Funny how a Few Words Turned into Sex

By Green

Rating: R

Pairing: Ron/Draco

Series/Sequel: Part Two

Warnings: Slash…yadda…m/m...yadda…homosexual…yadda…Gryffindor doesn't win absolutely everything all the time

Disclaimer: I do not own anything connected to the Harry Potter franchise in any way shape or form, not * yet * anyway

Feedback: Please, please, please

Notes: Part two! Thanks to those who reviewed Part One, I hope this is as good. Sorry, quite a lot of plot in this chunk, but it had to go somewhere.

Please r/r

~~***~~

Chapter 2: Deeds:

'Just watch out, Weasely, I'm going to get you good'

I pondered long and hard over how best to get revenge on Weasely. It had to be something clever, something sophisticated - something he would know came from me but that I could not be held accountable for.

Ah, the restricted section of the library, so handy for 'Research Projects' - Snape would sign any permission slip I gave him if he thought I was plotting against Potter, and I lie extraordinarily well. I sat down with a copy of Vengeance for the Vitriolic and noted down some options. Inflammations, pains, embarrassing noises - no! I needed something…original.

'Ignorbis or Coventrium: A spell that makes the object of your dislike completely unnoticeable for up to a week. Watch as even their closest friends refuse to acknowledge them and their self-esteem shrivels to nothing. Guaranteed to destroy relationships without the smallest hint of your intervention…'

Perfect.

I copied down the beginning of the spell, then the ingredients, hurrying as I heard footsteps approaching, I just managed to shove the book back in the shelf and stand up when the group of third years came into view. I then made my way to the Slytherin common room to memorise the charm. Our next Potions lesson would be most…interesting…

~~***~~

That lesson.

That bloody lesson.

I was such a fucking * idiot *

We filed in, as usual. Took our places, as usual. Opened our books, got out the equipment and ingredients. Professor Snape informed us that we would be making Warblejuice, which would supposedly enable the drinker to sing like a nightingale. I was over the moon of course because it had to be ingested, and I had thought I would have to wait ages for that kind of potion. They could never prove that Weasely hadn't simply added the wrong ingredients, it's not like most people get potions right anyway.

Whilst everyone busied themselves with their brews I got out the pre-prepared Ignorbis from my robes and waited for my chance. Weasely and Potter were bending earnestly over their cauldron, chatting and enjoying themselves as they worked.

I could see the skin of Weasely's elbow through his tatty old jumper. Other people - Harry Potter, me - moved on when their clothes got messed, bought new ones, continued to blend in exactly the same way that everyone else did. All Weasely's things were definitely his; they bore all the marks of the things he did.

Pauper.

I waited a few minutes longer, then sidled over to them

'I'm taking some of your wormswort. We didn't get enough'

'What do you mean, we?' Potter retorted, 'I notice Pansy has been doing all the actual work as usual'

'Well you obviously haven't paid that much attention either if you're noticing what goes on across the room'

I reached across to pick up the wormswort, and managed to get every bit of the Ignorbis into the cauldron unnoticed. I was banking on Weasely tasting it, because I knew that the protective streak in him wouldn't let Potter risk it, even if the motive was only subconscious.

He had been silent throughout, but now he looked up and sighed

'You've got what you wanted, now go away Malfoy, the air smells bad enough here already'

But he didn't mean it; he was saying it because he had to, because it sounded right. He didn't care what I thought of him or what remarks were traded, he just wanted me as far away as possible. He didn't care, the little shit. All I was doing, all the effort, he didn't care. Maybe he'd figured I got off on * reaction * on emotion, maybe he thought I wanted that anger more than I actually wanted to hurt, I wanted…

…I wanted to shove that potion down his throat there and then and nastier ones besides.

Seething internally, I returned to my bench.

Just because you hate me, you don't have to get at them

'Well prepare to celebrate, Weasely, I'm not getting at * them * at all' I muttered

Professor Snape stood up.

'Now, each pair nominate a taster, be quick and do not waste time. Hands up tasters… The other student will now pour out a cupful of the Warblejuice. Carefully! Now give it to the taster…'

I was frozen, watching. As I had predicted, Weasely was tasting.

He lifted the cup, hands pale against the pewter.

He drank.

His throat pulsed gently as he swallowed.

Slowly, hands falling, arms dropping, legs crumpling, the rich, fiery head hitting the desk as he fell. Collapsed. All so slow, as if through oil, that moment.

That moment I knew I had gone horribly wrong when I copied down the words so quickly.

The crash of the dropped cup.

People running. Me frozen. Potter shouting and Granger on the verge of tears.

Ron Weasely all folded on the floor and his blank eyes staring straight at me, right at me and that voice…

'He isn't breathing'

Again and again in my ears

* 'He isn't breathing' *

~~***~~

The rain has returned, but no one has noticed. The common rooms are subdued, the Great Hall silent. The rain beats and beats so harshly but even if they were out in it they wouldn't care.

The light from the Infirmary barely penetrates the gloom. The light from the room where Ron Weasely lies, alive but as weak as the faint glimmer from the guttering candle. The rain will be there tomorrow, but he may not.

His friends sit huddled, waiting, watching. Their faces are dry, for now they have cried all they can.

It seems almost poetic, although only one person appreciates it. The potion has meant that everyone today notices Ron Weasely, but Ron Weasely is unconscious, and may never notice anything again.

But outside the window the boy waiting in the shadows of the corner on a broomstick - a Nimbus Two Thousand and One in point of fact - has water all over his face anyway, so who knows? He is cold and tired and tense, but he was like that before the rain began.

Draco Malfoy is scared. But even he realises that it isn't for his own hide.

The knuckles on the broom handle are white, his jaw aches from clenching - if only it would distract him from the real pain. He whispers words, words that have long since ceased to have meaning, words he had forgotten he knew.

'Please, please, please, please, please, please…'

~~***~~