Title: Damn Tornados (2/13)
Author: Mad Maudlin
Email: mekamorph
Category: Adventure, romance, sports drama
Keywords: Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, slash, Quidditch, Cannons, Damn Yankees, musical
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Through OotP
Summary: Ron Weasley has no life, and it's put him in a bit of a bind.

Act One, Scene Two: Goodbye, Old Friend

"Oh, I agree."

Ron turned around so quickly he almost fell, and the hair rose on the back of his neck. Someone was once again standing in the shadows of the apple tree, but the voice wasn't one he recognized. "Who are you?" he demanded, groping for his wand.

"A man who agrees with you."

Very funny. "Come out where I can see you," he said calmly, aiming his wand.

The figure stepped out from under the shadows, still chuckling softly. "Really, Weasley, is that any way to greet an old friend?"

The wand slipped from Ron's fingers and fell to the snowy ground. He was aware of his jaw dropping, but it seemed better to concentrate on getting air into his lungs and staying upright, two tasks that had suddenly become rather difficult. He stared at the man before him and tried to reconcile what he knew he saw and what he knew he couldn't be seeing. Draco Malfoy had been killed some months ago at Hogwarts while trying to sabotage the castle defenses; Ron had had the misfortune of seeing the body.

Draco Malfoy was now standing in his parents' garden, and judging by the little trails of steam coming from his nose, he was breathing.

"You dropped this," the dead man said as he picked up Ron's wand and handed it to him. Ron reached for the wand, but found himself grabbing onto Malfoy's wrist instead. Solid fabric, solid flesh. Not an illusion, then. Malfoy jerked his arm back and brushed imaginary grime off his immaculate cuff. "Watch it, Weasley, these robes are worth more than your life."

"What the hell are you?" Ron managed to blurt. He tried to step back, but his foot hit a patch of ice and he nearly fell.

Malfoy pulled something out of his breast pocket and waved it Ron's face, too fast for him to see any detail. It looked like some sort of badge. "You might call me an agent of supernatural forces in the physical world. A messenger, if you would, although that term usually gets applied to other beings..."

Ron blinked. "You're dead."

"Yes, Weasley," Malfoy said slowly, "and, as you so often advised, I went to Hell."

Ron blinked furiously, but Malfoy didn't disappear. Perhaps he should've gone to get pissed after all. "What are you doing in my parents' garden?" he asked dully.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I'm here to nick your mother's prize cucumber. What do you think?"

Ron reflected that, if he was indeed hallucinating, his subconscious could've stood to be a bit less accurate. "I don't know, Malfoy, I'm not an expert on...whatever you are."

Malfoy smoothed the lapels of his pinstriped robe. "You don't believe me?"

"Let's just say you're not exactly a trustworthy source."

He sighed in mock weariness and cast his eyes down. "True, true...incidentally, care for a fag?"

Ron didn't see him handle a wand or make an obvious gesture; he heard no incantation or spell-word spoken. Yet between one second and the next Malfoy was holding two lit cigarettes in his outstretched hand. "How did you do that?" he demanded.

Malfoy smirked. "Where I've been, one gets to be handy with fire." One cigarette disappeared just as quickly as it had materialized; he took a slow drag off the other. "Now, about why I'm here..."

"I didn't say I believed you," Ron interjected.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "To tell the truth, Weasley, I don't care if you believe I'm a psychotic delusion or the Virgin Mary, just so long as you listen to what I'm about to say." Ron would like to think a product of his own imagination might be a bit more courteous; then again, this was about how he best remembered Malfoy—nasty and blunt. He said nothing, and after a moment, Malfoy began to slowly circle him, blowing cigarette smoke in his eyes. "You're rather pathetic, aren't you, Weasley?"

"If you're just going to insult me—"

"I could've said 'you look like shit, poor boy.'"

"At least I'm alive."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "That," he said, "was low."

Ron folded his arms. "Get on with it."

"All right. I'm going to be blunt." Malfoy threw his cigarette into the snow and folded his arms. "You are pathetic, and moreover, you know you are. You work obscene hours on the off chance it'll get you promoted, or from a subconscious desire to avoid Potter, I don't know which. You're a joke among your fellow secretaries—I'm sorry, 'clerical aides'—and the people with real jobs spit on you, except for Elvira Troutwig, who grabs your arse when you deliver her mail. You haven't had a date in months, you live in the filthiest firetrap in Hackney, and these little familial soirees are the closest thing you have to a social life in any sense of the term. Have I left anything out?"

Ron clenched his fists and grit his teeth, as his urge to strangle the blond bastard warred with his doubt that there was any blond bastard to be strangling. "What's your point?"

Malfoy smiled and conjured another fag to puff on. "The one beacon of light in your life, such as it is, would be your darling Chudley Cannons, who just happen to be off to their worst start since 1918. In fact, if the Wanderers hadn't melted down against Kenmare in their opener, the Cannons would be last in the League. You've wanted to play for them since you were old enough to spell 'Quidditch,' and currently happen to be their single most dedicated partisan in England, or indeed, the world. Which isn't terribly surprising, all things considered...but I digress.

"Now, this is the part that requires a little cooperation on your part, Weasley, a little...act of faith, shall we say?" Malfoy gestured with his cigarette, and the ember on the end left faint after-images in Ron's eyes. "You are pathetic. So are your precious Cannons. I'm proposing to fix both those problems in one fell swoop. After all, they only need a good Seeker, right?"

"What does that have to do with me?"

Malfoy surveyed him through half-lidded eyes, blowing smoke out his nose, smirking a little. "Come now, Weasley. Don't tell me you never in your entire life wanted to be a Seeker on a professional Quidditch team? That you never fantasized about playing for England and catching the Snitch at some crucial moment? That you were never the teensiest bit jealous of Potter for his spot on the team, or for the talent he had flowing out his ears in addition to the money and the fame and the—"

"Malfoy!" Ron breathed deeply and tried to reign in his emotions. "I may have thought those sorts of things once in a while—" he ignored Malfoy's snort of laughter— "but that doesn't mean anything. I can't play professionally, I can't be Harry, and at any rate, I never played Seeker, even in school."

"That's where I come in."

"What do you mean?"

Malfoy's voice took on the tone of a particularly unctuous used-broom salesman. "Picture this: the Chudley Cannons are having their usual nightmarish season. Every sane wizard in Britain has written them off as hopeless. But suddenly, in their hour of need, a hero appears—an unknown wizard, with nothing but a burning desire to wear unfashionable robes and more talent in his little finger than most teams have in their entire first string. A giant among men—among house-elves! He inspires the entire team to greatness! Opponents forfeit rather than face him! And for the first time in a century, the Chudley Cannons take the League Cup—right out from under the Tutshill Tornados' collective nose." He seized Ron by the shoulders and looked him over critically, even going so far as to examine his teeth. "We'll call you Hardy—that sounds nice and corny, doesn't it?—Ron Hardy, the greatest Quidditch player who ever lived. You'll be famous the world over. Women will throw themselves at you...what the hell, so will men...opponents bow down in your wake. I wouldn't be surprised if they build a statue to you somewhere."

And Ron could almost see it, in his mind's eye, like a series of pictures: the cheering crowds, the newspaper headlines, the glittering Cup...and the idea that it could be him, at the center of it all, the focus of attention...his brain couldn't quite hold it all at once. "What about my job?" he asked weakly. "I mean, I can't just...what about my life?"

"Your life," Malfoy pronounced, "is shit. I thought we established that."

"What about Harry?"

The self-proclaimed demon leaned in close and forced Ron to meet his eyes. The smell of tobacco on his breath—mixed with something sharper, like rotten eggs—made Ron's eyes itch. "Harry doesn't want you. Harry doesn't need you. Harry is a neurotic, self-centered brat who's completely oblivious to the people he claims to care about. You have worked your arse off for over seven years in the name of the almighty Harry Potter and it's earned you sod-all...I think he made his feelings abundantly clear earlier."

"How do you know about that?" Ron whispered.

Malfoy grinned. "It's time to forget about Harry, my dear Weasel. Go where you'll be appreciated. Get out of everyone else's shadows. Quit being taken for granted and show some spine, for Hell's sake." He stepped back suddenly and shrugged. "Of course, you could stay...do the noble thing, loyal, self-sacrificing friend that you are. Stick it out at the Ministry, make up with Potter, keep a stiff upper lip and all that. I'll just go away...and the Cannons will lose...and you get to spend the rest of your life baby-sitting a world's best-loved basket case and hiding from Elvira Troutwig.

"It's up to you."

A headache was building up behind Ron's left eye; the wind was picking up, cutting through his cloak, to the bone. This was absolutely insane, and any minute now someone would come outside to find out who he was talking to...Malfoy would just disappear, and take all these lovely visions of fame and acclaim with him. Because it all just couldn't be true, could it? Draco Malfoy was dead, the Cannons were losing, and tomorrow morning he would go to the same dead-end job and the same dead-end life and Harry...Harry didn't care anymore.

Malfoy was still there when he looked up.

"How do you propose to do this?" he asked slowly, aware that he was taking a considerably large step off the deep end.

Malfoy smirked. "Leave that all to me, Weasley."

"Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do you care whether the Cannons win the League Cup?" he asked, stepping closer to the dead man. "Since when did you give a shit about my happiness?"

"To answer the last question first..." Malfoy slung his arm across Ron's shoulders, or tried, but there was good six inches difference in their heights to deal with. "I don't. Give a shit, that is. But you love the Cannons, Weasley, everyone who's ever met you knows it. You're also completely, totally, thoroughly, disgustingly Gryffindor. You are the one wizard in Britain I can count to see this through, for the sake of the team if not for your own. As for why I care..." He took another drag from his cigarette and grinned, letting the smoke trickle through his teeth. "I really don't want the Tornados to win another Cup."

It was the worst excuse in the world, but then again, he'd died for less.

Ron shrugged off the blond's arm easily and stepped away again. "What happens when it's all over? When I retire?"

Malfoy chuckled. "I thought that was fairly well-known..."

"And if I want out?"

The cajoling, mock-friendly attitude melted away. "Why the Hell would you want out?" Malfoy demanded.

"Let's assume that I might."

"Weasley, I'm offering you everything you've ever wanted in life. You'd have to be mad to give it up."

"I'm currently haggling with a figment of my own imagination," Ron reminded him.

Malfoy growled, and in a very un-businesslike fit of petulance, stomped his foot. "It's preposterous! It's ludicrous! This is not a...a real estate transaction!" But Ron just stared at him with his arms crossed over his chest, until Malfoy sighed in defeat. "Fine. If you decide that fame and fortune are really so horrible that you'd rather push parchment for the rest of your life, then you can get out...before noon on Midsummer. After that, the deal is done."

It couldn't really be happening, of course; it was all a hallucination. But...what did he have to lose? Besides the obvious, that is. And even then he wasn't really losing it, like to a Dementor, because then he wouldn't be much use to Malfoy...assuming any of this was really real. Which it wasn't. But still...

Why not go mad?

Ron exhaled and watched the steam fade away. "Just let me get a few things..."

Malfoy grinned broadly. "Take all the time in the world, Weasley. But first—" He extended a hand, which Ron warily shook. "There you are. Just a formality, of course."

"That's it?"

"What were you expecting, to sign your name in blood?" It must've been obvious from his expression that he had—or at least something a little less anticlimactic. "Honestly, Weasley, we're both wizards here. Now, go on, get whatever it is you think you'll need..."

It sounded like most of his family had already gone home; it was easy to slip upstairs unnoticed, to his old room, where he still stored the vast amount of things that wouldn't fit in the flat in London. It took only a bit of probing to dig his Cleansweep out of the closet—he couldn't take the time to fly anymore, much less play. He paused to stare at the battered handle and the ragged twigs. There were so many memories attached to this broom...

"A strategic retreat," he muttered under his breath. The sound of his own voice startled him.

He turned to the door, but something still felt incomplete, somehow. He looked back on his former room, which echoed with even more memories than the broomstick. No matter what, he owed Harry something—years of friendship couldn't just disappear overnight. At least, not for Ron. He sat down at the creaky old desk and conjured up a parchment and quill.

Dear Harry

By the time you get this owl, I'll be gone. I can't tell you where I'm going, or when I'm going to come back. I hope it'll be soon. Please trust me on this one.

I know I haven't been a very good friend in the past few months, and I'm sorry for that. Things haven't always been perfect between us, but we've always worked them out in the end. That's what I'm trying to do now. I think it's probably best this way.

You have been and are my first and greatest friend. I'll see you soon.

Yours as ever,

Ron

He reviewed his words. They were clumsy, pathetic, inane; they would have to do. He folded the parchment in thirds and sealed it, and before he slipped out the back door again he grabbed his parents' new owl, Flynn. It took a moment to tie the message to its leg and a simple toss to get it airborne. Watching the owl sail off into the frosty night, Ron felt suddenly, incredibly light; it didn't matter any more whether he was barking mad or if a demon was loitering in the garden. Nothing mattered anymore. He was leaving, he was going somewhere, he was getting away from Harry and the Ministry and his whole miserable existence. He made his way back to the apple tree by the hedge, but really, it didn't matter whether anyone was there or not. "Malfoy?" he called softly, not expecting an answer; the whole thing had probably been some mad waking dream, but it didn't matter because he was finally getting out....

"I'm on the other side of the hedge, you numbskull."

Well. That damped things slightly.

Ron ducked his head and shuffled through a gap in the hedge, using his broom handle to push through the thin, extending branches. Clumps of snow fell on his head and slipped down his collar. He didn't remember the gap being this narrow...or the hedge being this thick...it felt like an age as he worked his way past the skeletal, gripping fingers crusted in ice. Then he was through, and he was free, and Malfoy was leaning on a sleek black broomstick smoking yet another cigarette. He blew a delicate ring of smoke, grinning, then gave Ron a leisurely once-over from head to toe. "Not bad, if I do say so myself."

"What the hell are you...talking...about?" Ron clutched his throat, heart pounding; that hadn't been his voice. Come to think of it, that wasn't his throat. He stared at his hands, which were smaller and more elegant than they had a right to be; his body had suddenly become muscular and lithe. And was Malfoy a little taller than earlier? "What the hell did you do to me?"

The dead man laughed. "Come on, Weasel. You couldn't go onto a Quidditch pitch as yourself; you'd be recognized. You're incognito now. Ron Hardy, remember?"

Once again, he looked for the wand that wasn't there; and anyway, he had never heard of Transfiguration this subtle. "You could've warned me," he muttered, and winced at the sound. "I'm talking like a bloody Yank!"

"Naturally," Malfoy said slowly, as if Ron were exceptionally thick. "Otherwise they'd look for your name in Hogwarts records, and then the whole plan's shot straight to Heaven, isn't it?"

Ron stared at his hands, his ability to think painfully jammed by the conflict between his eyes and his nerves. This had gone far beyond the realm of hallucinations—this was flatly impossible, and some small part of him was suddenly interested in reconsidering the deal.

"If you're done admiring yourself..." Malfoy flicked his cigarette to the ground and mounted his broom. Ron swung his leg over his Cleansweep and tried to concentrate on a single, simple thought: if he can make me an American, he can get me on the Cannons. And if he can do that, he can do anything.

I'll just cross my fingers and hope for the best.