Title: sea change
Fic URL: http://overrated.girlcalledjane.com/seachange.html
Author: jane d (girlcalledjane @ yahoo.com)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron Weasley/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC17
Summary: sea change (n): a marked transformation. 33,785 words. (11/19/05)
Disclaimer: Not mine, thank you.
Feedback: Feedback (general or con-crit) is always welcome.
Archiving: With permission.
Spoilers: For HBP. Major.
Warnings: MALE/MALE. GRAPHIC SEX. FILM-VERSE STYLE CLOTHING. REALLY REALLY LONG OMG.

Author's notes: Written for the 2005 merry_smutmas fic/art exchange. For tarie: I've never done any sort of plot before but since you asked, I gave it the old Hufflepuff try. Don't know if I've quite managed it but I hope that you enjoy it either way. A very merry smutmas to you! Thanks go out to my entire flist for cheering me on, but especially to everybodysweird for giving me some much needed encouragement and opinions early on, and to carleton97 for being the most amazing and wonderful twin/beta/ass-kicker/hand-holder in the entire universe. <3<3<3

- - - -

If anyone had ever asked him, Ron could have come up with a list as long as his arm full to the brim with people more likely to show up at Grimmauld Place than Malfoy.

Kingsley Shacklebolt. Mad-Eye Moody. Professor Flitwick. Ernie Macmillan. The Patil twins. Professor Trelawney. The Chudley Cannons. Celestina Warbeck. The Minister of Magic. Harry's Muggle relatives. You-Know-Who.

There was a Muggle bloke that Hermione had told him about once called Lennon who was either a musician or a Russian but was dead either way and still managed to be higher on the list than Malfoy.

It wasn't just that Number Twelve was the home of the Order and therefore the very epitome of everything Malfoy wasn't. It also had a lot to do with the fact that Ron, Harry, and Hermione were living there and Malfoy hated them probably only slightly less than they hated him and the last place he'd ever want to be was anywhere near them. Ron had no doubt in his mind about that.

So, it was quite a good thing that no one had ever bothered to ask him for a list, as apparently everything he thought about what was likely or what was unlikely or about the universe being a merciful place was utter shit because right there, at the bottom of the stairs, was the one and -- thank Merlin -- only Draco Malfoy.

Who, it seemed to Ron, was getting choked to death by his best mate.

Ron's, not Malfoy's.

Shit, he thought, and then, everything exciting round here happens when I've got to use the toilet.

Hermione was screaming, Ginny was screaming, his mum was screaming, and Mrs Black's horrible portrait was screaming louder than all three of them combined. But Ron thought it was probably a good thing that it was so loud because it looked like Harry was swearing quite originally there and his mum had always hated it when people swore.

He took the stairs two at a time to the ground floor where his dad and Professor Lupin were tugging on Harry's shoulders, trying to pull him off of Malfoy. Harry didn't appear to be in any mood to let go though. He ignored their hands on him and just kept snarling in Malfoy's face, gripping his throat with both hands and shaking him. Malfoy's pale hands scratched and pulled at Harry's wrists. His feet slid uselessly against the floor and his face was a blotchy red with blood on his mouth that made Ron think that Malfoy must have bitten down on his tongue when Harry'd jumped on him. Each time Professor Lupin and his dad pulled on Harry's shoulders, Harry banged Malfoy's head onto the floor, and Ron thought that it would've probably been at least a little bit funny if it weren't for the fact that he was about to shit himself with terror at any moment.

He grabbed Harry's right shoulder with his dad, both of them pulling at the same time as Lupin, and it took three tugs before they finally got Harry loose. He flailed his arms and kicked wildly, shouting and fighting them, but they managed to pull him back to the stairs where Lupin shoved Harry down hard, pushing until he sat. Ron was a little bit afraid to let go of Harry, afraid he'd just get right back up and fling himself at Malfoy again, because Ron thought that's what he probably would have done if it was him. He held onto Harry's shoulder, both of them panting from effort, as Malfoy gasped for air, blinking up at the candelabra and clutching at his throat.

He wanted to ask a thousand questions -- wanted to ask Harry what the hell he thought he was doing, what the hell was wrong with him, if it'd felt good -- but he couldn't seem to make his mouth work. He was still too stunned by the fact that Malfoy was there and Harry was apparently completely off his trolley.

Never mind that his parents and Professor Lupin were fighting with Sirius' mother's curtains --

"Filth! Scum! You dare to set foot in the house of my fathers! Freaks! Mutants! Monsters!"

-- as Professor McGonagall, who Ron hadn't even realised was there, suddenly appeared in front of Harry. Her tartan cap was askew, Ron could only assume, from getting shoved aside as Harry'd attacked Malfoy and her face was as white as a sheet, her lips pursed so hard they looked as though they'd disappeared inside her mouth. She looked very much like she was dying to take House points but seeing as how Hogwarts was shut up tighter than a drum, he reckoned she must've felt there wouldn't be much point in it.

She shouted something that was, of course, lost under all the noise. She made an irritated sort of expression, throwing her hands in the air, before turning to the portrait and hexing it solidly. A jet of bright blue light flashed, temporarily blinding him but sending the curtains and, rather hilariously, his parents and Professor Lupin slamming together in an instant. The oofs and thunks of the three of them colliding were the only sounds in the entrance hall as the screams finally died down.

No one moved for a moment, the silence blanketing them all and soothing their poor ears after the harshness of the screeches and shouts. Everyone was staring at Harry, though. Well, except for Malfoy who was still staring up at the ceiling and Ron who didn't really want to look at any of them for very long and, if he'd had his way, would have much rather gone back up to the toilet to pretend that people who are unlikely to show up did not actually show up and that his best mate wasn't a nutter.

There was a shift of fabric as Hermione stepped forward and Harry stood suddenly, surprising Ron. His fingers reflexively clenched down on Harry's shoulder, like maybe he'd been preparing himself to reel Harry back if he went to dive for Malfoy or maybe just like he was a bit shocked by the sudden movement -- one of the two. But Harry just shrugged him off and, for a second, he felt a pang of hurt, a sting of rejection, but he pushed it aside in favour of following Harry toward the doorway that lead down into the kitchen.

He looked back as Harry yanked the door open, looked over Hermione and Ginny's heads to where Professor Lupin was trying to help Malfoy up off the floor. Malfoy's voice, usually so annoyingly grating, was rough and choked off as he slapped at Lupin's hands and snarled, "This is what you call protection, is it?"



//



If there was one thing Ron knew about Harry it was that he was a man of many, many talents. He could play Quidditch like a pro, was a genius at Defence Against the Dark Arts, could fill in crap Divination assignments on the spot, and was able to wiggle himself out of just about any situation with little more than a scrape. He was witty and clever and brave and had quite nice penmanship. But, really, the most underrated of all Harry's innate gifts, Ron thought, was his amazing ability to rage on and on without even breaking a sweat.

At first, it had appeared as if Harry were actually trying to listen. He sat quietly, slumped in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest and glaring at the wall, as Professor Lupin explained exactly how it was he'd stumbled over top of Malfoy in an alley behind a bookshop in Muggle Edinburgh. He hadn't said a word as Lupin detailed how Malfoy, upon realising who he was, had very nearly hexed him and only a slightly quicker draw due to the fact that Malfoy had been half-asleep at the time had managed to save him having to explain to a bunch of Muggles why he couldn't stop his legs from dancing. He hadn't even blinked as Professor McGonagall picked up the tale, relaying how Lupin had firecalled her just when she was sitting down to tea, looking as though he'd just walked through a ghost, requesting she come as quickly as possible to his house. And he'd only shifted slightly in his seat as she told them about the Veritaserum and interrogating Malfoy and then, finally, how she'd given him the last piece of parchment Dumbledore'd ever written on, the one with the location of the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix written on it.

It was only as it had become achingly, achingly clear that what they intended was for Malfoy to stay there at Number Twelve with them that Harry jumped up out of his chair and started screaming.

"Harry, he's done nothing wr--" his dad began.

"NOTHING WRONG? NOTHING WRONG! HE'S THE REASON DUMBLEDORE'S DEAD! HE'S THE REASON! HE LET THE DEATH EATERS INTO HOGWARTS! HE PLANNED IT ALL! AND YOU JUST WANT ME TO TRUST HIM? TO LET HIM STAY HERE? HE'S PROBABLY PLOTTING OUR DEATHS AS WE SPEAK!"

"Harry, honestly, if we could only listen to wh--" Hermione started.

"I AM LISTENING! I HAVE LISTENED! IT'S JUST THAT NO ONE IS SAYING ANYTHING WORTH HEARING!"

"Please, Harry, calm d--" Professor Lupin tried to say.

"YOU WANT ME TO CALM DOWN? YOU WANT ME TO CALM DOWN? GET HIM OUT OF MY HOUSE AND WE'LL TALK ABOUT ME CALMING DOWN! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU IDI--"

"ENOUGH!" Professor McGonagall shouted and it seemed as though the entire room winced and then automatically straightened up for fear of being berated for bad posture. "Lower your voice and sit down this instant, Potter."

For a second it looked as though Harry was going to try to argue with her and Ron felt himself tense up, ready to dive off his chair just in case. But apparently Harry had regained at least some amount of sanity and sat down hard in his chair instead, crossing his arms over his chest once again. McGonagall breathed out hard, shaking her head tersely, and then motioned for someone to continue the shit attempt at convincing Harry that Malfoy wasn't going to kill them all in their sleep and should be allowed to stay.

After a long moment, Lupin sighed the sigh of a man used to being stuck with the crap jobs and began quietly. "From your own account, Harry, Draco was going to accept Dumbledore's offer of sanctuary only moments before he died. I think that, in itself, is quite telling and should be enough to at least give you pause."

Apparently it wasn't

"I don't care, I don't want him here," Harry snapped, not looking at anyone but addressing everyone. As if someone could have possibly missed that little titbit of information.

Lupin rubbed his hand over his face and looked over at Ron's dad and, with that look, it struck Ron just how much it was all like a really poorly played game of Quidditch -- Chasers passing off, each trying to get the Quaffle passed the really pissed off Keeper. He couldn't help thinking that Harry was a much better Keeper than he'd ever been.

"None of us are particularly happy about this but..." his dad trailed off, searching for the right words, "well, there's just nothing else to be done, is there? He has nowhere to go, no one to help him, he needs protection."

"Let him get it somewhere else, then." Harry snarled.

"I'm afraid there is nowhere else, Harry." His dad said, and then, "The Ministry would only send him to Azkaban and, as we saw with his father, that means little to You-Know-Who."

Harry made an angry noise and leaned forward, putting both hands on the table in front of him. "How do you even know he wasn't lying about everything? How do you know it's not all just a trap? How do you know he's not really working for Voldemort? He's had Malfoy working from the inside once before already, why not again?"

"Weren't you paying attention at all, boy?" McGonagall said, exasperated. "I questioned him myself -- under Veritaserum, I should like to remind you."

"Was it Snape's? It was probably no good, part of the trap."

Lupin sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Harry, there is no trap."

"How do you know? How--"

"For the love of god, did you even look at him?" Lupin snapped, cutting Harry off. "His parents are dead, Voldemort wants him dead, he's been alone on streets filled with Muggles for months, he--" Lupin stopped, taking a deep breath, obviously trying to compose himself, then shifted forward in his seat and started again imploring Harry with his greying hair and sad eyes, "Harry, please, even if you cannot trust him, even if you cannot believe that he is in danger and in need... at least trust that we would never put you in any questionable situation without being absolutely positive that you're safe."

Ron opened his mouth at that, fully intending to remind him that Harry had trusted them to keep him safe many times before and, each time, had been fucked over magnificently, but Hermione's hand on his arm and then her short, sharp fingernails digging into his wrist stopped him. His clapped his mouth shut, biting his lip, and reached down under the table to try to pull her fingers loose. All those years of extended quill use had apparently given her some bizarre sort of super strength, though, as it was quite like trying to pull a Niffler off a galleon. He finally managed to wrench his arm free -- wincing as he felt some of the skin come loose as well -- just as Harry stood up, his chair scraping across the floor loudly.

"Fine."

"Fine?" His dad asked, his eyes more than a little hopeful.

"Fine," Harry repeated, and then, staring resolutely at the wall over Lupin's head, bit out, "He can stay. I don't care. But he'd better keep out of my way."

"After your little display earlier, Potter, I doubt that will be much of a problem," McGonagall said harshly, rising from her seat and giving Harry her frostiest I'm-very-disappointed-in-you look. "Now, if you wouldn't mind escorting me to the door, I'd like to be on my way. Never did get to have my tea."

Harry seemed to absolutely boil for a moment, his fists clenched at his sides, his breathing rapid and shallow, and, Ron knew, an completely hideous reply just screaming to be let loose. He held it back though -- truly fucking miraculously -- and managed a mumbled, "Yes, Professor," instead.

There was a beat after Professor McGonagall and Harry disappeared up the staircase where no one moved, barely even breathed, just stared after them, and then his dad and Professor Lupin stood up at almost exactly the same moment, apparently thinking that McGonagall was in need of some sort of guard. Or possibly Harry.

"I should be leaving as well," Lupin said, his face just slightly pink.

"And I should see to Molly and the boy," His dad said, nodding quickly, his face a bit red as well.

They hurried up the stairs without a backward glance and Ron waited until the door above shut before twisting around in his chair to face Hermione.

"What?" She asked, blinking innocently at him.

"What?" He sputtered. "What do you mean, what? You digging your bloody talons into my arm is what." He poked his wrist under her nose, pointing at the painful-looking, half-moon-shaped indents in the skin. "Trying to draw blood, were you? A few more seconds and I reckon you would have."

"Oh, be quiet," she said dismissively as she batted his arm away, obviously unconcerned with his grievous fingernail inflicted injury. "I wasn't going to just sit by and let you ruin everything."

"Ruin everything?"

"Yes, ruin everything! You saw how long it took them to convince Harry to allow Malfoy stay here, I wasn't going to let you muck it all up." She crossed her arms over her chest in that irritating, I'm-right-and-you're-wrong way that she had.

"What, by agreeing with him?" Hermione didn't bother to answer, just raised an eyebrow as if to say that was exactly what she meant. Ron sat up a little straighter in his chair, eyeing her. "Well, I do, you know. Completely. I think Harry's right on the mark to be upset. I think this is an absolutely shit situation that is only going to end up horribly. Malfoy's not to be trusted and we all know it."

"Oh, honestly, weren't you listening at all? Professor McGonagall said--"

"Who cares?" He snapped, not wanting to hear it. "This is Malfoy we're talking about! Malfoy, Hermione, remember him? Nasty, pointy git whose only goal in life is to become a Death Eater just like his dear old dad? Likes to call you filthy names, get Harry into trouble, and just generally be an arse every minute of every day?"

Hermione got quiet at that, her crossed arms dropping slightly and her brow furrowing, as though torn between wanting to argue with him in the hallowed name of Professor McGonagall and actually admitting that he was right. For once.

"He has a point, you know. Malfoy hasn't exactly got the greatest record of not being an absolute bastard," Ginny said quietly, speaking for the first time since they'd come downstairs.

Ron started a bit in surprise and looked over at her; she looked washed out, a bit tired, and he felt a rush of guilt just looking at her -- he hadn't even asked her if she was all right after seeing Harry go off the way he did. Hermione looked down at the tabletop and didn't say anything and Ron had the distinct impression that she felt the same way he did.

He opened his mouth to say something, to ask Ginny if she was all right or something equally stupid and useless considering how belated it was, when the door to the upstairs opened and the sound of people coming down interrupted him. He and Hermione both turned just in time for his mum, dad, and Malfoy to enter the kitchen.

Earlier, when Malfoy had been on the floor getting choked by Harry, Ron really hadn't taken much notice to the way he looked. Being focused on trying to keep Harry from killing him and all, but there was nothing to distract him now and, instantly, he could see just what it was Lupin had been talking about when he'd asked Harry if he'd even looked at Malfoy.

Malfoy'd always been slight but now he was so thin it seemed as though the only possible way his clothing could be holding on was by sheer force of will. There were dark circles under his eyes and deep hollows under his cheekbones. His hair, limp and lank, hung about his face like a dirty curtain. His skin was no longer the freakishly pale white Ron had become so accustomed to after six years of school together and more of a sickly grey. His shirt and trousers were filthy beyond anything Ron had ever seen and he would've put money on them being the exact same ones Malfoy'd been wearing when he'd fled Hogwarts almost four months previously.

All in all, Malfoy managed to do the one thing Ron had only ever thought Sirius Black was capable of. He made Professor Lupin look in absolutely fucking fabulous shape by comparison. Ron didn't even try to pretend he wasn't completely bowled over by shock.

His dad cleared his throat after a second, forcing a smile and motioning for Malfoy to take the chair closest to the door. The chair that was, coincidentally, also the one closest to Ron. Malfoy looked from Ron to the chair and back again. And then pulled a face not at all unlike the face one makes when one's just stepped in a big, steaming pile of gnome shit. The fact that Malfoy could look the way he did and still manage to think he was somehow superior to Ron was enough to snap him right out of his shock and stamp down any burgeoning sympathies that he may have had.

Ron narrowed his eyes as Malfoy pulled out the chair and sat down just as primly as he always had, his left arm pulled up on his lap as though he was afraid Ron was going to touch him or something equally as likely to happen as hell freezing over or a Blast-Ended Skrewt taking flight. Malfoy ignored him -- ignored everyone, in fact -- turning his face toward the wall instead of having to be forced into something so horrible as looking at them. Ron had to bite down on the inside of his cheek in order to resist the urge to punch the stupid prick in the back of the head.

"Well then, who's hungry?" His mum asked with forced cheerfulness, clapping her hands together and looking at them all.

"No, thank you, Mum," He bit out, and then, as he stood and strode over to the foot of the stairs, said, "The smell's made me lose my appetite."

His mum and Hermione both gasped his name but he ignored them in favour of marching up the stairs to the entrance hall and slamming the door behind him. He was in no mood to listen to anyone telling him all the reasons he should play nice with such an utter twat. It was no small feat, the marching, as his arse had fallen asleep some time roughly around Harry's sixth bellowing outburst but he felt that it was worth it. He wobbled some trying to walk up the stairs but made it to the room he shared with Harry without falling down which was, he thought, quite good of him.

Harry was bundled up and facing away, but Ron could tell that he was awake. He wasn't making any of his usual little snuffling snore noises and even in the almost-darkness Ron could see that his shoulders were tensed. Ron couldn't be arsed to say anything to him though, he was still too ticked off at Malfoy for existing and at his parents and Lupin and McGonagall for forcing them all into this situation to even consider starting up a marathon row with Harry. He stripped off his clothes and pulled on his pyjamas without a word. He crawled into his bed and pulled the duvet up over himself, trying the entire time to convince himself that everything would be better in the morning.

"It couldn't possibly get any worse," He muttered to the canopy.



//



Harry still had that dark look in his eyes the next morning but it appeared as though he were trying to act as if nothing was wrong. There was a vague sort of tenseness between them as they got dressed and went down for breakfast but Ron was more than happy to ignore it, glad that Harry was at least pretending to be in better spirits. Hermione was a bit harder to ignore, of course.

The minute he stepped into the kitchen, she made a face and gathered up her parchment and quill and huffed out of the room, all bushy hair and nose in the air.

"She's not speaking to you," Ginny informed him, smirking.

"Oh, really? And what was your first clue?" He mumbled, pulling out a chair and sitting down, glaring darkly at the tabletop.

"Well, I'd have to say it was earlier this morning when she called you an obnoxious idiot and said that she wasn't going to speak to you until you'd matured to at least the level of a five-year-old," She said, smiling hugely when he looked up at her, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

He stared at her and, for the five millionth time since her birth, told himself that one day he was definitely going to hex her mouth right off her face. She only used it for evil anyway, what did she need it for?

Harry snickered beside him and Ginny smiled even more broadly and Ron rolled his eyes and looked away as he had no real desire to watch them make cow eyes at each other.

And that's when he saw the box.

The box that his mum had shoved halfway under the table, obviously in the hopes that he wouldn't notice it. The box that looked small and entirely innocent from the outside but was so clearly anything but on the inside. The box that, upon opening, caused him to make a sound so high-pitched and girlish that, had it been at any other time, he would have been so embarrassed that only changing his name and fleeing the country would have seemed a suitable option.

She must have gone mad at some point during the night, that was the only explanation for it. She had lost her bloody mind.

"Mum, you can't give him my clothes!"

He rummaged through the old tee shirts and worn jeans, tatty jumpers and faded trousers, completely and utterly horrified with each new item he unearthed. Yeah, they'd been Bill's or Charlie's or Percy's or Fred and George's first. Yeah, he hadn't actually been able to wear any of them for at least a year and a half. Yeah, they were just clothes. But, no! No, that was not the point! That was nothing like the point! The point was very clearly that she was giving his clothes -- his clothes, things he had worn on his actual, personal body -- to Malfoy. Stupid, snotty, slimy Malfoy. It had to be a crime. There must have been a law against this sort of thing. He would go to the Ministry if he had to, he just couldn't allo--

Oh, no.

Oh, god, no.

"My Cannons shirt, Mum?" He wailed, pulling it out of the box and waving it at her. "You're giving him my Cannons shirt?"

"Oh, honestly," She said, rolling her eyes and snatching it out of his hand, "It's just a tee shirt."

He gasped, pulling back and clutching at his chest, staring in horror as she lovingly folded his shirt and dropped it back into the box. Yes, she clearly had gone mad. "Just a tee shirt? Just a... it's the Cannons!"

"Yes, well," She sniffed as she turned to the rather dodgy-looking cooker his dad had transfigured for her out a dresser, checking the progress of the sausages, "it doesn't fit you and he can't be expected to go on wearing those filthy rags."

"I don't see why not," he muttered, eyeing her back as he quickly reached into the box and snatched his beloved shirt from the depths of its box-like clutches.

"The outside finally reflects the wretchedness within," Harry said, grinning as Ron looked about for a good hiding spot.

"Yeah, exactly!" He said, pointing to Harry with one hand and stuffing the shirt under his arse with the other. "They suit him, Mum. Really."

His mum ignored them, wiping her hands on her apron as she turned back to smiled sweetly to Ginny. "Be a dear and take these upstairs to Draco, let him know breakfast will be ready soon."

Ginny made a face that said, quite clearly, that she'd rather eat a Flobberworm but sighed and stood up. "Yes, Mum."

There was a tugging match when she walked around the table and reached for the box because he wasn't about to just sit by and watch her tote his things away. She managed to wrench it free, though, by leaning over and biting at his hand, her sharp, vicious, little teeth making it more than obvious, once again, that she really must be removed of her mouth one of these days.

She picked up the box, glaring at him, and then, as Harry patted him on the shoulder, awkwardly lugged it up the stairs and out of sight.

Gone.

He sighed to himself and scratched at the table with a fingernail when a thought struck him. "What happened to his own stuff? The clothes and things he had at Hogwarts?"

"What was that, dear?" His mum hummed, looking at him over her shoulder, as she used her wand to direct the wooden spoon stirring the porridge.

"Malfoy's clothes, Mrs Weasley, what happened to the ones he had at Hogwarts?" Harry filled in, obviously interested in getting an answer as well.

"Oh, well, it seems a few of his housemates were none too pleased with him over something," She said, smiling sadly.

"What'd they do?" Ron snickered, looking over at Harry who grinned back, "Set them on fire or something?"

His mum made a strangled sort of coughing sound and turned back to the cooker. "After several shredding charms, yes."

Harry's mouth fell open and his eyebrows shot up, disappearing even further under his fringe, and Ron had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. They both doubled over onto themselves, trying to keep their laughter stifled so as not to attract Ron's mum's attention. Harry rocked back and forth in his chair, shaking his head and covering his mouth with his fist, trying to keep his mouth shut as he shook with silent laughter. Ron couldn't even breathe, couldn't even control his limbs -- he slipped off the side of his chair, his face pressed against Harry's arm for support and his arms wrapped round his stomach, fucking tears running down his cheeks it was so hilarious.

However unlikely it was, however far-fetched, the mental image of those idiots, Crabbe and Goyle, staging a coup and destroying all of Malfoy's precious, poncy clothes after hearing that he was nothing but a lousy traitor filled him with such an unholy joy it felt as though his chest was going to burst.

"It's even better than the ferret thing," He whispered to Harry, gasping.

They laughed and laughed and laughed as quietly as they possibly could, feeling superior and revelling in Malfoy's misfortune, and they'd only just managed to get themselves under control when Ginny and Hermione came down the stairs.

They were having some sort of conversation but Ron only caught "...have to consider the situation..." before Hermione looked over, saw him and narrowed her eyes, cutting off whatever it was she was going to say. Ron didn't really mind, of course, as he had no doubt it was probably about Malfoy and he didn't particularly want to hear that sort of talk anyway.

Hermione sat down across from Harry, pointedly ignoring Ron who ignored her right back, as Ginny flopped down hard in her chair, scowling and muttering under her breath, "Stupid prat."

"What'd he do?" Harry asked quickly, his voice low and dangerous.

Ginny breathed out hard, shaking her head, and giving Harry a look that said she'd not quite managed to stop thinking about the way he'd acted the night before. "He didn't do anything. He wouldn't even open the door."

"Perhaps he's left, then?" Ron asked hopefully. "You know, slinked off in the night or something."

"Oh, honestly," Hermione snapped rudely, disgusted, "and where do you expect he would go?"

"As if I care! I'd just be happy to see him gone." He shot back just as rudely. "And I thought you weren't going to talk to such an... what was it, "obnoxious idiot"?"

Hermione sat up straighter in her chair and glared at him, lips pursed into a thin line. She opened her mouth like she was going to retort but apparently reconsidered and just made a sniff noise instead, turning away and crossing her arms, nose firmly in the air again.

Malfoy hadn't gone, of course, because Ron could never possibly be that lucky and when he flounced down for breakfast a bit later, Ron tried not to swear too loudly.

He looked to be cleaner -- obviously having taken to heart Ron's comment from the night before -- but was still wearing his filthy Hogwarts uniform shirt and trousers. Ron's mum took one look at him, made a horrified gasping noise, and very nearly upended a bowl of porridge she was levitating over to the table onto Hermione's head.

"Ginny Weasley, if you think you're funny, you're most certainly not! I asked you to take Draco those clothes!"

Ginny, eyes wide and mouth full of toast, swallowed hard before saying, "But I did, Mum! I swear!"

"Well what, may I ask, is that?" She said, pointing to Malfoy and his filthy clothes.

Malfoy laughed nastily. "You're out of your mind if you think I'm wearing any of that stuff."

Ron jerked his head up, a piece of bacon dangling from the side of his mouth, and looked over to Ginny. Her eyes had gone all huge and round and Ron had no doubt that he had an almost identical expression on his own face.

No one ever talked to their mum that way.

Ever.

Malfoy obviously had no clue just what he was dealing with.

His mum turned her head slowly, eyes narrowed dangerously on Malfoy and her teeth gritted together. "Pardon me?"

Malfoy's vicious little smirk wavered for a moment and then disappeared all together, his eyes bugging out a bit as he took half a step back, staring at her, clearly seeing the error in his thinking that all mums were like his own. "I... I'd rather just wear my own clothes if that's all right."

"No, it's not all right," Mum said, her voice barely even a whisper and practically dripping with rage. "You get upstairs and you change into something clean right this minute or I will drag you up there and dress you myself."

Malfoy's mouth worked silently for a moment, opening and closing like a fish, and then he nodded quickly, turned on his heel and raced back up to the ground floor.

His mum watched after Malfoy, positively seething, and then turned back to finish levitating the last of the breakfast food over onto the table. The dishes clacked together over their heads she was moving them with such force, but she didn't notice as she was too distracted muttering to herself the whole time ("...never in my life...thinks he's too good...no respect whatsoever...take him over my knee..."), and Ron thought that, had Malfoy been anyone else, he might have felt a bit badly for him.

They'd just finished eating and were heading upstairs when he came back down a short time later. He scowled and avoided eye contact, as Hermione and Ginny stepped by him, neither of them even able to pretend they weren't staring. And for good reason, Ron thought, as Malfoy had probably never looked more ridiculous and completely unlike himself in his entire life. He'd chosen one of Ron's old long-sleeved tee shirts -- so faded it was more pink than red and doing absolutely nothing for his sickly complexion -- and a pair of worn jeans that seemed to just showcase the scuffed toes of his once freakishly shiny shoes.

"There now, isn't that better, dear?" His mum said with faux cheerfulness, patting Malfoy's shoulder probably a bit harder than she needed to as she guided him around Harry and Ron and over to the table.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Ron mumbled to Harry, his stomach churning at the thought of Malfoy's skin against the same fabric his own had once been.

"Not until we get upstairs," Harry snorted, pushing him over to the stairs and reaching around to shove a bundle of cloth into his hands. "And here, you almost forgot your shirt."



//



It went on like that for weeks -- Malfoy coming down late for meals, pouting and parading about with more of Ron's clothes on his miserable body -- and then going right back to his room when he'd finished. Ron didn't much mind Malfoy not hanging about and he didn't think anyone else did either, least of all Harry who Ron'd caught quite a few times glaring at Malfoy so viciously Ron couldn't help but be amazed that Harry hadn't accidentally set the prat on fire or something.

The fact that Malfoy stayed out of the way most of the time made it much easier to pretend he wasn't even there. In fact, other than at meals, that's exactly what the four of them did. They would play cards or chess in the drawing room on the second floor or sometimes, if she could manage it, his mum would rope them into doing cleaning in some of the still disused rooms of the house. Mostly, though, they did exactly what they'd planned on doing when they'd first broached the subject of moving to Number Twelve to his parents; they researched in the rather small but still quite extensive library for ways to help Harry get rid of You-Know-Who.

It had been Hermione's idea, naturally. Harry'd wanted to set out directly after Bill and Fleur's wedding, which Ron thought was, frankly, a really fucking stupid idea but, since he hadn't had a better one, he'd just kept that to himself. Hermione, though, she wasn't so keen on the idea of roaming the Earth with no idea at what to look for.

"Research," she'd said, "would be the best idea, Harry. There's nothing that can stop the well-informed!" And they'd argued about it for days, the two of them, but Harry'd eventually caved in and agreed that, yes, fine, all right, they would do Hermione's research.

Ron had known that Hermione would win Harry over from the start, because he knew Harry had no idea what to do, just that he wanted to do something and was terrified out of his mind even if he was far too stubborn to ever admit it. It had surprised him a bit that his parents had agreed, though. It wasn't as though they had much choice in the matter, of course, because he and Harry and Hermione were all seventeen, officially adults, and could do as they liked. But still, he'd felt that they could have at least tried to talk them out of it. And he'd said as much to Ginny as he was helping her lug her trunk down the stairs of The Burrow on moving day to which she'd just laughed and said, "Oh, Ron, they're just happy you're not all running off to get yourselves killed."

Which, really, once he'd thought about it, made quite a bit of sense and was almost exactly the same as the way he felt himself.

It was still awful work though; sometimes the books would snap at them, sometimes they'd ruffle their pages so as to send as much dust in your face as possible, and once Hermione had found one that not only made every single hair on her great bushy head stand on end but also sent her flying across the room, coughing smoke and looking supremely unhappy to boot. It was awful work, crap work, but he wouldn't allow himself to complain. Because... well, it was important. Extremely important. And there were no other options; it wasn't as if You-Know-Who was going to just stop being an insane bastard or anything. It wasn't as if he was going to set up a shop and start selling puppies and flowers to Muggles. Not unless the puppies spit fire and the flowers were the kind that ate people, anyway.

So he did it -- every bloody day he picked up another book, reading until his eyes felt dry and tired and he couldn't see straight, until what little daylight that managed to make it through the grimy windows had long since disappeared and the gas lamps flickered to life, casting their eerie orange glow on the pages before him. He did it because he had to and because Harry needed him to and because there was absolutely nothing else to do. And he would tell himself the whole while to just grin and bear it, to keep it together, to be a man, that if he just kept looking, one of these books was bound to open a portal to hell and he could finally make his escape.

Somehow, though, between doing it because he had to and doing it because he had nothing else to do, he ended up almost... liking it. (Not that he would ever actually admit it to anyone, least of all Hermione, who would, he knew, have some sort of attack and then not shut up about it. Ever again.) It wasn't ever going to be his favourite thing to do, of course, but he'd found that it actually wasn't quite as bad as he'd always made it out to be. Maybe it was because he wasn't going to have to write any essays or maybe it was because the books at Grimmauld Place were creepy and tonnes more interesting than the ones he'd had to read at Hogwarts or maybe it was some odd combination of the two but there it was nonetheless.

So when he found himself unable to sleep one night, instead of lying there, tossing and turning until the sun came up, he rolled out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and tip-toed down to the library. It seemed the better solution and, well, if he could get one more page read, the answers to all their problems could be solved.

And that's exactly where he was when a scuff of shoe against the floor startled him and he jerked his head up, gasping loudly in fright, fully expecting to see any range of horrible things. But not Malfoy. And certainly not Malfoy looking just as startled as Ron felt.

"What do you want?" He said after he managed to get his heart to stop jumping in his chest, his top lip curling up, not even trying to disguise his disgust.

Malfoy made a face like he'd just taken a bite out of a lemon. "Nothing."

"Well, piss off, then, I'm busy." He snapped, looking back down at his book and grinding his teeth, irritated that Malfoy even dared to leave his bedroom.

Malfoy didn't leave, of course. Because he was an annoying little shit and Ron was still not lucky enough for that. He only made a pfft noise and began wandering around the room behind Ron. Ron was hyperaware of Malfoy's movements; every scuff of his shoe on the floor, every tap of his fingers over the spines of the books, every hollow slide as he took book after book off the shelves -- he was sure that he could even hear him breathing. He was tense all over, unable to concentrate on the words in front of him, only able to think that Malfoy was in the same room with him.

Just ignore it, he thought, and then, just ignore him and he'll go away.

"What are you doing?" A voice right beside his ear said.

He yelped in surprise, working so hard on ignoring Malfoy that he hadn't noticed him step up behind him. He hunched down over his book, pulling it up against his chest, and looked over his shoulder at Malfoy. "None of your business."

Malfoy leaned over his shoulder, obviously unconcerned that Ron clearly did not want him to see his book. "Is it to do with The Dar-- with You-Know-Who?"

"Yeah," He bit out, and then, because he couldn't resist, "Stopping him, that is, nothing you'd be interested in."

Malfoy didn't take the bait though, having turned his interest to the other books that littered the table. "What are you looking for?"

Malfoy reached forward for one, but Ron reached out and slapped at the back of his hand before he could touch it and then twisted around in his chair to glare at him. "Why do you even care?"

"I don't. I was only asking," Malfoy muttered, holding his hand to his chest and scowling at him, stepping away. "When did you become such a fucking girl, Weasley? Slapping people's hands? My god."

"You shouldn't be touching things you've no business with!" Ron hissed, sounding far too much like his mum for his comfort.

Malfoy wandered round the room a bit more but finally, a few moments later, stopped on the other side of the table, pulled out the chair across from Ron and sat down, staring at him. "Is it some sort of spell?"

Ron ground his teeth and closed the book hard -- probably a bit harder than technically necessary, actually, as the noise reverberated through the room, loud and out of place in the calm silence of night, making him wince. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

Malfoy looked pained for a moment, as if having some internal battle, and then he sighed loudly, looking up at the ceiling in either some form of silent prayer or to avoid looking at Ron. "I'm bored, all right? There's nothing to do in this disgusting old house and I'm bored. I want something to do."

"Well, find something else to do because you can't do this," Ron said shortly, sliding the closed book away and pulling another one off the nearest stack.

"Why not?" Malfoy whinged. "I can read, you know."

"Really?" Ron asked, smirking to himself, "I always assumed you just paid people to do it for you."

"At least I can--" Malfoy snapped quickly but cut himself off before he could finish.

"What? At least you can what?" He looked up at Malfoy, faking innocence, silently begging him to finish it, begging him to give Ron an excuse to hex him.

Malfoy glowered at him. "Look, just give me a damn book, would you?"

"Fine. Here." He picked up a book that he knew Ginny'd already been through to no result, a safe choice, and slid it hard across the table, laughing when the edge of it rammed into Malfoy's chest.

"Fuck, Weasley, you could have just handed it to me," Malfoy hissed, rubbing his chest and eyeing him.

"Yeah," he said, smiling happily and flipping open his book, "But I didn't."

"What--"

"A locating spell for undefined enchanted objects using only individual magical signature." Ron said, cutting him off, already knowing what he was going to say and not wanting to hear his stupid voice for longer than he absolutely had to.

Malfoy stared at him a moment, and then smirked. "Granger had to write all that out for you, didn't she?"



//



All the way through breakfast the next morning, Ron couldn't tear his eyes off the stairway. He bounced his knee and tapped his fingers, eating his breakfast automatically and not even tasting a bite. He watched the bottom stair and ignored all attempts to pull him into conversation. And waited.

It had been stupid to sit there with Malfoy but it wasn't until he was changing his clothes that morning in an attempt to look as though he hadn't stayed up all night when it truly struck him just how horrible it could end up being. His mind had filled with images of Malfoy traipsing in -- wearing Ron's clothes and that disgusting smirk -- and acting as though he and Ron were the best of friends, telling everyone how'd they'd stayed up all night, bonding over books. He'd pictured Harry's outraged face and Ginny's disgusted expression and Hermione's heartbroken tears at the thought that Malfoy had got Ron to read when she never could.

By the time Malfoy finally came down, Ron was ready to leap out of his skin, ready to deny everything the moment his foot touched the kitchen floor. Malfoy didn't act any differently than he normally did, though. He didn't acknowledge Ron in the slightest, just went about his breakfast like he always did. No, good time in the library last night, mate's or see you tonight, friend's or hope we can do it again some time, pal-o-mine's or any of the other horrible, smirking things Ron had imagined. Nothing.

For once Ron was actually thankful Malfoy was such an insufferable, self-absorbed bastard.



//



It seemed as though they'd been through every single book in the library at least a million times by the time Hallowe'en came round. They hadn't of course; there were still a load of books to look over, but it seemed like it. Harry's frustration was palpable, a living thing that followed him everywhere, breathing down the necks of anyone who sat too closely or spoke too loudly. Ron didn't really blame him though, he was going a bit mad from the constant nothing as well.

"Today's the day," Ginny said bracingly as they walked into the library. "Something's going to happen today, I can feel it."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "Something good, you think? Or is this a death-and-destruction feeling that you've got?"

"Something good, obviously," Ginny said, throwing her hair over her shoulder as she sat down in her usual chair. "I've not dressed for death-and-destruction."

"Yes, Ron, carnage calls for an open-toed shoe, didn't you know?" Hermione smirked as she slid into the chair beside his.

"One must always dress with optimal drainage in mind when bloodshed is to be involved." Ginny smirked back, and they both dissolved into giggles. He stared at them a moment, trying not to smile but losing fabulously, struck a little by how lucky he was to have them both in his life. As fucking bizarre as they were.

"You're both barking mad, did you know?" he said. "You really are."

Harry came in a moment later, glowering darkly as was his way of late, and the girls stifled themselves quickly. Ron sighed and shook his head, sitting down and opening the book in front of him without a thought.

He should have perhaps noticed that it wasn't at all the same book he'd been reading through the day before before he saw the note.


Weasley -

Page 284. I've marked it.

- Malfoy


He yelped, closing the book with a slam and blushing right to the roots of his hair immediately. He stared down at the worn cover, breathing hard, his mind racing. What was Malfoy playing at, leaving him notes? Didn't the prat realise that Ron didn't want anyone to know that they... tolerated each other? Ron'd only come down a few times after that first time, each time late at night when he couldn't sleep, each time to find Malfoy already there, hunched over old books, reading and chewing on his fingernails. It wasn't as though he'd--

"Ron, are you all right?"

"What?" He asked, startled, and looked up to see Hermione, Harry, and Ginny all eyeing him strangely. "Oh. Yeah. Just... you know, just felt like slamming something."

They looked at each other, and then back to him.

"Right. Well... er, all right, then," Ginny said.

He waited until they'd looked back down at their books before very carefully opening the book just a hair, snaking his fingers in, and pulling the note out and down into his lap. He glanced at it quickly for the page number and thought, quite bitterly, that it hadn't really been necessary for Malfoy to sign it as well. Wanker.

He opened his book and tried to, as casually as possible, flip to the page Malfoy had indicated. Sure enough, he had marked it; a tidy little arrow on the side of the page pointed to the beginning of the relevant passage and then another arrow a few pages later at the end of it. He began to read through it quickly just to be sure Malfoy wasn't just trying to set him up to look like an idiot and, with each word, it was like the clouds of depressing nothingness parted a bit further to let the beautiful light of discovery shine through.

It was perfect. Absolutely bloody perfect.

Or, at least, he thought it was.

He looked over at Hermione carefully, biting his lip for a second and then taking a deep breath. "I think... er, I think I might have found something."

Her head snapped up so quickly he was sure she must have pulled something. Her eyes were big and round, disbelieving, as she looked at him. "Really?"

He coughed lightly, feeling his cheeks burn. "Yeah. Well, I don't know, you'll have to look it over."

She motioned excitedly and he handed it over, hoping rather desperately that she wouldn't notice the markings.

"Here, by this arrow?"

Piss.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

He cautioned a glance at Harry and Ginny when she set in to read, her bushy hair obscuring his view when she bent her head. Harry was watching Hermione like a hawk, his chest moving quickly and his fingertips white with the sheer amount of pressure he was pressing his hands against the table with. Ginny grinned at him and mouthed "well done!" when she caught his eye.

His stomach clenched again and he shifted nervously in his chair, reaching down to shove Malfoy's note into his pocket before he forgot about it. He looked back over to Hermione, terrified and excited all at once. What if it was the one? What if this was it? What if they were just one step closer to getting rid of You-Know-Who forever?

"Balls," Hermione muttered, making a face and turning to next page.

Ron felt his cheeks flush at hearing Hermione say such a word while not referencing Quidditch. He looked across the table to Harry who was scratching the back of his neck, just as flushed and sporting an uncomfortable look on his face. The only person who didn't look at all surprised by Hermione's creative swearing was Ginny and Ron couldn't help wondering just what sort of things they talked about. Well, other than what sort of shoes were appropriate for bloodshed.

Hermione nodded to herself a few times, flipping back to the first page and tracing her fingers over something, and then, finally, she sat back, looking at them all. "Well, this is an incantation for locating undefined objects and the theory behind it. It's really quite remarkable, the spellwords are so archaic and the phras--" she cut herself off, shaking her head as if to free whatever she was trying to say from her inherent need to explain things no one else understood. "But... well, it's not quite what we need as it seems to be more for finding lost objects than unknown objects."

"Well, the Horcruxes are lost in a way, aren't they? We can't find them, I mean." Ginny offered.

"Yes, but... well, we haven't actually lost them -- we just don't know where they are," Hermione sighed, biting her lip and looking over at Harry. "This spell is only intended for the person who cast the enchantment, not for just anyone who wants to find them."

Harry's fingertips were back to their normal colour and he'd closed eyes at some point. Ron's stomach sank at the sight. Harry sighed heavily, opening his eyes and looking directly at Hermione. "It's something though, isn't it? It gives us something, doesn't it?"

Hermione's face lit up. "Yes, Harry, it does. I think, if I can figure out which variable is incorrect and replace it with one that is more suited to our needs -- which we would have to find first, of course -- then we could definitely have what we're looking for."

Harry sat for a second, sucked in a breath, and then smiled.

Ginny let loose a squeal and leaned over, wrapping her arms around Harry's shoulders and burying her face in his neck, knocking his glasses askew as she jostled him. Harry's hand slid up her arm to her back and he buried his fingers in her hair, smiling and smiling and smiling like he hadn't in months.

"This is a start! This is something!" Hermione breathed, beaming and positively vibrating with excitement. Even her hair seemed excited, bouncing all around. She turned to Ron then, and his chest seized up at the sight of her complete joy that he had absolutely nothing to do with. "See, I've always told you books aren't your enemy but you've never believed me!"

He forced a smile, feeling nauseous, and looked over to Harry and Ginny, they were both smiling at him as well.

"Really excellent, mate," Harry said, a vicious sort of pride in his voice. "Well done."

Guilt clawed at his stomach, raging and twisting inside him. Massive, massive amounts of guilt -- guilt the size of Hagrid. It was stupid, he told himself, what did it matter who found the spell? His self answered back quite clearly that it mattered who found the spell when it was him taking credit for work he didn't do. He groaned inwardly, wanting to slide under the table and just die.

Fucking Gryffindor nobleness, fucking fair play.

"I didn't..." He trailed off, irritated, he couldn't believe he was doing this, he looked up at the ceiling and mentally shot Malfoy the two-fingered salute. "I didn't actually find it."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowing.

"I... well..." He rolled his eyes and rubbed at his face, and mumbled, "Malfoy found it."

No one said anything for a minute and, as each second ticked by, Ron felt more and more like he was going to explode.

"Malfoy," Harry said flatly.

"Yeah," he muttered, disgusted with himself, and then took a deep breath before soldiering on. "We've... well, not we so much as, you know, me. And him. Me and him. We... no, not... well... yeah. We've been reading together -- I mean, at the same time! Not together together or anything. Just at the same time. I didn't ask him to or anything, he just invited himself, you know how he is. You know. How he is."

"When... is this happening exactly?" Hermione ventured after a moment.

"At night," he said. "I've been having trouble sleeping some nights. So I thought, you know, why not get some extra reading in? He just showed up one night and wanted a book so I gave him one. Well, I sort of hit him with it, actually."

"So Malfoy's... what, having trouble sleeping as well?" Harry asked.

"Well, I don't know, do I? It's not as though we chat or anything, is it?" He spat, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice -- he really hated Malfoy now. "He could be a vampire for all I know."

"This is..." Hermione started, her voice awed. "How long has this been going on?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "About a month, I suppose."

"A MONTH?" Harry shouted, his eyes bugging out behind his glasses.

"A fortnight? I don't know!" He shot back, shifting in his seat and trying not to look at him. "I haven't exactly been marking them down on a calendar, have I?"

"But why?" Hermione whispered from beside him.

He looked over at her, aghast. "What do you mean why? Because it's just... we're just reading in the same room, Hermione! It's not especially noteworthy, you know."

She blinked at him, shaking her head free of whatever enormous thing she'd been thinking while her mouth was working of its own volition. "No, I meant why is he helping us?"

"I don't know, he said he was bored," he muttered dismissively, shrugging slightly with one shoulder.

"I think perhaps he's lonely," Ginny said quietly. And then, when they all looked at her as if she'd just declared that the Minister of Magic was made entirely of jelly, she went on. "A few days ago -- when I'd left my jumper in the kitchen, remember? -- when I stepped out, he was standing at the foot of the stairs; just standing there, looking over at the doorway. He went upstairs directly when he saw me, of course, but, for that second that we looked at each other, he looked so... well, lonely is the only word for it, really."

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" Harry asked. "He could have been eavesdropping on us, Ginny!"

"I didn't tell you because I knew you'd say something like that," she said, tilting her head to look at him, smiling with just the left side of her mouth. "He looked lonely, Harry -- not murderous."

They all fell quiet at that, contemplating the idea of Malfoy being lonely. It seemed likely, in a way -- he was always striving to be the centre of attention when they were at school, glaring when anyone got more notice than he did. But at the same time, it just seemed utterly barking. Because for Malfoy to be lonely he would have to have emotions and be... human. And Ron couldn't quite seem to wrap his head around the idea of Malfoy actually being human.

"Revenge," Harry said after a while, startling them.

"What?" Ginny asked, confused.

"Malfoy wants revenge," Harry clarified, looking at them all, a strange sort of glint in his eyes. "Voldemort killed his parents, wants to kill him -- basically ruined his entire pathetic life, yeah? He wants revenge. He figures that by helping us, he'll be closer to getting what he wants: Voldemort dead and gone and him having his life back."

Ron thought that sounded a load more like Malfoy than Ginny's "oh, he's lonely" rubbish.

"I still don't trust him," Harry continued. "But if he wants to make himself useful, I suppose... I suppose it can't hurt. Another set of eyes or something, he's already proved to be somewhat decent at it."

"Oh, Harry, that's so mature of you!" Hermione cried, clapping her hands together.

A while later, as Harry and Ginny left for the kitchen to see if his mum had lunch ready -- and also possibly to snog a bit beside the staircase though Ron was decidedly not thinking about that -- Hermione studied him.

"I think you were very mature as well today, you know. By not taking credit for something you didn't do and all."

"Well, you know, Mum would've killed me if she'd ever found out," He said, shrugging and trying not to blush. He still felt like an absolute arse.

"Malfoy's also been quite mature to help us and not keep up with petty, schoolboy rivalries," she said, completely ignoring that whole messy You-Know-Who issue, and then, bit her bottom lip for a moment. "And I think... I think perhaps you ought to thank him."



//



Why'd she have to say that? He thought bitterly as he crept down the stairs later that night. What's so good about being mature anyway?

The orange light from the gas lamps pooled out through the open door and he paused in the doorway, feeling stupid and sleepy and more than a bit angry at Hermione for making him do this. Malfoy was hunched over the table like always but instead of his usual disgusting habit of biting at his fingernails, he was chewing absent-mindedly on one of the bat-shaped biscuits with orange and black icing that Ron's mum had baked as a Halloween treat. He had a whole plate of them along with a positively massive glass of pumpkin juice on the table beside him.

"Don't let Hermione see you with that stuff near the books, she'll go spare," Ron said even though he rather wished Hermione would catch Malfoy just so he could watch her hex the git.

Malfoy choked on his biscuit, coughing and looking up at him, wild-eyed and surprised, in a way that quite reminded Ron of the first night Malfoy'd shown up to read with him.

"Shit, Weasley, put a bell on, would you?" Malfoy gasped after taking a drink of his pumpkin juice to wash down the biscuit stuck in his throat.

"Sorry," he said, mostly out of habit, not because he actually was. He walked over to the table, unsure as to how he was meant to go about thanking someone he couldn't stand. Distractedly, he tapped his fingers on a book. It made a low, rumbling growling noise in reply. "I... er, I got your note."

Malfoy, who'd gone back to reading his book, jerked his head up quickly, his face betraying an eagerness that Ron had never really imagined lazy, drawling Malfoy had in him. "Did you show it to Granger? What'd she say?"

"It's good," he said. Malfoy's lips twitched into an almost-smile, there was a smear of orange icing on the side of his mouth and it reminded Ron suddenly of the Cannons shirt he had hidden safely under his mattress. "But... er, yeah, not quite right. Apparently that one's only really good for if you've lost something or something like that."

"Oh," Malfoy said, his face falling for a second before he recovered, pasting the usual expression of relaxed rudeness back in place. "Someone ought to owl Longbottom, then, doubtless he'd have use of it."

"Oi! Neville's a good bloke," Ron said sharply, automatically defending Neville even though... well, he probably could get quite a lot of use out of the spell. "He knows a lot about plants, you know."

"Well, if I ever need a gardener, I'll be sure to drop him an owl," Malfoy sneered. He stood there a moment longer, staring at the orange icing on the side of Malfoy's mouth, unable to look away from it for very long for some odd reason. He stepped back after a minute, shaking his head and turning toward the door. Forget thanking Malfoy, he thought, he just wanted to go to sleep. He'd have to think of another way to get it over with in the morning.

"You're going, then?" Malfoy asked, his voice pitching up strangely, like he was anxious or annoyed or something.

"Yeah. I'm well knackered," he said, turning back and shrugging, "er... so, yeah, goodnight."

Malfoy sort of half-shrugged and waved him off, looking back down at his book. Ron stopped in the doorway, his back to Malfoy and his fingers sliding over the cool, solid wood.

Oh, fucking hell.

"And, you know... thanks. You know, for finding the spell."



//



Hermione wrote him a million little notes the next morning, sliding them across the table silently when Harry and Ginny weren't looking, driving him mad without even opening her mouth, until he finally broke and hissed that, yes, he did bloody well do exactly what she told him to do and to please stop nagging him. She sat back with satisfied look on her face, ignoring Harry and Ginny's questioning looks, and Ron had to actually bite his tongue to keep from telling her off. He should have been used to her pushing and prodding him to be "more mature" and "act like an adult" and not just as if he were an "abnormally tall little boy".

Should have been, but he wasn't.

He didn't know that he'd ever get used to it, really, and found it incredibly unfair that she didn't treat Harry the same way when they both knew full well that Harry could be just as immature and idiotic as him sometimes.

Case in point: Trying to strangle Malfoy with his bare hands.

He wouldn't dare say anything like that to her, though. Firstly, he had no real desire to be lectured in all the ways Harry was so vastly more mature than he was. Secondly, he knew that, with his luck, Harry would overhear the conversation and then be all brooding and ticked off that Ron thought he was immature and it wouldn't matter how many times he tried to explain that he thought immaturity was a good thing -- at least most of the time -- as Harry could be stubborn as an old broom when he wanted to be.

After lunch he had high hopes that the rest of the day would be better; Hermione was happy, Harry and Ginny weren't asking questions, his mum had made some brilliant sandwiches for lunch, and Malfoy hadn't even attempted to rub Ron's thanks in his face. He should have known, of course, that it was only a matter of time.

He looked up when Ginny let out a squeak, and, really, were it not for the fact that his voice was considerably deeper than hers, it could have been said that he squeaked himself.

He whipped around and stared at Hermione as if to say, "look what you've done" but she only made a face at him for a moment before looking back to Malfoy. He was standing in the doorway, biting at the inside of his lip and trying to look surly but failing quite miserably as, in Ron's opinion, it looked more like he was going to throw up more than anything else.

"W-- well done with that spell," Hermione ventured, her voice a bit breathless and anxious sounding. When she spoke it shocked absolutely no one except perhaps Malfoy whose eyes had flicked to Ron as if he'd been thinking Ron would be the one to speak to him first. Not bloody likely.

"It wasn't the right one," Malfoy said after a moment, a petulant quality to his voice.

"Well, no," Hermione admitted, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "But it's a... a really good start."

"A start," Malfoy said flatly.

Hermione nodded quickly, trying to smile but her lips wavering, and Ron had a vague urge to bang his own head on the table repeatedly until he passed out. "Yes, a really good one."

Malfoy cut his eyes away at that, scowling and looking over at the door as if it were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen in his life. And then, quite suddenly, he turned and strode over to the table, pulling out the chair next to Ron's and sitting down without looking at any of them. He took a book off of Ron's stack, flipped it open, and began reading as if they weren't even there. Or, Ron was sure, that's Malfoy was trying to look like, but Ron could see that Malfoy's jaw was clenching and unclenching rhythmically and that the hand in his lap was balled into a tight, white-knuckled fist.

For a few minutes they just stared at Malfoy, unsure and waiting for something to happen -- for him to make some nasty remark or something like that -- but he just continued to clench his jaw and to pretend that he was pretending he didn't know they were there. And, eventually, it was almost as if they each had a private moment of "well, if it's not going to do anything interesting..." and went back to their reading.

Ron snuck a look at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye, taking in the bent head, too-long hair, and tense jaw, and he couldn't help wondering just how long Malfoy'd had to stand outside the door before he'd managed to work up the nerve to step inside.



//



The attic of Grimmauld Place was, Ron decided, definitely his least favourite room of the house. Before, it had always been Mrs Black's old bedroom that gave Ron the shivers because it still reeked of hippogriff shit and Sirius' utter despair but, upon setting one foot in the truly fucking terrifying attic, he'd known it was definitely the room he'd be having nightmares about from now on.

It was just as dark and dusty as the rest of the house but with no heating charms to keep out the frostiness of winter. Odd shadows played along the walls that looked like nothing when you looked straight at them but, out of the corner of your eye, seemed to take life and the form of people or beasts. A malevolent feeling of being watched hung in the cold air, stifling any cheerful feelings like a heavy blanket and Ron was almost positive that someone -- something -- was whispering but whenever he tried to concentrate on the sound, the words, it died out. As if it knew he was listening.

He didn't care if his mum and dad and fucking Mad-Eye had all said that the attic was no more dangerous than the rest of the house and ready to be gone through, there was something up here, something bad. He just knew it. And it was, he thought, incredibly unfair and quite telling that his mum hadn't sent Hermione and Ginny up here as well. Oh, yes, she said it was because there'd be heavy things that needed lifting but it wasn't as though Hermione couldn't do a bloody levitation charm ("...Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long.") or that Ginny were some frail little flower and Ron knew it was really because she didn't think it'd be safe for them. Ron wished he was a bloody girl.

He'd only just begun to relax when, out of nowhere, Malfoy yelped and then cursed loudly, scaring the absolute fuck out of Ron.

"What? What?" Ron spun around, his heart pounding as he pulled his wand out of his back pocket, just positive that Malfoy'd found some horrible, cursed fuzzy toy and now they were all going to die.

Malfoy was staring down at his hand and biting his lip. "I got a sliver."

If Ron'd been close enough, he would have hit him. "You scared the shit out of me because you got a sliver?"

"Well, it hurt," Malfoy whinged. "Still does, in fact."

Ron looked down to Harry who was sitting on the floor beside him, rolling his eyes and making a disgusted face. It was a bit like being back at school, Ron thought.

"Stop whimpering and heal yourself," Harry said, turning back to the trunk full of ancient junk he was trying half-heartedly to organise.

"I can't," Malfoy said after a moment, voice flat, as he stared at the back of Harry's head.

"Come off it, Malfoy," Harry spat, sounding irritated by Malfoy's very presence in the universe, "any first year can do a simple healing spell."

"What, did you run to the hospital wing every time you scraped your ickle knee?" Ron sneered, grinning when Harry snorted.

"No," Malfoy snapped, his cheeks gone a bit pink, "I just haven't got my wand."

"Lose it in some rubbish pile while you were digging for your lunch, did you?" Harry said, looking over his shoulder and smiling nastily. And Ron snickered but couldn't help feeling a bit stupid for not noticing even once that Malfoy'd been without his wand the entire time he'd been there. He'd just assumed...

Malfoy shot Harry a dirty look, but bit back whatever rude thing he was going to reply with, looking up at the rafters before grinding out. "No, Potter, McGonagall took it."

"Professor McGonagall?" Ron said, his eyebrows shooting up.

"No, the other McGonagall-- yes, Professor McGonagall, you idiot," Malfoy sneered. "She said she didn't trust me. Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean."

"Well, Malfoy, it means you're a horrible little shit. It's not a difficult concept to grasp, really," Harry said as held up, by two fingers, something that looked almost as though it had, at some point, been a sock but was so mouldy and moth-bitten it could have been anything, eyed it for a moment and then flung it over into the corner.

"She's a smart woman, McGonagall. I've always liked her," Ron said, snickering.

"Oh, yes, and if she were just a thousand years younger, you'd fucking kiss her," Malfoy spat before turning away and stomping over to the stairwell that led down to the door on the fourth floor landing.

Ron was pleased for a moment, glad to see Malfoy go and glad to get to spend some time with Harry, just the two of them, but then it hit him -- if Malfoy's hand did hurt, he could very well go hunt down Ron's mum to fix it. And if Malfoy did that, Ron's mum would know, whether Malfoy actually told her or not, that Ron hadn't helped him. And if Ron's mum knew that Ron hadn't helped Malfoy, even if technically Malfoy hadn't asked him to, Ron's mum would be none too pleased with him.

"Oi! Where're you going? Come here, let me see it," Ron said, stepping quickly around the old trunks and boxes and piles of junk.

"No! Are you mad?" Malfoy said, holding his hand to his chest and eyeing Ron as he stepped up to him. "You'll turn my hand into a hoof or something equally ridiculous."

"Just shut up and let me heal it for you," Ron said, motioning for Malfoy to hold out his hand. Malfoy looked at him for a moment, obviously suspicious of Ron's motives as if he'd forgotten who Ron's mum was, and then, slowly, held out his palm. The sliver did look quite painful -- long and thin and black, embedded underneath the skin of the fatty bit of flesh at the heel of his hand, the skin around it already beginning to look a bit red and inflamed. Ron had really expected more of a tiny little bit of nothing, just Malfoy acting the spoilt child again, not something that might actually cause him actual pain.

"Christ, what'd you do?" Ron asked, wincing as he took ahold of Malfoy's wrist and pointed his wand at the sliver.

"Well, I di-- ah!" Malfoy cut off, gasping as the sliver wormed its way backward out of his skin, the hole healing as it went. "I didn't mean to, I just put my hand on the wall for support is all -- I wasn't feeling it up or anything."

Ron picked up the piece of wood with two fingers, dropped it down onto the floor, and rubbed his fingers over the newly healed skin. Were even the walls of this house evil?

Malfoy's hand was almost as big as Ron's, long fingers and broad palm, and it struck Ron as odd for a moment. Malfoy always acted so snotty and prim, as though he were too good to do anything, and the idea that his hands weren't tiny and girlish was a bit startling.

Malfoy had pushed the sleeve of his jumper up when he was examining his hand and, right at the edge of it, a peek of blackness etched in his skin caught Ron's eye. He pushed the sleeve up to Malfoy's elbow without even thinking about it, without thinking about how rude it was, and stared in utter shock at the skull and snake tattooed on Malfoy's pale skin. He really had done it, he'd actually taken The Dark Mark and become a Death Eater.

Malfoy jerked his arm free of Ron's hold, pulling his sleeve down quickly and looking away, high spots of colour on his cheeks. Ron stepped back, staring, completely gobsmacked.

Malfoy stood there a moment and then muttered something that Ron didn't understand as he turned away, hurrying down the stairs and out of the attic.

Ron stared after him for a moment, unable to really believe what he'd seen. Harry'd said a million times that he thought Malfoy had taken The Mark but... Ron just hadn't believed it. Because Malfoy, for all that he'd done, wasn't Snape. Nor was he, no matter how much he may have looked like him, actually his father. He was the same age as them, for fuck's sake -- seventeen-year-olds weren't meant to be Death Eaters, they hadn't even finished school. He shook his head, confused and feeling ill, and walked back over to where Harry was wearing a manky three-pointed hat and flipping through an old robe catalogue, yawning massively, completely oblivious.



//



Two weeks later, Ron still hadn't managed to tell anyone about Malfoy's arm. He'd tried to several times -- he'd opened his mouth to tell Harry, Hermione, and Ginny, and he'd even tried to talk to his parents once after dinner -- but he just couldn't seem to get the words out. He had a sinking suspicion that his inability to speak had a lot to do with the fact that somehow, without even realising it, he'd managed to get used to Malfoy.

He'd got used to him eating with them instead of after. He'd got used to Malfoy sitting beside him in the library and making disgusting noises as he bit at his fingers. He'd got used to Malfoy wandering around the drawing room looking bored as Harry and Ron played Exploding Snap and Hermione and Ginny talked about whatever it was they talked about. He'd got used to the way, when his mum smiled at Malfoy and called him "dear", she actually meant it. He'd just got used to Malfoy being there. All the bloody time.

He tried to remind himself that Malfoy was an awful prat but since he wasn't actually doing anything awful anymore in was a bit hard to keep the thought in his mind. It was a good trick, that.

Ron just couldn't... He knew how everyone would react if they knew about The Mark. He knew it would make everyone act differently toward Malfoy and he didn't blame them, he just... knew. And for whatever stupid reason, he didn't want to be the reason it happened, he didn't want to be the one who started it. He wished Malfoy would wear a fucking short-sleeved shirt for once.

He sighed and closed his book, rolling his shoulders to try to rid himself of some of the tenseness that had seemed to settle on him approximately two seconds after Malfoy'd left the attic, and let his eyes flick over to Malfoy for at least the nine-thousandth time in the last hour.

Just then, out of nowhere, a ginger-coloured blur leapt up onto the table right across from Malfoy.

"FUCK!" Malfoy shouted, scrambling back in his chair. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?"

"Oh, calm down, it's just my cat," Hermione said.

"That's a cat?" Malfoy said, his voice cracking on the last word. "Are you sure?"

"Of course," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Crookshanks, off the table, please."

Crookshanks didn't get off the table, though. In fact, he didn't even acknowledge that Hermione had spoken at all, just stepped forward, his yellow eyes fixed on Malfoy and his tail twitching. Malfoy shrank back even further into his chair, eyes wide and terrified.

"It's going to maul me," He breathed.

Ron knew that Crookshanks had a knack for telling when something was off about people but he hadn't come anywhere near Malfoy the entire time he'd been there so Ron had assumed that there wasn't anything really wrong with Malfoy. Or nothing of interest anyway. Crookshanks had gone after Scabbers immediately and trusted Padfoot right off, after all. He wasn't one to wait around, that Crookshanks.

But, he thought, what if he'd just not felt like it at the time? What if he'd just... waited? What if this was when he was going to pass judgement on Malfoy? What if...

Ron's eyes flicked down to Malfoy's forearm and he wondered wildly for a moment if Crookshanks was capable of gnawing off a man's entire arm.

"Crookshanks! Get down!" Hermione said firmly. Crookshanks ignored her and as his tail stopped twitching and his ears flattened out on his head, Hermione made an irritated noise and stood up, reaching for him. Just as Crookshanks pounced.

There was a loud gasp from Ginny and Malfoy twisted his face away, eyes squeezed shut. Ron had to close his eyes, unable to watch.

After a moment, during which no pained screams issued from Malfoy's chair, the low sound of purring filled Ron's ears. He opened one eye, and then the other. And felt his mouth fall open.

"I think he likes you, Malfoy," Ginny said, her voice utterly confused as Crookshanks rubbed his squashed face against Malfoy's chest, purring pleasantly, his tail flicking back and forth happily. Malfoy stared down at his lap for a moment, blinking in a startled sort of way, and then looked up, his eyes wide as he looked at them, obviously wanting someone to explain.

No one had an explanation though. Certainly not Ron who'd been expecting be splattered with Malfoy's blood by then and, when he looked around, he decided that certainly not anyone else either. Ginny looked just as confused as she'd sounded and Harry looked dead horrified. When he looked up at Hermione -- still standing next to him, her hands held out in front of her, one eyebrow cocked up and her mouth dropped open -- the only word he could think of was dumbstruck.

When Malfoy patted Crookshanks awkwardly, Crookshanks only purred louder.



//



Lupin came for dinner the last week of November, shaking snow out of his hair and looking as shabby as ever. He'd been sacked from another job, apparently, but Ron had a feeling that he'd have shown up to check on the Harry-not-killing-Malfoy issue eventually even if he hadn't been in desperate need of feeding up on Ron's mum's stew.

Over pudding, Hermione managed to pull him into a conversation about House-Elf rights which then lead to a discussion on Werewolf rights which somehow made the leap to Muggle Studies lessons. Ron wasn't entirely sure how she managed that one because, no matter how hard he tried to pay attention, he'd always had the rather annoying habit of going a bit glassy-eyed whenever Hermione started using long words.

When she'd got to the part about why she felt Muggle Studies should be a mandatory course, Lupin looked supremely uncomfortable, cutting his eyes over to Malfoy every few seconds, obviously expecting that Hermione's views on the importance of knowing how Muggles truly are would spark up Malfoy's infamous Pureblood Superiority rubbish.

Lupin cleared his throat lightly when Hermione finally took a breath. "I think perhaps the reason Muggle Studies is not considered the most important of courses is at least somewhat due to the fact that there are so few wizards who actually have contact with Muggles on a daily basis."

"But that's exactly why it is important, don't you see?" Hermione said, her face flushed and fire in her eyes. "Because they'll never learn on their own that Muggles aren't really so bad; they'll just continue thinking Muggles are below them and things will never change."

Lupin was quiet at that and Ron thought that he probably would have been as well. There wasn't much of a way to argue with reasoning like that. Of course, the fact that he'd not have to take any of the lessons didn't exactly hurt.

"You know," Malfoy said suddenly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread and pointing to Hermione, "I think Granger's got the right idea. It would have been rather helpful to know that Muggles weren't really like Martin Miggs. You know that I didn't see one of those silly little hats even once?"

"I believe they're called 'berets', dear," Ron's mum said after a bit, while everyone else was still too stunned to move. "More stew?"



//



"Do you come down here every night?" He asked as he sat down across from Malfoy, taking Ginny's chair as it seemed a bit weird to sit next to him if he didn't actually have to.

"Well, obviously not," Malfoy scoffed, rolling his eyes like it was the stupidest question he'd ever heard. "I do have to sleep sometimes. I'm not a fucking vampire, you know."

Ron was startled by the snort of laughter that forced out of him, remembering the comment he'd snapped to Harry when he'd been confessing that Malfoy helped them. Malfoy shot him a look like he thought Ron was mad, his top lip pulling up and his eyebrows furrowing in the middle. Ron cleared his throat, trying not smile, and just shook his head and pulled a book toward him. It wasn't as though he could have actually explained it without just making it worse.

He settled in to read. And settled. And settled.

He couldn't seem to get comfortable, he shifted every few minutes -- a few times his chair squeaking especially loud and making Malfoy look up at him, the "are you mad?" expression a little worse each time -- but it was no good, he just couldn't find a position he liked. He tried both feet on the floor, he tried one leg extended, he tried crossing his ankles, putting his elbows on the table, putting one elbow on the table, leaning back in his chair -- nothing.

He was bloody restless, he realised, that was the problem. He couldn't relax to sleep, he couldn't concentrate to read, he didn't want to just sit or lie -- he wanted to talk with someone, to move, to just do something. But it wasn't exactly as though there was anyone to talk with or anything to do at half two when everybody, including the portraits, were fast asleep.

Everybody except Malfoy anyway.

Ron looked up from his book slowly. Malfoy was reading unsuspectingly, head bowed, shoulders slouched, letting his pale hair hang in his face and chewing the nail on his index finger to the quick.

Was he actually desperate enough to try to talk with Malfoy?

He looked down at his book, his fingers twitched against the cover.

"So... er, you've read Martin Miggs, then?" He said, his mouth filling in the first possibly topic his brain could produce.

"What?" Malfoy said, looking up and -- again -- looking at him like he was mad. He felt his ears flush a bit and then Malfoy's eyes widened. "Oh, you mean... yeah, definitely, didn't everyone?"

Relieved that Malfoy'd got it without having to have it explained, he breathed a sigh and nodded. "Yeah, me as well. I had loads of them."

Malfoy's face fell. "Oh. Well, I never had any of my own. I borrowed them. At school, you know. I never owned any, no."

"Hold on... you never owned something?" He asked, incredulously. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on it."

"My father..." Malfoy trailed off, and then, starting again, an air of dismissiveness to his voice, said, "He thought they were stupid; he didn't think they'd be good for me."

"What?" He laughed, leaning forward. "There's nothing wrong with Martin Miggs, your dad's mental."

"Yeah, well, he's not much of anything now, is he? Seeing how he's dead and all," Malfoy snapped, glaring at Ron for a moment and then running his fingers through his hair and looking down.

It felt like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.

He'd completely forgotten.

"Shit. I'm sorry," he said quickly, feeling so sick with himself he could hardly stand it. "I mean... I mean, I'm sorry about your parents. I don't know, if my mum and dad... I don't know what I'd do."

Malfoy looked up at him, a look on his face that Ron had never seen before, and Ron swallowed hard. He didn't even know if he really was sorry because they'd been truly fucking awful people and it wasn't as though he actually gave two shits about Malfoy either but he felt that it needed to be said either way. Because Malfoy hadn't been rude to him and it was, he thought, probably quite rude for one to make jokes about a person's dead parents even if one was too thick to remember that they were dead. It'd been callous and stupid and he wasn't... well, yeah, he could be a fair bit of both most of the time but he didn't mean to. He hadn't meant to.

He looked down at his book, mentally kicking himself in the arse for being such an... arse. He shook his head at his own fabulous idiocy and pulled his book down into his lap, trying to make his long, gangling form as small as he possibly could -- as small as he felt, even.

Well done with the conversation, you utter twat, he thought sourly.

The air was thick with awkward tenseness and Ron only wanted to sink further into his chair the longer he sat there. He was just beginning to think he should really be getting to bed when Malfoy's voice made him look up. Malfoy had his elbows up on the table, his hands held together in front of his chin, and a faraway look in his eyes as though he wasn't even speaking to Ron, just... saying to say it. As though he'd forgotten Ron was even there or perhaps just didn't care at the moment.

"I didn't even know he was dead until McGonagall told me. I assumed Mother was but I didn't think... I didn't think he was as well. Dumbledore said he'd be safe in Azkaban, you know? I don't know why I believed him, he always lied about everything else, the fucking fraud."

Ron opened his mouth to defend Dumbledore -- you shouldn't speak ill of the dead unless you wanted them to come back and kick you in the bum, his mum had always told him -- but Malfoy started again before he could.

"I just kept telling myself that he was alive, you know? That I'd get to see him again one day. I hadn't... he refused to let Mother bring me to see him, he said he didn't want me to see him that way. I didn't fucking care -- I just wanted to see him, I didn't care where he was or what he looked like. But he would never listen. He never listened, he always knew what was best for everyone." Malfoy smiled wryly, rubbing his fingers over his mouth, staring at the wall or something else that only he could see. "Last time I saw him was the morning before I came back to Hogwarts after hols fifth year. We took our brooms out, we always did that last day of hols but he had business so we had to do it early. Or... something, I don't even remember why. But I remember that it'd snowed during the night and there was this fresh, untouched snow everywhere, this... blinding white everywhere. It'd hurt my eyes to look at it."

Ron couldn't even breathe, completely waylaid by Malfoy's words. His face was hot and he felt ill, like he was going to throw up or faint or something, he wasn't sure. Hearing all of it, hearing the emptiness in Malfoy's voice when he spoke -- it was unreal. It was horribly, horribly unreal. Malfoy's feelings, his grief, just laid out before Ron like free samples at Fortescue's and he couldn't even move to make it stop.

He'd never imagined that Malfoy felt anything at all, much less something like love. He'd never imagined that Malfoy's parents -- his awful father -- were actually part of his life, actually spent time with him beyond teaching him new and interesting Dark curses. He'd never imagined they did anything as ordinary as take their brooms out for a fly on Christmas morning. He'd never imagined because it wasn't ever for him to know. Because they hated each other and that's the way it always was and always would be. That was just... the way it was meant to be.

I shouldn't be here, he thought wildly, his stomach twisting and twisting. I shouldn't be listening to this, it's too private, it's too much. I should leave. This is wrong.

"We talked about my marks and how I needed to spend more time revising for my fucking O.W.L.S. 'I only want what's best for you, Draco,' he'd said. 'My only wish is for you to do as well as I know you can.'" Malfoy mimicked his father's deeper voice, and then laughed -- rough and low, broken-sounding -- like Ron had never heard him laugh before, it made him wince like a knife across his skin. "Oh, if he could see me now."

Malfoy sat there for a long time, staring at nothing with an odd expression on his face, Ron shifted uncomfortably in his chair, unsure if he should... say something or just leave. He didn't know how to comfort people and he definitely didn't know how he'd even begin to go about comforting Malfoy. Or even if he was supposed to. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, trying to look anywhere but at Malfoy when Malfoy seemed to break out of whatever trance he was in and looked over at Ron, his oddly-coloured eyes completely empty of any emotion whatsoever.

"You know," he said, tilting his head to the side, "you're the only person who's said you were sorry my parents are dead."

Ron's cheeks burned and he looked down, embarrassed and a bit shocked. No one else had said anything? No one? But they hadn't seen Malfoy this way, had they? They didn't know how he felt -- what he felt. They all assumed, just as Ron had, that he didn't care. But he did.

Malfoy stood then and, without another word, walked out of the library and up the stairs, back to his bedroom.

Ron stared down at the tabletop for a long time after he'd gone.




//



"Perhaps it's some form of Stockholm Syndrome?" Hermione whispered to Harry, as she directed her wand to artfully arrange another bunch of tinsel on the tree.

"Hermione! He's not a hostage!" Harry hissed, his glasses slipping down his nose as he directed his tinsel distractedly, landing it in a lump on the tip of one branch which drooped pathetically under the weight. "We're helping the idiot!"

"I know that!" Hermione hissed back, cheeks flushed, as she tried to sort out Harry's sad lump of tinsel. "I just I can't think of any other explanation as to why he's... well, he's been so different since he's been here."

"Yeah," Harry muttered, glaring across the room.

He hadn't been able to take his eyes off of Ginny and Malfoy since the moment Ginny'd dragged Malfoy off with her to set out Ron's mum's holiday trinkets around the drawing room -- as if Ginny had eyes for anyone but Harry and Malfoy would ever stoop to fancying a Weasley. "The Woefully Wandless" she called the two of them as Mum still refused to let her do underage magic even if Hogwarts was shut up and McGonagall still had Malfoy's wand. Malfoy'd looked a bit frightened as Ginny'd had an enormous bow stuck to the top of her head and a maniacal glint in her eye when she'd grabbed ahold of him but he seemed to be almost enjoying himself now as they argued over where to place what.

Ron had no idea what that syndrome thing Hermione been talking about was but he reckoned he knew why Malfoy'd been acting the way he had. He reckoned that he hadn't been able to stop thinking about listening to Malfoy's quiet despair pour out like a broken tap for more than a few minutes at a time.

It wouldn't have been so bad, he thought, if Malfoy didn't act as though nothing had ever happened -- if he acted sadder or... something. Malfoy didn't though, if it hadn't been for the morning directly after Ron could have just told himself that it had all been a really awful dream.

Malfoy'd skived off breakfast and only shown up in the library right before lunch, he'd looked as though he hadn't slept at all -- not as though he'd been crying, just as though he'd lain awake all night remembering. Which was somehow even more horrible than the idea that perhaps he had cried. It wasn't normal, really, for someone not to cry about things like that. He'd seen or at least heard Harry cry about his parents and Sirius and... well, Harry hadn't even known his parents, had he? And he'd really only known Sirius for a bit. Malfoy, apparently, had known his parents quite well though.

When Ron's mum had come in to announce that lunch was waiting for them -- roast chicken from the night before on bread, he remembered -- Malfoy'd grabbed his arm, holding him back. He'd been staring resolutely at the hole in the shoulder of Ron's jumper as he mumbled, "Look, Weasley, if you'd not..."

He'd trailed off, and then scowled and looked Ron right in the face. "If you haven't already, I'd rather you didn't tell anyone about last night, all right?"

Ron had only been able to nod stupidly, his stomach churning, as he'd tried avoid looking at Malfoy's face or feel the soft pressure of Malfoy's fingers on his arm. At the time, he'd not even been able to imagine telling someone all that he'd heard -- not without vomiting, he'd been sure. It was just too much and he'd tried to bury it deep inside himself, not think of it, but almost every time he looked at Malfoy -- which was becoming more and more often, much to his chagrin -- he would get a flash of it, fresh and stinging, in his mind.

He almost wished now that he hadn't said he wouldn't tell anyone. And he wished even moreso that he could've actually been able to form the words to tell the story even if he hadn't said that he wouldn't. He wouldn't've told Harry obviously but perhaps Hermione...

He shook his head, sighing and propping his elbow on his knee and chin in his hand, as he flicked the last bits of tinsel at the tree.

He looked at all their handiwork for a moment and smiled without even realising it. His dad had transfigured the tree out of a coat rack just like he did every year only this one year it was a strange, old, snake-looking one from the attic instead of their beaten up one at The Burrow. It was very fine tree though, as always -- tall with full, green branches, very majestic and stately. And leaning to the left.

"Oh, Arthur, it's wonderful!" Mum had cried upon seeing it for the first time, and then, after second, tilted to her head to the side. "Oh, but it's leaning again."

"Still can't quite manage to get the hang of trees," his dad had said wryly, winking at Ron and Ginny conspiratorially when their mum wasn't looking. Ginny'd giggled and Ron'd tried not to giggle as that was entirely embarrassing seeing as how he was a man and all. They laughed because they knew very well that their dad could transfigure a perfect fir tree, they'd watched him do it every year before they'd gone to school and then last year as well. And then, right after he was content with the size and shape of it, they watched as he closed one eye, squinted the other, and very carefully charmed it to lean just slightly to the left. It was a secret that the three of them shared.

"Oh, well, it's wonderful leaning or no," his mum had said, waving her hands and smiling beautifully at his dad. She'd turned to the two of them then, and with an arch of eyebrow and a rub of her hands, said, "Now, for the decorations."

And decorate they did.

He and his dad had gone to The Burrow to get all his mum's boxes of baubles, bows, ribbons, and trinkets. Ginny made the paper chains as she always had when they were children and Hermione did a clever bit of spellwork that made them flick and blink, changing to all manner of merry colours. He and Harry had made a sort-of-angel by sticking the wings of a broken Snitch they'd found right over the Black family crest of a goblet that Mundungus had somehow managed to miss when he was nicking things.

Even Malfoy'd contributed something to the decorations -- a set of four crystal and silver ornaments he'd found up in the attic.

"My mother has a set just like these," he'd said as he'd pulled off the top of the black velvet box and held it out to Ron's mum, his face hopeful and a bit flushed from running all the way up the stairs and back again. "I thought perhaps we could hang them as well."

His mum had looked down at them, distaste flickering over her face for just a second and then she looked back to Malfoy and smiled. "Of course, dear, that's a lovely idea."

Malfoy'd taken ages to hang them, painstakingly examining the tree and then placing and replacing them until he was happy that they were exactly as they should be. Ron'd waited until no one was looking to sneak a look at one of them and he'd known instantly why his mum hadn't really wanted them on there -- they were finer than any of the shabby Weasley ornaments, shining and brilliant, heavy and round, a crystal ring around the outside and a silver inlay bearing a coiled snake right in the centre, a thin black silk ribbon to hang them on through a hole in the top. They were beautiful, breathtaking, but very... Slytherin as well.

His heart had clenched oddly in his chest as he run his fingers over it and he'd tried not to think of the way Malfoy'd said his mum had a set just like them.

"Ron!" Ginny's voice called, pulling him out of his thoughts. He flushed when he realised that he'd been sitting there in front of the tree for Merlin only knew how long. "Dinner's ready, would you come on?"

"Yeah, I'm coming," he muttered, glancing back at the tree one last time, a glint of silver catching the firelight and his eye as he turned away.



//



He awoke Christmas morning to the feeling that something was off but it took him a moment to sit up, scrub the sleep out of his eyes, and yawn hugely before realising exactly what it was; his stocking was on the pillow next to him but there were no presents on the foot of his bed. He gasped loudly, kicking off the duvet, and crawled to the foot of the bed, peeking over the side in the hopes they were just on the floor.

They weren't.

He stared down at the floor, horrified. Where were all his presents? Where... where were all his wonderful presents?

"Oh, now here's a lovely way to wake up Christmas morning," Harry's sleep-roughened voice said. "Get your arse out of the air before I go blind."

"You're already blind, mate," Ron laughed, looking over his shoulder at Harry's sleepy, myopic smile, and then turning around to pull his stocking over into his lap. "My arse could only make your vision better."

"Probably," Harry snorted as he sat up, ruffling his hair and stretching before reaching over to the bedside table for his glasses. He blinked a few times and then looked over at Ron. "Er..."

"I know!" Ron said, knowing exactly what Harry was thinking, and waving his hand around. "Weird, isn't it? I've no idea where they are!"

"Perhaps they're under the tree downstairs?" Harry said after a minute of thought, shrugging slightly when Ron made a face. "I don't know, that's what the Dursleys always did for Ickle Diddykins. I always reckoned it was that the weight of his huge load of presents plus his fat arse would've broken the bed more than anything else but... yeah."

"Well, I hope you're right," Ron said, opening his stocking and sighing rather dramatically. "It just wouldn't be Christmas without my hideous maroon jumper."

Harry snickered as he pulled his own stocking off his pillow and opened it as well.

Ron was a bit surprised by the amount but he chalked it up to the fact she had several less stockings to worry about this year -- just himself, Harry, Ginny, and Hermione. A new toothbrush, a new comb, and a really nice quill. A rolled up Quidditch magazine, a few new pairs each of socks and pants -- the pants at which Harry'd laughed quite heartily until he realised he had the same. The usual tin of lip balm that he never used and small bottle of lotion that he did use but, he thought, definitely not the way his mum intended. A small bag of gold wrapped chocolate galleons, a satsuma, a few brazil nuts, and a single shining knut in the toe.

They'd both just ripped into their chocolate galleons when the door burst open and Ginny came bounding in, dressing gown streaming behind her like some sort of cape. Hermione walked in moment later, rolling her eyes at Ginny's energy as she sat down on the end of Harry's bed.

"Are you two awake?" Ginny asked, after she'd jumped on Ron's bed, the bouncing nearly upending him onto the floor.

"No," Harry said around a mouthful of chocolate, smirking. "No, we're definitely still asleep."

"Don't be cheeky, you, or there'll be no mistletoe in your future."

Ron and Hermione coughed at that. Well, Ron choked, really, and then coughed -- Hermione just coughed. Harry turned a bit pink around the ears and Ginny'd cheeks flushed a brilliant red but didn't stop smiling.

Ron scratched the back of his ear, trying to come up with something at least slightly less disgusting to think about. "Er... Oh! Did you two have presents? We didn't have any presents!"

Ginny looked over at Hermione who smiled sheepishly. "Oh, I think that might be because of me. I was talking to Ginny about the sorts of things my parents did as Christmas traditions -- you know, because I... I decided not to go home this year. And, well, I think your mother might've overheard and switched things about to try to make me feel more at home here."

Ron knew how Hermione had been a bit torn and upset about whether to go home for Christmas or not but he couldn't quite imagine his mum changing any of her traditions just because of one person. She'd not really had much of a chance though, he knew -- she'd always just accepted Harry as a Weasley and treated him like she treated all the rest of them -- but still. "But that doesn't sound like Mum at all!"

"I don't know, Ron, she's been really... accommodating this year," Ginny said, leaning back on her arms to look at Ron. "I mean, she let Draco put those horrid ornaments on the tree and everything."

Ron blinked at her a moment -- and not only because she'd called Malfoy by his given name. "You think they're horrid?"

"What, with that great ugly snake on them?" She asked, her face screwed up in distaste as she twisted around to look at him fully. Hermione and Harry seemed to agree with her as they both had quite similar expressions.

"Well, yeah, but..." Ron trailed off, feeling a bit silly for saying anything now, "they're so shiny."

Ginny rolled her eyes and reached for one of his chocolate galleons.

"Oi!" He said, grabbing it up out of her reach and eyeing her. "And just what do you think you're doing?"

"It's Christmas, Ronnie," she said, pouting and using their mum's nickname for him that she knew he hated. "Where's your holiday spirit?"

"In my trousers." He sneered in her face as he grabbed up the rest of the chocolate pieces before she could worm her hand onto one.

"Oh, ew!" She shouted, pulling away and making a face. "You're really disgusting sometimes, did you know?"

Then she looked over at Harry who had been trying to eat a chocolate galleon when he started laughing helplessly and had spitty, melted chocolate dribbling down his chin, and glared. "And you! Wipe your mouth, you look like an arsehole!"

Ron snorted but managed to hold it together for a whole half a second before blurting out, "Literally!"

Which only proved to make Harry laugh even harder and that only made Ron start laughing and that only made Ginny roll her eyes. A smile played at her lips though and he thought that was good enough.

"You're both utterly hopeless," Hermione said, laughing and doing a quick spell over Harry's face to clean up his mess as he was still laughing too hard to bother with it.

"Come on, I think Mum and Dad are already awake," Ginny said, standing up, after they'd managed to calm down a bit, "I swear I smelled her cooking something when we were on our way up here."

"Ah," Harry sighed, pulling off his glasses and wiping his eyes, "now, that... was a lovely way to wake up."

Ron pulled on his tatty dressing gown and smiled, nodding, as they followed Hermione and Ginny down to the kitchen where, sure enough, his mum was already cooking up breakfast. It took ages to finally convince his parents they didn't want breakfast first, they wanted presents first, but they'd finally caved in and they'd all gone back up to the drawing room.

He got his jumper in all its maroon glory, of course, and a mess of new parchment from his parents. Hagrid sent over some of his inedible rock cakes and notes to each of them wishing them a happy Christmas from him and Grawp. Bill and Fleur, who were spending their first Christmas as a married couple with her family (much to Mum's chagrin), sent some delicious chocolates and little picture books of various French sights to both him and Ginny. They also, as some sort of peace offering Ron reckoned, sent their mum a silk scarf which she, quite grudgingly, admitted was gorgeous.

Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and he had all agreed not to worry with gifts for each other since they couldn't exactly do any shopping seeing as how anything but the most vital shops on Diagon Alley had been shut up but he and Ginny had still managed to work up some presents for their parents. They weren't grand gifts or anything but their parents seemed to like them if the way they beamed at him and Ginny was any judge.

For their dad, Harry'd lent him a few galleons so he could pay Hermione back for sending off some of the Muggle money she'd had left over from her birthday to her parents and asking them to go buy a whole load of weird Muggle things his dad could tinker with. And, for their mum, he and Ginny had managed to transfigure one of Ginny's old, empty ink wells into a reasonable-looking glass orchid and with a bit of help from Hermione had managed to spell it to actually smell like one.

Hermione's parents sent her a load of things -- all sorts of clothes including a lovely cream-coloured coat that she and Ginny cooed over for ages, about a million books, a whole range of weird girl things that smelled like flowers and fruit, and then this little box of something called "stationery" that just looked like a bunch of pieces of blue paper with her name printed on them to Ron. Harry didn't get a gift from his relatives which he didn't seem to upset about. He did, however, get another present from Kreacher but wisely chose to just bin it without opening this year.

The only gift that really shocked him was the one from Charlie as Charlie almost always forgot Christmas since he was so busy with his dragons and never even got around to sending their parents' Christmas gifts until after New Years.


Ron -

Happy Christmas!

I was in China a few months ago helping with a nasty outbreak of dragon flu at the reserve there and I bought these off an old Muggle woman in the nearby village. She didn't speak a word of English (always fun, that) but she said they'd bring good luck to their wearers. (Fairly sure that's what she said, at any rate.) They're just Muggle but I thought, why not? You lot could use all the luck you can get with all the trouble you get yourselves into.

The red one's for you, the green for Harry, and the blue, I thought, would be nice for Hermione. The white one's for Ginny but don't you dare let Mum see you give it her! She'll skin me alive for giving her "ideas".

I hope you like them. Stay safe, little brother, and stop in to say hello if you get round to Romania!


Love and all that,
Charlie

P.S. - Give Mum and Dad my love.

P.P.S. - Enjoying your jumper? I know you are. Maroon!


He rolled his eyes at the last bit, smiling, though, because he knew Charlie understood; he always got yellow ones, after all. He handed the note off to Ginny as soon as he finished reading it and rummaged through the little bits of shredded paper until his fingers bumped against something smooth.

They all looked the same except for colouring -- flat, smooth discs of stone with a small hole carved into the middle and a thin leather cord pulled through so you could wear it round your neck. Hermione said they were made of jade, some really important stone in China -- Ron just thought they looked quite cool.

"These are loads better than that awful thing Lavender sent you last year," Harry laughed as Ginny, looking a bit forlorn that she couldn't put her own on, tied his for him.

"Yeah, thanks for reminding me, almost had that blocked from my mind," Ron said, glaring at him and feeling his cheeks go hot just at the thought -- my sweetheart, indeed.

It seemed a bit silly to him to wear a necklace -- he wasn't a girl, after all -- but he let Hermione charm it tied for him anyway. He figured he could wear it for a day at least, it being Christmas and all. The stone came just below the dip of his collarbone, cool and smooth against his skin -- everyone said it looked good but he still felt a bit of an arse and couldn't help blushing. He didn't feel so bad though as Harry was just as pink.

A necklace, honestly, he thought as he tugged on it. It better bring good luck or Charlie's getting a bloody skirt next year.

They were just picking up the last bits of wrapping off the floor when Malfoy came sauntering in. He was wearing a brown jumper that Mum had made for Bill about a million years before and a pair of jeans, a sleepily amused expression of his face, and his hair was mussed like he'd not bothered to do more than run his fingers through it before coming downstairs.

"I was beginning to suspect you'd planned to sleep the whole day away," Ron's mum said, and then motioned Malfoy over as she elbowed his dad in the side at the same time. "Now, hurry and open your present so we can go have breakfast."

Ron wasn't sure who was more shocked, him or Malfoy. Ron hadn't even given a thought to his parents giving Malfoy anything for Christmas and by the way his eyebrows shot up under his shaggy fringe, nor had Malfoy.

His mum was practically bouncing with excitement as she handed over an odd-shaped bundle that Ron recognised immediately; a Weasley jumper. She'd made Malfoy a jumper. Was she mad? People like Malfoy didn't wear hand-knit jumpers unless they came from France and cost a thousand galleons. An arm. Malfoy was going to laugh, or worse, make one of those horrible, twisted up faces. His mum was going to be crushed, his dad was going to be angry, Ginny was going to bash Malfoy's head in, and Harry was going to throw him out on his arse.

He watched in horror as Malfoy pulled the ribbon off and pulled the paper away and it was like the world had slowed down just so he could enjoy every truly terrible moment. The paper fell to the floor as Malfoy grabbed the side of the dark green jumper, picking it up and shaking it out, holding it out in front of himself. From where Ron sat, he couldn't see Malfoy's face but he didn't really want to. He rubbed his hand over his jaw and looked around the room to where everyone was staring at Malfoy expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

"It's a jumper, dear," his mum said when Malfoy just kept standing there. As if he could have possibly confused it with something else. Like, perhaps, a plate of biscuits or a pony.

Malfoy lowered the jumper, smiling brilliantly, as though he'd just won an award. Ron gaped.

"It's wonderful. Really soft," Malfoy said, excited and practically petting one of the sleeves. "Really green."

His mum looked fit to bursting with Malfoy's reaction. "I thought you might like to have something of your own to wear for once."

"Thank you, really," Malfoy said, quietly, still staring at his jumper.

"Well, get it on, then, let's see it," his mum said, waving her hands at him impatiently.

Malfoy grinned and whipped the old brown jumper off so quickly that the shirt he was wearing underneath it pulled up a bit over his stomach as it went, a flash of the white skin making Ron blink rapidly, shocked. He felt flushed suddenly and vaguely like something was twisting inside his stomach and he couldn't help wondering if his chocolate galleons had been off.

When Malfoy pulled his jumper down over his head his cheeks were tinged pink, his hair even more mussed, sticking out at odd angles on his head and, if it was even possible, his smile even larger. He ran his hands over his chest and then, at Ron's mum's request, held his arms out and did a turn. Hermione snorted loudly, covering her mouth and leaning against Ron's shoulder when Ginny whistled shrilly and demanded another turn and Harry whipped his head around to look at her so quickly that Ron was amazed it didn't just pop right off his neck.

"Oh!" His mum cried, clapping her hands together. "Yes, you see, you have such lovely colouring, dear, I just knew that shade would compliment you perfectly."

Ron had just assumed it was because Malfoy had been in Slytherin that his mum had chosen the green but, really, now that she mentioned it -- now that he could see it for himself -- the colour really did suit Malfoy. There was a bit of a bluish tint that made it seem cooler somehow and it was so dark and rich it made his pale skin seem luminous instead of just bloodless. He wished she'd come up with some complimentary colours for him for once and stop making all his jumpers bloody maroon.

"Something caught your eye, Weasley?" Malfoy asked, smirking and raising an eyebrow at him when he caught Ron looking at him on the way down to the kitchen for breakfast. He felt his cheeks heat and his stomach twisted strangely again but he ignored it. He obviously just needed some real food.

"I was just trying to figure out what sort of animal's been nesting in your hair is all," he shot back.

Malfoy made a face and lifted his hand as though he were going to brush at his hair as Ron smirked and moved to step around him. But before he could even get a step -- before he could even register the movement, really -- Malfoy's hand whipped out and grabbed his shoulder, stopping him.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Malfoy sneered, tugging lightly at the necklace that Ron had completely forgotten about in all the weirdness with the jumper. "Pressie from Potty?"

"No!" He snapped, flushing, and then, rolling his eyes, "It's from my brother."

"Your brother sends you jewellery?" Malfoy laughed, making a face.

"It's not jewellery!" He sputtered, and then, in a slightly more sniffy manner, said, "It's for good luck."

"Good luck?" Malfoy said, looking down at it for a second longer and then dropping it back against Ron's chest. "And he only sent you one?"



//



Fred and George came round a few hours before Christmas lunch. They seemed in the usual good spirits but a bit tired as the Ministry had recently ordered even more of their anti-Dark Arts product line. They perked up the second they laid eyes on Malfoy, though.

"A Weasley jumper, Mum?" George'd cried, pointing and looking horrified.

"How could you?" Fred had said, shaking his head slowly, clearly traumatised by the very idea.

They'd all got a good laugh out of it. Well, everyone but his mum and Malfoy, who'd looked a bit uncomfortable as he eyed them carefully. He, apparently, knew what was coming.

All through lunch they charmed his food to race around his plate or fall off his fork and, once, for his drink to splash out of glass and down his front. He ground his teeth through it all, apparently refusing to make a scene in front of Ron's mum. Ron watched, feeling a bit sick but not really knowing what else to do. He wasn't about to defend Malfoy in front of everyone; Malfoy'd probably get all prissy about it anyway. He didn't feel quite as badly about it though because Professor Lupin, who'd come for lunch as well, was also watching them and, other than a few rather loud clearings of his throat, he didn't do anything either.

But, when he found the two of them cornering Malfoy outside the toilet on the third floor, he didn't really see any other options. Something had to be done. They'd hexed Malfoy's hair bright blue and his bottom lip was split -- Ron could only hope it was from one of the Trip Jinxes they'd been throwing at him every time he stood up and not from actually hitting him. His face was red with rage, blood dripping down his chin, and he had his fists clenched so tightly at his sides it looked as though his fingers were going to break.

"If I had my wand, you'd be sorry. I'd... I'd--" Malfoy sputtered.

"What, you'd Avada Kedavra us?" George said, nonchalantly twirling his wand between his fingers.

"Oh, come now. This here is The Littlest Death Eater himself, he wouldn't let Blood Traitors like us off so easy. It'd have to be the Cruciatus Curse at least for a bit," Fred said, eyeing Malfoy for a moment and then laughing nastily. "I'll bet he gets a stiffy just thinking about how he could torture us."

"Oi!" Ron said, his heart pounding, feeling sweaty. They both turned to look at him, looking a bit surprised to see him there. "Right, th-- that's enough, I think."

"Pardon? You're not honestly telling us to leave him alone, are you?" Fred asked after a minute, one eyebrow raised.

"After all he's done to you?" George filled in, tilting his head to look at Ron. Ron felt stupid -- so stupid -- standing there defending Malfoy, they were probably going to turn on him next.

"Yeah, I am actually," he managed after a second, swallowing hard. They exchanged a look.

"Has someone done a switching spell on your brain?"

"Perhaps with a potato?"

His cheeks flushed and felt his fingers twitching to draw his wand. "Come on and just leave him alone, all right? He's not done anything recently, has he?"

"Yeah, recently," George said, as if that was obvious. "That's not the point though, is it?"

"Yeah, well..." He trailed off, and then, taking a breath to steel himself, said, "You two have done loads to me and I'm not hexing you when you haven't got your wands, am I?"

"We've never done anything to you that you didn't deserve," Fred said quickly, laughing.

"And he--" George cut his thumb over his shoulder to Malfoy "--deserves much worse than few Trip Jinxes and a pretty new hairstyle."

Ron didn't say anything to that, too confused by what he was doing and too... torn. Because he knew all the things Malfoy had done and he knew that he'd probably have been right there with them if this were only a year previously. But it wasn't.

"But if you're certain."

"We'll leave him to you."

They bowed dramatically at him and he had to look away, running his tongue over his teeth and staring resolutely at the wall wishing they'd just leave already.

After they'd gone, shaking their heads and muttering to each other, Ron looked over to Malfoy. He'd wiped the blood of his mouth and was glaring at Ron. Ron just rolled his eyes and walked over to him.

"I didn't need your help, I was doing fine on my own," Malfoy spat, his swollen lip and brightly-coloured hair mucking up whatever viciousness he was going for.

"Oh, yeah, as your blue hair can attest," Ron said, pursing his lips and shaking his head. "You could just say thanks, you know. I'm sure it wouldn't actually kill you."

Malfoy stared at him a moment, as if actually considering it and then looked away. "Fix my lip."

He sighed, rolling his eyes as he pulled his wand from of his back pocket and pointed it at Malfoy's lip. Malfoy's lips were parted just a bit and Ron could see just the edges of his straight, white top teeth and, to his utter astonishment, also his slightly crooked bottom teeth. Draco Malfoy had crooked teeth, who would have guessed? Malfoy made a small sound as his lip mended, a flash of pink tongue flicking out. Ron blinked and looked away.

"They're gits," He said by way of apologising for his brothers.

"Really? I'd have never guessed on my own," Malfoy sneered. "I can't believe you've lived with them."

"Well, you get sort of used to it after a while, I suppose."

"I wouldn't. I'd never get used to it," Malfoy muttered vehemently after a moment and Ron just shrugged. He thought that Malfoy probably would get used to it. If he could used to living on Muggle streets and living in the same house as Harry, Ron reckoned he could get used to just about anything.

"I... er, I'm not really sure how to put your hair back."

"I can do it; give me your wand," Malfoy said, holding out his hand. Ron stared at him a minute, unsure if he should, but, finally, handed it over, followed as Malfoy headed back into the toilet.

Malfoy made a disgusted noise when he saw his hair in the mirror and looked over to where Ron was leaning against the doorjamb. "They said it was to match my jumper; clearly they're both colour-blind."

Ron smiled slightly and watched as he fixed his hair. He didn't even utter a word -- apparently having mastered non-verbal magic while Ron could barely tie his shoe without muttering -- just pointed Ron's wand at various spots, the colour seeming to run off his hair like ink on a piece of parchment that's had water dumped across it. From where he was standing, with the light in Malfoy's face and the fact that he was too busy concentrating on his spellwork to pull some nasty face, Ron noticed for the first time how much healthier he looked than when he'd first arrived. He was still pointy -- his sharp features would never be really good-looking -- but he'd gained at least most of his weight back and his skin was back to its natural colour and not that sickly grey. His hair wasn't lank and limp anymore but shiny and somehow soft-looking in a way that made Ron's fingers ache to just touch. Malfoy looked much better, yeah. He looked, well... Nice.

"Have I got it all?" Malfoy said distractedly once he'd finished, tilting his head this way and that, trying to see as much of his hair as he could.

Ron pushed himself off the jamb and stepped closer, looking over Malfoy's handiwork. He lifted his hand to touch but realised just what he was doing and put it down quickly, clearing his throat and meeting Malfoy's ey