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| TITLE: Green, How I Want You Green
AUTHOR: StarryGazer EMAIL: foppagal@yahoo.com PAIRING: Harry/Ron RATING: R DISCLAIMER: Belongs to JKR. No profit. No infringement etc. Also, the title was taken from Federico Garcia Lorca’s ‘Romance Sonambulo.’ I make reference to it a few other times as well, and the quote at the end is from it. SUMMARY: Voldemort has been sending Harry horrific nightmares of rape and torture. Ron stands by and helps him put himself back together. CATEGORY: Drama / First Time / Hurt-Comfort / Romance, a bit of Dark as well NOTES: I wrote this in present tense because I liked the immediacy, the urgency it gave to the milieu. WARNINGS: This is the darkest piece I have ever written. It is far less dark than a lot of works, but I felt I should tell you up front that it’s not humor, and it’s not fluff. It’s not graphic, either, though, and I attempt to leave you with something worth taking away. Give it a try, please. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Harry sags against his friend, sobbing quietly, painfully, reluctantly, choking as he tries to keep it all inside. He can feel Ron’s rough hand stroking its way gently from the top of his head all the way down his back. Again. And again. Hand in his hair, smoothing rumpled locks, back—slowly back—then down. Cool fingertips down his neck, caressing his shoulder, down his spine, stopping level with the top of his hip. And all the while, Harry sobs—and speaks. Fears and tangled visions of the night rush past his lips, terrors and truths he’d never expected to tell. He cries out pain and self-loathing, and details no one had believed he’d ever tell. “And then—and then it was Snape, and then finally Voldemort, but first it was Lucius—it always starts with him—then Bellatrix,” Harry rasps, throat raw, as though he’d been swallowing shards of glass. “And it always ends up with—good. Good people—friends—people I like—watching—and then. Laughing. And then, they do it, too. They always start out as my friends, telling me to hold on, and help is coming, and. And then they start to change—they still look the same, but then they—th—they—do things. Too. They. Rape me,” he voices the sin, the shame. He breathes out the terrible words, and breathes in the steady, musky smell that was Ron. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Ron’s voice comes plaintively, sadly—never judging, never demanding. He is simply, softly vulnerable. There is pain there—not the hurt of not being trusted—but shared pain, pain he is taking from Harry. “You can tell me anything, you know.” Harry falls silent, hiccoughs restricting his breath a little. “Yes. I know,” he whispers. “Only I couldn’t, because…you were always there.” Ron’s arm tightens around him, the muscle in his thin bicep straining, holding Harry closer. He is fierce, protective. “God, Harry. I’m sorry. I would never hurt you like that,” he tells his friend in his gentlest voice, leaning to rest his red haired head against the inky darkness of the other youth’s. Ron thinks he can hear a wan smile in Harry’s next words, but it is hard to be sure. “I know you wouldn’t. You were…you never do,” he tells Ron quietly, knowing he is coming close to voicing something which will expose a far greater helplessness than anything before. “You’re always there, with the others…but you never change. You just keep telling me to hold on, and that.” Ron presses his lips against his friend’s hair in inexpert kiss. “And that what?” he wonders, not knowing he is speaking aloud. “And that you love me,” Harry whimpers, clutching at Ron’s shirt and leaning in, resting his head on Ron’s shoulder. “And that it will be all right, and I’m strong, and you’ll never think less of me.” He is weeping again now, dreading all of his friend’s possible reactions. Ron smiles a little, surprised to find that in this time, and in this place, there is still a rightness in it. “That’s because that’s exactly what I would say, Harry,” he murmurs comfortingly. He approaches a subject he knows his friend would rather avoid, but he must know what’s being done. “Er. What—what did Dumbledore say?” Harry sighs, curling his thin frame deeper into Ron’s embrace. “He said that Voldemort couldn’t make you do things like that, say things like that…because I would never believe it. He said you were my—what did he call it? I can’t remember. My security memory, or something. The connection I used to hold onto reality. He said that that’s why Voldemort couldn’t completely get through and take me over,” Harry told him quietly, actually more comfortable with this discussion than any that actually detailed the dreams. “He’s going to have Lupin take over my Occlumency lessons. He thinks I’ll make better progress.” “That’s good,” Ron whispers. He ponders the implications of his role in the nightmares. He is Harry’s refuge. He is Harry’s strength. A warmth suffuses his chest, only aching where it is incomplete—where instead of the deep crimson of immersion, there is only a frustratingly tentative budding bloom of green. He bites his lip, trailing a finger round the lock of hair at the nape of Harry’s neck. Harry tilts his head back, and their faces are very close. It would be more difficult not to read the prose in one another’s eyes, since they have known each other so long and well. Even so, each youth is surprised by what he sees there. It is Harry, brave Harry, who once again goes first into danger. But Ron is never far behind, and once in, he himself does not lack courage. Harry parts his lips, and his eyes fall shut, and he leans into Ron’s kiss, which is immediately deeper and more frightening than Ron has ever tasted before, but just what Harry’s insecurities demand. Their tongues brush gently, and tentative hands, adolescent hands—inexperienced hands for all their experience—are learning and touching and reaching and catching. Ron leans over Harry, letting his friend’s head gently come to rest on his pillow. He pulls back, uncertain, but Harry grabs hold of his shoulders, his fingers digging in to hook his soul. There will be bruises, tomorrow. Harry’s face is fierce, his brow furrowed. “Please,” he chokes out, and Ron knows just what that cost him, and wishes he could explain that it needn’t be said. Someday, they will know without that; their hearts and minds will read each other’s movements and expressions, but for now, awkward things like words will have to do. “I’ve never…” Harry tells him. “It only happened in dreams…they’re trying to make me not want it. To never want it. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want them to take that away from me. And if they ever catch me in person, that will be the first thing they do. Please, Ron. I don’t want it to be one of them. I want it to be you. Please.” Ron leans down, smothers, soothes away any further pleading, takes the words into his mouth and swallows them. He, too, does not want it to be one of them—never wants it to be one of them—but most especially not now, not when Harry is still green. Not when they both are. This time, the first time, he will make it right, and safe, and tender. This time, Harry’s arms come up around him and feel like strips of cool moonlight across his back. This time is good, and blissful, and Harry’s encouraging whisper echoes the susurration of the night breeze winding its way through the leaves outside. He cannot control next time, perhaps, but this time he can, and this time Ron wants Harry green. As they reach the pinnacle, Ron finds that his crimson immersion is balanced well by Harry’s lush, verdant surrender, which quickly takes route in Ron’s heart. Harry, meanwhile, finds that Ron’s ardent, overflowing crimson nourishes the newfound fertile ground within his soul. Ron’s lips trail across Harry’s once more, before pulling back so he can smile lovingly down at his friend. Harry smiles back—his smile, for once, reaching his eyes. And his eyes are green. Fin. Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Okay, this was the shortest, most emotionally draining, and somehow most effortless piece I’ve ever written. It started out with a few paragraphs I jotted down weeks ago, and tonight I wanted to post something—not just write something, damn it—but give it to people and have myself molded and shaped by their views. Yeah, I’m in an odd mood, I suppose. Anyhow, I hope you liked it. It wasn’t meant to be anything earth-shattering; just a departure from the norm, an attempt to do something I haven’t before, and maybe evoke a little reaction. Please let me know what you think, as always. Verde que te quiero verde. P.S. guys, I have a large hunk of a Harry/Remus written, and I hope to post it soon. It’s a little more graphic than I would probably feel comfortable posting here, but I haven’t made up my mind yet. It might go toward the next Mortal Moon Fest, whenever that is. Or maybe on Wish For the Moon. Like I said, I can’t decide. If anyone has suggestions, I’m open! Thank you! StarryGazer |