Unseen Scars

The jeers still echoed in Ron Weasley's ears as he trudged through the dungeon corridor, the damp stone walls closing in around him. ‘Weasley is our King’—Malfoy’s latest cruel masterpiece—had haunted him for weeks. Every Slytherin smirk, every snide comment from Hufflepuffs who should’ve known better, it all churned his stomach into a knot of pure loathing. He’d had enough. Harry and Hermione kept telling him to ignore it, but Ron was a Weasley—his pride demanded satisfaction. Revenge was the only answer, but how? A jinx? Too obvious. A punch? That’d land him in detention. No, he needed something humiliating, something that would strip Malfoy of that smug superiority without stooping to his level.

Then, during a particularly dull Potions class, as he watched Malfoy’s pale fingers delicately slice sopophorous beans, an idea struck him. Tickling. It was childish, ridiculous, but utterly perfect. Malfoy, the ice prince, reduced to helpless giggles in front of everyone. Ron could practically see the pink flush on those aristocratic cheeks. It would be poetic justice—harmless, yet devastating. He grinned to himself, earning a suspicious glance from Hermione, but said nothing. The plan was set.

The corridor after Potions was always a bottleneck, students jostling to escape Snape’s gloom. Ron lingered, feigning a struggle with his bag, waiting until Malfoy swept past flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. With a surge of Gryffindor courage, he darted forward. ‘Hey, Malfoy!’ he called, and before the blonde could turn fully, Ron’s fingers jabbed at his upper arm—right where the sleeve rode up.

What happened next shattered every expectation.

Draco Malfoy did not laugh. He flinched as if struck by a curse, a sharp, broken cry tearing from his throat. His body recoiled, crashing into Crabbe, and his face, normally a mask of disdain, crumpled into raw agony. Hot tears welled in his grey eyes, spilling over as he clutched his arm, his breath hitching in frantic gasps. ‘Don’t—don’t touch me!’ he stammered, voice cracking.

The corridor fell silent. Everyone stared. Ron backpedaled, his own hands raised in shock. ‘I—I barely touched you!’ But the words died as he saw Malfoy’s sleeve darken with a small, creeping stain. Blood. Fresh, crimson, seeping through the fabric.

Snape materialised from nowhere, his black robes billowing. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ His dark eyes swept over the scene, landing on Draco’s trembling form. A flicker of something—fear? worry?—crossed his sallow features before he schooled them into cold fury. ‘Weasley, detention. Everyone else, disperse. Now.’ He placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder, murmuring too low for Ron to hear, but the blonde jerked away and fled towards the nearest boys’ lavatory.

Ron stood rooted, his mind reeling. That wasn’t an act. That was real pain, real terror. And the blood—Merlin, the blood. He thought of the last few weeks: Snape’s pointed remarks in class about ‘seeking help’ and ‘hiding injuries only deepens the wound.’ He’d assumed it was typical dungeon-bat morbidity, but now… now it clicked. Snape had been sending messages to Draco, and no one had listened.

Ignoring Hermione’s calls, Ron sprinted after Malfoy. The lavatory door was ajar; inside, the sound of wretched sobs. He pushed it open. Draco was hunched over a sink, his robes discarded on the filthy floor, his left sleeve rolled up. Ron’s stomach lurched. Angry, jagged cuts crisscrossed the pale forearm, some scabbed, others fresh and glistening. A small silver blade—a potions knife—lay in the basin, smeared with red.

‘Malfoy…’

Draco’s head snapped up, his face a mess of tears and snot, utterly vulnerable. ‘Get out, Weasley! Come to finish the job?’ His voice was hoarse, defensive, but his body shook.

Ron’s own eyes stung. ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.’ He stepped closer, ignoring the instinct to run. ‘You need to go to Madam Pomfrey.’

‘No!’ Draco’s voice rose to a frantic pitch. ‘She’ll tell Dumbledore, and then my father—’ He broke off, choking.

Ron’s hands balled into fists. ‘Your father did this?’ It wasn’t really a question; the pieces were falling into place. The Malfoy family’s dark alliances, the pressure, the impossible expectations. ‘Merlin, Malfoy, you can’t just—’

‘I’m not a Malfoy,’ Draco whispered, a confession more to himself. ‘I’m a mess. I’m disgusting.’

‘No.’ Ron’s voice was fierce, surprising them both. He closed the distance, wetting a paper towel and gently—so gently—dabbing at the wounds. Draco flinched but didn’t pull away. ‘You’re not. Whatever it is, you’re not.’

In the weeks that followed, an unspoken truce formed. Ron found excuses to be near Draco: in the library, in the corridors, a subtle presence that asked no questions but offered quiet solidarity. Slowly, haltingly, Draco began to talk. In stolen moments, he revealed the horror of his home—the Dark Lord’s expectations, his father’s cruelties, the ‘missions’ in Knockturn Alley that left him in the hands of men who used him without mercy. ‘They’re older than my father,’ Draco said once, staring at his bandaged arms. ‘And I can’t stop it. I can’t say no.’

Ron’s rage was a living thing, but he swallowed it, channelling it into being the steady rock Draco needed. He held him when the nightmares came, even if it was just a hand on his back in the shadowy alcove behind the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. They argued, of course—old habits—but now the barbs were softened by something deeper. Ron learned the bitter truth: Harry’s rejection in first year had been a devastating blow, leaving Draco feeling utterly worthless. ‘If even Potter could see I was rotten,’ Draco said, ‘then what chance did I have?’

‘Harry’s an idiot,’ Ron said bluntly. ‘And so was I.’

Then came the winter holidays. Draco returned to the manor, and Ron spent every day at the Burrow sick with worry, ignoring his family’s confused glances. When they reunited on the Hogwarts Express, Ron’s heart stopped. Draco’s neck was a tapestry of purple and black bruises, stark against his pale skin. He moved stiffly, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Ron wanted to murder Lucius Malfoy with his bare hands.

That evening, in their secret spot, Ron stunned Draco by pulling him into a fierce embrace. ‘You’re not going back there,’ he declared, his voice cracking. ‘This summer, you’re coming to the Burrow. I don’t care what your father says, or what anyone says. Mum’ll understand—she’s got a thing for strays.’

Draco pulled back, eyes wide. ‘Weasley, you can’t—’

‘I can. I will.’ Ron’s hands framed Draco’s face, thumbs brushing the discoloured skin. ‘I know we’re supposed to hate each other, but I don’t. I can’t. Maybe I never did.’ Then, because he was a Gryffindor and foolishness was his birthright, he leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft, chaste, a trembling question. Draco’s lips were cold, but they warmed under the pressure, and when they parted he let out a shuddering sigh that sounded like the first breath after drowning. ‘Why?’ he whispered.

‘Because you deserve someone to stand with you,’ Ron said. ‘And I’m not going anywhere.’

In the months leading to summer, their bond deepened into an unspoken romance—stolen glances, secret smiles, hands brushing beneath the table in the library. Draco began to heal, the cuts fading to scars, the light returning to his eyes. Snape, ever watchful, said nothing but gave Ron a nod once, a silent acknowledgement that didn’t need words. When term ended, Ron took Draco’s hand on Platform 9¾ and led him to the Weasley family, ignoring the gasps and the muttered ‘bloody hells’. Molly Weasley took one look at the bruised boy and opened her arms, and Draco—for the first time—crumbled into a mother’s embrace.

That summer at the Burrow was filled with sunlit days and quiet nights, with arguments over Quidditch and chess, with Ron’s patient care and Draco’s hesitant laughter. They slept in Ron’s tiny room, the bed charm-enlarged to fit them both, and every night Ron held him until the nightmares faded. ‘You saved me,’ Draco said one night, tracing the freckles on Ron’s arm. ‘I never thought I could be saved.’

Ron pressed a kiss to his forehead. ‘You saved yourself. I just made sure you weren’t alone.’

And as the war loomed on the horizon, they faced it together—two boys who had been enemies, now bound by something far stronger than any Dark Mark. Ron Weasley, who once wanted revenge, had found instead a reason to fight for a future where love could bloom even in the unlikeliest of hearts.