For Strippedhalo.

Draco was crying.

Ron never thought he'd see a 16-year-old boy crying in the Great Hall, great ugly streaks of tears down his face and splotchy cheeks and fiery eyes, but as Draco hurled insults at Harry, at him, all Ron noticed was that he was crying.

It made sense, in one way. If Ron's father had been Kissed, he'd probably be crying to, though not in public, for goodness sake, but Ron's father wasn't Lucius Malfoy. Ron's father was a real dad, who tried, and who worked hard, and loved him, and Lucius Malfoy was just some crummy shite who pushed his son around with his cane and expected perfect obedience. Draco had bruises sometimes, when he came back from holidays. Ron had noticed them, in the showers after flying practice first year, and later after Quidditch practices, and sometimes at meals an eagle owl swooped down to Draco's plate and whatever the letter said, it didn't include candy from his mother and it left him pale and shaking. He was shaking now, too, as Crabbe and Goyle wrapped thick hands around his upper arms, shaking because of that pathetic excuse he called father, shaking one last time. Ron wouldn't cry for him, not if he were his dad.

He had cried over Lucius Malfoy only once, and that had been more than enough, Draco kneeling next to him, pleading "don't" and then pinching him, and finally throwing himself back against the bathroom wall, "fine then, be an idiot. Don't know what I expected from Weasleys anyway."

"He--"

"It doesn't matter," Draco said quickly, not letting Ron voice his thoughts. "If you don't see that, what are you doing here?"

It hadn't mattered, of course, not for them, not for Draco twisting beneath him and panting harshly in his ear; not for long stretches of pale skin only marred here and there, and Ron could hardly see the bruises in the dark; not for "more, more; it hadn't mattered at all except that it made Ron feel sick inside, now, when Draco screamed and screamed and his father would never touch him again, to remember how he'd justified things then--he was used to second-hand goods, to frayed robes and a wand that still missed Charlie; why should this be different?--when of course it mattered.

Draco was crying, and as usual, Ron was never the one who could fix anything.

He followed Lucius Malfoy's example, and walked away.