A/N: I am a terrible person. Both for taking this long to update and for the killer ending of this chapter. Forgive me, lovely readers. I love you! I really do! I promise I will try to have chapter 10 up sooner than this one was.

Chapter Nine: The Top of the Stairs

It was November 13th when Francis noticed the ring.

He and Arthur were walking down to Potions together, arguing as usual, when Francis suddenly stopped dead and grabbed his hand, pulling it close to his face for inspection.

"What is this?" he asked, twisting the ring on Arthur's finger. Arthur just shot him a confused glance and then quickly looked away, down at the floor as though he needed anywhere to stare at but Francis's face.

"Er- just a ring," he said, a little too quickly. Francis nodded suspiciously, still waiting for a better explanation, but Arthur didn't give him one. He realized that he was still holding the Brit's hand after a minute, and quickly let it drop.

They walked the rest of the way to the Potions classroom together, not bickering like usual, but in comfortable silence. They weren't even shooting rude remarks back and forth for once. Quite honestly, it was weird. But then again, thought Francis, also enjoyable.

Francis held open the door, and Arthur walked inside, sitting down at one of the desks in the very back row and glancing back at him over his shoulder with a smirk.

"Why do you do that?" he asked as Francis took the spot next to him. Francis looked at him confusedly.

"Er... Quoi?" he replied blankly. Arthur rolled his eyes and leaned over to dig in his bag for his Potions book, muttering under his breath to no one in particular, as he always did when he was looking for something. Francis tried not to focus on the way his slim body turned easily toward the floor, twisting so gracefully, but Francis quickly snapped himself out of it as soon as his mind took that position and put a bed beneath it. He really did not need to slip down the gutter right now—

"Every day, you hold open the door for me when we come in here. Why?" Arthur prompted again, pausing his search to look up at Francis expectantly. His green eyes shimmered; gold at the center, deep silver-green at the outside and the color of beautiful, pure emeralds everywhere in between. Suddenly they seemed brighter than usual...

Dieu, why the hell was Francis so distracted today? For what he hoped was the last time, he threw himself none too gently back into the present and remembered what he'd just been about to say.

"I guess it's just habit," Francis shrugged. Arthur looked at him with those brilliant green eyes for a moment longer before sighing and turning back to his quest for the Potions book. Francis watched him, again clinging to the edge of the gutter so as not to let himself go too far right here in the classroom—save that for the shower, he thought absentmindedly. But then again, with the way Arthur was so spread out under his gaze, his legs parted around the chair as he bent down toward the floor... he was just begging Francis to dive into that gutter and never emerge. And so Francis did. He started pounding Mental Arthur into the floor.

"AHA!"

Francis jumped, jolted out of his fantasy by Real Arthur's cry of victory and saying a quick prayer that he wasn't too obviously flushed. But if the look on Arthur's face was any indication, Francis's plea had fallen to deaf ears.

"Y-you're undressing me with your fucking eyes, you bloody frog!" Arthur spluttered, torn between indignation and horror.

You have no idea, replied Francis's dirty mind with a smirk. All it had heard of that sentence was the word fucking. Meanwhile, the rational part of Francis tried to calm his blush and quiet his breathing.

Arthur quickly sat upright and scooted away from that perverted frog, shooting him glances every once in a while to make sure he wasn't going to suddenly jump over and rape him right there in the classroom. But then again... Arthur bent over his book as the seats around them slowly filled, shaking his head to ward off the sudden and extremely disturbing notion that he might actually enjoy it.

"Arthur?"

Francis's voice made him look up, only to see that suddenly everyone was getting up and leaving again. He felt a little dazed, as though there was something he had missed, and shook his head to try and clear the weird, sluggish sensation. The only other thing he was clearly aware of was the warm, sticky wetness all over his hands and splattered up his arms. But when he looked, nothing was there.

"W-what?" Arthur asked as the last of the other students filed out of the classroom. He felt as though he'd just gotten up out of bed from a very heavy sleep. Francis looked at him with mild concern.

"Are you alright, cher?" Francis asked, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and looking into his green eyes, now with true worry. "What's wrong?"

"N-nothing, I'm fine," Arthur replied shakily, feeling the fog begin to clear a bit. "Must've dozed off in class..."

Francis looked on but didn't reply as his friend gathered his books, grabbed his bag, and together they headed out the door.

Arthur's head throbbed.

He was slumped next to Patrick in study hall, Gil and Francis sitting across from him and occasionally muttering to each other as they conspired to make up believable answers on the Herbology assignment handed out last Wednesday. Normally he would have been mocking them on not knowing the real answers in the first place, but at the moment, he was in pain.

It felt as though he'd taken a full-blown bludger to the head, pounding in time with the beat of his heart. The headache had found its way behind his eyes, making him see odd, fuzzy blue-black stars on the edges of his vision and messing up his sense of balance totally. Arthur jammed his thumb into his temple, shutting his eyes against the pressure and closing his book hopelessly. Francis and Patrick looked up at the sudden, un-Arthurish movement.

"You really should go to the hospital wing," Patrick said quietly. "Honestly, mate, if you're feeling this bad..."

Arthur shook his head. "I'd rather not end up imprisoned there for the next three weeks of my life, thanks," he said flatly, before opening his eyes and looking at Patrick honestly. "You know what Madam Pomfrey's like."

Well, Patrick couldn't disagree with that.

Francis reached across the table and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur, you should at least lay down for a while," he murmured, looking into his green eyes to find them dulled. "There's half an hour left before dinner, and McGonagall said we could leave early." He touched the Brit's hand gently. "Come on."

Arthur sighed and nodded, tucking his books back into his bag. Francis couldn't help but notice that he'd seemed a little reluctant to pull his hand away. "Alright, frog," he muttered.

Francis stood up and went to tell Professor McGonagall that they were leaving, and when he returned, Arthur was standing at the end of the table, waiting for him with the familiar smirk in place. Well, some things would never change.

"Thanks," Arthur murmured quietly as Francis joined him. "I-I just... thanks."

"Any time," Francis replied warmly, closing the door to the study room behind them and taking Arthur's bag for him, slinging it onto his own shoulder instead.

"Hey, wait, Francis—you don't have to—"

Francis cut him off. "You've got a headache, your balance doesn't appear to be the greatest right now, and the bag would make it worse. The last thing I want is for you to fall down the stairs and break your neck."

Arthur smiled a little, nodding resignedly. "True enough," he muttered as they started on the next set of stairs, and he held onto the rail 'just in case'. The truth was that he honestly didn't want him to fall and break his neck, either. After that, neither Francis nor Arthur spoke much; they just kept walking in comfortable, companionable silence for the second time that day. Even though it was odd, somehow this also seemed so... nice. It felt better than either would've expected. As much as Arthur hated to admit it, it did feel good to not be snapping at the frog for once.

And for some reason, he'd also forgotten to call Francis 'frog' a few minutes ago. He blamed the headache.

They reached the Ravenclaw common room, and Arthur eased himself down on the couch with a heavy sigh. He closed his green eyes, wishing that the pounding headache would all just go away. But then again, he could never be that lucky.

Francis set down their bags and quietly moved behind Arthur, placing his hands on the Brit's shoulders and rubbing experimentally. When Arthur didn't protest, Francis began pushing his fingers deeper, only then feeling how tense the other boy really was.

He sighed, shaking his head. "You shouldn't let your muscles knot up like this, mon cher," he said quietly, working on a particularly bad spot. "It's not healthy."

Arthur shifted his head slightly on the back of the couch, making a small, incoherent sound in the back of his throat.

"I don't ask for stress," he muttered. Francis smiled.

"No one does," he whispered quietly.

A while later, when Francis was finally done rubbing out all the knots and kinks in Arthur's neck and shoulders, he sat down on the couch next to the Brit. Arthur's eyes were closed, a small smile on his lips. The pain in his head was beginning to relent with its throbbing, now having resigned to becoming a dull ache rather than full-fledged agony.

"Thanks, frog," Arthur murmured, not bothering to open his eyes as he felt Francis settling back into the couch. He could just see the smile on Francis's face.

"You're welcome, mon ami," Francis replied. They sat in silence for a few minutes, simply enjoying each other's company, before he spoke again.

"You know, you should come to Quidditch practice tonight," Francis said thoughtfully, almost to himself. "It might do you good to get some fresh air."

Arthur chuckled, cracking open one eye to see the French boy in almost exactly the same position as he was; eyes closed, head resting back on the couch's soft cushions, his hands fallen idle in his lap. Content with the peaceful scene, Arthur shut his eye again and relaxed.

"It probably would do me good," Arthur finally said. "When's your practice?"

"It's from six to eight," Francis muttered. "I'll come get you after dinner."

"I think I'd like that," came Arthur's drowsy reply.

"We really need to get along more often," Francis laughed as he kicked off from the ground yet again.

"It certainly does make life a bit easier," a grudging Arthur replied, watching his friend speed off and pulling his robes tighter around him, wishing distantly that he'd worn a jacket.

The sun was setting on the Quidditch pitch, a cold November breeze whipping around them and tearing through the trees of the forest with a zeal. It stripped away their brightly colored leaves and sent them swirling through the chill air like brilliant paints across a canvas; winter had staked her claim on the world at long last, and she was bent on clearing the palette for other artists to come.

The other Slytherin players were all changing out for the day, tired and sweaty from a hard-run training session and eager to get out of the biting wind. Not Francis. He was still up and flying with almost as much energy as the cold gusts that had driven the rest of the team indoors, his blond waves fallen out of their low ponytail and robes billowing as he shot forward like a bullet. Arthur couldn't help but marvel at the grace of the Frenchman; he may be a frog (albeit a very steady one) on the ground, but in the sky he was a perfect swan, riding the breeze on snowy-white wings. There was simply no other comparison for it. He moved as the very wind itself.

Arthur looked on as the swan dove into the breeze, swooping upward and turning down just as quickly, only to stop his graceful fall inches from the ground in favor of launching back into the sky again. No wonder Francis had been leader of the team back at his old school, he thought incredulously, as he watched the inhuman grace of his friend's every move. He was too good to be anything besides the Captain!

Francis swerved to the right, shooting back toward Arthur, and then almost immediately turning sideways and coming to a graceful halt. He touched down lightly, smiling a real smile for once. Not a smirk, not an evil leer, a smile.

Arthur smiled too.

"I hate to admit it, but you're extremely good on that thing," Arthur called with a grin as he walked out onto the Quidditch field to meet the frog. Francis grinned back, stepping off his broomstick and running his fingertips lovingly over the worn-but-still-gleaming finish of the handle. Arthur could read the name in golden script: Nimbus Two Thousand.

"It was a gift from my sister," he murmured. "For my fourteenth birthday. The last thing she ever gave me."

Arthur's smile saddened a bit, and he stepped a little closer to Francis. "I-I'm sorry," he murmured. "About her."

Francis shrugged, though he still looked sad. "It was an accident. We were flying together, and someone thought it would be funny to bewitch the broom she was riding. It bucked her off and her neck snapped when she hit the ground."

Francis took an unsteady breath, and Arthur realized with a jolt that his blue eyes were shining with unshed tears. "She was so happy," he whispered.

His next shaky words knocked Arthur's brain out of action. "It was my birthday."

As soon as Arthur managed to recover from the shock of knowing his friend had gone through something so horrible, so devastating on a day that was supposed to be wonderful and happy, he completely abandoned all of his pride and pulled Francis into a tight hug. He felt the Frenchman's body shake a little as he cried quietly.

"I'm so sorry, Francis," Arthur whispered. He could feel his own eyes growing misty as well, but for some reason he didn't fight it.

Francis's arms found their way around him too, clinging to him like he was a lifeline to hope. And again, for some reason, Arthur didn't fight it. He didn't even want to.

For a long time they stayed like that; standing in the middle of the Quidditch field, holding each other close under the sunset. But eventually Francis took a deep breath and let go, not ashamed of the tears streaked down his face. How Arthur wished he could go without that shame.

"Merci," Francis laughed weakly. "I needed that."

"Any time," Arthur replied before he could think and decide on a less welcoming response. He pulled away from the hug, and suddenly the coldness of the wind tore through his robes in the same way it was ripping the leaves from the trees. He shivered.

"Are you cold?" Francis asked, a hint of amusement sneaking into his voice. Arthur shivered again, slapping his shoulder.

"Oh, s-shut up, frog."

Same old Arthur. Francis smiled at the thought.

"Come on," he told the Brit, who was now hugging himself against the frigid gusts of wind. "I've got a way to warm you up."

Arthur looked at him skeptically. "W-what are you p-planning, frog?" he demanded. Francis just winked, grinning as he leaned in to Arthur's ear.

"Fly with me," he breathed.

"What?" Arthur exclaimed. "No! You'll d-dump me off in t-the middle of the f-forest or something c-crazy like t-that!"

Francis wasn't deterred. "Non, cher," he murmured. "You know you want to."

"No! F-Francis, I'm n-not flying!"

"S'il vous plait? It will warm you up," Francis smirked, knowing that this was a compelling argument. Arthur glared at him for a moment, then sighed and nodded.

"F-fine," he grumbled. "Just don't k-kill me."

"Parfait!" Francis laughed, before climbing onto his Nimbus Two Thousand and then gesturing for Arthur to sit in front of him. Gingerly, Arthur slipped his leg over the broomstick and gripped the smooth handle in his fingers, noting that there were dull places from the wear of Francis's hands coming to rest in the same spots his were now. Suddenly he was uncomfortably aware of how the Frenchman's body molded so perfectly against his back. But of course, he tried not to think about that as Francis's arms slid around his waist to rest on the broom handle in front of him.

"Are you ready?" Francis asked. His stomach was doing excited flips at the moment.

"Just go," Arthur muttered, gritting his teeth against what was to come.

He felt Francis tense behind him, legs coiling, body tightened and ready to spring, until suddenly he kicked off with a hard jolt and Arthur's stomach decided to leap into his esophagus. The ground fell away with a lurch.

And they were soaring up, up, free with the wind. They shot into the sky, sweeping in a circle and then diving back down until the ground was rushing so fast Arthur could barely see it. He was surprised he was able to keep from screaming at this point. Everything was moving so fast, so furious and blurred that he could barely tell up from down anymore. He clung to the broom, bit his lip, and leaned back into Francis so he would have something to concentrate on other than the rushing world below him.

One thing was for sure, Arthur thought as he squeezed his eyes shut tight. He would never be doing this again.

"That warmed you up, non?" Francis asked, restraining a very unmanly giggle as they finally touched back down that night. Arthur, despite his resolute decision to never do this again, had to admit that once he'd gotten over the shock of being airborne in the first place it wasn't really all that bad to fly with the frog. Almost enjoyable, in fact. Almost.

"Nearly broke my neck, too," Arthur grumbled, but he was smiling as he said so. The two boys stood on the lawn for a few minutes, simply relaxing, before Arthur moved to Francis's side and cautiously touched his shoulder. "I-I'm not cold anymore, though," he admitted. Francis grinned and fell into step beside him as they headed back toward the castle.

"I'm glad that helped," Francis murmured. Suddenly he was very aware of Arthur's long, graceful fingers, only inches from his, and felt a strange urge to lace his fingers with Arthur's. What would his hand feel like? The same as the creamy and soft illusion his pale skin gave, or rough from writing and work? Francis thought it would probably be the latter, but then again... maybe not.

He blinked as soon as he realized that his hand was straying toward Arthur's, quickly pulling it back and considering crossing his arms just for good measure. Francis didn't, though. All the same, he didn't need Arthur to immediately stop speaking to him for 'attempted rape'.

"What are you thinking?"

The thoughtful British accent invaded his silence, and Francis looked up only to have his eyes lock with those green ones. Suddenly he realized that their fingers were entwined, and once it registered, ran his thumb gently over the back of Arthur's hand. It was soft and cool, pleasant to touch.

"What are you thinking, frog?" Arthur asked again, restraining an odd smile. He couldn't figure out why it was there, as he felt Francis's fingers lightly begin rubbing his hand, almost like an experiment. He'd only given the frog permission to touch because his hands were cold, but here he was, acting like the pair of them were—

"Just that your hands are very slender," Francis replied with a slight smile. "Do you play the piano?"

"Er- no," Arthur replied, rubbing his neck awkwardly with the hand Francis wasn't holding. "I took lessons when I was little, but... they kind of stopped. I didn't like the teacher, anyway. He was too picky."

Francis chuckled. "You have problems with adults, don't you?"

"Only when they try to order me around!" Arthur said defensively, as though this justified all the strife he'd caused his elders. Francis just laughed, though he felt Arthur's now-warm hand slip from his so the Brit could cross his arms in a huff. The Frenchman wanted to reach out and snatch the hand back, but that would only earn him a one-way ticket outta here. So he didn't.

They were lucky enough not to encounter anyone on the way up to Ravenclaw Tower, and even though it was far past curfew the castle was still lit with a warm, comfortable glow. Arthur's eyes sparkled beautifully in the low light, shimmering gold and deep sea green. Francis hoped he wasn't staring, but honestly, who wouldn't be?

"Thank you," Arthur murmured when they reached the top of the spiraling staircase that led to Ravenclaw common room. "Th-that was actually kind of fun."

Francis smiled, shaking his head as he stepped onto the landing. "Is your headache gone?"

Arthur grinned back. "Complet-"

His breathing stopped dead, caught mid-word. His green eyes widened to that scared-rabbit look that Francis remembered all too well, locked onto a spot on the wall above the staircase, just behind his shoulder. Arthur tugged weakly at the sleeve of the frog's robes, still rooted desperately to the spot.

"What?" Francis asked worriedly, turning around.

He gasped, covering his mouth with his hands at the sight.

"Whose is this?" he whispered in horror.

A/N: Lately I have developed a creepy obsession with broken necks. I hope the dirtiness (tee-hee) of this chapter made up for the evil ending. And, just because I think you might be interested, there is a smut scene in the very last chapter that I have been planning since before the story even started. Just a little teaser, there.

I LOVE YOU ALL, MY WONDERFUL REVIEWERS! Thanks for reading my nonsense!