Penname: Page of Cups

AIM Screen Name: AndromedanQueen

Title: Broken Crown

Pairing: Ron Weasley/Draco Malfoy (Pre-Slash)

Rating: PG-13

Summary: 'That 'Weasley is our King' sure had a catchy tune.' Draco never leaves Ron alone and Ron wants to know why. Set during OotP.

DISCLAIMER: As if you actually need to be told, I am not J.K. Rowling.

This was written with the idea of pre-slash in mind, but it doesn't have to be taken that way. Take whatever you want from it.

Cheers and jeers screamed, rose to a din, and numbed his brain. His eyes stung; they were probably bloodshot. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Through the haze, Ron set his Cleansweep Eleven down and dismounted. He'd cry from the pain and humiliation (the tears were certainly there, pooling in his lower lids), but he felt so numb inside that he just couldn't. It wasn't pride—that had been destroyed. Demolished. Cut up into tiny pieces. Come to think of it, annihilated was the best word that came to mind, though there were many more, and would be even more than that if Ron had a thesaurus at hand. Mostly the reason he couldn't cry was the numbness. The dead part of him that wanted to crawl under a rock and disappear.

Across the pitch, Harry, too, dismounted, and Ron caught sight of the Slytherin team approaching, headed by Draco Malfoy. Ron's face remained impassive, but his insides tightened at the sight. It must have been Malfoy, Ron was sure of that. He turned around and drudged off the pitch toward the changing rooms, his broom dragging behind. The last thing he wanted was a row with Malfoy's smug little smirk rubbing in the god-awful truth. Sure, Gryffindor hadn't lost, but that was entirely because of Harry, and Malfoy knew it.

Bugger Malfoy. The whole bloody school knew. Ron could never show his face again.

Which could be difficult considering he went to school here. If all else failed, he could drop out and find a job. He wondered how much Dobby was making in the kitchens these days. But that was beside the point.

Ron considered not changing out of his Quidditch robes. It seemed like an awful lot of work after the ordeal he'd just gone through, but his body was drenched in sweat, his skin sticky, and he couldn't properly sulk in this condition. Miraculously missing every shot was a lot of hard work. Ron figured it had to be a record. He'd forever be known as the worst Quidditch Keeper Hogwarts had ever seen.

Which, in a way, was something to be proud of. At least he'd be remembered. Have you ever heard of the Weasleys? Their eldest son, Bill, was Head Boy and works for Gringotts. Charlie works with dragons in Romania and almost went into Quidditch professionally. Percy is a git with this head shoved up his arse, but at least he was Head Boy, and managed to garner some kind of standing in the Ministry of Magic. Fred and George are hysterically funny and smart enough to develop their own line of magical tricks. Ron was the laughingstock of the school and the worst Quidditch player in Hogwarts history. Nix that. In the history of all wizarding kind.

Perhaps Ron was being a little overdramatic, but at this moment, jumping into the lake seemed like a really good idea. Or sneaking into Hogsmeade and getting really pissed. Unfortunately, the former option might result in getting attacked by the giant squid, and the latter option in staggering through Hogwarts corridors at one in the morning singing Weird Sisters songs (because the only time he actually liked their music was when he was completely pissed), and getting detention from Filch.

Which is probably why Ron headed back to the changing rooms instead, still dragging his broom as if he were drudging along to his own funeral. Of course, if he were going to his own funeral, he'd be dead, and therefore unable to drudge.

He stopped mid-stride (drudge), and turned back toward the buzzing chatter of Hogwarts students heading back to school. The team would be in soon to change; Ron didn't think he could take them staring at him, knowing.

Changing course, he headed for the broom shed. It was getting cold out, and Ron shivered, walking past the changing rooms and went a little farther to where the shed stood. Yanking open the door, Ron slipped inside. The dying light of the late autumn afternoon streamed into the shed and bounced shadows off the walls, floor, ceiling, and brooms stashed around the room. Though Ron kept his broom in his dormitory and this shed was strictly for school brooms, it seemed like the best option. The changing room meant having to face people. The dormitory meant having to face people. The common room meant a victory party he deserved not part in and having to face people.

Ron found that when he felt like a complete and utter failure, he wasn't particularly fond of people.

Collapsing against the wall, Ron allowed his fingers to drop away from his Cleansweep Eleven. Like its owner, it fell against the wall, and like its owner, was too depressed to keep standing. The handle thudded against the wood, slid, and dropped to the floor with a bang. Clouds sputtered from beneath the broom in little puffs of dust that ascended to Ron's nose. He sniffed; the dust stung. Covering his mouth with one weary hand, Ron sneezed, grimaced, and rubbed away the moisture on his dirty robes. A voice in the back of his head that suspiciously sounded like his mother warned about germs and bacteria, but he tuned it out with ease.

That 'Weasley is our King' sure had a catchy tune.

Ron glanced to his fallen broom and slide to the ground. He rolled his head back against the wall and stared up at the rafters.

This was, without a doubt, the worst moment of his life. Worse than when he was three and Fred turned his teddy bear into a spider. Worse than when he was five and Fred pushed him into the river that ran behind the Burrow in the middle of November. Worse than when he was seven and Fred gave him an acid pop, claiming it was a regular lollipop, and burned a hole right through his tongue. Subsequently, worse than the time when he was seven and had to go to St. Mungo's for the first time to have his tongue repaired. Worse than when he was nine and Fred used his pet puffskein for Bludger practice in hopes of making the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Sometimes, Ron wondered why he liked Fred in the first place.

And it wasn't really that ironic, anyway. Ron had always been the hopeless Weasley brother (especially when Fred was concerned). It had been foolish to assume he could play Quidditch.

It all wouldn't be so hard to swallow if Malfoy hadn't been so goddamn right.

Yes, his Quidditch skills were abysmal . . .

Okay, so it really had to do with Malfoy. It all had to do with Malfoy. Everything had to do with Malfoy as far as Ron was concerned these days, not to mention the past four years. Nothing was quite like this year, though. Since Wood left Hogwarts and the Keeper position opened on the team, Ron considered trying out. He, of course, had reserves. Harry was on the team, as were his brothers, and it made for an awkward situation. There was also the chance he was so horrible they wouldn't let him on the team, or what must have happened—he'd only made it because his brothers were the team Beaters and his best mate was team Seeker.

He'd been proud of that Cleansweep Eleven. It was the only broom he'd ever owned that hadn't belonged to one of his older brothers—his present for making prefect. It was such a surprise, too. Though pleased, he was shocked by the prefect badge as well. Stupid enough to take this strange fortune as a sign, he requested his broom, and then actually made the team. Sometimes he could play all right, too.

It was bloody Malfoy that was the problem. Anytime he came into view, the Quaffle (or anything in Ron's grip, at that), seemed to garner a brain of its own and leaped form his grasp.

So here he was—The Slytherin King. Ron would wonder why God had forsaken him, but he was currently questioning His existence.

And so that was how life was going to be for Ron. A wheel of fortune. One where three-quarters of the draw involved some kind of devastation. It felt so bloody good to add another insecurity to his growing list of faults.

Ron stared at the shadows out the window for a long time. They grew long, stretched across the floor. Sometime around dusk, when the sun set below the horizon and the shed grew dark, Ron clutched his broom, rose to his feet, and drudge outside.

Snow fell from a dark, cloudy sky. Stars peeked from between clouds out in the distance over the lake. Ron looked from the lake to the school, and headed for the lake. Snowflakes fell in his hair, on his eyelashes, and kissed the splatter of freckles that ran across the bridge of his nose and onto his cheeks.

"Don't you have a shadow to be in?"

Ron stilled, his eyelids falling heavy. His head fogged. From the shadows behind the broom shed, Draco Malfoy walked into the open. He was still in his green Slytherin Quidditch robes, the hem of which was soaked in water and mud from the snow. His hair was no longer back as during the day, but fell to his shoulders, falling slightly into his eyes. Under his left eye was a dark purple bruise, swollen. The 'Weasley is our King' badge was still pinned to his chest.

Ron wanted to rip that pin off his robes and stab out his eyes with it.

"What are you doing here?" said Ron.

"I could ask the same of you."

"What happened to your eye?"

"That's none of your concern. Why aren't you back at Gryffindor celebrating the victory? Ah—that's right. It isn't your victory, is it?"

Ron balled his fingers into fists.

"I'd watch my mouth if I were you, Malfoy. I'm quite a bit taller than you and neither Harry or Hermione are here to hold me back."

"I'm petrified. Honestly."

Ron regarded Malfoy, taking in his disheveled appearance. The snow continued to fall, a light blanket sprinkling and frosting the grass that crunched beneath his shifting feet. His eyes locked with Malfoy's. Thousands of thoughts streamed through Ron's head. Many were insults—things that involved the words ferret, git, sod, and tosser ran through his head. Some, however . . . these were the things that made him wonder why Malfoy was hanging around in the dark behind the broom shed, why Malfoy was still in his Quidditch robes, why he wasn't off somewhere torturing some innocent Hufflepuff first year, or where that bruise came from.

"Why?"

Malfoy stared at Ron.

"Pardon?" said Malfoy.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you do these things to me? Why the badges?" said Ron, his voice even and calm, but he reached forward and ripped the crown badge off Malfoy's robes. Malfoy took a step back. Ron glanced at the badge and turned it over in his hands. "Why do you make up songs, and make badges, and harass me all the time?"

"Because, Weasel, you're poor, ugly, pathetic, and you can't do anything right. Someone has to tell you so."

"But you've done that and you don't stop. Why don't you just leave me alone?"

"Because I don't want to. Why do you think?"

"I don't know."

"You really want to know?" Ron looked up at Malfoy. His pale eyes were narrowed, spitting rage. "Do you really want to know why?"

"Yes. I really want to know."

"Because it's true, Weasel, and because I can. You make it too easy. I don't even have to try. Want to see? Why the long face, Weasel? Just get news from your fat cow of a mother? Your father's been promoted to Ministry shoe licker. Congratulations. He'll be able to make at least a galleon a year on that."

"Sod off, Malfoy. Leave my family out of this."

"You see? It's too easy. Here's another one. Why are you out here all by yourself at night, Weasel? Finally tell Mudblood your want her disgusting Muggle sex to further contaminate yourself in filth. I mean, after that pigsty you live in, Mudblood's filth must be like a dream. I supposed that when you told her, though, she took one look at you, thought of actually having to snog you, and fainted dead away. I suggest doing it. You might send her into cardiac arrest, or even better—kill her."

"Malfoy, you leave my friends out of this! This is between us. Hermione isn't involved, and neither is my family, and I wasn't raised in a pigsty!"

"I know, I know. You and your family all sleep in one room."

"I have my own room!"

"You see what I'm saying? You make it too easy."

Ron rolled the crown badge around in his hand, staring at Malfoy. He rubbed its smooth surface across his fingertips; dug the pointed edges beneath his dirty fingernails. Closing a fist around it, he slipped the badge into his pocket.

"I hate you so much."

Malfoy's smirk dropped away.

"I know."

"The only reason you harass me is for your own sick enjoyment."

"I never said that."

"Then why?"

"I said I do it because I can. You make it too easy. You react to everything. You're unable to hide any of your emotions. Everything plays out on your face. Even if you manage to keep your composure, you still turn red. Your ears, especially."

Ron felt his face burn hot and he turned it away from Malfoy.

"I do it because you react."

For a second, it clicked in Ron's head what Malfoy said—what it really meant—and then it was gone. All that remained were fragments. Malfoy is a rich, spoiled sod. Malfoy is the son of a Death Eater. Malfoy is an only child. Malfoy lives in a hug Manor that at least had one house elf once upon a time. Malfoy harasses Ron because Ron reacts. The puzzle pieces wouldn't fit together again.

But Ron knew they meant something, and that last part was very important. Malfoy harasses Ron because Ron reacts. Malfoy harasses Ron. Ron reacts. Malfoy wants Ron to react. Malfoy wants a reaction. He wished he could fit it in with the rest of the fragments, but they were broken and would take time to rebuild.

What did he retain is that when those pieces were put together, Ron felt two emotions. The first was a strange sense of sympathy for Malfoy, which led into the inevitable second emotion: 'What the fuck?'

Ron glanced at Malfoy, his lips tugging into a small, weary smile.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," said Ron. "Sleep well."

He patted the pocket containing the crown badge and walked back toward the school. Malfoy watched him go, frowning. Hugging his arms around his body, Malfoy watched Ron until he disappeared into the night, and then he headed for the changing room through the cold.

For those of you who follow my stories—

Hogwarts Slander is finished, but will not be posted until I either get a) an adaptor for my mouse, or b) a new mouse. Both of these are proving difficult because I have a very old computer and no money. My bunnies chewed through my mouse cord, and I can no longer access any of my old stories.

As it is, expect Hogwarts Slander one day. Chasing Rainbows was coming along very slowly, but still coming along, but once again is ostracized in the dead computer.

Woe is me.

For those who read this story—

Thanks for taking time out to read this. Please leave a review and let me know what you thought.

Love.