'Feeling ready?' I wince slightly, and scowl up at Harry. No matter how many times I tell the bugger, he always manages to sound like he's shouting directly in my ear. To be fair to him, he smiles apologetically every time, but I just wish he'd remember. I go back to lacing up my boots.

'More than ready. You?'

'Absolutely. And I can't wait to see Malfoy's face when we beat him at Quidditch. Again.' The childish grin nearly splits his face in two, and I can't help but chuckle. But my new understanding about the reasons why Malfoy was who he was, and who he is now, makes me want to defend him.

'You never know, he might be different now.'

'Not you, too!' Harry throws his gloved hands up in exasperation. 'It's all I heard from Ginny and Hermione over that last year they were at school. Hell, Gin still says almost that exact same thing, even when he's mentioned these days!'

'Well, maybe they're right.' His green eyes boggle at me from behind his glasses, but before either of us can say any more, there's the sound of a horn outside, and cheering. Jones steps into the middle of the room, her purple team robes swishing around her, and claps her hands.

'Right, team. Let's give 'em Hell!' We all let out our own loud cheer at this, and fall into order as we march out of the dressing room and down the corridor.

The pitch we're playing at today is different to the one we use for practice, and we all look around us as we march down the hall. Along the walls are pictures of the teams that have played here, meant to inspire us on our way out to the grounds. I spot a picture of the Cannons, and my stomach flips. From a young age, I have dreamed that I might one day fly in the same airspace, Gods, even touch the same ground, as the Cannons. And now, here I am.

The excitement adds a spring to my step as I follow Harry out into the sunlight, to raucous applause. I look up at the stands, and it seems as though almost all of the Ministry is here. I wish my family could have come to see the first match, but they were all busy with work, weding planning, one thing or another. They'd promised me and Harry, though, that if we got any further than the first round then they'd make sure to be there for every following match.

The team of Healers are already on the pitch, lined up neatly in their pristine, navy uniforms. We file past and turn to stand in a line, facing them. A sharp elbow digs me in the ribs, and I look down to see Harry frowning towards the end of the opposing line. I turn my head, to wear Malfoy is standing. I try not to think about how strange it is, seeing him outside the context of Rita's cafe. I try not to notice that the colour of their robes really suits him.

What I do notice, is that he's watching us carefully from the corner of his eye, and without moving my head I check to see if anyone else is watching me. No-one is, so I give him a quick wink. A flush spreads along his high cheekbones, and I bite back a chuckle as I turn to face the official. They give the mark, the captains shake hands, and we're off. I kick into the air and shoot straight for the goal, taking up my defensive position quickly.

It's a fast game, with a lot of attempts at goals on either side. The Healers are good opponents, but my team seems just slightly faster, slightly stronger. It's civil enough though, and their Beaters are unusually curtious with where they direct the bludgers. They manage to slip one goal past me, but I'm not worried. We've already put four past their Keeper, and his flying pattern is decidedly nervous.

After about thirty minutes of good defense and sportsmanship, a flash of blonde hair above me catches my eye, and I look up. The Seekers have spotted the Snitch, and are engaged in a high-speed chase to be the first to catch it. Malfoy and Harry are flying close together, neck and neck, climbing higher and higher. They're both reaching for the tiny flash of gold -

And they fly in front of the sun. The glare hits my eyes, and my vision goes completely white, then black. Pain stabs through my head, and my body seizes up, going hot, then cold, then -

People are screaming, but it's all very far away, and I vaguely wonder what the problem is as I hurtle through the air. Then my shoulders wrench, and I hear my own voice cry out in pain, again seemingly so distant. I squint through the flashing lights in my eyes, and vaguely register that Harry and Jones are on either side of me.

They've caught me. I've fallen from my broom, and they've caught me. I have no idea where my broom actually is ...

'Alright, Ron?' Harry's voice is loud in my ear, his eyes wide with fear. I shake my head, too nauseous to speak. They shift so that they're holding me better between them, their arms under mine and wrapped around my back, and we slowly sink to the ground. My knees won't hold me and I fold under my own weight as they help me to lie on the grass. I blink up at the sky and watch the rest of my team, and the other side, too, landing around me and hurrying over to peer down at me. The Healers immediately start bickering among themselves about what's wrong with me while Harry's concerned face hovers over mine.

'Did we win?' I croak, the sickness at bay for the moment now I'm back on solid ground. His worry is replaced with glee, and he holds up his hand, cupped around struggling golden wings.

'We won. We were just on top of each other when you fell. Malfoy stopped - probably to watch you hit the ground, the sick bastard - and I managed to snatch it as I looped over his head and flew to catch you.' I raise my hand shakily to clap him on the shoulder, and he stands, satisfied that I'm OK, to accept the congratulations of our team.

'Move aside, move aside!' I hear a familiar voice, higher pitched than it usually is, calling over the heads scattered around me, and suddenly people are jostled out of my view. Then Malfoy stands over me, his Quidditch leathers already discarded. He crouches, and his usually pale face is a sickening shade of green. 'What the fuck was that, Weasley?' he hisses. His eyes travel over my body, and his hands follow them, checking my pulse, my chest, feeling along my neck and shoulders. Maybe it's the migraine talking, but there's something about how that one line creases the flawless skin of his forehead that makes me want to -

Yeah, definitely the migraine talking.

''M fine,' I mumble, trying to shake him off, but he glowers at me and keeps palpating. His hand creeps up the back of my neck, and his finger finds the exact point that always throbs with pain. I gasp, my back arching, trying to twist away from him. He moves his hand instantly, and his worried expression turns to fury in a heartbeat.

'Like Hell you are,' he snarls, then straightens and points to the match medic, who's hovering nervously nearby. 'You, get him to the medical bay and set up. I'll examine him myself.'

'Hang on, Malfoy - ' Harry chokes, but Malfoy cuts him off.

'Potter, he has some sort of injury to the back of his head. I'm not sure how or why, and there's no way to tell how serious it is without a thorough assessment. Now, I'm a qualified Healer who specialises in neurological incidents, and am probably the most appropriate person anywhere near here to assess Weasley right now. Fair?' He turns to his team, now standing behind him, and they all nod, commenting on his abilities. He turns back to my team, and softens slightly. 'Please. Let me at least look him over, just to make sure it's nothing serious.'

Harry hesitates, then nods, and Jones says, 'Alright, Healer. Thank you.'

Malfoy nods to them, then looks back to the match medic, the steel returning to his eyes and voice. 'And why are we still here?'

The poor lad yelps and levitates me quickly, almost running across the pitch in front of me and into the changing rooms. Malfoy strolls alongside me, but I'm feeling too dizzy to say anything more to him right now.

So, we follow the medic in silence, and we wait while the boy runs around the clinical room, pulling fresh paper towel roll over the examination bed and dragging out boxes of gloves and a First Aid kit. He points out to Malfoy the cupboard where he can find further examination tools, and looks hopeful that he might get to watch a Healer work, until Malfoy says, 'Thank you, that'll be all.'

'I told you, I'm fine,' I protest, feeling bad for the medic as he slinks out glumly. I would send him an apologetic look, but I don't have the energy right now.

'And I told you, like Hell you are.' His voice is cold again, and he roughly washes his hands in the sink before pulling on a pair of gloves. He begins rummaging around in the cupboard as he talks. 'You've clearly got some sort of damage at the base of your skull, and whatever it is could have caused you to lose consciousness. We need to know what it is ... aha!' He turns back to me, and holds up a device. It looks old, dusty, and suspiciously like something Dad might keep in his little Muggle treasure trove at home.

'What is that?'

'It's an old diagnostic device. It's what Healers used before spells were developed to do the job. But I don't have my wand right now, or any of my other tools, and I might need to save my energy for some wandless healing spells, so this will have to do.' He pauses, then leans over me, that crease in his brow again. 'Can you sit?'

'I can try.' I slowly lift my head, fighting through the flashing white lights in my vision. I manage to sit upright, but the motion makes the nausea return, and I gag. Malfoy rushes to help me, alarmed, but I wave him off and take a few deep breaths.

When I feel I can move without losing my lunch, I turn and swing my long legs off the table. Malfoy moves closer to me, and ends up standing with his narrow hips between my knees. For some reason, it's rather distracting, and I try to focus on the device in his left hand as his right reaches up to attach small, sticky pads to either side of my head.

Once satisfied with the placement of the pads, he steps back and presses a few buttons on the box. Nothing happens. He curses softly, then sharply slaps the side of the box with his palm. An image springs out of thin air on my right side, causing me to jump slightly. He smirks, but his eyes are now glued to the symbols on the translucent magical screen floating next to my head.

'OK, the good news is that it's not life threatening.' His voice takes on a professional quality, like that's a line he's had to deliver many times. He twiddles the dial on the left side of the box, and watches as the screen shifts. 'But it looks like ... Bloody Hell, Weasley, it looks like a long term concussion! How long have you been having symptoms?'

'Um ... ' I don't want to tell him, but his eyes fix on me and I know he'll get it out of me, one way or the other. 'Maybe ... three years?'

'Three ... ' His face pales once again, and he snarls, 'Three fucking years? And you never told anyone? How ... ' I watch the pieces fall into place, and he presses his lips together into a thin line, his jaw setting.

He places the device down next to me without another word, and walks around the bed to stand behind me. His slender fingers land on my shoulders, at the exposed skin between my collarbone and my neck. His thumbs press in on either side of my spine, and I tense as he rolls them higher.

'Relax, Weasley.' His voice is gentle again, that of the professional, Healer Malfoy at work. 'I need to be able to feel properly, so I know there's no other damage. I know where the worst of the pain is, and I promise I won't touch it.'

I hesitate only a moment, then force my back to loosen off. His thumbs slide deeper, and the pressure actually starts to feel good as he rolls and eases the knots that have built up there through months, years of holding my head in a way that'll stop me getting dizzy from moving too quickly.

Cool fingers of magic tickle up the back of my head. It makes every hair on my body stand on end, and I shiver as the tendrils reach up. It almost feels like someone is running their fingers through my hair, along my scalp, and I moan involuntarily. If Malfoy hears it, he doesn't comment, just keeps moving his thumbs in little circles. Suddenly, the tendrils focus around the centre of my pain, and there's a momentary flash of that white light across my vision again and then ...

Nothing.

Malfoy's fingers leave my neck, and he's back in front of me again.

'How does it feel now?'

'Bloody brilliant.' I turn my head side to side, then drop it back, fast. No pain. No dizziness. I look at Malfoy again, a grin spreading across my face. 'What did you do?'

'I healed you,' he says, slowly, sarcastically. I roll my eyes, and am internally thrilled when the world doesn't keep spinning when I look back at him. He lifts the diagnostic device and presses a few more buttons, then nods at what he sees, apparently satisfied. He removes the pads from my temples then turns away from me, peeling off his gloves and heading towards the sink. 'Just be grateful you've got a very thick skull. An inujry like that might have killed you otherwise.'

He's watching me from the corner of his eye again, and I see his lip twitch upwards as he bends over the taps. I stick my tongue out at him, feeling endorphines rush through my body as I realise that I'm fully pain-free for the first time in three years. 'Thanks, Malfoy.'

'Just doing my job.' As he washes his hands, he shoots me a look. 'Do me a favour, though. Go easy on the celebrations tonight, alright?'

Easier said than done.

The moment I walk back into the changing rooms, my head feeling strangely light and floaty, someone tosses a can of beer my way. I snatch it deftly out of mid-air and crack the top, draining it in one long pull. My team cheers loudly, and it's blissful to hear that sound and not have it shoot agony into my skull. I motion for another beer, and down that one, too.

'Steady on!' Harry shouts, but he's laughing, already slightly tipsy himself. I just chuckle as a third beer arrives in my hand, and start peeling off my uniform to take a quick shower. I step under the water, which is cool, pleasant on my sticky skin. As it runs over my scalp, it reminds me of Malfoy's magic, the way it had felt like fingers running through my hair. The image of him standing between my legs, the feel of his sharp hips against the insides of my thighs, flashes into my mind.

I grunt at the pull in my lower abdomen, and look down to find myself semi-hard. Despite the coolness of the water, I can feel myself flushing, and I race through the rest of my shower, wrapping my towel tight around my waist to hide myself when I step away. Why did that thought produce this reaction?

Easy, Ron. I shake my head and try to force my body to calm down. It's just a normal reaction, probably caused by the alcohol and the adrenaline from the match. It doesn't mean anything.

I leave the showers, my dirty uniform clutched in front of me, and move wuickly back to my locker, where I dress carefully. As I'm buttoning up the black and purple striped shirt I'd brought to go out in after the game, I feel my body relaxing, and sigh gratefully.

I roll the sleeves up to sit just below my elbows, tug on a pair of skinny black jeans, and catch a look at myself in the mirror, lifting a hand to ruffle my still-damp hair. Not half bad. I swig the last of my can and throw it towards the bin, raising a cheer from the team when it lands neatly inside. Everyone's a little tipsy now, and there's a pleasant buzz around us as we head out into the town.

I try my best to stay with the group, I really do. At first, it's easy, as we start in the local pub and just drink beer and chat amongst ourselves. But then someone appears with a tray full of shots, and my stomach clenches. I try to decline but the whole team pressures me to take one, and in the end I do. It burns on its way down, and clears a little of the apprehension I'd been feeling. I'll be OK, I think, I can have a night out without it leading to its usual conclusion.

But after the third shot of fire whiskey, it's almost like a beacon has been switched on. I follow my teammates to one of their favourite night-clubs, but the music is terrible and they're all suddenly in desperate need of company for the night. The few of them who are married or otherwise spoken for gather together, and I sit with them a while, but I don't have anything to contribute to their gripes about their committed relationships. So I turn away, and realise that the rest of the team have all suddenly coupled up.

A strange emptiness hits me, like always, when I realise that we've hit the point in the night where no-one will actually miss me. And so, I slip off, in search of one of those quiet clubs, the ones I usually frequent when I need just a little release.

I quickly find the closest one of the few that I usually gravitate towards, and after a quick look round I head inside. A dark corridor leads to an even darker room that's barely any bigger. The room is humid, filled with thumping music and flashing lights and sweating bodies. I push through the crush to the bar, and as I stand there I take the time to appreciate that the lights and sound are no longer oppressive, and I can actually take in my surroundings. I really must thank Malfoy properly for that.

'Hello, Red,' a gruff voice says in my ear, and a thick arm slides around my waist. A beard tickles my cheek as my new companion presses closer. He feels big, solid, and my eyelids flicker slightly as I lean against him, my body responding automatically to his shape, his smell. His breath tickles my neck as he rumbles, 'How about I buy you a drink, then take you home with me for the night?'

I look at the man next to me. He's not bad looking. A little hairy overall, and quite broad, but his face is animated, interesting. His dark brown eyes are watching me keenly, flicking from my eyes to my mouth. Pick your partner for your first time wisely. The voice echoes in my head, and I'm still confused by what that means. But at this point, I'm feeling frustrated, and lonely, and a little desperate, and I'm beginning to wonder if might just be better to get it over with and -

'I don't think so.' Long, pale fingers are wrapping around my wrist, and they pull, leading me away from the bar and the big hand that had been starting to slide lower than my hip. I vaguely hear someone shouting protests from behind me, but I'm too focused on the person who is now pulling me through the crowds. He looks back at me, and wrinkles his nose. 'Merlin, you stink. How much have you had to drink?'

'I've 'ad enough. What you doin' here, Malfoy?

'Gods help me, I was looking for you.' He turns away, shouting over the thumping music. 'I ran into your team and couldn't see you with them. Then I remembered you mentioning this ... - ' he gestures around him as he pulls me back down the dark corridor, heading for the exit ' - this place, and I thought surely not, surely he hasn't gone there tonight. But here we are. And now we're leaving.'

I don't protest, and I take a deep gulp of cool night air as he pulls me along behind him, out of the club. He doesn't let go of my wrist as he marches around the back of the building, and his grip tightens when he comes to a stop in a dank, deserted alley. With a quick look around and a murmured instruction to 'brace yourself', he Apparates us out of the alley ...

And into a small living room. Only then does he let go of me. I look around me and take in the dark green walls, the deep brown wooden coffee table and side tables, and the large, grey, comfortable-looking sofa. There's a huge green-and-grey rug covering a lot of the dark wood floors, and inset into one wall is a large, granite fireplace.

'Where are we?'

'My place.' He turns and walks away from me, through one of the many doors leading out of the room. He disappears, but then the light comes on and I can see through the doorway that beyond is a neat, decent-sized kitchen, in much the same colour scheme as the living room. I blink blearly as my vision swims, but I know that for once it's purely due to alcohol, not any lingering injuries.

He grabs a glass from the draining board and fills it with water, then walks back to me and presses it into my hands. I sip it, opening my mouth to say something, but he raises one eyebrow and looks pointedly at the glass. So I drain it, and hand it back. He puts it down on a coaster on the table next to him, then looks me up and down, sighing.

'This is the second time that you've ended up in my care today, Weasley.' He sounds tired, resigned almost.

'Are you ... cross with me?' The question sounds so ridiculous in my own ears that I can't meet his eyes, so I look down at the rug under my feet, consciously fight the urge to rub the back of my neck.

'Well, the last thing I said to you this afternoon was to take it easy tonight, and when I do find you, you're far away from your friends, three sheets to the wind and being mauled by what was essentially a bear. I'm not exactly pleased.' I look at him then; his eyes are narrowed, nostrils flared, arms folded over his chest. I don't respond immediately, so he sighs again and turns to leave the room, towards the kitchen.

'You're cute when you're cross.' The words tumble out, and it takes a second for me to realise I've said them. But the alcohol takes away the awkward edge I'd usually have felt from saying something like that. His head snaps round to survey me, and something flashes across his silver eyes that makes my chest and stomach tighten.

'What do you - No, never mind, that's not important. Look, you're in no position to get yourself home tonight, and if Potter doesn't know about our little chats then he might just make assumptions and hex me on the spot if I turn up with you in this state. So, you'd better just sleep here tonight.'

'Okie dokie.' My easy response seems to put him on the back foot a bit, like he was expecting a fight.

'OK. Good. Now we're getting somewhere. You can take my bed - don't worry, the sheets are fresh - and I'll sleep out here. And if you need anything, just come and get me.'

He goes to turn away from me again, but my hand reaches out and wraps around his elbow. He stares at my fingers for a moment, then looks up into my eyes. That something flashes across his gaze again, and before I know it I've backed him up against the wall. Heat rushes through my body, and I feel my shaft twitch in my boxers in response to that look. His head is tilted up so that he can keep eye contact with me, and I see his cheeks colour slightly.

'Weasley.' His voice is warning, and I feel myself pulse again at his tone. I bite back a groan and try to stop myself from swaying against him, but it's very hard not to.

'We could both sleep in your bed, you know,' I breathe, and I watch in fascination as the colour creeps down his neck, too.

'Absolutely not.'

'Why? Don't you want to?' The words are coming from somewhere deep in my brain, too deep for the alcohol to numb, and my voice is a purr that is much sexier than I intend it to be. I didn't know he could even go the shade of pink that he is now.

'That ... Th-that is beside the point.' He's flustered. It's very attractive, and I find my head is dipping closer to him. His words speed up as the space between our mouths decreases. 'You're far too drunk to be making these kinds of decisions right now. I think what would be best, is if you go and sleep it off.'

'You didn't really answer my question.' I can't stop my body from leaning into his this time, and he gasps as my weight settles against him. His hands fly up to press against my chest, and I groan as that electric volt shoots through me again. I catch my lower lip between my teeth, and his eyes drop to my mouth. The gutteral little noise he makes in the back of his throat makes my head spin. With obvious effort, he closes his eyes and swallows, hard. When he opens them again, all I see is resolve.

'Weasley.' His voice is soft, but I know that tone. He's made up his mind. 'Come on, now. Back up.' I linger against him for one more heartbeat, then step away, that empty, useless feeling flooding me once again. Maybe I'd misread that look ...

He breathes more easily as I break our contact, and lifts a steady hand to point down the corridor. 'The bedroom is the last door on the right. Bathroom on the left. I'll see you in the morning.'