warning
short fic. slash. nasty things implied. NC-17?

disclaimer
characters and general situations belong to J.K Rowling & Co.
my undying gratitude belongs to Kristen for the betaing.
present situations... well they belong to me.

author notes

written for Veela-Inc V-day Challenge. my assigned quote was:

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." Carl Jung

irreversible

by blue

 

 § everyday §

 

Ron watches Malfoy.

 

Lately, he catches himself doing it disturbingly often.

 

At meals. In classes. On the Quidditch pitch. In the halls.

 

Every time it happens he tells himself that it's for lack of distractions. With Hermione so busy as new Head Girl and Harry - Harry slipping further away everyday.

 

Ron watches Malfoy and when his brain protests too loudly he tells it to shut the fuck up that there's nothing better to do, really.

 

With such constant attention Ron begins to make small discoveries about Malfoy. Discoveries that make him feel like doing that muggle game Harry gave him.

A puzzle.

 

Only there's no reference picture to show him the meaning of each piece.

Or Malfoy's meaning.

 

But Ron keeps watching nevertheless.

 

He watches Malfoy bite his bottom lip, tear away the skin, bleed, frown, lick. He wonders what Malfoy is thinking of.

He watches Malfoy stare into space during Binns' lessons. He wonders what Malfoy isn't thinking of.

He watches Malfoy start when Zabini leans casually towards him and says something in his left ear. Ron wonders why Malfoy pales. Why Malfoy nods.
Most of all he wonders why Zabini smirks and the class erupts into furious whispers.

 

Day by day Ron collects more of Malfoy's pieces. They lay in his head, scattered around.
At night he patiently tries to make them fit.

 

But it's difficult when your hand wanders under suffocating sheets and you swallow a moan.

 

Much more difficult than Harry's muggle puzzle.

 

§ overheard §

 

"Maybe we should meet later."

 

The voice is behind the corner. Just three feet away.

 

Maybe Ron should turn on his heels and get back to Gryffindor Tower.
Maybe Ron should round the corner and head to the Great Hall.

 

"Maybe not."

 

A ragged breath. Ron doesn't think it's his own. He's not breathing, after all.

 

"Malfoy."

 

"I said I don't - "

 

A thump. A whimper. A dejected sigh. An harsh laugh.

 

"Prefects bathroom in an hour. See you later, Malfoy."

 

Steps fade. Ron breathes.

 

Then he moves.

 

The Gryffindor Tower is near. And he has an hour. But he runs anyway.

 

§ voyeuristic §

 

Draco Malfoy is on his knees.

 

And Ron shouldn't watch.

 

Draco Malfoy is on his knees in front of Blaise Zabini.

 

And Ron shouldn't watch.

 

Draco Malfoy is on his knees in front of Blaise Zabini, giving him a blow job.

 

And Ron shouldn't watch. Really. But he does.

 

"Swallow."

 

There, all done.

 

Zabini leaves without a word.

 

Ron finds himself alone contemplating an equally alone Malfoy. He's still on his knees staring into the wall where Zabini was. When he gets up he sways a little.

 

His breath rebounds brokenly on the prefects bathroom walls.
Into Ron's brain, making him ill, driving him mad.

 

Malfoy reaches the sinks on the wall. He leans against one of them as if the very centre of his world depended on it.
His breathing stops. He retches.

 

And Ron can't stop looking. 

 

Malfoy spits and cleans his mouth with cold water. He scrubs it until it's bruised. Then he looks at himself in the mirror.

 

Ron is right behind him, peering over his left shoulder, but Malfoy can't see him.

Thank Merlin. Thank Harry.

 

Suddenly, Malfoy's jaw clenches. His fist too. It smashes against the clear surface.

Once. Twice. Thrice.

The mirror goes into thousand pieces.

 

Seven years of bad luck. Ron wonders if Malfoy knows it. If he knows that he's probably broken his hand.

Surely he does know he's cut his skin. He's bleeding as a slashed lamb.

 

§ meeting §

 

Ron wishes that he had never watched Malfoy. He wishes that he never heard Malfoy and Zabini. He wishes that he could have lived just off his fantasies for a while longer. He wishes -

 

"Weasley. Look where you are going."

 

Of all people.

 

"Malfoy -"

 

"What?"

 

Ron sees the fresh bruise on his cheek. He sees the angry dots marring his neck just under his jaw.
Then Ron sees the doors from which Malfoy got out opening and closing. He sees Zabini giving them a maliciously amused glance before slipping away through the shadow of the deserted hall.

 

"Why?"

 

It's just a word but Ron thinks it says enough.

 

"I don't know what you are talking about."

 

"I saw you and Zabini in the Prefects Bathroom."

 

There's a calculated silence.

 

"How much?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Malfoy shakes his head tiredly. As if he had done this a thousand times before. Which is probably true.

 

"How much do you want, to keep your mouth shut?"

 

"I don't want money."
 
"I see." 

 

"No, you don't. I'm not -"

 

"- a fag?"

 

This shuts Ron up. Malfoy takes the moment to come towards him. Closer. Too close.

 

"I know. Nobody is a fag here. Nobody but me. Don't worry Weasley, it's not contagious. Tomorrow you'll still be able to fuck your little mudblood friend."

 

Malfoy voice is strangely reassuring. But Ron takes a step back. His shoulders touch the wall.

If it could swallow him, he would let it. Gratefully. 

"If you don't trust me, ask Zabini. Despite everything, he doesn't seem to have problems fucking that Brown girl."

 

Ron would like to answer, but he can't because Malfoy's hands are suddenly on him. Light. But definitely there.

 

"Malfoy -"

 

"Shut up, Weasley."

And Ron shuts up. Because it's difficult to talk with Malfoy's lips on your mouth. His left hand on your shoulder. The other wandering down.

Malfoy's tongue plays on Ron's skin. Leaving a fresh taste instead of the expected bitterness.

Lips lightly parted. Demanding. And Ron answers.

 

"No."

 

He pushes Malfoy away.

 

"No what? I can tell you were enjoying it."

 

Ron can tell it too. His hard on doesn't pass exactly unnoticed into his second hand jeans.

 

"Not this way."

 

Malfoy's face crumples and Ron suddenly faces another boy, a confused one. The one stuck alone inside a web of well placed lies.

 

"I'm not Zabini."
 
Malfoy flinches, as if Ron has slapped him.

 

"Then go away."

 

It's a barely whisper. But in their silence it sounds as a cry.

 

§ agreement §

 

"Zabini."

 

Ron smiles reassuringly.

 

"A word with you, if you don't mind."

 

Zabini frowns. He must have sensed the danger. As the beast he is.

 

But Ron is not going to give him the time to retreat. He grabs the collar of his robe -

 

"What the-"

 

- and drags him into the nearest classroom. Then he shuts the door behind him and pauses to contemplate the situation.

 

"Weasley. What the fuck do you want?"

 

Ron thinks this is a good question. A question which deserves an answer.

 

"This."

 

His fist connects with Zabini's cheek. It's a wonderful sensation. Satisfying.

 

Blows are administered in rapid successions.

 

Soon enough Ron's knuckles burn. Zabini's skin has surrendered long ago. In the end, Ron's fingers are stained red when he lets Zabini slump to the floor.

 

"Zabini?"

 

No answer.

 

"Can you hear me?"

 

A sharp intake of breath.

 

"Leave him alone."

 

Walking down the halls Ron thinks it has been a pleasure talking with Zabini.

Blood stained hands stuck in his pockets, Ron almost wishes he could do it more often.

 

§ reaction §

 

"Zabini is not coming. He's busy."

 

"And what would you know about it?"

 

"Enough."

 

Malfoy doesn't question further.

 

"Aren't you leaving?"

 

"No."

 

Malfoy sighs.

 

"What do you want, Weasley? Came to collect what you threw at my face last time?"

 

"Maybe."

 

He looks at Ron. And Ron can read the challenge hidden behind those apparently bored eyes.

 

After six months of continuous Malfoy-watching it's easy.
And after six months of touching himself whispering his name it's easy to gather the courage to raise a hand and touch that pale hair.

 

"What -"

 

Malfoy's eyes are on his reddened hand.

 

"It's only ink."

 

Six months ago Ron wouldn't have lied so fluently. Six months ago he wouldn't have beaten up a student so badly. Six months ago he wouldn't have stolen Harry's cloak. Six months ago he wouldn't have drawn Malfoy nearer and kissed him softly, as afraid everything would explode like a soap bubble in a moment.

 

Ron guesses that he has changed.

 

He wonders if Malfoy can feel it, when his hands explore his skin.
He wonders if Malfoy is going to change too.

 

Then maybe, that already happened. Probably in those few moments in which Ron wasn't looking.

 

Ron doesn't know. And right now he doesn't care.

 

He just wishes that, whatever happened, is going to be irreversible.

 

§§§

 

.stop.