Title - Kill Me, Please!
Author - Elladora Ketteridge
Rating - R, for later chapters
Disclaimer - I don't own them. *a la Dusty* I'm just wishin, and hoping...
Notes - Thank you for all the wonderful reviews. God, I'm so flattered, they were so supportive. Come on, who doesn't love stuff like that? And, of course, constructive criticism is always welcome. Flames will be read too. And promptly mocked, but at least I'll read 'em! I'll tell you what - I'll make a deal. If we can get that high, whoever is the 10th reviewer gets a ficlet, whatever pairing and rating they want. If you wonder what I mean by a ficlet, check out my Live Journal *plugplugplug* where, I'm likely to post them. And, no, it's not bribery! *whistles innocently*
***
One
***
So, what do you do when you realise that the sky is green and the grass is blue? That the sun is cold and snow is warm? That Chocolate Frogs are disgusting and broccoli is nice? That the guy you think you hate is a guy you think is hot?
None of this confusions are something I would wish upon anyone. They are *wrong*, in every sense of the word. They go against the grain; hell, they go against an entire belief system.
So why should *I* have to suffer at the hands of such a conundrum?
And, no, it's not the broccoli one!
So, what do you do when you suddenly realise one of the people you hate most on the entire planet is hot? Should you examine it? Should you ignore it? Should you confront him, or run away? Should you wonder when the bloody hell you started looking at guys like that anyway?!
Well, for me it was a healthy diet of denial. 'Cause, as I told myself at the time, there's nothing wrong with noticing a person's attractive. It doesn't mean you want to do anything about it. Hell, I'd even noticed Harry's looks in the past. Okay, I was only inspired to think about it after hearing Hermione going on and on relentlessly about this little lock of hair he's always pushing behind his ear that always flits back in front of his eye after approximately 2.5 seconds. And, yeah, don't worry, I laughed until I cried when she told me that last little detail.
She gave me a dead arm, incidentally. That girl has a right hook...
Now, just because your hormone-riddled body reacts to close proximity *one time* does not mean anything! It's all part of the hazardous existence of being a teenager. We make mistakes, bad judgement calls, we nurse broken- hearts on a regular basis and bounce back with a vengeance, and it's just another normal day in the land of the Raging Horn.
And so I quite happily went about my ways, forgetting the 'incident' and floating through my lessons, and hanging out with my friends, and trying to pretend I didn't notice being mentally-undressed by Lavender Brown and everything was fine. Until Quidditch season started.
That particular day Harry was already changed when I got to the locker room and sat on one of the benches, staring at nothing. We'd had one practice so far but things were already looking good. Harry, having the most experience, having been on the team the longest, had been awarded Captaincy. Heh, won't bother going into that. There's never much point mentioning how good Harry is. Like you don't already know. And that's getting away from the story, anyway. Right, so, I find Harry in the locker room, having a staring competition with the wall, and looking set to win...
***
"You all right, mate?" I asked casually, not especially bothered by his 'spiritual absence' (as Hermione calls it) from the room. Don't get me wrong, he's my best friend and all, but it's not uncommon to find Harry acting a little ...out-of-sorts. Once he goes into Cuckoo Land, he's there for a two week vacation.
He blinked, (I wondered how long it had been since he'd done that), and started a little. Obviously hadn't noticed me come in. Even though the door was right in front of him. He looked up at me, squinting slightly despite his glasses being in place, and, well...
He blushed. Bright red.
He mumbled something, possibly "Yeah, m'okay!" or "Whatever you say!" and couldn't get out of there fast enough.
My first thought was, naturally, 'Hmmm, interrupted some little internal fantasy there.'
My second thought was 'I wonder who the lucky girl was.'
This was closely followed by a rather protective 'It bloody better be Hermione.'
Then, after a pause, 'Ewwww, I do *not* want to think about that.'
So, shaking thoughts of my two *sibling*-like friends out of my head, I shrugged out of my school robes and tugged on my Quidditch practice robes over a pair of old slacks and a Weasley jumper (one of Bill's old ones, oddly enough).
The others came through as I was adjusting my practice robe. We don't work out in the Gryffindor Team uniforms, so we don't scuzz 'em up. Which means we usually just pull practice robes on over whatever we're wearing. Which means less actual 'getting changed'. Which meant Lavender decided to forego the girl's locker room and get changed in ours. McGonagall forbids it before the games but she's not there every practice.
So, as usual, Lavender stationed herself by the door so I'd have to get past her to get out. I didn't miss the pout when she noticed I was already changed and it's certainly hard to miss her tugging off her impossibly tight tee-shirt to reveal yet another cleavage-enhancing, inappropriate-for- sports bra, this time a nice racy black number. She has more bras than I have socks.
I don't know why she's determined to 'snag' me. I'm not her type, in that I can have independent thoughts and express them, including ones that don't revolve around how wonderful she looks. Not that she doesn't look wonderful, but she's a little bit forthright for me. Seamus Finnigan and Dennis Creevey, her fellow Chasers, always appreciate her little displays though. They were drooling all over her as I left, not that she could give a damn. I don't know, maybe she enjoys the chase or something. It would certainly fit in with her Quidditch position...
The appointment of our current Chasers was a rather daring and much criticised move by Harry, that turned out to be a stroke of genius. That nervous energy on the ground Seamus and Dennis so often exhibit is multiplied several times over by the freedom allowed by broomsticks and Lavender adds a sense of controlled grace that compliments them completely. Basically, they buzz about like flies trapped in a jar and she follows them, making sure they don't slip up and saving them if they do.
So I waved and gave an absent smile, leaving Lavender to sulk and Seamus and Dennis to slobber, and marched out to the pitch to find Harry.
He was already in the air. Not unusual, he'd been denied flying over the summer, he took every opportunity to do so... But that's just it. He wasn't flying so much as... *hovering* in mid-air.
Yeah, I said Harry goes in Cuckoo Land a lot, but *never* on a broomstick. That's, like, the only place where he can actually make Cuckoo Land real. I don't know, it's just his *place*. Where he *belongs*. He'd left me in the locker room about ten minutes ago, by now he should be completely absorbed in the task at hand; swooping, looping, diving, *flying*. Not sat on his broomstick like it was no different than the bench I'd found him on, day-dreaming.
So I kicked off from the ground, headed towards him. This time he saw me coming - something about being in the air, those Seeker skills kick in, nothing gets past him.
When I reach him, he's smiling and waiting to hear what I have to say. Anyone who didn't know him half as well I as do might have thought everything was in fact fine. Those among you who consider themselves more astute might have noticed the barely-there haze of pain in the eyes and asked what was wrong. But I did know him half as well I did, no, that's not right, you know what I mean, I knew him *really* well, and I recognised that smile.
Last time I'd seen it was in Diagon Alley when we'd been hounded by some representatives (or should I say *harpies*) from Teen Witch Weekly, desperate for an interview with the Great Harry Potter. It surfaced a lot during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. It's kinda permanent whenever Colin's around. (Yep, that kid's still not over him...)
Basically, that smile appears when he's feeling exposed, when he's on guard, but trying to remain polite. When he's trying to hide something.
So what, may you ask, was he hiding from me?
Well, I did just that. Ask, that is. Obviously I didn't accuse him of hiding something, but I tried to make it clear I wasn't born yesterday.
"What's on your mind?"
"Not much."
Cue for a good joke, if ever I heard one, but now was not the time.
"*Something* is."
He looked at me slowly. That seems odd when you consider he was already turned towards me. But it's like the shutters on his eyes, placed firmly there along with that fake smile, pulled back, that haze of pain lifted for a moment and he peered around it all to study me.
I sat back and let him. I guessed he needed a second to decide whether to tell me whatever it was he wasn't telling me. It's like he needs a second to weigh a person up before he reveals anything that could hurt them or him. Even if he knows that person like the back of his hand, he needs that second to just *make sure*.
Yep, gnawing his lip, he's ready to spill. You get to know these signs
"*You guys done with your little love-in*?!"
I don't know how she manages to be that loud, sometimes. But Lavender sure broke the moment.
"Coming."
Another chance for a joke there, considering the question it was a response to, but I remained silent as Harry, who barely raised his voice despite the distance between us and who he was addressing, studied me for one second longer and then swerved gracefully around and headed for the rest of the team.
***
So Harry was being weird. Not the biggest news story in the world. Unless you're Rita Skeeter.
...You're not, are you? Rita Skeeter, I mean. 'Cause I've been hearing about her using all sorts of disguises now the whole bug thing's been shot to hell by Hermione.
But you're not, right? Good, because I really don't want this getting broadcast all over the place.
Now I've gotten side-tracked.
Oh yeah, Harry being weird. But he was, like, a second from telling me what was on his mind. So he was no doubt going to tell me later. No point in getting mad at Lavender or anything, I think you're over-estimating my temper. Besides, it's difficult to be mad on a broom, sailing through the air, enjoying the breeze in your hair...
So, I concentrated on practice, trying to forget the look on Lavender's face when we flew over which implied she wouldn't mind walking in on me and Harry partaking in some sort of "love-in", especially if it involved gratuitous nudity, and let thoughts of Harry and soon-to-be revealed secrets fall to the back of my mind.
It wasn't until Harry had dished out his post-practice advice ("Dean, you need to be more ruthless, you've got the power, use it! Dennis, try to actually stay on your broom!") that I thought to corner him.
***
"What's up, mate?"
This elicited a non-committal "Hmm?" from him, so I tried again.
"Seems like earlier you were gonna say something."
That's my best friend - it only takes the slightest bit of prompting before he realises what's actually going on in a conversation.
"Oh yeah..." Now he looked uncomfortable.
I waited for a second, giving him a chance to speak.
Okay, make that a bit more than 'slightest bit of prompting' when it comes to getting him on track.
"You gonna tell me then?" Nice gentle tone of voice, something I learned from my mum when she was trying to get me to rat on the twins.
"Oh, it's nothing important, really, or I would have said, right? And I didn't. Because I got interrupted. But it wasn't that important any way. Don't worry. Really. It's not important. Really."
He managed to say all that without taking a single breath.
Pursed lips, raised eyebrow, arms folded. Another trick I learnt from my mum, usually performed after I'd tried to convince her that *no* the twins weren't up to something and *no* I wasn't involved.
Works like a charm.
"It's just..." Here he remembered to breathe. Seems he can't breathe and talk at the same time though, so there was a nice lengthy pause. Honestly, he looks like a guilty school boy when he tries to lie to me. Which he doesn't do very often at all.
But, like I said, it's difficult to be angry when you're flying or have just flown so I had all the patience in the world.
"Well, Hermione and I wanted to talk to you and I -*HERMIONE*!"
I blinked at that, unsure why he was yelling in my face.
"Crap, I'm late, I have to, can you put the stuff, I gotta, so late, hope she's not..."
He'd forgotten to breathe again but he'd sped off before I got a chance to remind him to do so. On his Firebolt. Which suggested he was rather late for something rather important. And still in his sweaty practice robes. Which suggested whatever they planned to do didn't involve many clothes.
Eww, eww and ewwwww.
Singing a song I'd heard Dean sing about five bottles and being at the bottom of words or something at the top of my lungs to get *those* images out of my head, I heaved up the case with all the equipment in and started lugging it towards the storage shed. It's got a minor levitation charm worked into it to make it lighter, but not by much and those Bludgers don't half struggle to get out, so it took me a while before everything was back where it should be.
The locker room was empty bar one person when I got back to change. I think by that point, with the elation of flying worn off and my back hurting from carrying a case that should always be handled by two people, I wasn't in the best mood to deal with any kind of situation that didn't involve a nice comfy armchair and a bar of Honeyduke's finest. That's the excuse I'm going with.
Of course, you *know* it was *him*, why do I need to bother telling you? I think at that moment I would have preferred Lavender jumping me with hand- cuffs and a can of whipped cream, hell, I would have preferred *Seamus* jumping me, but I wasn't in any state of mind to deal with Malfoy sauntering around *our* locker room as if he owned the place.
He kicked delicately at Dennis' robes, left in a pile on the floor as usual, and then raised his eyes to mine, head still down-turned. Looking though his eyelashes. Makes the sap look like a girl.
"Earning a bit of extra cash, Weasley, tidying up after your team mates?"
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?"
God, it's stupid, isn't it, how we always spit out each other's names, as if we don't know them or like some sort of backwards greeting.
"I was just checking to see who had the pitch booked for tomorrow afternoon." Said as if I should already know that.
"I suggest you try Madam Hooch. Her office is just off of the Great Hall." Words polite, voice not. It's amazing how a person can make themselves articulate when their teeth are grinding together hard enough to wear away the enamel.
"And, when I checked there, I was informed she was here." Again as if I should be aware of that. Or at least not question him. He always does his best to make me feel like an idiot. Didn't work though.
I wasn't even aware until I found myself standing over Dennis' robes that we were circling each other. I instinctively reached down to snatch them up, thinking they needed to be sanitised as soon as possible if Malfoy had touched them, and a triumphant smirk slithered onto his face.
"You really do make a good little house elf, don't you, Weasley." Not a question, a statement.
And then I kinda did feel like an idiot, for validating his earlier insult. And my temper began to spark.
"Well, Hooch isn't here, so you can piss off, can't you?"
He smirked some more (I don't think he can smile for real, it's like a disease, those muscles don't seem to work properly on any Malfoy) and cocked his head slightly, somehow managing to give off the impression that I was great entertainment and making me feel about five years old.
I stomped past him, ignoring the urge to lash out. Age does mellow and I don't need someone holding me back to stop myself getting a detention any more. Dennis' robes were thrown forcefully into the never-ending laundry basket, I pulled open my locker with as much force as I could without letting the door slam loudly against its neighbour and my school robe was yanked out. I'd shower and change my slacks and jumper up in Gryffindor Tower, I didn't want to do either with him still lurking around. Which he was.
In fact, he hadn't moved, save turning to face me. I glared up at him, taking in the smirk, still entertained but not in such a patronising manner, and the closed stance, arms folded over his chest. As I watched he leant against the row of lockers and flicked his hair out of his eyes.
"Stopping now? I thought you were just discovering a new way of making money."
He nodded towards where I was unbuttoning my practice robes and it didn't take an idiot to figure out what he meant and those memories of his body against mine in Potions, that I'd gotten so good at repressing, were back with renewed vigour and I could feel myself blushing.
I was frozen as he moved forward, pushing himself away from the lockers and slinking towards me and my teeth were gritted together harder than ever and it wasn't helping because my throat was dry and I needed to swallow but I think I'd forgotten how.
And then he was looking at me through those eyelashes again, dark against pale skin and light eyes, studying me in a way I don't remember him doing before but nothing about this confrontation was going the way it was supposed to and I was tempted to risk that detention and punch him, if only to get things back on track, back to normality, when he spoke again.
"Oh, silly me." How can such an acid voice suddenly turn into a purr without its owner choking on a furball?
I stared at him, knowing I was twitching, hoping against hope he wouldn't notice, still not allowing myself to swallow.
"You've probably been doing *that* for a long time."
And the purr didn't sound so silky any more, it sounded rough and harsh and the smirk was mocking again and he was turning away and slowly, as if waiting for a reason, an excuse, to stay, he left the room.
I stood still, my hands balled in my school robes, my cheeks burning from embarrassment at the not-exactly-subtle undercurrents of the encounter, and the rage of that last insult and I let myself swallow and my throat was burning and my mouth tasted like wool and I stormed out, still in my practice robes, and I didn't want to see him and I was glad, *glad*, that he'd already gone.
***
Bastard. Funny how memories can inspire such feelings in a person, even ones from your childhood. They can scar you for life. I'll never be able to tolerate spiders, thanks to the twins. Harry hates confined spaces, thanks to the Dursleys. Hermione hasn't kept a diary since our second year, thanks to Lucius Malfoy.
And I can never look back on that little episode without getting very pissed off; at the indignation of being toyed with, at the unfairness of rules changing without my consultation, at the self-directed anger for losing control.
So I stormed back to Gryffindor Tower, spent far too long sulking and raging under a supposedly-calming shower (long enough that my toes no longer resembled anything human, rather several discoloured prunes), and decided to take up as much room in the common room as possible in an effort to spread my bad mood. After all, nothing cures the blues faster than giving it to other people. Allow me to perform an evil laugh for effect...
No? Oh, okay. If you insist, I'll get on with the story.
Harry and Hermione appeared after about half an hour of me shooting death glares at Seamus any time he tried to come near *my* couch. Harry pulled a chair over and sat down, Hermione instantly perching on the arm, Harry instinctively slipping a hand around her waist. You've all seen that pose - 'we're a couple and we're going to face this together'. All in all, I could tell it wasn't going to help my simply marvellous mood.
"Ummm, Ron, what we talking about earlier..."
It took me a second for my grumpy brain to catch up but my interest peeked as soon as I remembered the way our conversation had been left hanging.
"Yeah?"
"It's... There's been some rumours. About Ginny."
As soon as Hermione blurted this out I glanced nervously around the common room and realised for the first time she wasn't anywhere to be seen. Hey, I'm not a bad brother, honest, but she has her own life (however frustrating I may find that fact) and I was doing the teenage self-obsessed pissed off thing.
"Rumours?" I narrowed my eyes, trying to guess from their expressions what they were getting at. How come *I* hadn't heard these rumours?
They shared one of those glances, one of those should-we-tell-him glances that gossiping girls always use, only they're more enthusiastic about it. My two closest friends actually looked rather ill. I could feel myself going pale, sweat breaking out on my forehead. Was she in trouble? Was it You-Know-Who? Had he found another way of getting to her? 'Cause she was my sister and he wasn't getting without a fight and...
And, in frustratingly halted sentences, they told me.
"Well, if the rumours are to be believed, and nothing suggests they should be..."
"It's just, Ginny, she's..."
"She's supposed to be involved with..."
"Well, she's seeing someone..."
And, somehow, before they even told me, I knew it was Malfoy.
***************
Taadaa. Hope you likey. Extra points for whoever guesses what the hell Ron is trying to sing. Come on lucky number 10!
Author - Elladora Ketteridge
Rating - R, for later chapters
Disclaimer - I don't own them. *a la Dusty* I'm just wishin, and hoping...
Notes - Thank you for all the wonderful reviews. God, I'm so flattered, they were so supportive. Come on, who doesn't love stuff like that? And, of course, constructive criticism is always welcome. Flames will be read too. And promptly mocked, but at least I'll read 'em! I'll tell you what - I'll make a deal. If we can get that high, whoever is the 10th reviewer gets a ficlet, whatever pairing and rating they want. If you wonder what I mean by a ficlet, check out my Live Journal *plugplugplug* where, I'm likely to post them. And, no, it's not bribery! *whistles innocently*
***
One
***
So, what do you do when you realise that the sky is green and the grass is blue? That the sun is cold and snow is warm? That Chocolate Frogs are disgusting and broccoli is nice? That the guy you think you hate is a guy you think is hot?
None of this confusions are something I would wish upon anyone. They are *wrong*, in every sense of the word. They go against the grain; hell, they go against an entire belief system.
So why should *I* have to suffer at the hands of such a conundrum?
And, no, it's not the broccoli one!
So, what do you do when you suddenly realise one of the people you hate most on the entire planet is hot? Should you examine it? Should you ignore it? Should you confront him, or run away? Should you wonder when the bloody hell you started looking at guys like that anyway?!
Well, for me it was a healthy diet of denial. 'Cause, as I told myself at the time, there's nothing wrong with noticing a person's attractive. It doesn't mean you want to do anything about it. Hell, I'd even noticed Harry's looks in the past. Okay, I was only inspired to think about it after hearing Hermione going on and on relentlessly about this little lock of hair he's always pushing behind his ear that always flits back in front of his eye after approximately 2.5 seconds. And, yeah, don't worry, I laughed until I cried when she told me that last little detail.
She gave me a dead arm, incidentally. That girl has a right hook...
Now, just because your hormone-riddled body reacts to close proximity *one time* does not mean anything! It's all part of the hazardous existence of being a teenager. We make mistakes, bad judgement calls, we nurse broken- hearts on a regular basis and bounce back with a vengeance, and it's just another normal day in the land of the Raging Horn.
And so I quite happily went about my ways, forgetting the 'incident' and floating through my lessons, and hanging out with my friends, and trying to pretend I didn't notice being mentally-undressed by Lavender Brown and everything was fine. Until Quidditch season started.
That particular day Harry was already changed when I got to the locker room and sat on one of the benches, staring at nothing. We'd had one practice so far but things were already looking good. Harry, having the most experience, having been on the team the longest, had been awarded Captaincy. Heh, won't bother going into that. There's never much point mentioning how good Harry is. Like you don't already know. And that's getting away from the story, anyway. Right, so, I find Harry in the locker room, having a staring competition with the wall, and looking set to win...
***
"You all right, mate?" I asked casually, not especially bothered by his 'spiritual absence' (as Hermione calls it) from the room. Don't get me wrong, he's my best friend and all, but it's not uncommon to find Harry acting a little ...out-of-sorts. Once he goes into Cuckoo Land, he's there for a two week vacation.
He blinked, (I wondered how long it had been since he'd done that), and started a little. Obviously hadn't noticed me come in. Even though the door was right in front of him. He looked up at me, squinting slightly despite his glasses being in place, and, well...
He blushed. Bright red.
He mumbled something, possibly "Yeah, m'okay!" or "Whatever you say!" and couldn't get out of there fast enough.
My first thought was, naturally, 'Hmmm, interrupted some little internal fantasy there.'
My second thought was 'I wonder who the lucky girl was.'
This was closely followed by a rather protective 'It bloody better be Hermione.'
Then, after a pause, 'Ewwww, I do *not* want to think about that.'
So, shaking thoughts of my two *sibling*-like friends out of my head, I shrugged out of my school robes and tugged on my Quidditch practice robes over a pair of old slacks and a Weasley jumper (one of Bill's old ones, oddly enough).
The others came through as I was adjusting my practice robe. We don't work out in the Gryffindor Team uniforms, so we don't scuzz 'em up. Which means we usually just pull practice robes on over whatever we're wearing. Which means less actual 'getting changed'. Which meant Lavender decided to forego the girl's locker room and get changed in ours. McGonagall forbids it before the games but she's not there every practice.
So, as usual, Lavender stationed herself by the door so I'd have to get past her to get out. I didn't miss the pout when she noticed I was already changed and it's certainly hard to miss her tugging off her impossibly tight tee-shirt to reveal yet another cleavage-enhancing, inappropriate-for- sports bra, this time a nice racy black number. She has more bras than I have socks.
I don't know why she's determined to 'snag' me. I'm not her type, in that I can have independent thoughts and express them, including ones that don't revolve around how wonderful she looks. Not that she doesn't look wonderful, but she's a little bit forthright for me. Seamus Finnigan and Dennis Creevey, her fellow Chasers, always appreciate her little displays though. They were drooling all over her as I left, not that she could give a damn. I don't know, maybe she enjoys the chase or something. It would certainly fit in with her Quidditch position...
The appointment of our current Chasers was a rather daring and much criticised move by Harry, that turned out to be a stroke of genius. That nervous energy on the ground Seamus and Dennis so often exhibit is multiplied several times over by the freedom allowed by broomsticks and Lavender adds a sense of controlled grace that compliments them completely. Basically, they buzz about like flies trapped in a jar and she follows them, making sure they don't slip up and saving them if they do.
So I waved and gave an absent smile, leaving Lavender to sulk and Seamus and Dennis to slobber, and marched out to the pitch to find Harry.
He was already in the air. Not unusual, he'd been denied flying over the summer, he took every opportunity to do so... But that's just it. He wasn't flying so much as... *hovering* in mid-air.
Yeah, I said Harry goes in Cuckoo Land a lot, but *never* on a broomstick. That's, like, the only place where he can actually make Cuckoo Land real. I don't know, it's just his *place*. Where he *belongs*. He'd left me in the locker room about ten minutes ago, by now he should be completely absorbed in the task at hand; swooping, looping, diving, *flying*. Not sat on his broomstick like it was no different than the bench I'd found him on, day-dreaming.
So I kicked off from the ground, headed towards him. This time he saw me coming - something about being in the air, those Seeker skills kick in, nothing gets past him.
When I reach him, he's smiling and waiting to hear what I have to say. Anyone who didn't know him half as well I as do might have thought everything was in fact fine. Those among you who consider themselves more astute might have noticed the barely-there haze of pain in the eyes and asked what was wrong. But I did know him half as well I did, no, that's not right, you know what I mean, I knew him *really* well, and I recognised that smile.
Last time I'd seen it was in Diagon Alley when we'd been hounded by some representatives (or should I say *harpies*) from Teen Witch Weekly, desperate for an interview with the Great Harry Potter. It surfaced a lot during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. It's kinda permanent whenever Colin's around. (Yep, that kid's still not over him...)
Basically, that smile appears when he's feeling exposed, when he's on guard, but trying to remain polite. When he's trying to hide something.
So what, may you ask, was he hiding from me?
Well, I did just that. Ask, that is. Obviously I didn't accuse him of hiding something, but I tried to make it clear I wasn't born yesterday.
"What's on your mind?"
"Not much."
Cue for a good joke, if ever I heard one, but now was not the time.
"*Something* is."
He looked at me slowly. That seems odd when you consider he was already turned towards me. But it's like the shutters on his eyes, placed firmly there along with that fake smile, pulled back, that haze of pain lifted for a moment and he peered around it all to study me.
I sat back and let him. I guessed he needed a second to decide whether to tell me whatever it was he wasn't telling me. It's like he needs a second to weigh a person up before he reveals anything that could hurt them or him. Even if he knows that person like the back of his hand, he needs that second to just *make sure*.
Yep, gnawing his lip, he's ready to spill. You get to know these signs
"*You guys done with your little love-in*?!"
I don't know how she manages to be that loud, sometimes. But Lavender sure broke the moment.
"Coming."
Another chance for a joke there, considering the question it was a response to, but I remained silent as Harry, who barely raised his voice despite the distance between us and who he was addressing, studied me for one second longer and then swerved gracefully around and headed for the rest of the team.
***
So Harry was being weird. Not the biggest news story in the world. Unless you're Rita Skeeter.
...You're not, are you? Rita Skeeter, I mean. 'Cause I've been hearing about her using all sorts of disguises now the whole bug thing's been shot to hell by Hermione.
But you're not, right? Good, because I really don't want this getting broadcast all over the place.
Now I've gotten side-tracked.
Oh yeah, Harry being weird. But he was, like, a second from telling me what was on his mind. So he was no doubt going to tell me later. No point in getting mad at Lavender or anything, I think you're over-estimating my temper. Besides, it's difficult to be mad on a broom, sailing through the air, enjoying the breeze in your hair...
So, I concentrated on practice, trying to forget the look on Lavender's face when we flew over which implied she wouldn't mind walking in on me and Harry partaking in some sort of "love-in", especially if it involved gratuitous nudity, and let thoughts of Harry and soon-to-be revealed secrets fall to the back of my mind.
It wasn't until Harry had dished out his post-practice advice ("Dean, you need to be more ruthless, you've got the power, use it! Dennis, try to actually stay on your broom!") that I thought to corner him.
***
"What's up, mate?"
This elicited a non-committal "Hmm?" from him, so I tried again.
"Seems like earlier you were gonna say something."
That's my best friend - it only takes the slightest bit of prompting before he realises what's actually going on in a conversation.
"Oh yeah..." Now he looked uncomfortable.
I waited for a second, giving him a chance to speak.
Okay, make that a bit more than 'slightest bit of prompting' when it comes to getting him on track.
"You gonna tell me then?" Nice gentle tone of voice, something I learned from my mum when she was trying to get me to rat on the twins.
"Oh, it's nothing important, really, or I would have said, right? And I didn't. Because I got interrupted. But it wasn't that important any way. Don't worry. Really. It's not important. Really."
He managed to say all that without taking a single breath.
Pursed lips, raised eyebrow, arms folded. Another trick I learnt from my mum, usually performed after I'd tried to convince her that *no* the twins weren't up to something and *no* I wasn't involved.
Works like a charm.
"It's just..." Here he remembered to breathe. Seems he can't breathe and talk at the same time though, so there was a nice lengthy pause. Honestly, he looks like a guilty school boy when he tries to lie to me. Which he doesn't do very often at all.
But, like I said, it's difficult to be angry when you're flying or have just flown so I had all the patience in the world.
"Well, Hermione and I wanted to talk to you and I -*HERMIONE*!"
I blinked at that, unsure why he was yelling in my face.
"Crap, I'm late, I have to, can you put the stuff, I gotta, so late, hope she's not..."
He'd forgotten to breathe again but he'd sped off before I got a chance to remind him to do so. On his Firebolt. Which suggested he was rather late for something rather important. And still in his sweaty practice robes. Which suggested whatever they planned to do didn't involve many clothes.
Eww, eww and ewwwww.
Singing a song I'd heard Dean sing about five bottles and being at the bottom of words or something at the top of my lungs to get *those* images out of my head, I heaved up the case with all the equipment in and started lugging it towards the storage shed. It's got a minor levitation charm worked into it to make it lighter, but not by much and those Bludgers don't half struggle to get out, so it took me a while before everything was back where it should be.
The locker room was empty bar one person when I got back to change. I think by that point, with the elation of flying worn off and my back hurting from carrying a case that should always be handled by two people, I wasn't in the best mood to deal with any kind of situation that didn't involve a nice comfy armchair and a bar of Honeyduke's finest. That's the excuse I'm going with.
Of course, you *know* it was *him*, why do I need to bother telling you? I think at that moment I would have preferred Lavender jumping me with hand- cuffs and a can of whipped cream, hell, I would have preferred *Seamus* jumping me, but I wasn't in any state of mind to deal with Malfoy sauntering around *our* locker room as if he owned the place.
He kicked delicately at Dennis' robes, left in a pile on the floor as usual, and then raised his eyes to mine, head still down-turned. Looking though his eyelashes. Makes the sap look like a girl.
"Earning a bit of extra cash, Weasley, tidying up after your team mates?"
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?"
God, it's stupid, isn't it, how we always spit out each other's names, as if we don't know them or like some sort of backwards greeting.
"I was just checking to see who had the pitch booked for tomorrow afternoon." Said as if I should already know that.
"I suggest you try Madam Hooch. Her office is just off of the Great Hall." Words polite, voice not. It's amazing how a person can make themselves articulate when their teeth are grinding together hard enough to wear away the enamel.
"And, when I checked there, I was informed she was here." Again as if I should be aware of that. Or at least not question him. He always does his best to make me feel like an idiot. Didn't work though.
I wasn't even aware until I found myself standing over Dennis' robes that we were circling each other. I instinctively reached down to snatch them up, thinking they needed to be sanitised as soon as possible if Malfoy had touched them, and a triumphant smirk slithered onto his face.
"You really do make a good little house elf, don't you, Weasley." Not a question, a statement.
And then I kinda did feel like an idiot, for validating his earlier insult. And my temper began to spark.
"Well, Hooch isn't here, so you can piss off, can't you?"
He smirked some more (I don't think he can smile for real, it's like a disease, those muscles don't seem to work properly on any Malfoy) and cocked his head slightly, somehow managing to give off the impression that I was great entertainment and making me feel about five years old.
I stomped past him, ignoring the urge to lash out. Age does mellow and I don't need someone holding me back to stop myself getting a detention any more. Dennis' robes were thrown forcefully into the never-ending laundry basket, I pulled open my locker with as much force as I could without letting the door slam loudly against its neighbour and my school robe was yanked out. I'd shower and change my slacks and jumper up in Gryffindor Tower, I didn't want to do either with him still lurking around. Which he was.
In fact, he hadn't moved, save turning to face me. I glared up at him, taking in the smirk, still entertained but not in such a patronising manner, and the closed stance, arms folded over his chest. As I watched he leant against the row of lockers and flicked his hair out of his eyes.
"Stopping now? I thought you were just discovering a new way of making money."
He nodded towards where I was unbuttoning my practice robes and it didn't take an idiot to figure out what he meant and those memories of his body against mine in Potions, that I'd gotten so good at repressing, were back with renewed vigour and I could feel myself blushing.
I was frozen as he moved forward, pushing himself away from the lockers and slinking towards me and my teeth were gritted together harder than ever and it wasn't helping because my throat was dry and I needed to swallow but I think I'd forgotten how.
And then he was looking at me through those eyelashes again, dark against pale skin and light eyes, studying me in a way I don't remember him doing before but nothing about this confrontation was going the way it was supposed to and I was tempted to risk that detention and punch him, if only to get things back on track, back to normality, when he spoke again.
"Oh, silly me." How can such an acid voice suddenly turn into a purr without its owner choking on a furball?
I stared at him, knowing I was twitching, hoping against hope he wouldn't notice, still not allowing myself to swallow.
"You've probably been doing *that* for a long time."
And the purr didn't sound so silky any more, it sounded rough and harsh and the smirk was mocking again and he was turning away and slowly, as if waiting for a reason, an excuse, to stay, he left the room.
I stood still, my hands balled in my school robes, my cheeks burning from embarrassment at the not-exactly-subtle undercurrents of the encounter, and the rage of that last insult and I let myself swallow and my throat was burning and my mouth tasted like wool and I stormed out, still in my practice robes, and I didn't want to see him and I was glad, *glad*, that he'd already gone.
***
Bastard. Funny how memories can inspire such feelings in a person, even ones from your childhood. They can scar you for life. I'll never be able to tolerate spiders, thanks to the twins. Harry hates confined spaces, thanks to the Dursleys. Hermione hasn't kept a diary since our second year, thanks to Lucius Malfoy.
And I can never look back on that little episode without getting very pissed off; at the indignation of being toyed with, at the unfairness of rules changing without my consultation, at the self-directed anger for losing control.
So I stormed back to Gryffindor Tower, spent far too long sulking and raging under a supposedly-calming shower (long enough that my toes no longer resembled anything human, rather several discoloured prunes), and decided to take up as much room in the common room as possible in an effort to spread my bad mood. After all, nothing cures the blues faster than giving it to other people. Allow me to perform an evil laugh for effect...
No? Oh, okay. If you insist, I'll get on with the story.
Harry and Hermione appeared after about half an hour of me shooting death glares at Seamus any time he tried to come near *my* couch. Harry pulled a chair over and sat down, Hermione instantly perching on the arm, Harry instinctively slipping a hand around her waist. You've all seen that pose - 'we're a couple and we're going to face this together'. All in all, I could tell it wasn't going to help my simply marvellous mood.
"Ummm, Ron, what we talking about earlier..."
It took me a second for my grumpy brain to catch up but my interest peeked as soon as I remembered the way our conversation had been left hanging.
"Yeah?"
"It's... There's been some rumours. About Ginny."
As soon as Hermione blurted this out I glanced nervously around the common room and realised for the first time she wasn't anywhere to be seen. Hey, I'm not a bad brother, honest, but she has her own life (however frustrating I may find that fact) and I was doing the teenage self-obsessed pissed off thing.
"Rumours?" I narrowed my eyes, trying to guess from their expressions what they were getting at. How come *I* hadn't heard these rumours?
They shared one of those glances, one of those should-we-tell-him glances that gossiping girls always use, only they're more enthusiastic about it. My two closest friends actually looked rather ill. I could feel myself going pale, sweat breaking out on my forehead. Was she in trouble? Was it You-Know-Who? Had he found another way of getting to her? 'Cause she was my sister and he wasn't getting without a fight and...
And, in frustratingly halted sentences, they told me.
"Well, if the rumours are to be believed, and nothing suggests they should be..."
"It's just, Ginny, she's..."
"She's supposed to be involved with..."
"Well, she's seeing someone..."
And, somehow, before they even told me, I knew it was Malfoy.
***************
Taadaa. Hope you likey. Extra points for whoever guesses what the hell Ron is trying to sing. Come on lucky number 10!