Hollow

The dungeons were cold even for November, but Ron had stopped noticing weeks ago. He sat at the back of Potions, hunched over his cauldron, watching steam curl in lazy spirals. His robes hung loose—pooling at his shoulders in a way that would've made his mother panic. His trousers were held up by a belt he'd cinched two notches tighter that morning. Felt like they'd slip if he breathed too deep.

He didn't breathe deep anymore. Oxygen meant his stomach would remember it was empty.

“Weasley, your potion is separating. Again.” Snape's voice slithered over his shoulder, and Ron flinched, slopping purple liquid onto the table. “Perhaps if you spent less time daydreaming and more time paying attention, you might produce something fit for a first-year.”

Ron mumbled an apology, stirred mechanically. Felt Snape's gaze boring into the back of his skull before the man swept away to terrorize Neville.

Harry shot him a worried look. “You all right? You barely touched breakfast.”

“I'm fine.” Automatic. Hollow. “Just didn't feel like eating.”

Liar. He'd eaten. Two plates of eggs, three slices of toast, a bowl of porridge, four sausages, a treacle tart. Stuffed it all down so fast he couldn't taste it, fingers trembling, shoveling it in like a starving animal. Then the guilt hit—hot, sharp, settling in his chest like a stone.

He needed to get rid of it. All of it.

The urge was building now, familiar, clawing up his throat. Acid waiting. But there was something else too—a different hunger gnawing at his skin, whispering for release.

His fingers twitched toward his wand. No. Too many eyes. The blade was in his pocket—small, clean, tucked beside a crumpled piece of parchment. Stole it from the kitchen. A little paring knife no one would miss. Sharp enough.

“Weasley, you look like a ghost.” Malfoy from across the aisle, grey eyes glittering. “What's the matter? Mummy not sending enough care packages?”

Ron's jaw tightened. Didn't have the energy. “Shove off, Malfoy.”

But Malfoy didn't shove off. He was staring—calculating, like Ron was being dissected. Different now, though. Something beneath the sneer. Curiosity, maybe. Ron didn't care. All he cared about was the knot in his stomach and the sharp, sweet promise of relief.

“Professor Snape,” Ron said, voice steady, “I'm feeling ill. May I be excused?”

Snape turned, lip curling. “By all means. Don't let your digestive troubles disrupt my class.”

Ron slid off his stool, avoided Harry's concern. Walked out of the dungeon, footsteps echoing. The moment he was out of sight, he ran.

The second-floor bathroom was his refuge. Cold, damp, smelled like mold. No one ever came here. He locked the door, leaned against it, breathing hard.

The mirror showed a stranger. Face too thin, cheekbones sharp, eyes hollow. He wasn't supposed to look like this. Weasleys were sturdy, freckled, grinning. He wasn't any of that anymore.

He pushed open the stall—third from the left—and knelt on the cold tiles. Hands shaking, he pulled out the knife.

The urge to cut was separate from the urge to purge. One was a scream. The other was silence. Tonight, the scream needed to win first.

He lifted his shirt. The camisole underneath was deep, lacy red—bought from a catalog in a fit of shame and longing, hidden beneath his mattress like a guilty secret. It pressed against his ribs, too big now. His waist was a landscape of old scars—white and pink lines crisscrossing like a map of his misery.

He pressed the blade to his side, just above his hip. The first cut was always the hardest. Hand trembled, hesitated. Then he drew a line—clean, straight.

The pain was a bright, clear note in the fog. Not pleasure, exactly. But relief. For a single moment, everything else went quiet. The voices telling him he was worthless, the least of the trio, fat and useless and stupid—they all fell silent.

He cut again. And again. Blood welled up, bright red, spotting the lace. He watched, mesmerized.

Then the nausea hit.

He turned, shoved two fingers down his throat, and heaved. Eggs first, then toast, sausages, treacle tart. Stomach clenched and burned, tears streaming, emptying himself into the toilet.

In the middle of the third round of retching, the bathroom door swung open.

“—just a quick test, George, the fumes won't even—whoa.”

Ron's blood went cold. He scrambled to flush, but his fingers were slick and clumsy. The stall door creaked open, and Fred Weasley stared down at him, a small smoke bomb in his hand, all color draining from his face.

“Ron?”

Behind him, George pushed in, grin dying as he took it in. The two of them stood frozen, eyes moving from the blood-streaked camisole to the vomit to the knife still clutched in Ron's hand.

“Merlin's beard,” Fred whispered.

“Don't—don't tell Mum.” Ron's voice was raw, broken. “Please. Don't tell anyone.”

But they weren't listening. George dropped to his knees, hand reaching out but stopping short, like he was afraid to touch. “Ronnie, what have you done?”

“I'm fine.” But it came out a sob. “I just—I needed—I can't—”

The tears came then, thick and hot, and he couldn't stop them. The dam he'd built with silence and shame and careful smiles crumbled, and he was just a boy, bleeding and empty, his secret laid bare on the floor of a forgotten bathroom.

Fred crouched on the other side, voice unusually soft. “We're not going to tell anyone. But you need help. You know that, right?”

Ron shook his head, pressing his hands to his face. “I don't—I can't—it's not that simple.”

“It never is.” George pulled the knife gently from Ron's fingers, set it aside. “But you're not alone, all right? You've got us.”

Ron sobbed, let himself fall forward into George's arms. The twins held him, their usual jokes forgotten, and for a long moment the only sound was Ron's ragged breathing and the drip of the faucet.

None of them saw the shadow in the doorway.

Draco Malfoy had followed Ron out of Potions out of boredom—half-formed plan to mock him for looking so pathetic. But when Ron ran, Draco's curiosity sharpened. He crept down the corridor, heard the retching, watched from a crack in the door as Fred and George burst in.

He saw the blood. The camisole. The mess.

And he saw Ron Weasley—the boy he'd tormented for years—reduced to a trembling wreck on a bathroom floor.

Draco's stomach churned. He should leave. None of his business. Weasley was nothing—a blood traitor, a joke. But the image stuck: the scars on Ron's waist, the lace, the hollow look in his eyes.

He turned and walked away, footsteps silent on the stone floor.

The Hospital Wing was empty when Draco slipped in that evening. Madam Pomfrey had gone to her quarters; the only light came from candles flickering by the beds. Ron was in the corner, propped up on pillows, arm bandaged where Fred had forced him to let Pomfrey treat the cuts. He'd claimed it was a potions accident. Pomfrey, suspicious but busy, let it slide.

He looked small. Fragile. His freckles stood out against pale skin like a constellation of sorrow.

Draco stood at the foot of the bed, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to summon the sneer. It wouldn't come.

“You look like shit, Weasley.”

Ron's head snapped up. Eyes red-rimmed, hand trembling. “What do you want, Malfoy? Come to finish the job?”

Draco didn't answer. Pulled up a chair, sat down, stared at Ron with an intensity that made the other boy squirm.

“I saw you,” Draco said quietly. “In the bathroom.”

Ron's face went white. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't I?” Draco leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “I saw the knife. I saw you cutting yourself. And I saw you vomiting up everything you ate. You're sick, Weasley. Don't bother lying—I'm not stupid.”

Ron's hands fisted in the sheets. “Why do you care? You hate me. Always have.”

“Maybe I do.” Sounded hollow even to him. “But I don't hate you enough to watch you destroy yourself.”

Ron laughed, broken and bitter. “That's rich. Coming from the bloke who called me a blood traitor and wished my sister was dead.”

“I know what I said.” Draco's jaw tightened. “I'm not saying I'm a saint. But I'm not a monster, and this—” he gestured at Ron, “—isn't something I can just ignore.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating. Ron's face crumpled, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes.

“You don't understand,” he whispered. “You don't know what it's like. Being the youngest boy. Having Harry as a best friend. Everyone loves Harry. Hermione's the clever one. I'm just… Ron. The one who's always eating. Not good enough. Fat and stupid and—”

“Stop.” Draco's voice sharp. “Stop saying that.”

Ron looked up, eyes brimming. “It's true.”

“It's not.” Draco wasn't sure why he was fighting for this. “You're a good wizard, Weasley. Stupid, yes. But loyal. Brave.” He paused, struggled. “And you're not fat. You're barely eating at all.”

“I binge,” Ron confessed, words tumbling out like a flood. “I starve myself for days, then I can't help it—I eat everything in sight. Then I hate myself so much I have to get rid of it. I have to.” Voice cracked. “And the cutting… it's the only time I feel in control. The only time the noise stops.”

Draco sat very still. Thought about his father's expectations, the cold silences at the Manor, the way he'd learned to hide his own pains behind a mask of superiority. Looked at Ron—broken, weeping, raw—and saw a mirror.

“I'm not going to tell anyone,” Draco said finally. “But you need to let Pomfrey help you. Properly. Not just bandages.”

Ron shook his head. “I can't. Everyone will know. Harry and Hermione will look at me like I'm broken. My mum will cry. Dad'll be disappointed.”

“So what?” Draco said. “They already see you. And they still love you, don't they?”

Ron didn't answer.

Draco reached out, hesitating, and laid a hand on Ron's arm. “You don't have to do this alone. I can… be around. Keep an eye on you. If you want.”

Ron stared at him, bewildered. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

Draco's throat tightened. Thought about the camisole, the secret it represented. The times he'd caught Ron staring at his own reflection with loathing. The way Ron's shoulders hunched when Draco hurled insults, how he'd never fought back as hard as he could have.

“Because I know what it's like to hate yourself,” Draco said, the words bitter. “And I know what it's like to pretend you don't.”

Ron's tears spilled over. He didn't pull away from Draco's hand.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

Over the next few weeks, Ron started talking to Madam Pomfrey. She was gruff but kind, didn't judge him for the scars or the binge-purge cycle. Gave him a plan, a schedule, potions to calm the anxiety gnawing at his insides.

Draco kept his word. Didn't tell anyone. But he started sitting near Ron in the Great Hall—not speaking, just present. Sometimes he'd nudge a glass of water toward him or slide a piece of bread onto his plate when Ron's hands started to shake.

Ron didn't get better overnight. He relapsed twice—once in the bathroom, once in his dormitory. But each time, he reached out. The first time, he found Fred sitting outside the stall, waiting. The second time, Harry woke up and held him while he cried.

And Draco was there too, in the shadows, watching, making sure Ron came back.

One evening in early December, Ron found Draco alone in the astronomy tower, staring at the stars.

“You don't have to keep doing this,” Ron said, voice rough but steady. “I know it's not easy for you. Hanging around a blood traitor.”

Draco didn't turn. “I told you. I know what it's like.”

“Yeah, but… I'm not your friend. You're not mine. We're supposed to be enemies.”

Draco finally looked at him, something raw in his grey eyes. “Maybe I'm tired of being an enemy.”

Ron didn't know what to say to that. Just stood there, cold wind biting his skin, and for the first time in months, he felt something other than emptiness.

It wasn't hope, exactly. But it was a start.