed back to his bed and slipped beneath the blankets, burying himself in warmth. Soon, everything would be okay again. Soon.

"There will be a mass trial for all known Death Eaters tomorrow evening. Those who do not arrive at the appointed time will—"

Ron switched off the radio and pulled Draco closer, resting his hand over the Dark Mark. Draco was innocent; he was forced to become a Death Eater. He would have been killed. Surely the Wizengamot would understand that.

But still, he couldn't stop the uneasiness that gripped him. He pressed his lips to the top of Draco's head and let his eyes fall closed. It shouldn't feel like this was their last night together, but somehow, it did.

"We could run," he said quietly. "We could flee the country and never come back."

"And if they caught us, we would both be guilty. At least this way there's a chance."

Draco lifted his head and captured Ron's lips with his own, his hands sliding up to cradle Ron's face.

There was nothing left to say.

Ron's eyes snapped open, and he stared out into the dimly lit dorm room. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and he struggled to force the memory out of his head. There were so many things he could have said, so many things that he wished he had. But there had been nothing but silence.

He shook his head and struggled out of bed. It was much earlier than the time he usually went outside, but he didn't want to fall back asleep and let the dream continue. He knew where it went from there, and he didn't want to relive it again.

"Guilty as charged."

"No!" Hermione cried, jumping to her feet. "He was invaluable to our side! If it weren't for him we—"

"Someone please escort Miss Granger to the door."

"You're making a mistake!" she continued, even as the door was slammed in her face. "He's innocent!"

"Draco Malfoy will be sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. That is all for today."

The courtroom erupted in noise, and all Ron could do was stare sightlessly in front him. This wasn't happening... this couldn't be happening.

He focussed on Draco, who looked unsurprised; resigned, even. Ron's vision blurred with tears as two members of the Wizengamot grabbed Draco's arms and led him out a back door.

Draco didn't even put up a fight.

The rest of the memory was a blur to Ron. According to Harry, Ron had sprung to his feet with an agonised scream, fighting and attempting to jump over the barrier and follow Draco. The Aurors had been forced to stun him and drag him out of the room. There were no goodbyes, no final kiss; he never saw Draco again.

Tears stung at the corner of Ron's eyes and he fought them back, determined to keep himself together. Draco's soul had been sucked out the following day. The Wizengamot didn't want a chance for new evidence to surface, proving his innocence. They were determined to eliminate each and every surviving Death Eater—guilty or innocent. The trial was just for show.

Ron shuffled through the snow, leaving deep, dragging marks behind him. He wasn't concerned enough to lift his feet—this morning, he only wanted comfort. He closed his eyes and imagined the sound of Draco's footsteps walking lightly beside him, the sound of heavy breaths, and the warmth of an arm as it slid around his waist.

He shivered, absently leaning closer to the warmth. Sometimes he wondered if there was something wrong with him; as far as he knew, it wasn't normal to be able to imagine the presence of someone else this well.

They made their way over to the bench by the lake—a favourite spot of theirs. He smiled; he could even feel Draco shifting beside him as he tried to get comfortable. It was such an accurate illusion, how could he resist spending time with it every morning?

"What happens to a soul when it gets stolen by a Dementor?" Ron asked quietly, toeing at the snow. There was no answer, of course, other than the low howl of the wind. "Can it—it can't be stuck inside the Dementor forever, can it?"

There was silence for a moment as Ron thought over his own words. Why wouldn't a soul be stuck inside of a Dementor forever? But he couldn't allow himself to think that. There had to be another option.

"What if I can get it back?" Ron whispered, clenching his fists. "I would do whatever it takes."

There had to be a book or a spell or something that would tell him what to do. He knew that magic couldn't bring someone back to life, but the soulless body left behind by a Dementor wasn't dead. He had heard that they could still breathe, that their hearts still beat in their chests.

He sighed. "I don't even know where his body is," he admitted, his voice strained. "Still in Azkaban, maybe? But why would they waste space locking up someone that's not going to run?"

He stared sightlessly at the beams of sunlight sparkling on the frozen lake, his mind slowly forming a plan. He would get Draco back, even if it killed him.

***

For the rest of his seventh year, Ron spent every spare moment he had in the library searching for anything that could be of use. He read every book he could find that contained any information about Azkaban and Dementors, but none of them mentioned what happened to the soul. The only mention of the victims of the Dementor's Kiss was that their bodies would live on in an almost coma-like state. That's why the Kiss was considered worse than death—it was eternal suffering.

It was difficult to read about Draco's fate, but there would be no way to help him if Ron didn't force himself to continue. He stayed up late every single night, reading until his eyes crossed and he could no longer make sense of the words. Then he would go to sleep only to wake up early the next day, take a book outside, and start the process all over again. No matter what happened, he had to continue to sneak out in the mornings. After breakfast, though, he would go to his classes, and then retreat into the library.

It was a stressful, tiring lifestyle, and he knew his grades were slipping, but he didn't care. Every day, he woke up with the feeling that he would finally find what he needed.

If Harry and Hermione noticed his behaviour, they didn't comment on it. They continued to spend their time in silence, simply holding one another and praying for a better tomorrow. Ron sometimes wondered if they realised that happiness wouldn't come unless they strived for it.

Once he had worked his way through all of the relevant books he could find, there was only a month of school left. Feeling rushed and a little discouraged, Ron made one last effort to get information: he borrowed Harry's Invisibility Cloak and started sneaking into the Restricted Section at night. And that's where he found the one bit of information that gave him the encouragement he needed.

The book was old and decaying; the splotchy brown cover only hanging on by a few threads. And on the cover was the word DEMENTORS written in an old, almost unreadable script. Ron sat down on the floor and gently opened the book, which crackled in protest. The pages were thin, brittle, and yellowed with age. He carefully flipped to the table of contents, struggling to read the faded writing. It seemed to be handwritten by someone very old; the wavering, spindly script reminded him of Dumbledore's handwriting.

He trailed his finger down the page, looking for what he needed. It may have helped to read the whole book, but Ron was a slow reader, and time was running out. He wasn't aware of any other place that would have such dark books available.

He found a chapter titled Kiss and he started to turn the page, but stopped when another word caught his eye. Victims—the very last chapter in the book. With restrained eagerness, Ron slowly turned the book over and opened to the last few pages. With only the dim light from his Lumos spell, he began reading.

"The very presence of a Dementor leaves victims soulless and evil; they have nothing left but the worst experiences of their life. If the Kiss is used, the victim becomes no more than an empty shell, alive, but irretrievably gone.

"The bodies require no care; they will live as long as possible before rotting away with age. As for the soul, it does not reside inside of a Dementor, as one might think. A Dementor's very nature is to be without a soul, and it is therefore incapable of retaining a single soul for more than a few minutes.

"But what happens to the soul? As of this time, that remains unknown."

Ron sighed and looked up from the book, rubbing at his tired eyes. So Draco's soul was definitely not inside of a Dementor, but... he was "irretrievably gone?"

Ron slipped the book under the cloak with him and snuck out of the library. Draco was not gone and he'd prove that once and for all.

"You're not making any sense," Draco sighed, rolling his eyes.

"I'm making plenty of sense! You're just not listening!"

Draco shoved himself to his feet, glaring up at Ron. "Why would I want to waste my time listening to every excuse you can come up with?"

Ron stamped his foot in exasperation. "You can't expect me to spend every moment of every day with you! You're just..." he growled, raking his hands through his hair. "You're just selfish!"

"Oh, bravo," Draco said sardonically, "Twenty points to Gryffindor. It took you long enough to figure that one out."

Ron couldn't suppress the small smile that tried to creep onto his face. "You're a selfish prat and you're proud of it?"

"Of course," Draco responded, his tense, defensive posture melting away. "So I want to spend time with you," he said, poking Ron's chest. "Honestly, you should feel flattered."

Ron sighed and looped his arms around Draco's shoulders. It was becoming harder and harder to remain angry with Draco. "Alright," he said finally, staring into sparkling grey eyes. "What do you want to do?"

Draco smirked triumphantly and leaned up to brush his lips against Ron's cheek. "Did you know that it's snowing?"

Ron was surprised that he managed to pass his N.E.W.T.s. His concentration had been slipping more and more each day; he thought about the future and the past, and all of the things that seemed so impossible.

No matter how badly he wanted it, he didn't think he'd ever see Draco's eyes light up again, and sparkle in that way that was unique to him alone. He found it harder and harder to imagine that he would hear Draco's snide laugh again, and it was even harder to imagine Draco's soft, gentle laugh.

It all seemed so far away, and every thought, every memory, made Ron hurt even more. As hard as it was to accept that Draco was gone, it was even harder to remember how it was when he was around.

Ron finally let himself cry the night after graduation. He had moved into a small flat in wizarding London that his parents had been furnishing for him as he finished school. It was nice enough, nothing too extravagant, but when he finally fell into his new bed—the bed much too large for one person—he was finally hit with a horrible realisation: he was alone.

Draco should be there, right next to him, and Ron reached out his hand, feeling nothing but the empty expanse of cool, untouched sheets. And he cried, without even trying to stop himself. Even though Draco had never been there before, it seemed so wrong without him.

Ron wanted to hold him, feel his warmth, and never, ever let him go. He closed his eyes and imagined Draco's arms wrapped around him.

"Hush, just relax," Draco whispered, trailing the tip of his nose up Ron's cheek. His breaths came out in strained puffs against Ron's neck as he supported himself with trembling arms.

Ron took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to find a way to adjust to the insufferable pain. He hadn't expected this to hurt so much. He wrapped his arms tighter around Draco's sweat-slicked back, digging blunt nails into Draco's shoulders. It hurt, it hurt so much and he wanted it to stop, but at the same time, he couldn't stop himself from wanting it. He trusted Draco, and Draco had told him it would be okay.

Draco slowly, carefully began to pull out, and Ron only held on tighter. A quiet whimper filled the room, and Ron didn't realise it was his own until Draco asked quietly, "Do you want to stop?"

It took a moment for Ron to regain control of himself long enough to shake his head. He forced his eyes open, staring blearily up at Draco. He looked so lovely—his face just the lightest shade of pink, his hair hanging down loosely, and his eyes... his eyes were focussed on nothing but Ron.

Draco dipped down at the same time as Ron leaned up and they pressed their lips together clumsily.

"I love you," Ron said breathlessly, keeping his eyes trained on Draco's.

Draco smiled and pushed back into Ron's body, causing Ron to throw his head back and let out a low moan. The pain was already starting to fade.

"I love you."

Ron spent his days reading every word in the book on Dementors he had stolen from the Restricted Section. He had every intention of returning it one day, but he had a greater use for it at the moment. Besides, who would notice that it was gone?

He knew he should probably get a job, but he couldn't make himself leave his flat. The only time he went outside was to step out onto the little balcony on the backside of his flat in the early morning. It didn't quite compare with taking long walks around the school or going down to the lake, but it worked just as well. There was a small bench nestled over in the corner and he would sit there, imagine Draco beside him, and watch the sun rise.

Hermione had begun to bring over groceries for him every now and then, and every time he promised that he'd pay her back one day. He never did. She never asked what he was doing locked up all by himself. She never asked about the money and, surprisingly, she never even told him to get a job. She would just stroke his hair and tell him that everything would be alright.

And even as he spiralled deeper and deeper into loneliness and depression, Hermione was starting to look better. She and Harry had gotten married shortly after graduation and they had bought a small house not too far from Ron's flat. Harry didn't come to visit very often and Ron didn't blame him; Harry had enough that upset him without Ron's misery adding to it.

Two months after graduation, Ron finished his book and left his flat for the first time. He finally knew what had happened to Draco's body. According to the book, once the Dementors had performed the Kiss on a prisoner of Azkaban, the body was dumped a pit on the south side of the prison.

The thought of Draco's body being thrown carelessly to the side, on top of countless other Death Eaters, and having other soulless prisoners tossed on top of him was slightly disturbing, but Ron had no second thoughts about going to get him. Draco was better than that—Draco deserved to live.

***

Azkaban was more horrifying than Ron could have ever imagined. Everything seemed darker and colder, and the prison towered over him ominously. Ron kept to the far edge of the cliff, as far away from the building as possible; fighting off the despair that slowly began to nag at him. The Dementors didn't seem to have noticed him yet, but their very presence filled him with suffocating dread.

It was pointless to be there. He'd never find Draco, and if he did, that didn't mean everything was going to be alright. There was still no way that Ron knew of to bring Draco's soul back. To see Draco again, alive but gone, would be the worst form of torture imaginable.

Ron shook off those thoughts, and rounded the corner to the south side of Azkaban. He couldn't let the Dementors get to him, not when he was so close. In a desperate attempt to keep himself happy, Ron tried to imagine Draco there with him, walking beside him, holding his hand. He curled his hand around the warmth that he was sure would be there, and together they walked to the edge of the pit.

It was more gruesome than Ron had pictured. Dirty, frail-looking bodies were strewn carelessly on top of each other, bent at awkward angles, hair unkempt—scalp showing through on some. They must have been in Azkaban long enough to lose their minds and start pulling out their hair.

Upon first glance, Draco was nowhere in sight. Of course not—he had been there for almost a year. Ron shuddered at the thought and closed his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. All of this time, while Ron had been safe and comfortable at the very least, Draco had been lying in pit of soulless bodies, exposed to the snow and rain and whatever else.

Ron took a deep, shuddering breath and skidded down the side of the pit, rocks and dirt breaking off and falling down onto the bodies beneath him. He came to a stumbling stop at the bottom, flailing his arms to keep himself from falling. Once he regained his balance, all he could do was stare. The bodies were moving, breathing, and the air was filled with their low rasps for breath. Every now and then, one of them would twitch or cough, and as Ron made his way around the pit—careful not to step on anyone—he became increasingly scared that one of them would reach out and grab him.

Once he had made his way fully around the pit, he came to the conclusion that Draco must be buried. Ron hadn't been able to see him anywhere.

Reluctantly, he knelt down and grabbed the arm of the closest body—surprised that it was still warm—and rolled it out of the way. There was another unrecognisable body under that one, and another under that. Ron let out a quiet, frustrated growl and slammed his fists down on the ground. This was impossible. It would take an eternity to find Draco in here.

He could almost feel Draco place a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. Encouraged, Ron crawled out onto the sea of bodies until he was directly in the middle of it, and then he began digging with renewed determination. He would find Draco. He had to.

"Come on, Draco," he muttered as he attempted to shove a particularly heavy body out of the way. "Don't hide from me."

That's when he heard footsteps approaching the edge of the pit. Panicked, he looked around for somewhere to hide. But there was nothing—nothing but bodies and bodies and it would take too long to climb back out of the pit. The footsteps were getting closer and Ron did the only thing he could think of: he flopped over and closed his eyes, hoping to blend in with the countless others.

"Just throw it over there," a gruff voice said, and Ron hesitantly opened an eye and watched as a body flew through the air like a rag doll, landing with a sick thud on the far side of the pit.

There was silence for a moment, and then another voice said, "Hey, what's that?"

Ron's body seized up in terror, and he tried his hardest to keep his breathing steady. There was no way they could pick him out from the others as the only one being alive. It was impossible.

"Oh, don't worry about that. It's just where we put the dead ones."

Ron slid an eye open again, looking up at the two men who stood at the top of the pit. They had their backs to him now, pointing at something in the opposite direction.

"They can die? I thought they had no soul."

"No, stupid. But the other prisoners can."

The footsteps began again as the two men started to walk away, their voices slowly growing quieter and quieter.

Ron waited for what felt like an eternity before he pushed himself to his hands and knees and quickly crawled over to where the latest body had been deposited. He shoved it out of the way—it groaned quietly and shuddered—and began digging at the bodies beneath it. These bodies seemed to be younger than the ones he had seen so far, and from what he had read, soulless bodies could age. So maybe, maybe he was getting closer.

He angled one last body to peek underneath it, and his breath caught at what he saw. Empty grey eyes stared sightlessly up at him; chapped lips parted with a dark, crusted line leading down from the corner of them that looked like old, dried blood. The eyes were sunk in and framed with dark smudges.

"Draco," Ron breathed, wiping some of the dirt off of Draco's gaunt face. The skin beneath was paler than normal, more of a sickly grey rather than the normal, luminous white. Draco took a strained, wheezing breath, but otherwise didn't respond. "I'll get you out. Don't worry."

Ron stood up and moved to the edge of the pit again and then began dragging bodies out of the way. Where the extra energy came from, he didn't know, but all he could think about was that he had to get Draco out of there as soon as possible.

The process was slow and draining, but Ron didn't stop until Draco's body was fully uncovered. Draco stirred slightly, seemingly aware that the weight on top of him was gone.

"There," Ron said gently, kneeling down and trailing his hand through Draco's dirt-streaked hair. "Let's get you home, okay?"

Ron started to lift him, but hesitated, slightly unnerved by the deadness of Draco's eyes. He laid him back down and carefully pushed down his eyelids, closing them, telling himself that Draco was just asleep. "You'll be alright," Ron told him, his voice breaking. He caressed Draco's cheek one last time, and then carefully lifted his frail body.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Ron laughed as Draco shoved him over and squeezed in next to him at the Gryffindor table.

"Sitting," Draco answered simply, reaching for a plate as calmly as if he sat there every day.

They were probably being stared at by all of Gryffindor and Slytherin, but neither of them noticed.

"Okay," Ron said agreeably, hooking his arm around Draco's neck and planting a kiss on his cheek. Draco smirked and turned his head, fully capturing Ron's lips.

"Love you," Draco whispered against Ron's lips, earning a small giggle of delight from across the table. Draco smirked and glanced up at Hermione, arching an eyebrow. "Glad you approve, Granger," he said with forced civility.

Ron's face flushed and he glanced down nervously at the table, finally becoming aware of how much attention they had drawn to themselves.

"Come on," Draco said, standing up and giving Ron's arm a tug. "Why don't go somewhere a bit more private, hmm?"

Ron jumped to his feet and followed Draco out of the Great Hall, leaving their untouched plates behind.

Ron kicked open the door to his flat and carried Draco inside, smirking at the irony. He had always wanted to marry Draco, and now here he was, carrying Draco's lifeless body across the threshold of their new home.

Not lifeless, Ron corrected himself. Sleeping. Draco was merely sleeping.

He finally managed to manoeuvre the two of them into the bathroom, where he gently placed Draco on the floor. He had to get Draco cleaned up—it was awful to see him this way.

He gently peeled off the threadbare, oversized prison shirt that Draco was wearing, smiling when Draco shivered a little. Before Ron realised what he was doing, he leaned down and pressed his lips to Draco's slim shoulder. Draco sighed and Ron flinched away as if he had been burned. It wasn't fair—Draco wasn't even aware of what was going on. He wouldn't like being used like this.

Ron proceeded to wash the dirt and blood away, and then healed the scratches and bruises that must have come from being thrown around and having things constantly thrown on top of him. Ron wondered if it was impossible for a soulless body to heal itself.

He carried Draco into his room and placed him gently on the bed, then turned to his closet and pulled out an old Chudley Cannons T-shirt and a pair of too-short pyjama bottoms that would probably fit Draco perfectly.

Once Draco was dressed and tucked into bed, looking much more alive than he had while covered in dirt and grime, Ron couldn't resist brushing one last kiss against his forehead. Now all he needed was a soul.

***

As the weeks drug on, Ron found that locating a soul was a lot harder than he had anticipated. He thought that the job would be easier since Draco's soul wasn't with the Dementors, but at least that would have given him a starting point. Now he had no idea where to begin.

He had revisited Hogwarts and returned the book on Dementors, and was given permission to scour the Restricted Section for books on souls. He had already checked the local library, and found nothing that could be of any use.

He ended up finding four thick reference books on souls, everything from their uses in ancient magic to what they are comprised of. Surely there would be something useful in one of those.

Ever since he brought Draco home, Ron did his research sitting cross-legged on the bed with a book in his lap, one hand continuously stroking Draco's hair. Draco did nothing but sleep, just as Ron had anticipated, but every now and then he would sigh or make a strange, whimpering noise, almost as if he were trying to say something. Ron told himself time and time again that it was impossible, but he couldn't help the fluttering, excited feeling that filled him every time he thought Draco was trying to respond to him.

And every night, even though Ron told himself over and over that he shouldn't, he cuddled up next to Draco's body, resting his head on his chest, and listened to his heart beat. It was so easy to pretend that everything was normal, with Draco being so warm and breathing steadily beside him. But when he woke up in the morning to find that Draco hadn't moved at all, the illusion came crashing down. They weren't normal, and they wouldn't be normal until Draco had his soul back.

Ron made a promise every morning before he slipped outside: he would get Draco's soul back, no matter what it took.

***

Days passed, then weeks, months, and finally, a year, and Ron was no closer to finding a solution than he was when he started. There had been a few spells scribbled in the margins of some of the books he had borrowed, but none of them did anything of use. One seemed to hit Draco with static electricity and caused his hair to stand up on end, but nothing more.

Hermione and Harry stopped by on the one year anniversary of finding Draco's body. They didn't know Ron had it—they would be horrified. But they had both gotten through their difficult time, and had come by to help Ron finally get through his.

Ron was startled when they floo'd into his house unannounced, and he jumped so violently that the empty bottles of Firewhiskey at his feet clattered to the floor.

Hermione smiled at him sympathetically. "Sorry Ron," she said gently, as if she were afraid he'd break if she spoke too loudly. She turned to Harry and carefully brushed the excess floo powder off of his shoulders.

Ron shrugged and took a drink out of the half-empty Firewhiskey he had had dangling from his from fingers as he napped on the couch. Sometimes being alone with an unresponsive Draco was just too much for him to handle.

"Come on," Harry said cheerily, crossing the room and resting a hand on Ron's shoulder. "We're going to spend the day in Hogsmeade—haven't been there in ages."

Ron sighed and dropped the now-empty bottle carelessly on the floor. "No thanks."

"Oh, honestly," Hermione sighed, "You need to get out more. You look awful."

"I'm fine," Ron said tersely. He stood up sharply and strode across the room, letting himself out onto the balcony. He immediately felt the warmth and comfort of Draco by his side, and he couldn't help but relax a bit.

He smiled lightly and lit up a cigarette, waiting for whoever was going to persistently follow him.

It turned out to be Harry.

"Come on, mate," he said gently, wrapping an arm around Ron's shoulders. Ron ignored him; instead he focused on watching the puff of smoke he had just released float up into the sky and slowly dissipate.

"Look," Harry continued, "I don't know why you're being this way, but it's not good for you, you know? You need to get out more, meet new people. I know you're probably still upset about—"

Harry was cut off by Hermione's loud scream from inside.

"Oh shit," Ron grumbled, tossing his cigarette over the side of the balcony and shoving past Harry to get through the door. As he feared, Hermione was nowhere in sight and the door to his bedroom was cracked open.

He ran down the hallway and threw open the door. "What are you doing in here!?" he thundered, the crack of the door slamming into the wall accenting his anger.

"Oh, Ron, what have you done?" Hermione cried. She had both hands over her mouth as if Draco was something repulsive.

"Get out!" Ron yelled. His face was bright red with rage. Harry ran in, taking Hermione into his arms. "Both of you, out!"

"Why do you have him?" Hermione demanded, refusing to budge even as Harry tried to gently guide her out of the room. "Hasn't he suffered enough!?"

"I'm helping him!" Ron snapped defensively, moving to stand between her and Draco.

"He's gone—"

"No!"

"—there's nothing you can do!"

"Get out!" Ron shrieked again, grabbing the first thing within reach and throwing it. It turned out to be one of the books on souls, and Hermione ducked out of the way, covering her head.

It landed behind her with a dull thud, and she warily glanced over her shoulder, seeing the title. "Oh, Ron..." she whispered sadly, looking back up at him with glassy eyes.

"Come on, love," Harry said gently, and this time, she allowed him to lead her out of the room.

Ron collapsed back onto the bed and buried his face in Draco's chest. "I'm helping you," he said quietly, even as the tears began to fall. "I won't let them take you away."

"I've been thinking..."

"Sounds dangerous," Ron said lightly, staring out towards the lake.

"Quite," Draco agreed, shifting into a more comfortable position on the bench that allowed him to face Ron fully. He waited until Ron turned to look at him, and then pulled a piece of folded parchment out of his pocket. "Give this to Potter."

"What is it?" Ron asked curiously. He took the parchment and placed it carefully in his pocket.

"Instructions," Draco answered. He paused thoughtfully, then added, "A spell."

"For what?"

Draco shrugged. "It may or may not be useful, but I thought I'd suggest it anyway. It's a dark spell, actually, and it would need to be subtly cast before an actual duel begins."

"Wait," Ron said slowly, "Is this for defeating... You-Know-Who?"

Draco nodded. "It's tricky, though, because the incantation is rather long, and he'll need to find a good opportunity to cast it without being seen."

"What does it do?"

"Once it's cast on someone, they'll be completely unaware of it... unless they happened to hear you, I suppose. Anyway, if they try to cast the killing curse, it will backfire on them." Draco grinned. "However, it still leaves you exposed for the Cruciatus curse and other things, but—"

"It's perfect," Ron said, smiling. He pulled Draco close, holding him tight. "It's perfect, thank you!"

Draco smiled, leaning into the embrace. "If anyone still doubts my loyalty after this, I might begin to think that no one likes me."

Ron laughed. "No one will doubt you. I promise."

***

As the months passed, and fall turned into winter, Ron finally found something that looked promising. He had gone back to the local library and grabbed a few fiction books involving souls, hoping to find some thread of truth between fact and fiction.

One of the stories was about a girl who had sold her soul for eternal beauty, but without her soul, all she could do was sleep. There had been a handsome prince, of course, who wanted to return her soul to her body and marry her.

The prince cast a series of enchantments around her bed, meant to draw her soul close. Then, when all of the wards lit up, signalling the presence of the soul, he cast another spell and kissed her, restoring her soul to her body.

Ron searched through all of his books for anything remotely similar and he found almost the exact same thing. It was an ancient spell, used to lead the souls of the dead along a path to the next life. But maybe if he just tweaked it a little, set it up how it was in the story...

But what about the other spell? The spell that connected the soul to the body through a kiss? That seemed a little farfetched, but Ron was certain he could find something similar if he looked hard enough.

After days of searching, he found just the thing. There was a spell that would allow him to channel magic through himself, and connect it to someone else. It was normally used for advanced healing charms, usually for people who were too weak to have such a powerful spell cast directly on them. But surely it could channel the magic that guided the soul, right?

Ron spent days setting up the wards around the bed, making sure that he had them exactly as the books described. As the story said, there was one glowing orb over each corner of the bed, and then one directly in the middle. They were currently white, but when they captured a soul, they would turn blue.

Ron nodded triumphantly, admiring his work, and then set about trying to make the channelling charm. It wasn't as difficult as the wards. He cast it over himself, feeling the cool tingling sensation described in the book.

Once everything was ready to go, he crawled up on the bed beside Draco and waited for the wards to change colour.

Unlike the story, he sat there for hours, just waiting. He was beginning to seriously doubt that the wards were set up properly when the bottom left one flickered, then turned blue. Ron sat up eagerly, watching as one by one, each ward changed colour.

He cast one last spell, directing the magic from the wards into himself.

The magic hit him like a bolt of lightning, causing him to jerk spasmodically. It hurt horribly, like he was about to explode, and he dimly wondered if it was because he was holding two souls in his body.

He leaned forward with a strangled cry; his entire body felt taut and brittle, like any movement would break him in two. With unsteady, broken movements, he placed a hand on Draco's chest, immediately feeling the pain begin to ebb. He dipped down further and pressed their lips together.

The magic drained out of him at an impossible speed, and he remained stuck to Draco as if some invisible bond was holding them together as the last of the soul transferred. Their bodies trembled with the sheer force of the magic between them, and Ron closed his eyes, trying to fight back the last of the pain.

A hand grasped Ron's arm with surprising force, the first contact Ron had felt in weeks, and then the bonds that held them together seemed to explode, forcing Ron backwards. Before he could even regain his balance and check if the spell had worked, he heard the screams.

He sat up quickly, staring down at Draco with wide, worried eyes.

Draco writhed against the bed, as if he were fighting it, hands grasping the sheets and his hair and anything within reach. His screams were of pure agony; choked and brittle. Tears poured from his wide, empty eyes.

"Draco," Ron breathed, hesitantly moving closer. Draco continued as if he hadn't heard him, like some wild animal trapped in a cage. Draco began to claw violently at his chest, ripping the shirt he was wearing, and leaving deep streaks of blood.

"No, no, no," Ron whispered desperately, grabbing at Draco's hands in an attempt to stop him. "No, please, it's okay... please be okay."

Draco fought against him, kicking and shoving. His eyes were rolling wildly, but still looked as dead as they did the day Ron found him.

"Draco!" Ron screamed, desperate to see some signal that he was okay—a sign that he was aware of Ron's presence. "Please! It's me!" He hadn't even realised he was crying until he saw tears splatter down onto Draco's face.

He pinned Draco's hands above his head, which only seemed to upset Draco even more. Draco's head thrashed side to side violently, his legs curling and uncurling in a useless struggle.

Ron dipped down again, pressing gentle kisses all over Draco's face. "Draco... Draco, it's okay. Please stop. Please!"

"Kill me," Draco hissed, his voice weak and raspy. His lifeless eyes searched Ron's imploringly. "Kill me!"

"No," Ron whispered, shaking his head. "I can't. I've waited so long—I need you!"

But Draco didn't seem to hear him. His screams died down, changing to moans and then to whimpers, before finally silencing completely. His body went limp beneath Ron's. Just as Ron was getting his hopes up, he realised that he hadn't removed the charm from himself that allowed him to channel magic between Draco and the wards.

He glanced up; the wards were blue again, and then they flickered to white. Whatever had been there, whatever got channelled into Draco was gone now. With an angry flick of his wand, Ron got rid of the wards and all of the other spells, and stormed out of the room and out onto the balcony, slamming the door behind him.

He lit a cigarette with fumbling hands, tears streaming down his face. Why hadn't it worked? It was supposed to work! Everything was supposed to be okay now! Ron growled and slammed his fist into the wall, hardly feeling the rough stone dig into his skin.

Where had he gone wrong? He did exactly what the books said; it should have worked. He groaned and collapsed onto the bench, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and rubbing a weary hand over his face. Of course it didn't work. He was so desperate that he grabbed ideas out of a children's story book. Real life didn't work that way.

He looked out at the snow—the first snowfall of the year—absently smoking his cigarette. It wasn't until he felt the warm presence beside him that he realised he had forgotten to imagine that Draco was there with him. It must be second nature by now, he supposed, leaning into the comforting warmth.

"He spoke," Ron said quietly, flicking his half-burnt cigarette over the edge of the balcony. "That means it's possible."

He sat there for hours, enveloped in imaginary warmth, watching the snow. He couldn't go inside yet; it would kill him to see Draco strewn across the bed like that, maybe even with his eyes still open. Ron shook his head wearily, trying to get the image out of his mind.

He curled up on the bench and closed his eyes, feeling as if his head were in Draco's lap, and Draco's hands were gently rubbing his back.

"It worked!" Ron ran forward, sweeping Draco up into his arms. "You're a genius—it worked!"

Draco laughed, gripping Ron's shoulders for balance. "I told you it would!"

Ron grabbed Draco's face and kissed him firmly again and again, hardly able to stop himself. "I can't believe it was that simple! Just like that—You-know-who... he's dead! You should have seen it, Draco; he didn't even know what hit him! And Harry—Harry just stood there with his arms spread like he was giving in. It was... It was..."

Draco smirked and pressed a finger against Ron's lips. "I know. I saw it all."

Ron arched an eyebrow, kissing the tip of Draco's finger. "How?"

"I'm always with you, you git," Draco answered, rolling his eyes. "Do you honestly think that something as ridiculous as being in hiding will keep me away from you?"

Ron's eyes flicked open and he stared out into the bright morning light. Could it really be that simple?

He slowly sat up, his back popping loudly from sleeping on a bench all night, and looked around. Snow covered everything in a thick blanket of white, glistening beautifully in the sun. He should have frozen to death sleeping outside all night. There was only one explanation.

"Draco?" Ron asked quietly, keeping his eyes trained on the snow. He focussed as hard as he could, searching for that shred of warmth... the disembodied warmth he had never experienced until Draco had been administered the Kiss.

And there it was, by his side as if it were leaning against him. Ron smiled and slowly stood up, holding out his hand. "Will you come with me?"

Ever since Draco's body had been found, Ron had stopped imagining Draco when they were alone together. He hadn't seen a point to it at the time; after all, wasn't having a soulless Draco to hold on to better than an imaginary one?

He felt Draco's hand curl around his own, warm and slender, and for the first time, Ron knew it wasn't his imagination.

He led Draco's soul inside, down the hallway, and into his room.

Draco's body lay in a mangled heap, his head was tilted back and to the side, his eyes wide and sightless, his lips still parted as if he were trying to scream. His arms were bent awkwardly above his head—bruising at the wrists—and his legs twisted as if they had been broken. Dried blood was crusted over his chest, staining the once bright orange Chudley Canons T-shirt with a sick brown colour.

Ron hesitated for a minute, gripped with a cold dread, waiting for Draco to breathe. He moved closer for a better look, immediately catching sight of the steady rise and fall of Draco's chest.

"Please work," Ron pleaded quietly, moving to the edge of the bed. He led Draco's soul forward, touching the invisible warmth of his hand to the same hand on Draco's body. Draco shuddered, and Ron felt the warmth beside him slowly disappear.

And then there was nothing.

Ron dropped to his knees by the side of the bed, coaxingly stroking Draco's cheek with his hand. "Please Draco," he whispered, "Please don't leave me alone."

Draco made a soft choking sound, and the wounds on his chest began to close up, the blood disappearing. Ron sat up straighter, and then moved to sit on the side of the bed.

"Draco?" he whispered, brushing a few strands of pale blond hair out of Draco's face.

Draco's eyes fluttered, and then he looked up at Ron with the clearest, most beautiful eyes Ron had ever seen.

"Come on!" Ron said excitedly, reaching down to pull Draco up onto the waist-high wall that surrounded the Hogwarts courtyard.

"Why?" Draco whined, gripping Ron's hand. Ron tried to pull him up, but Draco wouldn't budge.

"I don't know. It's fun," Ron said with a grin, giving Draco's hand another tug. "Come on, I'll help you."

Draco sighed and shifted uncomfortably before finally climbing up onto the wall. He staggered, clinging to Ron's arms for balance. "I better not fall," he said waspishly, glancing down at the ground warily.

"Don't worry," Ron said gently, reaching up and prying Draco's hands away from their vice-like grip on his arms. He gripped Draco's hands tightly in his own. "I'll never let you go."

-Fin