AN: Due to serious real life problems I haven't had a chance to work on/update this fic for nearly a year (I apologize to those who were keeping track of this story). But now my schedule has cleared up considerably and I'm not giving up on FFG just yet. Here's chapter eight.

EIGHT:

"Venomous," said Draco. He watched as the stretch of stone wall slid aside, creaking and groaning in a familiar fashion before revealing the Slytherin common room.

He stepped through the entrance and headed directly up the stairs to his dorm.

The room was deserted; all of the other seventh year Slytherins were still at dinner in the Great Hall. Draco fell back onto his bed. Leaning comfortably against the plump, bright green pillows he stared straight ahead, eyes wide. But he wasn't seeing the room around him. Instead, his mind was fixed on Ron.

If he were to be truthful about it the blond would have to admit that he wasn't nearly as angry at the Weasel as he should have been. Normally, Draco found himself to be an intimidating and vengeful person (this was something he had always been rather proud of). So it was hard for him to wrap his head around the idea of not being terribly furious at someone who had wronged him.

And Ron had certainly wronged him. The redhead had actually had the nerve to try and kiss him.

Kiss me. Draco shifted around in the bed, adjusting a pillow that was digging painfully into his back.

In the end, the Gryffindor hadn't actually kissed him. It had been a close thing; incredibly close. But there hadn't been any actual contact.

Surprisingly, the blond found himself realizing that he wouldn't have been much angrier if the kiss had happened. He wasn't sure exactly why that was, and he didn't particularly want to think about it.

Another thing that Draco didn't want to think about was Hermione. Or, more precisely, he didn't want to think about the fact that Weasley had been thinking about her when...

"Ugh! Bloody hell." The blond rolled so that he was resting on his stomach in the bed, then buried his face in a pillow. What was he doing? He wasn't supposed to be thinking about the Weasel; didn't want to be thinking about him.

All he wanted was his wand back.

The sudden sound of someone - obviously someone wearing heeled shoes - charging into the common room below made Draco jump. Digging his fingernails into the bedclothes beneath him Draco lifted only his head and turned, straining his neck in order to get a look at the dorm room's doorway.

"Draco!" came a high pitched screech. "Draco!"

Before the second shout sounded Draco had registered the fact that it was Pansy who was screaming. He rolled off of his bed, rushed through the doorway, and sprinted down the stone steps.

"What?" he demanded immediately upon reaching the common room. He was breathing hard; adrenaline and fear were forcing his heart to beat out a rhythm that was much too fast to be healthy. "What is it?"

The girl was panting. Her eyes had a wild glint to them and her ponytail looked slightly lopsided. She was obviously wired about something, but Draco could see no visible clues as to what it was. There were no fresh bruises marring her arms and neck, nor was there any other sort of fresh injury suggesting that the Slytherin girl had had another run in with Millicent.

"Pansy?" he asked again.

"You'll never believe it," gasped the girl. Her startled look seemed to be morphing; there was the hint of a smile beginning to form. "I don't believe it." She looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time, then stumbled awkwardly over to the couch. She sat down heavily.

"Pansy?" Draco tried again. "What the bloody fuck is it?" He was still standing at the bottom of the spiraling staircase that led up to his room, looking stunned.

There was a pause. A pause during which Draco had the time to get nervous; had the time to feel the unpleasant twisting in his gut that was telling him something was very, very wrong.

And then, finally, Pansy answered.

"Some of the Slytherins, Draco." She looked up, her dark eyes meeting the blond's lighter ones. Draco couldn't help but think that she looked different somehow; she looked off. "They came and talked to me..."

-----

Ron hurried down the large, stone steps that led into the castle and winced at the sound of the heavy entrance doors banging shut behind him. It wasn't past curfew just yet - there were still a few kids milling about the castle halls and lounging outside of their Houses - but it was dark already, and close enough to being curfew that he would doubtless receive no less than a lecture should a professor or Filch spot him hurrying outside.

Once again, the redhead wondered why he had told Malfoy he had his wand. It was stupid, really. It didn't make any sense. And now he had to trudge all the way down to the Quidditch Pitch and crawl about the stands until he found the Slytherin's wand. And that brought up another problem - what if he wasn't able to find the thing? If that happened he would have to face the blond's wrath for losing the wand, or would have to admit that he'd lied about having the item in the first place.

Bloody hell. He had a serious talent for getting himself into awkward situations.

The Gryffindor's long legs carried him swiftly across the school grounds and toward the Pitch. As he walked, he pulled and tugged at his winter cloak nervously. He had a strange feeling. And after having been friends with one Harry Potter for over six years Ron had come to the conclusion that he absolutely hated strange feelings. He wished he'd had the forethought to ask Harry for his invisibility cloak.

Then again, asking Harry for the cloak would've meant both he and Hermione knowing about Ron's odd mission. The two other seventh years were being incredibly nice to him, trying to make up for not telling the redhead about their relationship - even so, Ron didn't think they'd have looked too kindly at the fact that their freckled friend was retrieving Malfoy's wand because he'd practically kissed the Slytherin and was the one who had been responsible for the blond losing the wand in the first place. So, yeah, maybe it was best he hadn't asked after all.

Ron's fingers and face were numb from the chill air by the time he reached the Slytherin stands. He immediately began searching. He checked all of the lower stands thoroughly (he was sure they'd been sitting on one of the lower stands when Malfoy had stormed off), and when he didn't find the wand right away searched higher, and higher. He was near the top of the Slytherin stands, on his knees and searching carefully with his fingers, when he happened to spot it- the thin, black bit of wood was far below him, lying in the dirt. It had fallen from the lower stand where he and the blond had been sitting and onto the ground.

With a sigh of relief Ron hurried down the stands, and then made his way across the grass and under them. He had Malfoy's wand and was stuffing it into a pocket when he heard voices. The voices were low, murmuring, and steadily getting closer. Afraid that a professor had perhaps made his or her way to the Quidditch Pitch Ron backed further into the shadows and tried to quiet his breathing.

He waited, and no more than a few brief moments had gone by when four shadowy figures appeared as if from nowhere, wearing black, billowing cloaks and striding quickly across the limp and yellowed grass that made up the Quidditch field.

"...is the perfect plan," said the slimmest of the four. This figure was swinging a half empty bottle of butterbeer in one hand, and when he turned just so the moonlight and stars conveniently illuminated his face. Ron recognized the face - this was Blaise Zabini he was looking at.

Nervous, the redhead swallowed thickly and listened.

"Yeah," said one of Zabini's similarly clad companions - the tallest one. Ron thought that this figure looked a lot like the sixth year Slytherin that Blaise treated as his second in command, but couldn't be sure. "Tell her just what she wants to hear and then..." He trailed off and the two slow, thick-limbed lumps crowding Zabini let out stupid guffaws.

The Gryffindor was positive that these last two prats were Crabbe and Goyle.

Smiling, Zabini took a swig of butterbeer and wiped away the drops that escaped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's right. Thanks to my fucking fantastic plan that pug-faced bitch will get what's comin' to her."

Zabini's little speech caused his three companions to erupt into a chorus of laughter and mutterings of "I never did like the look of her" and "she did tag along with him."

Blaise cut in before the laughter could die down. "Pleasant as this will be...let's not forget the reason we're doing it." There was a sudden silence then, tense and cold and thick. Ron tried very hard not to shuffle his feet, or to breathe too loudly. The foursome was passing by him now, and would soon be out of sight.

After a moment, the lead Slytherin continued. "As soon as we have her out of the way we can concentrate on..." but the group of cloaked figures turned a corner and left the Quidditch field before Zabini could finish his sentence.

None of them had noticed Ron Weasley, huddled in the shadows of the Slytherin stands.

The redhead blinked, let out a breath he hadn't even been aware of holding, and counted to one hundred before stumbling out from under the stands and heading back to the castle.

-----

The next day, which was Wednesday, brought rain. Ron woke to the sounds of Harry, Seamus and Dean shuffling around the dorm, gathering clothes and heading for the showers. He could also hear Neville, still softly snoring in his bed. He yawned, stretched, and blinked blearily at the window.

Through the window he could make out a gray, cloud filled sky and a thick sheet of falling rain. Feeling drowsy and heavy limbed, the redhead got out of bed and gathered his own clothes; he nudged Neville awake on his way to the showers. He had no time to waste today. He had to meet Malfoy, scarf down breakfast, and finish up the last few paragraphs of his essay on the usefulness of charms.

Ron got ready quickly and left the Gryffindor Tower.

The redhead spotted Malfoy before he had even fully descended the marble staircase that led directly to the entrance hall. The Slytherin was standing to the right of the large doorway that led into the Great Hall. He had his arms folded against his chest, was leaning against the wall, and was shooting hostile looks at any student dimwitted enough to glance at him on their way to breakfast.

"Weasley," he spat when he noticed Ron approaching. "It's about time. Have you got it with you or not?" His expression clearly said that the Gryffindor not having the item in question was definitely not an option.

"Yeah," said Ron. "I've got it." He stuck his hands into the pockets of his robe, and fished for Malfoy's wand. The blond glared half heartedly at a passing Hufflepuff while he waited.

Ron found the wand's handle and gripped it - but he didn't pull it from his pocket. "I..." he started, only to stop when Malfoy's intense eyes met his own. The strange conversation he'd witnessed between Blaise and his gang had just sprung to the front of his mind, but the redhead wasn't completely sure if he should tell the Slytherin about it or not.

He was supposed to be breaking all ties with Malfoy, right? In fact, he hadn't wanted anything to do with Malfoy in the first place. So why should he bother telling the teen what he'd heard - especially considering the fact that Malfoy was already well aware of Blaise's hostility toward he and Pansy?

"Don't tell me you've forgotten it," hissed the blond. "Don't you dare-"

But before he could really get going the Gryffindor cut him off.

"I overheard Zabini last night," he said quickly.

Malfoy blinked. "What?"

"Zabini and his grunts," said Ron. He was carefully not mentioning anything about being at the Quidditch Pitch searching for the Slytherin's wand. "You said he was the prat bothering you and Parkinson, right?"

The blond gave a slow, hesitant nod - it was as if he didn't want to be interested in what Ron was saying but couldn't help himself.

"He and his friends mentioned something about Parkinson," continued Ron. And the redhead was caught off guard when Malfoy took some frantic steps forward; he was suddenly so close that the Gryffindor could smell his floral shampoo.

"He mentioned Pansy?" spat the blond. "What? What did he say about her?"

And suddenly Ron had a strange feeling; he had a feeling like he was missing something very important. "He mentioned her," he answered. "Why? Did something-"

"Tell me," demanded Malfoy. He wasn't quite shouting, but he certainly wasn't calm. "Tell me what he said."

Ron narrowed his eyes. "Something about telling her what she wants to hear, I think. Zabini didn't mention a name but..." He shrugged awkwardly and shied away from telling the Slytherin exactly what Zabini and his thugs had called Parkinson. "Well, I'm pretty sure they were talking about her."

"I knew it!" This time it was a yell. Ron took a step back from the other teen in surprise. Malfoy's face was suddenly very red – he brought his hands to his hair, dug his fingers in and pulled. Ron resisted the strange urge to stop the blond from hurting himself; instead watched what was happening in front of him with round, startled eyes.

"I knew those complete bastards were up to something!" A strange noise emerged from the blond's throat – something that sounded like a frustrated growl – and then he began to pace. He walked until he reached the first marble step rising up and away from the entrance hall; spun around and walked until he was in front of the Gryffindor once more.

"What's wrong?" asked Ron. Malfoy was already on his second trip back from the edge of the stairs – he bumped shoulders with an abnormally tall fourth year who was on her way to breakfast and didn't seem to notice the glare she shot at him. "What do you mean-"

"Wait." Malfoy put a hand up and thrust it in Ron's direction; it was as if he thought doing this would somehow physically stop the words that were emerging from the redhead's mouth – or perhaps that it would push the words already spoken back down the redhead's throat. "Wait. You said before, when we were...uh."

Ron noticed that Malfoy was no longer pacing, so leaned against the stone wall. Anything that caused Malfoy to falter while speaking was probably a very bad subject to have brought up in the first place.

"Monday night. You weren't even sure who Blaise was. So how are you sure who you heard talking was Zabini? And – while we're on the subject – how did you overhear him? I mean...where?"

And there it was – the unpleasant reason for the falter. Monday night. Monday night just before the not-kiss he and Malfoy had been talking civilly about the Slytherin's broken wand, about Quidditch, about Blaise Zabini.

"I'm not an imbecile, Malfoy," he answered. He was suddenly frustrated; angry for a reason he couldn't pinpoint. Maybe it was just because he was here, talking to Malfoy like he really gave a rat's arse about Zabini and what he and his goons were planning to do to Parkinson. Maybe it was because he just wanted to get to breakfast already; wanted to finish his charms homework on time so that he wouldn't get another detention. Or maybe the reason he was suddenly angry was because Malfoy had actually faltered in his speech – had acted utterly disgusted – at the mere memory of Ron's attempt to kiss him.

But...no. That was ridiculous. Ron himself hadn't really even meant to try and kiss the blond. He was disgusted with the idea of it himself. So being upset and mad about what Malfoy felt about it didn't make any sense at all.

None.

"He was with those prats, Crabbe and Goyle. It was him. I know it was Zabini." The redhead carefully avoided answering the Slytherin's other questions. Malfoy, after all, didn't really need to know where exactly he had overheard Zabini talking or what exactly he had been doing at the time.

"Bloody hell!" the blond shouted, sudden and sharp. A small group of very young looking students that were sporting Ravenclaw colors on their uniforms turned to look in the direction of the commotion – the moment they realized who it was they were staring at (Draco Malfoy, two seventh years) they hurried up the stairs and away, white-faced.

"Bloody fucking hell!" Again, Malfoy dug his fingers into his hair and pulled. His face had become red, his eyes watery, his whole frame taut and strained.

Ron shot a look around the entrance hall. It was empty. No one had seen the Gryffindor standing next to the crazy blond teenager having a breakdown yet. And no one would see the redhead with the Slytherin if he just quietly slipped away.

Right. Not likely.

Sure, it was true that Ron loathed all Slytherins; he loathed the Slytherin standing in front of him most of all - or at least he had seriously loathed him before Malfoy's mother had decided to go traitor on Voldemort. And sure, he had never been the most polite guy. But he wasn't flat out cruel. He wasn't just going to leave Malfoy standing alone in the hallway, upset and near tears. He was after all, the one who had brought up the subject of Zabini - the subject that was disturbing Malfoy so much - in the first place.

Just as the blond was about turn away - presumably to start up his pacing again - Ron grabbed the teen by the arm and held on. "What's wrong with you? Did something happen?" The Gryffindor thought back to Halloween night in the closet - Malfoy had been pushed into the closet by Zabini after getting the crud kicked out of him Maybe something like that had happened again? Maybe that's what had the teen acting so strange and upset?

Malfoy looked up at him, eyes wide yet distant. He looked worried; dreadfully worried about something. Ron felt an odd stirring in his chest at the thought of the blond being so upset; he carefully ignored it.

"It's Pansy," he started - and his voice was quiet and halting. "She...they told her, Zabini and the others in my House told her that they wanted her to play Quidditch."

Ron blinked, confused. For a moment he couldn't figure out what the teen was going on about. What in the world did Pansy playing Quidditch have anything to do with anything? And then, suddenly, he remembered something.

"I'm not going to play this year...I can't..." The night they had nearly kissed (and just that thought made Ron squirm inside) Malfoy had mentioned something about not being able to play Quidditch this year. And now that Ron thought about it, well, it made perfect sense. Malfoy couldn't play on the Slytherin Quidditch team because the rest of the Slytherins hated him - they most likely wouldn't have let him play on the team if he'd tried in the first place, and if he had by some miracle been allowed to play he would have been destroyed by his own team. And now Zabini was encouraging Pansy to play the game. So that meant...

"I tried to tell her," Malfoy went on. "I told her that the bastards were probably just playing some horrid trick. I told her to just ignore what they had said, to stay away from them all. But...she was so excited about it. And she won't listen to me anymore. Maybe before, but after...she doesn't listen." The blond shook his head, looking down at the floor as he spoke - as if he were somehow defeated. "And now you've told me this..."

And at that, the Slytherin looked up at Ron. The distant look in his eyes had suddenly faded. Now, he simply looked angry. His eyes narrow, he wrenched his arm from the redhead's grip. "And why in hell am I telling you about this? You." He gave a short, disgusted sort of laugh. "A Gryffindor. The Weasel. Like you care at all. Like I care if you care at all." He stuck out one of his hands, palm up. "My wand please, Weasley."

Ron shoved a hand into his pocket once more; folded his large fingers around the wand there. His tongue seemed to be caught behind his teeth for some reason. He wasn't sure why. Everything the Slytherin had said, talking to him and about him like that...

Ron should have been yelling, raving, kicking the blond's arse right about now. His usually short temper should have been raging. And yet another, small part of the Gryffindor still wanted to help the teen out. The Gryffindor felt a little bad for the blond. Torn between these two feelings, the redhead said nothing at all. He just pulled the spell-o-taped wand from his pocket and handed it to the Slytherin.

"All right, then," said Malfoy. He grabbed the wand and gave Ron a slow, appraising look. It was as if he were trying to figure out why the Gryffindor hadn't yelled, or maybe why the Gryffindor hadn't just slugged him one. "We're done now, right?"

Done. Ron thought about his encounter with a puffy-eyed Malfoy on the first day of school, thought about Halloween night locked in a closet, about that night at the Quidditch Pitch and the strange feelings that had made his stomach flutter, the strange feelings that had forced him to lean toward the blond Slytherin and...

"Right." Face blank, the redhead nodded. "Done."

Ron watched as Malfoy, who was still very obviously upset and worried and tense, spun around.

He watched as Malfoy walked away.