To be honest, Harry hadn’t gone straight to sleep when he rested his untidy dark head on his pillow after saying goodnight to Ron. To own some more of the truth, you could say that the boy felt completely drained of energy and was beginning to succumb to the extremely demanding and somewhat threatening call of the sandman. But, to be really, really honest, Harry Potter wasn’t sure if he wanted to sleep ever again.

Damn Voldemort.

As soon as boy wizard closed his eyes, without fail, something would swim before his closed eyelids through the invisible link he shared with the Dark Lord. The death of his mother, which grew more and more gruesome with each showing, the eventual death of all those dear to him and the eerie image of Hogwarts going up in flames were just a few of the nasties that kept him willing himself awake with all his available strength; Lord Voldemort’s harsh, taunting and cruel laughter ringing in the background. To pull the plug would be heaven. But how could he remove something he couldn’t even see or touch? Something that wasn’t even tangible? Something that had somehow been implanted into the very depths of his psyche?

Harry knew the eventual outcome. After all, he was quite an intelligent and mature boy for his age. It would slowly drive him mad and he knew it all too well. Bloody, rotted images were being pumped ferociously into his numbing brain, like gallons of some harmful bacteria, drowning him and gradually eating away his sanity… Reducing the Boy-Who-Had-Lived to just another regular at St Mungo’s who just happened to have a freaky scar on his forehead. He’d laughed bitterly to himself about the irony of it all on a number of occasions. He was known to be the luckiest person in the Wizarding World… God, they just didn’t have a fucking clue.

And so it was, after the boy had woken from yet another traumatic vision and bullied his eyes so wide open that they began to water for yet another chilly night, that he unintentionally heard a brief argument and Malfoy’s overdramatic exit. His four-poster bed was still vibrating from the slam of the door and the black-haired boy vaguely wondered how Neville managed to sleep through it, his snores and unintelligible mutters still ringing true. Keeping absolutely still, Harry didn’t even realise he was holding his breath as a growl of frustration sounded from behind him; Ron’s heavy, angry breathing disturbing the dark peace. There was a distinctive thud of someone kicking the bed next to his very hard in annoyance before he heard a yelp of pain, and the redhead cursing hard beds under his breath. Harry couldn’t stop himself smiling weakly at the comical image of his best friend limping clumsily around. He bit the inside of his cheek and pretended to be asleep, making sure his eyelids were ever so slightly open.

And then finally, after five minutes in which the only sounds were harsh breathing and Neville’s nightly slumbering noises, Ron broke the silence.

“Harry…”

This was said in an extremely dejected, pleading and oddly muffled voice and Harry automatically distinguished that this was Ron’s ‘Help me, I’m lost’ voice. Rolling on his side to face his friend, the green-eyed boy saw a blur, which looked very much like Ron, face down on the redhead’s unmade bed in an impression of defeat. The blur’s features were buried into his duvet and only a smudge of shocking, ruffled red hair was visible on top. God, Harry hated having such bad vision. He really needed to go and get contacts or get his retinas magically replaced or something. Rising up slightly against the headboard, he picked up his glasses from the bedside table and slipped them on. Leaning his elbow on his pillow and resting his temple on his fist, he looked across at Ron properly and his eyebrows immediately furrowed with unrest. What exactly did the boy want him to say? What was he supposed to say? And did he, in true honesty, really want to help the redhead keep his relationship with the blond bugger? Kicking Draco Malfoy out of Ron’s life seemed like the best solution for everyone. Harry bit his lip uncomfortably, wondering how delicately to approach the ‘Malfoy’ situation without screaming in womanly hysterics that Albino boy was the biggest arsehole in the school and, very possibly, the whole entire world. In the end, however, he went with the safest bet.

“Uh, yeah?”

There was a long pause again.

“You awake?”

Harry couldn’t restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

“No, Ron,” he sighed impatiently. “I’m sleep talking.” Ron grumbled something bad-temperedly into his mattress, which the other boy couldn’t make out at all. It sounded like he was doing a fair amount of cursing that was not quite of the magic variety and the bespectacled wizard mused that Malfoy had seemed to have had rubbed off on his best friend in more than just the literal sense. However, just thinking about the ‘literal sense’ made his stomach turn rather unpleasantly. So he didn’t dwell on it too long. After ending on a word that sounded remarkably like “dick”, the redhead finally lifted up his face and met Harry’s gaze. His cheeks were very red and he soon dropped his red-rimmed eyes away from his friend’s intense stare.

“Guess you heard all that shit with Malfoy then,” he mumbled embarrassedly, almost defensively crossing his long arms over his chest.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry admitted, slightly sheepishly. Even if he couldn’t help listening, it was still eavesdropping. And even though he’d done a fair amount of it during his years at Hogwarts, it was usually something important that he, Ron and Hermione needed to hear to solve a grand mystery. Something deathly important. Another plan to thwart Voldemort. Not the twisted workings of Ronald Weasley’s sex life. And he didn’t want to hear. If bloody Malfoy could just learn to control that screechy voice of his… Harry paused again, seeing the very close to exploding look on the redhead’s face. Noting that this could easily get very messy very quickly, the bespectacled boy tentatively began to speak. “Do you, err… want to talk about it…?”

It was almost like watching a dam bursting. Ron, out of nowhere, suddenly jumped from his bed onto Harry’s with a loud thump, landing on the dark-haired boy’s leg painfully. He had an utterly frustrated and slightly manic glaze in his eyes, as though he would simply split into two if he didn’t unleash his burden into the open. Harry tried his hardest to look supportive and not to run away in fear of his life, still pondering where on earth this burst of speed had come from.

“He’s mad, Harry! Like barking, crazy mad! He’s like a Quidditch set that’s missing a couple of bludgers, y’know? And you can’t even talk to him without him going off on one… Drama Queen that he is! He’s worse than Hermione! First he’s all in denial, then he gets all jealous about us...!”

Harry blinked in confusion, trying to take it all in.

“Us?”

Ron made a face and his highly tensed body now slumped slightly, his mood less frantic.

“ ‘Thinks we’re having a torrid love affair,” he muttered resentfully. Harry smirked softly at his sour expression. The rumour mill seemed to be working overtime again. If he thought it was bad after the Second Task, it was absolute pandemonium after he ‘rescued’ Ron from Malfoy like a knight in shining armour with a broomstick. And he had a sure feeling that it was all started by that crazy gossipmonger, Mary or Jamie from Ravenclaw. She scared him. The way she would look at him, then at Ron and then smile saucily was just… wrong. But at that moment, Harry found this all exceptionally funny.

“Love affair, eh? So he’s discovered our dirty secret...” Ron, doing what he often did when he was frustrated, threw up his arms and yelped.

“It’s not funny, Harry! I’m going batty here! I seriously can’t take anymore without either ending up in a cuckoo ward or just… just letting Pig loose on him! What am I s’posed to do?!”

Ron looked on with an expression of wild expectance as Harry appeared thoughtful, biting his lip in contemplation. After a minute of what looked like thorough, and almost painful, thought, The-Boy-Who-Lived merely shrugged.

“I say you go with the Pig idea.”

“Harry!” Ron cried out exasperatedly, his voice ringing so loudly that Neville’s snores suddenly cut short and the sleeping boy stirred in his sleep. Both friends abruptly sat in total silence, sitting rigid and not even daring to move their eyeballs, just in case the noise woke the chubbier boy up. However, Neville simply turned over, got comfortable and began snoring all over again a few seconds later. Harry sighed in relief and the redhead continued in an only slightly quieter voice, darting nervous looks at Neville and licking uneasily at his dry lips. “I mean… Harry, can’t you just… you know? Just…gah! Quit staring at me like I’ve lost my bloomin’ marbles and help me! You’re the sensible one… well, after Hermione and all… but still! What do you reckon I should do?” From the desperate look on Ron’s face, Harry was beginning to think that the boy would go up to Aragog himself and pluck a hair from his leg if Harry even suggested it. Which he was quite peculiarly tempted to do…

But this was definitely an important day in history. It had to feature in years to come in one of the many textbooks that Hermione insisted he and Ron read. After all, it was the day that Harry Potter was forced to give his best friend, and adamant hater of the Malfoys, sex advice about his relationship with the youngest one – Mr-Embodiment-of-all-evil himself. Life really didn’t turn out the way you expected. Harry shrugged. Oh well, you just have to live with the hand you’ve been dealt… Even if it is incredibly shitty and involves Voldemort prancing around trying to kill you while your best friend is off playing tonsil tennis with your other worst enemy. God, he really didn’t know how these things always happened to him.

“Is this thing with Malfoy serious?” he finally asked, pulling himself from his thoughts. “As in, you know… serious.” Harry gave him a significant look, stressing the last word in his sentence, crossing his fingers under the duvet and dearly hoping his friend would simply say ‘No way! Malfoy’s got a pulse and I’m horny as hell!’. But Ron just looked confused.

“You what?”

Harry rolled his eyes yet again. How many glances had he made at the ceiling so far? He’d practically counted every stone brick up there. Ron really, truly was his best friend in the whole world and the most important person in the world to him… but sometimes he could be so incredibly dense that it was frustrating. It was almost like he did it intentionally or something. Harry would have to be direct. And direct he was.

“Dammit, Ron! Do you think you love him?”

The redhead blinked noticeably at this and recoiled, almost as though Harry had slapped him hard in the face. And by the expression he was wearing, Harry began to think that Ron would have actually preferred being violently attacked to answering that sort of a question. With the meagre light, Harry could see the practically cartoon emotions playing on his friend’s face; bug-eyed shock to red shame. And it was after a full minute that the blue-eyed Gryffindor managed to grunt loudly to show Harry the idiocy of his question, but wouldn’t exactly meet his eyes for very long. And the grunt came out sounding incredibly strained and scratchy.

“M-Malfoy? Yeah right, Har. How can anyone love Malfoy?! You know, you’d… you’d have to be loony to!” he said almost defensively again, his face going pink. Harry shook his head slowly. God, they were just as stubborn as each other. They almost deserved each other. Almost.

Harry smiled darkly.

“Well, you have shared spit with him, Ron. You’re not exactly the incarnation of sanity now, are you?” The dark-haired Gryffindor felt strange contentment in watching Ron’s pink turn into deep, unhealthy plum. Well he should have been embarrassed, dammit. After all… Malfoy. He was actually in a bloody relationship with Draco Malfoy… But now wasn’t the time to dig all that up again. Harry had already put aside an allotted time that he could bang his head against the nearest wall with aggravation.

“Well, how do you honestly feel about him then?” he asked, tying to sound patient. “We’ve already established that you like him…” Harry tried not to make a face or the expected gagging noises, ”…somewhat. Anything else?”

Ron looked pensive for a minute, his amber eyebrows creasing and looking down at his clasped hands as though he’d never even considered the question. It wasn’t really surprising that Ron hadn’t thought about this properly before. When it came to emotions, he just jumped into things. A perfect example would have been his hitting Malfoy every time he saw him. Now it seemed to be hitting on Malfoy instead, a development that, Harry found, was far from an improvement.

Finally, the redhead shrugged, looking even more bewildered.

“I dunno,” he admitted slowly, but continued to speak. “I mean, sometimes I just want to ring his neck for him being the stupid little shit that he is, y’know? And he always knows just what to say to piss me off or make me feel completely thick… But then other times he just has to give me this look and I just want to… I dunno, hold him instead. Like protect him, or something stupid.” His ears went red with the confession. Was it Harry or did Ron turn to impersonating a flashing red muggle police car siren whenever the ‘M’ word was mentioned? He-Who-Harry-Would-Rather-Not-Name-or-Think-About-In-Any-Way could get to his best friend without even being in the room. It was quite a feat. The little platinum parasite should have been exceedingly proud of himself.

“Malfoy needs protecting?” Harry asked disbelievingly. How could he need protecting when he was the one who usually inflicted all the damage on people? The boy was practically a cactus. Go near him and you’ll get pricked. And lately, the green-eyed boy noticed that Ron seemed strangely into the pain game… But Harry soon banished all thoughts of Ron, Malfoy and pricks as he listened with morbid fascination to his friend’s argument.

“You don’t get him, Harry,” Ron said seriously, before letting out a bitter bark of a laugh. “Heck, I don’t reckon he gets himself! But he just acts like he’s untouchable because he was taught to be.” Harry felt and looked far from convinced. If this was Malfoy sympathy bait, he wasn’t biting. As far as Harry was concerned, Malfoy was still the bigoted little bastard who had called Hermione a Mudblood, spent all his free time thinking up insults for the Weasleys and made that crack about Cedric in their fourth year. And now, he was the bigoted little bastard that was slowly taking his best friend away from him.

“Ron, you’re not seriously trying to tell me he acts like a git but really isn’t one, are you? Because frankly, that’s just a pile of crap.” Ron grinned at the unmoved expression on his friend’s face, his dimples deepening.

“Nah, that’s different. He is a git. Probably the biggest git ever… well, for someone so short. But he’s… I dunno, fragile, I guess.” Harry’s lips curled into a smile. Fragile Malfoy. It was an insult in itself and practically a punch line.

“He’d kill you if he ever heard you say that, you know.” Ron grinned mischievously back, seeming to know it, and the blond, only too well.

“Yeah, and that’s another thing. His threats are never real. Probably couldn’t do Avada Kedavra to an ant. Stupid ferret.” Harry couldn’t help noticing that Ron said this with a wistful smile and an almost fond look in his eye. The redhead then, belatedly catching his thoughts, shook himself out of it. “Anyways, how come you’re up? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Well, you did wake me up, you great prat.”

“Don’t give me that. You were already awake.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Just do.” He was giving Harry quite a shrewd look. Well, as shrewd as Ron Weasley could manage. He should really have left all that to Hermione. He just looked endearingly silly. Harry shrugged again, not bothering to deny it.

“Not really tired.” Harry immediately tried to stifle a yawn. ‘Not really tired’ was an understatement – the boy was completely knackered. But he wasn’t about to tell Ron that. Ron, however, raised one eyebrow, wearing the same disbelieving look that Harry was wearing only a minute ago. The redhead snorted and Harry felt his chest contract as he witnessed the Malfoy sneer mutate his friend’s face for a second before it turned back to his inherited Weasley smirk. The Boy Who Lived couldn’t help but shiver at this flicker of evidence, proving how much the Slytherin had influenced over Ron. He didn’t like this at all…

“ ‘Not tired’? Yeah right,” Ron said, yet again reminding the distracted Harry that he was actually in a conversation. “That luggage set under your eyes is a right giveaway, Potter.” Harry made a face at him.

“Way to be subtle, Weasley.” However, Ron seemed to have stopped joking. His face was suddenly serious and etched with concern as he looked at Harry very closely. The shorter boy grimaced. Seeing that look on Hermione was fine but having Ron wear it made him feel nervous. It wasn’t even one of Ron’s panicky gulps of fear. He really was worried.

Bugger it.

Harry had a feeling he’d have to confess… but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, have everyone worrying over him. He didn’t want it. He hated being such a bother. He hated the way he would get thrown looks of pity and sympathy from complete strangers and now to get it from the people who really knew him… people who could easily tell when he was lying… Maybe if he was just casual about it, Ron would drop the subject completely. The Boy Who Lived tried to look blasé. “Just not in the mood for another nightmare, is all. Nothing big.”

This however, made Ron look even more worried and Harry silently cursed his appalling acting skills.

“Harry, this isn’t good,” the redhead said softly, shaking his head as he looked dubious. “No offence, but you look awful, mate. And forcing yourself to stay awake? It just ain’t healthy. I know this is going to piss you off, but I still think you should go and see Dumbledore…” Harry immediately reacted, head snapping up. He was not going to Dumbledore. No bloody way. It was the last thing he’d do, and he gave Ron a very severe look to punctuate his feelings, his green eyes flashing. Ron backed off a bit, putting up his palms in defeat. “Ok, ok. I get the message, you nutter... ‘Don’t mention it to Dumbledore’. Just reckon you’re being stupid.” Harry unintentionally found himself growling as his temper mounted.

“Yeah, and wanting to shag Draco Malfoy, of all people, isn’t stupid in the slightest, is it?” he snarled bitterly. He soon grabbed hold of himself, however, at the look of pain on Ron’s face. Damn it. He immediately sobered. Running his hand through his hair again, Harry dug his fingernails into his scalp and looked up apologetically. “Shit, Ron. I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t really. I just got angry…”

“S’ok,” Ron mumbled, dropping his eyes again to hide his expression. He seemed to be doing a heck of a lot of that lately. “ ‘Guess I deserved that… Was just worried about you, is all…” He sounded like a wounded puppy that just got kicked by its owner, which only helped in making Harry feel completely like the dirt under his own shoe. When did the Boy Who Lived start acting like a prick? Like Ron didn’t get enough of that crap from Malfoy…

“No, you didn’t deserve it,” he said adamantly, the forceful tone of his voice compelling Ron to look up, a veil of red hair shielding his turquoise eyes from Harry. “I’m just being a total prat. I’m seriously all ears, ok? You want help with Malfoy, right?” The redhead cracked a weak smile.

“Yeah, that’d be nice. I can’t bloody figure it. So go on. Advise me and stuff. What should I do about the ginormous twat?”

This was probably the hardest thing Harry would ever have to do. More difficult than facing Voldemort. More taxing than any test that Snape could throw at him. Damn, even worse than having to throw off the Imperius curse. Harry Potter would have to save his best friend’s relationship with his worst enemy. And Harry Potter knew if he didn’t, Ron was likely to get even more hurt. So the dark-haired Gryffindor had to do what was best, in the long run. He may be giving Draco Malfoy the benefit of the doubt, for the redhead’s sake, but if the little bastard even breathed wrong on Ron, the bespectacled wizard would intervene quicker than a heartbeat. No one messed with people he cared about, especially the select few he would willingly die for, and he would make damn sure that Malfoy would have that forever imprinted in his psychotic little mind.

But when did the world suddenly get so complicated? And did Harry honestly used to think that Ron and Hermione getting together would have been complex? A huge clashing of personalities? It was laughable how black and white they were in comparison.

The Boy Who Lived took a deep breath, his eyes drooping tiredly and wickedly threatening to engulf him into his nightmares. He bullied them wide open, trying to look as resolute and composed as an Auror on alert.

“Talk to him, Ron. That’s the only way to get this mess sorted. Get up early tomorrow morning and have it out with him. OUT, Ron, not off.” The redhead smiled guiltily at Harry’s reproachful, almost stern look, looking quite convincingly innocent. “Just sit down and have a proper conversation with him. Talk to him about what you two have and where it’s actually going. If he’s worth it, which I sincerely doubt, it should get resolved.”

Looking at him properly, Harry noted that Ron had a relieved, determined smile on his face. The redhead let out a breathy, nervous sort of laugh.

“Shit, Har. That was like exactly what I needed to hear.” And exactly what Harry hadn’t wanted to say. He forced a smile.

“No problems, mate. Now you get to sleep…” He swallowed hard, feeling ill and so very, very tired. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” Ron looked mildly stubborn as he finally sprang up to his feet, Harry’s leg free from his weight.

“So long as you do, too. Hell, you’re practically asleep now. Want me to get some Dreamless Sleep Potion from Madam…?” Harry refused to hear the end of that sentence.

“I’m fine, Ron. Goodnight,” he cut in, snapping rather curter than he intended to.

He could prevent the visions without needing a potion. Or Dumbledore’s help. Or Ron’s. All he needed to do was stay awake. That was all. How difficult could that be? He lay himself back onto his mattress and pillow and turned his back to his friend, not even taking his glasses off and silently trying to will the redhead’s presence away from his side.

A few moments later he heard an apprehensive, “Um… night, Harry…” and heard Ron shuffle back to his bed. The occasional looks the redhead was throwing him were practically solid blocks which the dark-haired boy could feel press against the back of his skull, trying to push their way in and demand him to turn around and talk about what was bothering him. But he’d had enough of thoughts being forced upon him. And he would only obey his own. And they ordered him to stay awake all night. And Lord, did he try to.

However, even the Boy Who Lived had to forfeit and admit defeat once or twice, and this was one of those rare occasions. It was at exactly 4 in the morning that Harry, despite all his efforts, soon found his eyes closing and drifted off into slumber with his glasses still perched upon his nose. And Harry, despite all his efforts, had another dream.

A dream worse than any of the dreams he’d ever had.

This was a dream of a battlefield. A battlefield of torn limbs and rotting carcasses, where the grass was stained crimson with blood. A dream he’d vaguely remembered having before, but never this badly. Decapitated heads and bloody human organs piled high like a literal Red Sea. Every person on earth… every muggle, witch, wizard and child… dead. A flash of red hair and a freckled arm underneath piles of loose flesh and bones… Bushy brown hair ripped out of a scalp and blowing disturbingly with the breeze… A familiar face distorted, his usually twinkling blue eyes missing…

And as Harry twisted and turned, his body sweating, his tears spilling and silently praying yet again to no one in particular to be broken away from this torture, he felt himself being pulled out of it. He felt a pair of hands on his neck, squeezing the life out of him, tightening around him mercilessly… vaulting him back into consciousness and reality. And it was as he blinked his eyes into focusing in the morning light, his glasses bent haphazardly over his face, that he realised the hands were real, that the person above him was more than real and that he recognised them only too well. His green eyes went round with astonishment.

“You…!” But Harry was denied to state another word as the hands crushed even more hard-heartedly against his windpipe, as though affronted that he wasn’t rendered speechless.

He tried to breathe, to talk and to scream but was unable to prevent himself from gasping choked pants and coughing dry heaves. He slapped his hands onto his attackers, trying in vain to pry the much stronger and tightly clamped hands from his throat with his curled fingertips. But the person above him only gripped him harder, causing the boy’s face to turn red and for his cheeks to begin losing feeling.

Harry endeavoured yet again to open his mouth, to scream for help… To call for Ron… but he knew his friend had got up early, as he himself had advised, and already left him. All alone to die.

The figure smiled at him, then removed one hand to lift up an arm. An arm that Harry only now noticed held a wand. He widened his eyes in terror.

It happened all too fast.

Harry only had time to heed the all too familiar words before there was a flash of light. He didn’t have a chance. The curse hit him in the chest and he seized up, immediately falling stone cold and lifeless back onto the bed; his mouth frozen open in time into a gruesome sort of silent scream.

And that nightmare became the last one that Harry James Potter would ever have again.

Draco – Check and mate… coming soon