Ron

"What the hell, Malfoy!"

Draco raised a sardonic and almost invisible eyebrow and leaned back against the wall of the holding cell. Blood from his recently broken nose was spattered down his white shirt front, along with the pale stain of tea. His coat, dusted with snow, lay neatly beside him on the sturdy wooden bench.

Ron sat down on the other bench, perpendicular to Malfoy, and wondered how he was supposed to keep playing his part.

He missed his wand.

His eye hurt. A lot. A whole bony-Malfoy-fist in the eye-socket kind of pain.

He really hadn't seen it coming.

Malfoy was regarding him with that endless sneer of his. He looked almost amused.

"I thought you wanted me to punch you in the face. That's why you went to all the trouble of hunting me down and provoking me the week before Christmas. So. You got your way. Now what? Or do you expect me to believe you went to such ridiculous lengths for an excuse to punch me in the face?"

Bollocks.

The plan had really not gone well.

Ron wished for the umpteenth time that Hermione hadn't stepped in and said what she'd said last week, in that dreadful meeting with Proudfoot. Harry should've been the one. Harry was always the one. And, more to the point, Harry was the one that got under Malfoy's skin the most, so really it should've been Harry. It would've been simpler.

A week earlier

Hermione

Proudfoot's living room always made her touchy. It wasn't the room itself. Proudfoot kept her apartment like a catalogue, pristine and minimal, everything in slatey grey, mauve, and mint. Comfortable, modern muggle armchairs were collected round the fire, and the ceiling was bewitched full of twinkling suspended stars, the latest trend in Christmas decorations. It wasn't because of Tonks; strangely, Hermione quite liked spending time with an Auror who had worked with her and known her so well. No. It was because Proudfoot, capable and steady, with a streak of iron grey through her dark hair, kept asking them for help.

It gave her a twisted sick feeling that for them, the war would never be over. Or, more specifically, that her 'to do' list would never be over.

"What?" Harry, Ron, and Proudfoot all stared at her. She understood why; Harry was the obvious choice. But he was always taking the lead... and Ron needed a chance...

A chance to what, though? Prove himself? He didn't need to do that. Maybe just... a chance to be chosen over Harry?

Maybe not even that. Maybe that slightly punched-in-the-guts look was just how he was now, and being chosen would make no difference whatsoever.

But in this instance, he was a better choice. Only marginally, but still...

And Harry needed a break. He'd been a bit... distracted lately.

"Harry's too biased-"

Harry's eyes went round behind his new glasses.

"You think Ron isn't-"

"Ron only gets fired up when Malfoy has a go at one of us, Harry, hadn't you noticed? You always think Malfoy is up to something; how are you supposed to be impartial? It doesn't matter what he says you're still going to think he's evil,"

Harry made an incredulous noise to show that he stood by his assessment of Malfoy's character.

"He is evil," said Ron lightly, popping a whole piece of snowflake shaped shortbread in his mouth, "And he's got the cute tattoo to prove it,"

Typical. She rolled her eyes, and appealed to Proudfoot, who was cradling a mug of peppermint tea, and stretching her large socked feet towards the fire.

"Isn't there anyone else you can send?"

Proudfoot tried not to look amused.

"Not at the moment. Not... officially. Not while we're trying to enforce transparency and accountability in ministry departments... but... we need to know where his allegiances lie. He's been in for questioning any number of times..." She trailed off staring into the fire. "We need to know for sure..."

"Slip him some Veritaserum then," Ron suggested, "Straightforward, simple, done."

Actually, that was an excellent idea. Much easier to spike his drink than to try to provoke him into lashing out at one of them... then 'arrest' him and interrogate him while he was angry and aware of being set up. The whole plan was daft. And they had had their fair share of daft plans over the years.

It seemed immensely unfair that they should be being thrown into another one, and not even of their own concoction.

Proudfoot sighed.

"Do you have a supply? Can you brew it? Ministry supplies are tightly controlled, a measure I wish we'd implemented after purloining a stash." She sighed again. "I hate to admit it, but fair trial is complicated when we're dealing with Death Eaters."

Hermione felt her stomach churn. Not now! I've got reading to do- and I need to find mum and dad- and there's those scholarship applications- and that presentation at the ministry- and I have to finish that manual for Harry- and the paper on House Elves- and reply to all those letters- and we can't keep living at the Burrow forever... I just don't have time... not now... god, I'm so tired...

"Fair trial is more than they deserve," said Harry bluntly.

Proudfoot's expression was grave. She put her mug down on the coffee table and ruffled her hair- a habit developed to keep it stylishly rumpled, but which they all knew meant she was frustrated by all the red tape.

"We can't officially do anything other than fair trial... and if it weren't for the fact that a lot of them are mass murderers and it's horrible to think of what they might still do, I'm really not sure we should."

Harry pulled a face.

"What makes you think any of us would get any thing out of Malfoy you haven't already heard?"

Proudfoot shook her head and shrugged.

"You went to school together. You know his weaknesses, his sensitivities... we've had nothing genuine from him at all, just platitudes... factual recounts of events, delivered in a supercilious monotone. Nothing seems to hit through that slippery façade... it's like listening to a wooden actor running lines. We've even tried Legilimency, but both he and his mother are very practiced Occlumens."

"So you want us to press all his buttons and see if he cracks?"

Proudfoot nodded.

"And I agree with you Hermione, it would be better to have someone impartial... but it seems that to know Malfoy is to dislike him... unless you're a Death Eater... and most of them don't like him either..." She gazed round at the three of them, dark eyes sombre in the firelight, "Who's it going to be?"

Hermione caught Harry's eye and tried to give him a significant look. Ron really needed this. Just... a reminder, maybe, that he was... you know. Alive?

"Yeah, Ron should do it," said Harry, helping himself to a piece of shortbread, his best innocent expression at play, "Besides, I'd rather not get punched in the face again; these glasses are new."

Ron shrugged.

"Sure. I guess. Happy to piss off Malfoy any day of the week. Dunno about interrogation... maybe Hermione should do that part?" He sounded doubtful.

You really would have thought all the amazing things he'd done would have bolstered him up a bit more, Hermione thought, trying not to feel so annoyed by his constant self-deprecation.

"I don't want to talk to Malfoy about what happened at the manor," she said quickly, "And I think that would be quite distressing for him, don't you? If he's claiming to be reformed..."

Ron's jaw went steely at that, and she knew he'd do it.

He'd do it to save her that pain.

She had a horrible feeling that perhaps it was worse for him. But maybe... if she was listening in to that conversation, like they were planning... maybe afterwards they could actually talk about it...

She wanted to talk about it. Wanted to tell him...

But that was at the top of the list of things he wouldn't talk about. That and Fred. And Lupin, and Tonks, and Dobby, and... the Dead. Just... nothing.

He was always fidgety when they came to see Proudfoot. She'd twigged early on that he'd find an excuse to leave the room if she mentioned Tonks or Lupin though, so lately it had been ok.

Sad, but ok.

Hermione sought refuge in her mug of tea. She was losing the plot. He was so close, and so far away, and why did she keep doing things like this? When he was involved she lost all sense of perspective, moral compass askew, logic scrambled into nonsense... she'd even confunded McLaggen that time, to say nothing of all the lying and rule breaking since... well, since he'd appeared in her life...

He just...

It was almost like...

She took another sip of tea and stayed out of the discussion about extendable ears and muggle surveillance equipment.

The uncomfortable truth was simple.

He drove her crazy.

And he had the tiny little bird beak scars on his hands to prove it.